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herasversion · 22 days ago

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The Ghosts We Carry

Charles Leclerc x Bianchi!Reader

Summary: it’s funny, really, how the same tragedy can have such different effects on two people. Jules’ death drove Charles to chase the finish line with more fervor than ever, but also drove his sister as far away from any reminder of racing as possible … until their worlds collide again for the first time in nearly a decade and the flames of each other’s first loves are fanned once more

Warnings: descriptions of PTSD, panic attacks, a fatal crash, grief, and emotional abuse

“You’re doing it again.”

You don’t look up from the sink. The dishes aren’t even dirty — just rinsed glasses from this morning’s coffee — but your hands are shaking, and you need something to hold. Something to do. Something that isn’t the conversation you’ve been dodging for the last three days.

“Doing what?” You ask. Water keeps running over your fingers like it might rinse away the dread crawling under your skin.

“Zoning out.” Vincent’s voice echoes across the apartment. It’s that particular brand of annoyed he reserves just for you. “It’s like talking to a brick wall lately.”

You clench your jaw. You count to three. “I’m just tired.”

“Tired,” he repeats, laughing under his breath like you’ve told a joke. “You’re always tired.”

You turn off the tap. The silence is sudden and thick.

He’s sitting at the tiny kitchen table, all angles and Hugo Boss, scrolling through his phone like you’re an app he’s already bored of. His blazer’s still on from work. There’s a wine glass in front of him, untouched, because red doesn’t pair with takeout. You ordered Thai. He said it was too spicy. Again.

You dry your hands slowly. “I didn’t sleep well.”

“You never sleep well.” He doesn’t look up. “You should talk to someone about that. A doctor. Or maybe just try magnesium or something. That stuff’s meant to help.”

It’s always solutions with Vincent. Never space. Never softness.

You swallow. The kitchen’s warm, but your arms break out in goosebumps. “I don’t need magnesium. I need-”

“What?” His gaze flicks up. “What do you need?”

You hesitate. You hate the way his eyes sharpen like that — cool and assessing, like he’s gearing up to debate, not to listen.

Vincent stands. Moves toward you. “Hey,” he says, softer now. Calculated. “I didn’t mean to be a dick.”

You flinch when his hand reaches for your arm. You hope he doesn’t notice.

“I’m just stressed with work,” he continues. “The agency’s putting pressure on the team and then my parents started going on about the summer, and now that the invitations are here-”

You freeze. “What invitations?”

He blinks, like he didn’t mean to say it. “Monaco.”

Your chest tightens instantly. The air tilts. You grip the edge of the counter to stay upright. “What do you mean Monaco?”

He sighs, pushing a hand through his perfectly tousled hair. “The Grand Prix. My parents got us tickets. You know they go every year. They want us there.”

“No.”

It’s out before you can stop it. Reflexive. Immediate.

Vincent’s jaw twitches. “Come on.”

“I’m not going.”

“You haven’t even heard-”

“I don’t need to hear it.” Your voice shakes now, uneven. “You said you’d never ask me to go back.”

“That was years ago,” he says, as if grief has an expiration date.

You blink fast. The room starts to distort at the edges, just slightly. The refrigerator hum is too loud. There’s a faint rumble from outside — a motorcycle or maybe a sports car tearing through the Marais — and it hits you so hard your stomach flips. Your breath stutters.

Vincent notices. His expression hardens.

“I told you,” you whisper, bracing yourself on the counter again. “I can’t. I can’t be near that again.”

“You can’t live your whole life avoiding it.” His voice is cold again. “Jesus, it’s been over ten years.”

You flinch like he’s hit you.

He must see it, because he sighs and rubs his eyes. “Okay. Okay, that came out wrong.”

You say nothing.

“I just …” Vincent tries again. “This is important to me.”

Your mouth opens. Then closes.

He steps closer. “They’ll all be there. My team. My boss. Clients. It’s not just a race — it’s a whole weekend of networking.”

“Then go,” you say quietly.

“You’re my girlfriend.”

You stare at him. You want to scream. You want to run. You want to rewind the last five minutes and toss the whole conversation in the Seine.

Instead, you whisper, “I can’t watch cars go in circles without thinking about the one that didn’t come back.”

Vincent’s face changes for a beat — pity, or guilt, or something in between — but it vanishes fast. Replaced with that tired look again. The one that tells you he’s had this conversation too many times. The one that says you’re exhausting.

“I’m not asking you to sit in the grandstands,” he says, trying for gentler. “We’ll stay at the hotel. Go to a few dinners. Smile for some pictures. You don’t even have to go near the track if you don’t want to.”

You’re already shaking your head.

“There’ll be music. Parties. Beach things. You love the Riviera.” He smiles, like he’s selling it. “And it’s been a decade. You can’t even hear the engines from most of the town.”

“That’s not-” You cut yourself off. Your throat is tight.

Vincent tilts his head. “It’s not like Jules would want you to-”

“Don’t,” you snap.

He stops.

“Don’t bring him into this. Don’t you dare.”

Vincent exhales slowly, hands raised in mock surrender. “Fine. Okay. I won’t.”

The silence sits between you, thick with everything unsaid.

You press your palms to your eyes. The tile floor is cold beneath your bare feet. Your heart is thudding in your throat, and your chest still hasn’t unclenched from that sound outside.

You haven’t been back to Monaco in ten years. Not since the funeral in Nice. Not since the longest week of your life, when everything smelled like sea salt and grief and lilies. You were sixteen and trying to remember how to breathe while everyone else wore sunglasses and whispered in corners. Charles had cried through his eulogy. You’d left before the after-service lunch.

Vincent’s voice cuts back in, low now. Measured. “Look. I know it’s hard for you. But I’m asking for one weekend. That’s all. One weekend for me.”

You stare at him. There’s a buzzing in your ears.

“I’ll make it easy,” he adds. “We’ll do dinners. Some yacht party. You don’t even have to wear heels.”

You almost laugh. But you’re tired. Not just today. All the time. Of fighting, explaining, flinching at shadows.

So you nod. Slowly. “Just the weekend.”

His smile is quick, triumphant. “I’ll let my parents know.”

You don’t say anything else. You don’t trust your voice.

Vincent returns to the table, already texting. Probably confirming dinner reservations. You stay in the kitchen. You rinse the same glass for the third time. The water’s ice-cold now, but you can’t feel your hands.

Across the apartment, the TV turns on. A broadcaster’s voice echoes faintly: “… Monaco, always a spectacle, and this year promises no less …” The roar of engines rises underneath it, and you clamp your eyes shut.

You can’t breathe. You stare at the sink. At your shaking hands. At the suds circling the drain.

You think about Jules. About his last voicemail. About the way he used to tap your helmet before every karting session and say, “Don’t think. Just feel.”

You feel everything now. And it’s all too much. But still, you said yes. And Monaco is waiting.

***

The plane lands in Nice just after noon. You stare straight ahead, knuckles white on the armrest. Vincent is already checking his emails before the wheels even touch the runway.

Outside the window, the coastline yawns out in sun-washed glory. But all you can think about is how the air feels too close, too thick. You’re breathing, but it doesn’t feel like it’s working.

“You okay?” Vincent asks without looking up.

You nod once, lie through your teeth. “Fine.”

The drive to Monaco is exactly as you remember it — winding, glittering, cruel. The sea on one side, too beautiful, too eternal. And the rocks on the other, jagged like teeth.

You keep your gaze low. You used to watch this road with Jules, your noses pressed to the window of your father’s car, pointing out yachts and motorcycles. You used to count Ferraris like they were constellations. Now every curve makes your stomach twist.

Vincent talks most of the ride. Something about his boss. Something about dinner tonight. Something about a rooftop brunch where “you’ll love the view.” He doesn’t notice that your hands won’t stop fidgeting or that your voice has gone flat.

By the time you pass the faded billboard for Cap d’Ail, your chest is so tight you think it might crack.

***

Monaco looks the same. Worse, it feels the same.

A sunlit dollhouse of wealth and nostalgia. Bougainvillea climbing balconies. Pastries too pretty to eat. The glint of gold and sea spray. And underneath it all, the faint hum of something mechanical — unavoidable, omnipresent. Like a ghost just under the surface.

Vincent’s phone rings as you cross into the city. “It’s my mother,” he says. “She’s already at the hotel. Do you mind if I-”

You wave him off, still staring out the window. Still trying not to break.

The car snakes through the streets, past boutiques and awnings and roads you once knew by heart. You blink, and there it is: Rue Grimaldi. You see a little girl standing on a balcony, holding a homemade Ferrari flag, her dad lifting her onto his shoulders.

Your lungs stutter. You were that girl once.

You used to scream yourself hoarse every May, wedged between Jules and Charles, arms tangled, cheeks sunburnt. The Bianchi and Leclerc families shared a balcony back then — one big mess of folding chairs and paper cups and your father shouting split times in overly excited French. You remember laughing so hard at Charles’ sunhat once that you fell off the cooler you were sitting on and scraped your knee. Jules gave you his bandana and told you it made you look fast.

You press a hand to your chest now, like it might stop the memory from flooding your ribs.

“Hotel de Paris,” the driver says gently, pulling up to the curb.

You step out, and the heat hits you like a slap. Monaco in May always felt like standing in a champagne bottle just before the cork blows — glittering, effervescent, almost unbearable.

Vincent is already halfway through the revolving doors, still on the phone.

You hesitate. Just for a second. Then you follow.

***

The hotel is chaos in designer clothing. People check in with luggage the size of coffins, draped in linen and logos. Somewhere behind you, a woman with a British accent is yelling about VIP passes.

You stare at the chandelier.

It’s the same one from your childhood. Jules once dared Charles to touch it, and Charles tried — jumped off a bench and nearly broke his arm. You can still hear the thud, the scream, your mother’s gasp.

You can’t do this.

You turn toward Vincent, who’s wrapping up his call. “I need air.”

He glances up. “Now?”

“I’ll just be a second.”

He doesn’t argue, just nods and mouths don’t get lost like you’re a child.

You walk fast. Out the doors. Down the steps. Past the tourists and the flower carts and the too-bright race banners strung between buildings like celebration scars.

You keep going. Every corner has a memory. The bakery where Jules used to buy raspberry tarts before karting practice. The alley where you and Charles once skipped an entire dinner party and got caught kissing behind a Vespa. The gelato stand with the chipped blue awning where Jules taught you how to say “stracciatella” without sounding like a tourist.

You stop. The stand’s still there. Same old man, same tiny freezer. His hair’s gone grey, but his hands are the same — broad and kind.

He looks up. “Ciao, piccola.”

Your throat closes.

He stares a beat longer, recognition flickering. “La sorellina di Jules?”

You nod slowly. “Hi.”

He smiles, small and sad. “You’ve grown.”

You almost laugh. You want to ask how long it’s been. If he still thinks about Jules. If the whole town does. But all you can say is, “Do you still have stracciatella?”

He hands it to you without a word.

***

You walk and eat and try to feel normal. You fail.

The streets are already crowded. Men in branded polos. Girls in vintage sunglasses. Kids in Ferrari hats dart between tables and café chairs, holding autograph books with hope heavy in their hands.

You should turn around. You should go back to the hotel. Instead, you find yourself outside the building where Charles used to live.

It’s quiet here. Tucked between a pharmacy and a florist, just above a steep stone staircase. You and Charles used to race down it when you were kids, then beg for granita from the stall at the bottom.

You stare up at the second-floor windows. The old shutters are still crooked. One is open. A white curtain dances in the breeze like it remembers you.

A laugh bubbles up in your throat. Sharp. Painful.

“You okay?”

You jump.

It’s a woman — early thirties, glossy ponytail, holding a toddler in one arm and a baguette in the other. She smiles at you with the kind of easy concern strangers in small towns reserve for familiar ghosts.

“Yeah,” you say. “I’m fine.”

She tilts her head. “You look like someone I used to know.”

You force a smile. “Maybe.”

The toddler tugs her sleeve. “Maman, vite!”

The woman glances back, then looks at you again. “Take care, d’accord?”

You nod. And then they’re gone.

***

By the time you get back to the hotel, Vincent’s already changed for dinner.

He frowns when you walk in. “Where did you go?”

“Out.”

“You disappeared.”

“I texted.”

“You didn’t.”

You hold up your phone. He doesn’t check.

Instead, he moves toward you, all polished concern. “You look pale.”

“I’m tired.”

“You’re always tired,” he says again, softer this time, but it still cuts. “Maybe tomorrow we’ll just do the brunch and skip the paddock.”

You stiffen. “There was never going to be a paddock.”

He raises his hands. “Right. Sorry.”

You sit on the edge of the bed and stare out the window. The view is cruel — Port Hercules and all its glittering arrogance. The stands are already half up. You can see the trace of the track running like a scar through the city.

It feels like someone’s cracked your ribs open and stuffed Monaco inside.

Vincent is talking again. Outfit choices. Restaurant menus. Who’s coming tonight.

You hear none of it. Your eyes are fixed on the sea. On the curve of the road near the tunnel entrance. You remember the exact angle. You remember the call. The scream. The silence.

“I saw someone today,” you say, cutting through his monologue.

He pauses. “Who?”

“Just … someone from before.”

He looks confused. “From school?”

“No. From before that.”

A beat.

“Does it feel weird?” He asks, and it takes you a second to realize he’s trying. “Being back?”

You nod once. “It feels like being inside a snow globe someone won’t stop shaking.”

He doesn’t laugh. You don’t expect him to.

Vincent sits beside you, hands folded. He doesn’t touch you. Just says, “We can leave after Sunday. First thing Monday morning.”

You nod again. But deep down, you already know that something’s shifting. You felt it in the curve of that staircase. In the cracked window shutters. In the taste of stracciatella that still melts the same way it did when you were twelve.

You came back to survive a weekend. But Monaco remembers everything.And it’s not done with you yet.

***

“You’ll want to wear flats,” Vincent says, rifling through his cologne collection. “There’s a lot of walking.”

You sit on the edge of the bed, frozen with one shoe in your hand. “Flats for brunch?”

He doesn’t look up. “Change after. We’re heading to the paddock first.”

Your stomach drops.

“No,” you say quickly, standing. “You said we weren’t doing the paddock.”

Vincent straightens his tie. “Change of plans.”

Your voice cracks. “Vincent.”

“They’re expecting us.” He finally glances at you, holding his phone like a shield. “I wasn’t going to, but then Julien texted — he got us on the list. It’s not like we have to stay long.”

You’re already shaking your head. “I told you I can’t go.”

“It’s not the race yet,” he says, too casually. “It’s just the setup. Garage tours. Some driver meet-and-greets. It’ll be fun.”

Your jaw clenches. “Fun?”

He moves toward you, adjusting your hair like it’s a stray thread. “You’re being dramatic.”

You pull away. “You said I wouldn’t have to-”

“It’s been ten years, babe.” He sighs. “You’re still letting this control you.”

You stare at him, something hot and acidic rising in your chest. “This?”

He doesn’t flinch.

You walk to the window, heart hammering. The harbor below is crowded with floating palaces and people in team colors. A roar rises in the distance — an engine firing up, aggressive and guttural. You grip the windowsill. Your nails dig into the wood.

Vincent’s voice softens. “I thought if you saw it up close, maybe it wouldn’t feel so … big anymore.”

The buzzing starts in your ears. You barely hear him now.

“Babe,” he adds gently, like that might help. “You can handle it.”

But you can’t. You know that already. Still, you nod. What else can you do? You nod, and you smile, and you tell him, “Just for a few minutes.”

He kisses your cheek like you’ve just agreed to champagne, not psychological warfare.

***

The walk to the paddock is short, but every step feels like glass. The closer you get, the louder it becomes — mechanics shouting, tires screeching against pavement, that ever-present metallic scream of engines revving to life. It’s everywhere, all at once. Surrounding you.

Vincent keeps his hand at the small of your back like you’re a purse he doesn’t want to lose.

The VIP gate is chaos. Wristbands, security, lanyards that smell like sunscreen and stress. You’re barely listening. Your focus narrows to the sounds — the clang of metal tools, the sharp whoosh of a pit gun. You feel it all in your teeth.

“Hey,” Vincent whispers. “Smile.”

You try. It doesn’t work.

Then you step inside. And the past slams into you like a wave.

Ferrari red. McLaren papaya. Red Bull navy. The garage walls bleed color and history, the logos shouting louder than the engines. The track is just beyond the chainlink, but the paddock buzzes like its own electric storm.

You smell fuel.You smell burning rubber. You smell 2004, and Jules holding your hand, and Charles swinging your arms between his like a human jump rope.

You stop walking.

“I need a second,” you whisper.

Vincent barely hears you over the roar of another engine coming to life. “What?”

“I just need-”

Too late.

There’s a cluster of photographers ahead, flashes going off in rapid bursts. A driver walks by, helmet under his arm. You barely register who it is — dark hair, sunglasses, some grin that probably belongs on billboards.

You turn the other way.

And that’s when you hear it.

“Y/N?”

It’s your name, but it doesn’t sound like it’s being said for the first time. It sounds like it’s being remembered.

You freeze. It’s not a hallucination.

It’s Charles.

The voice is unmistakable. Deeper now, but still threaded with that old warmth. You don’t turn around. You can’t.

“Y/N, wait!”

You don’t wait. You bolt.

Vincent calls after you, but his voice is drowned by the chaos. Your feet slap the pavement as you duck behind a Mercedes display, then slip through a tent flap like it’s a back door out of a nightmare.

You find yourself in a quiet corridor behind one of the media rooms. Empty. Dim. The sound muffled just enough that you can hear your heartbeat over it.

You press yourself against the wall. Breathe.

In. Out. In.

It doesn’t work.

Your palms are sweating. Your chest is too tight. Your vision starts to tunnel. You close your eyes and try to count — five things you can see, four things you can touch-

But everything’s vibrating. Inside and out.

You slide down the wall, fingers gripping your knees.

You feel twelve. You feel seventeen. You feel the moment the phone rang. You hear the doctor’s voice. You see your mother’s face. You hear Charles’ sobs when they lowered the casket.

You press your hands to your ears. “Stop,” you whisper. “Stop it.”

But your body doesn’t listen. The panic blooms like wildfire.

***

You don’t know how long you sit there. Could be five minutes. Could be twenty.

Eventually, the sounds dim. Your breathing evens. Your hands stop shaking enough to pull your phone from your purse.

You have eight missed calls from Vincent. You ignore them. Instead, you call a car.

***

Back at the hotel, the silence feels dangerous. Too still. Too clean.

You kick off your shoes and sit on the floor beside the bed. Cold marble against your spine. You stare at the ceiling and try not to cry. You fail.

By the time Vincent storms in, your mascara’s dried in streaks and your hands are still trembling.

“Are you kidding me?”

You don’t respond.

He slams the door. “You ran.”

You flinch. He notices. Pauses. Swears under his breath.

“Do you know how bad that looked?” He snaps. “Julien was trying to introduce you, and suddenly you’re gone? I had to make excuses for ten minutes-”

“I had a panic attack.”

That stops him cold.

You barely whisper it, but it’s enough.

His mouth opens. Then shuts.

You look up at him. “My first one in three years.”

Vincent blinks. “I didn’t-”

“No. You didn’t.”

He kneels in front of you, cautious now. “I thought maybe it would help.”

“You lied.”

“I was trying to help you move on.”

You laugh, hollow. “You don’t get to decide how I heal.”

He runs a hand through his hair. “Jesus, Y/N. I didn’t mean for-”

You stand before he can finish. “I’m going to lie down.”

“You’re mad.”

“I’m not mad. I’m exhausted.”

He stares at you like you’re a puzzle he’s finally realizing he’ll never solve.

“Okay,” he says after a beat. “I’ll be at dinner.”

You don’t answer.

When the door shuts behind him, you let yourself fall back into the pillows. The quiet creeps in again, and this time you let it.

Your phone buzzes once on the nightstand. A text from an unknown number.

Are you okay?

You stare.

No name. But you know who it’s from. Charles found your number.

Your heart lurches in your chest, but you don’t answer.

Not yet. You’re not ready for that. Not tonight.

But the part of you that ran? The part that saw him and felt everything all over again? That part is still burning.

***

The morning of the race arrives like a cruel joke.

You wake to the sound of engines — distant, but unmistakable. They start early, echoing up from the hills like thunder rehearsing for disaster. You squeeze your eyes shut, bury your face in the pillow. If you don’t open them, maybe you won’t have to exist.

But then Vincent speaks.

“We should leave by ten,” he says casually, like he’s talking about brunch. “Traffic will be hell.”

You stiffen. “Leave for where?”

He’s at the mirror, adjusting his cufflinks. “The paddock club.”

Your stomach churns.

“We agreed we weren’t doing this again,” you say slowly.

“I know, but Julien insisted. And now that you’ve already met some of the team, it’ll be easier. Plus, you’ll be in the suite this time. Glass walls. Air conditioning. Free champagne.” He glances at you like that last part might sweeten the poison.

“I can’t.”

Vincent exhales, tight and impatient. “You said that yesterday.”

“I had a panic attack yesterday.”

“I’m not asking you to watch the race,” he snaps, then softens his voice like he didn’t. “You’ll be safe. You’ll be inside. You don’t even have to look at the track.”

You wrap your arms around your knees. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because it’s been ten years. And because you can’t keep living like this.”

You say nothing. What can you say? You’re not winning this fight. He’s already picking out your dress.

***

The paddock club is worse than you expected.

Polished and gleaming, every inch of it a performance — glass walls, white leather chairs, waiters in pressed uniforms offering trays of delicate things you can’t name. The race hasn’t started yet, but it feels like a warzone already. Noise everywhere. People everywhere. A camera crew in the corner. Laughter that doesn’t sound real.

You sit in the back, clutching your phone like a weapon. Your breathing is already too fast.

“Smile,” Vincent murmurs. “At least try to look like you’re not in mourning.”

You turn to him. “I am.”

He blinks. You look away before he can say anything.

The noise builds. You hear tire warmups. Practice start simulations. Over the loudspeakers: the deep, cinematic voice of the announcer calling out the grid, each driver’s name met with cheers that rattle the windows.

And then-

“Charles Leclerc. Monaco.”

The suite erupts.

The walls are glass, but you swear they close in. Your lungs aren’t working. Your hands are clammy. Your mouth tastes like metal.

Someone bumps into you. Laughs. Another cheer.

You stand. Too fast.

“Excuse me,” you murmur, stumbling toward the hallway. “I need … I need-”

But no one hears you.

You make it halfway to the corridor before the world spins. The lights blur. Your knees buckle. The floor tilts.

You collapse against the wall just outside the suite, trembling. Hands shaking, vision fractured.

You can’t breathe. You’re not here. You’re back there.

The hospital. The priest. Your mother screaming. The casket. The dirt. Charles gripping your hand so hard you bruised.

Your heart slams against your ribs. You gasp — once, twice — but the air doesn’t come. Your skin tingles, numb and hot at once. You try to speak, to scream, to something, but your body is locked.

And that’s when you finally break.

You fall. Down to the cold cement, curled between two hospitality tents like debris, your body giving out the way buildings do in earthquakes. Silent. Sudden. Devastating.

You cry until you choke.

***

It’s hours before he finds you.

Long after the chequered flag. After the roar dies down and the fans start to leave. After the interviews, the champagne, the national anthem played on home ground for the second time in his name.

Charles moves through the back corridor like a man searching for something lost.

And he finds you there — collapsed, silent now, forehead pressed to your knees, mascara streaked to your collarbones, dress crumpled like paper.

He freezes. Then steps closer, slowly.

“Kot doudou,” he whispers, crouching down. Sweetheart.

You flinch.

“Shhh,” he says quickly, gently. “C’est moi. C’est Charles.”

Your breathing hitches.

You don’t look up.

He doesn’t touch you — not yet — but his voice softens into something only you’ve ever known.

“Je suis là, d’accord? I’m here. Tu n’es pas seule. You’re not alone.”

Tears slip down your cheeks again.

“Regarde-moi. Look at me, please.”

Your head lifts.

And there he is. The same green eyes. The same scar above his eyebrow. But older. Wiser. Softer. Still him.

Charles reaches out, so slowly, fingers hovering just above your wrist.

“Puis-je? Can I?”

You nod.

His hand wraps around yours — warm, steady, real.

“You’re okay,” he says softly. “Tu es en sécurité maintenant. You’re safe now.”

A sob escapes your lips, sharp and desperate.

He pulls you into him.

You don’t even realize it’s happening until you’re wrapped in his arms, clinging to the white of his race suit like a lifeline. He cradles you with both hands, holding your head against his chest.

“Respire avec moi, d’accord? Breathe with me.”

In. Out.

“Comme ça. Like that.”

You match his rhythm, barely.

His voice is a metronome.

“Tu te souviens quand on courait dans les escaliers derrière l'appartement de ma mère? Do you remember those stairs we used to race down behind my mom’s flat?”

You nod, weakly.

“You used to cheat,” he says, smiling gently. “Tu criais ‘regarde!’ et puis tu me doublais.”

That pulls a tiny laugh from your throat. Barely there. But it’s something.

Charles strokes your back slowly.

“Et Jules te portait toujours quand tu tombais. You always made him carry you back up.”

Another breath. This one deeper.

“Il serait si fier de toi, tu sais? He’d be so proud of you.”

Your tears come harder then. Not like a collapse this time — but like a release.

And still, Charles doesn’t let go.

“Come with me,” he says finally, standing slowly, guiding you up with him. “I have a room. You can sit. Breathe.”

You nod again, unable to speak.

He leads you gently through the maze of tents, hands warm and grounding.

***

The driver’s room is small, private, cool. One chair. One couch. A fridge full of untouched water bottles.

He closes the door quietly behind you.

“Stay here,” Charles says. “I have ten minutes of press left. Maybe fifteen. I’ll be back before you miss me.”

You glance at him, voice raw. “You don’t have to-”

He holds up a finger. “Non. No arguing. Just sit. Rest.”

You sit.

He turns to go, but pauses in the doorway.

“I won,” he says quietly.

You blink.

“What?”

“The race,” he says, almost shy. “I won.”

A beat.

Your eyes widen.

“You — Charles.”

He shrugs, like it’s nothing. But his smile says everything.

“You should be celebrating,” you say quickly, standing. “This is — this is huge. It’s Monaco, your home! Go-”

He steps forward.

“No.”

You stop.

“I’ve waited all season for that win,” he says softly. “And when it happened, I looked around and still didn’t feel complete. You know when I did?”

Your throat tightens.

He steps closer.

“When I saw you again.”

You try to look away.

He tilts your chin up with two fingers.

“I don’t want champagne,” he murmurs. “I want to know you’re breathing.”

You look up at him — really look.

And the boy you knew is still there.

Not buried. Not broken.

Just older. Like you.

You nod, slowly.

“I’m breathing,” you whisper.

His voice breaks a little. “Bon.”

Then he kisses your forehead, and everything in you finally, finally quiets.

***

The ride to Charles’ apartment is slow, winding through sleepy post-race Monaco. The streets are still littered with confetti, fencing half-disassembled, tourists wandering in a daze of heat and champagne. You sit in the passenger seat of his matte black Ferrari, window cracked, fingers curled into your lap. Still silent. Still unsure if this is real.

Charles drives one-handed, his wrist slung casually over the steering wheel like it’s second nature. It probably is.

He glances at you at a red light.

“You okay?”

You nod.

“You don’t have to pretend.”

You exhale, looking down at your fingers. “I don’t know what I am.”

“That’s okay,” he says, voice low and warm. “You’re allowed not to know.”

The light turns green.

The hum of the engine should set you off again, but somehow it doesn’t. Maybe it’s the calmness of his presence. Maybe it’s the way he keeps the radio off, lets the city sounds fill the silence without trying to fix it.

His apartment is tucked up in the hills, away from the yacht parties and billionaire noise. It’s quiet, modern, all warm neutrals and clean edges, but lived-in. There’s a pair of sneakers by the door, a hoodie crumpled on a chair, a water bottle half-full on the counter. It smells like citrus and laundry detergent.

And dog.

Because the moment you step inside, there’s a scrabbling of little paws.

“Leo!” Charles laughs as a beige blur launches toward you, tongue out, tail whipping like a metronome. “Gentil! Doucement!”

Leo the dachshund ignores all commands and beelines straight for your knees, snuffling at your dress with single-minded joy.

You blink down at him. “You got a dog?”

Charles shuts the door behind you. “Last year. He picked me.”

“He’s …” You crouch slowly, letting the dog sniff your fingers. “He’s got no sense of personal space.”

“He’s a Leclerc.”

You snort. “Touché.”

Leo plops on your foot, satisfied. You scratch behind his ears. Something in your chest softens.

Charles watches you with that quiet expression you remember so well. Thoughtful. Open.

“Come,” he says gently. “You need to eat.”

***

The kitchen is bright, sun-washed even at this hour. He pours you a glass of water before he even offers you anything else. Puts it in your hand like it’s sacred.

You sip, then drain the whole glass.

“I ordered from Il Giardino,” he says, sitting across from you at the marble island. “You remember?”

Your eyes widen. “Are you serious? That place is still open?”

“Best pizza in Monaco. Of course it is.”

“You used to eat half a pie in one minute.”

He grins. “Don’t challenge me.”

The pizzas arrive ten minutes later, delivered by someone who knows him well enough not to ask for a photo. You both sit cross-legged on the floor like teenagers, plates balanced on your knees.

You don’t speak at first.

The food is too good.

Or maybe it’s that you haven’t eaten a full meal in three days and your body is finally remembering it needs to survive.

Charles watches you as you eat. Not in a weird way, just … like it matters to him that you're eating at all.

“I’m sorry about earlier,” you say quietly, after the second slice. “About the race. The panic. I ruined your day.”

He shakes his head. “You didn’t ruin anything.”

“You won Monaco.”

“And I found you again.”

Your heart stumbles.

He adds, softer, “It feels like one miracle deserved another.”

You look down at your plate. “I didn’t think you’d want to see me.”

His voice is low. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“Because I ran.”

“I ran too. Just in a different direction.”

You blink.

He leans back on one arm. “You left, I know. But I stayed and buried myself in the thing that hurt most.”

You watch him carefully. He’s not looking at you anymore, just out the window, where the lights from the harbor flicker like memory.

“I used to think that if I won enough, drove fast enough, gave enough interviews saying I was okay … it would mean I was.” He shakes his head. “It didn’t work.”

Silence stretches between you, tender and wide.

“I couldn’t look at a track,” you admit. “I couldn’t even listen to the commentary on TV.”

“I know.”

You glance at him. “You do?”

He nods, eyes still distant. “I saw photos of you once, maybe two years after. In Paris. Some event. You looked so far away.”

You don’t remember the event, but the far away part tracks.

“I thought about calling you,” he continues. “A hundred times.”

“So why didn’t you?”

His smile is sad. “Because I was angry.”

You nod. “Me too.”

He turns back to you.

“Were you angry at Jules?” He asks.

You hesitate.

“Yes. And at myself. And at God. And the FIA. And time. And physics. And the rain. And anyone who said, he died doing what he loved.”

Charles swallows. “I hate that.”

“Me too.”

His voice is quiet. “I still talk to him, sometimes.”

You blink. “You do?”

“When I’m driving.” He shrugs. “Before a quali lap. After I fuck up. He’s there. Always.”

You nod, tears pricking again. “I still wear his bracelet.”

He looks at your wrist. The woven red one, frayed and delicate now.

“I remember when he gave you that,” Charles says. “You were mad because he stole your gelato that day.”

“I threw a spoon at him.”

“And he said you’d go to jail, since you assaulted him.”

You laugh — really laugh — and cover your face.

Charles grins. “You told him I was the only person dumb enough to get arrested.”

You glance up at him.

The look between you settles deep.

Warm. Familiar. Real.

He picks up Leo, who immediately tries to chew on a crust, then sighs and burrows into Charles’ hoodie like he’s lived there for years.

Charles strokes behind the dog’s ears, voice softer now.

“I’m glad you came.”

“I almost didn’t.”

“I know,” he says. “But you did.”

You feel yourself cracking open again, but not in the way you did yesterday.

Not like glass.

Like thaw.

Like something cold finally learning warmth again.

You set your plate down and lean back against the wall, full and exhausted and strangely weightless.

“I haven’t eaten like that in a week,” you admit.

“You probably haven’t slept in a week either,” he says gently.

You want to argue, but you’re already yawning.

Charles stands, then holds out a hand. “Come on. You can have the guest room.”

You take it without question.

***

The room is simple. A white bed, soft sheets, windows left open to the sea air. You sit on the edge and kick off your shoes.

Charles lingers in the doorway, Leo still under one arm like a loaf of warm bread.

“I’ll be just down the hall,” he says. “If you need anything.”

You nod. Then pause.

“Thank you,” you say quietly. “For not making me feel broken.”

“You’re not broken,” he says immediately.

You look at him.

“You’re just grieving,” he adds. “And grief isn’t linear.”

You nod.

He starts to leave, then turns back.

“I meant what I said,” he says. “Seeing you again … it mattered. More than winning.”

You blink slowly, too tired to fight the emotion in your throat.

“You always mattered more.”

He smiles. Small. Real.

“Bonne nuit, mon étoile,” he says.

The door clicks softly behind him.

You curl into the covers, still in your dress. And sleep.

***

Back then, everything was simpler.

You’re fourteen. He’s fifteen. You’re sitting on the roof of his mother’s apartment in the old part of Monaco, knees pulled to your chest, elbows brushing as you both watch the sea below shimmer in silver-blue streaks. The track’s still being built for the Grand Prix — steel scaffolding half-draped along the waterfront, familiar and loud and full of promise.

“Do you think we’ll remember this?” You ask, swinging your ankle in slow, lazy arcs. “When we’re old and boring?”

Charles glances at you, his hair sticking up at the crown where you’d mussed it earlier. “How old?”

“Like … twenty-five.”

He snorts. “That’s not old.”

You grin. “Feels ancient.”

He nudges your shoulder with his. “I’ll remember. Even if I’m ninety.”

You rest your chin on your knees. “What if we don’t see each other anymore? What if we grow up and forget?”

“I won’t forget you,” he says, just like that. No hesitation. “Not even if you forget me first.”

You go quiet.

He’s quiet too, but he shifts closer, like his body can’t help it. His shoulder touches yours again.

You whisper, “You’re my best friend.”

“I know,” he says. “You’re mine too.”

Your heart beats like a drumroll. Your stomach feels like fireworks.

He looks at you then — really looks.

And it’s not a surprise when he leans in.

It’s a promise.

Your first kiss is shy and warm and a little clumsy. His lips taste like the peach ice cream he stole from your cone ten minutes ago. Your fingers curl in the hem of his t-shirt like you’re anchoring yourself to this exact second, because you are.

You pull back and grin. “You taste like sugar.”

He laughs. “You taste like you’re going to break my heart someday.”

“Never.”

You meant it. So did he.

***

You wake to the smell of something warm and savory. The soft sound of music drifting in from the kitchen — a scratchy vinyl piano cover of some piece you don’t recognize. There are birds outside, faint seagulls, and for a second you have no idea where you are.

And then-

Leo jumps onto the guest bed with all the enthusiasm of a creature five times his size. He licks your cheek once, then sneezes into the pillow beside your face.

“Gross,” you mumble, pushing him off with one hand. “Rude.”

The door creaks open.

“You’re awake.”

Charles is holding a tray.

“Hi,” you say, rubbing your eyes.

His hair is a mess. He’s wearing a hoodie and the most ridiculous socks — Ferrari red with little dogs on them.

“I brought you sustenance,” he says, setting the tray down on the bedside table.

You blink at it. Fresh-cut flowers in a mug. A slice of quiche on a ceramic plate. A to-go cup of coffee with your name spelled right for once.

“Jules’ favorite,” Charles adds, tapping the crust with a fork. “You remember? The one from the market on Rue Grimaldi. They still make it with the caramelized onions.”

You sit up slowly, heart already twisting. “You went to the market?”

“I go every Monday.”

You look down at the plate. It smells like childhood.

“Why are you being so nice to me?” You ask quietly.

Charles shrugs. “Because you deserve it.”

You look at him. Hard.

He holds your gaze.

“Because I missed you,” he adds.

You bite your lip.

“I looked for you,” he says. “In every city I raced in. I’d check cafés and train stations. Not because I thought you were there, exactly … I just hoped.”

Your chest tightens.

“Even when I was in Paris,” he continues. “I’d take extra long walks. Through Saint-Germain, the Marais. Hoping you’d just … be there. Like magic.”

You stare at the tray again.

Your voice is barely a whisper. “Why?”

“Because I wasn’t finished knowing you.”

You press your palm over your heart like it might quiet the noise.

Charles kneels beside the bed, not touching you, just … there.

“Tell me what you’re thinking,” he says.

You shake your head. “It’s too much.”

“I can take it.”

You exhale, staring at your hands.

“I’ve been walking through life like a ghost,” you say. “Just … watching things happen around me. Letting Vincent tell me what I need, what I can’t handle, what would be good for me. And I believed him.”

Charles tilts his head. “He doesn’t see you.”

“No,” you whisper. “He sees a broken version of me. One he can fix. Or at least manage.”

“Fuck that.”

You blink.

He says it again. Softer, but just as sure. “Fuck that.”

A shaky laugh escapes your lips. “He made me feel crazy for still missing Jules. For not wanting to go to the races. For not getting over it fast enough.”

“I still cry,” Charles says simply. “All the time.”

You look at him.

“I hear certain songs, or see someone with his shoulders, or walk into a hotel and remember we stayed there during karting once. I cry,” he says. “I miss him in a way that doesn’t shrink with time. It just … stretches.”

You nod, fast, eyes blurry.

“I thought maybe I was stuck,” you whisper. “But maybe I’m just grieving. Still. Just like you.”

He smiles softly. “Exactly like me.”

You pick up the quiche and take a small bite. It’s still warm. Still perfect.

“I loved him so much,” you say, voice breaking. “I still do.”

“I know.”

Charles doesn’t fill the silence that follows. He just lets you sit with it.

Leo curls up at your feet. The music hums along in the background.

And for the first time in years, the grief doesn’t feel like a wall.

It feels like a bridge.

***

Later, you're curled up on Charles’ couch in a pair of his old sweatpants and a borrowed hoodie. Your hair’s in a messy bun, face scrubbed clean. He brings you another coffee and settles beside you with a bowl of cereal, Leo now draped across both your shins like a blanket.

“Remember that summer when we tried to build a treehouse?” You ask.

“In the olive grove,” he says immediately. “We got through two planks and a ladder.”

“And then you fell.”

“I leapt.”

“You cried.”

“I landed emotionally.”

You burst out laughing. It feels like the first real laugh you’ve had in months.

Charles grins, slouched and easy.

“Do you ever wish we could go back?” You ask.

He leans his head back. “To when we were kids?”

“Yeah. Before everything.”

“Sometimes,” he says. “But then I think … maybe we had to get lost before we could find each other again.”

You fall quiet.

You’re starting to feel it, this pull in your chest. Not just toward him, but away from everything that’s kept you small and afraid. Vincent. The routines that numb. The excuses that sound like truths. You’re starting to question it all.

You sip your coffee and ask, “What if I’m not ready?”

“For what?” Charles asks.

“To feel this again.”

He shrugs. “Then don’t. Just feel whatever you feel. No rules.”

You stare at him. “You’re infuriatingly healthy now.”

He chuckles. “Leo’s my therapist.”

The dachshund barks on cue.

You smile.

“You should stay the night again,” Charles says suddenly.

Your brows rise.

He rushes, “Not like that. I mean — just stay. Rest. We’ll order something. Watch a film.”

You hesitate.

Then nod. “Okay.”

A beat.

Charles grins. “You want to wear the dog socks?”

You shake your head. “I want my own pair.”

He pretends to think. “We’ll see if you’ve earned them.”

***

The walk to Pascale’s apartment is warm and golden, the kind of afternoon Monaco only gifts to those it’s missed. The harbor glints. The sea air tastes like old summers. And Charles, walking beside you with a cloth bag of strawberries and flowers slung over one shoulder, is humming something under his breath.

You don’t ask what it is. You already know. It’s the same melody he used to hum in the kitchen of his family’s apartment when you were fourteen, waiting for crêpes and poking Jules in the ribs with a spatula until he yelled.

“Are you nervous?” Charles asks quietly.

You nod. “A little. I haven’t seen her since …”

You don’t finish the sentence. You don’t have to.

He reaches for your hand. Not in a way that demands anything, just enough for your fingertips to brush. “She missed you. She asks about you every time I go home.”

You glance sideways. “You told her you found me?”

“She figured it out,” he says with a wry smile. “I didn’t come home after the race. Then I texted her to ask if she still made that orange cake you liked. She said, ‘How long is she staying?’”

You bite your lip.

“She loved you, you know,” he adds, softer now. “Still does.”

You nod, chest tight.

The wind tugs your hair across your face. You brush it back. You feel grounded. Fragile, but grounded. Like this walk is one step further away from the version of yourself who couldn’t imagine standing on this street ever again.

And then-

“Y/N?”

You stop cold.

You know that voice.

Charles turns with you, brow furrowed.

Vincent is standing just outside a cafe patio, phone still in his hand. Sunglasses pushed up in his hair. His expression freezes the moment he registers the scene.

You. Charles. Together. Laughing. Comfortable.

He blinks once. Then twice.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Vincent says slowly. “Him?”

The air shifts.

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.

Charles steps subtly in front of you — not enough to block, but enough to signal. “This isn’t the time.”

Vincent ignores him completely. “This is where you’ve been? I’ve been calling you for two days.”

“I turned off my phone,” you say, voice hoarse.

His eyes narrow. “And didn’t think to let me know you were with Monaco’s golden boy?”

“Vincent-”

“Jesus Christ, Y/N.”

Charles says your name gently. You glance at him, and that’s when Vincent loses it.

“Oh, don’t look at him like that,” he snaps. “You think he’s your savior now? The famous, hot, emotionally available Charles Leclerc swooped in the second you cried on a racetrack? That’s cute.”

“Stop,” you say, voice cracking.

“No,” he says. “No, because I’ve been dealing with your silence, your triggers, your shutdowns for years, and the second someone shiny from your past shows up, you run to him?”

You flinch.

Charles says, more firmly, “That’s enough.”

Vincent laughs bitterly. “You think you can just slot back into his life? You think he actually wants this long-term? You’re-” he hesitates, then lowers his voice to something sharper, quieter. “You’re too broken, Y/N.”

Silence.

The world tilts.

Vincent takes a step forward. “You know it’s true. You can’t even watch a race without hyperventilating. You barely eat, you don’t sleep. You-”

“I left because of you,” you whisper.

He blinks.

“I wasn’t planning to stay,” you go on, voice trembling. “But then you made it so clear I wasn’t safe with you.”

Vincent’s mouth opens. Closes.

“You made me feel like grief was a burden,” you say. “Like Jules should be ancient history. Like my pain was something to manage.”

He glares at Charles. “So what, he’s different?”

You don’t even hesitate. “Yes.”

Charles puts a hand on your back, grounding, steady.

Vincent exhales through his nose and mutters something you don’t quite catch. Then, in a tired voice, he says, “Let’s just talk. Alone.”

You glance at Charles.

“Go if you want to,” he says, calm and clear. “But not because you think you owe him something.”

That does something to you.

But you nod. Because you need to say this. You need to end this in a way that’s yours.

You follow Vincent a few steps away, to the mouth of a side street.

“I loved you,” he says. “I tried.”

“I know,” you whisper. “But you loved a version of me I don’t even recognize.”

He swallows.

“I’m not broken,” you add. “I’m grieving. There’s a difference.”

“Then why do you always fall apart?” He asks, voice almost desperate. “Why do I always have to pick up the pieces?”

“I didn’t ask you to.”

He doesn’t reply. And you don’t wait. You walk away. You don’t look back.

***

That night, you don’t go back to Charles’ place.

You don’t go back to the hotel either.

You go where you always go when everything feels too loud: the cemetery.

Jules’ memorial stone is worn at the edges now. There are new flowers — someone’s always bringing them, sometimes fans, sometimes friends. But you kneel anyway and set down the tiny bouquet of wildflowers you picked from a wall on the walk.

You sit cross-legged. You stare at his name. You breathe.

You whisper, “I’m so tired.”

And then — finally — after days of tears caught behind your ribs, you cry.

Not quiet. Not graceful.

You cry like your body is being wrung out from the inside.

You cry until your chest hurts and your palms dig into the gravel and your vision goes blurry with salt and moonlight.

And when a voice whispers, “Chérie …” you don’t even flinch.

He finds you there, curled in on yourself.

You don’t look up.

Charles kneels beside you, gently pressing a hand to your back.

You exhale, broken and sharp.

“Respire avec moi,” he murmurs. “Un … deux … trois …”

He matches his breath to yours.

You inhale.

Exhale.

Again.

Your body starts to slow.

You lean into him.

“Je suis là,” he whispers. I’m here.

You nod into his chest.

He rubs small, slow circles into your shoulder. He doesn’t rush it. Doesn’t speak again for a long time.

When you finally sit up, eyes puffy, hands trembling, you say, “I don’t know who I am if I’m not sad.”

He looks at you gently. “You’re not just sad.”

You shake your head. “But I don’t know how to be without it. Grief has been my entire personality since I was seventeen.”

“I get it,” he says. “I do.”

You look at him. “How did you do it? How did you keep going?”

He exhales. “I didn’t have a choice. I had a contract. Expectations. A whole family who needed me to be okay. But I wasn’t.”

He pauses.

“I drove through the pain,” he adds. “Not because it healed me. But because it was the only way I could be close to him. On track, he’s still with me.”

You close your eyes.

“But I’ve had moments,” he says. “Nights where I broke down in hotel rooms. Days I couldn’t speak to anyone. And in all of that, I realized … Jules wouldn’t have wanted us to live half-lives just because he didn’t get to finish his.”

You whisper, “But he was so good.”

“I know.”

“I wanted to be like him.”

“You were.”

You finally meet his eyes.

Charles reaches for your hand. “He loved you. He’d want you to love yourself. Even the parts that still hurt.”

Tears prick your eyes again. But they’re softer now.

“I don’t know what comes next,” you say.

“You don’t need to,” he replies. “You just have to keep walking. One step at a time.”

***

You don’t mean to cry the first time you sit across from the therapist in Paris.

But something about the quiet room, the glass of water on the table, the soft hum of a sound machine in the corner — it cracks you open before a single word is spoken. You cry quietly. Silently. The tears just fall, like they’ve been waiting for you to stop running long enough to let them catch up.

The therapist — Marion — is in her forties, maybe. Calm eyes, soft voice. She doesn’t flinch.

“That’s okay,” she says. “Take your time.”

You nod. You wipe at your face with the edge of your sleeve.

It’s your first session in years. The last time you tried, you’d walked out after twenty minutes. The therapist had said the word closure and you’d nearly laughed in her face.

But Charles had sat with you the night before this appointment, legs folded beneath him on your couch in Paris, Leo asleep in a little croissant shape beside him. He’d held your hand, kissed the inside of your wrist, and whispered, “You don’t have to fix everything overnight. Just try.”

So you’re here. And you’re trying.

You don’t talk about Jules in the first session. Or Monaco. Or Charles.

You talk about the little things: the engine sounds that make your stomach turn. The blackouts. The way your chest tightens in traffic. The dreams you can’t always remember but wake up from with your hands clenched into fists.

Marion doesn’t push.

Instead, she introduces something called EMDR.

“It works differently than traditional talk therapy,” she explains. “The idea is to reprocess traumatic memories while stimulating the brain bilaterally. Often through eye movements, tapping, or sound.”

You nod, even though it sounds a bit like science fiction.

“It’s not about erasing the memories,” she says. “It’s about giving your brain a way to move through them instead of staying stuck in the moment of impact.”

You sit with that. Let it settle in your bones.

“I want to try,” you say.

And for the first time in years, you mean it.

***

Charles starts flying to Paris on his free weekends.

It’s never anything dramatic. No declarations. No grand gestures.

Just soft knock-knocks on your door at noon. Croissants from the place downstairs. Leo waddling in like he owns the apartment. Charles curling up beside you on the couch, watching documentaries or whatever terrible movie you picked out of nostalgia.

He doesn’t ask too many questions.

He doesn’t hover.

He’s just there.

“Do you want to talk about it?” He asks one Saturday evening as you lean against him, the leftover sushi untouched on the table.

You hesitate. Then you say, “I remembered the way the radio sounded. The moment it cut out during Jules’ crash. That silence. That pause.”

He nods.

“And then the static. I can’t unhear it.”

“I know.”

“I hated that I couldn’t do anything,” you whisper. “I just sat in my room, watching the feed freeze, and I knew. I knew.”

Charles exhales slowly.

You feel his breath against your hair.

“I dreamt about it last night,” you add. “In the dream, I’m running across the track. But I never get there in time.”

He closes his eyes. You feel him wrap his arms around you. Tight. Steady.

“You can say it,” you murmur. “You dream too, don’t you?”

“Sometimes,” he admits. “Sometimes I hear his laugh and wake up with my pillow soaked.”

You squeeze his hand.

That night, he stays in the guest room again. And even though he’s just down the hall, you sleep like you haven’t in years.

***

The EMDR sessions become a rhythm.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Back and forth. Left and right.

You track the movement of Marion’s fingers with your eyes. You speak. You breathe. You reprocess.

It’s brutal. Some days, you leave feeling like you’ve been scraped hollow.

But other days, there’s a weightlessness to it. Like a memory that used to feel like drowning now floats a little.

You tell Charles about it over the phone when he’s in Baku.

“I didn’t dissociate today,” you say, voice shaking with pride.

“Chérie, that’s amazing,” he says. “I’m proud of you.”

You smile at the ceiling.

And when he says, “Next time I’m back, I’ll take you out to dinner. Somewhere loud,” you don’t panic. You nod.

Because maybe you’re getting there. Maybe, slowly, you’re learning how to live in the world again.

***

Vincent texts twice.

The first is vague.

We should talk.

The second is manipulative.

I’m worried about you. You isolate when you’re spiraling. I just want to help.

You don’t answer.

You don’t owe him that anymore.

Instead, you text Charles.

Still hate the sound of engines. But I don’t want to run anymore.

He sends back.

Come to Fiorano.

You blink at the screen.

Fiorano?

Private Pirelli tire test. Just a few laps. I can keep everyone away. You won’t have to talk to anyone.

You stare at the message.

I’ll think about it.

But you already know you’re going.

***

It takes three trains to get to Maranello.

You wear headphones the entire ride. Not because of noise, just because you need a barrier. Something that says I’m not ready yet. Please come back later.

When you arrive at Fiorano, the sun is setting behind a curtain of red and gold. The track is quiet, save for the low rumble of distant engines. You flinch once. Then breathe.

A Ferrari staff member meets you at the gate. She smiles warmly, checks your name, and says, “He’s just finishing his run. You can watch from the platform up ahead.”

You nod.

You walk slowly. One foot in front of the other. Grass crunching beneath your shoes.

When you reach the edge of the platform, the view takes your breath away.

Charles is out there.

Not Charles your childhood best friend.

Not Charles your heartbreak.

Not Charles your anchor.

Charles the driver. The one Jules believed in. The one who used pain like fuel.

The SF-25 glints like molten fire as it tears around the corner. The sound — once unbearable — is dulled by your earbuds. You leave them in. But you don’t turn away.

You watch.

He’s graceful. Aggressive. Focused.

You’ve never seen anyone so alive.

Your heart beats fast, but not from panic. From something closer to awe.

You stay there until the car slows, until the engine cuts.

And when he climbs out, helmet off, curls sweat-dampened and grin bright under the golden sky, he sees you.

He doesn’t wave.

He just nods. Like he knew you’d come.

You stay on the platform until the sky deepens into twilight.

And for the first time, the sound of an engine doesn’t feel like a threat.

It feels like memory.

It feels like home.

***

The house in Nice is smaller than you remember.

You don’t know if it’s the time away or the grief that made it feel so much bigger in your mind, but when the cab pulls up to the curb and you step out onto the sun-warmed pavement, all you can think is God, I was just a kid.

The shutters are the same pale green. The mailbox still has the dent Jules put in it when he tried to do a wheelie on a borrowed scooter. The garden’s overgrown, the way it always was. Your dad never did win that war with the weeds.

You hover at the gate longer than you should.

And then the front door opens and Christine is running down the steps, arms open wide, her voice breaking-

“Ma chérie-”

You go.

You don’t think, you just move. And suddenly you’re wrapped in her arms, your mother’s perfume the same as it’s been since you were nine. She holds you like she might never let go. You let her.

Philippe is on the porch, quiet. When you pull back, he’s already coming down the steps too, slower, more careful. He kisses your forehead and doesn’t say anything, but his eyes say it all.

There’s grief there.

And love.

And something like relief.

“You look thin,” Christine says when you’re finally inside, brushing your hair from your face like she used to when you were sick.

“I eat now,” you say. “Mostly pizza.”

“Charles?”

You nod.

She smiles.

The house smells like rosemary and garlic. Like home. Like a past you thought you left behind but somehow still carries your shape.

You don’t go upstairs.

Not yet.

Instead, you sit at the long, chipped dining table that still has Jules’ initials scratched into the corner. You help your mother slice lemons, and you listen as your father and Charles talk about Monaco like it doesn’t ache anymore.

***

Pascale arrives first, arms full of wine and flowers, her laugh trailing through the doorway.

“Mon dieu, look at you,” she says, hugging you so tight your back cracks.

Then Arthur and Lorenzo crash in behind her, both taller than they used to be, both grinning wide. Arthur pulls you into a hug so forceful it nearly knocks you over.

“Tu m’as manqué,” he mumbles into your shoulder.

You laugh, a little breathless. “You’re stronger than you used to be.”

“I train now,” he says, smug.

Lorenzo kisses both your cheeks and gives you a long look.

“You okay?”

“Better,” you say. “Getting there.”

He nods. That’s enough.

The dinner is loud. Warm. Your cheeks hurt from smiling.

You learn that Pascale still makes her own tomato sauce because store-bought is “for lazy people.” Arthur’s trying to learn Korean. Your dad finally fixed the kitchen faucet after ten years.

You laugh too much. You drink too fast.

Charles sits beside you. His knee brushes yours beneath the table every few minutes — accidentally at first. Then not.

At one point, you catch him watching you.

He doesn’t look away.

***

After dessert, your parents bring out old photo albums.

You see pictures of yourself in a pink karting helmet, grinning with a gap-toothed smile beside Charles. Jules with his arm slung around Charles’ shoulders like a brother. All of you in matching red on the streets of Monaco, back when the race was magic and not ruin.

Arthur makes fun of your childhood haircut. You threaten to cut his while he sleeps. Lorenzo finds a photo of you and Charles at fifteen, forehead to forehead, and whistles low.

“Were you-”

“No,” Charles says, too fast.

“Yes,” you say, at the same time.

Everyone laughs. Charles flushes. You almost do, too.

But it doesn’t ache the way it used to.

***

Later, the house grows quiet.

Pascale leaves with Arthur and Lorenzo, but not before hugging you again and whispering, “Come home more, okay?”

Your parents retreat to their room, sleepy from wine and joy.

And then it’s just you and Charles, standing awkwardly at the bottom of the stairs.

“I should — I haven’t been up there,” you say.

“To your room?”

You nod.

He hesitates, then, “Want me to come with you?”

You nod again.

***

Your bedroom is a time capsule.

The posters, the mismatched furniture, the bookshelf filled with old notebooks and ballet shoes and books with folded corners.

Charles walks in slowly, reverently, like the room might collapse under the weight of what it held.

He turns in a slow circle. “It’s exactly the same.”

“I couldn’t come back,” you say. “Not after.”

“I know.”

You sit on the edge of the bed. It creaks familiarly. “I kept thinking I’d break if I saw all of this again.”

“Are you?”

You look around. “No. But I thought I would.”

Charles kneels in front of you, resting his arms on your knees.

“I hated that you disappeared,” he says. “After Jules. I hated it for a long time.”

Your chest tightens.

“I know.”

“But I also knew why.”

You stare at the floor between you.

“I didn’t know how to stay,” you whisper. “Not without him. You — God, Charles, you looked so much like him some days. The way you laughed, the way you grieved, the way you drove. I couldn’t breathe near you without remembering him.”

He doesn’t move.

“I was so angry,” you admit. “Not at you. At everything. At racing. At the world. At the fact that everyone kept going like he hadn’t just-” Your voice breaks. You swallow. “I thought maybe if I left, I could outrun it.”

“Did you?”

“No. But I tried. I thought if I saw you, I’d fall apart,” you say. “Turns out I was already broken. Just didn’t want to admit it.”

He lifts your hand. Kisses your knuckles.

You watch him. Watch the way his lashes brush his cheeks. The way his hands shake just slightly when they touch yours.

“I still love you,” he says quietly. “I think I always did.”

It hits like a second heartbeat.

You close your eyes.

“I don’t know who I am without grief,” you whisper. “But I want to try. I want — God, Charles, I want something that doesn’t hurt.”

He leans closer. “This doesn’t have to hurt.”

You look at him. Really look.

“I’m scared,” you say.

“So am I,” he murmurs.

And then-

Then he kisses you.

Soft. Hesitant. His hand cupping your cheek like you might vanish if he touches too fast.

You kiss him back.

There’s no music, no fireworks, no perfect movie lighting.

Just the creak of the old bed. The sound of your breath catching. The quiet thud of his heart against yours.

You pull back first, eyes wide.

“I-”

But he shushes you gently, forehead resting against yours.

“Don’t say it yet,” he murmurs. “Just stay.”

You do.

You stay.

***

It’s been a year.

Three hundred sixty-five days since your heart broke open on the edge of a paddock, between a thousand voices and the ghosts you couldn’t keep away. A year since the screaming engines sent you spiraling and Charles found you curled between hospitality tents, unable to breathe.

Now, you stand in the Monaco paddock again — upright. Whole. Not unscarred, but standing.

Charles’ pass hangs around your neck, warm against your skin.

A Marussia cap is in your hands. The red one. The one with the white trim and the subtle stitching of Jules’ name on the inside of the brim. It’s a little faded. The black marker signature has started to bleed through the fabric, but the weight of it — it’s as heavy as it was ten years ago.

“Is this real?” You ask.

Andrea nods. His smile is tired but kind. He looks at you the same way he did when you were fourteen and clumsy, following Jules into the gym with your ballet flats and a book.

“He left it in my car that weekend,” Andrea says. “Said he wanted to bring it back home, for good luck.”

You look up. Your throat tightens.

“I kept it in the glovebox for a while. Couldn’t let it go,” Andrea adds softly. “But I think maybe it was meant for you all along.”

You press the cap to your chest. Your fingers are trembling.

“Thank you,” you whisper.

Andrea nods and reaches out to squeeze your shoulder. “He’d be proud, you know.”

You blink fast. “Of Charles?”

“Of both of you.”

***

You’re in the Ferrari garage by the time engines fire.

The roar still knocks something loose inside you. But it doesn’t take you under anymore. Not like it used to.

You breathe through it. Slow. Grounded.

The cap is on your head now. It smells like the past — faint motor oil and leather and something sweet you can’t place. You roll the brim between your fingers. Familiar. Safe.

From your seat behind the engineers’ monitors, you watch the red car on track. Fast. Fluid. Like it was born to be here.

You think of Charles at fifteen, grinning with a mouthful of braces and a heart too big for his body.

You think of Jules lifting you onto his shoulders so you could see the cars from the balcony when you were seven.

You think of standing in this same paddock a year ago, barely breathing, Charles’ voice anchoring you in a storm you thought you wouldn’t survive.

Now-

You watch him fly.

***

Lap after lap.

Pit stops. Unsuccessful attempts at overtakes. Strategy calls in quick, sharp Italian over the radio.

You don’t flinch at the crashes. Not even when a car goes sideways at the chicane, barely missing the barrier.

You look at the screen and you don’t see Jules. You don’t see blood. You don’t see the worst day of your life on repeat.

You see Charles.

You see yourself.

You see surviving.

***

He crosses the finish line first.

The garage explodes in noise.

People are yelling. Jumping. Champagne is already being cracked open somewhere. Hugs and high fives and radio static flood the air.

You don’t move.

Not at first.

You just sit there, the cap tight on your head, and close your eyes.

Then a hand grabs yours.

It’s Andrea again, laughing. “Come on. He’ll want to see you first.”

***

The pit lane is chaos.

Charles’ car rolls into the parc fermé, and he’s out of it in seconds, tearing off the helmet, curls wild, face flushed with victory and disbelief.

The team swarms him. You stay back. You let them have their moment.

He’s doused in champagne before he even makes it to the cool-down room.

You think maybe he’s forgotten. That you’ll see him later, after the podium, after the press, after the fanfare.

But then-

He turns.

And his eyes find you like they always do.

He doesn’t walk.

He runs.

He pushes past mechanics and engineers and the cameras flashing around him, dripping champagne and laughter and something else — something you can’t name because you’re already crying.

“You made it,” he says.

You laugh, broken and breathless and soaked now, too, because he’s got his arms around you and he doesn’t care who’s watching.

“So did you.”

He kisses you.

Right there in front of the world, with the brim of Jules’ cap brushing against his cheek and the crowd around you going still.

It’s not hesitant this time.

It’s sure. It’s full. It’s home.

***

Afterward, you stand against the garage wall, fingers laced through his.

He’s still shaking. From adrenaline, from victory, from you.

“How did it feel?” You ask, voice low.

“Winning Monaco?”

You nod.

He glances at you. Smiles.

“Better with you here.”

Your breath catches.

“I’m proud of you,” you say.

His thumb strokes over your knuckles. “I’m proud of you. You fought for this. For yourself. I just showed up.”

You bump your shoulder into his. “You never just show up.”

He shrugs, feigning innocence. “I am pretty charming.”

You grin. “So modest.”

He looks at you. Really looks. Then pulls you in again.

Quietly, just for you, he says, “I think we both made it.”

And you believe him.

For the first time, you really do.

2K notes · View notes

herasversion · 2 months ago

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❤️❤️❤️

take him, take him - cl16

pairing: charles leclerc x fem!reader summary: in which you're dating carlos but find yourself fantasizing over the wrong teammate OR you and charles find yourselves in a toxic, messy situationship while still dating other people. warnings: this will be MESSY. toxic toxic toxic. possessive charles. not romantic (maybe some??), mostly about power. smut, angst, super messy. cheating!!!! word count: 6.7k author's note: hiiii sorry this is a few days late!!! tried my best. there was so much more I could've added but didn't want it to get too long....I hope y'all like it!!! xoxoxo

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It starts so slow that you don’t even realize what’s happening.

Not until its already buried deep beneath your skin. Quiet. Sharp. You don’t remember when the glances stopped being harmless. When the silence between words stopped being empty. All you know is that by the time you feel it, it’s already too late.

You’re sitting on the balcony at Carlos’s place. Sunken into the patio chair cushion, legs draped over his lap and a glass of wine in your hand. His arm rests possessively across your thighs, like he has a thousand times before. You’re his. And he loves you.

Alexandra is lounged across from you, next to where Charles normally sits. Her laugh light as she flicks through photos on her phone to show Lando and Lily.

You laugh softly at something Lando says, music low and warm. Air thick with summer heat and comfort.

Until the sliding glass door opens. Which you don’t even hear opening.

But you feel him.

Before you even look up, you feel the way your chest tightens. The way your spine stiffens just a little bit more.

And then his voice.

“Sorry I’m late.”

It’s low. Collected.

And you don’t look at him right away. Pretend to sip your drink. Pretend to listen as Carlos cracks some jokes. You even smile. Because you’re good at this.

But Charles is better.

You glance up.

Charles walks in like he’s walking into a room that belongs to him. White tee snug around his chest, sleeves short enough to show the sharp slope of his muscle and forearm. His hair is a little messy, pushed back in that lazy but practiced way. Sunglasses hanging from his collar. A bottle in one hand, phone in the other.

And then, as if summoned, his eyes flick to you.

Just a passing glance. Nothing more.

But you feel it.

The weight of it on your throat. The slow drag of his gaze from your mouth down to the way your body is folded against Carlos’s. He doesn’t smile. Just stares at you for a second maybe too long. Like a finger curling beneath your chin.

Like he knows. Like he knows he’s already inside your brain. Inside the thoughts you’re trying not to have.

“Hey baby,” Alex says. Standing up to kiss his cheek. “Thought you weren’t coming.”

Charles doesn’t take his eyes off you for a bit. But then smoothly, turns his head. Smiles against Alex’s mouth. “Told you I’d try.”

Your stomach twists.

Carlos squeezes your thigh softly, leaning into you more. “Y’want another glass, cariño?”

You blink. “What?”

He laughs under his breath. “Your wine.”

You nod too fast. “Oh. Sure. Yes.”

Carlos is then disappearing towards the kitchen.

And then Charles is taking his seat. Right across from you. An arm slung along the back of the couch, his knees spread lazily wide, body leaning slightly toward you. And he’s talking to Pierre now. Laughing at something stupid. Making Alex laugh too.

But his eyes drift. Right on you.

On your thighs. Past the hem of your skirt. Up your arms. Your throat. Your eyes.

His mouth ticks. Not quite a smile.

“Y’look bored,” He says quietly.

“M’not.”

He hums. “Could’ve fooled me.”

You blink. “What is that supposed to mean?”

And he tilts his head, eyes wandering. To where Carlos’s voice is still drifting in the other room.

Then back to you.

“Nothing,” He says. Looks at Alex as she’s deep in conversation with the other’s. Leans closer toward you. “Just…if I had you sitting in my lap like that, I’d at least try to keep you entertained.”

Your breath hitches.

“M’not bored.” You say. More for yourself.

“You keep telling yourself that.”

And he doesn’t wait for a reply. Just leans back. Relaxed. Like he didn’t just crawl beneath your skin in less than a minute.

Pulls Alexandra into him, whispers into her ear.

And Carlos returns, drops back into the cushion beside you. Kisses your forehead. Hands you your drink.

And you pretend nothing’s changed.

It doesn’t all happen at once.

There was never a single moment where your knees buckle or your heart flips.

And you tell yourself that its nothing. That your brain invented some game. Out of boredom.

It starts with his voice.

Low. Measured. Always a little too calm. Never rushed. And never raised unless he was beyond pissed. But you start noticing that you remember the way he says your name. Flat. Direct. Like he’s stating a fact.

And then its his eyes.

You’ve seen Charles smile. Laugh. The fondness he directs at his girlfriend that you’ll never question.

But when he looks at you, there’s none of that warmth.

Only a cold, heavy awareness.

Not affection but….possession.

And the fucked up part of it all?

You start craving it.

You wait for the glance. The comment. The silence that feels like a threat. You start letting Carlos touch you in front of him just to see if he reacts.

Sometimes he doesn’t.

And you find yourself hating those days.

But sometimes he does react.

And those are the worst days too.

Because Charles doesn’t do anything obvious. Never snaps or stares at you too long in a way that people would notice. He’s smarter than that. Sicker.

He’ll just glance once. Maybe twice. Slow. And your body will feel like it’s been cracked open.

Like he knows that you’re wet under the table. That you’d open your legs for him in the hallway if he crooked his finger at you the right way. That you’re so wound up from being good, from pretending that you don’t want it. That you’d thank him for the ruin.

And you shouldn’t want it.

But you do.

You want it like an infection. Like a fucking punishment.

And you tell yourself that its just curiosity. But its also a lie you stopped believing a few weeks ago when you made yourself come to the thought of his voice. Not even his hands. Not even his lips.

Just the low, quiet way he says your name. Like he’s laying claim.

You were wearing one of Carlos’s hoodies at the time. That was the worst part.

His scent around you. Name on your lock screen. Toothbrush on the sink.

And all you could think about how Charles would fuck you if he got the chance.

Hard. Silent. Unforgiving.

One hand wound in your hair. Other pressed against your throat. Mouth at your ear telling you you’re so much better like this.

You’d try to hide your face, but he wouldn’t let you. He’d make you show it. Just to see how guilty you’d look with his cock shoved in your throat.

And he’d smile.

Because he’d know. That its not about love or affection.

It’s about control. Power.

It happens in a stairwell.

Dark. Empty. The kind of place people don’t stop in. And you shouldn’t have stopped either. But he was already behind you. And when he said your name. Low and quiet. Commanding. You stopped.

You turn, slowly. Like you’re convinced there’s some line still drawn between you two. Like you’re not already tip-toeing over it.

And he’s looking at you like he knows exactly where this is going.

“You look pretty tonight,” Charles says. Voice low.

You swallow. “We were at dinner.”

“So?” His eyes trail down your body. “You wore that little dress anyway.”

You hesitate. Trying to be good. “Carlos liked it.”

“Of course he did,” he says. “So did I.”

He takes a step forward. You don’t move. Just lean further back against the wall, your breath in your throat.

He looks at you like you’ve already fucked. Like he’s seen every inch of your skin. “Bet you wore it wondering if I’d look.”

You blink.

“And you want me to look, don’t you?”

You stay silent.

He grins. Slow. Smug. Cruel. “Want me to imagine how warm you’d be if I shoved my hand under it. Bet you’re wearing no panties, yeah?”

Your stomach clenches.

“You don’t even like soft.” He goes on. “Bet you lay next to him and think about me. How rough I’d be. How fuckin mean I’d get.”

Your breath shutters. Skin burning.

“I wouldn’t fuck you sweet.” Charles says, hand braced on the wall next to your head. “No…I’d bend you over the nearest surface and fuck your pathetic pussy like its mine.”

Your knees go weak. And he sees it.

“Bet you’d cry.” His voice is low. “Would make you look at me while I fuckin ruin you.”

Your lips part, but nothing comes out.

And he leans in. Just enough for his lips to graze your jaw. “Want that, don’t you?”

And then he steps back. Leaves you there.

Because he’s not in love with you.

He just wants to see how long it’ll take before you finally let him win.

The table is alive with conversation. Laughter, flickering candles, all wrapped inside of an expensive restaurant.

And somehow. Somehow. You’re seated between Carlos and Charles, body angled toward Carlos, but nerves magnetically drawn to Charles.

And Carlos is throwing his arm around as he tells a story, about how he thought his brakes were failing. His other arm rests comfortably on your back of your chair. Thumb brushing small circles against the skin of your shoulder every once in a while. Like always.

His voice is warm in your ear every now and then. A joke. A shared glance. He’s present. He’s good.

And you’re doing your best to be good too.

And then there’s Charles.

Seated beside you. Closer than he needs to be. Closer than anyone else notices.

His thigh hasn’t touched yours….yet.

But he’s angled his chair slightly toward you. Just enough to make sure his voice hits you first when he speaks. Just enough that you feel the heat of him.

Charles hasn’t said much. And he hasn’t touched you.

Not unless you count the slight brush of his hand when you both reached for the bottle earlier. Or the way his breath hit your neck when he leaned past you to grab some of the bread.

Or the moment his knee slightly knocked yours under the table and didn’t pull away.

And now his voice hits your ear. Low. Quiet. Only meant for you.

“You’re trying too hard.”

You don’t bother glancing at him. But your fingers tighten around your wine glass.

“Trying what?”

His voice is smooth. “To act like you’re not soaking wet.”

Your chest burns. Flushing red.

And your eyes flash to Carlos, mid conversation with Lando and Pierre, not even noticing the way you’ve gone tense.

Charles just sips his drink. Slow. A slight twitch in his lips.

“Y’think I can’t feel it?” He mutters. “The way your leg jerks every time I lean closer?”

“M’not…”

“Sure.” His tone mocks you now. “That’s why you haven’t moved away.”

You swallow thickly. A slight shift in your seat. Trying to ease the ache burning between your thighs.

And he hums. Pleased.

“See?”

You grit your teeth. “You’re disgusting.”

“Mmm…maybe.” He tilts his head a little closer to you. Smiling like nothing’s happening. “But you’re the one clenching your thighs like a whore right now. Not me.”

And your cheeks burn. His smirk deepens.

“Carlos would be so disappointed,” He adds. Eyes wandering to the man seated beside you. “He thinks you’re such a good girl.”

You shoot him a warning look. Narrowing your eyes. Panic clawing at your throat.

And he just smiles.

“Y’dont like when I talk about him, don’t you?” He whispers. “You only want me to talk about you? About how fuckin’ tight you’d be if I just…”

You tip your wine glass back. Draining it. Hands trembling just a bit.

“Relax,” he says. “M’not gonna do anything.”

A pause.

“Not yet.”

And he leans back in his chair, knee still pressed into the side of your leg. Warm. A reminder.

Carlos turns to you, brushing a thumb across your cheek. “All good, mi amor? A bit red, yeah?”

You force a smile. “Yeah. Just…uh, warm in here.”

And Charles makes a small entertained hum that makes you want to scream, punch him, and fuck yourself on him all at the same time.

It starts to consume you.

And there’s nothing gentle about it. He doesn’t coax. He just takes.

And you let him.

You hate yourself for how badly you want it. You try your best to be good. Sit close to Carlos, smile when he cups your cheek and calls you mi vida. Kiss him with soft lips and soft eyes. Like you don’t spend half the night choking on the weight of Charles in your thoughts.

Because that’s what it’s become.

Need.

Dark. Invasive.

It got worse when he started texting.

You were in Carlos’s hotel bed, freshly showered. Phone face down on the nightstand. And he’s asleep beside you. Trusting.

And you shouldn’t pick up your phone. You know that. But you do it anyways. Tell yourself it’s just to check the time to ease your thoughts.

But when you flip it over, there’s a message from Charles waiting.

You looked pathetic today. Sitting on his lap like it actually means something.

Your stomach twists. Thighs clench.

He doesn’t follow up. Because you’re already wet. Just from that simple text.

From the idea that he saw you earlier. With Carlos’s hand on your waist, lips brushing against your cheek. And instead of looking away, Charles watched. Gotten off on how desperate you looked pretending to be loved.

Your fingers hover over the keyboard.

You’re a fucking asshole. You erase it. Go fuck yourself. Erase that too.

You send a photo instead.

Just your bare legs pulled toward your chest. Nothing but the hem of Carlos’s t-shirt barely covering anything. Fingers spreading yourself open just enough.

No caption.

And he replies instantly.

That’s better. Dripping and shameful.

Bet you’re already thinking about my cock, yeah?

You don’t respond. You’re too busy grinding against the heel of your palm. Twitching at the thought of him fucking you.

But then the next message comes in.

Touch yourself. Two fingers. Now.

Want you sloppy by the time I call.

You hesitate. Listen to Carlos’s soft snores. His back to you as he lays on his side.

Your phone buzzes. An incoming call. And you answer it.

He doesn’t even bother with niceties. Doesn’t say hello.

“You better be doing what I fuckin’ said.”

Your voice is shaky. “I….I am.” You whisper.

Charles lets out a low breath. Amused. “Good girl. Keep going. Want to hear how messy you are.”

Your fingers are soaked. And you move faster.

He listens. And you can tell by the slick sounds in your ear, that he’s stroking himself too. Breath sharp and uneven through the phone.

“Y’like this, hm?” He grunts. “Fucking yourself in his bed to my voice?”

You moan softly. Bite your lip hard. Trying your best not to wake Carlos up.

“Such a filthy fuckin’ whore.” He whispers. “Does he fuck you like this? No. You get soft kisses and boring fingers. I’d fuckin’ ruin you.”

You whimper. And then he laughs. Cruel.

“Keep you on your knees for hours.” He grunts. “Slap your fuckin’ face until you’re out of tears. Make you beg.”

And you’re close. Too close. Pressing the pillow over your mouth to drown out the soft moans.

But he knows.

“Come for me,” He mutters. “Make a mess. Pretend its mine.”

And you do.

Hard. Eyes squeezes shut with guilt and need.

Your thighs shake. Hand is a fucking wreck between your legs.

And then you hear his movements quicken, the groaning, a few fuck fuck fuck’s muttered.

And then the line goes dead.

No goodbye. No softness.

You don’t sleep that night.

You lay there for hours. Half numb. Half aching. Legs sticky. Carlos shifts beside you at one point in the night, blindly reaching for you. Tugging you into him. And you let him.

Let him pull you into his chest. Kiss the top of your head.

And you try. Try to convince yourself that its just a phone call. Just a fantasy. That its out of your system and over.

But it’s not.

Because in the morning, there’s a package waiting at your door for you.

Small. Unmarked. Carlos still in the shower.

And you open it with shaky fingers.

And inside…wrapped in silk. A toy. Long. Thick. Curved in a way that’s too precise to be random.

A note tucked beneath it. No name.

Use this. I want proof you know how to take it.

And your stomach twists. In disgust. In guilt. In heat. In need.

Because he didn’t even ask.

He just knew you would.

You manage to hold out for a few days.

Carlos is busy with commercials, brand shoots, and some PR dinner that you’re supposed to attend but decline. Tell him you have a headache. Meanwhile its the guilt that’s gnawing at your brain.

He kisses you soft. Tells you to rest and that he’ll be home late.

And you promise yourself to be good.

And you mean it.

At first.

You even clean the apartment. Scrub it until your muscles ache. Light a few candles. Fold his laundry and tuck it away into the drawers.

You try everything to stay distracted. Laundry. Dishes. Put on a movie.

But it doesn’t.

Your phone buzzes once. And your stomach twists.

Bet you’ve been thinking about it.

And it feels like a hand wrapped around your throat. You leave it on read. Go back to the movie. Distract yourself.

But a minute later, another buzz from your phone.

Don’t be shy…Pull it out. Sit on it.

I know your cunt’s been throbbing since you first opened it.

You walk into the kitchen and pour a glass of water. Pace around. Tingling. Aching.

Think of Carlos. Think of how great he is. How sweet he is.

And you don’t even realize you’re pulling out the box until your fingers are brushing against the silk.

Don’t remember crawling onto the bed. Just know that the guilt didn’t stand a fucking chance.

And you barely remember tapping the FaceTime icon on his contact.

You’re already soaked when he answers. Laying back on the mattress with one leg stretched out, the other bent. The toy still untouched, resting on your stomach. And you feel the lack of restraint you have when trying to convince yourself not to pick it up.

You expect him to take his time. Let it ring for a while. But he answers instantly.

And he’s propped up in bed. Dark. Shirless. Hair messy and eyes hooded.

“About fucking time.”

You swallow. Lips parted.

“I wasn’t going to…”

“Don’t lie.”

Your thighs twitch.

“I hate you,” You whisper softly. Sickened with yourself.

He lets out a small laugh. “No. You hate that I know what you need.”

You flinch. But don’t bother arguing. Because your cunt clenches just from hearing his voice.

“Should make you say it,” His voice is rough. “Make you tell me what you were thinking.”

“I wasn’t…”

“You were,” He snaps. Voice sharp. “Bet you couldn’t stop thinking about me spreading you open. Fingers shoved in your mouth. Voice in your ear.”

He shifts the phone slightly. Just enough that you can see his hand moving beneath the thin sheet.

“Put it in,” He demands. “Slow.”

And your fingers tremble as the wrap around the toy. Lifting it. Angling it.

“You’re sick,” You whisper. Frustrated. “Fucking sick.”

“And you’re dripping for me,” He shoots back. “Now be the good girl that you are and fuck yourself like I told you to.”

The stretch makes your head fall back against the pillows instantly. A broken sob.

“Look at me,” Charles grunts. “Eyes not he fucking screen. Want to see your face.”

You do as he says. Shame swirling inside of you. Face flushed.

“That’s it,” He coos. “That’s what I want to see.”

And you thrust the toy deeper, whimpering. Biting your lip to stay quiet. But the sound of the toy covered in your slick betrays you.

“Faster,” He demands. “Wanna hear how desperate you are.”

Your other hand fists the sheets. The tip of the toy brushing that spot deep in you that makes your vision blur a little bit.

“Charles..” You groan out. “I…fuck…I…”

He groans loudly, fisting himself.

“Crying already?” He laughs. “Don’t even need me to fuck you, just need my voice? Is that it?”

You nod.

“Pathetic.”

You moan.

“Fucking disgusting.” He spits. “I should record this. Send it to him and let him fuckin’ hear how you sound while you’re fucking yourself on something I sent you.”

Your back arches off the mattress.

“I hate you.”

He smirks. Fisting himself faster. “Yeah? That why you’re about to come all over the toy with my name?

You whimper. Shaking. Burning. Aching.

“Then do it.” He hisses.

And you shatter. Your entire body seizing as your mouth falls slack. Toy rocking into you as your walls clench around it again and again.

And then entire time, Charles is watching. Eyes burning into the screen.

“Don’t stop,” He pants. “Let me see the mess…don’t fucking stop.”

And you don’t. You listen. Riding the dildo until it almost hurts. Until tears are falling out the corners of your eyes. Until you hear him groan. A string of curses slipping from his mouth as he comes with you.

And then silence.

You lay there silently. Shaking.

And Charles doesn’t hang up.

No, he just stares.

Satisfied.

Because he know’s he has you now.

You don’t expect him to act different. Like anything happened.

But you don’t expect this.

It’s Saturday. You’re at the track later than usual, sunglasses hiding the exhaustion beneath your eyes. Carlos is done with his media rounds. Pulling you into him when he sees you. Like there’s nothing in the world that could make him happier than seeing you.

Kisses you. Tells you he missed you.

And you smile.

And that’s exactly what makes this so much worse. Because he’s good. So fucking good.

Because just twenty four hours ago, you were on your knees in your bedroom, whispering Charles name as you fucked yourself. Now you’re in the garage pretending like you’re not bathed in shame.

Charles walks in with his head down. Race suit half-zipped, sunglasses hiding his eyes. Headphones around his neck.

He doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t even flinch when he walks past. Carlos claps his shoulder when he walks by in passing.

And then he’s gone. Folding into his seat in the corner like you don’t even exist.

And it makes you feel sick. Not because you want affection. That was never the game.

But it still burns.

Carlos is scrolling through the rest of his schedule for the weekend, explaining to you when he’ll be busy. But your brain’s somewhere else.

And Charles is watching. Just for a mere second. A flick of his gaze. Down to where Carlos’s fingers rest on your lower back. Blank. Expressionless.

And then he looks away.

And you hate the way it makes you ache. Hate the way that he has you fighting with your rings. Hate that you can still hear his voice in your head, filthily telling you to spread your legs wider for him.

Carlos leans into you, fingers splaying slightly. Eyes lingering on you brightly, thumb tracing circles.

“Was thinking,” He says. Voice low. “After this weekend…maybe we could drive down the coast, yeah? Just us. I found this place with a private beach and no press. You’d love it.”

And you feel your chest crack.

Because he means it. Because he doesn’t deserve any oft his.

“I’d love that,” You say. “Sounds so perfect.”

He grins. Leans in and kisses you. “Good. I’ll make the plans.”

You nod. Bite the inside of your cheek. Try to hold the image of him, the sun, just you two.

But then the meeting breaks up. Chairs scrape. You rise to your feet. Carlos brushes past you to head to the other side of the room.

And that’s when Charles passes behind you.

No pause. No glance.

But his voice brushes against the shell of your ear. Cold. Cruel.

“Next time, don’t come so easy.”

And you don’t turn. Don’t follow his movements with your eyes. But your body is burning. With the shame. Guilt. The thrill.

And by the time you finally look in his direction, he’s already outside. Slipping his arm around Alexandra’s waist like he was never even around you.

It begins like most bad habits do.

Small. Sporadic enough that you can pretend that it’s not actually happening. Just mistakes.

The first time you sent him an unwarranted photo you told yourself it was a dare. Just to see what Charles would say.

You didn’t expect him to respond within seconds.

That’s it. Spread em’ wider.

And you know that you shouldn’t have liked it. Shouldn’t have kept reading it over and over.

And now he never let a single day pass without sending something.

Think of me when you soak your sheets tonight.

Sometimes its a voicemail. Voice low and thick. Commanding.

You know what you are? He’d say into the phone. A fuckin’ liar. Just a pathetic fuckin’ liar smiling like you’re in love with him. Like you’re cunt isn’t aching for me every second.

A FaceTime came late. Your phone buzzing. A text coming through as it rang.

Answer it.

You stare at the screen. Knowing you shouldn’t. Knowing what it would mean. What it would lead to.

But your fingers move before you could stop them.

And the call connects. Charles, lying in bed. Hair messy like his fingers ran through it a dozen times. Phone resting against his chest so you could see his collarbones and the veins in his neck.

“You’re late,” He said. As if this was planned. Scheduled.

You didn’t speak. Just bent one leg, the other falling open. Toy already waiting beside you.

His voice was hard.

“Pick it up. Sit on it.”

You hesitate. “I…”

“Don’t make me repeat myself.” He cuts you off.

And you do it. Cheeks burning. Bracing the phone against your pillow. Lowering yourself onto the toy. Slow.

And he watches. Lips parted. “That’s it…” His voice is lazy. “Carlos could never make you this wet.”

You moan. Couldn’t hide how hot he made your body.

“Bet you think about this every night.” His voice is low. “Poor little fuckin’ slut.”

You whimper. Rolling your hips. Grinding down harder. Picturing that it’s Charles your fucking yourself onto.

And you shift on the bed. Hands trembling. Moaning. Unable to stop. Struggling to breathe properly.

“That’s it, baby.” Charles breathes. “Ruin yourself. Cry if you need to.”

And your eyes go glassy.

“Tell me what you’re thinking.” He demands. Not even touching himself. And that somehow makes it worse. Because he’s just watching. Making you do it all.

“I….” You breathe. “I can’t..I..”

“Try.”

You sob out. “I want it to be you.”

He grins. Dark. “Want what to be me?”

“Your cock. I want it to be your cock.”

And he groans. “Yeah? Bet the toy’s not thick enough for you. Not mean enough either.”

You’re shaking. Fingers slipping.

“Charles…” You whimper.

“I should be there.” He grunts. “Have you gagging for it. Slap your fuckin’ face when you even think about denying me.”

And your vision blurs.

“Come for me,” He hisses.

And you do. Like it’s programmed in your body to listen to him.

You weren’t planning on actually seeing him.

You’d told Carlos the truth. Partially.

That you’d join him in Spain in a few days. That your work had piled up and you were exhausted. You kissed him softly in the terminal.

And you’d meant it.

But the silence in your apartment bothered you. Bed was too cold. Guilt gnawed at your bones. And the ache. It never went away.

Not when you showered. Not when you turned your phone off.

You hadn’t spoken to Charles in a few days. Not since the last FaceTime call. You’d blocked his number after that. Told yourself that you were done.

But then you unblocked it this morning. Like the pathetic person Charles told you that you were.

And you’re still in your oversized t-shirt and a pair of sleep shorts when the knock comes. Sharp. Twice.

You freeze in the kitchen.

You check the peephole.

Charles. With his arms crossed. Jaw tight.

And your fingers tremble on the lock.

You shouldn’t open the door, but you do.

His eyes skim over you immediately. Bare legs. No bra. And he leans against the frame like he’s got all the time in the world.

“Carlos asked me to check on you,” His voice low. “Said you weren’t answering.”

Your mouth opens. Closes.

“You blocked me.” He says it flatly. Not hurt. But…amused. Like he thinks its funny that you think blocking him will stop whatever this is.

“Didn’t ask you to come.” You cross your arms.

“No,” He shrugs. “But he did.”

His gaze drags down again. Shamelessly.

“You look like shit.”

“Thanks.”

He pushes off the frame. Lets himself inside the apartment.

Door shutting behind him as he takes in your dim apartment. Noticing the framed photos of you and Carlos.

You hover in the hallway. “I’m fine.” Your voice is stiff. “You can go now.”

But he doesn’t.

No. He steps closer instead.

“You look exhausted,” He mutters.

“Charles…”

“You’re wearing his shirt.” He lifts the hem of it before you can even protest. Fingers brushing against the bare skin of your stomach. Mouth ticking. “Bet you’re cunt’s wet for me though, yeah?”

You flinch.

And he laughs. “You thought blocking me would fix it?”

“I don’t want you here.”

“You called me every night for weeks.”

“I was delusional.”

“Still are.” And then his voice deepens. “Let me fix it.”

You shake your head, step back to put some space between you two. But he follows.

“I hate you.”

He smirks. “No, you don’t.”

You hit the wall. And his hand plants beside your head. His other hand hovering over your thigh.

“Carlos asked me to check on you,” He says again. Mocking.

And then his mouth finds your jaw. Your throat.

“Y’want me to lie to him? Tell him you’re doing fine?”

You don’t answer. He dips his fingers into the boxers, grazing your underwear.

“Or should I tell him you’re soaked before I even touched you?”

You don’t even get the words out. Because his fingers are already pressing against you. And you’re not even fighting it.

You’re just breathing louder.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

He pulls your panties to the side, slips two fingers in between your folds like he’s done it a hundred times before. Like your body has always belonged to him.

“Still so fuckin’ wet for me,” He mutters into your ear. “Even with his fuckin picture on the wall right there.”

You gasp, head falling back into the wall behind you.

“Pathetic.” He says. Dragging his lips along your jaw. And then he slips his fingers inside. Deep. Curling them.

And your knees almost give.

“Shhh…” He whispers. “Don’t make a sound.”

Your fingers dig into the fabric of his shirt. Nails biting into his skin beneath it as he pumps his fingers slowly.

Curling them as he watches your mouth fall slack.

“Y’know what I think about?” He whispers. “I think about you on your knees. Crying around my cock. Tears spilling down that sweet face while you beg me not to come in your mouth…”

“Charles…” You choke out.

But he cuts you off with spread of his fingers. And it has your body jerking.

“You’d take it though, yeah?” He grunts. “Cause you like being ruined. Love it actually. Like knowing the power I have over you.”

Your thighs are clenching now. Eyes fluttering shut.

“M’gonna fuck you.” He whispers. “And you’re not gonna say a word about it. You’re gonna go right back to being his sweet doting girlfriend.”

And then he’s pulling his fingers out. Bringing them to your lips.

“Open.”

You do.

And he shoves them in. Watching you suck them clean. Eyes dark.

And then he’s taking a step back.

“Y’want this here or the bed?” He asks. “I don’t care where I fuck you. Just pick one before I lose my patience.”

You don’t even answer.

Because your body is already moving. Mechanical like. Like you’re in a dream you can’t wake up from. And you don’t look back at him, but you hear him following.

Reaching the bedroom. The room is dim and the curtains are still drawn. The bed is unmade, one of Carlos’s hoodies still draped over the chair in the corner. Sheets still warm from when you attempted to nap earlier.

But it doesn’t even matter.

Because as soon as Charles steps behind you, everything disappears. The guilt. The past two years of being good.

And then his hand is snaking around your waist, pulling you back into his chest. While the other tangles into your hair, tilting your head against his shoulder.

And his mouth grazes your throat.

“Y’think you can run from this,” He mutters. “But you can’t.”

Your hands grip his wrists. “I didn’t…”

“Didn’t what?” He whispers, nipping at your skin. “Didn’t want this?”

His hand slips beneath your boxers. Rougher. Palm pressing against the curve of your cunt, rubbing once.

“Then why are you fucking soaked?”

A small whimper pushes past your lips.

“I hate you,” You repeat. Voice shaking.

And he smiles against your beck. “No. You hate that I get to do this.” His hand pushes deeper, coating his fingers in you. “You hate that I say the things he never would. Hate the way you ache to be used.”

“Stop mention…”

“No.”

He bites your shoulder. Enough to make your body jolt a bit. Enough to make you moan. Loudly.

And he groans, pleased. “There she is,” he whispers. “My dirty fucking girl.”

Your body burns. Everything aching. And pulsing.

Your eyes flutter. From the stretch of his fingers. From the scent of him wrapped around you.

He pulls his fingers out slow, stepping back just a bit.

And you should run. Should shove him. Slam the door.

But instead you whisper, “Charles.”

And he cocks his head to the side. Like he wants you to beg.

So you do.

“Please,” you breathe.

And that’s all he needs.

His hands are back on you instantly. Turning you, forcing you to fall onto the bed. The room blurs. He strips his clothes off.

And then he’s on top of you. Knees sinking into the bed on either side of your hips, one hand fisting the front of your shirt while the other pushes your thighs apart.

You try to sit up. To reach for him. But he just shoves you back down with a single hand locked on your chest.

“No.” Flat. Unforgiving. Mean.

And then he’s reaching down to grab the waistband of your shorts, yanking them down. Pulling the panties with them.

“Take your shirt off,” He says. Sharp.

You don’t hesitate. Fingers shaking as you pull Carlos’s shirt over your head, leaving you bare.

He just looks.

Groans.

“Fuck…look at you.”

His hand curls around your throat. Lining himself up at your entrance. Kissing the corner of your mouth.

And then he’s pushing inside.

All of him. Thick. Hard. And you cry out. Nails digging into the sheets.

“Fucking tight.” He hisses. “Knew you’d feel this good.”

And then he starts moving. Brutal. Hips slamming forward, unforgivingly. Fucking into you with punishing thrusts. The kind that make the bed creak and your thighs shake.

You cry out louder when he thrusts deep. The tip of his cock hitting that oh so unbearable spot inside of you that makes your cunt clamp down on him hard. And he hisses at the tightness, but slams in harder.

“Thought about this every night since,” Charles grunts. “Thought about how sloppy you’d sound once I finally split you open.”

You’re soaking the sheets. Twitching.

“Bet you fuck him soft,” He spits. “Sweet kisses and slow thrusts. Bet he doesn’t even know how fucking filthy you are.”

“Stop…” You pant.

“No,” He grins. “Y’like when I talk like this. You need it.”

And then he’s grabbing your throat, tight enough to make your breath hitch. “Y’need someone to treat you like the whore you are.” He grunts.

And he doesn’t stop.

“That’s it,” He breathes. Watching your face twist as your orgasm approaches. “Go on. Come for me.”

And you scream. Fisting the sheets, the other dragging down his back.

And he just keeps thrusting. Fucking you through it. Chasing his own release.

“Gonna stretch this cunt til you’re leaking.”

You moan. Eyes glassy.

And with one final, deep thrust, he buries himself deep into you. Grinding into you as he spills in you.

And he stays there. Holding it. Smirking.

“Better than him, isn’t it?”

It happens again the next night. And the next. And then again.

You told Carlos you needed a few more days. That work was too much. But you haven’t even opened your laptop once.

Because every time Charles knocks, you answer.

And every time he fucks you…it gets worse.

One night, he didn’t even let you undress. Just flips your sleep shorts to the side, bends you over the arm of the couch.

“Lazy little thing,” He groans. Cock slamming in deep. “Didn’t even bother putting on panties.”

“I didn’t know you were coming,” You moan.

“Yeah?” He leans down over you. Nipping your shoulder. Sucking your neck. “Your cunt did.”

Another night, you’re in bed, lights still on. Half-asleep.

And Charles climbs on top of you. No greeting.

Just his hand around your throat, cock pressing against you.

“You know what to do,” He says.

And you spread your legs like its a fucking reflex.

And then the kitchen.

When you’re trying to make coffee. Hair tied up, half-asleep. And he just walks in like he lives there.

Grabs you by the hips, yanking your shorts down.

“Don’t even flinch anymore,” He half-laughs, dragging his cock through your folds.

“I hate you,” you whisper.

“Yeah, m’sure you do.” He responds. “Now bend.”

And then fucks you over the counter with his hand pressed into your back.

The worst is when Carlos calls you while you’re in the bath tub. Charles cock buried in you. His chest pressed to your back, palm clamped over your mouth to muffle your moans.

Charles forces you to answer it.

And you shake your head. Trembling. Shaking.

“I said answer.”

You fumble for it. Put it on speaker.

“Hey,” you gasp.

“Hola, cariño.” Carlos says. Warm. Happy. “Y’sound tired.”

Charles fucks into you once. Hard.

Fingers circling your clit that has your eyes rolling back. Charles mouth pressed to your neck. The water sloshing in the tub.

You told yourself it would stop.

That one day, you’d wake up and feel clean. That if you blocked his number and let Carlos hold your hand, you’d forget.

But you don’t.

No matter how hard you try. Because it wasn’t a one-time mistake. It was months of mistakes. Once, he had you bent over the bathroom counter while Carlos had just texted he was parking the car.

And Charles didn’t care.

He was already fucking you from behind, watching you in the mirror. Gripping you so tight it would leave bruise marks.

Another time it was Carlos’s car.

You had a fight that night. Not even about Charles. Just stress. And you stormed out of the party, heels in hand.

Charles was already waiting outside like he knew. Opened the back door.

Shoved your dress up and pushed inside you in the same seat Carlos was kissing you in hours earlier.

It was rough. Fast. And you came with your forehead against the window. Fogging it with every gasp.

And afterward, he left without looking at you.

You’ve never hated yourself more than in that moment.

Yet somehow you still want more.

taglist: @saturnizma @zicosbitch @kakashiislut @dfinchr @rawsalmon26 @olivialuo @margaritad1 @qualitypuppyhottub @megtrilss1885 @elisastarkey @angelique-rose-valentine @crazyfangirl21 @mollybxrn @mendes-bae @kashewsversion @gnarlycore @curlylando @hollyparkkk @saudianna @oliveswiftly @ini3103 @rabittscar @s-luv183 @hannainchains @uhcalli @mara1999 @crazynyctophilia @thoughtsdaughtersblog @janeh22 @dessashippr @everydayimagineer @ruinix @san4117

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herasversion · 2 months ago

Text

of fallings, broken rules and certified idiots — Russainz

rated M • omegaverse • 37.4k words • ao3

After getting help to get through the night of series of heats, George finds unexpected comfort in Carlos. What starts as a simple arrangement becomes something deeper and means far more than he realizes. And he's fallen too deep to go back on his words, his own set of rules.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

“How bad are you gonna be like this? Territorial?” Carlos took a step back and George sighed in relief.

“Depends. Are you still wearing the sweater tomorrow?”

Saying no would be lying to himself.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

“Questionable fit, over there. Did you have someone over last night?” Alex gave him a once-over, eyes flicking down to his neck, then lingering slightly at his collarbone. “Didn’t know yachting came with… marks."

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

Charles gave him a look. “Mate. Just go stand next to him already.”

“It’s nothing.”

“Mm. Of course, it isn’t. It’s always nothing, with you. Even Austria.”

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

“Don’t—” George breathed, voice catching in the back of his throat. “Don’t say that... You don’t mean it. Not really... Not now. You’re just saying it because I’m like this.”

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

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herasversion · 2 months ago

Text

romantic chocolates - cs55

pairing: carlos sainz x fem!reader summary: in which you and your ex-boyfriend take aphrodisiac chocolates at the same party OR you and carlos fuck after not seeing each other for months warnings: smut smut smut!!! spit kink, language, ex-boyfriend!!!, slight jealousy, p in v, unprotected! NOT PROOFREAD (prob typos and might not make sense), angst, hot hot hot word count: 2.8k author's note: hi hi! so sorry this is late and hope y'all still like this!!! I was gonna make it longer but my brain has been a little fried from all the writing I've been doing so sorry if you think this is trash. TRIED MY BEST xoxo

ln4 cl16 mv1 op81 cs55

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You swore you’d never see him again.

Not at this party, not in this city. Especially not after what he did. You hadn’t seen Carlos Sainz in nearly seven months. Not since he ended things in the most heartless way imaginable. A half-shrug and the words this isn’t working anymore.

No softness. No chance to ask why. Just a door shutting behind him as he left.

So seeing him now. Casual, jaw sharp, in a white shirt with the top two unbuttons done and a amber liquid in a short glass in his hand…is enough to make your stomach cave in.

You were doing fine. Laughing, sipping your drinks. Picking at chocolate from one of those ridiculous little tray’s one of the host’s friends handed you.

“Supposed to be spiked,” She said. “Like, aphrodisiac spiked.”

And you laughed. Popped one in your mouth. Moved on.

Forgot about it.

Until now.

He’s leaning against the bar, sleeves rolled up, in conversation with someone.

Your heart lurches.

He wasn’t supposed to be here. You even checked. Avoided his circles and favorite places like the plague. Blocked his number, deleted his socials. Haven’t even said his name in months.

Not since he left you shaking in a hallway with mascara running down your face.

You’re careful not to look in his direction again.

Not toward the bar. Not to his tanned forearms. Not to the curve of his throat.

You don’t even know who he’s talking to…and you won’t give yourself the chance to find out either.

Instead, you disappear into another group of people. Let someone refill your drink. Let someone else laugh into your ear.

And suddenly everything starts to feel a little too sharp. Your dress clinging to your skin in places it didn’t before. And the insides of your thigh’s feel damp.

Your stomach tenses and suddenly you can’t stop thinking about the fucking chocolate. The stupid little square. The way it melted so easily on your tongue. Tasted good too.

And your nipples are hard beneath your dress. Can feel the ache low in your belly.

So you excuse yourself to the bathroom. Walk into a darkly lit hallway. It’s pretty quiet except for the hum of music behind the wall.

You turn the corner. Not watching where you’re going. Just trying to breathe. Cool off.

And then you collide with him.

Hard chest. Solid. Familiar scent. And that body. The body you used to know with your eyes shut.

You breathe in sharply.

And your hands press into his chest before you can stop yourself. Trying to brace for a fall.

His hand shoots out quick, steadying you. Fingers hot against the strip of skin at your side. And you jolt.

He’s already looking at you.

Like he knew this would happen. Like he was waiting for it.

“Careful, cariño,” his voice is smooth. Low. Thick with something you don’t want to acknowledge. “Didn’t see you there.”

You step back quickly. Almost stumbling away from him.

“Jesus,” you snap. “What the fuck are you…”

“Walking,” he shrugs his shoulders. Cocking his head. “Relax.”

You straighten. Glare at him.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

“Didn’t know this was your party.” He grins.

“It’s not,” you cross your arms along your chest.

“Then I guess I’m allowed to be here,” His voice low. “Sorry to disappoint.”

You glare. But the heat building between your legs makes it hard to hold your ground. Your skin is fucking burning. Pulse pounding.

And he’s close. Too fucking close.

You hate him. You hate how he left. You hate the fucking smirk on his face. You hate that’s he’s the only person who’s ever made you come so hard that you couldn’t speak for minutes after.

And he’s looking at you with those dark eyes like he knows. Like he can see the flush in your cheeks. The tremble in your hands.

“You’re flushed,” He mutters.

You roll your eyes. “So? It’s warm in here.”

“Mmm.” His gaze flicks down, lingers at your stomach. “I’d believe that…y’know?…If I didn’t see you eat one of those chocolates earlier.”

Your stomach twists.

“What?”

You try to take a step back, but he follows. Lazily. Easily. Cutting off your exit without even lifting a hand.

“Tell me,” he mutters. “How long have you been feeling it?”

His voice is low. Slow. The kind of tone he used to use when his hand was already slipped in between your legs.

“Fuck off, Carlos.”

“You’re already fucking yourself in your head,” He says. Taunting.

You narrow your eyes. “You’re disgusting.”

“And you’re flushed.”

His gaze drags over you. From your eyes, down to your mouth, pausing for a few moments, then down to your chest.

“Just look at you,” He says. “So fidgety. Breathing as if I’ve got my fingers shoved up in you already.”

You want to slap him. But you don’t. Every word lands directly between your fucking legs.

“You always got like this whenever I touched you. So fucking easy.” He laughs. “One hand on your throat and you’d fuckin’ melt for me, yeah?”

“Shut the fuck up.”

He tilts his head, eyes gleaming.

“You used to beg me to talk like this…remember?”

Your knees are weak.

“Used to get so fuckin’ dumb for me.” He whispers. “All I had to do was say a few things and you’d be soaking.”

Your stomach clenches and you breathe hard. Trying to swallow the whimper in your throat. But he see’s it. Of course he does.

“Still like that, huh?” He grins. “You’re squirming, baby.”

“Carlos…”

“No. Don’t say my name like that.” His voice is sharp. “Not unless you’re gonna say it while you’re moaning and begging again.”

You take a step back. But he follows. Again. Cruelly. Like he’s savoring the way you’re falling apart. Slowly.

“Used to talk to you like this while I fucked you from behind, yeah?” His lips hover by your ear. “One hand in your hair. One on your hip. And I’d say the filthiest shit…just to feel your pussy clench around my cock.”

Your fingers curl into the wall behind you.

“I’d tell you how tight you were. How fuckin’ wet. How you were made for me.”

You clench your jaw. Body fuckin’ buzzing.

He brushes a hand near your jaw. Hovering. Not touching.

“Bet if I put two fingers in you, you’d come instantly.”

Your thighs are pressed so tightly together it hurts. But you don’t move.

“I hate you.”

“No.” He grunts. “You hate that no one else can get you off the way I can.”

You flinch.

“Want me to remind you how good you were?” His voice is dark. “How you used to ride my fingers like a good fucking slut while I spat in your mouth?”

Your legs nearly give out.

“Still got that pretty moan?” He breathes.

“Fuck you.” You shove him back. Hard.

He doesn’t expect it, and stumbles back. Catches himself quick.

And you adjust your dress. Lift your chin.

“You haven’t changed.” You say, voice full of disgust.

You push past him. Don’t even look over your shoulder as you say, “I’ll go find someone else. Someone who isn’t a fucking coward.”

And that’s when you hear the scrape of his shoe against the floor.

“What the fuck did you just say?”

You feel it before you turn. Him storming up to you. Something unhinged in his presence.

You turn your head. And his face?

Grin gone. He looks furious.

“Y’think I’m gonna let you walk out there and let someone else fuck you?” He grunts. “Let some idiot put his hands on you?”

You blink. “I’m not yours.”

“The fuck you’re not.”

And he’s in front of you again. Shoulders tense. Chest heaving.

“Y’think I didn’t see it? The way your thighs were rubbing together like you couldn’t stand a single second without my cock shoved up there?”

He steps closer. “You can pretend all you want. But you walk out there, and I swear to fuckin’ God…”

He stops. Fists clenched.

“You want someone else? Go ahead.” His voice is sharp. “Let them try to fuck you the way I did.”

You swallow.

“Let them try to make you come with nothing but their hand around your throat and two fingers buried in that needy cunt.”

And you see it.

The edge in his eyes. The small flush in his cheeks. Chest rising. Vein in his neck.

You narrow your eyes.

“You took one too.”

And he laughs. Shaky.

“Yeah.” His voice low. “Didn’t think much of it, til I saw you…and now I can’t fucking breathe.”

His hands are clenched.

“Been hard for an hour,” He groans. “Every time I close my eyes I picture you on your knees.”

He laughs again. Bitter.

“I’m gonna say this once,” His voice cracks. Feral. “No one else gets to touch you.”

You glare. “You don’t get to say that. You left..”

“I know,” He cuts you off. Snapping. “I know I did. And I fucking hate myself for it.”

His forehead drops to yours. Body trembling.

“But I swear…I swear if anyone else touches you tonight…if anyone gets to learn how fucking wet you are..”

He groans. Like he’s in pain.

“I’ll lose my fucking mind.”

And his hips roll toward you once. And it sends a zap of heat straight to your core.

His cock is fucking hard. Straining. Throbbing.

“Fuck,” He mutters. “Y’feel that? Feel what you do to me?”

Your hands find his chest, but not to pull him away. Just to feel him. His heartbeat beneath your fingertips.

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” His voice is wrecked. “Haven’t. Even when I tried to fuck someone else…I’d have to close my eyes and picture it was your cunt squeezing me.”

You whimper. Lips trembling.

“Yeah,” He groans. “That sound. Fuck..that’s the one.”

You don’t even have time to process it before he’s pulling you down the hall. Shoulders tense. And you stumble to keep up. Until he shoulders a door open and yanks you in after him.

A bathroom.

He kicks open the first stall. Slams it shut behind you both.

Locks it.

And then his hands are on you.

And his mouth crashes into yours. Hot. Hungry. Teeth scraping your bottom lip like he wants to bite it. You gasp into him, and he groans like the sound alone might make him come.

“You still hate me?” He mutters against your mouth, dragging your dress up. Bunching the fabric.

“I do,” you whisper. “I fucking do.”

“So why the fuck are you this wet for me?” He cups you through the thin fabric of your panties. “Hm? Why’s your pussy begging for me if you hate me so much?”

You whimper. Grind against his hand. And all hell breaks loose.

“Fuck this.” He yanks your panties to the side.

Fingers slip through your folds and he outright groans. Loud. Like you’re ruining him.

“You need me this bad, baby?”

You nod. Desperate. Delirious.

“Say it.”

You hesitate.

He presses two fingers against your clit. Rubbing slow circles. Mean.

“Carlos…”

“Say you need me.”

You’re breathless. “I need you.”

And that’s all it takes.

He’s undoing his pants, dragging them low enough to free his cock. Thick. Flushed. Leaking. Perfect.

“I’m not gonna last,” he admits. Voice wrecked. “You feel too good. Look too pretty. M’gonna fuckin’ lose it.”

He grabs your thigh, hooks it over his hip.

And pushes in. All the way.

You cry out. Nails digging into his back as your pussy clenches down on him.

He chokes on a gasp, forehead dropping to your shoulder.

“Fuck, fuck…fuck…still so fuckin tight.”

He doesn’t move. Breathing hard against your skin.

“No one else gets this. No one.” His voice is harsh. “Y’understand me? Say it.”

He starts moving. “Say it while I fuck you.”

And he slams back in. Hard.

“Yours,” you cry out. “I’m yours.”

And that’s all he needs.

Then he’s fucking you hard. Relentless. The stall doors shaking with each thrust.

“Dirty fuckin’ whore.” He pants. “This pussy missed me, hm?”

His hands slip between your bodies, rubbing your clit.

“C’mon make it quick.” He mutters. “Cunt is choking my cock. Know you’re there.”

And you do.

Your entire body snaps, clenching as you cry out his name. He grunts.

Groans, loud as he spills inside of you.

“Fuck, baby…” His neck is flushed. “Take it all.”

He’s still inside you. Still hard. When he presses a kiss to your throat.

“I need more.”

You nod without thinking. And you’re barely breathing before he slides out of you. Pulls up his pants.

Grabs your wrist.

Pulls you out of the stall. His come leaking down your thighs.

“Where are we going?”

He doesn’t answer, just drags you down the hallway. His grip on you is strong.

He finds the first empty door. Shoves it open. Slams it shut.

And the second you turn to face him, he’s on you.

Hands in your hair. Mouth on yours. Kissing you like it hurts. Dress ripped off in one swipe. Pants unbuttoned and shoved down. Shirt stripped off.

He walks you backwards until your knees hit something.

A mattress.

And then he shoves you down. Climbs over you. Dragging you to the edge of the bed like he owns you.

“Never should’ve let you go.”

And he slams back into you.

You both moan.

“Still so perfect.”

His hips move. Slow. Filthy.

He drops his head to your chest. Hips slamming into you harder. Losing control.

“I’ve thought about this every fucking night.” He breathes. “My cock inside you. You coming all over me. Every single fucking night.”

You arch into him. And he snaps.

Slams into you. Again and again.

“You blocked me,” He grunts. Pushing in deeper. “Everywhere.”

He’s holding your wrists down on the bed, hips grinding into you.

“I fuckin’ tried, y’know that?” His voice is harsh. “Open.”

You do.

And he spits right onto your tongue. You moan. Shaky. Breathless.

“Swallow it.”

And you do. Instantly.

“I called. Texted. Showed up. And you just disappeared on me.”

His voice rough. Cracking. Eyes locked on you.

“Blocked me on every fucking thing,” he fucks you harder. “And now?”

He leans in closer. “Now you’re letting me back in with this pussy before you even let me apologize…before I even explain myself.”

You whimper. And he laughs. Mean.

“So fuckin’ easy.”

He splits you wide open, cock driving into you.

“Dios mío,” He breathe against your skin, voice cracking. “This fuckin’ body…” His hands slide against your skin. Possessive.

“You were the best thing that ever happened to me.” He grunts. Voice hoarse. “And I ruined it. I know that I did.”

His hand slips down to rub your clit. Eyes never leaving yours.

“Mi puta,” He whispers into your ear. “Mía.”

“Come again,” he whispers. “One more time. Wanna feel you fuckin’ squeeze me and tell me you still want me.”

And when you do….

He follows.

“Fuck…fuck, I fucking love you.”

You’re not sure how long you stay like this.

Chest pressed against you. Legs tangled. Cock still buried in you.

Twitching like he doesn’t want to let you go.

And then he’s moving again. Slow. Deep. Mean. Hand tangled in your hair, holding your head against the mattress as you arch.

And then he spits into your mouth again.

“Swallow it, mi amor. Like a good girl.”

You do.

“Buena chica,” He grunts. “Always were. Always knew how to take it.”

And then he’s pushing your thighs up to your chest, slamming into you harder.

And you scream.

“You still hate me?” He asks. Voice ruined.

You look at him. Eyes glassy. Breathless.

“I don’t know,” you whisper.

And his hips slow. But he still hits you deep.

“No mientas,” He exhales. “Don’t lie.”

Your nails dig into his back. “I hate how much I missed this. Missed you.”

And he groans.

“Say you’re mine.”

“Soy tuya.” You breathe.

And then his mouth is on yours. Claiming.

And his hand circles your clit.

“Hazlo,” He hisses against your lips. “Come for me. Again. Vamos, mi amor.”

And you do. Gasping his name.

And he falls apart with you. Spilling inside you again.

And this time he collapses onto you. Slipping out.

His come leaking onto the sheets below you.

“I was scared,” He breathes. “Didn’t deserve you. Still don’t.”

You blink. Dazed.

“Didn’t even let me say sorry.”

You exhale. “You didn’t fucking try.”

He goes still.

His eyes search yours. “What do I do now?”

You don’t answer.

Just brush your fingers against the back of his neck. And you feel the way he shudders.

Just holding each other.

taglist: @jaspimirandera @amoothoperator @iloveallmyboys @fer23022003 @dyleclerc @annaswrites00 @pjmluvb @howling-wolf97 @marrykisskilled @frenchtwistedd @tabisswag @ayap4paya @astrlape @ptrickbateman @lilith-123321 @nyymarjr @its-avalon-08 @fastandcurious16 @mimisweetz @wandabillywrites @samanthaw16 @msimpala--67 @theonottsbxtch @prudyhoo @cendrineee @whistlef0rthechoir @idontknow0704 @forumlabee @gnarlynorris @alireads27 @alliwantisadonut @marslovesran4eva @asentraa @dustie-faerie @o6hellnah @hannahmotors10 @kori20 @zicosbitch @floraf1ln @fallingforfalll2 @killjoynotes @remussbitch @babyangelc @sadwillowtree11

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herasversion · 3 months ago

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Jane the virgin au

a/n This au was inspired by my latest binge of Jane the Virgin, and the fact that I think Rafael and Carlos give off the same vibes and looks.

summary: After a routinely check up and a distracted doctor you accidentally get artificially inseminated by formula 1 driver Carlos Sainz.

There are awkward moments in life and there are awkward moments in life, like waiting on your pap smear with your legs wide open but your doctor just won't come. As you watch the minutes go by you feel your eyes getting heavy. The next thing you know the door suddenly swings open and you’re frenzied doctor walks in who looks like she has cried more in the last 24 hours then blinked.

Luckily it’s the quickest pap smear of your life and apparently everything is fine, so the next couple of weeks you walk around like everything is fine. You do that until you suddenly faint.

coming soon

#formula 1 #f1 x reader #carlos sainz x reader #carlos sainz smut #carlos sainz #f1 fanfic #f1 imagine

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herasversion · 3 months ago

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Hiya just saw ur darkish college au and was wondering if u could elaborate on Landos one maybe? Maybe a little smut if your up for it but completely fine if not no pressure xx

hey, thanks for the request I got a bit carried away. Hope you like it!

warnings: smut, darkish

summary: Frat Boy Lando really needs you to convice why you're best friend should by able to join his sorority.

Frat boy! Lando Norris who everybody on campus knows if you never set foot in one of his party’s. Frat boy Lando Norris who makes sure his frat brothers know who to let in to his party’s and who not afterall a party is only fun with hot people. Frat boy Lando Norris who is easily recognized because he is always wearing a hoodie or a sweater. Frat boy Lando Norris who loves naive and innocent girls to corrupt but only for him. He makes sure everybody knows who is his not that he is exclusive. Frat boy Lando Norris who looks dumb and easily fooled but always knows everything that is going on afterall he scanes every room he is in. And luckily for you, you have been chosen just by your luck. Your best friend is too busy talking to frat boys after she dragged you to a party you didn’t even want to be at.

Frat boy! Lando Norris who knows immediately what he needs to do. He walks up to you like he is stalking his prey. You don’t notice until you do but by then it's already too late. You try to remain calm but your shoulders drop against your will and you make yourself smaller. Almost if he can sense it he smirks and looks you up and down. With confidence nobody should have he stalks too you and starts talking with a smirk. This isn’t really your scene…

As he says it he keeps looking at you as you stammer a reapply just as you get your nerves up to reply he lets out a sharp laugh. Relax babe he is just joking! although his smile tells you a different story. He is just toying with you after all, he asks who invited you to his party…

You explain quite nervously how your best friend wants to join a sorority next year, He laughs. I don't think a friend of yours is suited for one of my sororities. You want to say he is being rude but as you look up at his eyes you see his eyes daring you to say something. You point your best friend out to him and say she is quite different then you way more outgoing. As you say that he starts to smirk and retorts, you know what you're right but he needs to hear more why don't you explain it a bit more in his room.

Before you can voice you really don’t want to go upstairs you're dragged by the most massive hands you have ever seen, as you look around trying to signal help you see your best friend smiling at you with a thumbs up.

Lando’s room is the most standard frat boy room you have ever seen, you're suddenly being dragged and dropped on his bed, lando turns around and locks the door and stands still just looking at you. Eventually you try to break the awkward silence trying to explain how your best friend was a cheerleader in high school.

Lando starts laughing Ow! no I still don’t believe it you know what might help if you cheer for him. You try to stammer a reply that she cheered not you but one look of him makes you go silent. He tries to smile kindly at you at least that is what you think, If you don’t cheer he doesn’t think she will make it to a sorority.

You ask him what he wants you to cheer for, he laughs and looks as if you’re dumb my name of course babe. As you go to stand and awkwardly cheer his name he laughs and tells you sorority girls are louder, but apparently you and your friends are not really sorority material.

He tells you he just needs to get closer to get a better look at how you cheer, you suddenly feel a hand ghost up your calf all the way to your thigh, and you freeze. Relax Babe fraternity boys are always very close with the sorority girls or are you and your friend not really sorority girls, come on keep on cheering my name. He looks really mad right now, you immediately say you're sorry and start cheering again.

His hands keep traveling higher all the way up to your inner thigh, you look down, his hand is just as big as your whole inner thigh. While you're busy thinking that he suddenly places his other hand on your pussy and grabs a handful. He tuts, sorry babe he really needs you to lose your underwear after all sorority girls would do that.

The hand that was just on your pussy reaches out to yours as he helps you to lay down on the bed. He smiles at you and says since he is such a nice guy with helping you get in a sorority he will also help you with taking off your underwear.

You nod at him and he starts slowly dragging your underwear down your legs with one hand while the other hand traces circles on your inner thigh. You're so distracted by this hand you don’t notice the other one until it’s circling around your clit. You let out a breathy moan, at which he lets out a chuckle thats really hot babe, but he should really also explore the inside.

You can't even respond, before he is pushing a finger inside and Jesus babe you're tight.

He keeps on circling your clit while adding vingers and by the third finger you break. As you moan louder than before you orgasm, which is a great motive for Lando to move his fingers even faster.

After you've ridden out your orgasm, Lando looks at you again and explains that he’s been helping you alot! you should help him also. You nod quickly and stammer where you can help him. He moves from the bed and laughs and pulls his shorts down and points at his dick that is straining his underwear.

You look up at him with wide eyes, as he laughs, you look confused. Nothing babe you just look so adorable with your big eyes, why don’t you come here? You nod and make a move to get off the bed and walk to him, he tuts Babe it would look really hot if you crawled up to him. You crawl to him until you're on the bed at the foot of it where he grabs your face and traces his thumb on your cheek.

Why don't you also help him with taking down his underwear, you put your hands on both sides of the elastic band and begin pulling his underwear down. His dich immediately springs free. He laughs as he sees you look wide eyed at it, it’s really big right babe but don’t worry you can touch it.

You put your hands on his dick and start jerking him off while he lets out a little moan, I believe you can do more than that like a sorority girl putting your mouth on it. You do as he says and lightly kiss the tip before you put his dick in your mouth and start giving him a blow job.

Aw he really needs to help you babe, he grabs you´re haire and starts fucking youre mouth really hard and fast. You´re eyes tear up as the oxychin leaves your body and you gag but he keeps on fucking youre face. Suddenly he holds you longer and finishes. He looks at you like he expects something come on babe you can swallow.

After he sees you do that he points to the bathroom where you can freshen up babe, by the way I am still not a hundred percent sure about you´re friend why don´t you give your number to me. But don't go talking to any of my other frats here, you only cheer for one guy got it, babe!

a/n You can request any off the other drivers to join my f1 college au or if you want to know more about them.

#lando norris #college au!#dark f1 #f1 smut #f1 x reader #formula 1 #lando x reader #lando norris imagine #lando norris x reader

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herasversion · 3 months ago

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so um.....surprise!!!! ;)

romantic chocolates? - cs55

pairing: carlos sainz x fem!reader summary: in which you and your ex-boyfriend take aphrodisiac chocolates at the same party OR you and carlos fuck after not seeing each other for months

OUT SATURDAY MAY 17, 2025 (idk what time yet)

ln4 cl16 mv1 op81 cs55

smut below! (18+) ◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤ “Want me to remind you how good you were?” His voice is dark. “How you used to ride my fingers like a good fucking slut while I spat in your mouth?”

Your legs nearly give out.

“Still got that pretty moan?” He breathes.

“Fuck you.” You shove him back. Hard.

comment or message me if you want to be on the tag list!!!! xoxo

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herasversion · 3 months ago

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College au

Darkish college au with my faves Charles, Carlos, Max and Lando. You can request more drivers or more blurbs about the drivers

Charles Leclerc

College!au Charles who is the college sweetheart, who is sweet to all the professors and students, until he can gossip with Pierre about them. Students who say he is sweet well until they are both competing for something then they will call him the devil ask Max verstappen. Charles who always carries a sketchbook with him after all he is studying to become an architect, although he tells you it’s because he always wants to sketch his muse mon cheri, even when you're not aloud to look in the sketch book

Max Verstappen

College!au Max who is the college golden bad boy, no one wants to admit it because not a lot of people like Max but he is as good as you can get on campus, That is why it’s so hard to discipline Max when he lacks respect, Max only talks to correct the professor, people call him arrogant, Max just says he’s just right. Max who doesn’t even have to try to win he just does although don’t get in his way because he will do anything to win just ask Charles Leclerc. Afterall Max studies business and sees his whole life that way, Luckily for you Max realises you need help studying after all all those numbers are way too hard for you, but Max is willing to help his schat in exchange for something else.

Carlos sainz

College!au Carlos Nepotisme at its finest, not that Carlos isn’t smart he definitely can rival Max but he just doesn’t want to try, Afterall Carlos only does things if he can get something out of it, switches majors like it's nothing. But finally he settles on law afterall Carlos believes there is always a way to be right. Carlos who you can find more often on the football field or on a bike then in class, but still manages to became one of professor Vowles favourites, Carlos who because of a party blew a final and now you have to tutor him not that he needs one but carino your help is always welcome, although your a bit scared what help means with him.

Lando Norris

College!au Lando playboy of the campus feels like he is part of every frat, and nobody knows what he is really studying, what you do know is that lando is filthy rich and he dictates who can join which sororities. What isn’t really a problem for you because you don’t want to join one, but youre best friend drags you to one of his parties. Where lando explains to you that you need to do certain things for him baby if you want your friend to be able to join a sorority.

#f1 x reader #charles leclerc x reader #carlos sainz x reader #lando norris x reader #dark f1 #college au!

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herasversion · 3 months ago

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No One Can Harm You Here - Charles Leclerc

Dark fic + - Minors DNI - if you don't like this or the warnings/themes make you uncomfortable. I can't stress this enough, DO NOT READ THIS

@herasversion prompt request #13 - "I'm trying to protect you." "How can I be protected when I'm locked in here with you?"

Summary: Charles is just protecting his girlfriend, even if she disagrees. He even built her the perfect prison.

Themes/warnings: Smut 18+, abduction, drugging, brainwashing, stockholm syndrome, deranged/psycho!Charles (he really believe what he's doing is for her own good)

Word count: 1.4k

Charles had known he needed to make sure when he took y/n in for himself, it had to be secure and she couldn't escape. He knew she wouldn't understand at first and it would take time for her to realise that what he's doing is for the better of her.

"This is your new place?" Y/n smiles making him nod as he shows her into the penthouse apartment that's been renovated for him for the past couple months.

Charles always knew money could buy silence but the builders didn't question it when he gave them a generous overpayment for soundproofing. Though Charles did alter some of the doors himself so y/n would be as secure as possible. As safe as possible.

There's a lot of dangers in the world and Charles just wants y/n to be safe.

He wants to take care of her and protect her against the harshness of the world that she's otherwise exposed to.

"Took long enough for them to finish the place. What were they doing?" Y/n laughs softly while looking around the apartment, gently exploring the new home of her boyfriend, and unbeknownst to her where she'll be held captive from this day forward.

"Come sit. I made sure we have our first meal ready for you." Charles smiles brightly before she moves towards him, innocently hugging him and kissing him as he leans over and kisses her softly.

"First meal in your new place sounds very good to me." Y/n agrees blind to her impending captivity as soon as she eats the food that Charles has drugged to make sure she's not going anywhere and not making his life difficult.

So they sit down and eat and plan goes smoothly as she listens to him talk, fighting the drugs till finally she drops forward and Charles manages to catch her head before she smashes her head off the table and instead he cushions it from such a hit and sighs leaning over to kiss the top of her head.

Y/n shifts coming around, her head aching and her body feeling like it's abuzz with something she can't quite put her finger on what is making her feel so out of sorts.

Familiar muscular arms are wrapped around her. Everything is normal.

"Good morning, amour." Charles whispers as she rolls to look at him, smiling as he tucks her hair behind her ear. "Did you sleep well?"

"A little too well...Did we drink last night? I don't remember doing anything but eating."

"No. No drinks." Charles frowns earning a hum but he doesn't intend to let her dwell on it.

Y/n is smart, she'll catch on but he's not going to say what happened out loud and point it out to her especially because he has a plan and he won't be swaying away from it unless he absolutely has to.

"Go back to sleep amour. It is very early." Charles mumbles since as much as he signed up for this. He's still very tired and wants to enjoy the peace before she realises what's going on.

"I love you." Y/n sighs softly while he smiles with a hum and kisses her temple.

It took about a week of drugging y/n for her to realise she's not sick and something is wrong. But she's too drugged up to really do anything physical about it.

But she could let Charles know she is aware of what he's doing.

"You're making me like this on purpose." Y/n states tiredly, a constant state she's been in since getting to the apartment. "Why are you doing this?"

"There are dangerous people out there, I'm trying to protect you."

"How can I be protected when I'm locked in here with you? You're drugging me so I can't even run." Y/n whispers while Charles sighs shaking his head.

"You don't understand. This is for the better of you." Charles states while y/n swallows thickly blinking away tears as they gather in her eyes. "I'm going to take care of you and you are going to be safer here and happier here than you could anywhere else."

"Charles please, this isn't right. We can be happy without being like this."

"We're going to be happiest like this. I promise you." Charles smiles then kissing her. "I love you, baby. And this is just going to reinforce that. You'll see."

And so it goes on for another 2 weeks with Charles reducing her strength of will, he'd not let up on drugging her but he knew that soon he'd be leaving her in the one room in the apartment that was made specifically to secure her while he's gone.

"Don't do this." Y/n whispers freshly drugged as Charles carries her to the soundproof room that he's already stock with food and water and does have a bathroom that she'll be able to use.

"You'll be much more safe here, amour." Charles promises place her on the bed. "I will be back before you know it."

Charles has made sure all the food is laced with the drugs and he's hoping she might be too doped up to notice.

It worked out well leaving y/n behind and with each time Charles left, she seemed to have lost a bit more of her will to fight about how wrong this is.

He returns from yet another race weekend, getting home later than intended but he gets into her room and finds her sleeping peacefully making him pick her up and sigh moving them to the normal bedroom and kisses her as he lies them both in the bed.

"Charles?" Y/n whispers from the darkness, shifting to look at him with big eyes that still shine in the shadows.

"It's me, amour." Charles confirms though that much was probably obvious really.

"I need you." Y/n mumbles making him squeeze her a little, completely misunderstanding her words. "No. Charles, I need to feel you."

Charles frowns before finally it clicks and he practically jumps at the chance because in truth, the one sacrifice he really was struggling with was going without sex but he also knew this day would come eventually.

Y/n tries to climb on top of him but Charles rolls them so she's under him knowing she's better being the one on the bottom. Admittedly he just wants all control and all power in the dynamic between them. But he's missed her body, feeling it and having it so close.

Charles pulls off the t-shirt and shorts she's wearing with ease before kissing down her now exposed body and feeling her lean and push herself into the kisses.

Y/n has resided to the fact that Charles is not letting her go so she might as well just allow herself the pleasures she can take out of this. She watches him with those steady but glazed eyes, still somewhat doped up but definitely not completely out of is. She knows what she's doing.

The feeling of when Charles pushes into her almost feels enough for it to be her first time, though from what her foggy mind remembers, significantly less painful. But accommodating his size makes her suck in a breath of need for move.

"Charles." Y/n whimpers and in that moment, Charles realises he's got his girl back. She's his and she knows it.

"That's it baby." Charles praises softly while she swallows thickly and nods a little.

Y/n whimpers as she feels the build up towards her orgasm that is absolutely overdue, she hasn't so much as touched herself but the overwhelming need from neglect has taken over her and she almost feels desperate for the man and he can't deny that she is really pulling his orgasm out of him.

They both cum shamelessly fast and Charles only just manages to flip them so y/n is on top of him, both of them still pulsing through the aftershocks before y/n sighs and just rests her head on Charles' slightly damp chest.

"I love you, amour."

"I love you too, Charles." Y/n whispers not hesitating for even a moment.

She's found peace with it and thought Charles doesn't intend for anything to change for a long time, knowing she's resided to this is important to him. It's a big step and it's setting them up for the future he wants.

He wants to keep her safe forever and she's really letting him do that in the exact way he wants to.

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herasversion · 3 months ago

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No Filter - Franco Colapinto

@herasversion prompt request #10 - "Ooh that's kinky...I like that." "People can hear you."

Summary: Franco lacks a filter in his second language and constantly has his girlfriend stressed about people overhearing his comments.

Fluent Engish!reader - note: reader doesn't necessarily have to be English/from an English speaking country but lets say she can't speak Spanish just for the sake of the fic so they have to communicate via English

Themes/warnings: Smut 18+, public sex

Word count: 1.6k

Franco, like most young race drivers, learned English via moving up through the sport and being required to learn the second language. His is still not the most fluent English on the planet and his girlfriend tries her best to aid him however she can.

Y/n likes to think Franco's lack of filter is just his broken English meaning he struggles to think of how to word things appropriately.

But there's also a part of her that thinks Franco speaks his thoughts and simply doesn't care about filtering them.

"Your dress is very short, baby." Franco comments as she checks herself into the mirror.

"It's hot, Franco." Y/n sighs making him roll his eyes, he is playful and light-hearted 95% of the time but that other 5% he can be quite possessive and protective over his girlfriend. Another voice in her head says that he say inappropriate comments with the aim being that he wards off anyone thinking she might be available to them. "Do you not like it? It's one of my favourite dresses."

"You look ah so beautiful in it." Franco states before he gestures for them to get moving since he doesn't really want it to be late when he's there with Alpine in Bahrain for the race.

They are walking through the paddock when Lando actually passes by and throws a hello to the young couple making Franco hum not missing how the Brit's eyes stray up and down y/n's body making the Argentine pull her towards himself with some force.

"You know I am beginning to really like this dress on you, baby." Franco states making her raise an eyebrow, not missing how this comment has been provoked by another man eyeing her.

"Thank you. But you might want to keep the thoughts written all over your face to yourself. I can see you're thinking about how the short length might make for easy access." Y/n whispers lowly making sure no nearby ears could pick up on her words.

If only Franco thought to have the same approach when speaking to her with his reaction.

"Ooh that's kinky...I like that. Having easy access to you would make this whole weekend more exciting." Franco smirks, not having an ounce of shame to spare for the volume of his words which do earn some looks.

"People can hear you." Y/n hisses swatting at his chest but Franco only returns the gesture by sliding his hand that held her waist down to cup her ass. "Franco Colapinto. Will you behave?"

"It is impossible to do that when you are near."

"Then maybe I should go back to the hotel."

"I will go with you and we can do something about this dress." Franco shrugs really having no apologies for what he'd like to do to his girlfriend both in and out of that dress.

Turns out that Franco has quite a good portion of the day to spare and he spends most of it making filthy comments to his girlfriend about what he'd quite enjoy doing.

And as the weekend goes on, y/n finds herself struggling more and more to deny his advances.

"You know the unit is nearly empty we could make the most of it with everyone busy." Franco comments still seemingly unaware of his own volume since they are in the garage mid-way through he race and it's loud on a normal day without it being during race time, but during the race it's always loud.

However, her boyfriend's words manage to still overpower the noise around them as he pulls her back against himself, only just managing to withhold himself from grinding forward against her. But she doesn't need him to in order to feel his dick pressing up on her ass with a rock solid length.

Y/n opts for the more silent means of pushing him from the spectator/guest zone and instead they walk back out of the garage and into the paddock. Though no going unnoticed, y/n would rather spare other people from overhearing her boyfriend's more vulgar thoughts that he apparently can't keep contained to himself.

They rush up to the boardroom that every unit seems to have which is kept for the secretive meetings and while it doesn't have a lock, it doesn't have any windows looking into it either so they both decide to just take the risk.

"You need to be quiet. We do not need people catching us." Y/n states while pushing Franco against the internal wall in hopes that if someone does glimpse in then they might be out of view enough to move and not get caught directly in the act.

"We will be quiet." Franco confirms knowing that while he makes no secret of his thoughts with volume normally, but he knows now is not the time to gain attention by being too loud. Otherwise he'll miss out on this opportunity.

Franco turns so y/n is pressed into the wall instead and Franco catches her in a kiss as his hand pushes under yet another short dress that he's really proving gives him the easiest access he could want. Before she knows it, he's sunk down to one knee, under the hem of her dress with her thigh resting on his shoulder.

Now if there's one thing that Franco does, it's live up to the expectations he sets for himself when it comes to sex. He's not just all talk and y/n would never discredit her boyfriend for being a sex god.

"Franco." Y/n whispers in a quiet moan at the feeling of Franco's tongue diving into her like he's a man starved. As if they didn't end their day yesterday and start their day today with sex.

Safe to say sex is absolutely a pillar of their relationship and neither are sorry for it even if y/n would like Franco to maybe keep a lid on it when there's other people around.

Y/n feels her knee start to buckle a little as she feels the stimulation to her clit and she is throbs against his tongue.

"Baby, I'm close." Y/n whispers actually finding herself as the one to struggle to contain her volume as she opts to press her hand over her own mouth while her other hand locks itself into his hair, pulling a little as her orgasm hits.

She spasms on his tongue, grinding down into his face a little more as she rides it own and moans against her own hand. Franco doesn't stop till he feels her relax a little, moving himself back from under her dress and reveal the droplets of evidence of her pleasure surrounding his mouth.

"You didn't stay that quiet." Franco smirks before kissing her thigh before he slowly slides her leg from his shoulder and stands up capturing her in a kiss to give her a taste of herself before she spins them around so he's against the wall again before her hands drive down his trousers, feeling how hard he is and the moan that he bites back to try and contain tells her that even if she didn't touch him, it wouldn't take much for him to finish.

"Your turn." Y/n mumbles still stuck on her own high a little as she drops to her knees and smile before taking his length into her mouth as she moans just from the feeling of his dick in her mouth.

Y/n would be the first to say she's never really taken pleasure from giving head in the same way she takes pleasure from receiving it. But she does enjoy giving it with Franco which for her only prove just how great he is at sex for just the feeling of his dick in anyway to make her feel good.

"A-Amor." Franco chokes out cumming much faster than he would've liked but he probably could've finished from the feeling of eating her out if he's allowed himself to.

Y/n swallows every drop and pumps him a couple more times as if to milk him dry before she shifts back just remaining sat on the floor.

"I am going to spend every day for the rest of our lives making comments about what I want to do to you." Franco declares tucking himself away again as y/n laughs a little before he leans down a little and gently cups her face. "Are you ok, amor?"

"Might just stick to watching the rest of the race in the unit." Y/n smiles as Franco helps her up. "You know when we started dating last year, I didn't know being a reserve meant much more sex on race weekends."

"No full time seat was bound to mean that amor. I am a lucky man with a very beautiful girlfriend who I enjoy having sex with." Franco laughs then kissing her softly. "I can slow down if you need."

"Don't you dare." Y/n smiles then nodding at him. "I love you, exactly as you are. Even if you could do with a bit more of a filter."

"I love you too. Even if you have a filter that I would like to get rid of so I could know what you're really thinking." Franco chuckles then sighing. "Let's get cleaned up a little."

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herasversion · 4 months ago

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CHARLES LECLERC in the Ferrari garage before FP2, Bahrain GP 2025

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herasversion · 4 months ago

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Crocs Are Elite - Charles Leclerc

@rana030 prompt request #19 - "Don't diss the Crocs, I'll choose them over you."

Summary: Y/n gets won over by the Croc lifestyle and Charles is uncertain about it.

Word count: 821

Charles hasn’t been won over into the Croc life but his girlfriend swears by them. Much to his disapproval.

"Amour...the crocs." Charles laughs making her turn sharply, looking at him with narrowed eyes silently challenging him.

"I've told you, Charles. Don't diss the Crocs, I'll choose them over you." Y/n warns while Charles hums watching her put on the pink crocs ahead of getting themselves down to the beach.

"I'd never ask you to pick." because I really do know I'd lose.

"Alright, come on." Y/n smiles grabbing her bag while Charles smiles at her since he doesn't necessarily dislike the Crocs with a passion.

Y/n links their hands as they make their way out and she practically frolics to the sand.

Y/n is a beach bum if there ever was one. She lives for heat, sun and having her skin out to appreciate both those things. Charles also appreciates her approaching the sun and heat.

"I think we go for a swim first." Y/n states finally kicking off those her pink Crocs as she looks out at the beautifully blue ocean in front of them. "Yeah?"

"Oui." Charles confirms with a dimpled grin, following her lead to get off the think sun covers they'd been wearing before beginning to walk into the cool water that contrasts the heated air.

With the beach being quiet, y/n and Charles' stuff is thankfully fine being left untouched for quite a few hours since they also hit the beach bar and the rest of the Leclerc family appear, having shown up much later than the earlier time of day y/n dragged Charles out for.

"I'm so tired." Y/n yawns as Charles drags them back to their pile of stuff since they're not just left it there but strayed half a mile from it during their day. "I think I burned my feet. I should've-My crocs!"

Charles frowns at her sudden yell of distress before looking at the crocs which seem to have shrunk to half the size. Definitely not the Crocs that she wore to the beach without an issue over the size.

"How did that even happen?" Charles questions while y/n whines picking up the now tiny crocs.

"What the fuck?" Y/n pouts then sighing and Charles realises that y/n's mood is definitely soured for the day. "I'm sad now."

"Because of crocs?" Charles chuckles earning a sharp glare. "I'm sorry baby. I'm sorry baby-I didn't even realise crocs could shrink."

"Can we go? I'm tired, my feet are burned and now I'm sad." Y/n mumbles making Charles sigh before he picks up their stuff and takes her hand walking them back to the villa.

The two of them get to villa and Charles ends up being used as a cushion for y/n to land herself on while they watch tv for the last bit of the day. They did order food and she momentarily had her mood lifted when the rest of his family joined them to eat for a bit before they get themselves to bed.

Despite feeling relieved that there's no more crocs, Charles doesn't actually feel good that y/n is so upset so he holds her tightly and tries to comfort her as much as possible.

The rest of the trip was fine, y/n just wore some of her other shoes since she did bring more than her crocs. she's not so torn up about them that it's really that deep. But even Charles can tell y/n was comfier in her crocs.

Charles smiles as he sees the package awaiting them when they return home, he'd had Joris come and make sure the package was waiting for them. But it's something y/n overlooks as she dumps their bags down and groans cracking her joints before she sighs.

"Are you hungry? I should probably go out and get some food shopping?" Y/n states with a hum after checking the fridge.

"Amour." Charles grins picking up the box and placing it on top of the island counter while she turns with a frown.

"What's that?"

"This is for you. Open it." Charles smiles making her raise an eyebrow but she does as instructed and opens the package before gasping then pouting as she quickly moves to hug him..

"You got me more crocs? But you hate them."

"I hate them for me. But they make you happy and I like seeing that you're happy about something." Charles states while y/n just about melts at his words.

"You are the sweetest man on the planet. Thank you, baby-I was going to get another pair but you beat me to it." Y/n laughs then sighing as she moves back and looks at the colours. "You got a red pair?"

"Red is a good colour, no?"

"I suppose I can't argue with you about it." Y/n jokes before she pulls them out the box. "Thank you so much. I love them all."

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herasversion · 4 months ago

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😳

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herasversion · 4 months ago

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𝐒𝐮𝐜𝐜𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧 (𝐢)

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: "The wound is the place where the light enters you" - grappling with the reality of your new brother-in-law is far harder than you had originally deemed. 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: this is a dark fic! you have been warned! do not read if you are not comfortable with dark fics or any of the following: noncon/dubcon, slapping, oral (m receiving/f receiving), fingering, forced orgasm 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 4k 𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: the first part of the series!!! i hope you all enjoy! (series masterlist)

it had all started the day you saw your father take your sister down the aisle of the chapel. the man that stood before her smirked at the sight of the beautiful bride, her chin tucked into her neck with forlorn eyes that only you could decipher. a marriage of convenience since your sister's luck was very poor at finding a proper suitor from a distant kingdom. the groom chosen was a very distant relative, and as was common during the time he still met all the demands required of him. added to his state was his charm and handsome features that even had the guests swooning for him. you still remembered his grip on your sister's hands, the way they enveloped her frail fingers, tugging harshly as he gifted her the ring to tie them together for eternity. your heart ached at the sight and casting your gaze to the side, you took note of the groom's family with smiles that didn't quite meet their eyes.

you knew from the start that this marriage was doomed and had you known its consequences sooner, you wished you had objected earlier.

grand duke charles leclerc's vows to your sister were all empty promises, a half-hearted attempt at remaining cordial with his bestowed. you could tell from the way his eyes landed on you, the light through the chapel's windows illuminating his darkest desires. two-in-one. that's what his brother whispered to him during dinner the week before when your father had kindly invited them to the castle to discuss the final wedding adjustments. you remembered freezing as you brought the wooden spoon to your lips, eyes narrowing at the young men. two-in-one. a woman in front of the public's eyes, and another woman to his bed. your appetite left you quite shortly after that.

the lush garden in the center of the castle was frequently tended to by the gardeners your father, the royal king, employed. they were to be trimmed every thursday, decorated every friday, and boasted every saturday when at least one royal guest was invited. every other day were to be enjoyed by the family, especially you. the most favorite of the kingdom, princess (y/n). known for being quite the headstrong and determined woman, your father wished you had been first so that the throne would've gone to you instead of your sister. fate could never be trusted, your father laughed when he found you seated by some rose bushes. you laughed along, unsure of how else to respond. you never even liked the throne. the very idea of it, having to rule over countless people and form relations with important figures from other countries, making sure your manners were always in check. you shivered at the thought. from the windows above, you could see your sister's precious husband watching your movements. his eyes fixed on your bosom, hands fidgeting behind his back as he yearned to grab at them. the pretty princess that was always just out of his reach no matter how hard he tried to corner her. the jewel of the kingdom, the apple of your father's eye, the very beast he desired to tame and have at his feet. he could picture it, could already see himself on your father's throne with you by his feet and head down, timid and afraid just like your sister. if only you were like your sister, he would've married you in a heartbeat. but no, you had to be the annoying little wrench that you were, always talking back and arguing with others for the sake of righteousness or whatever. he sighed, watching the king move out of the garden and head back towards his chambers and that's when he knew he had to toy with you for a bit.

upon hearing a new set of footsteps approaching, you glanced up with an indifferent expression to see duke charles. he stood there with a smile, and you took note of his attire. very well put together due to the luxury of inheriting your kingdom's finest tailors. you were also painfully made aware of the thick outline of his hard cock straining in his galligaskins - those puffy wool shorts that were always below his knee rather than above. your eyes traveled right back down to your book, flipping to the next page.

"princess (y/n), i must say that the sight of you in this garden," charles began, stepping closer, "tu ressembles à un ange, a very beautiful creature."

he reached out to softly graze your cheek, fingers grazing down your neck and inching closer to the swell of your breasts. you caught hold of his hand, instantly, and noticed the way his nostrils flared at your defiance. he grabbed the book from your other hand, striking you across your face as you fell onto the cobblestone. he straightened his outfit, smoothening the wrinkles before grabbing you by your hair and forcing you onto your knees.

"i gave you a compliment, ma biche," he hissed, undoing the strings of his drawers, "i expect some appreciation for my words, don't be an insufferable bitch."

"is my sister not in your chamber? can she not satisfy your carnal needs?" you snapped, which only earned you another hard smack across your face, before his fingers dug deep into your mouth to silence your outbursts.

"your sister has done quite enough for me, but i yearn for the fruit always hanging on the highest branch," he whispered, his two fingers plunging deeper into the wet cave of your mouth, "suck, and gather some spit on it if you can."

your brows furrowed at his request, time ticking away slowly as you mulled over the action. seeing your hesitance, he groaned out loud and dug out his dagger. with a harsh tug, he yanked your tongue out and placed the sharp edge of the weapon against the muscle and growled out loud, "either you suck my fingers, or i cut your tongue off. which will it be, salope."

with a slow nod of your head, you opened your mouth wider and taking the invitation, his fingers returned. his eyes narrowed at the sight of your tongue swirling around his digits, sucking them carefully as your lips pursed together to accumulate some saliva. your own spit dribbled down your chin, landing onto the swell of your breasts. to see the pretty princess on her knees with wide eyes made his cock stir painfully in his pants and he smirked at the sight. pulling his fingers out of your mouth, he smeared them over your collarbone, trailing his touch down to feel the softness of your tits that were pulled tightly against the corners of your corset. he imagined his face buried between them, groping and sucking them to his heart's content as you'd whine for more, begging for his cock to nestle itself where it rightfully belonged. without much of a second thought, he let his drawers pool down to his ankles and pulled out his leaking member that was gravitating towards you.

your eyes traveled up to see the silhouette of your sister perched near the railings of the second floor. she had to be watching your debasement, had to know that her precious husband was using you for temporary relief since she must've failed to do so somehow. what boiled your blood the most was the fact that she made no effort to come downstairs to save you from this plight, clearly too engrossed in whatever silly activity she did as the royal heir to the throne. charles' grip tightened on your jaw, popping it open once more as he notched his tip past your lips. his head fell back, eyes shut as he groaned aloud at the warmth.

"i can only imagine what it would be like between your thighs, princess," he hissed, shoving his length down your throat without warning, "how tight and warm you'd be, made just for my cock."

he pinched your nose shut, relishing in the sight of you struggling as he brought your face closer to his pubes, feeling your fists bash at his thighs as you tried to pull away. your noises of distress are music to his ears and he yanks his cock out of your mouth, taking note of the way you cough haphazardly with a hand clutched around your throat. his fingers wrapped around his shaft, pumping himself furiously before his free hand tugged at your hair to pull your head back and he finished himself all over your face.

"so beautiful like this," he cooed, "a lovely gift for your brother-in-law, right?" while tapping his softening cock against your swollen lips, his cum dribbling down your cheeks. he let out a bitter laugh, adjusting himself back into his drawers as his fingers worked swiftly against the strings. he ran a hand through his hair before collecting his remnants off your face, smearing it onto your tongue.

"it'll do you good to get used to it," he snickered, patting your face before walking off. your jaw goes taut at his words, your anger radiating off of you in waves at the debauchery that just took place in the royal gardens - your favorite, most sacred place no less. you crawled over to grab onto your book, standing up with a disgusted look on your face when you noticed your sister hurrying over to you with a handkerchief in hand.

"i know it is not enough," she whispered, dabbing away at the sticky residue coating your face, "but it is all i can afford at the moment. i can ask for the maids to draw you a bath if you'd like."

"what for?" you snapped, walking down the corridor as she chased after you, "so that the maids can be made aware that i've reduced myself to a common whore in my own castle?"

you paused in your tracks, whipping around to face your beloved sister, "where even were you? what were you doing that was so important you couldn't come to your little sister's rescue?"

your sister's shoulders slumped, a dejected sigh escaping her lips, "i tend to not get involved with whatever he's doing. i'm sorry (y/n) but i am terrified of him, you know i never have what it takes to-"

"i know, i know. a pathetic excuse of a princess, and the crown shall be bestowed upon your head and i shall be witness to the fall of our kingdom," you grumbled. you could see the effect of your harsh words dampen your sister's spirits and she whimpered, nodding her head as she casted her gaze downwards. your chest heaved in frustration at her display of remorse, but deep down you knew that this was how she always was and it wasn't her fault that she was wedded to a beast. you huffed out loud, pulling her into an embrace as her tears fell onto your neck. the poor creature, you only wondered what went on behind closed doors.

your father had gone too lenient on the grand duke as soon as he had been welcomed into your family. had you been on the throne, the definition of "festivities" would've had a much more simpler approach and definitely would not have had anything to do within the walls of the royal castle. the commonfolk could enter during holidays, natural disasters or in times of war and that would be the only time you would see a prostitute even set forth into your castle. so why on earth were there these whores roaming around in the middle of the night? only god could answer.

it had been a small laugh at first, one that made you stir in your sleep. a sharp shrill followed, causing you to toss over to face the other side of your chamber. when a raucous was heard with a mix of mewls, you sat up straight on your bed with a scowl on your lips. the bastard was at it again. there was no special occasion for him to be entertaining those whores in your castle, especially in the room right above yours. you threw the covers off your frame and slipped off the bed, grabbing hold of a candle and its holder.

"good heavens, what must his appetite even be of?" you jeered, holding the candle up to a lit torch in the hallway. when the wick caught hold of the flame, you quickly placed the wax stick onto the candle holder and used the light to guide you up the staircase to the second floor. with each step you took, you could hear the laughter of a thousand witches growing louder and louder. it took all of your strength not to burn the entire palace down with the rage that you were feeling. the flame of your candle danced to the beating of your heart, catching hold of itself when another laugh echoed through the empty corridor. as you stood at the end of the grand spiraling staircase, you could see shadows from above of the creatures that lurked in the shadows. the royal guards that were to be stationed here were missing, probably paid off by the grand duke when escorting his charade to his bed.

your meandering steps stopped just short of the doors to his bedchamber, the voices louder than ever. you pressed your ear to the wooden surface and listened to the sounds of moans and grunts combining to form a symphony of debauchery. the headboard of the bed beat against the wall, a rhythmic thump that matched the sound of flesh slapping against flesh. and who could miss the squelching of juices, lewd and vile, with the suckling and slurping of what you could only imagine to be the grand duke feasting on a whore's dripping cunt. gasps and screams of ecstasy seemed to soar through the castle walls, only to be swallowed by the hungry mouths of eager individuals that yearned to satiate their lust. you stepped back, a chill running down your spine that made your body twitch. an end had to be put to this madness and you rapped your knuckles against the door, even going so far as to kicking it to make sure they understood your frustrations.

when the door had opened, a slender brunette draped in only the duke's robe appeared before you with a tantalizing smirk playing at her lips. her eyes raked over your body, the shadow of your figure being seen through your nightgown.

"is there a problem, your highness?" her voice dripped with false insincerity, cracking the door just a bit more for you to see her naked frame, the swell of her breasts peeking just around the lapel of the robe. from over her shoulder, you could see a woman bouncing on charles' cock while another woman sat on his face, moaning as she gripped onto the headboard and ground her pussy against his mouth. you gagged at the sight, turning your head away to give yourself a moment to recollect your composure.

"where is my sister?" you spat, your eyes flickering to see charles on the bed with another whore on top of him, his head craning to get a better glimpse of you. you took note of the way his lips were parted, glistening from the cum he had lapped up mere seconds ago from one of his pets. your eyes drifted back to the woman in front of you, blocking your entrance to his chamber.

"she has occupied herself in another room, perhaps one of the chambers on the third floor." she shrugged, an indifferent expression on her face. you scowled, instantly pushing her to the side and letting the door sway open fully to reveal the way your body was shaking in pure, unadulterated rage. charles had raised his brows with a dark smile, clearly distracting himself with the fact that you stood before him in a nightgown which was odd considering you would take every drastic measure to cover yourself up in front of him lest you'd fall victim to his wandering eyes. he bit his lip, propping himself on his elbows as the women slithered around him, draping their limbs all over his torso as he brought the blanket to cover to his hardening manhood.

"i shall not ask again, where is my sister?" you pressed further, illuminating his face with your candlelight. he shrugged, a coy smile blooming on his face,

"she is fast asleep as you should be," he replied with a tilt of his head. you gestured to the prostitutes surrounding him as if he were their religion,

"how can one sleep when all she can hear is this... this... this utter filth!"

"you can get used to it if you gain some experience, ma petite" he threw his head back and let a redhead pepper the column of his throat with kisses, his hand reaching out to curl into her hair and guide her mouth down his chest, "i'll have to fuck that ego out of you for good, just one night alone with me and you will learn more things about yourself that you had not known before."

as you stood at the edge of the bed with a number of thoughts circling in your mind about how you would make him pay for speaking to you like this, he let his foot rest on your chest to prevent you from stepping any closer to him, his toes pressing into your skin to feel the heat of your body that not even the loose fabric you donned could hide. his little entourage followed suit, placing their feet above his as they stared at you with a mocking glint in their eyes, their giggles sounding like nails scraping against a stone wall. you still held onto your candle, debating on pouring the hot wax onto them out of spite, but held back knowing that you wouldn't want to stoop so low to his level.

"you bring these whores into this sacred castle, entertaining them to your will when they would not even dare lift their heads when in the presence of a royal member? have you no shame, no respect to the crown?" you hissed, and he could feel under the sole of his foot the way your chest rose and fell quickly, your heartbeat increasing with the venom dripping from your words. "such filth isn't welcomed here, especially not scum such as yourself."

charles immediately shoved the hands of the women away from him, using one hand to clutch at the blanket around his waist as he stood before you with contempt. the flicker of light you had been holding onto this entire time brought forth the chiseled features on his face, the way his lips were a thin line as his jaw went taut. with his free hand, he stuck out his thumb into the air and let his tongue drag over it as his eyes remained on you, duly noting the way you began to stare at him with a disgusted expression. he brought his thumb closer to the hot wick, dousing the light. the flame disappeared along with your own courage as the moonlight through the window did little to bring you comfort. a loud silence hung in the room, which was only broken by a deafening crack of his hand against your face. your candleholder clattered onto the ground as the whores parted from your form to give charles the space he needed.

"if they're whores, then so are you, espèce de petite salope. you'll have to bend one way or another, your sister did and so shall you. a man can only have so much patience," he snarled, lunging on you. your screams as charles clamped a hand over your mouth, slithering his body behind you so that your back was brought onto his chest. he tore away at the edges of your gown, sinking his teeth onto your shoulder as you wailed. the sound of fabric tearing spurred on the whores as they watched the two of you wrestle on his bed, and seeing as they wanted to please him more so that they could be invited back next week, two of his little pets hoisted the chemise to your waist to expose your bare cunt. they giggled appreciatively, one of them even going so far as to kiss your inner thigh while the other wrapped her lips around your clit and began to suck. you let out a harsh gasp, feeling one of your arms being pinned above your head, leaving you utterly helpless and at their mercy. your eyes shone with blazed fury, glaring at charles who was busy having his fingers sucked by another woman. it was too hard to tell who was who in the dark, save for the occasional sharp shrill that helped you distinguish their voices over the commotion. charles had pushed the whore near your pussy away, yanking her hair away from you.

"she's mine, only i get to touch her like that," and circled your clit with his fingers, muffling your noises as he proceeded to go faster and faster with each second that passed. he pressed down harder on your sensitive nub, switching between slow and hard circles, or going back and forth in a fast pace all while delivering harsh spanks to your swelling glistening pussy. the first moan you let slip out of your mouth on accident had him smiling like a triumphant man, as if he had been coronated as your kingdom's rightful ruler. pressing soft kisses against your tear stained face while whispering "mine, all mine" in your ear, he plunged his fingers into your entrance and watched you start to unravel besides him.

"she's doing so good," one of the women cooed, rolling your hardened nipple through the fabric of your chemise. charles snarled at her with a warning look in his eyes as his fingers scissored inside you, curling and stroking the insides of your gummy walls, determined to rip out your first orgasm so that if you ever dared to marry anyone else, you would always remember that you were never the pure virgin that the kingdom doted on, but a slut to her cuck of a sister. you could feel a strange knot tightening with in you, his fingers diving deeper as your cunt greedily sucked him in, urging him to go further. you could feel the coldness of his wedding ring digging along your folds as he went knuckle deep into your cunt.

your moans grew louder, your back arching as you thrashed on the bed restlessly. you could barely make out what he was doing to you, not when he had bent his body forward and tilted his head to suck your clit as his fingers continued their brutal assault. that was all that you needed to cum, your release coating his digits and his face as he let out a bitter laugh.

"a slut, through and through," he whispered, suckling on your clit somewhere before releasing you with a wet 'pop'. he licked his fingers, dragging you off the bed and shoving you out of the room. you crashed onto the ground with a thud, legs still shaking from an orgasm that you didn't even understand. when you glanced up at him, he merely smirked at your disheveled appearance and shut the door, not before chuckling, "goodnight, ma petite."

you laid there - sprawled out and all - in the dark as you swallowed thickly. you knew you should've told your father your early suspicions of the grand duke and have this man tossed into the tower, or you should've run up the staircase and shake some sense into your sister for having married this monster. but you were rooted to your spot, your mind haunted with his words and you couldn't tell if they were spoken in the heat of the moment or if they had a kernel of truth:

"she's mine."

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herasversion · 4 months ago

Note

THAT FRAT BOY FRANCO!AU WAS CRAZY…

dare i say frat boy! oscar though..

acting all calm, perfect, everyone’s dream boy, then he has you against the wall, begging for his cock. and he’s torturing you, not letting you come, while all his friends (and even some of yours too) are behind the door 😮‍💨😮‍💨

-🩵 anon

🩵 ANON STOP IM ALREADY GIGGLING AND KICKING MY FEET AT THE THOUGHT

bon's thoughts (18+)

fratboy!oscar piastri - he's the type of person to not really fall into the stereotypes of most frat!boys (at least not in public) the type of person you turn to for something "reliable". he's always quiet, smiling awkwardly when you'd walk by him in class. imagine his shock when he sees the girl who would never even leave her dorm, only ever going to the library, all of a sudden at a frat party, especially one of lando's who's definitely trying to get his cock into as many girls as he can.

oh nooo this won't do, and seeing you so eager at the party has his cock stirring in his pants and he guides you down the hallway under the pretense of wanting a small talk, just something private to talk about!

yeah, instead you're getting shoved onto the wall inside a room, his patience out the window as he hikes your skirt up and pushes your panties to the side, one hand on your throat as his finger meticulously caress your folds, gathering your growing arousal and spreading it around your pussy.

"the fuck you think you're doing?" he mumbles, "going after lando? at a party like this? you know better, unless you're that cock hungry."

you're biting your lip, trying to stifle your moans as you clench your jaw, your body going rigid despite the way your knees are crumbling at the way he's circling your clit, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip, pulling it out of its trap between your teeth as he's smirking triumphantly.

"you want my cock?" he asks, snickering at the way you're nodding your head, your mouth falling open as you're so close to cumming. he pulls his hand away, tightening his grip on your throat just a bit before slapping your cunt. you let out a strangled moan, the first of many for the night. your brows furrow as you let out a pathetic whine, clearly desperate for the relief that was snatched from you.

"if you want it you're going to beg for it, so beg for it," oscar's hand moves to cup your chin, squishing your face. "beg for it since you were so fucking eager to be bouncing on lando's dick."

lando's def on the other side of the door with a hand over his mouth, giggling quietly at the thought of oscar's resolve finally snapped. maybe carlos and charles are there too, silently recording your pretty little moans as you eventually lose yourself on oscar's thick cock sliding in and out of your creamy pussy...

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herasversion · 5 months ago

Text

Often ♥️

Mafia!Max Verstappen x Reader

she asked me if I do this everyday, I said often (asked her how many times she rode the wave, not so often)

You’re a hard working, intelligent medical student - at the top of her class. Desperate to pay off your debts, you end up bartending in Monaco’s most exclusive nightclub….and catch the eye of the mafia boss who runs half the city, Max Verstappen. And now that he’s found you, he’s never letting you go.

Content includes: 18+ MDNI, smut, size kink, dom/sub themes, dark mafia!max, innocent student! reader tryna pay her bills, sugar daddy vibes

It had truly meant to be a one time thing. You’d been strapped for cash, as per usual - stretching yourself thin with your overpriced rent in your tiny one bedroom apartment in a dodgy area, with your utility bills, your parent’s monthly mortgage payments. And of course, the costliest expense of all was your goddamn medical degree. You were in your final year, so close to the end that you could almost taste it.

Maybe that’s what made you say yes to one of the other tutors you work with at your university tutoring job, when she sees you at your second job later than evening tidying up at a local clinic, and then your third the next morning where you hand her a fresh iced coffee you’ve brewed. You know, she says in a hushed tone, leaning in rather conspiratorially. You’re going to work yourself to the bone, with three jobs and putting yourself through med school?

You wave her off with a practised cheerful smile, used to hiding your tiredness from your peers who all thought of you as a model student. But when she persisted, texting you the details of her mysterious cousin who worked at some bar downtown and earned one thousands dollars in a single night…you couldn’t help but being intrigued. You were cautious about it, of course, asking to meet the cousin - Layla - at the coffee shop you worked at. And when she told you about the VIP club, JimmyZ, that she worked at - nothing like those sleazy stripclubs downtown, she hastily reassured, seeing the nervous look on your face. No, JimmyZ was an exclusive club, only for the rich and elite who enjoyed throwing stacks of cash for bags of cocaine and exotic dancers. That’s what Layla called herself, but you still privately think it’s a glorified term for a stripper, as you watch her on stage from your corner in the bar with mixed feelings of awe at how sexy she looks, and discomfort from the sleazy gazes on her.

You’d somehow been talked into helping bartend for a night, Layla having mentioned that you were the perfect girl for the kind of men who came to JimmyZ. At your insulted expression, she giggled, saying that she was trying to saw you had an angelic, natural beauty about you, exactly the kind of authenticity the clientele liked to see instead of the more artificial look found at cheaper clubs. You looked at her skeptically, but still ended up lured in to try and make your rent that month. And after your first night, where you noted impressive amounts of security protecting the gorgeous dancing girls on stage, you felt yourself seduced by the offer of a single night at JimmyZ making up for an entire weeks of your previous job’s earning.

So before you knew it, you’d been working steadily for a couple of months now, finding yourself at a familiar ease behind the bar as you expertly poured drinks and humming the sensual music. You loved the job, with its high pay meaning you had time to focus on your studies again, and last month you’d even topped your class in one of your exams! Of course, it came with its risks - you worked well through the middle of busy weekend nights, many curious and lustful gazes on you from men who enjoyed the skimpy bartender uniform you had to wear. A tight, low cut white button up shirt that showed off your cleavage, and a miniskirt that came dangerously close to flashing someone when you bent over, paired with heeled knee high boots. It was certainly not the type of usual thing you wore, with your conservative full sleeve tops and flattering jeans with scuffed converse that you recycled constantly given your tight budget. But after some adjusting of your long curls hiding your cleavage and avoiding any eye contact skittishly with any man who looked at you too closely, you found yourself falling into an easy rhythm at work.

Until one evening, a Friday night before some big racing event in the city, meaning the club was even more packed that usual with clubgoers overflowing out the entrance and bass thumping down the street. Your boss had found you as you checked in for your late night shift, rapidly saying something about how the owner was visiting tonight and there weren't enough girls for the show, could you help out just this once-

Despite your adamant protests and squeaks that you absolutely could not, would not go on stage, you find yourself shoved into the backstage room to get ready, or risk losing your job permanently, your boss says meanly before storming off. Your lip trembles in anxiety, at the thought of someone recognising you tonight and then seeing you working as a doctor after your graduated. You'd lose your reputation before you could even start your career. You feel lost in the bright makeup room, surrounded by stunning, slim women who had their hair blown own perfectly and makeup done to perfection. You never imagined that you'd have to be up on stage with the beautiful dancers, who you looked so plain standing next too. A few toss you sympathetic looks but are too busy getting ready themselves to help you - until Layla enters and catches sight of your shaking form. She scowls when you tearfully tell her what the boss had said, but gives you a firm pep talk as she quickly helps you get ready. You've barely used any of the dozens of makeup products she has open on the counter, never having had any money to spend on nice clothes or jewellery to spoil yourself with.

But you feel yourself start to settle as she hands you a shot of tequila, then another for confidence, as she guides you through how to navigate the stage, how it was all about faking it till you make it!

You nod determinedly as she coaches you, before quickly getting change into a glittery strappy piece of fabric she hands you, with strappy heels to match. It takes you a few minutes to adjust to the height, but you find yourself being able to walk comfortably in them. When you come out from the side room to show Layla, the rest of the girls in the room stop in their tracks and look at you with renewed interest, yelling out whoops of encouragements about how hot you looked, girl! You flush with the praise, eyeing yourself in the mirror every few minutes as this pretty girl you didn't recognise stared at you. With lush, long curls styled messily, and wide, doe eyed eyes framed in smoky liner and glittery eyeshadow, and full, pouty glossed lips. And your body, which you'd been feeling so insecure about compared to the other dancers, looked undeniably sexy in a shimmery gold minidress that was so short it showed off the swell of your thick ass and chubby thighs invitingly. See, Layla says rather smugly as she comes up behind you. I told you, face of an angel with a body of a dancer. The audience is going to go feral for you.

And she was right, when an hour later and another practise session later, this time with the aid of the other dancers as they critiqued your form, you find yourself on one of the three stages the club had throughout its two levels. If there’s one thing you pride yourself on, it’s being a quick learner. You relax, letting yourself get lost in the music as a sensual song by The Weeknd croons over the speakers. The other girls had told you that dancing could also be fun, empowering, and make you feel in control - and you know understood what they meant as you sway your body enticingly on the stage, running your hands across your tits where your cleavage shows through the low neckline. At least in a club like JimmyZ, which had the reputation of luxury and class to uphold, the dancers wore skimpy outfits but never got fully naked like at a proper stripclub. You made full use of this small mercy, giving teasing flashes of your cleavage and ass but never actually taking your tiny glittery dress off. You could feel dozens of eyes fixed on every movement you made, every toss of your curls, every breathy sigh and bounce of your ass as you let yourself get lost in the beat.

But there's one set of piercing blue eyes that you keep finding your wide eyes returning to curiously. A man you’ve never seen before is seated in one of the VIP lounges a level above and directly in front of your elevated stage. He’s tall and muscular, with messy blonde hair and the most gorgeous eyes you’ve ever seen. And to pull it off, he’s lounging comfortable on a leather sofa, well dressed in a fitted white shirt and jeans, his intense gaze roaming over your dancing body while everyone around him was standing up and hollering towards the dancers on the stage.

He looked like a lion amongst the pack of sheep, and you couldn’t help but bat your lashes in his direction just a bit more as a spark of attraction flutters within you. You've never felt so desirable in your life, and the rush it gives you is addictive. Your show is over before you know it, with enthused yells and demands for an Encore! from the frenzied crowd around your stage as clubgoers migrated to see your show instead of the two others. You giggle coyly, finding this new, confident side of yourself so much more fun than your usual run down, shy one. Stacks of paper notes have been tossed up on your stage and the bouncers dutifully collect it up to bring to you backstage. You blow a kiss into the air for the crowd, but your eyes don’t leave the gorgeous mystery man’s when you do so.

Afterwards, the other girls are laughing and excitedly hugging you backstage, oohing over the stacks of money you’d made and saying you needed to start dancing as a regular at the club, you’d instantly become a favourite! As you giggled their encouragement off, the mood suddenly soured when your boss strode in and said there’s been a request for a private show.

This was the darker, naughtier side of JimmyZ - only offered to the filthy rich VIP clients who could afford the outrageous hourly rate for the prized, beautiful dancers at the club. You’d walked past the closed VIP lounge doors before, your face turning red from the excited moans of male and female pleasure and lewd sounds. It was highly secret, of course, so you’d never known to much about what it fully involved. But you’d have to get to know it tonight, when your boss's finger points past everyone to land on you, to say the request is for our latest dancer, who’s been hiding how much of a natural she is!

Your quickly shake your head, saying you weren’t comfortable with anything more - but your boss says you might want to hear how much he's offering to pay, first. I turned him down, too, saying you weren't one of the regular dancers...but he's very certain he can make it worth your while. When you hear the figure being offered, specifically just for you, your jaw drops. It's enough to pay your shitty rent for two whole months.

You still feel uneasy, because dancing was one thing but to go to a private room was another, and you weren't sure how you felt about using your body for money. In the end, you find yourself curious to go, to get that addictive feeling of desirability and swayed by the security of the income. You’re fully in control, Layla reassures, there’s security in the room the whole time if the client gets touchy. You just have to undress a bit, down to your underwear and give them a show, maybe a lap dance or two. Nothing more than a quick handjob at most, she insists. Then, seeing your face go red as you stammer in response, she pauses to ask that you had done that before, right?

You nod your head quickly, saying yes, of course, I'm 23! You’re too embarrassed to tell her that even though you’re in college, you’ve barely had any sexual experiences and have never had a boyfriend. There was never any time with all the jobs you worked and your full time degree. You’ve had quick, forgettable and sloppy drunk hookups, with uncomfortable fingering that didn’t make you cum or half hearted handjobs at frat parties. You’ve never had sex before, but you know there’s no point freaking out about that now when you’re commited to getting paid tonight. Besides, it was just a quick lap dance probably on some middle aged divorced guy, right?

You can do this, you tell yourself internally, this was nothing compared to dancing in front of hundred of strangers. Maybe this month you’d finally be able to buy some nice dresses and heels to treat yourself with. It can feel good, too Layla had added as she helped you touch up your lip gloss. For your own pleasure, I mean. If you let it, she says with a wink. Remember, you're in control!

When you finally enter the VIP room that night, you're shocked at the man who awaits you. Because it was certainly no sleazy middle aged man. The gorgeous blue eyed blonde from earlier looks up from his conversation at you, his lips quirking up as he sees your golden minidress sparkle in the dim light. You’re too caught off guard to move, but once he dismissed the other men he was talking to with a tilt of his hand, he beckons you over. With a backwards glance to make sure the bouncer stands guard at the door, you take a seat on the comfortable sofa next to him.

It turns out the mystery man isn't just handsome, but friendly, and funny too, with an infectious laugh that makes your heart race. He introduced himself as Max, in a delicious low Dutch accent, and offers you a drink. You politely decline, not wanting to be too disinhibited, but he pours you a glass of expensive whiskey to match the one in his hand anyways. When he asks you for your name, you give him a fake one - but his eyes darken as he tells you he doesn’t think you’re telling him the truth. I’ll call you whatever I want, then, he hums. Schatje seems very fitting for an angel like you. I hope you don’t mind that I asked to see you personally tonight. But the way you danced, I was completely entranced. And then when I saw your pretty face, these big doe eyes...well, I knew I had to meet you. No matter the cost.

You flush under the compliment from such an attractive man, now comfortably sipping on your whiskey. You're the one who's meant to be pleasing him, but it seemed he was more focused on your pleasure. He relaxes you into a surprisingly easy conversation, making you laugh with funny stories about his two house cats. How cute, you say wistfully when he shows you his saved album on his phone. You miss the way his icy eyes hungrily glance down your tempting neckline as you admire the photos, taking advantage of the angle. The tension eases from your stiff form and soon you find yourself leaning in closer to the tall, muscular blonde.

You’re a very charming talker, Max, you say coyly, your newfound confidence emerging as your attraction for him grows. I think you’ve earned your reward. He smirks as you easily climb onto his broad lap, gasping slightly from the feeling of his strong, muscular thighs beneath your soft ones. Soon you’re performing your little routine, giggling and tossing your hair, running wandering hands over yourself, squeezing your juicy tits so they popped in your small hands and make Max’s gaze narrow with desire. Layla had been right. You did feel in complete control, and your pussy throbbed in interest at the gorgeous man whose lap you sat on.

He leans back to appreciate the view and you feel lust cloud your senses from the addicting feeling of those heated blue eyes on you, mixing with the heady feeling from the expensive whiskey he’d offered. And then his fingers are skimming your waist, sending electric sparks shooting from the lightest of touches. You’re not supposed to touch, Max you say with a teasing voice, your playful smile giving away how you really felt. When you untie your dress straps, letting it fall down your waist to show him your chest, barely covered in a see through lacy bra, he lets out a low groan. C’mon, schat, he murmurs huskily. I’m meant to see the prettiest tits in my life and not even kiss them?

You giggle again, running small hands down his shirt as you slowly unbutton him to reveal a muscular, broad chest. He smirks as he watches you bite your lip as your eyes wander all the way down to his blonde happy trail, where your curious fingers have now stopped. What’s the matter, baby, he teases a little twistedly, because he knows exactly what’s stopping you. Never done this before?

You flush, but shake your head adamantly and denying his claim. Of course I have, you say with a defiant look, the competitive nature rising up as you continue to unzip his jeans. He finds your determination so cute, how hard you’re trying to please him, but you give your innocence away with a sudden gasp when his erect cock jumps out of his boxers to rest against his lower abs. It’s so big, you say with a tinge of nerves in your voice at the sight of his drooling, angry red rip. He distracts you with soft kisses to your neck, your cheeks before pressing his lips gently to yours. You can’t resist him either, leaning back in to recapture him in a deeper kiss as you two begin sloppily making out. It’s starting to feel so good, the way his skilled tongue explores your willing mouth, that you eagerly nod when he murmurs he’ll show you how to make him feel good, yeah?

And when his large hand takes yours and presses it right in between his large, spread thighs, he captures your gasps with his lips. He guides your trembling hands over his huge cock, one hand encircling both your palms around him, whispering naughty things in your ear. There you go, sweetheart, right from the tip and then down to the base in a twist, just like that. When you get confident and cutely spit a small glob on his shaft to start pumping him more furiously, he praises you even more. Fuck, you’re a natural, just perfect for me.

You blush under the praise, and together you both watch his cock swell even more with your dedicated handjob. He can’t resist giving you a deep kiss again as he sees the concentrated expression on your face. Doing so good for me, babygirl, Max murmurs as he breaks away for a second, admiring your swollen lips and dazed eyes. Here, let me make you feel good too, hmm?

You squeal in shock as his lips latch right onto your already hard nipples. Ma-Max! No touching, remember! You try to remind him breathlessly. He swirls his tongue around your areolas, one hand still guiding you to jerk him off and his other expertly squeezing and massaging your heaving tits. You very quickly find yourself distracted from his rule break as he spoils your sensitive nipples with attention. So distracted that you stop your handjob, making him pull away again and you whine from the loss of his talented tongue. He resists smirking as you practically push your jiggling tits in his face, your doe eyes begging him for more. I didn’t say you could stop jerking me off, baby, he says in mock disapproval. If you’re not going to be a good girl then you’ll have to say sorry some other way.

You tilt your head in confusion at his statement, when his strong hand tangles into your pretty curls and gently but firmly pushes your head down. Your eyes widen as you realise what he’s asking of you, and you stammer and try to weakly protest. It’s not that you aren’t into this; if anything, Max is the first guy you’ve ever felt such instant chemistry with. No - it’s that this feels so fast, too much too quick for your inexperience and self consciousness. You haven’t even processed just how far he’s planning on taking this and that technically you were selling yourself at some nightclub for his money. Besides, wasn’t there meant to be a guard here to stop the clients going too far? But when you quickly turn your head to look, Max’s hand relaxing briefly to let you peer around, you find yourself only becoming more anxious.

Because there’s no one else in the room.

Where did he go, you say, confused. I don’t understand, I thought he has to keep watch-Schatje, Max murmurs smoothly into your ear. I’m a possessive man. Did you really think I was going to let anyone else get a glimpse of what’s underneath your pretty dress? You gasp, heartbeat now fluttering rapidly from the confession that he’d been so taken with you with one look he wanted you all to himself. You’re half terrified of how much power this man seems to have, and half dizzy with pleasure that he finds you so desirable that he wants to stake his claim. He takes his time working you up again, running hands that were more like a lion’s large paws over your curves while he whispers sweet nothings in your ear, asking if you were ready to be a good girl for him.

A thought plants in your head then, as you nod obediently, and he presses a kiss to your curls to lower your head into his lap again. That Max wasn’t the sweet, gorgeous guy next door type he looked to be. No, this was someone with serious power and money, who apparently controlled the ins and outs of the most luxurious nightclub in the city as if it was his own. And tonight, for whatever reason, he wanted you.

It was just one night, right? You let yourself relax and get lost in the unfamiliar pleasure as you reassure yourself.

This time, your glossy pink lips part easily as you leave curious kitten licks to his cockhead, taking in the salty taste of his precum. He immediately groaned, head tilting back against the sofa as he rasped at you to stop teasing.

You hum in response, sending vibrations through his shaft as you press wet kisses down it. You’re obediently following all the orders he gives to you as he strokes your hair almost gently, licking him up and down. When you finally take him into your mouth, he moans your name in approval, praising how good you were being. But you can barely take half of his length, already feeling your mouth stretch and struggling to breath. Let me take over, baby he says with a dark smirk, and within a second he’s lifted you up and deposited you on the floor, in between his spread legs. You’re trapped by muscular thighs as his grip tightens on you, and then he’s thrusting his hips right to the back of your throat. Fuck yes, there you go, just like that sweetheart, he encourages with a low groan, drowning out your high pitched whines with his jackhammering movements. Mmmh! Obscene, wet sounds of your mouth drooling all over him fills the air, as you choke on the largest cock you’d ever seen. You’re gripping onto him for dear life, your teary eyes making mascara run down your cheeks and only making him more turned on as he ruins your innocent, doe eyed look. And when he cums you don’t expect it, your mouth flooded with unfamiliar white cream that he covers your chubby, blushing cheeks and bouncing tits with as he pulls out mid release and makes a complete mess of your pretty makeup. Heavy pants fill the air as he comes down from his high, looking down at you with raw desire and approval. His thumb swipes his cum off your pouty lips and slides into your lips, smirking when you obediently suck on his finger. You wouldn’t have been able to tell it’s your first time, he teases.

After you clean yourself up in the private bathroom, too embarrassed to look at your positively debauched appearance in the mirror, you find Max signing a cheque that he folds in half that he discreetly leaves on the table. But before he leaves after apologising as he has business to attend to, bending down to your petite frame to give you a sweet kiss, he offers you a deal. To quit your job and be his private dancer, every night…and in turn he’d spoil you with whatever money or gifts your heart desired.

You decline, of course, telling him this was just a one time thing, you weren’t planning on dancing here ever again. He smirks, giving you a final appreciate once over, before declaring that was obvious, he wasn’t going to let another man see you dance like that again.

You don’t see him for a few weeks after that, and it’s almost as if that electric night had never happened at all. Things go back to normal and you resume your bartending job - although you notice that there is significantly more security hovering around your counter than before. But every night Max revisits you in your dreams, making you breathlessly moan from the memory of how good his tongue and hands felt on you, how they might feel inside you next time….you’d always wake up with damp panties.

And then one night everything changes, when a rowdy patron manages to get past the security guards and leer in your face. He remembers you from the dance show and when you try to move away he grabs onto your ass, telling you he wants another sexy performance, he demands with a pervy sneer, I know you secretly liked all the attention, like a slut.

The guards manage to get him off you but you’re shaken with how persistent the man had been. So shaken that you don’t realise the staff have pulled you into a side room until Max is in front of you, asking if you were okay with an intense gaze. He offers you his promise again, to provide for you and protect you - if you became his.

You’re annoyed with him, for just barging in and acting like you were some damsel. You hotly tell him that you're an independent girl, who wasn't going to let him have her in exchange for safety. I can take care of myself! He watched you walk off with a dark gaze, his blue eyes roaming your curves that he was desperate to get underneath him. And whatever Max Verstappen wanted, he always got.

The very next day chills run through your blood as the rowdy patron somehow turns up at your university campus. You quickly hide before he sees you, heart rate spiking as you realise he's found out who you are. Your pride melts away as you dial the number Max's men had put onto your phone despite your protests. Now, you're thankful that they did as a husky Dutch accent picks up. You're a mess on the call, crying and asking Max to please come and help-

I'm on my way, schatje. Go hide somewhere safe. After you hang up you realize you never told him where you were. But it doesn't matter, because the Dutch Lion is there within minutes, stepping out of a sleek black Aston Martin that looks like it costs more than all 5 years of your student debt. Your stalker doesn't stand a chance as he's pushed into a back alley easily by Max, who re-emerges a few moments later discreetly tucking what you're pretty sure is a handgun into his belt. You stare in stunned silence as he gestures to some men who have appeared to clean up whatever mess he left behind, before guiding you with a firm hand on your lower back into his luxurious car.

Still want to turn down what I can offer you, schatje? he murmurs lowly as he smoothly drives you home, his large hand resting on your thigh. And you realise that you don't, because for the first time in your life you don't have to fight tooth and nail to protect yourself. No - because Max had just proved he was willing to do that for you.

So you let yourself be worshipped, be cared for by him. And he knew how skittish you got, and started with baby steps - paying your phone bills, your groceries, and then your rent. Buying whatever handbag or necklace you would happen to briefly admire when walking past a shop, getting you a cute but outrageously expensive car so you stopped taking the train. And you can't lie about how good it feels to walk into class wearing diamond earrings and the Louboutin heels you'd always wanted, to have your mean classmates look at you in awe and envy.

And so when Max insisted that he couldn't let you stay at the dump you called a home any longer, that it was just unsafe for a sweet, precious thing like yourself - you barely resisted and moved into his spacious penthouse apartment. Truly, he gave you whatever you wanted, his toy that he spoils and lavishes however she likes - and at night, lets him climb into her bed to fuck however he wants. And oh, did he fuck you good. It became a habit for you to greet him after his late night meetings with a sweet kiss on the cheek and a gin on the rocks in your hand - which he would drink with you sitting on his lap, telling him animatedly about your day. And of course, he’d get to unwrap his present when he pulls off your silk nightie and widens his legs for you to kneel between them. Dressed in pretty pastel scraps of French lace you buy with his credit card, you’re dutifully slurping and kissing his thick, swollen cock and slapping it against your cheeks. You knew how much Max loved seeing his cum drip down your face and you’d make sure to wear extra eyeliner and lipgloss so he could enjoy the sight of you utterly ruined for him, stroking your mascara tear stained cheeks as you choke on his length. Such a fast learner, schatje Max chuckles at you, stroking your hair almost lovingly but the roughness of his thrusts anything but.

And most of all, you loved when Max would pick you up from class and casually announce that he was taking you away for the weekend. You’d been confused at first, stressed about the study time you were missing out on, but once you sit down in his private jet with you laptop and textbooks in hand you realise you’re truly going to be taken care of in every way. It’s impossible to resist the urge to give back the same to Max, to show him just how much affection you’ve started growing for him. So on those nights in some tropical island resort, with the breeze blowing in through open doors, you give him a free use pass. Whatever he wanted, however he wanted it - all weekend long. It’s to no surprise that you’re chained to the headboard within the hour, thighs tightly tied up around your waist so you’re spread open for him and he could see the wetness dripping through your lace thong. You’re whining, so embarrassed by how intently his heated gaze roams over your body that it’s a relief when he blindfolds you with his tie, and clips a collar around your neck with his initials gleaming from it. He teases you mercilessly, taking you right to the edge with his fingers or tongue but stopping just before you cum, until you’re screaming his name and begging him to fuck you already. And then he takes you for so many rounds that you’re crying for him to stop, it’s too much Maxie, you can’t cum a fourth time-

It’s safe to say you’ve grown into your place by Max’s side very well. You knew what others thought, from the jealous looks from your classmates when his Aston Martin rolls onto campus or the judgemental stares from other vacationers when you obediently sit in Max’s lap while he takes his business calls, dressed in a skimpy bikini and his collar that he absentmindedly traces before moving down to possessively curl his hand on your hip. But you couldn’t care less if they thought you were a trophy girlfriend or a sugar baby - because after all, he was the one wrapped around your pretty little finger, ready to wage a war if you so much as shed a tear.

And you wouldn’t have it any other way.

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