f1freaks

[f1freaks]

MISS POSSESSIVE out now ❤️

another poll for u guys cause that's fun

[f1freaks]

MISS POSSESSIVE

PAIRING: charles leclerc x reader DESCRIPTION: one shot based on tate mcrae's 'miss possessive' CONTENT WARNINGS: alcohol consumption/intoxication, litttttle bit of smut, oral (m!receiving), sub!charles? but like not majorly dom!reader but miss possessive is so rawrawrawr so you get the vibes

You’d never seen Charles as happy as he was tonight.

Even in the quiet moments—the ones before bed when his voice goes soft and low in your ear just the way you like it, or when he forgets the world exists whilst playing the piano in nothing but pyjama bottoms and messy hair—he’d never been like this.

Monaco. His home. His victory. Finally.

He’d dreamed of this ever since you were children, telling you endlessly about how there's nothing more important to him than standing on the top step of the podium here one day. The narrow streets he once biked through with his brothers, the marina he’d stared at from the passenger seat of his late father’s car, the corners he’d memorised long before he ever held a racing license—Monaco was more than just a home. It was something sacred and tonight, it belonged to him.

The city pulsed around you, golden and glittering, the Grand Prix still echoing through the streets like the ghost of speed. On your way here, you passed by thousands of fans wearing his name and his number. The relief, the joy, the sheer catharsis clung to him like the sweat dampening his curls, shining and undeniable. Utterly gorgeous.

You walked into the dim, strobing interior of the club with his arm heavy over your shoulder, his body warm and loose beside you. He was grinning—slightly drunk already and riding a high only dreams could offer. Every clap on the back, every raised glass, every chorus of his name fed the insatiable glow in his eyes.

The music was loud enough to feel like it was pulsing through your body, a visceral throb of bass that echoed in your chest and spine. Monaco was alive — more alive than you’d ever seen it — and tonight, the city belonged to one man.

The garage had erupted the moment the chequered flag waved. You barely remember how you made it down to parc fermé—just that your legs had moved without thought, driven by pure adrenaline and the overwhelming need to reach him; it felt like the world would collapse underneath your feet if you didn’t. Everything blurred—the smoke, the cheers, the chaos—except for the moment he stepped out of the car.

He pulled off his helmet, and you saw it: the raw, unfiltered emotion in his eyes, cracking through his usual composure like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. Pride, disbelief, relief—it was all there, carved across his face like a sculpture come to life. He hugged his mechanics, his engineers, his brothers, his maman. And then his eyes found you, and everything else fell away.

He stumbled toward you, visibly trembling. His arms wrapped around you before you could even say anything to him, and you didn’t try to hold back the tears that had begun falling a long time before you even realised that you were crying. You both clung to each other for what felt like not enough time, just listening to his heartbeat thundering through the layers between.

Now, hours later, his champagne-drenched attire had been replaced by the clean sharp lines of a tailored black shirt and jeans. His sleeves were rolled just enough to show off his forearms, veins and muscle taut beneath sun-kissed skin. The shirt was open at the collar, exposing just the barest hint of his collarbones and the fine chain he always wore beneath it. His jeans were fitted, expensive and casual in the way only the effortlessly beautiful could pull off.

He looked unfairly good— like he’d stepped out of a magazine shoot and into real life, gifted by the Gods of beauty and all things exquisite. His face was flushed with ecstasy, cheeks still a little pink, eyes crinkled from smiling continuously for hours. His hair was tousled so perfectly around his ears and forehead, that perfect combination of messy and deliberate that made you want to drag your fingers through it until he was breathless.

You had seen him like this a thousand times: dressed up, thriving in the Monaco nightlife, all effortless grace and quiet magnetism. But tonight? He didn’t just look beautiful—he looked unstoppable. Like a man who had conquered the very place that made him. Like someone who had climbed a mountain only he could see, and now stood at the top, looking out with every inch of him shining. Actually, that's exactly what he did.

And tonight, wrapped in black silk, stardust and the kind of joy you can’t fake, Charles Leclerc was the most beautiful thing you had ever seen.

“Tu viens, bèbè?” Charles said close to your ear, his warm breath brushing your skin. He was already tipsy, you could hear it in his voice; it was slightly lower pitched, less filtered, his accent more prominent.

“I think I want a drink.”

You nodded and followed him to the bar through a crowd that parted instinctively. People whispered as he passed; some clapped him on the back, offered drinks, congratulations, numbers. He accepted the first two with grace but the third— well, he never even looked.

But you saw her. She was leaning against the bar, dressed like she knew her power of being noticed and exactly how to wield it. There was a kind of poised confidence about her—effortless, assured—the type of woman who didn’t need to make a move to be felt. Her gaze followed Charles like a slow sweep of heat, deliberate and proprietary, the corner of her mouth lifting in something that wasn’t quite a smile.

It wasn’t unusual; women looked at Charles all the time. But this girl didn’t glance away when you approached together. If anything, her eyes sharpened, as if calculating the odds, weighing herself against you with a quiet kind of challenge.

She didn’t hesitate to close the distance, sidling up just close enough to brush his elbow with hers as he leaned on the bar.

You didn’t give her the satisfaction of noticing, didn’t even twitch. You just watched, calm and unreadable, as her fingers curled around the stem of her martini glass. But something deep inside you couldn't help but stir at the thought of her skin on his–

Before you could stop yourself, you absentmindedly slid your hand down Charles’s arm and laced your fingers with his just before she could open her mouth. He looked down at you with a crooked smile, eyes glazed just enough to tell you he was enjoying the buzz of alcohol as well as the victory.

“Mojito, Y/N?” he offered, loud over the music.

“Sure,” you said, brushing a kiss to his jaw as he leaned over to order. You felt her eyes on you now, analysing your every move. Charles didn’t notice, of course he didn’t. But you noticed; you always noticed.

So you did what came naturally. You turned, leaned into Charles’s side and rested your head against his shoulder, smiling down at her with a look that didn't quite reach your eyes and said everything without ever needing to speak: girl, try it on with other man in here, but not him.

Charles pressed a kiss to your forehead, oblivious but affectionate. Playing the part perfectly.

The girl hesitated for a moment, caught between lingering desire and the quiet, unmistakable claim you’d just made. Her eyes flicked toward you one last time, a flash of something unreadable—frustration, maybe, or reluctant respect—before she let out a breath you hadn’t realized she’d been holding. Without another word, she slipped away from the bar without ordering anything, weaving through the crowd with a slow, measured grace, her confidence slightly dimmed but not completely extinguished.

Drink in hand, Charles led you toward the VIP area of the club with that easy, unbothered swagger he only wore when he was half-tipsy and fully adored. The space was already buzzing—friends, teammates, locals—all raising their glasses the moment he appeared, calling his name like a victory chant.

He dropped into the booth without hesitation, pulling you onto his lap like it was the most natural thing in the world. Because it was. You kissed him once, soft and certain, and his smile cracked wide—boyish and golden, like the night had settled right into his bones.

A few drinks later—maybe four, maybe more—his head had found your the free space on your shoulder. The conversation had slowed, people beginning to mingle within themselves rather than surrounding him. His hand was on your thigh, fingers moving in faint, slow circles, like you were the anchor to the glorious ship he was currently on.

“I think I’m drunk,” he mumbled, voice low and entirely too sincere, like it had just occurred to him.

You sipped your drink, looking up at him through your eyelashes. “You think?”

He lifted his head, eyes narrowing. “Why aren’t you drunk?" He sounded almost accusing, but his puppy eyes gave him away.

“I'm pacing myself. One of us has to.”

He groaned, face burying into your neck again. “You’re too responsible sometimes.”

For a while, time blurred. Drinks flowed, the room spun lazily, and Charles grew more relaxed, the adrenaline seeping out as the night progressed. He was emanating this energy that only he could hold, and you loved him like this — unguarded and completely himself.

The night ebbed and flowed in pulses of light and music. You lost track of how many people came and went through the booth, each conversation similar to the last. You weren't complaining, after all it was your boyfriend being praised. The man who came home to you.

He was in high demand tonight. Everyone wanted a piece of him, and yet, every time he looked at you, it was like you were the only person in the room. His fingers never left you—your hip, your knee, the back of your neck, his hand always searching for skin like a grounding wire.

It wasn’t until you slid off his lap to grab him some water that you noticed her again.

She was already there when you turned around, leaning into the booth like she belonged there, a drink in one hand and the other brushing Charles’s arm like she’d been waiting for her moment.

You felt the blood in your veins turn to ice when you heard her sultry tone address him.

“I didn’t know Monaco made them this sweet,” she said, eyes on Charles’s mouth, smiling like she’d already tasted him in her mind.

He chuckled, soft and unthinking. “You should try my mother’s cooking.”

Harmless. Kind. It had Charles and his charismatic persona written all over it. But his smile hit the wrong target, and she took it as permission. She stepped in closer, fingers grazing the inside of his forearm, her voice dipping lower.

“Bet you taste just as good.”

You watched from a few steps away—calm, unreadable— the chilled bottle in your hand doing nothing to stop the heat curling slow beneath your skin.

You didn’t rush, you just walked up and offered him the bottle, letting your fingers drag deliberately across his as he took it. Then you slid back into the booth—not beside him, but across his lap, legs straddling his effortlessly. His hands landed on your thighs like muscle memory.

She was still there, watching, but you didn’t look at her.

You leaned in close to him instead, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “Enjoying yourself?”

Charles blinked. His voice came out a little tight, maybe even strained. "What?”

You smiled, letting your tongue drag across your lips. “The attention.”

“She was just talking,” he said, quiet, unsure now. “I didn’t—”

“I know,” you murmured, your thumb brushing the dip of his collarbone. “That’s why I’m not mad at you."

You turned your head then—just enough to meet her eyes. “But I wouldn’t wait around," you said, your voice louder and more direct. That was all you said; calm, cool and collected. The implication landed sharp enough, because she lingered for a beat longer before turning around, tsking her tongue.

Charles let out a breath, face flushed. “You didn’t have to—”

“I wanted to,” you said, shifting just enough on his lap to make his grip on your hips tighten. Watching him squirm underneath you was your favourite thing. “You let her think that you were available, Char. I reminded her that you're not.”

He groaned under his breath, half-exasperated, half turned-on, forehead dropping to your shoulder. He knew that this wasn't jealousy, you were just possessive. And boy, does he know just how you get.

The night stretched on, thick with heat and music. Charles stayed close—closer than usual. One hand always on you: your back, your thigh, your wrist. But you made him work for every touch. You stayed just a step out of reach, dancing with your back to him, letting his gaze follow you like a tether.

When he reached for your waist, you leaned back into his chest and whispered, “Still thinking about her?”

He groaned against your neck. “You’re never letting this go, are you?”

“Nope,” you smiled, slipping his hand lower before stepping away again.

"You're not going to forget about it, either."

The ride back to the hotel was quiet. Charles’s hand stayed on your thigh the entire time, thumb brushing lazy, careless circles into your skin. You didn’t speak, just gave him a look—steady, knowing—until he shifted slightly in his seat like he couldn’t sit still.

He could still taste you on his tongue from the club, the mixed array of drinks you'd both consumed all night. Still hear the way you’d said it: You're not going to forget about it, either. You’d said it like a threat, like a promise. Like you knew exactly what you were doing to him.

And you did.

The elevator ride up was the worst. It had felt like the longest wait of your life, the space between you vibrating with tension. He kept glancing at you like he was barely holding it together, like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to apologise again or drop to his knees the second the doors opened. You could hear his uneven breathing filling the silence between you.

The second you stepped into the suite, you let the silence stretch for a little bit longer before you stepped into the bedroom, reached behind you and teasingly unzipped your scarlet red dress. It slipped down your body in a sigh, pooling at your feet in a puddle of silk.

Charles froze in place, keys still in his hand, like he couldn’t believe you were standing right there in front of him. He stood in front of the bed, nervously placing down the keys on the bed with a jingle.

“You're a terrible flirt, Charlie,” you frowned, eyes still full of admiration. The contrast between your words and your intentions were making Charles feel fuzzy. That feeling mixed with the euphoria from his win was making him feel feral.

His voice was rough when he spoke, barely louder than a whisper. “I didn’t mean to.”

“I know.” You took a step closer, wearing nothing but your heels, the lacy set that he picked out for you and smug satisfaction. “But you still did.”

And before he could say another word, you pushed him back onto the edge of the bed and climbed onto his lap—slow, straddling him like you had in the club, but this time there was nobody watching. Just you and him and all the tension you’d dragged home with you. Oh, and the crowds that were still chanting his name filtering through the open window.

You kissed him slow, deep, sinking into it with a roll of your hips that made his breath hitch against your mouth. Your fingers found the hem of his shirt and tugged upward.

He pulled back just enough to whisper, “Are you going to teach me a lesson?”

You smiled against his jaw. “No, that comes later. You're a winner today first and foremost, baby."

You slid your hands beneath his shirt, tracing the lines of his chest as your lips trailed down his jaw, then along the curve of his neck. Despite being a little frustrated with his antics, there was nothing more that you wanted to do other than make the feeling of winning last longer. His breath hitched every time you pressed your mouth there, soft and urgent.

Then you let your lips travel lower—over his collarbone, across his sternum—until finally you settled where the heat between his legs was impossible to ignore. Your mouth closed around him through his boxers, unhurried and deliberate, your tongue teasing every inch, enjoying the feeling of his cock hardening under your lips.

Then you leaned down fully, pulling his boxers down and your lips wrapped around him, taking him down your throat. The tension coiled tighter as you moved with purpose, your mouth and tongue working him into a rhythm. His hands gripped the sheets, breathing coming in ragged gasps, but it was the sounds from outside—the chants, the cheers—that sent something raw and urgent flickering through him.

He whimpered, the sound raw and needy, pressing his forehead against the bed. You could tell the noise was driving him wild, the way his body responded as you worked, relentless and patient. Charles’s hands tangled in your hair, holding you steady even as his hips twitched beneath you.

You pulled back just enough to look up at him, eyes dark and serious. “Tell me,” you whispered, breath hot against his skin. “Tell me, even with all of those people shouting your name, who do you belong to?”

His gaze locked on yours, lazy and unguarded. “Fuck- I’m yours,” he gasped, voice thick with desire and surrender.

"Louder,” you coaxed, your voice muffled by his cock sliding in and out of your mouth.

"Yours, ma Chérie, merde-" Another whimper cut him off, his hands gripping the sheets so tight that his knuckles were turning white.

His breath hitched sharply, body tensing beneath you as the tension you’d been building snapped loose and he finally came. His one hand clenched the sheets tighter, whilst the other pulled you closer, the warmth of him flooding your mouth, spilling down your throat.

So many guttural sounds escaped him—a mix of release and surrender—as he rode the waves crashing through him, every muscle trembling with the intensity.

At first glance, you wouldn't think Charles was the type to beg, but you knew that it's mind blowing when he does. You could already see him on his knees, rutting his hard cock against your leg because he's brought you the wrong flavour of ice-cream, again. Because he couldn't admit to himself that his failures were the fault of Ferrari, not himself, again. Because he's been too friendly with someone, AGAIN. But alas, his win tonight was much more important to you than anything as trivial as a clingy girl in a club.

When he finally caught his breath, his eyes fluttered open, heavy-lidded and filled with raw vulnerability. He reached up, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face, voice husky as he whispered, “I like the little miss possessive thing you've got going on."

“I have not—”

“You certainly have.” He grinned, eyes closing again. “You always do when they look for too long.”

You rolled your eyes. “Well, excuse me for defending my territory.”

He laughed, then yawned. “I like it,” he said, quieter now. “Makes me feel like you still choose me, after all the time.”

You stared at him, heart suddenly aching in the best way. “Of course I choose you.”

“Even when you have to fight over me?”

“What? I didn't even- yeah, even then.”

He opened his eyes again, hazy but focused on you. “You make me feel like I won more than just my home race.”

You kissed him softly, cupping his jaw. “You did."

dividers by @cafekitsune !¡ masterlist

a/n: i didnt really know if i could write smut because im a reader primarily but here u go first installment of the series x also I was actually going to continue this with more smut but I thought woah crazy like lets leave that for the other sexy songs (but I do have that version written so maybe if you ask polietly 🤭)

[f1freaks]

MISS POSSESSIVE

PAIRING: charles leclerc x reader DESCRIPTION: one shot based on tate mcrae's 'miss possessive' CONTENT WARNINGS: reminder of monaco'24, alcohol consumption/intoxication, litttttle bit of smut, oral (m!receiving), sub!charles? but like not majorly dom!reader but miss possessive is so rawrawrawr so you get the vibes

You’d never seen Charles as happy as he was tonight.

Even in the quiet moments—the ones before bed when his voice goes soft and low in your ear just the way you like it, or when he forgets the world exists whilst playing the piano in nothing but pyjama bottoms and messy hair—he’d never been like this.

Monaco. His home. His victory. Finally.

He’d dreamed of this ever since you were children, telling you endlessly about how there's nothing more important to him than standing on the top step of the podium here one day. The narrow streets he once biked through with his brothers, the marina he’d stared at from the passenger seat of his late father’s car, the corners he’d memorised long before he ever held a racing license—Monaco was more than just a home. It was something sacred and tonight, it belonged to him.

The city pulsed around you, golden and glittering, the Grand Prix still echoing through the streets like the ghost of speed. On your way here, you passed by thousands of fans wearing his name and his number. The relief, the joy, the sheer catharsis clung to him like the sweat dampening his curls, shining and undeniable. Utterly gorgeous.

You walked into the dim, strobing interior of the club with his arm heavy over your shoulder, his body warm and loose beside you. He was grinning—slightly drunk already and riding a high only dreams could offer. Every clap on the back, every raised glass, every chorus of his name fed the insatiable glow in his eyes.

The music was loud enough to feel like it was pulsing through your body, a visceral throb of bass that echoed in your chest and spine. Monaco was alive — more alive than you’d ever seen it — and tonight, the city belonged to one man.

The garage had erupted the moment the chequered flag waved. You barely remember how you made it down to parc fermé—just that your legs had moved without thought, driven by pure adrenaline and the overwhelming need to reach him; it felt like the world would collapse underneath your feet if you didn’t. Everything blurred—the smoke, the cheers, the chaos—except for the moment he stepped out of the car.

He pulled off his helmet, and you saw it: the raw, unfiltered emotion in his eyes, cracking through his usual composure like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. Pride, disbelief, relief—it was all there, carved across his face like a sculpture come to life. He hugged his mechanics, his engineers, his brothers, his maman. And then his eyes found you, and everything else fell away.

He stumbled toward you, visibly trembling. His arms wrapped around you before you could even say anything to him, and you didn’t try to hold back the tears that had begun falling a long time before you even realised that you were crying. You both clung to each other for what felt like not enough time, just listening to his heartbeat thundering through the layers between.

Now, hours later, his champagne-drenched attire had been replaced by the clean sharp lines of a tailored black shirt and jeans. His sleeves were rolled just enough to show off his forearms, veins and muscle taut beneath sun-kissed skin. The shirt was open at the collar, exposing just the barest hint of his collarbones and the fine chain he always wore beneath it. His jeans were fitted, expensive and casual in the way only the effortlessly beautiful could pull off.

He looked unfairly good— like he’d stepped out of a magazine shoot and into real life, gifted by the Gods of beauty and all things exquisite. His face was flushed with ecstasy, cheeks still a little pink, eyes crinkled from smiling continuously for hours. His hair was tousled so perfectly around his ears and forehead, that perfect combination of messy and deliberate that made you want to drag your fingers through it until he was breathless.

You had seen him like this a thousand times: dressed up, thriving in the Monaco nightlife, all effortless grace and quiet magnetism. But tonight? He didn’t just look beautiful—he looked unstoppable. Like a man who had conquered the very place that made him. Like someone who had climbed a mountain only he could see, and now stood at the top, looking out with every inch of him shining. Actually, that's exactly what he did.

And tonight, wrapped in black silk, stardust and the kind of joy you can’t fake, Charles Leclerc was the most beautiful thing you had ever seen.

“Tu viens, bèbè?” Charles said close to your ear, his warm breath brushing your skin. He was already tipsy, you could hear it in his voice; it was slightly lower pitched, less filtered, his accent more prominent.

“I think I want a drink.”

You nodded and followed him to the bar through a crowd that parted instinctively. People whispered as he passed; some clapped him on the back, offered drinks, congratulations, numbers. He accepted the first two with grace but the third— well, he never even looked.

But you saw her. She was leaning against the bar, dressed like she knew her power of being noticed and exactly how to wield it. There was a kind of poised confidence about her—effortless, assured—the type of woman who didn’t need to make a move to be felt. Her gaze followed Charles like a slow sweep of heat, deliberate and proprietary, the corner of her mouth lifting in something that wasn’t quite a smile.

It wasn’t unusual; women looked at Charles all the time. But this girl didn’t glance away when you approached together. If anything, her eyes sharpened, as if calculating the odds, weighing herself against you with a quiet kind of challenge.

She didn’t hesitate to close the distance, sidling up just close enough to brush his elbow with hers as he leaned on the bar.

You didn’t give her the satisfaction of noticing, didn’t even twitch. You just watched, calm and unreadable, as her fingers curled around the stem of her martini glass. But something deep inside you couldn't help but stir at the thought of her skin on his–

Before you could stop yourself, you absentmindedly slid your hand down Charles’s arm and laced your fingers with his just before she could open her mouth. He looked down at you with a crooked smile, eyes glazed just enough to tell you he was enjoying the buzz of alcohol as well as the victory.

“Mojito, Y/N?” he offered, loud over the music.

“Sure,” you said, brushing a kiss to his jaw as he leaned over to order. You felt her eyes on you now, analysing your every move. Charles didn’t notice, of course he didn’t. But you noticed; you always noticed.

So you did what came naturally. You turned, leaned into Charles’s side and rested your head against his shoulder, smiling down at her with a look that didn't quite reach your eyes and said everything without ever needing to speak: girl, try it on with any other man in here, but not him.

Charles pressed a kiss to your forehead, oblivious but affectionate. Playing the part perfectly.

The girl hesitated for a moment, caught between lingering desire and the quiet, unmistakable claim you’d just made. Her eyes flicked toward you one last time, a flash of something unreadable—frustration, maybe, or reluctant respect—before she let out a breath you hadn’t realized she’d been holding. Without another word, she slipped away from the bar without ordering anything, weaving through the crowd with a slow, measured grace, her confidence slightly dimmed but not completely extinguished.

Drink in hand, Charles led you toward the VIP area of the club with that easy, unbothered swagger he only wore when he was half-tipsy and fully adored. The space was already buzzing—friends, teammates, locals—all raising their glasses the moment he appeared, calling his name like a victory chant.

He dropped into the booth without hesitation, pulling you onto his lap like it was the most natural thing in the world. Because it was. You kissed him once, soft and certain, and his smile cracked wide—boyish and golden, like the night had settled right into his bones.

A few drinks later—maybe four, maybe more—his head had found the free space on your shoulder. The conversation had slowed, people beginning to mingle within themselves rather than surrounding him. His hand was on your thigh, fingers moving in faint, slow circles, like you were the anchor to the glorious ship he was currently on.

“I think I’m drunk,” he mumbled, voice low and entirely too sincere, like it had just occurred to him.

You sipped your drink, looking up at him through your eyelashes. “You think?”

He lifted his head, eyes narrowing. “Why aren’t you drunk?" He sounded almost accusing, but his puppy eyes gave him away.

“I'm pacing myself. One of us has to.”

He groaned, face burying into your neck again. “You’re too responsible sometimes.”

For a while, time blurred. Drinks flowed, the room spun lazily, and Charles grew more relaxed, the adrenaline seeping out as the night progressed. He was emanating this energy that only he could hold, and you loved him like this — unguarded and completely himself.

The night ebbed and flowed in pulses of light and music. You lost track of how many people came and went through the booth, each conversation similar to the last. You weren't complaining, after all it was your boyfriend being praised. The man who came home to you.

He was in high demand tonight. Everyone wanted a piece of him, and yet, every time he looked at you, it was like you were the only person in the room. His fingers never left you—your hip, your knee, the back of your neck, his hand always searching for skin like a grounding wire.

It wasn’t until you slid off his lap to grab him some water that you noticed her again.

She was already there when you turned around, leaning into the booth like she belonged there, a drink in one hand and the other brushing Charles’s arm like she’d been waiting for her moment.

You felt the blood in your veins turn to ice when you heard her sultry tone address him.

“I didn’t know Monaco made them this sweet,” she said, eyes on Charles’s mouth, smiling like she’d already tasted him in her mind.

He chuckled, soft and unthinking. “You should try my mother’s cooking.”

Harmless. Kind. It had Charles and his charismatic persona written all over it. But his smile hit the wrong target, and she took it as permission. She stepped in closer, fingers grazing the inside of his forearm, her voice dipping lower.

“Bet you taste just as good.”

You watched from a few steps away—calm, unreadable— the chilled bottle in your hand doing nothing to stop the heat curling slow beneath your skin.

You didn’t rush, you just walked up and offered him the bottle, letting your fingers drag deliberately across his as he took it. Then you slid back into the booth—not beside him, but across his lap, legs straddling his effortlessly. His hands landed on your thighs like muscle memory.

She was still there, watching, but you didn’t look at her.

You leaned in close to him instead, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “Enjoying yourself?”

Charles blinked. His voice came out a little tight, maybe even strained. "What?”

You smiled, letting your tongue drag across your lips. “The attention.”

“She was just talking,” he said, quiet, unsure now. “I didn’t—”

“I know,” you murmured, your thumb brushing the dip of his collarbone. “That’s why I’m not mad at you."

You turned your head then—just enough to meet her eyes. “But I wouldn’t wait around," you said, your voice louder and more direct. That was all you said; calm, cool and collected. The implication landed sharp enough, because she lingered for a beat longer before turning around, tsking her tongue.

Charles let out a breath, face flushed. “You didn’t have to—”

“I wanted to,” you said, shifting just enough on his lap to make his grip on your hips tighten. Watching him squirm underneath you was your favourite thing. “You let her think that you were available, Char. I reminded her that you're not.”

He groaned under his breath, half-exasperated, half turned-on, forehead dropping to your shoulder. He knew that this wasn't jealousy, you were just possessive. And boy, does he know just how you get.

The night stretched on, thick with heat and music. Charles stayed close—closer than usual. One hand always on you: your back, your thigh, your wrist. But you made him work for every touch. You stayed just a step out of reach, dancing with your back to him, letting his gaze follow you like a tether.

When he reached for your waist, you leaned back into his chest and whispered, “Still thinking about her?”

He groaned against your neck. “You’re never letting this go, are you?”

“Nope,” you smiled, slipping his hand lower before stepping away again.

"You're not going to forget about it, either."

The ride back to the hotel was quiet. Charles’s hand stayed on your thigh the entire time, thumb brushing lazy, careless circles into your skin. You didn’t speak, just gave him a look—steady, knowing—until he shifted slightly in his seat like he couldn’t sit still.

He could still taste you on his tongue from the club, the mixed array of drinks you'd both consumed all night. Still hear the way you’d said it: You're not going to forget about it, either. You’d said it like a threat, like a promise. Like you knew exactly what you were doing to him.

And you did.

The elevator ride up was the worst. It had felt like the longest wait of your life, the space between you vibrating with tension. He kept glancing at you like he was barely holding it together, like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to apologise again or drop to his knees the second the doors opened. You could hear his uneven breathing filling the silence between you.

The second you stepped into the suite, you let the silence stretch for a little bit longer before you stepped into the bedroom, reached behind you and teasingly unzipped your scarlet red dress. It slipped down your body in a sigh, pooling at your feet in a puddle of silk.

Charles froze in place, keys still in his hand, like he couldn’t believe you were standing right there in front of him. He stood in front of the bed, nervously placing down the keys on the bed with a jingle.

“You're a terrible flirt, Charlie,” you frowned, eyes still full of admiration. The contrast between your words and your intentions were making Charles feel fuzzy. That feeling mixed with the euphoria from his win was making him feel feral.

His voice was rough when he spoke, barely louder than a whisper. “I didn’t mean to.”

“I know.” You took a step closer, wearing nothing but your heels, the lacy set that he picked out for you and smug satisfaction. “But you still did.”

And before he could say another word, you pushed him back onto the edge of the bed and climbed onto his lap—slow, straddling him like you had in the club, but this time there was nobody watching. Just you and him and all the tension you’d dragged home with you. Oh, and the crowds that were still chanting his name filtering through the open window.

You kissed him slow, deep, sinking into it with a roll of your hips that made his breath hitch against your mouth. Your fingers found the hem of his shirt and tugged upward.

He pulled back just enough to whisper, “Are you going to teach me a lesson?”

You smiled against his jaw. “No, that comes later. You're a winner today first and foremost, baby."

You slid your hands beneath his shirt, tracing the lines of his chest as your lips trailed down his jaw, then along the curve of his neck. Despite being a little frustrated with his antics, there was nothing more that you wanted to do other than make the feeling of winning last longer. His breath hitched every time you pressed your mouth there, soft and urgent.

Then you let your lips travel lower—over his collarbone, across his sternum—until finally you settled where the heat between his legs was impossible to ignore. Your mouth closed around him through his boxers, unhurried and deliberate, your tongue teasing every inch, enjoying the feeling of his cock hardening under your lips.

Then you leaned down fully, pulling his boxers down and your lips wrapped around him, taking him down your throat. The tension coiled tighter as you moved with purpose, your mouth and tongue working him into a rhythm. His hands gripped the sheets, breathing coming in ragged gasps, but it was the sounds from outside—the chants, the cheers—that sent something raw and urgent flickering through him.

He whimpered, the sound raw and needy, pressing his forehead against the bed. You could tell the noise was driving him wild, the way his body responded as you worked, relentless and patient. Charles’s hands tangled in your hair, holding you steady even as his hips twitched beneath you.

You pulled back just enough to look up at him, eyes dark and serious. “Tell me,” you whispered, breath hot against his skin. “Tell me, even with all of those people shouting your name, who do you belong to?”

His gaze locked on yours, lazy and unguarded. “Fuck- I’m yours,” he gasped, voice thick with desire and surrender.

"Louder,” you coaxed, your voice muffled by his cock sliding in and out of your mouth.

"Yours, ma Chérie, merde-" Another whimper cut him off, his hands gripping the sheets so tight that his knuckles were turning white.

His breath hitched sharply, body tensing beneath you as the tension you’d been building snapped loose and he finally came. His one hand clenched the sheets tighter, whilst the other pulled you closer, the warmth of him flooding your mouth, spilling down your throat.

So many guttural sounds escaped him—a mix of release and surrender—as he rode the waves crashing through him, every muscle trembling with the intensity.

At first glance, you wouldn't think Charles was the type to beg, but you knew that it's mind blowing when he does. You could already see him on his knees, rutting his hard cock against your leg because he's brought you the wrong flavour of ice-cream, again. Because he couldn't admit to himself that his failures were the fault of Ferrari, not himself, again. Because he's been too friendly with someone, AGAIN. But alas, his win tonight was much more important to you than anything as trivial as a clingy girl in a club.

When he finally caught his breath, his eyes fluttered open, heavy-lidded and filled with raw vulnerability. He reached up, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face, voice husky as he whispered, “I like the little miss possessive thing you've got going on."

“I have not—”

“You certainly have.” He grinned, eyes closing again. “You always do when they look for too long.”

You rolled your eyes. “Well, excuse me for defending my territory.”

He laughed, then yawned. “I like it,” he said, quieter now. “Makes me feel like you still choose me, after all the time.”

You stared at him, heart suddenly aching in the best way. “Of course I choose you.”

“Even when you have to fight over me?”

“What? I didn't even- yeah, even then.”

He opened his eyes again, hazy but focused on you. “You make me feel like I won more than just my home race.”

You kissed him softly, cupping his jaw. “You did."

dividers by @cafekitsune !¡ masterlist

a/n: this was originally written for him winning the gp this year but i didn't want to add fuel to the fire so i changed it hahah. here u go first installment of the series x also I was actually going to continue this with more smut but I thought woah crazy like lets leave that for the other sexy songs (but I do have that version written so maybe if you ask polietly 🤭)

[f1freaks]

i hope max gets the best head of his life from charles tonight

[f1freaks]

SO CLOSE TO WHAT!

CHARLES LECLERC'S VERSION

MISS POSSESSIVE

DEAR GOD : coming soon !

PURPLE LACE BRA : coming soon !

SIGNS : coming soon !

2 HANDS : coming soon !

NOSTALGIA : coming soon !

BLOODONMYHANDS : coming soon !

SPORTS CAR : coming soon !

MEANS I CARE : coming soon !

GREENLIGHT : coming soon !

I KNOW LOVE : coming soon !

ITS OK IM OK : coming soon !

NO I'M NOT IN LOVE : coming soon !

REVOLVING DOOR : coming soon !

dividers by @cafekitsune !¡

updated regularly, next part scheduled for 29.05