#carlos suspenders | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

forteafy · 1 year

Text

You Think, You Know | CL16 & CS55

Summary: Some bridges are due to burn, whilst others are destined to mend. Charles wants to lead you into a traditional happily-ever-after, whilst Carlos is still adamant that he can always treat you better. Part 3 of ‘A House, A Home.’

Word Count: 11.3k

Warnings: angst, shouting, a lot of swearing, mentions of cheating and divorce. SMUT. Non-protected sex, oral (M&F receiving,) squirting, degradation, aftercare always.

Note: Thank you all so, SO much for being so patient with me. I really wanted this to be something special and I hope you all enjoy it. Please don't get mad at me because this one is emotional. A massive thank you to my biggest cheerleaders, @oconso, @formulaforza, @a-distantdreamer & @silverstonesainz - I love you all so much.

PART 1: A House, A Home | PART 2: Where Do We Go? | PART 3: 'You Think, You Know'

You loved your sleep.

There was never too much that could wake you from your slumber. Currently, with the combined sensations of crisp sheets tucked across your frame, soft sunlight drawing through the transparent curtains of the bedroom and snug, strapping arms encircling your waist, it would have to be some form of miracle to awaken you.

The form of this came in the body pressed tightly into your back; smoothly, a pair of lips are drawn to your cheekbone, satin kisses being dropped against your skin. Was it possible to awaken to such a soothing interaction? Your face is drawn to the feeling, turning in his interlocked arms, the side of your face nuzzling into the cushion as your eyes meet the deep, dark pools of his.

“Good morning.” Carlos whispers, joyful at your rise from shuteye. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been lying there himself, simply basking in the pleasure of holding the girl of his dreams against his firm body. The man was constantly on a lifeline; each time you interacted with him, he’s certain it would be his last, that one day, you’ll be violently ripped from his arms and his heart.

Suspended in thought, the Spainard is drawn back to reality with the glowing touch of your palm on his skin. Immediately, one of his arms draws away from your waist, resting his own larger hand atop of yours. You look alluring like this; sleep still decorates your eyes, hair tangled from the deep sleep, yet perfect in every sense of the word.

“Morning.” You respond, allowing yourself to set your gaze upon his face for a little longer. It’s a sin, settling in your stomach at how that same face had lifted from between your leg’s mere hours ago, the remanence of your arousal ever-present atop his stubble. You were certain he had a mouth crafted by the angels, the way his lips had toyed with your most sensitive parts and the way they currently pulled into an enticing smile in the present.

Two bodies, two souls were entwined in that bed; you weren’t too sure how long you lay there alongside him, reveling in one another’s morning appearances. All you know in that moment is Carlos is overtaking your mind, sprinting through every vein in your body. Every unanswered question from the previous night rendered numb as the man leant forward in your touch, his lips gaining space on your own.

There’s a sudden, sharp buzz from the other room, causing you both to retract from one another, bodies deep in the king-size mattress. A chuckle leaves his own mouth, running a heavy hand across his face, heart still pounding from the sudden jump of sound in the silent apartment. Something in your heart told you that buzz was for you. Whining from the sudden loss of warmth, you remove yourself from the bundle of blankets and body heat, bare feet padding into his living room, aware of your mobile phone, resting atop of the counter.

The device gave a heavy buzz once more before you had the realization to pick it up, the battery barely there. You absent-mindedly call out to the man in the bedroom, asking if he had a phone charger you could borrow for a little while. There's clutter from the other room, clearly trying to find a space for your own phone. Whilst that incurred, your eyes flickered across the darkening screen, skin turning cold upon reading the text notifications.

02:51: Charles Leclerc

I’m in love with you.

02:53: Charles Leclerc

I’m so sorry she was there – I had no idea. She’s gone now, can I come and collect you? Where are you?

03:25: Charles Leclerc

Please let me know you’re safe as soon as you can. Can I come and see you in the morning, please?

08:47: Charles Leclerc

Good morning, my love. How are you feeling today?

Guilt washed through your stomach, not for the interaction you had shared with Carlos; Charles had done substantially worse to you for the past twelve months. No, you knew what it felt like to have no response from somebody you cared for, terrified for their well-being. Even when Charles hadn’t cared for you, you had still nursed him, waiting up for his return in the early hours of the morning.

With the remainder of your phone battery, fingers fly over the keyboard. Did you want your husband to come and collect you, specifically from his teammates home? He was aware of your building friendship with the Spainard, even if it wasn’t entirely platonic. There wasn’t a huge choice; you especially didn’t want to demand or pry a lift off Carlos, especially after he had come to collect you so late the previous night.

08:58: You

Good morning, I’m at Carlos’ place. I’d really appreciate a lift back to the house, if that’s okay.

The message barely had time to send before it’s marked as ‘read’. Immediately, the blue speech bubble pops to the lower corner of your phone, signaling a response was being formed.

09:00: Charles Leclerc

You don’t need to even ask. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.

Fifteen minutes was not enough time to conceal everything which had happened in the previous hours. Feet now cold, legs now littered in goosebumps, you’d scrambled back into his bedroom, the man now on his own feet, those damn gray jogging bottoms hanging on his hips, a visible outline ever-present. It took your entire soul to remain strong, knowing how tempting this man could become in a matter of moments.

“Charles is on the way.” You state, suspecting that it would cease all his movements, and allow yourself to get ready for your husband’s arrival. Instead, he’d stepped closer to your frame, leaning his toned torso towards you, locking you in his muscled arms, hiding his face in the skin he’d licked and bitten across the previous night. His mumbles are incoherent, littering across your neck in broken Spanish. He’s saying something. Something you can’t understand but is undeniably a plea for you to stay in his arms.

Carlos stays pretty much attached to you the entire time you’re preparing for your departure; his body is pressed against yours, littering kisses to the crown of your head whilst you brush your teeth. His scent is so dominating on the hoodie he insists you borrow, slipping that atop of your frame whilst pulling on the bottoms you had wiggled out of the previous evening. The man’s heart explodes upon seeing you bundled into his clothing, a possessive streak striking through his body and soul.

When your bag is packed, face washed and phone charging, now on the counter of his kitchen, you spend the last few minutes waiting for your husband’s adamant arrival by bundling into Carlos’ side on his plush sofa. It feels entirely natural by this point; his arms encircle your waist, letting you lie against his sternum, soothing yourself to his naturally steady heartbeat. A snippet of your heart desires to take this sole moment and capture it for a lifetime. Safe. Warm. Happy.

The moment is wafted away from you both with the sudden rapping of knuckles on the front door. Whining, your eyes trail on the Spaniard, focused as he presses a final, fleeting kiss to your temple, pulls himself up from the couch and paces towards the hallway. Your own ears strain to hear the latch lift of the front door, Charles praises for looking after you the previous evening falling over his lips, two pairs of footsteps drawing into the front room.

Your husband, despite his usual god-like appearance, looked terrible. His hair pushed to the front, clearly in need of a wash and brush. His skin was rubbed raw, face bloodshot; clearly, he hadn’t got a single moment of sleep the previous night, still dressed in the clothes he’d traveled home in the previous night. Despite the heavy lids of his eyes, they still light up when falling onto you.

“Good morning.” He gives you a smile, only you. You can feel Carlos’ disappointment, even if you can’t see his eyesight at that moment. A pocket-sized smile from your own lips is offered in return, pulling yourself up in that moment, reaching for your bag which remained on the floor, slipping into your soft sneakers.

“Are you ready?” You’d asked softly. Charles’ mouth opened, hesitating before he spoke. He was thinking clearly.

“I just need to speak to Carlos quickly. Something…private.” He tries to explain his standings, tries to make you feel less awkward as he reaches for the car keys resting in his hoodie pocket. “Are you okay to wait in the car?” He asks softly. He feels in no power to demand your movements, yet he requires one private word with his teammate.

Your eyes don’t bother to meet Charles, instead immediately flying to meet the dark ones of your unofficial lover. What on god’s earth was your husband about to ask, and why did he want to do it out of your earshot? The look that you give the man says a thousand words, asking if he needs you to stay, hold your ground against Charles. The warm eyes of him give everything you need, silently promising he could handle this man. An entire conversation through looks alone, a skill the two of you had developed so naturally.

Silently, you take the keys from Charles’ outstretched hand, skin flinching when being pressed against the cool metal. You don’t so much as glance in his direction when you’re walking to the counter, picking up your phone and stuffing it into the pouch of your borrowed hoodie. When turning on your heel, you pace back to Carlos, pressing a surprising kiss to his right cheek, murmuring a ‘Thank You,’ just for his hospitality, of course. You had done all the thanking for the number of orgasms you were granted the previous night.

The walk towards your husband’s car, the SUV rather than his identifiable Pista, your mind clouded, clotted with an array of questions. Why did Charles need to speak to Carlos alone? Was he aware of the relationship the two had been sharing for an undefinable amount of time? Who on earth was the blonde woman giving you a death stare as she walked up the pathway to the complex, red lips practically hissing at your appearance, storming past you within half a second?

When you turn back to take in her appearance from behind, a sense of sickness settles into your stomach. You’d seen the back of that blonde head before; not in person, but rather on a phone screen. Your phone screen, held between white knuckles as you’d watched the man you had begun to fall for wrap his arms around another woman's lips meshed in a private nightclub, unaware of the multiple cameras capturing their searing moment.

That was the same woman, identical in her mannerisms. You felt your tummy curdle into pain, into your vague realization that the only reason Carlos had offered you a place in his home, and subsequently his bed that evening, was because he was trying to fill a void until she returned to the scene. Your stomach wanted nothing more than to empty its remaining content in sheer shock. Instead, you breathe deeply, unlocking the door to the car, climbing into the passenger seat and closing your eyes, relaxing into the plush leather of the upholstery.

You’re not sure how long your husband takes, eyes growing heavy as you await his return. It’s only realized when the driver’s door clicks open, rolling in your seat to watch as Charles climbs into his own, a frown resting at the bottom of his face. However, it’s immediately vanquished when his eyes latch onto your own, grinning at your presence, so close to him. A warm hand reaches out, brushing over the back of your head, sheerly enjoying the comfort you radiated. He'd been lost without you for the past twelve hours.

Your eyes begin to feel heavy again, though you’re determined to get through the car ride alert, even if the soft scent of his cologne and the gentle lulling tunes from the morning radio are drawing you back to your previous state. Instead, you think of that woman. No, not the mistress you had grown numb to; the blonde woman, the one pressed against Carlos’ chest and lips mere hours after you had been. The glint in your husband’s eye is telling as you go through your endless thoughts, he knows something.

“The blonde lady going into Carlos’ apartment.” Your voice is completely out of pocket, echoing through the front of the SUV. “Who was she?” There’s no beating around with the question you had asked; there’s no trying to sugar coat what you needed to know. Charles knows it, too. He knows he can’t hide the truth from you, you’re too smart for lies and manipulation, a year married with a mistress had taught him that.

Instead, he emits a deep sigh from his lips, knuckles tightening on the steering wheel as he focuses on the road. “Natasha.” The name falls from his lips, he can’t meet your gaze, not when speaking about another woman to his wife. “She used to work for Ferrari’s PR but left just under a year ago. Carlos and her used to-“

“Date?” You’d cut him off without realizing, eyes widening when he’d shaken his head.

“No, not date.” He responds. “They just had…a thing. Something.” He finished his train of thought, still not mentally ready to turn to you. In a comforting way, you were glad he hadn’t; Charles was unable to see the tears pooling at your lower lash line, the desire to rip off the hoodie now suffocating your body. You learnt in your heart that moment, you were apparently nothing special to Carlos. No, he had a thing. Something, with any woman who passed his way was as a wandering fancy.

The tears decorating your eyes and desire to relax into the leather seat eventually overpowers your emotionally drained body, pulling you back into a slumber.

You loved the sound of music.

A faint tune, one you were certain you’d never heard before lured through your ears, drawing you back to consciousness. You couldn’t remember getting home, let alone getting out of the car and tucking yourself into the comfort of your own bed. Groaning, you’d sat yourself up, rubbing the sleep from your eyes and stretching the twinge in your back simultaneously.

The music wasn’t coming from your room; the sound was beautiful, you just needed to locate its source. Your feet twinge when they touch the floor, cool floorboards easing the temperature of your socks. Opening the ajar door to your bedroom, the music grows louder, sound clearly emitting from downstairs, your feet carry you to the staircase with no hesitation. However, when reaching the top of the staircase, eyebrows crease together in confusion, taking in your once-ragged appearance in the crystal mirror.

Your hair had been braided, albeit not elegantly, but at least out of your face, something you did almost religiously before sleeping. Your attire had changed, too, once you were dressed in Carlos’ sage hoodie. Now, your body was engulfed by Charles’ charcoal jumper, sleeves too long but an entire comfort for your drained mind. Is this what it felt like, to be nurtured and cared for by your husband? The pit of your stomach felt airy; this had been everything you desired for so long. And yet, now you had experienced somebody else, despite the heartbreak, your mind was utterly torn.

Music grows louder, your mind is suddenly focused back on its original target. With no hesitation now, you began to walk down the flight of stairs, noting your bag and phone resting by the front door. Even with as many notifications as you’d missed in your time asleep, priorities overtook, making your way towards the lounge, eyes transfixed on the figure by the French windows.

Charles Leclerc sat, comfortably and quietly, gentle fingers dancing over the keys of his piano. The soft lights of the room illuminated the figure, a tune you had never heard was fluttering around the open space.

Of course, you had heard him play the instrument multiple times; during his time spent at the house rather than on the track, he remained transfixed, creating new songs, finding some way to pour every emotion into some kind of melody. You’d lost track of the times you’d come downstairs to get a drink, put the washing into the machine and had instead pushed your body into the doorframe, eyes fixed upon your husband as he created the most beautiful sounds.

The last time you’d done that, his mistress had been present, leaving over the piano as Charles played her an elegant tune. When she had gone to lean over him, her own fingers wanting to press down against the keys, he’d rested a firm hand on her arm, insisting that she sit on the sofa and listen, instead. The sweet moments of silently viewing your husband had turned sour; you’d silently vowed that day you would never enter the room when he was playing again.

You’d broken that promise mere seconds ago, eyes transfixed upon your husband. You can feel the tension beneath his fingers, as if he’s trying to take the sheer thoughts of everything that had been embedded into his mind in the past twenty-four hours and mesh them into some kind of audible release. Underneath the layers of music, your footsteps can’t be heard as you hesitantly walk towards the end of the living space. His tune reaches a climax, but before the piano can take any more notes, you cough lightly, Charles’ hands ceasing in mid-air. Arching his body weight, he sees your frame standing next to his piano, eyes still sleepy from awakening mere moments ago. The breath catches in the back of his throat; did you always look so perfect in his soft jumpers?

“I’m sorry.” He eventually offers, taking in your sweet, soft appearance. “Did I wake you?”

“No, no.” The reply tumbles from your lips before you even realize. “It was…beautiful, actually. Is it a new piece?” You ask, entranced by the music which had been flowing freely.

“I’m not sure yet.” He can’t help but smile at the end of his sentence. “I just sort of started playing and this is what came of it.” The explanation is valid; like many creatives, sometimes a free flow form was the simplest way to go. His next movement is almost a shock to your system. “Why don’t you come and help me?” The offer is completed when he shuffles up on the piano stool, patting on hand on the available gap. There’s hesitation in your movement, before his hand trails upwards, leaning to clasp one of your own, guiding you towards the stool.

There’s an overpowering smell of his cologne, a scent you were slowly drawing yourself towards. The body heat from his frame radiates into your own. Shyly, you reach out, pressing down on one of the piano keys, a tone spouting from the instrument. Charles can’t help but smile upon your interaction, eyes questioning as you analyze the instrument.

“Do you know how to play?” He asks gingerly, watching as you shake your head in response. His actions exchange, resting one of his warm palms over your own. The next moments are filled with your husband guiding your hands over the piano, teaching you the tune to old nursery rhymes. When you reach the end of the piece, he cheers in delight at the achievement.

“Play me something now.” You ask carefully, head becoming heavy, heavy enough to rest on your husband’s shoulder. When you feel his body tense, you immediately sit back up, convinced you’ve overstepped a line. That thought is soon relinquished when Charles’ hand flies out, wrapping around the back of your head and pulling you back down to his shoulder, your breath hot on his neck, it’s enough for him, hesitant to overstep the boundaries you were adamant upon currently.

His fingers move back, continuing the song he had been conducting earlier. The piece had started out slowly, almost sad-like, before building, building towards a romantic counterpart. In his mind, it was the perfect song to punctuate the relationship he maintained with his wife. They both sat there, barely any moment as the music was the only sound present in their house.

When the song finishes, neither of you move, relishing in the soft touch you’re both sharing. Charles’ own head falls atop of your own, letting his cheek rest against your hair. There’s no form of time between you both, simply enjoying being alive, alive with one another. It’s interrupted when you feel Charles’ take an exaggerated breath, removing his keys from the piano. One of his hands rests upon his side, the other slides between the minute gap between you both, wrapping a toned arm around your waist. The movement causes you to lift yourself from his firm shoulder, catching those beautiful eyes from your glance.

“I’m traveling to Monaco tomorrow.” He says it so casually, as if it’s as normal as entering or leaving the building. You can feel his heart race in anticipation of what he was due to say, his body temperature raising dramatically, radiating through his hoodie. You offer him a warming smile. You really didn’t want him to leave, not when you were growing so unnaturally fond of his presence.

“Oh really, what for?” Is the eventual reply. In this moment, you simply can’t hold his eye contact, he’s staring into your soul, it’s as if he can sense every thought which is currently trekking through your mind; does he know how much of a hold he has on you, even if your marriage was entirely staged, at least in his eyes.

“I’m off to see my mother” He clarifies. “It’s been a while and I just want to check in.” It’s a lie. You can tell from the way his body language changes; his hands are suddenly clenching tighter, his grip on your waist firm as if he’s terrified, you’ll run away. He can’t admit it, he’s not strong enough. If you step away, he will fall back to the way he was the previous night; eyes bloodshot, unable to sleep unless he knows you’re safe.

“Give her my best.” The response is blunt, short. You’re on entirely different wavelengths, different planets. He never told you of his reasoning for things; a golden rule you had learnt at the beginning of this era. Just…you’d never question him; you would simply co-exist. What he says next makes your blood run cold.

“Why don’t you come with me? I’d really appreciate it.” Why on earth would your estranged husband want you to come on his travels, presumably when the entire point was to spend the entirety of it wrapped in the arms of another woman. Yet, a feeling in your stomach settled. Did you actually want to spend hours in this empty house alone? Now that Carlos was no longer a welcome distraction, anything would be better than wallowing in your silence.

“I will.” You eventually respond. “On one condition.”

“Anything.” His eyes are wide, so willing. He’d scooted tighter towards you, as if he could hold together this entire conversation, stopping the whole world from crumbling around you. You must be the one to take a deep breath this time. You had to remain firm with your choices, with what you needed to know.

“What was in the white envelope that your mistress gave you yesterday?”

You loved the glow of candlelight.

Having never entered Charles’ study, his fingers interlocked with your own as he guided you through the heavy door, you didn’t realize how many candles he had resting around his office. They laid upon his windowsill, on his desk, he even had a mulberry-scented candle resting next to his racing simulator.

There was only one candle which was lit, he had obviously forgotten to extinguish it whilst you were deep in your slumber. Despite the fact you hadn’t ever been given access to this room, you’d have to make a mental note in order to check for any fire hazards the next time you were in the building alone.

The envelope resting upon the desk stuck out like a sore thumb; his computer, stationary, it was all a cool gray tone whereas the envelope stuck out in a bright white glow.

“I need you to know before you look at this, it’s a lot worse than it comes across.” Even in the candlelight, his face had turned pale, barely able to keep his fear from dancing across his emotions. You need to remain strong. You need to see what was left in the envelope.

Staying firm, your grasp reaches out towards the desk, taking the card into your own hands. “I want to see it.” You clarified, letting your finger trace under the flap of the envelope.

You don’t let your husband’s words overpower you, distract you in any way. Instead, your hand reaches into the envelope and grasps around a stack of…something. It feels like multiple pieces of paper pressed together, though one side remains glossy, as if printed onto a special sheet. Hesitantly, your hand pulls from the envelope, eyes immediately widening upon seeing the content in question.

It's photographs. Multiple photographs of Charles and his mistress. Some of them are casual, taken from her phone, smiling selfies and dinner dates. Others are…compromising, verging on pornographic. You can feel the lump in your throat tightening, tears are forming on your lower lash line, but you must keep strong. You cannot show any weakness when you ask to see this.

“That’s her, isn’t it?” Your voice betrays you, weakening as your words continue. “Your…girlfriend.” You don’t want to use the other word; it’s clear from these photographs it was more than sex, it was more than just an escapade.

“She’s- she’s not anymore.” Charles pauses, his eyes don’t focus on the photographs, only on you. His wife, who he has hurt so badly and now must see the pain littered across her face. “She hasn’t been since your mother passed away.”

Your heart stops at the mention of your mother, a sharp spike of longing for the woman suddenly danced through your chest. Then, you were angry. How dare he pity you, you didn’t want it, not from him. But…you still wanted him. He’d clouded your emotions, nothing was black-and-white with your husband, just a cacophony of colors.

“That was your reason for dumping her. Sympathy?” You don’t care how harsh your voice comes across, instead just aggravated you were growing to care about his reasoning. Life had been simpler weeks ago, when you simply stayed at home, minding your own business whilst he got on with his. By the look on Charles’ face, he wasn’t expecting the hostility, either.

“No! I dumped her because it was wrong, because I have a loving wife who I would give anything for.” The room goes silent, giving you time to process the words that had come from his lips. You had been so certain for so long that he didn’t care about you; that everything he did was for his own gain and pleasure. Yet…he had given up his mistress for you. He’d given up something that made him happy because you were not.

Stressing, you run a hand through your hair, placing the photographs back into the envelope, speaking to your husband as you place the card back onto his desk. You feel sick. These photographs exist and it was a perfect way to destroy the two of you, it was perfect ammunition to a metaphorical pistol. “So, what does she want you to do with these photographs?”

“Nothing.” Charles leans over your own body, reaching for a second stack of papers resting upon the desk, one you had considered would simply be notes from Scuderia Ferrari. Warm seeps through your body at his close contact, one hand almost trailing against your back as he grasps to the stack of crisp sheets, barely touched. “She’s threatened to publish them if I don’t sign…this.”

You took the stack of ivory papers into your palms. It was sprawled with a size twelve font, you were uncertain of where to begin until two words in bold took your attention, printed formally across the top of the page.

“Divorce Papers.” Your voice is barely a whisper, heart dropping to your stomach.

“That’s the other reason I’m going to Monaco.” He’s explaining his own status now, eyes glassy with the fear of you walking straight out of the office. He wouldn’t blame you, of course. He couldn’t blame you for anything anymore. Charles reaches out to your grasp, wiggling the paper from your fingers and placing them back against the desk. “I’m filing for a lawsuit against her, a restraining order for manipulation and stalking.”

A scoff falls from your lips; the mere contrast of the events from a few weeks ago compared to now. He truly intended to file a lawsuit against a woman who he’d happily let warm his bed whilst you went to bed each night with nothing but regret and bloodshot eyes. “Do you…do you want a divorce?” You can feel your voice cracking. “I mean, if she’s sent you these, you must have mentioned wanting one-”

“I did.” Charles doesn’t miss a beat. “I mentioned how I didn’t want a divorce because despite everything…I do care for you.” The room goes silent, not even the flickering of the candle or the soft wind from the French windows can pierce the tone of the room.

A huff escapes your lips, arms resting by your side as you formulate a response; “You had a really weird way of showing it.” Your response is blunt, it clearly warrants the sad look on your husband’s face.

“I know. That’s why I’m going to make it right. Please come to Monaco with me. She won’t be there; you don’t have to come to the lawyer with me. But…I need to be able to come back to my wife.” His hand reaches out, cradling your own in this moment. Gently, he lifts your palm to his cheek, resting it upon his stubble and letting his lips trace a kiss across the soft skin.

He truly does know how to make your heart flutter, despite everything.

“Okay.” You eventually respond, focused on his gaze when his eyes turn wide in anticipation.

“Yeah?” His heart is picking up in happiness, reaching to hold you in his own grasp, but instead falling short when you raise a finger, ceasing his movements towards your body.

“But…you need to give me tonight, alone. To process that.” Gently, you take a step forward, leaning gently towards him. You can’t leave him, not before you gently press a kiss to his cheek, turning on your heel, your figure illuminated in the corridor by the soft candlelight. “Goodnight, Charles.”

“Goodnight, beautiful.”

You loved the feeling of warm water.

There is only a slender picking of moments in your life where you have felt truly relaxed; sitting by the lake in the rolling fields your family had owned for generations, lounging in the bed of the Madrid-Based apartment your friends had hired for a holiday in the early spring morning.

You had never thought one of those relaxing moments would be as your mother-in-law massaged her hands through your locks, lathering an expensive shampoo into the roots of your hair. She was gentle; no tangles fell through her fingers as her rhythm stayed perfectly relaxing, hitting all the spots which would send a flood of relief through your scalp.

You’d arrived in Monaco early that morning, immediately being transported to the luxurious hotel your husband had booked you into. Most of the trips he’d book you wouldn’t attend, and when you did would be ignored by him altogether. This time, he’d remained present, willing. Your hands had entwined the moment you had left the privacy of the jet, nestling into the back of the car, eyes heavy from the early rise.

Not much is remembered after you’d arrived outside the opulent building; bags were removed and transported to your room by the bellhop, both you and your husband were given hotel cards, an older lady at the desk explaining the functions dotted around the high-end establishment. All you could remember was the door to the room opening, your tired body making a beeline towards the emperor bed, nuzzling into the soft furnishings with sleep overtaking you in a matter of moments.

Charles hadn’t been able to help the tug on his heartstrings as he’d seen you tumble into the mattress. You’d been so thoughtful; dropping everything back at your house and accompanying him to Monaco, promising to be there for him as he promised to fix the wounds from his previous mistakes. He’d give anything to crawl into the bed alongside you, wrap his frame around your own and fall back into his own slumber, one he had despised the night before simply because he wasn’t able to hold you in his arms. He was learning to respect your wishes; after all, he had a lot of repairing to do-so. Even after recent conversations with his Ferrari counterpart, he could never bring himself to hate you.

His phone buzzes from his back pocket and upon inspection he sees the reminder, he’s due with his lawyer in less than forty-five minutes, but he doesn’t want to leave you, not alone. A thought sparks into his head, fingers flying through his contacts and dropping a message to one, asking if they could take you over to his mother’s salon later in the afternoon. By the time he’s returned from changing in the en-suite and brushing a comb through his hair, the responses from both Joris and his mother had lit up his screen, confirming his plans for later in the afternoon.

Your husband had allowed himself one more look at you, so peaceful wrapped up in the comfort of the bed. Silently, he leans over your frame, running a gentle hand across the back of your head, pressing a soft kiss to the top of your forehead, murmuring his sweet words to your sleeping form.

When you’d awoken, there was a message clarifying that Joris would be taking you to his mother’s salon a little later and he would come to collect you once he was finished with his lawyer. That’s how you had ended up walking into her salon earlier that afternoon, her delighted smile present after seeing her daughter-in-law.

Pascale wasn’t stupid, that much was clear. She was aware of the strain in her middle son’s marriage, just not to the extent that he had been toying with a mistress for the better part of a year. However, she had grown to adore you; your mannerisms, laughter and the fact that you clearly held a candle for Charles, despite the dwindling flame of the marriage. If she had a daughter, she’d want her to be just like you.

“Are you and Charles up to anything this evening?” Her voice is gentle, motioning for you to stand up from the basin chair and walk towards the mirrors, resting yourself in one of the seats. Your reflection bores back into you, focused as Pascale adjusts your head slightly, brushing the tendrils of hair through her comb.

“I’m not sure.” You respond. “I know he has some business this morning.” It’s an understatement. When Joris had collected you from the hotel, he’d tried to give you what information he could – Charles had arrived at his Lawyer’s office, ready to file the case against his mistress. He wasn’t too sure how long it was going to take, though he had told Joris to be on hand for anything you needed when he couldn’t.

“You make him happy; you know?” Pascale mentions, tilting your head to angle your hair correctly. “I know he hasn’t always been…the greatest.” You’re not sure if she’s aware of everything, but her tone seems to stand where you need it to do so, “but you make…such an impact in his life.”

Not much else is said whilst the woman continues to trim your hair, adjusting your face as she does so. It was nice, not to be cooped up into a hotel room for the entirety of the day, nor to be sitting in Charles’ driver room whilst he walked around, finger entwined with his mistress. You’re so engrossed in Pascale drying your hair, setting the locks into soft rollers that you don’t realize when the door chimes open, another figure entering the quiet salon. The woman’s eyes brighten, and you hear her cooing before your own face turns, taking in the figure of your husband in the doorway.

Charles looks breath-taking. He’d clearly showered and changed since you had last seen him bundled in his travel gear that morning. Your deduction would be correct; the man had hastily returned to the hotel to jump into the shower, changing into a power blue shirt and white trousers. His hair, free of styling products curled in an unruly way, one that made his whole face structure elevate.

In his hands, he held both a soft white dress over his arm, one you had packed in your case fleetingly the evening before; it had been steamed and washed, the fabric clear and petticoats of the skirt floating gently. In his other hand, a vibrant bouquet of roses. His smile never faded, walking over to his mother and pressing a kiss to each of his mother’s cheeks. Once his attention turns towards you, his eyes only brighten.

“Hello, beautiful.” You can’t tell whether he’s playing up the affection in front of his mother, or whether it’s genuine. However, when one hand comes to rest on your cheek, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. He’s being respectful; making sure not to cross a boundary.

“Hello, handsome.” The response falls from your lips without realizing, the grin on your husband's face only rising. Fuck. Did you mean to say that? Regardless, you had done, and by the look on his face he not only didn’t expect it but had instantly grown to love it. Charles had completely forgone the flowers in his grasp, only remembering them after your eyes had darted down towards his palms.

“Oh-“ His mind finally catches up with the present situation, raising his hand to present you with the flowers. They’re colors are soft, delicate, as if etched by crayon. You can’t help but smile at the gesture, even if it was entirely a false pretense in front of his mother. You can’t see her face, but you know she’s smiling, seeing her son present to his wife in such a sweet manner. Now, your gaze isn’t fixed against the flowers in your grasp, but the dress from your suitcase.

“Something tells me that won’t fit you, Charles.” You tease the garment laying over his forearm, only to cause a smile to appear on his lips again.

“I want to take you out for the afternoon. If that’s okay with you.” His voice is low now, hoping to avoid any prying of the conversation from his mother, though her attention was now turned to locating the hair dryer, still needing to complete your own treatment. “Would that be…okay?” He’s nervous. Fearful that after everything, you could now reject him and feel no remorse.

You’re not a cruel person, it has never been in your nature. Instead, you match his own smile, nodding as you take the garment from his grasp, Charles’ eyes widening in confirmation.

“Trust you to pick out my favorite dress, too.” You mumbled.

You loved the sound of the ocean.

You loved everything about the sea, truly. The reflections from the moonlight caused shards to reflect over Charles’ boat; the new yacht had barely had time to stretch the waters, though it seemed to float as if it had been nurtured its entire existence.

The afternoon of a late lunch had expanded into expensive, late-night wine on the boat as your husband had guided you into deeper waters. He knew what he was doing, after all; the waters of Monaco were a comfort to him, a lifetime had stretched out from jumping into the ocean as a child to yacht parties during the Grand Prix.

You’d seemed entirely at home, and it made his heart warm. Charles wasn’t a stupid man; he saw how you kept yourself small, your setup at the house barely spanning over two rooms. He’d wanted nothing more than to break the walls you had put up for oh-so-long and entwine your lives together.

Then he would reprimand himself, remind himself he was the sole reason those walls existed.

Conversation had spanned naturally into the events of the day; you thanked him for thinking of you, he’d responded with a mention of you deserving that form of treatment every single day. Your mind can’t take the anticipation; when your lips lift from the glass of wine, you can’t help but ask what his lawyer had recommended about his mistress. Your husband’s grin had fallen a little, running a hand through his dark curls.

“It’s a difficult one.” He explains. “There’s enough there for a case, considering we haven’t had contact in a while. But…” He doesn’t need to finish his sentence; you do for him.

“The photographs are counted as evidence.” You finish, and he can only nod. He’s created such a mess, something he could never forgive himself for doing so. A web of lies and mistreatment surrounded you both; he so wanted to break each thread and simply cradle you, be in a bubble for the rest of eternity.

He’s expecting you to stay silent, then. Maybe that’s where the evening should have ended, with silence upon the realization that this case will not be easily solved. Instead, you place the glass of wine down on the ledge of the stairs, easing his own glass from his grasp. Charles is confused, even more so when you walk back towards him, wrapping your arms to close around his neck.

“What are you doing?” He whispers. His hands raise hesitantly, as if touching you would break you into a million pieces. His grasp only falls to your waist when you press closer towards the man, resting your gaze on his own eyes. He’s hurt you, broken you to such an extent, and yet you can’t help but draw closer to his touch, to his eyes.

“Being your wife.” You respond, before pressing your lips to his own. This is the first time, the first time in so long that you had been the one to initiate a kiss. Naturally, Charles’ hands wrap tighter around your waist, pulling you into his chest, deepening your touch, your kiss. This. This is the moment he wishes to bottle forever, to live in the comfort of his wife’s touch, no outside means, no other commitments being hung over his head.

You’re not sure how long you both stand there, wrapped in one another, hands fleeting over each other, desperate to find some touch, some form of skin. It isn’t until your fingers reach to unbutton the top of his powder-blue shirt, that his own come to rest atop of yours. He knows he’s made a mistake when he sees the look you shoot him, immediately assuming the worst.

“No, no.” He promises, both hands flying from where they had grasped yours, cradling each side of your face. It feels…warm. It feels so similar to the way Carlos had cradled your head once, when you were both on a boat, much like this. You think of those dark eyes, the whispers drawn into your ear as he had sharply thrusted into you that evening. Then, you think of the blonde appearing outside his apartment mere hours after you had been tangled in his arms.

“I want to.” Charles’ words draw you from your endless train of thoughts. “Sweetheart, I want to more than anything, but I need you to know how much it means-“

You don’t let him finish; instead, you press your mouths back together, forcefully. There are whispers from your own lips, pleading that he take you, that you want nothing more than to feel your bodies atop of one another.

And who is he to deny his wife?

You’re not sure when he scoops you up into his arms, guides you inside of the boat and to the soft bed that had been freshly made mere hours ago, but he never lets your lips leave one another for less than a moment.

He’s everywhere; he’s pressing into you in the most delicious way, he’s drawing your body of the most intense sounds, and then you’re coming, harder than you ever thought was possible, it hits you in the most delicious way.

Your fingernails pressed crescents into his skin as he continued to push into you with that perfect rhythm. Feeling your hot breath dance against the shell of his neck, the sweet whimpers of your overstimulated orgasm falling from your lips. Charles feels you clench around him, dragging you into him deeper, and it's all over.

His head immediately falls into the joint of your neck and shoulder, his pants getting heavier, thrusts rougher as he chases his own release. Teeth escape from his lips, biting down atop of the red marks he'd left earlier in a passion; the gasp you let-out, the roll of your hips against his own pushes him over the edge, a moan falling out from his own lips, hands flying to grip at your forearms pinned above him. You can feel every inch of him buried inside of you, warmth spilling into you.

Heavy hips press into yours, your thighs still pressed around his waist when he lifts his head from the warmth of your skin, pressing one final deep kiss to your lips, a profanity of words escaping from his mouth.

He kisses you again. And again. He keeps doing it whilst slowly rocking his hips, still jittering from his own orgasm. Senses come through, those eyes you had been entranced in so many times fixing to your own, drinking you in, looking so beautiful underneath his own frame.

"You still want somebody else?" The teasing is natural, almost, inflicting you to roll your eyes and playfully push his arm. God, your laugh is the most adoring sound in the world to him, it had been so long since he'd heard it, even then, it had never been due to his own actions until recently. The adorned look in his eye is soon replace with confusion when he feels you wiggle underneath him, soft blankets rubbing against your back.

"Are you going somewhere?" He questions, one hand coming up to trace against your jawline. You want to lean into his touch, it's something you'd been attracted to recently, though the mess between your legs and sweat trailing down your skin seemed to tell you something different.

"I need to clean up." You whine, pressing your body into the plush mattress. "I'm all gooey, Charles."

"I've got it." He murmurs, pressing one soft kiss to your cheek, another to your neck. You expect the weight from above to release you, but the warmth radiating from his body remains. You feel lips trace against your chest, his untamed curls tickle your stomach as he traces down a direct line.

"What are you doi-" You never get to finish you question, the fourth word cut off with a soft gasp, those lips which had pressed to yours, now pressing down against your clit, a soft praise towards your body whilst his tongue traced around the sensitive bud, drawing a slice through your wet lips, pressing deeper and deeper into your entrance.

The room is illuminated with your whines, hips bucking against his stubble as he fulfills his promise of cleaning you up.

You loved the feeling of being held.

You’d been unfathomably happy to walk into the paddock that evening, fingers interlaced with Charles’ as he guided the two of you through the fans and photographers alike, buzzing to be starting on Pole Position when his wife would be watching in awe of his achievement.

You hadn’t been there on qualifying day; you were still trying to keep your distance where you could, to prove to your husband he couldn’t instantly win you back overnight. It had only been when he’d come into the en-suite of your room the evening before, hands wrapped around your waist as he pressed a soft kiss to your cheek, pleading you came to watch him race the following night.

“I’ll win.” He promises, voice quiet as he rests his chin on your shoulder. “I’ll win it for you.”

His sweet words had not only lured you to the race track the following day but had also drawn you to sleep in his bed that evening, curled up into his toned chest as he murmured words of appreciation in French; only a few you were able to pick up and understand the meaning of as you drifted into a comfortable sleep, arms cradling your body underneath the bed sheets.

There was a collective, loving aura that evening when the two of you had stepped into his garage, the team in awe of seeing that their Prince of Monaco and his beloved Princess had been reunited, here to support one another. However, one figure remained quiet, eyes transfixed on your every movement. He felt his knuckles turn white when Charles had changed into his race suit, placing his cap atop of your own head and had lovingly pressed two kisses to either of your cheeks.

Carlos Sainz was a jealous man; he’d been infuriated when his blonde fling had appeared on his doorstep, instantly realizing the kind of man he must have been made out to be when you’d seen her appear on your departure. He’d hoped and prayed you hadn’t seen her, but from the radio silence he received over messages and calls, to the way you had purposely avoided speaking to him when arriving in the paddock, he could tell you were not that naive.

Emotions had played a heavy part on both of the Ferrari Pilots during the start of the race. One, determined to keep his promise and win whilst his wife was present. The other was so clouded with sadness and rage that all he wanted to do was push his counterpart off the track. The lights snapped off, 20 engines revving in unison as the cars blitzed down the first straight.

It doesn’t take long for emotion to overcome; Charles’ P6 soon creeps towards a P3, whilst Carlos begins to drop. A violent turn into Oscar Piastri not only takes the young rookie out of the race, but the Ferrari driver, too. Nobody misses the swears as he switches the engine off, nor the scowl on his face as he removes the steering wheel, ready to be escorted back to the garage.

When the blur of red comes through the paddock, you can’t help but feel guilty, telling yourself that if you had spoken to him, he would have been able to keep a cool head. Silently, you slip the headphones from your temple, murmuring about going to the bathroom before taking a direct beeline towards Carlos’ room, catching the door just before it’s due to slam closed.

He was seething. Pure rage flicked across his eyes; the warm smile reserved for you replaced with a harsh scowl. This may have been a mistake.

“What do you want?” His words are venom, spit towards you. He cannot stand to see you right now.

“I just-“You pause, clearing your throat. “I wanted to check if you were okay.” It’s a pathetic answer, really. One that didn’t sit right in your mouth, even after you had spoken.

“I’m alright?” He scoffs, shaking his head. “You ignore my calls, go away and fuck that pathetic man and then come back to me?” He’s pissed, undoubtedly so. “You whore. I understand it all now.” He shakes his head, missing the fire which had begun to burn in your own stomach.

“You have no right!” You’d shrieked so loudly you’d startled yourself; one finger was still pointed into his infuriated face, your finger mere millimeters from the bridge of his nose. Hot air engulfed both of your bodies, the only sound present was the deep and heavy breathing flaring from your nostrils.

Without a thought, Carlos had slapped your finger away from his face, lunging forward dramatically to seize your face into his rough palms. His lips are on yours, roughly seeking the wet trace of your tongue. You can’t fight him; not when his lips feel so flawless against your own. A rough palm encases the back of your neck, the other wrapping around your waist as he holds your frame tighter against his own.

Your breath barely had a moment to catch when he forcefully pulled his lips from you, emitting a white from your breath. That innocent sound is soon replaced by a sharp gasp, his fingers tightening against your scalp, pulling on your locks.

“Don’t fucking whine.” He spits, ghosting his lips over your own, never letting them touch yours. Warm breath tickles the shell of your ear when his grip pulls tighter onto your hair, tiling your ear to meet his mouth. “I’m sick of your whining, about your horrible excuse for a husband. I will treat you how you should be treated.”

There’s no time to react as his pink tongue pokes from his lips, a stripe tracing from the corner of your ear, across the sweetest spot of your neck. You’re reveling in the wetness, the sinful way his words litter through the air before teeth sink into your skin. He doesn’t bother to cover your mouth, mute the sweet sounds falling from your lips. There’s no decency anymore, Carlos doesn’t care who sees the marks he engraves into your skin. The ring on your left hand means nothing more than a reminder that he could be better.

“Carlos-“ You struggle to connect the two syllables together, hands gripping through his hair, pulling at the brown locks in your fingers. “Fuck-“

“What did I just say?” He grunts from the valley of your neck, one hand sliding from your waist and flying out, smacking on your clothed butt. The shock simply causes you to gasp out loud, pushing your own throbbing crotch into his hard one. A smirk forms against your neck, clear as day when the man pulls himself from your neck. His lips are wet, saliva from his own mouth tracing around your lips.

One hand finds your face again, grasping at your chin tilting your head backwards to hover below his own. A single finger taps at your lips, signaling for you to open wide for him. He’s sinful as he lets his spit fall across your lips, eyebrows raised as he wraps a hand around your throat, clearly overpowering your stance in this moment.

“Swallow.” He commands, hand resting on your cheek firmly. The tone of his voice sends a shock of energy down your chest and between your legs, cunt throbbing at his words. Of course, you comply, swallowing the remanence he had given you. “Good girl.”

The sweet nicknames in this moment have evaporated; Carlos is nothing short of animalistic, his presence all too understanding as one hand takes its place around your neck, the other grabbing firmly onto your wrist as he guides you backwards, softly falling onto the sofa of his driver’s room. The pitying looks the man gives you sends a thousand messages through your brain.

“No, no. Dirty little girls don’t get to sit on my sofa.” He teases, both hands clasping your waist, sliding you off the plush furnishings and resting on the cold floor, kneeling for the Spaniard. “You need to be on your knees, you need to be taught how to behave.”

Eyes widen as his tanned fingers pull at the knotted arms of the fireproofs resting on his waist. Even through his underclothes, the shape of his hard length is clearly visible, even more so as he removes his underlayers and briefs, letting himself spring freely, one hand rubbing his shaft a few times, the other knotting in the back of your hair.

He loves this; cock in his hand as he taps the tip against each of your cheeks, trailing himself against the parting of your lips, having to hide the shiver from his own body when the wetness of your mouth. His eyes are sparkling when he uses his firm cock to press through your mouth, relishing in the warmth of your lips wrapping around his length.

“That’s it, be a good girl. Take it.” He coos as you struggle to take more of his length, attempting to give small, tentative licks to his cock whilst he slides between your lips. It sends him feral, wild. He thinks of nothing else as both hands grip tightly in your hair, shoving your face into his crotch, your gags music to his ears as he continues to take control of the situation.

When your eyes adjust, look up from his groin, he almost feels sorry for you. They’re wide, glassy, snuffles falling from your lips as he continues his forceful attack. One hand slowly removes itself from the strain on your locks, tracing over your cheek, thumb rubbing underneath your eye, removing the salty tears as your breath remains heavy through your nose.

“Oh, poor baby.” He teases, pace never relenting. “This is what you need, someone to put you in your place, remind you what you deserve for teasing me, making me jealous.” He can’t help but chuckle at the pathetic sound coming from your lips. He can feel his stomach tightening, the warmth drawing an imminent release from his cock. This isn’t how he wants to finish, he can’t yet.

Your mouth feels empty when he pulls out, giving you no warning, the gasps falling from your lips at the sudden gain of air. He doesn’t give you time to respond, a heavy hand pushing your front to the floor, lifting your hips, ass straight back in the air. No warning, the skirt of your dress is lifted, the wetness of your cunt seeping through your panties. The anticipation kills you, until a warm finger slides into your folds with no warning. Your body can’t help but react, clenching around the warmness without even realizing. You also don’t realize the sounds you’re making, until the finger removes itself, a palm harshly smacking on your behind.

“What did I say about noises?” He grunts, leaning around to push the wet finger into your own mouth. “Do you like it? Taste what I do to you?” Hurriedly, he presses his finger in and out of your lips a few times before returning it to your wet hole, wiggling in the air. This time there’s two; stretching you out, your palms trying to find anything to grip, to hold on to as he carelessly thrusted, tickling a sweet, sweet spot deep in your stomach.

“I- Carlos I can’t-“ You whine through raspy breaths. He can feel you clenching, swelling around his fingers, and is rewarded when he hastily pulls them out of you, a long moan and a squirt of arousal pushing from your cunt. A sheer shock of arousal floods between his own legs, rubbing his fingers against your wet folds, letting your wetness trail onto the tips of his hand.

“Oh, your husband can’t make you do that, can he?” He’s proud; proud he’s able to draw such a reaction from your body. “Come on, baby, up we get.” His arms are suddenly firm, present around your waist as he pulls you to stand on two shaky legs, still reveling in the feeling he had granted you moments ago.

Hands retract from your waist and come to hold your face, pressing kisses to your scarlet lips as he guides you from a standing position towards his couch, finally allowing himself to sink into the cushions. You want nothing more than to join him, feel his warmth and aura around your own body, but by the finger he’s raised as he situates himself into the sofa, you can tell you’ll have to wait.

The moment he sits down, a tanned hand comes to his crotch to rub his length a few times, your eyes widening as you plead for it; mind clouded by lust, all you want is for something warm to fill you up, make you feel as good as he had done so many times before. Carlos’ finger beckons for you to join him, and you know what he’s insinuating.

Your movements are commanded by the Spaniard; immediately, there are two firm hands on your body, pulling you into his touch and sinking you down onto his cock. You don’t miss the way his lips quirk into a grin, oh-so-happy to see your reaction to the pleasure he had granted you. It’s no match for when he starts moving, bouncing you up and down on his lap, fallen gasps from your lips as your faces draw closer and closer.

You were sinking into one another’s skin; he wanted nothing more than to entwine your bodies for eternity. One hand was firm around your waist, guiding your movement with the strength only he could. The other guided a gentle trace across your face, pulling you closer, closer to his own face as his thrusts got faster, erratic.

“You’re mine.” He grunts, never once breaking eye contact as his hips grew tighter, his cock making your cunt squeeze in a way you didn’t know was physically possible. “You’ve always been mine, tell me you’re mine.”

His eyes go soft, thrusts pausing for a second as he notes the tears pooling in your eyes from the sheer euphoria running through your body. A whine falls from your lips as you feel his strong hand tug at your neck, pressing your foreheads towards one another, hips slowing for just a moment, letting your breath catch up to your aching body.

“I’m yours.” You’d whisper, mind clouded. You were his. There could be a thousand cars, an ocean or a wedding band between the two of you and you would still always find your way back to Carlos. Whatever that relationship would form, you would always be a part of him.

The murmured confirmation was enough to send a shot of energy through his spine, his thrusting becoming deeper, passionate. It barely takes five thrusts before he’s groaning, throwing his head back and letting out a low moan as he spills himself into you. The warmth is enough to send your cunt into flutters, clenching so tightly as your body falls into his chest, whining as you feel a gush of wetness drip onto his crotch.

Undoubtedly, Carlos Sainz is now a part of you. Time seems to flicker between seconds and minutes, at some point you’ve shifted your weight, turning around to fix your eyes onto the television screen of his room, eyes wide as you watch your husband continue to battle out on the track. It felt almost sinful; watching Charles battle for his podium whilst his teammate stayed buried inside of you.

His touch goes soft; one hand remains tight around your waist, though your back is warmed by the way you’re pulled back into his skin. Feather-Light kisses dance across your shoulder, he’s never been this soft, cradling you as if the world would be held together by your content. If the universe was to implode, he would be happy with the fact you were pressed into him in that very moment.

The laps of the race begin to dwindle; a promising second-place is looking pretty much secured for Charles. You’re certain that your silver trophy will be sitting proudly in the hotel room later that evening, until Max Verstappen suddenly begins to slow down, commentators beginning to roar as an unexpected engine issue splutters into the RB19.

“Holy shit.” Carlos murmurs, sitting up from his relaxed position, both arms now tightly around your waist as he shifts the balance of your bodies. “What happened to Max?” His voice becomes a murmur, your attention drifts, focused on the cars beginning to pick up their speed against the current world champion.

Goosebumps litter your skin, you immediately pull away from the warmth of Carlos, eyes wide as you see the scarlet red car glide into view. He’s going to overtake Max. Not only that, but your husband is about to win the entire race.

An audible groan comes from both of you when you slip yourself off his length, searching around for the panties which had been discarded oh-so-long ago; the man rests a hand on your shoulder, one hand tracing across your jawline as the other reaches down, gently smoothing the skirt of your long dress.

“We’ll find them later. We need to go and congratulate your husband, after all.” You can’t miss the cockiness in his voice, still content with the fact his cum is buried deep inside your pussy, panties are left in his driver’s room as a sheer prize for being able to make you feel euphoric. A tinted blush decorates your cheeks as he slips into his old jeans and a Ferrari polo shirt, one hand resting on the small of your back as he guides you out of his driver’s room, never once bothering to fix his hair when you had been the one to grab onto it so tightly.

People wouldn’t think that of him, after all.

You love to be loved.

Your eyes are brimming with tears as you reach Parc Fermé, Carlos finally catching up with you, standing right behind you at the barrier, eyes transfixed onto his teammate, standing atop of his livery, cheering towards the endless roars of the crowd, passing a congratulatory message towards his fellow drivers, Lewis patting his back, Lando cheering on his behalf.

He’s already removed his helmet when he sprints towards his team; the losses don’t matter, not when he can celebrate the win he had been craving for so, so long. There are praises passed, pats on the back as he works his way down the winding line of his team, red in their clothes and their cheeks, it means the world to everybody.

And then, Charles is facing you, his wife. He’s so transfixed upon your gaze, the sheer elation you have for his victory that he doesn’t stop to think when he takes two of his hands on either side of your face, cradling your cheeks as he presses his lips to yours, grinning into such a sweet kiss that you can’t help but kiss him back.

“I told you.” He whispers when he pulls away from you, resting a gentle hand on your cheek for just a moment. His eyes finally turned to where his teammate was standing. Both of them have to forge a smile as they reach out to clasp hands, a firm grip in celebration of scoring points for their team.

You don’t see him again, not until he’s left the cool-down room and is bounding towards the podium. Carlos, having not been called to his post-race interview yet, still stood behind you, though one hand had snaked its way around your waist, as if it had to be there. Nobody notices, of course. The team is too focused upon their driver lifting his golden trophy, in awe of the achievement they had built for seemingly the entire season.

Charles doesn’t miss it, of course. Maybe that’s why his gaze is so fixed on you when he releases a splash of champagne, purposely aiming his bottle towards the man behind you, his heart only crushing further when he sees the Spaniard pull your frame behind his own in protection.

And then, it’s all over. Both Carlos and Charles are rushed away to complete their post-race interviews. You’re left alone, simply taking a slow walk towards the Ferrari Hospitality. Even as you pace through the crowds, you can’t help but feel…sick. Dizzy. Out-of-body.

You cared for your husband greatly, and somewhere during it all, you believed his apology was genuine, that he truly wanted to fix the previous mistakes of the year. But how long would his tether last until his mistress came trailing back, regardless of a court ruling?

And Carlos. The sweet man who had proved to you time and time again, you were worth more than a simple name on a piece of paper. He’d been your soul, you truly were set to drop an entire marriage to live in his arms until his blonde counterpart came along, a knife to the chest after one of the most intimate nights you could fathom.

Your breathing gets faster, the world begins to turn on an axis. From somewhere, you hear a voice asking if you’re okay, if you need help getting back to the hospitality. And then, the world goes black, your body slumps to the floor of the paddock, with only one sentence drifting through your unconscious mind.

Who do you love?

This is everyone who asked to be tagged! @Mac-daddy-210 @aundercover @barnestatic @omgsuperstarg @chimchimjiminie16 @caelum-the-part-time-nihilist @magicalcowboyarbiter @gaslasysblog @junetto @beatrizmel-472 @motorsp0rt @crowdthena @screemqueen @lewislvr @styles-sunflower @itspaddockprincess @adeptustemptations @amalialeclerc @meetmyblondemuffins @formulanando @lorarri @christianpulisic10 @gaypoetsblog @thisbitxhs-blog @goldsainz @ru-kru @magical-spit @hrlzy @nooshytushie @gaslysainz @marvel-at-stucky @sugarvibez @adeptustemptations @roseseraj @leclercdream @pjofics @hecatesfavoritechild @poseforme @thisbitxhs-blog @adalynneva @meganlikes2purr @sabrinaselina55 @laneyspaulding19 @heavenlyiecreature @pink-teddy-bear @nooshytushie @strawberries-and-racing @milasexutoire @ohthemisssery @florkt @obsessedwiththeideaofyou @ru-kru @myhomeworksnotdone @ineedafictionalman @bregarc @allywthsr @summerslike11 @wildcupcake @willowpains @marlenamallowan @leclercloml @katzenwahnsinn @be-your-coffee-pot

1K notes · View notes

itsvelyria · 8 months

Text

"sleepless nights w the f1 boys"

Charles Leclerc

his fingertips, rough and dry, are warm as they sketch circles into the back of your hands. you're uncertain of whether he's even aware of it — gaze lingers on your lover, distracted by his gentle charting of constellations in the midnight sky. his voice, a steady murmur, narrates the story of cygnus' lost love and delphinus' persuasion. the chilled air is held at bay as you remain nestled at his side. soon the night softens, inky blue yielding to pinks and oranges as you trade dreams and stories, your heart filling as fatigue settles into your bones.

Carlos Sainz

late-night drives through deserted city streets unfold like a poetic journey. the hum of the engine blends seamlessly with the laughter that fills the car. childhood stories are shared, echoing through the serene space beyond. with each turn, memories are etched into the fabric of the night, becoming invisible threads that linger in the quiet hours that follow. carlos’ handprint on your upper thigh tingles long after parking, sending sparks up your spine as you two head back up to your shared bed.

Danny Ricciardo

the moonlight casts a soft, clandestine glow, accentuated by the fairy light someone had left hanging. rusty bulbs flicker as danny pulls you up by the hands, the out-of-bounds rooftop transforming into an impromptu private dance floor. below, the city is sleepless and alive with its pulsating energy, serving as your silent witness. the faint notes of your paramour’s cologne, a blend of skin and soap, envelops your waltz as you rest your heavy head against his chest. he hums an all-too-familiar melody and in this suspended moment, time seemed to stretch.

George Russell

on cozy nights in, you both find yourselves entwined in a nest of blankets, a sanctuary of warmth. the orange glow from your nightstand delicately paints the walls, creating a cocoon that shields you from the chill outside. amidst the quietude, secrets and dreams are exchanged like cherished treasures. a small flame is kindled in the tranquil space you've carved out for each other — a haven where the moments hover, suspended in the the warmth of your shared breaths, as sleepless nights turn into timeless memories.

Lando Norris

in the realm of virtual gaming marathons, the hours extend into early mornings, a landscape illuminated by the lights of your screen. shouts of triumph and screams of anguish punctuate the air, interweaving with playful banter that colours the room. oceans away from the love of your life, his laughter still resonates through your headphones as he achieves a triple-kill. you cherish every digital heart he sends through your private chat, a reminder of the connection you share despite the physical distance.

Lewis Hamilton

in the tranquillity of midnight, a serene park becomes your canvas for shared introspection. the world transforms into a tapestry of silver and shadows as you two embark on a quiet stroll, hands entwined. conversations unfurl like the delicate petals of snow-white lilies, their fragility mirrored in the hushed murmurs. the night air carries whispers of dreams and aspirations that mingle with the rustle of leaves underfoot. in the hallowed stillness, your footsteps fall into cadence on the gravel path, heartbeats synchronizing like a ballet telling the story of forging connections.

Max Verstappen

beneath the vast expanse of twinkling stars, you both pitch your tents on damp grass. the crackle of a campfire and the rustle of pine trees create the soundtrack to this new chapter in your relationship. flickering flames cast dancing shadows on max’s face as he concentrates on roasting marshmallows. the stars above interrupt every shared gaze and every brush of your hands. the magic sparkling in the inches between your frames settles deep into your bones, destined to be a memory never forgotten.

518 notes · View notes

vetteltea · 9 months

Text

Love Will Always Show | CL16 & CS55

Summary: The choice of a lifetime is yours to make, your husband and lover both longing for your heart. They face conflict, choices and most importantly, one another.

Word Count: 8.4K [& a bit more]

Warnings: angst, mentions of cheating and dishonesty, manipulation, hospital talk.

Note: The fact I was a newbie to F1Blr when this started and now...here we are. I want to thank each and EVERY person who has ever read this series. It's changed everything for me, it is truly my love letter to you all and I hope you enjoy the finale. You are all forever in my heart and I cannot thank you all enough.

PART 1: A House, A Home | PART 2: Where Do We Go? | PART 3: ‘You Think, You Know’ | PART 4: 'Love Will Always Show'

Love is a gentle hand cradling your back.

Time had suspended when your body had collapsed onto the rough floor outside of the Scuderia Ferrari hospitality. Immediately, several scarlet-clad personnel were running over, shouts echoing across the open space, somebody mumbling that they needed to get you somewhere safe and warm before your body temperature dropped dangerously.

There’s a question of who to call; your father wasn’t in the country, ever since your mother’s funeral, he’s become silent, your siblings having been lovingly sent to stay with a close aunt. He had been absent from the previous Ferrari meeting, his assistant having sent a message to say he would be absent for a little longer. Clearly, the death of your mother was taking a toll.

The next obvious choice of course, was your husband. However, with the win that he had been craving for oh-so-long, he was currently wrapped up in press, endless ‘congratulations’ messages from celebrities and presenters alike. Nobody would know where to find the monegasqué right now, let alone how to tell him of his wife’s status whilst surrounded by endless television cameras and sly reporters.

There’s no need for him, anyway. Leaving the media pen after vigorous questioning of his loyalty to the team and his current emotions on a premature end to the race, Carlos’ dark eyes quirk to the side, registering the crowd of bodies circling the hospitality area. They only widen when the realization dawns on his clouded mind that it’s you, your body is the one thing they are all crowding around.

His steps break into a run, no signal being given to his media manager nor his cousin. He speaks a few sharp, spanish words, creating a break in the circle, able to insert his toned body into the sea of red, immediately squatting, one hand coming out to elevate the back of your head. He knows how particular you could be with your hair, how you insisted on now sleeping on silk pillowcases to keep it healthy. Asphalt ground was not comfortable nor hygienic.

There’s talk; talk about whether to take you to the hospital, whether to wait for your husband to return and make the decision. Carlos feels his blood curdle at the use of marital status. His teammate, the man who had treated you no better than the way he had treated bonds of trust, was the one to make a choice of your health and wellbeing.

He simply cannot stand for that.

“We need to take her to the hospital.” He interrupts the commotion, the strong tone settling over the panicked employees. “Surely that is the best place for her if she is unconscious, no?” The whispers and mumbles which echo the surrounding members of the team signify agreement.

There’s a discussion of how to bring you in without drawing attention to the media. Surely, if a giant ambulance or even a medical car was to storm through the paddock, no doubt endless media outlets would be creating headlines before even bothering to speak to anybody present. The Spaniard is already making his own choice, using his arms to gently adjust your body.

He shouldn’t; he really shouldn’t be moving you, not when you haven’t been checked for broken bones or concussion. Yet, the idea of the most beautiful girl, Mariposa, lying on a hard floor with no form of comfort or safety sickens him to his stomach. Carlos is still gentle with the movements, letting your head lean into his stomach, one hand is supporting your back, tanned fingers digging gentle patterns into the curve of your skin. The other one traces once, twice, three times around your cheekbone, dark eyes transfixed on your features.

You must have hit your skin when falling to the ground; there’s a graze dancing across your cheekbone, specks of dirt resting in between each knock. The man cradling you is gentle, moving his shirt just enough up his body that he’s able to take the hemmed end, feather it across your cheek in an attempt to remove the offending chunks.

Someone nudges Carlos’s shoulder, more in an attempt to tell him somebody was just outside the Paddock; that they could drive you to the hospital right now. He…he can’t bring himself to leave you. A strong grasp lifts you from the ground, holding you close to his chest, murmuring that he would get you there, and he supposed somebody would have to find Charles.

The area grows quiet; Carlos’ pace draws away from the Paddock and to the back entry. He was thankful that the entirety of the drivers were still either trapped in the media or with their own teams, celebrating or commiserating. He had enough of that for one day; an entire six laps was barely worth speaking about.

You’re still unconscious, still limp in his arms. However, there’s a rise and fall of your chest, you’re still breathing. That’s all he could ask for at this present time. He silently promises himself there and then that when you wake up, he’s making his final move. Where Charles has been playing chequers, he is playing chess; he had proven that even whilst you were stuck with your estranged husband, he would love you regardless.

There’s a people carrier in the car park, he’s certain he’s seen various drivers use it before; a built-in stretcher lies in the back, it’s ideally a discreet ambulance. The media could be brutal with gossiping when any driver had to leave the track. It would look worse if Charles Leclerc’s wife was seen leaving the paddock with his teammate. The driver of the vehicle nods when seeing the two get closer, stepping to sit in the driver’s seat whilst Carlos adjusted his grasp.

He lays you down onto the stretcher; it’s secured, you’ll be safe for the drive. The man can’t help but feel a draw of protectiveness over you. What on earth had caused it to collapse? Had he done something? Blood boiled, if your husband had done anything to cause this, he could personally guarantee that Charles would not be finishing any races for the remainder of the season. He would make sure of that.

His attention is caught by the glimmer of silver on your left hand; your wedding band. When he reaches the car, tucks you into the seat carefully and makes sure the seatbelt is secure around your frame, his fingers glide over your hand, removing the band and putting it in his own pocket.

‘It’s for your own good,’ he tells himself. ‘If your fingers swell up, they may need to cut it off.’ He could tell himself this story a thousand times; it doesn't hide the fact that his true intention in this moment is simple; for once, he could be the devoted husband, taking his wife to be nursed back to health.

The Spainard leans down, pressing a soft kiss to the top of your forehead, murmuring that you were going to be okay, that he would stay with you the entire time. The driver shouts, telling him to take a seat so they could get there before the press figured out something was wrong. He kisses your skin once more, before closing the doors, sprinting to the backseat, throwing his body in carelessly.

Angst overtakes his senses, shouting at the driver to start the car, he doesn't care about being strapped in. This way, he’s able to lean over the backseat, one hand reaching out to clasp at your own. You need to know that somebody is there, that he is there for you. He’s always been there for you. The car pivots out of the parking space, beeling for the main road and to the hospital.

Love is a scream for your name.

“Charles, tu dois ralenir!” Joris is insisting he needs to slow down the car; turning the current Leclerc in hospital into a duo would not be a satisfying outcome.

Ever since he’s been told, all your husband can see is red mist. One Ferrari employee had sprinted up to him whilst he was in the midst of cameras, the grin on his face as he’s finally able to seek his wife out, wanting nothing more than to skip on the Scuderia celebrations and take you instead, your beaming smile radiating the energy he had been bathed in.

It’s funny how life can change in the matter of a few moments; one second, he’s on top of the world, the next, Charles is pushing through every media outlet, fan and celebrity, barging himself into his driver’s room. He doesn't have time to remove his fireproofs, to pick up any of his belongings apart from his car keys. He isn’t communicating, french profanities fall from his lips, shaking his head in rage that nobody could find him to tell him. Tell him that his wife had been taken to hospital.

Joris had been the one to sprint after him; he knew better than most, when Charles saw nothing but mist, there was no getting to him, not whilst he was determined to do something. The driver knew in his heart his best friend was not to blame; after all, he had no idea of your disappearance, he had been with Charles almost the entire time. And yet…he can’t bring himself to even speak to Joris. Not until the duo make it to his rented car, Charles is adamant he is driving.

He only starts speaking when his best friend tells him to slow down. The driver barely does, only drawing to a slower pace when he sees the traffic lights start to build in front of him. Even in a panic, he respects road rulings. Drawing to a stop, the man finally has a second to take a shaky, unbalanced breath, angry tears pooling at the bottom of his eyes.

“Why did nobody tell me my wife was at the hospital?” His voice is strained, he’s clearly holding back tears, whether they’re angry or fearful is a different question. “She’s my- she’s my wife!” He can’t stop repeating it, as if it’s a prayer. His wife. His wife.

“She’ll be okay.” Joris knows that’s quite possibly the worst thing he could say to his best friend, but it’s the only thing he can bring himself to say. “She will be. C’est juste par précaution.”

“Putain!” Charles’ words are sharp, immediately pressing on the acceleration as the light switches to green, overtaking three cars in a matter of moments. He’s a man of regret, he has been ever since he realized how much he adores you. In that moment, he can’t help but think of everything he could have done differently that afternoon. He could have come and found you right after the podium, could have given you his jacket and told you to stay in his driver’s room, he would come and get you after. He could- he could of-

He could of waited with you after the funeral. He could have come and picked you up from Milan when you went to spend time with Carlos. He could have deleted his mistress’ number, and told her he was married.

“Tourner à gauche.” Joris tells his best friend to turn left, the Hospital Car Park coming into view. Charles turns the car, immediately eyes are roaming for any space, anywhere he could put the car. A sharp whistle and point from his best friend shows him a space right by the Emergency Department, parking the vehicle in possibly the worst way he ever has done. Within three seconds, the engine is switched off, seatbelts are unbuckled, and he’s shouting to Joris to pay for the parking, he needs to get inside.

For a driver, his sense of direction is becoming worse. It takes him a solid minute to read a sign, before his legs break into a sprint, skidding into a bustling Emergency Room. There’s old men, leant over in pain, convinced they’re dying. A child snuffling, masses of paper towels on her head. A woman with a twisted ankle, her attention engrossed by the magazine in her grasp. It smells of hand sanitiser and bleach, the yellow walls are hurting his eyes.

A woman behind the desk taps the counter, drawing his attention. “Hey- Sir!” She snaps. You can’t blame her; it’s hour thirteen of her fifteen hour shift. “You can’t be in here unless you’re hurt-”

He shouts your name. It’s as if he completely forgets he’s in a building. Charles is embedded in a maze, even if a lady in front of him can pull up your immediate location, he needs to find you himself, and he needs to find you now.

It isn’t until Joris comes in, having heard his best friend scream your name, that he overtakes Charles so overcome that he’s now hiding his head in his hands, unable to say anything that wasn’t your name. His ears prick up when the second man starts speaking, giving the woman your first name, your last name- Leclerc- and when you had been bought in. There’s a light tapping of the keyboard, she tells Joris you are in the department round the corner, room ten-

Charles is gone before she can finish her sentence, catapulting down the hallway, dodging round endless people, frantically searching for doors with numbers, not names. He sees the number four. Six. Eight.

Number Ten rolls into view. Without a single word, his hand latches around the door handle, pushing so violently the door smacks onto the inside wall. His eyes immediately fly to the bed, you’re lying there, so unconscious, still so beautiful, some strips over the graze on your cheek. Still, arms to either side, one hand connected to an IV, clearly in an attempt to rehydrate you. His first question is the location of your wedding ring, where on earth was it? Has it been taken away? It’s a question he completely forgets about when his gaze travels further.

The other hand is being held by a Spanish man he knows all too much about.

Love is notes left on a coffee cup.

Both men stood, silently hovering over your body whilst the nurse came in to run a course of tests, check your blood pressure, the IV line, make sure you were being cared for in the best capacity. Each held a coffee cup, Charles’ still primarily full, he couldn’t stomach anything; he felt sick from seeing you lie here, not laughing, smiling, speaking. Carlos had downed the drink bought in by Joris in a matter of moments; to him, it was fuel. Something to keep him awake until you woke up.

Whilst Charles was the one to ask questions; ‘Do you know what caused this? Is she going to have any long-term issues? Does she need any assistance when she wakes up?’ Carlos has captured the marker which has rested alongside the clipboard of your notes, his tongue poked out in concentration. The marker grazes along the cup, leaving a note, drawing a tiny picture of a butterfly- Mariposa- and placing the cup on your table, a silent message for if you woke up and god forbid- he wasn’t there.

The nurse draws away from your body, diverting her next task to the two men.

“I need to continue the examination but…” She looks to the door. “I cannot have you both in here. You need to wait outside, the Doctor will come in for further tests-”

“Can one of us wait here?” Carlos is the first to interrupt, the look on the woman’s face tells him he’s made a mistake.

“Both.” She clarifies, pointing at himself, then at his teammate. “One and two. You need to wait outside. If she wakes up or there’s any…issues, we will let you know.”

It turns out, both men are hesitant to leave you; Charles moves first, crouching by your side, running a gentle hand over your hairline, pressing his lips carefully to your temple. He’s murmuring, french words of adoration and comfort, that he will be right there when you need him.

When one steps away, the other comes forward. Carlos doesn't say anything, instead tracing a gentle finger across your cheek. His touch tells you everything, it speaks volumes. He loves you, he’ll be outside, don’t be afraid to come running into his arms like you had done once before. The nurse begins to lose her patience, ushering both men out into the corridor, telling them to sit in the plastic chairs provided or go somewhere else; she really didn’t care.

The scene is reminiscent of two boys sitting outside of the principal’s office; Charles’ head hides in his hands, leaning forward, still dressed in his fireproofs. He’s tied the sleeves around his waist, the dark undershirt now drenched in sweat from the driving, both on track and to the hospital.

He feels movement next to him, Carlos’ hand dips into his pocket, pulling out something small, silvery. Her wedding ring. He supposes Carlos means it as a sign of goodwill, that he kept it safe. In the Monégasques mind, it’s the fuel to light the fire. Scoffing, he snatches the jewelry off of his teammate, placing the band onto his pinky finger, it’s the only one it would fit on, the only way he could keep it safe.

“Funny. You took it off her.” He’s growing mad, aggravated that Carlos wouldn’t just go away and leave him and his wife alone. Hadn’t he done enough already? “Why don’t you go back to Natasha?” The blonde ex-media woman for their team is referenced. Carlos opens his mouth, ready to snap back, it was a low blow for Charles to reference his history with the woman.

“I know what you did.” He huffs. There’s something…different. Different in the way he speaks to Carlos now compared to every other day. The polite, civil conversation is gone, the fact he couldn’t pass judgment because of his own actions has evaporated. “I know you invited her to Madrid just to make a move.” He remembers seeing the instagram stories, how your eyes were wide, full of life. He made you remember life is beautiful. “You kept her close. You wanted her and didn’t like that she was mine.”

“Yours?” He scoffs. “She’s not your property, Charles.”

“No. But she’s my wife. I’m the one she lies next to every night, I’m the one who will care for her in sickness and health, who’s shoulder was leant on through every bad time.” He pauses. “Who picked her up after you coaxed her into your bed.” He laughs. Actually, laughs. The memory replayed in his head, how sleepy you looked as he guided you back into the SUV, how your heart sank when seeing the blonde approach his front door. In that moment, you had convinced yourself you meant nothing to Carlos apart from lust.

Charles was a jealous man; he had taken pride in stripping off his teammates' clothing, wrapping you in his own, soft hoodie. You were his. Carlos wouldn’t care for you the way he did, he was a man too full of lust. He was convinced the Spainard didn’t make you laugh, didn’t make you smile, didn’t make you come-

“You corrupted her, Carlos.” He finishes. “I know what you did-”

“-And I know what you did.” Carlos snarls. He doesn't care about anything more; he knows all too well that his teammate could go crying to the Ferrari bosses, have him removed from the team in a blink of an eye, throwing some false information out which he would have to comply with. But he doesn't care. His affection has grown too strong for that.

“I know everything, Charles.” He’s monotone, he’s stating facts. “I know how she waited at home for you on her birthday, whilst you were in your mistress’ bed.” Carlos remembers asking you about your plans the previous week, how you had brushed them off. “I know how she made you dinner every night, how you refused to eat it.” Charles feels his stomach drop, the endless leftovers stacked neatly in the fridge, the meals he had never bothered to try. “I know on your wedding night, you came into the hotel room drunk, covered in bites and she slept on the sofa-”

“Enough!” Charles’ voice shouts, standing up from the plastic chair in the corridor. He doesn't have to hear this, he can’t bear to hear this. One mistake a day was something he was always able to brush off. Hearing each and every one of his infidelities laid out in front of him sent his mind into overdrive. “You have no right to comment on-”

“On what?” The Spainard is standing up now, chest out and arms folded. “On your marriage?” He laughs, he smirks. “Can you call it that? A marriage is a bond between two people who love one another-”

“I love her!” Charles cuts him off, stepping closer. “I love her.” He repeats himself. Carlos looks gobsmacked, shaking his head in denial.

“You have a really weird way of showing her you love her.” He continues to poke, to prod. “Sharing a bed with another woman is not how you show love-”

“I admitted to my mistakes!” He’s quick to defend himself, how the restraining order was placed and a lawsuit filed, how he promised if you wanted to know anything, see anything, he would let you. How he would spend the rest of his days always feeling dread and regret. “I fixed them-”

“Who says she still loves you?” Carlos has snapped.

Charles hates to admit that he may be right. Is it really fair for him to expect your love after everything that has happened in the past year? It didn’t matter how many times he begged, he pleaded or promised. The man you had married had spent the better part of 365 days in the arms of another woman, a woman that as he stood here, clinging onto any hope of his marriage, meant absolutely nothing to him.

His slim fingers trail down, circling the cool band which rested on his left finger. He had decided there and then, he would keep it on, always. There would be no more reasoning, none. If Lewis could wear his earrings, Charles would wear his wedding ring. He looks back up, Carlos still boring into him with dark eyes, the anger he radiated almost entirely visible.

“Do you love her?” He presses. He needs to know; he doesn't bring himself to care that you had spent a night in his arms, not when he had done it to you a thousand times over. The idea makes him sick, but nothing compared to the idea that you are in love with somebody that isn’t him, not when he needs nothing but for you to come home, back to your home with him.

Charles swears he feels vomit rise into his mouth when Carlos nods. He’s not stupid, not really. He knows how he fell for you properly in the past few weeks, how for Carlos who has been in awe of your affection and attention, the center of every race weekend you had reluctantly attended. It may have been to support him, but you could still enjoy the fact that Carlos would be there, too.

Your husband isn’t sure what he wants to do anymore. If there wasn’t an examination happening, he would have run into your private room and locked the door. Instead, his glassy eyes gaze up, catching Carlos’ dark ones. It hits him at once; his teammate, somebody who he once considered a close- no, best friend, was the one who had taken his wife away from him. His brain can’t catch up with his body movements, the red mist clouds over once more.

Charles Leclerc punches Carlos Sainz in the nose.

He doesn't intend for it to be a strong punch; Formula One drivers are a lot stronger than they realize, and the contact not only causes the Spaniard to knock back, shouting out in pain, but a sharp sensation rockets through Charles’ clenched fist, wiggling his fingers as they relax. Carlos’ nose is immediately red, becoming scarlet by the moment, though no blood has fallen. Your husband’s immediate reaction is ‘Should have punched him harder.’

He doesn't have time to think about anything else, not before he has two strong hands on his chest, shoving him harshly. The sudden sensation causes him to lose balance, falling to the floor and landing on his back. A shock radiates through his body, Carlos looming over him, clearly ready for a second punch.

That thought is drawn away when the door to your room opens, both men immediately staring at the nurse, her hair worn and eyes tired. Before either man can throw a question at her, she speaks.

“She’s still not awake, we’re going to bring her around in an hour, but she’s going to have to stay overnight for observation. If one of you could get her some overnight things-”

“I can.” Charles immediately cuts off the nurse, pulling himself to sit up and stand from the floor. “I’m her husband. I will get them.” It’s a subtle jab to the man in front of him, Carlos still holding his nose, convinced it was about to start bleeding any moment. He would have gone and sought out attention for himself, if he hadn’t felt a sharp vibration in his back pocket, a phone call. In any other time, he would have ignored it. But he knows who it is, he knows how important it is.

Without a word, Carlos answers the call, rapidly speaking in Spanish as he walks down the hall.

Love is a pocket square at the bottom of a suitcase.

The contrast of Charles leaving the hospital was night and day to him arriving. He hadn’t spoken a word to Joris, apart from expressing that he needed to go back to the hotel to get your overnight items. Although it was barely a ten minute drive away, every minute felt like a century; he wanted nothing more than to go back to the hotel, sit by your side and hold your hand until you woke up.

He could have sent Joris back, given him the room key and told him to grab some things, but it didn’t seem right. The idea of his best friend going through your suitcase didn’t sit comfortably with him. Moreover, he didn’t know. Charles knew; he knew what pajamas you found the most comfortable, what outfit would be easiest for you to travel back in, how you wanted your panties and socks paired together and how your phone charger had to loop clockwise.

The ornate hotel room looks dull without you; your suitcase still rests in the bottom of the wardrobe; you had hung up evening wear, dresses for the inevitable after-parties. Folded in your suitcase remained your other clothing. Charles is quick to select his items; the tropical cotton pajamas. You had bought him a pair in the same fabric, telling him that they would be the comfiest thing to sleep in. Your stitched jumper and comfiest jeans. You had worn those jeans when you had tagged along to his photoshoot for the Ferrari livery, holding his water and the APM Monaco jewelry he couldn’t wear. Your outrageously expensive hairbrush. You had brushed his hair through after a particularly bad race, whispering promises that it would get better, that the car was going to evolve for him, the best driver on the grid.

Bile rises to Charles’ stomach and with no warning, he sprints to the bathroom, dropping to his knees by the toilet and throwing up the barely-there contents of his stomach. He had barely eaten, barely drank any water, but couldn’t help the sickness in his tummy.

He pulls away from the toilet basin, eyes watery, breath trying to catch up with the speed and cries.

Charles doesn't realize it’s happening at first, he hasn’t cried like this in so long; the kind of crying where you can’t fathom words, you don’t make a sound because you’re crying so deeply. The kind where your chest is exploding and your heart feels like it’s going to explode. The kind where all he wants is for his mother to cradle him like she did when he was five, run her hands through his hair and whisper him words of comfort.

This time, he doesn't want his mother, he wants you.

It’s selfish, it’s so incredibly selfish and it hurts to know that it’s taken him until now to realize what you mean to him. It would never happen, but his wound-up head can only close his eyes and visualize you running in, pulling his head into your chest and running your hands through his dark tufts, pressing cool lips to his forehead and promising him over and over that it was going to be okay. You were going to be okay.

He lets himself cry for five minutes; he times it because he wants to collect your things and make his way back, Joris was waiting in the car. When the five minutes are over, he pinches his nose, taking short, ugly gasps until his eyes remain bloodshot but not blurred. The sound of the toilet flushing echoes through the hotel room, making his way out of the bathroom and to the items he had hurriedly dropped atop of your suitcase.

Nimble fingers cradle each item, carefully rolling and tucking them into a pillowcase; he didn’t have a bag big enough to suffice each item and couldn’t bring himself to bring your entire suitcase along, it almost seemed as if once you had it, you could disappear from his life. At least this way, he could have one final farewell if you chose to leave. The items are almost secure, until his grip on the pillowcase folds, glassed eyes catching a glimmer of blue hidden at the bottom of the case. With no hesitation, he pulls on the fabric. His heart drops on the realization of the item.

It’s a pocket square. More specifically, it’s his pocket square from your wedding.

You don’t know when you had started packing it, but you supposed it was from your mother’s own doings. After her wedding to your father, she had always carried around her ‘something blue,’ as a gesture of good luck, of safety. After the first time you had found out about Charles’ mistress, you had discreetly tucked the fabric into your bag, carrying it around, a silent hope your husband would return to you.

It hadn’t worked in Jeddah. In Imola. In Spa. In Monaco. You had reluctantly taken it from your bag one evening, on the plane home from consoling your family, using your pen to doodle in the very corner ‘Mr and Mrs Leclerc,’ a silent fantasy of the loving marriage you had dreamed of.

That night was the first time you and Charles ever shared a bed.

The fabric lingers between his fingers, the blue contrasting against the silver of your ring, still resting on his pinky finger. Now changed into his own clothes, he slides the ring off, wrapping it gently in the pocket square and sliding it into his trouser pocket. As he does, he recognises your handwriting, the titles printed in the bottom of the fabric.

He can’t help the tears rolling down his cheeks once again.

Love is a desperate telephone call.

Carlos is still pacing around the outside courtyard of the hospital, having been on hold for a grand total of seventeen minutes. He is not a man of patience, he is not a man of quiet.

The phone buzzing in the corridor had been a welcome call, despite the situation. His lawyer, finally ringing him back after what felt like days of apprehension. He had dipped from the public eye to try and grab hold of some privacy, slipping in his wireless headphone so as not to hold the device to his ear for hours upon hours.

Almost thirty minutes ago, his lawyer had called him, confirming his thoughts of the previous days.

"You're not wrong." His lawyer has already clarified it once, twice, three times. "If there is evidence beyond a shadow of a doubt, then it is the correct term for a divorce.

Carlos feels his blood run cold. He loves her, he's as certain as that as he is of the fact that the sky is blue and his win in Silverstone. The man wants nothing more than to make her feel cherished, adored. Taking a bite out of his teammate was just a bonus feature.

That had been a few days ago, when the anger had surpassed him after Natasha’s return, how that made him look as bad, if not worse than Charles. He’d immediately sent her packing, blocked her on every form of media, gone as far as to insist if she ever came for a visit, he wouldn’t be present.

The second part, the evidence, had been laid out all too perfectly.

The line suddenly clicks, signaling his lawyer had returned. Carlos doesn't wait for a verbal queue, the audible sign of his return is more than enough.

“Do you have it?” He asks, barely any time to let the man on the other end of the phone respond. “You must have it, no? It should have been sent. I made sure it was sent.”

“I have it.” He clarifies. “I have them right here.” A rustle of paper is heard from the other end of the telephone, content of an envelope being spilled onto his desk. “Are you sure you want me to send these to be confirmed as evidence? That the women in the photographs will not retaliate?”

Carlos had not been entirely honest with you. Not about his knowledge of Charles’ situation. Ever since the confession all those months ago, the understanding that you knew of Charles’ affair, he had been playing a long, patient game. He had photographs, evidence of the mistress’ appearance at each paddock, her arms snaking around Charles’ body, kisses between the duo. How he could continue to do so, whilst you, the epitome of beauty, sat in his drivers’ room, playing the doting wife. At one point, he had considered going directly to the press, directly to Ferrari themselves to out their ‘Golden Boy.’

And then…he had seen you with him in the Paddock that one race, looking through the window of his driver’s room. How your fingers latched onto one another, how genuinely shattered you looked when she had shown up yet again, lingering outside of the hospitality area. The guilt snuck through him, how he had seen her arrive, and yet failed to mention to you, give you any warning of her presence.

Even if he had been the one to invite her. Even if he had been the one to press her about sending the photographs to Charles, not blackmail. Merely a reminder of his actions, how much he supposedly missed his mistress.

“She wouldn’t.” He’s quick to respond. “She wouldn’t care.” He’s not wrong, his mistress being in the limelight would only elevate her status, with the way his teammates’ brain worked, it would more than likely draw them back to one another.

“And Mrs. Leclerc?”

It’s the first time Carlos has hesitated. Even if he couldn’t admit it to himself, he knew that your relationship with Charles had grown, that ambient it was made paper-thin, the trust was slowly beginning to come back. He thinks about how your eyes blinked widely, in awe of your husband on the podium earlier that day, how it supposedly didn’t matter he had spent most of your marriage wrapped in her arms, you still looked at him like that. Did you look at him like that? Like the way he looked at you.

This action could draw out a multiverse of reactions but at the end of the day, he had settled with two. The first was that you understood, that you would see the evidence, and understand the case. Divorce Charles and marry him, even if it meant he would give up everything.

The second is that you would see the chaos he caused and you would never speak to him again.

“Mr. Sainz?” The voice at the end of the telephone draws him from his questioning, running a hand across his red, swollen nose. It wasn’t broken, but god it was hurting. Bruised, most likely. “I need an answer.”

He needed to speak to you.

“Can you just-” He huffs, running a hand through his dark hair, his fingers almost getting caught in the strands. Of course his hair was tangled, he’d been doing nothing but pulling on it ever since he arrived at the hospital. “Let me speak to her. Hold it for 24 hours. You can do that, yes?” It’s not even a question now, nor a request. It’s a demand. He can’t do this, he can’t openly destroy your marriage for his own sake without speaking to you, without knowing for a fact that you love him.

Your name is carved onto his soul, onto his skin. The first thing he thinks about in the morning, and the last thing he would think about at night. There is no life he wishes to live in if you’re not there. Even as his friend.

There’s suddenly a light tap against glass, snapping the man’s attention from his device. He mumbles something in Spanish, telling his lawyer he would call him back, dreading who was coming out into the private courtyard.

He visibly relaxes when he sees it’s just a man, sneaking out whilst tears pool on his lower lashline, giving Carlos a warming nod.

“You don’t mind if I join you, do I?” The Spainard shakes his head. “My wife- she’s just being induced and wanted some space. She’s…” He gestures, trying to explain to a complete stranger how a few minutes ago, his wife wanted to cry and shake her head, but wanted nothing to do with him. It was all his fault.

Carlos offers a warm hand on his back, patting him firmly. “Congratulations. Do you know what you're having?” He’s invested, anything to distract him from his previous phone call, the weight of a decision on his shoulders.

The stranger grins. “A girl.” He smiles harder. “I don’t mind, as long as they arrive happy and healthy. But god- a girl, just like her.” He thinks. Carlos thinks. In an alternative universe, he’s sat by your side, pressing kisses and praises to your skin, holding you tighter as your daughter enters the world, ready to meet her mother and father. She would be like you; your eyes, hair, smile. It would be another you to love, to adore.

“Your first?” Carlos presses his question. The man sighs, shaking his head, shoving his hands into his pockets as he looks into the polished corridor.

“No. She’s…” He pauses. “We got together after hiding how we felt for so long, how we wanted to be with one another.” He looks to Carlos, clearly ashamed and embarrassed of the situation. “I know how it sounds, but sometimes you can’t help it. I- I love her.”

A band snaps in Carlos’ stomach; love knows no bounds.

Love is waking up to think of your person.

The first thing you register when you come around is brightness. You’re not in the soft glow of the luxurious hotel room you and your husband had been given, nor the candle-lit bedroom of Carlos’ apartment. No, the light is bright, blinding. An off-white which made your eyes squint.

Your senses are heightened; the only scent which flares through your nostrils is hand sanitiser and overpowering lilies. Nose scrunched, you attempt to wiggle your body upwards, aware of the IV line pinned into your hand. Panic immediately settled through your tummy, until your eyes flickered to the bag, realizing it was just water, they just wanted to rehydrate you.

Hesitantly, you wiggle each part of your body. Arms, hands, fingers. You’re able to move, though you couldn’t…you couldn’t remember why you got here. Memories are hazy, you remember Charles’ podium, the way he kissed you so deeply, so lovingly. Carlos’ hand on your waist, pulling you back to stop you from the champagne trickling over your body. You were overwhelmed, overworked and…you guessed it just all became too much.

You just about manage to turn your body, the first thing you’re aware of is that your cushion smells familiar. Warm nodes, sandalwood and seasalt. It’s a smell you’ve grown all too accustomed to, burying your face into their chest whilst you took refuge in his arms, in a hotel room. Charles had been there, already. His celebrations had clearly been cut short, whether or not it was for show or because he cared.

The second thing is the coffee cup. Cardboard, the contents clearly already drained, but handwriting etched onto the side in a thick, black marker. The handwriting, the doodle of a tiny butterfly. Carlos had been there, too.

There’s a sharp pinch on your cheek, fingers reach up to your skin and feel the butterfly strips against you. Immediately, a thousand questions come back to your mind, none of them being answered through your own memory. Instead, the door opens, a nurse in clean, bright uniform walking in, closing the door behind her. She beams at the realization you’re awake, shoulders relaxing.

“You’re awake!” Her tone is incredibly warm, seemingly very happy you’ve decided to wake up on your own terms. She’s quick to move to your bedside, pressing the back of her hand to your forehead. “How are you feeling? Have you warmed up?” You’re not sure what she’s referencing, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. She takes the look on your face as unknowingness, able to fill in the gaps.

“You collapsed on the track.” She’s trying to get through everything she needs to tell you. “We did some tests, you’re incredibly dehydrated for a start, you need to try and get some rest.” She pauses. “It’s nothing to be concerned about, we have collapses from dehydration every so often, more than you would realize.” Her eyes flicker down, finding it hard on how to phrase the next part of the question. “You also seem…incredibly worried.” You’re not sure how she could tell that from simply examining you, but you nod in confirmation. “Your blood pressure, it’s incredibly low. That’s why you fainted.”

“Yes.” You pause. How on earth were you about to explain the past twelve months to a nurse, a complete stranger? “There’s been some…reasons. You know, for the stress.” Her eyes soften, but the questioning continues.

“Are you trying for a baby?” You shake your head. “Moving house?” A shake. “Have you…lost somebody recently.”

You freeze, memory flickering to your mother, how in the midst of fixing your marriage, discovering your affection towards another, she had disappeared from the world. This time, you nod your head, drawing your knees up to your body, shivering. The nurse is quick to wrap a blanket over your shoulders, closer to the answer.

“I lost my mother.” You breathe out, shaking your head. “I lost my mother, and she’s the only one I can go to.” Now you’ve started speaking, you can’t finish. “I want to make them happy. I want to make him happy.” There’s tears glassing over your eyes.

You want him. You want him right now.

She sympathizes, she understands. “Sometimes, all you need is for them to tell you it’s going to be okay, right?” She lets her words trail off, turning to the door of your room. “He’s outside. He’s been waiting to see you.”

Your blood freezes.

“Would you like me to get him?”

You nod before you’ve even realized, your body clearly knows better than your mind. The nurse stands up straight, pacing towards the door as you feel your heart begin to race harder, frantically. She steps out of the room, a minute mumble on the other side, clearly a warning to be incredibly careful. It’s barely a minute before the door swings back open, dark hair and frantic panting.

You glance up, your heart softens at those eyes.

The eyes that you, the reader, wanted to see as you glanced to the door.

GREEN EYES [CL16 Ending]

BROWN EYES [CS55 Ending]

This is everyone who asked to be tagged! @Mac-daddy-210 @aundercover@barnestatic@omgsuperstarg@chimchimjiminie16@caelum-the-part-time-nihilist @magicalcowboyarbiter @gaslasysblog@junetto @beatrizmel-472 @motorsp0rt@crowdthena@screemqueen@lewislvr@styles-sunflower@itspaddockprincess@adeptustemptations @amalialeclerc @meetmyblondemuffins@formulanando@lorarri@christianpulisic10@gaypoetsblog@thisbitxhs-blog@goldsainz@ru-kru@magical-spit@hrlzy@nooshytushie@gaslysainz@marvel-at-stucky@sugarvibez@adeptustemptations@roseseraj@leclercdream@pjofics@hecatesfavoritechild@poseforme@thisbitxhs-blog @adalynneva @meganlikes2purr @sabrinaselina55 @laneyspaulding19@heavenlyiecreature@pink-teddy-bear@nooshytushie@strawberries-and-racing@milasexutoire@ohthemisssery@florkt@obsessedwiththeideaofyou@ru-kru@myhomeworksnotdone@ineedafictionalman@bregarc@allywthsr@summerslike11@wildcupcake@willowpains@marlenamallowan@leclercloml@katzenwahnsinn@be-your-coffee-pot

591 notes · View notes

lafemmemacabre · 1 year

Text

The Suspended Mourning (updated links)

In remembrance of Chile’s 9/11 (1973), when a US-backed coup overthrew our democratically elected socialist president and installed a fascist military dictatorship in his place, that tortured and disappeared thousands, I decided to upload here all the episodes of The Suspended Mourning subtitled in English.

It’s a series of short films (longest being 5 minutes and a half, with intro and outro included) depicting the stories of real disappeared detainees and their loved ones who survived them.

The subject matter is gruesome, but they portrayed everything as tastefully as humanly possible without downplaying the horrors involved, and managed to somehow make beauty out of all the pain that the dictatorship caused. It has gorgeous original music and cinematography, fantastic acting, and chilling, emotionally deep writing.

Be warned that despite the series being tasteful in how they handle these subjects, the episodes still portray or allude to torture and police/state brutality. There’s a few scenes with a bit of blood in them, multiple scenes involving violence, and there’s very lightly implied rape in episode 6.

Here’s all the episodes:

Alfredo García

Antonio Llidó

Julio Vega

Rodolfo González

Sergio and Carlos Jacinto D'Apollonio

Alfonso Chanfreau

Álvaro Barrios

Reinalda Pereira

Alan Bruce

Jorge D'Orival

David Silberman

Claudio Thauby

Gonzalo Toro Garland

Diana Arón

Cecilia Bojanic

Ana González

#the suspended mourning #chile #latam #The links of the one I reblogged are dead 😭

780 notes · View notes

endzithefangirl · 22 days

Text

Scandals

Authors note: So, let's talk the Sinner doping thing first. I think the story is legit, it was one billionth of a gram. But, I do think that if Jannik wasn't no. 1 and from Italy he would have been suspended until the investigation ended. Still found innocent, but he'd be benched for a few months at least. As for Carlos smashing rackets... Honestly it was hot. At least to me... I was shocked because he never does stuff like that but I think the Olympic final was still in his mind and he just lost it. Anyway, enjoy these crappy shot fics!

Summary: Two short stories in which our two talented young tennis players, who have recently been in 'scandals', need a little reassurance

Warnings: English isn't my first language, no use of Y/N, gender not specified, everything stated in the Autors note is my opinion and I do not ask everyone to agree!

Word count: 711

Carlos Alcaraz x Reader

"Hey," you say as you enter Carlos' hotel room. "You okay?"

"Mmmmh, come here," he replies, looking you up and down. You walk over and hug him, smoothing out his messy hair. He wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you in close, nuzzling his face into the crook of your neck and taking a deep breath. You hold him tight. "What was that about, hm?" you ask cautiously, referring to his anger at the court. He leans his forehead against yours, sighing.

"I just lose myself sometimes. I get too in my own head, too competitive, too hard on myself." He presses closer against you.

"You broke a racket; we were all so shocked..."

Carlos huffs, slightly embarrassed. "I know, I lost my temper... again. I should have done better, but I just couldn't keep it together."

"It's okay," you say, trying to calm him down. "It's okay, baby. Everyone has off days. You weren't feeling great, and Monfils just decided to play his best."

He exhales loudly. "I know, I know, but it's just so irritating. I wanted to win so badly, needed to win so badly... but I just kept screwing up and making stupid errors and—" He stops talking and rests his forehead against your shoulder.

"It's okay. Now you need to relax, get back into the headspace for the US Open. Okay?"

He wraps his arms around your neck, his body pressed tight against yours. "Will you help me? Help me relax?"

"What do you want me to do, baby?" you ask, looking gently into his eyes. Carlos' grip around you tightens, and a vulnerable look enters his eyes. He lets out a deep sigh as he lays his head on your chest. Your touch is soothing as his arms wrap around you, his eyes closing, melting into your embrace.

"You better, baby?"

He nods, nuzzling his face against you. "...Much better…" He pulls you tighter against him, almost like he doesn’t want to let go. Carlos stays there, listening to your heartbeat, feeling the steady rise and fall of your chest. He presses gentle kisses against your collarbone and shoulder, feeling a little clingy.

"Mmm, you wanna stay like this for a bit?"

He nods, slightly embarrassed by the clinginess but too tired to care. "...Just a little longer..."

Jannik Sinner x Reader

"Damn, they really booed you," you say as Jannik comes back from his first-round match. Jannik sighs in annoyance. He walks to his locker and grabs a towel. With a hint of irritation, he responds, "That’s nothing new."

He takes off his sweat-soaked shirt. "Yeah, but... they were really booing. It's because of the doping scandal—" He pulls out a clean shirt and starts getting dressed. "I don’t know why they still think I’m cheating..."

"...Well, you did get off better than most people would have..."

Jannik closes his locker a bit too hard. He runs a hand through his curly red hair and looks at you. "And what is that supposed to mean?"

"Well, if you weren't world number one, and you didn't have the fancy lawyers, and if it wasn't one billionth of a gram—"

He cuts you off, getting closer to you. The annoyance is evident in his voice. He looks you in the eyes, his tone low and serious. "You think I’m protected because I’m world number one and have money for fancy lawyers?"

"Do you think that if it was me, they would have let me play before I defended my case?"

He's silent for a moment, thinking about what you just said. His face slowly relaxes, and he looks away. "No, probably not…" he says, his voice calmer now.

"Look, I know you're innocent," you say, standing up and wrapping your arms around his bare shoulders. "But you need to know that you got the absolute best-case scenario that most people wouldn't get."

Jannik's face is now completely relaxed too. A few beads of sweat run down his bare chest. He puts his sweaty arms around your waist and looks into your eyes again. He doesn't argue with you anymore because he knows you are right. "I didn’t really see it like that before…"

"You're not a bad person, Jannik. You're just so fucking lucky it's annoying."

#carlos alcaraz #carlos alcaraz x reader #carlos alcaraz imagine #jannik sinner #jannik sinner x reader #jannik sinner imagine #tennis #tennis x reader

58 notes · View notes

cartermagazine · 11 months

Text

Today In History

On October 16, 1968, African American Olympic sprinters Tommie Smith and John Carlos, who engaged in a silent protest on the medal stand to bring light to the racial discrimination and violence against African Americans in the U.S., were met with hostility by white supporters and the media, and were eventually suspended for their protest.

The 1968 Olympics followed a summer of racial unrest and protest following the assassination of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. in April.

Mr. Smith and Mr. Carlos placed first and third in the 200-meter dash at the Olympic Games in Mexico City. As the U.S. national anthem played during the medal ceremony, the two men bowed their heads and raised black gloved fists in a protest against racial discrimination in the U.S. Both men wore black socks with no shoes, and Mr. Smith also wore a black scarf around his neck. Mr. Smith raised his right fist to represent Black power, while Mr. Carlos raised his left fist to represent Black unity. Also, in support was the silver medalist Peter Norman from Australia who wore a badge that read: “Olympic Project for Human Rights” – an organization set up a year previously who oppose racism in sport.

The following day, the U.S. Olympic Committee threatened other athletes with stern disciplinary action if they engaged in demonstrations. Acting USOC Director Everett Barnes issued a formal statement to the Olympic International Committee, condemning Mr. Smith and Mr. Carlos, and claiming that the sprinters “made our country look like the devil.”

The USOC suspended Mr. Smith and Mr. Carlos from the U.S. Olympic team following a midnight meeting. In the early hours of the morning on October 18, the Committee ordered both men to vacate the Olympic village in Mexico within 48 hours.

Despite their medal-winning performances, the two athletes faced intense criticism in the media and received death threats upon returning home.

CARTER™️ Magazine

#carter magazine #carter #historyandhiphop365 #wherehistoryandhiphopmeet #history #cartermagazine #today in history #staywoke #blackhistory #blackhistorymonth

210 notes · View notes

creedslove · 1 year

Text

DESERVE IT - PART FIVE

Javier Peña x f!reader

Summary: You and Javier are sent to a conversation with Messina who determines you get relocated to another department, which means you are drifting away from Javier even more and that makes your relationship even more complicated

Warnings: a tiny little bit of fluff in the beginning, mentions of smut, angst, jealousy, disappointment, kind of stalker!javi

A/N: I wasn't sure if Javi's boss would be Carrillo or Messina because honestly I didn't pay attention to the plot of Narcos at all, because I was busy with a slut agent and a certain drug dealer (yes Wagner Moura I am talking about you), so I just picked Messina because I guess she would handle the situation better

• PART ONE

• PART TWO

• PART THREE

• PART FOUR

5k words

You sat on the chair looking away as Murphy handcuffed Carlos and made sure he wasn't going anywhere.

Some other cops came over to find out what was happening but you just wanted to disappear from that place and never come back.

You couldn't leave, you would have to formally declare a statement explaining your side of the situation as you'd been attacked by a co-worker. Technically, according to the DEA and the Embassy rules you hadn't done anything wrong. What the agents did when they were off duty was none of their business and it didn't matter to them if you had set up for Carlos or if he was just unlucky to be caught by his wife during one of his escapades.

With the war against Pablo Escobar getting worse each day, the organs couldn't care less if an agent was having an affair.

However, they did care about agents attacking each other. That was why Carlos was immediately suspended and had to hand in his badge and gun, which made you more relieved than you'd like to admit. Now, you'd gotten away with the situation but Javier was still unclear of what was going on. He'd immobilized the attacker and saved the day, with a lot more violence and strength then required, he held him at gunpoint in front of an entire office and that was something that didn't weigh in his favor.

You both would have to talk to Messina later that day, but all you wanted was to go home and lock yourself up. You wanted to shower, change clothes and pretend that never happened, you began feeling sick, nausea and shivers traveled through your body. You hated how your emotional state affected your physical health. It'd always been like that: at the smallest sign of emotional inconvenience, your body would take a toll on it.

You rubbed your arms in order to warm up, as the tip of your fingers were ice cold but as someone had read your mind, a leather jacket had been placed on top of your back. You looked up and found Javier trying to make you wear his jacket.

He had a cup in his hand and he lowered himself "have this Y/N… I asked Colleen to make you some tea, your stomach is probably upset" he said with those stupid brown warm eyes "Messina wants to see us soon, so you gotta be alright, cariño" he cupped your cheek gently and got up again so he could handle Carlos with Steve's help.

Fuck Javier.

Fuck Javier Peña.

How dare he after all he did to you, after all he made you go through, after breaking your heart just try and sweet talk you with this cheap act of pretending to care?

Yes, he had saved you, and you were thankful to him, you were not an ungrateful little bitch, but he could have done his job without crossing any lines. Now he was offering you tea and jackets as if he cared, as if he hadn't treated you like a total stranger for the past month, after being so cruel and humiliating you like you never expected him to do.

You were not gonna let him win you over that fast, but first things first, you had an appointment with Messina that could cost a lot to you, maybe not your job, but if she decided to punish you somehow you'd be screwed.

Murphy walked to you and was just as gentle as Javi was and for a moment you almost felt sorry for giving him the cold shoulder, so you thanked him for his reassuring words

"We'll go to Messina's in a while, I just need to go to the bathroom first" you informed them and disappeared into it, locking the door and throwing some water onto your face.

You sighed deeply, watching your own reflection as you shook your head in disbelief at the warmth you felt between your folds.

For a second you had hopes your period had come unannounced so you got into the bathroom stall and pulled your panties down.

To say you were wet was an understatement.

You were soaked.

You couldn't believe yourself, you felt a mix of anger and shame at the realization Javier's display of protectiveness and violence turned you on. The way he just went all feral towards Carlos, punching him, using all his strength against him just to calm down and cold bloody point a gun at him, for you, was enough to have you like a little puta for Javier.

Maybe Carlos was right on one thing: you were a slut, too bad you were it for the wrong man.

If none of that shit had gone on between the two of you, you'd certainly spend the night alternating between sitting on his cock and sitting on his face as a thank you.

You felt your clit twitching at the thought and immediately pulled yourself together, getting decent again and washing your face once more, blocking these kinds of thoughts as best as you could.

•••

You and Javier were placed in front of Messina for the past hour. The two of you giving your own accounts of what had happened. She never interrupted you and eventually took notes here and there. You'd downed the third glass of water by then, feeling nervous at the whole situation. It felt like you were sent to the principal's office and while Javier handled the situation smoothly throwing his charms at her here and there, you were obviously tense.

The woman analyzed the situation carefully, she knew the behavior on all parts were extremely inadequate and even scolded you for coming up with your little devious plan. What agents and employees of DEA did in their free time was their business, but they expected those activities to not interfere in the daily routine of the investigations. You swore you had to bite your tongue so you wouldn't ask her the same applied to Javier using the contributors' money to pay for hookers with the horrible excuse of informative intel.

But you decided it would be best if you didn't make things worse than they already were.

Messina, on the other hand, was a powerful woman who had to struggle a lot to accomplish things and work twice as hard just because she was a woman. So she definitely knew what you went through with Carlos and though she couldn't really take sides, deep down she was satisfied with the lesson he learned.

She scolded Javier some more for his reckless actions and reminded him he had better ways to handle the situation, but when he promised he wouldn't do it again, she finished the meeting.

"Uh, Y/N… before you go, I must tell you your request to be transferred to another country was denied" you nodded shyly and saw when Javier's neck head snapped at you, shocked to hear you'd asked for a transfer, he swallowed and licked his lips, as he couldn't get his eyes off you, listening carefully as his heart raced and dropped at his toes to know you'd asked to leave the country.

"With this war we have going on against the narcos we can't afford losing any members of the team. You do a very good job and your reports are essential for us" she explained "however, with this situation, you will be assigned to another department, the lower floor, you can work for a couple of months in the crime division where things aren't as stressful as your current job is… it is temporary, just so the gossip dies and you find a break from all the stress" you nodded silently accepting her decision. On one hand you were disappointed to know you weren't leaving Colombia any sooner, on the other hand, you were thankful things went way better than expected, of course it was a demotion but you wouldn't have to work directly with Javier anymore.

You excused yourself and left her room, going outside the building as you pretended you didn't hear Javier's voice calling your name.

You stood at the sidewalk waiting for a chance to cross the street and felt his grip on your wrist, pulling you to him and making you look at him.

"Goddamn it Y/N, not even today you can actually look at me and talk to me?" He asked frustrated and pinched the bridge of his nose, when all he got from you was an eye roll.

"So you were just gonna flee the country and not tell anyone? One day I'd wake up to you gone? Is it because of me?"

You sighed and looked at him, feeling a mix of exhaustion, sadness and impatience.

"I hate my job, Javier. I hate the people I work with, I hate Colombia. I know I sound horrible when I say this, but I don't care about Escobar or what he does, I just stopped caring about all this, I just stopped and asked myself what I was doing with my life, I'm not happy here, not anymore, I have nothing to hold me back, so what's the point in staying anyway?"

He shook his head, he had no idea you felt like that, of course he knew he had hurt you, pretty bad, but not to that extent. He felt a wave of guilt and regret.

"But what about us, cariño?"

You smiled sadly "there is no 'us' Javi. There never was. Listen, I'm very thankful for what you did today, you saved me, you risked your physical integrity and your job just to make sure I was safe, but we can't pretend things haven't happened between us" you explained to him.

"Cariño, listen I want to apologize…"

"I don't wanna hear your apologies Javier, you don't mean them, it doesn't change how you feel about me, so let's just get over this okay? Eventually I'll leave Colombia hopefully it will be sooner than later and all this will be a fun story to tell your friends or something" you shrugged.

Javi didn't let go of your wrist, he looked into your eyes, searching for some kind of breach he could find affection or softness but there was nothing.

"No, you can't leave, I'll mi-"

"If you miss me you can just call that hooker I met the other night, she looks a lot like me, you won't even notice the difference"

You turned your back to him and walked away, leaving Javier standing there, watching you slip away from him even further.

•••

Your first day in the crime division started out great just by the fact you didn't have to see Colleen's stupid face. You didn't know why you began hating the woman, she hadn't done anything to you, in fact she'd always been kind of nice and very polite. But then, a memory hit you: the day Javier complimented her nails and how every week after that she would show up with a different nail polish, in hopes he'd pay attention to her again. Every time he took a coffee break she would be there, lingering around like a ghost until she would find a pathetic excuse to go and talk to him.

Then she would laugh too hard at his dumb jokes and would place her hand on his bicep, pretending it was an innocent touch.

You groaned annoyed at the sudden memory and at the fact you were actually caring about that, when you were literally not seeing them again. Of course you could still run into them in the building, and mostly run into Javier in your apartment building, but you would have a break from them from 9 to 5 and that was a good enough reason to be happy.

You shook your head clearing your mind and telling yourself you were just anxious about working in a new division. Of course your tasks would be the same, but out go Escobar's files and files and in come other police occurrences such as thefts and physical aggressions, mostly coming from drunk guys who always got into fights with each other, or so you've told.

You were so distracted you didn't see a tall figure approaching you, you only felt that figure when you bumped into him and almost lost your balance thanks to your high heels you put on earlier in the morning trying to cause a good impression.

Of course you never hit the ground because the figure held by the waist, preventing you from falling.

"Lo siento, señorita" he said and helped you up.

And then you looked at the mysterious figure.

He was taller than you, strong and had beautiful brown eyes. Not like Javi's, Javier's eyes were from a deep brown, they made you think of chocolate, hot chocolate in a cold morning to be more specific, but this guy… his eyes were light brown, the kind of color that shifts according to the lights of the room, making them even greenish, and the eyelashes were pretty long for a man, giving him an expressive look.

You were lost in his eyes. You fell for the stranger's eyes right there and then and your heart raced when you noticed he had his hand on your waist.

"You must be Y/N, I'm agent Manuel Herrera, but you can call me Manu if you want" he gave you a smile and you smiled back.

Manu explained you he was the one who was supposed to welcome you in the division but he ran late after a new case came up.

You assured him it was fine and thanked him when he led you to your desk, helping you empty your box and organize your working material.

"You know, Y/N, news travels fast here and we all know what happened to Carlos and rumor has it you were responsible for it" he saw how you blushed and though you didn't deny or nor confirm it, he could tell rumor was true. "Well, I just want you to say we are all relieved he's not around anymore, he was an unpleasant guy and especially the ladies in the office really appreciated what you did… or what you didn't do" he winked at you and excused himself.

And just like that, you realized you had a crush on Manu.

It happened fast, but it was so refreshing to know you could move on, you could get interested in other guys. He was nice, smart, painfully handsome and for the first time since you arrived in Colombia you hadn't thought of Javier's whereabouts or felt a pang of jealousy to wonder if he would pick up a girl at a bar for the night or just call a brothel and have his fuck delivered like chinese food.

After the first week, Manu gathered enough courage to invite you for lunch, he assumed you would just hang out from the DEA people, but when he saw you were about to stay at your desk during your lunch break, he invited you out.

First, he decided to take you to a small restaurant down the street, the food was good, the price was reasonable but having his company was better.

Then, the next day, he took you to a small place that sold the best arepas you'd eaten in your whole life.

Turns out, Javier really liked Arepas and he decided to have some for lunch, but when he was about to step inside he saw you had another guy. He thought he'd seen the man before but he couldn't remember exactly when, he knew he was a cop, but he just hadn't paid attention, unlike you who had been clearly paying a lot of attention to him.

Javi felt his blood boiling at how beautiful you looked when you smiled at him and kept telling him whatever you were so passionately talking about. He hadn't seen you since the day at the Embassy, of course he'd caught glimpses of you leaving the building or arriving when he was still in his car. He'd heard you at home, dragging your furniture around for your monthly clean up, or when you put on some record and probably spent the evening singing along. The smell of your cooking almost every damn night taunting him but none of that was worse than when he caught just a whiff of your perfume in the hallway.

It was the worst part to him, because it reminded him you were still there, across the hall, a few meters away from him, and yet you were no longer in his life. As if you were just a memory, a ghost of his past, you were so out of reach it broke his heart.

And when he saw you smiling at that guy just like you used to smile at him, it gutted him.

He turned around before either of you could spot him and walked back to his car.

Javier couldn't believe that. You were really going on lunch dates with that guy? Sure he was attractive, he figured, but didn't you like him? Then why were you out with that guy?

It just didn't make sense to him, he didn't want to believe you'd actually move on from him. Javi hadn't really thought of the future, he knew the healthiest for you would actually move on, you deserved someone good for you, someone who could make you happy, who could treat you like you deserved being treated, someone that could give you a relationship where you loved and you were loved, where you could trust your partner, where you could have a family, get married, have kids, not someone who would screw things up in the first opportunity.

But it stung.

Javier had no idea it would sting that bad. Saying had always been easier than doing, and while he kept that protective speech over you, things were alright, but the moment the possibility of it becoming true was presented before his eyes, god, that hurt.

He was at a loss of actions, he didn't know what to do or what to say. The rest of the afternoon he spent off his game, with Murphy having to repeat himself over and over, Javi asking the same questions, dropping his pen, fuck, he even spilled his coffee once. Because all he could think of was you.

He decided to leave early and wait around until it was time for you to go home, feeling a pang in his chest when he spotted the guy, Manu, he soon afterwards learned, walking you home.

He hated that scene but he also couldn't look away, you seemed so happy, you talked and smiled like you hadn't done it for months, like you hadn't done since he screwed things up.

And for the next few days that was what his routine turned into.

Javier would wake up early and watch you go to work, then he would take the stairs to the lower floor when it was lunchtime and watch from afar as you and Manu went for lunch together, then when you would come back, usually with a popsicle or a lollipop in hands, a treat he always got you for dessert. On the weekends he would watch through the window as you went out, knowing you were out to meet him. It was a habit that was consuming him, it left a bitter taste in his mouth, it was like smoking a cigarette, no matter how harmful it was to him, he just couldn't stop.

He only convinced himself it was time to let go when he saw Manu kissing your lips in front of the apartment building. He wanted to yell, to drag you away from him, to make you understand you shouldn't be with that guy, you should be with him, but he couldn't. There was nothing he could do about it, he had lost you for good, he knew that, so he grabbed his wallet, his car keys and drove downtown. He parked in front of the brothel he knew so well and walked to the reception.

"Quiero a Mari y solamente a ella esta noche" he commanded, not wasting time in being polite or flirty. He wanted a service, and it wasn't cheap, so he wasn't going to pretend he was a nice guy. He wasn't one.

Mari showed up about fifteen minutes after, she had just washed her body and smiled at him with fiery eyes, walking to the man and kissing his lips.

There she was, the version of you he could actually have, all he had to do was pay for it. She resembled you, you both had a similar body type, similar hair and if he got intoxicated enough, he could close his eyes and pretend he had your body against his.

"Vamos cariño, voy a llamarte de Y/N hoy" he whispered into her ear, pretending it was your neck he kissed.

As they were both in the room, Javi sat on the bed and pulled her to his lap, kissing her and burying his face between her breasts.

But she didn't smell like you, she didn't feel like you, and no matter how hard he tried focusing and thinking of the night you'd kissed him, nothing happened.

Javi gasped and looked down ashamed and then back at the woman, who got off him and didn't say anything. He ran his hands through his hair as he groaned in sheer frustration, he just couldn't get hard.

She even tried to get him to action, but it wasn't happening, Javi was dragged each time to your kiss with Manu. How he cupped you cheek and kissed your lips at the same time you his tugged the hem of his shirt and pulled hid body closer to yours.

Javier left the brothel livid, he'd paid for the service he couldn't get and smoked a cigarette on the street, blaming it on you and that man for everything bad that was happening to him.

•••

On Monday you separated a couple of files that had been sent to the wrong department and got ready to take the elevator and go to upper floor. Ever since you started dating Manu, you felt more confident about yourself and seeing Javier wasn't necessarily a problem. You knew you'd made things pretty clear between the two of you and of course Colleen being the envious puta she was, spread the news you were seeing a coworker to everybody, it wouldn't surprise you if even Pablo's sicarios knew about your relationship.

It wasn't the first time documents had been misplaced and all you had to do was to leave them on Murphy's desk and return, so you wanted to get things over with.

You passed by Colleen without giving her the time of the day, she annoyed you in a way it was beyond words and you always preferred to think she didn't exist.

"Y/N!" She called a couple of times, making you stop and turn around "Steve and Javi aren't here, so just you know…" you gritted your teeth and faked a smile.

"Thank you for your great service Colleen" you said and kept walking.

Your threw the files on Murphy's desk and couldn't help but glance at Carlos' old desk. As you'd heard, apparently no one had been hired or promoted to take over his job, instead, all of his investigation and internal job was assigned to both Murphy and Peña.

There was a time you would've probably got a great part of it, so you would help them with the ridiculous amount of work coming in, but that time was gone and now you didn't have to take over anyone's jobs, just doing your own and worrying about leaving work in time to meet your handsome Manu.

However, you noticed some files and a big yellow envelope on his desk. You looked around and saw the department was almost completely empty as it was almost time for the end of the shift.

You didn't know exactly why you got so curious and let alone why you began fumbling through those documents that certainly didn't concern you. But the yellow envelope dragged your attention in a way you just felt attracted to it, as if your intuition was telling you to check it.

You battled with yourself whether you should open it or not.

Correction: you shouldn't open it and you knew it, but for whatever reason you were so curious about it and all you could read was 'CARLOS' written in capital letters, in red ink. You told yourself it would be fine, just some intel from whoever Carlos' informant was. Worst case scenario it would be something boring and you would just leave it on Steve's desk.

So you took another glance around the room to make sure no one was watching you and opened the envelope, gasping at the content inside.

After the stressful meeting with Messina, both Javi and Steve were in low spirits, Connie still hadn't returned and the American agent had no motivation or reason to be home early, so he invited Javier for a few drinks. However, Javi wasn't in the mood for that. He was tired, stressed and the days seemed to be dragging on. He felt lonely and the less thing that still brought him some pleasure was a delicate matter as he hadn't been able to get hard for any women.

Sure, he could still rub one off thinking of Y/N, but each time he tried doing it with a woman, it felt like he had some kind of block that wouldn't let him go further.

He dropped Steve off at the bar and drove home, shrugging at the idea Y/N was probably out with her boyfriend on a cute date he'd rather think, because it was way more comforting than picturing you sucking another man's cock.

He looked at your table and thought of knocking on it, maybe just to see you, hear your voice, but he immediately gave up.

He got his key but frowned when he noticed his door was unlocked, which was alarming as Javier was sure he'd locked the door before. He immediately got his gun, getting inside silently and walking around, checking every dark corner for threats or unpleasant surprises.

Javier went speechless to find you sitting on his couch. It took him a moment to process how the fuck you got inside, but then you remembered how you two had exchanged spair keys to your apartments and completely forgot about it.

He was about to question you, when he heard your sniffs and saw you were crying. He went completely soft and walked to you.

"Y/N" he whispered and knelt in front of you, concern flooding through his body as he cupped your cheek and stroke it so gently. He wiped your tears with his thumb and you only then realized how big his hands really were.

You shook your head and looked into his eyes, disappointment shattering your heart as you gathered the courage to speak.

"What happened, cariño? Talk to me? Was it your boyfriend? Did he hurt you? Carlos?" He asked as he stared at your with the biggest warmest brown eyes you'd ever seen.

You handed him the envelope and watched as Javi emptied it on his coffee table.

"Los Pepes, Javier?" You finally asked, as you both stared at pictures of him meeting up at a bar with one of the group's sicarios.

"Since when you've been a double agent, Javi? Is all this a lie? How long have you been lying to the DEA? To me?" You asked him, and the disappointment in your voice just ripped his heart apart. You thought he was a dirty cop, he shook his head, feeling despair spread through his body as he looked for words to explain to you the mess he got himself into.

But took his hand away from your face and wiped your tears.

"After everything that went on between us, I thought that at least you were a good cop, Javi… I thought at least you would keep safe, but once again, I see I'm wrong" you swallowed.

Javier couldn't handle you being that disappointed in him, it broke his heart and he just couldn't live with you hating him as a whole.

He ran to you, pressing you against the wall and using his own body to trap you. He looked at you and buried his face in the crook of you neck, taking in your intoxicating perfume, his nose ghosting against your skin before you could feel his lips on it.

He mumbled something under his breath but you couldn't actually understand, you tried using your arms to break free from his grip, but his kept yours in place.

He looked at you as he dragged his face over your cleavage, just in the curve of your breasts he buried his face again, spreading small kisses all over your skin, he pulled your blouse down exposing your cleavage a little more and kissed your breasts gently.

You were taken aback by his soft, gentle and desperate touch. Your body felt on fire but you needed to fight that urge of submitting to him.

"I-I'm not gonna tell anyone, Javier. I promise" your voice was weak but you finally pushed him away the moment he got distracted when he tasted your skin gently and panted.

"I'm not a dirty cop, Y/N. I'm not" he said looking just as broken and you realized that was what he was mumbling against your neck, against your breasts. Javier was lost, when you finally fled his apartment. He sat back on his couch, after pouring himself a scotch. He spent hours staring into the void. There was nothing he could do to win you back. He had lost everything, but most importantly, he'd lost you.

_____

A/N pt1: this last scene wasn't planned at all. I don't know what happened, I just started writing the end and it popped into my mind and I had to do it.

A/N pt2: yes, I named Javier's hooker after myself lmaof

A/N pt3: face claim for agent Manu Herrera is mexican actor Alfonso Herrera

528 notes · View notes