26sophiess

[26sophiess]

my girl | op81 cs16

summary: mafia!oscar is possessive over his best friend who he hasn’t seen in months due to his work. he has to step in when a rival tries to ignore his city wide ban on her. inspired by this brainrot from j about mafia oscar

warnings: 18+ minors do not interact. possessive oscar, degradation, carlos being tied up, reader getting fucked in front of carlos, mentions of violence (its a mafia au what do you expect?) unprotected sex, marking, etc.

author’s note: will eventually write about them talking. but wanted to post and am too tired. this is 7.7k worth of smut. please let me know what you think 🫶🏻

Carlos has always known about the protective order, it’s part of what makes the chase so fun. He’d seen her around town and asked about her and his men told him she was off limits, deemed so by the leader of his rival gang. Many told him they’d tried hitting on her and were later threatened by someone to stay away from her, usually when they went for a drink or a piss. Carlos wants to laugh at the idea of someone scaring his men away from a woman, but then someone says they know people have been beaten half to death for getting too handsy in a club, people who disappeared when they didn’t listen to the warnings.

Carlos is the one she’s dancing with when Oscar finds them, Lando had pointed out her presence in his club when she arrived and he’d been searching for her. It would have been preferable to find her with anyone except his rival, but there she was, in a slinky black dress with her arms around his neck and his thigh slotted between hers. He’s sure his rival is here just to bother him, but he has a rule where no business is conducted on club grounds, so if Carlos is just here to party, he won’t start trouble. But this- he knows Carlos knows that she’s off limits by his own word. He can’t help the way his possessive side comes out when she sees her grinding against his rival.

Oscar doesn’t think twice before he sandwiches her between them, his hands resting over Carlos’s and the man’s eyes flutter open. He grins wickedly at Oscar, the very man who has a do not touch order on the woman he is very much touching right now. Carlos pulls her closer and presses his thigh up and she whimpers, her head falling back to rest on the shoulder of the new body behind her when the smell of his cologne hits her. It makes sense why the touch felt so familiar, why she felt so comfortable when a stranger joined them. Oscar.

She would have frozen if Carlos wasn’t guiding her body with his, she suddenly feels exposed as her best friend trails his hands down her hips. Suddenly, he tugs her back against him and at the same time, he pushes Carlos’s leg away and replaces it with his own. “Really? Didn’t think you think you had it in you to be riding a thigh in the back of some club.” The alcohol coursing through her veins prevents her from thinking clearly enough to remember he’s her best friend and best friends don’t do this; ban others from touching them and then interrupt their would be hookup, but it feels so natural she doesn’t think twice about rocking her hips down on his thigh.

His lips brush against the shell of her ear and he feels his rival try to guide her body back to his but he tightens his grip and holds her to his chest. “Don’t fucking think about it, Sainz.” Her mind splinters as she realizes they know each other, that Carlos definitely knows about the rule she didn’t know about until a few nights before when one of her best friend’s new buddies told her of it. She wants to ask him where he went, where he’s been for the past six months, but he presses his thigh into her pussy and she can’t do anything but gasp. She can feel him smirk as he rocks his body against hers, and she leans into him unconsciously.

His next words send a shiver down her spine, “Were you planning on taking her home?” Carlos nods and her stomach tightens, pussy fluttering at the thought. Oscar’s fingers twitch against her hips and he presses her down against his thigh. She lets out a moan as her clit rubs his thigh and he asks her, “You think he could make you cum? Is that why you’re here tonight, looking to get fucked?” She can’t help but nod, her hands tugging Carlos’s hair as she rolls her hips against Oscar’s thigh desperately. Carlos tries once again to pull her back to him and Oscar snaps, “You’re in my fucking club, Sainz, remember that. My girl, my club.” His sharp tone causes Carlos to stop pulling on her. He’s never called her his girl before and it makes her moan embarrassingly, in shock and satisfaction at hearing the words she’s always longed to hear. Oscar directs his next words to her, “Did you know that, doll? You came to my club, looking for cock.” She gasps at his words, wondering how her childhood friend could own a club, but he doesn’t give her time to ask for clarification before one of his hands slips between her thighs and presses against her panties. “You came to the right place, baby, I’ll give you what you want.” She grinds against his hand as Carlos glares at them, her eyes lock with his and she can see the hatred burning in them as her lips part in a moan when Oscar’s fingers slide her panties to the side and find her clit easily.

She doesn’t know where he’s been, what happened to him, hadn’t heard from him other than occasional texts or flower deliveries. She doesn’t think this is her Oscar, the sweet boy who picked daisies for her on the playground, or the one who makes her soup when she’s sick. No, this is someone she doesn’t know. This is an Oscar she hasn’t met before, one who bans a city of men from dating her because she’s his. One who owns clubs and claims her like this in them. She wants to know where her Oscar went, but she doesn’t want this Oscar to leave her. She’s drunk on him, soaking in the feeling of his middle finger swirling around her clit as his lips begin working at a mark on the side of her throat. Her head lobs to the side, and his lips drift further south. It’s like he’s searching for something when he pulls her hair back and ghosts his lips over the nape of her neck. Then he’s whispering in her ear, “Where is it?”

Her mind spins with confusion and she mumbles, “What?”

He nips at the lobe of her ear then growls, “The necklace. Where. Is. It?”

She shivers at his tone and one of her hands leaves Carlos’s neck to reach for the bare spot on her chest, where his initials have hung for years, but finds nothing. She almost panics before she remembers how she specifically took it off, not wanting his initials branding her when she went out looking for another man tonight. She doesn’t have to say it. He knows, and it makes him angry. The fact that she’s worn that necklace every day since he gifted it to her, but chose tonight to take it off. He bites her throat, really bites it, she think there might be a bruise tomorrow in the shape of his teeth, but the thought turns her on instead of angering it the way it should. The possessive gnash of his teeth on her flesh hurts, digging in enough that the momentary pleasure turns to pain and she’s clamping her thighs around his and whimpering.

Carlos watches the act, doesn’t know what Oscar whispers to her, but he sees his lips move, feels her hand leave his hair and meet her blank chest, lips parting in a silent gasp. Then Oscar’s giving Carlos a look that should scare him, as he sinks his teeth into her flesh. Her eyes flutter shut and he sees a grimace of pain on her face as Oscar releases his hold. Then, he bares his teeth at Carlos as he slides the strap of her dress down before sinking his teeth into her shoulder, and her other hand leaves Carlos to reach and tangle into Oscar’s hair. When he releases the second bite, he grunts, “We’re leaving.” He says it to Carlos, and something about it tells him to follow, that Oscar wants him to follow. She looks at Oscar like she’s in love, turning her head to him and brushing her nose against his cheek affectionately.

She’s not expecting Carlos to follow them or Oscar to let him follow and climb into the backseat while Oscar opens the passenger door and ushers her in. He even buckles her in, pressing a kiss to her hand before he ducks out of the car and shuts the door before rounding the car and climbing into the driver’s seat. She assumes they’re going to Oscar’s, she isn't sure where that is anymore, she tried going to visit and it was up for rent, and he didn’t return her texts to hang out. It sends a pang of hurt to her heart, the way he’s ignored her for months, and the anger she should have felt earlier begins to set in as she realizes he’s been ignoring her until he saw her with another man. He seems to sense her unease and rests and hand on her knee, she wishes it didn’t, but his touch immediately relaxes her and the thoughts fade away.

Instead of Oscar’s mysterious new place, she finds herself recognizing the route back to her apartment. She stays silent the entire ride, wondering what Oscar’s planning in his head. Once they make it inside her apartment, Oscar grabs a dining chair and begins walking towards her bedroom, so she follows him, Carlos in tow. Oscar sets the chair in front of the bed and she waits behind it, Carlos by her side, as he begins looking through her dresser. A moment later, he pulls out a tie, an old one either he or an ex left behind. “Sit, Sainz.”

The older man rolls his eyes and crosses his arms across his chest, “Like hell you’re tying me up.”

Oscar glares at him through the vanity mirror as he begins searching through the jewelry box on top, “Sit down, or get the fuck out.” She glances between them and Carlos looks at her, probably expecting her to speak out for him, but she does nothing. He sits. Oscar turns a moment later, a gold chain in one hand and the tie in the other. She recognizes it instantly, and her hand drifts back up to the space just under her collar bone where the gold letters always sit. He doesn’t have to ask her to lift her hair when he moves behind her, she does it automatically and he clasps his initials around her neck like a collar, brushing his fingers over the still darkening teeth marks on her skin. He nudges her aside and crouches behind Carlos, tugging his arms behind the chair and tying his wrists together. Carlos instinctively tries to pull his arms away when Oscar finishes to test the knot, but it holds. Oscar pats his shoulder as he stands and mockingly says, “Good boy. Now stay.”

The order makes Carlos see red, and he begins to react, to jerk up and out of the chair and smash his fist into Oscar’s jaw, but the knot fights his strength and the position he’d tied in holds him back against the chair so he can’t even stand up. He slumps back after a moment of writhing, Oscar’s hand burning a hole through his shirt. He realizes then he’s about to be made to watch them fuck, not partake like he’d foolishly thought at the club. He should have known, should have let them leave and found someone else to sink his cock into.

He can hear lips smacking and then they’re in his side view as Oscar pushes her towards the bed. His cock twitches in his jeans as he watches Oscar unravel her with a kiss, her hands grasping at his shirt to pull him closer as she pushes herself up on her toes to kiss him harder, moaning into his mouth. He can feel his heart pumping faster, can feel the blood pumping through his entire body as he fights the restraints. Oscar easily lifts her onto the bed and her legs wrap around him automatically, grinding her pelvis against his and she moans again. It’s easily the hottest thing he’s ever seen, he can tell Oscar is putting his all into the kiss and she’s taking it all and giving herself to him. He’s never wanted to be anyone other than himself, but in this moment be would kill to be Oscar.

The instant Oscar’s lips are on hers, the man she met earlier in the night vanished from memory. She can’t get enough of him, if she thought his lips on her neck earlier felt good, this was euphoric. He keeps biting her lip too, nipping and sucking at them before slipping his tongue back into her mouth. She’s never been kissed so good before, she never wants to stop kissing him. Then he pulls away, tugs her lower lip between his teeth before letting it smack against her upper lip and diving in for another sweltering kiss. She can feel how wet she is in her panties, the feeling of soaking fabric would be annoying if the ridge of his cock wasn’t pressed against her. She wondered if she was soaking through his jeans with how wet she was, if he could feel how hot she was for him down there.

It’s as if he can read her mind, his hands on her hips pull her closer and he grinds his hips against hers as he pulls back from the kiss. He brings one hand up to curl around the dainty letters hanging at her throat and she imagines him twisting the chain around his fist to choke her with it. The image makes her whimper and she looks up at him, awaiting.. something. Oscar licks his lips, can taste her strawberry lip balm on his own lips, the same one she’s used since she found it a decade ago and hailed it as her personal holy grail. He knows the taste well from having borrowed it over the years, but it’s much better coming from her own lips. He keeps the chain hanging from a finger as he lifts his hand to her jaw and squeezes lightly, “Open.” She blinks slowly at him and it reminds him of her cat, he wonders where it is, he didn’t notice the orange pest when he walked in, and then forgets about it again as her jaw falls open and she blinks at him again, just as slowly as before. He leans down over her and gathers saliva in his mouth before spitting onto her awaiting tongue. She flinches as he spits but doesn’t close her mouth, just blinks a few times in quick succession as her cunt throbs with need. She’d expected him to press the necklace into her mouth, not spit. She’s too turned on by the possessive act to be grossed out, and then he tells her to swallow it and she can’t help but moan as he presses her jaw closed for her.

Carlos has never heard something so erotic as the sound that leaves her when she swallows Oscar’s spit. The sound is so needy, he can feel precum dribble out of his cock as he squeezes his eyes shut and imagines she’s making that sound for him. He opens his eyes again when he hears her gasp and finds Oscar on his knees between her legs. She’s blushing and staring right at Carlos like she’s forgotten about him in the time that Oscar was kissing her. He clenches his jaw then teases, “Forget I was here? You look surprised to see me.”

Oscar laughs from his place between her thighs, “Haven’t even touched you yet, and I’m all you can think about, hm? I told you she was my girl, Sainz.” Carlos growls at the words but doesn’t deny them. Neither does she. There’s no point, not when her cheeks flush more at his words and she looks down at him fondly as she pushes his hair back off his forehead, leaving her hands curled in his hair. He watches as Oscar leans into her touch momentarily, imagines he’s letting his eyes flutter shut as he relaxes into her. Then, his hands are on her legs and he’s pressing a kiss to her knee before stands back up. He tugs at them hem of her dress, and she lifts her hips so he can pull it up. She automatically raises her hands above her head so he can lift it off, then lets her hands fall to his chest as he drops the dress behind him on the floor, his hands finding new purchase on her thighs. They teasingly slide up until they meet her panties and he hooks his fingers into them and tugs. She lifts her hips again so he can pull them down her legs. He kneels like before, pressing her legs apart so he can fit between them. Her hands find his hair again, running through it before stopping halfway through and resting on the crown of his head.

Her eyes meet Carlos’s again, briefly, before he looks down to take in how bare she is. The gold letters glint at Carlos as his eyes rake down her body. They’re the only thing remaining on her, marked with bite marks on either side of the gold chain and a hickey further up her throat. Her tits are as nice as he imagined, as plump as they looked in her dress. He wishes he could touch them, kiss them. Disappointingly, Oscar’s blocking the view of her pussy with his head.

Oscar’s lips find her thigh and he begins trailing kisses up her thighs until he meets her center, her hips unconsciously shift to meet his mouth. She keeps her eyes on him as he sucks his lower lip between his teeth and brings his hands up to part her lips. He groans at the sight, and his warm breath against her makes her shiver. He lets his lower lip fall free as he leans forward and presses his lips to her swollen clit. The action makes her stomach twitch and she whines, pressing her hips forwards again for more contact. He pulls back and she huffs impatiently, but before she can complain he leans back in and flattens his tongue against her, licking from her entrance to her clit before sucking the bud between his lips.

She pulls her lower lip between her teeth as she lets out a moan and Carlos groans, wishing he was the one tasting her. Her hands leave Oscar’s hair to press into the sheets and her head falls back between her shoulders as a louder moan spills from her lips. He tries again to slip out of the tie around his wrists, but doesn’t feel it give, doesn’t hear the fabric begin to tear. The skin around his wrists is sore already from his attempts to get out, he doesn’t know what will happen if he does get out, but he needs to touch her like Oscar is. She looks delectable as Oscar pushes her legs up to rest on his shoulders and nuzzles his face into her pussy. She arches her back as she falls back on the bed, catching herself on her elbows at the last minute. Her hands find her tits and she whines blissfully. Carlos watches as she pinches and tugs at her nipples while grinding her hips against Oscar’s face, her brows scrunching and lips parting each time a moan slips out. He would do anything to touch her right now, he can’t think straight because of how good she looks. His mouth is watering, he keeps licking his lips and swallowing down the spit that gathers in his mouth. It’s unfair. Carlos has never been more turned on his life, and there’s nothing he can do about it.

Oscar moans against her pussy, he’s never tasted something so good in his life. This is where he’s meant to be, between his best friend’s legs with his tongue fucking inside of her. She sounds like an angel above him, whimpering his name and grinding on his face. When he flutters his eyes open and looks up at her, he’s blessed with the sight of her glossy eyes staring back at him. Her perky nipples are pinched between her fingers and she twists them as he moans against her again. Her eyes flutter shut for a moment as her head tips back and she moans, but then she licks her lips as she reopens them and cries, “Feels so good Osc, ‘m so close.”

He really can’t help but moan again as she clenches around his tongue and he shakes his head to the side, his nose bumping her clit. He suddenly pulls his tongue from her hole and he licks flat up to her clit before mumbling, “Cum for me.” At the same time, he slips two fingers into her entrance and curls them. He reattaches his lips to her clit and sucks softly, gently nipping it with his teeth. He’s rewarded by her thighs clamping around his head and a warm gush around his fingers as she moans sweetly.

Carlos can hear the slick squelching noises coming from Oscar’s fingers in her as she cums, mixed with the sounds of their moans. He wants to mock Oscar for moaning into her pussy, but knows he’d be doing the same in his position. He can’t believe he’s fucking drooling watching his rival eat the object of his fantasies out. At this point, if Oscar told him he could touch her if he begged, he’d get on his hands and knees and kiss the floor at his feet for a chance at tasting the nectar between her thighs.

Oscar doesn’t stop lapping at her pussy until her thighs relax around him, then he suddenly releases his hold and kisses his way up her body. A moment later, his wet hand is grabbing her jaw and pulling her in for a hot kiss. Oscar’s hips grind against her’s as he kisses her, licking into her mouth as he moans. She can feel her pussy clenching around nothing as his cock rubs against her through his jeans. She detaches her right hand from her now sore nipple and drags it down his chest to slip under his shirt and press to his abdomen. “Fuck me, please, Oscar.” She pulls back from the kiss and whines, rubbing her nose against his softly.

He grins and stands to look back to Carlos. He looks angry and turned on, Oscar can see his cock hard in his jeans, and can feel the anger radiating off of him. He can’t help but tease, “You look fucked.”

Carlos snarls at him and tries to fight the restraints again and Oscar laughs. Laughs. He looks fucking gleeful, his slick mouth opening wide as he squeezes his eyes shut, his head falling back. Carlos tries to stand and can’t, and it makes Oscar laugh harder. Then, suddenly he goes quiet and his face softens, but he looks at Carlos with pity, not fondness. “Be good, and I might let you cum.” The idea that Oscar has any control over Carlos makes his stomach twist, and he spits at Oscar. It lands on his shirt and the older man smirks. The younger man returns it and leaves his place between her legs and grabs Carlos’s jaw. He can taste her on Oscar’s fingers when he squeezes his jaw and shoves two inside.

Carlos gags as they hit the back of his throat and pants, his tongue unwillingly pressing out. Oscar smirks as he spreads his fingers and forces Carlos’s mouth wider, then spits on his tongue. Anger flares through Carlos and he tries to yank his arms free, tries to jerk his face out of Oscar’s hold, but it only hurts his wrists and forces Oscar’s fingers back into his throat. He hears her gasp behind Oscar and feels humiliated at the thought of her witnessing this.

Oscar groans at the feeling of his fingers spreading his spit over Carlos’s tongue. “Can you taste her? Does she taste good?” He’s surprised the older man isn’t biting his fingers off when they press into his throat and he fucks them into it twice. He retracts them at the idea and the man’s mouth snaps shut, he can feel his jaw tensing under his fingers as he grits his teeth and swallows. He lifts his knee and presses it into the man’s crotch, softly, and is rewarded with his eyes fluttering shut and his head tipping back as his jaw relaxes and his lips part. Then he seems to catch himself and his eyes jerk open and he kicks Oscar away with a grunt.

Oscar releases his hold and turns back to find she’s made herself at home in the pillows. He strips himself quickly before joining her on the bed, grabbing her ankles and pulling her to the center. She lets out a surprised squeal and his stomach flutters at the grin that briefly takes over her face. He trails his hands up her legs and taps at her thighs. “Sit up for me.” His voice is soft and she instantly follows the command. She pushes herself up with her elbows, then hands, and tucks her knees under her as he slips behind her.

As soon as he moves, she locks eyes with Carlos and her entire body flushes as she takes in the way he looks. She can see his chest rapidly rising and falling, can hear the pants falling from his lips as he stares at them. He’s not glaring anymore, his eyes have glazed over and he just looks starved. Or fucked, as Oscar said. He meets her eye and she almost wants to ask Oscar to take pity on him and untie him, but then he’s lifting her hips and she can feel his cock against her ass. She wishes she had taken a look at it when he was in front of her, but she was too preoccupied thinking about her best friend spitting in Carlos’s mind. She breaks eye contact with Carlos to look down as Oscar’s hand sides from her hip to between her legs and watches as he swirls them around her clit before slipping two back inside.

Carlos finds himself following her gaze down and is met by the sight of Oscar’s fingers dipping inside of her. He looks back up to catch her reaction and finds she’s tipping her head back on Oscar’s shoulder as she gasps. He watches as she lifts a hand to curl it in Oscar’s hair behind her, to pull him impossibly closer. Her other hand wraps around his wrist to keep it between her thighs. He can feel Oscar staring at him and he meets the boy’s eyes.

Oscar curls his fingers as Carlos looks at him and she whines. “She’s so pretty, yeah? See why I won’t let anyone else touch her?” Carlos nods stupidly, he wouldn’t let anyone touch her either. Oscar smiles a little as he continues, “Haven’t done this before, y’know?” He presses a kiss to her neck and she sighs, tilting her head to the side to give him more room but he leaves it at one chaste kiss. “She’s so perfect, I didn’t wanna ruin her.”

She arches her back and presses her hips down on his hand, his fingers brush deeper inside her and she mewls. “Want you to ruin me, Oz.”

He snickers at her words, “I’m going to, and he’s going to watch. Gonna enjoy it too, aren’t you? You’re going to love every minute of it, watching me make her mine.” Oscar pulls his fingers from her cunt, she tries to push his hand back into place but he shakes her off and brings his hand around to wrap around his cock. She relaxes when she feels his hand behind her and realizes he’s about to replace his fingers with his cock.

He sighs as he guides the head of his cock to her entrance, dragging it through her slick to bump her clit. “Can’t believe I waited this long, can you, baby?”

She tugs his hair as she shakes her head, “Too long, Osc.” He slips his cock back to her entrance and she feels him press inside slowly. A whine leaves her lips at the instant stretch and she reaches behind her to grasp at his thigh, “Oh god, you’re big.” He presses further in and moans into her ear. He lets her adjust for a moment, his hands find her hips and he strokes his thumb across the skin soothingly as she pulsates around him. Then, he suddenly tugs her flush against him. She screams at the sudden intrusion, she can feel him in her stomach as he bottoms out. It burns, her cunt clenching around him helplessly to accommodate him. She almost falls forward but he catches her before she can, his hand quickly sliding up her body and wrapping around her throat to hold him against her. He doesn’t put any real pressure on her throat, just holds her.

Carlos can’t tear his eyes away from the pair, he can see her pussy stretching around Oscar’s cock, can see her slick soaking his cock. His own cock twitched at the sound of her scream and dribbled precum at the sight of her taking the other man’s cock. He finds himself wishing he hadn’t kicked Oscar’s momentary touch away. Her entire body is stretched out for Carlos to see, Oscar’s hand keeping her in place around her throat. The pretty gold necklace taunting him. She looks so fucked out just from Oscar being in her, mouth hanging open and eyes fluttering open and closed like she can’t keep them open but she wants to see. The idea that she wants to see Carlos in front of him makes him groan.

The sound piques Oscar’s interest, distracting him from the feeling of her squeezing him. “She feels so fucking good, mate.” He shifts his hips, barely drawing out before pushing back in, to see if she’s ready. When she moans and it doesn’t sound pained, he repeats the action. “Feel good, baby? You like taking my cock?”

She sighs and nods, “Feels so good.” His hand on her hip moves between her thighs, skimming over the soft patch of hair there before he finds her pussy. He presses two fingers to her entrance around his cock, slicking them up before her drags them to her clit and begins tracing his name into her clit one letter at a time. Her entire body convulses on the R shape, so he repeats it and he feels her thighs twitching against him.

Carlos looks defeated to Oscar. He’s slumped over in the chair, head hanging limply as he watches them. He keeps licking his lips and swallowing, but that’s all he’s doing. Watching Oscar’s cock slowly thrust in and out of her. He decides to give him a show. He picks up the pace of his thrusts and the room is filled with the sound of her moans and his pants, the slick squelching of his cock entering her eat time and his skin slapping against hers. Her back is arched beautifully, probably painfully, as she tugs on Oscar’s hair and presses herself back on his cock each time he pulls out.

It doesn’t take long for her to come unraveled, he can feel it before she tells him, the way her cunt flutters and her stomach contracts. It almost does it in when she tells him, whiny and breathless, “‘M gonna cum.”

He brings his lips down to her ear and says, “Cum around my cock, pretty.” She moans at his words and he presses harder on her clit, fucking into her harder. He sinks into her neck again, just under her ear, and the pain sends her over the edge. He holds her against him as she tries to pull away with the force of her orgasm, he wants Carlos to see it all. He keeps his eyes on the man as he fucks her through it until she finally goes lax in his grip and he lets go, of the bite and his hand around her throat and she slumps forward. He feels bad when she doesn’t even catch herself, lets herself fall face first into the plush mattress. Her body shivers once more from the sensitivity of her orgasm as Oscar leans over her and his cock shifts again. He looks Carlos in the eye as he says, “She’s my cockdumb whore, got it?” Then sinks his teeth into her shoulder. She whines and tries to jerk away but he bites harder and she stops squirming. Her pussy flutters around him blissfully and he groans against her skin. When he releases the bite, he flicks his tongue over the indents of his teeth and kisses it before pulling back to admire it. He brings his hand that was around her throat to press into it and she whimpers. His voice suddenly goes soft as he softens his touch and traces the outline and coos, “You want me to stop? Is it too much, honey?”

She shakes her head, spit slick lips dragging against her duvet as she mumbles, “Feels good.” She knows he can’t understand the muffled words as soon as they leave her and she quickly turns her head and presses her cheek into the sheets and repeats it clearly.

He presses down on the mark, “Yeah? You like it when I bite you? Mark you?” She repeats herself again, and he grins. His hand trails down her back until it rests on her hip and he pushes himself back up. “You’re so fucking wet, baby, all for me. Soaking my cock.” He wants to fuck her like this, with her face buried in the sheets, staring at her pretty ass, but he has a better idea. He pulls himself out of her, his grip tightening on her hips as she pushes back to chase his cock. He taps her hip with one hand, “Roll over, on your back.” She huffs but follows the order, rolling onto her back then shuffling underneath him. She automatically lifts her legs and wraps them around him to pull him closer. He allows it, brings his hands to rest on her hips and lifts her, holds her to her chest and shifts them closer to the edge of the bed then drops her, her head hangs off the edge and Carlos has the perfect view of her face and the necklace sitting pretty between her tits. He hadn’t realized his grip had tightened so much when she was cumming, but there’s a pink imprint of his hand. He wants Carlos so watch him fuck her like this, in the perfect position for her mouth to be fucked by him, but restricted from doing so.

Oscar lines back up with her entrance before he places his hands on her thighs and buries his cock in her in one swift movement. She chokes on a moan, and Oscar finds himself jealous of the sight Carlos gets when she arches her back and claws at the sheets. He tightens his grip on her hips to hold her steady as he sets a bruising pace, eyes locked on where her pussy stretches around his cock. He hears her whimper and casts his gaze up to see she’s playing with her tits again, squeezing them with both hands before pinching her nipples and repeating the action. He releases his right hand and grabs her hand to press it into the sheets, then dips down and wraps his lips around the abandoned nipple. Her hand fights his grip and he releases it out of curiosity, and she tangles it in his hair as she moans, “Oscar, more.” He lets go of her nipple and mouths at the flesh of her breast before he sinks his teeth into it. Her legs tighten around him and she moans sweetly, he releases the flesh before he cups the back of her head and pulls her in for a kiss.

She whimpers into Oscar’s mouth as his cock brushes her sweet spot on every thrust. Her hands find purchase on his shoulders for a moment before she curls them around his neck to hold him against her. His nails scratch against her scalp as he licks into her mouth. She can feel him all over her, fingers digging into her hip and scalp, his cock in her stomach, sweaty chest pressed against hers. She drops her head back to gasp for air and his lips find purchase on her throat, nipping and sucking harshly. She meets Carlos’s eye again and licks her lips as she thinks about his cock in her mouth. His lips are bitten red and she wants to taste them, see if she can taste herself, taste Oscar, on his tongue.

She’s suddenly overwhelmed by pleasure when the hand on her hip moves and he presses his thumb to her clit. Her back arches as she moans his name, fingers slipping into his hair and tugging as he nips at the column of her throat. Oscar moans softly before teasing, “G’na cum around my cock already? So good for me.” His words push her over the edge a third time and she tightens her legs around him so he can’t move as her orgasm rocks through her. He resigns himself to grinding his cock into her, apparently perfectly so because her moans suddenly get pitchier and she writhes beneath him. Her pussy is hugging his cock so well, pulsating around him as her orgasm rolls through her body. She collapses underneath him after a moment and gasps for air. He pushes himself up to look at Carlos, his own cock twitches at the sight of his rival. He kind of looks pretty the same way she does, red lips and glossy eyes. His cheeks and nose are flushed and his hair looks soft, nice to run his fingers through. He looks down the other man’s body, to the obvious bulge in his jeans and feels his stomach stir. It probably hurts, he almost feels sorry for him.

He squeezes his eyes shut and pushes the thoughts aside, refocuses his attention on his best friend beneath him when he reopens his eyes. Her tits are bouncing with every thrust, the necklace shining in the light. He leans down and captures the pendant between his teeth then drops it into her own mouth, hanging off the bed. She instantly closes her mouth around it and whines. “That’s my girl. You look so fucking good like this. Doesn’t she Sainz?”

Carlos lifts his head slightly and groans, “Fucking incredible.” He wants to ignore Oscar, tell him to fuck off and untie him, but he’d agree to anything right now. She whines at his words and he instinctively bucks his hips up in search of friction and moans pitifully when he finds none.

Oscar dips his mouth back down to wrap around her right nipple, tugging on the bud with his teeth before sucking on it. She pets the back of his head as she sighs and presses into his touch. He’s so fucking close, he’s barely holding himself together as he quickens his pace to bring her to the edge with him. He stops circling her clit with his thumb and traces the letter R again, and she begins trembling around him again. “You almost there, baby? Gonna fill you up, mark you as mine.” A long, drawn out moan falls from her lips and she grips him so tight he almost explodes, but then she gasps, “Please, ‘m so close.” He groans against her skin and drags his lips from her breast back to her throat and skins his teeth into the flesh. Her body seizes under him as her orgasm crashes over her and the feeling of her gushing around his cock again sends him over the edge. He releases his bite to moan against her skin, pressing his lips to the indents his teeth made. His entire body shudders as he spills his seed inside of her, he can’t help but press his hand into her stomach to feel his cock bulging out.

Carlos has never been harder in his life as much as he would like to protest it. His jeans have a dark spot where his cock has been steadily leaking precum and it aches with a need to be touched he hasn’t felt before. He groans as he watches Oscar empty himself in her, his ears burning from the sounds of their mixed moans. It’s a sinful sight, Oscar rolling his hips into hers and her blinking dazedly at Carlos as her orgasm crashes through her. He finds himself moaning as he grinds his hips into nothing, feebly searching for satisfaction. She finds it in herself to grin at him, before her mouth falls back into an O as a moan spills past her lips and her eyes roll back.

Oscar pulls back from her throat when he’s sure he’s done cumming, but the sight of the marks on her throat and chest force another ribbon of cum out of him and he hisses. He slowly pulls out of her and immediately moves to Carlos, pressing his knee into the man’s crotch again. He doesn’t fight it this time, so Oscar curls a hand in his hair and forces him to look up at him. “She’s mine, got it?” Carlos nods as best he can with the hand holding his hair. “Say it.”

Carlos grits his teeth before admitting, “She’s yours.” Oscar nods, pleased. He maintains his hold but steps away from Carlos, turning back to his friend. “Darling, come to me.” She whines but rolls over and sits up, crawling to the edge of the bed before she swings her legs off the edge and stands. She wobbles and tips forwards into Oscar, he catches her then lowers her to the floor between Carlos’s legs. Oscar presses her face down with a gentle hand on the back of her head and she immediately places her hands on Carlos’s thighs and leans in. She lets her mouth hover over the wet spot before Oscar gives her another nudge and she begins lapping at his cock through his jeans. The moan he lets out goes straight to her cunt and she clenches around nothing, Oscar’s cum dripping out of her to the hardwood floor beneath her. She moans at the taste of him on her tongue and sucks at the fabric, earning another moan from Carlos.

Oscar’s once again struck by the thought that Carlos looks pretty when his eyes flutter shut and his lips part in a moan. He lightly tugs on his hair, not to be mean, just because he wants to, and is rewarded by a soft sigh and Carlos pushing his head back against Oscar’s hand. He tightens his grip and pulls harder, drawing a moan from the other man. “Look at her,” he coos and releases his hold on Carlos so his head drops again. He moans at the sight of her mouthing at him through his jeans, at the feeling. “She’s only doing it because of me. You get to cum because of me.”

Carlos groans at his words, his cock twitching at the bare mention of an orgasm. He’s worryingly close already from watching, from not being touched for so long. She looks up at him as she finds the head of his cock and begins sucking at it through his jeans and he can’t do anything to stop his orgasm from crashing over him. His head tips back as he moans and shudders, fighting against the restraints to tangle his hands in her hair and the pain of the fabric rubbing his wrists raw makes his mind spin.

Cum seeps through his pants and she eagerly laps it up, much to Oscar’s enjoyment. “How’s it feel to cum in your pants? Can’t say I’ve done that before.” Carlos starts to retort back to Oscar’s teasing, but then her teeth skim his sensitive cock through his jeans and he whimpers instead. It causes Oscar to snicker and pull her head back, “That’s enough, I think.” Carlos sighs and slumps into the chair, sucking in air as he stares down at her slick lips. The golden necklace is shiny as ever on her throat and he wishes he could rip it off and replace it with one of his own.

She looks up at Oscar and smiles like she didn’t just suck Carlos’s cock through his jeans, and then leans forward to press a kiss to Oscar’s bare hip. He ruffles her hair like a pet before stepping away, behind Carlos. He feels cool hands on his wrists, then a moment later his wrists are being massaged by cool fingers. He wants to jerk back from the touch but he doesn’t have it in him, too relieved to finally be released from his confines to care that his rival is doing something caring. A moment later, his arms are let go and he immediately brings them to his face to investigate the damage. His wrists are red and chaffed, sore, but nothing too bad. As he’s studying his wrists, he feels a nudge to the back of his chair, “We’re going to shower. You can let yourself out.” Carlos frowns at the words, jealousy burning in his stomach as she stands and he takes in her bare body again, hopefully not for the last time. Oscar’s hand finds her waist and he takes her hand and guides her to the bathroom. The door shuts, and he hears the lock click behind them.

He spends a few moments collecting himself, running through the last few hours, before he pulls out his phone and calls his friend Lando to come get him, hoping he doesn’t notice the wet spot on his dark jeans when he arrives at the sent location.

#Okay… okay okay okayyyy… #this is fine I’m fine I’m not hyperventilating or anything #wtf #It’s literally a NEED for me to experience this irl #What god do I have to beg for this to happen #Why is Oscar spitting in Carlos mouth something I never knew I needed??? #Is it unhinged? Yes. Do I love it? Yes.

[26sophiess]

In response to this

I would love to see soft, homebody!Carlos: spending time outside watching the sun set on those seemingly endless summer evenings, soft and gentle touches, whispered promises and dreams.

Am also curious to see the origins of her calling him papí 👀 like how did that come about? Did she slip and accidentally call him that or was it a joke that became a lot less funny and a whole lot spicier?

there’s an ache in you (put there by the ache in me)

{carlos sainz x fem!reader/oc} ft lando norris

in which carlos unlocks a new kink and confronts his ever-present fear of commitment.

warnings: smut, use of terms of endearment (papi/good girl), some dirty talk, unprotected sex, some angst.

a/n: this was sent in so long ago in response to this and i wanted to complete it in time for your birthday but unfortunately my brain broke. So happy belated birthday Mar! This is for you 💛

Her friend brings it up over lunch. 

“Yeah. ‘Papi’. I’d been thinking about it, and it was just in the spur of the moment when I said it and he, I swear to god, came so hard I think he blacked out.”

She’s accustomed to the dirty laughter, but does not expect the way her own cheeks grow hot at the prospect. 

‘Papi,’ she whispers to herself, testing the unfamiliar word, the way it feels in her mouth. 

Papi. 

She glances over at Carlos who stands with a cold beer in hand with the other boyfriends and husbands. He catches her looking, and gives her a cheeky wink which makes her smile. She wonders how he’d respond if she’d said it - whether he’d be mortified, or worse - if he’d like it. 

She keeps the secret to herself, too ashamed to share the thought with Carlos - but he notices how shy she’s become all of a sudden with him, how her blush hasn’t quite dissipated since lunch. He’s intrigued - wanting to get to the bottom of this.

Later that afternoon, he pulls her into their villa under the guise of wanting to freshen up before dinner. He presses her up against the door to close it, leaning in to kiss her between her giggles of delirious joy. 

“What got you so flustered at lunch, hm,” he asks, between kisses. Her face is cupped between his hands and she shakes it, quickly, leaning up to kiss him again but he stops, giving her an appraising look. “Why won’t you tell me?” His eyes turn mischievous. “Is is dirty?”

She makes a surprised noise that sounds a lot like guilt, in his book. “Oh. Now you have to tell me.”

She turns scarlet. “Carlos, it’s nothing.”

He doesn’t believe her, so he puts his hand up the hem of her sundress, up her thigh to leave goosebumps in the wake of his touch. She makes a sound so hungry he grins. “Tell me, or I won’t touch you like you want me to.” 

His warm hand’s so close to her cunt, she shivers. “Need you to touch me… please, Carlos.”

He stills his fingers, squeezing the inside curve of her thigh. She whimpers, pressing her legs together to feel even the tiniest bit more friction, but he won’t allow it. “Say it, or I’ll stop.”

She bites down on her lower lip, eyes rounding with nervous energy. “It’s… I…”

He sees the worry in her face, and softens a little by kissing the tip of her nose. “There is nothing in the world, querida, that you could say which would make me-”

“Papi.” She blurts out, and then shrinks back against the door, cheeks burning with shame. His eyes widen, but doesn’t take his gaze off her and she doesn’t look away - so transfixed by him. 

“What did you just say?”

His tone is imploring, curious - no hint of judgement, so she feels completely assured to tell him, “I was thinking, all afternoon, about calling you papi while you-”

Carlos’ eyes are so intense, and the surprise on his face has now morphed into pure hot wanting. “While I… what?” he asks, leaning in, and she can feel the bulge of his cock against her thigh. 

The courage to follow through this fantasy she’d built up in her head surges through her veins. She swallows. “While you pinned me down in the bed and fucked me.”

At first, he doesn’t say anything, as if the part of his brain responsible for coherent thought has fractured into pieces by her admission. 

“Carlos…” she says, squirming now, wanting to hide her face in shame, “forget it. I just….”

“No.” He says, firmly, holding her still in his arms. “That… is the hottest thing I’ve ever heard you say.”

She makes a noise, shame and delight colliding in her voice when she speaks. “You like it?”

He nods, grin spreading on his face. “Oh, I more than like it, cariño. It turns me on.”

She swallows, feeling hot all over. “Me too.”

He makes a low sound of approval. “Go on then. Ask me.”

He’s so close - his presence is making her feel drugged. She wraps her hands around the back of his neck and pulls him in until their lips touch, and she whispers, “please take me to bed and fuck me… papi.”

The hitch in his breath is obscene, as if the last thread of his self control and teasing has snapped and now he’s going to take what he wants. He makes this deep growl as he kisses her so fiercely, spurred on by that one singular word she’s thrown in to make him crazy. He drags her to their bed and they fall into it together, hands working fast to pull their clothes off so they can feel the heat of each other’s skin, to kiss until they have to pull away for air. His eyes can’t get enough of her, his lips unable to stop seeking hers out. 

“Papi,” she gasps out, when his thigh slides between her legs and his fingers find the wet aching centre of her, rubbing her clit in circles that making her body a hot, thrumming mess. 

“So wet,” he groans, praise and frustration circling in his voice because he wants to touch, to taste, to fuck all at once. “So good for me, huh? Gonna rub this pretty clit until you come for me, yeah?”

She makes a rough little noise. “Don’t stop, papi. Just like that… fuck.”

Her hips twist up, and his breath goes shallow and ragged when he watches her come, trembling in his arms, her eyes squeezed shut as she cries out the new name she christens him with - papi.

“That’s so hot, when you call me that,” his voice is a low rasp against her neck, where he kisses a spot that pulses with her racing heartbeat. She half-giggles in the delirious afterglow, pulling him close and begs for him to fuck her. 

“Please,” she whines, reaching for the stiff cock she finds. It’s hot and heavy in her hand, and throbs as her hand circles him, and Carlos stretches out over her, his taut, strong body caging her in. She wraps her legs around his hips when he pushes inside her, holding his face and feeling the stretch of him opening her up, invasive and deep, and she completely feels swallowed up by his hypnotic gaze on her, the love in his eyes that don’t even waver one bit. He’s gloriously hers. 

“Papi…” she murmurs, curling her fingers upward now into the lush strands of his hair. She watches as the word takes effect, now that he’s buried inside her - the possessive, authoritative nature of the word becomes a galvanising force for him - the way his breath punches out, his eyes pools of liquid heat and want and his mouth hungry to devour hers. He fucks her until the sheets grow messy and her inner thighs bruise with an ache she never wants to get rid of. 

“Ay papi,” she groans, knowing they’re close… “Quiero - I want to…”

“Yes,” he hisses, as her nails rake down his back, “wanna watch you come, mi vida.”

Her eyes are glassy and wide when she moans papi like a filthy mantra, shaking as he makes encouraging, soothing noises that tell her he likes this, very much.

“That’s my good girl,” he says, when she grips him tightly and dissolves into an orgasm that’s syrupy hot, like warm lava poured through her veins. He doesn’t last long, not after the way her body tightens around him, clenching around his cock and shuddering into his body. He comes, wet and hot and gasping into the curve of her neck and she just holds him close, absorbing the aftershocks of his orgasm that ripple out. 

She kisses his cheek, stroking down the back of his neck that makes him whine softly. “That was so hot,” he confesses, a flush staining his cheeks. 

She’s too spent to say anything else, so she giggles and curls up into him and falls asleep against the warm comfort of his body, the gentling rhythm of his heartbeat.

—

Later, at dinner on a porch overlooking the sunset, Carlos curls up against her on a divan and won’t let her go. The intimacy is not new, but it feels different, after the afternoon they’ve both had. He feeds her little bites of food and strokes the slope of her arm, her thigh. He’s never been so overtly affectionate with his touches in front of other people, and it’s somehow so comforting and exciting and dizzying all at once. 

He kisses her when the sun fully sets - his lips so warm and soft and eager, and she has to pull away before he gets carried away. “Ay, papi,” she whispers, teasingly, watching his eyes light up, “not here, please.”

“Call me papi again, and I won’t be held responsible for what I want to do to you,” he teases back.

She laughs, and he tips back the glass of wine they share, unable to take his eyes off her. Maybe it’s the comfort of being in the off-season, or the buzzing sensation of their afternoon quickie, but she never wants to leave his side. 

“So when are you two getting married, huh?” A teasing question is thrown in their direction, breaking the spell. 

Carlos looks away first, and she steels herself against this part of him she finds most troubling - his tendency to avoid hefty discussions about the future. She barely hears him when he addresses the whole group with his readily prepared speech about wanting to wait, about having fun first and needing time to make preparations. Everyone laughs, and eventually the conversation turns to casual things. 

She shuffles against him, smiling, but feeling this sinking, unexplainable feeling crop up in her chest. Does he not want to get married? It’s only been a year since they’d started seeing each other, and maybe it is too soon - too fast. 

Carlos seems to sense this shift in her mood, and so after dinner he brings her on a walk through the gardens, his hand loosely entwined with hers.

“How are you feeling, mi amor?” 

She shrugs, giving him a small smile. “It’s been nice to get away. And I had the most fun this afternoon.”

He grins, and tugs her in for a kiss. “Me too. But I want to talk about dinner.”

Her shoulders slump down. “Oh.”

He holds her face and strokes her cheek. “You seemed angry with me.”

She shakes her head. “Not angry.”

He pauses, searching the word out. “Disappointed?”

She bites her lip. “A bit.”

“Is it because I do not ask you to marry me?”

She wants to sigh, because he makes it sound like such an impossible, irrational, silly want. “I just want to know, Carlos, if there’s going to be a future for the two of us.” She strokes his shoulder where his shirt creases, distractedly. “I don’t need you to marry me today, or in a year, if that’s not what you want. I just want to know if it’s going somewhere - if you see yourself building a life with me, living together, having kids with me. I just need to talk about that. I don’t want to just have fun with you.” She shrugs again. “I could have fun with anyone. But I want to make a life with you.”

Carlos goes quiet. In the darkness of the gardens, he looks even more pensive and on edge. 

“I don’t need an answer today,” she says, the blissful buzz of the afternoon fading away. “I just think we-”

“I have an answer,” he says, interrupting. He takes a deep breath and she steadies her heart to prepare herself for what he has to say. He touches her face, fingers feather-light. “I can’t tell you what my life will look like in a year, or in two, or ten. But I love you. I love you so much it makes me afraid that I’m not enough for you, and that one day you will look up from the only life I can give you and regret it so much.”

She doesn’t say anything. It’s just words, but it’s the first time he’s tried to articulate his feelings, his thoughts of the future. “I don’t want you to make my choice for me, Carlos.”

He scrunches his nose at that. “That isn’t what I meant. I want - I want you to know I am in love with you, with what we have now. And I don’t want to lose it for anything.”

She nods, comprehending his fear - that marriage will somehow erode this thing they share. Still, she can’t shake the feeling that he should be brave enough to face this with her - but he’s cowardly, unwilling to venture forward because he’s afraid of falling off the edge. “Is it enough for you, being like this with me?”

He purses his lips, feeling instantly defensive, like there’s a trap at the end of that sentence. “Is it enough for you?”

She gives him a tight smile, and unlinks her fingers from his. “I love you, Carlos, but you know what I want. I need to know there’s something in our future.”

“Am I not enough?” He says, trying to draw her back in, but she keeps her distance, brows furrowed. 

“You’re always enough, Carlos.” She puts her hands in her pockets, suddenly feeling cold. “But this isn’t about you. It’s us, together, being committed to each other forever.”

“Forever is a long time,” he says, but it comes out almost cruel, and he looks pained, like he wants to take it back, but he can’t.

“It is.” She admits, wanting nothing more than to go back to their afternoon - wanting her teasing, playful Carlos back. “But if you have something precious, something you truly love - forever isn’t ever going to be long enough.”

She leaves him in the dust of their conversation, heading back to their villa, sleeping in the bed that’s messy from their afternoon. He doesn’t follow her, and she doesn’t allow herself to cry.

—

“You’re an idiot,” Lando readily tells him, in the midst of their FIFA game. Lando is beating him 5-0, and yet Carlos feels nothing but numb, thinking about his last conversation with her. They haven’t spoken in two weeks. 

Instead of defending himself like he’s always ready to, he just says, “I know,” and slumps in his seat, watching Lando’s striker put a sixth in the net. He tosses the controller one side and sighs. “I don’t know what I can do, Lando. She wants these things that I cannot give her.”

Lando scoffs. “What? Marriage? Come on, Carlos, be serious. She’s the best person for you.”

He fiddles with his fingers. “It is not an easy life, you know.” And Lando nods, because he does know. “Every day she has to sacrifice for my career, my ambitions. It is a very intense and all-consuming life.”

“Isn’t that her choice? She’s telling you she wants you, in spite of all the shit that being with you comes with. Isn’t that just all that you could ask for?” Lando’s eyes grow narrow, incredulous. “You’re being a complete asshole, you know - making two people suffer because of your stupid fears, your stupid paranoia. Isn’t it time you grew up, Carlos, and took some measure of responsibility for your own damn life?”

He blinks. “Did you just call me immature?”

Lando grins. “Well. I guess so. How the tables have turned.”

Carlos wipes a hand down his face, sinking back further into Lando’s overpriced sofa. “I can’t stand being without her. I love her, Lando.”

Lando makes a frustrated gesture. “So why the fuck are you still on my couch, when she needs to hear these words from you?”

He looks so pained that Lando wants to reach out for him. “What if she wakes up one morning, and she sees me for who I am. That I’m not enough for her? That I can’t protect her from the fears that I could die in this sport, or that the media will tear apart anything and everything she does. Who would choose this life, Lando?”

“I don’t know,” he says, matter of factly, “a woman who loves you more than all that?”

Carlos blinks back the tears in his eyes. “She can’t possibly.”

Lando protests, but Carlos shakes his head. “Even if you what you say is true - she won’t forgive me.” His voice is grim. “It’s too little, too late.”

Lando gives him a withering look. “Mate. You’re so stupid. Are you going to spend your life wondering about what ifs, or are you going to go back there and tell her the god honest truth that you’re scared, but you’re willing to work it out with her?”

Carlos flings his hands up in a gesture of impatience, or maybe it’s hopelessness. “I can’t just show up at her doorstep.”

Lando brightens. “Yeah. Of course not, cabrón. You gotta grovel!”

He frowns. “I don’t know what that is.”

“Like, show you’re very sorry. Apologise. And beg her to take you back.”

“But I don’t know whether what I do will make her take me back?”

Lando gives him a vaguely pitying look. “Well that’s the thing, mate, you won’t know, will you? But if you’re going to just sit here like a coward without even fucking trying, then maybe you didn’t deserve her after all.”

Carlos bristles, but he knows Lando is right. Even a broken clock, he thinks, is right twice a day.

“Will you help me?” He asks, after a pause, and Lando lights up like he’s been waiting for this very opportunity for his whole life. “It has to work,” Carlos says, and Lando nods.

“Don’t worry. It will.”

—

It’s clear that Lando’s idea of romance and his is very jarringly different. Carlos is thinking of flowers, a dinner at a nice restaurant, but all Lando wants to do is to make a gift basket full of junk snacks. Carlos watches, horrified, as he fills their shopping cart full of snacks his girlfriend (ex?) would never ever touch. 

“These are so good,” he grins, tossing in some chocolate bars, and a pack of sweets that look like curled worms. “She’s going to have to take you back after this.”

Carlos quietly disagrees, but he doesn’t want to throw out any ideas. “I think her taste is a little more refined than this, Lando.”

“Nonsense,” Lando proclaims, wielding a half-crushed packet of biscuits that he claims is excellent, and when his back is turned, Carlos dutifully returns it to the shelf it came from.

Lando insists on ordering a comically large balloon that spells out “this cabrón is sorry” in bright glittery letters, which looms over his head ominously. He scowls at it when it dips too low, hitting him in the head, and it feels like bad luck already.

Lando drives him over, bundling him in the tiny car he owns with the gift basket and the stupid balloon. He pulls up to her driveway, and Carlos feels his throat close up with worry. He’s been to this house a thousand times over, but this time it’s so much weightier. 

Lando turns to put an arm on his shoulder, which gives him a measure of comfort he’s grateful for. “Go get her, Carlos,” he says, and as cheesy as it sounds, it gives him the courage and drive he needs to exit the car (as gracefully as he can with that balloon in one hand, and the wretched gift basket in the other). He saunters over to her doorstep and takes the deepest breath.

He rings the doorbell, and turns only for the briefest moment to see Lando waiting at the side, cheering him on. He’s so nervous, especially with an audience, even if it is only Lando.

She takes her time to answer the door, and he shifts his weight from foot to foot - nervous, sweating already. She comes out with her hair still wet - she’s clearly thrown on some clothes, fresh out of a shower. She smells good - Carlos drinks in the sight of her - her soft skin, still damp, and feels the horrible wistfulness of wanting her slam right into his gut.

“Carlos,” she says, taking him in - his disheveled hair, eyes that look sunken in. A gift basket he’s holding that looks stuffed haphazardly with junk food, and a balloon that spells out an apology. “What are you doing here?”

He swallows, and leaves the gift basket on the floor, looping the balloon’s tie on his wrist. “I wanted to come see you.”

She looks unimpressed, folding her arms over her chest. “What’s the gift basket and balloon for?”

“Peace offering.” 

She raises an eyebrow, equal parts puzzled and amused. “With chocolate digestives and Haribos?”

He groans. “No? Just… never mind the gift basket.” He leans in towards her but she shifts back out of reach - instinctively defensive. He puts up his hands, retreating. “Sorry. I don’t mean to - I know I’ve been so fucking shit to you, and you don’t ever deserve to be put through the hell I made you go through.”

She leans against the frame of her door, giving him an appraising look. He’s still so devastatingly handsome, despite the way his hair seems to have lost just that little bit of its windswept, luscious quality - falling flatly over his forehead, accentuating the dark purple circles under his eyes, his cracked lips. He hasn’t taken good care of himself in the two weeks since she’d last seen him, and she allows her heart to feel just a tad bit sorry for him, even though he does not deserve it at all.

He carries on with a speech he seems to have rehearsed but never quite put together in an orderly fashion. “I miss you. I’m so… I’m so stupid, honestly. It’s not that I don’t want to make a life with you, my love. I don’t want anything to change with us, and I’m scared that…” He pauses, taking a breath. “I’m scared that I’ll be the worst mistake of your life - and marriage… being shackled to me, being forced to live this difficult life with me, and you’ll wake up regretting it all and I couldn’t take that.”

She doesn’t shift her stance. It’s not the angle of apology she wants. “So why are you here, now? I thought we were done. You didn’t even say a thing for two weeks and now you’re here?” She glances at the basket - the balloon - before letting her gaze settle back onto him, and suddenly he feels so small, so insufficient. 

He takes in a breath. “You’re right. It’s not enough.”

She watches the balloon sag a little above his head, amused at the parallels of Carlos’ own deflation. “And I’m supposed to believe that you changed your mind in all of two weeks?”

“I told you I’m an idiot.” 

She doesn’t refute the point. “Well, maybe I’ve changed my mind.”

He blinks, like an animal backed into a corner, and sees the resoluteness on her face, as certain as a death sentence. “Oh,” is all he manages - because this is his worst fear realised. He knows that now - he’s too late to repair things. No apology will ever be enough. “Yes that… I won’t blame you if you did.”

She watches his face fall, feeling her heart go out to him. She pokes hard at his chest, which makes him wince. “You said being with you is the most difficult thing. But it’s not the racing that’s difficult, Carlos. It’s you and your stupid, preconceived notions of what I can take. What I want.”

His eyes round with a sadness that makes her heart ache. “I get that now. You have every right to be disappointed with me, with my stubbornness, with how much of a coward I am.”

She purses her lips, steeling her heart against those sad, sorry eyes. “You’re goddamn right.”

He nods. “Yes. I know what I’ve done is terrible. I’ve hurt you, and that was the last thing I want to do. I have been selfish, arrogant, and most of all - I haven’t been fair to you, and I haven’t listened.” He takes a breath, as if bracing himself. “I’m so sorry. I want to say - I love you. I want to be with you. Until you don’t want me any more - but even then I’d still want you. Beg you to take me back.”

She doesn’t say anything, and so he takes this as a chance to carry on.

“You don’t have to forgive me,” he murmurs. “But I’m just asking for a chance to be able to love you like you deserve. To earn back your trust.” He dares to flash her a little smile. “Have you call me papi again.”

The memory of their last fuck flits through her mind, and she can’t help the warmth that floods through her. She feels this conflict within her somehow - does she dare to be vulnerable with him again, as she had that afternoon? To share not just new kinks again with him, but her whole life, her trust?

He’s giving her those glassy, wide eyes, so brown and beautiful she could drown in them. She’d thought being with him for so long would make her immune to him at this point. 

Evidently not.

Carlos is ever patient, watching every micro-expression that crosses her face, and putting them through the encyclopaedia of her feelings that he’s not realised he’s subconsciously catalogued over the course of their relationship.

The furrow of her brow. Dilemma.

The glassy quality in her eyes. Sadness.

The way she absently bites down on her bottom lip as she looks at him. 

Hope, maybe?

And yet - her shoulders sink down. She exhales, and his breath catches in his throat. He reaches for her, but all she does is push his hand away. 

He says her name, a soft pleading murmur. 

But she shakes her head. “I can’t… I don’t know, Carlos. I need some time.”

Fuck. This was not what he thought would happen. But he knows it’s not his choice. It’s hers to make. And he will respect whatever she wants. Whatever she needs.

It’s no longer just about him. He knows this. 

He lets the silence hang between them for a moment, even as he feels the last vestiges of hope fade away. He glances absently at the gift basket, kneeling down to tie the balloon to its handle, before nodding resolutely. “Of course,” he says, voice flat, “take all the time you need. You know where to find me.”

-

Lando watches as Carlos slinks back to the car, tail between his legs, looking worse for wear. His mouth is agape - he can’t help it.

“What happened mate? What did you say? What did she say?”

Carlos throws up his hands in frustration, in despair. “I don’t know, Lando. But I gave her everything. All the sorrys I had. I promised to be better. To do better. To give her a life together. And you know what?” His eyes are wide and wet and resigned. “It wasn’t enough. And that’s… that’s on me.”

Lando pulls him into a hug, and in contrast to the tight squeeze of his arms, Carlos’ dangle loosely by his sides. His chest is heaving into Lando’s, and he feels a protective instinct rise up in him. He’s never seen Carlos so broken before. 

Lando doesn’t know what to say, how to make it better, because he can’t. It’s her decision, after all. But he wishes it were all different, of course - for the sake of his friend’s happiness, because he deserves to be happy, deserves to love this woman in a way that Lando knows Carlos is capable of. 

Without fear. No holding back.

They hug for what feels like hours, until Carlos sniffles and pulls back slightly. His face is splotchy, tear-stained, and Lando’s heart goes out to him.

“Let’s go get a burger, yeah?” He says, because at least if his stomach is full, maybe his heart won’t feel so broken anymore. 

Carlos nods, spurred on by the thought of drowning his sorrows in greasy fast food, and signals for Lando to drive on, to pull into reverse and-

Lando falters as he glances into the rear view mirror.

And Carlos just looks at him, curious. “Why are you stopping?”

Lando blinks, and turns swiftly in his seat. “Mate. Turn around.”

Carlos follows suit, and he cannot believe what he sees.

She’s standing there, on the road now where they’re parked - his stupid, apology balloon held in her hand, and the look on her face is clear as day.

He thinks it might be forgiveness. Or maybe it’s his mind playing cruel tricks on him - ever so stupidly hopeful. 

He swallows. Brushes his hand back through his unruly hair. She looks so beautiful his heart aches.

Lando is the one that snaps him out of it, all but shoving him out the door with a yell of, “go to her, man!”

He bolts out the car that very second, not even bothering to slam the door shut as his legs carry him to her - eating up the distance between them in seconds. 

His heart is thudding in his chest - he feels like he’s on the cusp of something so precious and yet he feels so anxious he could combust from the anticipation. She looks at him with those beautiful eyes that hold his entire world, and wonders how he could have ever thought of leaving her. 

It’s such an unthinkable, stupid notion.

He stands in front of her now, so close and yet it’s not close enough - his chest brushing hers, her sweet scent engulfing them. 

She looks up at the balloon looming over their heads, and Carlos follows where her gaze is, seeing the words ‘this cabrón is sorry’ etched in gaudy glitter on them.

“One chance,” she says to him, and he nods fervently, solemnly. 

She releases her grip, and the balloon floats from her hand, freed into the sky, and Carlos watches it go with palpable relief. 

She winds her arms around him tight, and he breathes out all the tension he’d been holding for the last two weeks, catching her up in his arms and holding her so tight because he’s afraid if he lets go, this dream will turn to dust.

“You’re still an idiot who has so much to make up for,” she tells him, and he nods, agreeing, but relief floods him for the fact that her defenses have crumbled just a little - she’s ready to give him a chance. One that he will not waste. Ever.

He knows he won’t take this for granted - her willingness to overlook all his stupidity, his flaws - because she loves him - she can’t help but love him.

“I’ll never let you go again,” he vows solemnly, and she laughs. 

“You‘ll have to put me down at some point, Carlos.”

He shakes his head, pretending to be stubborn. “I love holding you like this too much.”

And somewhere in their teasing, exchanged laughter, his mouth finds hers and there’s that magical spark in their kiss to smooth over the tensions and frustrations of the past two weeks. His hands slide into her hair and she makes a soft noise and calls him papi, and he answers back with a content hum of his own.

From the car, Lando feels his heart flood with inexplicable warmth, watching Carlos embrace her, and for the tiniest millisecond, he allows his cynical heart to believe that true love just might exist.

—

Does he deserve forgiveness? Debatable. But well… I’m a softie and silly for him. So a happy ending was the only one I was willing to accept. I also really adored writing Lando in this so much!

ever so grateful to my bestie @percervall who got to see this first and helped me beta-read through it 💛 I hope you liked it, even if it is a month late (or eleven months early) for your birthday 😂

many thanks also goes to @bipanda for answering my questions about the use of the word “papi”.

please pardon any errors in my tiny foray back into writing, because I seem to have forgotten what it means to write anything and my brain broke for a month. So - here it is. The fic I’d been wanting to write for ages and I finally buckled down to just finish it, even if the ending was perhaps a little rushed / wishful thinking.

Would love to know what you thought!

love, ives

#“some angst” #SOME??? #here I was #thinking I was gonna get a filthy papi Carlitos fic and suddenly BOOM #Hes actually an asshole #“Forever is a long time” IS NOT THE ANSWER #he about to catch these fucking hands I swearrrr #it’s so impressive how one can write the filthiest smut ever seen to man #but also angst in a way that’s so authentic and painful?? #Leave some talent for the rest of us

[26sophiess]

In From The Rain

Oscar Piastri x plant nerd!reader

Masterlist

Summary: Oscar’s looking for an easy to care for houseplant. You have just the solution. Check out the moodboard here!

Word Count: 7,167

Warnings: none

The greenhouse is quiet in the early morning. It’s one of your favorite things. Before the customers come in, looking for flowers for their porch or vegetable plants for their gardens, it’s just you and the plants and the sun streaming in through the glass. So when somebody interrupts your morning solitude, you’re not exactly happy about it.

Sure, you’re technically open, but nobody ever gets here this early. You’re watering plants in your rain boots, a mug of coffee in your hand, when the front door swings open. You turn to look, the noise startling you.

The man who walks in looks sheepish when his eyes meet yours. He ducks under a hanging basket, nearly trips over your garden hose. His cheeks flush red. You’d be more irritated with his presence if he wasn’t being so cute about it.

“Sorry, the- the sign said open,” he says, backing towards the door.

“You’re fine. We are open,” you affirm, flicking off the sprayer before you drown the petunias in front of you. “I was just surprised to see someone in here so early.”

He laughs. It’s a nice sound. Almost as nice a sound as his voice, with an Australian accent. He stops backing away. You should probably point out that he’s standing in a puddle, but you’re not sure if that’s really your place.

“Can I help you find something?” You ask.

He takes a step forward. A thick band of sunlight shines down on the top of his head, like a halo. He brushes his floppy hair from his face.

“No, that’s okay. You’re busy, I’ll just have a look around,” he says.

You nod. “Let me know if you have any questions.”

You turn back to the flower trays in front of you. They’ll need pruning, soon. And some of the hanging baskets are getting a bit unruly- it’ll likely be time to put them on sale in the next few days, to open up space for new plants. You can hear the man walking around behind you, peering at the plants. His footsteps are hesitant, and when you look, he has his hands held behind his back. He leans close to read the signs, brows tightly wound.

He obviously has no idea what he’s looking for.

You put the hose away and set your nearly empty coffee down at your workstation in the back of the greenhouse. Then you make your way back up to the front, where he’s standing near the succulents.

“Sure you don’t want help?” You ask.

He looks up with a sheepish grin. “Is it that obvious that I’ve got no idea what I’m doing?”

“A bit,” you say, and he laughs again. “That’s okay, though. It’s what I’m here for. What are you looking for?”

He stands up straight, eyes dancing over the greenhouse. “So. I’ve been told my apartment is boring. A friend suggested a plant to liven up the space.”

You nod. A tale as old as time. He’ll either kill the plant within a week or fill his whole place with them.

“But I’m gone a lot for work,” he says. “Like, a lot. So I need something that won’t wilt the second I’m gone, you know?”

You nod. “Does your apartment get good light?”

He laughs. “I don’t know what good light means.”

“Which direction do your windows face?”

“South,” he says, confidently. “Google said that was good. Right?”

You fight a laugh. He’s a bit adorable. Trying very hard to get it right. Like this is a test with right and wrong answers.

“Yeah, south facing is great.” You gesture towards the succulents. “You could get a succulent. They can go weeks without watering, but they need lots of light.”

He nods in understanding and purses his lips. “I thought these were cactuses. Or cacti?”

“Close,” you tell him, and he smiles again. “Cacti are the ones with the spikes.”

He nods in understanding. He crouches down, then, eye levels with the little plants. Your heart is melting. You scuff one of your rain boots against the ground. You could stand here and watch the way his long eyelashes flutter as he blinks all day, but that would be creepy and you have a job you’re supposed to be doing.

“How do I know which one to get?” He says, quietly. “Like… there are so many different kinds.”

Your face breaks out into a huge grin. He’s so endearing. “I think you’ll know when you see it.”

He appears at the front cash register ten minutes later, a succulent in hand. It’s a little one, the perfect starter plant. He’s eyeing the decorative pots next to you, brows furrowed again.

“Those are too big for that plant,” you tell him, and he breathes out a sigh. “There are smaller ones on the other side of the display.”

He moves to look. You hear him shuffling, hear him pick up pots and then set them down. Then he appears again, a little pot with black and white checkerboard print on it in his other hand.

“Perfect,” you say softly. “Have you got potting soil?”

He clears his throat. “Um. No, but I’ve got a courtyard at my apartment with a garden… but I’m sensing from the look on your face that that won’t do.”

You roll your eyes playfully. Then you reach under the counter and grab one of the small sample bags of potting soil you keep on hand.

“Here. On the house.” You say. “So you can put that plant in the pot.”

“Wow. Thanks,” he says. He sets the other items down on the counter. “Thanks for all your help, actually.”

“Just doing my job,” you say with a shrug.

You bag the items carefully, making sure the plant won’t be squished. You put a care instruction sheet in the bag, too. Then you slide it to him with a smile.

“There’s a care sheet in there that should help. Enjoy your new plant,” you say. “I hope it works out.”

“Me too,” he says.

He leaves, then, and you’re left with your quiet greenhouse once again. It’s odd. Usually you breathe a sigh of relief after a customer leaves. But this time, you almost want him to come back.

…..

Two weeks later, you’re back at your workstation re-potting a sad looking philodendron. You look up from it when you hear the bell over the front door ring. The watering is already done, the hose put away, so there’s nothing for the man to trip over this time. But it is the same guy, and he ducks under the hanging basket the same way. You should maybe move it, but he seems to be the only one who’s had an issue with it. You stand up, wiping the dirt from your hands on your apron.

“You didn’t kill that succulent already, did you?” You call out.

His eyes dart to meet yours, and he laughs. “No! Promise.”

“Good. That would be a new record,” you laugh.

You let him wander the store on his own for a few minutes as you get the philodendron correctly in the new pot. Then you give it some water and take it with you to set it back out on the shelf. He’s still the only other person in the store, and he’s currently eyeing the flats of flowering plants.

“It’s actually going really well,” he says as you walk by. “He has a new leaf.”

That’s when you know the guy is hooked. He has a new leaf. The plant is no longer just a plant to him. Absent-mindedly, you wonder if he’s the type to name his plants. You set the one in your hands down on the table in front of you, your back to him so he doesn’t see your wide grin. When you turn around, you tone it down.

“That’s great,” you say encouragingly. “So I’m guessing you want another one?”

He nods, rubbing his finger over the leaf of a fiddle leaf fig. “Yeah, but I’m thinking something different this time. Something bigger.”

“You don’t want that one,” you say, and he backs away from the fig tree slightly. “Fiddle leafs are notoriously dramatic. If you left her for a week she’d drop all her leaves.”

He sighs and stands up. “What would you suggest?”

You wave him over to another area of the store. He follows eagerly, footsteps splashing in the leftover puddles from the morning watering. You lead him to a section of spiky, tall plants.

“Snake plant,” you say, pointing at them.

He’s standing next to you, and your shoulders just barely brush. A shiver runs down your spine. You try to hide it.

“Snake plant,” he repeats. “The name makes sense.”

“People also call them mother in law’s tongue,” you add. You fight the urge to check his ring finger. “But if you’ve got a mother in law I’d suggest avoiding that name.”

He laughs, and his shoulder bumps into your again. “I don’t. But snake plant sounds cooler.”

You nod in agreement. “They do well with very little water. And, they can do okay in pretty low light, too. So if you’ve got a darker area that needs a plant, it would be a good fit.”

He’s up at the register ten minutes later, plant and a pot in hand. This one is plain terracotta. You like that he’s the type of person to buy the pots, too. Some people just leave them in the boring plastic, and it makes you sad to think about. All plants deserve a nice home. You say that to him as you ring him up, and he laughs. He’s also grabbed a small bag of potting soil this time.

Your repeat the process, same as last time, and hand him the bag. He takes it, and then he hesitates.

“Thanks again,” he says, juggling the bag until it’s held in one arm. He sticks his hand out to you. “I’m Oscar, by the way.”

You tell him your name, though you’re sure he could read it off your nametag, too. When you shake his hand, you swear the warmth of it runs all the way up your arm. He thanks you again, and then he disappears out the door once again. That ache is back in your chest. You find yourself hoping he’ll be back soon.

…..

He does come back. Multiple times. He buys more succulents on one trip, asking you to help him choose between them, and then he ends up buying all three instead. Another morning he comes in and you show him a ZZ plant you’ve just gotten in that you think will be perfect for him- you don’t tell him you’ve been saving it for him at your work station. It’s just… you know it’ll look great next to the snake plant he bought.

Each time he comes to the store, he hangs around a little longer. You chat about the weather, about the plants in the store, about his plants at home. You tell him funny stories about other customers and complain to him about the rude ones. In return, he tells you about his coworkers, specifically one named Lando who he seems to get into a lot of mischief with. He hasn’t said what he does for work. You field weird about asking, so you don’t.

The 4th time he stops by, you suggest a pothos. He eyed the leaves and vines skeptically.

“The other ones looked tough, you know? Like they’d survive even if I fucked up.” He tugs at one of the vines. “Are you sure about this one?”

You nod encouragingly. “You can handle it. I promise. Plus, the cool thing about these is you can cut parts of the vines, like this,” you say, holding up one you’d taken from the workstation. “And then you stick it in water for a bit, it grows roots, and you’ve got a whole new plant.”

He raises his eyebrows. “That’s cool.”

“I know,” you laugh.

He joins you up at the front to buy the plant. You go through the same routine. This time, he’s picked out a pretty blue ceramic pot for it. It compliments the leaves well. Then he leans on the counter and the two of you start chatting. You’d had a shipment that came in last week with a bunch of dead plants, so you regale him with the story of trying to deal with the company’s customer service. In turn, he tells you a story about his family back home- one of his sisters had a dance recital, his mother tried to videotape it for him, he received a video of his mother’s face as she watched the recital. You don’t realize how long the two of you have been talking until Jane, the next person on the schedule, walks in.

You stand up straight, face growing hot suddenly. “Hi, Jane!”

“Hi, hun,” she says, walking past the two of you. “Sorry I’m late. Bet you’re dying for your lunch break.”

She’s late? You and Oscar must’ve been talking for… forever. It had felt like only minutes. He smiles sheepishly and pushes away from the counter.

“Well, I should be going,” he says, taking the bag in his arms. “Thanks again!”

You watch him walk out the front door, unsure why it feels like you’ve been caught. It reminds you of the feeling you’d gotten years ago, when your teacher found you and the boy you had a crush on in the hallway alone. You hadn’t been doing anything wrong, but it still makes you feel strange.

“Friend of yours?” Jane asks when you walk past her to take your break.

You blink, shrugging. “I think he might be.”

…..

Oscar always comes in on Tuesdays. You avoid taking Tuesdays off and won’t admit to yourself that he’s the reason why. But when you wake up with a raging fever and a pounding head, you know you have to call in. Jane, always a sweetheart, takes your shift. When you see her two days later, it’s after you’ve already done the opening shift.

“Did you see your plant?” She asks as she breezes through the greenhouse.

You shut off the hose you’d been using to water a particularly thirsty chrysanthemum. “What plant?”

“The one your friend brought,” she says, and you only feel more confused. “He dropped it off Tuesday, said he was looking for you. It’s on the desk.”

You walk over to the workstation. Sure enough, in a tiny plastic pot- likely one from one of the succulents he’d bought-there’s a small pothos vine growing. You pick up the little plant, knocking over the piece of paper propped up on it in the process. You reach for it, finding a note written in rushed, messy scrawl.

I know you’ve probably got tons, but it felt right that you would have my very first propagation. Learned that word from the internet. Feel better soon! -Oscar

You turn to look at Jane. She’s at the register, not paying you any attention. You cradle the tiny plant close to your chest and do the same with the note. Then you tuck the paper away for safekeeping.

The plant, however, you carry with you all day. You place it in a sunbeam at the front register. When it catches your eye every so often, you feel a warmth in your chest.

…..

The next time Oscar comes in, he eyes the little plant at the register. You’ve stuck a little stake in it and tied a bow on top. He smiles softly and turns back to the display of pots. He chooses a tiny one with checkerboard print, the same as his very first purchase. You ring him up for all his items, but when you go to put that one in the bag, he grabs it and shakes his head. He slides it towards your tiny vine.

“For your plant,” he says, smiling softly.

You break into a face splitting grin. “You’re too sweet.”

His fingers brush against yours when you take it from him. You swear you feel sparks. You wonder if the red cheeks he sports as he leaves the store means he felt it, too.

…..

Another man comes into the shop early in the morning. It’s a Wednesday this time. You know it won’t be Oscar because of that, but you still look up eagerly. The guy nods, waving politely. You smile and go back to your watering. He walks the aisles, looking at the plants and never picking them up.

“Excuse me?” He says, after you’ve put the hose away. You turn, trying to hide your surprise at his American accent. “Um. Could you tell me where the succulents are?”

You grin and nod, walking over towards the area. You point them out.

“These right here,” you say. “Anything I can help you with?”

He stares at the tiny plants. “I have no idea what I’m doing. My friend, he’s gotten really into plants, and he talks about this shop all the time. Figured I’d see what the hype was all about.”

You tilt your head. He’s probably not, but it almost sounds like he’s talking about Oscar. You try and shake the idea from your head. Oscar is just a customer, he’s not going around and telling his friends about the greenhouse he goes to. He’s definitely not telling them about you.

“Succulents are a good place to start,” you say.

He sighs. “I don’t have much of a green thumb. I don’t think I’ll be very good at this.”

“Well, it’s worth a try.” You say with a shrug. “You might surprise yourself.”

He ends up picking out a little succulent. He doesn’t go for a decorative pot. He seems wholly unconfident in his ability to keep it alive for more than a few days. Still, he smiles as he’s leaving. He pauses in the doorway.

“You know, I thought Oscar was exaggerating when he told me about you,” he says. “But I get it now.”

He’s out the door before you can even form a syllable, let alone a word or a sentence. You think about chasing after him and asking what the hell that even means, but you stay rooted there. Oscar talks about you. To his friends. You swear your heartbeat doesn’t slow all morning, and the heat in your cheeks stays there all day.

…..

Oscar comes rushing into the shop the next Tuesday. He has a brown paper bag in his arms, and his eyes are wide. He’s breathing heavily, like he’s been running. You stand up, setting the garden hose down. He nearly slips on a puddle as he rushes over to you, and you reach out to steady him.

“I just got home last night,” he rushes, “and something’s wrong with- with Greg.”

“Greg?” You ask, leaning to peer into the bag.

“My succulent,” he says. His cheeks have gone red. “I name my plants. Is that weird?”

You laugh. “No, it’s not.”

You don’t tell him you’ve named your tiny pothos vine after him. You take the bag from his arms and walk to the back of the store, towards the work station. You reach in and pull out the succulent. It’s a little withered, a bit droopy. It’s also doubled in size since he bought it.

“I’ve been watering him when the soil gets dry,” he says, “and he’s still getting sunlight. I’ve tried everything- I left music playing for them when I left, so-“

Your eyes flicker up to him. He plays music for his plants. He’s the cutest man you’ve ever met. You want to take his face in your hands and kiss his forehead. Or his lips. He has these cute little freckles and moles- you’d like to draw constellations between them. Your face feels hot again. You direct your attention back to the plant as he rambles on. You frown, tugging slightly to see the roots.

“Osc, babe,” you interrupt, and he stops and stares at you. “He’s just a little root bound.”

You don’t dwell on the fact that you’ve just called him babe. It’s too late now.

“What’s that mean?” He asks, the panicky tone still in his voice.

“It means,” you start, nudging his side softly with your elbow, “that you’ve taken such good care of him that he’s outgrown this pot. He needs more soil. More room to spread out.”

His shoulders drop. The panic melts off his face. “Oh.”

You laugh. “God, I can’t believe when you came in here the first time you had no idea what a succulent even was. And now here you are, all panicked over a little wilting. You’ve become a true plant nerd, haven’t you?”

He shrugs sheepishly. “Maybe.”

“It’s cute,” you tell him, just to watch the blush creep up on his cheeks again. “Come on, let’s get him a new pot and some fresh soil.”

You lead him up to the front. He starts to pick through the display, holding the succulent up to the different options until he finds the right one. It’s a light orange.

You nod in approval. “Now you’ve got an empty pot,” you say, pointing at the original pot for the succulent. “Which means if you want, you have an excuse to buy another plant.”

“You’re so smart,” he says, eyes wide.

He rushes over to the display of succulents. While he’s picking one out, you carefully re-pot the plant into its new home. He takes his time, like always, indecisive to the very end. When he makes it up to the counter, he grins widely at the sight of the plant in its new pot.

“Thanks,” he says, softly. “Don’t know what I’d do without you.”

…..

When Oscar comes into the shop on a particularly rainy Tuesday, you’re trying hastily to hide your tears. He doesn’t come in every week, but it’s just your luck that he’s here today of all days. You wave and turn your back to him, sticking to the workstation. You hear the soft fall of his tennis shoes, though, even over the sound of the rain against the greenhouse roof, and you know he’s making his way towards you.

“Everything okay?” He asks, voice low.

You turn and find him with his hands in his jeans pockets. You wipe at your cheeks hastily, hoping he can’t tell how upset you are, but knowing you look a wreck. Your hair is soaked in rainwater, and your eyes likely red rimmed and puffy. It’s confirmed when his soft smile drops into a frown.

“I’ve had a shit morning,” you tell him with a sigh.

He pulls one hand from his pocket. “You, uh. You have dirt on your cheek.”

You groan and try to brush it away. Oscar chews on his lower lip. Then he reaches out, his fingertips sweeping against the skin of your face. His hand is warm, despite the chill in the air. Tiny sparks seem to spread across your skin, following the trail of his touch. Your face grows hot.

“There,” he says.

“Thanks,” you reply.

He nods. “What’s going on? If you don’t want to tell me, you don’t have to, but…”

You sigh and turn away slightly, back to the plant in the pot in front of you. His gaze is so warm that you can’t stand to look at him, afraid you might start crying all over again.

“Just. Woke up late, so I was in a rush. And then I locked my car key in the car because I forgot something in the flat, and my mum has the spare key and she’s not even awake yet, so I had to walk here in the rain. And I couldn’t find my umbrella.” You brush a wet piece of hair away from your forehead. “And I slept like shit, and haven’t had any caffeine because I was late. So, yeah.”

“Shit morning,” Oscar agrees.

You nod. You finally turn to look at him again. There’s a soft look on his face, one you can’t quite place. He reaches out, places his hand flat on the counter next to yours. If you shifted your thumb just slightly, you could touch his. You want to, but you don’t.

“Sorry, I- Can I help you find anything?” You ask, blinking at him.

“You don’t need to be sorry, I asked,” he says. He rocks back on his heels and pulls his hand back. “I actually just remembered, I’m- I have to- I’ll be right back.”

He turns around and walks quickly to the front of the store. The bell dings as he walks out through the front door. You stare at the spot where his hand had been for just a moment and feel your heart shatter in your chest. You’d gone and over shared with your favorite customer, the one you thought might actually be your friend, and now you’ve scared him off. Yet another tally to add to the shit morning. You collapse into the chair behind the counter and rest your head in your hands, trying to will the tears away.

You’re not sure how long goes by before you hear the bell over the door again. And really, nobody comes in this early, so why are they choosing today of all days? You hastily wipe your face on the sleeve of your sweatshirt and stand up, plastering a smile onto your lips to greet whoever is in the store.

Your heart stutters in your chest. It’s… Oscar. He’s walking towards you, though he’s not looking at you. He has three takeout coffee cups balanced precariously in his hands. His hair matches yours now, soaking wet and hanging over his forehead. You burst into laughter as he sets them down.

“Oh my god, I thought I scared you off,” you say, brushing a stray tear from the corner of your eye.

“No,” he says, eyes wide. “You said you needed caffeine. There’s a coffee shop just down the road.”

You laugh and press your hands to the counter, leaning towards the cups. “Three cups?”

He smiled sheepishly. “I got you coffee, but I didn’t know if you wanted cream or sugar. So,” he points at the smallest of the three cups, “this is cream,” he says while digging in his pockets. Then he places an assortment of sugar packets on the counter. “And here’s sugar. The other cup is mine.”

You grin at him, shaking your head. “I knew you were my favorite customer for a reason.”

The smile he gives you in return is bright enough to make up for the lack of sun, to wash away the rain clouds, to warm your cold hands. You open the lid to the coffee and pour a bit of cream in, and then add two sugars. Oscar watches, nodding.

“I’ll know for next time,” he says.

Your heart flutters in your chest. Next time. You like the sound of that. You wrap your hands around the paper cup and let the warmth deep into your fingers before you take a sip. You sigh happily, meeting his eyes over the lid. The cup in his hand has something written on it in messy pen. You wonder if the barista tried to give him their number, and you fight back the jealous feeling at the thought.

“Thank you,” you say, softly.

“It’s no biggie,” he insists. “I owed you anyway, for saving Greg.”

He hangs out for a while that morning, leaning on your counter and chatting. You re-pot some plants and then bring them out to the displays, and he follows along. There’s something about his presence alone that warms you up from the inside out. By the time he looks at his watch and curses, muttering about having a meeting, you’re feeling much better. His hand brushes your shoulder before he leaves. You call after him to thank him again for the coffee.

He stops in the doorway, rain falling on his arm that’s extended to hold the door open. “I’ll see you soon!”

Then he disappears into the storm.

…..

You don’t see him soon. It’s not abnormal for Oscar to go a couple weeks without stopping in, so at first you don’t think much of it. Each Tuesday, though, you look up eagerly when the bell over the door rings, and your heart sinks when it’s not him. Maybe you really did over share, maybe he did get scared off. You try not to think about it.

It’s just… he was cute, and kind, and fun to talk to. He brought you coffee. You wonder how his plants are doing, if he’s still playing music for them while he’s gone. You have fleeting images in your brain of him watering the plants, taking the time to look for new leaves and check the roots. You almost wish he’d have another plant emergency, just to give him a reason to stop back in.

Eventually, after a month goes by and he hasn’t been back, you give up almost entirely. You’ll move on eventually, find a new favorite customer. You couldn’t have expected him to keep coming around forever, after all. To him, you were just another retail worker.

You do end up seeing his American friend one more time. He comes in on a Wednesday morning, just like before. He doesn’t stop and look at any of the plants, instead beelining for you. You’re working on bagging some potting soil and watch him with wide eyes.

“Hi,” you say. “Can I help you find something?”

“No, I just-“ he cuts himself off, shaking his head. “I super killed that succulent.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “You’re Oscar’s friend, right? He didn’t help you?”

The guy shakes his head. “He made fun of me, though. Said I overwatered it.”

“How is he, anyways?” You ask.

Logan frowns. “He’s good.”

You nod. “Well, d’you want to try again?”

“No, that’s not why I-“ he sighs, rubbing his temples. “He won’t shut up about you, you know.”

You cross your arms over your chest. “Find that hard to believe, since he hasn’t been here for almost a month.”

Which is maybe a little mean spirited. And probably not something you should be saying to his friend. You wince.

Now it’s his turn to blink wildly. “So you miss him too?”

You squint at him. “Why are we having this conversation? I don’t even know your name.”

“It’s Logan,” he says. “You haven’t like… reached out to him or anything?”

“How would I?” You ask. “I don’t even know his last name, let alone his phone number.”

“His last name’s Piastri.”

“That feels like information you shouldn’t be giving away to strangers.”

He’s not listening, though. Something seems to have clicked in his head. His eyes go wide and he starts to back away.

“I have to go,” he says. “Thanks!”

You’ve had a lot of strange interactions while working retail, but that one comes in pretty high on the list. And it leaves you wondering about Oscar, which is something you’re trying desperately not to do. All in all, not a great day.

…..

Two weeks later, you clock out of your Tuesday shift around lunchtime and head down the street. It’s raining again, but at least this time you’re armed with a raincoat and an umbrella. Your car is parked nearby, but you’re in the mood for coffee and warm food, so you head to the cafe nearby. You try not to think about the time Oscar had brought you d coffee from there. You can’t help picturing his soft smile, eyes trained on the cups balanced precariously in his hands.

You make it halfway to the cafe before a gust of wind hits your umbrella at just the right angle and snaps the metal supports. Then, as if the universe is playing a cruel trick on you, a car speeds by on the road next to you, hits a puddle, and sprays you with muddy water. It soaks through your clothes and onto your skin nearly immediately. You fight the urge to ball your hands into fists and yell dramatically at the sky.

“Shit,” someone says, and the sound of his voice makes your breath catch in your chest. Then he says your name.

You turn, coming face to face with Oscar. Well. Okay. He’s studying you with a pained look on his face and standing under an umbrella.

“Yeah, shit,” you mutter, shaking water from your hands. “Oh my God. Hi, by the way. It’s been a bit.”

“It has,” he agrees, shuffling closer to hold the umbrella over you. “Here. Um. You okay?”

You shrug. “S’just water. I won’t melt.”

Oscar laughs- god, you’ve missed that sound- and nudges your shoulder. “You’ve got bad luck with rainstorms, huh?”

You nod. You’re trying not to freak out at the fact that he’s here. Oscar is standing next to you, holding his umbrella over your head. He’s here and he’s talking to you and he’s feeling sympathetic, which maybe means he doesn’t think you’re completely crazy.

“S’what I get for trying to go get coffee,” you say over the sound of raindrops on the umbrella. “And lunch. Now I’ve got to drive home like this.”

Oscar frowns, his whole face crumpling with it. “Hey, you know… I live just a block down. If you want, you could come and change into some dry clothes.”

Your mother would kill you for even considering it. You can practically hear her yelling in your head. But god, it’s Oscar. It’s Oscar and you haven’t seen him in a month and you might never see him again. There’s something about the soft look on his face that makes you trust him.

“Okay,” you say, quietly. “That would be… really nice. But only if you’re sure.”

“Of course,” he says.

Your shoulders brush as you walk, the umbrella over both of your heads. The two of you are nearly silent on the walk there. It’s like neither of you quite know what to say. You know you don’t. You worry he’s regretting inviting you to his place. But he lets you in the front door, leads you to the elevator, and all the way up to flat. When he opens the door, warm air pours over you like a river. You step in and toe off your boots, wincing at the squish of your wet socks.

Oscar winces, too. “Here, the bathroom’s right there,” he says, pointing at a partially open door. “I’ll go grab you some dry clothes. There’s towels in there too.”

You nod and step into the room. So far, the little bit of his apartment that you’ve seen matches up with what he’s told you. There are no shoes sitting out in the entryway. The bathroom is nearly spotless, which makes you feel a bit guilty about the dirty rainwater you’re dripping onto the floor. Oscar’s only gone long enough for you to take off your jacket.

He knocks on the door. “I’ve got clothes for you.”

You open the door, and he’s standing there, eyes squeezed shut. The clothes are held out in midair, like he’s trying to keep his distance. You laugh and take them, murmuring out a thanks. As you go to change, you hear him walk away.

You shuck your wet clothes off and drop them in the tub, shivering when the air hits your bare skin. You wipe the rainwater from your skin. Then you pull on the clothes he gave you- a t-shirt, a hoodie, and a pair of sweatpants. Plus a pair of thick, warm looking socks. All of them are baggy on you, but luckily the pants have a drawstring so you can pull them tight around your hips. You wring the water out of your hair with the towel and then wrap it around your shoulders before you step out into the hallway.

You can hear him moving around in the next room, so you head there. He’s standing at the kitchen island, which is open to the living room. He looks up when he hears you walk in, and a soft smile spreads across his face. His living room is neat and tidy, too. His plants are all lined up on the windowsill. You recognize them all from your store, and you smile.

“D’you have a plastic bag I can put my clothes in?” You ask, and he tilts his head at you. “I don’t wanna get more rainwater on your floor. Or in my car, really.”

“I mean, sure,” he says with a shrug. “Or… you could throw them in the washer. Hang out for a bit.”

He’s not looking at you anymore. You’re glad, because you’re sure you have a dumbfounded look on your face. It’s then that you notice the coffee machine running on the counter behind him, and the snacks out on the counter. Your mind is racing. He hasn’t stopped by the shop in nearly a month, but now…

“I don’t want to be a bother,” you say, unsure what else there is to possibly say.

He shakes his head, still not looking up. “You’re not.”

You cast your eyes to the window. It’s raining harder now. And god, you’ve missed him. You didn’t realize just how much until you were standing here.

“It’s been a while,” he says, turning his back to you when the coffee maker beeps. “We have some catching up to do.”

You think about letting it go. Maybe it’s enough to be here. Maybe you just shouldn’t bring it up. But really, you’re confused about the fact that he stopped coming to the store.

You tilt your head at him. “Yeah, you stopped coming in.”

“Well, you never texted me,” he says. “So I figured I’d freaked you out or something. But then Logan said he stopped by and you asked about me-“

You stare at the back of his head, bewildered, and you break in. “Oscar, I don’t have your number.”

He freezes, hand in midair, reaching for a coffee mug. He turns his head over his shoulder, and his eyes meet your again. He looks just as confused as you feel. Suddenly, your heart is racing in your chest.

“I wrote it on the coffee cup,” he says, voice quiet.

You stare at him, wide eyed. “There was nothing on my coffee cup.” He shakes his head, opens his mouth, but you keep talking. “I’m sure of it. But there was writing on yours. I know because I wondered if the barista was trying to give you her number.”

Oscar just stares at you for a moment, his lips barely parted. “Shit. I gave you the wrong cup.”

Shit, you repeat in your head. He tried to give you his number. He thought he gave you his number, and then you never texted him. He thought you rejected him. No wonder he stopped coming in.

“You could’ve just asked me for my number, you know,” you tell him.

“Yeah, but this was cuter,” he says. “It was- it was my number and this cheesy ass pickup line that Logan helped me think of and I- I really thought you just didn’t…”

“Pickup line?”

“Looking back it sounds stupid,” he admits. “But yeah. I was trying to ask you out on a date. And so when you didn’t text me…”

You cross the room, walking right up in front of him. His hands have fallen to his sides. His eyes trace your face as you smile up at him. He’s chewing on the inside of his cheek, brows slightly furrowed. You can smell the coffee now- it reminds you of when he brought you the coffee weeks ago.

“You should ask me now,” you tell him, smiling brightly.

He nods. “Without the pickup line, though.”

You pout up at him. He grins. One of his hands comes up to the side of your face, fingers cupping your jaw. His thumb prods at your cheek.

“Will you go on a date with me?” He asks, voice low.

You pretend to think about it. Pretend it doesn’t make your heart melt just to hear him say it. “Hm. When?”

He shrugs, looks around. “How about now?”

“It’s raining,” you remind him.

“We can have a stay at home date,” he suggests. “Coffee, lunch, a movie, maybe.”

You tilt your head. “Sounds nice.”

“Yeah?” He says, sounding a bit like he doesn’t quite believe you.

“Yeah,” you agree. “I’ve been waiting for you to ask me out since the day we met.”

Oscar laughs and leans closer. “I’ve got a lot of time to make up for, then.”

He presses his lips to yours, and your eyes slip closed. You reach up and tangle your fingers in his hair to keep him close. He tucks a piece of your hair behind your ear- it’s still wet from the rain, and both of you giggle into the kiss. His hands drop to your hips, shoving the sweatshirt out of the way to hold onto you. You could kiss him for hours, you think. It’s all you’ve wanted for months now.

The coffee is growing cold on the counter. Suddenly, though, you don’t need caffeine.

He pulls away slightly, looks you up and down. “You look cute in my clothes, you know.”

You giggle and tug on the sweatshirt, pointing at the orange logo on the chest. “Thanks. Big McLaren guy, are you?”

Oscar laughs and brushes his lips against your temple. “You don’t even know the half of it.”

Then he goes back to kissing you. You’re not complaining. You’ve got all the time in the world to learn all about him.

…..

Weeks later, you corner Logan at the British Grand Prix. Oscar’s distracted by interviews, but Logan’s not busy.

“What was the pickup line he wrote?” You ask, arms crossed over your chest.

Surprisingly, he needs very little convincing. He just laughs, eyes darting to where Oscar stands behind you in the media pen. His gaze is full of amusement.

“I be-leaf we’re meant to be,” he says in a teasing tone. “He was down bad.”

You laugh and turn over your shoulder to look at your boyfriend. He’s grinning watching the two of you talk. Later, you tease him for the cheesy line, for hiding behind coffee cups and scribbled pen when he could’ve just told you. He teases you for the same, for not telling him how you felt, for not making a move. And then you look at him, knowing your gaze is terribly soft.

“I believe it, too,” you tell him.

When he kisses you, you draw constellations between the freckles on his face with your thumb. Outside, it starts to rain.

a/n: can you tell I am a big plant nerd? anyways live laugh love oscar piastri I want to help him pick out plants :)

taglist: @4-mula1 @celestialams @struggling-with-delia @lovekt @i-wish-this-was-me

#that last paragraph???? #My heart is exploding out of my chest #had the brightest stupidest smile on my face the whole time reading this #Why can’t I be this lucky😭😭😭

[26sophiess]

Say something (I'm giving up on you)

Lewis Hamilton x Reader

Summary: Your husband tells you the truth about Vegas, and it makes your perfect sandcastle crumble.

Word count: 6k

Tags: Female reader, established relationship, wife reader, reader is an architect, cheating, smut, somnophilia, mentions of pregnancy and children, very very angsty, no hea, not beta read

Relationships: Lewis Hamilton x Reader

Notes: To be honest, this is very personal and something I needed to get off my chest before going back to my WIPs lol. Sorry if it's rushed or something, I was just going with the flow. Feedback and opinions are appreciated xx

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As soon as you got out of the shower, a robe on your body and a towel around your head, you noticed how Lewis was sitting there, looking somewhat defeated.

“Hey, I know this season wasn’t what you expected but I’m sure it will get better,” you muttered, noticing how he was down, you stood between his legs, holding his head, pushing his braids away from his face, “I’m hoping you’ll have a great car next year. I’ll put the kettle on, so we can drink a little tea.”

He didn’t answer as you pecked his lips and went downstairs. You had just turned the kettle on when Lewis came down too, stopping in the middle of the kitchen.

“I need to tell you something,” he started and you paused, waiting, “something happened in Vegas.”

You felt your heart accelerate, you didn’t like that tone, so instead of asking more, you just waited, holding your breath.

“I cheated.”

It’s like you were punched in the gut, and you gasped for air. Your eyes immediately teared up, but you held in, waiting for his next words. You held yourself up with both hands on the kitchen island, because your legs felt like they might just give in. You stared at him, numb. Waiting for it to be some sick and unfunny joke, but the guilt in his eyes was so real.

“It happened in Vegas, and it didn’t mean anything at all, and I’m so so sorry, I know I should never have done it, and I regret it. I love you so much, I never wanted to hurt you, please believe me, I’ll do anything for your forgiveness, whatever you want just say th-”

At that point you stopped listening, looking down at your hand sprawled on the countertop, the wedding band and the engagement ring you wore on top of it felt like they were burning, like a curse just about to ruin your perfect life.

Like a beautiful sandcastle crumbling under a big wave, your perfect life came crashing down, with a couple of words and one single decision that never came from you. Your plans, your dreams, your future that always had Lewis beside you now were turning to dust. And it hurt like fucking hell, like you were under the wreckage, something heavy compressing your chest leaving you to die an agonizing death.

Lewis walked up to you, trying to take your hand but you moved out of his reach, taking a step back.

“Please, just say something. Anything. Please, love. Scream at me, hit me, key my car, anything. Please, say something,” He begged you, and all you could feel was pain, a knot in your stomach as you walked away, numbly going back to your room, locking the door behind you because you could hear him coming after you.

You held your head, this feeling of despair gnawing your insides, and you pulled the wedding band and engagement ring out, leaving it at the bedside table. Your tears came down and you looked at the bed were you had made love on the night before, were you had fucked his brains out just because you wanted him to feel better, after being upset with how the season ended. He hid this information for more than a week, because you had been in Abu Dhabi with him for moral support. Crying, you pull off the bed sheets, leaving them on the floor when the knot in your stomach makes you too nauseous. Running to the bathroom, you puke your disgust away, crying and dry heaving after there was nothing left in your stomach.

You were going to leave your job next year because you two were planning to try for kids. You were going to dedicate yourself to finally writing your book. You were going to join him the whole season, to never leave his side, to go wherever he went. You were going to buy a place in his hometown too, to be close to his family whenever you two had the time. You had planned to have a baby in England, because of Lewis.

How after five years together, after two years of marriage you had crafted your life around his. How you’d drop everything to make him happy, because his happiness made you happy. He knew cheating was your only and strongest dealbreaker, you had told him countless times during your relationship, you had reminded him before the wedding too, and he had said he would never be interested in anyone else.

You pulled a towel from under the sink and sobbed into it. You could still hear his voice outside, muffled by the door. Going back to bed, you put your wedding band back again, staring at it as a token of your happiest years.

You cried yourself to sleep.

The next morning you woke up and did your morning routine in pain. It was like you had to live feeling the pulsating pain of a broken bone. As you opened the door, Lewis was sleeping on the hallway floor by the door. Avoiding him, you went to the kitchen, but you didn’t have the energy to cook anything, so you grabbed the key of one of his cars and left for a coffee shop.

Everything felt like an out of body experience, like you were in automatic mode, going with the flow, buying a muffin and a tea because that’s what you did every time. Greeting the waitress with a small smile, like always. The only difference was going back to the car instead of eating inside the cafe, and eating there, pushing food inside so you could have some resemblance of normalcy. Your phone had been ringing for the past thirty minutes non stop, the ringtone you had put specifically for him, the song you had your first dance in your wedding. You think about that Lewis, that man who would never do anything that could hurt you. The one with dreams and promises, the man who would say he wanted kids with you, the one who always had a description of the kids you would have. She’ll have your eyes and my hair, he would say, daydreaming, hopefully she’ll have your beautiful smile, Lew, you would add.

Driving around for a while, your phone on Do not disturb, you watched the streets of Monaco, bustling with people, locals and tourists, walking around, going to boutiques and cafés, and you noticed how Monaco had never been your first choice to live in. You would rather a place a little bit colder, with lots of libraries and historical places, with mountains and lakes.

You went back home hours later, and as soon as you got inside, you were faced with Lewis, pale and visibly worried, phone in hand.

“Oh my god, I was so worried! I thought- I thought you had left me- Where were you?”

“Driving” you kicked your shoes and went to the kitchen to drink water. After downing two full glasses, you went outside, sitting by the view of the city.

You painfully loved him, the kind of love you once were happy to let yourself dive in, and now you were drowning.

“Please, can we talk about it?” He asked, by the balcony door as if he were afraid to scare you away like a skittish animal. You nodded, and he carefully sat on the chair beside you. “Can we work on it? Do you think you may have it in your heart to forgive me?”

“I don’t know, Lewis, I’m still trying to wrap my head around it.”

“We can do marriage counseling, we can do anything you want, we can- we can move, buy another place, we can adopt a kitten, like you’ve always wanted, or we can renew our vows, I can gi-give you a pass, so we’ll be even-”

“I honestly don’t know how to fix this, Lewis. I’m not sure it’s even fixable.”

You two stared into the horizon, lost in thoughts.

“Give me a chance, and I’ll fix it, love. I’ll do everything in my power to fix it.”

“Tell me what happened,” you commanded, not looking at him.

“Love, please, don’t do this.”

“You want to fix this, right? Then start by telling me the whole truth.”

And he did. He told you who was, Kate-something, an influencer who had been a fling of his from the past, before you. They had met unexpectedly during the Vegas Grand Prix, she had been invited by some other team. He told you almost everything, leaving out details about the sex, but he told you everything else, and you listened, unmoved, only the tears falling down nonstop.

The next couple of days consisted of Lewis buying you things, food, jewelry, clothes and planning a trip for after the holidays. You slept in your room, and Lewis slept in the guest room, giving you space, to whenever you were comfortable to share a bed with him again. You had every meal together, sometimes he cooked, sometimes he had it delivered. You tried to engage in conversation, but in the end, Lewis was doing most of the talking. Chatting about news of his friends, about his team, about the plans for the trip.

As you sat in the office, you opened a drawer and picked up your resignation letter. You had left it written to hand it when you got back from the holidays. The letter was brief, thanking everyone for the opportunity to work at their company, thanking your boss for all the lessons and explaining you were leaving to become a homemaker. You scoffed at it now, ripping the letter in half and throwing it in the trash.

Maybe you needed to take a step back from everything. The plans and the dreams and the future. Maybe you just needed to give him a chance, you loved him so much, and this kind of love doesn’t go away with a snap of the fingers.

Maybe he was right and if you two started all over, maybe you could fix this.

“I know it might be too soon, but would you consider going on a date? Just like the old times,” he asked one morning a few days later, as you ate breakfast.

“Sure, Lewis.”

He nodded, and you knew he was feeling the way you didn’t call him love or honey anymore. He planned a date that same night. You dressed up to the nines, just to feel some normalcy, just to feel like yourself again. You had dressed in a black long sleeved dress, with some transparency in the sleeves, a black scarpin and you tied your hair in an elegant high ponytail and those bright red lipsticks Lewis liked.

He looked at you in wonder as you came down the stairs.

“You look stunning, my love.” He whispered, taking your hand and making you spin. You felt that spark in your stomach again, well, a little bit of that.

He took you to a two star restaurant, one you’d always go on date nights. He also drove you there in your favorite Mercedes. You decided to put in the effort, to make conversation, to engage with him the whole night. You ate, talked, laughed and drank a couple of wine glasses.

By the end of the night, you had felt a resemblance of normalcy again. When Lewis was picking the tab, you went to the toilet, and you saw a woman trying to change a baby’s diaper. She dropped the box of wet wipes, and you bent down to pick it.

“Thank you, lovely!” She said as you handed it back. You peeked at the baby, a little girl who couldn’t be older than a year.

“Hi there, princess!” You said with a baby voice.

“Can you keep an eye on her just as I pee quickly, I’m sorry to bother,” the mother asked.

“Don’t worry,” you said, carrying the baby she had just finished changing. As the woman entered the stall, you decided to ask, “How has it been, being a mom?”

“Oh, it’s amazing. Of course it’s not easy, but my husband has been a great help around the house and the baby. I couldn’t be happier!”

You looked to the mirror, the baby in your arms, and you imagined living this with Lewis. And you just couldn’t. Because he wouldn’t be there all the time anyway. He would be traveling the world, racing for his championship, you would follow him, but at some point you would have to stop, you would have to settle home the last trimester, and he wouldn’t be there. Would he miss your baby’s birth?

You wondered if he would cheat again when you weren’t there.

As you left the toilet, your mood had dwindled again.

Lewis noticed as you were quiet going home, head against the window, watching the city and mumbling the song playing in the car.

As you arrived home, you pushed Lewis against the sofa, he looked confused, but his eyes followed your hands as you pulled your dress up, bunching it around your hips so you could straddle his lap.

“Baby, I don’t think w-” he started talking, but you held his chin.

“Shut the fuck up,” you said, pressing your lips against his.

You kissed him like you were starved, showing him how much you missed him, how much you loved him. He let you guide the kiss, opening your mouth and entangling your tongues, your hips grinding on him. He whispered nonsense as he kissed your face and neck, I missed you so much, love, nibbling at your neck, I love you my baby, pulling your dress down to free your tits, sucking on your nipples, missed this, baby, you’re so fucking sexy, you ground on him, moving and moaning as his hand held your ass, guiding your movements. You were so wet, you missed his touch so much.

As you looked down, seeing his lips latched onto your nipple, your mind drifted, wondering if he touched the other woman like this, if he talked dirty to her like that.

And you were immediately turned off.

“Stop, stop,” you pushed him and he let you go easily, scrambling to the sofa and away from his lap, “red, red!” You shouted your safe word.

Breathless, Lewis nodded, as you quickly pulled the cups of your dress up, covering your boobs and pulled your dress down, eyes watering. He stared at you, confused and not knowing how to act. You two were very creative in the bedroom, but you only used the safe word a few times whenever you two were in the mood for some BDSM scenes, you had never used your safe word in a normal setting.

“Are you ok?” He asked, finally and you just shook your head.

“Was she better than me?” You asked, voice small and vulnerable.

“What? Baby, no, never! You’re my everything.” He sat by your side, but you stood up in wobbly legs, nervous.

You wanted to ask why, if you were enough, if you were everything, then why he felt the need to do it. Why would he throw away so many years, such a beautiful love story that you used to joke you would tell your grandkids about.

You started walking away, but Lewis ran up to you and blocked your path.

“Please, let’s talk it out,” He asked, eyes pleading. You stared at his lips, and something inside you just snapped.

“I don’t want to talk! FUCK!” You pushed past him, “I look at you and I can only picture you with her! I feel your hands on my body and I hate it because I can only think of you touching her, and kissing her and fucking making love to her! Look at us! Look at everything you ruined because you just couldn’t not get your dick wet! Because you couldn’t wait five fucking days for me!”

You tried not to sob, running a hand over your face.

“And you were perfect and I love you, and I hate myself for loving you because I don’t trust you! I keep thinking that if one day I miss the flight to your race, will you cheat again? If- if I have to work and you suddenly feel lonely, will you cheat again? If we fight for some reason, will you cheat again?”

“We can fix this, we go to counseling or-

“FIX WHAT? I didn’t break anything! Because I love you so much that the idea of lying with another man disgusts me! You broke my heart, our home and our future!”

He was crying too when you looked at him.

You took the keys to his car and slipped away, driving around, trying to clear your head. Deep down you wished you could forgive and forget, you wished you could get over that mistake, but now everything around the house reminds you of his mistake.

You lost control of the car and crashed against a tree. It wasn’t a big crash, even though the hood of the car looked totalled. You called someone to take the destroyed car away, and you took an Uber to the hospital, just to make sure you didn’t hit your head too hard. In the hospital, they put a bandaid on the small cut and you held an ice pack above the swelling in the side of your forehead, they also gave you a few pills for the pain and possible headache.

You went back home hours later, and Lewis was waiting by the living room.

“Where were-” he stopped short, seeing the small cut on your forehead, “oh, god, what happened?”

“I crashed your car, I’m sorry. It wasn’t a big deal, I’m ok,” you walked into the kitchen to take one of the pills for the incoming headache.

“What? Why didn’t you call me?” Lewis followed you.

“It wasn’t a big deal,” you repeated calmly.

“Are you kidding me? You’re bleeding!”

“I’m not, it was just a small piece of glass that grated my forehead, but I’m ok, it doesn’t really hurt,” you muttered, wanting to go to sleep, “I’m sorry about your car, I’ll pay to get it fixed.”

“I don’t give a fuck about the car! I’m worried about you!” He came closer, holding your face with both hands, looking around for any more injuries.

You stared at his face, his eyes that had been such a source of happiness and unconditional love were now painful to see. Handsome still, but you couldn’t see him as yours anymore. You took his hands off you gently.

“I’m ok. I’ll pay for your car.” You reinforced, taking a step back.

“Our car, love. You’re my wife. And you don’t have to pay for it.” He corrected you, but you couldn’t feel anything.

Because the car was his. All the cars were his. The house was his, too. The dog was his. The properties. Everything belonged to him. You belonged to him the whole time. And now you just didn’t anymore.

You had signed a prenup before the wedding, which had been an idea that came from Lewis’ lawyer. Your husband had been angrily against it, but you didn’t mind signing it, because it was never about the money. Even upset signing the prenup, Lewis still took all of your expenses, bills, house and cars, and everything else. There was a cheating clause on that document, one you never bothered to read or memorize because cheating was never on your mind.

A couple of days later you had barely said a word to him, and you were having breakfast when he approached you.

“I’ll call mum later, to tell her we’re not going to her birthday dinner,” Lewis informed you.

“No, we’re going. We’re not going to spoil her celebration because of our problems,” you shook your head.

So you went to dinner at his mom’s. Everyone was there and you brought her a gold necklace with a peony pendant, since it was her favorite flower. You and Lewis tried to pretend nothing was wrong as to not ruin the mood of the night. You still sat by his side, ate and talked with everyone. Lewis knew you were faking being ok, because your smiles didn’t reach your eyes anymore, and every time he tried any physical touch like holding hands, putting a hand on your shoulder or pulling you to his lap, your body would tense up, so he would let go of you.

By then end of the night, you were pretty sure everyone had believed your act, but when Carmen asked for help with taking her presents upstairs, you knew she knew too.

“What is going on, love? You’re not your usual self today.”

You felt your eyes filling up and you couldn’t hold back the tears anymore. You adored Carmen, you adored Lewis’ family, his siblings, his parents and his nephews and nieces. But Carmen had become a second mum to you from the beginning, being the first person to welcome you with open arms.

“Talk to me, dear,” she asked and the kindness in her voice made you cry even more, sobbing so much she had to hug you holding you tight.

“This is probably the last time we’ll see each other as family, Carmen,” you warned her, and her face crumbled just like yours did.

“No… No, honey, what happened?” She asked, and you shook your head.

“You talk to him later, and I’m sure he will tell you whenever he’s ready,” you muttered, not wanting to meddle in a mother-son relationship, not wanting to poison it. You pulled the engagement ring from your finger, the beautiful engraved jewel, that had belonged to Carmen's family for generations, had ended up with you, and you had expected to pass it down to a kid you’d have with Lewis. You gave the ring back to her.

“For when he finds the one.”

“No, you’re the one for him, honey,” she exclaimed, teary eyed.

“I wish I was, but I’m not,” you stared longingly at the ring sitting on the palm of her hand.

“One day he will need it again, and he will find someone and you’ll love her just as much. I’ll be just the distant past, but I hope you save a little space in your heart for me, yeah?” You laughed a little bit, wiping the tears on your cheeks. She only nodded, her own tears falling down. “Thank you for taking me in all these years, for embracing me into your family, I’m very grateful for that.”

You two cried a little more, and you tried to mask your crying face after a few minutes in the bathroom.

In the end, unfortunately, Lewis' family convinced you to stay the night since it would be a long drive back to Lewis’ place in London. You ended up sharing a bed for the first time since he admitted to cheating. You laid there with your back turned to him in the dark.

You couldn’t sleep for a couple of hours, but he did. When you turned back around, you stared at his beautiful face. Your dreamy, handsome husband. You softly traced imaginary lines in his face, tracing his eyebrows and nose, the tip of your finger running over his lips and cupids’ bow. How could you love someone so deeply and still not want to be with them? How could you not just put everything behind?

He knew you so well, he knew of you past of being cheated on, of going through abusive relationships. He knew where you draw the lines. He knew your limitations and still went ahead with cheating on you.

You got up from the bed, you went to the small armchair, opening your iPad to try and watch a movie or something to help you sleep. But as you unlocked it, the tab open was the project you had made for the family home you and Lewis were going to build for when you had kids. The finished project hit you like a punch in the gut.

You went inside the bathroom and took a break. It was the middle of the night, and everyone was asleep, so you just sat on the closed toilet to try and calm down the aching pain in your chest. When you came back, Lewis was awake going through your iPad you had left unlocked.

“What’s- What’s this?”

“It’s the project for our home, I was going to gift it to you on your birthday,” you whispered, sitting by his side on the floor, your backs to the bed.

Lewis sniffled, and you didn’t look at his face because you didn’t want to see him cry. He kept looking at the project, going page after page, seeing all the details you had thoughtfully put there. He started crying even harder when he saw the nurseries you had designed. When he saw the tennis court, because you and him loved playing with his dad, and talked countless times about teaching your kids to play. When Lewis saw the big kitchen with the panel wall where you could place pictures and drawings and notes. When he saw the sunroom, with toys and your small library, and Lewis’ videogames. All the tidbits you and him had dreamed about during your five years relationship.

“We can’t let this all go, love” he said between soft cries.

“God, I hate metaphors,” you whispered, drying the tears that came down, “but we’re a broken mirror, Lewis. We can try and fix it, and glue all the pieces back together, but the cracks will still be there.”

“I don't know how I messed up this badly, I don’t even know why-” he set the iPad down, staring at his hands, “I’m so sorry, so so sorry.”

You only nodded, getting up. You went back to bed, laying under the covers.

“I know,” you whispered after a few minutes. He came back to bed too, laying beside you without touching you.

“The project is beautiful. I love it.” He muttered staring at the ceiling.

“I do too.”

When you left his mom’s house, with a tight goodbye hug with Carmen, Lewis had to go to Brackley for work and you went back to Monaco. 

You thought you may have a chance to fix everything. But as the days he was away passed, you started to wonder if he went to England to really work. If he wasn’t going to meet someone, the Kate-something, or any other of his flings from the past. If he even was in Brackley as he said he was.

The trust was gone.

As if it wasn’t bad enough as it was, the lady, Kate-something texted you. You had no idea how she got your number, and the text read:

“Ask your husband what he did after the Las Vegas GP.”

You scoffed, thinking she was a little late for a shocking revelation. You screenshotted the text just in case and blocked her number after, without bothering to let Lewis know about it.

You were one foot out of the door already.

The dreaded day came when you met with a lawyer, a big shot famous lawyer who always worked with famous people when they wanted a low profile divorce. She was very respectful of all your wishes, though with the small fortune you were going to pay for her services, being polite and helpful was the least she could do. She drafted a divorce agreement following all your requirements, especially in regards to the prenup.

The next few days, you read and reread the divorce papers, leaving them in the locked drawer in your office.

When Lewis came back from the Mercedes factory, it was night and you were having a glass of wine by the balcony.

“Want a nightcap?” You offered your glass to him. He nodded, taking a sip off the half full glass, “how was work?”

He told you about all the work in the factory, going to dinner with his teammate and meeting with his boss. It was almost like before, for a few minutes it was just a regular day in your married life. Lewis helped you put everything away in the kitchen and you went upstairs.

When he was about to go into the guest room, you stopped him.

“Lewis,” you asked and he looked at you hopefully, “can you sleep with me tonight?”

“Whatever you want, love.”

So you settled in for sleep, both of you going through your nightly routine, and finally, laying in bed. You took the initiative to cuddle him, nose against his neck, inhaling his scent and your ear above his heart.

You slept great for the first time since you were in separate beds. But you woke up in the middle of the night. And the way the little lampshade by the bedside table lit up the side of his face, peacefully asleep, handsome and yours. Fully yours still.

You couldn’t help the small kiss on his chest, above his heart, the other kiss on his cheek, and a third one on his neck, that had him waking up.

“Baby?” Lewis looked at you. You kissed his lips, open mouthed, sloppy and desperate.

“Shh,” you kissed his chest again, now he was fully awake, surrendered under your touch. You straddled him, your body missing him so much, his touch and his love, and the twilight making everything feel like before, you couldn’t help but desire him with burning passion.

“Love,” he stopped you, holding your jaw softly, “are you sure?”

“Please, just be mine tonight, yeah?” You asked him in a small voice.

“I’m yours forever, love.”

And so you drowned in him, one last time. You tossed your pajamas away, as he sat up in the bed, kissing your neck down, biting softly at your nipples, taking it painfully slow just in case you changed your mind. You ground against him, his cock hard under your ministrations. You pulled his pants down, and he kicked it to the floor, as you slid your cunt over his length, dripping over him, moaning loud and hearing his groans as his hands settled on your hips, letting you take control, doing whatever you wanted.

You got on your knees just so you could line him up at your entrance, pushing down slowly, letting him stretch you well, your body accommodating him perfectly like it should always be. And so you started riding him, slowly at first, but then you pounded him into the mattress, fucking him into oblivion. His hands were all around, pinching your nipples, gripping your waist and slapping your ass the way he knew drove you crazy. He fingered your clit, making you cum around his cock shamelessly fast, hips shaking and cunt gripping him tight.

“Can- oh, fuck,” he asked after a particularly hard clench of your dripping cunt, “-Can you give me one more, my baby?”

Then, he changed positions, laying you by his side, hugging you with one arm and using the other to lift your leg so he could have room to fuck you slow, lazy and nice, pressing your g-spot again and again. He smothered your lips with his tongue and teeth, stealing your moans, as your hands pressed his body into yours. You wanted to melt into him, to leave fingerprints and nail marks all over him. You wanted him to have a permanent indentation of your body pressed to his.

Selfishly, you wanted him to never forget you. To be a part of him in the forever he promised you. Even if you won’t be there.

“Look at me,” he asked, and you opened your eyes to meet his dark molten embers so full of love that it threatened to suffocate you, “you’re the only woman for me. You’re my everything.”

He picked up the pace a little, going harder, until he had you gushing around him, making a mess of your sheets and milking him until he was groaning, hips stuttering into release.

“Fuck, baby, you’re so good. Feel so good for me,” he murmured into the dark, “I love you so so much.”

You two hugged back to sleep.

In the morning you showered, brushed your teeth and changed. You stopped in the middle of the room, staring at Lewis’ sleeping form. In the closet you packed a bag, putting clothes and shoes on it, then you grabbed your iPad, laptop and work stuff, then you called a taxi and waited.

You left the divorce agreement on the kitchen island, alongside your wedding band, your lawyer’s contact information and a small note. You were crying as you got into the taxi, leaving behind the future plans you had hoped to live.

It took you a couple of months to get your shit together. You spent Christmas with your family only for the first time in years, and you didn’t travel for New Year’s Eve with Lewis as planned, you didn’t resign from your job, instead opting for a relocation so you could move away.

Finding a new place in Scotland was relatively easy considering you had a good amount of savings because Lewis always paid all the bills, you found a place where you could dedicate yourself to work and to write your book and to heal.

•

Lewis found the house empty that next morning. You had made love to him again, and he thought that maybe you two could salvage the marriage. But as he looked for you around the house, he found the divorce agreement in the kitchen. His stomach dropped as he held your wedding band, and the other hand found your note.

“Seems like I’m a coward too, since I can’t face you to say goodbye. Take this divorce agreement to your lawyer, and any questions you might have, please forward it to my lawyer, she’ll explain everything. I love you, but I don’t trust you. And nothing good can be built in a trustless marriage. The next time you find a good one, don’t break her heart.”

He cried like a baby, going over your divorce agreement that was signed by you. You had given up everything, you didn’t want anything of his, not any cars or property, not any financial support, not even the house that had your name on it too. You voided the prenup, stating that you didn’t want the alimony that came with the cheating clause. Looked like a clean break, like you didn’t want anything that could tie you to Lewis.

He tried calling you and texting you, but seemed like you had blocked him on everything. He went through the motions, meeting with your lawyer who, despite the fame of being tough, was really kind to him. He told your lawyer that he wanted you to take the alimony that came with the cheating clause because it was only fair, and he wouldn’t sign the divorce if you didn’t accept the money.

So after a few weeks, Lewis' lawyer got in contact to tell him you accepted the money, as long as he would sign the divorce as soon as possible. By the New Year, you were officially a divorced couple.

•

You got settled on your new home by the end of the first month of the year, three weeks after the divorce was finalized. You moved to a little north of Edinburgh, not too far from the city, but far enough that you could have some sense of peace and privacy.

You still had a tan line on your ring finger of the left hand.

You only realized your period was late the week later, as you were doing grocery shopping and house supplies, and you noticed you haven’t got your period for a while. Despite being a grown woman, worker and independent, you felt shaky fingers as you took a pharmacy test.

While you waited, you stayed in front of the mirror. You had felt a bit of nausea, but you attributed it to stress and disgust, and you had been feeling tired but you thought it was because of the moving and all the paperwork. You ran your palm over your stomach, trying to feel something, but it felt so normal.

When the time’s up and you leaned over the sink to check the result, you sighed reading the 8 - 10 weeks pregnant.

“That’s ok, baby,” you whispered, teary eyed, “we’re gonna be ok.”

#And how about NOT making someone cry before bed #wtf😭😭😭😭 #the angst is angstying and I can’t handle it😭😭😭 #The way her feelings and emotions r portrayed in this is so fucking real like damn

[26sophiess]

[13.2k] the chalet was your home away from home in the festive season. but this year it may become the place you fall in love with the last person you expected. ft my very limited knowledge on how skiing works. (very lazy smut included)

.

Your family had always gone to The Chalet with the Montgomery’s for as long as you could remember. 

One spontaneous ski trip decades ago led your parents to start a tradition that would last through the generations. Every year, both families would fly out to the mountains of France to enjoy the festive season in the homely ski resort called The Chalet. Owned and ran by an elderly couple, it was the kind of place you would see in hallmark movies, or maybe even in a snowglobe. It was a place beyond your greatest winter wonderland dreams and imagination. The Chalet didn’t feel like a real place, and that was why the getaway every Christmas made the holiday so magical. 

It was your home away from home, a safe haven. It was the one place in the world where you could disappear from reality and embrace the isolation from society. 

At least, that was what the three weeks in the ski resort usually felt like. 

And after a year of moving away from home, starting a new job at the bottom of the food chain and dealing with more social circle drama than you ever intended to deal with, you craved nothing more than the simplicity and enjoyment The Chalet had to offer. You needed the break away from your life, a break away from the life you weren’t totally sure you had under control. 

You just wanted your home away from home, and instead when the families arrived at the resort, you were met with crowds of strangers swarming the place like a colony of buzzing, irritating bees. 

“What the hell?” You muttered once you had stepped out of the car, looking at the throng of people lingering outside the main entrance to the resort. 

“Apparently the place is booked out,” your mother noted from somewhere behind you as they began to unpack the bags from the boot of the car. “Madame Blanchet reserved our usual rooms when she started getting more and more bookings.” 

“Since when was this place overbooked?” You commented, a little blunter than intended. But it was hard to mask your surprise. A part of The Chalet’s charm was that it was a small, unknown ski resort hidden amongst the many that were established in the French Mountains. For as long as you could remember—hell, even before that—there hadn’t been more than ten or so families staying at the resort over the Christmas period. 

“Maybe Madame Blanchet finally learnt how to make a website,” a voice remarked from beside you, sounding quite amused by the mass of people, which shouldn’t have really surprised you. 

And just like you expected, you turned your head to find Harper Montgomery grinning widely at the crazy crowd like she was expecting it. She stood beside you with her hands on her hips, something about the bright ski suit looking so out of place, not that she acted as much. Every year, you swore The Chalet wasn’t ready for her and every year you were proven correct. 

“Considering the woman still has a dial phone, I am going to doubt the sudden online advertisement,” you snorted, shaking your head.

“Maybe this will be the Christmas we make new friends,” Harper noted, her head tilted to the side and her dark eyes scanning the crowd. “I am pretty sick of Mrs Hartford beating me at scrabble.”

Your lips twitched upwards. “Maybe you should stop challenging her then.”

Harper’s eyes narrowed. “Never.” 

“I still don’t get why so many people are waiting outside,” you grumbled as your eyes fell back to the crowd, noticing the way they were buzzing with some sort of excitement. “I don’t even think the lodge has enough rooms for this many people.” 

Harper hummed. “Maybe—”

“OH MY GOD!” 

Your eyes widened in alarm as you turned your head, seeing Evan standing a few feet away from you and Harper. The older Montgomery was gripping his phone, eyes full of adoration and awe as he grinned at his screen like a madman. He let out a high-pitched squeak, catching the attention of both families as they looked at him with varying looks of concern.

The blond finally lifted his head, oblivious to the worried looks as his grin seemingly widened. He thrusted a phone towards you and Harper, almost buzzing in his spot. “He’s here!”

Your brows furrowed together. “What?”

“He’s here!” Evan repeated, just as enthusiastic as the first time. “He is in our ski lodge! He’s here!” 

You still looked equally confused. “Who?” 

“His little man-crush,” Harper noted as she glanced down at his screen. 

“Charles Leclerc!” Evan sighed, almost dreamily as he hugged his phone to his chest. “We are spending Christmas with Charles Leclerc!” 

You rolled your eyes and shook your head, pushing past the boy to grab your suitcase so you could finally go check in. “For fuck’s sake, not your little driving guy.” 

“Hey,” Evan frowned. “He’s more than that.” 

“I have to listen to you talk about him for nine months of the year,” you remarked, though even that felt like an understatement. “Christmas is meant to be my free time from your little obsession. We made a deal.”

Evan blanched. “That was before I knew he was here!” 

“And now he’s ruining Christmas,” you grumbled bitterly, letting out a wince when you felt a pinch to your side.

“Don’t be such a grinch,” Harper teased. “Let him be a fanboy and spend his days on the slopes hunting the guy down. Don’t let it ruin your holiday.”

You snorted. “That will be hard when he is talking our ears off about Charles’ pretty green eyes or the way his hair looks after a race.”

“It’s fluffy!” Evan defended. “It’s unreal after a two hour race in a helmet!” 

“Whatever,” you muttered as you patted the boy on the chest as you moved past him. “You have him all to yourself, you won’t see me complaining about it.” 

Evan puffed his chest out. “You just can’t appreciate greatness.”

“Blah, blah, blah,” you waved him off. “I’m here to ski and relax. As long as this Charles guy keeps you and his little fanbase far away from me, I don’t care what he does.” There was a pause and Harper gave you a questioning look when she saw the glint in your eyes. “Even if he is overrated.”

Evan’s jaw dropped. “You did not just—”

“Last one in is a rotten egg!” You called out behind you as you grabbed Harper’s hand, dragging her towards the main entrance with you and letting your laughs echo through the reception as the boy swore up and down behind you.

…

You could have said that your resentment towards the Ferrari driver was purely based on how much Evan spoke about him during the racing season, but that would be a lie. 

It had started off that way when the boy finally made it into Formula One. Evan had been a motorsport fanatic from a young age, always eager to ramble away to you and Harper on various championships and seasons neither of you particularly cared about. As you got older, you learned to become more accepting and tolerant of the fact your Sundays would always be hijacked by whatever grand prix was occurring that weekend. 

However, when a young hot shot joined the sport that Evan had been following through the lower leagues, you didn’t realise just how quickly that tolerance would disappear until he was yapping your ear off after every single race. 

And truthfully? You didn’t get it. You didn’t get the sport in general, you didn’t understand what made a driver good or bad, and you didn’t understand the world’s obsession with Charles Leclerc as the years passed. To you, he just seemed like a pretty boy who enjoyed the spotlight of being the face of the sport. To you, he seemed like nothing more than a show pony. 

And no amount of debates and rants from Evan would change that. 

You wouldn’t have gone out of your way to say you hate Charles Leclerc, but you would say you were coming pretty damn close since you arrived at The Chalet.

The Chalet was bustling from the moment you opened your eyes to the moment you fell asleep. Wherever you went, it felt like you were pushing through a crowd to get from point A to point B. And the amount of times you had fans gripping your arm as you walked past, asking you if you had seen the Monegasque driver was starting to make you want to rip your own hair out. 

Yet, despite the buzz around the driver being in the lodge and the amount of fans circling the place through various hours of the day, you had yet to see the boy himself and that was something you were perfectly content with.

You had managed two blissful days before you crossed paths with Charles Leclerc. 

You had been taking too long to get ready so you assured Harper and Evan you would meet them at the slopes, insisting there was no need for them to wait for you. Both Montgomery’s—stubborn as ever—scoffed and told you they would be waiting for you in the lobby instead. 

You had been in a rushed state when you made your way towards the equipment valet, eager to just quickly hand your locker number over and collect your equipment. However, your path seemed to be blocked by a man standing in front of you, nose buried in his phone as he muttered in a language you didn’t quite understand. 

“Excuse me, do you mind if I just—” 

“Fucking hell,” the man swore, causing you to pause and frown at his back. 

You were taken aback, not expecting that response or the scoff that left his lips afterwards. And when he turned around, you were even more shocked when you realised you knew exactly who the rude man was—none other than Charles Leclerc. 

“Look, I appreciate that you are a devoted fan and I am grateful for the support, but I really don’t have time for pictures right now,” Charles continued and, to his credit, did look a little empathetic. Though, that didn’t take away from the underlying hostility in his words. “I am just here to enjoy my break. Please let me do so in peace.” 

You blinked, absolutely flabbergasted by his assumption. “Huh?”

The smile he gave you was almost condescending. “As a fan, I am sure you’d understand that I’d want a few days just free from the media and—”

And it seemed like only then did your brain catch up with the situation. 

“Don’t flatter yourself, sweetheart, I am not a fan,” you stated as bluntly as you could, watching the boy’s face morph into something quite like confusion. As though he genuinely couldn’t compute the fact somebody wasn’t a fan of him. 

“What?”

“I was just trying to get my skis and you were standing in my way like a douche,” you said simply, watching as his brows furrowed closer together. “Which I would have felt bad for calling you before I realised who you were.”

“Who I was,” Charles repeated, still baffled as you pushed past him to do just as you said. 

“Hot shot who thinks everybody who breathes near him cares about who he is,” you supplied, a sickly sweet smile on your face as you now stood before him with your skis in hand. “Have a great day, Charles Leclerc.”

And the boy didn’t get a chance to say anything as you walked away, your mood positively ruined by the time you reached Evan and Harper in the lobby. They took one look at your sour mood and raised their brows in question, but you simply grumbled and waved them off, in no mood to repeat your interaction to Charles’ biggest sympathiser. 

Fortunately for the Montgomery siblings, your mood eased up by lunchtime and you were (mostly) over the whole interaction. 

…

Or at least, you were over the interaction until dinner came around. 

Dinner at The Chalet was like one massive family meal. With a large hall dedicated as the dining area, the Blanchet’s had set it up quite like a buffet system. There were tables of food bordering the room with tables dotted through the middle. Everyone sat on the round tables, in their little families and looking like a picture perfect scene for the final meal of the day. 

So of course your final meal of the day had to be ruined by an arrogant Monegasque who grinned at you like you two were old friends. 

“Ah, you! I’ve been looking for you.”

Truthfully, you wouldn’t have even realised he was talking to you if it weren’t for the fact the boy had stopped right beside you, practically looming over your shoulder as you tried to help yourself to some macaroni cheese.

You raised your brows, giving the boy a once-over before returning your attention to your plate. 

“Uh, hello,” Charles tried again, his brows furrowing together a little at the cold shoulder you gave him.

“Hi,” you stated simply, not wanting to spend any more moments with the Monegasque than you had to. 

“I wanted to apologise for earlier,” Charles continued, seeing your response as an open invite to a conversation. 

“Do you now?”  

“Yeah,” Charles nodded, a smile making its way onto his face as your sarcastic tone went completely over his head. “Listen, I really didn’t mean to snap at you. It’s just—this is my holiday and I had no intention of my location being leaked. I just wanted a break from everything, you know? And I guess the frustrations of being bombarded for the last few days just got to me.” 

And truthfully speaking, a part of you sympathised with the boy. Though his fame reached levels you would never understand, The Chalet was your haven away from everything. It was a place where reality never seemed to touch, a place to escape. You could understand better than anyone what it was like to crave that feeling in your life. 

But just as you opened your mouth to say as much, Charles seemed to remind you exactly why you disliked him in the first place.

“And I just wanted to clear things up with you before the media found out and—” 

“So, you’re only apologising because you don’t want me running to journalists and ruining your image?” You interrupted, catching the boy off-guard as he gaped at you for a few seconds.

“Well, yes, it wouldn’t look good if I was harassing fans,” Charles said.

“But I’m not a fan,” you corrected him, gripping your plate in your hands. “And I certainly don’t care about shattering someone’s image for fifteen seconds of fame, no matter how much of a douche they are.”

Charles frowned. “I—” 

“You can take your apology and shove it up your ass, Charles,” you said, that sickly sweet smile on your face once again as you turned around to find whichever table your family were sitting at. But a hand reached out to softly grip your elbow and you turned to find Charles looking at you with a helpless expression. 

“I am sorry,” Charles said to you, something in his voice that you didn’t really understand. “But I also care about my image. Surely you can understand that.” 

“Whatever helps you sleep at night,” you retorted as you tried to tug yourself free from his hold. 

Charles opened his mouth to reply, but a louder voice caught the attention of both of you. 

“STORMY! OVER HERE!” 

You felt your face heat up as you glanced over your shoulder, finding Evan sat amongst your family and his own as he waved you down. He had a shit-eating grin on his face (most likely from the fact he used the one nickname that he knew pissed you off more than anything else in front of everyone) and looked like he was about to do more when his gaze shifted to the man beside you. His jaw dropped, a comical expression on his face as he looked between you and Charles Leclerc.

“Stormy?” Charles repeated, looking over at you. 

You ignored his questioning gaze, instead narrowing your eyes at the hand still gripping your elbow. “Can you let me go now or is there more to your shitty apology?”

Charles opened his mouth once again, yet another person interrupted him before he got a chance.

“Charles? What’s taking you so long?”

Your eyes wandered to the girl who saddled up beside him, her expression light until she turned to look at you. Her gaze was calculated, her blue eyes seeming to size you up and something about the all white attire made you wonder if she was really playing into the Ice Queen vibes. 

“Another fan?” She sighed, as though your presence was the biggest inconvenience to her. “Honey, he can take pictures with you after dinner—”

“That’s fine, we’re done here,” you quickly corrected, ignoring the patronising tone in her voice or the way that Charles still looked like he had more to say. “I won’t be bothering either of you anytime soon.” 

You turned on your heels before either one of them had a chance to drag out the interaction any longer than it needed it to be. You weaved through the tables before making your way towards the table your family had chosen, settling yourself in the free seat beside Evan.

“That was Charles Leclerc!” 

You hummed, grabbing your fork as you began to dig in. “Unfortunately so.” 

“Dude, what the hell!” Evan hissed, pinching your side until you let out a small squeak and turned to him. “Why didn’t you tell me you knew him?”

You frowned. “I don’t.”

“You were talking to him for ages!” Evan countered. 

“He was just being a dick,” you said with a shrug of your shoulders. “Plus, that was probably the last time I’ll ever talk to him.” 

Harper snorted. “And you didn’t even get him an autograph.”

“Not that I would ask,” you prefaced before shaking your head. “But I doubt he would have given me one anyways. We…got off on the wrong foot.” 

“It’s Charles Leclerc,” Evan scoffed. “There is no wrong foot.” 

“Keep it in your pants, dickhead,” you teased, lightly pinching his side back in retaliation. “Even if I did get you an autograph, I would have shredded it after the Stormy stunt you just pulled.”

“But that’s your name,” Evan grinned.

“No, it’s what you called me for seven years because you couldn’t remember my name,” you retorted. 

“No, he remembered,” Harper piped in, a grin on her face that scarily matched her brother’s. “But with a temper like yours, Stormy just fits so much better.” 

You rolled your eyes. “Whatever. You both suck and so does Charles Leclerc.” 

“At least wait until dessert before you start insulting Evan’s boyfriend in front of him.” 

“He’s not my boyfriend!”

…

You had expected that was the last time your path would ever cross with Charles Leclerc and, for the most part, it was. 

A few days passed and other than some awkward shared glances in the dining hall, you hadn’t found yourself caught in a conversation with the Ferrari driver after his attempted apology and you were intending to keep it that way until the end of your trip. You were happy to continue on with your holiday, even if you swore you could feel a pair of eyes watching you sometimes. 

However, it seemed like the universe was on a mission to get your hopes up before crumbling them back down again—and this time, it was in the form of another involuntary meeting with the Monegasque. 

You hadn’t even noticed the boy standing a few feet away from you with a group of his friends. You were stood next to Harper, listening to her ramble away as you waited in line for the ski lift to take you to the top of the mountain. It was fairly early, most of the resort residents still enjoying their breakfast inside which meant the queue wasn’t very long. You had been eager to get out on the snow early after being one of the last in the passing days. 

However, whilst you failed to notice the driver, it seemed like Harper had. 

She watched the boy continuously glance over at you, like he was eager to catch your eye. She watched as he slowly shuffled closer, like he was trying to gain the confidence to jump into the conversation. She watched Charles Leclerc act like a hopeless fool, and it was somewhat endearing to witness.

And maybe—just maybe—she was in the mood for some drama that the vacation in the ski resort very rarely gave her. 

You were already settled in your spot when you felt someone shuffling in the seat next to you. You felt the comfort bar come down and you turned with a smile, ready to continue your conversation with your best friend when you realised your best friend was not the person sitting next to you. 

No, it was Charles Leclerc. 

Your head whirled around, finding Harper standing in the queue with a grin on her face. You shot her a look, one that spoke more than a thousand words on just how you felt about her betrayal. However, the girl just laughed and waved you off as the lift began moving and it was far too late to get off. 

Your attention shifted to the boy beside you again, noticing the sheepish expression on his face and you let out a sigh. 

It was fine. Totally fine. The ski lift took around ten minutes to get to the top of the mountain. That was hardly anything, practically a blink of an eye if you were being honest. It would be a quick ride up, you wouldn’t even have to talk to him and you could easily ignore him by the time you made your way back down the mountain. It was all going to be so, so fine.

“So, uh, how are you this morning?” 

And suddenly, even a second felt like ten years passing. 

You kept your head facing forward, hoping the boy would catch the hint that you weren’t interested in small talk and would also remain silent. Though, considering the fact he was fidgeting in his seat, you doubted the boy could keep quiet for longer than thirty seconds.

“The weather is great, right?”

Your brows furrowed together. The weather? Really?

“The pancakes were also really good at breakfast this morning. Did you have any?” He continued, only pausing for a moment when he realised you were making a point of not answering him. “Stormy?”

One simple word and that was enough for you to break your silence.

“Don’t call me that,” you snapped, a little harsher than you truly intended but the sentiment remained.

Charles blinked. “You don’t want me to call you your name?”

“It’s not my name,” you replied. 

He blinked again. “But in the dining hall—”

“It’s a nickname—one that Evan likes to wind me up with because he thinks I’m moody,” you explained before realising the boy didn’t really deserve an explanation. Not when you were adamant to keep this conversation short. “Not that it’s any of your business.”

“Well, I can see where he gets it from,” Charles said with a small snort. 

You frowned. “Excuse me?”

Seeming to realise what he said and just how it sounded out loud, it was almost comical to watch Charles’ lips part before he awkwardly gaped at his previous comment. “Not like that! I just meant—”

“Whatever,” you muttered as you turned to face forwards again, pleading for the lift to somehow reach the top of the mountain already.

“Look, I’m sorry. This wasn’t how I intended this to go,” Charles admitted, almost sounding a bit pained when he said it, as though he wasn’t used to admitting he was wrong. “I wanted to properly apologise. I shouldn’t have been so rude to you, and I definitely shouldn’t have brushed it off as anything except how you felt.” 

You paused, brows furrowing together as you turned to face him with a curious expression.

Charles blinked. “What?”

“I was just waiting to see if there was a ‘but’ coming,” you confessed.

“No buts,” he assured, pausing for a moment before his cheeks burned pink. “I just wanted to say I’m sorry. That’s it.”

You let out a sigh, wishing that some part of you was suspicious about his apology but you weren’t. He sounded genuine, and as much as you wanted to—and still partially did—believe he was a bit of a pompous prick, you couldn’t fault that his apology seemed sincere.

“I accept your apology,” you said, your voice a little strained before you continued. “And I’m also sorry for being a bit of a bitch.”

Charles’ lips parted. “Oh no, you weren’t—”

“I was a little,” you said, your lips twitching upwards as the boy gave you a nervous smile. “I can assure you I won’t be telling any gossip pages about what an asshole Charles Leclerc is.” 

He actually laughed in response, despite the fact that alone would probably make his PR team bury him six feet under before the next season started. “I appreciate that, Stormy.”

You glowered at the nickname, but it only seemed to make the Monegasque laugh harder. 

…

Despite the exchange of apologies on the ski lift, you expected that to be your last proper interaction with Charles. 

You were also quickly realising that every time—so far—you had assumed as much, you would find yourself face to face with the driver once again. And this time was no different, except it came much earlier than a few days. It happened later that very same day.

You had made your way into the dining hall, grabbing a plate and beginning to survey the large buffet when you felt the warmth of another person standing beside you. You felt a hand brush your arm and turned to find Charles smiling at you. 

“Bonjour, mon ami.” 

You blinked. “What?”

His smile widened. “It means—”

“No, I know what it means,” you quickly corrected, shaking your head a little. “I just…didn’t realise we were friends.”

Charles’ brows furrowed together. “Why wouldn’t we be? I thought we had made up on the ski lift.” 

“Yes but, other than that, we are strangers,” you said to him like it was obvious—and to you, it was. Beyond a few misunderstandings and awkward apologies, the man in front of you was as much a friend to you as any of the other guests in the lodge.

“Well, we can change that now!” He said, and that smile returned to his face. “Turn over a new book or whatever the saying is.” 

Much to your own surprise, you found yourself laughing a little at his response. “Charles, I—”

“STORMY, HURRY UP OR I AM DRINKING YOUR WINE!” 

Both your and Charles’ head snapped over to Evan who was holding a wine glass in each hand, a large smile plastered on his face and a twinkle in his eyes that promised mischief. His hair was still wet from the shower he took before dinner, meaning it was slick back and giving him an almost wannabe Bond villain look. 

You laughed, shaking your head as you turned back to look at the driver. Only you found Charles still looking in Evan’s direction, something contemplative and almost begrudging in his gaze. 

“You okay?”

Charles turned to face you, and it took a mere second for the glare to disappear and be replaced with his bright smile once again. “Yeah, of course. It seems like you’re wanted elsewhere though.”

“He’s a menace,” you said, playfully rolling your eyes but the fondness was clear in your voice. “I love him even if he’s a pain in the ass.”

Charles only let out a contemplative hum as a goodbye as you headed towards the table where your family and the Montgomery’s were sitting. And maybe if you looked over at him as much as he did with you over the course of the dinner, you would have seen Charles looking a little too bitter every time your eyes were on Evan instead of him.

…

A week had passed in the resort and the Christmas spirit was starting to truly spread as the festive holiday quickly approached. 

Your parents and the Montgomery parents had decided to pass on the slopes, instead choosing to visit infamous glacier caves that had been advertised and talked about by some locals in the lodge. You, Harper and Evan had declined the offer to join them, though the excitement of no parents being around—despite the fact all three of you were firmly in your twenties—seemed to spark a shift in energy in Evan that could only be described as childlike. 

“I have a proposition.” 

Harper already let out a groan, tilting her head back as she did. You couldn’t see her eyes beneath her goggles, but you imagined she was rolling them. “God, no.”

Evan frowned. “You haven’t even heard it yet.”

“Your ideas are shit,” Harper said to her brother. “And usually dangerous.”

“No, they aren’t,” Evan scoffed.

You shrugged. “You don’t have a great track record, if we are being honest.”

“Whatever,” Evan grumbled before grinning at the two of you. “First two to reach the bottom wins. Sabotaging each other’s run is allowed. Loser has to do the forfeit.” 

Your eyes narrowed. “What’s the forfeit?” 

“Loser has to streak in the snow,” he grinned.

“I am not streaking in the snow,” Harper scoffed.

“Then, you better hope you win,” the older Montgomery countered with a grin. 

And begrudgingly, you and Harper agreed to his childish idea.

It wasn’t the first time a silly competition between the three of you got out of hand, and you truly doubted it would be the last. With no rules set and no parents to even try to intervene, it didn’t take very long before the competition got dirty and the run down the slopes became more chaotic. 

You had been running behind Harper, secure in second place and watching her movements closely to look for any weakness that you could exploit. However, you had failed to realise that Evan—who had been running behind after he almost skied into a group of people—was quickly catching up on you. 

You didn't realise until it was too late.

You let out a noise of surprise when you found the boy right by your side, one that quickly became a series of curses when you realised what he was doing. You tried to move away when you noticed him turning into you, but you were too slow and it only put you in a worse position when his pole lodged itself between your skis. 

He was long gone by the time you tumbled into the snow, cackling loudly as he went. You let out a groan of frustration as you turned until you were lying on your back. You winced a little as you tried to awkwardly scramble up onto your feet in hopes of catching up with the Montgomery siblings, but the second a bit of pressure was placed on your ankle, you were crying out in pain and your ass hit the snow once again.

“Shit,” you whispered to yourself as you sat in the snow, tears welling in your lash line at the shot of pain up your leg. 

“Cherie!” 

You lifted your head when you noticed someone skidding to a stop beside you. You blinked at them in a moment of confusion, but the second they removed their goggles and pulled down their mask, you found Charles—or at least, a very worried and concerned version of him—looking down at you. 

He took you in, noticing the glossy sheen to your eyes before he turned back to look over his shoulder, letting out a string of curse words that you were certain were not in English before his attention returned to you.

“Are you okay? What hurts? Is something broken? Should I call for them to send a helicopter—” 

“Charles,” you quickly interrupted the rambling boy. “I’m fine. I’ve probably just sprained my ankle.” 

“Yeah, because of him,” Charles grumbled, mostly under his breath like he had no real intention for you to hear the snide remark.

“It was a joke,” you waved him off, but that only seemed to upset the boy further.

“A joke?” He repeated, his eyes widening in disbelief. “You’re hurt. It’s hardly a funny joke.”

“Charles, calm down.”

The boy just scoffed, shaking his head before he lodged his poles into the snow, keeping them off the main trail before he turned to you and offered his hand. 

You looked at him expectantly. 

“Let me help you get down to the lodge,” he said in as calm a voice as he could manage. 

“Charles—” You began, but he wasn’t having it.

“No, cherie, I am not going to leave you here when you’re injured and alone,” he said, emphasising the last word in particular as he glanced around, almost like he had to remind you that Harper and Evan were most likely at the bottom of the slope by now. 

“Fine,” you said with a sigh, taking his gloved hand in yours as you allowed him to pull you up, keeping your weight on him with ease. “This doesn’t mean we are friends though, Charles.”

He only grinned at you, the first time he seemed a little more like himself since he stopped to check on you.

“Whatever you want to say, Stormy.”

…

As expected, you had sprained your ankle and were advised to take it easy for the next few days. 

And you were banned from hitting the slopes in fear of making the sprain worse. 

You wanted to be annoyed about the situation—and a small part of you was—but honestly, a few days in the lodge with some peace and quiet seemed like a dream. As much as you loved your family and the Montgomery’s, you needed a break from how loud and giddy and excited they were.

And as the days quickly approached Christmas, it felt like a nice relief to have some time to yourself before the festivities truly took over. 

You had waved them off after breakfast with a smile, teasing them not to miss you too much as they headed towards the slopes. Evan had offered to stay inside with you, even just for today, because of the guilt that he was the one to put you in the position. But you just rolled your eyes, assuring him you were more than happy to sit by the fireplace by the foyer and enjoy a day where you didn’t have to fall flat on your ass in the snow. 

You had been a few chapters into your book, curled up on the couch with your ankle elevated on a pillow with a blanket thrown over you when Charles and his friends made their way downstairs, prepped and ready with the intentions of heading out to the slopes. 

But the boy spotted you and found his feet moving in a different direction. 

“Stormy!”

You lifted your head, unable to even find it in yourself to be annoyed by his constant use of the nickname when he had a pretty smile on his face whenever he said it. He was bundled up in layers, probably on his way to the equipment kiosk before he headed for the lift. He looked comical next to the fire.

“My knight in shining armour,” you greeted, a teasing tilt in your voice but the boy missed it as he took in your appearance. “You look warm.”

“You’re staying in today?” 

You nodded. “Doc’s orders.”

“Alone?” 

You nodded once again. “I told the others they could—”

“I’ll stay with you!”

He said it so quickly that it took you a few seconds before you realised just what he had said. You blinked, your brows furrowing in confusion. “You’re at a ski resort and you don’t want to go skiing?”

“I’ve been skiing every day since I got here,” he said with a casual shrug of his shoulders. “I can handle not skiing for a day.”

You flashed him a smile. “It’s fine, you don’t have to—”

“But I want to,” he countered, the words passing his lips with ease.

You hated the way your chest tightened a little at his words. “Oh.”

Charles smiled at your response. 

“Charles, hurry up!” 

You missed the way his brows furrowed together at the voice when you turned to look at the woman standing a few feet away, looking impatient and slightly annoyed. It was the same woman from the other week, the one that looked a little too much like the cold weather personified. You had learnt over the passing days her name was Melanie, but that was about as far as your knowledge on the woman went, other than her clear attitude. 

Charles let out a sigh before he replied, a slightly more strained smile on his face. “Go on without me. I’m gonna stay in the lodge today.”

Melanie frowned. “Why?”

“Because I want to,” Charles stated simply, and the repeated words made your chest feel funny again. 

Melanie glanced over at you and then Charles, and then back to you again. Her eyes were narrowed and her glare felt icy, but before she could even think of saying anything, a friend from the group was calling out to her and she had no choice but to join them. 

Charles turned back to you, an easy smile on his lips once again. “So…what’s the plan?” 

You snorted. “To sit here because I’m practically bedbound, unless I want to hobble somewhere.” 

Charles pressed his lips together. “Well, sitting by the fire with no hot chocolate is sacrilege.” 

Your nose scrunched up. “But I don’t have cookies. Hot chocolate by itself isn’t fun without homemade Christmas cookies.”

“Then we will make them,” Charles said.

You rolled your eyes. “And where are we making them? In our rooms with a kettle, tap water and no other ingredients?”

“Please,” Charles said with a scoff, a glint in his eyes as he looked down at you with a proud glint in his eyes. “I am Charles Leclerc. I have my ways.”

You weren’t sure what strings he pulled, who he bribed or just what he blackmailed the lodge owners with, but you were filled with a sort of unease when Charles returned twenty minutes later. He had changed out of his heavy ski gear into a pair of jeans and a sweater that looked insanely cosy. And he had told you that he needed you to close your eyes, to trust him enough to carry you to the destination with a promise that all the drama would be worth it.

He looked so damn proud when he brought you to the lodge’s kitchen with bowls and whisks and ingredients sprawled across the counter—it made that funny feeling in your chest return. 

“How did you manage this?” You asked, an incredulous laugh leaving your lips when he sat you on the counter. 

“I’m Charles Leclerc, I can get anything I want,” he said, and once upon a time, you would have rolled your eyes and thought he was a pompous dick. You still thought he was a little cocky, but it was an endearing trait now. 

You raised your brows. “Do you, Charles Leclerc, know how to bake?”

“Nope,” he said honestly but he was still smiling. “But I am sure I can make something edible with you guiding me.”

“Smooth,” you snorted. “Don’t blame me if they taste like shit.”

As it would turn out, Charles had an overbearing need to be in control of everything. You guessed it came with the lifestyle, the fact his life is always in the palm of his own hands whenever he sat in a car that raced hundreds of miles an hour. However, it seemed like it also extended to the Monegasque ignoring your very clear and correct instructions to do something he insisted was the right way.

“In what fucking world do you need that much sugar?” You remarked, lips parted in shock as you watched the boy add more. 

“They are sugar cookies, cherie, it’s in the name,” Charles retorted.

“That doesn’t mean the batter should be seventy-five percent sugar!” You huffed as you reached over to try and grab the bag of sugar from him. “You are going to make us both diabetic with one of those damn cookies. Don’t you have a diet you are meant to be following?” 

Charles only grinned, a little mischievous. “Yeah but it’s Christmas.”

You shook your head. “You’re unbelievable.” 

“And you’re bossy,” he countered. 

“And I’m right,” you insisted as you frowned at the batter, wondering if it would be easier to just toss it out and start again. “It’s not my fault you don’t have the ego to handle it.”

“Or your ego can’t handle the challenge,” Charles said, something shining in his eyes like his words had a hidden meaning you couldn’t quite understand. “Tell me you don’t like it.”

You tilted your head a little. “You think you’re the only man to talk back to me, Leclerc?”

His tongue poked the inside of his cheek. “I would like to think I’m the best.” 

You couldn’t ignore the way his eyes darkened, the way it seemed to surge some sort of competition inside him. You couldn’t help but want to play on his fragile male ego a little more.

“And if I said you weren’t?” You questioned, pressing your lips together in a poor attempt to hide your smirk. 

Charles breathed out of his nose, his jaw clenching a little before he replied. “Then I would say Evan is a lucky man to have you.”

And just like that, your smirk dropped. 

“What?” 

Charles frowned a little. “I would say Evan is a lucky man,” he repeated, the words sounding a little forced as they left his lips. “You two seem like…a great match even if he does leave you abandoned on a ski slope after—”

“Oh my god, no!” You blanched, your shoulders hunching up to your ears as you shook your head. “Ew, no! Absolutely not!”

Charles blinked. “Huh?”

“Me and Evan—” You swallowed hard, unable to even get the words out. “It’s not like that between us. I have known him forever, he’s like a brother to me.” 

“Oh,” Charles murmured, taking a few seconds before he grinned. “Oh!” 

“Yeah, oh,” you grumbled.

Charles couldn’t wipe the smile off his face. “So, you aren’t—”

“Nope.”

“With Evan or anyone?”

“No one.”

“Good.”

You snorted, rolling your eyes at the giddiness written across his face. If someone told you it was Christmas morning, you would have believed them. “Subtle, Charles.”

“Subtle is my middle name.”

…

The next day, you met Charles by the foyer fireplace, but this time he was prepared with his own book. 

The day after, he was there again but both your books were quickly abandoned as you chatted away. 

The day after that, neither of you bothered to bring your books down. 

Despite your insistence that he should be out on the slopes enjoying his vacation and the downtime he had in between seasons, Charles was adamant that he was doing exactly what he deemed relaxing. And just like he said earlier, Charles Leclerc gets what he wants—and it seemed he wanted to spend his days huddled in the lodge with you. 

Everyone noticed the budding relationship between you and Charles, but nobody said a word. Well, your family and the Montgomery parents didn’t say a word. Harper and Evan on the other hand? They wouldn’t leave you alone.

Harper was cackling at the irony. She was throwing your words back in your face, teasing the way seemed to switch your opinion on the Monegasque driver in the span of a week and looked down right smitten for the boy. She teased you over the fact it took you almost two months before you went on a date with your ex-boyfriend, and here you were having daily fireplace dates with the boy you called an asshole less than a week ago. She was embracing her full right as your best friend to annoy the fuck out of you. 

Evan was a whole other story. The boy looked like a kicked puppy every time you came back from hanging out with Charles, only to tell him you didn’t get him an autograph nor did you bring into the conversation how cool he was or how amazing he was or how he and Charles would totally get on if you introduced them. You didn’t have the heart to tell the boy that up until seventy-two hours ago, Charles didn’t like him through a bizarre assumption.

It had been constant and annoying, but in a way that made your heart feel full because you knew no matter what, at least those two would support every decision you made. Even if they got unbearable during the meal times where Charles would find any excuse to come talk to you. 

Tonight was no different as he approached you with a smile spread across his face and something dangerous and promising shining in his eyes. You were sitting at the table alone whilst everyone else headed towards the tables to fill their plates—yours in Harper’s hand—and you were grateful for the small moment of peace as he leaned down. 

“Missing me already?” You teased. 

He shrugged, though he didn’t disagree. “I have a very important message for you.” 

You raised your brows in question. “Oh?” 

Instead of saying anything, the boy just grinned wider and handed you a small piece of paper. You frowned a little at it, looking up at him in confusion but the boy was already taking a few steps away from your table.

“Charles—”

But the boy just winked before turning on his heel, heading back to the table the rest of his friends were sitting at, where they were probably watching the whole interaction even if they tried to make it seem like they weren’t. 

You glanced down at the note in your hand, lips turned downwards as you opened the folded paper. It baffled you that he couldn’t just say what he had written down, but another part of you warmed a little at the idea that he had taken the time to write the note and go through with it—regardless of it being a bit silly. 

You couldn’t bite back your smile when you read the note. 

meet me @ midnight. my room number is 161. wear something cosy :) 

You snorted, shaking your head as every cell in your body thrummed in excitement to meet the boy you once hated later that night. 

…

“The note was cute, but I still don’t understand why you couldn’t just ask me to hang out.” 

“Because that’s not fun.”

“You just handed me the note, that’s hardly any different.”

“It was like a real life text, cherie. It’s how they used to do it back in the day.”

You snorted in response. 

You had listened to his advice, deciding that a hoodie and pyjama bottoms were the way to go as you snuck up to the floor he was staying at. Your knuckles had barely grazed the door before it was yanked open, a grinning boy on the other side. He was dressed in a baggy hoodie and grey sweatpants, his hair pushed back with a bandana and a pair of glasses sat on his nose.

He didn’t even give you a chance to say anything before he was dragging you inside.

It should have been obvious that Charles Leclerc of all people would have a suite but truthfully, you hadn’t even realised the lodge had master suites as big as this one. But it did. And it was huge. And you expected nothing less for the Monegasque. 

There were multiple different rooms that veered off the large living room: one that was furnished with a massive tv, soft plush sofas and a large fireplace that looked like it was straight out the front of a Christmas card. Surprisingly, it was decorated for the festive season with even a tree settled in the corner between the armchairs. It felt homely. It felt perfect for this midnight meeting. 

However, you didn’t get much of a chance to look around before he was dragging you out onto the balcony. There was a loveseat set up with pillows and blankets, and a small table set with hot chocolate and a plate of cookies (ones he assured you he had the chef make fresh). 

“I never took you to be so traditional,” you teased, pulling the blanket tighter around your shoulders as a light breeze hit you. “But I guess you have to make do since you haven’t even asked for my number.”

Charles raised his brows. “Is that your subtle way of telling me to hurry up and ask for it?” 

“Subtle is my middle name,” you retorted, his own repeated words thrown back in his face but they seemed to light a spark inside him. 

Charles’ eyes dropped to your lips for a few passing beats before they returned to your eyes, and you saw everything written in them. This was different to the days you had spent down in the foyer. Everyone could see you both. You could see everyone. It was public and out in the open and exposed. 

But here?

It was just you and him and the pretty night sky that shone and glittered with stars. You were away from the world, from reality. You were away from your family and friends. You were away from peering eyes and judgemental looks. You were in a bubble you never wanted to leave, huddled in thick wool blankets and desperately hoping he would close the minimal distance between you both. 

His lips were a hairbreadth away from brushing against yours when another breeze caressed your skin, sending a shiver down your spine that momentarily jolted you away from him.

“You’re cold,” he noted, though it was pretty obvious when you two were both outside in minimal layers. “Let’s get inside. We can warm up by the fire.”

And a part of you wanted to scream off the balcony into the French Mountains when he stood up, when the moment broke and his lips weren’t against yours. But as angry as you wanted to be, you were grateful when he guided you to sit in front of the fire as he added more wood to the dying embers.

His thigh was brushing against yours when he settled into the spot beside you on the floor, his cheeks tinted pink from the cold as he grinned at you before holding his hands out to the fire. You laughed, following suit and the conversation from moments before the almost-kiss returned. 

However, minutes passed and your body was still racked with small shivers that Charles quickly picked up on.

“C’mere,” he murmured as he lifted his arm, giving you little time to dispute (not that you were going to) as he wrapped his arm around you and tugged you into his side.

You didn’t think about it too much as you buried yourself into his embrace, as you pressed your cheek into his hoodie and enjoyed the way his hand seemed to leave a trail of heat wherever he touched. 

“If I get hypothermia and die, I’m coming back to haunt you and your sugar cookies,” you grumbled, though it was lighthearted as you pressed your nose further into the fabric of his hoodie. 

His chest shook underneath you as he laughed and tightened his hold on you. “I would never let anything happen to you, Stormy.”

“You and that stupid nickname,” you said as you let out a long sigh. “You know my actual name now. You have no excuse to use it.”

“Yeah, but it suits you,” Charles retorted, letting out a small noise of surprise when your cold fingers pinched his side. “Plus, you get this…uh, what’s the word…cute look on your face when you’re angry.” 

Your head snapped up to glare at him. “I don’t look cute when I’m angry.”

His face brightened. “Yes! That face! C’est mignon!"

Your eyes narrowed further. “Don’t pull the cute French card, it’s not gonna help you.”

“You think my French is cute?” Charles replied, his laugh echoing through the suite as you rolled your eyes.

“You drivers and your egos,” you grumbled.

“Have a lot of experience with drivers?” Charles questioned, a hint of something unreadable in his voice.

You snorted, both of you knowing the answer to that question but you played along. “Maybe I do.” 

His eyes darkened slightly. “What about kissing them?”

And just like that, Charles Leclerc had left you speechless for what felt like the millionth time since you met him.

His gaze was locked on your lips, the crackling of the fire felt like it was booming through the silent room and you were truly wondering if your heart was going to burst through your chest and splat on the floor in front of you both. 

“I can’t say I have much experience in that department,” you admitted once you managed to choke your words out.

His lips twitched upwards. “Would you like some experience, Stormy?” 

You didn’t know if you nodded or if he just took the signs of your flustered, stuttering mess and took mercy on you. You didn’t know if his hand reached to cup your face first or if it was your hand on the nape of his neck instead. You didn’t know if it was you moaning lowly into the kiss when his tongue darted out or if it was him. 

Kissing Charles Leclerc was overwhelming and world-altering and, truthfully, you didn’t think you could even utter your own name if someone asked you at that moment. 

“Merde,” he groaned before he kissed you harder, faster, more passionately. His other hand reached for your waist, those muscles hidden under his baggy hoodie put to good use as he hauled you onto his lap.

Your knees sat on either side of his hips, your ass firmly planted on his lap as the new position allowed you to fully wrap your arms around his neck. The boy’s hands dropped to your waist, squeezing and guiding as your hips shifted in his lap as his kisses left you seeking anything he would give you.

“I’ve wanted to do that for a long time,” he admitted when he had to pull away, when his lungs were burning for air. But you still wanted more, you sought out to keep hearing those pretty noises he made as your lips trailed down his neck. “So fucking long.”

“You took your time,” you muttered between open-mouthed kisses when his hold tightened as your lips passed a particularly sensitive spot just below his ear.

“You hated me for a majority of the time we’ve known each other,” he managed to utter out, his head falling back as your teeth lightly grazed his skin.

“Does it look like I hate you now?” You retorted, something about the back and forth feeling as thrilling and exciting as his fingers fiddling with the hem of your hoodie.

Charles’ eyes caught yours as you lifted your head from his neck, lips red and swollen and fuck, he wanted to kiss you again. “I think I need a little more convincing.”

“Yeah?” You watched as he nodded, a little too eager but it made your stomach twist in the best way possible. “Well, you did promise to keep me warm.”

“I did,” he murmured, his voice a little rough and husky.

“Warm me up, Leclerc,” you whispered as you leaned down to kiss him again, his hands squeezing your waist before your lips even touched. “And then I’ll decide if I hate you still.”

A choked noise of surprise left your lips when Charles suddenly moved. You were no longer sitting on his lap, but instead had been laid back on the floor with the boy now hovering over you. He flashed you a smile, one twisted with promises that made your chest feel tight.

You waited for him to lean down and kiss you again. You waited to feel his heated touch on your body. You waited for him to finally slide his hands under the fabric of your hoodie, to feel his fingers along your bare skin. 

But instead, he just looked at you with so much fondness in his eyes.

“What?” You questioned, and suddenly the idea of being naked underneath him was no longer the most exposed you felt.

“Nothing,” he said simply as he shook his head. “Just…wanted to make sure.”

Your brows furrowed together. “Of what?”

“That you’re okay with this,” Charles said as he finally lifted his hand, as he let his fingers brush across the apple of your cheek. You could feel your skin heating up underneath his touch. “I want you to know that I’m happy to just talk. I don’t want you to think I just invited you here to—”

“Charles,” you interrupted, and the boy fell quiet as his cheeks flushed pink. “I want to.”

He tried to bite back his smile. “Yeah?”

You laughed, nodding. “Yeah.”

And despite the reassurance and despite the heat in your body that just wanted to throw your legs over the boy and ride him until the sun came up, Charles Leclerc was nothing, if not a gentleman. And something about that made it so much hotter. 

His touch was always so confident but gentle. The way his lips pressed against yours, the way his tongue caressed yours as his fingers slowly peeled away the layers of clothes between the two of you. The way he paused to set down pillows and a blanket to make it comfier for you before his fingers hooked on the waistband of your panties, dragging them down your legs and discarding them someplace else.

The way you reached down to cup his bulge in his boxers, prepared to slip your hand beneath the elastic of his boxers and stroke the length of him—only to have your hands batted away. You barely got a chance to question him before his kisses silenced you, before they began moving south and you felt his lips on every inch of your exposed skin that he could reach. 

You felt breathless by the time he was between your legs. You felt like your head was spinning with pleasure as he hooked his arms around your thighs and happily settled between them. You felt like you were in some sugar cookie induced dream as you glanced down, catching his eager eyes watching every little move and reaction you made.

The fire was roaring a few feet away, loud and proud and yet, it was his touch and whispered words that made your whole body feel like lava was coursing through your veins. It was the way his tongue swiped and licked your needy pussy, the way his lips wrapped around your clit until your back was arching off the ground. It was the way Charles murmured soft praises as his hands reached out for yours, as he intertwined your fingers and softly squeezed as you came on his tongue once, twice until you felt like a pile of bones. 

It was the way he smiled down at you like his face wasn’t glistening with your release. The way he leaned down to kiss you with the taste of yourself still on his tongue. It was the way he was fully prepared to leave it there, let you rest, spend the rest of the night listening to the random rants he could coax out of you. 

Charles only let out a surprised noise when you pushed him onto his back, as you straddled him like you fantasised about earlier and reached between your bodies to squeeze his aching cock.

You knew Charles Leclerc was pretty, even in the days where you thought you despised the man. It was an undeniable fact that he was easy on the eyes, that he was gorgeous, that he had one of those faces that didn’t make him feel like he was a real human. 

But he was undoubtedly prettier when you were sinking down on his cock, walls squeezing him as his lips parted to let out a string of curse words in a handful of languages you didn’t speak. 

His hands were all over you, his lips never stopped moving  and all it took was a slight lapse in your tempo as you rocked back and forth for the boy to grip your hips, hold you up with ease and fuck up into you.

You were a puddle on his chest, his lips right beside your ear as he whispered filthy words to you. His hands and kisses were gentle when it felt like you could feel his cock in your throat from how deep inside he was. Charles Leclerc was a fucking enigma that you didn’t ever want to work out. 

And even after he did most of the work, even after he was breathless and flushed and fucked out, you were still the first thing on his mind. Your comfort, your pleasure, just you.

“Cherie,” he murmured softly, the accent seeming a little thicker as he spoke. “We should move to the bed.”

“No,” your words muffled as you nuzzled yourself further into his chest, content where you were with your legs tangled together and your naked bodies pressed together. “I’m comfy here. Beside you.”

“Okay,” was all he said in response as he pressed a lingering kiss to the crown of your head and pulled the blanket over the both of you before holding you closer—if that was even possible.

…

The first thing you noted when you woke up was how comfortable the ground felt beneath you.

The second thing was that you were no longer on the floor, but on a very comfy bed with a mattress that felt like it was a cloud.

Your hand blindly reached out to your side, expecting to feel a solid, warm body and probably a disgruntled curse from a certain Monegasque, but it never came. Your brows furrowed together, your hand continuing to pat the bed but it felt cold under your touch. 

For a short moment, you wondered if you had dreamt it all. You wondered if it was just a hyper-realistic dream where you swore you could still feel his touch on you, if it was all a part of your imagination. 

And then, from the other side of the door, you heard a voice. 

Your lips unknowingly tilted upwards as you sat up in bed, the sheet falling to your waist as you did. You stretched out your limbs, moving with no real rush as you grabbed the first piece of clothing you could find—a shirt of Charles’ that rested at your thighs—before making your way towards the door. 

You pushed the door open, expecting to find him lounging on the couch as he talked away to whoever he was on the phone with, but he wasn’t. You leaned your head out, peeking around to instead finding him on the balcony, the door still open to let his voice and a chilly breeze carry through into the suite.

You contemplated bracing the cold and making your way towards the balcony, to wrap your arms around his waist and settle into the warmth of him as he finished his call. Your hand moved to pull the door open wider, but then the muffled voice became actual words and you froze.

“She doesn’t mean anything to me. She never has. Why should I care now?”

You frowned a little. 

“I was doing her a favour, for no other reason.”

Your stomach churned, but you tried to ease your thoughts that were threatening to spiral.

“I’m not going to ever see her again after this trip, what’s the big deal anyways?”

But that? That was your final straw.

You felt sick to your stomach as you rushed around the room, staying as silent as you could as you redressed yourself. Your head felt like it was spinning, like you couldn’t even keep up with your own thoughts. You wanted to feel angry and spiteful, and maybe you did. 

But most of all, you just felt disappointed. 

In yourself. In the situation. In the man you thought Charles Leclerc was. 

You were fighting down the bile that felt like it was rising up your throat when you finally slipped out of his suite. He was still on the phone, still on the balcony when you left. And he probably wouldn’t even realise you were gone until you were safely back in your own room, where you could let everything hit you at once and let the tears threatening to spill finally fall. 

You didn’t want to believe it. You didn’t want to believe he was that kind of guy, another asshole that you had laid yourself out in front of, only for it to be thrown back in your face. You wanted to believe he was the gentleman you saw, touched and kissed last night. 

But the truth of the matter was that Charles Leclerc was just another name on your list of men who disappointed you, and you didn’t want to see his stupid, perfect face ever again.

…

Charles was absolutely fucking baffled. 

He felt like he was missing a key bit of information in his own life, and no matter how many times he replayed the last week or so in his head, he couldn’t work out what he was doing wrong. 

After a season of disappointing races and a team that played with his strategy like a fucking water balloon being thrown around by a group of toddlers, Charles wanted an escape. He wanted a place away from journalists and fans and everyone who even knew who he was. He just wanted a break from his own life.

The vacation at The Chalet was meant to just be that, but it became so much more.

For the first time in a long time, Charles felt like himself again. He felt happy. He was excited for the new year, he was excited for the future, he was excited for what possibly lay ahead of him. He felt like he was in some dream, but it wasn’t a dream. It was his reality and he woke up every day eager to know what amazing thing would happen to him—to know what amazing day he would have with you.

But that dream seemed to crumble into pieces when he realised you were ignoring him.

He didn’t try to take it too personally when he headed back into the bedroom that morning, his cheeks tinted pink from the cold weather but eager to spend a few lazy hours with you in between the sheets. He was eager to make you smile and maybe kiss you, maybe do something more.

But disappointment hit his chest when he saw the empty room. 

He just assured himself that you probably had to head back to your room before your family and friends woke up, or maybe you wanted to freshen up. He assured himself he would see you at breakfast and everything would be fine. 

But it wasn’t fine because you weren’t at breakfast. He waited in case you came at the end, but you didn’t. 

He waited for you at the usual spot in the foyer, but you never came.

He waited for you at lunch and dinner too, but you never came. 

The next day, he almost expected the same and was preparing himself to ask one of your friends if you were okay, but he was shocked to find you sitting in your usual place at breakfast. He smiled at you, something in his chest easing as he made a step in your direction, but the dirty glare you sent his way was enough to make him stop in his tracks. 

You didn’t turn up to the foyer that day either but between the dirty looks from you and the fact he was pretty sure Harper tried to trip him up at the coffee stand, he knew something was wrong. 

He just didn’t know what.

And every time he tried to get near you, tried to talk to you, it was a pathetically failed attempt that left that competitive streak inside his chest blaring with annoyance. 

You were ignoring him and he didn’t know why.

And then he saw it, three days after you started ignoring him. He was making his way into the dining hall, having just showered after a day in the slopes his friends dragged him out for, when he saw you and Evan by the buffet. 

Your eyes found his and something in his chest sparked. 

And then his eyes fell to the way your hand rested on Evan’s arm, the way you leaned into him as you laughed, the way Evan’s arm was thrown over your shoulder as you both walked back to your table. He watched as you both sat next to each other, so close your thighs were probably  pressed together under the table and something bitter settled in his stomach. 

He knew he had no real reason to be jealous. Especially between the fact that you yourself had assured him everything between you and Evan was platonic (if not familial) and the fact there was no real talk of anything being between you and himself other than a shitload of chemistry. 

But even logic didn’t stop the jealousy he felt.

His appetite was gone after that, as he turned around and headed back to his suite that felt a little bittersweet after the amazing night and shit morning he had with you. But he wasn’t in the mood to eat or pine for you from a distance. 

Charles was sick and tired of you ignoring him, and he was going to get to the bottom of it. 

And the first step in his plan had everything to do with the blond you were currently laughing and touching. He just needed to get Evan alone.

…

It was Christmas Eve when Charles’ plan finally reached its final step—to finally talk to you.

It felt like an odd sense of deja vu when you woke up that morning, making your way down for breakfast before you got ready for the slopes that day. You thought nothing off the weird looks Evan was giving you or the way he seemed giddier than usual, because truthfully it was no different to how Evan usually was on Christmas Eve. 

You put down his eagerness to head towards the slopes under the assumption he probably had some weird challenge for you and Harper at the top. You just hoped this one wouldn’t result in another sprained ankle. 

“I’m riding with you today, Stormy,” Evan said as the three of you headed towards the ski lift.

“Uh, get in line, loser,” Harper spoke up as she stood on the other side of you. “I called dibs.” 

Evan narrowed his eyes. “No, you didn’t.”

“Well, I did just now,” Harper retorted. 

“Does it really matter?” You questioned, amused as you glanced between the two of them.

“Yes!”

“No!” 

Harper and Evan turned to glare at each other, confusion from one of them and insistence from the other. However, you just laughed and shook your head. 

“Fine, first one to the lift wins!” 

You were already settled in the lift as you heard the two of them bickering to each other. You waited to see which one would win, to see who would settle in the spot next to you. However, what you failed to notice was the way Evan all but threw himself on top of his sister so she couldn’t reach the lift before someone else did. 

You turned, a smile on your face as you waited to greet the winning Montgomery, but instead you found yourself staring at a painfully familiar set of green eyes. 

And in an instant, your smile dropped at the sight of Charles Leclerc sitting next to you. 

But before you could even think about jumping off the lift and taking the next seat, the lift was already too high up for you to do anything about it. 

“You’ve been ignoring me,” he said to break the silence.

But you didn’t respond.

“Look, I know you don’t want to talk to me but at least hear me out,” Charles continued, a hint of desperation in his voice. “This is all a misunderstanding.” 

You kept your gaze facing forward.

“Evan told me what you thought happened that morning.”

And just like that, your head snapped around to stare at him, a mix of emotions going through you right now—though the biggest was possibly Evan’s betrayal. 

“You weren’t lying when you said he was a big fan,” he said with a nervous laugh. “It didn’t actually take much for him to tell me why you’ve been ignoring me.”

“You used my friend?” You questioned, the bitterness and coldness in your voice evident.

“I asked and he gave me information,” Charles corrected before his shoulders sagged a bit. “Look, don’t blame him. He heard what I had to say and—”

“And I don’t care what you have to say so go talk to Evan about it,” you spat back at him, watching the way he winced at your words.

“Cherie—”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Stormy—”

“And definitely don’t call me that.”

“Please,” Charles pleaded as he looked at you with wide eyes, ones that held so many emotions you did not want to see. “That phone call was not what you think.” 

You looked away at the mention of the phone call, something quite like anger and disgust bubbling inside you at the mere reminder of the words you heard that morning. “Just…stop it, Charles. I don’t care, okay? You go about your life and I’ll go about mine.”

“No,” he stated simply.

You scoffed. “What? You need another girl in another city to have fawning over you? The hundreds of others not enough?”

“No, because I am not interested in my life not having you in it. I am not interested in a hundred other girls.” The words were stated like they were facts. “Stormy, I just want you.”

You scoffed again but a hand tugging yours made you look over at Charles, fully prepared to pull your hand away. 

“I wasn’t talking about you on the phone that morning,” Charles quickly blurted out before you had a chance to say anything. “Everything you heard on the phone that morning, it wasn’t about you.”

You blinked.

“It was about Melanie.”

Your brows furrowed together, a crease forming between them that Charles had the urge to smooth out with his thumb, but he resisted.

“What?”

“She—” Charles paused for a moment, like he was trying to gather the correct words. “She’s not my friend, not really.”

You blinked again. “She’s not? But she acts—”

“She acts like we are, yes. She’s a friend of a friend, and that’s about all there is to her. She’s…uh, how do you say? She seems to have gained a crush on me? Or maybe it’s some weird obsession. I’m not quite sure,” Charles admitted with a frown. “She asked me out once, almost a year ago and I declined. But she has latched onto the group ever since and I couldn’t quite shake her off.”

You didn’t say anything, instead letting him continue. 

“She wasn’t even meant to be on this trip,” Charles confessed. “But she said to our mutual friend that she was alone this Christmas and…I just couldn’t say no, right? But she’s spent the last year acting like I didn’t reject her and I didn’t like the idea of being trapped up here with her. But even with all our other friends, she was always beside me. She was always there. And when she started to throw tantrums to our friends and make up stories after I started spending time with you, I had enough.”

Your lips parted slightly in shock.

“Turns out she told all our friends that we were together,” Charles said with a grimace. “That we wanted to keep it a secret from the media, and that meant I wanted to keep it from everyone. She tried to make it out like I was a monster to our friends when I started spending days with you. Thankfully, none of them believed a word she said but…it was just too much.”

“Oh.”

“That’s why you heard me ranting on the phone about not seeing her after this trip because I have no plans to be around her ever again and I made that clear to my friends. You can even ask them if you don’t believe me,” Charles said as he finally let out a long breath. He looked at you, an almost pained expression on his face. “I would never say those things about you. Not when you might just be the best thing that has ever happened to me.”

Your cheeks burned. “Charles—”

“I know you feel it too,” he continued, and that desperate note to his voice returned. “I know you’ve felt it all week. I know you felt it that night. I know you feel like this—us—could be something.”

“I’m such an idiot,” you muttered, closing your eyes as you realised the agonsing and the pain and the ignoring over the last few days could have been avoided if you stayed in the bedroom a little longer that morning. Or if you had just spoken to him instead of letting the pettiness take over.

“You had no reason to think otherwise about me, cherie, and I get that,” Charles said as he squeezed your hand, almost like a tester to see if you would pull away or not. But you didn’t. “But I want to change that. I want to explore this. I want to show you that I would never do that to you. I want to give you reasons to trust me.”

“I would like that,” you murmured in a soft voice, but Charles heard you loud and clear as he grinned at you. 

“Yeah? You don’t hate me still?” He questioned.

You laughed, shaking your head as you did. “I don’t think I ever hated you, Charles.”

“Good, it makes this easier then,” he said before he leaned in, his slightly chapped lips pressed against yours—and something about it felt like coming home. 

You sunk into his embrace, your hand coming up to cup his cheek like you needed to believe he was really there (even if the gloves made it a little awkward). But feeling him smile against your lips was assurance enough. 

“Merry Christmas Eve, Charles.” 

“Merry Christmas Eve, Stormy. I hope it’s one of many with you.” 

And maybe Charles Leclerc became another one of the many reasons you loved The Chalet.

.

#Best Xmas gift to wake up to😭😭😭 #omg I love this trope so much it’s everything to me #and this was so adorable and fluffy with just the right amount of smutty goodness and angst ahhhhh #love love love loooooove

[26sophiess]

Stick Around

Oscar Piastri x bestfriend!reader

Masterlist

Summary: You’ve been searching for your soulmate your whole life. Maybe you’ve just been looking in the wrong place.

Warnings: alcohol/intoxication, cheating/infidelity (not by a main character I promise) mild swearing, excessive use of italics

|Age 20|

“You can’t seriously still be reading that stuff,” Oscar says.

You peer at him over the top of your magazine.

“What stuff?” You ask, playing innocent.

“Your horoscope,” he says, rolling his eyes. “Haven’t you outgrown that yet?”

You shrug, directing your gaze back to the page in front of you. Today, you should avoid the color pink and embrace your skepticism. Oscar’s doing enough of the last part for the both of you. You could gain a great deal of information from social interactions. That’s helpful- you’ve been in search of some gossip. Your soulmate is just a click away- wait, no, that’s an ad. You huff and set the magazine down on the table. Oscar nods in agreement.

“I just think maybe it’s better to live your life without worrying about what the stars say,” Oscar says, waving his hands around in a way that you think is supposed to represent the stars. “Just, like… do what you want to do.”

“I do,” you mutter dryly. “Doesn’t help to have some advice, though.”

The two of you have always been like this. Oscar is a skeptic, you’re a believer. He calls it being easy to brainwash, says it in a teasing way that makes you glare at him every time. He’s taken it as his responsibility to keep you from falling for things. You’ve told him time and time again that you’re fine on your own. You just like the idea of predestiny, that what’s going to happen was always meant to.

Oscar is just worried you’ll join the first cult you cross paths with.

|Age 5|

It’s the day after you turn 5 when you first hear the word soulmate. Sol-meight. You sound it out through your lips, sticky with jam from your breakfast. Your best friend at the time, a girl whose name you’ve long since forgotten, had said it.

“S’when you’re meant to be,” she explains, in that all knowing tone that only little kids who know nothing at all seem to have. “Like, my mum and dad say they’re soulmates.”

Oscar, who’s sitting next to you, scoffs. “Everyone’s parents say that. Doesn’t mean it’s true.”

He’s taller than you, even sitting down, hair cut short after one of his sisters stuck gum in it a few days ago. His cheeks are rosy red, and there’s cream cheese on his nose. Years later, Oscar’s face will be one of the first ones you ever remember meeting. Right now, he’s just the boy in your class whose mother knows your mother, and because of that, he’s the boy who rides to school with you in the backseat. He’s not the worst, you guess. He’s… okay. Sort of just… always there.

“Is too!” Your friend says, shaking her head, pigtails bouncing. “Mum says there’s signs.”

“What kinda signs?” You ask, and Oscar turns to look at you in disbelief.

She shrugs. “Dunno. I’ll ask later.”

She comes back to the breakfast table the next day with a magazine page, torn haphazardly and slightly crumpled. On it is a list of signs someone could be your soulmate. The two of you pore over the page at every available opportunity for at least a week, barely able to read all the words.

Your friend forgets about soulmates a month later and moves on to an obsession with Barbie dolls. You carry the magazine page with you for years after that, until it’s worn and falling apart. Then you copy down the list into a safer place, worried you’ll lose it forever. 15 Signs He’s Your Soulmate, written with magic marker on pink construction paper and stowed away in your desk.

|Age 10|

“I hate olives,” you sneer, staring at the very last slice of pizza.

It’s a birthday party. You can’t for the life of you understand why there’s pizza with olives on it. Olives don’t belong on pizza- not much does, in your opinion. Just pepperoni, really. Maybe a sprinkle of Parmesan cheese, if you’re feeling fancy.

Katy, one of your classmates, is standing next to you. “I love olives. Here, I’ll pick them off for you and you can have the last slice.”

The pizza still tastes a bit like olives in the end, probably baked into the cheese, but it’s better than it would’ve been. Katy is your best friend after that. The two of you are inseparable from the moment you get to school until the moment you leave. You beg your mothers for sleepovers on the weekends, for day trips during holiday breaks. YouandKaty. Your names melt together until they become one.

Oscar still rides to school with you in the morning. Sometimes, Katy does too. Katy doesn’t like Oscar. She doesn’t like most boys, calls them gross. Since Katy thinks boys are gross, you do too.

“Be nice to Oscar,” your mother tells you one morning. “He’s not done anything to you.”

You’re in the backseat of the car, on the way to his house. “He’s a boy. Boys are gross.”

Your mother sighs, pinches the bridge of her nose. She says your name sternly, and you shrink in your seat. When Oscar gets in, you say hello and force a smile.

Oscar’s the one who finds you crying on the playground. You thought you’d chosen a better hiding place, really- nobody had bugged you in your spot between the two large myrtle trees. But Oscar finds you anyways. You can’t even bring yourself to tell him to go away, too busy feeling sorry for yourself.

“Wha’s wrong?” He asks.

His cheeks are red- he’s likely been running around with the other boys. You shrug, pulling up another clump of grass and letting it fall from your fingers. Oscar sighs, scuffs his toe in the dirt.

“Katy doesn’t wanna be friends anymore,” you say, rubbing at your bare knee. “She says I’m not cool enough.”

Katy likes olives. You don’t. It’s on the soulmate list. You’re meant to be best friends.

Oscar’s quiet for a moment. Then- “That’s stupid. You’re like, the coolest person I know.”

You look up at him with wide eyes. “Shut up.”

“M’serious,” he says. He holds his hand out to you. “Wanna come play cricket with the gross boys?”

You take his hand, wipe your tears with your other hand. “Yeah. I do.”

|Age 12|

“Are you and Dad soulmates?” You ask your mother one morning, before you even leave the house.

She’s standing at the counter, a piece of toast in her hand, half eaten. Her coffee is half drank, too.

She tilts her head at you. “What do you mean, love?”

“Like, when you met, did you just know he was the one? Did it feel meant to be?”

She laughs. “Oh, god no. We were polar opposites. Barely spoke to each other for the first year after we met.”

You stare at her in surprise. “What changed?”

She sighs, wistfully, staring into her mug. “He asked me if I wanted an orange. I said yes. And when he handed it to me, he’d peeled it for me.”

You blink. “Because you hate peeling oranges.”

“I do,” she agrees. “Love isn’t just a feeling, it’s an action. I think love is more about the choices we make and the things we remember about each other than whatever is written in the stars, honey.”

|Age 15|

There’s a boy on the football team- Ryan. Ryan has dark, curly hair and long, long eyelashes and this smile that makes your heart melt and your brain all fuzzy. Ryan doesn’t like olives, either, but he has a birthmark on the back of his right hand in the shape of a lopsided heart, and if you squint hard enough, you have one that matches on the back of your left arm. You stare at in the mirror for hours after he points it out, his hand on your arm.

You stare at your lips in the mirror for hours, too, after he kisses you for the first time. You think maybe you look different. You must. You’d never been kissed before, but Ryan hadn’t minded.

You go on group dates with him, because you’re nervous and your parents think you’re a bit too young to really be dating. You go to the mall, the movies, the diner down the street from the school. It’s your first taste of freedom.

Oscar asks you if you really like Ryan, like- “like like him?”, one day when you’re sitting in his backyard. Your mothers are inside, drinking wine. His sisters are in the pool, you’re laying out in the sun. Oscar sits under an umbrella and squints at the brightness of the world around him.

“Yeah,” you say, in the same tone you’d say duh or of course. “I think he’s my soulmate.”

“Why’s that?” Oscar asks tilting his head.

“We have matching birthmarks,” you say, again, in the same tone.

Oscar forms his mouth into a little o shape. You squint at him, pushing yourself to sit up.

“Why’re you so worried about it, anyways?”

“M’not,” Oscar says, crossing his leg over his knee. “S’just. He’s kind of an arse, isn’t he?”

He whispers the curse word so his sisters won’t hear. Oscar’s big into karting and racing right now, and the older boys at the tracks swear like sailors. There’s a swear jar stuffed to the brim sitting on the kitchen counter inside, right next to the half empty wine bottle.

Ryan is a bit of an arse, you’ll admit. To almost everyone.

“He’s nice to me,” you shrug. “He brought me flowers, yesterday. Isn’t that what matters?”

Oscar shrugs. He doesn’t ask about Ryan again.

Oscar is the one who brings you flowers when Ryan cheats on you and the other girl tells the whole school. He brings them to your bedroom door and you let him in. He sits with you, even as you cry, the door open the parentally required six inches. He doesn’t ask questions, doesn’t tell you he warned you. He just stays.

When Oscar moves to England, you wave goodbye with a smile. Then you lock yourself in your room and bawl your eyes out for a week straight, harder than you ever did about Ryan.

|Age 18|

Your university roommate, Emma, was born on the same day as you, at the exact same time. Down to the minute. You find it out on your second day of living together. It’s fate, kismet, meant to be. The stars and planets were aligned exactly the same way when you both took your first breaths.

Oscar laughs when you tell him, though he does admit that it’s a pretty cool coincidence. You’re chatting with him on the phone, telling him about your first week of university. You talk a lot, despite the distance. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, or whatever.

You and Emma aren’t in any classes together- you have completely different majors. Despite this, you still become fast friends. You study together in your room and in the library, meet up for meals, and join a book club together. When Emma gets invited to her very first uni party, she brings you along with her. Your closets become shared.

You visit her family over the winter break for a week. She lives closer to the beach, and you love getting to soak up the sun with her and meet all the childhood friends you’ve heard stories about. Oscar comes home for his break and texts you, wondering when you’ll be back and if you’ll even have time for me, or are you too cool for me now?

You tackle him with a hug when you see him, standing at the kitchen counter in your house when you get there. He’s laughing and pushing you off of him, acting like he didn’t miss you just as much. You know he did. It’s written all over the smile on his face.

Emma visits your family later in the break, and that’s when you have your first fight.

“He’s definitely in love with you,” she insists from her spot on the air mattress on your floor.

She’s talking about Oscar, who she just met today. You’d brought her with to a barbecue at his family’s house. You’re regretting that choice. She’s spent all night afterwards pointing out all the signs that he’s in love with you- his hand on your shoulder, the look in his eyes, the way he smiled at you.

“He’s not,” you say, cheeks burning hot. “He’s- we’re friends.”

“Friends, right. Guys and girls can’t be just friends,” she says.

“Yes, they can!” You say indignantly.

Emma ignores you, rolls over, and goes to sleep. She leaves for home the next day- not earlier than she was supposed to, but it feels weird anyways. When you get back to campus, things feel different. You never really talk about the fight, though there wasn’t much to talk about, anyways. It’s not like she’s mean to you- the two of you still hang out, still see each other often. But Emma makes new friends, and you do too, and you stop doing everything together. It’s alright, you suppose, it’s just…

You were supposed to be destined to be friends. But soulmates shouldn’t be this easy to let go of. It’s written in the stars, it’s shouldn’t fade away like this.

Months ago, you and Emma had talked about spending the holiday break somewhere far away- somewhere tropical, exotic, so grown up and chic. But it hasn’t come up lately, and then she mentions a trip she’s taking with some friends from her classes. You book a flight to England instead and see Oscar in his new home for the first time.

You have new roommates next year. None of them have the same birthdate as you. You think that’s okay.

|Age 21|

There’s a stain on your dress, someone’s wine or sangria or cranberry juice that they’d been too clumsy with. You suppose it could be yours- you’re really not sure. It’s your fault for wearing such a light color to a club like this.

It’s your birthday. You’ve been able to drink for a few years, but it’s still your birthday, and for once, Oscar is there for it. Or really, you’re there for it, there being England. You’re on yet another trip to visit him, money saved and scraped together from your job on your breaks from school. Oscar helped pay for the plane ticket as a birthday present, and your parents got you a new luggage set to take along.

Oscar’s disappeared- at the bar, you remember, closing out his tab. You check your phone- 2:22 am. It’s really time you should be headed home-

You’re jostled from behind, and moments later, you feel cool liquid deep down your back. You turn, and there’s a guy standing there, sandy blonde hair and a terrified look on his face.

“I’m so sorry,” he says, British accent smoothing the words over. “I didn’t mean to-“

“S’okay,” you tell him, though you wrinkle your nose at the feeling of what was likely beer running down your back. “The dress was stained already.”

The man sighs. “It’s not okay- let me make it up to you. Can I buy you a drink?”

You frown. “I think I’m supposed to be leaving. My friend just went to pay.”

“Oh. That’s too bad.” The guy’s eyes light up, then. “Wait, how about I take you on a date?”

Your heart skips a beat in your chest. 2:22, you remember. Angel numbers. You are in the right place at the right time.

“I’m only here for a couple more days,” you say, cautiously.

“I’m free tomorrow if you are,” he suggest. “Well, more like later today, but-“

“Yeah, okay!” You’d at brightly, and hopefully not too eagerly. “I’m free.”

He’s holding out his phone for you to put your number in when Oscar pops up. He looks between the two of you with raised brows. “Everything alright?”

“He’s taking me on a date later today,” you explain, tapping the last number. “Because he spilled beer on my dress. Can you check if I put my number in right? My fingers aren’t working right.”

Oscar laughs, leans forward, and nods. “That’s right.”

You don’t remember getting back to Oscar’s apartment. You barely even remember the guy from the bar until Oscar brings it up that morning, a teasing tone in his voice. Suddenly you’re checking your phone every minute, looking for a text from him. You name him Angel Boy, mentioning the angel numbers you’d seen just before you bumped into him. Oscar, well versed in your obsession with things that are just meant to be, rolls his eyes affectionately.

When the sun is trending towards the horizon and Angel Boy still hasn’t called or even texted you, your mood sours. You plant yourself on the couch, an episode of some stupid reality show playing. You’re not paying attention, only staring at your phone.

By the time 7:00 rolls around, you know it’s a lost cause. You can hear Oscar in the other room, shuffling around, and you feel tears well up in your eyes. There’s got to be someone out there who’s actually meant to be yours, right? One of these times the signs will be right, and it’ll all work out. It’s just… you’re getting discouraged.

Oscar appears in front of you and slips your phone out of your hands. He shoves it into his own pocket. He hands you a jacket, one of his, and you stare up at him with wide eyes.

“I’m taking you out to dinner,” he says, as he reaches to brush the tears from your cheeks. “Just because he’s not going to text you, doesn’t mean you should just sit here all night.”

You could cry even harder at that, at the fact that Oscar cares enough to try and break you out of your moping. You don’t really want to go out, but he has this hopeful look on his face. Both of you don’t need to be sad today. So you stand up, pull the jacket over your arms, and take a deep breath. You walk out of the apartment, your arm linked with his.

The ramen bar you go to is probably better than anywhere the guy would’ve taken you, anyways. If you’re being honest, the company is better, too.

|Age 22|

Oscar flies you out to the Netherlands to see him race. You’d been at the Melbourne Grand Prix, of course, but he’d insisted he’d fly you out for at least one race in his first season- promised it years ago, when Formula One was just a dream on his bucket list. Zandvoort works well- it fits into your schedule, and the summer break starts right afterwards, so he’ll actually have time to spend with you.

In the days leading up to the race, he’s extremely busy and extremely apologetic about it. You reassure him that you understand, that you knew what you were getting into, knew he’d be busy. You wander around the paddock, say hi to Logan- who you know only slightly better than all the other drivers- and keep yourself entertained. You spend time with Oscar when you get the chance- between interviews and practices, stolen moments of privacy in his driver’s room. It’s nice, it really is, but it’s also… weird.

You’ve been thinking a lot, lately, about what your mother once said about soulmates and love. For all the soul searching you’ve done, all the stars you’ve tried to read, you’ve come up empty. You’ve resigned yourself to the fact that maybe there’s just not anyone out there for you. Maybe you’re not meant to have a soulmate.

The thing about letting go of that pressure, though, is that it leaves space. Not a hole, not an emptiness, just… space. Room for other things to sneak in and make their home and grow. Somewhere along the lines- you don’t know when, maybe it’s been there all along- a seed had been planted. Now the roots are digging cracks in your heart, the leaves are shading out every other thought, and there are flowers blooming.

For months, now, your heart has been jumping in your chest every time Oscar texts you. You can’t wipe the grin off your face when he calls. You’ve been following every race, waking up at odd hours to cheer him on, sending him selfies with the tv to prove it to him, to make sure he knows you’re watching. You feel a little crazy, because suddenly he’s all you can think about.

Maybe love is about choices. You start making them, start choosing him. The only question now is if he’ll choose you, too.

The whole weekend is chaos. Oscar crashes in practice, sending himself and your heart spinning. He’s okay, thank god- though his mother texts you frantically, asking if he’s really okay. Then the race itself is even more chaotic, between the rain and the crashes and all the stuff in between. Oscar ends up in the points, though not as high as he’d hoped to be. You cheer for him either way.

You stick around the paddock all the way through his debrief, even when he tries to say you can head back to the hotel without him. Eventually, you leave with him and Lando, his arm around your shoulders the whole way to the car that’s waiting. It’s nice. He’s warm. Lando is making small talk, trying to get to know his teammates best friend, the one Oscar never shuts up about. You feel your face grow hot and hope Oscar doesn’t notice.

In the hotel lobby, Oscar makes a stop at the complimentary snack bar. Lando says something about Kim, his trainer, getting after him, which Oscar ignores. The three of you ride up together in the elevator, with Lando demanding most of your attention as he begs for stories about Oscar as a kid. Oscar’s quiet- you wonder if the weekend is weighing on him more than he’d previously let on.

You say goodnight to Lando and then Oscar scans you into the hotel room. Two beds, a couch, and a balcony that the two of you had eaten breakfast on that morning. You walk over to your bed and sit on the edge, flopping down onto your back.

Something lands on your stomach, softly. You look down, and your throat suddenly feels tight. It’s an orange. It’s a peeled orange. Oscar is standing at the window, pulling the curtains closed. His back is to you.

You blink, picking it up delicately. “You peeled it for me.”

“You hate peeling them,” he says. It’s very matter of fact. The same tone he’d use to say duh or of course.

You stare at his silhouette, the slope of his shoulders, the soft puff of his hair. You sit up, stomach turning. Suddenly, you need to be close to him. You stand up, orange in hand, pulling one of the pieces from it. You hold it lightly between your fingertips. Love is an action.

You hold it out to him. He takes it, smiles down at you.

“I love you, you know that?” You say, before you lose the courage.

“Yeah, I love you too,” he says, giving you a goofy look.

“No, like-“ you pause. Maybe you shouldn’t do this. Maybe you should just-

But it’s too late, because a wave of understanding washes over his face. His eye go wide, lips parting. His hand pauses halfway to his mouth, the orange slice still in his fingers.

“Oh,” he says, voice cracking. His face splits into a grin. “Jeez, took you long enough to catch up, didn’t it?”

When he drops the orange slice on the floor so he can grab your face and kiss you, you’re somehow still so startled that you also drop the rest of the orange. That’s okay, though. He’ll peel another one for you without you even having to ask. Stars light up behind your eyes at the feeling of his lips on yours, and you realize then that maybe soulmates are just the people who choose to stick around.

…..

Deep in your desk in your childhood home, there’s a piece of paper. It’s been unfolded and refolded a million times. At the top, the title says, 15 Signs He’s Your Soulmate in messy, primary school handwriting. You pull it from your drawer and uncap the gel pen that sits in the cup on the desk.

At the bottom of the list, beneath your faded magic marker scrawl, you add:

#16: He peels your oranges.

#16: childhood best friend??

#16: YOU JUST KNOW

little bit of a different format for this one. as always, feel free to check out my other fics and tell me what you think!

#I am IN LOVE with this #Like literally #so so cute It makes me wanna cry

[26sophiess]

In which Oscar has had enough of Carlos hitting on his girl

Here we are, with the full release of the jealous!Oscar fic.

Warnings for under the cut: Borderline smut (minors DNI), jealous!Oscar, a hint of voyeurism/exhibitionism

In hindsight, Oscar supposes that suggesting to keep your relationship private was not something he would do again, should the universe grant him a do-over.

He had thought that he was doing the right thing. The Australian was well aware of the spotlight that came with his name, his occupation, and being associated with him. All Oscar had wanted was for the two of you to be able to enjoy being together away from prying eyes.

Keeping you away from the media had been the best solution he could come up with to allow for some privacy in your honeymoon stage, to settle into the relationship comfortably without having to deal with public opinion. Oscar of all people knew how people could turn into savages- after the debacle with the whole Alpine to McLaren switch, he had developed a sense of caution when it came to the public eye.

He had also been under threat from Lando- who had introduced his childhood friend to his teammate over the course of the season- to ensure your wellbeing at all times. When Oscar had asked you out, you had initially been worried about how Lando would react. Another reason he had suggested not going public yet.

All he had wanted was your comfort.

What Oscar had failed to factor in, which he finds himself realizing as he spots a certain gridmate heading towards your direction, is what he would be comfortable with.

Oscar Piastri was no uncouth neanderthal who would growl at every man who would step into your radius. He wasn’t an insecure heathen, thank you very much. In the past, he had never been bothered by the advances of most people towards you- he didn’t even blink when he spotted Max checking you out, and he is definitely not fazed whenever Charles hits you with corny pick-up lines. You’re gorgeous. Even a blind man would be able to see that, Oscar is certain.

Oscar isn’t really one to hold grudges. He’s also one of the more levelheaded drivers on track.

There was an exception to every rule though, and in this case, the exception’s name is Carlos Sainz Jr.

Oscar could usually forgive on track incidents with most people- but most people didn’t ruin his races and flirt with his girl.

Not that Carlos, or anybody else knew that you were Oscar’s girl.

So Oscar keeps a level head.

For now.

“Huh,” you say with your eyebrows raised as you read the message that had just caused your phone to ping.

You had been lying on the couch, doomscrolling through TikTok when Lando’s text had come in.

“Time to get drunk. I booked out a bar. 7pm, next week. DJ Lando’s gonna get you all litty like a motherfucking titty.”

“You got it too, I presume?” Oscar’s voice queries from the dining table, where he’s on his laptop, probably answering emails and whatnot. “Lando’s invite?”

“Yeah,” you say, glancing over at him nonchalantly. “I suppose we’ll be going separately?”

Your tone is light and easy, but on the inside you’re pouting. You want to be able to go to these events with Oscar as your arm accessory, but he’s so paranoid about the attention you’ll be subject to. You already know what he’s going to say.

“It’s kind of a public event, pretty girl.” Oscar responds, eyes scanning the invite. “I suppose we’ll have to meet there.”

The corners of your lips dip ever so slightly when you nod your acquiesce.

When you arrive at the bar, the party is in full swing.

You’ve come dressed to kill, of course. A petty part of you hopes that the short skirt and tight corset top you’re wearing will melt Oscar’s restraint and get him to wrap an arm around your waist in public, and you smirk to yourself as you spot your reflection in the mirror behind the bar.

“Bestie!” Lando cheers when he spots you, hugging you tightly, lifting you off the ground. “You look stunning!”

“Put me down, Lan!” You squeal, laughing at his theatrics which you’ve long come to love. “I might flash someone- this is a short skirt!”

“I don’t think anyone would be complaining,” the Brit quips at you with a grin as he sets you back on the ground. He gives you an exaggerated wink.

“Oh shut up,” you say with a roll of your eyes, smacking him on the arm.

“Hit me again,” Lando moans comedically, and you can’t help but snicker at his antics. “You came alone tonight? Haven’t made a move on the rookie of the year yet?”

As your oldest friend, it wasn’t a surprise that Lando picked up on the way you eyed Oscar up. He had always been attuned to your crushes, even back in elementary school. What had come as a surprise was his encouragement of you making a move on his teammate.

You don’t like lying to Lando, but a promise is a promise- and you had promised Oscar that you’d both have to agree before telling anyone about your relationship.

With that being said, all you can do is shrug noncomittally in response as you direct your gaze to the floor.

When you end up beside Carlos at the bar later that night, you conclude that your current precadiment is Lando’s fault.

Your loving, caring, asshole best friend had seen Max arrive and pushed you into the Spaniard’s chest with a “Take care of her, muppet! I’m gonna go say hi to Maxie!”

Speaking of McLaren drivers that were giving you headaches tonight, where was Oscar anyway? You hadn’t seen him since you had arrived- the last message he had sent you was a photo of his fit for the evening.

“You heard Lando,” Carlos says in greeting, placing a hand on your shoulder to steady you. “You’re stuck with me now, princesa. How about I get you a drink?”

At this point, with no Lando and no Oscar in sight, you really do need a drink.

“A margarita,” you tell Carlos with a polite smile, trying to shift away from his touch subtly. “Put it on Lando’s tab, he can afford to get me drunk.”

“I could do that,” the Spaniard says lightly, dark eyes roving your body. “But I prefer to buy pretty girls drinks myself.”

You know Oscar won’t be happy about this.

“It’s really fine,” you tell Carlos with a shake of your head, scratching your neck. His eyes follow your motion. “Put it on Lando’s tab- I have made it my personal vocation to be the biggest pain in his ass that I can be.”

Your words go unnoticed as Carlos flags down the bartender, who shortly returns with scotch on the rocks, a margarita, and a row of shots.

“Too late,” Carlos tells you with a smirk, slinging an arm around your shoulders and turning you towards the beverages. “Landito told me to take care of you, and what kind of gentleman would I be if you don’t have fun?”

You crane your neck to scan for Oscar in the crowd once more, but to no avail.

“Cheers, I suppose,” you say with a shrug, snatching a shotglass off the table and downing it like a champ. “I’ll need alcohol to survive this night.”

Oscar sees red.

Well, actually, he sees you awkwardly shifting under Carlos’ arm.

For fuck’s sake.

“I see you’ve made a new friend, pretty girl.”

Your shoulders relax when the familiar Australian accent comes into earshot.

“Oscar!” You say, your voice pitched higher than usual. You’re not sure if the odd tone in your voice is relief at his presence, or stress from having to fend Carlos’ advances off for the past half hour, or an effect of the alcohol in your system, but you can’t control it. “I didn’t know you were here already!”

“I wouldn’t call myself a friend,” Carlos chimes in, a certain weight to his tone that you don’t like shining through. The Spaniard places a hand on your bare shoulder, smirking at Oscar. “I think we could get more… intimate, hm, amor?”

Oscar’s vision goes red.

“Oh fuck off with your intimacy,” Oscar growls, his accent growing more pronounced with the intensity which he speaks with. He pushes Carlos’ hand off your shoulder, running his hand down your side until he’s holding your waist, pulling you into his side like it’s second nature. “I don’t think she’s interested, mate.”

You open your mouth to agree, but Carlos speaks first.“Maybe you should let her make that decision.”

Oscar’s fucking had it with this man and his audacity. “Jesus Christ,” he exhales heavily.

The speed by which Oscar turns you towards himself, tilting your chin up to kiss you shouldn’t surprise you- he is one of the 20 fastest drivers in the world after all- but you barely have a moment to process his speed because all you can feel is the way he nips at your bottom lip, demanding access to your mouth.

You respond in kind, parting your lips, your tongue dancing with his, your hands grasping onto his arms. Oscar’s kisses always did leave you weak in the knees.

Oscar chuckles into the kiss, shamelessly bringing his hands down to your ass and squeezing roughly. You let out a needy sound, pulling him even closer to you.

The kiss ends way too soon, in your opinion.

“Actions speak louder than words,” Oscar’s voice is way too composed when he turns his attention back to Carlos, his eyebrow raised challengingly towards the other man. The hand on your ass doesn’t leave.

Carlos deigns to ignore Oscar, his eyes fixated on the way your lips are parted, still wet from the kiss. “I knew you’d be spicy, cariño.”

“Are you seriously not getting the message?” Oscar huffs out, scowling at the other man. “Fuck off, Carlos. She’s mine.”

“Fuck!” You yelp, startled by the sudden tap on your shoulder from behind.

Oscar’s post-race debrief was running longer than expected, and you had spaced out while waiting for him in the McLaren paddock’s common area.

“Apologies, corazón.”

You feel your ears burning when you recognize the thick Spanish accent, recalling the show of sorts that Oscar had put on the last time you had heard that accent in person. “I didn’t mean to shock you.”

“Carlos,” you say softly in greeting, turning around to greet him. He had changed out of his race gear, donning a crisp white polo and some chino shorts, you note. Seems like Ferrari’s debrief had ended earlier. “I am surprised they let you in here.”

“I was looking for Lando,” Carlos tells you with a shrug. Then his face shifts- a slight smirk curving his lips as he fixes his eyes on yours. “You are a prettier sight though.”

“I- thank you?” Your response is more of a question. There are few responses that come to mind that would get your disinterest across that wouldn’t expose you and Oscar (though Oscar had taken quite the risk last time- thankfully, you had by some stroke of luck managed to fly under the radar at Lando’s party).

The Spaniard lets out a low chuckle, leaning into your space even more. You realize that his hand has never left your shoulder. “Hopefully this time, we will not be interrupted. You are not Oscar’s girlfriend?”

The bluntness startles you almost as much as the question itself. You shouln’t be surprised though, after the show Oscar had put on during your last encounter with the Ferrari driver this question was bound to come up.

You don’t trust Carlos with the correct answer though. You idly wonder what would upset Oscar more- outing your relationship to his least favorite gridmate, or denying the association?

Thankfully, the burden of responding to Carlos is taken away from you.

“Keep your hands off my girl, asshole.” Oscar’s words are a venomous hiss as he emerges from the debrief room, his eyes narrowed into slits. The way he stalks over to you and Carlos is intimidating, a stark contrast to his usual laid back demeanor. You can’t help but chew on the inside of your cheek- anger looks good on your man.

Carlos pays Oscar no heed, instead continuing to speak to you as if the Australian didn’t exist. “I presume I am correct, then. He is not your boyfriend- you didn’t tell me I was wrong.”

“I am seeing Oscar,” you speak up softly, laying a hand on Oscar’s thigh as he settles into the seat beside you, concern washing over you- you’d hate for Oscar to get into a disagreement with another driver right in the heart of his team’s territory. That would leave an impression, one that would call the security of his seat for the coming years into question. “I hope that answers your question,” you continue, having had enough of the recurring attempts to flirt with you.

You hazard a glance at Oscar beside you, and you are relieved to see that the anger on his features has melted into a satisfied smirk.

“You heard the lady,” Oscar says, knocking your hand off his lap to place his hand on your thigh instead. The warmth of his palm on your skin causes your muscles to tense under his touch.

The Aussie’s smirk widens at the motion. His fingers start to trace the hem of your skirt.

Carlos’ brown eyes study your face for a moment- then his gaze lands on where Oscar is almost slipping his hand under your dress. Brown eyes that Formula 1 camera men seem to adore darken in the room’s light. “I don’t think I believe you, Oscar. She definitely does not act like you are hers out there.”

“Because we haven’t gone public yet, come on.” You protest to Carlos, trying to ignore the way Oscar’s fingers are crawling up your inner thigh. You squirm in your seat, feeling your center starting to get wet. “Just go, Carlos-“

You cut yourself off with a hiss when Oscar’s fingers shove past your panties roughly, stuffing your entrance full in one swift motion. Your cheeks heat up at the sound of your wetness- you’re certain the sound had reached Carlos’ ears.

Oscar continues his acts of debauchery like a man posessed. His lips press into your ear, commanding you to kick your panties off, which you comply with quickly- that tone of his voice turning your brain off. “I’ve had it with him, let me show him that you’re mine.” He says to you lowly, the thrusts of his digits into you speeding up.

Throughout all of this, Oscar’s brown eyes are fixed on Carlos, daring him to look away.

Carlos doesn't.

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[26sophiess]

what you do to me – lh44 (+18)

masterlist

Summary: The one where Lewis returns home to you – the one thing he desperately wants, but won't let himself have completely.

Pairing: lewis hamilton x fwb!reader

Word Count: 3.4k

Warnings: angst, feelings, friends with benefits relationship, smut!, slight choking, unprotected sex (wrap your willy, don’t be silly!), slight manhandling?, pwp, minors dni!!

Author’s Note: hi, hey, hello!! my boyfriend forced me to watch hellraiser the other day, and there was this one scene that i could just not thinking about so i wanted to write something inspired by it, and who better to write it about than sir lewis hamilton?? also, i reaaaallly wanted to write a friends with benefits thing and it was so much fun, i honestly wasn’t expecting. the title of this fic is actually a john legend song that i love and i think it fits the vibes for this fic, so please feel free to give it a listen if you're interested! i hope you guys enjoy! good morning, noon or night wherever you are, xoxobee

Please also note that all of my works are protected under copyright, and not available for reposting on other platforms.

It’s a shame Lewis doesn’t spend more time in his Monte Carlo penthouse during the season because it’s a space he enjoys spending time in so much. He doesn’t mind being alone in his home – if anything, it’s refreshing after spending so much time being the focal point of so many cameras during the season. Also, technically, he is not alone he supposes; he has Roscoe to keep him company when he’s home, after all.

Coming home from a successful season is rewarding, he feels as if he’s deserved the rest he looks forward to. On the other hand, coming home from a not-so-successful season? Well he feels like shit – both mentally and physically. That is not to say that he doesn’t appreciate the time off, though, he is more than happy to not drive for weeks and just enjoy the winter break. Coming home is also always kind of bittersweet. He catches up with some of his friends he didn’t have time for during the season, his family who always support him through thick and thin, but most importantly he tries to make time for you and your… well, arrangement.

He knows something is wrong the minute you reply to his text about him being home. A simple okay is not a response he is used to getting from you. Alas, he shakes off the unease and chalks it up to a hectic day on your end. The pitter patter of Roscoe’s paws on the hardwood floors is enough to distract him from the situation, given the fact that the puppy is impatient for his dinner and is looking at the driver with pleading eyes.

“Okay ‘Coe,” he mumbles as he motions the kitchen with his head, “let’s go.”

The way Roscoe wobbles towards the kitchen brings a small smile to Lewis’ face even though he is still hung up on your answer. After he’s done feeding the puppy, he decides to grab a quick shower to ease the tiredness that comes from a long travel day. The hot water cascading down from the rainfall shower does a good job of taking care of his sore muscles, and he is more than happy to stay under the warm water if it means the soreness will go away. That is until he hears banging coming from his front door. He has every intention of just ignoring the person on the other side of the door; however, as the knocks get more and more persistent, he gets out of the shower with a groan. Wrapping a towel around his hips, he marches towards the front door, and looks through the peephole only to end up opening the door quicker than he would’ve liked.

His voice is confused as he mumbles out, “Lovey?” But you just straighten up from your position of leaning against the wall and throw your bag on the floor as you push your way through his apartment and wrapping your arms around his neck to pull him into a hug. He doesn’t miss the way your breath hitches as you attempt to hide yourself in the crook of his neck, and he is not sure what he’s supposed to do with his hands for a moment. “Hey,” he calls out softly, “what’s wrong?”

You pull back slightly to look into his worried eyes, “Just kiss me.” Your voice comes out somewhere between a whisper and a sob, and you can see the hesitation in Lewis’ eyes, but you just pull him towards you as you press a soft kiss on his lips, “Please.”

“What happened?” He tries once again to get an answer from you, but you shut down his attempt as you press your lips against his once more, more assertive this time. And who is he to deny you your wishes? So, like the perfect gentleman he is, he reciprocates your kiss with a one of his own as he wraps his arms around you to signal you to jump. Thankfully, you are so tuned with each other that you end up jumping up anyway, and he picks you up as you wrap your legs around his hips. Closing the door, he starts walking back towards his bedroom as your lips start moving more frantically against his own. “Slow down,” he warns, pulling back to give both of you a chance to breathe, “we have all night.”

Whining at the loss of contact from his lips, and you let your dissatisfaction known by attempting to roll your hips against his bare stomach, “Don’t wanna.” There’s still a lingering sob in your voice, but it is more reflective of the neediness you feel now that you have him between your arms – and legs. Lewis lets his hands roam down towards your ass to give you a warning squeeze – a one, maybe you would’ve been threatened by it if you weren’t so lost in him at the moment. You try your best to ignore the look he gives you, one filled with sternness; so instead, you move your lips downwards towards Lewis’ neck with another roll of your hips. “I missed you.”

He stills the movement of your hips as he simultaneously releases an appreciative groan at the way your lips feel on his skin. “I missed you too, lovey.” He is careful as he approaches his bed and sits down on the plush mattress with you still in his arms. Wrapping a hand around your hair to tilt your head back so he can look into your eyes again, he attempts to keep himself from becoming hard from the mere prospect of you wrapping your body around his. His eyes search yours for answers as to your sour mood, “Tell me what’s wrong, bad day?”

“Try bad month,” you scoff, letting your hands slide over his, somehow, still damp torso. “You weren’t here,” you explain as you free yourself from his hold on your hair and take off your sweatshirt, “don’t wan’ to talk about it.”

“Well, I’m here now.” A sudden realisation that you are not wearing anything under your top comes to Lewis, and he has to mentally restrain himself from doing something rash. “Not wearing a bra?” He asks, one of his eyebrows raised.

You let out a confirming hum, “Not wearing any underwear either.” Giving him an innocent smile at the groan he gets out, you shrug your shoulders nonchalantly, “Thought they’d get in the way.” His hands feel warm on your bare skin as he drags them up on your body to gently cup your exposed breasts, causing you to brace yourself by hanging onto his shoulder for support. Whining as you feel his thumb make contact with your sensitive nipple, you decide to pull him in for another kiss, mumbling a breathy, “Kiss me,” against his lips. 

He obliges your request, of course, but he doesn’t let you control the kiss like you would’ve liked to. Instead, he stops the kiss by gently biting down on your lip before you can deepen it. With a small pat to your hip, he mumbles, “Get up, let me see you.” The look he gives you is just so full of adoration that you have no other choice to get up from his lap with the slowest moves you can muster. His eyes never leave you when you take a step back so that he can see you, all of you, and with the small nod he gives you, you begin taking off your leggings and shoes. That’s the thing about Lewis – for someone who is in the spotlight most of their time, he loves watching. And it is not only limited to the bedroom, you realise, he watches you even when you are doing mundane things together, like grocery shopping or walking Roscoe, domestic things that couples do together. But you can’t think about that, no, because both of you agreed that this was only physical and nothing more. Shaking the thoughts away, you straighten up from your bent position only to find Lewis looking you with a much darker look in his eyes. He’s dangerous, when he looks like that, you realise, he could break you into pieces with just his words, and the worst part is that you’d absolutely let him. “Pretty girl,” he whispers into the distance between you, and you take the hand he extends towards you for him to pull you against himself. The feeling of his lips on your skin almost feel feverish, and you find yourself releasing a gasp. “You’re the prettiest girl ever, lovey.”

“Lewis,” you brokenly whisper, your voice would be bordering on whiny with all the neediness that comes with it, “please, I need you.” The pleading look you give him is vulnerable, if not desperate.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs against your skin, his lips leaving another open-mouthed kiss, this time closer to your lower belly. His voice does a good job of soothing your erratic mind, his arms envelope you as he promises, “Whatever it is I’m here now, tell me what you want.”

He does a good job of putting you on the spot, you think, but unlike your usual self, you don’t have the patience for teasing tonight. “I want you to fuck me,” your voice comes off stronger than before, but it wavers as you also add, “please.” The last word brings a small smirk to Lewis’ face, and you let out a shriek as he quickly throws you onto the bed. “You almost scared me to death,” you complain, pushing out your lower lip in a pout.

“You’ll be fine,” he lets out a breathy laugh while quickly getting rid of the towel still, miraculously, hanging on his hips. The smirk on his face grows as he watches you shamelessly checking him out, but he never breaks his gaze from yours when your eyes meet as he wraps a hand around his cock to jerk himself for a few times. You spread your legs to accommodate his body as he leans over your lying figure by using his free arm as support. Rubbing the tip of his cock through your slick slit a few times, you can feel his breathy chuckle hit your skin while his lips run over your jaw to leave small kisses. “You’re so wet for me,” he mumbles, and the whimper that leaves your lips when he makes a point to rub his tip over your clit wins another chuckle, “you’re gonna be good for me?”

“Uh-huh,” you mumble as you nod frantically, “yes Lu, I’m gonna be good, I promise. Please, just fuck me.” You try to tempt him by wrapping your legs around his hips and pulling him closer – either you are successful and he gives in, or he is just as desperate to get inside you as you are desperate to feeling him because he complies with your movements as he nudges the tip of his cock into you in a slow push forward. The stretch is burning every single time, and usually he gives you enough time to accommodate his size before proceeding to fuck your brains out. But this time, he doesn’t waste any time as he pushes himself fully into you until he’s buried inside you to the hilt. The gasp you begin to let out turns into a silent scream as the feeling of being full consumes you, “Fuck, Lewis–”

“Shh, it’s okay,” he soothes you through the initial pain, “you’re alright, just breathe th for a bit.” And you do what he tells you to because… well, you know he won’t do anything to hurt you. He brings his free hand towards your face to cup your cheek, which you respond by turning your head towards the warmness. “Tell me when the pain goes away,” he whispers against your skin – he finds he absolutely loves the way your skin flushes every single time he fucks you, and the thought makes him freeze for a second. Love? That is not something he should be thinking about, not especially when he’s buried inside you, because you both agreed–

Deciding to respond wordlessly, you press a soft kiss in the middle of Lewis’ palm, whilst also attempting to roll your hips, but then whining because of the additional pressure, “Please, Lewis, please move.”

That must’ve done the job of breaking Lewis out of whatever trance he was in, because once he hears your whiny voice pleading him to move, he starts thrusting his hip in and out of you in a rhythm that simply leaves you breathless in mere seconds. It’s the stress of the season, you think to yourself, but Lewis’ movements just get faster and deeper until he hits that one spot inside you that makes your whines turn into a scream and has you arching into him. You can’t see his reaction with your eyes fluttered close, but he stills his movements for a few moments as he looks at you as if you’re the most precious thing in his life. He waits until your erratic breathing to get back to normal before he starts rolling his hips against yours again, but this time the tempo he adopts is much slower, sensual, and almost… too intimate for it to only be considered physical between the two of you.

Your eyes flutter open as you look at him with confusion, “Wha– What are you–?” But he only cuts you off by pressing his lips against you to swallow your question in a kiss. The slower tempo is surprisingly more pleasurable then his usual style that you’ve dubbed fast and furious, and every time his hips roll at a certain angle, he brushes your clit in a way that makes your feet curl in pleasure.

He is breathless when he pulls away from the kiss and rests his forehead against yours, but then again, so are you. The way he seems to gaze into your eyes make your breath hitch, and if you thought that was Lewis showing his emotions, he decides to put them into words. “So good for me, lovey,” he moans, yes moans because one thing you’ve learned from the start is that real men moan, “you were made for me, weren’t you?” His accent gets thicker, which is a tell that he’s getting there, but he won’t let himself come before he makes sure you’re taken care of. “Look at how you’re taking me, reckon I can feel myself if I place my hand on your belly?” It makes him laugh when you whine as you attempt to slither your hand towards your stomach to test his theory, but one deep stroke of his hips and your arms envelope them around his shoulders to use him as a support. “Perfect, you’re just perfect for me, hm? My perfect, pretty, little girl.”

“Please,” you whimper out, the tears that form in the corner of your eyes threatening to fall, “I’m so close.” It’s been such an emotional day, and a shitty month that all you wanted was to be consumed by him –  and now that you have him in your arms, acting like you are more than just two friends who use each other for something so trivial and human as urges, you don’t want to let him go. Especially not when he makes you feel like you could love him for the rest of your life. Even if just the thought of it is enough to make your heart race. Needless to say, the sob you let out is unexpected on both of your ends, and you know he’s about to stop when he slows down even more, but you give him a stern look through your tears, “Don’t you dare stop.” You moan, loud enough for his neighbours downstairs to hear, once he picks up the pace again, but it’s still slow enough for it to be considered love making and not fucking by both of your standards.

He knows you’re close when your walls start clenching around him, which makes it much harder for him to compose himself. So, being the perfect gentleman he is, he starts rubbing your clit with one of his hands, his fingers work hard to bring you even more pleasure. He watches in amazement as you trash around under his body and as your whimpers and moans get louder gradually – until you are coming undone around him, starting to sob because of the pressure gets released in your tummy, that is. His hips still continue their languid movements, just like the faster movement of his fingers, as he fucks you through your release, mumbling sweet nothings and encouragements into your ear. Lewis does his best to kiss the tears that escape from your eyes, his breath fanning over your feverish skin.

“So good,” your moans get softer as you get calmer after a while, though your voice is still scratchy, “wanna feel you more, Lu.” Sliding your hand between your bodies to take his hand away from your clit, the loss of his touch makes you whine softly and he watches you in confusion while still continuing his movements slowly, but you see the way his eyes light up with a dark look when you wrap his fingers around your throat, and thankfully he understands the message as he tightens his hold just the way you like it. “Yeah, just like that,” you moan, encouraging him to pick up the pace. This time, it’s your turn to whisper praises riddled with encouragement, and you know it gets to him, because every single stroke his hips deliver end up making him fill you more and more, as if that was possible. The sobs coming from your lips transform into ones of pleasure, bringing Lewis closer and closer to his release.

“Look at me,” his voice is sharp, and it makes you immediately fix your eyes on his. There is an immense sense of wanting to please him, or rather make him proud within you, and he rewards you with a burning kiss that leaves you panting and wanting more as he spills himself into you. As he pulls away to moan out your name, his thumb dragging down your bottom lip. You gently bite down on his thumb while you manage to get out a satisfied moan, eyes closing ever so slightly as you feel him spill into you, and he keeps pulling you even closer to himself when he lets his body fall next to yours.

You have no idea how he manages to still stay inside you, but you can feel his lips pressing gentle kisses across your hairline, and brushing away the sweaty strands. “You feel better now, lovey?” Smiling at the tiredness dripping from his voice, you hum airily, a satisfied smile on your face while you move your neck to look at him.  “Good,” his whisper brushes your lips as he nudges the tip of your nose with his, earning a giggle from you while he wipes away the dry tears on your cheeks.

“Do you have to leave?” There is a whiny undertone to your question, and it makes him give you a gentle smile.

“Not for a while,” he assures you, then he presses his lips softly on yours in a small kiss, “I promise.”

He grabs your hand to weave his fingers through yours, pressing gentle kisses to your knuckles as he keeps silent for a moment – because he knows at that moment, just because you asked, he’ll cancel every single plan he’s made, just to spend more time with you so that he can make you smile like that. “Until you get sick of me, that is.” Your tired laughter fills his ears until it is interrupted by a yawn. He carefully moves you so that he gently takes himself out of you, and rolls you sideways so he can wrap his arms around as he pulls you close to cuddle. “Go to sleep, lovey, we’ll talk in the morning,” he mumbles as he presses soft kisses to your bare shoulder. You close your eyes with a smile on your face, burying yourself into his chest as much as you can, and hear him mumble, “My lovey,” before promptly falling asleep.

You pretend you didn’t hear him in the morning because the arrangement the two of you made was about keeping things causal.

But you respond by squeezing his hand three times in return anyway.

And he responds.

#Im gonna be thinking about this for a concerning amount of days now #the softness of it #like #is it too much to ask to have Lewis do this TO ME specifically?? #I also had a bad month 😭😭😭

[26sophiess]

SOMETHING DIFFERENT !!! OSCAR P. X FEM!READER (18+)

summary: oscar piastri wasn’t usually like this, but she was so lost in her feeling that all she could do was listen to him.

content warning: smut under the cut (minors dni!), use of explicit language, pwp, mean dom!oscar (heavy on dom), fingering, brief mention of overstimulation, orgasm denial, dacryphilia, short smut because i just wrote this lol

note: (s)creaming. pls send some asks my way! enjoy xx

something sinful (smut) masterlist

a - n masterlist

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if you’d like to get on one of my taglists, check this post out

it was as if she had lost her lungs from writhing and whining. 

her legs violently shook as she came for the fifth time tonight, her eyes glistening with overwhelming pleasure and her mouth letting out nothing but a silent whine. her body was on fire from the endless orgasms she had gotten through the night.

yet oscar piastri kneeled in front of her with his thick cock still stiff as ever, his chest rising as his head beaded with sweat. he looked at her as if he hadn’t just fucked her brain out for ages. 

he wasn’t usually like this. he looked like a man on a mission— a mission to give his girlfriend endless orgasms until she’s unable to walk for a whole month. he just came home from a long double header and here he was now— waiting for her to calm a little bit before his fingers started to touch her glistening cunt again.

he watched her cunt clench around nothing, licking his lips when her cum dripped down to her puckered hole. his fingers slowly pressed and rubbed on her clit, eliciting a mumble of, “too much, ‘scar,” from his partner as he shushed her softly. 

he wasn’t like this. he would’ve allowed himself to cum after she’d cum all over his mouth and fingers— now he expected her to cum all over his cock repeatedly and have her beg for it. 

he wasn’t this demanding either. if anybody would dare ask what the fuck happened to the quiet and polite oscar, his girlfriend would answer with a shrug… should she come back from her high by then. 

“gonna fuck you more, baby,” he murmured, his fingers traced on her lips before sliding two fingers inside her cunt. 

she squealed, “o- oh! fuck!” pressure built up in her lower stomach as oscar’s fingers curled up against her sensitive spot. 

“oscar, ‘s too much, too- hah! fuck! ‘s too much!” her legs began to kick away from him, but his other hand had pushed her down to where she was and his fingers relently fucked her cunt. 

“you got one more,” he muttered and looked at her firmly, “stay still.”

“os- it’s too much! please!” she pleaded. she didn’t even know what the fuck she was pleading for. all she knew was that her body was desperately writhing under his touch and her cunt was throbbing around his fingers. 

he tsked, “you have more in you, baby. don’t lie to me.”

“‘m not,” she sobbed, her voice jumping an octave as she cried out, “fuck— i’m cumming again, fuck fuck! shit~”

he crooned, “see? you’re a good girl f’me aren’t you?”

“fuuuuck~ oscar, please,” her eyes were shut tightly as she begged, “i’m gonna— oh my goooood~ can i-“

“can you what, princess?” oscar’s face feigned innocence, yet his thoughts were nothing but sinful as he smirked and fucked her. “tell me. can you what?” 

“can i- i-“ she was running out of words, eyes were letting go of her tears. 

she wasn’t sure if she hated this version of oscar or not. because oscar trusted her enough to show this side of him— the more assertive and dominant one. she loved him, really. 

but god was she so fucking frustrated that he wouldn’t finish her thought process already. he wouldn’t just tell her immediately to cum before she could even say it. he was fucking her relentlessly with his fingers and he was still expecting her to answer. 

she whined, uttering incoherent words as oscar tutted and demanded quietly, “i can’t read minds, baby. tell me what you want.” 

yet she let nothing out, whining and shaking against his touch.

then… nothing. 

she almost cried when the pressure in her stomach faded away immediately, her eyes opening quickly as he looked at her with sheer disappointment in his face. 

she babbled, “b- but-“ 

“you weren’t listening, baby,” he laughed mockingly, pressing a sweet kiss that contrasted with his cruel words, “i told you. if you can’t tell me what you want i’m not gonna give it.” 

“os-“ her lips formed a deep pout as oscar scoffed. she was just so fucked out— she couldn’t find herself to even argue. 

“you should’ve tried harder, princess,” he murmured, “i would've let you cum again. and again. and again.” 

“but you didn’t listen,” he tutted again and clicked his tongue. “you’re so spoiled that you thought you could easily get things that you want without telling me, hm?” 

“‘s a good thing ‘m here,” oscar pulled her hips closer to the edge of the bed, the tip of his cock prodding at her wet cunt. 

she whimpered at the feeling, wriggling against him before his hand slapped the side of her thigh. the impact left her moaning as he muttered, “you better start asking sweetheart— or else ‘m gonna have to fuck the word ‘please’ out of you.” 

so much for a quiet, polite man. 

he was so different that she wasn’t sure if she had the answer for the sudden change, either. all she knew was that she needed to behave and be vocal if she wanted to cum on his cock. 

♡ moony’s reminder 🅶 (general): @hiraethrhapsody @avaleineandafryingpan @topguncultleader @enhacolor @roseandtulips @woweewoowa @magnummagnussen

♡   moony’s reminder 🅴 (explicit edition): @glitterf1

#Damnnnnn #our sweet little Oscar being not so sweet is my new favorite thing

[26sophiess]

freefall (pt 2)

lewis hamilton x mercedes engineer!reader

read part 1 here !!

summary: You and Lewis have let this go on too far, and for too long. (You are an engineer for Mercedes on Lewis’ side of the garage).

content: 18+!!!! general m/f sex acts. coworker relationship. let me know if u want anything else flagged!

You wake cold. The hotel air conditioning has kicked on during the night, a familiar whir in the ceiling, and in your sleep you’ve pulled the covers up around your chin in an attempt to keep your body warmth in. It takes a few circulations of the room for you to find the off switch for the air-con. 

After, you stand against the big window until your alarm goes off, warm breath making a condensation cloud against the glass. You’re in Baku. No. Budapest. Budapest. You’ve been in this hotel before, you’ve seen this view. You have to close your eyes when the surge of memories come. The sound of Lewis singing to himself in the shower. His warm arm over your belly while you slept. Leaning over graphs together to try and figure out how to be faster, how to be better. Your iPhone is ringing, vibrating, morning alarm. The room is still cold. 

You get to the engineers room before Lewis does. It’s rained overnight, the track wet, the air brisk. Endless emails await you. The cars not right. Nothing is right. A headache is pulsing at your temples. Your coffee is cold before you remember to drink it. Others work around you. Recently, you’ve begun having this urge, strong and gripping, to stand up and be wild, to yell and scream. We were in love. We were in love and no one knew. I sacrificed that to give us another go at a championship and now you can’t even get the fucking car to work? 

  You have to close your eyes and practice box breathing until it passes. When you lift your head again, Lewis is moving around your desk to go into Toto’s office. He doesn’t look at you.

—

It has been a year. A hard year. You’d left the hotel room, left him, feeling on the verge of insanity. Lewis had let you go without much of a fight. It felt like his confession, his acceptance, had drained all his energy. Somewhere silent and hidden behind your heart, you wish he’d fought harder. Having to pretend nothing had happened in front of your co-workers was gut wrenching. Sleeping alone was worse. The break between seasons had helped, a forced separation, different cities, but now, in the thick of a new calendar, a new year, you were constantly turning corners and bumping into him. You couldn’t go back to the friendship you’d had before. And you couldn’t go forward into a new, adjusted working relationship. There was only a sense of coldness, of formality. No way forward, no way back. Only this compounding sense of dread, anticipating the next interaction. 

  Toto’s assistant sticks her head out of the office while you’re gazing unseeing at the screens in front of you, calling for you. Your bones feel stiff and unwilling as you unfold yourself, follow her into the small room. Lewis is sitting in front of the desk, one knee pulled up, gives you a polite smile upon your entrance. Toto is leaning back in his chair, fingers steepled, deep thinking. There are no chairs for you. You hover behind Lewis, and refuse to think about reaching out, touching the back of his neck, smoothing your fingers into his hair. 

  Generic meeting. A summary of free practice, and then qualifying from the day before. Plans for the day. Any new ideas? Any solutions? Your headache is getting stronger. No solutions. 

  Lewis holds the door open for you when the meeting is over, and you can smell him as you move past. Familiar cologne. He used to laugh when you buried his face in his neck, sniffed over-dramatically, pretending to be a curious dog. He’d wriggled from the sensation, your tickling mouth, pressing nose. Pretended he didn’t like it, but always made sure to wear your favourite smell everyday anyway. 

  You need paracetamol. Too late you realise he’s following you to hospitality, where the first aid kit is stored. He is a step behind, lagging, despite easily being able to match your pace. You feel the gap keenly, an open wound. 

—

The over-ear headphones drown out the noise of the garage. This, at least, you can do. Go through the motions of race day, a familiar rhythm. Positioned on your stool in front of your screens, the microphone against your mouth, the final, tenuous connection between you and Lewis. A direct line between you and him. You go through the regular checks together, safety, engine, ensuring the connection is clear. The cars roar. The adrenaline pounds. 

  “Ready?” You ask. 

  “Ready.” 

You chew on the inside of your mouth so you don’t say, be safe, be careful. The lights flash down. The engines rev. The job begins. 

—

The air conditioning is on again in the hotel room. They’ve been in to change the sheets, the towels, vacuumed. You feel stupid with fatigue, with loneliness, with missing him. The after-race meetings had dragged. Lewis was tired. The atmosphere was tense. You want to sleep for ten years, but there is a plane to catch first thing tomorrow morning. There are spirits in the mini-fridge, ice clear and beckoning. You drink two in the shower, and another in front of BBC World News on the television. Are you dreaming? Is this real life? The gin gives everything a foggy haze. Your steps are unsteady. You sit in bed and scroll through yours and Lewis’ text threads. Room numbers. Memes. Inside jokes texted under the table during long meetings. You manage to convince yourself its a mistake when you tap through to his contact number, watch it dial, ring through. Listen to the connecting sound, hear him say, “hello?” before you realise what’s happened, what you’ve done, what rule you’ve broken. You hang up. Hot panic. The newsreader is talking about weather. Lewis is calling back, already, and you watch it ring out. You feel frozen by horror. The room is so cold, and the fridge is worse as you reach in, tiny bottles clinking together. Vodka this time. Forget, forget, forget. 

There’s someone knocking on the door. You manage to get yourself into a hotel issued robe, pull it tight, before you get into the small hallway, fumble with the handle, get the door open. You swear, and Lewis has to reach out to stop you closing the door again. 

  “Are you alright?” He asks. 

  “Yes,” you insist. 

  “You called me.” 

  “Did I? It must have been a mistake.”

Your voice sounds fake, even to you, the laugh reedy and broken. 

  “Are you drunk?” Lewis asks. 

  “No,” you lie. 

He drops his arm from where it was holding open the door. He’s wearing pyjama pants and a worn grey hoodie. One you used to wear to go make the coffee in the morning. You can tell from the softness of his expression he’s been recently asleep. You should shut the door now. Block him out again. Go to bed. Instead, you feel yourself start to cry, building in your chest, the tightness in your throat, burning in your eyes. 

  “Babe,” he says, so sad, so concerned, and the sob you emit is embarrassing and loud. You have to let go of the door to cover your face, feeling your back curve over. Lewis is gentle about coming inside, guiding you to the bed, tucking you in. He brings you a glass of water, makes you have three big sips. You’re still crying, childlike, red faced and snotty. He passes you tissues, strokes your hair. 

  “I’m sorry,” you start to say, even as he shushes you, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s okay,” he murmurs, “Everything’s okay.” 

You feel as if the world is ending. Crying like this in front of him. Drunk and messy. And the room is so fucking cold. 

  “Can you,” you stumble, wriggling over in the bed, throwing open the covers, “I’m really cold.” 

He says your name the way he used to say it, warm and intimate, a nickname. Like a lover. Like a partner. 

  “Are you sure?” He asks, even as you’re reaching out for him, dragging him in. 

  “Please,” you say, “I’m cold.” 

He tastes salty when you kiss him, your own tears on his mouth. He makes a wounded sound, but then he’s wrapping his arms around you, pulling you to his chest, his leg over yours. You feel held, sheltered. He lets you kiss him again, deeper, better. 

  “I’m sorry,” you say again, when you need to breathe, and he’s smiling, warm eyes, smoothing you hair off your face. 

  “It’s okay,” he repeats, “Whatever you need.” 

Your hands are fists in his hoodie, “I need you.” 

  “How do you need me?”

  “Like this,” you whisper, lips brushing his, taking his hand to slip into your robe, over your breast. He sighs out a breath as his fingers touch your nipple, swipe over it again so you make a small, wanting noise. 

  It feels dreamlike, a long awaited thing. A rush, almost, to get out of your robe, Lewis out of his own clothes so you can sling a leg over his waist, face hidden in the crook of his neck as he pushes into you, his big hand tangled in your hair, holding you to him. Rasping breaths, the sudden heat of two bodies working together, the length of him inside you, pushing deep. It feels instinctual, animalistic, breathing him in, trying to remember everything, compartmentalise every second, every touch, every groan. Lewis rolls you onto your back, but stays close, his mouth finding yours, sharing breath as he grinds into you. You come quickly, nothing controlled, grasping at him and panting, shaking through it. Lewis holds himself there, lets you shudder and cry out, pulsing around him. His eyes are dark and liquid, but he keeps watching you, like he’s trying to remember as well, be present for everything. You don’t want this to ever end. When you can breathe again, he returns to his rythym, steady knocks of his hips into yours, the rush of his breath, of his body. His face drops into your neck when he finishes, hands gripping you like he will never let go again. You feel new, hot tears leak down your face as you hold him. 

—

You wake warm, this time. You’re curled around yourself, a child, with Lewis aligned to your back, his face against your spine, his arm over you, protecting you. You’re facing the window, curtains left open, blinking at an apartment building, holding hundreds of different lives, different bedrooms, different people. Lewis is still asleep, you can tell from the steadiness of his breath, the sleep-weight of his body over yours. You place your hand over his, interlinking knuckles. The more you wake up, the more you feel embarrassed, shame curdling in your belly. He’s done this out of pity. How gross, to call him, drunk, drag him into bed with you, to beg. You feel overheated, suddenly, untangle yourself from him, slip out of the covers and into the bathroom, pulling the sliding door to encase yourself in the marble and glass. Your eyes are swollen from crying. You mouth is bruised pink from him. There are fingertip bruises on your waist from where he’s held you. You have to sit on the lip of the built in tub so you don’t throw up, or start crying again. You haven’t washed your hair in a few days, and it hangs limp around your fingers, head in your hands, again. Hiding. Wanting to disappear. Your hangover makes you tremble. You’ve failed. You failed years ago, when you looped your arms around his neck and kissed him for the first time. You failed again when you turned your back on him. And now, to be so weak, to force him to do this again, to look after you. 

  The bathroom door slides open. Lewis is in your robe, tight around his shoulders. You try to smile at him, but even without seeing you know it’s more of a grimace. 

  “I don’t know what to say,” you tell him, raking your hands through your hair, “I’m just so, so sorry.” 

  “You said that a lot last night.” 

Lewis doesn’t move any further into the room. Stays in the doorway. Watches. Witnesses. 

  “I can’t believe I. I’m so embarrassed.”

He shakes his head, “Don’t be.” 

  “Lewis,” you’re speechless. What is there to say? How to apologise? To take back? 

  “Look,” he spreads his hands, surrender, “We don’t have to talk about it. It never happened.” 

  “Never happened,” you echo. Vomit threatens. Never happened. 

  “If that’s what you want,” Lewis says. 

You’re nodding, looking down at your bare feet on the tiles, “Yeah, that sounds good.” 

  The silence makes you want to scream. Just to break it. You can hear your heartbeat in your head. A constant pound. You stay there, on the edge of the bathtub, while he gets dressed. He doesn’t look in on his way out. The door shuts with a finality. 

—

You fly to Oxford. He flies to Monaco. You don’t speak. 

—

It happens in the middle of the night. The off season. When you check your phone for the first time the next morning, waiting for the kettle to boil, you have so many missed calls your phone has stopped counting them. The photos are blurry, but it’s obvious if you know what you’re looking for. Through a small window in the door of your office. In the first one, you’re just laughing together, the second you are reaching for his hand, the final one you are in his lap, your mouth hidden by his, Lewis’ big hands in your hair. You’re still staring at them when he calls. He does’t say anything when you pick you. You just breathe, together, for a long moment. 

  “So it happened,” you finally say. 

  “It happened,” he agrees. 

  “I haven’t spoken to anyone else yet. I just woke up,” you say. 

  “Don’t,” he says, “I’m going to fly in this afternoon. We’ll have a meeting with the publicists. Toto wants HR there, as well.” 

  “Fuck.” 

You hesitate, and then, “Was Toto mad?”

  “He wasn’t happy. He reckons Susie knew and didn’t tell him.” 

  “Where did the photos come from?”

  “Ex-employee, they think. Was waiting for the right time.” 

  “And now is the right time?” You can hear the edge of hysteria in your voice. 

  “I’m really sorry,” Lewis says. 

  “It’s not your fault.” 

  “I’m still sorry.”

You need to boil the kettle again, tea forgotten. You realise you're gripping the kitchen bench so hard your knuckles have gone white. You let go. You look out over the garden, crisp with morning frost. Christmas soon. You’ll have to explain to your family. 

  “Did Toto say anything about my job?” You ask, feeling sick at the thought. 

  “No. I said if he fired you, I would quit.” 

  “Don’t be stupid.” 

  “I’m not.” 

There’s quiet again. You flick the kettle on.

  “I think it’s good if we come in together. We can plan what we want to say. I can pick you up from your house,” he says. 

  “Alright.” 

  “Don’t answer any numbers you don’t know, okay? Media might call.”

  “Really? I was just gonna pick up strange numbers all day,” you say, a bite in your tone. Lewis laughs though, an amused huff. 

  “You’re right, sorry. I’m control-freaking.” 

You hum an agreement. 

  "I’ll see you soon, then,” he says. 

  You suddenly have a fierce urge not to let him end the call, to let his voice anchor you. 

  “Alright,” you say, and hang up first. 

—

The meeting is awful, of course. People are panicking. Toto scolds. You go silent. Lewis rages. In the end, the core group sits silent around a meeting table. The most promising solution is to paint it as star-crossed lovers, meant to be, soulmates. Refusing to be kept apart by jobs and contracts. This would be perfect, perhaps, if you were still together. 

  “Could you pretend? Until it died down,” Toto had said. 

  “No,” you’d snapped, speaking over Lewis’, “It depends what she wants.” 

Now, the silence is stale, nothing left to say, but no agreement reached. Your eyes prick with fatigue. 

—

Lewis drives you home. When he pulls into the driveway, you’re too tired to get out of the car. There is a light on inside. Your mum must be here, checking in on you. Has heard somehow, which must mean it's on the internet.

  “How are you feeling?” Lewis asks, when you make no move to open the door. 

  “Tired,” you say, “You?”

  “Sad.” 

It’s unconscious, reaching to to touch his leg, an urge to comfort. He sighs. The muscle of him is warm through his jeans. 

  “If this had happened a year ago,” he starts, and stops, shaking his head, “Doesn’t matter.” 

  “If it happened a year ago, what?” You say. He shrugs. 

  “Everything might have turned out okay.” 

You turn your face from him, look out the window into the dark street. It makes your heart throb painfully to see him. You can’t speak through a thick, swollen throat. 

  “I’m sorry I didn’t say it,” you finally manage to whisper. Your hand is still on his thigh. 

  “Didn’t say what?" 

You close your eyes, lean to rest your forehead on the car window with a thunk. 

  “Didn’t say that I loved you back.”

  “Did you?” 

 You laugh, exhausted from carrying it for so long, “Lewis. Of course. Of course I do. So much.” 

  “You do?”

Your eyes fly open, realising your mistake. You snatch your hand from his leg, turn to face him, “I did. I did then.” 

  “You don’t love me anymore,” he clarifies. He’s frowning, forehead creased. The night is pressing in on the car, dark and claustrophobic. You can’t speak. 

  “Because nothing has changed for me. I feel the same as I did then,” Lewis says, and you can see how he’s working to speak, jaw twitching, forcing the words out. Something private, and hidden, being pushed into the open. You’re pressing your hands together in your lap, painfully tight. 

  “Alright,” you say, hate yourself for it. He looks away. His eyes are gleaming. 

  “Alright.”

You get out of the car. Stiff and awkward. You get your key in the front door, hear him turn the engine back on. Fear is clawing at your chest. You turn around anyway, back down the steps, jump in front of the car so he has to slam on the breaks, a screech breaking the night air. He’s opening the drivers door at the same time you’re trying to open it, get to him. He’s half out of the car and you’re half in when you kiss him, cold air, warm mouths. He’s grasping your head, holding you steady. 

  "I’m sorry,” you’re panting, “I’m sorry.” 

  “Stop apologising,” Lewis says, “What’s done is done.” 

You keep kissing him, his face, his nose, his jaw. 

  “I love you,” you press into his skin, you kiss into his mouth, “I love you.” 

Lewis is pulling you into his lap, back into the car, pulling the door shut again, crammed in. Your hands under his shirt, feeling his skin, feeling him breathe. 

  “Do you?” He asks, holding your face in front of him. You feel your face hurt with how wide you are grinning, a release of something held inside for so long. Your hands mirror his on his face, precious in your fingers. 

  “I do. I do. I love you.” 

Lewis half laughs, half sobs. His eyes are shining. The car horn beeps from a stray elbow. You keep kissing him anyway. 

#I have no words for how good this was #my precious Lewis😭😭😭😭

[26sophiess]

December Prompt Challenge: Day 1 - Christmas Market // Lando Norris x Reader // N.04

Author's Note: Here we go with Day 1 of my December Prompt Challenge. I hope you guys enjoy this fluffy one!

Find the December Prompt Challenge Masterlist, here.

For my other works, find the main Masterlist, here.

Prompt: Christmas Market

Characters: Lando Norris x Reader

Word Count: 2.5K

Warnings: Language, overbearing cuteness, fluff, holiday cliches.

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><> 

After a season that seemed to drag on longer than it ever should have (even though it had ended earlier than it usually would because of the world cup), you were glad to finally get away from it all. No more races, no more stress about not getting the results the team wanted, no more pressure to constantly smile in front of the cameras and pretend that everything was fine when it wasn’t. It had been a hard season for everyone, but Lando seemed to carry the brunt of it considering he was locked in with McLaren for years to come. It hadn’t been fun to watch, as the passion Lando felt for racing slowly gave way to the exhaustion he felt. There wasn’t anything you could do to help.

He needed a break.

You’d taken two whole weeks off after Abu Dhabi, even though you returned to Monaco with Lando on the Wednesday after year-end testing. You’d spent three days in your shared apartment, catching up on all the sleep you both had lost over the last few intense months of the season. You ignored the world outside of your bedroom, taking the time just to be. And even though the season had ended on a bit of a sour note, you were thrilled to finally have your boyfriend to yourself, for more than just a few days before he needed to rush off to the next race. You had three months to look forward to with him, because his crazy schedule completely took over the both of yours lives again.

You’d be damned if you didn’t take advantage of every single minute you got with him.

Lando had been the one to suggest the little holiday. You were meant to be in Belgium for one of his cousin’s wedding the first weekend of December, but Lando had asked you during that weekend spent in bed if you’d like to go early for a little private vacation before you rejoined his whole family for the wedding. You hadn’t hesitated in saying yes, a few extra days in Bruges sounding fantastic. So, you’d booked an Airbnb in the city center and made a few loose plans on things you wanted to see and do while you were away.

On your first morning in Bruges, you woke up way earlier than anticipated, feeling a childlike excitement to get out and explore the charming city with the Lando.

You tried to fall back asleep, curled up against Lando’s chest as he slept soundly with his arm wrapped around your waist to keep you close, but it didn’t work. Your mind was too busy thinking about the markets you’d driven by when making your way to the Airbnb last night, wanting to go stop at every single booth. You carefully reached for your phone, looking up details about the market and the different activities nearby, slowly getting more and more excited for the day ahead. You loved Christmas markets.

You ignored the urge to wake up your boyfriend for as long as you possibly could, but in the end you could only hold out for so long.

“Lando?” You said quietly, tilting you head up to look at his face.

Not so much as a twitch.

Upping the ante, you ran you fingers along his ribs, fighting back a smirk at the instinctual shudder that shook through him at the tickling touch. “Darling… wake up.” You coaxed him softly.

He made a sound in his sleep but seemed to double down on the staying asleep part as he shifted beneath you and pulled you even closer. He let out a long, breathy sigh as he settled back in, his chin coming to rest against the top of your head. As cute as you thought it was, it didn’t change your mind.

You poked the tip of his nose, watching as his brow furrowed slightly. You did it a second time and heard the shift in his breathing. A third poke, and he stiffened beneath you. You never got to the fourth poke on the tip of the nose, Lando snatching you hand and pulling it back safely down onto his chest before you could. He raised his head slightly to look at you, meeting your wide grin with a less enthusiastic one, though the longer he looked at your smile the more his irritation seemed to melt away.

“Of all the ways you’ve ever woken me up, that’s probably the least fun one.” He mumbled, voice all raspy and deep from just having woken up. If you weren’t so excited to get out and about and explore Bruges, that alone would’ve encouraged you to spend the day in bed with him doing other things.

“There’s no time for the more… fun methods.” You shrugged a shoulder innocently.

“No time?” Lando repeated, an edge of amusement in that still sleepy voice. “What on earth else do we have to do at-” he glanced at the clock on the wall and groaned “8:30 in the morning while on a holiday.”

Lando wasn’t a morning person until it was for a good tee time, but you didn’t care. “The Christmas Market, babe.” You answered, like it was the most obvious thing.

You watched at Lando’s expression became confused, wondering what you were going on about. You were able to see the exact moment he remembered the conversation from the night before on route to the Airbnb, when he’d promised to take you to the beautifully lit up market that you’d driven past. He probably just hadn’t assumed that you’d take his promise so seriously first thing in the morning.

“Is it even open?”

“Well…” You sheepishly avoided his gaze. “Not yet. But it will be, soon-ish and I don’t want to miss anything.”

“What’s soon-ish?”

“10:30.”

His head dropped back down dramatically onto his pillow as he let out a groan of disbelief. “2 hours? How is that not enough time for the more fun wake up call?!”

“Because I know you, Mr. Norris.” You mumbled, trying not to laugh at his dramatics. “You like to take your time in the mornings. We do not have that kind of time.”

“What if I promised to be quick?” He was smirking at you now, hand that had been resting on your waist trailing lower towards you hip, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. It was almost enough to make you reconsider, as his fingers toyed with the band of your underwear, knowing exactly what he was doing to you.  

“Nope.” You sighed regretfully, lacing you fingers through his and dragging his hand back up to safer territory. The pout that lined his face was as cute as it was pitiful. “But…” You trailed off, watching the hope glimmer in his eyes “the sooner we get ready and go to the market, the sooner we can come back here tonight, and you’ll have all the time in the world to do whatever you want with me then. Deal?”

That look of awe and adoration was back on his face, the loveliest smile lighting up his face. “Deal.”

With that being decided, you started pulling away from Lando with the intention of getting ready for the day. However, you’d barely moved a few inches before Lando’s arms tightened around you and pulled you back flush against his chest. You giggled, attempting to fight against his grip but it was no use. “Laaaando, we had a deal!”

“But we also have a rule.” He countered, laughing with you. “Gotta start the day with a ‘good morning’ kiss. Where’s my kiss?”

You lifted your head enough to catch his cheeky little grin, rolling your eyes half-heartedly at him as you poked a finger into his ribs and laughed when he squirmed. Regardless, you leaned forward as far as you could toward his face, then at the very last second veered off path towards his lips to place a peck on his cheek. “There. Good morning.”

“Absolutely fucking not.” Lando chastised, wrapping both hands around your waist and pulling you on top of him. Your legs fell to either side of his hips, hands bracing yourself on either side of his head as you stabilized yourself. His arms locked around you, pulling you flush against his chest with your face inches away from his, your hair falling around both your faces like a curtain to hide from the world.

You couldn’t help yourself once you got a close-up view of the love and want in those stormy, darkened grey eyes. You closed the distance between you, pressing your lips against his to give him a proper ‘good morning’ kiss. Just like every other time you’d kissed, it was all consuming. You forgot all about the world around you, entire focused on the things Lando made you feel. It was pure electricity and butterflies every single time. You could only hope that this feeling would never face away.

Lando was the one to break the kiss, peppering quick pecks along your nose, cheeks and top of your head as you buried your face in his neck and enjoyed the closeness you felt to him.

Maybe a 5 minute cuddle wouldn’t hurt…

But after that, you’d force both your asses out of bed so you could get on with your day.

The Christmas market was waiting.

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><> 

The market was everything you wanted it to be and more.

One of the very few traditions that your family had taken part in when you were growing up was to visit a market every first weekend of December. And if possible, you’d always try to go to a new one with no shortage of them scattered across Canada. You’d maintained the tradition when you’d moved to the UK for university, going to markets all over the country with your school friends and always picking up something for your parents. You’d been back in Canada last winter for the holidays (because your relationship with Lando was still rather new at the time), so you’d managed to go once again with your family. This was your first Christmas away from home since you’d graduated, and you fully intended to carry on the tradition.

But this market in Bruges was something else entirely. It was easily the most beautiful market you’d ever been too, looking like it was straight out of a fairy-tale with the old stone buildings surrounding the square and the light dusting of snow that made everything sparkle. It smelled of pine trees and Christmas spice, along with whatever smells would waft over from the food stands. There was every kind of vendor imaginable, selling all the Christmas staples and more. Everything was so festive, you couldn’t deny that you were in your happy place, walking along with Lando’s hand in yours.

And even though it was freezing cold outside, Lando seemed to be enjoying himself as well as you walked from booth to booth. You’d caught him smiling at you on multiple occasions, watching you with that small smile that he only reserved for you. The two of you must have sampled most of the food available, working your way through waffles, sausages, chocolate and some funky popcorn and candy floss. You learned that Lando was not a fan of mulled wine, pulling a face that you vowed to never forget at the taste.

You picked up a couple of things along the way. You had spent way too long at a hand carved ornament booth, trying to decide between two as a gift to your mother. Lando had given up on trying to help you decide which one to get and wound up buying both for you. You got a few interesting looking handmade candle, after stopping to smell every single scent at the booth. You’d forced Lando to sit with you and take a picture with a Santa. The picture was so funny because of how cold and miserable Lando looked that you’d wound up getting two small printed copies to hang on to the memory.

“We can go home.” You’d offered, when Lando was longingly eyeing a heat lamp.

“No, you’re having fun.” He was quick to refuse, not wanting to get in the way of your tradition. He hadn’t seen you smiling this much in a long time considering everything that had been going on in your lives for the past few months. He wasn’t about to get in the way of that because he was a little (very) cold.

You eyed him knowingly. “We’ve been outside for hours. Let’s go warm up. I’m getting a little chilly too.”

“But you said you wanted to see all the lights once the sun set.” He frowned, knowing that it wouldn’t be dark for another couple of hours. He didn’t want you to miss anything, fully aware that you were in your happy place right now.

“We can always come back later. The market’s not going anywhere.” You shrugged a shoulder, really not that bothered because Lando had lasted longer than you thought he would and indulged every single one of your whims to this point. “Besides, Zak would kill me if you lost any fingers to frostbite.”

“It’s not that cold!” He chuckled, shaking his head at you. “Are you sure? I really don’t mind staying out a bit longer.”

You nodded your head once. “Wouldn’t you much rather run a warm bath and try out those new relaxing oils we just bought?”

“Only if you’re in there with me.” He wiggled his brow suggestively at you.

You’d walked right into that one, your cheeks going red and not because of the cold. A bath together was never just a bath… He wasn’t very good at keeping his hands to himself, not that you minded. “Get your mind out of the gutter, Norris.”

His smirk only widened. “You’re the one who made the deal with morning that you’d let me do anything I wanted to you tonight.”

Your cheeks burned even hotter, and you swallowed thickly. He knew exactly the effect that his words had on you, enjoying watching get flustered over the promised of what lied ahead for you tonight. Now you were really looking forward to getting back to the Airbnb and letting Lando have his way with you. So, you reached for his hand, lacing your fingers together.

“Don’t threaten me with a good time.” You shook you head at him, pulling him towards the exit of the market.

“S’not a threat, darling. It’s a promise.”

Lando would happily to bring you to all the Christmas markets in the world if his evenings turned out like this every time.

#I adore this so much 😭😭😭 #I love Xmas fics so much #And this one was top tier 😭😭😭

[26sophiess]

i know u have a gazillion requests but what if we spice up that Carlos fic? if you decide to do a pt 3. maybe Carlos is once again is frustrated because of the penalty after a good quali and has sex with Rebecca cuz he can't find the model. a lil angst

It’s no secret, I’m in an angsty kinda writing mood at the moment 😅 I also forgot who was meant to be the toxic one...and now it's both of them.

Lady in Red (3) || CS55

Pairing: Carlos Sainz Jr x fem!reader Warnings: 18+ only, NSFW, smut, cheating, manipulation WC: 1.5k

One || Two || Three

You had been called away to work just before qualifying finished. You and half a dozen other models were asked to stand behind the top three drivers and wave feather fans for the cameras while an Elvis impersonator pumped out his signature dance moves. 

From your position you could see the frustration on Carlos’ face. He had qualified second fastest yet he was going to have to start from 12th on the grid. You weren’t the only person in the area upset by the 10 place penalty and the Ferrari supporters were making their opinion known as they chanted for Carlos.

“Alright, sweethearts, we need you over at the Bellagio for some promo shots and then you’re free for the night,” one of the headset-clad organisers said to the group you were with before checking her watch. “Or should I say morning.”

The drive back from the Bellagio to the paddock seemed to take hours with the road closures and checkpoints, but finally you made it back. Knowing Carlos would be waiting somewhere for you, you scanned each floor to find him before heading straight to the top.

“Fuck, mi amor, this is what I need,” Carlos moaned. 

You froze at the sordid scene you had walked in on. Neither one saw you in the doorway of the darkened room, their backs to you as Carlos bent Rebecca over the desk and pounded into her. He curled her hair around his fist and pulled back so to expose the pleasure painted on her face. 

You didn’t even notice you were crying until a droplet fell from your cheek to land on your breast, the feather girl outfit he enjoyed on full display. You suddenly hated how exposed you felt in the ridiculous costume. It was almost as ridiculous as you - for thinking a man like him could change. 

“Take it, cariña, take it,” he stammered as you recognised the pinch of his brow. He was close. He was close to finishing and you were more than done with seeing it. 

You were conscious of your footsteps as you retreated from the room and descended downstairs. You just needed to make it to your dressing room so you could get your stuff and go. 

“Hey,” Charlotte called out as she caught your arm and pulled you to a stop with a friendly smile. “Carlos was looking for you earlier. Did you find him?”

“Yeah, I did,” you whispered, quickly wiping the tears from your cheeks. “Don’t bother drafting up the breakup post.”

Her smile dimmed as confusion replaced it. “What breakup post?”

“Huh,” you laughed humorlessly as you shook your head at your stupidity. “The one Carlos clearly didn’t talk to you about. God, I am a fucking idiot.”

You left the track, heading straight back to your hotel room and before you even reached the room you saw Carlos’ name come up on your phone. You sent him straight to voicemail, again and again.

You barely slept as you thought about how humiliated you felt. You wanted to get him back but you weren’t innocent yourself. You knew your career would be over if you outed the relationship you had with Carlos, even if it made you feel better momentarily. No, you weren’t going to bloody your hands for him, there was already a stain on your soul for what you had knowingly done.

You were a survivor and you were smarter than your recent actions showed. You knew things about Carlos that he had been foolish enough to share in the unburdened state that came after sharing his bed. You were going to use it to your advantage and do what you did best, be the envy of every man.

You had turned your phone off when you arrived at the paddock for the race but it was going to be impossible to ignore Carlos when you were assigned to the Ferrari team. 

“Stacy, swap with me?” you begged as she waited for Charles to escort him to the grid. “Pleeeease.”

“Whatever, French boys aren’t my thing anyway,” she said with a grin before heading next door to Carlos’ side. 

“I’m not French,” Charles corrected as he stepped out of his room. “I’m Monégasque.”

“Today, you’re pole,” you said with a grin as you offered your elbow out to him. “Ready to go?”

You didn’t glance in Carlos’ direction as you accompanied Charles out onto the grid. You didn’t even have to fake enjoying the company as you found the Monégasque had a good sense of humour and made you laugh the entire way. 

From the slamming of Carlos’ car door you knew you were getting to him. Carlos’ fear was losing to his team mate and he was sick of always being compared to Charles Leclerc. 

Carefully angling the feather fan to hide your faces from the jealous driver, you leant in and wished Charles good luck for the race. To the fans, you were clearly talking, but to Carlos? He would always think the worst.

Charles was high with adrenaline when he arrived at the Bellagio after coming second place. It wasn’t the win he was obviously hoping for but you could see how happy he was with the result. 

“So, you like Charles now, huh?” Stacy whispered as she stood as you did, a fake smile on your faces as you lined the interview stage. 

You cast her a quick side glance and winked. “I don’t know what you are talking about.”

“I know why you wanted to swap, Carlos acts like a fucking baby. He practically trashed his garage after Charlotte spoke to him about something. God, I wish I could have heard what that conversation was about.”

“Hmm, me too,” you said with a sick sense of delight as the interviews wrapped up. “Oh, finally, almost time to party.”

“You must be happy, proving Carlos wrong,” you teased Charles as you escorted him back to the Rolls Royce he arrived in. 

His steps faltered and he slowed his walk as his other podium finishers drifted further ahead. “What do you mean?”

“Well, he’s been telling everyone how much better a driver he is compared to you,” you stated with a shrug. It was an exaggeration, you had overheard him complaining to his father in the garage. “But you showed him.”

“A better driver?” Charles scoffed. “He is full of shit.”

He seemed to be in deep contemplation as he walked silently, until he reached the car and turned to you. “You should come to the after party.”

Carlos had already added you to the invite list but you smiled and batted your lashes as Charles. “Are you asking me?”

He blushed and laughed at himself as he nodded. “Would you like to come to the after party with me?”

“You don’t have a girlfriend do you?”

“No,” he laughed warmly. “I wouldn’t be asking to take you if I did.”

“Then I would love to go with you.” You gave him your room number that was conveniently in the same hotel as him, since both Ferrari drivers stayed in the same one. 

You already had the perfect dress waiting in your room and as you stood in front of the mirror you had to admit you looked stunning. The red dress was tailored to your body and the plunging neckline was risque and exactly what you envisioned it to be. You couldn’t wait to see Carlos’ face when you walked into the party on his teammate's arm.

“Hey,” you greeted as you opened the door after the knock, but it wasn’t who you expected to see on the other side. “Carlos, what are you doing here?”

His jaw fell slack, lips parting, as his eyes trailed down your body. “Mios dios, hermosa.”

You held your hand out, planting it on his chest as he stepped forward to kiss you. “Woah there, buddy, not happening.”

“Why not? Why have you been ignoring me?” he asked with genuine confusion.

“I saw you fucking Rebecca last night after Qualifying.”

He looked a little sheepish as he scratched the back of his heated neck. “I couldn’t find you.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better when you call her ‘mi amor’ too?”

“I didn’t mean it, I-I was thinking about you,” his eyes widened as his voice went up a pitch. “I swear.”

You nodded sympathetically as you rubbed his arm. “Of course, like you were thinking about me when you didn’t have that chat with Charlotte. Yeah, I know you didn't, so just go back to your girlfriend.”

“But I want you,” he pouted as he bowed his head and looked up with big brown puppy dog eyes.

“But I don’t want you. Not anymore.” You gave him a push and he ceded the space in your doorway as the  elevator across the hall opened and Charles stepped out looking good in a pair of jeans and a fitted shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbow. “Hey handsome,” you greeted him with a smile as you grabbed a black clutch with your phone and money. “Perfect timing.”

“You are breathtaking,” he said after a few blinks to recover from the sight of you. He smiled as he brushed past Carlos to kiss your cheek, ignoring the Spaniard completely. “Ready to go, chérie?”

You took his hand and sent a dark smile in Carlos’ direction as you passed by. “See you around, red man.”

#This series ahhhhh #ahhhhhhhh #the toxic vibes #the angst #everythinggggg #love love love

[26sophiess]

Ooh could I request a 42 (breeding kink oops) with Carlos + maybe a touch of the jealousy/marking/lovebirds in there

bit jealous – cs55

Carlos channels his jealousy into something else.

auds here... sorry but carlos and breeding is literally perfection to me and u can't tell me otherwise....

nsfw warnings under the cut!

18+ because... penetrative sex, rough sex, use of papi (just once and sorry guys), breeding kink, unprotected sex (on purpose)

“All he said was he liked my necklace,” was your last line before you were yanked out of the bar area.

Two drinks, a car ride with his hand up your skirt, and five he’s just a strangers later, he’s turned you into a sweaty, writhing mess on the centre of your bed. Your nails scratch at the sheets for purchase, this thousands-some thread count behemoth that won’t allow you to grip it properly, so you resort to digging your fingers into the hard, sinewy muscle of Carlos’ bicep.

He’s licking shapes on the hollow of your neck, pausing only to nip at it and cause your breath to falter, his cock halfway into you. Your ankles are linked at the small of his back, quivering like the rest of you. “That’s my girl,” he breathes into your ear, rambling to get his mind off the feeling of your cunt, hot and tight around him, bare. “Doin’ real good for me, cari��o. No protection, no nothing… puta, you’re perfect.”

The praise inflates your head and you allow him to take, take, take, the feeling of his fingers at your clit, rubbing delicate circles distracting you from the stretch. “Made to take this fucking cock, yeah? Say yeah.” Yeah, you parrot stupidly, nodding. He’s huge and stretching you out, irresistible to buck up into.

“Gonna breed you tonight,” he rasps decisively, his accent causing the words to knock into each other, but you understand him of course you understand him, and you cry out a moan of affirmation. “You’re mine, cariño, all mine, gonna mark you up, show those guys there’s nothing here for them.” You’re dripping around him from his promises alone, the squelch of every thrust a welcome noise into your bedroom.

He’s always had a tiny jealous streak—the cute, endearing kind. Got all pouty when a guy approached you, a little moody when the flirting was less subtle. But you’d reassure him with a kiss, let him fuck you, call you his. This is different—this is intense. Spurred on by some asshole who let a hand slide down to your ass at the bar.

And his intent went from fucking you to something else—claiming you. And it’s exactly what it feels like, rougher, his words dirty, his cock stretching you out deliciously, each thrust punctuated by an involuntary cry. He’s louder, you’ll say, louder than you are, but also because his lips are pressed right by your ear, and every hot, damp moan is sent directly through you, getting you absolutely drenched.

He hauls himself up and presses your knees to your chest, thrusting back in at the easier angle, with the wider access. “Gonna let me breed you, baby?” He pants. “Fuck you dumb?”

“Yes, please, yes,” you goad out.

“Gonna knock you up, sí? Get you swollen with papi’s babies, yeah? Knock this pretty little—puta—pussy up?” His balls clap obscenely against your ass but you haven’t half the mind to pay attention to it, your own whimpers and moans drowning any other noise out.

“Yeah, fuck, Carlos—yeah—”

“Come on, come with me, cariño. Gonna fill you up, you gotta keep everything in for me.”

He slams into you one last time, so strong, so hard, and you’re releasing at the same time you feel spurts of his seed coat your walls. He moans at the feeling, at the way you’ve clenched tightly, gushing around him, and lowers himself back to kiss intermittently at your neck.

“Sweaty, baby,” you whine softly.

“Shut up,” he grumbles, biting at your neck until a purple inkling forms there. He smiles, a boyish grin that doesn’t scream I just bred my girlfriend, and goes, “that can be your necklace next time.”

#okay then 👀 #Horny jail for me it is

[26sophiess]

masterpiece – ln4

lando loves photographing you, but you're not as big of a fan.

genre: suggestive, fluff, comfort ig

pairing: camera shy & insecure!reader x lando

warnings: hmm none i think

author's note: okay this is veryyyy self-indulgent... i hate having pictures taken of myself. it's so freakishly scary. anyways, this story feels so random lol it has parts that i really like and then it has parts that make no sense. welp. sorry for taking so long to write these days, life is so stressful... i have so many 90% finished drafts tho, will have to just sit down one day to finish them all. hope ure all having a lovely weekend 💓

f1 masterlist

"look at me, love."

your eyelids flutter open and you regret it instantly when your eyes meet the lens of lando's camera.

of course he brought it out. when he said he needed to get something from his suitcase, you had expected something else. a shirt, a soothing balm for your sore skin, anything. but in hindsight, you were stupid not to realize that he would bring out his most prized possession.

lando has always loved photography. he loves the challenge, the thrill of getting the perfect shot, the pride he feels when someone compliments his work. he's got a need to express himself through his lens and capture the world in the most beautiful way possible. he loves the work behind it, the challenge of getting all variables to fit together.

but when he met you, he found himself standing at the feet of a new challenge.

he wants to photograph you in every angle, a photo of every expression, a memory of every second he spends with you. to him, all pictures he takes of you are gorgeous. even when your hair is all over the place, even when you're fucked silly, even with mascara stains down your cheeks, he thinks you're the most beautiful thing ever. to him, you're a treasure, a gift from above. and it's easy to photograph a goddess, he thinks; having a perfect muse just makes things too simple.

the challenge is to get you to agree with him.

you hear a couple of faint clicks from where he stands a few meters from the bed, and his giant grin is visible under his camera as he stands on his toes to get the perfect angle. your locks are splayed across your pillow and there is a slight blush on your cheeks, still worn out from your previous activities. a stream of light from the sunset escapes through the blinds, leaving a soft hue on the blanket that's lazily wrapped over your lower half. you look so peaceful, so serene, so content.

but you feel so exposed. nothing is covering your chest except for the fresh set of lovebites your boyfriend has scattered across your skin, but you feel even more naked than before the camera appeared. no matter if you're dressed or not, it's scary; you know he won't show anyone the pictures, he's told you thousands of times that they're just for his own enjoyment, but there's still something that makes your skin crawl whenever the camera is out.

you've always hated being photographed. you never thought a photograph of yourself turned out good, so you'd rather not be in any photographs at all than risk looking weird.

when it comes to lando, it's different. it's not that you're against him actually taking them and watching them himself – you trust him with your life – but you have always had a hard time looking at pictures of yourself, or even just imagining them. as someone who's always been naturally camera shy, it's always just been easier to hide than to pose.

lando pouts slightly when your hands instinctively come up to cover your face. his voice is low when he speaks. "hey, stop that."

he sits down on the bed, his camera landing in his lap as his free hand reaches for the exposed skin of your hip. when you peek at him through your fingers, he's looking out through the window, fingers absentmindedly massaging your skin. "it's getting dark already and we haven't even had dinner yet," he hums. "do you want anything special?"

"you."

the giggle that laughter from his chest is contagious, and you find yourself uncovering your face and bringing a hand up to his cheek to make him look back at you. you pull him down, your giggles mixing with his as your smiles press against each other's. your fingers rake through the short hair at the back of his neck as his hand drags further up your skin.

your lips chase after him when he pulls away, and he smiles at the sight of your lustful eyes just barely peeking out through your eyelids. "i know how you feel about photos," he starts, leaning back slightly to pick up his camera again. he navigates through the roll for a moment, and then he holds it up to you. "but this one turned out great."

you always told yourself that you weren't photogenic. but maybe, that's just because lando hasn't been the one behind the camera before.

the photo truly is gorgeous. the pink glow from the sunset gives it a filtered appearance, and you actually find yourself looking cute and cozy nestled between the covers.

lando is a great photographer, and you're always astounded by the visuals he can produce. when you see yourself through his eyes, it's suddenly so much easier to feel beautiful. and when you look over at him, taking in the way he's admiring you like you're the best thing in his life, it's so easy to feel loved.

"this one is not going on the jpg-account," you tell him, squinting your eyes at him as you give him a warning finger.

he merely shrugs, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead. "the fans would love it, though."

"lando!"

#So cute��🥹 #I also hate people taking photos of me #Don’t think I have a single photo by myself except my id one #but yes this was very lovely 🥹🥹

[26sophiess]

god knows I’ve tried // yuki tsunoda

summary: stranded at her publishers office after the battery in her car dies, there’s only one person she wants to call for a jumpstart.

pairing: yuki tsunoda x lawson!reader

warnings: self-deprecating humor, y/n is very self critical, yuki is her night in shining armour, total lack of christmas spirit, anxiety.

author's note: this resonates so personally with me and i feel so fricking attached to this story and all the people in it. please treat it kindly :)

so go on judge me by my cover, and no I’ll never have another. baby I’ve been bad, but god knows I’ve tried to be good

it's too early for damn christmas lights, she huffed to herself as she left the office, juggling the volkswagen keys that dangled from her fingertips with the large cardboard box between her arms, staring at the lights and tinsel hung up on the light poles. cursing to herself and trying not to drop anything, she fumbled for the unlock button, ready to ditch the box in her trunk.

her volkswagen golf stood solitary and alone in the parking lot, no other cars for miles. if liam was here, he'd be asking where her pepper spray was, god forbid anything happen to his baby sister.

there was only a year between them, but sometimes she swore that liam acted as if there were five.

the cold dug into her skin as she hobbled through the parking lot, trying to keep her head on a swivel as she once again asked herself why she had parked so far away from any other car. she fumbled with the trunk button (which was unresponsive a lot more than it actually opened the trunk), unceremoniously dumping the box so hard that the small red car started to shake.

she slammed the trunk shut, frowning as she ran a fingertip over the small spot of rust that had begun to form where the silver letters proclaimed to the world what kind of car she drove met the painted trunk door.

she opened the car door, slipping into the driver's seat and staring at the overhead door lights, which had not illuminated as they were intended to when the door opens.

"motherfucker." she mumbled. "i'm gonna have to replace the latch, aren't i?" this was not new. she'd had multiple issues with the car, buying it from a dealership that advertised mostly on facebook.

never again, the next car she buys will be certified pre-owned from a volkswagen dealer, not a used car lot.

the latch would need replacing eventually: it had already locked up the door and prevented her from opening her car, even after smashing the unlock button on her keys five times. she rolled her eyes, closing the door and sliding the key into the ignition.

the key turned, but the car didn't start. growing increasingly panicked, she turned the key a few more times, the same ministrations that normally started up the ten year old car.

"fuck!" she howled, slamming her hands down on the steering wheel as the engine refused to turn over again. she reached for the headlight button, feeling her stomach drop to the floor when there was no response from the headlights.

the engine battery was dead.

she was stranded, alone, in a dark parking lot at night.

it didn't get more fucked than that.

she reached for her phone, the screen providing the only light source as she fumbled for the lock button, and making sure her finger hovered steadily over the panic alarm on her keys. just in case.

who was she going to call, she wondered, scrolling through her contacts. definitely not liam, she couldn't trouble him like that. remind him that she'd always need protecting. she could call her best friend, but the likelihood that margot would know what to do was slim. besides, she was probably out with her boyfriend if she wasn't at work.

her finger hovered over a name, and she debated long and hard if it was worth it, if she was really desperate enough to ask him for help. would he come? would he consider it strange that his best friend's baby sister was calling in the middle of the night because she was dumb enough to drain her car battery?

right now, it didn't look like she really had a choice. unless she wanted to call a tow truck and be out a couple hundred bucks.

"hello?"

"yuki, it's y/n. i need your help."

when the headlights of yuki's honda civic type r lit up the parking lot, she could have cried from relief. the dead battery also meant no heat, and she was chilled to the bone, teeth chattering together as she clutched her phone in one hand and her keys in the other.

"thank god you're here!" she blurted, scrambling out of the car as yuki pulled into the parking space on her passenger side. "i didn't know who else to call!"

ah, yes. yuki tusnoda. backlit by his headlights, he looked like a guardian angel. he'd been close with the lawsons since he came to england, being practically adopted when he moved in with liam at milton keynes, like some fucked up version of a college roommate scheme.

not to mention that he was funny, hot as hell, and she never knew if his cheerful, gentle ribbing meant he looked at her as more than a friend. every time he gifted her a casserole dish of something he had cooked, or invited her out when he and liam went somewhere, she couldn't help but think that maybe he liked her the way that she liked him.

in a way that was anything but just friendly.

"didn't you just get something fixed on your car?" yuki frowned popping his car hood open and digging around in his glove box for the jumper cables.

"i changed a headlight last week. the last major thing was the driveshaft, i couldn't fix that myself, had to take it in." she frowned, lifting up the hood of her own car, using her phone light to find the battery cover. "the car is a piece of shit, but at least it's reliable. and the driveshaft was covered by the dealership since it should have been on the safety certification and wasn't."

yuki frowned, untangling the cables before he dropped them to the pavement, peeling off his puffer jacket. "your lips are blue. take my jacket. i doubt liam would like it if let his little sister get hypothermia"

"pneumonia."

"same difference."

"not really." she laughed, pulling yuki's jacket over her own thin flannel trench coat. she hated wearing a thick winter coat when she drove, relying almost entirely on her car's heated seats to keep warm without suffocating.

"if i get sick because i sacrificed my jacket for you, i should hope that you'd be the one to take care of me. you know, since it was your own fault." yuki chuckled, hooking up the cables as y/n tried to keep warm

"fuck you. i could have stayed in the car."

"the car doesn't have heat either."

oh. yeah. she forgot about that one.

"well, i could have stayed in your fancy ass sports car." it didn't matter how she phrased it, she was just trying to butter him up. on a normal day, she made fun of him for driving a honda civic, calling it a 'mom-mobile'.

with the jumper cables fully connected, they both settled into the honda to wait it out. usually, the rule of thumb was fifteen minutes, but she wasn;t sure that she could stand to be in a car with yuki for that long without doing something reckless.

she slipped out of his jacket, moving to pass it to him before he gestured vaguely to the backseat. the heated seats were on, but she could still see the puffs of air leaving her body as she breathed heavily.

"thanks for coming. i didn't know who to call."

yuki turned to look at her, turning down the volume on the radio. it was a shame, too. she was quite enjoying 'teenage dirtbag'. "why didn't you call liam?"

"pride, i think. he's always been the favourite, the one that stuck with it, the one that made something of himself. i don't need to admit to him that i need help, that i don't know things. because i do, it just sometimes takes me a little longer to get it, or i give up too quickly."

yuki frowned. "liam worries about you, you know. he doesn't like seeing you upset. and he's always been proud of you, so have your parents."

she shivered, pulling her sleeves over her hands. "it's just always been more upfront with liam. they keep telling me that i give up on things too quickly. you know, i realized the other day that i don't really have any hobbies any more. outside of paint nights with the girls, i don't paint anymore. i don't do any sports. reading is really all i do any more."

"that doesn't define your worth, you know. you've got other things going on right now that are taking up your time." yuki encouraged, fiddling with the heating dial. "hey, speaking of which, what are you doing here so late at night?"

she groaned, tilting her head back. "god, this is embarrassing." she hid her head in her hands before turning back to yuki. "promise not to laugh too hard?"

"why would i laugh at you?"

"i was picking up advance copies of my first book." she turned and looked out the window, at the empty parking lot illuminated solely by yuki's headlights. "i've spent the better part of the last two years working on it, and i'm scared i'm going to fail at it like i failed at everything else."

she felt a warm hand overtop of hers. "that's incredible. that's such a major accomplishment, y/n. why are you doubting yourself? you've made it this far."

she smiled, turning to face him. "yeah, but how many people want to read about a detective in small-town new zealand who lives in a haunted house?"

yuki raised an eyebrow. "you already have my interest."

and what great author could resist going on and on about their latest endeavor?

"okay, so it's about this detective in new zealand, she's just moved to this small town as part of a so-called promotion, but really she was desperate and only took the job because she wanted out of the city, a nice change of scenery and whatever. but after she moves in, she finds out the house is haunted and the ghosts actually end up helping her solve her first big case."

she left out the part about how there were three ghosts: one was a dead rockstar, one was a nineteen-thirties midwife and the other was a dead nun. the witty banter between the group of them was a joy to write.

"she also has a crush on this guy who lives across the street. he's an autobody mechanic, with a collection of classic cars."

who totally wasn't inspired by yuki and his gorgeous brown eyes or luscious black hair. well, her one argument was that book guy was about a foot taller than yuki was.

"hell yeah, i'd read that." yuki laughed. "or i'd watch the movie, depending on how long the book was."

y/n laughed, and it felt good. it felt like it had bene forever since she laughed. "it's a cozy mystery series, so it's supposed to make you laugh, be predictable. i took notes from agatha christie, the best of the best. i just hope that the general consumer market also sees it that way."

"i'm sure you'll do fine. as long as it's not like, five hundred pages long, i can't see why anybody wouldn't want to read it."

catching y/n's eye, yuki snickered. "it's not that long, is it?"

"no, it's just under three hundred. they made me cut the sex scenes out."

she watched yuki's eyes go wide, before she burst out laughing as well.

"i'm kidding!" she giggled. "i'm kidding, there aren't any sex scenes in cozy mysteries."

despite how warm the car was, a shiver went down yukis spine at the thought that the innocent, angelic young woman sitting next him, separated only only by the center console, had written numerous sex scenes.

“would you read it? now that you know how many pages it has?”

“yes.” yuki insisted. “of course I would. Liam’s shown me some of your novellas. you are such a good writer. a real talent.”

she yawned, leaning back against the leather seat with a yawn and a shake of her head. “if this book crashes and burns, I’ll remind you you said that. hey, would you be willing to give me a starred review to print on the back cover?”

yuki hummed for a minute, looking up at the sunroof and then back at the girl sitting next to him. “hmm, great mystery, lovely author, not enough sex and could use more descriptions of food.” he joked, playfully gripping her shoulder.

“yeah, yeah. you think you’re so funny.” she laughed, pushing his arm off her shoulder. “but I’m glad that you’re here. you make much better company than my brother does.”

yukis hand dropped to her thigh, thumb gently rubbing along her jeans. “always. any time you need me, you know I’m a phone call away.”

yeah, bust she wished he was closer than even that. and if she kept staring into his dark ocean eyes, she feared she’d do something she’d regret. something impulsive and reckless and foolish but god damn would it have felt fucking good.

“y/n, you good? you’re kind of staring into space there.” yuki frowned, waving a nimble hand in front of her face, trying to capture her attention.

she chuckled. “not space, just the dashboard lights.”

“isn’t that a meat loaf song?”

she laughed, the sound coming from so deep in her chest as she turned to look at yuki. really, it shouldn’t have been that funny. all she knew was that she really, really wanted to kiss him.

she didn’t wait, lunging across the center console, hands shaking nervously as she rested them on either side of his face, pressing her chapped lips to his.

she had to hold herself back from moaning as yuki kissed her back, his warm hand caressing her sides under her open trench coat.

his touch was soft, safe, and comforting. but it was also electric, and left her wanting more when he finally pulled away for air.

“your car is probably charged”. she said nervously, blushing pink as he wiped away the saliva from his mouth. “I’d hate to kiss and run, but you probably want to get home.”

she rested her forehead against his, laughing softly as he rubbed his thumb over her wrist. “at least take me out to dinner before you kiss me and leave me hanging.”

“it’s a little late for dinner, but how does a late night caramel sundae sound?” he suggested weakly, shrugging his shoulders. mcdonalds was hardly first date material, but he knew he didn’t want this night to end, didn’t want to risk losing this magical moment.

“you drive and I’ll follow?”

“sounds good.” yuki grinned, kissing her again. “but just let me kiss you for a few more minutes to make sure that battery is well and truly charged.”

TAGS:

@magnummagnussen @libraryofloveletters @lorarri @cartierre @sidcrosbyspuck @userlando @httpiastri @love4lando @oconso @thatsdemko

#Yukiiiiiii 🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰 #my belovedddd❤️❤️❤️❤️ #this was so cute and sweet❤️

[26sophiess]

say don't go | charles leclerc

pairing: charles leclerc x reader

based off of taylor swift's 'stay don't go' why'd you have to lead me on? why'd you have to twist the knife? walk away and leave me bleedin'

word count: 5.2k tags/warnings: slight angst, mentions of being disloyal, this is kinda sad, mention of smut i guess but blink and you miss it

You weren’t one to let your past haunt you. It was the past for a reason, it belonged behind you, all you could do was grow into a better version of yourself.

But what the hell were you supposed to do when Charles showed up at your door after six months of silence? 

It was a week into December and you were reluctantly putting up Christmas decorations because you were tired of the comments your friends made, telling you to get into the holiday spirit. Now you had the silver tinsel gripped in your hand as Charles stood on your front step, light flurries landing on his coat only to melt immediately after. 

It was the middle of the day and you lived in a crowded area, but passersby on the sidewalk and those driving past had no idea there was a Ferrari driver only metres away from them.

But no one would guess that Charles Leclerc would be travelling to Bristol during his holidays.

“What? Were you in the neighbourhood?” You asked, flicking the tinsel off of your hand and shaking off any remnants. You watched it fall to the floor before looking up, “Felt like stopping by?” 

“Can I come in?” Charles asked, glancing behind you. Was he looking to see if you had company? If you had moved on? Regardless of what, or who, he was looking for, his shoulders relaxed when he could tell you were alone. All that was behind you was cardboard boxes labelled Christmas. 

“Give me three good reasons why I shouldn't shut the door in your face,” your demand was laced with your usual sweet tone, the same one that always intimated Charles because he knew what to make of it. Never once did you raise your voice, you never yelled, never showed signs of anger. Even when you were annoyed, you always sounded calm. 

He sucked in a breath, “Well, it’s cold out.” He chuckled, but when you didn’t see any humour in his words he just nodded and moved on. “I was, in fact, in the neighbourhood- well I was in London, just figured I’d make a quick trip out west.”

Those weren’t good enough reasons and he knew it. You moved to grab the door and Charles reacted by holding his hand out to stop it from shutting, eyes trained on yours. 

His cheeks were red, not accustomed to the British winters. He wasn’t wearing mitts and you could see how his hands had responded to the dry air by cracking at the knuckles. His lips trembled, not because he was nervous but because this was probably the coldest his body temperature had dropped to in a long time. 

Which had you questioning how long he had been standing outside your door before finally knocking.

“There’s some things I’ve been meaning to say for a while now,” Charles spoke softly and you could see his breath with each word. “And you don’t need to say anything, but I’d love it if you’d listen.”

Maybe you felt bad that he was cold. Maybe you were curious as to what he had to say to you after so long. Maybe part of you still missed him and if these were the last few minutes you’d get with him, you weren’t going to let them pass.

Whatever the reason, you held the door open and he stepped inside. You watched as he ran his fingers through his hair and slid his coat off, hanging it on the empty hook on the wall. Your eyes darted down to the shoes he wore and Charles recognized that look, knowing better than to walk any further with his shoes on. He smiled, sort of, remembering the first time you asked him to take his shoes off when he entered your apartment. 

If this was six months ago, you would have had slippers waiting for him to put on, but instead Charles was left to just his socks. You, though, seemed quite cozy. The matching sweats and jumper was only a shade darker than the slippers you wore and Charles almost asked where you purchased the set from, but he held his tongue because now wasn’t the time for casual conversation.

“Tea?” You offered, glancing at the kettle sitting on the stove. It had started whistling only minutes before he showed up but you hadn’t had a second to pour yourself a cup, too caught up in trying to untangle tinsel.

“Don’t want to put you out,” he shook his head, but when you manoeuvred past him to step into the kitchen, he didn’t stop you from grabbing two cups from the cupboard. He watched, standing at a cautious distance, as you made the two drinks the same way you always did. 

Charles was brought back to the time he walked into his own flat in Monaco and you were kneeling on the counter, trying to find a suitable cup because all of his mugs were too big and bulky for tea. He held his hand to your back, worried you’d tip backwards, which you didn’t, but you were happy he was there to help you off the counter and greet you with a kiss. 

“I’ll invest in new cups,” he said. He never did.

He didn’t like the silence that lingered between you now, probably the first time it ever bothered him, so he cleared his throat, “I like your new place.”

You nodded, “Thank you.”

He glanced around at the decor and spoke up again, “So you’ve been well?”

“You don’t need to pretend to care about how I've been.”

“I do care.”

The slow yet icy stare you gave him as you peered over your shoulder had Charles wondering if showing up here was a good idea. Instead of opening his mouth again, Charles looked at the decorations littered on the floor. 

He was drawn towards the open box of ornaments that was placed on the couch. He noticed the tree in the corner, but all you had put up so far was a string of lights. Curious, he looked closer into the box and smiled to himself when he saw a vintage Formula 1 Ferrari, no bigger than the palm of his hand. He also spotted a racing helmet, but couldn’t recognize the driver it belonged to.

It wouldn’t have shocked him if the rest of this box was F1 inspired Christmas ornaments. Either ones you had purchased yourself or ones that were given to you as gifts. 

Charles was always amazed at your knowledge of Formula 1. With your father being a retired driver himself, he shouldn’t have been surprised when you swept him under the rug during a trivia night. He admired your passion for the sport and maybe that’s why when he met you in the Ferrari garage, he wasn’t as quick to judge you like he was to everyone else who had purchased VIP passes for the weekend. 

You were there for the sport, for the racing, you didn’t care who was driving the car, but you were raised to appreciate the history of the sport. Because of that, you became Ferrari fan over the last few hours, against your fathers wishes, so of course you wanted to experience the Ferrari hospitality during a race weekend. To see the cars up close, to be in the garage, to see the race from an entirely new perspective.

It was Australia, the third race of the 2023 season. It was a race that Charles tried hard to forget due to his DNF at the first turn, but there were highlights he cherished before the incident. 

He remembered standing in the garage before the first practice session and turning his head to flash a smile towards the VIP members standing at the back. He paid no attention to any of them in particular, but you stood out. The way you were so focused on the screen, taking in the Tech Talk segment that was playing on F1TV. You hadn’t even noticed Charles looking.

He saw you again the second day, closer to the front of the group before the start of FP3. You were wearing a white set, arms crossed over your chest with the headphones resting around your neck. You weren’t watching anything this time, instead you were in the middle of a conversation with a few of the mechanics. 

At first, Charles thought they were flirting with you. But when you pointed at the rear wing, lines drawn across your forehead and eyebrows pinched together in studious fashion, Charles got the hint that this wasn’t just a casual conversation. 

And then you held out your hand to introduce yourself, your once serious expression turning soft. You smiled at the mechanics as you shook both of their hands, seeming truly grateful to have met them. 

Naturally, Charles was curious as to what sort of conversation just took place. He waited a few minutes before asking Mark, the one of two mechanics who seemed to be doing most of the talking. 

“What was that about?” Charles asked.

Mark looked over his shoulder at you, but you were too engrossed in the screen again to notice the few sets on you.

“You don’t know who she is?” Mark asked. 

“Should I?” Charles glanced your way. This time, you caught it. 

You were also the first to look away.

“Damon Hill’s daughter,” Mark chuckled, probably in disbelief himself over who he just met. “She’s also got her masters in engineering. You know what she pointed out- the activation time for DRS is delayed compared to everyone else on the grid. I don’t know how she noticed it, but we’ll take a look at the data and if she’s onto something we’ll fix it before qualifying.”

Damon Hill’s daughter. The 1996 world champion. He had made a name for himself, known for being one of Schumacher's rivals during his prime. Charles knew he had kids, but didn’t know who they were. 

He wanted to introduce himself, but he waited till after qualifying. 

Was he a little taken aback when you seemed to be paying more attention to Carlos’ side of the garage at the end of the day? Maybe, but you had been watching him all weekend so far so he didn’t like the sudden change. 

His P7 starting position was nothing to be overly proud of, but the congratulations was the first thing out of your mouth when he approached you.

“Thank you,” he nodded, suddenly feeling a bit more pride now than five minutes ago. He glanced at the car and then back at you, at the VIP lanyard resting over your chest, at your eyes that momentarily had him forgetting why he walked over to you in the first place. 

You held your hand in the same polite manner you had with the mechanics and you introduced yourself as Charles shook it slowly. 

“Damon Hill’s daughter,” he stated. “I haven’t seen you around here before.”

You cocked your head slightly, “Is that a line?”

A blush crept up to his cheeks when he realised how flirtatious he sounded without trying to, “No- I mean,” he licked his lips. “I guess it could be but I wasn’t trying for that.”

“I only just graduated,” you answered his question, which wasn’t really a question. “Figured I’d watch a few races, check out a few teams before I decide if I want to dip my toe in the motorsports field.”

“Driver?” He asked, eyebrows raised even though Mark had told him what you studied. But you laughed and Charles was glad he brought up the idea of you getting behind the wheel. He could get used to your laugh. 

“Engineer,” you corrected. “To be honest, I think IndyCar might be more my thing. Plus I know Arrow McLaren is looking to expand, hire a few more performance engineers. Mind if I use you as a reference? I saw those mechanics working on your DRS set up, don’t let them take the credit for catching the activation error.”

It was his turn to laugh. He liked your humour, something else he could get used to.

“Mark mentioned you pointed it out,” Charles nodded, unable to keep from smiling. He liked the way you spoke. Not only did he find your accent endearing, but he liked how sure you were of yourself. You knew your talents, you knew what you were capable of. He admired it. 

“Good luck tomorrow,” you said, taking it upon yourself to end the conversation. You adjusted the purse over your shoulder and gave him a soft smile. “It was nice meeting you, Charles.”

And then you walked off, happily letting someone else from the team accompany you, probably an engineer. Probably someone who could match your expertise in a conversation.

Charles didn’t know when he’d see you again, but he took it upon himself to make sure it was sooner than later.

Following Australia, the drivers had a bit of a break. Almost an entire month.

It was only a few days into the break when he asked his manager to get Damon Hill’s contact information. 

Confused was an understatement when your dad called you and said ‘Tell me why I just got an unsolicited text from Charles Leclerc asking if he could have your phone number’. 

By the end of the week, Charles had flown you from Paris, where you resided at the time, to Nice. He was there at the airport to pick you up and drive you to Monaco. 

You spent that entirety of the break together. 

Charles was smitten. As were you. 

But you were cautious. 

You knew first hand that racing was at the top of his priority list. You weren’t about to get your hopes up and think that these few weeks meant anything. He just had time on his hands and you showed interest. 

However, it was hard not to fall for Charles. He treated you well when you were together. He was easy to talk to. He made you feel safe, admired, wanted. He asked all the questions he could think of to get to know you. He made you breakfast in the morning, or at least he tried to. The mornings when you woke up to the smell of burnt eggs were just as entertaining. Plus you figured you could get used to the way he wrapped his arm around your waist as you took over. The kisses he peppered on your shoulder that tempted you towards pulling him back to the bedroom.

By the time the season picked up again for round 4 in Baku, you were so used to being around him that you had to tell yourself not to be hurt that he didn't suggest you go with him.

You and Charles did a lot of things during those few weeks, but never once did you label what you were. That conversation never came up. Neither did the exclusivity talk.

He still called. He texted you daily. He treated you like you were special, but racing came before a relationship. Even your dad reminded you of that. He told you not to dwell on it, that Charles would come to his senses when he felt secure with the team, with the season. He didn’t need the support of a girlfriend, he needed the support of his team.

And then Charles informed you he was flying you out to Miami. He wanted you to watch the race again. He wanted you there. 

You didn’t accompany him to the track, but he greeted you with wide arms and the brightest grin when you showed up at the Ferrari garage. His hand stayed on your lower back for a bit as he showed you around, giving you a proper tour but when you came across Mark it was almost as if Charles passed you off. 

He said ‘Here, chat with Mark for a bit, I’m sure you’ve got some opinions about the car’ and then he walked away.

You tried not to think too much about it, maybe he had obligations, media, signings, something. He wouldn’t fly you out to Miami and abandon you the first chance he got. He was a driver, he had priorities. You weren’t one of them, not yet.

It was a difficult situation to be in. When Charles gave you his attention, he gave you every ounce of it. But when he was gone, he was gone. Distant, on his phone, sometimes he quite literally disappeared like at the end of the day on Saturday and you were left in the Ferrari garage wondering where the hell he got off to. 

But then he knocked on your hotel room door at a little after 10 and who were you to turn him away? 

Charles pulled you towards the bed, dragging you with him as he laid on the mattress. He asked about your day between the kisses he left down your neck. You answered as best as you could, but when his hands found the button of your trousers, it became a little more difficult to collect your thoughts. 

When he gave you his attention, he gave you every ounce of it. 

You had forgotten all about his disappearances earlier. They didn’t matter, he was here now. His lips trailing every inch of your skin as your back curved off the bed. You tried to remind him that he had a race tomorrow, that you both could just go to sleep if he wanted but Charles only smirked and raised his face back to yours.

He hovered his lips above yours, teasing you with a ghost of a kiss, “Ma chérie, I’m not going to sleep until I hear you scream my name.”

He kissed the corner of your lips and then trailed down towards your ear, adding a quiet, “At least twice,” to the end of the original statement. 

And Charles was true to his word. He had you seeing stars with just his tongue alone in a matter of minutes. 

Charles worshipped you, he took care of you. In a short period of time, he came to know your body and how to get the reactions he desired. He loved seeing you come undone, loving being the one to bring you to the edge and watch you spill over. 

Maybe it was a pride he was chasing, but you wouldn’t think of that possibility until it was too late.

When he climbed under the covers next to you at the end of the night, you could still make out the shape of his body, his gentle features, even in the dark. Your hand found his chest, sliding upwards until it wrapped around his shoulders, pulling yourself closer to him.

He traced his fingers over your cheek, pushing a strand of hair out of your face as he whispered, “Comment ai-je eu cette chance?” How did I get so lucky? 

That did it for you.

You weren’t just smitten anymore. You were in love. 

Another impromptu break after Miami meant you had a few more weeks with Charles before he had to give his attention back to racing. You didn’t spend it all in Monaco this time. After about a week, Charles suggested the two of you go back to your home. Back to Paris.

Paris with him was heavenly. 

The rest of the world didn’t matter when it was just the two of you together. Your days were spent taking in the city, your evenings were spent in a variety of restaurants, lounges, anywhere he could spoil you, it seemed. 

It was nearing your last few days before he had to leave when he suggested you take a midnight stroll. The weather was perfect, the streets wouldn’t be too busy. You had no reason to say no. 

And there was something about walking the streets of Paris with Charles at night, holding his hand while he spun you under his arm beneath the glow of a street lamp. The Eiffel Tower was sparkling in the distance. Charles’ eyes lit up brighter than it. 

There was something about him. About this moment. About the last few months. All of it led up to standing here with him now.

And you knew better, but that didn’t stop you.

“I love you.”

And just like that, you faded into madness. Slowly, silently, but it was inevitable. 

Charles didn’t say anything. His lips parted like he wanted to, like he thought about it, only to ultimately lick his lips and inhale a sharp breath. 

By saying I love you, you plunged a knife into your own chest, opening yourself up to vulnerability, but his silence only twisted it in deeper. 

You backed up, hand dropping from his. Was that his doing or yours? He whispered your name, but only out of pity. He didn’t love you. He didn’t love you. 

Suddenly Paris didn’t seem so heavenly.

Charles left that night. Maybe he thought you were asleep, but you heard the door swing on its hinges. You heard the wheels of his suitcase being dragged out into the hallway. You turned over in bed, despite knowing you’d find his side empty, but you didn’t think it would turn cold so fast. 

A few days later, Charles was spotted walking into the paddock of the Monaco Grand Prix, but he wasn’t alone.

Next to him, the stunning Alexandra Saint Mleux. Even her name was beautiful.

You had heard whispers that Charles and her had a history, but you didn’t think anything of it. Why would you worry yourself with speculation when he was putting you on a pedestal when you were together? 

He had a way of making you feel wanted, but you weren’t the only one who felt that way.

Did she know you two were together? That he was with you in Paris? Was he seeing both of you or did he run back to her the second you told him something he wasn’t ready to hear?

You tried to move on, really. There was no relationship for you to cling to, Charles never said you were exclusive. He just knew the right words to say to make you feel like you were. 

You flew to Indianapolis for the Indy500. A rash decision, but the further away from Monaco the better. Your connections at Arrow McLaren gave you the chance to get a closer look at the inner workings of the team, had you momentarily forgetting about Charles. You wanted to be an engineer, not the girlfriend of a driver. You told yourself to get it together.

But then you returned home and seeing the slippers you had bought for Charles had you wondering why you couldn’t be both. You would have been both if he just said something, if he just told you he loved you. 

You should have distanced yourself from Formula 1, at least for a little while. You should have turned down the invitation from a partnering brand of Ferrari, enticing you to come to Spain for the race. You should have flown back to the states, reconnect with Arrow McLaren.

Instead you found yourself in Barcelona. The entire time you were there you knew it was a mistake and if you couldn’t figure that out on your own, seeing Alexandra chat with some Ferrari team members below while you sat up above in the hospitality was a painful reminder. 

Part of you considered talking to her. You wanted to know if she was in the same boat you were- and if she was clueless, maybe give her a heads up that Charles was going to say sweet nothings to her at night only to leave her in the dark. 

But Alexandra wasn’t the one you needed to talk to.

Between practice and qualifying on Saturday, you made your way to the paddock knowing that’s where Charles would be. You walked past Alexandra chatting to someone a few motorhomes down, so you felt better knowing she wasn’t currently with him.

Luck would have it, you ran into Mark outside of Ferrari. He invited you in of course, always happy to chat about the sport with someone who appreciated it on the same level and you assured him you would, you just had to talk to Charles first.

You knocked on the door of his driver's room, not even sure what you were going to say. You were hurt, you were saddened, you were angry but you hadn't had time to think about what you would say to him when you were finally face to face again.

The door swung open and there he was. Shocked to see you, first of all, but not upset. You stood in the hallway and watched as Charles took a breath of relief, a sliver of a smile creeping up on his lips as he held the door open for you to walk in.

Your heart jolted at the idea that maybe, he still wanted you. The look he gave you was almost enough for you to forget he hadn’t said a word to you since you told him you loved him. 

Almost. 

You stepped in and leaned against the door after it shut, keeping a safe distance as he stood back against the massage table. 

Your lips parted, but before you could get a word out, his phone started to ring. You both glanced at the contact, at who was trying to get a hold of him.

Alexandra.

You swallowed, waiting until he let it go to voicemail before your timid voice filled the room. “You love her?”

Maybe Charles didn’t know how to love anyone. You’d believe it, with the way he tensed the second the word passed through your lips. He didn’t say yes, but he didn’t say no, either.

“I can’t commit, Y/N.” He tried to say, like that made up for everything. Like that’s the answer you were looking for. 

“No, you can, Charles, but not to me.” You stated, keeping your voice calm. You weren’t one to yell. Causing a scene wasn’t your thing. You were always so soft spoken. Soft spoken, but straight to the facts. “Were you seeing both of us at the same time?”

“She knows, if that's what you're wondering." Charles quickly slid that piece of information in there. “She found out- about us. Threatened to leave me if-”

“If you didn’t choose?” You raised your eyebrows. Once again, his silence spoke volume. “So did you make up your mind before or after Paris?”

Charles averted his gaze for a second, “I realised in Paris I couldn’t love you the way you loved me.”

“You probably realised that a lot earlier,” you pointed out.

Charles must have known you adored him. There was no way he didn’t see the way you looked at him, the way you worshipped him. He knew and still strung you along, making you think he could love you back if you were just patient.

“You didn’t need to lead me on as long as you did, Charles.”

“I didn’t want to lose you.”

I didn’t want to lose you, he says. Bringing light to the fact that he had you. You were his, in a sense. Despite never saying the words out loud. 

But he was never yours.

“So I was there, for what?” You asked. “As a backup? In case things with Alexandra didn’t work out?”

Charles was intimated by how calm you were. He would have preferred if you yelled at him, if you fought with him. It would make it easier on both ends to put whatever this relationship was to rest. Instead, you were serene. You came here to talk, to get answers, you didn’t come here to form a divide. 

Because if you were being honest with yourself, you weren’t ready to let go. How could you let go when you hadn’t spoken? He hadn’t given you closure, he didn’t say I don’t love you he just…didn’t say anything. 

You weren’t going to beg for him to come back, but in the far corners of your mind you were hoping that your appearance here would make him question his decision. You were banking on the idea that when he saw you, he’d remember what he saw in the first place when you met in Australia. 

If he changed his mind right now, you’d put all of this behind you. You’d stay at his side, you’d be there for him, you’d be his for real this time.

If he, once again, said nothing, you’d go. You’d go and you’d stay gone.

“I loved you,” you whispered. The past tense striking Charles more than he thought it would, but he didn’t show it. Loved. You loved him, and you still could. 

Thirty seconds passed. Then a minute. Almost two and the only thing that lingered between you was silence. Heavy, loud, painful silence. 

You grabbed the handle of the door and decided enough time had gone on. You deserved better than this, than a man who couldn’t make a decision, than someone who played with your feelings because they couldn’t figure out their own. 

The second you pulled the door back, your name fell from Charles’ lips. You were one step into the hall, halfway to gone, and he stopped you. 

All he had to do was say don’t go. All he had to do was tell you he wanted you. 

With your back still to the Ferrari driver, you waited for those next words but they never came. You knew they wouldn’t. 

That was the last time you spoke to Charles. You knew how to stay true to your word too. 

So why was he suddenly here, six months later, sitting on your couch and looking at you like he was waiting for you to say something first when you made it clear a long time ago if you were gone, you were gone.

Charles only took a sip of his tea before putting it on the coffee table. He then moved the box of Christmas ornaments, not liking the divide it put between you as if he wasn't the one to create the wedge in the first place. 

You were stupid, to speak first, but you were tired of the silence. He came here for a reason and if he wasn’t going to tell you why in the next two minutes, you were going to send him back out into the snow.

“How’s Alexandra?” You asked, not that you were interested in knowing if he was happy or thriving in his relationship. You were, however, impressed to see that he could in fact commit, but you were right about that. He just didn’t want to commit to you. 

“Do you care?” He asked in return. 

You shook your head slightly, “I do not.”

Charles smiled at your honesty. Your gentle tone didn’t match the brutal truth.

“So let’s not talk about her,” Charles said and you nodded in agreement. He shifted in his spot, glancing at the decorations, the tea, really anything but you. 

And you weren’t about to wait again, not if this was going to lead to the one thing your silence always led to. 

You sucked in a breath, “Charles if you don’t tell me why you’re here…”

He nodded, knowing that this was all on him. He was lucky enough to even be allowed into your home, and he knew you were slowly regretting that decision the longer he just didn’t get to the point. 

Charles lifted his head, eyes finally meeting yours. He even flinched, like he was trying to reach for your hand only to decide against it at the last second, relying on just his words for a change.

“I shouldn’t have let you go.”

#It’s barely 8am here #heartbreak early in the morning 😎 #that hurt😭😭😭

[26sophiess]

what doesn’t kill me (makes me want you more)

{charles leclerc x fem!reader}

in which charles needs to soothe over the horrors of the weekend with you.

written in fulfilment of the prompt, “drunken kiss / tipsy”

warnings: semi-drunk sex, face riding, fem!receiving oral and squirting, use of light degradation (“whore”) with terms of endearment (“baby girl” / “mon petit”), unprotected sex

He was a sticky fucking mess after COTA, because he’d shown up at your doorstep, hand wrapped around the neck of an already lukewarm, half-drunk bottle of champagne that he doesn’t even like, but indulges in regardless, because he doesn’t know what else he can do to stem the white hot anger that’s threatening to erupt. His eyes are glassy and dazed and his lips red and wet, and despite how ragged he looks, he’s still so irresistibly pretty. He’d leaned against the door frame and grinned at you with an uncharacteristic confidence, especially given his shitty weekend. 

“You’re drunk,” you insist, but you don’t stop him when he pushes your door open with his wide-open hand, rings glinting in the dim light. 

“Not drunk,” he insists, although his words are slurred, and the flush in his cheeks goes all the way past the open collar of his shirt. Enticing is not strong enough to describe what he is to you, so you settle for biting the inside of your cheek and shutting the fuck up. 

Charles takes this chance to saunter in like he owns the place, tipping the bottle back with a ease that’s concerning. 

“Charles,” you say, backing up into your apartment, but he doesn’t seem to hear the warning in your voice - your fear that this thing you share is starting to become more than just a casual fling. He pushes the door shut, setting the bottle down heavily on your kitchen counter - eyes trained entirely on you.

“You didn’t come to the race.” There’s a trace of hurt that you can hear in his voice, so low these days. He reaches out to trace his knuckles down your arm, the briefest of touches. “I wanted… I was hoping to see you there.”

Your heart goes out to him, because you knew how difficult it’d been - knocked down to sixth despite his pole position, and invariably ending up disqualified after being fucked over and with nothing to show for his efforts. It’s his one of the worst blows he’d suffered this year, compounding the pain he’d felt at Monaco and Spain. You take a step closer and cup his face, feeling the residue of tear-streaks on his cheeks.

“I’m sorry,” you say, and he nods, hands coming to find your waist. You don’t want to explain your distance - because how could you articulate this to him - your very real fear that he wants to keep this just a casual fling, while you’re dying to keep your feelings for him at bay.

“You didn’t miss much,” he shrugs, dismissively consigning the weekend to the part of his mind where he dumps all useless, uninspiring things. “But I missed you.”

You want to pull back, but his hold on you is so alluringly possessive. “Charles…”

His eyes flash up at you, green-gold and beautiful in the dim light. He looks so battle-worn that you can’t help wanting to bring him comfort - make him forget the sting of the weekend’s horrors.

You take his face in your hands, and allow yourself to make a quiet admission. “I missed you too.”

At your confession, Charles’ face instantly transforms - his sad smile morphing into one of relief and even, dare you say, happiness, and it’s pure instinct that makes him lean down so his lips find yours, passionate and hungry until he’s got you wrapped in his arms, holding you so close that your bodies press together without even an inch of space, and you’re both gasping for air when you pull apart, only to come back with even more searingly hot kisses because you just can’t get enough.

“Fuck, you taste so good,” he groans, and you fist your fingers in his hair, dragging his mouth back as you whine for more. 

He’s been here so many times he can practically memorise the direction of your bedroom; how many steps he needs to take to get you past the threshold, how quickly he needs to tear off your clothes (and his) before your knees hit the edge of your bed so he can fall into the soft mattress with you, rolling you over him so you can pin him down and grind into him with the wetness slicked between your legs already. He ruts up into you, hard and solid beneath. “Take whatever you want, Charles,” you gasp out, pulling your mouth from his so that you can prepare yourself to feel him slide in. 

He grips your hips, fingers tight on you as if to possess you with sheer force. “You. Want you and nothing else.”

Your heart pounds at the words he says - he’s never been this forward, this affectionate - this tender. You see the way his eyes go soft as he looks at you - or maybe that’s the alcohol buzzing through him, and he’s drunk, but you don’t let yourself get sucked in. You can’t afford this sort of heartbreak with him.

You take his wrists in your hands and pin them above his head, wrapping tight around the bracelets he perpetually has on, until he winces slightly. You stare down at him, almost smug at the way he’s trapped under you - he’s the one at your mercy. “You gonna be good for me, Charles?”

He grins. “So fucking good. Spread your legs for me.”

You lick your lips and do as he says, gliding the wet centre of your cunt along his bare cock. He makes a sound of approval, the veins of his wrists bulging as he writhes against how good it feels. “Made you all wet, huh?” He says, smug, and you kiss him instead of answering, because you don’t need to fuel his ego - he already knows how easy you are for him. You rock against him, a moan catching at the back of your throat as you manoeuvre your hips so your clit rubs gently against the tip of his cock, over and over until you’re both shaking, impatient to fuck, but neither wanting to give in.

“You’re going to come first,” he insists, even though his voice is shaky and there’s a fine sheen of sweat all over his chest that you want to lick up. “Already so close, baby, I can feel you…”

He’s not wrong, but you’re not willing to give in so easily - so you lift your hips from his cock, earning you a groan of frustration. “So damn talkative tonight,” you pretend to chide, sliding yourself up past his cock, his torso, his chest, and his eyes widen when he realises what you’re doing. “Maybe you need to put that mouth to better use…?”

He gives you a sloppy smirk, looking every bit wasted and happy-drunk. “Come here then.”

You tease him though, taking your time until he grows impatient and makes this deep growl that comes from his chest. He wraps his hands around your thighs and drags you hard, fast, up over his chest, past his neck, his jawline - so he can settle you and the ache between your legs over his mouth. Your thighs bracket his beautiful face, his eyes bright and gleaming with possibility when his mouth gets to work on you, and you moan his name, unable to stand the way he sucks your lips, your clit into his mouth, kissing and devouring like he’s a man starved. He holds you down on his face until you’re worried he’ll suffocate, but with the way he’s panting, the ease in which his mouth brings you to such ecstatic heights, you’re fuelled only by the pure need to come for him.

He makes rough sounds that will haunt your fantasies for years to come - as if he’s the one being given head instead. You bear down on him, rocking your hips in tune to his mouth’s torture, until you feel the inescapable need to come for him flood through your system. He glimpses the desperation on your face, the whimpers of “please” that fall easily from your lips, and he doesn’t change a fucking thing.

When you come, it’s a fucking mess - the rush of wet that you can’t control dripping down the sides of his cheeks, his chin. Charles keeps his eyes on you, not wanting to miss the sight of you coming for him. You’re hot all over - feeling the thrum of that molten, syrupy haze take over your body as you feel the orgasm wash over you. He moves your hips back and gently guides your body down until you’re flush to his chest, cheek pressed there while he soothes you down from your high. Your eyes are half-lidded, hazy in the afterglow.

He reaches over the side of the bed to grab for his shirt, so he can wipe his mouth, his face, tossing it to the floor once he’s done. You drag him back to you so you can press to him, bare skin against his own, and he sighs in contentment when you kiss him, threading fingers through his hair, drawing from him every last bit of anguish. His smile between kisses is such a welcome departure from his earlier despair, and you can’t resist rolling him on top of you, grinding your hips up against the aching cock you find. He groans when your hand wraps around him, the warm solid girth that fills you with an anticipation of how good he’d feel inside you. 

Charles kisses you hungrily, one hand coming to cup your face, swallowing your needy little sighs as you stroke him, feel his dick throb in your hands. “Cmon, baby,” he implores softly, “you know what I need.” His other hand wanders down your body so he can tease his fingers along your slick cunt that’s still tingly after your orgasm, and you buck against his touch, shifting away. “Still a little sensitive huh,” he grins, and you whine at him. “Okay mon petit… I’ll go a little slower.”

“No, Charles,” you practically sob out, “need you now, inside me, please.”

He sounds so smug when he says, “you think you deserve this, huh?”

You whimper impatiently, and it seems to flip a switch in him. He takes his fingers away, and before you can complain about the loss of his touch, he takes your wrists and pins you down, until you make these little simpering sounds that make him grin in satisfaction. “You don’t want to be fucked gently, do you?”

You shake your head - trembling because he’s so close to you.

“Tell me how you want it,” he says, the authority that creeps into his voice turning your skin to gooseflesh. 

“You know how I want it,” you whine at him.

He lets a slow smile spread over his face, thumbs rubbing the pulse points he finds at your wrists, which makes you squirm. “Yes. Of course. You want to be fucked like a whore, don’t you?” His accent catches on the word - turning it dirty, just like you want to be for him. 

Shit. Yeah. You feel your face grow so hot at the prospect. “Please,” is all you manage to say, when he leans down to litter kisses at the base of your neck, collecting your wrists in a singular grip and using his other hand to guide his cock inside you - and there’s no resistance when you’re this slippery and wanting and he’s got you in a complete chokehold. The slide of him inside you makes you moan - feeling your body stretch open for him to accommodate all of him. He loves to watch your face when he presses inside you - that initial feeling of being completely full of him so incomparable to anything else you’ve ever experienced.

He doesn’t fuck fair. He fucks dirty - like it’s the last time he’ll ever have you like this, thrusting into you with an intensity that you know will leave you sore and aching after he leaves. You love the reminder, the echoes of his body like a shadow that haunts you for days after. You lean up to kiss him, swallowing his moan as you wrap your legs around him and feel your body lose all sense of control. This sacred space of messy sheets and sweaty bodies is the only place you allow yourself to surrender fully to him - to be his entirely.

“I should’ve known why you didn’t come to the track,” he says in that teasing tone which drives you mad, “you were playing coy with me, weren’t you?”

You play along, leaning up to kiss his mouth as you make a non-committal sound in the back of your throat. “Maybe I was just busy.”

He laughs, sinking back into the kiss. “No. You just wanted to make me miss you, didn’t you? Make me crazy wanting you.”

Your little giggle is all he needs to switch things up a little, becoming just the tiniest bit more aggressive and wild with you. The snap of his hips inside you, that subtle change in angle hits against this spot inside you that makes you jolt up, struggling to keep your composure against his tight grip. “If you’d wanted me to come fuck you like this,” he chides, “you could have just asked.” 

His eyes twinkle with amusement when you give him a pointed look as if to say, but if I’d had to ask…

He half laughs, half pants with a wild streak in his eyes. “I know; I know. Fuck.” 

You take the chance to wriggle out of his grasp, reaching behind the expanse of his back and running your nails down from the back of his neck, past the long stretch of his broad plane of muscles. He jerks against the sensation, half grimacing, half grinning. “So good for me,” he says, a tenderness underscoring the rough timbre of his voice, and you can’t help squeezing around him - the sweet stretch his cock makes in you, how full you feel of him. The telltale signs of tension coiling inside you is powerful, and you’re helpless against it. 

“Charles,” you whimper, “I’m so close.”

“Good,” he hisses in turn, learning down to kiss along the soft slope of your neck, letting his teeth run erotic little paths down your skin - the gentlest scrapes driving you mad. You get so sensitive there, and he knows it - loves making you crazy for it. Your fingers tighten along his back, holding him closer to you, and he moans your name like it’s the most precious thing he’s ever allowed to roll off his tongue. “Tell me,” he utters, hot breath at your neck, “when you need to come.”

You squeeze your eyes shut as he continues to kiss at your neck, amplifying the pleasure twofold - a thousandfold. Your nails grip into his back and leave moon-crescent imprints there, but all he does is fuck you harder, to the tune of your groans, your pleas for more, Charles, and harder, please. He pulls his face away from your neck so that he can watch the pure ecstasy bloom across your face - the frenzied quality in your eyes, how swollen your mouth is with the taste of him - and he can’t help leaning down to kiss that mouth that has secretly always been his. You kiss him back eagerly - tenderly slipping your tongue into his mouth to glide over his own, feeling the vibration of his approving hum, until it’s too much - you have to pull away.

“Charles, I’m-“ but you’re too late, unable to complete the sentence before the orgasm rips right through you, making your body a quivering, helpless mess for him. Your nails sink in roughly and he groans with delight, pumping his hips into the spasms of your cunt until he, too, is lost to the sensation of his own orgasm. He chants your name, breaking apart above you with his own forceful shudder, daring to press his flushed skin taut against you as he slumps over, trapping you under his weighty, spent body. You rake your nails across his oversensitive skin, hearing him make satisfied little noises that sound like a purr. 

You catch your breath, unable to resist pressing your nose into the salt-sweet scent of his skin after sex - musky and perfect and all him. He makes the move to shift away from you, but you tell him, “no. Stay on me a little longer. Please.”

“But I’ll crush you, baby girl.”

“Don’t care,” you say, not wanting to let him - to let the moment go just yet. 

He just hums, eyes growing heavy and sleepy already. You kiss a sweaty curl of his hair and quietly urge him to sleep, and the lull of your heartbeat, the heat of your bodies entwined, is exactly the kind of consolation he needs after such a terrible weekend.

-

this is a little all over the place, but I’ve been stuck in a rut for weeks and thought I’d release this piece to get the momentum going again. I’ve been sitting on this semi-finished piece for weeks now, just never quite getting it right, but also coming to the conclusion that I’ll probably never get it fully right, and that’s okay! hope it brought some catharsis to the heartbreak of this weekend 💛 I know it did for me.

sending love, ives

#This is EXACTLY what I needed after this horrendous race weekend 🥰🥰🥰🥰 #I mean what I ACTUALLY needed was for this exact scenario to happen to me #but it’s like this #This made me feel all mushy (and horny) for sad charles #if Ferrari can constantly fuck him #why can’t I?? #Sitting on Charles’ face wouldn’t fix his problems #but it would fix mine