#Corruptio | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

russellrustles · 2 years

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CORRUPTIO MORUM - c. leclerc

a/n: Is this an au? I suppose that this may count as me just indulging in my rich bf, borderline sugardaddy charles fantasies, but I can’t be the only one with such thoughts. besides, charles + dogs = yes. as usual, massive thanks to the wonderful proofreader p @f1tingz.

warnings: alcohol, swearing, charles is kind of a cocky asshole at times

word count: 9.8k

summary: from the very first time he enters the restaurant, you can’t help but be intrigued by him. luckily for you, the attraction goes the other way too.

masterlist

corruptio morum playlist

money is the reason we exist, everybody knows it, it’s a fact (kiss, kiss) - national anthem demo, lana del rey

——————————

There are some, who, one may say, deserve their riches. They are those who spend their lives clawing through the ranks, backs aching and bones creaking under the weight of responsibilities and societal pressures to achieve success. The effort that they pour into their work one day pays off, and the only thing left to determine their righteousness is how they handle their newfound luxuries.

Perhaps others are born into a lavish life. Yet not all allow their perspectives to be clouded by the idea of how easy it is to live comfortably and turn a blind eye to those around them, instead proving themselves to be benevolent individuals - or, at the bare minimum, not ignorant to the world’s troubles.

Then, on the other hand, there are those who are born sinners. Avarice runs in their blood and words of lust are on their tongues, they’re manipulative equivocators with an animalistic hunger for more, more, more. It is people like this who are undeniably, irrefutably unredeemable, rotten at the core and unfixable, too consumed by their own desires.

But, in reality, you find the equation regarding the entire subject of wealth to be rather simple: money plus power equals moral corruption.

It’s difficult not to ponder over the matter when you have to watch people ebb and flow through the restaurant, and you wonder how a place so full of people can feel so lifeless at the same time. In a way, those entering and leaving seem two-dimensional, lacking personality, with their only defining traits being their elegant fashion sense and dismissive nature towards the restaurant staff. But, at the end of the day, if you’re earning money for serving them then you’re in no position to complain.

There is nothing particularly unique about tonight. It’s just another evening of rushing around the opulent building, carrying around plates and bottles of wine, and putting on a forced, deferential tone whenever you serve a table.

What does catch your eye, however, is a group of rather rowdy young men sitting around a large table by the windows. Someone else has already given them their meals, but they’re still teeming with an amount of energy that you rarely see here, laughing loudly and slamming their fists against the table, consequently occasionally earning dirty looks from other diners.

However, you have other, more important things to do than stare at this group of men, so you hurry past them and towards a different table, only giving them a fleeting glance as you go by.

After having taken the orders of an older couple, you rush away to a staff-only corridor. Leaning with your back to the wall, you savour the quiet moment, even if you know that in just a minute or so you’d have to go back to work.

You don’t really find there to be a massive amount of negatives about your job - the pay is rather good, the hours aren’t excessive, and you get along with the other people on your shifts with minimal complications. Typically, the patrons of the restauarant are rather tolerable too, albeit snobby.

But, on a bad day, you may end up unlucky enough to serve a table of supercilious customers, who seem to think that they are God’s gift to the world. On such days you sometimes question why you even stay in Monaco.

A shout of your name from the entrance to the corridor abruptly brings your attention to the man currently in charge of your shift. He stands in the entryway, rather imposing despite the fact that you know he isn’t usually one to lose his temper. “Hey, Julie is refilling the wine glasses at table twenty-seven but there’s a lot of them at that table. Go out and help her, hurry up - she’s already got two bottles,” he instructs.

You immediately give him a quick nod and rush past him, relieved that he hadn’t told you off for hiding away for a second. However, as you make your way back into the high-ceilinged room with all the tables, you’re hit with a realisation that makes you groan internally.

Table number twenty-seven. The table by the windows. The table with all those noisy men.

You begin to pray that their manners are better than their behaviour.

When you approach the table it seems that your prayers may have been answered - or at least partially so. Their little clique has quieted down enough to stop attracting the attention of people sitting around them, but in exchange for not bothering those nearby they’ve clearly shifted their focus onto poor Julie.

Plastering on a fake polite expression as you go to stand next to her, you hear how some of the obnoxious guys are asking her for her number and questioning which of them she’d rather go on a date with whilst whooping with laughter. You give her a quick, surreptitious smile of sympathy before grabbing the other bottle of wine, applauding yourself for your self-restraint as you refrain from pouring it over the mens’ white shirts.

On the other side of the table, there’s two men who are quieter, almost silent, as they just observe what their companions are doing. You can’t really tell if they’re watching on in interest or disapproval, or whether they’re keeping their mouths shut simply because there’s no way that Julie would hear them over the ruckus that the others are making.

Much to your dismay, it turns out that it’s because of your third theory.

The first man whose wineglass you refill actually isn’t terrible - in fact, you may dare to call him pleasant. You stand between the two of them, and once you finish refilling the wineglass of fhe first man, he looks up at you with a dashing smile.

“Thank you,” he says simply, and you quickly pick up his charming French accent, yet don’t pay too much attention to it as it is obviously common in the region. Returning a smile and giving him a courteous nod, you turn to serve the second man, before a comment from the first stops you.

“That’s a lovely necklace you’ve got, darling,” he compliments you, and you’d be lying if you were to say that you don’t blush a little - it’s not like you can deny that the Frenchman is rather attractive, a pleasant face to rest your eyes upon in comparison to the usual aged diners.

You look down at the delicate jewellery around your neck, a golden chain with a teardrop ruby pendant that stands out against your black work attire, and bashfully fiddle with it. “Thank you, sir,” you respond quietly, before dropping the pendant and getting back to the task at hand.

The second man, however, is a little less tactful.

You hear him say, “Let’s take a look at that,” and reach his hand up towards the necklace, before stopping at the very last second. “May I?” he asks, and despite being shocked by his bluntness you absentmindedly nod, just wanting this all to be over so that you and Julie can leave this table behind as soon as possible.

With a delicateness that you hadn’t previously expected, he holds the pendant between his fingers and examines it for a few seconds before adding his opinion to the conversation, “Oh, yes, this really is a beautiful one.”

His accent is music to your ears, and you allow yourself to take a look down at him and make eye contact. And, by God, what a mistake that is - he meets your gaze with stunning green eyes, perfectly complimenting his slightly ruffled, brown hair. There’s some light stubble on his face too, and despite his expression being rather cocky, there’s still something quite alluring to it.

Don’t you dare get the hots for some spoiled brats, you scold yourself. As enticing as it all seems, you’ve heard all the stories of how relationships with overgrown daddy’s boys tend to end in heartbreak.

“So, does the pretty girl have a taste for expensive jewellery?” the man asks you, and you cringe slightly at what you assume to be a poor attempt at flirting. Maybe you’re hearing things, but you’re pretty certain that the Frenchman beside you laughs a little at his companion. Yet, you hold yourself together and give a calm response of, “Not exactly, sir. It was my grandmother’s.”

His eyebrows quirk up a little at the sound of your voice, undoubtedly picking up on the way it stands out in comparison to the sound of the locals’ accents. He then gestures towards his wineglass and you take it as a cue to refill it.

“You’re not from around here, are you?” he asks with an amused lilt to his voice. You shake your head, continuing to fill up his wine glass.

“So, where does a girl like you come from?” he continues to question you, seeming to see it as some form of entertainment, allowing himself to use those scrambling around him to provide services as a way to kill time.

You nervously bite your lower lip, taking a deep breath as you consider your answer. After a few more seconds of silence, your reply comes as, “Nowhere of any significance.”

Subtly trying to catch a glimpse of his reaction in the periphery of your vision, you pray that your inconclusive answer hasn’t displeased the man - patrons of restaurants such as this one have a reputation for getting easily offended, and consequently petty. However, when you finish pouring the wine and turn to make eye contact with him, you see nothing but a mischievous, borderline dangerous, glint in his eye.

With a devilish smirk, he says, “Mysterious. I like it.”

There’s no response within your mind that would be adequate for such a comment. Today is not the day to divulge into your past, and upon seeing that all the glasses on the table have been refilled, you just hold the wine bottle tighter, give a polite nod, and walk away.

—————

It takes a few days for the brown-haired man to return, but this time when he comes to the restaurant he’s alone.

You watch from a distance as he’s led over to a small table in a secluded section of the restaurant and handed a menu. Perhaps he hadn’t made the best first impression a few days ago, yet you still can’t help but look at him with evident interest. He just seems to have a wicked charm to him, a suave and sophisticated air that screams both ‘you’d be in for the time of your life with me’ and ‘I’d break your heart just to watch it shatter’.

You don’t allow yourself to mull over your thoughts regarding him for too long. Instead, you make your way over to a different table on the other side of the restaurant and gather up the empty plates. Whilst heading back towards the kitchen, you cross paths with Julie, who’s precariously balancing plates in her hands.

“Hey, one of the guys from that noisy table a few days ago is back,” you quickly tell her as she walks in your direction. It’s not really key information, but you find that she might just be interested in knowing.

She stops walking and turns to face you, “Which one of them is it?”

“Brown hair, green eyes, a bit of stubble.”

Julie rolls her eyes sarcastically and laughs, “What an incredible description, it most certainly rings a bell.” You start laughing a little too - it’s not like you really know enough about the man to describe him properly.

Just as you see her about to start talking again, the thunderous footsteps of your shift manager cut Julie off. He comes to a stop beside the two of you and Julie quickly heads off towards the main part of the restaurant, leaving you alone with the shift manager.

He’s got an apologetic expression on his face, which bewilders you a little until he begins speaking, his words rushed, “Table sixteen, young gentleman in a suit. He requested to be served by ‘the girl with the ruby necklace’ and I assume that would be you.”

Perplexed, you frown a little but say nothing.

The shift manager goes back to his rambling, “Look, I’m sorry, I know it’s odd. If you’re uncomfortable with it then I can just straight up say no-“

“I’ll do it.”

Table sixteen and a man in a suit. That would be the guy from a few days ago. It’s a weird situation, there’s no denying that, but if all it encompasses is just taking his order and bringing out food then it doesn’t seem to be too terrible of a task.

“Weird rich people shit, I suppose,” you add, shrugging your shoulders. There’s no doubt that they have the potential to act entitled at times.

“Well, thank you. Let me know if you need anything. I’ll take those too,” he replies, taking the plates from you before leaving to presumably take them to the kitchen. You take this as your cue to saunter over to table sixteen, digging a pen and a small notepad out of your pocket as you go.

You debate whether to bring up his peculiar request, but in the end you decide against it. Perhaps it’s better just to not acknowledge it. Taking a deep breath, you cross the last few metres towards the man, who seems very focused on the menu.

“Good evening, sir. Are you ready to order?” you politely greet him, flipping to a clean page in the notebook.

He looks up at you immediately, donning a bright grin and meeting your gaze. “Ah, good evening,” he replies cheerfully, “Yes, I would say that I’m ready to order, but I’d like some advice.”

Nothing out of the ordinary so far, much to your relief.

Smiling back at him, you ask, “What can I help you with, sir?”

“Well, I can’t exactly pick something - what would you say is your favourite thing here?”

It takes you a few seconds to process what he’s asking for and to form a reply. It’s not like you can’t afford to eat here - sometimes you decide to treat yourself on a birthday or another important date - but you just don’t see the point of spending so much money on a single meal when you could have a few days’ worth of groceries for a similar price.

“I’d definitely recommend the salmon,” you tell him. To be fair, out of all the things you’ve tried here, it’s probably your favourite. You don’t have too much time to think of an answer to the question anyways.

“Perfect, I’ll have that then,” he replies, before breaking off eye contact and looking back at the menu. A tiny poignant pang hits you once his attention isn’t on you anymore, but you remind yourself that you’re just a waitress and this man is a stranger.

“Would there be anything else with that? A drink, perhaps?” you continue to stick to your professional script and tone of voice.

“No, no - no drinks. I’ll sort that out later,” he mumbles, waving you away and so you turn to relay the order to the kitchen, a bit hurt by his sudden bluntness. Maybe he can brag about his wealth or perhaps even looks, but definitely not about his manners.

However, just before you start walking away, he grabs your attention again, “Actually, wait. Add a risotto to that.”

“Of course, sir.” Maybe he’s feeling a bit hungry today. Or, maybe he knows that the portion sizes are rather ludicrous.

Before you turn away for the second time, he gives you an awkward, rather poorly executed wink, and you have to stifle your giggles as you walk away.

You stand around outside the kitchen whilst waiting for the dishes to be prepared, unsure if you should be serving anyone else after the ad-hoc reservation of your services. Luckily, the other waiters and waitresses are obviously handling everything well and the restaurant isn’t particularly busy tonight.

It doesn’t take too long for the food to be plated, so you grab each dish in one hand and quickly go back over to table sixteen, where the man greets you with another warm smile.

“Here’s your food, sir. Where would you like me to put each plate?” It’s a stupid question, you know that, but he’s sat at a small table for two so you decide that the safest option is to simply ask where he wants everything, because you must admit that you’re slightly worried about what the consequences of upsetting this man would be.

“I’ll have the risotto, and why don’t you place the salmon in front of the other seat and eat with me?” he calmly states, pointing at the seat opposite him.

What the hell?

You’re not exactly sure what’s going on anymore. Does he just want some company? Why is he letting you eat food that he’s paying for? Is there some ulterior motive behind all this?

In a slightly panicked voice, you begin trying to explain the situation from your point of view, “Sir, I do admit that I’m not sure if I’m allowed-“

“Oh, stop it with the ‘sir’ thing,” he groans, rolling his eyes, “call me Charles.”

You hurriedly nod, unsure how to handle this - after all, you’d never even imagined a situation like this occurring, “I apologise, I didn’t mean to-“

“Quit it with the formalities too,” Charles cuts you off again.

This time, you don’t reply. He’s stumped you once again, just like he had done a few days ago. You simply stand at the side of the table, feeling completely out of place, as he picks up his cutlery. After a few seconds of silence, he looks back up at you and his eyes suddenly go wide with realisation, as if he’s had an epiphany of sorts.

“Oh my God, now that I think of it, I must have sounded like a creep,” he blurts out, and this is the first time that you’ve seen a crack in his cool demeanour.

You know you really shouldn’t, but you give him a tiny nod in confirmation. Maybe he hadn’t exactly seemed creepy, but his sudden order had definitely been shocking and demanding.

“I need to clarify that I didn’t mean it like that,” he starts to explain, “maybe think of this as a dinner date of sorts? Only if you’d like to, of course.”

Charles appears to be completely unfazed by what he’s just said, but your brain feels entirely frazzled, straining to keep up with the sudden overload of information.

A dinner date?

Partly, you feel excited at the fact that Charles clearly has some degree of interest in you. On the other hand, by getting into anything with him you’d be playing a dangerous game.

“Charles, you do know that there are better ways to ask somebody on a date? Now I’m going to have to explain to the shift manager why I’m eating, not working,” you lightly chide him, dropping the formal language per his request as you take a seat opposite him.

“I’m sorry, I’ll make it up to you, I promise,” he tells you, not sounding very apologetic at all but still throwing you another clumsy wink as appeasement. Yet, quite honestly, what you’re paying attention to is the fact that he’s finally used some manners, even if it is just a simple ‘sorry’.

You don’t allow yourself to take a look behind you in the direction of the kitchen, deciding that for this short moment you’ll just live in blissful ignorance of your job and responsibilities. Most certainly, your shift manager won’t be happy in the slightest, but that’s a problem that future you will deal with.

And so, with slightly trembling hands, you begin to eat.

The meal passes mostly in silence, with you stepping back and allowing Charles to control the situation. He stays quiet, just focusing on his food, occasionally taking a look at you and smiling. Perhaps if he’d start talking then so would you, but considering the bizarre premises of the situation you settle for following his lead.

You’re beginning to regret taking a seat as you both near finishing your food, starting to wonder if Charles has a deficiency in any romance related skills. He’s charming, that’s for sure, but you’re still feeling nervous and his silence is making you question if he perhaps changed his mind and doesn’t want you here.

In the end, you can’t bear the silence anymore.

“Would you like me to take the plates back and get a drink for you?” you ask him, needing a break from the situation to regain your composure and get over the initial awkwardness.

For the first time since you sat down, he speaks, “Oh, that would be lovely. Any recommendations for some good red wine?”

Unlike the food in the restaurant, the wine is a luxury which you do not allow yourself to indulge in. An occasional meal as a treat is one thing, but spending a significant proportion of your weekly wage on overpriced wine is a completely different matter.

“Sassicaia, of course,” you joke, naming the first wine on the menu that comes to mind despite never having tasted it, only pouring it into the glasses of others.

“Brilliant, I’ll take that.”

To be fair, you’re a little taken aback, not really expecting him to take you seriously.

“Alright, I’ll bring a glass out for you when I come back,” you slowly respond, a little uncertain as to whether he’s being fully serious or just going along with the joke.

As you start getting up and taking the empty plates from the table, he starts speaking again, “Bring the whole bottle and two glasses.”

Shocked at his profligate nature, you look up from your task of gathering cutlery and look right at him.

“Why a bottle, and why two glasses?” you question him, completely putting aside the formality that you’re supposed to adhere to at work.

“So that we can have a chat. I don’t really like talking whilst eating, you know?” is his straightforward response.

You feel like you’ve definitely overstayed your welcome at the table, first having eaten a meal that he ordered and now being offered wine with a ridiculous price tag.

“Charles, that’s ridiculous, you can’t be ordering all this stuff with the intention of me also having some when you don’t even know me,” you ramble, exasperated. To a degree, you’re starting to feel that maybe you’re taking advantage of his generosity without really intending to.

“Well then, how about I get to know you while we have a drink?” he says with that signature smirk on his face, “You can start by telling me your name, seeing as you already know mine.”

Quickly introducing yourself, you turn around with the plates and start walking away to get the wine, hearing an entertained chuckle from behind you as you leave. You tell yourself that you’ll be going home in thirty minutes anyways, so a glass or two of wine won’t hurt.

Despite that, once you’ve gotten rid of the empty plates and gripped the bottle of wine firmly in both hands, you find your shift manager, apologise profusely, and ask for him to say that you had stopped working an hour early or so. Perhaps it’s a little excessive, but you haven’t really been working for the better part of the last hour, and you also don’t want to get into trouble for drinking wine on the job.

When you return to Charles, you’re hesitant to pour the second glass of wine, but he insists. Once you’ve sat down, he gently pushes the glass towards you, slightly raising his eyebrows in encouragement. Tentatively lifting the glass to your lips, you take a sip and so does he.

“So, I suppose that you’re still not going to tell me where you’re from?” he begins, placing down his glass and leaning back in his chair.

“Nuh-uh,” you confirm. You had put so much effort into leaving everything behind that you don’t want to give anything even the slightest of chances to resurface from the depths of your memory. “What about you, though? Did you move here from France or some place like that?”

He rolls his eyes and takes another sip of his wine, “Oh, mon ange, don’t do this to me. I’m monégasque, born and bred.”

You giggle slightly at how he got offended and he scoffs a little, but in good humour.

The wine continues to flow and so does the conversation, proving to get easier and more light-hearted as the supply of wine depletes. Yet, as the evening draws to a close, the questions get a little more serious.

“I know you won’t tell me where you came from, but how about you tell me why you chose Monaco,” he says, slightly demanding, pushing for more information. You don’t give him an immediate reply, carefully considering how to disclose just enough information to satisfy him but not give too much away. Gingerly, he moves his hand across the table to touch yours, tracing delicate patterns on your palm.

“I just needed a change,” you carefully begin to explain, “An old friend of mine has an apartment in Monaco, but she moved abroad for uni and said I could stay at her’s in exchange for making sure the apartment stays in good condition until she returns.” Concluding your brief summary, you start to gently rub Charles’ hand with your thumb.

“How long until she comes back?” he asks, pouring out the last dregs of wine from the bottle with his free hand.

With a sigh, you tell him, “She finishes her studies this year. I suppose that I’ll just go back home when she does.” You had never thought ahead into the future far enough to plan what you would do after her return, but none of your potential options really seem appealing. The two most feasible choices are either to return where you came from or move abroad again and start from square one once more.

You look him right in the eyes as you finish your final glass of wine before placing your other hand on top of his, fiddling with his bracelets. He doesn’t seem to have much to say in response to your explanation, his eyebrows furrowed in deep thought.

The two of you fall into a comfortable silence, fondly holding each other’s hands and occasionally taking a quick glance at the other. However, eventually your long working hours catch up to you and you can’t help but yawn.

“Tired, mon ange?” Charles asks, an amused grin on his face.

You nod slightly, wiping your watery eyes with the back of your hand like a grumpy, sleep-deprived child.

“Let’s get you home, then,” he suggests, and you’re in no position to argue despite the fact that as the evening has gone on you’ve started to grow fonder and fonder of Charles, and you’d rather not leave him yet.

He pays for everything, despite your argument of ‘I had some of it too, so I should at least pay for part of it’ and leaves a hefty tip, saying that it’s indirectly apologising to the staff for stealing you away from your job for an hour.

The only time Charles allows you to leave his side is when you grab your bag from the break area in the staff-only part of the restaurant. He leads you out of the building and down the front steps with a hand on your lower back, surely providing an interesting sight for those watching: a man in a full suit with a woman in black jeans and a plain t-shirt.

He stops you once you’ve reached the bottom of the stairs, turning you around so that your chest is against his.

“Where is this apartment of yours? I’ll give you a ride home,” he offers, moving a few strands of hair off your face as you look up at him.

You can’t allow him to do that - he’s already paid for your meal, so getting him to drive you home definitely feels like taking advantage of his generosity, especially because you have nothing to offer in return.

“Charles, no, I’ll walk home, it’s fine,” you say firmly.

“No, no, I insist,” he replies, digging around in his pocket for something, presumably his car keys. You let out an exasperated sigh and grab onto his forearms, ceasing his search.

“It was lovely to spend the evening with you, but I’d rather walk home. I don’t want to be a hassle,” you explain, feeling slightly guilty at how crestfallen he suddenly looks.

Before he gets a chance to interject, you lean towards him, whispering, “Thank you,” and giving him a quick kiss on the cheek, then turn away and start walking home.

—————

The third time you see him is while you’re admiring a black Ferrari with white and red stripes that’s parked outside the restaurant. You’re finally heading home after a tiring shift, your mood completely ruined after some lady had become absolutely apoplectic because she thought her food was taking too long to arrive, as if you had any influence on how long it had taken to cook.

Even though you’re eager to head home, you slow down a little as you walk past the sleek black car. It’s certainly very common to see stunning cars in Monaco, but this one particularly suits your taste.

Just as you’re about to speed up again and hurry home, somebody yells your name from behind you and the voice is delightfully familiar.

You turn around to see Charles rushing down the street towards you, seemingly elated, holding a small bag in one hand. He’s dressed more casually today but he still easily keeps his air of elegance.

Taking a few steps towards him, you wait until he catches up to you, unsure whether you should talk to him again or straight-up run away from both him and the conflicting feelings that are beginning to develop within you. Realistically, the chances of this all going wrong are higher than the chances of a happy ending, but he’s so endearing that it’s difficult to resist him.

He immediately grabs you in a hug, kissing your cheek before taking a step back.

“Who would have thought I’d see you here again?” he jokes and you scoff.

“I should get a restraining order against you, seeing as you’re continuously coming to my place of work like this,” you respond in a jocular manner, making him laugh a little.

“I just wanted to see you, mon coeur, but I have another idea too - how about next time I take you somewhere with me, instead of us being here?” he suggests, a hopeful look in his eyes.

You pretend to consider it for a second, before conceding, “I suppose I just might be willing to do that.”

He smiles excitedly before passing over the small bag, “I also got you this because I said I’d make it up to you after seeming like a creep last time.”

You giggle a bit, both in response to what he just said and to hide your slight confusion at suddenly being handed a gift. Reaching into the bag, you pull out a box that fits in your palm, and upon opening it you discover a breathtaking pair of gold earrings with shining rubies.

“Charles, what the fuck?” you gasp. You’re not sure what you had expected, but you certainly hadn’t had a pair of earrings in mind.

“They match your necklace.” He grins like a fool, obviously very pleased with himself for having thought through the gift like that, “Do you like them?”

“Yes, of course I do, I just… I wasn’t really expecting it. Thank you so much, though, you’re wonderful,” you tell him, trying to work out how you could possibly show your gratitude to him.

Before you can come up with a conclusive answer, however, he kisses you on the cheek again before whispering, “I’m glad you like them. Now, how about you give me your number so I can tell you where we’re going and when?”

Two late night call and endless text message filled days later he knocks on your door at exactly seven in the evening and you open it to see him holding a luscious bouquet of hyacinths interspersed with a few pale roses. You quickly greet him and invite him inside, taking the bouquet and struggling to see around it as you grab a vase.

“It’s really lovely, thank you Charles,” you tell him before hurrying over to grab your bag and put your high-heeled shoes on.

You see him standing in the corridor, closely examining a framed photo of you aged around eighteen sitting on a sofa with a dog next to you. “This is cute,” he says, pointing at the photo, “Are you a fan of dogs, then?”

“Absolutely love them,” you say with full certainty, “I wish I could have a dog here to keep me company, but I’m not sure if that’s okay seeing as it’s not my apartment,” you add, slightly dejected. Obviously you have quite a few friends here in Monaco, but on some days you just wish you could have somebody to keep you company in your desolate-feeling home.

Charles gives a small thoughtful hum as you fumble around to grab the keys to the apartment. “Are you ready to go?” you ask him, opening the door. He gives a quick nod and the two of you head out the door.

Much to your surprise, just a few metres away from the entrance to the apartment complex, the black Ferrari that you had admired outside the restaurant a few days ago is parked. Charles confidently strides towards it and opens the door on the passenger side, waving you over to come towards it.

“Oh, damn, this is yours?” you ask, slightly astounded at the wonderful little coincidence, “I was taking a look at it outside the restaurant a few days ago.”

“It’s my pride and joy,” he tells you, smiling warmly as you sit down, taking extra care not to scratch anything with your heels. He leans in and does your seatbelt up, giving your thigh a small pat before standing back up to his full height, closing the car door and doing an awkward half-jog half-walk over to the other side of the car.

There’s a bit of small talk in the car, but for the most part you just enjoy the sights of Monaco as you drive through the streets. However, you do have one question that you desperately want answered, “So, you said it’s a bit of a meet-up with some of your friends, but what exactly is it?”

You’re praying that it’s nothing overly formal, worried that you’ll be underdressed in a simple black dress, or that it’s not anything that requires too much running around or movement either, unsure of how your clothing would hold up in that sort of situation too. Charles himself is dressed rather formally, so you’re starting to feel a little uncertain about what you should expect.

“It’s a party,” he tells you, not taking his eyes off the road.

“A party of what sorts?” To a certain extent, as foolish as it seems, you’re expecting it to be an opulent event in some fancy hall with glasses of champagne and polite, forced giggles, but something about Charles’ smirk makes you think that your theory isn’t quite right.

“You’ll see.”

He parks the car on a random street, offering his hand as he helps you out and leads you down the street. “The party started like two hours ago, so I’m pretty certain that there won’t be any parking spaces closer to it anyway,” he explains to you as you weave through alleys and between buildings in the darkening evening light, “Besides, I much prefer arriving when the party’s already in full swing.”

You nod along, clinging onto his hand with both of yours as he continues to guide you, only slowing down when a deep blue pair of heels in a shop window catch your attention. In the reflection on the glass, you see Charles moving to stand behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist and resting his chin on your shoulder.

“I can come back tomorrow when the shop opens and get those for you, if you want,” he whispers, slowly moving his hands lower.

Your attention immediately shifts from the shoes back to him. “Charles, are you insane?” you scold him, moving out of his grasp and continuing to head in the direction you had previously been walking in, “You’ve only known me for a few days, pull yourself together.”

“Let me spoil you,” he whines, following you down the street and clumsily trying to grab your waist again but you don’t allow him to do so, swiping at his hands despite his protests.

After a few more minutes of this back and forth squabble, you finally give in and let his hands settle on your body, hearing him give a satisfied hum. It doesn’t take much longer after that to reach your destination, and Charles opens the grand double doors and encourages you to take a step inside.

It turns out that you had been right about the party being in a hall of some sorts, but beyond that you hadn’t predicted anything else correctly. The hall is a stunning example of Belle Époque architecture with high ceilings, light colours and intricate designs scaling the walls and ceilings.

Yet, within the realm of the hall, the atmosphere of the party doesn’t match the elegance of the venue in the slightest. Only two hours in, there’s already people stumbling around, some sat propped up against a wall while others haphazardly dance on a makeshift dance floor in the centre of the room. Tables filled with food line the edge of the hall, there are some smaller, circular tables dotted around where the more sober people are conversing, and whatever space the people don’t occupy is filled in by blaring music.

There are countless numbers of formally dressed people running around, yelling and spilling their drinks or tripping over each other, their clothes completely juxtaposing their behaviour. It all seems like something which essentially is an upgraded teenage party, and looking at the state of it so far you fully expect somebody to start swinging from the chandelier within the next thirty minutes.

Standing frozen in place, you try to take it all in. It’s already completely shattered your image of how you had always expected some of the most well-off people in the area to behave behind closed doors. Of course you had already known that these sorts of people, especially those on the younger end of the spectrum, are capable of possessing an unbridled wild side, but you find that as you witness it all firsthand you begin feeling a bit overwhelmed.

Your thoughts are interrupted by a familiar man walking over to you and Charles, and you quickly recognise him as the Frenchman from the restaurant. “Charles, my man, I knew you’d come!” he exclaims, grabbing Charles in a one-armed hug.

“Ah, well, I just had to consider the invitation a little bit. I do quite like your parties, but I needed some time to ask a special someone to come with me,” Charles replies, before placing a hand on your back and urging you to step forwards. “You’ve seen him before, but this is Pierre,” he introduces his friend and you give him a small wave, willing your voice to be as confident as possible when you share your name.

“It’s lovely to finally meet you properly,” Pierre says, giving you a quick kiss on the cheek as a greeting.

“Get your own girl, Gasly,” Charles jokes, giving Pierre a good-natured shove with his elbow as he begins walking past with you in tow, the Frenchman just laughing at Charles’ reaction.

The three of you sit down at a table that’s already got some people on it and they quickly introduce themselves to you but the majority of their names go in one ear and out of the other as you continue to attempt to adjust to the new environment. Charles seems to notice your discomfort and places a hand on your thigh, giving it a gentle squeeze.

“Don’t worry, I’m planning to stay on the calmer side of the party tonight. There’ll be opportunities in the future for us to do some wilder stuff, but how about you just get to know some people for now?” he suggests and you give a small nod in response, resting your hand over his and playing with his fingers. Something tells you that what you’re seeing here tonight is far from the limit of how far these people will go when they let go of their self-control.

You stay on the outskirts of the conversation, only chipping in once or twice, finding that you don’t really feel like you have much to contribute. The people you’re sitting with are definitely welcoming and amicable, but you still can’t help but feel like an outsider, a newcomer in an already-established rigid community and hierarchy.

Eventually you turn to simply looking around the immense hall, watching people from afar or examining what food is available on the tables by the walls. Charles spots you eyeing up a table covered in various cakes and pastries that’s right next to where you’re sat and leans closer towards you. “You know, they’re not just there for decoration, you can grab something if you want,” he tells you, so you put on a brave face and excuse yourself from your seat, heading over to the delectable-looking treats.

As you’re picking up what appears to be an unnecessarily fancy slice of chocolate cake, someone clearing their throat beside you grabs your attention and you look up to see that a small group of people, maybe four or five of them, has amassed near you. You panic a little, unsure whether they want to talk or whether they want you to move, so you grab your plate and begin turning away to leave after giving them a polite, “Hello.”

“Who are you?” one of the guys asks, stopping you mid-turn. It’s certainly blunt, but you don’t think that he has the intention of being rude, and it’s probably more likely that he just doesn’t know that manners exist. Your mouth seems glued shut for a second as you mentally debate whether you should introduce yourself by name or just say that you’re with Charles and Pierre. Would they even know who you are if you introduced yourself by name?

However, Charles notices the situation a few metres from him and makes the choice for you.

“She’s with me,” he calls out to the group, and they immediately smile and introduce themselves, but right as you’re about to tell them your name they grab some pastries and leave. Clearly they hadn’t really been interested in you as an individual at all.

Fucking weirdos.

After that odd experience, you sit back down and absentmindedly poke away at your cake with a tiny fork, occasionally feeding some to Charles at his request.

Unfortunately, it doesn’t take long for the situation at the table to become slightly sour, at least in your perspective.

Throughout the evening, some uniformed people have been coming over to refill drinks or take away empty plates, and you feel some relief at the fact that it’s not you running around to everyone’s beck and call tonight. Alas, one of the girls happens to spill some champagne while refilling the drink of some blonde sat on the other side of the table. She immediately begins apologising profusely, saying she will come back and clean up the spill as soon as possible.

Having been in her position many times before, you feel great empathy in this moment. Grabbing a paper serviette, you begin to stand, about to try to dab up some of the alcohol before too much of it gets into the tablecloth, but Charles quickly moves his arm over your lap, effectively preventing you from standing up any further.

“Sit down,” he commands firmly, his voice deeper than usual and carrying a warning tone.

“I’m just trying to help her,” you hiss back, trying to move his arm.

“It’s her job, she gets paid to do it,” he responds sternly. Recalcitrant, you shove at his arm again to no avail, annoyed at his sudden change in behaviour.

“Would you say the same about me in the restaurant?” you spit back vehemently, giving up with trying to shift him and instead petulantly crossing your arms.

With an exasperated sigh, he says, “That’s different.”

“I hope you know that you’re being an asshole,” you snap, turning away from him on your chair, but allowing him to keep his possessive hand on your legs.

Opposite you, the blonde is absolutely livid, yelling at the poor girl over something as inconsequential as a simple spill. As the girl leaves to get some cleaning supplies you can tell that she’s barely holding it together and Pierre gives her a small look of apology.

When she walks past you, you quietly whisper, “I’m sorry.”

Charles spends the rest of the party trying to appease you, stroking your thighs and arms, and occasionally giving you a kiss on the back of your hand or forehead. In the end, when he realises that you’ve only partially forgiven him, he starts promising to take you shopping the next day or offering you a day on his yacht.

Eventually, you tell him to shut up.

As the time draws past midnight, you start feeling your energy depleting and give in, shifting closer to Charles and resting your head on his shoulder. “I just think that you guys should have been a bit nicer to her,” you mumble to Charles, still clearly not over the incident, especially as you know that she’ll likely be weighed down by it for the rest of the evening.

“Alright, next time I’ll be nicer,” he concedes, but you can’t tell if he’s being honest or not.

“Especially that blonde there. What’s her issue?” you whisper in his ear, trying your best to make sure only he can hear.

He shrugs, before responding just as covertly, “I can’t lie, I’ve never really liked her either.”

Soon after, he decides that it’s time to leave. You both say your goodbyes, but Pierre is the only person that you really stop to have a conversation with. Out of all the people you’ve met today, he’s easily your favourite.

Enticed by the promises that Charles has something you’ll like at his apartment, you end up succumbing to his request for you to go home with him. Besides, at this point you’re too tired to argue, and you’d rather spend the night with someone else rather than in your empty apartment, no matter how annoying Charles has proven to be at times.

His apartment is on the top floor of the building, and you’ve never been more grateful for the invention of lifts as you lean against the wall, waiting for him to unlock the door.

He lets you enter first before quickly shutting the door behind him. There are no lights on, and you take a minute to look around and see what you can discern in the darkness, the only source of light being from the floor to ceiling windows showcasing the city and coast.

Suddenly, you hear the sound of claws and paws skidding on the wooden floor, and you don’t have enough time to brace yourself for the mass that slams against your legs, sending you crashing into the wall behind you.

“Get off her!” Charles shouts, grabbing at the animal with one hand and turning the lights on with the other.

There, attempting to jump out of Charles’ grip on its collar, is a young red and rust Doberman.

She’s clearly excited, bouncing around and spinning in circles as Charles does his best to keep her under control. “Sorry, I’m still trying to teach her some manners. Are you okay?” he asks, moving to stand between you and the dog.

You nod, not at all hurt or scared, just slightly shocked, and respond with a question of your own, “What’s her name?”

“Trixie. You can stroke her in a minute, I’m just going to try and get her to calm down a little first,” he tells you before asking Trixie to sit, “There’s also Diesel - he’s quite a bit older, so he’s far less likely to accidentally kill any guests as collateral damage.”

As if on cue, another Doberman - a black and rust one this time - emerges from behind a sofa, calmly padding towards you. You look at Charles, asking for permission, and when he nods you bend down and scratch Diesel behind the ears.

“Why didn’t you mention them earlier?” you question him as Diesel turns around so that you’re scratching his back instead.

“I just thought it would be a nice surprise,” he replies. Carefully, he lets go of Trixie and gives her a stern look, already warning her not to try anything silly. This time she approaches you much more steadily, sniffing at your hand for a few seconds before nudging it with her nose, prompting you to give her some attention too.

After a few more minutes of you interacting with the dogs, Charles asks if you’d like to shower. You tell him that you gladly would but obviously don’t have any other clothes to wear, so he offers to give you a t-shirt and some clothes of his.

When you emerge from the en-suite bathroom, Charles laughs a little at the sight of you. You don’t blame him at all - you feel like you’re absolutely drowning in the fabric, the clothes are far too large but they’re rather comfortable so you don’t complain.

“Don’t laugh,” you chide him, “I’ll give you my clothes next time.”

He gets up from the bed and holds you in his arms, kissing your neck and reassuring you that he thinks you look very cute. When he steps into the bathroom, he says, “Good luck sharing a bed with them two while I’m in the shower - they like to take up the entire thing.”

He isn’t wrong - Diesel and Trixie are splayed out across the majority of the bed and don’t seem to have any intentions of moving, instead giving you dirty side-eyes as you try to find a spot to call your own.

You’re not entirely sure how willing they’ll be to welcome you on Charles’ bed, so you tentatively lay down right on the edge, keeping an eye on them while you grab the TV remote and turn on some random cooking show.

The dogs don’t seem particularly bothered by you, much to your relief. Trixie is the first one to move, standing up and stretching before jumping off the bed and leaving the room. You hear some water sloshing around, so you presume that she’s just gone to have a drink. Seizing the opportunity, you shift over to the centre of the bed, Diesel not caring in the slightest as he continues to sleep.

Upon her return, Trixie just looks at you for a few seconds, and you imagine that if dogs could talk then she’d be cussing you out for stealing her spot on the bed. However, when she jumps back onto the mattress, instead of just laying by Diesel, she lays down beside you, resting her head on your legs.

You let out a quiet, “Aww,” and start to gently stroke her back.

Unfortunately for them, Charles re-enters the bedroom and begins urging them off the bed and out of the room, telling them, “Alright, that’s enough. I’m not willing to share her for any longer.”

Once they’re out, Charles shuts the door and turns off the TV, laying down under the covers on his back and grabbing your hips. You’re pliable as he moves you around until you’re straddling him, your hands resting on his bare chest.

“Why don’t you let me do anything for you?” he asks, his hands languidly moving up and down your sides. You take a moment to just look into his eyes, examining every tiny fleck of brown and every delicate eyelash as if this is the last time you’ll ever see them.

“Because you’re not my sugardaddy,” is your blunt reply, but you still bat your eyelashes at him, now gripping his shoulders.

In return, he smirks and raises an eyebrow, challenging your statement.

“You’re vile, Charles,” you tell him off, digging your nails into his skin and feeling some satisfaction when he quietly gasps, his hold on you tightening.

“Ow, ow! Okay! I get it!” he pants. When you move your hands back down to his chest, this time in a far gentler manner, he quietly adds, “I just want to make you happy.”

You pretend to give his statement some thought. “Well, to do so, you and your friends can start off by losing some of your massive egos. For example, you won’t suddenly be banished to the lowest echelon in society if you wipe up some champagne,” you say, and he just replies with a scoff and an eye roll dripping with attitude. Knowing that there’s no point reprimanding him or trying to reason with him, you instead decide to go along with his earlier suggestions for a little entertainment.

“However, there are also a few other things that could make me happy,” you whisper, leaning down onto your elbows to get closer to him.

“Mhm?”

“First of all, I think that I’d actually like those heels I saw on the way to the party, and I also think I could do with some new perfume,” you drawl, giving him a teasing smile.

“Anything else?”

“Yes, actually. I also want a new handbag - preferably Giorgio Armani. And, on top of that, I want a weekend getaway on a yacht. Are you taking note of all this?” you continue jesting, now moving one of your hands up into his hair to gently pull at the soft, brown locks.

“Of course I am, mon ange. What more do you wish for?” he replies, drawing random patterns on your hips with his fingers, the tension between the two of you slowly rising.

“A pony.”

He actually laughs out loud at this one, throwing his head back and guffawing. You refuse to break character yet, though.

“Silly Charles, don’t laugh,” you delicately scold him, having to bite your lip afterwards in order to fight your own laughter, “You’ve made me change my mind now.”

“I’m ever so sorry,” he says, still chuckling every now and again.

“I think I would prefer a horse. A buckskin Andalusian to be exact, but if that’s too difficult for you to acquire then I guess an imported warmblood will do too.”

He nods, still smiling, eyes slightly teary from laughing, “Is there anything left on this list of yours?”

You pause for a second, finally dropping the playful facade, and carefully consider the potential outcomes of what you want to say next. In a brief moment of impulsiveness, you decide to throw caution to the wind.

“I would like a kiss from you.”

He’s silent, looking into your eyes as if to make sure that you’re being serious. Delicately, he pulls you down even closer to him, and his soft lips finally meet yours. It’s gentle, slow, his arms wrapping around you and holding you tight like you’re the most precious thing in the world to him. One of your hands remains tugging at his hair while the other drifts up to cradle his face, your thumb moving against his light stubble.

When you finally move away from the kiss, you keep your eyes closed for a little while, your head resting against his chest. “You can also pay for my university expenses,” you say as a final remark.

He chuckles quietly. “Oh, yeah? What would you study?”

“I always wanted to be an engineer. I still regret never having gone to uni,” you lament, and in response he rubs your back to soothe you, giving the top of your head a kiss as well.

“Why didn’t you go?” he enquires gently.

“Sometimes life has plans that are different to the ones you’ve already made,” you sigh, “I guess that I ended up in Monaco, at least, and it’s rather interesting here.”

Charles gives a small hum before saying, “I quite like engineering too, especially in motorsports - like, Formula One and stuff like that.”

You finally open your eyes, shifting your head so that you can look up at him as you run your fingers along his collarbone, “I bet that if you were in F1 you’d drive a Ferrari, seeing as you love yours so much.”

“Ah, maybe so,” he laughs a little, and after that the conversation dies down to a comfortable silence.

Wrapped up in Charles’ warm embrace, you feel safe and relaxed enough to close your eyes again and drift off to sleep.

—————

Charles lays staring at the ceiling, listening to the rhythmic breathing of the girl he’s holding, waiting just a few more minutes until he’s certain that you’re asleep. Trying not to disturb you, he slides out of your grip, making sure to pull the duvet up around you so that you don't get too cold while he’s gone.

He quietly makes his way to the kitchen where he grabs a glass of water, carefully stepping around the two dogs sleeping on the cool tiles, before walking out onto his balcony.

The night air is refreshing, fresh and cold in his lungs as he takes a few deep breaths, thinking through the last few days.

The majority of the time, he isn’t one to enjoy a steady relationship. Instead, he tends to prefer the thrill of a hookup at a party or sneaking around with some rich guy’s daughter. He’s young, he’s impulsive, and he’s got a craving for adrenaline.

But this time, he knows that he won’t be able to kick you out of his house in the morning. Rather, he’ll probably be making you breakfast and helping you get home, but not before arranging another occasion on which to meet you.

And, by God, he doesn’t want to give up his status as a bachelor just yet, addicted to the attention that he can garner from coy girls when he walks into a room.

Yet, the longer he spends mulling over the matter, the more he comes to the conclusion that the only girl he wants at his side is the one that’s currently asleep in his bed, oblivious to his absence. He can’t help but laugh at himself, because it turns out that he’s already managed to fall for a girl that he’s only just met.

And he’s fallen fucking hard.

——————————

a/n: i’m not a native english speaker, and i actually struggled a surprising amount with some phrases in this fic, so if you spot any mistakes please let me know.

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@seastarapiaries @lovingroscoee @ohthemisssery

#i literally had to battle my barely-functioning laptop in order to be able to post this #corruptio morum #cm #charles leclerc #cl16 #charles leclerc fanfiction #charles leclerc fanfic #charles leclerc imagine #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc x y/n #f1 fanfiction #f1 fanfic #f1 imagine #f1 x reader #f1 x y/n

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