#leclsrc3000
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can i please request a forbidden relationship with charles? like maybe a verstappen!reader or a wolff!reader? angst to fluff please 😩
name calling – cl16
Charles develops a new nickname, but it's not for you. (wolff!reader)
auds here... i love u anon and i hope its okay that i did not write angst into this!!! i needed a feel good thing to get the trope going. listened to this a lot while writing, one of my favorite cutesy love songs ever!
“There’s peach and apple,” you say over the phone, inspecting the juice box flavors in the well-stocked fridge of the Mercedes motorhome. Apparently, over at Ferrari, the supply is running dry, a report generously provided to you by your boyfriend.
“Is there lemon?” You two have the same favorite. You rifle through the stock and find a lone lemon flavor collecting frost at the back of the pile.
“None.” You say, clearing your throat. “Come on, man. Peach and apple.”
He makes a noise of suspicion, but gives in. “Peach then.”
“Okay.” You tuck your phone in-between your ear and shoulder and collect multiple to find the coldest one, an accompaniment to the heat this weekend; your call is cut short when your dad walks in, eyebrows set in a straight line of contemplation.
They raise when he spots you harboring a bunch of peach juice boxes. “Gotta go, bye,” you add in a rushed whisper, and he says a quick see you thanks before hanging up.
“Dad,” you say casually. You raise one of the six boxes in your hand. “Juice?”
“Is there lemon left?”
“No luck. Peach and apple,” you say sweetly.
“I’ll have apple. Listen, I’m going to a principal’s meeting using your scooter.”
You toss him a box. “Okay. Stay safe,” you respond, letting him pull you into a one-armed hug. “There’s too many people in the centre so I’ve been scootering behind motorhomes to get to places faster. Might help.”
“Okay, spatzi,” he says, punching a straw into the box and departing. This signals a greenlight for you to call Charles again—despite your best mutual efforts, you’ve both been almost caught calling or being near each other by your dad. And, in the words of your lovely boyfriend, he’s not yet ready to die. But the hiding is worth it; after all, it’s hiding from the public, which you both wanted from the get go, and your dad. Your mum and several friends know, which makes the lying ease up a little bit.
He picks up in the middle of the first ring. “Hey. Got my juice?”
“Yeah. Back door.” A routine crafted over years of knowing each other—first as friends, then as lovers—serves you well, a rushed meeting at the back door of a garage or motorhome to discuss date night plans or to hand over a gift or plate of food. In this case, it’s a juice box, half-tossed in your rush to not be spotted by one of your dad’s friends.
And, as always, he blows you a kiss as you close the door.
—
Four sips into his peach juice, Charles sneaks past the Mercedes motorhome and moves back to Ferrari, but not without spotting a mess of long limbs on the ground beside a forgotten scooter. Upon closer inspection, his suspicion of it being a deranged superfan is rejected—it’s Toto Wolff.
“I must have tripped on a wire,” Toto grunts, eyes scanning the ground. He meets Charles’ eyes.
“Let me help you,” Charles says, immediately offering a hand and pulling. The guy is jacked, so he exerts a bit more effort than he’s willing to admit; the job gets done nonetheless, so potato-potahto, really.
“Thank you,” wheezes Toto, sitting up, all six feet five of him, “son.”
Charles is slack mouthed. Oh my God. Son???? “You are welcome, so welcome,” he responds kindly, despite the awkward tension. “Um, Papa.”
Toto pauses his ascent and stares pointedly before shaking his head. “I… must go.”
“Well, drive safe. Watch the roads. And all.” Charles says, laughing sheepishly. “Toto. Watch the roads, and all, Toto.” He emphasizes, like that takes back the fact that he called the big boss Papa just ten seconds ago. He chews at the straw of the peach juice, gnawing nervously.
“I will. Thanks again.” He falls quiet, staring. Then a knobby finger points to the juice box, waving back and forth in-between the juice box in the garbage bin a few metres away. “They’re… your juice box… is that from the Mercedes… motorhome?”
“No,” lies Charles with unrivaled stiffness.
“It is a German brand we special order for my daughter.”
“No—see, I am very into German juice.” He ignores the way it sounds like a euphemism. “What’s that? My phone is now ringing. Okay. D’accord. Au revoir.” He walks away as he makes up additional excuses, not missing Toto’s laser stare that seems to permeate through walls and asphalt, finding reprieve only when he’s back in his room.
He chucks the juice box into the nearest bin and prays to all the gods.
—
Charles ends up getting P1. He’s surrounded by whoops and cheers and receives a very solemn “good effort” nod from Toto across the paddock, which he feels cements his apology and effectively keeps your relationship hidden. He’s handled it well. For once, he’s the mature crisis handler in the relationship, and you don’t need to know about any of this, you really don’t.
You congratulate him at the back door like always, when he’s on the way to the parking lot.
A kiss to his cheek. Then: “I have something to ask.”
“What’s that, darling?”
“Did you, um. Call my dad Papa?”
He presses a palm to his mouth in a very Charles-esque overdramatic way. “Oh my God, he told you?!”
“Oh my God, it’s true?!” You detect the volume in your voice and usher yourself out, quietly shutting the door before facing him again. You raise your eyebrows.
Your boyfriend, your adorably aloof boyfriend, just sputters. “Well—he called me son!”
“Yeah, because he’s old! Old people do that.” You gesticulate wildly “I can’t believe you called him Papa.”
“I can’t believe he told you.”
“I can’t believe you both thought I did not know,” comes a voice from the door that is, unfortunately, not Lewis’ or George’s or yours or Charles’.
The door swings open and there your dad stands, eyebrows raised quizzically, windbreaker-clad arms crossed over his chest. “Charles, I know you don’t ‘like German juice.’ Spatzi, I know you don’t ‘enjoy exploring Monaco hotels by yourself.’” Stoically, he raises air quotes.
“… Sorry?” You offer, smile sweet.
“It’s okay.” He allows a small, warm smile directed to you. “I’ve known a while now.”
“Sorry, Toto,” Charles says profusely, visibly anxious.
The smile chills. Your dad just nods, waving him off. “Cool down on the Papa, though, Leclerc.”
#f1#leclsrc3000#charles leclerc#charles leclerc imagines#charles leclerc drabble#charles leclerc x reader#f1 x reader#charles leclerc fluff#charles leclerc fanfic
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like you should ✴︎ cl16
genre: just. Like. sexual tension…, reader is max’s gf, no explicit smut but heavy innuendos so just beware, everyone is Morally Bankrupt so turn away if u dont fancy that
word count: 11.3k
If you don’t learn from history, it’ll stick around and find a way to repeat itself – even if the history is with your boyfriend’s rival, and its repetition happens behind his back.
auds here… hi hi hi!!! not proofread sry; i wanted to write something like this for a while haha, i had a bunch of reqs from january(!!!) that served as the basis for it. title from this it was this fic's inspo savior. full disclosure this is fiction n doesn’t at all reflect how i view max/charles :) love love love u all sorry for being mia so constantly & enjoy this jumble of sexual tension haha. happy june friends!!!
Monaco is always an affair in itself. Humid, music blaring, and full of celebrities, you pose for a few paddock pictures, exchanging no words with Max. He’s idle beside you, cap drawn over his dirty blond hair, hand on your waist, the other scrolling through emails and Instagram. Your dad’s somewhere here, too, if you remember right—he texted you about being with Christian, at a meeting somewhere about Checo or something. You can’t be arsed to remember. You flew in two hours ago after a days-long inner turmoil, trying to decide if you wanted to come at all.
Max didn’t sound too eager for you to arrive, either, but you theorize it’s because you’ve both been tired with work lately. He’s leagues above everyone else now, but the demand of work snatches what little quality time you could’ve spent with him. You suck it up, lacing your fingers together and hoping this is a dry spell—physical and emotional—that just needs to be waited out.
How’s the weather? You ask casually when you’re inside his room, burying your face into his shoulder. He presses an absentminded kiss to your head. “Should be fine.”
“Anything you’re worried about?” You make yourself busy rifling through his closet. It’s more of the same. Polos proudly showcasing the logo of the team that’s brought him to the top. He usually keeps three spare ones, but there’s an extra smaller one that you unfold and dangle in front of you. “Whose is this?”
He glances. Kelly’s. When you gesture for elaboration—Nelson Piquet’s daughter? Christian asked me to give her one. You don’t pay attention to it, folding it neatly and placing it inside again. He pipes up to answer your earlier question, voice light as it is solemn. It’s Charles’ home race.
“So?” It comes out sharper than you intend, considering Max is more a friend than his rival. You turn to try and soften your hostile phrasing. “I mean. It’s… you’ve been dominating the leaderboard.” No way you’ll show him you’re worried for Charles, too. “Their car is horseshit.” It is and it worries you.
“Yeah, yeah. I think I’ll talk to him for a bit. You’ll be okay alone?” He’s getting up already.
“Wait—” You pause when he’s kissing your cheek as a goodbye. “I thought we were getting lunch.”
“Make it dinner, then.”
“No,” you protest weakly. “I’m going to be with my dad.”
“Drinks.” He leaves no room for argument and leaves with the door shutting softly behind him. You exhale loud through your nostrils and shut the closet door, leaving to explore the paddock. It’s familiar grounds for you, not just because of Max but because of your dad, who began insisting you attend races again a few years ago. You should know Red Bull, he’d said then. The team I’m sponsoring. The team I give millions to.
Purely to appease him, you gave in and attended a race for the first time in a long stretch, just a few years ago. You’ve attended almost every race since then, and those have often blurred into one homogenous memory (sitting, watching, cheering, hugging, drinking), but the first race remains clear as the day your driver dropped you off at the entrance to the paddock, a VIP lanyard slung over your neck and sunglasses perched on your nose.
You stare at the just-closed door, his bag still abandoned on the bed, his dismissive tone, the polo you’ve just folded up. Max is hiding something—you just can’t put your finger on it.
—
Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Monza 2019! The host goes, a reporter-esque smile greeting the crowds on the big screens. Monza is intimidating. You’re being guided around the ups and downs of the paddock by somebody whose name you’ve forgotten and remembered and forgotten again, short in stature with a posh English accent. Your dad is somewhere, in a meeting perhaps, which means your re-introduction to the world of racing is up to this man alone.
“Christian!” Someone says behind you, and oh right his name is Christian. Christian—Hormut, or something. You’ve blurred his last name from memory, too. Christian ends up having to excuse himself to attend to a pressing practice problem, and he leaves you with one of his drivers.
Max is his name. He’s funny, charming, and vulgar in the way all Europeans are (you’re not at all surprised when he tells you he’s Dutch), and handsome, moreso when the topic gets to racing and he starts talking quick and with passion. It’s something you admire.
“You don’t know what quali is?” He asks when he hands you a vodka soda.
You laugh. “My dad was always insanely busy with work as a kid, so I liked not knowing anything about it.” You always wanted to remove yourself from the racing and just be your dad’s daughter. “I’ve only been to a handful of races, and even then I was way younger.”
“You’ll like this one.”
You squint onto the paddock and recall the motif that’s been teeming around you all day long—red. Red, red, and more red. There are fans whose faces are painted red, bold and shiny against the unrelenting sunny weather. Internally, your curiosity is piqued. Red Bull, perhaps? “Are those your fans?”
Max follows your gaze curiously. “Oh,” he says when he sees the crowd of red. He sips his beer. “No, that’s for Ferrari. They always attract a proper crowd in Monza.”
You hum, the name more than familiar to you. “Red sea.” You spot a few signs in Italian, a few fans taking pictures, and finally your interest wanes, eyes gravitating back to Max. “You nervous?
“Rarely am.” He smiles. “Will you be watching?”
“Probably,” you respond, momentarily searching the surrounding area for your dad. “I’ll be with my dad someplace.”
“You owe me a congratulations,” says Max as he gets up, his name being called from somewhere behind you. “Okay?”
“Sure,” you giggle. “I’ll save it.”
You’d spaced out mid-race and watched from a flatscreen TV inside instead, but lost the plot at some point, so you ask around for who the winner is. The winner ends up not being Max, you’re told by one of your dad’s assistants, Ben, when you emerge from his office after the flag is waved.
Everybody, however, is talking in a secondary racing jargon—they say things like P1 and front wing and strategist, failing to dumb things down for you. You piece things together and realize the winner is a Ferrari driver—but, if your memory serves you right, there are two drivers. You don’t know which one it is. Then again, you don’t know the drivers themselves, either.
You reunite with your dad and Christian Harper (you think) in the garage, where Ben hands you a pair of giant headphones that transmit scratchy, loud radio audio; you remove them and ask him a million questions instead. Nearby, the Ferrari garage is exploding with screams, but they don’t come close to the roars of the red crowd, which almost seems to breathe collectively, scream collectively, celebrate as one. You’re almost transfixed with how loud they are, how passionate they are, with their winner. Their golden guy. Your dad’s mouth is set in a straight line.
“Who won?” You ask, voice raised to try and become audible despite the cheering.
Ben points, squinting under his eyeglasses. You follow the direction of his finger to the finish line. There, parked beside the first place sign, is somebody standing atop his car. He’s wearing red. Showered in red. Surrounded by red. It’s tantalizing, the way his win has commanded the entire area. Your mouth is half-open, lips parted in soft shock.
You tap Ben again. “Yeah, who is he?”
“Leclerc,” he says, pinching his nosebridge. “Ferrari’s new guy. A friend of Max’s, but a rival, too.” He sighs lowly. “Your dad’s biggest problem.”
Christian Harris makes a quip about you having to go find and comfort Max, but you space out, still staring at the winner. Leclerc. You’ve got no face to his name, just the opaque visor of his helmet and the two proud fists in the air, inciting even louder cheers from the crowd. You focus harder, as if that would somehow reveal his face to you.
But he’s faceless, a winner of mystery for now—and for the rest of the evening as you’re ushered back to Red Bull alongside your dad.
—
“Do you want to come to an afterparty?” Ben asks, tapping away on his phone. Emails and texts crowd his notifications. “We need to know if you’ll need a car tonight.” He follows you around, exasperated with your quick pace that even he can’t keep up with. “And if so, which car.”
“No, no car.” You respond, walking. “Which afterparty?”
“Any, really. There’s, uh… a Red Bull one, a few yacht ones, Max mentioned dropping by APM Monaco’s and—”
“No afterparty,” you say with tense finality once you hear the option. “All the drivers do is drink and get sleazy.”
“O-kay,” he taps. “I didn’t realize you had such a… vendetta against the drivers?”
You laugh a little, peering over the lens of your sunglasses to try and spot familiar faces. Actors, models, drivers’ relatives—the place is packed, and the weather is hot. “When did I say that?” You ask, looking around at hyper speed.
“It was implied.” Ben pauses and eyes you, curious but already on the brink of suspicious. Your gaze is darting everywhere, clearly trying to find something to catch on. “What are you looking for?”
Caught red-handed, you slow down the speed at which your eyes scan over the paddock and settle them on your watch, pursing your lips. You clear your throat and raise an eyebrow, turning the questioning back to Ben. “I’m not looking for anyo—”
“Hey,” comes a voice from right behind you, a hand coming up to tap against your shoulder. You don’t have time to turn and identify the culprit because he moves to stand in front of you, effectively stopping you in your tracks with a teasing smirk. “Max did not tell me you would be here.” He crosses his arms. “Excited? I know I am. Home race and all.”
You swallow but your throat is dry. “I’m excited to cheer for my boyfriend.”
Charles smiles, satisfied that he managed to get on your nerves. With curiosity and anticipation, Ben keeps to himself and watches the exchange unfold, arms crossed. Charles presses on. “Are you coming to the party later?”
“I might,” you say, mind changed.
“Alright, see you.” With the sun weakening the tint of his sunglasses, and his hair raked back by his backwards cap, you have a clear view of the way his left eye drops into a smug wink. He smiles again, boyish, before he’s turning to leave you with Ben, who turns to you.
“You’re friends?”
The most decent answer leaves your lips dismissively. “Acquainted.”
—
You lose all sense of inhibition (and navigation) as soon as you step a heeled foot into the club, but it’s nothing you haven’t experienced before. Years of clubbing and fake IDs have prepared you for the tactics used to snake your way through the crowd of people, eventually finding yourself at the VIP area of the Monza afterparty, where one look at your face is enough to let the bouncer let you through wordlessly.
“The team’s finest!” Christian greets jokingly with a smile. Why he’s here, you’ve no idea—you had an impression he had a family to go home to. “A drink?”
“I’ll explore for a bit,” you say warmly, smiling as he brings you in for a friendly hug. You peer at faces and over shoulders, taking shots off trays and flutes of champagne off tables to feel less stiff and out of place. You’re looking for Max.
But you catch somebody else’s eye, one who seems to beckon you over with a look. He’s laughing at something, decently tipsy, and—when you near him—he introduces himself as Charles. “Leclerc,” he adds, and suddenly everything clicks. The face you’ve finally matched to the name is handsome, chiseled and devilish and charming, with a warm smile that doesn’t match the dark in his eyes. He’s in the same kind of getup everyone is wearing—a tight black tee, blue jeans. But he makes it look insufferably attractive, unfortunately.
“You’re the winner,” you state, not lifting your tone to sound like a question. He is the winner. The champion of today’s race.
“Right I am.” He nods once, matter-of-factly. “You’re Red Bull’s princess, aren’t you?”
“I wouldn’t call myself that,” you say, blushing inwardly. Your face is warm and you feel flustered, but you play it cool, feigning a casual laugh. “Congratulations, by the way.”
“Thanks.” He takes a gulp from his drink, dark and potent looking. “Max mentioned you earlier.”
“Oh.” You’d completely forgotten you were looking for him. “Is he here?”
“Around. Hey, listen,” he says, turning to collect the makings of a shot, “I’m the winner, and I make the rules. Take a shot with me.”
Your eyes close in a laugh, nodding along. You’re already tipsy, anyway—what’s another shot? You take a wedge of lemon in between two fingers and a pinch of salt, smearing it along your hand as you grip a shot glass of something. You’ll know once you taste it, you suppose; no time for questions.
“You got the last lemon slice!” complains Charles across you, and you laugh, shrugging as if to say deal with it. Your glasses clink, and you throw back the liquid; it’s ten times stronger than you anticipated and for a moment you lose control over your motor skills, squeezing the lemon wedge a tad too strong so it dribbles down your chin, through your throat and the last of it trickles through your cleavage. You manage to get some, licking the salt off before the taste becomes nauseating.
Your grimace is ever so obvious, as is Charles’ inability to take his eyes off you. Fuck, he thinks. You’re exactly his type. Pretty, eyes twinkling and half-lidded with the alcohol. Your lips are bitten, caught between your lips—it’s a habit, he guesses from how puffy they are. He might have to kiss you now.
“Still need lemon?” You ask, leaning in. “I’ve got some on me.” It’s a joke but your tone suggests otherwise, eyes lingering on his parted lips for any sign of assent. Your breath smells of citrus and wildly expensive tequila. He could kiss you now. He would. He will. He has to.
You tip your head backwards, smiling and dancing lightly to the music, your hands wraped loose around his wrists, dragging him, coercing him closer. So he does, allows himself to give into it and smiles into the skin of your neck, licking over the remnants of lemon that remain. He kisses a lovebite onto the side of your throat, one dark enough that he knows—he just knows—at least one person will ask you about it tomorrow morning.
When he parts, smiling, he asks, “Wanna smoke?” He produces a cart and waves it in between you, taking a hit and blowing grassy smoke into the air. You nod, encouraging him to take another and blow the smoke into your parted lips. All the while, he notices, your hand is rubbing over the lovebite, the soft, sore skin there.
He thinks of what you might say. The flustered explaining, the hand coming up to cover it or the sponge dabbing concealer over it. He thinks of you lying. Oh, just a guy. No, a Ferrari driver. And you’re all his, if just for tonight. And he’d be right. You were somewhat his—just for that night. The day next, Max took you to breakfast, didn’t notice the blotch of concealer, and all settled into a messy pattern of history.
—
The race is about to begin, preparations in the garage reaching their stunning crescendo. “Good luck,” you say as a sendoff, pressing a kiss to Max’s lips. He smiles appreciatively, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. You wonder absently what’s been going so wrong, but you suppose it’s a two-person job.
You watch him board the car, your dad coming up beside you. “I still can’t believe how lucky it is that you ended up with one of my drivers.”
“Dad,” you say, warningly.
“Just saying, honey.” He smiles. “Can you imagine anything else?”
—
“I am sure I cannot be up here.” Charles’ voice is amused, deep and echoing in the empty space of your dad’s vast office. It’s dimly-lit because he’s not here—yacht dinners have become the new venues for business deals, leaving big offices like these ones woefully empty. And yours for the taking, you’d told Charles over text when he asked what you were up to tonight.
You hum teasingly, turning. “You won today, so consider this your prize. Provided generously by a friend.” The term embeds itself into the atmosphere of the empty office and you clear your throat, turning your back to him again and walking to the window.
The awkward air between you had, for some time, dissipated, giving way to a series of texts and calls that, for the sake of clarity and concision, you don’t tell Max about. Plus, you’re not even dating Max, you tell yourself. It’s just a fling right now, no commitment, no crazy heavy labels. You met only, what, three races ago. And to be fair, you’re not even dating Charles—you’re just friends.
“It’s crazy to think this office can be folded up and shipped halfway across the world,” you say honestly, eyes zeroing in on the city. “I mean, all this.”
“It is just four walls,” he simplifies, nearing you, staring at the way your hair falls over your back. He’s scared to explore around and touch things—touch you—so he settles on nervous looking. “I don’t understand how this is a prize. I’m in an opposing team’s high-level donor’s office with his daughter.”
“It’s not just four walls,” you say when you turn, ignoring his second statement. “It’s a couch.” You lay both hands on the leather sofa, pointing to the two matching loveseats beside it. “It’s… a desk.” You walk over to it and prop yourself up against it, your feet tiptoeing with the height of the surface. Charles, amused, watches your long-drawn out rebuttal and takes a seat on the couch.
“It’s a lamp. A carpet. A display of Seb’s old race suit.” You point at each. “It’s a drawer.” You pull it open. “…Filled with Red Bull porn.” An assortment of hats and tees meet your eyes, all displaying the same emblem. You tug out a team polo, the same one Christian and Max and Daniil wear—and you whirl around, unfolding it in the air so Charles sees what you’re holding.
An idea enters your head. “Try it on,” you suggest, a teasing lilt in your voice. He shakes his head, laughing. Still insistent, you near him, leaning over where he sits and pressing the polo to his figure, aligning it to the best of your ability to his shoulder and chest so it looks like he’s wearing it. “Looks nice.”
He makes a noise of dismissal. “Never happening.”
“Can’t a girl dream?” You inch yourself forward so your faces are flush of each other’s. When his gaze switches to your lips, smiling and bitten, it no longer leaves. You think of how he’d look all donned up in one of these polos, these suits. The dark of the suit. He could use a break from all that red. You could give that to him.
“Okay,” he says, but it’s soft and distracted. His hand comes up to wrap around your wrist, craving for a form of your touch.
“We’d better go,” you respond, your voice decimated to a whisper. “Before my dad comes.”
“Come on, then.”
Your lips just barely ghost over his before you heave yourself back up, smiling teasingly. “Alright. Let’s go, then.”
—
You watch the Monaco race like a hawk. Ben doesn’t ask why, but internally he rumbles with questions. Why are you so invested in this one race? He chalks it up to the prestige of Monaco as a whole, and settles for that. But still—you’re interested. You watch from the garage, almost with an unrelenting stare, unwavering. Surely you shouldn’t be worried, he thinks. Max has won before.
And Max wins again, raising the totem like it’s a crucifix. The camera focuses on your wide, proud smile and shows it to the world—there, it seems to say, there she is, the one Max goes home to! Max wins the Monaco Grand Prix—but what will become of the native hero?
You watch Max win with a proud smile, and accompanied by a nasty feeling that lines the pit of your stomach, you find yourself wishing somebody else had taken his place.
—
You never did like dabbling in racing. Your dad often encouraged you to try karting, driving, even something like PR or marketing—he’d fund it all, he promised—but you grew to almost hate the career that robbed your dad of so much time. Perhaps if you thought about it, there was one upside, and it’s sitting down across you to eat lunch.
“What brings you to the paddock?” Seb smiles. “Rare occurrence.”
“It’s part of my bid to get you back to Red Bull in 2023.” You beam back, observing his Aston Martin-green getup. “I’ve got signs and speakers loaded up in my car.”
“You always were advocating for my return.”
“You’re my favorite,” you joke. But it’s an honest quip. “My favorite Aston driver, and back then, my favorite Ferrari driver.”
It’s a statement you regret as soon as it escapes, because it gives Seb leeway to start intense interrogation. He’s always known. He’s always been observing, picking up quirks and details until he forms his own crude recreation of the big picture.
“Not Leclerc, then?”
You chew slowly, eyes narrowed. “Seriously?”
He says your name solemnly, and you pause. Sigh. “What?”
Sensing your irritation, he tries a different tactic. “How are you and Max?”
Seb’s ability to almost always see through you is unrivaled. He’d been one of your closest companions back when your dad would force you to attend races and hail Seb as one of the team’s greatest. Kind as he was, he was a stellar driver, which came with the fortunate gift (and unfortunate burden) of observing everything, and being right about almost all of his hypotheses.
It’s bullshit, and you know it. He doesn’t want to know about you and Max. He might as well could’ve asked how is the weather in Wales? It’s just that farfetched—a question so unlike what usually occupies your conversations with him.
He doesn’t want to know about Max. He wants to know about you—your feelings, your turmoil, your decisions. He wants to know what’s going on with you and Max’s rival-friend-then-rival-again-then-friend. “We’re okay.”
“All good?”
“Amazing, actually.” You smile, tight-lipped.
“I met with him last night.” Yeah, you heard, you say—a party with a few notable figures. “Yeah. Him and Charles.” Jesus, Seb always finds a way to get the topic right where he needs it to be. You prepare yourself for some serious advice-giving.
He inhales, exhales. “Charles asks about you. Are you two close at all?”
No, you tell him. We know each other and that’s all.
“Well”—he says, shrugging—“I just. I don’t want you to betray anyone, not even yourself.”
It’s despicable. All you need are two couches and you’re in free Formula One therapy. They should do this to the Ferrari fans, you think. “Do you hear yourself, Seb?” Your mouth is set into a straight line.
“I’m just saying that there’s a difference—there is always a difference—between what you think you want and what you really want. Now, I can’t tell you either. Neither can your dad, or Max, or anybody. It’s all in you. You’ll know you have what you want when it’s right there.” He jabs a gentle finger onto your open palm, laid on the table. “In your hands.”
“I have what I want,” you say.
“Do you feel it?”
Seb is met with silence.
—
“Dad?” You call, voice loud to try and capture his attention. Outside, the Monaco festivities carry on. “Simon’s just brought the car around. Are we still on for dinner, or—?” You freeze when you fully enter the office, seeing your dad on the couch pouring a bottle of Scotch. Your blood runs cold almost, and your stomach could’ve dropped right beside your sandals right then.
“Hi, honey. I was just having a drink with Mr. P6.”
Charles smiles charmingly from his seat. “Hi. You’re his daughter, yes?”
You open your mouth but nothing comes out, so you shut it and nod instead. “Good race,” you say dryly, hiding your disdain under a façade of politeness as you move closer to your dad. Then, in a lower tone to him only, will you be long?
“We were just finishing,” he says with a professional smile. “Was telling Charles here that luck just wasn’t on his side today.”
“Sure,” you say, clipped. “We should go if we want to make dinner. Max wants me to visit the afterparty later, so.” You make sure to look at Charles after you say it, so you don’t miss his sudden eyebrow raise and clenched jaw. He downs the Scotch and, with a smile as warm as it is fake, excuses himself for the evening.
“Well, you two should get acquainted. Who knows what his future in Formula One holds? Once that contract’s over, it’s a bidding war.” He claps Charles on the back. “One I might like to win, eh?”
Your dad makes a signal for you to shake his hand, which you do. Like always, the touches between you, however small and indetectible, are electric; you try your best not to look at him when his hand wraps securely around yours, giving it a brief shake. You feel he’s burned you. Everything burns. “We’ve met before,” you say with a polite smile.
“Lovely to see you,” he says bluntly, acting like you haven’t had him lick salt off your neck before.
“You too.” You reply. He’s departing now, collecting his phone and keys.
He turns and smiles. “Hope I meet you again soon.”
“Nice fella, isn’t he?” Your dad asks when it’s just the both of you.
“Yeah. Nice.”
—
The APM Monaco party is the only one you end up attending. Max drives you both there and gets valet to take care of his Ferrari, leading you both inside. It’s not long before you split into separate directions—you’re looking for a friend, and Max is looking for his team, who have showed up to get drunk, too. You heard Kelly was around, if that mattered. Lets leave @ 2, you suggest. Good? You both discussed it en route, and neither of you wanted to stay late. A thumbs up and heart emoji greets you back.
It’s the same text you stare at at 2:45, antsily waiting for Max at the basement parking. The lobby parking—the main entrance to the place—is swarming with people; influencers, residents, YouTubers, anyone and everyone trying to gain access and catch sight of the lucratively famous drivers.
Thumbs up. Heart. Received 1:08.
See you at parking? Sent 1:55.
Video FaceTime Call. Missed 2:02.
WHERE ARE YOU? Sent 2:15.
Voicemail, voicemail, and more voicemail. The exit swings open and you’re 100% expecting it to be Max, profusely apologizing for forgetting your mutually-set curfew. Instead you’re faced with, as your father called him, Mr. P6.
He is, of course, smiling. Charming as ever. “I heard from my assistant that you wouldn’t be showing up to any parties. Then I hear Max wanted you to come and cheer for him,” says Charles, his usually jubilant voice low and only a little teasing. His accent is stronger here. It’s less of the English-French-Something he usually uses when speaking English and thick, more natural. “You are one good girlfriend.”
You look up from your phone and the unanswered texts—Maxie where are u? Are u bringing the car? Answer me—and narrow your eyes, mouth coming up into a frown. “What is your problem?”
“Problem?” He laughs. “I don’t have any.” He’s leaning against his car, content to watch you. Another car passes by without pausing to pick you up, leaving through the basement exit instantly. Not Max.
“Okay, then get back inside. You have a whole crowd of fans to appease.”
“I prefer it here.” He looks around the stale garage. “So peaceful.”
“It smells like gas and sweat,” you shoot back with a grimace.
He presses. “You should be happier. Your boyfriend got first place at a prestigious race.” For a moment, you pulse with empathy—you recall the beaten down look on his face when his car and his team failed him again and again and again. But you blink and swallow it.
“Yeah,” you say pointedly. “He always wins. Can you imagine if he got sixth place?”
A flash of something—something hurt, something shocked—surges in his green eyes. But like you, he blinks and it’s gone, replaced with a smile.
“Can you imagine if he didn’t go home at night?” He teases coolly.
“Right, right,” you say, letting him win that round. “And what’s all of Twitter saying about how all your flings look ‘exactly like Max’s girlfriend’?” You raise two delicate air quotes.
He gaze hardens, then flits down to your phone, open to the unanswered exchange. You quickly shut it off but it’s incentive enough for a continued conversation. “He’s okay?”
“Getting the car.” And like divine timing, a text from one of Max’s strategists dings in your inbox—a picture of your boyfriend, passed out on the floor of someone’s (you presume his) car. Should be fine by morning we’re about 5 min from his flat. But you don’t have a key to that flat, you realize, because Max suggested you both stay at a hotel for some “much needed relaxation” (you are anything, anything but).
Can you leave the key? You type, then stare. Max’s girlfriend for almost four years and you have no key. To his home. Embarrassed, you try rephrasing the text but nothing works. You’ll just sleep at the hotel, you think.
You delete the text and press a hand over your face. Fuck’s sake. You’re going to have to ring your driver—thus alerting your dad—at three in the morning for a car because your boyfriend is piss drunk.
“I’ll bring you home.” You look up, almost forgetting Charles was there. He pats the front of his car. “Hotel or Max’s flat?”
“Hot—hotel,” you say, breath catching from stress and embarrassment. “Hotel. Sorry.” You’re embarrassed. You’d gotten that dig on him for being P6 less than two minutes ago, but now you’re climbing into his car, meek and with small, unassuming movements. You almost want to apologize, but that might worsen the awkwardness of it, so you purse your lips and stay relatively quiet.
He doesn’t gloat, like you expect him to, like you maybe would if you were in his position. He does, however, sport a insufferably self-satisfied smirk, like he knows he won tonight somehow even if he didn’t even snag fifth. You grumble quietly from the leather passenger seat, opting to admire the lit-up nightlife of Monaco, alive as ever even as the night wears on.
“Is Max home safe?” He asks, stifling an even bigger smile.
“Oh, go fuck yourself.” You scroll through your many notifications, and find no text from your drunk boyfriend. You look up, finding you’ve turned away from the city centre and into the darker, less populated area. “Where are we?”
“A shortcut.” He revs faster.
“Yeah. Okay. Like, where, specifically?” Your eyes analyze your unfamiliar surroundings. You’re not familiar with Monte Carlo at all to begin with, so the lack of buildings is setting off every internal alarm bell.
“Well,” he chuckles, sensing your apprehension, “it’s a shortcut. Cuts six minutes out of the drive to your hotel.”
“I thought everything was close together here,” you quip, relaxing a little.
“Not to a native. I know places.”
“Sure.” Your voice wavers. “Charles, I’m going to jump out of the car window if you’re shitting me, I sw—”
Charles throws his head back to laugh, like he can’t even believe you just suggested that. As if deep in thought, he sticks his tongue into his cheek and laughs a little, with exasperation almost. This girl, he seems to think. You stare, transfixed with all the little flexes his face makes.
You break contact when his eyes flicker to your figure, looking at the console first then the window, as if caught stealing a cookie from the jar. “Sue me for being concerned,” you add, for an extra layer of defense.
“You are like your dad.”
Your face warps into one of disdain. “Never say that to me again.”
“Just in the way that”—he waves his hand around to get his point across, laughing as he focuses on the road ahead—“you two are always serious, always working. I mean, you never attended races, even before.”
“You don’t know shit.”
“I like to think you and I know more about each other than we let on.”
He’s right, but you won’t say it. You two have a connection so unlike what two acquaintances, friends, share. It’s undeniable and thick and impossible to uproot, an easy and intense dynamic at the same time. You know so much about him. You know how to make him laugh, hurt his feelings, get his eyes to flutter all pretty. But he knows those things about you, too.
“You only attend races for Max, yes?” He adds.
The utterance of Max’s name gives you mild whiplash—it reminds you you’re on the way to your hotel, to check if your boyfriend’s okay, and not on some drunken joyride with his friend-rival. You clear your throat and try to segue out of the topic. “I just—I take work seriously. I take everything seriously.”
“You shouldn’t.” His eyes flit over to you again, up and down, the low cut of your dress, the way your crossed arms are effortlessly pushing your tits togeth—
“You should loosen up,” he says with a cough, looking back up.
“Thanks for the tip, Leclerc.” You smile phonily, eyes still out the window. “I’ll be sure to put it to good use.”
“Okay.” He says lowly. Then, as if to set a challenge—“Put it to good use now.”
“Now?” How? You almost add, parting your lips to let the question slip past. You stop yourself before you can, though, letting your still hazy mind run through your own fabricated answers. How do I loosen up? Then, to yourself again, for you?
It’s dark outside, and even windier when you roll down the window of his car. He drives fast, steadily but scarily fast—with the kind of control he’s built over a career around a car. You peek out, facing the dark hilly terrain, spotting the city lights in the far distance. Your hair flies over your face when you turn, finding more empty road. Everyone’s in the city. In the thick of the partying.
You dip out of the window more, letting yourself feel the breeze—it whips at your face, cold and smelling of the coast. In the car, you maneuver your legs to keep yourself upright properly, and more of your leg shows as a result, the material riding up on your thighs.
Charles maintains composure, his pace slowing so your hair brushes against your face more gently. Still, a soft, high-pitched yelp of excitement and nerves escapes your bitten lips. He wishes he could watch—he wants nothing more—but he has to focus on the road. He does allow himself fleeting, hot glances at you—your legs, your lithe hands on the window’s base keeping yourself upright, the way your dress hugs your waist. He might die.
“Careful,” he says, raising his voice firmly. He is genuinely concerned for you when he spots one of your hands lifting to rake the hem of your already short dress further down. It’s cold, you’re thinking, but you let your flimsy grip tell him the same story.
Still focusing on his next turn, he drives one-handed, reaching his other one over to help you out. Out of his immediate sight, you shut your eyes and allow yourself to shiver from the feeling of his hand, warm and calloused and big, on your knee, inching higher and higher upward and eventually wrapping loosely around your leg just above your knee, holding you steady.
A shaky breath leaves you, and you’ll say it was because of the wind, but you’ll know you’re wrong. Your hand moves down, to meet his, to let your fingertips skate over the expanse of his hand until your fingers are wound tightly around his. It’s dark. It’s intimate. It’s all you’ve ever wanted.
Your mind is buzzing, red hot and clouded, when you begin to lead him upward, higher, until your interlocked hands are just under the hem of your dress, dangerously close to where you need him most. An invitation.
But when you crack your eyes open again you see you’re near the city, abandoning the safety and darkness of the shortcut, and the illusion is shattered.
“Get back in,” you hear, and when you feel the tension of his hand pulling yours, you let him tug you back inside. Your hair settles by your face, and you almost reach up to comb it neat before realizing your hand’s still caught in his. Slowly, your gaze meets his—his eyes bore into you, dark as the night outside. They don’t flicker when you hastily pull your hand from his grip, sighing shakily.
The next turn brings you back into the city, structures gaining a semblance of familiarity. The window, still open, is chilly against you, your cheeks cold with it, your shoulders inflicted by a mild wash of goosebumps. “Have fun?”
You clear your throat. “Not much,” you lie through your teeth, chewing on your lip.
“We are near the hotel.” The hotel, the party, the grand prix, Max. Reminders of what you’re supposed to be paying attention to ripple through your head as the car snakes through the city. It’s one of his other cars, so it’s not distinct enough that people are peeking inside; still, he rolls up the window for your sake.
He drops you off at the basement parking, not at the lobby. Privacy reasons, he says. He’s sick of parking outside. You bite back a quip about his nasty parking and stay still, heart beating quick.
“Thanks,” you say softly. “For driving me.”
“You’re welcome.” A hand rests on your thigh and you don't feel the resolve to jerk it, instead relishing in its warmth there. “Get there safe.”
“Safe? It’s one elevator ride,” you say tersely, rolling your eyes. He squeezes, his touch feather light, and your breath hitches. You need—
“I hope Max is okay.”
You blink and then move your thigh so his hand slides off; he doesn’t put up a fight, and you don’t encourage him to. “So do I.” It’s right as you’re closing the door when Charles says see you? You meet his eyes, eyebrows furrowed, and shut the door fully.
—
“Yeah,” you say after a period of silence. “I feel it.”
Across you, hair raked back by a headband, Seb maintains lack of conviction. You’re not telling him the truth.
“How’s it feel then?”
“Just… good. Like thrilling.” Like danger, in a good way, peaceful and calm and patient and not complicated. You know what you want. You want the ring-clad hand wound around yours, on your thigh, stubble against your jaw. You want that. You know you want that.
But do you have it?
—
Max’s agenda in Barcelona starts on the eve of quali day. He arrives at your hotel and is greeted with music—it flows from the bathroom, where, upon his inspection, he finds you, swiping a dark line of eyeliner on in the mirror. You meet his eyes briefly, but you say nothing before continuing, humming softly to the Drake song that plays from your phone. He can tell instantly: you’re pissed.
“I’m leaving,” is all you say, dismissive and standoffish. You provide no follow-up.
Still, he tries to apologize. “The meeting ran late.” Silence. “Your dad discussed budgetary stuff.” Silence. “I’m optimistic for pole tomorrow.” And again, silence. “Come on, babe. I’m sorry. Really.”
“Okay.” You pause. “What was Kelly doing there?”
His mouth opens and then closes. “Wh—”
“Ben told me.” You wave a wand of mascara around.
“She was listening.”
“What’s her business?”
“Listening,” he emphasizes.
“Bullshit.” You’re on—he guesses—eyeshadow now. “Every time the topic gets to her, you get all skittish. As fuck. You think I don’t notice?”
“Babe,” he says, defensive, “it’s only because I couldn’t even stomach the idea of being with someone else.” And it’s cheesy and corny, but it must work, because your eyes flicker with something. Love, perhaps—clarity. Realization that you’re being irrational (are you?)
“I think I’m just,” you croak. “Just. Missing you. We never spend time together anymore—and after the stunt you pulled in Monte Carlo—” You press two delicate fingers on either side of your nosebridge to emulate your disappointment. “Do you have any idea how worried I was? You were in someone’s car, blacked out. And no apology. Nothing. Just invited me to lunch the next day with your dad.” A topic you hate and a man you detest spending time with.
“I know. I’m sorry, baby.” He comes in to hug you from behind and thanks the gods that you let him, your hands encircling his wrists. “I was being stupid. Won’t happen again.”
You just nod along, still annoyed but enough that it’s beginning to melt off. Max is sated. But even then, he should’ve known that the flicker of something in your eyes wasn’t love or clarity, the flicker he catches again in the mirror when he presses a kiss to your cheek.
It’s neither. It’s guilt.
—
Quali is relatively uneventful—Max gets pole, and Charles gets something something. A good place, front row you think, but you fail to remember. Ben told you the standings, but you weren’t focused; you’ve been spacey, distracted, mind irreversibly stuck on something else during the session. Max can tell, and offers to take you out to dinner, but you decline so he leaves you by yourself nursing a Tylenol. The night is almost over, and you’re collecting your car keys and slinging your bag over your shoulder—but the evening is punctuated by a familiar English accent.
“Come on,” goads Lando, voice petulant and whiny as he tugs on your wrists. “Max said he’d be busy so he needs a proxy. He sucks at the game, anyway, you’re not filling big shoes or anything.”
The tradition (you use the term loosely) of drivers’ poker, started by Lando’s desire to master the game, is apparently so important it demands your attendance. You’ve had your run-ins with poker before, so you feel assured, but none with a volatile group of competitive guys like this one, so it’s on the fence.
“Where?” You suppose, though, that your mind could use a little clearing. A game, a win of sorts.
“My hotel room. I’ve just”—he types rapidly on his phone and presents your text exchange with him—“sent you the number.”
“Who’s playing?” You walk to your car and he follows, still insistent.
“The yoozsh,” he says, shortening usual the way a prepubescent boy might. “Alex, me, Charles, Carlos, Lance. We play a good game. The stakes can get pretty high. And I’ve won a couple times, so beware.”
You laugh a little, raising your brows skeptically. “Sure.”
“I’m dead serious, mate.” He says solemnly as he waves goodbye, standing idly and watching you start your car through the half-rolled window. “See ya. I am going to kick your ass.”
—
“Is this the part where you kick my ass?” You laugh, everyone peering at Lando’s shit hand that he’s presented to the table. “Out!” The game’s since been decimated to just you, Charles, a pool of money, and a thick atmosphere of slow, deliberate silence.
The rest of the players watch you and Charles, conveniently seated across each other, entranced by the easy back and forth that swings between the both of you. You peer down at your cards, then half-lidded, back up at him. His eyes bore into you, challenging, amused.
Tense, you hear faintly. Lando’s unsolicited commentary. In between you both is a scattered pile of creased bills of varying currencies, chips, a condom thrown in by Lance, and a few spare coins. It’s a huge pool despite how random it is, and even if it doesn’t cost much to anybody in the room considering how much you all earn, the prestige of calling yourself a winner still takes precedence.
Underneath the table, your foot brushes against his, the tip of your heel to the side of his sneaker. You poke your tongue into your cheek to conceal a smile, refusing to meet his eyes again.
“You seem nervous,” he says, trying his best to elicit a reaction out of you.
“Could say the same to you,” you quip, tracing the hem of his jeans with your foot. His breath hitches and you take it as a win, smiling to yourself.
“I’ve had a four game winning streak.” He fans his cards out. “Nothing to lose.”
“Oh?” Your legs continue to intertwine out of sight of everybody else, the friction of your bare calf to the denim of his jeans a warm addition to your already intense match. “Say bye to five.” Lando deals the final cards and the tension hangs heavy, palpable in the air as you both calculate your next moves. Carlos eyes the two of you, sensing something else is at stake here. The air is just too heavy.
“We’ll see,” he whistles, revealing his cards. The group seems to hold one collective, bated breath, waiting for you to take your turn. You do so with a self-satisfied smile, your foot still intertwined with his calf as you begin laying your cards down on the table. You slowly reveal a stunning winning hand, and Lando is the first to get up and cheer loudly.
Charles shrugs and hands you your victory with a handshake, pushing the pool of winnings in your direction. “Congratulations.”
“When you’re with a winner,” you tease lowly, just in Charles’ earshot, “you are a winner.”
He snorts. “Whatever you say.”
You both miss Carlos and Alex exchanging a glance first with you and Charles, smiling teasingly at each other—and the way his eyes go from yours, to your lips, and back to your eyes—then with each other, eyes half-wide and half-puzzled.
—
The race is intense, and Max suffers damage in the middle of it. It’s a rare occasion, but it costs him place after place until he’s vying not for P1, but P4. He doesn’t win today. You watch Charles cross the checkered flag yourself, watch the footage of him throwing his fists up in the air.
You’re there to watch the Red Bull engineers grumble, mutter dissent, wish themselves luck for the next weekend. You’re there when your dad says Charles is the team’s biggest liability. Imagine if we had him, he’d said. You imagine Charles in a Red Bull suit, but the image is cut short by your boyfriend’s arrival to the garage.
The video feedback on your father’s TV, of Charles spraying champagne all over everywhere, his green eyes meeting the camera with a brilliant charm, is abruptly cut off and you turn to find Max entering. His demeanor is stormy.
“P6,” you say immediately, sensing the pending grumbling. “Not so ba—”
“It’s a shitshow,” he retorts, disgruntled. But he’s at the top of the standings, leagues above the rest; he has nothing to worry about. Driving-wise, at least. “Fucking shitshow.”
“Max,” you comfort. “You did well. The damage was out of your control.”
But he’s pissed, and in the thick of his emotion, he pays your sentiments no mind. To him. it’s all the same regurgitated bullshit. Eventually, though he calms down, finds you in the motorhome and wraps you in a loose hug. “Love you.”
“Yeah, yeah.” You smile. “Love you, too.”
He leaves early for a meeting—so many meetings, these days—and promises to meet you for dinner, requesting you text him. You watch him leave, slip into his car and drive off, and then call yourself a car to the hotel. You figure it’s high time you spend quality time with Max, what with all the instances you’ve been fighting or ignoring each other.
You leave at six, taking the elevator to the basement to get to your own car, parked there. You’re optimistic. A dinner. A date. Finally, some time with him. This is what you want. The coil in your belly, though, and the congratulatory text left unsent, tell you a different story. It’s one you choose to ignore.
The elevator has a bar slotted across the back wall that you lean on, typing updates to Ben and Max. The drive shouldn’t be long, you hope. You can’t navigate the new city fast enough. The door dings open and you make a move to exit, but you’re stopped by a figure across you.
Charles, in his Armani tee, arms crossed and eyes flashing with recognition when the doors reveal you. He’s still fussed up from the race, probably forced to stick around for promo pictures and interviews. His hair’s damp still. You notice the imprint of his balaclava is only just starting to soften and fade.
Your words tangle in your throat. “Congratulations,” is all you can muster when you see him. You don’t inch close. He, too, remains stagnant, standing perfectly still. Not even a smile. Like the tension between you forms a barrier as physical as it is emotional. “You drove great.” Your hand tightens around your phone, where you’ve just texted Max that you’re leaving the hotel.
“We should really stop meeting in parking garages.” He says lowly, with a small smile.
You step forward twice. “I was just leaving anyw—”
“Wait.” For a second, his voice breaks and he sounds—desperate, almost. “Remember Monaco? Last week. You told me you liked winners.” Somehow you find yourself allowing him to near you, stepping backwards for every step he takes closer, even if you realize you’re hogging the elevator, and that people might be waiting to arrive to this floor. “You told me… imagine if he got sixth.”
He steps into the elevator with you, and the doors automatically close behind him; it remains still, but he presses the stop button for good measure. He’s right in front of you, tired eyes and stubble and tall, broad, big. He sees right through you. He knows you. Your buttons, your quirks, everything.
“It was a joke,” you say, attempting to establish composure as you pocket your phone. You fail. You always fail. It’s him. Still, you try, hard enough that he thinks you don’t want him to come even closer, to cage you against the back wall of the tiny basement elevator. “I apologized.”
“Nevermind that.” A hand on the bar of the elevator, just by your waist. His grip is tight. He needs to channel all this want somewhere. “What do winners get?”
“Charles.” Your voice comes out shaky.
“Just this once,” he says. He needs it so bad. You’re so pretty today, eyes looking right up at him, lips bitten the way they always are. He’s taller, he’s bigger, he’s got the upper hand physically—what, with the way you’re crowded up against the wall, nearly having to go on your tiptoes if you want to maintain distance. Your eyes flutter. Just this once. Four years. Just this once. Break a rule. But this isn’t a rule, you remind yourself woefully—it’s all the rules. “I care for you, you know.”
Your silence grants elaboration.
“You’re too serious. But everyone around you is, too.” Closer. “Max, your dad, your coworkers. You just need someone who can calm you down. Help you get peace of mind. No complications, you know.” Closer, even closer. “Someone who’s patient. Calm.”
You stare up at him, your hands unmoving until they’re slowly coming up to press against his abdomen, the hard surface there. You could push him away. You should, in fact, push and forget and walk away and apologize for the delay. But they remain planted there, eyes still meeting his. They’re so green, green and staring right into you, his parted lips just a little chapped, his stubble uneven and getting longer. You want to feel it rubbing your chin raw. Your inner thighs.
He steps closer and now you’re on your tiptoes, legs spreading a little to accommodate him. His hands are still on the bar. Yours, on his abdomen. You miss the way he squeezes the bar, so strong and with so, so much pent up feelings you’d think he bent it out of shape. He wants so badly for you to be his. And more than that—if that were even possible—for him to be yours.
Lightly, you bunch up the material of his tee, cotton wound in-between your fingers. Push him, you tell yourself. Push him away. Let go. You’ve had your resolve tested before. But you know better. You know that it’s never come to this. Again, he steps forward, and this time a hand leaves the bar and rests, gentle as it is firm, on your waist, just below it—his thumb presses against your hip. Your breath hitches.
Push him.
He comes closer and you’re fully pressed against the wall, half-seated on the bar, half held up by him—your skirt’s ridden up, legs spread and dangling on either side of his figure. Silence. Your breathing. Your eyes, big and anticipatory, staring into his, dark and desperate.
Push him.
“It can be—”
You adjust your grip around his tee, ready to loosen it and let go and—and for a second you feel the solid plane of his abs—
“—my prize.”
Push him. You tighten your grip, and pull him in to slot your mouths together.
His lips are warm, and soft, and he has another hand on your jaw now, but it’s so big it’s at your neck too. You part your lips to let his tongue slip in, and the kiss is nothing if not desperate. He’s wanted this for so long, to feel you like this, have your lips pressed against his. And you’d be dishonest if you said you disagreed. You don’t want to part for air. You feel like this could satiate you enough, just the movement of his lips, the scent of his cologne.
He needs to be closer to you—so he places two hands on your waist and naturally, it lets your legs wrap around him. You can feel how hard he is, and the reminder is dizzying. He wants you. But there is no upper hand here. If he lets his hands wander, he’d feel the damp of your panties and realize you’re just as bad as he is.
But for now it’s a kiss, messy and hot—passionate and just one big breath of finally. Your hands go from his abdomen to his face, cupping him on either side. It’s romantic, fuck—but you’ve craved this for so long, you cherish every second. His stubble rubs your chin raw. You trace patterns on his face, find indents of moles with your eyes closed. The kisses are searing.
Even if you both want it, and even if this creaky elevator grants you a semblance of the privacy, you both know this won’t be leading to sex. Just this—just this. It’s all he’s ever wanted. Your hands on his jaw, his shoulders, the nape of his neck. His, on your waist, your throat, your hips. Your gasps mingling with his.
The kiss takes and takes and takes, and it’s long, but you take and give four years’ worth of want and tension and frustration. You part, forehead pressed against his, and the absence leaves you empty—you inch forward and kiss him again, let it consume you, before you part again.
His eyes won’t stop staring. In the way they always look at you. With want. With something. A glint.
“First and last,” you say, lifted against the wall of the elevator, your hands around his face. Your thumbs roam over his face. He sets you down, breath heavy, and still his hands are on your waist and yours on his face. It was your cue to leave. But you can’t. Not yet.
Your thumbs go over his eyebrows, his eyelashes so his eyes flutter; the mark of his balaclava, the indent there; his nose, his cheeks, wiping the sweat there, then lower, finally to his lips. One thumb rests softly in the centre. Just seconds ago those lips had been pressed to yours, bringing a type of clarity you never knew existed. Everything, for just those moments, made perfect sense.
“You lie.” He repeats.
You tiptoe to kiss him again and he can’t seem to get enough, his eyebrows furrowed—so much he almost looks angry, anguished—when you kiss. “First and last,” you say breathlessly when you pull away.
He shakes his head. “You’re going to come right back to me,” he says, with so much finality and conviction it’s almost a fact. “You always will, you always do.” His eyes are shut even when you don’t kiss, relishing in your proximity.
And when you part, he watches you leave, with something between desperation and anguish. You don’t realize, he thinks, just how deep he is in his attraction. His connection to you. It consumes him, burns him alive, and it’s leaving him for someone else.
You ring the elevator open again, wiping your lips. He lets it close, leaning against the wall himself. And you both realize, with a heavy breath as you climb into your car and he disembarks the elevator: there is no way either of you will resist it anymore. That was the first, yes. But to say it was the last would be stark, stark lying.
—
You’re still licking syrup off the corner of your lip when you walk out of the hotel breakfast buffet, letting Max explain the fundamentals of a race to you. He’d apologized earlier, for not meeting you at the Monza afterparty last night—he’d gotten caught in something or other. But he’s kind, and inserts a few jokes here and there to get a laugh out of you, your eyes crinkling under the heavy lens of your sunglasses, sandals clicking against the outdoor garden cement floor.
He’s talking, and then trails off. Oh, he says, this is a mate of mine. You look up to make small talk and smile politely, but your face falls faster than you can pick it up. Tall and in sunglasses, too, is Charles Leclerc. You thought they were colleagues, not friends—this is chaos. You reach out to shake his hand, your free hand coming up to press against the splotch of concealer. Just in case.
The handshake is stiff and it reminds you of tequila and lemon, salt and teeth and kitten licks down your throat and right to the crest of your cleavage. But you blink and shake once, up and down. Firm.
“Nice to meet you.” He says, smiling. Then, to Max: “Girlfriend?”
“Hope so,” jokes Max, eyeing you. You laugh.
Charles smiles to himself, smug. He eyes you through his sunglasses with something caught in longing and want. “I hope so, too.”
—
Dinner is short and, despite your best efforts to make it a good one, boring. The food is good and sufficiently expensive, the way all European restaurants are. But nothing flows, ebbs. You talk of the same things: Red Bull, Red Bull, and if you have time, Red Bull. You ask about work, but it’s nothing you haven’t already heard. Max doesn’t ask about work, so the conversation descends into a limbo of silence and sips of rosé. “I’m pretty sure the next race is going to be great.”
“Charles drove great today,” says Max. “Didn’t he?”
You pause, then nod. “Yeah. Yeah, I mean, objectively so.”
“I was going to congratulate him… lost him on the paddock though.” He sips, drawing it out. “You seen him?”
“No,” you say, pithy. “Haven’t.”
“Okay.” He waves his hand upward to signal the bill. “I’ll drop you off and head out for the night. Helmut stuff.”
You’re torn between feeling suspicious and recalling the events of the elevator, so you nod tersely instead and make the necessary small talk from the table to the car. His hand on your waist, the same place Charles’ was just hours ago. It sends you into a cloudy mental spiral. Just thinking about it—about the way he’d gasped your name in between kisses, like he’d die if you didn’t kiss him again.
“I’m sorry,” Max says when he pulls up at the hotel entrance. “For all the work stuff. And for inviting you to lunch with my dad.” A weak laugh escapes you and you find his hand to squeeze it. It’s okay, you convey, and hope it’s enough that he lets the topic quell for now.
Your silence is permissive, so he continues. “I’ll make it up to you, okay?” Leans over and presses a sure kiss to your cheek. “As soon as I can.”
You nod and climb out, praying he didn’t see you shudder. The trek to the elevator, eyes skittish and searching for a sign of Charles, is tiring, and you find reprieve only when you’re pushing the door to the penthouse suite open, toeing your sandals off and dropping your bag just by the entryway. You freeze when you hear a glass clink from the living area. You’d gotten this suite for you and Max, and definitely nobody else.
Brandishing a bunch of keys in-between your fingers, you tiptoe into the area and find, to your confusion and shock, your dad. He’s seated on the couch toying with a glass of whiskey, eyes lighting up when he sees you, even if you look like a psycho with claws.
“Hi, honey.”
“Dad.” You drop your keys on the coffee table as you near him, and exchange a kiss and hug. “Wh—did you get a key from…?”
“Ben.” He smiles. “I thought I would surprise you.”
“Yeah, you more scared me.” You quip, laughing. Then you recall a detail and follow-up on it. “Max—um, he said you had a meeting?”
“Meeting? None scheduled tonight,” he says, frowning and opening his Calendar app. Nothing.
A dry quiet creeps up into the room and settles.
You pour yourself a glass and seat yourself beside him, drinking. You share a conversation for the duration of two glasses and then he’s leaving. The kiss he stamps on your forehead, you notice, is more meaningful, conveys a deeper message, lasts longer. He knows what you know now.
The usual sleepiness that comes with alcohol doesn’t arrive and you fall into an uneasy sleep; it doesn’t help that Max calls in past two, saying he’s crashing at the hotel room he bought for his dad instead of your hotel. You listen to the slurred voicemail, eyes shut and nose buried in the pillow. Eventually you lull yourself to sleep, awaiting the promise of morning and clarity.
—
Morning brings a day off. A break. But your mind does not cease to be cloudy, instead becoming even more muddled with questions and pivots and forks in the road. It helps, you suppose, that Max isn’t home. It might’ve worsened everything. You wrestle your way through a glass of water and a cup of tea, try out yoga, and even attempt going back to sleep. But it’s no use; you’re antsy.
So instead of suppressing the thoughts, you theorize, it’s better to lean into them. Succumb to them, the tempt and guilt of them. It might help you navigate the confusion of everything. So you do—you think of your years-long history with Charles, your relationship with Max. The hiding, the suppression, the pretending. Fleeting touches.
You think of how well Charles knows you, inside and out, of how good he kissed you even if he hadn’t ever kissed you before. His hands, the way he said your name, the hitch in his breath when your hands dared to venture just a little lower. The want, the pure want—the want so unadulterated even one kiss was enough. Images of close calls fill your head. All the times you were high, giggly and leaning into him, on the edge of flirty in some dark corner of a club. Your connection has always been, and will always be, completely and absolutely undeniable. No matter how hard you try.
Guilt fills you at the same time. And with the guilt—confusion. Where is Max? He wasn’t at a meeting last night, and you suspect you know exactly where he is. Who he’s with. Can you really be angry, though? Is it a feedback loop of the same thing, the same morally grey actions? Is this all your relationship has been reduced to? Questions, questions, and more questions flood the corners of your head.
Thoughts are put to a standstill when the door shakes with two knocks.
You rake your hair back and climb out of bed, into the main room, still in your lace pajamas. It might be the complimentary hotel breakfast or Max arriving, you guess. Maybe your dad—he’s apparently in the business of keying himself into your hotel rooms.
So you don’t bother looking through the peephole, undoing the latch with haste and dexterity before you’re hauling the heavy door open and staring breathlessly at the other side.
—
Abu Dhabi greets Max and you with fanfare, with a plethora of paddock paparazzi and even a few gossip rags asking questions. Some journalists drop a check-in, cameras zeroing in on your intertwined hands and your shared smiles. She’s the World Champ’s! seems to be the pervasive headline lately, and your pictures from today will no doubt exacerbate it.
He squeezes your hand when you finally gain semi-privacy, entering the motorhome. Your dad sees you, sees Max, offers a wave that you both return. Your eyes go from wide and smiling to a little blank and dismissive, a change minute but noticeable. “You okay?” He calls after you when you enter his room.
You drop your Kelly—the bag—on the seat by the door and gather your hair to rest on one side. “Fine. You nervous?”
“The planned strategy was horseshit.” Max is right and for the sake of your dad, it worries you.
“Yeah, yeah. I think I’ll talk to Dad for a bit. You’ll be okay alone?” You’re getting up already.
“Wait—” He pauses when you’re kissing his cheek as a goodbye. “I thought we were getting lunch.”
“Oh.” You pause to think. “We can get dinner, then.”
“No,” he says. “I’m going to be with Jos.”
“Drinks.” You leave no room for argument and leave with the door shutting softly behind you.
He stares at the just-closed door, your bag slung over the chair, the way you keep pressing against a certain spot on your neck. You are hiding something—Max just can’t put his finger on it.
#f1#leclsrc3000#charles leclerc#charles leclerc imagines#charles leclerc drabble#charles leclerc x reader#charles leclerc fanfic#f1 x reader
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3k celeb toimeee ~_~ darting eyes with pregnant reader and best friends lily and alex please? love u mother
guessing game – ...?
Your two closest friends scramble to guess who got you knocked up.
auds here... hi love u didnt specify who u want the baby daddy to be... so i spun it into something of the sort bahaha
Alex finds the plastic positive test first, on the floor of his bathroom. On instinct, he literally screams for Lily, who rushes over to him and tells him it’s not hers, and for a minute Alex thinks oh Christ, is it mine? It’s only after Lily slaps his shoulder that they begin thinking of who might own it, thinking it’d really only belong to the only other person they love enough to let pee in their flat.
In a flurry of panic, they ransack the place trying to find you (it’s a three bedroom, so not too much ransacking is done, really) and eventually find peace when they peek into the rooftop deck and find you watching the overcast, dreary city with a blank expression on your face. You turn when you hear their footsteps on the cement, features softening instantly.
“You freaked us out,” Lily says, but she’s hugging you tight. “Alex saw it.”
“I thought it was mine for a second,” he says, earning himself another light shove. You laugh, but it doesn’t really hold with your anxiety, your anticipation, your nerves. You know, you can feel their burning questions creeping up on you, but they hold back for your sake.
“Are you okay?” Alex adds, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. You sigh, shrugging.
“Sure. I’m keeping it, I guess. I’m just nervous. I haven’t even told the d—” Your voice hitches into silence, and you purse your lips. “Yeah.”
You can tell they’re absolutely dying to ask you who it is, but you don’t want to speak it aloud.
It’s just because when you do, it’ll feel so much more real. So real, so damning, once there’s a name to the mysterious figure, once they know who he is. But they’re your best friends, and just based on their eyebrows furrowing and eyes darting millimeter to millimeter, you can pick up on their inner monologues, their musings, and the theories they will no doubt share to one another over dinner or beer when you’re gone.
—
“Paul.” Lily says, tossing the stuffed bear to her boyfriend. He takes it and holds it, humming contemplatively. “Alex, it’s him. That’s the last guy she slept with, like, four weeks ago. And they did it twice I think.”
“Yeaaaaah, but. Yeesh. Paul?” He grimaces, face souring as if he’d just eaten a lemon wedge. “He was ugly.”
She laughs. “Then it means our best friend is going to have an ugly baby. Throw me the bear.”
“Oh—aha! Ahhh-ha! It can’t be Paul, she was in California last month, remember?! She had that whole work thing. And he was in Europe. Can’t make a baby over Skype, now can you.” He pumps his eyebrows and throws the bear, satisfied with his rebuttal as he watches his girlfriend stutter for her own.
“Maybe she had a one night stand with someone in California?” Lily hums. “Did you know anyone who was there last month?”
She pouts to herself, deep in thought. She’s worried for you, above all, but she can’t knock the curiosity out of herself. It seems weird that neither she or her boyfriend are even remotely able to pinpoint the guy’s identity at once, mostly because they both know you so well. Lily especially, because you’re not in the business of spilling hookup secrets to Alex (he gets wind of it via Lily instead), and she had herself convinced she’d heard almost all of it.
“No, I didn’t see anything. Lots of drivers were on off-time last month, so it was all personal trips. But if she got knocked up a bit before L.A., she did go to that gala where a few drivers were hanging out, too.” He makes grabby hands for the bear, but Lily holds it out of reach, still confused and lost in thought.
She was so sure it was Paul—he was the only guy you told her about over the last few months. Sure, there were flings, but they were terribly short-lived, and that was only because you’re not one to date for a while. “The timeline doesn’t add up, but. Okay, who was there?”
“Um. Charles, and Carlos.”
“So it might be them.”
“Yeah, but slim chance.”
Grumbling, she tosses the bear back. “You win,” she sighs. “We’ll see. I’m totally blanking.”
“So am I,” Alex responds, evidently bummed.
—
Yuki hosts birthday dinner with the people on the grid he can “tolerate,” he said, which of course started with Pierre and Nyck, seated on either side of the celebrant. Plus ones are allowed, so Alex brought Lily, too, and Yuki loves you too much to discount you from the guest list, so the three of you are sitting next to each other. Charles, and Lando occupy the last two seats.
“Remember that gala you went to last month?” Lily asks in faux-nonchalance.
“Oh, yeah. Carlos and I had way too much vodka that time, like jeeez.” You make a face of disgust.
Alex squeezes Lily’s hand so hard she has to contain a squeal. They’ve got you pinned.
—
An hour into the dinner, your eyes begin to dart back and forth, breaths leaving you in quiet little huffs, which is your easiest tell—you’re nervous. Anticipatory. Bumbling. Sometime after the collective effort of teaching Pierre how to use chopsticks and watching the wooden utensil fly away and into the restaurant’s open aquarium, you excuse yourself to go to the bathroom.
Immediately, your departure sends Alex and Lily into sleuth mode again.
She extracts a pen from her purse and clicks it a few times, reviewing the facts. One, you haven’t told the dad yet, you said, which means there’s no awkward air between the two of you. Two, it’s someone on the paddock, or someone friends with someone on the paddock (the only clue you told them, and a really useless one considering how big social circles run in racing).
Its Carlos? she writes on a napkin, passing it to Alex.
DUNNO…. Maybe is the response. How bout Yuki? “What’s your birthday wish, Yukino?” Lando asks as she writes; Lily makes an attempt to look engaged but half-fails, eyes trained on her written words.
Are u crazy she scribbles. Lando?
“To travel outside of work,” Yuki says. “Be by myself, or with a friend. Taste food everywhere.” She wouldnt sleep with him if he paid her, Alex writes furiously quickly after paying the driver a long, scrutinizing glance.
“I heard of a cool place somewhere in Vietnam,” Lily chimes in to seem involved, but she doesn’t look up from her writing. Ok… so it’s not a driver?
She passes it to Alex and looks up. “They sell the best pho.”
“If you like Asian food, mate, Nobu is good, too,” Charles offers, smiling.
Alex passes the tissue, now worn thin with the writing, back. Idk. I bet it is tho. Doobius. She reads over it a few times in a cross between amusement and what she can only describe as being totally weirded out.
ITS DUBIOUS, she corrects, and for good measure she underlines the U several times. They’re losing the plot, distracted.
“I only hear the best about that place,” Nyck quips. “What Nobu did you go to?”
SORRY IM NOT AN EXPERT MISS HE
“California, in L.A.”
I dont think theres a single word spelled like that Alex
Pierre makes a curious noise. “Los Angeles? I didn’t know you went there, mate. When?”
Ok miss expert comes the funny reply.
“Last month,” Charles says.
Youre such a di
She pauses as she writes, waiting for herself to piece together why his sentence means so much. Nobu. California. L.A.
Last month.
The words register, click in her mind. In unison, Alex and Lily’s wide eyes immediately snap up to Charles’ relaxed figure, and he notices, laughing a bit nervously. No way, they’re thinking. The answer’s dropped right into their laps.
Now visibly stuffy, Charles smiles politely. “What is going on?”
“You—!” Alex raises a finger, ready to make his epiphany verbal in his fit of excitement, but at the last moment spots you walking back in, dabbing your lip gloss in place. He deflates. “Y—you, you—are a fan of sushi?!”
Charles blinks. “Um… sure.”
Lily makes a show of happiness. “That’s great!” she chirps, laughing phonily. “So great!”
Alex nods along. “So great, so great!”
You slide into your seat, smiling. “Hi. What’s so great?”
“Oh,” Lily says, laughing smugly and meeting your eyes. “Oh, you have no idea.”
#f1#leclsrc3000#charles leclerc smut#charles leclerc imagines#carlos sainz smut#carlos sainz imagine#f1 x reader
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team effort ✴︎ cl16, cs55
genre: 18+, pwp (very little plot), filthy, fem!reader
word count: 3.3k
It was supposed to be a one-time thing, but now you’re in-between your boyfriend and his teammate again. So really, maybe, this could become a regular thing. (sequel of sorts to this but can stand alone just fine)
nsfw warnings under the cut!
18+ because… alright. a threesome, penetrative sex, anal sex, oral sex (M receiving), handjob (F receiving), double penetration (crowd leaves), dirty talk (degradation), crying, breeding, rough sex, size kink, requires suspension of belief regarding the inner workings of anal and positions apologies, spit kink (crowd leaves again)
probably the most requested thing i get, and i felt like practicing my pwp writing so—i hope you like it everyone! :) love auds
“Hey, you brought the pretty girl,” teases Carlos, a glass of alcohol in hand. He pushes it into Charles’ hand and you watch as your boyfriend takes a sip, vision semi-obstructed by how dark the place is. “Mind if I get a picture?”
“Course I did.” Charles smiles, and his left eye drops into a subtle wink. “And sure, she begged to come anyway.”
His teammate laughs. “Nothing I haven’t heard before. Come say hi to the others.”
Your face turns hot when it registers what he’s just said, but it’s too late to get a quip in; a gentle hand at your waist is guiding you through the crowd of people, by the DJ booth, and into the seats just beside it populated by several familiar faces. You accept and return a few hellos and heeeys from Lando and Pierre, among others, and when a shot is offered to you by Danny, you take it.
Charles lets you wander around the area for a while to get used to the place, watches you laugh about something with Carmen and try your hand at the DJ table with Lando, combing your hair over to one side. You take a few shots because George feels like “letting loose” (he takes two).
He sees a patch of concealer just below your collarbone; granted, it’d have been hidden if you were wearing something less low-cut than your dress right now, but he spots it and he immediately realizes what it is with an amused laugh.
When his eyes glide upward from your cleavage, he finds you’re already looking at him, eyes half-lidded and mouth tugged into a pretty smile. He sees you excuse yourself, walking right into his arms, pouting. He tips his glass over to your lips, pours some of his drink in.
“What’s the matter, baby? Wanna smoke?” He leans against the railing of the VIP area, seating himself there and pulling you close so you’re pressed up against him. You inhale his scent, his cologne, nip at his jaw. You always get so touchy when you’ve got some alcohol in you.
There’s a blunt or three being passed around, you smell it. “Nothing. I think ‘m getting a little tipsy, I don’t want to crossfade.” You blink and it’s like your eyelids are droopy with honey. The party’s thick with the heady scent of tequila, mixed perfume, weed, and saturated with heavy bass. If you’re totally honest you’ve lost track of time.
“There you are,” goes a voice, and you tense.
“I was looking for you, too, mate.” Your boyfriend’s arm reaches to someone behind you and shakes. “Girlfriend’s feeling a bit tipsy.” He pulls his hand back in, rests it over your the small of your back.
“You okay?” Carlos leans in, his voice hot against your ear. You blink, in a daze of tipsy and hot, nodding. You’re in between them now, still pressed against your boyfriend. Slowly, your head lolls onto Carlos’ shoulder, exposing your neck. If you stepped back just a bit, you realize—
—you’d feel Carlos’ dick pressed against your ass. “A little tired,” you say, opening your eyes to meet your boyfriend’s. Normally they’re green, but now they’re so dark you can barely tell. The limited lighting doesn’t help. Your knees are weak with the way you resist the urge to grind back onto Carlos, who’s laughing, observing your ditzy face.
“Let’s get you out of here, huh?” Charles smiles. He’s always so sweet. Doing what you want, what you need, a nice guy in that respect. So he can take what he wants later. He and Carlos down the rest of their drinks, and they’re both ushering you out the back exit and directly into the parking lot.
It’s a direct replay of what happened a few months ago, and what happened a few times afterward. After dinners, races, nights out—it wasn’t too frequent, but enough that it became a thing. Enough, too, that you could grow antsy if it didn’t happen for too long.
Your boyfriend brought a different car today, his Range Rover with a spacious backseat you’re being guided into. The lack of heavy bass and strobe lights help you feel more sober, but don’t help with the arousal at all. As you climb, your dress hikes up a bit, and Carlos catches a peek of your panties underneath, white and almost see-through, showing the outline of your pussy.
They’re on either side of you, your breath hitching when they lean in closer, lip caught between your teeth and eyes screwed shut. Your boyfriend’s hand grazes your thigh and you spread your legs, involuntary, sighing a low please. Please what, you don’t even know.
“You want this?” Charles asks. He takes things slowly, a dreamy smile on his face, eyebrows knitted together. His hand moves upward, and he runs a few teasing fingers over the lace of your white panties, pressing them harder until you’re starting to squirm, breathless ahs leaving your lips.
“Please,” you say, voice small and desperate. “Yes.”
Your approval makes them more excited; they’ve both missed this more than they’re willing to let on. Your mouth is half open, letting out noises, eyes half-open; Carlos wonders what you’d look like covered in cum. Both his and Charles’, splayed all over your pretty waiting face.
The first time this happened, Carlos watched for the most part. He’d been chained to the driver’s seat, listening to the wet noises of Charles’ fingers fucking into you. He made eye cotnact with you right as you came, a long, drawn-out moan leaving your mouth. He fucked you another time. And he’s missed the feeling. He’s missed the sight of your fucked-out face, moaning on his cock, or his teammate’s, or both.
You press your lips to Charles and he encourages you to part them, slowly deepening the kiss until you’re moaning into his mouth, hips bucking up into nothing. “Please,” you say, “give me something.” Anything, you’ll take anything.
Carlos brings two big fingers to his mouth, laves his tongue over them, and brings them to the apex of your thighs, pushing aside the lace and fucking them into you, one by one. You gasp into Charles’ mouth—his fingers are so thick, pumping in and out at a brutal pace without waiting for you to adjust to the strength. You whimper, breaking the kiss because everything’s too much, head leaning back and eyes meeting the grey ceiling of the car.
“God, she’s wet.” You hear the teasing smile without looking up. “And tight.”
“I know,” your boyfriend says, smiling as he sucks a hickey onto your throat. Your legs quiver.
It’s Charles’ voice again, sweet and deep against your ear. “Feel good?”
“Yes,” you say, nodding eagerly, lifting your head up and looking right at him.
“Thank him,” he orders. They always do this, make you talk and use your words when your brain is all scrambled and going a thousand different directions. It’s only worse when they start talking about you like you’re not there, using dirty words and sliding into native languages you can’t understand, but they can, and they laugh watching you whimper for more.
“Thank—thank you,” you whisper, turning from your boyfriend’s face to Carlos.
“You’re welcome, princesa. You’re going to make us feel good, too, right?”
You nod.
“Why don’t you start now?” The instruction comes from Charles and you follow suit, hands going from your sides to the tents in their jeans, grabbing at the huge bulges there. You’re losing grip, Carlos’ big fingers are moving faster, feeling your orgasm approach faster.
Already? Shiiit, your boyfriend says with a low laugh. Go ahead and cum first, baby. Go ahead.
His words are so sweet, kissing up and down your neck, the stimulation pushing you further until you’re cumming from just two fingers. The messy squelch of Carlos’ fingers moving in and out of you gets them both so hard, aching to fuck you, take you apart, make your voice raw. Your moans grow louder and louder, legs trying to close around the hand in between them—they’re held open by two free hands and you have to lie there and take it.
“‘M cumming,” you gasp, tension bursting inside you, pussy contracting around Carlos’ digits. You squeeze at their bulges again, wishing you had the coherency to undo the buttons and the zips. They get the message, undoing their jeans just enough to pull out their cocks.
“Wanna suck you off,” you say, turning to Charles. Shyly, you add, “Both of you.”
The only way to do that is by kneeling on the limited floor space of the car. There’s not much space, and you shuffle around a few times, but eventually you find a position, legs folded and on your knees, in between the two of them.
They’re both looking down at you with dark eyes and devious, teasing grins that feel downright evil, hands wrapped loosely around their cocks. They jack themselves off a few times, and you hoist yourself up higher to watch closely, brows furrowed.
“Open your mouth,” Carlos says sharply, tone low and rushed. You obey, sticking your tongue out, and watch as he rubs the precum off his tip and onto your tongue. He laughs, looking at your boyfriend. “Look at that. Like that?”
“Yea,” you mutter, turning a bit to let your boyfriend to the same, letting your spit drip down from the tip so the glide is easier. He slaps your cheek with it, laughs at the way you pout, and advises Carlos to do the same. You turn again, taking Carlos into your mouth until he’s prodding at the back of your throat and it’s wet all over.
They love seeing you like this—with their precum being smeared al over your shiny, spit-covered cheeks and lips, tongue peeking out to get a taste every time they drag their cocks closer to your mouth. “She’s pretty, isn’t she?”
“Sucks dick like she was made for it,” Carlos says, punctuating his sentence with a quip in Italian. They both laugh as you gag around Charles’ dick, jerking Carlos off messily. You’re choking, precum coating the back of your throat and wrist wearing out.
“You look so pretty, baby.” Your boyfriend says, grunting with pleasure.
“Pretty lips, too, yeah?” Carlos says, his hand shadowing yours and making you jack him off faster.
“She can’t reply, Carlos. Too busy gagging on my dick,” Charles says, and your eyes well up with embarrassment that you’ve basically soaked through your panties from their words alone. You want them to cum, cover your lips and eyelashes with them so you can scoop it off and let them watch you swallow it. Be good for them, their good girl.
But they never like cumming if it’s not in you, or after they’ve been in you, so you anticipate the way you’re guided off your boyfriend’s cock by your hair. They tug your head backwards, a bit on the edge of roughly, exposing the column of your throat, littered with spit and lovebites.
Your pussy is getting wetter, dripping through your panties and onto your legs folded underneath. It’s the first thing they inspect when they heave you back into the middle of the backseat, bent over Carlos’ lap so your ass is on full display for Charles and, if he cranes his head, Carlos, too.
It’s humiliating. Your mind’s so hazy you can barely tell whose hands are whose, groping at your ass, pulling away the lace to reveal your puffy, wet cunt and letting the thin strip of fabric snap back to make you yelp. Two fingers push into you, going fast instantly until you’re sobbing for them to slow down. It’s Charles. You can tell because you feel the metal of his rings.
There’s a third at that point, stretching you out further, getting you even wetter and more desperate. You cum easily, overstimulated, tears rolling down your spit-streaked face as you quiver with it, blinking them away as you’re guided back into the middle. They maneuver themselves so they’re facing each other, your pussy right above Carlos’ tip, which is just beside your boyfriend’s.
You’re itching to sit yourself down, feel the familiar stretch of his dick, big and barely fitting when he stuffs himself inside you. It’s addictive. But there’s something Charles wants to do first, evident because he’s not yet letting you ride Carlos, his big hands bruising at your hips. “We’ve done enough to your pretty pussy, haven’t we? Your lips, too, that cute mouth.” He coos, almost. “But there’s something we haven’t even touched tonight, baby.”
Carlos’ hands spread your cheeks apart and Charles’ spit-soaked thumb rubs over your tight hole, causing you to shiver. Oh, God. You squirm above their laps, heart beating with nerves and arousal, pussy rubbing over the tips of their dicks as you go. “I’m nervous,” you whimper.
“Aw, go give Carlos a kiss,” your boyfriend says, his voice teasing and goading. You lean forward, slotting your mouth onto Carlos’ soft lips, parting them with your tongue immediately. He gets you all needy when you kiss him, smiling and enjoying your mindless, needy little grinds. As you kiss him, messy with spit and tongues colliding, you feel fingers teasing you again.
You whimper, Carlos’ hands roughly pulling the low-cut top of your dress down to grope at your tits, roughing them up, flicking your nipples. You moan out loud, caught up in the multiple sensations; your boyfriend loosens you up until his finger goes deep, deeper, bottoming out and stretching your ass out.
He collects some of your slick to lube another finger up, stuffing two into your tiny little hole. You gasp with the new feeling, lips open against Carlos’, who wraps a hand around your throat to guide you into kissing him again. Distractions. Pleasure.
“Jesus, she’s tight,” Charles says, not addressing you at all.
“She’s being really good for me up here,” Carlos replies, squeezing your tits. “Taking everything I give her.”
“Give me more,” you beg, licking over his lips until he’s parting them to kiss you messily all over again. You’re unaware, lost in the numb pleasure and dull painful stretch, that there are three buried in your ass now. He should prep more, Charles figures, but he’s impatient, just wanting to wreck you already, fuck moans out of you until you’re crying.
He nudges the tip of his dick against your ass, slipping the head in and listening to your ohhh as he goes, groaning. It hurts, Charles, you whisper, but your whine is swallowed into a kiss.
“Relax, baby,” he says, gritting his teeth. “Just relax.”
You’re so tight, squeezing him so, so tight as he bottoms out.
You’re clenching around him so hard he could cum, pump all his cum in you and watch it leak out. But he’s patient. He’s sweet. He lets Carlos finally coax his own cock up your cunt, where the glide’s easier, but the stretch now is unfathomable. You blink tears out of your eyes, ones of pain that slowly become unbelievable pleasure, moans spilling forth from your lips, slick gushing out of your puffy cunt.
Carlos thrusts upward, deep, and eventually Charles finds a rhythm too, your legs spread and eyes rolling back with how fast they’re slamming into you. You want to move, you want to avoid the pleasure from how overwhelming it is, the way it feels when they both bottom out at the same time ans you can feel the way your stomach bulges with Carlos’ cock.
“Slow down,” you whine, but they only laugh, watching your face grow more sweaty and flushed and debauched.
“Feel good?” Charles asks. “Use your words, love.”
“S—so fucking good,” you say, words punched out of you thrust by thrust. Carlos leans forward, brings his flushed forehead just flush of yours, both of you bobbing in time with their thrusts, and spits messily into your half-open mouth. Most enters, some splatters over your lips, and your eyes darken with it. You’re certain you’ve cum again just from that.
“Swallow it,” he laughs. “Be a good slut.” His eyes break from yours and meet Charles’, and they exchange a few quips in Italian before your boyfriend’s hand is raking you backwards, leaning over and spitting again. He pushes your cheek around a little, laughing at your docile, fucked-out face.
“Swallow that now,” he says. “Both of them.”
Obediently, you shut your lips, your whimpers pausing as you swallow their spit down. Your cheeks are burning with embarrassment.
“There you go,” Carlos says. You’re absolutely falling apart on their dicks, wet and messy and hot, your legs quivering with it. Carlos slams up harder, pressing your lips together again so he can feel your moans, hear your cute little voice saying Carlos please let me cum right by his ear.
He pulls out, moving himself higher to use your mouth instead; the added space gives Charles the opportunity to fully bend you over, on your knees and too weak to use your elbows, face smushed against Carlos’ dick. You’re shaking, pussy still trembling and tears of overstimulation rolling down your cheek. You’re struggling to take his dick well, but Charles keeps fucking you, determined to finish.
He pushes you down so your back arches deeper, your lips parted around Carlos’ huge cock. “That’s right,” he groans. “Take it, come on, be a good girl for me.”
“She’s so tight still,” he says to Carlos. The latter’s hand strokes over your hair, pulls at it, grips at either side of your throat so he can fuck your face properly. He fucks your throat hard, watches you cough and squirm around his spit-coated cock, his balls slapping your face every time he bottoms out. He’s close—Charles is close—and you’ve cum twice again now, pulling off and whimpering I’m cumming— before finishing, gushing release all over your thighs.
“It’s our turn now,” Charles orders. They pull you off at the same time, and you go on your knees again on the floor, gazing up at them with big eyes and a flushed, pretty face, lips pink and puffy from having just been fucked.
You reach two hands up and jerk them both off again, both their hands guiding you to go faster, faster and faster until—
You flinch, the first hot spurt landing just on your cheek, then your lips, then a bit on your nose. Somewhere in between, Carlos presses his tip to your lips, coaxing them open so he can shoot cum on your tongue and chin. They lean back, collapsing onto the backseat, heaving sighs.
They both look down at you, your nasty, cum-coated face, smiling up at both of them. Carlos blinks a couple times and then smiles. “Hey, mind if I get a picture?”
#f1#leclsrc3000#charles leclerc#charles leclerc smut#charles leclerc imagines#charles leclerc fanfic#charles leclerc drabble#charles leclerc x reader#carlos sainz#carlos sainz smut#carlos sainz drabble#carlos sainz fanfic#carlos sainz imagines#carlos sainz x reader#f1 x reader
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happy 3k!! 🫶🏽
"grumbling" and "narrowed eyes" for carlos?
in my dream – cs55
Carlos tries his best to keep you from leaving him lonely.
auds here... title from this but i listened to this on loop while writing (1d girls unite!!!! i was a true blue zayn girl!!!!!)
“That is my shirt.”
You stare at the buttons you’ve been nipping at, realizing a tad too late that it is Carlos’ polo, a plain white one similar to yours, which is somewhere else on the floor. Caught, you turn and find your boyfriend half-awake, sleepy eyes staring at your half-dressed figure. Smiling at his drowsy expression, you roll your eyes.
He likes when you wake up before he does. He finds you on his chest, drawing idle patterns; in the shower, where he almost always joins you; or like today, getting dressed to leave before anybody spots you on his floor. But even in a rush, with your hair all fussed up and a bed mark across your face, he still feels he’s caught in a dream.
“Okay, mister.” You make quick work of unbuttoning the several bottom rows, exaggerating the movement so Carlos sees you’re not in some thick plot to steal his Hugo Boss shirt.
He squints. “And those are my hotel slippers.”
You laugh. “I’ll take them off, then. I was going to anyway, I don’t think they allow cloth slippers in the media pen.”
Dissatisfied, he presses on. “That’s also my bracelet.” He sits up, smiling mischievously, and heaves himself off to take both your wrists and drag you back to bed. “And my hair elastic.” He swipes his thumb over the bracelet and elastic on your left wrist.
“I doubt that,” you say, climbing atop his lap despite yourself. You have work, you have to sneak out before anyone sees and starts a flurry of nasty rumors—but he’s always been good at convincing you to stay. “Your new haircut means you can barely tie a loop around it.” You rake your fingers through his blunt-cut hair.
“Well,” he says, shrugging, “it’s true. And you cannot leave until you have given all these back.” He stamps a kiss onto your jaw. “Sí?” He moves lower, to your exposed collarbones, the area of skin left uncovered by his slouchy polo. He smiles into your skin, smelling faintly of your perfume mixed with his.
“Carlos,” you mutter, pushing lightly despite smiling. “I gotta go.”
He parts from you and narrows his eyes. “Don’t.”
“I’ll get fired,” you quip, buttoning two more. He reaches up to unbutton them and you gasp. “Carlos!”
“You still haven’t given back my…” he inspects your outfit to point out something “of his.” “…Shorts.”
“These are your shorts?” You tug on the hem of the denim that hugs your thighs, clearly not his.
“Fine. My panties.”
“Carlos.” You can’t help but laugh at his desperation, endeared by the fact that he needs you close by all the time. “If you’re into that, we can talk about it in bed tonight.”
“Your report can be about how good I am in bed,” he jokes, hugging you close. You kiss his head and clamber off, pulling your sandals on.
“As a journalist, I’m a firm believer in not spreading fake news,” you say, laughing as you grab your bag and escape the hotel room.
You fix your hair before leaving, still hearing him grumble with early onset separation anxiety on the other side of the door, which opens when you’re just two paces shy of it—
—and a hand comes through and yanks you in for one last kiss, sweet and yearning for more. “Good luck today,” he says. “I love you, miss reporter.”
“Good luck too,” you mumble into his lips, smiling. “Love you more, Carlito.”
#f1#leclsrc3000#carlos sainz#car#carlos sainz drabble#carlos sainz fanfic#carlos sainz imagines#carlos sainz x reader#f1 x reader
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happy 3k mother! "quick speaking" and "animated" for dad!charles? thank you!
first words – cl16
Your daughter says her first word, but you’re the only one that seems to think so.
“Omygod omygod omygooood!”
The squeal from down the hall gradually grows louder as you bound into the living room, facing a roomful of your friends. You wave your phone around, where you’ve just hung up on your daughter’s babysitter, hopping up and down. “You guys, you’re not going to believe this. Felicite’s babysitter put her on the phone, and while I was saying goodnight, she said her first word!”
The game of Monopoly (you all wish you were cool enough for poker) ceases and Lily and Isa sit straighter, excitement drawn bright all over their faces. The seat directly in front of you shakes with how quick Charles gets up, smiling dopily. “Are you serious?!”
“Oh, yes! It was—oh, you guys, it was so cute.” You’re speaking so quick you can barely register what you’re saying.
“Okay, okay—ooh, okay, what’d she say?” Isa asks, clapping her hands together and gesturing for you to get to the point faster.
“She said bloviate!” You exclaim with a flourish of your hands, smiling widely.
The room visibly deflates and the game picks back up instantly. Charles even sits back down.
You frown, mouth hung open in disdain instead of excitement now, huffing quietly as your friends express amusement over your fit of unwarranted thrill. You pout, tapping several times on your fiance’s shoulder. He moves his Monopoly piece out of jail before turning to you.
“Hel-lo? Isn’t that exciting?” You emphasize, humming.
He smiles. “Oui, it’s great, honey.” He turns back to examine his money.
You pat again. “Uh? You don’t sound excited!”
“Oh, I am. I am!” He stands, disengaging himself from the game and turning to you. He places both hands on either side of your waist. “But sweetie, bloviate is not a word.”
“What?” You place your hands around his neck and scoff, laughing. “Um, yes it is?”
“Okay,” he tests slowly, “then what does it mean?”
“I don’t know—hey, you don’t even speak full English, mister.” You roll your eyes. “I’m telling you, Charles, it’s a word.”
“I love you. But it isn’t.” Alex calls for Charles to roll his dice. “Count me out of this round, guys.”
“Sure, we’ll bloviate your money,” Carlos says casually, sipping a beer.
You sputter, wrestling out of Charles’ arms and pointing at Carlos with animated excitement. “See! He just said it! Carlos just said it, it’s a word! Say it again.”
He sips again, inhales a bit. Then smiles. “I was kidding. That word doesn’t exist.”
You groan, flipping him off and turning back to your fiance’s amused, fond face. He presses a sure kiss to the corner of your lip. “It’s so cute, honey, but it really is not a word. M’kay?” He kisses you again for good measure and leaves you standing idly as he resumes his turn.
You nearly can’t believe it—you had all taken this trip with friends to spend a weekend off, and not only do you physically miss Felicite’s first word, but nobody seems to believe it’s a word at all. You huff again. “I’m looking it up, Charles.”
“Honey—”
“Up, up, up!” You silence him. “This is the real deal, guy. You’re about to be proven so wrong. You’re going to wish you stayed on the call a few seconds longer.” You type, frenetic, for a definition on Google and start hollering once you’re given a result. Your verdict is right—it’s a word.
“A-ha!” Charles stands up again, stationing himself beside you and wrapping an arm around your shoulders. He kisses your forehead, smiling and shutting his eyes with how adoring he is not only of his daughter, miles away, but of you, giddy over a word that sounded like total gibberish to him just a few seconds ago. Screw it if he’s a bit jealous. Your happiness makes up for it.
“What’s it mean?” Lily asks, rifling through her stack of cash.
“Um, let’s see…” You pause, clearing your throat to read. “‘To speak a lot in an annoying way as if you are very important.’”
Everyone hums and nods, a light round of cheers and applause at the confirmation of Felicite’s first word. You smile up at Charles, slotting your mouths together in a chaste kiss.
“Can we babysit Feli next week?” Alex chimes in. “By the looks of it, you’re leaving her with Max a bit too often.”
#f1#leclsrc3000#charles leclerc#charles leclerc fanfic#charles leclerc imagines#charles leclerc smut#charles leclerc fluff#charles leclerc drabble#f1 x reader
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well deserving of 3k (and more), your stories literally bring me comfort, even the sad ones🫶🏻
could we have an angst one with Charles (with a happy ending?) maybe with the tiredness drabble
what you know – cl16
In the grand scheme of things, Charles doesn't know much, but he's sure of one thing.
auds here... scheduled bec i am off my phone lately! love u anon sry so late
Your moving away is a big deal—a garage sale for all the things you’d grown out of, a weekly schedule for everyone to help out, Arthur assigning himself to track the flight to JFK to make sure you “don’t crash on the way there.” You assure him you won’t. Pascale emails the exchange program six times a day to make sure your housing is all ironed out. Lorenzo mixes the color to repaint your room and sorts out your mum’s CDs.
Charles, however, wants nothing to do with it.
The usual route to your house feels so much longer now. He hates having to drive knowing you won’t be inside soon enough. But Pascale absolutely insists he help out last-minute, so two days before your flight, he drives the five minutes to your house and trods through the piles of boxes and luggage collecting at the bottom of the stairwell. The inside of your room, however, is more of the same; boxes, boxes, and a bed in the middle, already stripped bare.
He doesn’t say hi. He picks up a sweater and goes straight to—
“It is going to be awful,” he says, trying to lift his voice so it passes as a joke even if you both know there’s more truth to it than he intends. “You are going to have a shit time and your housing will leak and you’ll step on a rat.” He stares at the intricate stitching on your knit sweater as he awaits your response, which he expects—from years and years of knowing you—to be equally snarky and sarcastic.
“What do you know?” is what he hears instead, leaving your lips in a weak whisper.
Your hands freeze where they’re wound around Charles’ half-folded tee, the one you wear to sleep most nights, worn thin. You’re waiting for him to reply, to tell you what he knows. It’s your way of telling him to stop, stop trying to make me leave, because I am leaving and you cannot change that. He can’t bring himself to meet your eyes, so he stares at the pale knit, then your hands. You’re right—what does he know? He’s twenty-one, for Chrissake, he doesn’t know much at all.
He hasn’t been to New York, and relies on viral myths and preceded reputations to tarnish its image in your eyes. He hasn’t been in a student exchange program and relies on his ability to exaggerate stories to somehow scare you into not going. For all his trying, he actually knows nothing about either of those things. So in that respect, he’ll digress, fine—he doesn’t know anything.
But he knows a thing or two about loss, about loss and terrible goodbyes and leaving. He knows almost nothing, but knows it’s ripping him in half to have to say goodbye to you. He knows his heart’s been at its feet for you since it could stand, and not in the unexpected, almost accidental way. He knows he’s felt for you with deep intention, on purpose, like it’s all he was ever made to do. That, he knows. He loves that he knows. There was never a stunning realization, the stuff of movies—there was just a quiet settling with something he’d felt since forever.
Here, surrounded by boxes taped shut and pried open, he wishes he’d settled earlier. He wishes he told you earlier. Maybe he wouldn’t have changed anything, but at least you would’ve known then. At least then he wouldn’t be the clueless prick shit-talking New York in front of his visibly excited best friend. He grows the guts to meet your eyes then, finds they’re already staring into his.
You wait for a response. And it comes. “I know I love you.”
A smile brings itself to your lips, and you shake your head with mild disbelief. “Well,” you say, setting aside the tee and climbing closer toward him. “I know that, too.” You’ve known since you were six and he doused your hair with blue hairspray—since he ate half the cake on your eighth birthday—since he bought you a cake the year next—since he grew up and started racing and wrote you daily emails.
You lean closer, until your faces are just shy of each other’s. Then you hug him, like you’ve been waiting to touch him for years, with a quickness that roars desperation and yearning. Your arms wind around his neck and his around your waist, and you let a few rogue tears fall despite yourself, wiping them before he can see when you pull apart.
“You’re going to be okay.” He says, assuring himself more than you.
“So will you.” You smile. “Come visit, okay?”
A hand finds yours underneath the pile of clothes and, hidden from view, intertwines your fingers. You squeeze. This is new, uncharted territory you’ll admit you know nothing about, no matter how soft and warm it all feels. But, as it turns out, you have time—and you have Charles, whose green eyes you fell for long, long ago.
#f1#leclsrc3000#charles leclerc#charles leclerc imagines#charles leclerc fanfic#charles leclerc drabble#charles leclerc x reader#charles leclerc fluff#f1 x reader
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prolonged eye contact with charles please! ++ an "almost kissed" type trope
intertwined – cl16
All seems lost after you fail to kiss the cute guy at George's party. Key word: seems.
auds here... i love uuu guys sorry bit mia i'm a bit sick but love u all always working on other reqs as we speak promise! title from this
There are still traces of orange in the purple sky when George introduces you to his good friend, Charles.
The party had somewhat simmered down, lunch leftovers being reheated for dinner in case anybody was staying that long. Faces here were unfamiliar, smiling and flushed with alcohol, topics like London and cars and taxes making conversation glide easy. But you’d still been quiet, your companion having left you to talk about something or other, leaving you backed into a far corner of the room examining pages of books and listening to the music.
So it’s George, one of the two hosts at this party, who asks if you’re doing alright and oh, didn’t you mention you liked piano, well this is Charles and he plays proper well, he does.
“Do you play for a living?” You ask, both of you walking to the house’s garden area. You lean against the wall there, sizing him up.
“No, I”—he tries to find the right wording—“piano is a hobby. I drive. Cars.” He’s a tad tall, with long fluffy hair and eyes that look a little tired, despite the deep green of them.
“Oh? Thanks for the clarification.” You reply curtly. “Almost thought you were going to say you drive a lorry.”
He chuckles. “That’s how I know George.”
“What, lorry driving?” You both laugh, and it’s easy. It’s all easy. You tell him you own a gallery in Chelsea, you tell him your heels hurt so much it’s a wonder you paid so much money for them, he laughs, he asks some more. It’s so easy, in fact, that eventually George has to come in and dispel the conversation himself, and it’s only then that you realize the whole indoors area has been emptied; Carmen smiles sheepishly, holding a stack of dirtied bowls.
He walks you to your car, which is parked far away from the house. You complain about the shit parking configuration in Stanley Gardens and he agrees even if he’s never here too long, or too often. The heels are a proper impediment to your walking, and you have to stop a few times, much to your chagrin.
At the third lamppost you stop at to adjust your ankle, just a few steps from your car, he offers to carry your shoes for you.
“Is it socially acceptable?” You stare at your feet and then at him, hiding a smile. “Walking barefoot in London?”
“Your car’s just there”—he points to your Lexus—“and it’s nearing midnight, I don’t think anyone will mind. If they do, run like hell, yes?” You laugh, easing yourself out of the shoes. The asphalt is cold and you’re already thinking of washing the dirt off, but it’s so much more comfortable.
Charles carries your coat and shoes, opens the door for you when you unlock it. You’re halfway inside, eyes meeting his from where he stands behind the door, smiling shyly. “Thanks. Did you—are you parked far? I can…”
“I could use the walk,” he says, smiling.
“Okay,” you whisper. He hands you your coat and shoes, and you lean closer to take them from him. You’re divided only by the car now, eyes stuck on the other’s. He leans closer, his breath ghosting over your lips. Closer, a bit closer—and then your phone rings, loud in the quiet evening.
“Oh, shit. Sorry, it’s—I have a boyfriend.” It leaves your mouth in a garbled, shameful utterance, and your face warms.
He shuts his eyes, stopping just shy of your face. “Right. Okay.”
—
“Did you guys even date?” Your friend Mila asks, amused.
“Christ, no. I don’t even know why I called Tom my boyfriend—plus, that whole thing ended like two months ago.” You make a right on the next street, eyes squinting as you find a place to park in the crowded street.
“Right. ‘Cause you met that Charles guy at Carmen’s party.”
“Yeah, the one you left me alone at?” You click your tongue, laughing. “Well, yeah. But I didn’t even get his number at the time, and it—it seemed like a dead end thing.”
“He walked you to your car, held your shoes and the door, almost kissed you—that’s the most romantic guys ever get these days, isn’t it?”
“Sure. But that was two months ago.”
You snag a spot right in front of your gallery and turn off the car, unbuckling your seatmate and climbing out. You hope the conversation has died with the car ride—you really don’t wish to rehash a fling lost to bad timing. Unfortunately for you, Mila is already launching into the topic when you cross onto the sidewalk and greet your staff inside.
She pushes the glass entrance open. “Who’s to say fate won’t let it happen again?”
“Let what happen?” Your assistant, Greg, who is almost if not just as nosy as Mila, pipes up. Lucky you.
“Nothing, Greg. Back to work,” you say, at the same time Mila says: “She almost banged a race driver.”
“Mila!” You swat her arm, and she smiles, but eventually leaves it alone, spending an hour dicking around before leaving to go to her own office.
The day descends into usual work: calls from clients, from art collectors, from regulars, from Sotheby’s or Tate. Visits are scattered throughout the afternoon, Greg taking the time to tour them around and offer what pieces are for sale; you’re content taking calls and emails, doing most of the behind-the-scenes work. “Potential buyer,” Greg announces, popping his head into your office door. “I’ll leave it to you.”
These types of customers are always entrusted to you, for the nitty gritty questions and negotiations. You nod, raking a hand through your hair and walking into the wide area of the gallery; there’s a man turned to a Cezanne piece, stance stoic and stature tall.
“That’s a lovely one,” you say as an introduction.
The man turns. He is also Charles. You genuinely think your heart skips a beat; his eyes widen in brief surprise before relaxing, and so do yours.
He asks if he’s right, if you’re you, the one at George’s party in Notting Hill a few months ago. You confirm his statement with a polite smile. A handshake is exchanged, a price discussed, conversation about where it goes made. You migrate to your office to maybe seal the deal, though by then the conversation has quickly grown casual.
“Had I known this was your gallery, I would’ve tried to avoid it,” he confesses. “I don’t want your boyfriend getting jealous.”
Your face is warm when you cough. “Right, uh—no boyfriend.”
You refuse to watch his smile, but you feel his eyes on you as you rifle through paperwork.
You continue with the business portion of the conversation anyway. “I’ll be in touch, see if we can level a price within the next month. But in the meantime keep this and… my card.” You slip a few documents into his hand, noticing the way his grip seems to linger, and he stands to signal his departure.
“I’ll get going,” he says, smiling. “Merci. For your number.”
You open the door for him, in a flirty repeat of the last time you saw each other. He exits, then turns, eyes boring into yours. “I’ll see you,” you say, seeking his affirmation, his accented English telling you what you want to hear.
“You will.” And he’s so near you again, his cologne is all you can smell. He bends down, eyes meeting your lips. “Soon.” Then, in a second of cologne and a smile, he’s leaving you unkissed, like you did him two months ago, holding your card in-between two hands as he drives into the orange sky, left still with traces of purple.
#f1#leclsrc3000#charles leclerc#charles leclerc fluff#charles leclerc fanfic#charles leclerc instagram au#charles leclerc imagines#charles leclerc drabble#charles leclerc x reader#f1 x reader
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hi auds bear how about a “singing off-key in their parked car and suddenly a person outside starts laughing” blurb with charles (-: feel like that is so him
take a chance on me – cl16
Damn ABBA and their catchy songs.
auds here... moping over my 3h meeting that effectively bars me frm watching the gp i hate uni! :( love u guys i love this req kskkskd
Charles hasn't gotten that godforsaken ABBA song out of his head.
It’s gotten to the point where earworm infects even his physical movements and he starts holding up an invisible mic like some demented Meryl Streep wannabe. It’s embedded itself into his pre- and post-race routines now, but he’s smart enough to do it alone in his room, because if any member of the team saw this embarrassing schtick, he’d be good as dead.
His car ends up being a constant concert venue. He usually drives in the dark, when meetings are over, or in early mornings, when nobody’s around to sneak a peek (not that they should, but fans are pesky) and he’s free to pretend he’s embodying a sickened heartbroken woman’s voice.
It’s chillier today than last week, which to him warrants a car concert warm-up. He cues the song on his speaker system and starts preparing. He’s on drums today, because his last two performances he was on piano, but he’s always on vocals, whistling and yelling the high parts. If you change your mind... he sings, nodding his head to the beat.
This is all Lorenzo’s fault, seriously—the prick couldn’t stop playing it at lunch two weeks prior and now Charles is paying the price. But he isn’t exactly complaining (If you put me to the test, if you let me try!) In the midst of his performance he tries to remember what the meeting is about. New hires, if he recalls, for the marketing team or something. They want to run some things by him and Carlos, or someth—
In the middle of his high note the song stops; he thinks maybe someone might be calling. His voice cracks in the silence. Oh, and somebody is watching in confusion a few feet away.
He realizes it’s a pretty girl, clad in a jeans and a knit jumper, squinting and cocking her head to the side a bit.
You’d hurried around to try and find the source of the ABBA music you’d heard when getting out of your own car. The culprit, it seems, is not a tinny forgotten speaker but an adult man in his car. You blink. The adult man is also, apparently, the race driver you’re supposed to be in a meeting with in five minutes.
You smile. And then you just burst out in a quiet laugh, unable to hide your pure amusement. He swallows. And then he blanches, unable to hide his pure embarrassment. In less than a second he’s turned off his car and disembarked, scrambling to explain himself.
“This is so embarrassing,” he says profusely. “You see, I am—”
—
“—just practicing singing, you see, for a play,” you recount to your friends, laughing so hard your cheeks and stomach hurt. You could never tire of this story, told and retold during parties and dinners alike. Who wouldn’t love this story? It’s a silly one of how you met the love of your life.
Lando had said once the unorthodox meeting was probably the mark of your true love. Some others said it was the fact that you’d been together so long. Others, your compatible careers. Others even said it was the music taste.
You smile as you finish, and Charles braves the teasing just to see you content and happy.
Maybe that’s the best marker of true love there is—not that all the prior ideas are invalid, it’s just. Maybe this is the realest one. It’s also, Charles realizes as he seeks your eyes, the hardest marker to describe. It’s an emotion and a verb all at once, in the very quiet and very intimate unexplainable way.
He thinks—no, he knows—that true love feels like an inside joke. It feels like the click, inaudible and fuzzy, that reverberates through his body when finally your eyes seem to take the hint and meet his. It feels like the laugh, the gigle only two of you share. It feels like a quaint smile. It feels like the story you two have told before and will tell again, with peals of laughter and hands held tight together.
The whole true love thing is a confusing prompt with so many answers, and he could consult anyone to help him out—his mum, his brothers, his best friends, maybe even squeeze his eyes shut and try to send a message of question to Jules or his dad—but none of them would come close to describing this feeling.
He knows love happens to people who’ve known each other their whole lives. He knows it happens to friends, to enemies. Naturally, it happens to strangers—tied together by some invisible string that shortens and overlaps and knots in itself and finally is struck by the fates to bring two people together. Call him biased, but he thinks he’s lucky he falls into the last category. Okay, call him cheesy, but he’ll admit he’d do anything to have you any way in any other life.
If in another universe you were a childhood friend with some corny nickname, or a rival whose eyes would soften when an argument tapered into a confession. Even then he’d love you. He might love you differently, but he could never love you more.
Now is the best, he thinks. Now you’re the funny girl in the pretty dress with a bottle of beer and laughter escaping your sunkissed face. Now it’s 1,095 days later and he still loves you, just as much as he did three chilly Octobers ago, when you smiled amusedly at him in the parking lot of Maranello. Maybe this time it’ll be a different ABBA song you both sing.
#f1#leclsrc3000#charles leclerc#charles leclerc imagines#charles leclerc fanfic#charles leclerc smut#charles leclerc fluff#charles leclerc x reader#f1 x reader
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for ur 3k i just want to see an omitted scene from its never over pleaseeeee <3333
i need more childhood friends to lovers w charles 🥺🥺
angsty fluffy childhood friends for the 3k please 😩😋
say it all – cl16
You bid farewell to a myriad of memories, rolled into the most memorable summer of your teenage life. (was originally part of this, can stand alone just fine)
auds here... features snoopy and childhood friend!charles again :)
You run the stretch of sand to the dock from the villa, a downhill sprint that requires stamina and laughter and constantly ends with you crashing into Charles, legs wrapping around his waist as you both flop with a thud onto the sand. It happens again now, his hands wrapped around your waist, your dress tickling the top of your thighs as you fall and laugh.
You get up on your elbows, watching him sweep sand out of his eyes. “Did you close the villa window?” Both your parents are still at dinner, so you’re both in charge of making sure nobody gets burgled or whatever.
“Yeah.” He pauses, smiling up at you, his eyes light and so green. “But it doesn’t close all the way.”
You hum in agreement. “The wind always gets in.”
Your tolerance is so bad you’re loopy from one drink, and it’d been cut with juice, even. Your hair’s littered with fine sand when you get up, hauling Charles with you as you make the slow walk to the dock for the last time. Ever since he told you he’d be in Spain for karting next year, you’d anticipated the grief over your summers in Villefranche, knowing that in time, they’d grow more and more intermittent, happening less and less—
Before you know it, you’re weeping with it. You’ll miss it. You’ll miss all of it. All of him. All of Charles. There’s always been a window for you two, something there, something unnamed. But next summer it won’t be there, and that’s what you grieve.
“We can always come back,” he says, nudging your foot with his, both half-submerged in the cold dusk water. You laugh, wiping tears away messily, leaning on his shoulder. It’s grown more sturdy with how often he’s driving, no longer lanky and “noodle-y”, as you’d joked once. It’s safe, secure. But then again, you think—it’s always been.
“I know we can,” you sniffle, staring at the blue below. Of course you can. One day you’ll be old enough to drive yourselves up to the villa, old enough to be trusted with the keys (never you), or the parking (never Charles), old enough to join the clubs with IDs that aren’t doctored. By then you might find the dress you’re wearing tacky, and Charles might be a Red Bull driver already.
But the summers before and the summers to follow won’t be this summer. They will never be this summer. The summer of sandy toes and being old enough to have an aperol with a smidge of alcohol, the summer of beach-crunched hair, hot sun and cool evenings where you’re satiated by pasta.
The same summer you found drunk Charles is sleepy Charles, an epiphany that arrived when you saw his tanned skin against the white of your duvet, eyes fluttered closed. He wouldn’t budge if you or Hervé tried pulling him off, but he moved enough to let you sleep beside him.
The summer you tried getting him to stop calling you Snoopy, because it was too childish for you, but he’d say goodnight Snoopy before bed every night without fail. The summer you dove off a cliff a few hours away and watched as Charles chickened out from below. The summer of your first cigarette, ashes flicked into the bushes by the villa at two-thirty in the morning. The summer that started with your first heartbreak. The summer that ends with another.
Gingerly, you lace your hand in his. It’s normal, but in your head it means something else. You play out the fantasy that he’s yours, if just for a minute. This will always be the summer you spent being seventeen and feeling old enough to be loving your best friend, but young enough that you wouldn’t tell a soul.
“Any plans for the fall?” You ask, shutting the window.
“I’ll drop you off at uni,” he says. It doesn’t close all the way.
#f1#leclsrc3000#charles leclerc#charles leclerc smut#charles leclerc imagines#charles leclerc fanfic#charles leclerc fluff#charles leclerc drabble#f1 x reader
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wake up babe its # leclsrc3000 time... can we get a breathing deeply and bouncing legs for some wedding vibes w/ charlie (We being me and my 4 cats)
test run – cl16
Filled with nerves, Charles asks for advice on his vows.
auds here... i would love to see the cats <3 hope u like this!
“Okay.” Charles fiddles with his tie, blinks a few times, and takes a few nervous breaths. He’s confident in the words, but still his eyes find refuge on the tattered, folded-up script he’d spent the plane ride over reading and scribbling to perfection. “Okay, here goes. Don’t judge with the edits.”
“Do you remember when we first met—you made fun of my parking, and I bought you a coffee, and we stayed in the café until it closed at midnight? The coffee was shit, but I was full of energy all the same. If I told myself then I’d be marrying that girl, the parking bully who joined me in making fun of the coffee, I’d be shocked, yes. But I would also be happy. Everyday I get to be with you is shocking, because you’re the best person I know. But there are a few things you—and a lot of people in the crowd—don’t know about how we met.”
He gulps and reads over the lines for a bit. “For starters, I wouldn’t have parked outside that café if Lorenzo, my brother, did not pester me to get him a croissant at nine in the morning. And he wouldn’t have wanted the croissant if Pierre, my good friend, didn’t post a picture of a croissant the day before. And Pierre wouldn’t have posted that picture if he was not gifted a box of them by Lando. I could go on and on, but the sentiment stands, in a sort of soulmate roundabout way. I was destined to find you.
“It’s difficult for me to say the words I want to say, which is why my reception speech will be in Italian.But this doesn’t mean I don’t love you—in fact, I’m convinced it means the opposite. My love for you, however new it is in my life, can last me my next five lifetimes. I love our crazy days together, I love your coffee order, and I love that you still bully my parking. I love you, my dearest.”
He stares at the last two words, my dearest, which he’d written last minute. As he does, he realizes his knee’s bouncing with nerves and he has to manually stop it, lost in thought. It reminds him of all the nicknames he uses for the people he loves, unique and a bit silly, but it’s a trademark of who he is in the end. It reminds him of kisses and love and the proposal in late November.
Two heavy inhales and exhales, then he looks up. Across him, in a bridesmaid’s dress holding a bouquet of lilies, you allow yourself to smile.
The stunning realization that you’ve loved much too late, that you’ve realized the gravity of your feelings on somebody else’s wedding day, hits you, a spear to the back. You turn slightly and face the window, watching the wedding prep on the lawn outside, trying with quiet desperation to blink your tears away. You hope he doesn’t ask too many questions, because you’re short of words; selfishly, all you really feel like saying is stay. It was a long time ago, being in love with him. But he let it go. It’s you who’s still tethered.
He comes up beside you. “Was it good?”
“Amazing. She’s going to love it.” In the pain and the haunting and the regret, you only wish you were lying.
#f1#leclsrc3000#charles leclerc#charles leclerc imagines#charles leclerc fluff#charles leclerc drabble#charles leclerc x reader#f1 x reader#charles leclerc imagine#i realized i've been tagging non smut as smut its muscle memz#sorry!!! will stop from now moving forward#loves
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omg we hit 3,000 aka 3k people are following me! (and 2,990 of them are porn bots! kidding) i’m immensely grateful for all the love & support, which have been invaluable to me. thank you so so much for everything this has been absolutely the best time.
as proper thanks i’m opening requests again :) note that these may not be done as quickly as i normally post things and i’ll be a tad more selective to avoid clogging anybody’s dash! but send in whatever you want. to help ease things for u here’s a few prompts u can send
IMPT REMINDER: i write for charles, max, mick, and carlos
a drabble from this, this, or this
a social media au
or ask me anything u want (esp related to anything i’ve published!)
again – cheers for everything, i’m so so thankful for all u being in my little corner of the internet. love you guys always always always
auds
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