#cl16 smut rec

[rose-tinted-juls]

hold up now why am i crying like this

1. i mean it might be bc charles finally won monaco 😭😭 i have a good enough imagination to pretend from now on that this is reality and not what actually happened. i literally screamed when he won. monaco curse done and behind us!!!

2. "you're shocked he hasn't lost his english yet" i giggled. he does lose it and it's just the cutest thing, i love it and love him and love how you write him mack <33

3. uh oh, catching feelings? i can already feel it ending in pain. not only for them but for me too and i don't want that. i want a happy end, pls tell me there is one 🥺

4. "you're my human heater" god when is it my turn 😭

5. the yacht scene tho. yeah that's all i can say. left me speechless. proper speechless.

mack mack mack you make me feel emotions with your words i rarely if ever feel. how is this possible. how are you possible? i always wonder, and i always will.

—the seasons of love

or: the enemies to lovers situationship fic charles leclerc x female reader summ. spring and the lovely silence of growing things. minors dni. nsfw warnings under the cut. 7.6k part one part two part three part four part five

18+ because: oral (m receiving, rough), spit, hair pulling, drunk drunk drunk get crunk

“Goodnight Arthur,” you said, lingering behind as your family started off down the road in the opposite direction that he and his were. 

Your dress, long and linen, blows in the evening breeze and draws goosebumps to your skin. Your hands clutch your phone and a small purse, the cross body strap wrapped around your hand three times. Your ponytail sways with your hips when you walk. Turning to Charles, you nod, purse a smile. “Charles.”

“Goodnight,” he replies curtly, perfectly polite. 

“The two of you are still talking after a whole day together? Did Hell freeze over while we were out there?” Arthur laughs.

A strange silence, one that only you and Charles are aware of, swallows the lull of the cicadas in the streetlights. It’s early in the year for them, typically holding out on their spring song until a bit further into the season. Charles drags his feet on the concrete, drawing out every step to be a beat too slow. “Stranger things have happened,” he remarks under his breath, his middle finger picking at the cuticle of his thumb before shoving his hands deep in his pockets. 

“Have they?” Arthur continues to poke fun at the two of you, at the unlikeliness of a quareless evening. You’re surprised, too. Never would have guessed a few hours earlier that the evening would end up the way it had. 

(Five hours earlier)

He’s sulking and it's becoming pathetic. Every single thing about his body moves around the yacht like a kicked puppy, all sullen and blue and hosting another private-pity party. His sighs grow more and more dramatic, less and less patient with each moment that passes without someone feeling as bad for him as he feels for himself. 

You knew, maybe better than anyone, how fiercely competitive he is, how much pressure he carries on his shoulders. You'd seen the highs and the lows of it all, and despite the underlying annoyance that was Charles, you still wanted what was best for him. It’s just human nature to hope. 

This season has been beating him up, you knew, even if you didn’t follow it the way some of your friends did. Strategy has been shit, you’ve heard, luck somehow shitter. He’d talked such a big game before the start of the season, quietly confident and subtly cocky in a way that almost makes you believe he can predict the future. 

Usually, you would relish in his annoyance, but today you’ve found yourself feeling oddly concerned. You refused to let him ruin the beautiful day, ruin the moods of your siblings and his. It’s the determination to save the day that leads you to the yacht railing, feet away from his brooding, lost in thought expression. 

“You seem a bit off today,” you remarked, voice lades with a teasing tone, a poor attempt to lighten the mood. 

He glances up at you, a hint of a smile tugging on his lips. “You always have such a way of pointing out the obvious, don’t you?” He retorted, but his annoyance is all bark, no bite, softened entirely by the playful glint in his eyes. 

“Well,” you shoot back, minorly annoyed, massively amused. “It’s not everyday you look like a sulking child.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “And always full of delightful compliments,” he replied, gaze lingering on your lips for a moment too long before he tears them away. 

You smirk, lean in a bit closer. “You love it,” you taunt.

He raises an eyebrow, a challenge gleaming in his eyes. “Oh, do I now?” He quips, leaning in just enough to make your stomach sink. You feign indifference to his words, but your body betrays you, leaning in a fraction closer. 

“I know you better than you think,” you said, your voice almost a whisper. 

He chuckled again, the sound of it sending shivers down your spine. There’s something so deflated about him. “Is that so?” He muses, breath grazing against your ear, making your pulse quicken. 

You take a step back, attempt to find some sort of composure. “Maybe,” you replied with a playful shrug, not daring to meet his gaze. 

He leans in, fills the space you’d just created, mischievous glint in his eyes. “You’re always under my skin,” he admits, a hue of vulnerability in his voice leaving you unsettled. 

You finally meet his gaze, your eyes locking with his. “You love the challenge, though, don’t you?” You countered, tone serious now, hinting at something more, something deeper. 

He hesitates, a flicker of emotion crossing his features before he masks it with a smirk. “Maybe I do,” he replied, voice low and suggestive. 

The conversation drolls on, seconds between your words filled with charged silence. The subtle dance of glances and touches only adds to the tension, and you found yourself unable to break away, to return to the rest of the family on the upper deck. No, no, you have a feeling you’ll be going lower, even, farther away from them and closer to some private silence. 

“Do you ever wonder?” he asks, voice soft and full of curiosity. You have no interest in entertaining his words. 

“I don’t,” you reply, trying to keep your tone guarded. 

His brows furrow, challenging you. “Really?” Charles questions, his skepticism evident. 

You shrug. “It’s just easier this way, isn’t it?” you retort, a hint of bitterness creeping into your voice. Bitter that he feels entitled to ruin something that’s working just fine. 

“Easier?” He echoes, curiosity evident as he leans in even closer. 

You take a deep breath, gathering your thoughts as you meet his intense gaze. “Yeah, easier,” you say, the words spewing out with a touch of frustration. “It’s just a game.”

He studies you for a moment, eyes searching for any sign of vulnerability. You hope you’re talented enough to conceal them, that your secondary school drama class teacher taught you well. “You think it’s that simple?” he challenges, voice just painfully soft. 

“It’s not simple at all,” you admit, guard slipping for only a moment. “But it’s just what we do. It’s comfortable, in its own way.”

He nods, seeming to understand your reluctance. “So, what?” He asks, a trace of bitterness in his tone. “We just keep using each other whenever we feel like it?”

A mess of emotions swirls inside you as you meet his gaze, refusing to back down. “Maybe,” you remark, defiant. “But it’s better than facing the alternative.”

He seems to consider your words, the wright of your unspoken history. “You’re afraid,” he observes. Charles has called you afraid a million and one times in your life; from a ponytailed scaredy-cat to a selfish coward, he’s checked the box on every synonym. This time, though, his voice isn’t teasing or raging red. No, it’s surprisingly gentle. 

Your ears burn red hot. “I’m not afraid of anything,” you snap, try to push down everything just begging to boil over inside of you. 

He reaches out, his fingers lightly brushing against yours. You ignore the jolt of electricity, the fact that a simple touch holds more meaning than any words the two of you could exchange. You’re annoyed, now. Annoyed with him and the longing you refuse to acknowledge. It’s a powerful cocktail that you don’t want to begin to comprehend. 

He leans in closer, his breath ghosting over your ear. “You don’t have to be afraid,” he whispers, his warm breath sending shivers down your spine. “Not with me.”

You heart pounds in your chest as you resist the urge to lean into him, to seek some fucked up sort of comfort in his arms. Instead, you push him away, maintain a safe distance. “I’m not afraid of you,” you say, voice horribly hushed. “I’m afraid of what this could become.”

He looks at you, some indistinguishable mix of emotions, of understanding and frustration and something else. “And what do you think this could become?” he asks, voice tinged with an edge of desire. 

You swallow hard, trying to ignore the way your body reacts to his proximity. “I don’t know,” you admit, feeling suddenly vulnerable and exposed. “But I don’t want to find out.”

He smiles like he knows something you don’t. It makes you crazy. “You’re always so stubborn,” he remarks, fingers moving from your hand to your jaw, brushing against your cheek. “Part of what drives me crazy about you.”

Your breath catches in your throat as you stare at him, unable to tear your eyes away. The tension is palpable, unspoken words hanging in the heavy air. 

“I could help take your mind off things,” you suggest, voice low and suggestive. “Just for a little while.” 

He raises a brow, surprise evident in his expression. “Oh?” he replies, voice a mix of intrigue and amusement. You give him a playful smirk, leaning in a bit closer. You can play games, too. 

“I can be pretty distracting,” you tease, fingers moving to his arm, tracing circles on the linen covering his arm. 

He hesitates, you’ve got him torn. He says your name, attempts to steer the conversation back to the emotions you’re so clearly dancing around. 

But you cut him off, not willing to back down. “Please,” you sigh, your voice full of longing and playfulness. “Let me take your stress.”

He puts his foot down. Protests weakly. “We can’t just ignore this.”

For a moment, you consider pushing the issue further. Deep down, somewhere unexplored, you know that this isn’t the right time. So, you take a step back, move to walk away. Before you can take another step, his hand is on your wrist, pulling you back to him. 

His lips crash against yours in a fierce and desperate kiss, and you lose yourself in the intensity of the moments. The motions that have been building under the surface finally finds an outlet, and you can’t resist the pull any longer. 

You both give in to the passion, into the physical connection and the muddled emotions. It’s a moment of surrender, of letting go. For now, it’s enough. For now, you can avoid the conversation. 

You’re no more than a few steps away from the stairs, make quick work of them, of the lock on the door to the master suite. You didn’t even know the doors had locks on them. You hope they’re half as soundproof as they are expensive, but you doubt it. 

You’re already pawing for his cock, palming the chilly, half-damp material of his swim trunks before slipping your hand under the waistband, taking the fabric out of the equation entirely. 

You look up at him, look for his reaction, check to make sure that his eyes aren’t harboring some sick softness to them. The whole point of this is to get the softy shit off his mind, to leave him so satisfied that he doesn’t remember wanting to have that conversation with you, that he doesn’t remember how shitty his season’s going and how he’s latched onto something that doesn’t exist. 

“Tell me what you want,” you whisper into his mouth. “Anything.”

He whinges at your words, mumbles something to himself, cupping your jaw with his hands. He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear and you roll your eyes, but then his thumb is on your bottom lip, firm and heavy. “This fucking mouth,” he grumbles. 

Your fingers wrap around his cock, big and thick and warm. You run your thumb over his head, smile at the precum pooling there, spreading it around and watching the way his face twitches. You play coy, look at him with your biggest, most innocent doe eyes.  “What about it?”

He rocks on his feet, moves himself ever so slightly through your hand. He either thinks you’re oblivious to it, or he’s completely clueless to his own actions. Either way, it’s hot, and you stroke him that little bit faster. “Wanna feel it,” he says, thumb still on your lip, sinking into your mouth, onto your tongue, pushing you down, down, down onto your knees. 

The floor is cold, but you don’t care, so are his swim trunks. It’s hard, though, like most floors would be, and you’re sure you’ll have bruises by nightfall. You pull his shorts down, dick bouncing out of the waistband, twitching while he steps out of the fabric, kicks it to the side somewhere in the tiny room.

As you look up at him, a myriad of emotions wash over you. This dance is becoming so familiar, and yet, you’re surprised each time by the intensity of it. Even though you’d offered yourself, you find a way to be annoyed at how he uses you like this, turns you into a vessel to vent his stress and frustration. The other part of you, though, is so fucking turned on. Completely and utterly satisfied by the fact that you have this effect on him, that you can make him forget about his troubles, even if just temporarily. 

His eyes meet yours, that same vulnerability still there. It’s a regular sight for other people, to be looked at like this by him. It’s not your normal, though. It’s rare, something that tugs on you, makes you wonder what he’s thinking, desire a level of understanding that goes beyond the physical. 

You push those thoughts aside as quickly as you can, remind yourself that this is all casual. That you and he, this is nothing.

You spit into your hand, stroke it over his cock until it’s hard and wet and just crying for you. Your tongue trails a long stripe, from the base of his shaft to the head, swirling around his most sensitive spot. You’ve found yourself growing annoyingly fond of the noises you can pull from him. It’s a game within a game, pushing the limits to find just how pained you can make him sound. 

His hands run through your hair, slow and smooth, gathering your hair into a soft ponytail. You move a hand to his, push it against your head as if to tell him–fuck me, Charles. Use me. 

“Wait,” he says, and you pull off him with a pop. 

“What?” You probe, irritated that he’s already got something to say. 

“You have to tell me if I hurt you.”

You smirk, bite the inside of your cheek like you’re working through a real head-scratcher, putting on your best sarcastic tone. “And how do you suppose I do that?” 

“I’m serious.”

Your shoulders recoil into a shrug, a laugh helplessly falling from your lips. “So am I.”

He bites the inside of his cheek, visibly apprehensive. This never would have been an issue in January, back when the only thing he did was be openly annoyed by you. No, it’s all different now. He’s got feelings, now, wants to fucking worry about you and care about you. It makes your stomach twist and turn and knot. 

You roll your eyes. This is ridiculous, how many guys out here are stopping a woman from letting them do whatever they fucking want. It can’t be more than him, it can’t. “For fucks… you’ll know if you’re hurting me.”

He nods. “But how… will I know?”

“I don’t know… I’ll punch you in the dick or something.”

He laughs, a direct juxtaposition to his words. “You are not funny.”

You shrug, scowl. “I think I’m pretty funny.”

“I don’t know why you would think this.”

You purse your lips, puff a breath of air out of them, and hold up a single finger, pointing to him. “Fuck you,” you laugh. “I’ll tap the back of your leg,” you explain, demonstrating the gesture. “Is that good enough?”

His hands move through your hair again, fix his carefully crafted ponytail you’d messed up. “Yes. Thank you.”

You roll your eyes, take his dick in your hand again and start stroking. “Can I…?”

He nods. “I’m not stopping you.”

“I mean… “ you mumble against his skin, “you just did but…” and then you take him again, hollowed cheeks and flat tongue. 

“Jesus, you are insufferable,” he remarks, and you laugh around his dick. It makes him shudder. 

You try to focus on the moment, on his fingers gently grazing over your skin, hands guiding your head with a mixture of need and  urgency. You gag around his dick, choking on the thick shaft as it fills your mouth so perfectly. “Putain, fuck, so good,” he groans. You’d smile up at him if you could. 

The ponytail he’d been so proud of was nothing but a knotted mess now, his fingers tangling in search of grip. You hope he forgets it’s you, that it’s anyone. That he fucks into your throat until your couching and gagging and spit drips down your face, tears prick at your eyes. You hope your throat hurts tomorrow, that you lose your voice and gargle salt water and he’s the only person in the world who knows why. You hope you have to tap out on the back of his thigh. 

You come pretty close, the way he uses you like a filthy toy. Everytime you think you’re about to break, he pulls off your mouth, leaves you heaving for air, wiping spit off your face with the back of your hand. He leans down to kiss you once, hand under your chin, tilting your head up to meet his lips. You hope he tastes himself, knows just how good it is, how content you are with your life’s purpose. 

“Pretty girl,” he says, and you hum against his dick. It’s not often you’re on the receiving end of praise from him. “Take me so good.”

You’ve learned to know when he’s close, exactly how his body reacts when it’s lost all sight of anything but finishing. His pace gets silly, all kinds of unsynchronized and messy. He gets really quiet for a minute, spends all of it fighting with himself before he finally accepts it, and then he’s loud. A mix of nonsensical languages and curses, of groans and hums and remnants of what sounds like it wants to be your name. 

He’s a mess, and then he’s holding your head as close as he can, your nose pressed against the muscles of his abdomen as he bottoms out, drains himself into the back of your throat with a breathy, pained groan. 

You swallow around him greedily, want everything he has to give, all his cum and all his whimpers. He thrusts in and out of your mouth a few more times, and then he’s pulling out completely, hands cupping your face, pulling you up to stand. He kisses you, hard, and you still haven’t caught your breath–neither of you have–but you kiss until you can’t anymore, until your lungs burn to be filled with something that isn’t him. 

His thumbs wipe your face, the spit from your lips and the tears from the corners of your eyes. “I’m sorry,” he tells you, back arching to lower himself to your height. 

You want to swat his hands away. Clearly, though, this is something he feels he needs to do. “Why?” you chuckle. “That was hot.”

He matches your laugh, but his is laced with uneasy concern as he continues to try to clean up your face, fixing your hair and kissing you again, this time all soft and sure. “You’re crazy.”

“Yeah,” you pant. “You’re into it, though.”

You wonder if he regrets this, if he’s known all along the same way you have that this won’t end well, that it never would. His face mirrors yours, open mouth breathing and heaving chests and a mix of half a dozen emotions. You both know this is how it has to be, that anything more would be too complicated to manage. It stops you from the wonder. You hope it stops him. 

He sticks his head out of the door a few minutes later, after you’d ducked into the stall-sized bathroom and properly fixed yourself, untangled your hair and tied it back securely into a ponytail with the tie from your wrist. 

You laugh at him for it, push him out from behind and tell him to drop the high-schooler act. “Wait here,” he tells you, tries to close the door on you. He doesn’t hear you catch it, doesn’t turn back to see you following him up the stairs from a few steps behind. 

You’d wonder why he doesn’t hear your feet, but, if he’d just done to you what you did to him, your ears would probably still be ringing, all full and overwhelmed. 

“Charles!” Your Mom’s voice carries down the stairs just as his head appears on the second level. “You haven’t seen–” his ears blush bright red, head snapping back to you. Jesus, can we have some subtlety? “Oh,” your Mom laughs when she spots you a couple steps behind him. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”

“Yeah,” you laugh. Charles can’t look at you, he stares right past. “We were fighting, isn’t that right, Charles?”

“Oh?” She chuckles. 

Charles’ eyes snap to you. He nods. “First rule of fight club, you know.”

Your tongue clicks against the roof of your mouth before you look back to your Mom. “What did you need, Mama?”

“Just wondering if you want a drink,” she says. 

“Only if you mix it strong,” you say, and your Mom is already setting off back towards the rest of the group on the top level. With silent understanding, you and he both fall back into your respective roles; the arrogant, fearless prick and the spoiled, bratty princess. It’s better this way. It’s better this way. 

“Well,” you chuckle, pat him on the shoulder as you move past him on the stairs. “Aren’t you just a blushing bride?”

The anticipation in the air is palpable, all of you here in Ricky’s parents’ apartment–an added guest this year in sweet little Chiara. You’ve all watched the race here since before Charles could imagine this being his reality, the balcony providing a perfect overlook onto the iconic circuit. The sun bathes the track in golden rays, like even Mother Nature knows that it’s going to be a historic day. 

Excitement crackles like electricity, sparking from person to person, igniting contagious grins and animated chattering. Your heart flutters with a unique blend of nerves and exhilaration, Charles’ undying Monaco optimism seeking into even your most pessimistic veins. 

Antoine sets up his camera on the balcony, is interviewing half of you for Charles’ next YouTube video. You steal glances of your friends the entire time, feeling strangely sentimental about all the love in the room. On the sofa, Marta bounces Chiara on her knee, absentmindedly shakes a rattle in front of the infant, eyes watching the pre-race coverage on the television. Ricky, on the balcony, the first interviewee, beams with pride watching them. The guys all buzz with excitement, half of them glued to the TV, the other half carefully pulling tight the zip-ties on the now infamous banner, anxiously awaiting the start of the race. 

You watch from beside Marta as the national anthem plays. She tickles Chiara’s feet, pulls little giggles from the baby’s lips. Your focus remains on Charles, though, his face on the screen. You don’t know how many laps you’ve seen him drive around this country, how many ups and downs he navigated in this sport, but you know that today feels different. You can see it etched into his features, the fire in his eyes and the resurgence in his confidence since Baku. It’s like he knows today is his day, that nothing can stand in the way, that the sun will shine on him and the champagne will spray. 

The engines roar to life, sending a shiver of anticipation down your spine. You move to the balcony, can’t bear to watch the start from a screen, knowing that it’s one of the most crucial parts of the next seventy-eight laps. Your heart pounds in sync with the rhythmic revving of the cars, and the world around you falls away as you focus on the starting grid. The lights illuminate, they're out, and the race is on. 

Charles makes a picture perfect start, no. It’s better than that, better, because the crowd roars louder than you think you’ve ever heard as he catapults himself past Max and into the lead, and your breath catches in your throat.

He’s in control, navigating every corner and chicane with precision, never once giving into the pressure of the bullet behind him. Max tries, he tries and tries, to close in on Charles, but he holds him, defends his position with skill and tenacity that makes you attracted to a helmet, to the mind it protects. 

With each passing lap, you expect the crowd to die down, but they don’t. You find yourself rallying with your friends, joining into the country-wide chorus of voices and cheers. Every maneuver, ever inch he gains on Max, fills you with excitement and awe. He’s like a force of nature, a breathtaking sight. 

The laps wind down, and his lead over Max grows. You can’t help but let out a joyful whoop. He’s doing it. This is the day he shuts everyone up about the curse. Yesterday is the last day you get to tease him about it. The realization washes over you that he’s going to win at home, and your heart swells with pride.

The final lap approaches, and you hold your breath, moving inside, to watch the screen, to stare like your glare could will him to find an extra tenth. As he takes the checkered flag, a deafening roar erupts, reverberating through the streets. 

Your friends join in a celebration, hugging and cheering as if you’re the ones standing on the podium. Antoine is giddy behind his camera, and you’re sure half the footage will be unusable with shaky hands. 

You found pause in the celebrations to watch him get out of the car, all arms swinging and firsts clenched. He stands on the halo of his car, pointing to the Ferrar emblem on his chest, over his heart. He jumps off and moves to congratulate Esteban, only to be met with a hug from the other driver. Max joins them quickly, strong handshakes and hard pats on the back before any of them are taking their helmets off. 

David Coulthard is waiting for him. Charles makes him wait, gets his bracelets and his watch from Andrea before picking up his microphone. “Charles, congratulations on your stunning victory! How are you feeling right now?” Your fingers find your lips, cover your smile and laugh. Charles has no idea how he feels. 

“Thank you!” He grins, all young and dimpled, purely pure. If you didn’t know better, you’d think a giddy first-grader had just won the biggest race in the world. “I don’t know,” he laughs. “It’s just… wow. I’m on top of the world right now, to be honest.”

He looks so tired and yet so, so full of life. Like the adrenaline is the only thing keeping him up, all sweaty hair and balaclava lines. You want to kiss him, to trail your fingers along every indent in his skin. “You led the race from start to finish, and it was quite a battle with Max. Tell us about your strategy and how you managed to hold that lead.”

“It was definitely not an easy race,” he says, still smiling. You’re shocked he hasn’t lost his English yet, he always does when he gets over excited. “Max is a great driver and I knew he would not make it easy for me. Our strategy was to be aggressive from the start. I tried to manage my tyres. I think it all paid off in the end.”

“Your victory today makes you the first Monegasque driver to win the Monaco Grand Prix since Louis Chiron in 1931. How does it feel to be a part of this historic moment?”

“It’s a tremendous honor. Louis is an inspiration to all Monegasque drivers, to follow his footsteps is truly special.”

“Fantastic, thank you, Charles. Congratulations.”

“Thank you, thank you!” He says, holds up a thumbs up as he walks away and winks. Well, he tried to wink. The inability to do so might be the least suave thing about him. 

The screen transitions to the cool-down room, to Max talking Esteban’s ear off, lighting up with a smile when Charles enters. The camera focuses on Charles in the corner, setting his helmet and his towel down on the table in front of his name, drinking an entire water bottle in two gulps, opening another and taking up a conversation with the others. 

Joris snaps a finger in front of your face. “Sorry, what?” You ask, eyes snapping to him.

“I asked if you want champagne?” he chuckles. 

“Oh,” you smile. “Yeah. Thanks.”

When you look back, they’ve already cut to the empty podium, announcing Esteban’s third place finish to a loud applause. He celebrates like he won the thing, which you admire. Next is Max, who is met with applause, but it's noticeably less than the roar that follows when Charles’ name is announced. 

The room around you is half as loud as the rest of the country, laughing and screaming wild for Charles. Jo and Ricky pop open Champagne bottles on the balcony, send the corks flying to God only knows where, hastily filling up the glasses beside them and passing them out. 

Even from blocks away, where he is just a red dot, where your friends arms are over your shoulder sipping champagne and humming along with the national anthem, you feel a strange connection to him, something beyond the bickering and annoyance. Something beyond the sex, maybe. Something just… something happy, or proud, or just plain soft, maybe. Soft like his smile while he gets drenched in Champagne by the two others on the podium. 

(six hours later) 

Joris’ knowing glances didn’t escape your notice, and it made you uneasy. You wondered if Charles was crass enough, if he has been sharing secrets about your little arrangement. The thought of it sends a shiver down your spin. The idea of anyone glimpsing into the tangled web that is you and Charles now made you feel vulnerable and exposed. 

You sipped your drink, trying to focus on the chatter around you, but your mind just keeps looping back to him. His laughter, his smile. His very presence seems to pull on you, and it doesn’t help that you know he feels the same way, that he has for weeks now. You quickly brush away the thought each time, unwilling to entertain the idea of anything beyond the surface of your friendship. 

“You seem a bit distant tonight,” Jo remarked, voice pulling you back to the present. 

You force a smile, hope he won’t detect the unease that drenches your demeanor. “Just a bit tired, I suppose,” you replied casually, averting his gaze, staring into the bottom of your glass as you spun the clear liquor around. 

He didn’t push further, but the look on his face tells you he sees right through you, makes you feel that much more exposed. You take a deep breath, attempt to steady yourself, but the questions linger like shadows in the back of your mind. 

The night wears on, and Charles wears your eyes, a near constant sightline from you to him. It was easy to steal glances when he looks like that, when his easy charm and infectious laughter draws everyone in. 

You don’t dare confront the truth, not here, not now. It was easier to stay in the safe confines of what you knew, what you’d established, emotions locked away in a heart-shaped locket hung round your neck. 

The party shows no signs of winding down, and you need air. You slip away from the group, out the back door to the curb where all the smokers hide. You found yourself drawn to the quiet of it, where it was just you, your thoughts, and the smell of tobacco. 

With the distant laughter and celebrations faded into the night, you allow yourself to be candid, to admit the truth, if only to yourself. There was a part of you that yearned for something more, a part of you that longed to explore what might be with him. 

But he was right. You are afraid, you are. Afraid of what it means to let your guard down, to open up to the unknown. The vulnerability that comes with the admission is daunting, shit straight from a horror movie, like a trap. You were standing on a cliff, a dangerous precipice that threatened to unravel everything you’d sloppily built. This life is held together with bubblegum and toothpicks, it can’t stand the shake. 

So, as you stood there on the back step, you made a silent promise to yourself. A promise to stay safe, to guard your heart and keep your feelings hidden from him, from everyone. 

You returned to the party, unable to fully shake the weight of what gnawed on you. The cocktail of emotions was overwhelming, and you found solace in the bottom of a glass. Joris egged you on, kept the shots coming, and Marta made it more fun. 

However, as the alcohol flowed freely, your tipsiness quickly spiraled into something more intense. With each drink, your inhibitions crumbled into a reckless pursuit of distraction. Each shot pushed the turmoil down further. 

Marta slowed down first, opting to be cautious on her first “big night out” since having the baby. She could focus on the company and the laughter you feared. Joris started sober, too, tried to keep an eye on you the best he could, but you were determined to lose yourself to the moment. 

The music thumped loudly, and the energy of the party was infectious. You danced with wild abandon, uncaring of the curious glances and amused whispers that followed. The alcohol had stripped back any reservations, leaving behind a version of yourself you barely recognize, all carefree and daring and reckless. 

Jo tried to reason with you, to suggest you call it an early night, but you were having none of it. “I’m fine, really,” you insisted, slurring your words slightly. “Let’s do another shot!”

He reluctantly agreed, but the more you drank, the more erratic your behavior became. You danced with strangers, laughed loud and flirted shamelessly, trying to fill the void with temporary connections. Amidst the sea of bodies, you caught the eye of a handsome stranger. He was tall, with dark brown hair and a mischievous glint in his eye that instantly intrigued you. He moved with confident grace, and you were like a moth to a flame. 

He made his way toward you, playful smirk on his lips. “I couldn’t help but notice you across the room,” he said, voice low and alluring. 

You laughed, feeling the effects of alcohol emboldening you. “Oh, really? And what is it that caught your attention?”

He leaned in, his breath brushing against your ear as he mumbled, “Your smile. It’s as captivating as the stars.”

You blushed at his compliment, feeling a rush of warmth spread through you. “Smooth talker, huh?” you teased, trying to keep up the playful banter. 

He chuckled, his finger lightly grazing the small of your back. “Only when I’m in the presence of someone this beautiful.”

You grinned, enjoying the flirtatious exchange. “You know how to flatter a girl,” you replied, heart racing at his touch. 

He leaned in even closer, the proximity between you sending sparks flying. “I can be even more convincing,” he said, voice low and seductive. 

You raised an eyebrow, playfully challenging him. “Is that so?”

He smirked, gaze never leaving yours. “Oh, absolutely,” he replied. “But you’ll have to let me prove it.”

A thrill coursed through you as the chemistry between the two of you intensified. You were well aware it was just a fleeting moment, a casual flirtation in the middle of a wild night out. But something about this stranger has ignited a spark in you, and you found yourself tempted to play along. 

The two of you danced together, the electric energy between you creating an intoxicating allure. His hands traced patterns along your waist. You get lost in the moment, in the music, in the touch of a stranger. 

“You wanna get out of here?” He asked, and you laughed. 

“No,” you replied, and abandoned your spot with him before he could protest any further. 

At some point, you stumbled outside for fresh air, feeling the world spin around you. The cool night air did little to sober you up, and instead, it only dueled your recklessness. You leaned against the railing, teetering on the edge between exhilaration and oblivion. 

Joris found you there, concern etched on his face. He calls your name, “Maybe we should call it a night. You’ve had enough.”

But you shook your head defiantly, a stubborn gleam in your eyes. “I’m not done yet,” you slurred. “I want more.”

He sighed like he knew it was pointless to attempt to reason with you like this, made you promise to stay put, told you he was off to get you another drink and he would be right back. 

As he left for your promised drink, you found yourself swaying in your shoes, the world around you still spinning. You closed your eyes for a moment, trying to gain some composure, but the liquor is taking it’s toll. When the door opened, you opened your eyes again, met with Joris–no drink, but with Charles in tow. 

You laughed. “Hey, Charles,” you slurred, grabbing onto his arm for support. 

He looked down at you, a mix of surprise and annoyance crossing his features. “Are you alright?” he asked, glancing around as if someone would magically appear to care for you. 

You ignored his question. “I want you to dance with me,” you demanded, tugging on the sleeve of his sweatshirt. 

He frowned, clearly not thrilled by the idea. “You’re drunk. Maybe you should sit down and take it easy,” he suggested, trying to lead you back inside, no doubt in the direction of a chair. 

“No,” you pouted. “I want to dance.” You didn’t care that you looked like a mess, or that your coordination was shot. All you wanted was to forget, to lose yourself in the music and the movement. 

Charles sighed, clearly exasperated, but let you tug him all the way back inside to dance. He keeps a cautious distance, as if he was worried you might fall over at any moment, which, granted. You very well might. You swayed and you twirled, laughing without regard for how ridiculous you looked. 

As the music pulsed through you, you were suddenly stuck with severe guilt. You were angry at yourself for getting so drunk, for losing control like this. You were mad at him, too, annoyed by his incessant need to attempt to care for you, for never just letting you be. And yet, at the same time, you were so drawn to him and his soft eyes, to the concern and frustration and the way he cared about you even when you pushed him away. 

The song changed. Something slower, more sensual. You dance closer to him and he hesitates, clearly unsure of what to do. You laugh, wrap your arms around his neck and pull him closer. You could feel his heart racing, his body tense with restraint. 

“We shouldn’t…” he started to protest, but you silenced him with a kiss. It was messy and desperate, per usual, fueled by alcohol and unspoken emotions. He hesitates for just a moment before giving in, his hands finding their way to your waist. 

You pulled away breathless, looked up at him all defiant and bratty. “I don’t need you to take care of me,” you whisper, and it comes out far more vulnerable than you intended, all squeaky and cracked. “I can handle myself.”

He looked torn, his usual composure slipping momentarily, before reverting to his usual ways.  “Someone fucking has to,” he finally spoke. 

You wanted to protest, to push him away, but the words all get stuck in your throat. Instead, you lean in to kiss him again, fingers tanging into his hair. In this moment, you wanted nothing more than to forget it all, to lose yourself in him and the way he made you feel. “Thank you for dancing with me.”

“Can’t believe I got your sloppy seconds,” he quips.

“What?”

“The guy who tried to take you home earlier,” he laughed. “Looked like a prick.”

“Oh,” you laughed. “Him.”

“Yeah, you really hit it off with him, didn’t you?” Charles said with a hint of sarcasm. You struggled to read if he was joking or if he was just barely keeping his irritation in check. 

You grinned, words still slurring. “Oh, you’re just jealous.” you shot back at him, leaning closer. 

“Please,” he scoffed. “Like I could ever be jealous of that guy.”

“You’re right,” you laughed, your body pressing against his as you stumbled slightly. “You just won the Monaco Grand Prix.”

The rest of the evening continues in much of the same way, with Charles having to play babysitter to a very drunk–and very handsy–you. He tried to keep his distance, to maintain some semblance of composure, but you made it hard constantly pulling him into your orbit. 

At some point, you find yourselves alone on a sofa, the noise around you fading somewhere far off. You were giggling about something, leaning your head on his shoulder. “You know,” you said, “this is all your fault.”

He quirked a brow. “My fault? How do you figure?”

You Smirked, reaching up to play with a strand of his hair. “You’re the one who got me all worked up with that kiss earlier,” you said, voice low and teasing. 

His cheeks burnt bright pink. “I didn’t do anything,” he said, a poor attempt at sounding casual. 

“Oh please, Charles. You know exactly what you’re doing,” you said, voice taking on a more serious tone. “You’re always doing this, pulling me in and then pushing me away.”

“You’re fucking with me, right?” He scoffs, turning his head to face you, knocking your head off his shoulder in the process. “You’re the one doing that.”

You feel a pang of guilt at his words. You know he’s right, that tonight is just the next night of you sending him mixed signals. It’s been going on like this for months, but you don’t know how to stop, how to untangle the mess. “I don’t mean to,” you say softly, defenses dropping for a moment. “It’s just… complicated.”

He nodded. “I know,” he speaks quietly. “It’s just hard. Trying to figure out where we stand.”

You sigh, running your hand through your hair. “I know. I do.” You sit in silence for a moment, the weight of your unspoken feelings hanging in the air. You wished you could say something, anything, to tell him how you feel, but all the words are stuck. Instead, you reach for his hand, intertwine your fingers and look up at him, big pupils in the dimly lit room. “I don’t want to ruin what we have,” you said softly, voice hardly above a whisper. 

“I don’t either,” he said, his thumb stoking your hand gently. 

The moment is interrupted by Joris, who appears from around the corner out of nowhere, looking half as annoyed as the two of you must. “There you two are,” he said, relief and irritation clouding his words. “It’s time to go,” he says, pointing directly to you. “You’ve had enough.”

You groaned, but you didn’t protest. You lean on Charles the whole walk to Joris’ car. 

As you arrived back at your apartment, he helped you inside and settled you into bed. He tucked you in, brushing a strand of hair away from your face. “Sleep well,” he whispered, voice soft and tender. 

You smile sleepily, reaching up to touch his cheek. “You too,” you murmured. He turns to leave, but before he could go, you grab his wrist, holding it tightly. “Stay,” you said, voice barely audible. 

He hesitates for a moment, you can feel it in the air even with your eyes closed, can feel his heart beating in his wrist. Eventually, though, he gives in, slides into bed beside you. He wraps his arms around you, holding you close, and you nuzzle into his chest, feeling the warmth of his body against yours. 

“You’re so warm,” you mumbled, words still pathetically sloshed. 

He chuckles softly, the annoyance in his eyes starting to fade. “Well, I am always warm,” he teased, trying to lighten the mood, to ease the awkwardness. 

You giggled, snuggling even closer to him. “You’re my human heater,” you said, voice filled with affection. 

As the minutes passed, you started to drift off to sleep, your breathing becoming slow and steady. You could see the struggle in his eyes as your lids grew heavier, the depth of care for you he tried so hard to hide. 

When you wake up in the middle of the night, hints of a sunrise beginning to push through the curtains, you find him still awake. He looked lost in thought, afraid, almost. Desperately, you wanted to reach out, to ask him what was wrong, but feared pushing him away more than anything. 

You settle against his chest, listen to the sound of his heart beating against your ear, feel yours match it. Finally, exhaustion catches up to him, his body relaxing as he drifts off to sleep. As you lay there, you can’t help your tired mind and it’s delusions of a future where you don’t have to hide your feelings, where you can be together openly and honestly, and then you’re falling back asleep yourself.

[sainzsiren]

LIZ'S CHARLES LECLERC FIC RECS

rec masterlist

last updated october 14th, 2024

FLUFF

company by @hugleclerc

SMUT

you got me touching by @httpsserene

almost lost you by @fastandcarlos

piano punishment by @thef1diary

edged by ^

ANGST

break in, breakdown by @pucksandpower

SMAUS

nothing yet...

[inevesgf]

hi there!! :) love your fics!! could you do one soulmates!au with charles where you two keep meeting/bumping into each other? i think it's super cute and super cliché 😭

ACCIDENTAL INTERACTIONS

in which you and charles can’t stop running into each other after one minor incident — wrote by inevesgf.

content + warnings: fem!reader x charles leclerc, no use of yn, few self esteem jokes, straight fluff with some lovesick fucks. reader is so lovesick by laufey core in this.

masterlist + requesting rules.

as the days of your life went on, things would always come back to haunt you. it was like a plague. bad memories, things that reminded you of times you shouldn’t think about; it was the bane of your existence. usually things that came back to haunt you weren’t all that pretty. an ex, an embarrassing photo from when you were younger – but this was different. he was different. 

the only haunting thing about him was his beauty. he had the most beautiful green eyes, paired with his swooping hair that could only be compared to the ocean waves. he was a stranger, maybe even a stalker at that. or maybe, in some odd, fucked up way, the universe had forcefully pulled you two together for a reason.

it started on a gloomy sunday morning, the overcast sky hiding the sun away under the dark clouds as you walked through the streets of monaco. though sunday was a reset day – a day to wind down – you still had a never ending amount of work to attend to back at your apartment. you were in desperately need of a pick-me-up, but in your luck, you couldn’t have got something worse.

you strolled into one of the local cafes – the beanhouse – walking over to the barista who’s eyes lit up as she saw you. “it’s been awhile.” the barista you came to learn who’s name was aspen added – you couldn’t fathom how she could be so happy on a gloomy day like this. “yeah – just been out of the country for some business trips, nothing too exciting.” you laughed softly, your eyes coming to scan the overhead menu even though you already knew what you wanted. “the usual or are you switching it up today?” aspen questioned, her manicured nails resting on the screen of the till as she waited for a response. “the usual – of course.” you smiled softly, a small sigh escaping your lips.

you dreaded the day ahead of you – the routine had come to bore you. you’d tell yourself it’s your day off, you’d make plans with friends, and then a turn of events would get in the way when you realized you had more reports due the following week.. you liked your job – you didn’t love it – but you supposed it was good enough as it gave you the chance to live in the beautiful country of monaco. 

you stepped to the side, changing the music in your headphones to something more mood-appropriate as you waited for you coffee. you observed the people around you, their smiling, bright faces making you cringe. you felt anything but happy that morning, the hustle and bustle of the coffee shop somehow making you feel worse.

you were snapped out of your daze when someone bumped into you, sending you a step backwards as a gasp fell out of your mouth. some fucking bastard had spilled his coffee all over you and you now stood with a scowl on your face, your grey sweater now stained with the liquid. “fuck, i am so sorry–” a mans voice spoke quickly, sucking you out of your trance. “it’s fine, it’s fine.” you muttered, though you knew that put a damper on your mood even more than the workload for today had.

“let me grab some napkins.” the voice sounded panicked and you now finally got a good look at him. god, you would have thought he was handsome if he didn’t just ruin your favorite sweater. “i said it’s fine–” your voice came off a little more aggressive than it should have, a small scowl still remaining on your face. to your dismay, the man continued to usher over to the counter, grabbing some napkins before nervously shoving them in your hand.

“did you already order? i’ll pay – i am so so sorry.” the man apologized once more, his green eyes looking down at you with sympathy glazing over his pupils. “i already paid, it’s okay.” you spoke softer this time, a large exhale escaping your lips as you dabbed some of the napkins on your sweater. “how much was it? i got.” he spoke quickly, digging into his pockets for his wallet. you wanted to conversation to end, but it seemed like he wasn’t backing down. “no – it’s fine – really.” you spoke insistently, trying your hardest to get him out of the way so you could just grab your coffee and leave.

the man let out a sigh of defeat, putting his wallet back into the pocket of his jeans. “are you sure?” he asked softly, his eyes still glazed with the same look of sympathy. the only thing that stopped you from staring at him was aspen calling your name, signaling your order was ready. “i’m sure, have a good day.” you spoke calmly, walking towards the counter. 

it was a meaningless interaction. sure, it upset you more than you’d like to admit, but you didn’t know this wouldn’t be the last time the boy from the coffee shop would haunt you like a ghost.

the next time was when you were at the dog park, letting your happy golden retriever run around as you threw the ball for him to fetch. it was another sunday – another day off – but this time you were finally able to have your you-time. 

you laughed as you watched your dog run over to a smaller dog, greeting him with the most gentle of sniffs, his tail wagging back and forth. “c’mere, jasper!” you called out, a smile on your face as you approached your dog alongside the small dachshund he had seemingly befriended. “aww, you’re cute,” you cooed, bending down beside the small dog to pet it gently. “what’s your name?” you asked, obviously not expecting an answer from the dog after all – you were keen on talking to yourself.

“leo.” a man spoke up, making you jump a little as you stood up. and there he was in all his glory:  coffee shop boy. you prayed he didn’t recognize you, wishing and hoping he wouldn’t make this more awkward than it already seemed to be. “that’s a cute name. hi, leo.” you whispered softly down at the dog, returning your gaze back to the man with a small smile. “and what might his owner’s name be?” you found yourself asking, even if at the moment you had barely any interest in finding out. 

“i’m charles, nice to meet you.” the man – charles – held out his hand for you to shake and hastily you held out yours, shaking it softly as you told him your name. “nice to meet you too.” you hummed, the feeling of his warm hand on yours seemingly distracting you for a moment before you pulled away. “you live around here?” charles asked. fuck, you wanted to die. oh, if he recognized you, you swore you’d run away in embarrassment. “yeah – monte carlo area. originally from italy, though.” you responded hesitantly, looking into his eyes in hopes not to see a light bulb light up in his head. “me too – not from italy – but monte carlo.” his tone seemed nervous, you were aware he knew you were the mean bitch he spilled his coffee on.

“is this your dog?” charles asked, trying to steer the conversation in a less awkward direction. “mhm, this is jasper.” you smiled softly, mentally thanking god – if he was up there – that charles didn’t say anything. charles kneeled down in front of you, reaching his hand out to pet jasper over his nose. “he’s such a cutie.” just like his owner. you made up the last part – it was what you wished he said after all. then right after, you mentally scolded yourself for being so dumb. in the end, he was a stranger, one who spilled his coffee on you weeks prior – one who had spoiled your day.

you had to admit to yourself, charles was quite handsome. his green eyes paired with the small freckles that decorated his cheeks was a sight for sore eyes, and once again you found yourself staring. “uh – yeah. isn’t he?” you laughed, pulling your eyes away from admiring the dashing stranger even more than you were already. it was stupid how you were basically eye-fucking him – someone you had just properly met. 

“for sure.” charles hummed, a smile decorating his face as he stood back up. it was almost like god had answered your prayers too late as charles phone started to ring, pulling it out of his pocket as he turned back to look at you once more. “i gotta go – hope to see you again.” he smiled, bringing the phone to his ear. “yeah, nice meeting you.” you spoke softly, left dumbfounded by the conversation as he walked away.

unfortunately – or maybe not – this wasn’t even the last time you’d encounter charles. it was almost like he was stalking you; how weird it was that he had showed up at the most random times at the most random places. you didn’t find yourself complaining though. it was like something gravitated you toward him – a fucked up part of you that begged to know more.

it was a thursday now, a quiet and easy one at that, which made you made you think it was the calm before the storm. work had cooled down, you finally weren’t stressed with anything else; it was blissfully unreal.

 the history of monaco was beautiful, and on that free thursday afternoon, you found yourself at the museum of prehistoric anthropology. though your priorities didn’t lie within anything historical, your mind was captivated by the idea of the study. 

you found yourself stood in front of a reconstruction of mammoth bones, the tall structure before you quite intimidating to your small stature. you glanced up at it, taking note of all the small detail, each bone intricately placed to display to museums go-ers what the being had looked like. your eyes danced around it, staring at it like it would change in a matter of seconds.

“fascinating, isn’t it?” a voice interrupted behind you, and when you realized it was charles, you found yourself gasping slightly. “are you stalking me?” you asked – not in an offended tone – but a teasing one. “maybe.” charles joked back, leaning on the guard rail of the exhibit next to you as he looked over in your direction. “we just keep meeting, don’t we?” he asked, a small chuckle escaping his lips as he did, “first the coffee shop, then the dog park, now at a museum–” “you remember the coffee shop?” you questioned, interrupting his words.

your mind was in a daze that day, of course you’d come to ask stupid questions. you started to mentally scold yourself before he answered, “yeah — i am so sorry about that, by the way. my mind was just all over the place, i wasn’t watching where i was going.” the same look of sympathy from a few weeks ago marked his face, causing you to nervously shift in your place. “no — it’s fine. i’m sorry for being, well, a bitch to put it simply. just wasn’t having a good day.” you laughed softly to yourself, pulling on the cuffs of your sweater as if your skin was about to jump off your bones.  “you weren’t a bitch. i get it — a guy spills his coffee on you and you get a bit upset. it’s a normal human interaction.” charles responded, nodding his head in understanding.

he understood your attitude, and his dismissal of your all-too-mean tone that day made you smile softly. “yeah — still sorry.” you muttered, another small laugh escaping your lip-sticked lips. “don’t worry,” charles dismissed, “so — why a museum?” he questioned, keeping the conversation going which you didn’t mind this time. “don’t know — just find this stuff interesting is all. had a free day from work so i decided broadening myself on monaco’s prehistoric history would be fun,” you spoke, sort of cringing at the words that fell from your mouth. “what about you?” charles waited a bit before he answered, formulating a response that seemed fit for him. “me too — don’t know. just needed to clear my head, i guess.” he chuckled again, his eyes looking over to scan the exhibit in front of him.

god, he was gorgeous. charles could have told you he was a model and you’d believe him – his dashingly good looks and his beautifully-messy hair laid oddly perfect even though it seemed to curl in every direction. “i get that. it’s calm here — makes for a good self care day.” you hummed, agreeing with his words as you finally took your wandering gazes off of his body and onto the exhibit where they should have been all along.

 “i owe you.” charles blurted out, your eyes darting back to him at his quick words. he owed you? what could he possibly owe you for? “for the coffee shop incident.” oh. “no no — it’s fine. i already told you i don’t need your money. thank you, but it’s no issue.” you nodded, trying to get him to drop it and spare you of your embarrassment. charles responded, an insistent look on his face, “just let me take you out to dinner.” oh god, you thought you were dreaming. a cute boy — maybe even a bit of a foolish one — asking you on a date? of course, it wasn’t really a date, but it was the thought that counted.

“please.” his begging tickled your ears, a small blush forming to your cheeks that you tried your hardest to hide when you turned your face away. “fine, okay, but you don’t need to.” you spoke softly, your eyes locking onto his green ones. it felt like you had known him before — in a past life or something — even if the thought sounded pathetic. “here – give me your phone. i’ll put my number in and then we can find a time and place that works, yeah?” charles proposed, causing you to nod and reach for your phone in the pocket of your jeans. you unlocked it, handing it over to him with a small, toothless grin on your face. charles typed in his number, sending himself a quick ‘hi’ before he handed it back to you. “i’ll see you for dinner then. good bye.” and just like that, charles spun on his heels, a shit eating grin on his face as he walked away.

once again, you were left dumbfounded, clutching your phone in your hand as you looked down at it. your eyes only widened once you scanned the screen, the contact name he had typed in catching your eye that then sent a shiver down your spine – ‘cute coffee shop boy ♡’.

and again – it wasn’t the last time you had ran into charles, the next time on purpose as you had spent what seemed like hours getting prepared for your date. you wouldn’t have confidently called it a date if it wasn’t for charles shameless flirting in your text messages, making you blush brightly even behind a screen.

you had to admit – you already liked charles. there was just something about his bright eyes, his alluring personality, that pulled you in and seemingly had you sinking like an anchor in the ocean. charles was a romantic – a flirt – and you knew that from the second he had proposed to the two of you going to one of the most expensive restaurants in monaco. it came as a shock to you, but you weren’t complaining – a nice meal with a cute boy sounded like the closest thing to heaven on earth.

it was seven pm, the sunset dancing on the horizon as charles drove you in his black ferrari to the restaurant. you didn’t expect him to show up in such an expensive car – it was monaco, you probably should have – and god, was it so sexy. “you look beautiful, by the way.” charles hummed softly, looking over at you for a split second as he drove, navigating the narrow streets of monaco. “thank you,” you responded softly, a pink tint going to your face, “and you don’t look too bad yourself.” charles laughed at your words, tutting the steering wheel with his fingers as you two pulled in the parking area of the restaurant. “i’ll take ‘don’t look too bad’.” he laughed, unbuckling himself before quickly ushering over to your side of the jet black ferrari.

oh, he was a gentleman – a handsome one at that; you couldn’t shake that thought if you tried. it plagued your mind like an infection, quite like charles had since the day you met him. “thank you, monsieur.” you teased, curtsying as you stepped outside of the vehicle, adjusting down the hem on your black dress. you swore charles was staring at you, his eyes dancing, taking in every curve of your body — your hair, your face. there was a long pause before he spoke, a small laugh escaping your lips as you noticed his admiring gaze.

 “you look beautiful.” charles repeated again, his voice seemingly out of breath as if you had taken it away. fuck, you felt like an idiot, blushing like a maniac at the smallest of compliments. charles seemed to be affected by your presence, the breathy air of his words giving you that odd feeling again. it was like it was meant to be. then you felt stupid once more, mentally slapping yourself to saturn for gushing over his every move like a schoolgirl with a crush. it was pathetic, but god, something about him felt so right.

it was hard to fathom that your dinner was real when the charming prince of your dreams sat in front of you – a napkin laid over lips lap, a soft, small smile decorating his lips the whole time. you felt comfortable with him as if you had known him your whole life; maybe your souls were interlinked, even if the idea sounded quite pathetic. the two of you got to know each other, talking about your job, each other's childhoods – god, he could make a dull conversation sound like the most interesting thing.

“i feel like i’ve known you my whole life.” charles muttered, looking over to you as your eyes scanned the bright night lights of monte carlo. it was days later, the two of you finding yourself sat a top the highest hill, looking over the city. it was quite romantic: the two of you sat on a picnic blanket, a bottle of some wine sitting next to you, his body inches away from yours. 

“i know,” you agreed, “feels like we kept running into each other for a reason.” it sounded stupid, but ever since your second interaction you found yourself looking deeper into the tiniest of things. the way he smiled as you two talked at the dog park, the way he said he hoped he’d see you again — it was all seemingly too perfect.

“i really like you.” charles found himself muttering again, his eyes now flashing over to look at you, a tinge of confidence decorating them. you wanted to laugh at his words, but your body seemingly froze in fear as a mix of excitement pushed through.

his confession had your blood rushing, a red tint going to your cheeks as you adjusted your position. you liked him too — maybe more than you liked anyone before — but was it too soon to agree?

“i like you too.” fuck it, it wasn’t. you smiled softly, the same red hue still decorating your cheeks as your eyes locked onto him. he flashed you a smile, his shoulders moving up and down as he tried to regain his composure, to catch his breath.

“i’m glad i met you — even if i spilled my coffee on you.” charles laughed, scooting a bit closer, your shoulders now rubbing against one anothers. the small gesture made your breath catch in your throat, yet you didn’t want him to move – you wanted to stay like that forever. 

“i want you to be my girlfriend.” charles spoke quickly, almost as if he was trying to ward off the embarrassment of his proposal as fast as possible. his words came off shaky, the fear of rejection seemingly plaguing his mind. “if you’ll have me.” he added. his prior words made you want to jump out of your skin – yet not in a bad way – the red hue of excitement still dancing on your face. 

everything seemed too good to be true in that moment, his confession causing you to question whether you were awake or just dreaming. you felt like a princess, one who had been trapped in the cage of her mind this whole time – now her handsome prince had finally come to save her.

“i want you to be my boyfriend.” it was a soft agreement, one that fell from your lips so easily, yet so genuine. charles now wanted to leap from his skin, the hue of his cheeks mimicking yours as a smile decorated his face. you swore you had never seen a more happy man in your life, the expression on his face radiating of consolation.

“boyfriend and girlfriend – sounds perfect.” charles hummed, laughing softly as his anxiety wafted from his body like a leaf floating in the wind. “you’re amazing.” he murmured, the smile on your face only growing. the night went on lazily, the two of you holding on to each other as the cool breeze of monaco’s autumn danced around the air. now it truly was perfect. even if he had spilled his coffee on you, even if he had been so foolish – he was finally yours. now a ghost of a man that once plagued your mind had turned into a spirit you had invited in, and you couldn’t help but hope his company would last a lifetime.

thank you soo much for this request! i loved writing it soo much. and of course, thank you to @emchante for proof reading and giving me ideas as always mmwahh <3 rq are still open, lovelies, keep 'em coming!

[maddsxfall]

i think one of my fav kinktober fics i’ve read

Suck Him Dry

Day 3 → Oral Fixation 💋 Charles Leclerc

Warnings: 18+ content

Kinktober Masterlist

The room is dark, the kind of deep, enveloping darkness that sinks into your bones. The only light comes from a sliver of moonlight peeking through the heavy curtains, casting shadows that dance lazily across the ceiling. Charles is breathing softly beside you, his chest rising and falling with a steady rhythm that, on any other night, might lull you back to sleep.

But tonight is different. Your mind is restless, thoughts spinning in circles, too fast and too loud to let you sleep.

You stare up at the ceiling, your eyes tracing the shadows. You don’t know how long you’ve been awake — minutes, maybe hours. Time loses meaning when you're stuck inside your own head.

You feel like you’re trapped in a loop, a constant replay of every worry, every doubt, every little thing that could possibly go wrong. It’s exhausting, but there’s no way out. Not tonight, at least.

Beside you, Charles stirs. You freeze, holding your breath, hoping you haven't woken him up. But then you feel his hand slide over, warm and reassuring, finding yours in the darkness. He squeezes your hand gently, his thumb brushing over your knuckles.

“Can’t sleep?” His voice is soft, rough with sleep, but there’s a thread of concern woven through it.

You shake your head, even though you know he can’t see you. “No,” you whisper. “I’m just … stuck in my head again.”

Charles hums, a low sound that vibrates through the silence. He turns onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow to look at you. Even in the dark, you can feel the weight of his gaze, steady and unwavering.

“What’s going on in there?” He asks gently, tapping your temple with his finger.

You sigh, closing your eyes. “Everything. Nothing. I don’t know.”

“Hmm.” He’s quiet for a moment, just watching you. Then he shifts closer, his hand moving to rest on your hip, his thumb brushing back and forth in a soothing motion. “You need something to get you out of your head,” he says quietly.

You don’t respond. It’s not like you haven’t tried everything already — reading, counting sheep, focusing on your breathing. Nothing works.

Charles seems to understand. He leans in, his breath warm against your ear. “I have an idea,” he murmurs. “But you have to trust me.”

You open your eyes, turning your head to look at him. There’s a glimmer of something in his eyes, something tender and a little mischievous. You nod slowly. “Okay. I trust you.”

A slow smile spreads across his face. “Good.” He leans down, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. “Come here,” he says, tugging you gently toward him.

You follow his lead, letting him guide you until your head is resting against his thigh. He strokes your hair gently, his touch soothing. “Just relax,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you.”

You close your eyes, taking a deep breath. Charles shifts, his hand moving to cup the back of your head, guiding you further down. You feel the warmth of him against your cheek, the soft fabric of his boxers brushing against your skin.

“Open your mouth,” he says softly.

You do as he says, parting your lips. He guides you with gentle pressure, and you take him into your mouth, the familiar taste and feel of him grounding you in a way that nothing else does. You close your eyes, letting out a slow breath through your nose as you begin to suck gently.

Charles lets out a low groan, his hand tightening in your hair. “That’s it, just like that,” he murmurs. “You’re doing so well, mon amour.”

You focus on the sound of his voice, the gentle praise in his tone, and the steady rise and fall of his chest. You feel yourself start to relax, the tension in your body slowly melting away. The constant buzzing in your head quiets, replaced by the rhythmic motion of your mouth and the soft, reassuring sounds Charles makes above you.

He strokes your hair, his thumb brushing over your temple in a slow, soothing rhythm. “You’re so beautiful like this,” he whispers. “So perfect. Just keep going, mon cœur.”

You hum softly around him, the vibration drawing a soft curse from his lips. He tugs lightly on your hair, guiding you a little deeper. You take him easily, your jaw relaxing as you find a steady rhythm, each motion smooth and deliberate.

Charles lets out a shaky breath, his hand tightening in your hair again. “God, you feel so good,” he murmurs. “So fucking good. You’re amazing, you know that?”

You don’t respond, but you don’t need to. He knows. He always knows. You focus on the feel of him in your mouth, the steady pressure against your tongue, the way he throbs gently with each pass of your lips. It’s comforting, in a way that’s hard to explain. It’s like everything else fades away, leaving just the two of you in this quiet, intimate moment.

He shifts slightly, his thigh muscles flexing under your cheek. “Are you okay?” He asks softly. “Do you need to stop?”

You shake your head slightly, your mouth still full. You don’t want to stop. Not yet. You need this — the steady, grounding presence of him, the way he makes everything else disappear.

He chuckles softly, his fingers threading through your hair again. “Okay,” he says quietly. “We’ll keep going as long as you need, mon ange.”

You don’t know how long you stay like that — minutes, maybe hours. Time loses meaning when you’re with him like this, when the only thing that matters is the steady rhythm of your mouth and the quiet sounds of his pleasure. You start to feel yourself getting drowsy, the tension in your body melting away completely.

Charles seems to notice. He strokes your hair gently, his thumb brushing over your cheek. “You’re getting tired, aren’t you?” He murmurs.

You hum softly in response, your eyes fluttering closed. He chuckles again, a soft, affectionate sound. “That’s okay,” he says quietly. “Just let yourself fall asleep, mon cœur. I’ve got you.”

You do as he says, letting your eyes close fully. You keep sucking softly, the motion slowing as you start to drift off. Charles hums a soft, soothing tune under his breath, his fingers still moving gently through your hair. You feel yourself slipping into sleep, the last thing you hear is the soft, steady sound of his breathing.

As you fall asleep, still sucking, you feel a sense of peace wash over you. For the first time in what feels like forever, your mind is quiet, your body relaxed. And you know, without a doubt, that as long as Charles is here, you’ll always have a way out of your own head.

***

You wake slowly, consciousness returning like a gentle tide washing over you. The world is soft and quiet, the room bathed in the faint blue light of early morning. For a moment, you’re disoriented, unsure of where you are or why you feel so warm and cocooned. Then you realize your mouth is still full, lips stretched around the familiar weight of Charles.

Your head is still resting on his thigh, and you can feel the solid muscle beneath your cheek. The sheets are warm and heavy around you, cocooning you in the lingering scent of Charles — clean and musky, with a hint of something uniquely him that you’ve come to love. His hand is still tangled in your hair, his fingers relaxed but still holding onto you, as if even in sleep, he doesn’t want to let you go.

Blinking your eyes open, you adjust to the dim light. Charles is still asleep, his chest rising and falling with each deep, even breath. You can feel his thigh move slightly under your cheek with each inhale, the slow rhythm of his breathing a comforting reminder that he’s here, right here with you. You don’t want to wake him, but you can’t help the way your tongue instinctively moves, brushing against the sensitive underside of him.

He stirs, letting out a soft sigh in his sleep, his grip on your hair tightening for just a moment before relaxing again. The sound sends a rush of heat through you, pooling low in your belly. You can feel him harden in your mouth, his body responding even in sleep. It’s intoxicating, the way you can affect him like this, the way he trusts you so completely, even when he’s not awake.

You shift slightly, adjusting your position under the sheets. Your lips tighten around him, your tongue pressing more firmly against the sensitive spot that makes him shiver. His breathing hitches, a soft groan escaping his lips. He’s still asleep, but his body knows you, recognizes your touch and responds to it.

Encouraged, you start to move more deliberately, sucking gently, your head bobbing in a slow, steady rhythm. The taste of him floods your mouth, salty and intoxicating, and you can’t help the way your body reacts. Heat blooms between your thighs, a low, insistent ache that makes you press your legs together, trying to find some relief.

But you don’t stop, don’t even slow down. If anything, you speed up, eager to taste more of him, to coax him awake with your mouth.

Charles groans again, louder this time, his hand tightening in your hair. “Merde,” he mutters, his voice rough with sleep. You feel him stir, his body shifting slightly as he wakes. “What …” His voice trails off into a low moan as you take him deeper, your lips stretching around him as you suck harder.

“Fuck, mon amour …” His voice is thick with sleep and something else — something deeper, more primal. You can hear the way his breathing changes, growing faster, more uneven. He’s fully awake now, and you can feel his body tense under yours, his muscles tightening as he tries to hold back.

You don’t let him. You move faster, sucking harder, your tongue working against him with a practiced ease that you know drives him crazy. He groans, his hips jerking up involuntarily, pushing himself deeper into your mouth. “God, you’re … you’re perfect,” he mutters, his voice barely more than a breathless whisper. “Don’t stop, please don’t stop …”

You hum around him, the sound vibrating through your throat and sending a shiver down his spine. His reaction spurs you on, and you take him deeper, your throat relaxing to accommodate him. He curses softly in French, his fingers tightening in your hair, guiding you with a gentle but insistent pressure.

“Just like that,” he breathes. “Mon dieu, just like that. You’re doing so good, so fucking good …”

You moan softly around him, the sound muffled by his length filling your mouth. The taste of him, the heat of his skin against your lips, the way he reacts to your every touch — it’s intoxicating, overwhelming. You feel yourself growing wetter, the ache between your thighs intensifying with every passing second.

Charles lets out a low groan, his hips bucking up slightly as he nears his release. “I’m close,” he warns, his voice strained. “Fuck, I’m so close …”

You don’t stop, don’t slow down. You want this — you want to taste him, to feel him lose control in your mouth. You suck harder, your tongue swirling around him with a renewed fervor. He lets out a strangled moan, his grip on your hair tightening almost painfully as he finally lets go.

He comes with a shuddering groan, his hips jerking up as he spills into your mouth. The taste of him floods your senses, warm and slightly salty, and you swallow eagerly, not wanting to waste a single drop. He groans again, softer this time, his body trembling with the force of his release.

But you don’t stop. Even as he starts to soften in your mouth, you keep going, your lips and tongue working with a steady, unrelenting rhythm. He lets out a surprised gasp, his hand tightening in your hair again.

“Mon amour, what are you …” His voice trails off into a moan as you suck harder, your tongue flicking against the sensitive underside of him. “Fuck, I-I can’t …”

You don’t listen. You don’t want to. You want to taste every last drop of him, to drain him of everything he has to offer. You feel a surge of satisfaction as he starts to harden again, his body responding to your insistent touch.

“Jesus, you’re insatiable,” he mutters, his voice thick with a mix of awe and arousal. “You’re going to be the death of me, you know that?”

You hum around him, your lips curving into a small, satisfied smile. You can feel him starting to tremble beneath you, his body on the edge of overstimulation. But you don’t stop. You can’t. You want more — need more.

Charles groans, his hips twitching as he tries to pull away. “I … I can’t, it’s too much …”

But you don’t let him. You wrap your arms around his hips, holding him in place as you suck harder, your tongue pressing against the sensitive spot that you know will drive him crazy. He lets out a choked moan, his body tensing under yours as he teeters on the edge of another release.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck …” He’s barely coherent now, his words slurred with pleasure and overstimulation. “Please, I … I can’t. I’m gonna …”

He comes again, harder this time, his body convulsing with the force of his release. You swallow every drop, your lips never leaving him, even as he starts to soften once more. He’s trembling now, his body twitching with aftershocks, but you don’t let up.

Charles gasps, his hand weakly pushing at your shoulder. “Mon amour, please … I can’t — it’s too much …”

But you don’t stop. You suck harder, your tongue working against him with a desperate, insistent rhythm. You’re close now, so close, the taste of him pushing you closer and closer to the edge. You can feel the tension building in your core, a tight coil that’s ready to snap.

He groans, his voice hoarse with pleasure and exhaustion. “Please, I … I need you to stop, I can’t take it …”

But you’re too far gone to listen. You’re on the edge, teetering on the brink of release, and you can’t stop, not now. You suck harder, your tongue pressing against him in a way that makes him shudder.

And then you’re there, the tension finally snapping as your orgasm crashes over you in a wave of pleasure. You moan around him, your body shaking with the force of it, your mouth never leaving him. You keep sucking, keep licking, riding out your orgasm as you drain him of everything he has to offer.

Charles gasps, his body going limp beneath you as he finally gives in, his head falling back against the pillow. “Merde …” he mutters, his voice barely more than a breathless whisper. “You’re … you’re incredible …”

You hum softly in response, your body still trembling with aftershocks. You finally pull away, your lips releasing him with a soft pop. You rest your head against his thigh, your eyes closed as you try to catch your breath.

He strokes your hair gently, his touch soothing. “Are you okay?” He asks softly. “Did I … did I hurt you?”

You shake your head, a small, contented smile spreading across your lips. “No,” you whisper. “I’m perfect.”

He chuckles softly, his fingers still moving through your hair. “That you are, mon ange. That you are.”

You let out a soft sigh, your body relaxing completely against him. You feel a deep sense of satisfaction, a contentment that you haven’t felt in a long time. For the first time in what feels like forever, your mind is quiet, your body at peace.

Charles hums softly, his thumb brushing over your cheek. “I love you,” he murmurs. “So much.”

You smile, your eyes still closed. “I love you too,” you whisper. “More than anything.”

He chuckles again, a soft, affectionate sound. “Good,” he says quietly. “Because I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

[f1smutwriter]

Could you write something where Charles is dating a plus sized girl and she’s insecure but he shows her how beautiful she is? Please :)

|PERFECT (cl16)

|𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐞𝐬 𝐋𝐞𝐜𝐥𝐞𝐫𝐜 𝐱 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

Summary: She’s feeling a bit insecure about how her body look. But to Charles she’s perfect

Warnings: SMUT! dirty talk, praising, oral (fem rec), unprotected sex (like love making but wear protection gosh), creampie, pet names (my beautiful girl, good girl, mon ange), breeding kink, bit of angst, cockwarming, fluff so much fluff, more that I probably missed

Notes: I feel like I’m getting better, and again request are open and if you did request something I promise you it’s coming out soon

————————————————————————————————————

As I look at myself in the mirror I just start tearing up. Hating the way my body looks. I was never the skinny girl that guys lined up from. I was always the friend of the skinny girl, or my sister was the skinny girl. That's why when Charles will tell me I look beautiful I don't believe him. I put on a long sleeve pink shirt and a white tennis skirt on feeling confident. But when I looked at myself in the mirror I hated what I saw.

I looked like a monster. I had extra fat around my stomach, my arms weren't skinny, and my thighs were huge. I just look at myself in disgust making me cry more. "Mon ange what's wrong" Charles asked me concerned as he holds me up so I don't fall. "I hate myself cha, I hate how I look. Why are you even with me you should date someone pretty" I cried making it hard for him to understand me.

“Someone pretty but I do have someone pretty. I have someone so beautiful that it makes me want you all the time” He whisper to me softly making me wipe my tears. I look at him with my tear stained cheeks sniffling. “R-really” I say as he cups my face and wipes away the tears. “How about I show you baby, would you like that having me show you” He asked me in a gentle voice making me nod. “Go lay down my beautiful girl let me show you how much I love you and your body” he whispered in my ear making me squeeze my legs together.

I walk to the bed and sit down at the foot of it. He looks down at me holding my chin so I can look at him perfectly. “Gosh you’re so pretty with your little puppy dog eyes, Mon ange” he whispered softly making me squeeze my thighs harder tighter. He saw mh action making him chuckle softly. He slowly kneels down in front of me, not breaking eye contact for a single second.

He looks at my top biting his lip as he stares at my boobs. “Can you take this off so I can see these pretty tits” He grumbled as his gaze on my tits don’t break. I take off my shirt and unclip my bra making him groan getting the full view. “These are breath taking, one of my favorite things Mon ange” he murmured while taking one of them in his mouth making my breath hitch from the sudden pleasure.

I feel him suck on my soft skin making me gasped, as he nips softly. He sucks love marks on my chest making me whine. He kisses down my chest to my stomach. I feel his teeth gaze my stomach, then he kisses down to my waist line of my skirt. "We're gonna keep this on okay, you look so pretty to take it off" He growled as he kissed up my thigh. He moved my skirt up letting me see him between my legs.

As he slid my pink laced panties down my legs, he stares at my bare pussy making me close my legs close insecurely. "Leave them open, want to see this pretty pussy" He said spreading my legs again making me feel more insecure. He slowly licks my clit making me gasp, closing my thighs around his head making him groan. "I-i'm sorry baby" I say widening then not wanting to hurt him. "No I love it when you squish me, okay good girl" he said before going back and feasting on my cunt.

I start babbling nonsense trying to get away from the intense pleasure. “Fuck this pussy is the sweetest, can’t get enough of you” he muttered against my clit making me scream out in pleasure. “So sensitive huh, that’s why you’re so loud so responsive” he chuckled making me cry out feeling tears stream down my face. I feel his fingers tease my aching hole, slowly pushing them in. I moaned loudly feeling full just from two fingers. “I know baby, but daddy’s is gonna have to stretch you out. Y’to tight” he whispered before going back and sucking my clit.

I feel him curl his fingers hitting the perfect spot in me that only he could touch. “Found it huh the precious little spot that makes you cum all over my fingers, and tongue” he grunted before pounding his fingers into the spot that makes me see stars. I let out quiet moans the pleasure being to much that I can barely make a noise. “M’gonna c-cum” I stuttered out making him chuckled softly.

“Yeah this pretty little pussy gonna cum all over my fingers, gonna show me how much of a good girl you are” he teased making me moan louder and louder. “Yeah you are, only I can make you feel this good huh, only I can taste and fuck this tight pussy” he said going fast making my legs tremble and the knot in my stomach growing tighter.

“Cum, cum all over my fingers beautiful girl” he whispered in my ear making me scream out as I cum all over his fingers so hard I almost get light headed. He licks up all the cum that I give him making him groan causing vibrations go travel up my body, I close my legs from the overstimulation whining softly. “Want a condom or raw today princess” he whispered to me as he stroked his already hard cock to get himself ready.

“R-raw please” I say softly making him chuckle from my response. “My polite little girl” he whispered before running his leaky tip over my abused cunt. “So wet mon ange” He groaned before pushing into me making me gasp at the stretch. “Fuck s-stretching this pussy so wide, a-always s-so tight for me” he grunted before moving his hips with slow thrust.

“Cha-Charlie f-faster” I cried out while wrapping my legs around his waist encouraging him to go faster. His hips start going at the speed that I wasn’t, making me moan out. One of his hands holding my leg while the other grabbing my tit making me cry out as he pinched my nipple. “Fuck I’m so deep huh baby in this pretty stomach” he grunted “always in your tummy huh baby” he groaned before going faster now hitting my g-spot with every single thrust. “Found it” he gloated before pounding into me making me cry out.

“So fucking pretty when your getting fucked baby, remember that your the most beautiful girl ever” he groaned him feeling his own release. “Love your personality, your pretty face, and- fuck, your pretty fucking body love fucking you mon ange” he groaned feeling himself on the edge. “Cum with me my beautiful girl” he said while moving his hand that was grabbing my tit to my clit rubbing it in circles bringing me straight to my climax. “Fuck gonna put a baby in you baby you’re gonna look so much more prettier then you already are” he groaned softly. As he felt me tighten around him he groaned shooting his seed into me. He slowly fucks me through my orgasm, once I came down from my high he holds me in his lap cuddling me.

“Did so good Mon ange, so good my good girl” he praised me as I slowly fall asleep on his chest. “I’m gonna be right back let me go clean you up” he whispered trying to slip out but I stop him. “No please stay in me” I begged him softly making him smile. “Okay baby I’ll stay in you” he whispered before cuddling me to sleep. “I love you Charlie” I whisper half asleep in his arms. “I love you so much more Mon ange” he whispered back before we fell asleep.

——————————————————————————————————————————————————

Notes: stop to the girl who requested this I’m so sorry it took this long. I really hope you like it because I love this, most wholesome/dirty thing ever and I’m living for it. I hope you love it girl!

[driverlando]

⋆𐙚₊˚⊹ A LITTLE ABOUT ME

sasha, 22, she/her. probably somewhere writing or working. I love reading romance books so drop me some recs!! always remember that you’re safe & so loved here (icon from ari_jpg on pinterest)

MASTERLIST 𐙚 REQUEST STATUS: CLOSED 💌

I write for F1 drivers OP81, LN4, CL16, CS55, MV1, GR63, LS2 and LH44. send concepts in whenever, I’m always down to chat! blog contains smut/nsfw content so minors dni!

INBOX ⊹ BLOG INFO ⊹ 1K EVENT ⊹ 2K EVENT ⊹ PR SERIES MASTERLIST

[theemporium]

Who posts tons of Charles smut or has tons of recs

I have recs under “cl16.recs” so you can see a bunch of different writers!!

[ricciardosheart]

goo read this master piece rn

Let's Meet Our Daughter

Charles x fem!reader

Summary: You were afraid of giving birth and weren't ready, and but your daughter had decided to come two weeks early.

WARNINGS: Quick finish,not edited writing,normal delivery

A/n: actually i have no idea what i wrote,By the way, I used some sentences that women really say during childbirth.

One of the things you've been thinking about for years was how you'd give birth if you got pregnant because you were terrified about it.You were even more afraid now that you were weeks away from giving birth to your daughter.

You never wanted to talk to Charles about it because he was really trying to deal with your fears but there was nothing he could do about it.It's only two weeks before you give birth to your daughter, and Charles returns to the races.

You were sitting on the bed reading, Charles brought you both a glass of water and left yours next to you, he settled down on his side of the bed.Your daughter was active tonight, you were actually happy about it because it wasn't hurting She kicked a few times as usual, Charles had a little talk with his daughter, placed a kiss on your stomach,you turned off the lights and went to sleep.

Of course, sleeping wasn't easy because your daughter's kicks really started to hurt.You even moaned because it really hurt then you felt a wetness You turned on the light next to you and Charles woke up trying to understand what happened.

"No no no not now I'm not ready yet please" Charles took your hand in fear "Baby are you okay what's wrong tell me" you started crying unintentionally just then you felt a contraction "Charles, I'm giving birth" He got out of bed and came over to you, helped you get up, you already knew your water was break but now you were really scared.

You got in the car as fast as you could. you were crying with fear Charles was holding your hand, probably because he thought it hurt, he took you in his arms when you came to the hospital and they took you for the first check-up with a stretcher in the emergency room.

At the first check, they said that they will not do anything for now, as there is still 4 cm of clearance and the contractions are back to normal.They took you to the room and connected to a few machines for control, now you are a little calmer.

Charles didn't leave your side and started keeping minutes for contractions. When your contractions increased, you started to get stressed again Charles was holding yourhand "Charles I can't I-I'm so scared" Charles wiped the tears from your eyes and kissed your cheek, "My love, I know you can do it, don't be afraid, I'm right here, there's a little more time, okay breathe, I won't let go of your hand"

You nodded, when the contraction passed, you breathed and sat back, you had been in the hospital for almost 4 hours when the doctor came to check, there was not enough opening, but they said they could give an epidural if your pain is too much, you didn't want it because you thought you could stand it.

By the 10th hour the contractions were really unbearable, you looked at Charles in horror when the doctor finally said it'stime to push. "No! i changed my mind,I don't want it Charles tell her I don't want it please I don't" 

Somehow they convinced you to push, after a few hours you were really tired and hurt you spoke tiredly "Can I go home for awhile? I promise I’ll come back.” You frowned when everyone in the room laughed at what you said.

Your doctor told you to push again “I don’t care if you have to take her out of my ear, just get her out!” you shouted and groaned Charles wiped your forehead with his napkin you were really about to cry

"YN you have to push again we see the baby's head, Charles help her" Charles turned to you "Baby once again I know it hurts so bad but push for the last time" you groaned "No you don't know"

You turned and shouted when the nurse warned you "Will you shut up, I'm busy yelling at my boyfriend" You pushed with all your might and finally let yourself go when the baby's cries were heard.

You were crying with happiness when they held your daughter in your arms they took your daughter to clean your doctor checked to see if you were okay and asked how you were you nodded her, "You know YN people do this more than once" You looked at your doctor nervously and turned to Charles.“Maybe we can adopt the next one.”

[thisismereading]

─── ⋆⋅☆ millie’s recommendations ☆ ⋅⋆ ───

★ @thisismeracing rec blog :)

★ here you’ll find my recs from pieces I read to arts I find amazing;

★ I’ll mainly tag fic rec, smut fic rec, smau rec, and art rec;

★ I’ll use cl16, lh44, ms47 and so on for the pilots;

[raikkxz]

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨ 𝐅1 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 𝐱𝐨 ୧˚

★ pinned post | ☆ taglist | ★ rules | ☆ main masterlist

FLUFF [f]　|　SMUT [s]　|　SMAU [smau] | HEADCANNONS [hc]

MATURE CONTENT [mc]　|　BLURB [b]　|　ANGST [a]

REGULAR FIC [rf]

♡ - favourite　|　✦ - new

word count next to fic name, unless its an smau!

if a fic has a [smau] and [+ rf], that means it's both an smau and a regular fic!

౨ৎ 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐋𝐄𝐒 𝐋𝐄𝐂𝐋𝐄𝐑𝐂 (cl16)

★﹕MOVIE NIGHT [f] - 500+

in which your best friend, charles, prepares a movie night for you after a long day

more coming soon﹒﹒﹒

౨ৎ 𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐋𝐎𝐒 𝐒𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐙 (cs55)

coming soon﹒﹒﹒

౨ৎ 𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐎 𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐑𝐈𝐒 (ln4)

★﹕I WANNA BE YOURS [f] [rf] - 450+

in which lando is being clingy (as per usual) in the morning song rec : i wanna be yours

coming soon﹒﹒﹒

౨ৎ 𝐎𝐒𝐂𝐀𝐑 𝐏𝐈𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐈 (op81)

coming soon﹒﹒﹒

౨ৎ 𝐌𝐀𝐗 𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐏𝐏𝐄𝐍 (mv33/1)

coming soon﹒﹒﹒

౨ৎ 𝐃𝐀𝐍𝐈𝐄𝐋 𝐑𝐈𝐂𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐃𝐎 (dr3)

★﹕HELL N BACK [f] [rf] - 600+

in which the writer, scar, doesnt know what to summarise this 😓 (valentines special!) song rec : hell n back

more coming soon﹒﹒﹒

౨ৎ 𝐋𝐄𝐖𝐈𝐒 𝐇𝐀𝐌𝐈𝐋𝐓𝐎𝐍 (lh44)

coming soon﹒﹒﹒

౨ৎ 𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐀𝐍 𝐒𝐀𝐑𝐆𝐄𝐀𝐍𝐓 (ls2)

coming soon﹒﹒﹒

౨ৎ 𝐊𝐈𝐌𝐈 𝐑𝐀𝐈𝐊𝐊𝐎𝐍𝐄𝐍 (kr7)

★﹕CHOCOLATE LOVE [f] [rf] - 600+

in which you share chocolate, childhood memories and maybe a few kisses

more coming soon﹒﹒﹒

౨ৎ 𝐒𝐄𝐁𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐀𝐍 𝐕𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐋 (sv5)

★﹕TO BE LOVED BY A WRITER [smau] [f] [+ rf]

part one part two [coming soon] based of this request!

more coming soon﹒﹒﹒

౨ৎ 𝐉𝐄𝐍𝐒𝐎𝐍 𝐁𝐔𝐓𝐓𝐎𝐍 (jb22)

★﹕WALK HIM LIKE A DOG [f] [rf] - ✦

part one part two part three

part four [coming soon]

more coming soon﹒﹒﹒

౨ৎ 𝐓𝐎𝐓𝐎 𝐖𝐎𝐋𝐅𝐅 (tw0)

coming soon﹒﹒﹒

@HRTS4SCARR

please do not take/steal the photos or credit for the mood boards. it was made by me.

do not repost/copy any of my works on apps or websites.

all rights and credits go to the original owner of any images from my blog.

be respectful if you interact with my blog.

for some reason the tags keep disappearing posjfioapsgd

[agendabymooner]

SOMETHING SINFUL: a smut masterlist by AGENDABYMOONER (18+)

general f1 masterlists: a - n masterlist o - z masterlist

WARNING: SMUT/EXPLICIT CONTENT UNDER THE CUT. MINORS DNI!

LEGEND: ✦ = new pieces ☏ = voicemail blurb ♡ = rec read

note: you guys wanted a masterlist specifically for some smut content, so here is a masterlist ❤️ enjoy xx

taglists for this masterlist are attached below the cut. if you’d like to get on one of my taglists, check this post out!

alex albon (aa23)

something missed: their argument led them both to realize how much they sought to each other's touch. (angst, cockwarming)

fernando alonso (fa14)

something spoiled: she can have everything in the world. everything but that attitude. (brat taming, sd!fernando x reader)

jenson button (jb22)

something devoured: what is a man if not starving? (pussy drunk!jenson, oral sex) ♡

lewis hamilton (lh44)

something memorable: ten years of memories? how about memories of celebrating their ten years? (sex tape)

something sneaky: lewis' year-end party is just an excuse to get her away from the crowd.

something rewarding: pretty girl. patient girl. sweet reward. (soft dom!lewis, somnophilia-esque)

liam lawson (ll40)

something cautious: the view was the woman. (outdoor + exhibitionist) ✦

charles leclerc (cl16)

something green: control was what he normally had until he decided that making her jealous wouldn't break her out of her shell. (sub!charles x reader)

something angelic: charles showed her everything that she deserved all while showing her ex that he didn’t deserve her. (corruption kink-esque)

lando norris (ln4)

something deserved: when she stripped him off the opportunity to win, all he seemed to do was retaliate and reward her (dom!lando x reader)

something rewarded: miami gp 2024 meant celebration, even if it was for two only (dom!lando, titfucking, anal play) ✦

oscar piastri (op81)

something vocal: oscar is occasionally talkative. (praise kink, oral sex) ♡

late night talking: oscar left a voicemail for the reader to wake up to. (m masturbation) ☏

something different: she wasn't sure how he started acting like that- but it wasn't anything she'd complain about. (dom!oscar, orgasm denial)

george russell (gr63)

something unexpected: everything hits different when you're trying to move on with the help of your own best friend. (dom!george, best friends to lovers)

daniel ricciardo (dr3)

something watchful: he always wondered why she wanted to stay in that shithole of a flat so much. (exhibitionism/voyeurism/mirror sex)

something jealous: he’s got no reason to be one when he knew that she’s only desperate for him. (voyeurism ft. lando norris) ♡

something scandalous: they all knew he was into pda, but doing it in a club restroom was another story. (exhibitionism, semi-public sex)

something entertaining: daniel and his girl put on a show for a special guest. (voyeurism/exhibitionism, praise kink ft. lewis hamilton)

carlos sainz (cs55)

something hazy: carlos was an attentive husband to his stressed out wife. (soft dom!carlos)

something conversational: who would’ve thought that he still had the upper hand no matter how far he was? (phone sex, dom!carlos)

something possessive: he had always been a secured man, all he needed to do was to remind her how secured he was. (mean dom!carlos, anal play, facefucking, impact play) ♡

mick schumacher (ms47)

something broody: dilf!mick loved nothing more than the glow of motherhood that washed over his wife’s body. (breeding kink, body worship)

max verstappen (mv1)

something mean: don't underestimate the man if you don't want to be at the other side of his mean tendencies. (orgasm denial, mean!dom!max x reader)

something overwhelming: he wanted to overwhelm her in the nicest way possible (overstimulation, multiple orgasms)

toto wolff (tw00)

something big: she was the only one who could handle his desire and he's the perfect fit for her. (size kink)

something intoxicating: it’s funny how she can get mouthy but lose all of her words when she starts craving for more. (cock drunk!reader)

something desired: who the fuck was christian horner to decide what they both wanted? (size kink)

something divine: toto wanted to cherish his wife as she bore the light of their life. (pregnancy sex, body worship, breeding kink)

multiple drivers x reader

something full, pg10 + reader + cl16: it was like she had her personal demon and angel. except from they’re filling her needs one way or another. (dp, threesome) ♡

something celebratory, cs55 + reader + ln4: how to celebrate their singapore gp victory, carlando style. (anal sex, dp, threesome) ♡

something wagered, jb22 + reader + sv5: she learned that making a bet would be more risky and efficient if they knew what the reward was going to be. (threesome, spitroast, mclaren!jb and rbr!sv)

something fulfilled, fa14 + reader + mw2: their kid wanted a baby sibling and who were they to deny her that? their wife might need some convincing, however. (threesome, dp, breeding kink)

something agreeable, pg10 + reader + eo31: they're always thought to be enemies. but there's something that they have in common. (threesome, dp)

something reunited, sv5 + reader + mw2: it took them ten years to get her back and they were sure to ruin her plan to slip away the next time. (threesome, dp, face fucking size kink) ♡

something rotten, jb22 + reader + fa14: nothing is ever 'too much' for jenson and fernando. they made sure that she knew that. (threesome, dp, sd!jenson + sd!fernando)

something victorious, cs55 + cl16 + ln4 x reader: australian grand prix 2024 certainly deserved a party for four. (foursome, dp, oral sex ) ✦

more pieces coming soon!

in the mean time, why don’t you shoot me a message? 💌

♡ moony’s reminder 🅶 (general): @hiraethrhapsody @avaleineandafryingpan @enhacolor @roseandtulips @woweewoowa @magnummagnussen @happy-nico @architect-2015 @hiireadstuff @biancathecool @scorpiomindfuck @stinkyjax @youdontknowmeshh @hyneyedfiz @decafmickey @lightdragonrayne

♡   moony’s reminder 🅴 (explicit edition): @glitterf1 @savrose129 @maxillness @bigsimperika @xoscar03

[forzalando]

i-

if i speak. IF I SPEAK.

so in love ꨄ charles leclerc

charles leclerc x f!reader

warnings: 18+ only, p in v - no protection, charles is in love, charles doesn't shut up when he's horny [1008 words]

request: 🌶 Could you write prompt 17 with Charles Leclerc, please [17. “What’s wrong?  Why’d you stop?”  “Nothing’s wrong.  I just wanted to take a second to admire how beautiful you are.”]

The smell of sex wafted throughout the room. The fan running above your bodies did little to erase the sheen of sweat that had begun glittering across yours and Charles’ bodies. The sounds of skin against skin, grunts into the open air, it was intoxicating, it was all you could focus on.

Charles was insatiable. Had been since his win. All he could think about, all he wanted, was to feel himself pressed against you, inside of you. By all means, you were his favourite drug. He had practically begged you to let him bend you over in his driver’s room after the race. Then barely even gave you any time to recuperate once you were in his car, on the way back to the hotel. 

His hands had only left you to drive, and even then, one was still running up your leg, dangerously close to where your own body was yearning for him, practically soaking through your clothes because of the teasing movements of his hands.

His body craved yours more than it craved anything. But his mind, his heart? They just simply craved you. The way you smiled up at him from below the podium, the way you were always the first person on his brain when he woke up, and the last thing he thought about before he went to sleep. He craved everything about you, everything about your relationship. You were all he wanted.

It’s what always made things so much more intimate with him. The way he loved you transcended into his every action. It didn’t matter if the night was supposed to be about him, Charles always found a way to turn it around to make it about you.

Just like tonight.

His nose was pressed into the junction between your neck and shoulder, leaving open-mouthed kisses to the bare skin. Soft moans fell from your lips when you felt his teeth scratch against the sensitive skin of your neck, an inevitable mark forming from his actions.

Charles’ hips rutted against yours gently, his hardened member stretching your wet heat deliciously. You could feel him mumbling into your neck, his warm breath coasting across your skin, prompting goosebumps to jump to the surface as a shiver wracked throughout your body.

“So fuckin’ perfect, f’me. So beautiful, merde. Takin’ me so well. God, so incredible. Wish we could stay like this forever,” he groaned. 

He was practically delirious as he mumbled words into your neck, soft whimpers falling from your lips as he pressed his hips deeper into yours, hitting spots inside of you that had you crying out for him.

Pulling himself up and onto his elbows, his eyes locking on yours. Looking up at him questioningly as his lower body halted its ministrations. 

“What’s wrong? Why’d you stop?”

Shaking his head at you, he used one arm to hold himself up as he ran a thumb down the side of your cheek, across your lips, down your neck. You couldn’t contain the goosebumps that continued to litter your skin from his actions.

“Nothing’s wrong.  I just wanted to take a second to admire how beautiful you are.”

Your cheeks instantly heated, the adoration so evident in his eyes as he smiled softly down at you.

“Oh, Cha… hush,” you giggled, slapping at his shoulder. He leaned down to press his lips to yours, his hand now delicately holding your cheek.

Pulling away from you, he flopped over onto his back, tugging on your hand as he directed for you to climb on top of him. He loved watching you ride him, loved watching as you threw your head back in pleasure, or when you would grasp his thighs, your unrelenting grip always causing his hips to stutter in pleasure.

To put it simply, he loved just being able to look at you. Loved being able to make eye contact with you, being able to connect your fingers. Loved being able to see how much you loved him, in the most intimate form.

You did as he directed, climbing on top of him and sinking down on his cock. The stretch caused your eyes to close in pleasure, tipping your head back as a small sigh left your lips. Charles’ own sounds of pleasure mixed with yours, his hands instantly gripping onto your waist as he pulled you down harder.

“Fuckin’ love watching you ride me, merde,” he swore.

His thumb pressed against the hood of your clit, rubbing against the sensitive nub as you whimpered at his actions. The mixture of him rubbing your clit alongside the feeling of him stretching you out pushed you to move your hips faster, craving the feeling that was slowly beginning in the pit of your stomach. 

You could feel the pleasure growing, Charles’ fingers never leaving your clit as he guided your hips with his unoccupied hand. He couldn’t take his eyes off you, the way your hips moved, the way your head was tipped back; revealing the darkened marks he had littered against your neck earlier in the night. A small smirk grew on his lips when he realized you were getting close, his own orgasm creeping up on him.

The sounds you were making increased, your hips stuttering against his.

“Gonna cum f’me, pretty? Gonna soak my cock? Wanna cum with you, baby. Wanna fill up this pretty pussy,” he practically cooed his words, bucking his hips upwards so his cock hit the spot inside of you that had you crying out for him.

Your upper body snapped forward as your hands hit his shoulder. Charles’ own hips stuttered as he began to empty himself inside of you, continuing to rub his fingers against your clit, guiding you through your own moment of pleasure.

Slapping his hand away, you allowed your body to drop lightly onto his, attempting to regain your breath. Charles wrapped his now-free hands around your back, pressing his lips against your cheek in a soft kiss.

“Je t’aime, mon cœur,” he whispered.

“Je t’aime aussi, mon amour.”

i don't know what to say!!! but what i want to say isn't appropriate!!! hope y'all enjoy this

[singsweetmelodies]

hello world &lt;3

i'm Katie ❤️👋 ohmygasly on AO3

~ unashamed taylor swift & one direction girlie

~ f1 obsessed

~ CL16 ~ PG10 ~ LH44 ~

navigation

(fair warning: my blog is a mess & i go insane in the tags)

piarles tag

sewis tag

my writing tag

my fic recs

asks & answers (inbox always open ❤️)

my fic masterlist

ils se connaissent par couer

piarles ~ hurt/comfort ~ 2.2k words ~ rated t

Post-Monaco 2022, Pierre and Charles debrief, in their own way.

quiet my fears with the touch of your hand

piarles ~ hurt/comfort ~ 1.7k words ~ rated t

Post-Silverstone 2022, Pierre and Charles are there for each other.

long live the walls we crashed through

sewis; seb & young drivers ~ 5+1 things ~ 6.7k words ~ rated t

5 people Sebastian Vettel says goodbye to, +1 he doesn't have to.

love's a game, wanna play?

piarles ~ fake dating au ~ 21.5k words (WIP) ~ rated t

Pierre accidentally tells his mother he has a date for a cousin's wedding. Charles accidentally agrees to play the part of said date. Accidentally, it all works out perfectly.

so i guess all the rumours are true (you know i love a rouen boy)

piarles ~ established relationship/coming out ~ 8.7k words ~ rated t

The one where Pierre and Charles come out on Charles' Monaco vlog.

i just wanna be (drinking on the beach with you all over me)

piarles ~ phone sex ~ 2.2k words ~ rated e

Pierre and Charles spend the first week of summer break apart, and miss each other very much.

baby just say yes

piarles ~ miscommunication/friends to lovers ~ 2.9k words ~ rated t

The one about that moment from the drivers' parade in Monza 2022.

(you are the best thing that's ever been) mine

piarles ~ 5+1 things ~ 15.6k words ~ rated e

5 times Pierre wore something of Charles', +1 time Charles wore something of Pierre's.

hold you as the water rushes in

piarles ~ hurt/comfort ~ 1.4k words ~ rated t

Post-Suzuka 2022, Pierre and Charles take comfort in each other.

it's you and me, that's my whole world

piarles ~ modern royalty au ~ 10.4k words ~ rated t

The one where Charles is a prince, and Pierre is his best friend, and they pine.

he was pointing at the moon (but I was looking at his hand)

piarles ~ angst/unrequited love ~ 13.7k words ~ rated t

Pierre has been in love with Charles for as long as he can remember. Then one day, Charles falls in love with someone else, and Pierre can only watch from the sidelines as everything slowly goes from bad to worse.

part 1 of a series ~ part 2 by @welightitup ~ part 3 by @dm3rv ❤️💙💚

crème français

piarles ~ tumblr fic ~ nsfw

The one where Pierre and Charles try something new in bed (AKA, whipped cream.)

stars by the pocketful

sewis ~ relationship study ~ 4k words ~ rated t

Seb & Lewis through the years: a first, a last, and then a first again.

you should think about the consequence (of you touching my hand in the darkened room)

piarles ~ sexy distractions ~ 4.7k words ~ rated e

The one where Pierre and Charles (almost) have sex while he's still on a Zoom call.

a wednesday in a café

schuclerc ~ coffee shop/royalty au ~ 8.3k words ~ rated t

Wherein mick is a prince, and Charles works in a coffee shop, and they're both very beautiful and very stupid. (Pierre and Esteban are there, too.)

written for the chircus gc secret santa 🎄❤️

Game For Two

piarles ~ friends with benefits ~ 27.7k words ~ rated e

Charles wants to explore his sexuality after his recent break-up. Who better to give him a helping hand than his loyal (and devastatingly gorgeous) best friend?

part 2 of a series ~ part 1 by @redyellowstupid ~ part 3 by @leclerctops ❤️💙💚

sweater weather

piarles ~ tumblr fic ~ sfw

Charles has a habit of stealing Pierre's clothes when he misses him. (AKA, the blue sweater fic.)

one love, two mouths

piarles ~ tumblr fic ~ nsfw

The one where Pierre and Charles have missed each other, and fuck about it (AKA, tender blue sweater smut.)

get me with those green eyes, baby

piarles ~ basketball date smut ~ 4.6k words ~ rated e

The one where Pierre and Charles fuck before their (second) NBA basketball date.

you're in my head, you're in my blood (cowritten with @boxboxbrioche ❤️)

piarles ~ university au ~ 15.8k words ~ rated e

Charles is a music student with big ambitions and high standards when it comes to love. Pierre is the university's football star and resident flirt. Neither is ready for what being paired on a project will mean for them...

you are perfection, my only direction (it's fire on fire)

piarles ~ dragon rider au ~ 40k words ~ rated e

The one where Pierre and Charles are Dragon Riders, and spectacularly stupid about their feelings, and have to marry each other to prevent an inter-House war.

written for the Piarles Winter Fic Exchange 2022/23 ❤️💙❄️

you can feel it on the way home

piarles ~ montreal 2022 date fic ~ 4.6k words ~ rated t

Charles, Pierre, a midnight drive through Montreal, and realisations.

breakin' down and coming undone (it's a rollercoaster kind of rush)

piarles ~ post-breakup angry sex ~ 5.9k words ~ rated e

The one where Pierre's girlfriend breaks up with him after the Monte-Carlo Masters, and he goes to see Charles about it. Needless to say, it doesn't go as expected.

you kiss my face and we're both drunk

piarles ~ drunk sex ~ 2.5k words ~ rated m

All really good friends have That One Time they fucked while drunk. This is Charles and Pierre's.

written for the Calamars Club Emoji Challenge 😍🐙

your lips, my lips (apocalypse)

piarles ~ friends with benefits au ~ 32k words (WIP) ~ rated e

Pierre and Charles begin a new thing in the 2023 season: making out after each new race. And then also... before it. And then at random times, too, just because they feel like it. (It goes about as well as you'd think.)

fate (is driving me insane)

piarles ~ tumblr fic ~ nsfw

angst, miscommunication and a/b/o, feat. brief/mentioned maxierre with piarles endgame (+ implied maxiel.) 

...And My Heart Is With You

piarles & galex ~ sitcom au ~ 16.4k words ~ rated m

Roommates. Idiots. Lovers. (AKA: misunderstandings in the loft are at an all-time high. What will it take for it all to be sorted out?)

part 2 of a series ~ part 1 by @welightitup ❤️💙💚

[rose-tinted-juls]

SCREAMING. honestly screaming. i can't get over this. brb gotta read it again and again and again.

1. first of all. THEY HAD THE CONVERSATION. and agreed on a date OMFG i'm dying

2. "...you know that there is a spring in a national park in the States that looks just like his eyes, all blues and greens and browns that are so saturated they look fake." WHY IS IT SO GORGEOUS. reading your favourite book by candlelight and over a cup of coffee gorgeous. i bow to you and your talent, mack.

3. "because you see the color red and wonder what he's doing, every single time." this deserved a mention of its own even if it's in the same paragraph. bc first of all i also think about charles literally whenever i see the colour red but also bc it's such a perfectly phrased sentence that i can't.

4. "your lips purse. somewhere in another world, they smile." + "...you kiss him again, hand on shoulders, because you want to smile." SCREAMING. THROWING MY PHONE ACROSS THE ROOM. smile girl, not just in another world but here too please.

5. "you wonder if you can get him flustered enough that he starts to type what he says." honestly how can you write something so real? like come on, this is just so relatable (i almost sent a message after typing like this oops) and makes this whole reading experience feel just that much more like i'm not reading but actually living through this.

6. playing rock paper scissors and also charles demanding best of three when forgetting the shampoo is just perfect as it is. AHHHH. i'm gonna cry your writing skills are over the rooftop high

7. when he only has a towel around his waist and the other on his neck and his hair is damp and all over the place (OMG) and there's the line "there's something horribly beautiful about it" and it just makes me faint. he is indeed horribly beautiful. always.

8. well. and of course the final scene. *chefs kiss* feeling so many things rn. i can't even comprehend or try to explain them.

thank you, mack. just as always, you created a masterpiece that turns the world around and makes it much better. love you loads.

—the seasons of love

or: the enemies to lovers situationship fic charles leclerc x female reader summ. autumn seemed to arrive suddenly this year. minors dni. nsfw warnings below the cut. 6k. part one part two part three part four part five

18+ because: cross continent booty call, shared shower, oral (fem receiving) overstimulation, biting, begging, teasing/dirty talk and lots of emotionally immature angst

It became normal after that, routine, almost. Like clockwork, the two of you finding each other. In your apartment, sometimes, but mostly at his. His apartment, his yacht, his gym, his car.  There were days where it felt like it was all you did, Fridays where you would think that you’d spent five whole days underneath him. 

Race weekends felt impossibly long, impossibly far away. You think that his apartment doesn’t feel like him because he’s never there, because he spends all his time on a track or a yacht or the streets of Maranello. 

And you’re soft. You pretend not to be, because you wish you weren’t, but you are. You are, because you know that there is a spring in a national park in the States that looks just like his eyes, all blues and greens and browns that are so saturated they look fake. Because when you were at the club last week with your sister, someone had walked by and you knew they wore the same cologne as him. Because you see the color red and wonder what he’s doing, every single time. 

He’s in Vegas this week, a big fucking party, Miami on the hard stuff. You’re home, going through life’s motions and waiting–though you’d never admit it– for him to come home. 

You wake up in an empty bed, sprawled out in the middle of it, stretching against the white sheets with a groaned yawn.  You can taste the cottonmouth on your tongue, smack your lips a couple times before giving up and climbing out from the cozy comforter and trudging into the bathroom, feet creaking over the hardwoods as you move through the apartment. 

You phone chimes from your nightstand and you move back into the bedroom, leave the water running and the toothbrush in your mouth for your retrieval mission. Sitting at the top of a night’s worth of notifications is a text from him. Check your email. You roll your eyes, half-type out a witty response before an email notification flashes across the top of your screen. Lecharles@ferrari.com No Subject. 

You tap it, and inside the subjectless email you find two things. One, an attachment to a plane ticket to Vegas that leaves in… five hours. And two, a single Please?

You roll your eyes, toss your phone down onto the bed and return to the bathroom sink to spit out your toothpaste. He’s fucking lost it. He’s really done it this time, like, Jesus, he’s done it. 

There is nothing you want to do less than pack a bag, find a ride to Nice, and hop on a plane all the way to Vegas just to see him in some messy ass hotel room. 

(Sixteen hours later)

You’re sitting on the edge of the hotel bed when he gets back from media day, Ferrari polo and light wash jeans and a dumb smile greets you, grumpy with arms crossed over your chest. “Did you have to send me a fucking plane ticket?” You snapped.

He shrugs, kicks off his shoes and pulls his phone and wallet and pass from his pockets, sets them down on a coffee table. “You’re here, aren’t you?” There’s something masked with the smug tone in his voice, some kind of genuine relief that you’re here. It makes your stomach queasy. 

You roll your eyes. Even if you wanted to, you couldn’t deny the truth in his words, or the relief you felt at seeing him walk through the heavy door. As sick as it makes you, you miss him when he’s gone in a way you aren’t supposed to; all soft and innocent and young. 

“You’re infuriating,” you say, but you’re smiling. 

He nods, closes the distance between you, sinks down onto the edge of the bed beside you. “You know you love it,” he says, the corners of his lips upturned when he kisses you, and kisses you, and kisses you. Until you’re turning purple in search of oxygen and mourning the fact that you need it, you’re kissing him. 

“Why am I here?” you ask, half breathless. 

“Are you asking me?” He replies, dodging your line of questioning with one of his own. 

You smile, laugh a little under your breath. “Who else am I asking?”

“Yourself,” he shrugs, kisses you softly. His fingers dance along your jaw, move to brush a part of your hair to the side. You let him. Because he’s kind of  cute when he does it.

“No, no,” you sigh, pull your leg up under you. “I’m asking you; Are you okay? Why am I here?” You ask, because, even for the two of you and your decades of knowing the other and the last… almost year of this muddled mess, this is weird. A first class ticket in your email is weird. You getting on the plane is weirder. 

“I can’t miss you?”

Your lips purse. Somewhere in another world, they smile. “Not supposed to,” you kiss him again, hand on shoulders, because you want to smile. 

“There’s a lot we’re not supposed to do.”

“Yeah,” you nod, fall back onto the bed with a huff. He chuckles. The white ceiling paint stares back at you. Fresh. Crisp. Clean. “No meetings today?”

“They’re done.”

“Ah,” you say. He stands up and the entire bed shifts with the loss of him. His heavy feet move across the echoey room. It’s silent but for the hum of the air conditioner, the tap of the pads of his fingertips against his phone screen on the other side of the room.  “Charles?” You ask, prop yourself up onto your elbows. 

“Hmm?” He hums, his eyes focused on his screen. “Sorry, um. Work… email.” You don’t envy his multitasking skills, but they do put a smile on your face.

“Did you fly me out here to fuck me?”

He scoffs, looks up for just a moment to meet your eyes. “No,” and then he’s back to typing away. 

You sigh, make sure he hears it. You don’t handle not having his attention well, not when it’s just the two of you. “But you’re going to, right?”

You wonder if you can get him flustered enough that he starts to type what he says. He’s been good at wrangling you recently, at reeling you in. But, if you can get under his skin you’ll surely be in trouble with him. Surely. He smiles at the screen. “If you think you can take it.”

When you scoff, his smile grows. You’re playing right into his game. “I’ve taken it every other fucking time, haven’t I?”

“So well.”

You roll your eyes, drop back onto your back. “Why do you say shit like that?”

“I like riling you up,” he quips, and you can hear the smile on his face, the dimples digging into his cheek. God, those dimples, they might just fucking kill you. 

“No!” You say, voice drenched in sarcastic awe.

“Yes!” He matches your tone, his phone clattering down against the table. You sit up again, pull your leg to your chest and rest your chin on it. His eyes are on you now, the email answered, his attention undivided. You love his attention. 

“Alright… can we, like,” you gesture into the vast space between the two of you, “get on with it?”

“Can you, like,” he mocks you, “let me fucking shower?”

You click your tongue against the roof of your mouth, bite the inside of your cheek, “Can I come?”

“Yeah, but I’m not going to fuck you.”

“Really?” You hate your tone, how childishly innocent it sounds, like your mother just said you could buy whatever toy you wanted at the store. You’d expected a hard shutdown.

“Yeah,” he moves past you, casual smile and strong hand pushing your shoulder, knocking you over like a glass of water onto the bed. “But, I mean it,” he warns, threatens to wag a finger at you. You’d bite it off if he did. 

“Okay,” you say, rolling yourself off the bed and onto your feet, trailing behind him a few steps. He’s already tugging his shirt over his head and you watch his shoulder blades flex with the movement. You never remember just how broad he is. It’s always a lovely reminder. 

“I’m serious,” he shakes his head. “No sex.”

You hurry forward to catch up to him, pat him solidly on the back as you squeeze between him and the door frame. “Whatever you say,” you hum. His hands make a move for your sides, to pinch the skin there and curl you over, but you dodge him with a loud giggle. 

He says your name and his tone is flat. It’s almost romantic, you think, the plainness of it, the lack of urgency. Rather than face that, you dip your hand past the glass door of the shower, turn the water on and listen to him close the bathroom door somewhere behind you. It’s just the two of you, but he clicks the lock anyways.

You glance over your shoulder at him, hand held out into the stream of water to test the temperature. He comes up behind you, bare chest against your back, arms snaking around your waist, thumbs toying with the waistband of your pants. He works over the buttons with ease, says something about making things even against the skin just above your collarbone. 

With a laugh, you push your ass back against him, bend at the waist and slowly pull off your pants and underwear. A fucking tease, he says, clears his throat and moves around you to lose his own jeans.

The shower is big, but the shower head is small in size, mediocre in water pressure. You know before your leg is all the way in that one of you will be fighting to stay warm. You also know you’ll stoop incredibly low to avoid having to stand shivering in the corner while watching him shower. Biting is not off the table. Neither is a right hook. 

It goes on like that for some time, the haphazard cohabitation of the hotel shower. 

“Would you–” you elbow your between him and the glass door, into the line of hot water. He reaches over your head, switches the flow of water to the wand, picks it up and brings it to his shoulders, the water flowing over the body, over his chest and through the muscles of his core. If you weren’t so fucking cold you’d jump him. “Charles,” you pout. 

He laughs, the kind that requires a step back to stabilize him, and then he’s holding the shower wand inches above the crown of your head, hot water streaming down your face so quick that you have to plug your nose to relish in the heat of it. 

“Thank you,” you say all nasally, voice muffled by the water that falls over your lips. He slots it back into the showerhead and adjusts the water again so you’re not being waterboarded any longer. You wipe your face with both hands, smooth your soaked hair back over your head and look up at him. He kisses you again, promptly, quickly, with childlike haste, just because he can—you suppose. “What was that for?”

He shrugs. You supposed right. 

In your haste, both of you had forgotten to grab the tiny shampoo and conditioner bottles from the vanity counter, and after winning rock, paper, scissors—and Charles demanding best of three like a first-grader—you’d made the treacherous journey back across the ice cold tile to grab the toiletries. You’d used them first as compensation for your hard work, and rather than hand them to him when you’re finished, you reach around to set them on the corner shelf.

He rolls his eyes and you smile, lathering the shampoo into your hair. 

Your head falls back under the water, eyes closed, fingers rinsing the shampoo from your hair. You hear him moving, fighting with the travel-sized shampoo bottle you’d more than almost used up. You wait for the smart comment that never comes. When you squeeze past him, switch so that he can stand under the water, your ass brushes over his leg, over him, hard and erect in a way it wasn’t five minutes earlier. His tongue clicks against the roof of his mouth and you laugh. “What happened to ‘no sex!’” you tease, do your best impression of his voice. 

“This isn’t sex,” he replies all matter-of-factly. It makes your smile grow. “This is showering.”

You shake your head, roll your eyes and reach for the conditioner. “You always shower like this?”

He laughs under the water, shoulders shaking and flexing and making your life so much harder than it needs to be. You could draw maps on his back, trace from freckle to freckle until you run out. “Only when you’re not around.”

You reach out to touch him. If he can kiss you just because, you can draw pictures on his skin just because, especially after he finds the space to say something like that to you, to make you blush from the inside out. He reacts to your touch, to your fingers cutting through the smooth sheen of water that runs over him. It puts a coy smile on your face. “I’m around now, aren’t I?” You leave a kiss on his shoulder blade. 

“You are,” he says, turns to face you, slinks his arms lazily around your waist and pulls you flush against him. “I’m not worried though. You’ll take care of me.”

You bite against your bottom lip, try to contain your smile. He’s right. You know he’s right and he knows it too. “Will I?” you hum. 

He smiles so you don’t have to, moves his lips painfully close to yours, hovering so close you can almost feel the ghost of them. “You will,” he breathes.

You can’t bite your grin any longer. “I will,” you reply, and because distance has never done you two well, you kiss him, pull off his lips with an innocent smile. “As soon as you condition your hair.”

“Fuck conditioner.”

You laugh. “Fuck conditioner?”

“Mmhm,” he hums against your lips. “Fuck it.”

“Yeah,” you nod. “I still have to rinse my conditioner, though.”

He groans like he’s just noticed your slicked back hair coated in the smooth conditioner, pushes you under the shower head, gives the top of your head a scrunch before letting you finish ringing it out. 

You stumble out ahead of him soon after, feet wet on the cold tile floor of the hotel bathroom. The mirrors are fogged and the air is thick with steam, slowly being sucked away into the ceiling vent fan. You pull a fluffy white towel down from the bar, hastily wrap it around your body, tuck it shut with a knot at your chest. He tells you that you don’t need it while drying his hair with a hand towel and you laugh–tell him there’s not a chance in hell you’re spending the night sleeping in soaked, chilly sheets. 

“You’re not going to do much sleeping,” he remarks, pats your ass over the cotton fabric. You squeal, practically skip forward at the contact of his hand and leave him behind in the bathroom. 

“You tell that to all your girls?” You ask, fingers trailing over the edge of the bed as you move past. “Or just the ones who know you’re a liar?” 

He reappears with a towel tied around his waist, the smaller one he’d used for his hair draped around his neck, damp hair stuck to his forehead and shooting out in every which direction. There’s something horribly beautiful about it. “Mm-mhm,” he clicks, “just you.”

“Oh,” you hum, turning to face him with a quirked brow and quizzical smile.”Well now I feel special.”

He opens his mouth to speak, parting his lips just so slightly before pursing them shut again. “Yeah,” he breathes out, and you barely hear it over the turnover of the air conditioner. 

“Yeah,” you repeat, and somehow it’s quieter. 

You sit down in the armchair perched in the corner and the silence lingers, heavier than the steam and louder than the air conditioner. He stares at you for a beat too long and you feel your heartbeat in your temples, stare right back at his stupid green eyes. He scoffs and walks back into the bathroom. “I’m tired of this,” he says into the mirror, wiping away the fog with a flat palm. 

“Tired of what?” You ask, fear the threat of his answer more than the actual answer itself. You know what he’s tired of; you. This. All of it, he’s tired of it all, and you don’t blame him. It’s become exhausting.

You know what he’s going to say, and still. His words hit you like a sucker punch. “This fucking hotel room shit.”

Your jaw flexes and you nervously chew on the tip of your tongue. “You’re the one who called me.”

He doesn’t leave space for the words to linger. “That’s not what I meant,” he says, turning to lean against the vanity counter, can barely glance at you. Your stare holds strong. “You know that’s not what I meant.” The thing is—you don’t know. You haven’t a clue what he means if it’s not the obvious elephant sitting between you. 

“Say it, then,” you tell him and your voice oozes a confidence you didn’t know you could possess. It’s a facade. A good one, and he still sees right through it. 

“Oh allez, tu es trop intelligent pour être aussi stupide,” Oh, come on, you’re too smart to be this dumb, he says, crosses his arms over his chest like you’ve done something he needs to defend against. 

“Say it, Charles.”

He finds the nerve to smile. You wish a ghost would pull the towel hung over his shoulders tight around his neck. Maybe then he would feel more like you do. Instead, he uses it to dry off the back of his neck and tosses it somewhere out of sight. “You say it.” 

“No,” you mutter, and then louder, you repeat, “No, I’m not going to.”

“You won’t?” He asks, pushes himself off the counter and stops in the doorway, leans against the frame and if he wasn’t so insistent on starting something right now, you’d take a picture before kissing every muscle on his body. 

“Mm-mm.” 

“Fine,” he replies all bluntly, but there’s nothing short about his tone. No, no, you know there’s no chance he’s dropping this. 

“Fine.”

He sighs, eyes closed and heavy breath and head dropping to the sky like he’s begging—or praying— for some sanity or patience or whatever virtue he so badly needs when it comes to dealing with you. Eventually, he speaks to the ceiling, and the dramatic cringe and nose-bridge pinch that precedes his words makes him look more than pained. “I want more than this. I want—” he cuts himself off like he hasn’t already let it all boil over, like there’s any chance he’d keep it unsaid, that he’d be capable of stopping himself. “I want us.”

Your heart dives into your stomach, sends them both sinking through the floor. “You don’t.”

“I do,” he speaks, still to the white ceiling. You follow his sightline. The ceiling is textured. 

“No, you don’t,” you think there’s a chance that your desperation to convince him this isn’t what he wants is really nothing more than a half-hearted attempt to convince yourself of the same thing. “You don’t, because then it’s all going to be fucked.”

Finally, he looks at you, or through you, or near you. Finally, he stops looking at the stupid textured white paint on the ceiling. “But what if it works? If we work?”

We.

“What if it doesn’t? If we try and then everyone gets invested and then it’s all ruined? Our parents and our siblings? We can’t ruin that.” You can’t. You won’t. You refuse to be the one responsible for any tension between your families, between your mothers. They’re the kind of friends that you don’t find more than once, and you wouldn’t dare to mess it all up after all this time, certainly not for a boy—for the boy. 

“So, what?” He asks. There’s a terrible ribbon of torment laced through his voice. “We just ruin each other?”

You sink in your seat, reply to him meekly. He doesn’t usually make you shy.  “Maybe.”

He says your name, that same ill-inducing tone to his voice. “If it was just us. Just me and you and nobody in our families had ever met,” he gestures between the two of you, always talking with his hands even when they’re half-limp and dejected. “Then what would your answer be?”

“I wouldn’t have to answer,” you dodge. Dodge, dodge, dodge. It feels like all you can do. “You wouldn’t want me.” Your words reek of haunting vulnerability, and you hope you’re the only one who picks up on it because it’s game over if he hears it. He’ll know it all; the lie and the truth and the debilitating fear of them both.

“You know that isn’t true,” he scowls, but his voice is soft. You hate it. You do, you hate it so much. You hate it. You’re tired of this conversation. You didn’t spend all those hours three seats over from a colicky  baby and its miserable mother to argue with him about what you were. You just were, can’t that be enough?

You snap like a crunchy autumn leaf under a steel-toed boot. “Fine! Fine. Yes,” you concede to the fictional world, the alternate timeline with death and taxes etc, etc. To the universe where everything is different.  To the world where everything is different, but everything is really just as it is; where the more things change, the more they stay the same. “My answer would be yes, let’s just say ‘fuck it’ and try because why the hell not? It’s not like we got along before all this.”

“Exactly. If we crash and burn, so what? We just go back to hating each other.”

“I can’t. I can’t, Charles. I care about my family too much.”

“You’re just scared. God, you’re like a child,” he speaks without thought, letting the words fly with reckless abandon. If you wanted to argue with him you’d latch onto that line. You don’t, though. You don’t want to argue, you never did. 

“I don’t know what you want from me,” your voice cracks. It goes unaddressed by anything more than a shrug. “I don’t.”

“I want you to stop being a fucking coward and go on a date with me!”

“Charles,” you frown. Your nose burns. The gap, the gap, the gap. The impossible to bridge gap that you and he stand on either side of, waving aimlessly, begging the other with a silent plea—please. Please see what I see. I promise it’s better my way. 

“One date,” he says, barely above a whisper, holding up a single finger. It’s his plea. “Nobody has to know we’re doing it.”

“I…” your breath catches in your throat, mind racing through potential responses. You lean forward in your seat, put your elbows on your knees and bury your face in your hands before you start crying. You won’t cry, you can’t. He can’t make you cry. 

You sniffle, even though you aren’t crying—an audible reminder to yourself that you won’t be crying. That you’re eliminating the effects before they can even start. He must think you are crying, though, because the tension in the room deflates with every step he takes across the room. He lowers himself to your level, and you can feel the ghost of his hands lingering in a space just beyond your skin, like he doesn’t know if he’s allowed to touch you. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have, fuck. I’m sorry,” his voice is so guilty, his hands finally touching your knees, thumbs moving in smooth, calming circles over your skin. You don’t have an opinion on the way you melt into putty under his touch. 

When you pull your hands away from your face, they fall into your lap, find his and mold into some tangled mess of fingers. You take a deep breath—an attempt to steady yourself before finally speaking again, and with a subtle shake of your head, you’re able to silently explain to him that you’re okay, that his words are not the reason you’re so upset. 

It’s so much more than that, than being a child or a coward of anything else he could possibly throw your way. With just as many words, he searches your eyes for answers, for a why that you couldn’t give him if you tried. 

Everything with him is so unsaid. 

“Okay,” you whisper echoes around the room. “Okay, a date,” you nod. 

His furrow softens, the lines in his face smoothing over and the corners of his lips fighting a smile. “No,” he says softly, as if trying to give you an out, to free you from any perceived obligation. “You don’t have to do that.”

Your hand finds its way to his cheek, a gentle gesture of reassurance, and you lean in, pressing a soft kiss on those lips that want to smile so bad. It’s not about making him happy, though. It’s about letting yourself entertain the idea of satisfaction, of individual happiness. 

He’s so. There’s no getting sick of kissing him, there just isn't. You sigh into his mouth and stand up, and you still want more. You still want more, towels dropping to the cold floor. Your knees bump against the back of the bed and it’s all giggly, and you still haven’t had enough. You maneuver onto the bed without separating, like the world might end if you’re not kissing him, and you’re convinced it might never be enough. That you’ll always crave more. 

It’s all so comfortable, the way you two move around each other. It’s fluid. It’s calm. It’s soft, the look on his face when he’s slotted comfortably between your knees, His fingers trace your skin softly, almost ghostly in the way they graze through the valley of your breasts. You shiver. The goosebumps make you laugh against his lips. 

He takes care of you, kissing you, trailing his lips down to your boobs, taking your nipple in his mouth, moving his tongue in sharp circles. Anything to elicit a reaction—get you all perky and poised for him. He palms your other tit with his big, strong hand, and your hands find a home in his hair, running through the curls, dragging your nails through the short locks at the nape of his neck. 

You pull him up to kiss you and his hand slots comfortably on your jaw, sliding down slowly over your throat, applying a phantom pressure. It’s all bumping noses and sharing breath, him biting his bottom lip before swallowing yours again. He’s afraid to hurt you. It’s so fucking hot.

He moves you around so easily, hands on the back of your knees, pushing your legs against your chest before licking a long stipe through your cunt. You moan louder than intended, because it’s him doing it. Because it’s him doing it. He spreads them next, big strong hands inside your thighs, leaves a soft kiss on your clit. Out of necessity, your hands find something to grab in his own, spread flat over your stomach now, his tongue moving in quick, hard flicks over your clit. It makes you pant–writhe and pant and whine. 

You search for grounding everywhere when his tongue sinks inside you, nose brushing against your clit—your palm your own breasts, white-knuckle the sheets and his shoulders and the sheets again. 

His hands move up your sides and he curls his tongue around your cunt, pulls a pornographic moan from your lips. You write, moving up onto your elbows and he spreads your legs wider, wider, wider. Fuck. Fuck, he’s so good to you. An arm loops under your leg, around your thigh and over your cunt, sliding through your lips and opening you up for him all pretty. His eyes meet yours and he’s so pleased with himself, a genuine smile at the state he’s got you in and then he’s sucking down hard on your clip, pulling off with an audible pop. Your head falls back, your hole body tensing with pleasure when he doesn’t fucking stop sucking and licking and fucking. Your hands are on his again, gripping onto him for dear life, moving wherever he moves. 

Your legs shake, fight against the hand on the inside of your thigh to close around his head, but he’s stronger than you. Fuck, he is. “So pretty,” he tells you, and you shudder, smile hard against the sheets and bury your hands in his hair.

“Right there,” you say through short, heavy pants, and then it’s all out the window. Game over, and you’re coming in his mouth and he still isn’t stopping so you just keep coming—so fucking hard, grinding against his mouth without any sense of rhythm. You think you could live in this high forever.

He kisses you, moves you—god, you’d be a ragdoll if he wanted, you think you really would. He moves you under him, up on your side and kisses down your shoulder, down your arm. He’s so kissy, can’t stay off you. It’s soft and romantic and it doesn’t make you ill at all, honest. 

His words, though, they still want to keep up your little act. “You want me to fuck you, baby?” He asks, moving his dick through your slick, lining himself up to fuck you. 

“Yes, yes,” you mewl, nodding hurriedly. He kisses you, sinks into you somewhere in the middle of it and you gasp into his mouth. 

“Fff…” he trails off, bottoming out into you. “You okay?” he asked. You nod. You nod because you’re so full of him you can’t speak. The gesture is more than enough for him, provides him with the permission he needs to start fucking into you, to brace himself with a hand on either of your hips and thrust deep inside of you, bottoming out each and every time. “Fuck. Fuck, c’mere,” he groans, and then pulls you back against him, your back flush against his chest. 

You crane your neck to kiss him, moan into his mouth when he’s cupping your ass and fucking you. You moan—gasp—and he fucking laughs. “Oh my god,” you whimper. “So good.”

He breathes sharp through his teeth, the bottom of his jaw rutting out with every thrust and then he’s biting your shoulder. He bruises the skin and kisses it better. 

“You’re so fucking hot,” he says, and you want, so badly, to make him feel as good as he makes you. 

“Wanna fuck you,” you say. “Let me fuck you.”

He doesn’t need convincing. “Okay,” he nods. “Okay, please.”

You’re half-hearted in your push back against his arm. He’s the reason he pulls out of you and falls back onto his back, makes space for you to straddle him and grind against him and kiss him and kiss him and let him kiss you. 

With a cocky grin and dark green eyes he moves his cock through your slick, lets a smug laugh slip through his lips as he lines up with your hole so you can sink down on him, slow. Slow. Slow because the stretch burns every fucking time. 

“Fuck,” you stumble, “s’big.” 

He meets you halfway, lifts his hips up off the bed to minimize the time he spends not buried inside of you. He smiles all stupid and your stuttered whine. “Fucking took it all the other times,” he breathes out, fingers digging deep into the skin over your hips. 

“Fuck you,” you laugh. He winces, and it only makes you laugh harder, lean down to kiss him so your chests are pressed against each other and grind your hips. His arms wrap around your middle, big and strong and pulling you impossibly close to him and the pace that he sets underneath you. They roam your body, his hands dancing over your sides and your back and knot into your hair, keep roaming until he’s grabbing at your ass. 

“You’re so fucking wet,” he says. You don’t need his words to know that, the sounds of your cunt clenching around him audibly demonstrating just how wet you are with every single thrust. “Always so good for me.” 

It doesn’t take long for you to come again, with the new angle and the new vulnerability. It never takes long with him, like he knows every inch of your body and just how to use it. “Mhm, fuck. Jesus,” you shudder, breath choppy and desperate. He’s relentless through your orgasm, like always, and it just extends it, draws it out painfully long. “I fucking l—ah—” you clench around him, legs shaking on either side of his abs. Your spasms aren’t calmed by even his strong hands, but he keeps them there anyway. 

“I love fucking you, baby,” he says, nibbles on your ear, kisses nowhere in particular and everywhere at once. You’re filled with butterflied by his crude words. 

“Do it, then,” you beg. “Please, fuck, please, Charles.”

In a single, swift movement, he pulls you off him and flips you onto your back. Immediately, without any semblance of hesitation, you’re reaching for his cock, to guide him back to where you want him, to where he belongs. You ache when you’re this close to him, when you’re this close and don’t have him, aren’t full of him. 

His hands find both of yours, interlock your fingers and move them somewhere above your head, pinned against the sheets. “Don’t say my name like that,” he whispers.

You play dumb, but your cheeks are flushed. “Why not?”

“You drive me crazy,” he says, kisses you before you can even attempt to rebuke his claims. 

“Me?” you laugh, fingers dancing over his abs. If his eyes weren’t so fucking green , you’re sure you’d find the reaction to your touch, the flexing of his muscles under the pads of your fingers, to be quite the show. 

He smiles all soft. “You.”

Your hand pulls him to you by the back of his neck, something about you can’t say something like that and not kiss me after, and then you’re licking against his teeth and it’s all so hazy—the way he slides back inside you between gasped breaths, the way you bite down on his bottom lip when he fucks you so well, and the way your legs wrap around his waist when you come, trying to pull him closer, deeper, to feel him with every nerve ending. 

“That’s right,” he says, a rare calming presence through your orgasms. He doesn’t do this often, not with you, at least. “Atta girl,” he laughs. “Make a mess.”

He fucks you through it, he does, but it’s slow and steady until you’re finished, back in reality, and then he’s the messy one—fast, hard, fucking into you with reckless abandon. Fast, fast, faster. It’s fucking blinding. Fuck, it’s good. It’s so good. 

He groans against your shoulders, hips snapping against yours. “Yes, yes, yes,” you chant, because you’re so fucked at this point that English attempts to escape you. “You’re so fucking close, yes,” you moan, “please, give it to me, baby,” and then he’s coming, head buried in your neck. His body weight is heavy on you, every muscle tensing as you’re fucked full of his cum. 

The two of you are so close, have never been fucking closer, and it still doesn’t feel like enough. “Fuck,” you giggle, and his whole body shakes with his own laughter, moving up to kiss you. You smile through the whole thing, through the hard kiss and the soft pecks that follow, through his fingers brushing the hairs from your forehead and the feeling of him dripping down your leg. Through all of it, you’re both smiling. 

It’s giddy, almost, and God. God, you’re so fucking happy.

[sainz-leclerc]

fucking masterpiece.

if you lie down with me — charles leclerc

your body couldn’t help but surrender to its deepest desires on a warm monegasque night; lucky for him, charles was right there to watch the show.

[cw! smut] — masterlist — request a fic!

a quiet summer night in monaco provided a warm atmosphere, the slightly open windows allowing the moonlight into your room. a soft breeze compelled your bodies to keep close throughout the night as the long-forgotten white sheets sat at the end of the bed.

charles slept soundly with you right next to him, your head resting on his exposed chest while his arms held you tightly against him. the only nights he felt utterly relaxed were the ones his heartbeat matched yours, the contact between your bodies allowing him to connect with you further than physically.

charles would appreciate every second you spared him; he felt like the luckiest man for having you as one of the few constants in his life. he never took for granted something as mundane as sleeping with his girlfriend as he knew just how painful it would be to say goodbye when duty called.

nonetheless, as much as he wanted to get a good night’s sleep, something interrupted his peaceful rest— soft whimpers brought him back to consciousness, setting his body into a skeptical state. charles immediately tensed, but waking up to his legs still intertwined with yours brought him a sense of serenity.

worried about the unusualness of it all, he tried to wake you after recognizing the source of the weak noise; however, goosebumps appeared on his skin as he felt your panties grinding against his thigh. the soft material created friction with your throbbing pussy, just like he instructed you to do many times before— it was an instinct now.

charles observed your almost imperceptible pleasure expression as your slightly furrowed brows and shut eyes told him everything he needed to know. you had a wet dream, a pleasingly surprising occurrence he would love to see.

he felt the blood rushing to his cock and the way his erection progressively grew painful. the hand that wasn’t comfortingly rubbing your back reached down his body, carefully pulling down his sleeping shorts to free himself.

the grinding intensified as your whimpers grew slightly louder, indistinguishable words falling out of your lips. charles couldn’t believe his eyes; he couldn’t comprehend how deep into her sleep his girlfriend was— you were literally about to cum on his thigh, and it would have been impossible for him not to with the way your wetness stained his shorts.

as the sight before him enthralled his mind, a sly hand traveled to your lips, thumb softly playing with the trembling lower one. charles slowly pushed his finger into your wet mouth, your tongue wrapping around it and your cheeks hollowing to suck on it. the amount of self-control and mental restraint charles needed to not cum right then was admirable.

after leaving your mouth, he took his hand down his body for it to attend to the erection your wet dreaming created. he swiped his thumb over the tip of his cock, the pleasure causing his head to press back against the pillow. charles used your saliva to lubricate himself as he stroked up and down his length, his eyes not leaving for once the ecstasy expression on your face.

his slightly calloused hand worked his cock up and down, the veins on it pulsing as if he had never been this aroused. he felt like a teenager again, cumming after mere minutes— although, who could blame him? by the looks of it, you were dreaming with the best sex of your life. if one thing is for sure, charles would later have you relate every detail of your dream while he showed you how much he enjoyed the little show you put up during the middle of the night.

“fuck, charles,” you mumbled as your orgasm finally approached. “sh-sh-sh, je suis avec toi,” he cooed while picking up the pace of his hand. pushing his thigh further up against your pussy, your thighs clenched around his, the overstimulation of your clit bringing you closer to climax.

“you’re so close, mon amour. i’m so proud of you,” he leaned down to whisper in your ear. even in your unconscious state, your body couldn’t help but oblige to his dominance. a high-pitched moan accompanied your orgasm as charles's cock released white ribbons of pleasure, painting his abdomen.

you both panted as the air returned to your lungs. the hand permanently holding you was now lovingly rubbing your head while your eyes slowly opened.

“you did so well for me, mon ange. want to tell me about that little dream of yours?”

[rose-tinted-juls]

oh la la we gettin somewhere in here! this got me feeling all kinds of way, but oh god your writing style never fails to amaze me. i could read for days non stop and still think about how impossibly good you can form sentences, mack.

1. the sauna scene. jesus h christ. i'm deceased and happily am so.

2. "...voice softening just enough to let him think he's going to get off easy. he'd never be that lucky, not when he's talking like he owns you, like he has any right to your body or the clothes you put on it." !!!!! this line made me say as you should girl so loud that my sis in another room heard it and came asking me about it. i just love it so so much.

3. "it's not an itch that needs to be scratched anymore. it's a gap, begging to be bridged, to be explored after so long." again. gorgeous writing, your way with words is !!!!! and *chefs kiss*

4. THE HIKE!!! i nearly screamed when i recognised a few lines and like OMG again, the phrasing!!! about not being able to escape getting near him. SCREAMING

5. " "i used to love sunsets like this," charles began, snapping the silence of shoes on dirt and half-crunched leaves." i ADORE this, yet again, another line i can't stop shouting about.

6. are they gonna have a conversation??? (why do i think no) bc if they will i'm gonna pass out

7. "you have to look away, you do. because if you don't watch the cotton candy sky, the watercolor oranges and yellows and pinks and blues, you might just cry right there on the hiking trail. he always does this, it's his go-to move recently; make you feel all safe and stupid and like it's okay to be vulnerable." AHHHHH. MACK. i can't do this. not every other sentence. my phone won't survive being thrown around the room. but i just have to throw it bc these are just TOO GOOD. INCREDIBLE. PERFECT.

8. uh oh THEY KNOW. at least marta does. whoops babies, i mean you weren't exactly very secretive about it i guess.

9. "the monaco national anthem on wheels" i'm crying this is just so funny but true at the same time

10. "are we gonna fuck?" "probably." "are we gonna talk?" "probably not."

mack my beloved i can't stop praising your talent. it's such a pleasure to exist at the same time as you do. love love love you. <33

—the seasons of love

or: the enemies to lovers situationship fic charles leclerc x female reader summ. and all of the sudden it was summer. minors dni. nsfw warnings under the cut. 5.9k part one part two part three part four part five

18+ because: public sex (not caught, not almost caught. just. public), dry humping, language.

“Please,” he begs, voice cracked and half-broken. His fingers dig into the fabric on your hips, pulls you down harder, moves your hips faster. You love feeling him grow under you. You can feel his dick, hard under you in his shorts, and you can feel yourself, hot and bothered and soaking wet. He pushes you impossibly further down against him, sinks his teeth into your shoulder, around the strap of your tanktop and the material of your sports bra. 

It’s so hot. So hot and steamy and everything is sweaty and flushed. You think you might have to drink a gallon of water after this, that it’s the only way you’ll be able to accomplish another task all day. The sauna had to be the worst place to do this, to finally break after all this time. It’s hot and it’s dangerous in more ways than you can count. 

You barely hear him over the thick heat covering both of your bodies, over the dehydrated ringing in your ear. “What?”

“Enough,” he breathes, thumbing at the waistband of your shorts, trying to slip you out of them, to have you all the way. “Wanna be inside you.”

“Mm-mm,” you hum against his lips, smile out of the kiss because you know your words will piss him off. Your hand covers his, practically intertwines between his fingers, holds him still at your waistband. He’s pouting before you can even tell him. “No, this is all you get,” you mutter, moving his hand further down, until it’s resting where the fabric of your shorts meet his, where you grind against him, against his hand. “Anyone could walk in.”

He pulls your shorts to the side, lets his thumb slide between the fabric and your underwear, slides up and down over your slick, all messy and wet through your underwear. It makes him shake his head, how much of a mess you already are for him. You relish in it, watch him with a sick smile. “Let them.”

You laugh, elbows on his shoulders while your hands run through his hair, all sweaty and salty and lacking the familiar scent of his shampoo. No, no, it just smells hot. Everything smells hot and humid. “You don’t mean that.”

He leans into your fingers, lets your nails drag across his scalp gently with fluttered eyelids. He looks pretty and content and you hate it. “I might,” he mumbles into your shoulder, kisses the skin just past your clavicle, nips a bruise on top of a bruise on top of a bruise. Just in case you forget. 

“If you did,” you hum, sitting up, raising your hips off his and reaching behind your body, under your ass to palm him through his shorts, to put the outline of his dick just where you want it–where you need it. “You’d let them hear how good you feel instead of biting off my fucking shoulder.”

“You want to hear me?” 

“Yes,” you nod. He takes a deep breath, almost spits it out in a laugh and you can predict his actions before he even starts. “FU–” you smack your hand over his mouth before he can even get the vowel sound out, head whipping around to look at the door, to wait for the handle to jiggle against itself and for someone to push it open to see what all the commotion is about. When nobody does, you turn your attention to him.

“What the fuck is wrong with you!?” You scold, a laugh tickling the back of your throat through the muffled rage. He’s such a fucking idiot. He licks a long stripe across your palm and he about curls over in laughter when you yank your hand away disgusted. 

He shrugs, toothy, dimpled grin on his face. “I was making sure you could hear me.”

He thrusts against you, fingers digging into your hips, flat hands spanning your back, your sides, groping at your boobs through far too much fabric. He agrees with your assessment, he does, because he’s pulling up the hem of your tank top, of your sports bra, pulling them up over your chest so he can properly play with your tits. You know you should keep them covered, stay as clothed as possible just in case, but every nerve in your body reacts to his touch, his gentle fingers over your skin, and you’re in no place to be sensible.

You kiss him, hard and deep and not very mean at all, nothing like you usually do, all noses bumping and half giggles and foreheads resting against each other. “I hate you,” you whisper into his mouth before kissing him again.

You swallow his laugh. All of this is entirely too laugh-ey for your comfort. It’s weird. It’s all so weird, this new dynamic; the way you both stumble back and forth, swing like a pendulum from one side of the line to the other. One minute, you wish you could strangle him with his own tongue. The next, you’re lavishing in the taste of his laugh. “You wish you hated me,” he says. You don’t say anything. You do wish you hated him. You do, because it would be so much easier. If you hated him the way you used to, you wouldn’t be here like this, fucking his lap, desperately tugging on the waistband of your shorts to pull them tighter across your cunt. Nothing you do will make it close enough, not as long as you refuse to actually fuck him, to let him fuck you. “Cat’s got your tongue now, does it?”

You shake your head, kiss along his jaw, nibble his ear and his neck and his shoulder; you give him a taste of his own medicine. “Mm-mm, just feels good,” his skin muffles your words, makes them short and lispy.

He laughs. You’re so fucking sick of the fact that you aren’t sick of his laugh. It exhausts you, the way his dimples dig into his cheeks, the way his shoulders shake and his abs flex and you get to watch it all up close. It’s fucking infuriating. “You don’t think I’ve fucked you enough to know that sex doesn’t shut you up?”

You smirk, grind down onto him and God, it feels so fucking good. Better than it should. “And what does shut me up, Charles?”

“One of my life’s great mysteries,” he says, and you don’t know how long it’s been since he last met your eyes. He’s so glued to the two of you it’s bordering on pathetic, loose jaw and half-lidded eyes watching every movement of your bodies. He looks at you like he’s starved. It makes you fucking crazy, and he’s the only one that does it–which is that much more annoying. Nobody looks at you the way he does. 

It’s just the time. The reason he watches you the way he does. It’s time. Time apart, a lot of it. It’s just the time, you tell yourself again and again. “I missed this,” you tell him, and it’s because of the time. 

“Arguing with me?”

“No, no. Missed you.” Because of time. Because of time. Because of time. You think maybe you’d gotten addicted to it all, to the push and the pull and the promise of things never going anywhere. That you grew reliant on it, on him, to be there when you needed him to be, when nobody else was good enough for a quick fuck. You’d become an addict, a sloppy drunk who’s favorite drink is him. The orange juice is gone now, and you’re back to consuming him and it’s like you never stopped. 

He grabs at your ass, at your shorts and your underwear and your thighs, at anything that might possibly force you down onto him harder and quicker. The pace is fading fast, and you’re both losing the fight to keep being smart. “Fuck,” he groans, the same way he always does when he’s close. 

“I know,” you whine, nodding, fucking against him like your life depends on getting off. “Me too.”

“So good, baby,” he coaxes you. You hear the pet name, you always hear the pet name. You always tell him to shut the fuck up because it makes you mush, putty in his hands everytime. This time, though, this time you’re silent, breath pausing against his skin. “Sorry, sorry,” he corrects before you can. You weren’t going to, not this time. 

“No, it’s okay. God—it’s okay,” the conversation gets harder and harder, your mind cloudier with each passing moment, with each thrust bringing you that much closer to the tantalizing edge. 

“Yeah?” He moves you quicker, finds the space somewhere to rut up off the hard bench and into you. “You like that shit now?”

  You nod, eyes pinching shut, fingernails digging into the skin on his back. “From you, baby, fuck, I do.”

He sighs, pained, half-whimpered. You don’t know how you aren’t coming yet, how the fuck you’re still having a conversation. You’re blindingly close. He’s closer. “Stop saying shit like that to me, gonna make me–fucking… fuck,” he sputters out, and you feel his dick twitch in his shorts. God. Next time–fuck. Next time, you want him dripping down your leg. 

The thought of it is enough to unravel you, to leave you following right behind, thinking maybe, maybe you can fit in another smart comment, something to still manage to assure that you’ve got the upper hand. Something that, when the two of you walk out of here, you’ll be able to replay back as the moment you won the battle. You’re wrong. “But it makes my jo…” your words trail off into a laugh, a stuttered moan that’s lost all semblance of the joke. 

(twenty-two minutes earlier)

You'd decided to take some time after Monaco, to separate yourselves in an attempt to untangle the mess of webs you’ve wrapped yourselves in. You’d turned to the gym to blow off all that excess steam left behind in his wake. Only problem is, your gym is his gym, and you’ve spotted each other from across the place more than once. 

As you entered the sauna, the steam enveloped you, wrapping you in a cocoon of warmth and relaxation. You were looking forward to some peaceful time alone, a chance to unwind and forget about the newfound complications of your life. 

The tranquility is short lived, however, when you notice Charles sitting on the other side of the room. 

Your eyes meet for a split second, and in that fleeting glance, a myriad of emotions pass between you. Surprise, annoyance, that same third thing you’ve been trying to kill for months. Both of you.

You didn’t have time to dwell on his presence, not with strangers in the sauna with you. 

You took the farthest possible seat from him, trying to focus on the hot air working your muscles instead of the irritating man glaring at you. You can feel his eyes, their stare only dueling your frustration. 

Minutes pass in tense silence as you both pretend not to notice each other. The other people in with you, acting as a silent buffer, your own personal sauna Switzerland, get up and walk out, leaving the two of you alone. The moment the door closes behind the last person, he’s jumping down your throat, his annoyance no longer restrained. 

“What are you doing here?” he asked, tone laced with irritation. 

You rolled your eyes. It’s been so long since you’ve gotten to play your little game, no way you’re backing down this early. “I could ask you the same thing,” you retorted, crossing your arms defensively. 

He let out a humorous chuckle. “Maybe I wanted some peace and quiet,” he shot back.

You scoffed. “Peace and quiet? You’re the last person I expect to want that,” you said, unable to hide your disdain. 

Charles glared back at you , clearly unappreciative of your sarcastic wit. “Well, we can’t all be perfect like you,” he replied. The tension was thick between the two of you, thicker than it had been in a long time. “Can’t you find another gym to steal?” 

You huffed, tired of his complaints. “I can go wherever I want. It’s not my fault you’re so inflexible with your workout schedule,” you shot back, trying to mask the unease you felt. 

He leaned back in his seat, a hint of smugness in his voice. “And can you at least wear something a little more… decent? You’re not leaving much to the imagination,” He comments, eyes flickering over your outfit. He’s just a douche, you’re wearing a sports bra and running shorts. 

You annoyance flares. Who the fuck does he think he is, acting like a boyfriend—an overprotective one at that. Fuck him. Fuck him. “Oh please, I don’t dress to impress you,” you retorted flatly. 

He seems unphased by your rage, which only makes you angrier. “It’s distracting,” he mumbled.

Fed up with his attitude, with everything he decided to represent by waking up and coming to the gym and walking into the sauna, you decide to call his fucking bluff. You got up from where you were sitting, moved closer to him, hands on your hips. 

“You want to see how revealing my clothes can be?” you challenged, folding over the waistband of your shorts, revealing just a bit more skin. 

He blinked, caught dumbfounded by your move, by your sudden proximity. “That’s not what I meant,” he stammered, bravado faltering. You took a step closer, gaze locked with his. 

“Then what did you mean, Charles?” you asked, voice softening just enough to let him think he’s going to get off easy. He’d never be that lucky, not when he’s talking like he owns you, like he has any right to your body or the clothes you put on it. “Did you mean to criticize everything I do, everything I wear, or just assert some kind of dominance over me?”

He looked taken aback by your words, and honestly, you didn’t blame him. Your tone surprised even you. It was clear he hadn't expected you to challenge him like this. “No, that’s not what I meant at all,” he replied, voice softer now. 

“Then what is it, Charles?” you pressed, refusing to back down. “What is it about me that’s bothering you so much?”

He hesitated for a moment, and then finally spoke, his voice tinged with frustration. “It’s not that I’m bothered by you,” he said, “I just… I don’t know how to be around you.”

You took another step closer, closing the distance between the two of you. You roll your eyes, huff and puff and almost groan because he’s only reminding you of why the two of you agreed to keep your distance in the first place. He can’t hang, can’t get with the program and understand that you just can’t deal with the implications of him.  “What do you mean?” you ask, voice cooling, wanting to understand him. 

He hesitates, gaze locked on yours. “It’s like… every time I’m with you, everything is just. It’s different,” he admitted. “I can’t pretend it’s not.”

You can, you can pretend. You like pretending. Pretending is easy, far easier than facing the facts, facing the feelings. Your heart skips a beat, his words resonating with the feelings you’d been trying to bury. “So, what are we then?” you asked, already gearing up to refute any claims he goes making about us, about we, about any other multitude of pluralities he wants to stutter out. 

He has no sort of a clear answer. “I don’t know,” he replies, harrowingly candid. You don’t think you’ll ever be faced with him being this vulnerable and not feel like throwing up.  “I wish I did, but I don’t.”

The vulnerability in his voice breaks any and all anger you’d managed to carry to this point. You almost felt bad, a pang of sympathy tearing through your chest. You knew he was struggling as much as you were. “I don’t know either,” you admitted, voice threatening to fall into silence. You both stand there for a beat too long, heavy with the weight of it all. And then, in a moment of impulse, you reach out and take his hand, intertwine your fingers with his. 

His thumb moves over the back of your hand, but he says your name like you’re hurting him, like he’s truly pained to hold your hand. “I can’t lose you. I won’t,” he whispers. “I can’t, I can’t keep running from it.”

You were taken back by the sincerity, but rather than pull away, recoil into safety like a scared turtle into their shell, you squeezed his hand gently. “I don’t know if I’m ready,” you spoke honestly, more generously than you had yet allowed yourself to. “But I. Yeah, I can’t lose you.”

And just like that, the months of rebuilding the barriers and the boundaries has all gone to shit, all the walls melting to the floor in a steaming puddle. The tension that had been built, destroyed, redbuilt, for so fucking long that it felt like a tightly wound spring just begging to snap. 

Without another word, you leant down, closing the distance between you and pressing your lips against his. There was no fight, no anger or frustration or game to win, it was just a kiss. It was no longer a hookup, a friends or enemies or… frenemies with benefits situation. It’s not an itch that needs to be scratched anymore. It’s a gap, begging to be bridged, to be explored after so long. 

You moved to straddle him, out of pure convenience–no distraction, no battle for domination. Just you, sitting on his lap, and him, kissing a smile onto your lips. 

As you pulled apart, breath heavy and hearts pounding, you looked at him, searched his eyes for the same fear you felt, gentle fingers making a half-hearted attempt at styling his hair. “I don’t want to ruin this,” he says. You don’t know how it could possibly make any sense, how you could possibly feel like you do, but you miss him. He’s right here in front of you, and you miss him. 

You nodded, “I don’t either,” you confirmed. You don’t know which one of you moved first, who started it all. Just that you were the first to speak again. “We shouldn’t.” Push.

“I know.” Pull. 

“But I want to.” It’s pained, just like everything else. You know better. You both know better. 

“I know, I know.”

You gathered at the entrance of the trailhead, the air full of laughter and excited chatter as all of your friends caught up, planned for the hike ahead. It was Marta’s idea, and she’d swore to you up and down that Charles wasn’t going to be there, that he had too much to focus on with summer break coming to an end in just a few days. 

It has been so long since the whole group got together, and when you’d gotten the text it sounded like the perfect excursion, the best way to spend a warm evening. You beam talking to them, catching up on work and romance and family and other friends. Your gaze sweeps over the group, stopping dead at the sight of him. Either Marta had lied to you, or Ricky had lied to Marta. 

“What’s he doing here?” you asked her, and she followed you gaze. 

“Who—oh. I don’t know, honest.”

As if he can feel your eyes on him, his gaze meets yours for a fleeting second. The shared surprise, the shared irritation, it tells you that he didn’t know you’d be here, either. There’s something else there, too, something about a reminder of shared history, an acknowledgement that no matter how hard you two try, there’s no escaping each other. 

You set off on the hike on opposite ends of the group, as far away from him as you can manage. Maybe, maybe you’ll be able to put off the inevitable for just a while longer. You’re not naive enough to think you can make it to the viewpoint without ending up next to him, without being forced into conversation. 

It lasts all of fifteen minutes before you, Marta, Charles, and Ricky have all been relegated to the back of the pack. You’re not surprised it’s the three of you—Ricky has Chiara strapped into this little backpack carrier, and it weighs him down. Marta spends more of the hike snapping pictures of the baby than watching where she walks, while Charles is attempting to be a professional photographer at every possible lookout point, grabbing a picture of each and every interesting thing he sees. And you, well. You’ve always been a slow hiker. 

The two of you still stand with Marta and Ricky between you, walking four wide through the trail. Marta’s already planning Chiara’s first birthday, trying to work around everyone’s schedules to make sure the whole friend group can be there. Ricky talks Charles’ ear off about work, about if they choose the best possible hiking trail and whatever else it is straight men talk about. 

Despite your separate conversations and the couple between you, your eyes continually find his, drawn in by the laughter and animated gestures that always annoyed you so.  There’s just something so. So painfully familiar about the unspoken and impossible to ignore tension between the two of you. You feel like a child, the way your mind blanks and time stops for just a second every time you meet eyes. It’s stupid. It is.

“Aimez-vous cette randonnée?” Enjoying the hike, Ricky asks you, oblivious to the tension floating around him. 

You tear your eyes from Charles, offer a distracted nod. “Ouais. Excellent moyen de passer la soirée,” Yeah. Great way to spend the evening, you reply. 

You hear the rest of the group before you can see them, huddled off to a decent-sized lookout point, one with a clear view of the entire country. The sun is just starting to set, casting a warm, golden glow over your home, sparkling off the calm sea. 

The group dispersed around the opening, snapping pictures of the view and with each other. You find a seat-shaped boulder to sit on, silently appreciating the sights, irritatingly aware of Charles’ proximity. You can always tell when he’s nearby, can feel him like he;s electrically charged. 

He’s only a few feet away, carefully crafting away at an Instagram story when he speaks to you for the first time all evening. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” he speaks softly, mumbles almost, and doesn’t bother to look up from his phone. 

“Always is,” you reply, eyes fixed on the horizon. 

He nods in agreement, and the air is so heavy. So, so heavy. 

Marta cuts through it all with a photocall, and because of the laws of nature, you and Charles find yourselves side by side. Like you said, electric. Magnetic, maybe; the pull. 

The camera clicks, captures the smiles and the shared experience and he’s looking at you again. It’s like it’s just the two of you, sometimes, all muddy history and lingering potential. 

With the picture captured, conversations resume, groups disperse, and everything is back as it was; even the innate awareness of where Charles is. 

As the hike continues to the summit, you and he move together in step. The familiarity is like a blanket, something comfortable amidst the messy chaos of emotional turmoil. 

“I used to love sunsets like this,” Charles began, snapping the silence of shoes on dirt and half-crunched leaves. 

You turn to him with piqued curiosity. “What changed?”

He hesitates, locks his gaze on the path ahead. “Life, I guess. Responsibilities, expectations, the weight of it all. It’s easy to forget to appreciate the simple things.” He shifts his steps slightly, brushes his arm against yours and makes you shiver. He makes you so nervous. You fucking hate that he makes you so nervous now. He’s looking at you, and you’re the one fixed on the trail. It’s a simple swap, but it feels heavy, it does. “Hey,” he says, soft. Comfortable. 

You pick at your nails. Anything to avoid his eyes. “Yeah?”

You can hear it in his pause before speaking that he’s choosing his words carefully. “I’ve been thinking a lot lately,” he began, gaze never leaving the side of your head. “About us, about everything.”

Your heart races the same way it does everytime he tries to have this conversation. You know what he’s referring to. You always know, even if he doesn’t say it outright. “Yeah,” you nod, meet his eyes and dare him to continue.

He swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing when he does it. “I just. I think we owe it to ourselves.”

His words sink into your skin slowly, poisoning your every cell like he just has to put voice to every thought that haunts you. “Charles,” you start, voice soaked in uncertainty and longing. He holds up a hand, stops you before you can continue. 

“I’m not asking you for an answer,” he says, and a lump is already forming in your throat. “I know you need time. I don’t understand it,” he chuckles, “but I know it.”

“Charles,” you whisper, voice barely audible. 

His fingers brush against yours in the space between your bodies. It’s so small, such a minute gesture, but it speaks volumes, gives you permission to feel, to open up to the possibility that lies before the two of you. 

“I know you’re scared,” he says, dares to hold your hand, to run circled over the back of yours with his thumb. “I don’t have answers, but. I don’t know,” he admits, “I don’t know, maybe we can figure them out together.”

You have to look away, you do. Because if you don’t watch the cotton candy sky, the watercolor oranges and yellows and pinks and blues, you might just cry right there on the hiking trail. He always does this, it’s his go-to move recently; make you feel all safe and stupid and like it’s okay to be vulnerable. 

You huff, think carefully before nonsense tumbles from your lips. “How did we end up like this?” You’d asked, as if it wasn’t obvious. The two of you had stumbled your way into this situation the same way you’d stumbled through the rest of your lives, bouncing from opportunity to opportunity just hoping, praying, that someday it would all work out the way you thought it would. 

“Does it matter?” he replies. 

This isn’t how you thought it would end up with Charles. You thought things would always stay the same—they’d made it this far, through this much in the past two and a half decades. What could possibly change the irritation between you two now? If you hadn’t softened with Jules, with Herve. If none of it had made you budge, why on God’s green Earth would a single drunken night change everything? 

It shouldn’t. There’s no reason that the cards should have fallen like this, but they did. They did, and now everything is so fucked up because you’re soft for the one person you’d counted on never being soft for. 

“No,” you finally say. “No, I suppose it doesn’t.”

He doesn’t fill your silence, the two of you just sit in it, continue up the trail, following the sound of your friends’ voices, of the music playing from someone’s speaker. 

L’appel du vide. The call of the void. The French and their incessant need to make everything sound more romantic than it is. Only they could romanticize the impulse to be destructive. You’re faced with it at the trail peak, standing on the edge of the cliff next to him. 

You could push him, solve all your problems and create half a dozen more. You could jump, solve all your problems and leave one big one for the rest of them to deal with. The problems would be solved, they would. 

“Okay,” you say, the toe of your shoe twisting into the gravel. 

“Okay?” He asks, in the middle of taking a picture of the sun. It’ll be dark when you get back, the sun is disappearing into the horizon as he photographs it. 

“I guess we,” you sigh. He shoves his phone in his pocket. “We can figure it out together.” It’s a terrible admission, an agreement that something does exist, that there is a thing, glaring at you with a third eye and needs to be dealt with, sorted out, controlled. 

He nods, doesn’t poke or prod for anything he knows you can’t give. “Alright.”

“Yeah.”

You don’t give into the call of the void that summer night. You couldn’t, even if you wanted to. The void had left you a voicemail in the early hours of the year, before the sun rose and after the moon set, lost somewhere in the dawns. The void had already called, and you’d already answered. 

(1 hour later)

You were right, it was dark when the group of you had finally made it back to the parking lot. You’d separated yourself from him again, somewhere on the way down the trail, and had taken Chiara from Ricky. You carried her on your hip and talked with Marta the whole way back. 

“Is there something going on with you and Charles?” She asked, and your heart rate doubled instantaneously.  You focus on the baby in your arms instead of looking at your friend, know that one glance in her direction and she won’t wonder anymore, she’ll know every detail without a moment and a half of eye contact. 

“What are you talking about?”

“I don’t know,” she shrugs. “You guys have just been weird all year.”

Your stomach drops. You’d thought the two of you had been so good at hiding it, and here you are finding out that what… everyone has known for eight months? For almost nine months, they’ve all been looking at you and Charles and knowing the two of you were fucking behind closed doors. “All year?”

“Yeah, I mean,” she laughs. “Ricky and I figured the two of you hooked up on New Year’s.”

Of course. Of course they knew. You weren’t exactly subtle about it that first time, the two of you drunkenly disappearing, just the two of you, walking hand in hand off into the night. Of course they knew, how couldn’t they when you’d made it so fucking obvious.

“We didn’t,” you still lie. If you can’t sort out your own feelings, rationalize anything internally, how are you supposed to attempt to explain the situation to anyone else, much less your best friend and his. Even if you could—maintain some sort of composure about any of it—you owe it to Charles to talk to him about it before anyone else.

Despite all of it, you owe it to him. 

“Yes you did!”

You get defensive quick, and Marta’s insistence that you did sleep with Charles (even though you definitely did, and she’s more right than she knows) gets under your skin and rubs you in the wrong way.  “And what if I did?”

Marta purses her lips, presses them into a thin line that reminds you of your sister, of your mother. “Nothing. If you did, it means nothing.”

“Right,” you sigh, nod, raise your voice half an octave and talk to Chiara more than Marta, squeezing her little leg. “It means nothing.”

She matches your tone. “Unless it means something.” You glare at her. “If there’s anything there, you can tell me.”

 “I know,” you nod. She continues to pry. 

“So?”

“I…” you sigh. It would be so much easier to just tell her she was right. That she couldn’t be more right and there are a million and one things going on between you and Charles. It would be so much easier to tell her, just like it would be so much easier to tell Charles, but. You can’t. No matter how much easier it would be, you can’t. “No. No, nothing is going on.”

“Okay,” she says, clicks her tongue on the roof of her mouth to remind you just how much she doesn’t believe you. “I better not see you getting into his car tonight.”

You smile, weak, but a smile nonetheless. “You won’t.”

You managed to maintain your distance, somehow, against all the polarizing forces of the universe, but trying to stay away from Charles is like running against a rubber band. You can only go so far. 

He’s parked two spots over from you, in one of his more… under the radar cars. It’s why you didn’t blink when you’d parked by it, because it wasn’t the Monaco National Anthem on wheels, it was just a car. Anyways, you’d parked two spots over and now here you were, walking side by side to the back of the lot. 

“So,” he says, drags his feet against the blacktop, scuffs on the bottom of his sneakers with every step. 

You can feel Marta’s eyes on you, look over your shoulder to confirm her position on the other side of the parking lot, and drag your own feet. The faster you walk, the faster you get to the cars. “So…”

The silence is half-suffocating, the wavering dare to break it hanging in the air above you both. You never can start the conversation. You never know what to say. “You wanna come back to my place?” He offers, and you think that maybe the reason so much between you is said in silence is because he doesn’t know how to start the conversation, either. 

“Uh,” you’re at your car now, fingers moving over the shimmering paint. You glance at Marta, still watching your interaction while Ricky straps Chiara into her carseat. “I do, but,” you sigh, eyes finding their way back to his. “I can’t.”

“Okay, yeah,” he follows your former sightline. “You alright?”

You nod. “What about tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow’s good,” he says, and then, with a dumb look on his face, “Are we gonna fuck?”

You laugh. “Probably.”

“Are we gonna talk?”

“Probably not.”

He purses his lips into a smile, runs his hand through his hair once, twice, three times. “Saw that coming.”

You’ve slowly—slowly—been making your way to the car door, backing away from him at the back end. “It’s settled, then,” you say, unlock the car door and open it, lean against it while you continue your conversation. 

“Yeah, settled,” he nods, fidgeting with one of the bracelets tied around his wrist. “See you tomorrow.”

You smile, annoyingly endeared. “Goodnight, Charles.”

He smiles back, at his bracelet and then at his shoes and then finally at you, stepping backwards toward his own car.  “Goodnight.”

You watch him walk away, because anyone would, and just when he’s about to vanish from your eye line, you call after him. “Hey!”

His head shoots back to you, eyes wide and brows raised. “Yeah?”

“Fuck you!” You tell, stand on your tip-toes to make sure he can see your middle finger over the cars. He shakes his head and winks back at you before climbing into the car.