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drunkfrogg · 2 months

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time zones | charles leclerc

pairing: reader x charles leclerc

summary: different time zones keep getting in the way, and charles realises it isn't sustainable.

warnings: a little bit of angst never hurt anybody, did it?...right?!

note: first fic in a long time. enjoy! <3

MASTERLIST

7:02am.

Charles stared at the blurry numbers on his phone, squinting at the brightness of the screen and the sunlight pouring into his bedroom. He squeezed his eyes shut when he noticed the notifications from you. Three texts, two calls. All unanswered.

The first text, at 11:58pm.

I just finished work. I'll call you on the way home. Can't wait to hear your voice. I need it.

Charles' chest hurt. 11:58pm, minutes after he must have dozed off. He had tried so hard to keep his eyes open but his day had been so long and sleep was fighting a good battle against him.

At midnight is when the first missed call came through. It would've been 5pm for you. You would be getting out of work and Charles would be about to get into bed. You would've just got to your car, set up Google Maps, and called him. That was the only time you could find to chat to each other lately, and Charles had missed it.

Worse yet, he let you drive home with the disappointment of waiting all day to hear his voice, only to still be alone come night time.

Twenty six minutes later, at your 5:27pm and his 12:27am, the second text came through.

I made it home safe. I saw you got P2, congratulations! Very well deserved my love. Are you still awake?

That's when the next call came through.

Charles knew that you'd have been upset when he didn't answer. He knew you'd be holding back the intrusive thoughts. The what-ifs, the tears, the disappointment. It would have been keeping you up much later when you'd be trying to sleep. But he knew what was really eating at you was the hope that he would wake up and light up your phone with an incoming call.

He knew it was true when he saw the text at your 11:03pm and his 6:03am.

I think we've missed each other tonight. I was looking forward to hearing your voice, but I hope you celebrated that win well. Congratulations on P1 my love, well deserved. Goodnight.

He stared at the time of your last text, your 11:03pm and his 6:03am. One hour ago. You'd barely been asleep for an hour and here he was waking up to start his day. By the time you'd wake up, he'd be in meetings. By the time he'd get out, you'd be in work. By the time you'd finish, he'd be going to sleep.

Charles squeezed his eyes shut. Distance was never easy, but this wasn't the first time you'd missed your small window to talk to each other. It had been happening a lot lately. He knew it was hurting you because it was killing him.

He opened the tab on his phone of flights that neither of you could take. He was stuck where he was, and you were stuck elsewhere. There was never time. Something always changed the circumstances for the worse, and Charles sank his shoulders in defeat.

He deleted the tab on his phone.

Opening your messages, he sent his own reply.

Good morning, mon amour. I'm sorry we missed each other last night. I hope you're sleeping well. I'll call you after you finish work.

He stared at your missed calls again. There was nothing he could do except stare at them and wish they weren't real.

The alarms he forgot to set would have urged him out of bed over half an hour ago, and so he got himself up and dressed for the meeting he was about to be late to, but he couldn't open the door of his lifeless hotel room.

Guilt gnawed at his stomach. It wasn't fair of him to make you live this way for him. You deserved more than a short phone call every couple of days, and he realised that the only way for that to ever change was if you were here with him.

But he knew deep down that following him around the world wasn't what you wanted. While he could give you security, he couldn't give you stability. That's what you wanted more than anything, and that's when he finally realised, after suffering the long distance for so long, that there were two things in life that meant most to him.

The job and the girl.

He wanted both. But as he opened the door of his hotel room, he realised he could only have one. He had to pick. But he knew it wasn't really a choice. There was only one option.

And it wasn't the girl.

#f1 #f1 x reader #charles leclerc #charles leclerc x reader #angst #f1 imagine #charles leclerc imagine #formula one #formula 1 #formula one x reader

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drunkfrogg · 2 years

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u rlly got me breathless @welld0nebaku

Grit & Determination➔PG10

>some good ol' workplace tension<

a/n: this has been in my drafts half written for literal months and I'm desperately trying to will Pierre back into some points so I decided to finish it, also yeah I couldn't help myself here sorry also the other half was written literally between the hours of 7 and 10:30 tonight so oops enjoy HELLA UNEDITED

🎵Talk Too Much - Coin🎵

gif creds to owner :)

Warnings: 18+ smut, protected sex (at what cost?), oral sex (m receiving), fingering, choking, Pierre gets called dadd- [GUNSHOTS], cross necklace sucking (nah please what was I thinking) ooh Pierre is getting off on the idea that reader is cheating but she isn't, foul language, degrading language, L O L thats it methinks

“I’d like you two to work together.”

The words coming from your boss’ mouth were incredibly easy to hear, the phonetics and vibrations floating through the air and into your ears with razor sharp precision. But could you comprehend them? Absolutely not. Never in a million years could you work with Pierre Gasly; the grade A asshole who had an affinity for social ladder climbing and corporate law like you’d never seen.

“I’m not sure that’s such a good idea,” Pierre looked genuinely dishevelled at the idea of cooperating with you and it could only be assumed that you held the same frightful expression as he continued. “I mean, we do completely different things! I do actual work here, but y/n? I don’t think I’ve ever seen y/n do anything other than get coffee or play solitaire and shop on her computer! Is this really necessary, Brian?”

Your narrowed eyes threw daggers at the Frenchman, curiosity piqued as to why he was paying so much attention to you when he claimed he did nothing other than work, work, work. Brian, head of internal affairs, shook his head at Pierre from his office chair, seemingly lost for words as he reevaluated the situation. Poor old Brian obviously had no clue just how far your disdain for your colleague went and now, well now, he was in way over his head.

“I’m sorry, Pierre,” your boss said, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the mahogany desk while he sentenced you to proverbial death. “You’ll both have to find a way to get along. Corporate needs this event organised and controlled properly, and you two are the only two with the correct qualifications. Emails have already been sent to your computers. No complaints, understood?”

The only thing you understood was that you’d have to find a new job soon, so that was something.

The clock did little to ease the lull in conversation that followed Brian’s words as it ticked past 9 o’clock the way it always did; slow and monotonous and somewhat teasing. A battle of wills had emerged between the three of you, placing internal bets on who would break first. You didn’t need to glance to your right to know that Pierre was already pulling his dark and broody face, the only one he pulled when he didn’t get his way, hence why you didn’t see it very often.

You were more than happy to fill the silence.

“We have different degrees, Pierre,” you sighed, leaning back in the armchair and bouncing your eyes around Brian’s office at photographs, certificates and the very expensive bourbon decanter you had ogled on the way in. It was like your brain knew you’d need a drink after whatever lay ahead for you.

“You got yours with Daddy’s money and connections and I got mine through going to the library and studying for hours upon hours. So maybe if you had spent as much time working as you spend watching my computer screen, you might have gotten a different job this quarter.”

The fierce crimson wave that you could see creeping up from the collar of your colleague’s pressed shirt sent you into panic mode, your face draining to match the grey of your pencil skirt as you waited for Pierre’s speech of retribution, almost flinching at your imagination.

It never came.

His reaction came by way of a silent nod of thanks to Brian and the straightening of his tie, out the door quicker than you could even identify your feeling as one of regret. Was it regret? Or was it just annoying that he had let you win and now you felt bad for winning? You excused yourself from the worst meeting of your life and headed off down the corridor, cursing the sudden hurricane of confusion that had been stirred inside of you.

Stopping by Pierre’s office on your way back, you were met with a locked door and pulled blinds; the very first time you had ever seen it that way. For as long as you’d been in the job, it was common knowledge that Pierre Gasly was the first person to clock in and always the last person to clock out.

You allowed yourself a real groan this time, vibrations bouncing off the walls of the corridor and straight back into your nagging mind. The exhaustion had finally caught up with you, almost falling into one of the armchairs outside of Pierre’s office and rubbing your eyes violently. You sat for a moment, debating between apologising to your colleague or forgetting it ever happened and that you had imagined his out-of-character yield to your words.

He’s gonna make my life a living hell, you thought, but two can play that game.

—

“Y/n, wake up,” the voice coos, almost sending you into a deeper trance until you reach that state of awareness – the one where you can place the voice, and the man who goes with it. “Come on, sweetheart.” He grits, the nickname covered in false sentimentality and convenience.

Your eyes flutter open slowly, surroundings mixed up with light and unfamiliarity which causes a dull throb to arrive in the back of your head almost immediately. Pierre comes into view next, one hand thrusting a glass of water into your grasp while the other clutches his briefcase and untied-tie.

How did Pierre get into your apartment? Why is he holding his work briefca-

Oh. Oh, fuck.

He must’ve enjoyed the way your freshly rested face falls almost instantaneously as you register exactly what had happened and what was happening, his smirk growing as wide as your eyes had gone not a moment earlier. You try blinking to get rid of the situation before you but it was no good.

You had fallen asleep outside Pierre Gasly’s office – and here you were, the next morning.

Your bed for the night has become far too uncomfortable and you leap off the seat, the back of your thighs peeling off the leather with a slight burn as Pierre watches on in mild amusement. The silence encompassing you both is deafening and the throb in your head is getting stronger with each moment his eyes are on you.

“Stop staring,” you grumble, tucking a piece of hair back into place, avoiding Pierre’s gaze at all costs. You take the glass of water from him with a nod of your head, gulping down the liquid to aid your rapidly drying throat and to formulate a threat at the same time. “Say what you have to say and then leave me alone, ok?”

He gives you the once-over, wandering eyes raking over the same shirt and skirt duo that he saw yesterday, tongue darting out to run over his bottom lip as he examines you. A quick turn on his heel and he’s strolled into his office without another word or sly comment, prompting your blood to boil at Pierre’s sudden inability to play ball with your teasing.

He wasn’t bored, was he?

He was an asshole, that was for sure, but the way he was so quick-witted made your thoughts wander every time he started running his mouth, desperate to know if he was as talented running his mouth somewhere else as he was at work. He was so fucking hot too, oftentimes too hot for his own good – yours too.

The gnawing attraction was always there, from your very first day when you walked straight into him and spilled a scalding oat latte down his crisp powder blue shirt, your whole presence glowing red under his merciless stare as he tutted under his breath and carried on his way without another word.

You’ve only taken three steps away from his office when you hear the door open and a feigned cheerful “Can you come in here please, y/n?” break in the silence of the hallway. His French accent lilts over the words with an almost magnetic pull, a kind of mermaid siren that invades your senses and turns you on your heel to follow it.

Your watch reads 7:32am and it hits you that there’s no one else around except you and Pierre – your throat dries and your blood pumps in your ears uncomfortably loud. You knock on the door to maintain your professional demeanor but when you push into the office and his feet are resting on his glass desk, it’s obvious that he’s not ready to talk about work yet.

In fact, he doesn’t talk at all for 46 seconds. You have to count each second out to calm your nerves under his signature analytical stare.

“Please tell me, y/n,” Pierre drawls, leaning even further back in the office chair as if it were possible. “Why do I come into work and find you asleep outside my office? You need to speak to me, no? To apologise maybe?”

You shift your weight from foot to foot, suddenly insecure at what feels like an ambush; he’s loving it. He awaits your reply with childlike curiosity, ringed fingers rubbing the stubble on his cheeks and then carding through his slightly messy hair. You’re not sure if your speechlessness is due to a formulating answer in your head or if it’s due to the cross necklace peeking out from behind Pierre’s shirt, the glint hitting you right between your thighs.

“Don’t need to apologise,” you mumble, immediately cursing the way your voice has shrunk in the open room, recognising the smirk Pierre’s wearing on his lips as the one he uses in the courtroom. “Can I leave now?”

He stands and your breath catches in your throat, a sudden influx of ‘fuck me, Pierre’ crowding your already overdriven brain. He makes a point to pull each blind that covers the windows boxing you in with him, before stopping to stare at the waking city below.

“I’m not so sure, sweetheart,” he laughs, turning just in time to catch your thighs pressing together to create the friction that you so desperately need – from him. “I think,” Pierre continues, stalking toward you like a predator to prey, “You’re so close to giving up on this facade, y/n. I think you want to fuck me almost as bad as I want to fuck you.”

There’s another silence; a battle of wills as you evaluate and then reevaluate and then evaluate again. He’s right, he’s never once been wrong since you’ve started to work together but there’s something that galls you about knowing that you’re going to give in to him any second now.

He knows he has you. He can see it in the way your tight smile falters, or the way that your eyes take a second more on their blink. He just wants to see if you’ll give in as easily as he thinks you will.

“Do I need to call HR, Mr. Gasly?” You respond, a coy smile stretching across your face while Pierre keeps getting closer and your legs threaten to collapse. He chuckles, an octave lower in case the barren office has suddenly grown ears and wants to eavesdrop on your private meeting.

“I’m sure they’ll hear you screaming my name, chérie, so it won’t be necessary.”

He closes the too-wide gap and brings his lips to yours, moving with purpose and intent – like with everything he does. You sigh into the kiss with an almost pathetic relief, thankful that you can finally give yourself up without the fear that your colleague couldn’t feel the overpowering sexual tension that you could.

Pierre’s lips never leave your skin as he walks you back against the door you had knocked on mere moments ago, your hands clutching the lapels of his suit jacket as you lose yourself in his everything; his taste, his touch, his unmistakable scent of success and money.

“You want to know what I think about you, y/n, hm?” he whispers against the column of your throat, one hand undoing the buttons of your crinkled blouse while the other keeps a strong grip on your waist.

His teeth ghost along the burning skin and a muffled groan threatens to claw its way out of your throat as he continues. “I think that you go home every night to your boyfriend, cook and kiss and do every boring thing he wants you to do,”

He looks at you for a response but you let him keep talking; he doesn’t need to know you don’t have a boyfriend at home. Maybe he needs to think that you do.

“I think you let him touch you, but you wish it was me, isn’t that right, ma belle? You wish I was fucking you the way you need, the way you deserve?”

You’re so caught up in the way he’s describing how much he thinks of you that you don’t realise that your shirt has been discarded on the floor and that Pierre’s belt has been dropped on top of it, his fingers making quick work on the buttons of his slacks.

Your brain melts, mouth waters and panties dampen as you watch him; he’s nothing if not a showman.

You swap places with him, spinning and pushing his back against the door before wordlessly dropping to your knees. “I think,” you start, tugging down his trousers and palming over the bulge in his boxers, doe eyes returning for Pierre’s entertainment. “You’re so desperate to get your dick wet; it’s pathetic.”

Before he has a chance to protest your claims, you’ve rid him of his boxers and wrapped your lips around his tip, tongue swirling around the swollen head as he lets the profanities flow from his mouth.

Pierre switches from English to French with a learned ease and the combination of the two has you sneaking a hand between your thighs and into your panties, desperate to ease your own ache that he started.

He snakes a hand into your hair and guides you up and down his length, head thrown back against his office door as you hollow your cheeks around him. “I’m pathetic?” He seethes through the pleasure, hips beginning to thrust harder and faster into your mouth. “I’m not the one slobbering on a cock and touching herself at the same time.”

Your moans and whimpers send vibrations down his cock and he’s hitting the back of your throat in no time, tears pricking the corners of your eyes as Pierre’s hips never falter. You reach a hand to massage his balls and he’s spewing French expletives like there’s no tomorrow, yet there’s an unmistakable “good girl” that graces your eardrums.

Once he locks eyes with your own through your lashes he reluctantly pulls himself out of your mouth, running a hand through his hair as he calms his breathing and pulls you to stand in front of him. He kisses you again, grunting into your mouth when he tastes himself on your tongue, teeth sinking into your bottom lip when you wrap your legs around his hips.

The kiss robs you of all your senses until you're lowered onto the cool glass desk, hissing when your back makes contact. “You like this, mon ange?” Pierre teases, pulling the zipper of your skirt at a painstakingly slow pace that only serves to make you whinier. “Anyone could walk by and see you getting your attitude sorted, hm? A greedy slut with a god complex, no?”

It sends a shiver down your spine, how dirty his words make you feel and how much it turns you on that someone could walk by and see you and Pierre.

Your hips shift to get out of your skirt, quickly followed by your bra being thrown across the office floor. Two fingers press at your covered clit and you mewl, grinding down on the pressure and holding yourself up on your forearms to watch every one of Pierre’s movements. The fabric is soaked through and you almost feel embarrassed about how easy you feel, until Pierre moves your panties to the side and sinks a finger into your cunt, sighing at the tight fit wrapped around him.

“Does your boyfriend not fuck you enough, y/n?” he teases, and you can’t help but play his game and feed his ego as much as you can. “You’re so tight, fuck, I’m gonna go nice and deep, yeah?”

He adds another finger and you wince, the stretch burning slightly but the pleasure overriding it almost immediately. Pierre’s finger stroke and curl, a delicious combo that has your toes curling and your chest heaving.

“No, Pierre, need you to fuck me, better than anyone,” you whine, teetering on the edge dangerously quick as Pierre sends you a panty-melting smirk while he listens to your begging. “Please, daddy, want everyone to know how good you make me feel.”

It was a no-brainer – the way his jaw goes slack and his fingers still at the name voids everything that he’s ever done to you.

He groans again, this time a faraway sound that seems to imprint on your brain and you know you’ll hear that exact sound every time he’s in your eyeline in the future. His desk drawer opens and he produces a condom, rolling it on his cock in a swift motion while you pop the buttons on his dress shirt, desperate for a glimpse at the taut abs that he hides so well.

He lines himself up and you hold your breath, both of your eyes trained at the point where you connect, simultaneous gasps as he pushes inside inch by delicious inch.

You’re surprised by his pace considering you’re fucking in his office at worlk; opting for slow and deep rather than hard and fast. He finds his way around your body with learned ease, mapping out each point that makes you shudder and shake and the ones that have you panting his name like it’s the only thing left in your head.

“Tell me y/n,” he sighs, leaning over you to pepper kisses from your neck down the valley of your breasts. “Is all that grit and determination just to get fucked on my desk worth it?”

You hear his question but all your attention is taken by the dangling cross in front of your eyes, and you just can’t help yourself.

It dangles low enough that you can capture it in your mouth, tongue running across the cold bars of gold that usually press flush against Pierre’s chest. He’s mesmerised; swears he’s died and gone to heaven as his thrusts stutter slightly while you focus all your energy on the chain.

“‘M s’close” you whisper, the dam of pleasure in your core at breaking point while Pierre continues to hit that spot inside you, wrapping a hand around your throat as he watches you begin to shake under him. “Beg me for it, sweetheart, I know you can.” He spits, fingers tightening every so slightly that you can feel the pleasure heightening and the freight train that’s about to hit you.

Pierre’s other hand lands on your clit, fast and tight circles contrasting from the speed of his strokes and your voice is raw from whimpering but you need to come and you need to make Pierre come.

“Please, daddy, you’re making me feel so good, your good girl,” you babble, maintaining eye contact with the bastard as he never lets up. “Best I’ve ever had, swear, please let me come.”

He only nods and you can’t control anything that you do; unsure if you’re silent or screaming because you’re blindsided by the orgasm that nobody could’ve prepared you for. Pierre rides it out with you, a silent curse of your name as he spills inside the condom and covers your body with his, both of you hyper aware that all the blinds are open and it’s a Wednesday morning at work.

You both redress faster than the whole thing unfolded and you’re limping out of his office and down the corridor to your own, red-faced and overly-happy while never more confused in your whole life.

“Y/n!” A voice calls cheerily, and you turn to be met with Brian, a look of slight worry crossing his features.

“Great to see you and Pierre getting along! Who’d have thought, only 12 hours after that disaster meeting and now he’s lending you suit jackets! I knew I made the right decision!”

Pierre fucking Gasly and his embroidered suits.

TAGLIST @drunkfrogg

this is my work and i do not consent for it to be shared to other websites/platforms/apps, nor can any of my original story lines be written about or continued by others

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