charles leclerc imagines

07 | would you be mine?

Yes, the race was an absolute disaster, the fault entirely Sauber's for releasing Bottas into Charles, and it was expected that Charles would lose his shit but not in front of everyone.

Leaving you to deal with him and do damage control on what everyone's already calling a PR nightmare. To top it all off, Charles has already gone to his hotel room, and is refusing to come out even for his PR manager.

So you go to him.

"You're acting like an idiot," you say as you walk into the room.

Charles steps to the side to let you in, then locks up behind you. "You're supposed to be a professional."

You scoff. "Right, Charles. You're one to talk. After what you pulled today—"

"Am I not allowed to be dissatisfied? My race was ruined, Y/N. You can't expect me to be okay with it."

"Nobody is. I'm just asking you to word it differently, is all."

"Well I was mad," he says. "I wanted to let it out."

There's a pause and you wait—one long heartbeat—and then his hands are on your waist. "And you weren't around."

Your hands on his chest push him away. "We can't—This is not the time—"

"It's never the time," he says.

And when you finally look up, you see his pupils wide, fixed on your lips. Your heart stutters and you feel a shiver run down your spine, at the mere thought of—

"Charles," you say. "I need five minutes."

He looks at you expectantly, but you see the moment resignation washes over him. He sits on the couch and leans back, manspreading in a way that's all too inviting. "What do you want me to do?"

You've got a list. You take your phone to pull it up and when you glance up, his face is so open and vulnerable and you see how much the race has hurt him, how much of this is just a front he's putting on.

Fuck it.

The list can wait.

The couch is cold when you sit down, but his body warms you up as he wraps his arms around you, pulling you close to him.

"I'm sorry," you say. "I never even asked if you're okay."

He chuckles. "That wouldn't be very professional of you."

"We both know I'm not the best at being professional."

Charles's gaze drops to your lips again. "Yeah. We do."

"You can talk to me. As a friend, not your PR manager."

"A friend."

"Yeah."

"Is that what we are?"

One of his hands is on your thigh, moving up and down, reaching higher each time. The touch is electric, your skin responding to the impulses like charged. You've spent a good portion of your days trying not to think about it, and he's been so, so—

So careless.

But he's just as irresistible.

You lean in. "We can be whatever you want."

His lips find yours and they're soft, and gentle, and exploring, and you open your mouth and he slides in a tongue and you fall into the familiar pattern, an all-too-known sensation, with him leading. His hand reaches higher and higher until it's cupping your ass, gripping it as his teeth graze at your bottom lip.