leclerc-hs

[leclerc-hs]

almost at 3k followers 🥹 i love you ALLLLL

[leclerc-hs]

lando or charles eating the aphrodisiac chocolate with reader as a challenge to see who will give in first. im going feral thinking abt this…

pairing: lando norris x fem! reader word count: 2.3k warnings: SMUT, like hard fucking SMUT, dirty talk, bad language, lots of cursing, kinda mean lando!, hot hot hot, 18+, like serious fucking SMUT. unprotected sex, p in v…, overstimulation. breeding kink? author's note: ok so i got this request recently but was off of work today so i had a spare few hours to get this written. like I'm telling you this shit is straight up p*rn basically. anyways XOXO. COMMENT IF I SHOULD WRITE A CHARLES VERSION.... ◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤

It started as a joke.

A stupid dare over a few drinks, a stolen box of expensive chocolates laced with some so-called “harmless aphrodisiac”. And whoever begged to fuck first, lost. Simple.

“Bet you’d crack first,” You teased, waving a piece in Lando’s direction.

He snorted, cocky. “You? Lasting longer than me? No shot.”

“You scared?”

And that was how you both ended up stretched across the mattress of his bedroom, city lights glittering through the dark windows. A half-empty box of chocolates between you.

Popping pieces of chocolate like it’s just a normal Friday night. Like it wasn’t burning under your skin.

The first twenty minutes were easy.

He was lounging against the headboard, legs spread, still pretending to be cool. But you saw all the signs. The twitches. And now he was hunched over, sweat forming on his forehead, cock bulging.

It hit slow, like a boiling heat swirling in your belly, licking along your veins.

Minutes passed.

He was now stretched out across the mattress, hoodie pulled over his head with one arm and tossed aside. 

“I’m fine,” you say. Calm and smug. Licking a part of the melted chocolate on your fingertip while you stared at him. “Starting to think it’s not that strong.”

Lando doesn’t reply.

He’s sitting opposite of you. Legs spread wide, forearms on his thighs, glaring.

Like he know’s just how fucked he is.

Like he’s trying to hard to not show it. Not to let you see how badly his cock is fucking aching and leaking inside of his sweats.

But the bulge is obvious. 

“What the fuck was in that chocolate?”

You smile. “Just a little something to make you honest.”

“Honest?” His voice cracks. “Baby, I’m seconds away from fucking the mattress.”

His pupils are blown wide, breathing shallow. And you just smile.

“Aw,” you say. Mocking, tilting your head. “Poor baby. Getting hard already?”

“Shut the fuck up,” His voice is rough. Hoarse.

“Ohhh,” you mutter. “Is Lando gonna lose the game finally?”

He shifts, just slightly, not much. Just a fraction. But it must be too much because a soft, broken sound slips past his lips. Like a whimper.

And you freeze. 

His eyes snap shut. One fist in his hair, yanks. The other drops to his thigh, squeezing.

You lean back, slow and taunting, stretching your arms over your head, the hem of your shirt lifting up just enough to flash the skin of your stomach.

“You’re fucking evil,” Lando rasps. Words dripping like venom. “Sitting there, all wet and fucking needy, pretending you don’t wanna get fuckin’ ruined.”

His hand moved, slow, slipping down his stomach, fingering the waistband of his sweats.

And you watch, breathless, as he shoves his hand under the fabric, grabbing his cock with a loud groan.

“I’m fucking aching, baby.” He hisses, squeezing himself, eyes flutter closed. “Hard as fuck. Dying. And you’re just sitting there, teasing, like a little slut who doesn’t know what she’s asking for.”

You swallow, whole body throbbing at the violence in his voice.

“Go ahead,” you mutter. “Touch yourself.”

He opens his eyes. Dark. Wild.

“Fuck you.” He breathes. “Not touching myself when you’re right fucking there. Perfect fuckin’ pussy’s mine.”

He shoves his sweats down. Just enough to free himself. His cock is thick, red, and leaking.

You whimper. Unintentionally. 

And he grins. Menacingly. Mean.

“You’re drooling, pretty girl.” He taunts. “Want it that bad, hm?”

He fists himself roughly, dragging his hand up his length, smearing his precum down the shaft, a loud groan pushing past his lips.

“Bet you’re soaking that little pussy right now,” he jerks himself slowly, torturing. “Bet you’re throbbing and fuckin’ clenching around nothing, wishing my cock was shoved up there.”

Your thighs press shut. The throbbing between them aching. Burning you.

He laughs.

“Just look at you,” He gasps. “Fuckin needy. Bet you’d ride my cock without a second thought if I told you to.”

You shift forward, like a predator, “I would.” You whisper. “Sit down on you and ride you until you were fuckin’ crying.”

His whole body shudders. 

“Fuck,” his head tips back, eyes squeezed shut as he grinds his hips into his own hand. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You crawl forward, until you were between his legs, looking up at him, inches from his leaking cock.

And he was shaking now. Hands fisting at his sides like he didn’t know whether to grab you or keep going.

You tilt your head, innocently.

“Beg for it.” 

And he chokes on a moan. Lips pressed tight together.

“Fuckin’ hell, baby.” He frowns. “Y’want me to fucking beg?”

You smile. Nod.

His eyes drag down you, breathing so hard his chest is visibly rising and falling.

“Please,” his voice is wrecked. “Please let me fuck you. Please, baby…” he’s fidgeting now. “Need to be inside of you. Need that tight pussy squeezing’ me, fuck,..please”

You lean closer, letting your breath hit the tip of his cock without touching him.

And he fucking whimpers.

“Need to split you open,” He pants. “Fuck you so stupid. Wanna feel you shaking around me. Fill you up and stuff you so full that you can’t walk tomorrow.”

You give him nothing. Just a light drag of your fingers crawling up his inner thigh. Barely touching him. Just enough to torment him.

And his entire body jerks. 

“Stop fucking teasing.” Its a low, guttural snarl. 

“Why?” You mutter. “Y’gonna come from just this? Just my hands on your leg?”

That does it.

He fucking snaps.

One hand fists in your hair, yanking your head back so you meet his eyes. And he looks fucking insane.

Flushed. Sweaty. Pupils blown. His chest is rising.

And his voice?

It’s fucking mean. Angry. Frustrated. Horny.

“Bet you think this is so funny.” He hisses, dragging you up from your knees, tossing you back onto the bed like you weigh nothing. “Y’think I’m just gonna sit here and let you fuck with me while my cock’s fucking leaking for you.”

You laugh, smug. And his control shatters.

“Shut the fuck up.”

He’s on you before you can blink, shoving your knees apart, tearing your shorts down with both hands.

He shoves your shirt high enough over your breasts, not taking it off. He just wants access.

And his eyes land right between your legs.

You’re fucking soaked. Slick and smeared all along your thighs. Pooling.

“Oh my god,” he groans. “Fuckin’ look at you.”

And then his eyes meet yours. Fucking furious.

“All that teasing and you’re this fucking wet?” He slaps your inner thigh, hard enough to make your hips jump. “Pussy’s been begging for me and you’re sitting there like you’re in control?” 

He lines himself up. And shoves the tip in. Just enough to feel your tight, hot cunt suck him in.

You gasp, arching your back into him. And he groans.

“Feel that? Feel how fucking hard I am for you?”

He thrusts even deeper, still not all the way in. Just a little bit more.

“You don’t get to tease me and then not take it,” He grunts. “Gonna fuck you until this slutty little cunt’s dripping with my cum.”

You moan. Loud. But he grabs your chin. Fingers gripping your jaw so tight that you can’t look away even if you tried.

“Uh, uh. Don’t you dare come yet.”

He pulls out. Just a little bit. Still grinding into you. “Wanna feel you clench on me when I’m buried in.”

And then he slams all the way in. One harsh thrust that fucking knocks the air out of your lungs.

You cry out. Hands fisting at the sheets. Legs snapping shut around his hips immediately.

He groans. It’s broken and raw.

“Fuck…there it is. That tight little pussy choking me.” 

He starts moving. Hard. Dragging his cock in and out with a harsh force. Like he’s punishing you.

The mattress moves under you, the headboard hitting the wall.

And his words. They keep coming.

“Gonna fuckin’ breed you baby. Shove it so fuckin’ deep you’ll be leaking with me for days.”

“Made for me. Bet no one will ever fuck you this deep.”

“Y’like when I’m mean, huh? Like when I lose it for you?”

And you can’t even breathe. Cant answer. Can only take his cock as he fucks you deep into the mattress.

“Fuckin’ knew you’d play dirty.” He pants. “And I warned…fucking warned you what would happen.”

And then his hand is trailing down, thumb pressing fast, tiny circles to your clit.

You yell. 

“Yeah, go on.” He says. “Soak my cock. Show me who fucking wins now.”

And you break. Coming hard. Your body arches off the bed, walls squeezing him so tight he only thrusts a few more times before he spills into you.

He keeps thrusting through it, slower, like he can’t stop.

He collapses on top of you. “What the fuck are you doing to me, baby?”

He’s still inside of you. Still thick. Twitching. And still so fucking hard.

Your body is limp under him, thighs trembling with need.

But Lando doesn’t move. Doesn’t pull out. Just stayed buried inside of you, cock so deep inside of you that you swear you can feel it throbbing.

And then you flinch because he’s moving again. It’s slow, just a small roll of his hips.

“Lan,” He grabs your jaw. 

“No.” He breathes. “You don’t get to say my name like that after what you just pulled.”

Your eyes are glassy. 

“Wanted to see me lose it, yeah? Wanted to see what’d I do?” His hips roll deeper, harder. And you whimper.

Pussy swollen, sensitive, full with his cum, and he’s grinding into you like he’s only just started.

“Well here you go,” He hisses. “You asked for this.”

He grabs both of your wrists, pins them above your head with one hand, while the other slips down and wraps around your throat.

“You’re gonna take every fucking thrust. Every drop.”

And he’s fucking you again. Cock still so hard that it feels unnatural.

Your cunt pulses around him. Soaked and clenching like you’re about to come again. 

“Look at you,” he pants. “Still so fucking tight after being filled. Still squeezing me like you don’t want me to pull out.”

He’s thrusting harder, his hips slapping into you.

“Gonna stuff you full again,” His teeth trail your neck. “Gonna fuck you til you can’t say a fucking word.”

And you can’t. You’re babbling. Sobs. Moans. Gasps. And he doesn’t stop. His hand reaches down between your legs again, reaching for your puffy clit.

And you yell. “No..no, Lan!” 

“Oh, now you wanna be shy?” He mocks, nibbling at your throat. “Now you wanna act like its too much?”

He pinches your clit. You cry out.

“Teasin’ me an hour ago. Thighs clenched like a little whore.”

He trails up your neck with his tongue. “You don’t get to quit now.”

And then he’s fucking you faster, his fingers rubbing tight circles over your clit and your body shatters.

You yell, spasming so hard around his cock like it’s milking him.

He groans loud. Spills inside of you for a second time, relentlessly grinding into you.

And even then, he still doesn’t pull out.

He slumps over you, panting and drenched in sweat.

But you feel it. The way his cock still doesn’t soften.

He drags a hand over his face, staring down at you. 

Grinning.

-

You don’t even know what time it is anymore. Sweat is dry on your skin. Slick smeared across your thighs.

The bed is fucking soaked. Sweat, cum, saliva, you. And your legs are still twitching from the last orgasm.

And Lando’s still inside of you. Still throbbing.

And he’s looking at you now. Really looking.

His hand cups underneath your jaw, thumb brushing your skin gently. “You’re so fucking pretty when you cry.” He mutters. He says it like he can’t believe you’re here. That you’re his.

Your eyes flutter shut as he leans down, pressing warm kisses to your cheek, then jaw, then the spot beneath your ear.

And he rocks his hips forward again…it’s slow, deep, grinding into your overstimulated cunt with a soft groan.

You whimper but he presses his thumb to your lips. Shushes you.

“Shh, I know, baby,” He whispers. “I know.”

But he doesn’t stop. Keeps moving like he needs to be inside of you.

“Make me fucking crazy.” He breathes. “Acting all innocent, playing games.”

He kisses you. Slow. Mouth lingering against yours as his hand slips under your thigh, lifting your leg over his hip as he pushes into you deeper.

And when he moans into your mouth, you feel yourself clench around him.

“I was going to fuck you angry again,” he says. “Wanted to keep ruining you.”

He kisses you again, breath shuddering against your skin. “But you look to fuckin’ sweet like this. Messy and fucked under me.”

You gasp when his cock nudges that spot just right in your belly as he flips you over, putting you on top of him.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs. “You can take it.”

And then he kisses your shoulder. “So good for me.” He groans. “So fucking good for me.”

You moan. It’s shake and desperate, and you start pushing yourself into him a little faster. Thighs burning, body aching.

“There you go,” He’s groaning. “Just like that, baby. Fuck…”

You dig your nails into his shoulder and he loves it. “I wanna come inside you again.” He’s panting. “Need to fill you up.”

And you’re sobbing. Nodding against him. 

“Tell me it’s mine,” He whispers. “All of it. This pussy. These moans. This entire fucking body and soul.”

You breathe, riding him faster. “It’s yours.”

He kisses you again, open mouthed and deep, shoving his tongue in your mouth. He thrusts up against you and you shatter on top of him. Again.

Body convulsing, as he comes with a low broken fuck while spilling inside of you again.

You collapse on him. And he just holds you there.

Shaking. Sweaty. Covered.

He kisses your hair, whispering.

“Yeah, you won.”

[leclerc-hs]

finally been editing and working on all the drafts I've had sitting in here. which is why you'll be seeing more frequent postings as of now!! I know they're on the shorter end recently but I will be posting a longer charles fic soooooon. hopefully will have it done sometime next week or so.

trying to make up for the few MONTHS I didn't post on here lmaoo

I also have a kinda long Oscar fic sitting in my drafts (it's been in there for months)...debating if I should post it

[leclerc-hs]

Chalres x Reader(Brothers best friend)

Reader is Charles younger brothers best friend she has always had a crush on Charles but Charles never seemed interested one day there's like a pool party she wears a very revealing sexy bikini and Charles takes notice of her

All the smut please ✨️

pairing: charles leclerc x fem!reader word count: <900 warnings: smut smut smut, language, 18+ author's note: sorry its kinda short!!! just kinda dove straight into the smut LOL, maybe one day I'll make another version of charles x brother's best friend but this is all I had time to do for now!! xoxo ◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤

You had always been Arthur’s best friend. His sidekick, his shadow. The girl who spent endless summers barefoot at the karting tracks, grease smudged across your skin, weaving yourself into every corner of his life.

You were a constant. A staple.

Another Leclerc, almost. A little sister.

And Charles had never thought twice about it. You were harmless. Safe. Comfortable.

Until now.

Until this party, where you were dripping wet from the pool, the tiniest soft red fucking bikini clinging to your body, laughing loudly at something Arthur said.

It was hardly a swimsuit. Two ragged slivers of soft red fabric, stitched together and tied at your hips in shoulders, would be a better way to describe it. 

Scraps. That’s all it was. Every knot, every flimsy tie, looked like it was one tug away from coming undone.

Indecent, barely there. Exposed.

And so goddamn beautiful it knocked the air from his lungs.

Charles nearly dropped his drink, fingers spasming around the bottle in his hands, as heat pumped in his chest.

He tried. Tried to ignore it as long as he could all day.

But the second you wandered inside alone. Wet, shivering, in nothing but those flimsy scraps of fabric. He snapped.

He followed you inside before he could think better of it, the door clicking shut behind him sharply.

You turned, surprised, smiling like you didn’t even know what you were doing to him.

And he fucking lost it.

One moment he was standing across the room, the next he was in front of you, hands grabbing your face, mouth crashing onto yours like he needed you to breathe. A kiss that tasted like anger and hunger.

You gasp, stunned, but melted into him almost instantly. Fingers slipping into his wet hair like you’d dreamed of this a million times. You have.

Charles pulls back slightly, panting. “This,” he gasps. “This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

You stare up at him, body trembling. “You don’t even know,” you whisper. “How long I’ve wanted this.”

He groaned. Audibly groaned like it hurt him.

“I never,” he chokes, kissing you again, harder. “Never thought of you like this.”

“But you’re still kissing me,” you whisper.

And you whimper into his mouth, hips rocking into him like fucking instinct.

“You’re so fucking beautiful. Always were.” He mutters, eyes dragging down your body like he hated himself for even looking. But he couldn’t stop. “I just…can’t fucking stop.” He crashes his mouth back over yours.

Charles didn’t ease into you at all. No. He shoved deep inside of you with a brutal, desperate thrust that knocked the air from you.

You cried out, clutching his back, nails digging into his skin.

“Fuck,” he rasps, forehead pressed to yours. “You’re gonna kill me.”

He stayed buried for a second, grinding slowly, making you feel every fucking throbbing inch of him.

“You have no idea,” he groans. “How fucking long I fought this.”

You whimper, clenching around him.

“Used to look at you,” he pulls himself out of you, before slamming back into you, hard. “And tell myself you were safe. You were just Arthur’s best friend.”

And he thrusts deeper, harder, making you moan out loud.

“Harmless.” He laughs at himself. Like he’s angry he didn’t see it earlier.

You sobbed his name. Over fucking whelmed by the pace of his hips. The feel of his cock stretching you.

“Now all I can think about is bending you over every fucking surface possible.” His hips snap harder, making you sob out.

“Can’t sleep without seeing you spread open for me,” His voice is filthy in your ear. 

Your walls clench around him, body shaking from how hard he was fucking into you. Like he wanted to punish you for it.

“Fuckin ruined me,” he hisses against your skin. Fisting your hair and yanking your head to look at him. “You’re mine now, you get that?”

You nod fast. Frantic. Tears forming in the corners of your eyes.

“Say it,” He orders. “Tell me you’re mine.”

“Yours,” your voice breaks, a moan slipping through.

He lets out a filthy groan, fucking you harder, slamming into you until you couldn’t see straight.

“Supposed to be my sister,” He mutters, delirious from the squeeze of your cunt on his cock. “Now all I wanna do is put a baby in you. Fill you up so fuckin full of me.”

And your orgasm crashes into you violently. Ripping through you as you clench around him. Gripping him harshly.

He curses violently, coming with a low groan, grinding into you harshly as he spills into you, filling you full, hips thrusting like he couldn’t stop.

“This doesn’t end here, y’get that?” He rasps. “Think one times enough?” His mouth frags over your jaw, biting into your skin.

“I’m gonna fucking ruin you,” Still grinding into your soaking cunt. “Gonna fuck you so many times you’ll never want another guy again.”

You moan, body trembling. 

“Gonna make you come over and over, until you’re crying for me.” His thrusts don’t stop. “Gonna take you home. Fuck you all over the place if that’s what it takes.”

Then he grabs your hips, slamming into you again. Starting all over again.

[leclerc-hs]

how was everyone's weekend :)))

[leclerc-hs]

Charles gives you a necklace with the number 16 on it so everyone knows you're his 😍

pairing: charles leclerc x fem!reader word count: ~900ish warnings: smut, smut, smut. possessive charles. language??, NOT PROOFREAD.

in which charles is all rainbows and butterflies until it comes to men flirting with you.

◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤

The hotel suite is quiet, except for the low hum of the air conditioner in the background. You’re still in your dress from dinner, shoulders bare, legs bare, throat bare, sat on the edge of the bed while Charles stands a few inches away. 

Sitting with your spine ram-rod straight, like you’re bracing for something.

And you are.

Because Charles hasn’t said a single word since you walked through the hotel room door. Just watching you. With his jaw tense, eyes darker than normal, unblinking. But you know him too well by now. You know that silence, for him, means restraint. And restraint never lasts long with him.

Especially whenever you’re involved.

His movements are slow when he finally moves toward you, pulling something from pocket of his trousers. A thin silver chain dangles from the pads of his fingers, glinting in the dark glow of the room. At the end of it, a small charm. Unmistakable.

16.

His number. Yours now.

“You know what this is?” He asks. You nod slowly, heart pounding in your chest, but he’s not satisfied with that answer.

So he steps closer, standing in front of you, between your knees. Eyes burning into yours. “Then you know what it means.”

And you don’t answer.

So he leans in, one hand curling under your jaw, forcing your chin higher. Just enough to make you hold his gaze, the way he wants.

“It means you’re mine,” he says. And it’s not even close to gentle. No. It’s possessive and rough. Desperate in the only way he can be. “It means I don’t care who is watching or what they think. You wear this…my number. All of them will know.”

His breath is warm against your cheek, necklace landing softly against the skin of your neck as he clasps it shut. “They’ll see this, and know that you belong to someone. Someone who is willing to destroy anyone who forgets that.”

His fingers linger, pressing into your skin, right over your pulse. While his other hand flattens against your bare back, trailing down until his grips your waist just tight enough to leave a potential bruise.

“I’m not nice about you,” he breathes into your skin, mouth lingering over the spot just beneath your ear. “Don’t want to be. Never will be.”

Your breath hitches when his teeth graze along your shoulder.

“I see the way they stare at you. At your mouth. At your chest. At your neck. You don’t even notice.”

“Charles…”

“I notice it all.” His voice deepens, sharply. “And I fucking hate it.”

He pulls you to your feet before you can respond, your body pressed against his. “Tell me,” he demands, brushing his nose against yours. “Tell me who you belong to.”

“I’m yours.”

He doesn’t kiss you at first. Just holds you there, staring at you like he’s trying to read your fucking soul. And when he presses his mouth to yours, its rough and claiming.

Hot and hungry. Pushing you back to the edge of the bed.

His hands are already on your thighs, pushing them apart. His mouth never leaves yours, not even as you moan hotly into his mouth, not even when he drags the dress past your hips and outright groans.

“You wore this for me?” His fingers brush over the lace panties, barely covering you. Soaked.

“Yes.”

And he laughs. Darkly. Hotly. Possessive. “You knew exactly what you were doing a dinner.”

And his hands are rough on your thighs as he pushes them even wider, mouth trailing wet, hot, open mouthed kisses along the inside, teeth grazing every once in a while. And when his tongue finally finds you, there’s no teasing. Just a filthy, wet precision that makes your back arch into him.

Your head drops back, eyes shutting from the feeling. 

“Look at me,” he grunts from between your thighs. “Don’t look away.”

You do. Barely able to keep your eyes open as he eats you out like he needs you to breathe. 

Your hands fist into his hair, and he groans against you the second you tug at the roots, grinding his hips forward like he can’t help himself.

He stands up, unbuckling his belt with one hand while the other grips your neck, forcing you to look at him as he stares at the necklace. Glistening in the light.

“Turn around,” he orders. “All fours.”

And you do. Trembling. Shaking.

He’s behind you before you even settle, pushing your dress higher up your waist, dragging your soaked panties down.

His hands fist your hair, pulling your head back, as he slides into you with one hard thrust. Deep.

“Feel that, hm?” He slams into you again. “That’s what you do to me.”

You moan, unable to answer.

“Every time you smile at someone else. Every time you act like you don’t fucking belong to me. Think of this.”

He fucks you harder. Deeper. He leans forward, pressing kisses to your shoulder, biting at the skin of your neck.

“Next time somebody stares, they’ll see you fucking limp and know. They’ll see that number on your neck. Mine.”

Your orgasm hits hard. Your vision blaring, fingers clawing into the sheets, clenching so tightly around him that he groans. He follows shortly after, burying himself so deep into you that you feel it in your tummy.

And when he finally pulls out, both of you collapsing on to the bed, he leans over and presses soft kisses to your face.

“I love you,” he whispers, voice hoarse. “My sweet sweet cherie.”

Your fingers toy with the necklace as he pulls the sheets over you both.

And you smile. Snuggle into his side. 

His.

[leclerc-hs]

🤰

Local driver (and art school boyfriend) encourages budding artist

[leclerc-hs]

post race glow

[leclerc-hs]

the way i have so many oscar requests in my inbox rn

would you guys believe me if I said I've had an Oscar fic sitting in my drafts for SOOO long that I just never posted bc idk if anybody wanted one...

but so many requests in my inbox now....hmmm...

[leclerc-hs]

The Color Violet was SO GOOD and I LOVE how you write Lando!!!!!!! I actually just love your writing period but I’m becoming a Lando girl and that was just the perfect balance of angst and smut and I’m sooooo excited to read literally anything you write next no matter who it’s about!!! (and ps I hope you feel better soon!)

omgomg thank you so much!!!! i’m still home from work and sick which sucks but also not complaining because it’s giving me so much time to rest (and also write 😍)

so so glad you loved it!!!!

[leclerc-hs]

CHARLES PLEASE CHARLES FIX NEXT🙏🙏🙏

I just posted the next one a few days ago!!!! xoxo

[leclerc-hs]

just wanted to let y'all know that if you sent in a request i promise its not being ignored!! i just am behind on a lot so haven't been able to address them yet, and i like to write in the replies of them which is why you prob haven't heard a response.

xoxo love u all!!!

[leclerc-hs]

wait do you write for Oscar?

would you believe me if i said i had an oscar (friends to lovers) in my drafts that’s been sitting there for a while 😩

just never posted bc i never write for him

[leclerc-hs]

the color violet - ln4

pairing: lando norris x fem!reader

summary: in which you and lando can't seem to quit each other OR you and lando are casual fuck buddies

warnings: SMUT, language, angst, jealousy, NOT PROOFREAD, toxic!

word count: 7.4k

author's note: hiiii this is another one that's been sitting in my drafts for some time that i never got around to finishing! i've been sick for the last 4-5 days so I've had some time on my hands recently. I hope you enjoy!!! xoxo. feel free to help me pay off my student loans 💓

You meet him in Monaco.

Not in the ocean blue light of day, but in that violet hour where the sky bleeds into night on top of a rooftop party that neither of you seemed to be enjoying. You don’t even know why you came. Maybe it was to feel something. Maybe to forget someone. Maybe just to remind yourself that you still exist when someone looks at you the right way.

He looks at you the right way.

From across the deck, drink loosely gripped in his hand, his curls messy from the wind and his shirt slightly undone. He looked reckless, a little bit on edge. He doesn’t smile. Just watches you like he’s trying to put you in a memory that hasn’t happened yet.

And you feel it. That slow ache blooming in the depths of your chest.

You find yourself leaning over a balcony later on, fingers curled over the ledge like you might fall, and that’s when he slips behind you.

He doesn’t say anything at first, but you can feel him. You don’t turn around. At least, not right away.

But when you do, he’s looking at you like he’s not sure if he should speak or just walk away.

You break the silence first.

“You’re staring.”

“Yeah,” he says, not apologetic at all. “You’re hard not to look at.”

A beat. Then you smirk, soft. “Careful. I bite.”

He doesn’t even flinch. “So do I.”

You look away first, back out over the city lights flickering below, your pulse thrumming beneath your skin because you can feel him now. He’s closer. Warmer. Quieter. Feel as if he’s studying the back of your neck and imagining what you’d do if he pressed his mouth there.

“You always do this?” You mutter, voice barely heard. “Stare at girls like you’ve already undressed them in your head?”

His lips twitch, barely, and you can hear the smirk in his voice when he says,”Only when they look like they want me to.”

You turn to him, slowly, hair falling over your shoulder in the process, and your eyes catch his with an intent that makes his breathing falter. Just slightly.

“And if I do?” You ask, voice laced with something dangerous in it.

He takes a step closer. Close enough that you can smell his cologne, something expensive and intoxicating, and he tilts his head just slightly, eyes flicking toward you mouth. 

“Then I’d say you’re playing a dangerous game.”

You don’t break eye contact.

-

He kisses you just past midnight.

Not in the middle of the party. Not in front of anyone else. But in the hallway, against the marble wall, where the noises from the party have dulled into a minute hum that neither of you care about.

It’s not a sweet kiss.

It’s messy and hungry, something full of desire twisted with loneliness. His mouth crashes against yours like he’s angry you’ve gotten under his skin, and your fingertips trail the edge of his jacket, pulling him closer like you need to prove something.

He kisses you like he’s trying to forget something, and you let him. Because you’re only doing the same.

Because when his hands find your waist and your back hits the wall, and when his tongue slips against your with a kind of desperation that makes your head spin, it’s the first time in weeks you’ve felt anything at all.

And when he pulls you further against him, grinding his hips into yours just so you can feel how badly he wants you, the thick press of his cock against you, makes your breath catch in your throat.

“Tell me this is a bad idea,” he groans, voice rough and full of need.

You don’t.

Instead, you curl your fingers into the collar of his shirt, tugging him closer, dragging his lips back to yours.

“Didn’t come here for a good one.” You whisper, biting his lip.

“Fuck,” he groans. “I knew you’d be trouble.”

And then his hands are slipping under your dress, slipping up the back of your thighs, fingers digging into the skin of your ass as he lifts you. Lifts you.

Your legs wrap around his waist. Instinctive. Needy. Your breath faltering as he ruts himself against you through his unbuttoned slacks.

“Want you just like this,” he mutters. “Whining and dripping. And so fuckin’ desperate.”

You moan…loudly. And you’re now burning, aching for him, for this.

And he knows it. He’s so fucking smug over it.

“Bet you’re already soaked.” He slips one hand, pushing your lace panties aside, two fingers teasing. “Shit. Knew it.”

You buck your hips, leaning into him, begging for anything.

“Lando, please.” Your nails dig into the back of his neck.

He freezes. And his eyes meet yours. Dark. Heavy.

“Say it again.”

“Please.”

“No.” He shakes his head. “Say my name.”

“Lando,” you groan.

“Fuck. That’s gonna ruin me.”

It takes a second. Just one. For him to push his boxers down just enough, and then he’s inside you. One hard thrust that knocks the breath out of both of you.

You cry out, legs squeezing around his hips. You drop your head to his shoulder.

“Too much?” He breathes, voice as if he’s in pain from not moving.

You shake your head, “Not enough.”

That makes him groan. His mouth finds yours again as he begins to move. It’s hard and deep. Pounding into you so good that has you clawing at his back and biting down on the fabric of his shirt just to keep from yelling.

“You feel fucking insane,” he mutters. “So tight.”

And every word hits you deep in your belly.

“Want it rough, don’t you?” He keeps talking, voice mixed with something wrecked and possessive. “Want me to fuck you like I’ve been waiting for this all night, yeah?”

You nod repeatedly, panting hotly into his ear.

“Then take every fucking inch.” 

And you do. Every thrust. Every kiss. Every moan. You take it like it’s yours.

You come first. Hard and sudden. Your entire body shaking around him, clenching his cock that it makes him curse into your mouth.

And then he’s following, fucking you right through it, one hand braced on the wall and the other gripping the skin of your thighs like he wants to leave a bruise.

He groans your name. Your name. As he spills into you, hips stuttering, jaw clenched.

-

It was just one night.

A mix of heat and hands and messy kisses dragged out in a hallway too dark to see. A fast, hard, and reckless fuck. No promises. No gentle words. Just the sound of his voice in your ear, and your nails dug into his skin.

And it should’ve ended there.

You didn’t even exchange numbers.

But then, your phone buzzes. And it’s nearly one in the morning.

You don’t expect anything. Especially not from him.

But there it is. Burning brightly on the lock screen of your phone.

You up?

And even though you have an inkling of who it is, your thumb hovers, and against better judgment…taps.

Who’s asking?

A moment passes. Then, Didn’t think you’d forget that fast.

Your mouth goes dry and you sit up a little straighter in bed. You shouldn’t answer. You should put your phone down and sleep this off. But where is the fun in that?

Wasn’t planning to.

His response comes almost immediately. 

Come to Barcelona.

You blink. Heart rate spiking. 

For what?

Race weekend. Just come.

You stare at the screen like it might change into a much different conversation if you look at it long enough. Like it wasn’t real. He wasn’t supposed to want more, and you weren’t supposed to care if he did.

-

And yet…

Only four days later, you find yourself at Circuit de Barcelona-Catalunya, wondering what the actual fuck you’re doing here.

You’re dressed casually. A pair of dark jeans, plain tank top, black sunglasses, hair tied back, but you still feel like you’re being watched. Like you’re out of place in a sea of uniforms and lanyards and people who belong. You don’t.

You glance at your phone again.

Media pen now. Be there in 5.

And there is he. Coming around the corner, his suit half unzipped, fireproofs sticking to his chest, curls damp with sweat. And his eyes.

His eyes lock on yours like you’re the only thing he wants to see.

He barely slows down as he reaches you, slipping a hand to your lower back. His voice is soft and warm in your ear.

“Didn’t think you’d actually show.”

You don’t look at him, but your lips twitch. “Guess I was intrigued.”

“Careful,” he lets out a soft laugh. And you feel it in your stomach. “I might start thinking you missed me.”

“I didn’t.”

It’s a lie. He knows it.

And he leans in like he’s about to force you to say something more truthful.

“You wearing anything under that shirt?”

You step back, cheeks burning. “Don’t make this into something it’s not.”

He smiles, its slow and crooked. Like he’s not listening because he already knows how this ends.

“I’ll see you after quali,” he says, walking away without another word.

And you hate that you already know you’ll be here, waiting, when he comes back.

-

You don’t expect him to find you so fast. But maybe you should have.

You’re tucked into a corner of the paddock, half behind the hospitality wall, leaning against a wall with your sunglasses perched low on your nose, watching the post-quali chaos unravel.

The chaos and sound fades around you just as he enters the frame. You hear his voice before you see him.

And he walks over, with that smug look on his face that always comes after a good session. The kind that says yeah, I know I did well and yeah, I know you saw it.

“P1,” he says, stopping in front of you with a glint in his eye and a drop of sweat trailing down his thick neck. 

You raise an eyebrow, “You look pleased.”

“I am,” he admits.

“You looked like you had something to prove.”

“I did.” His eyes drag down your body, slowly. Deliberately. “Still do.”

You roll your eyes, but your stomach clenches.

Because this version of him, flushed, fast, high off competition, and the adrenaline still coursing through his veins, is impossible to ignore. He’s all heat and focus and unleashed energy, like he could press you up against the nearest wall and not even blink.

-

His room is colder than expected, the air conditioning humming low in the background, and the sheets crisp and untouched…

At least, until he’s pressing you into them with the full weight of his body, his mouth dragging across your collarbone as his hands push your shirt up, slow and greedy.

There’s no fumbling this time. No rushing. His hands are on you like he’s been waiting for this all day. Which, in hindsight, he has.

“Couldn’t stop thinking about you in the car,” he groans against your skin, his tongue tracing the edge of your bra before unclasping it with ease. “All I could see was you on top of me. Moaning my name.”

You arch into him softly, fingers tugging at the waistband of his race suit. “Then take it off.”

He doesn’t hesitate. Just shoves it down enough to free himself, cock already hard, already leaking, and when he lines himself up, dragging the thick head through your slick folds, you choke on a moan and claw at his shoulders.

“No teasing,” You warn, half plea.

He bites your lip, “Didn’t plan on it.”

And then he thrusts in one deep, smooth, harsh stroke that makes your legs shake and back arch. You cry out, but he doesn’t stop.

He groans hotly into your hear, thrusting harder, his hips slamming into you as he presses your thigh up, folding you so he can get deeper. “Feel that? Y’feel how good you take me?”

You nod, your body tingling like its on fucking fire. “So good, Lan. Don’t stop.”

“I won’t,” he grunts, his skin dampening as he pounds into you. “Not until you come. Not until you fall apart on my cock.”

And you do.

Twice.

Once with his hand on your throat, thumb teasing your jaw as he mutters nothing but pure fucking filth against your lips. And once again with his fingers pressed to your clit, coaxing an orgasm from you with ease until you’re shaking beneath him, sobbing his name.

He follows with a strangled groan, burying himself inside of you with deep thrusts as if he wants to stay there for forever, his entire body tensing as he spills into you, head dropping into your shoulder.

Afterward, as you lie tangled in the sheets, skin flushed and limbs heavy. Neither of you speak, just stare at the ceiling like it’s casual.

And eventually, he turns his head towards you with that practiced lazy smirk, “You’re trouble, you know that?”

You hum, already rolling onto your side, reaching for your underwear. “You invited me, Norris.”

He laughs, and it hits your stomach like a thousand butterflies. “Yeah, and I’d do it again.”

You shoot him a look as you stand, pulling your shirt over your head. “Don’t make this a habit.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

And it’s full of shit. You both are.

-

It’s been a few weeks.

Long enough that the ache between your thighs has faded, and the bruises from his hands have disappeared. Faded along with the last words he said to you, something half-smiled and forgettable, something that tried to make it feel casual.

You haven’t seen him since. Because why would you? It’s casual.

So when you see him again, back home in Monaco, at a rooftop with too many people and not enough room, it’s odd.

Because the first time was accidental. The second time was reckless. But this? This feels like a sick and twisted game.

You’re laughing with your friends, sunglasses perched on your nose even though the sun is long gone, and you catch the flicker of him in your peripheral vision. A flash of curls. And you turn your head, instinctively.

And there he is.

Leaned back on one of the couches, drink in his hand and a girl beside him. Someone pretty, someone blonde, and definitely not you. He’s smiling, head tilted back, hand draped casually over the cushions behind her.

And he doesn’t even see you at first.

You have, what feels like a lifetime of time, to stare before he notices. And when he does, his smile falters. Just for a second. Not noticeable to anyone but you, because you’re looking for it.

You give him a small smile and glance away.

-

Later, he finds you.

Not in a dramatic I’ve been looking for you way, but just casually, like it doesn’t matter. Like he didn’t have you spread across his hotel sheets, legs shaking from how hard he made you come, just a few weeks ago.

“Didn’t expect to see you here,” he says, sliding up beside you as you face the bar, casual, like you aren’t people who know each other like that.

“Didn’t expect you to speak,” you reply, swirling the ice in your glass. “Thought we were keeping it to once every few countries.”

He grins, a small laugh escaping. “Didn’t know we had a pattern.”

“We don’t,” you say, sipping your drink. “And there won’t be.”

But your eyes say otherwise. And so do his.

Because his hand brushes against yours, and the warmth makes your stomach clench. Because he leans in, his mouth too close to your ear, and you let him.

Because later, when everyone is starting to leave, he catches your wrist lightly. “Yours or mine?” He asks, voice low.

And even though you hesitate, you already know how it ends.

“Yours.”

Because it doesn’t mean anything.

-

There’s no rush when you walk into his apartment.

The door shuts quietly behind you, and he doesn’t pounce on you like he did in Barcelona.

Instead, he tosses his keys onto the counter, shrugs out of his jacket, and mutters something about grabbing a water. It’s nothing. Casual. But somehow, it makes your skin jump with anticipation.

You push your shoes off before making way towards the large windows, taking in the view.

He hands you a glass of water without asking. You take it without speaking.

You end up on his couch. Your legs curled beneath you, a soft hoodie tugged over your frame because he offered, and you didn’t bother to pretend that you weren’t cold.

He sits beside you, not touching, but his arm stretched lazily over the back of the couch. His fingers softly grazing your shoulder every time he shifts.

“You gonna keep looking at me like that?”

His mouth curves. That same slow, smug look he had on his face the first time. And the same look he had in Barcelona after you came on his fingers.

“You seem comfortable. Didn’t want to interrupt.”

“How polite.”

He shifts closer, enough that your knees bump and his thumb rubs the edges of your thighs.

It starts softer this time. No messy kisses or desperate pulling at clothes. Just two mouths meeting slowly, like two people who’ve done this before and know that they will do it again. 

His lips part against yours, a soft groan escaping. And you drag your fingers into his hair, tugging his curls, pulling him into you even more.

He drags you into his lap with no struggle, hands resting on the skin of your hips. His tongue slips into your mouth lazily, tasting you, teasing you. Like he has all the time in the world with you. 

You grind against him slowly, and he breathes sharply against your mouth, head falling back slightly as you feel the pads of his fingers dig deeper into the skin of your hips.

Clothes come off in pieces. First it’s your shirt sliding over your head, his hoodie pooling by your feet, jeans tugged down. It’s slow and warm and filled with need.

He lays you flat on the couch, his body settling between your thighs, and it feels so fucking right.

“Missed this,” he says softly, almost like you weren’t supposed to hear it.

You don’t respond. 

You just hook your legs around his waist and pull him into you, guiding him inside with a hiss and a string of curses. Because somehow, it still feels too good.

And when he starts to move with slow, deep thrusts that make your body arch into him, you cling to him like you want to make it last.

“Look at me,” he breathes. “Want to see you.”

You do. Gasping his name with every soft roll of his hips. And you match his pace, his rhythm, until you’re both breathing hard and cursing into each other’s mouths.

You come first. Quietly, slowly. And he follows, hips stuttering, breath catching as he groans your name.

It’s quiet afterward again.

You lie on the couch, chests rising and falling in sync with one another.

Eventually, he moves. Just to grab the blanket from the back of the couch and toss it over the both of you.

“You’re not gonna start getting clingy on me, are you?” You joke, your voice teasing.

He smiles. “Not a chance.”

You smile back.

You stay the night. And neither of you ask why.

-

It starts slowly.

A brunch here. A mutual friend’s birthday party there. A weekend boat trip where someone invited you and someone else invited him, no one though of it.

You’re not surprised when he shows up to places anymore. And he doesn’t act surprised to see you. He just stretches that easy grin and slips past you, hands grazing, like its the most natural thing in the world.

Because you’re just acquaintances. Maybe friends. 

Who sleep together. Sometimes. When its convenient. When you’re both lonely and no one else is around.

And the table you’re both seated at is too full, but the wine flows easily. You’re seated somewhere in the middle, pressed between your two friends from your side of the circle, but your eyes drift…to the other end of the table where Lando’s talking with one of his friends, a beer halfway to his mouth, cheeks flushed from the heat or the drinks.

He hasn’t looked at you yet, but he know’s your watching.

That’s the game.

You smile at something someone says. Sip your glass of wine. Pass around another bottle. And laugh.

And every so often, your gaze meets his. Not long. Just for a moment. Just long enough to feel it.

The tension. The fun.

He glances over mid-conversation, eyebrows raised like he’s asking something you two will never say out loud. You tilt your head slightly, smirk, and turn back to your friends. 

-

The table is half-cleared now, crumpled napkins, stained glasses, and a few olives remain. 

You’re laughing. Really laughing, head tilted back, hand over your mouth, tears prickling the corners of your eyes. And Lando, he’s just watching you.

The bill gets passed around later and you rise from your chair with everyone, slipping your jacket over your shoulders. And you feel him move behind you, just barely, as you gather your stuff.

“Leaving?” He asks, words only meant for you.

You don’t look at him as you dig through your purse. “Depends,” you shrug. “You planning on texting me later?”

He laughs. “Probably.”

You smile softly. “Then I won’t go too far.”

And he doesn’t say anything back, just watches you gracefully step out the restaurant with your friends. A knowing smile tugged on his lips like he already knows how this night ends. With you hot and moaning beneath him.

Cause that’s how it usually does.

-

You hadn’t planned to go back with him that night. But all your plans and intentions seem to melt whenever Lando is involved.

He opens the door with one hand, hoodie slung over his shoulders, and flicks the light. And you like that. The casualness. The fact he doesn’t reach for you immediately. He just walks in, leaves the door open for you to follow, and tosses his keys onto the counter.

You drop your bag and kick your shoes off, already heading toward the couch where you’ve curled up countless times now. It doesn’t feel new. And that realization lands heavily in your chest.

“You want anything?” He asks, the sound of the fridge opening in the background. “Water? Juice?”

You laugh. “Juice?”

He shrugs, grabbing two water bottles before shutting the fridge. You take one of the bottles he hands you when he sits down beside you.

“You always this healthy?” You tease him.

He takes a sip, stretching an arm behind you along the couch.

“I eat chocolate for breakfast during race weeks. Don’t be fooled.”

You let out a small laugh. “I respect the balance.”

And its easy. The conversation stretches. He asks about he tattoo on your wrist, the one you never though he notices. You tell him it was just an impulsive one. He admits his worst haircut. He tells you about the time he crashed his scooter in the hotel lobby a few years ago.

Somewhere between all the talk, you tuck your legs under you, hoodie slipping off one shoulder, his eyes catching on the bare skin there for a second too long.

“You always wear this necklace,” he says, nudging his hand along it. “Is it meaningful?”

You toy with the silver chain, twist your finger around it. “Not really. It was my mom’s.”

He nods, but doesn’t ask more. Doesn’t press.

Just sips his water and nudges your knee again.

This time not so subtly.

-

Eventually, the space between you closes. His lips find yours, familiar. Warm. You move into him like you’ve done it dozens of times. But there’s something else there now. Softer. 

His hands slip under your shirt again, tracing over your ribs, and yours curl around the back of his neck, pulling him into you as you let the water bottle fall to the floor.

It’s still casual. Still fucking.

But you’re starting to notice more of him.

And his eyes are starting to linger longer than they used to.

-

It dies down in small ways.

The late night texts from him slow. The touches grow a little more careful. And you start seeing him a lot less. Not because you’re avoiding him, but because suddenly, he’s no longer around.

His season is going well. Really well.

Every time you check your phone, there’s another photo of him on the podium, another headline. He’s locked in, focused in the kind of way that leaves very little room for anything else. Including you.

At first, you don’t question it. You tell yourself that it’s natural. He’s busy, you’re busy, and this was never meant to be anything serious. 

You still see him sometimes, at group dinners or sometimes race weekends if your friends want to go, his voice always casual, his touch no longer lingering like it used to.

It finally all snaps on a random Monday.

You hadn’t planned to see him. He texted you really late, a you up?

And even though its been a while, you went. Because you kinda missed him. Because you thought that maybe it could still feel the same.

But now, you’re standing in his apartment with your arms crossed against your chest and he’s pacing. Hands tugging a the ends of his sleeves like he’s trying to work up the courage to say something.

And he doesn’t meet your eyes when he finally speaks.

“I think we should…” He pauses, struggling. “I think we should put a pause on things.”

You blink. You blink again, because the words don’t make sense at first.

“Right,” you say slowly, “because you’re busy.”

His jaw tightens, like he’s struggling to even do this. “Because I need to focus.”

“On racing,” you clarify, because you need to hear him say it.

He nods once. “I can’t be distracted. The season’s going really well. There’s a lot of weight on my shoulders.”

You swallow around the lump in your throat. “So I’m a distraction?”

“That’s not what I’m saying.”

“No,” Your voice is flat. ‘It’s what you mean.”

“That’s not fair.”

You laugh. And its bitter. 

“It’s fine,” you shrug your shoulders. Put on a fake smile. “This was nothing more than easy fucking anyways.”

And you swear you see his eyes widen, and they look black. His hands fist at his sides. Like he’s angry you would ever say that.

“You should move on.”

You grab your bag, backing up towards the front door. “See you around.”

And you don’t slam the door. You don’t even yell.

You just walk out.

And even though this was casual, it hurts a lot more than it should.

-

You haven’t seen him properly in weeks. Sure, you’ve been in the same rooms. Same dinners, same events, same rooftop bars. But you’ve nearly perfected the art of pretending that he isn’t there. And he’s mastered pretending that it doesn’t bother him.

Or maybe he hasn’t. 

Because lately, his eyes linger way longer than they should.

Especially now that you’re here with someone else.

Nothing serious. Not yet. But he’s charming. Sweet. Says nice things and refills your drink without having to ask. He kisses you sweetly, like its allowed to mean something. 

And he’s present.

Lando sees it. Of course he does. Because he sees everything when it comes to you.

He sees the way your hand rests gently on this new guy’s arm. The way you lean into him. The way your smile comes quickly.

And it drives him fucking insane.

He hides it pretty well. Jaw tight, voice easy, and laughing a little louder than usual.

And later, when he finds himself beside you on the sidewalk, his shoulder brushing against yours as you walk beneath the city lights.

You say nothing. Neither does he.

But when your date turns to say something, slipping his hand along your waist, Lando’s breath halts.

A jaw twitch.

And then lowly, he’s leaning into your ear. “So this is how it is now?”

You blink. “Excuse me?”

He doesn’t stop to look at you, just keeps walking, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jacket.

You stop walking, so does he.

“This,” he says, gesturing to your new guy. “Him.”

���What about him?” You ask, trying to ignore the fact your heart rate is spiking.

He scoff. And you stare at him.

“You don’t get to be jealous.”

His eyes flick toward you, sharp. “I’m not.”

And you smile, bitterly. “Good. Because I'm not yours.”

And he fucking hates it.

-

The suit zips up easy. His helmet is snug. And the radio crackles into his ears with a voice thats measured, focused. The exact opposite of what’s happening in his head.

He’s meant to be locked in. And he looks like he is. He checks his gloves, throws a casual thumbs up at the camera. But his mind? His mind is nowhere near here.

It’s on you.

Always on you now.

In the way his fingers twitch as he straps into the car. Remembering how your hand fit against his chest the last time you were in bed with him, your fingers dragging across his skin like you didn’t know what time it was and didn’t care.

It’s in the way he zones out during debriefs, eyes unfocused, thinking about the text he wanted to send, but didn’t. The one that said you looked happy with him and I fucking hated it.

And it’s the worst when he’s in the car. Where he’s supposed to be able to disappear with no emotions, no mess.

But now? It’s like you’re in there with him.

He hears you in his head, your voice, your laugh. And he hits a curb harder than he should. And Lando’s heart pounds. Not from the high speeds. Not from the car. But from you.

You with another person. You slipping further away.

And all he can think is, what the fuck did I do?

-

You didn’t plan on seeing him. Nor did you expect to show up at his afterparty. Especially not weeks after silence, after he told you that he needed the space, that you were a distraction. 

And yet here he is.

Leaning against the bar like he owns the fucking place, jaw tight, drink in hand like he’s not on edge.

You’re talking to someone when he finally comes up behind you. And you feel him before you hear him.

“Didn’t take you long,” he says, leaning in close like its nothing. Like you’re still his to touch.

You don’t turn around. “Excuse me?”

He takes a sip of his drink. “To move on.”

You turn to face him then. “Are you seriously doing this right now?”

He shrugs, smile lazy, but his eyes are hard. Dark. “Just making conversation.”

“No, you’re being an asshole.”

“I’m just being honest.” He says, stepping even closer, just for you. “You’re the one who kept saying it meant nothing.”

You laugh, a little breathless. “Right. Because you taught me that.”

And he flinches. But then that smirk twists back into place, cruel.

“You were never supposed to catch feelings.”

“And you were?” You shoot back.

He leans in again, his mouth grazing your ear. “I never said I didn’t feel something. I just said I couldn’t do it.”

And there it is.

You stare at him. Furious. Aching.

“This is the reason I stopped answering your drunk texts.”

But he just looks at you. Dark. Possessive. And soooo fucking sure of himself.

“You’ll answer the next one.”

-

You’re in bed when the knock at your door comes. It’s sharp, loud, and impatient.

You let the silence stretch, knowing who it is. You think maybe he’ll leave if you ignore it long enough. But you know better.

Another knock.

“Open it.” Another knock. “I know you’re up.”

You don’t want to. But you do anyways.

And when you pull the door open, there he is. Lando, in a hoodie, eyes wild with something that’s not just anger but maybe sorrow too.

He walks past you without being invited in.

You close the door behind him, arms crossed, “You really have no sense of boundaries, do you?”

He turns, finally facing you. “You’re still seeing him?”

You laugh, cold. “Really? Straight to that?”

“I asked a question.”

“No, you made a demand.” You bite back. “And you don’t get to do that. Not anymore.”

“I just need to know.”

“Why? So you can tell yourself that you didn’t fuck it up?” Your voice is shaking now. “So you can pretend I was never yours to begin with?”

He doesn’t answer. He just looks at you. And you can see it all in his eyes. The confusion, the guilt, the jealousy. The way he misses you. The way he wants you without knowing how to have you.

“You told me to move on,” you whisper. “So I did.”

He takes one step further. Then another. Until you’re toe to toe.

“I didn’t think you would.” His voice is hoarse.

You stare at him. “That’s not my fucking problem.”

His hand moves. Fast. Grabbing your wrist, just enough to make your whole body go still. And you don’t pull away.

“You think I haven’t thought about you every fucking day?” He says, his words angry and honest. “You think I don’t see you with other people and want to rip the world apart?”

“Then why did you push me away?”

“Because I was scared,” he mutters. “Because this season is everything I’ve ever wanted in life and I can’t fuck it up.”

His hand slips to your waist, pulling you into him. And you should push him off, but you don’t. Not when his hands feel so good on you. 

And when he kisses you, it’s fucking desperate. Teeth and tongue and too much heat. But you meet him equally, pulling him closer.

He lifts you, walks you backwards to the couch, and everything is frantic. Rushed.

And when your fingers slide to undo his belt. “You hate me,” he pants, dragging your shirt over your head.

“I should,” you snap back.

And still, you let him fuck you like you’re his.

-

It happens quietly. Slowly.

There’s no grand reunion. No apology. Not even a discussion about that night on your couch. The one where he fucked you deep into the cushions, like you were his to claim.

You just show up. And he opens the door like he was already expecting you.

No words, just the sound of your keys hitting the counter, shoes slipping off, sliding around him like you know your way around. Like nothing has changed in the last few months. Like everything has.

And he watches you. Suspiciously. A fearful kind of watch.

He kisses you first, and you kiss him back. But there’s something off in the way your hands move. Its deliberate, methodical. Like you’re checking off a box.

Your mouth is warm. Skin soft. You still sigh and moan when he pulls you onto his lap. But he feels it in the way your eyes don’t meet him.

In the way you don’t say his name anymore. In the way you flip him onto his back like you’re in control now.

And it kills him.

He wanted you back. The comfort, your laugh, the way you snuggled into him like it was thoughtless. He wanted you. 

His hands find your hips, dragging into your skin, and all you do is exhale like you’re chasing the release, not the connection.

You don’t wear his clothes anymore. When you come back, he’s lying on his side, watching you in deep thought.

You crawl back into the sheets, slowly. And just as you begin pulling the blanket over your shoulder, you hear him.

His voice low, “you don’t look at me the same.”

You don’t turn around.

“You wanted it to mean less,” you say quietly. “So that’s what I'm doing.”

-

You show up like you always do. Late, quiet, and unbothered.

You don’t kiss him when you step inside. You just give him that half-smile, and he still lets you in.

Because the moment you’re here, all restraint melts. He wants to touch you. Wants you pressed underneath him. Wants to pretend, for a few hours, that he hasn’t ruined the one thing he seems to care about most now.

So he takes you. On the couch this time, rougher than he means to be. His fingers dipping into your hips as you ride him slow, head tipped back, hands on his chest. And you look fucking beautiful. 

Detached. 

It drives him insane.

“You always this quiet now?” He mutters between clenched teeth, his hands gripping so hard they might leave bruises.

You don’t answer. Just roll your hips, again and again, deeper, slower.

“Tell me who you’re thinking about,” he says, eyes locked on you.

And you meet his gaze, breathless, but say nothing.

And that’s what snaps him.

He sits up fast, grabs the back of your neck, and kisses you. Hard. Like he thinks if presses hard enough, you’ll stop pretending you don’t feel something.

“Say my name,” he grunts against your mouth. “Just fucking say it.”

You breathe it out, “Lando.”

But its flat.

And it nearly kills him.

-

You pretend.

You show up late, kiss him first, leave before morning. You pull his hoodies on while he’s asleep and take them off before he wakes up. You let him touch you like you’re his. But never look him in the eye for too long.

Because if you do, you’ll crack.

The last time you slept with him, he touched you like he missed you. Not your body. You.

And it made you fucking ache.

Because you know you love him. And he doesn’t even know that you’re doing everything you can not to show it.

There was no exact moment in time where you knew you loved him. You just did. And maybe it came along the way of him remembering how you take your coffee, or when he fixed your neckless. Or whenever he begged you to not go.

But then he made you feel disposable. So you pretend. You pretend like you don’t love him, but stay with him in the only way that lets you keep him.

-

The paddock is crowded. Loud.

Your credentials hang around your neck, and your phone buzzes. You’re walking toward the hospitality building when someone stops you. Someone you met last night at the team dinner. Who is all smiles and friendly charm.

He touches your arm when he says your name.

And suddenly, Lando’s there.

Still in his fireproofs, hair soaked from the helmet, chest rising with adrenaline, and his eyes cold. Dark.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just steps in. Places a hand on your lower back like he owns the right. Which he does. The guy takes one look and steps back.

Smart move.

Lando doesn’t even glance at him when he speaks. He keeps his eyes on you. It’s territorial.

“You’ve got a type now, hm?”

You raise an eyebrow. “He was just being polite.”

“Looked more than polite.”

“Are you serious?”

He shrugs, but the clench of his jaw tells enough. “You said this doesn’t mean anything.”

You fold your arms, throat tight. “It doesn’t. That’s what you wanted, remember?”

His eyes trail down your face, your body, back to your eyes. Hungry. Angry.

“Doesn’t mean I want anyone else touching you.”

And there it is. That possessive, raw, honesty.

You blink. “You don’t get to say that.”

He takes a step closer. “You think I don’t notice you pulling away? That I don’t feel it every time you fuck me like it doesn’t matter?”

And your heart fucking thuds against your chest.

“You told me to let it mean less.”

“And now you hate me for it,” His voice is soft. “But you’re still here.”

He slips his hand around your waist again, his fingers fisting into the fabric of your shirt at your lower back. “I can’t have you looking at someone else like that. Not when I still—“

And he doesn’t finish the sentence. He never does.

Just pulls you in and kisses you hard. In the open. Like it means everything. But he can’t say it.

-

“You’re not fucking anyone else, right?” He mutters into your neck.

You exhale hard, angling your head back as he sucks a bruise beneath your jaw. “No.”

He pulls back, eyes searching. “Say it.”

You meet his gaze. “I’m not with anyone else.”

He nods once. It’s not enough.

His hand slips between your legs, rubbing slow and rough over the fabric of your panties. “This pussy’s mine, yeah?”

You gasp, hips instinctively pressing into his hand.

“Say it.”

“It’s yours,” you whisper. “Only yours.”

He fucks you like he’s trying to brand you with himself. On the bed, legs spread, hands gripping your thighs. 

And its something you never want to stop.

-

You’re curled into his side, fingers tracing lazy patterns over his stomach. Neither of you have spoken since the race.

He didn’t win. Didn’t even make podium. And it’s been weighing on him all night.

You think that he might just fall asleep like this.

“I love you.”

The words fall from him like they slipped out before he could stop them. You freeze. His eyes are on the ceiling, but his hand tightens around you. 

“I love you,” he says again. “But I don’t know how to do this.”

“I want you here.” His voice is rough. “I want you in my bed, in my fucking life, but this season is killing me. The pressure, the travel, the expectations, they’re eating me alive.”

He looks at you then. Finally. 

“You make me feel like I can breathe. But that also scares the fucking shit out of me. Because I can’t lose you.”

Your heart pounds in your ears.

“You don’t have to choose,” you whisper.

“But what if I’m shit at this? What if I fuck it all up?”

“Then you try again.”

And he pulls you in. Clinging to you. Like maybe, just maybe, you’ll stay.

-

The night is soft. 

There’s a party inside, somewhere behind the tall glass doors and the low thump of music, laughter floats.

But you’re not listening.

You’re out on the balcony. Alone. Leaning against the railing with an unfinished drink in your hand, gazing at the skyline.

And it feels like the first night again.

And maybe that’s why your chest tightens when you hear the glass door slide open. You don’t turn. You close your eyes for a few seconds. 

“I’ve been looking for you.”

Your lips tug upward, glancing at your drink. “I wasn’t hiding.”

“I know,” he mutters. “Didn’t know if you wanted to be found.”

You turn around. He looks tired. Not just from the grueling season. But from everything. His eyes though. Those goddamn eyes. Are softer now. Calmer.

Your lift an eyebrow, “Did you win?”

“Not even close.” 

 A pause. Then, “Not if I don’t have you.”

Your breath catches. And it would be so easy to look away. Turn around and pretend he isn’t there.

He steps forward, slowly. Like a predator cornering his prey.

“I love you,” he says. “And I’m tired of pretending I don’t. Tired of pushing anything that matters in my life away.”

“I was scared,” he confesses, his hands shoved into the pockets of his slacks. “I didn’t know how to be in love and still be…still be good a this.” He gestures around him, like he’s referring to the career, the pressure. “But I don’t want to be good if you’re not in it with me.”

You swallow hard. “You made me feel like I didn’t matter when you shrugged me off all those nights ago.”

“And I’ll never forgive myself.” He whispers. “Just let me try. Let me be better.”

And when he reaches for your hand, you let him. You lace your fingers together. You let him rest his forehead against yours.

“You’re late,” you smile. 

He smiles back, and lets out the biggest breath like he can finally fucking breathe again. “And I'll spend forever making it up to you.”

[leclerc-hs]

the color violet - ln4 SNEAK PEAK!!!!!

pairing: lando norris x fem!reader summary: in which you and lando can't seem to quit each other OR you and lando are casual fuck buddies

OUT TONIGHT APRIL 21, 2025 at 9:00 PM EST

lmk thoughts!!!! been home sick for past 4 days so i've had a lot of time to sit on my computer and write recently ◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤

You find yourself leaning over a balcony later on, fingers curled over the ledge like you might fall, and that’s when he slips behind you.

He doesn’t say anything at first, but you can feel him. You don’t turn around. At least, not right away.

But when you do, he’s looking at you like he’s not sure if he should speak or just walk away.

You break the silence first.

“You’re staring.”

“Yeah,” he says, not apologetic at all. “You’re hard not to look at.”

A beat. Then you smirk, soft. “Careful. I bite.”

He doesn’t even flinch. “So do I.”

You look away first, back out over the city lights flickering below, your pulse thrumming beneath your skin because you can feel him now. He’s closer. Warmer. Quieter. Feel as if he’s studying the back of your neck and imagining what you’d do if he pressed his mouth there.

“You always do this?” You mutter, voice barely heard. “Stare at girls like you’ve already undressed them in your head?”

His lips twitch, barely, and you can hear the smirk in his voice when he says, "Only when they look like they want me to.”

You turn to him, slowly, hair falling over your shoulder in the process, and your eyes catch his with an intent that makes his breathing falter. Just slightly.

“And if I do?” You ask, voice laced with something dangerous in it.

He takes a step closer. Close enough that you can smell his cologne, something expensive and intoxicating, and he tilts his head just slightly, eyes flicking toward you mouth. 

“Then I’d say you’re playing a dangerous game.”

You don’t break eye contact.

[leclerc-hs]

sick in bed all weekend so prob gonna try to write (i have a couple works in progress 🤪)

trying to be more active for y’all

the next posted piece will be a lando fic (sorry to my charles lovers but i have another one for him that’s in progress alsoooo)

[leclerc-hs]

off the record! - cl16

pairing: charles leclerc x race engineer!reader (fem) summary: in which you and charles don't correct the headlines OR you and charles are fake dating...key word: FAKE...right? warnings: language, some smut, NOT PROOFREAD (there's prob typos sorry), angst??? word count: 9.1k author's note: hiiii angels! I hope you like this one <3 let me know what y'all think!! hearing from you all is what gives me motivation to keep writing. xoxo. HAD THIS ONE SITTING IN THE DRAFTS FOR SOME TIME

Charles is good at pretending. Almost too good.

He’s too swift in front of the cameras, too convincing when his hand always manages to find the small of your back as you both walk through the paddock like it’s second nature. Like you belong there, belong to him. Too natural in the way he leans toward you in interviews, voice low and warm, muttering things that sound and look intimate even when they aren’t.

Except sometimes, when it doesn’t feel like pretending.

Because no one’s watching when it’s just the two of you in the garage after hours, both of you bleary eyed and sore from leaning hunched over the data too long. He’s still like that. Still standing too close. Still reaching for your wrist when you ramble off, his thumb brushing over your pulse like its nothing. Or when he still calls you amour and cherie in that voice, like he doesn’t remember that it’s all fake.

And you let him. You always do.

Because it’s easier than admitting the truth. That you’ve started memorizing the sound of his laugh. Or the shape of the vein in his throat when he’s super focused. That your stomach twists into knots whenever his eyes crinkle from a smile that feellike its just for you. That you’ve memorized the shape of his mouth when he says your name, whether it’s joyful, annoyed, or exhausted, it’s always gentle. Like he cares. Like he means everything.

And that’s what makes it unbearable.

Not the way he touches you when people are watching. Not the photos or the constant headlines.

It’s the way he looks at you when no one else is around.

Like it’s not pretend at all.

-

It starts in the most ridiculous way.

One stupid photo, taken from the wrong angle at the wrong moment, and suddenly you’re everywhere. 

LECLERC’S SECRET FLING???? MYSTERY WOMAN OR HIDING IN PLAIN SIGHT?

You outright groan when you see it. You’re still in the motorhome, alone with the hum of the mini refrigerator behind you and the harsh morning sun streaming through the tinted windows. Your laptop is wide open, untouched, but all you can do is stare at your phone.

Your face is angled slightly toward him. His head tipped just enough to suggest something intimate briefly between FP1 and a strategy meeting, your hand grazing the curve of his back as you both maneuvered through the crowd. He laughed at something you said, probably something dumb, but the photo caught that too. His mouth curved upward, eyes crinkled in your direction. Like something romantic, private, real.

Your stomach churns.

A knock sounds, soft and almost polite, before the door opens anyways. You don’t have to look up to know its him. His scent hits you first. Clean, something warm and familiar that always lingers too long.

“Did you see the news?” Charles asks, closing the motorhome door with a soft click.

You turn the phone screen toward him, “What do you think?”

He glances at the screen for a mere second and huffs out a soft laugh. Not surprised, not even irritated. Just amused, like this is a game.

“Didn’t know you were considered a mystery woman. Let alone my mystery woman,” he says, stepping closer, a towel draped over his shoulder.

“Didn’t know I needed PR clearance to walk beside you,” you reply, brows raised. Your voice is sharp, not in the mood to be flirted with, even if its playful.

His smile dims, just a fraction. “I know it’s annoying.”

“It’s beyond annoying,” you drop the phone beside you. “They don’t even bother to use my name! Just ‘female engineer from inside Ferrari’. Like I’m nothing.”

His gaze softens while he leans against the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees as he sighs, “They’ll get bored anyways.”

“Will they?” You meet his eyes. “Or are they going to spin this until I’m some mystery girlfriend hiding in plain sight?”

Neither of you speak for a few moments.

“It’s not the worst thing in the world, is it?”

You blink. “What?”

He shrugs, not looking at you as he says, “They’re going to write the story either way. Maybe it’s better if we control the narrative.”

You lean back, studying him. “Control?”

Charles finally looks up, and when he does, its with that expression he only wears when he’s working through something dangerous. That soft stillness thats half strategy, half vulnerability.

“They think we’re together already,” he says. “What if we just…let them?”

The silence stretches and you just a stare at him, waiting for the joke, the amused smirk, the cocky laugh. But it doesn’t come.

Because he’s serious.

“You want to fake date me,” You say flatly.

“I want to stop giving them something to chase,” He corrects you, his voice almost a whisper. “If they think we’re together, they might back off.”

You begin to shake your head slowly. “That’s insane.”

He exhales through his nose, not denying it. “Think about it. A few appearances, some hand holding. A smile or two when cameras are around. No one gets hurt.”

You let out a short, humorless laugh. “Right…no one.”

He stands then, crosses the room and leans against the counter next to you, too close like he always is. His gaze skims your face.

“You wouldn’t have to change anything,” his voice is soft. “You’re already next to me most weekends. You’re already in photos. You already…” He pauses. Swallows. Breathes. “You already look at me like it could be true.”

Your heart drops. You open your mouth. Close it again.

He’s not joking. He’s asking.

And the worst part is, part of you wants to say yes.

You study him for a long moment. The way his lashes cast shadows over his cheeks when he blinks. The way his hair falls softly over his forehead, sweaty and messy.

“You’re really serious about this.”

He nods. “Only if you are.”

You reach for your phone again, staring at the photo, before putting it face down.

“When do we start?”

-

You feel him before you see him.

There’s a palpable shift in the air…familiar. And he’s there. Just standing outside the hospitality suite, dressed from head to toe in Ferrari red, with his sunglasses slipping on the bridge of his nose as he gives a small nod to someone you don’t recognize. He doesn’t look at you immediately. He doesn’t have to.

Regardless, your pulse spikes.

Your grip on the tablet in your hands tightens, a poor attempt at grounding yourself. You’ve walked beside him before. Done this dance dozens of times. But never with eyes on you like this. Never with your face wrapped up in headlines and edits that call you something you’re simply not.

Charles falls into step with you as if its the most casual thing in the world. As if the press haven’t been breathing down your necks. His scent hits you first, like always, clean and expensive and something so him that it unsettles something deep in between your ribs.

“Ready?” His voice is smooth, and he still isn’t looking at you.

You nod, forgetting that he isn’t looking at you before you mutter a soft I suppose in his direction.

The paddock is nothing but a storm of noise and motion by the time you step out. The sun is shining blindly, heat simmering off the asphalt while other workers buzz around between the garages. Photographers and fans hover like flies on a horses back. 

Your heart is already fluttering in your throat, but you manage to keep your face composed. Neutral. As if there aren’t dozens of cameras fixed on you. Waiting.

His hand brushes against yours…barely. It seems like nothing at first, just the back of his hand brushing your fingers as you walk side by side.

But then it happens again. This time on purpose.

And then you feel it. His fingers curling, slipping through yours with a care that feels almost too fucking intimate.

You freeze. Not noticeably. Your steps don’t falter. But something inside you, burns. 

The cameras go wild. 

You hear it in the shouts, in the constant click click click as people realize what they’re witnessing. Voices shout from nearly every direction. Some screaming his name, others screaming yours. Your heart thuds like a drum behind your ribs.

And then, he stops.

Right there in the middle of the paddock, with the crowd pressing in, with reporters angling their mics and cameras, he fucking halts. His grip tightens around your hand, not painfully, but enough to make you stop walking too.

You turn, confused and startled. But he’s already facing you.

The sun glints off his sunglasses, casting shadows across his face, but its his stillness that steals your breath more than anything. His thumb brushes once, slow and grounding, along your hand as he speaks.

“You okay?” He asks, voice quiet and nearly lost in all the surrounding noise.

Your throat constricts. “I’m fine.” But it’s not convincing. Not to him at least.

He leans in slightly, and for a second, you think he might say something but instead his hand squeezes yours again, then slowly his fingers move. Like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your knuckles, the exact curve of your wrist, the shape of your hand against his.

And quickly, so quickly that no one but you could catch it, he tilts his head and lowers his sunglasses just enough for his eyes to peek over the top. 

And that is what undoes you. Its not a look for show. His green eyes are dark and searching. He just looks at you like he’s reading his favorite book. Like he wants to consume every single written word of yours.

“You sure?” He says, like the answer actually matters.

You nod.

And within a millisecond his sunglasses slide back into place with one push of his fingers. Mask on again. But his hand never leaves yours.

And you start walking again. Casual, composed, fake.

-

You don’t even bother knocking. Just push the door open with your shoulder and shuffle in like it’s your room. Your shoes are already off before the door fully shuts, mumbling something about your spine being broken as you toss your team jacket over the back of a chair.

Charles doesn’t even look up. He’s on the floor, back against the bed, legs stretched out in front of him.

“You’re late,” He says, voice muffled by the few bites of pasta in his mouth.

“You’re alive,” You shoot back.

“Barely.”

You collapse beside him, shoulder knocking into his as you groan and sink into the carpet as if its the best thing since sliced bread.

“Yeah, well. Next time, try not to scare me half to death on lap 52,” You mutter, pulling your hair out of its pony and letting it fall. “I don’t need to explain to the FIA why I dropped dead.”

He chuckles. It’s low, tired, and warm.

“I’ll  try to keep that in mind. Wouldn’t want to traumatize you.”

You nudge his knee with yours. “You traumatize me daily.”

His head turns towards you, raising an eyebrow as he places his dish onto the ground. “You love it.”

You snort. “I tolerate it.”

“Do you want my pasta?” He pushes the bowl towards you like a peace offering.

You stare at it. “You’re so romantic.”

“Not romantic,” he softly smiles. “Just generous, cherie.”

“You’re luck you’re pretty.”

“You’re lucky I don’t care to fight right now.”

The room is dim, only one lamp on by the bed, casting a warm glow across the room and his face. His hoodie’s rumpled, socks mismatched, and hair still damp from the shower he rushed through.

It’s stupid how at home he looks right now. Not the polished version. Just Charles, the boy who can’t sit still and lets you steal his hoodies whenever your room gets too cold.

“I’d let you win,” You shrug your shoulders.

His brows furrow slightly. “Win what?”

“A fight.”

His grin spreads slowly across his lips. “Oh, so you’re feeling soft tonight, hm?”

“Soft. Exhausted. Whatever you wanna call it.”

“I like you like this,” he says, like it’s nothing. Like it doesn’t make your chest cave in.

“Like what? Emotionally unstable and half-asleep?”

“Exactly.”

You roll your eyes, but your smile breaks through anyway. 

You both fall into an easy silence.

Comfortable.

-

You’re sitting sideways in the too-small balcony chair, legs draped over one arm, glass of wine in hand, with your head tilted back as you laugh. Charles is sitting on the floor beside you, his socked foot nudging the edge of your chair every now and then like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. 

“You were so fucking smug,” you say, pointing your glass at him. “And the audacity on lap 37?”

He smirks, leaning his head back agains the sliding glass door. “You were on the radio sounding like you were about to reach through the headset and strangle me.”

“I was! You kept ignoring the delta!”

“I did not-“

“You definitely did! You lifted once in turn ten and then just fucking sent it.”

He’s laughing now. Its full bodied and messy, his eyes crinkling at the corners. And in this moment you decide, you love this laugh. This laugh is yours.

“Okay,” he says, catching his breath. “Maybe I did ignore. Just a little.”

“So I was right?”

He takes a long sip of his drink, eyes on yours over the rim of his glass. “Don’t push it.”

You nudge him with your foot. “I’m always right.”

“You’re always loud,” he counters. “I’ve never met someone who could make an entire briefing feel like a personal attack.”

“I’m passionate.”

“You’re terrifying.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling, and he’s still looking at you like there’s something about this moment that he wants to memorize.

-

The room is dark except for the flickering light from the TV, the sound low enough that you have to lean in to catch some of the lines, not that either of you really care.

The rain outside has been tapping against the windows since dinner, soft and steady, with the curtains half-drawn. It smells like shampoo and hotel linen and the candy bar you split earlier, the wrapper still crumpled on top of the nightstand, forgotten beside two water bottles and a single sock that might be his or might be yours.

Your lying on your stomach, head propped up on a pillow, legs bent at the knees with your feet swaying as you scroll through the Netflix menu for, what feels like, the seventh time. Charles is stretched out beside you, one arm tucked behind his head, the other lying between you, fingers brushing the edge of the blanket like he’s unsure if he wants to move them closer.

“Pick something,” he groans, his voice thick with tiredness. “You’ve been scrolling for ten years.”

“I’m feeling out the vibe,” you reply. “You don’t understand.”

“You picked Spaceballs last time.”

“And you loved it.”

He groans, dragging a pillow over his face. You laugh, loud and bright, and Charles turns just enough to look at you. The screen casts you in soft light.

He doesn’t say anything. Just watches you for a second too long. And then like it’s normal, he reaches for the back of your shirt and tugs it down where the fabric has ridden up, his knuckles grazing warm skin as he smooths it into place.

“You’re always doing that,” You mumble, slightly dazed.

He doesn’t deny it.

“It just bugs me when you’re not covered,” he says, almost to himself only.

You want to tease him, want to say something clever, but the way he says it makes your stomach twist in a way you’re not ready to think about.

So instead, you settle on a movie. Some stupid, forgettable rom-com, and throw the remote between you with a sigh.

At some point, maybe around the third scene of the movie, you shift. Not deliberately.

Just a slow, natural thing. One of those absentminded movements made out of comfort and sheer exhaustion. You start leaning into him, just slightly. Your head dipping forward, shoulder brushing against his arm, and your elbow resting a little closer to his ribcage than it was twenty minutes ago. You don’t even realize it at first. It just happens.

Charles, on his end, doesn’t move away.

He doesn’t stiffen. Doesn’t tense. Instead, he shifts too.

It’s not much. The way his body tilts just slightly toward yours. The way his hand, once resting flat agains the mattress, curls upwards so that the back of it now brushes against the edge of your waist whenever you breathe.

You shift again, slower this time, letting your cheek rest against the slope of his shoulder, his cotton hoodie soft beneath your skin, smelling faintly of detergent and something warm. Something you’ve begun to associate with home. 

You don’t move.

He doesn’t either.

You both just let it happen.

-

It starts with a spoonful of cereal to the face. 

Not yours. His.

You’re sitting cross-legged on the bed in a hoodie that’s definitely not yours (it’s his and he’s already made a hoke about it), one hand deep in a box of granola, the other scrolling on your phone, when Charles makes the mistake of saying something smug about your snoring.

“I don’t snore,” You say almost immediately, without looking up.

“Oh, yes you do,” he counters from where he’s standing near the little counter, pouring milk into a bowl. “You sound like a chainsaw.”

You blink at him.

Then, silently, reach for the complimentary spoon, dip it into your bowl of cereal, and flick it directly at his chest.

It splatters against the front of his t-shirt, clinging to the cotton.

He looks down and simply stares at the damage. Then up at you.

“You did not just-“

“I warned you!”

“You did not-“

And then its absolute chaos as he lunges.

You shriek, laughing, cereal long forgotten as you scramble to the far side of the bed, but he’s faster…years of sharp reflexes working unfairly in your favor as he reaches out and grabs your waist, tackling you into the pillows.

“No, Charles…Charles, please!”

“You did this to yourself!”

“Truce! Truce!”

“Too late.”

His hands are gentle, even as he’s tickling you. Even as you flail and laugh and grab at his wrists like you could stop him. Which you can’t, because his grip is ridiculously strong and the room is already echoing with your wheezing.

Eventually, he stops.

Maybe because he’s laughing too hard. Maybe cause he notices the way you’re curled beneath him, face flushed and eyes shining. 

And for one very long moment, he goes still

You both do.

Both frozen. Smiling.

But it fades a little because suddenly there’s this change that feels heavier than it should. A shift in the air that neither of you meant to invite in, but it’s here, demanding.

He clears his throat and rolls off of you with a soft groan.

“You’re the worst person ever ever,” he says, falling onto the mattress beside you.

“You started it.”

He throws the nearest pillow at you. “You cereal bombed me.”

“You deserved it.”

Another moment of silence passes.

Then casually, almost too casually, he says, “You can keep the hoodie, by the way.”

You blink. “Oh?”

“Yeah. Looks better on you.”

You glance at him, but he’s not looking at you.

No. He’s just lying there, arms folded behind his head, with a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth like he didn’t just light a very dangerous fire.

And you don’t say anything. You just tug the hoodie a little closer around you.

-

The paddock is mostly empty by the time you finish up. The sun is low, and you’re walking a few steps ahead of him on the track, laughing at something he said. Not the polite kind of laugh people give him in interviews. But a real, loud laugh.

That’s the first mistake.

Because Charles is watching you. Not in the casual, friendly way he always has, but really watching you. And for the first time since this whole thing started, something in his chest pulls.

You glance back at him, smiling. “What?”

He blinks once, caught. “Nothing,” He starts to shake his head, trying to shake off the feeling. “You’re just…in a good mood.”

You slow down so that you’re walking beside each other again. “What? I can’t be happy?”

“No, you can. You just…” He trails off, lost in his own thoughts, before shrugging his shoulders. “I don’t know. You’re just different today.”

You laugh, softer this time. “Maybe I like being your fake girlfriend.” You say it as a joke. It’s always a joke.

But Charles’s smile falters, just a fraction.

And that’s when it happens. Right there. That’s when he realizes he doesn’t want it to be fake.

You keep walking, your eyes scanning the track like you’re picturing tomorrow’s data in your head already. Charles tries…really, really tries, to slip back into that same rhythm. The one where you’re just his engineer, just his best friend, just the person he trusts most in the world as of lately.

But that’s the problem, isn’t it?

Because you’ve always been that person.

And now there’s a weight in his chest every time you smile at someone else, a hum under his skin every time you say his name, and suddenly your laugh isn’t just nice to hear. It’s necessary. Like a drug. A song he never wants to stop playing.

The breeze picks up a little, carrying the light scent of rubber, and a strand of your hair blows across your face, rubbing against your cheek. You tuck it back without thinking. The motion is small, but it somehow feels intimate. Stupidly intimate. Like something only someone in love would take notice of.

Charles swallows and looks away.

“You good?” You ask, noticing the way his shoulders stiffened slightly.

He nods, almost too quickly. “Yeah, just got a wave of exhaustion.”

You don’t press. You never do. You let him have his silences, even if they stretch too long, like right now. 

You’re talking again, about strategy or the tires, but he’s not really listening anymore. 

He’s thinking about your hands. The way you rested them on his chest during the last media stunt, your fingers spread flat over his heart like you didn’t know what you were touching.

He’s thinking about the fact he didn’t even flinch.

He’s thinking about how he liked it.

You say something funny and laugh, and Charles lets out one too. But it’s small, only half there.

Because it’s not funny anymore.

Because he’s beginning to look at you like he’s already lost you, and you don’t even know that he wants you yet.

And when you reach over to gently tug at his elbow, teasing him about being such a slow walker today, he knows it will only take one moment. One moment to fall completely, stupidly, in love with you.

And you’re just smiling like it’s all a game.

-

It’s late in the afternoon, just after FP2, and the air inside the motorhome has a tired kind of warmth. The kind of energy that once pulsed throughout the room has now dulled into a low murmur. 

You’re curled into he corner of the bench, tablet in hand, thumb swiping purposely through the sector times that begin to blur because you’ve been staring at numbers all day. Your back aches, neck’s tight, and you’ve probably read the same stats of numbers three times while retaining none of it.

All while trying your best to not acknowledge Charles across from you.

Charles. Sitting relaxed, legs stretched out, legs lazily crossed over one another at his ankles. You don’t look at him, not directly at least. But you always feel him.

You can sense his movement more than you see it. The soft pull of gravity as he crosses the room with such ease that no one bothers to notice. His body finds its way beside you, his thighs pressing into yours, his shoulders against your arm.

You don’t look up because you don’t need to.

He leans in until you can feel the warmth of his breath at your temple, his faint scratch of stubble barely grazing your skin.

“What are you changing?” His voice curls its way into the space between your ear and your neck, and it settles there. Warm. Lingering.

You clear your throat, trying to sound casual, something that doesn’t sound like he’s unraveling you. “Playing around with the rear balance,” you say almost too quickly. “That first sector was a mess.”

He hums in agreement, half thoughtful, half amused. And he’s so close that it vibrates through you.

But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t lean back. Doesn’t pretend this was just about data.

He stays close, too close, almost always. His body angled towards you, shoulders brushing against your arms, thighs pressed against yours with ease. Familiar. Like he knows exactly how far he can lean into you.

And then his hand rests on your thigh. It lands softly, just above your knee, the heat of his skin bleeding through the fabric of your pants. His thumb brushes once. Barely.

Then again. 

You don’t flinch. You don’t correct him. You don’t glance around to see if anyone notices because you don’t care. 

It’s normal.

-

He hadn’t said much on the flight back. Hadn’t looked at anyone after the race either. Not to the media, not the engineers, and not even the fans who were leaning over the barricade chanting his name like he hadn’t lost the entire race from a single lock-up.

You watched him in the garage, helmet on too long, gloves clenched in his lap like he didn’t trust his hands to open.

You waited. You always did.

Now it’s past midnight and the hotel is silent. You’re half-asleep when you hear it. A soft knock, barely audible. You lie still, unsure if you’re imagining it.

Then again.

Three quiet knocks.

You pull yourself out of bed slowly, dragging the blanket around your shoulders, padding barefoot to the door with sleep covered eyes.

You peep through the hole before unlocking it.

Open it. And Charles is there. Barefoot.

Sweatpants and a hoodie thrown on like he couldn’t care less what he looked like. His eyes are tired. Not the good kind. The kind of tired that lives behind the eyes.

He doesn’t say anything. He just looks at you. And you don’t ask why he’s here.

You step back wordlessly and let him in, closing the door behind him as he moves past you like he’s on autopilot.

He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to.

Because the way he’s looking at you, his eyes heavy and rimmed with pain that he doesn’t let anyone else see, says everything.

He stands in the middle of the room for a second, like he’s unsure if he should sit or speak or leave.

“I fucked it up,” he finally says, voice flat. “We had it all right. All of it. The pace, the tires. I fucking had-“ He stops mid sentence, his jaw locked so tight as if it hurts to talk.

“I saw,” Your voice is soft, soothing.

But he shakes his head once, harshly. “I don’t need you to tell me it wasn’t my fault.”

“I wasn’t going to.”

His eyes flick up then. Guarded. “You weren’t?”

You shake your head.

You cross the room toward him slowly, barefoot, the hotel blanket still draped around you like a gown, and stop just in front of him. Close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating off of his skin, close enough to see the way his throat bobs as he swallows.

“Come here,” you whisper, barely louder than the rain outside.

He hesitates, for a mere second, but then he’s moving. Softly.

He steps into you and lets you fold your arms around him. Lets his forehead press into the skin of your shoulder, lets his hands settle on the dips of your waist that makes your chest ache, because for someone so fierce, Charles has always touched you like you’re something fragile.

You hold him. 

You feel his breath against your neck, feel the way his body is barely trembling beneath your arms.

“You don’t have to say anything,” you murmur, your lips brushing the softness of his hair. “You can just be.”

He nods against your collarbone.

He just stays there, wrapped in your arms. You slide a hand into his hair, fingers combing through the baby hairs at the nape of his neck.

Eventually, he shifts, pulling back just enough to look at you, his eyes glassy. “You’re the only place I don’t have to be anything,” He says quietly. “Just me.”

And even though it makes your heart ache, you just nod.

“You never need to be anything else.” You whisper. “Not with me.”

And when you pull him toward the bed, when he lies down with his face partially hidden in the crook of your neck, neither of you speak. You both lay in the silence. 

-

The mirror is fogged up. 

You’ve both been back for less than five minutes, barely kicked off your shoes, and he’s already standing in the middle of the hotel bathroom with his shirt half off, brows furrowed, rotating his shoulder like he’s pretending it doesn’t ache.

“You’re doing that thing again,” you say from the doorway.

He glances toward you. “What thing?”

“That thing where you pretend it doesn’t hurt.”

He exhales. Stubborn. And looks away.

“You’re a shit liar,” You mutter, brushing past him to grab the icy-hot gel from the counter. “You’ve been favoring your other side since the second stint.”

He shrugs, or tries to at least. Winces instead. “Didn’t want to talk about it.”

You roll your eyes, flicking the cap off and motioning for him to sit on the closed toilet lid. “Sit.”

He does. He knows better than to argue with you…most of the time.

You lean over him and start working the gel into his shoulder with slow, careful fingers. You don’t even think about it. It’s not weird. It’s not intimate.

It’s Charles.

You’re draped in his hoodie. Oversized, soft from too many washes, sleeves falling over your hands, and your breath hitches as he leans forward so you can dig deeper into his muscle.

His skin is hot under your fingers. He groans quietly, head dropped forward, and you laugh.

“So dramatic.”

“It hurts,” he grumbles.

You press harder, just to make him squirm. And he does, a hiss through his teeth, and then he laughs.

Charles’s eyes are fixed on the floor.

You press your fingers into the tight knot just beside his collarbone, and it takes almost everything in him to not lean into you. Not to bury his face into your neck and tell you.

Tell you that your hands feel like home. Tell you that he can’t pretend anymore.

But he doesn’t.

Because you’re just smiling at him like this is nothing.

Because when you finish, you wipe your hands against the nearby towel, and pat him gently on top of the head. “Good as new.”

You move past him, leaving the bathroom with a soft laugh. And he stays there. Seated. Motionless.

Hands gripping his knees like it’s the only thing keeping him from following you and pressing his mouth to yours.

-

The ballroom is gold. Actually gold.

Gold chandeliers, gold trim, light reflecting off champagne glasses and sequined gowns. The kind of place that exudes pretentious luxury. And you can’t help but think just how fucking ridiculous it all is.

You stand near the edge of the room, one hand curled loosely around a glass of wine, the other tucked into Charles’s arm.

You’re both surrounded by easy conversations and polite laughter. But none of it sticks. Because Charles can’t focus on any of it.

Not with you standing beside him like that. Not in that fucking dress.

He hadn’t expected it to hit him so hard, but the minute you stepped out of that car, it was like the air had been sucked out of his lungs.

You in black. Hair pinned up. Shoulders bare. A tiny sliver of skin exposed at the base of your spine whenever you turned.

You’re laughing at something some journalist is saying, not performative, just a soft amused laugh as you bring your wine glass up to your lips.

Charles shifts closer. Not for the cameras. Not for the sponsors. But because he wants to. Because he wants, no needs, to feel your body against his just for a second longer, to press his fingers lightly against your skin in a way that says you’re here, you’re mine, even if you don’t know it.

You don’t move or flinch, you just lean into him with that subtle softness you always do. Like your body knows his.

And that’s what kills him. The ease. The naturalness.

Because this, whatever this is, has bled into nearly everything. This has crept up beneath the edges of what was supposed to be a casual lie, and now he can’t tell where pretending ends and begins.

Still he watches as another man approaches.

Someone older. Wealthy. Someone who looks at you like you’re not already standing beside someone, like you’re available.

Charles sees the way the man’s eyes skim the lines of your body, the curve of your mouth. He watches the moment that man reaches for your hand, presses a kiss to your knuckles, and says something that makes you smile.

And in that exact moment, something sharp and awful coils low in his chest. Hot and unfair, and deeply fucking stupid.

Because he doesn’t have the right. Not actually, at least.

He’s allowed to touch you. Allowed to whisper in your ear. Allowed to look at you. But one thing he isn’t allowed to do, is want you like this.

-

He’d stepped away for barely fifteen minutes.

Just long enough to take a photo with some of the sponsors, shake hands, and exchange polite thank you’s. 

And when he came back, you were laughing. Not at him. Not with him.

Charles’s steps falter as he spots you across the room, standing near one of the tall round tables tucked near the corner, your wine glass cradled in both hands, your smile warm.

And beside you, someone unfamiliar.

Someone tall, in a tailored navy suit, hair too perfectly styled, hand resting on the table like he owns the conversation. Charles watches, as this stranger leans in, says something low near your ear, and you tilt your head back and laugh. That real laugh. The one that makes your nose crinkle.

He feels his stomach twist.

He tries not to show it. Tries to keep walking. Because this isn’t supposed to matter. It’s all pretend.

He doesn’t get to be jealous. 

But that doesn’t stop the voice in his head from seething when he watches the man’s eyes drop to your chest. When he see’s your smile linger just a little too long for his liking.

Charles can feel it in his chest. Tight and bitter. 

And when the man reaches out, whether it was innocent or not, it doesn’t matter. Because Charles is already crossing the room.

He doesn’t rush. No, that would draw attention. But his steps are purposeful and the space between you and him disappears quickly.

You see him first.

“Hey,” you say, easy. “You remember-“

Charles cuts in smoothly. His voice even, just loud enough to interrupt, like he isn’t burning from the inside out. He doesn’t even look at the man standing next to you. Only looks at you.

“They’re asking for us,” he says. “Need more photos or something with the sponsors.”

It’s a lie. And you don’t even need to ask to know.

You can tell by the way he says it. It slips from his mouth like a reflex. Like he didn’t need to think twice before pulling you away from someone else.

But it’s Charles. And you trust him.

So you nod. “Okay. Just give me a sec-”

You don’t even finish the sentence before his hand is at your back, firm and warm. Possessive. 

There’s a pressure to his touch that makes your spine straighten, makes the uncovered skin his fingers graze buzz. Like he’s reminding you, and anyone else watching, that this is his right.

He walks beside you, closer than normal, not speaking as he steers you away from the man.

You glance back over your shoulder, offering an apologetic smile to the man, but it wavers, just slightly, when you feel Charles’s hand tighten.

Not hard. Just enough. Enough to say don’t.

The twist in your chest is unexpected. And when you’re both finally out of an earshot, you nudge him lightly with your elbow. 

“Really?” You say, eyes meeting his. “Photos?”

You try to sound amused. Like it’s all some joke. Like nothing has changed.

But he doesn’t laugh.

Instead, he keeps walking. And you can’t help but notice just how tight his jaw is clenched. And when he finally glances back down at you, you forget how to breathe for a second.

Because there’s something in his gaze that doesn’t belong to the version of Charles you normally know.

It’s too real. Too unguarded.

“I didn’t like the way he looked at you,” His voice quiet. 

You blink, lips parting. “Charles…”

“I know,” he cuts in, eyes dropping to your lips for the briefest moment before he meets your eyes again. “I know I’m not supposed to care. I know what this is.”

He sighs, slow and quiet, as his fingers flex against your back.

“But you’re mine tonight,” He says.

And he doesn’t ask.

He’s warning. And that’s when you notice it for the first time. But you bottle it up, lock it tight, and push it into that imaginary little box of yours.

Because there is no way.

-

You’re sitting, more like slouching, on the bed in your gown, a half-empty bottle of champagne bottle still loosely gripped in your hand. Charles is slouched in the armchair across from you, suit jacket thrown somewhere in the room, white shirt rumpled, top buttons undone. His bowtie is still hanging around his neck…loose, forgotten.

The two of you are flushed. Fuzzy. Not wasted, but tipsy.

Tipsy enough to remember.

Drunk enough to stop pretending.

He gets up slowly, walking over to you with such ease, before dropping down beside you on the bed.

“You’re quiet,” he mutters, his voice edged by too much champagne and restraint.

You glance down at the bottle in your hand, then back up at him, giving him a faint smile. “So are you.”

He lets out a small laugh, almost a huff, “I’m trying not to do something stupid.”

Your heart stutters in your chest, “Like what?”

His eyes fall to your mouth, linger, then look back at your eyes. “Like kiss you.”

The room tilts, just a little bit. You set the bottle down on the bedside table without taking your eyes off of him, fingers trembling slightly. 

And then, you reach for him. Instinctively.

You allow your fingers to curve into the loose knot of his bowtie still hanging on his neck, tugging it as you tilt your chin up. And when your eyes flicker to his again, you whisper, “Then don’t try so hard.”

And he kisses you like the fight is finally over.

His mouth crashes into yours like you’ve both run out of time to lie. It’s heat…pure, consuming, and real.

The kiss is deeper, messier, his lips hungry against yours, your bodies moving in an unspoken urgency from holding back too long.

His hands are everywhere, dragging along your waist, the back of your neck, your ribs, your spine, tugging you closer at any given moment.

You gasp when he pushes you flat to the mattress, hovering over you as he kisses down your throat, tongue flicking against the skin right below your jaw. His teeth dragging like he knows it will make you shiver. And it does.

“Tell me you want this,” His lips brush against your collarbone. “That you want me.”

“I want this. I want you.” 

And that’s all it takes.

He’s undoing the zipper of your dress with shaky fingers, his breath catching as more of your skin is revealed beneath the palm of his hands.

Your bra is gone before you even realize he’s unclasped the back of it, and when his mouth meets your nipple, tongue slow, you arch into him with a soft cry that turns his green eyes, black.

He’s on top of you, mouth crashing into yours again, one hand gripping your thigh and pulling it higher around his waist, the other guiding himself to your slick cunt, shuddering against your folds.

And when he finally presses into you, thick and slow, filling you in a way that makes your head fall back and moan, you swear you never want to stop this from happening again.

“Christ,” he grunts, forehead pressed to yours, trying to feel all of you. “Feel so good.”

You cling to his shoulders, nails digging into the muscle there. “Then fuck me.”

And he does.

Harsh, deep, rhythmic thrusts that make the headboard creak and your breath escape in desperate, broken moans against his mouth. His pace is steady, hips snapping harder whenever your moans start to rise, when your nails claw into his back, when your thighs shake around him.

His mouth finds yours in a kiss that’s more hunger, more like need. He kisses you like he can’t stand not being inside of you in every way.

“Fuck, you feel like you were made for me,” he groans. “Driving me insane.”

You whimper against him, tightening your arms against his neck. “Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”

His pace doesn’t falter. His forehead presses to yours. “You’re all I think about,” he pants. “Every fucking night.”

You’re both close. And he knows it, because his mouth finds yours again in a kiss that’s more teeth than tongue. More claiming than comfort.

And when you come, crying his name out like it’s the only word you’ve ever known, he follows. His hips pounding as he groans into your shoulder, holding you so tightly like you’ll disappear if he didn’t.

-

You’re still in your headset, arms crossed tight over tour chest as Charles climbs out of the car, pulling off his gloves with that sharp, frustrated energy that always festers under his skin when things aren’t working out the way he wants them to.

He tosses the gloves onto the seat, runs a hand through his hair, damp with swear, and gives you a look thats more of a challenge than a greeting.

You glance down at your tablet, even though you’ve looked at the data a dozen times.

“I told you to take more margin in turn six,” you say, voice calm but tight.

Charles laughs. It’s low, humorless, and bitter. “You think I don’t know how to drive my own car?”

You lift your eyes slowly, and the look you give him is sharp. “I think you’re letting your ego get in the way of your brain. Again.”

His jaw tightens and he takes a step closer. Like he wants to rattle your bones.

“You want to talk about my ego?” He asks, words laced with a dangerous edge. “You’ve been walking around like nothing happened. Like I didn’t have my tongue on your skin a few nights ago, like I wasn’t buried deep inside of you while you whispered my name like it meant something. Like I mean something.”

You inhale sharply but don’t flinch. This can’t happen here. Not in the garage.

“And you’ve been walking around like it didn’t mean something.”

He pulls off the top half of his suit, tying it around his waist in jerky, clearly annoyed movements.

“You want me to pretend it didn’t happen?” His voice hoarse now. “Fine. But don’t stand here and act like I’m the only one who did this.”

You blink. 

“I can’t afford to lose you.” You whisper.

And he gets it. And he hates it. Because he knows you’re right.

“Yeah,” his voice is a low whisper. “I know.”

-

The lights are hot.

Not warm. Not pleasant. Hot. In the way that makes your skin feel too tight and causes your eyes to ache from squinting under the glare. 

You’re standing on your mark, back straight, hands at your sides.

Charles is standing right beside you. As always.

Exactly three inches away. At least you counted three.

It’s the closest you can stand without touching him, without the brushing of his arm, without creating that electric, dangerous feeling of his hand on your back, his voice in your ear, you’re mine tonight.

You’re both pretending that it didn’t happen. Neither of you have brought it up today.

Not since he texted you late last night, just one line saying sorry if I crossed a line.

Not since you replied with it’s fine, we were drinking and tired.

It’s not fine.

Now you’re standing under a harsh spotlight with your body angled slightly toward him like always.

You smile when the photographer tells you to. Charles does it too. And he’s good at it.

He turns to you mid-shot, leaning in as if he’s whispering something sweet and private for the camera. You feel the warmth of his breath against the skin of your ear, and you fight the way your heart jumps.

“Are we okay?”

It’s the first time he’s said anything that close to something real in a week.

You keep smiling. Because the sponsor is watching. Because the cameras are still click click clicking.

Because the woman facilitating this shoot looks like she might cry if you didn’t sell this fake love story just a little bit fucking harder.

So you tilt your face toward his, press your hand to the center of his chest, right over his heart…and you nod, like you’re agreeing with some romantic phrase he could’ve said.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “We’re okay.”

The room echoes with praise. “Beautiful, you two.”

Your ears are buzzing and you barely hear the next instruction. Something about posing closer. Hands on waists. More intimacy. 

Charles moves first. He steps forward and wraps his arm around your waist like it hasn’t been a week since he nearly broke you open with one quiet, possessive sentence. 

You place your hand on his chest again. Because thats where it belongs now.

Because this is what you’re good at.

Pretending.

-

The elevator is quiet. And not a comfortable kind. No, this is the kind that makes your tight throat and chest heavy.

The numbers tick upward, each one feeling like a warning.

Charles stands beside you, hands in his pockets, with his shoulders pulled tight. You can feel the tension in the way his foot taps against the floor.

You speak first, voice too light. “Long day, hm?”

It’s pathetic, really. You hate the way it sounds coming out of your mouth, small and weak.

Charles doesn’t look at you, but his jaw clenches.

“You didn’t even look at me once today,” he says, and its not an accusation.

You blink, startled by how hurt he sounds. You open your mouth to respond, but don’t get the chance. 

“You didn’t even laugh,” he looks down at his feet. “Not a real one.”

You glance at him, and he finally shifts to face you. And the look in his eyes makes your stomach turn. Because he doesn’t look angry. No, he looks tired. He looks vulnerable. 

“I didn’t mean to make things complicated,” he says, his voice barely above the sound of the elevator noises.

“It was a long week. We were tired. Drinking.”

“That’s not what I’m saying.”

You lean against the wall, holding your hands in front of you tightly.

“The problem is I didn’t say enough,” he mutters. “I meant what I said. At the gala. In the hallway. In your bed.”

And you flinch.

Not because you don’t remember, but because you do.

Every breath. Every touch.

“Don’t.” You swallow hard.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t make this harder.”

He laughs, once. But it’s bitter. Hollow. “You think this is me making it hard?”

“We crossed a line.”

His eyes flicker, and his voice is so low when he speaks next.

“Yeah,” he says. “I know. I’ve been standing on it for weeks. Maybe longer. Only difference is I let myself believe I wasn’t alone on it.”

Your stomach is twisted in knots and he takes a step toward you. Not touching, but close enough.

“Tell me you didn’t feel it,” he says. “Tell me it was just sex. That it meant nothing to you.”

You don’t answer. Because the truth is there, dying to be let out. But you can’t.

So you remain still.

And when the elevator doors open on your floor, you step out with your stomach in your throat, your feet hitting the carpet with soft thuds.

You don’t look back.

But you hear it.

The sound of his hand catching the doors before they close, the sudden groan of the elevator stalling. And then, footsteps. Fast. Heavy. Angry.

You stop walking, but don’t turn around until he’s already there. His breath is quick and his jaw is locked tight.

“Are you really just gonna walk away?” He asks, his voice is sharp, but not loud. Not cruel. Just full of emotions he doesn’t know how to say calmly anymore.

You turn halfway, just enough to see the frustration etched on his face. His brows drawn tight, mouth tight, fists clenched at his sides like if he doesn’t, he’ll just reach for you again.

“What do you want me to do, Charles?” Your voice is quiet. “Pretend that night didn’t happen? Or pretend it did, and it meant nothing?”

“I want you to stop pretending it didn’t mean everything,” he snaps, taking another step forward, closing the space between you both. “I want you to stop looking at me like I’m asking you for something that isn’t already yours.”

Your skin buzzes.

“I know you feel this,” his voice is shaking now. “Because I see the way you look at me. I feel the way you hold me. The way you whisper my name.. So…don’t stand here and pretend like it was just sex.”

You feel yourself begin to shake.

And all you can say is, “I can’t afford to need you.”

His eyes flicker, anger giving way to something hollow. “Too late,” he says. “You already do.”

And then he turns. Walks away. And leaves you standing there.

-

The garage is nearly empty. Just you and Charles, still in uniform. Like clockwork. 

The scent of oil and burnt rubber clings to the air while you sit, finishing up your notes. Or at least pretending to.

He’s leaning against the edge of the workbench, arms folded, gaze flicking to you every few seconds. Like he wants to say something. Like it’s burning him alive.

You feel it too. 

So, you set your tablet down. “Are you going to say something, or just keep staring at me?”

His jaw clenches. Then, “I shouldn’t have said what I said.”

You look up at him. “And yet, you keep bringing it up.”

“Because you act like it didn’t matter. Like it was nothing.”

You exhale slowly, “What do you want me to say, Charles?”

And he’s pushing off the bench, taking a few steps closer. “You’re angry because I meant it. And I’m angry that you’re still pretending you don’t feel this.”

Your pulse stutters and he’s close now. So close that you have to crane your neck to meet his eyes.

“Don’t do this again.” You say, quietly, like a whisper in the wind.

“Why?” He tilts his head slightly. “Because if I say it again, you’ll have to admit it’s real?”

He takes another step. “I think about you all the time. Touching you all the time. And not just when we’re in front of people. Especially when we’re alone. I wake up thinking about what it would feel like to kiss you when you’re not performing, when no one is watching, when it’s just us.”

Your hands tighten into fists.

“I want to hold you late in the night and tell you things I’m not allowed to say. I want to call you mine  and it actually be true.”

“And you think this is easy for me?” It’s the first time you’ve broken character.

He blinks, slightly shocked. Like he can’t believe he has you starting to talk.

“I go home at night smelling like you,” you whisper, like it hurts to say. “Wearing your clothes. Curling into bedsheets that still feel like your hands were on me only hours ago. And I pretend him fine.”

You look back up at him then, barely holding it together. He’s wide-eyed, not taking the risk to say one word, not when he finally has you speaking.

“I pretend I don’t notice how every part of me aches when you leave. That I don’t hear your voice even when you’re not around.” You swallow hard.

“I go through the motions. Tell myself that this is all fake, and it’s just something we signed up for. But then I catch you looking at me like that and it feels like my ribs might crack.”

His eyes are slightly glassy now. But you keep going, because there’s no going back from this. No way out of this, not with him being so persistent. Not when your emotions could swallow you whole if you hide them any longer.

“I come back to my room at night, wearing your hoodies, and pretend that it’s just because I’m cold and that they’re comfortable. I pretend I’m not holding it closer to me whenever I miss you.”

Silence.

“I love you. And it’s killing me, because every day I have to pretend that I don’t.”

“Say it again.” 

You blink. “What?”

“Please,” he begs. “Say it again. I didn’t think I’d ever hear it.”

Your throat tightens, but you do it anyways. “I love you.”

He surges forward, pressing his forehead against yours, shaking as he whispers, “I’ve been in love with you for so long that I forgot what it feels like not to be.”

His hand moves to cup your cheek, tilting your face toward his. And then he kisses you. 

Like it’s everything. 

Like he’s finally. Finally, fucking home.