Salt, Sweat, And Tarred Oakum
Salt, Sweat, and Tarred Oakum
Max Verstappen x Oscar Piastri Golden Age of Piracy AU
Summary: A wicked lift came unbidden to the corner of Oscar’s mouth. “I’m trained to hunt pirates, sir – you have fewer secrets than you think.”
The inscrutable set of Verstappen’s face hardened, and Oscar marveled at the captain’s ability to be such a sphinx when he needed to be. It was the perfect combination of unsettling and disturbing - no wonder the man had a three-year running reputation as the Caribbean's most fearsome pirate.
In which a harrowing storm pushes Pirate Captain!Max and Captured Naval Lieutenant!Oscar to their limits.
Warnings: Explicit 18+ NSFW smut (handjobs); explicit language; pirates being pirates; discussion of death at sea and pirate ship destruction; hurt/comfort; hand wounds (cuts and blisters)
Word Count: 10k+
Also on A03
A/N: If anyone had said that the Qatar GP cool down room would spawn this AU, I wouldn't have believed it, buuut... here we are lol. I totally blame credit this to the fic's awesome beta xsunny for the inspirational post-race chat we had. And no offense meant to Lando here, but Max and Oscar both on the floor (despite the not good reasons why) was just too good to let go. 🏎️🏴☠️
Water soaks him to the bone. Oscar can’t even tell his own sweat from the sea water and rain water. Not that it really matters when puddles form in his boots, his hair mats to his forehead, and thick drops fall from his chin and drenched clothing.
The ship and rest of the deck crew look just as waterlogged now that the rain finally tapers off. Such a godsend after the last two hours of brutal torture at the helm as the ship tossed and pitched about in the unforgiving, merciless waves. Adrenaline seeps from his veins as exhaustion settles deep in his bones. His hands ache from controlling the wheel, from fighting the rudder’s resistance against the powerful sea. At least Pierre and Esteban had managed to drop the mainsail before the storm unleashed its full fury.
Biting back a grimace, he flexes his hands and tries to work some feeling back into his numb muscles. A burning blister announces itself on the junction of his left thumb, protesting the motion. He steadies himself against the wheel as the ship rocks in the calmer water, paying little mind to the rainy drizzle falling around him.
In all his years at sea - despite his young age - he’s never encountered such a fierce storm. He’s never had to push himself so hard just to hold on, just do the job he’s trained his life to fulfill. His chest heaves with deep breaths as he closes his eyes and tries to calm the thunderous roar of his own heart that matches the thunder now fading into the distance behind them.
He opens his eyes, blinking water from his eyelashes, and his gaze lands on the captain. Verstappen’s face holds the gaunt pallor of over-exertion and exhaustion even as rainwater glistens on his skin and hair. Oscar doesn’t know where the man’s tricorn has gone, but he still wears his dark canvas coat over the white blouse and dark trousers plastered to his skin. The captain rakes a hand through his hair as he surveys the deck, unleashing a cascade of water droplets down his neck, and a tendril of unwanted, traitorous heat curls in Oscar’s gut.
Cannon fire still pounded in his ears as saltwater filled his nostrils and stung his eyes. Another wave swell overtook him as he swam against the choppy, crystal water. The heavy wool of his uniform threatened to drag him under, but his fingers found purchase against a piece of floating debris and he hauled himself up. The section of splintered decking wasn’t so large to fit his entire body, but just wide enough to keep his head out of the rolling waves.
He gasped for breath, still trying to clear his head. Smoke hung in the air as the destroyed remnants of the navy ship floated around him, and he fervently looked for any other men in the water. His heart sank to not immediately find any, instead only finding the pirate ship floating victoriously off the port side. A small tender approached out of the ship’s ominous shadow, and Oscar’s stomach lurched. He didn’t know what this pirate crew would do with a naval officer like himself, but he'd heard plenty of tales back at the barracks.
His feet kicked in the water on instinct, trying to get away even though it was futile. He wouldn’t be able to outswim them and there was no land in sight this far out in the Caribbean. Anxiety clenched his chest as he slumped against the flotsam to catch his breath and save his strength. He would need all of it for what lay ahead.
“Doesn’t look to be much left.” A French-accented voice carried over the rolling waves. “Perhaps the captain hit them too hard, non?”
“No.” Another French – but maybe Italian? – voice piped up. “You saw it blow from within – they scuttled themselves to prevent us from taking their cargo.”
“But that’s what we’re out here for.” A wizened Spanish-accented voice said, carrying a soft authority. “Whatever they were carrying was valuable enough to not let us take it, but some of it may yet be afloat. Stay sharp.”
Oscar worked an uneasy swallow down his throat as a general chorus of ‘aye, sir’ filled the air. He tightened his grip on the wooden plank, ignoring the growing ache in his shoulders as he bobbed in the water. Would telling the pirates that the cargo hold of the king's treasury bullion now rested at the bottom of the sea spare his life or just earn him a quicker slit of the throat? Tilting his head down, he watched helplessly as the tender floated into view. He could only hope that the extensive amount of wreckage floating around him would camouflage him.
The pirate crew looked like the expected ragtag bunch of brigands – young seadogs each seeking their own fortune and following their chosen captain in hopes of attaining it. The man standing at the tiller sported uncommonly refined white streaks in his hair, his face marked with deep lines indicative of a long life at sea. He didn’t wear the obvious adornments of command, but an unspoken authority still rested on his shoulders. The ship’s bosun, then.
Oscar froze as a sailor fixed him with piercing green eyes. The man’s face curled to an intrigued smile beneath his mop of wild brown curls as he pointed at Oscar. “A survivor!”
The other sailors in the boat instantly turned towards him, and he had nowhere to hide. A chuckle broke out from another man with rakish brown curls and short facial hair. “Are you sure, Charles?” He asked with a heavy French accent. “It looks more like a drowned rat!”
A sailor with straight black hair and pointed features moved his oar in the water as the boat approached. “All navy men look like rats to me.”
Indignation stiffened Oscar’s spine as his face hardened. The man on the tiller offered a kind smile despite the dark, serious set of his eyes. “What’s your name, son?” His Spanish-accented syllables held a tone that promised reward for obedience and punishment for obstinacy.
“Lieutenant Piastri.” He called out, putting a note of steel in his voice.
“Well, Lieutenant Piastri,” the Spaniard’s grin widened with a toothy edge. “You have nowhere else to go.”
“I’m fine right here, thank you.” He adjusted his grip on the floating flotsam for emphasis.
A low chuckle rose from the tender, and the green eyed French-Italian man shook his head. “Don’t be foolish, mate – you can’t possibly hope to survive.”
He nodded, unable to deny the pirate’s words. “Death at sea is preferable to life among pirates.”
“Oh-ho!” The Spaniard chuckled and glanced down at the crew. “You hear that, mates? Refusing our hospitality even before he’s met the captain!” Another chorus of laughter rose from the pirates, and Oscar’s mouth pinched to a tight line of irritation. “Well, we can’t do that, mate,” the Spainard continued with a definitive shake of his head. “You may yet know something useful. Especially since your captain decided to sacrifice his ship, his cargo and his crew... you’re about all that we can salvage.”
“Well, unfortunately for you,” Oscar returned as he tried to kick away from the tender’s bow. “I’m unsalvagea-"
Multiple pairs of rough, strong hands grabbed him all at once. The pirates leaned over the gunwale, intent to haul him onboard, and he clung tighter to the driftwood. The French sailor with brown curls grunted in exertion as he pulled on Oscar’s arms. “Let go, mate!”
Oscar grit his teeth, tightening his grip and thrashing his feet as he tried to dislodge the hands pulling at this water-logged uniform.
“On three!” The Spaniard called out. “One, two… three!”
All three sailors in the boat tugged hard and fast in unison, and Oscar’s hands ripped away from the wooden plank. White hot pain erupted in his left hand and the saltwater instantly burned, distracting his concentration as the pirates dragged him up into the boat.
He fell to the bottom of the tender with an undignified groan, instinctively cradling his left hand close to his chest. A nasty, jagged gash sliced across his palm, probably from some unseen nail or splinter. Blood soaked into his uniform coat as the sailors retook their seats on the tender benches and resumed rowing.
“Don’t you worry, Lt. Piastri,” the Spainard said, sounding half-distracted as he glanced out over the sea ahead. “We’ll try to forget that you insulted us so brazenly, but I suggest watching your tongue around the captain. Or he will cut it out.”
“And don’t tell him that you’re a lieutenant,” the black-haired Frenchman chuckled. “Or he will remove your stripes with your own toenails.”
Another round of laughter rang above him as Oscar bit his tongue. His opportunity to fight back may yet come, but this wasn’t it. He tossed about the bottom of the tender in a puddle of seawater until the hull knocked against the side of the pirate ship. The ship loomed impressively large overhead – larger than he had originally estimated – and his gaze caught on the flag held high in the midday wind.
A pair of white stitched cross bones occupied the bottom of the black flag, but where a skull should reside, instead sat a white patchwork emblem of a lion’s head with its mouth open in a fierce roar. Oscar’s stomach dropped to his feet as recognition seized him.
Only one ship in the Caribbean flew this emblem – Captain Max Verstappen's notorious Sea Lion.
A dark chuckle sounded overhead before the Spanish bosun stepped into view. “Come on, mate,” he encouraged, nudging Oscar’s shoulder with the toe of his boot. “If you recognize the flag, then you know that he doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”
Oscar's mind reeled as his body numbly moved, rolling to his feet and reaching out for the rope ladder slung over the side of the ship. The cut on his hand screamed even as he gingerly tried to adjust his grip on the rungs, but with the bosun right behind him, he had no choice but to keep climbing. More pairs of hands awaited him at the top, seizing his shoulders to drag him fully on deck, but Oscar stayed on his feet as the crew closed in.
In a show of subtle defiance, he straightened the lapels of his soggy navy coat as if that would somehow lend an air of commanding stature to his appearance. But as the wind ruffled his sopping wet hair, he recognized how painfully young he must look compared to the crew around him.
A man with wide, soulful brown eyes stepped forward, assessing him up and down. “You’re injured, yes?” He, too, had a Spanish accent though he appeared to be many years younger than the bosun.
Oscar glanced down at his left hand, spying the small puddle of blood forming on the deck. “Obviously, yes.”
“Just your hand?” The man clarified, darting his gaze back up to Oscar’s.
“Yes.”
The young Spainard gave a curt nod before he turned and disappeared towards the ship ladder leading up to the quarterdeck. Oscar watched him go, tracking his movements until he stopped to converse with the man at the helm who could only be the ship's captain.
The man wore a rough leather tricorn with no plumage or frivolous accessories. His coat and blouse complemented the broad set of his shoulders and the leanness of his waist. With the overhead sun, Oscar couldn’t discern the captain’s facial features, but something in the man’s confident, unassuming stature made his heart leap.
As the captain descended the ship ladder to the main deck, Oscar didn’t bother to hide his curiously open stare. Captain Verstappen’s exploits had been legendary for three years now, and any navy man worth his salt had dreamed about being the one to finally bring him to justice. Maybe if Oscar played his cards right, he would have that chance.
Verstappen came to a stop in front of him and fixed him with sharp blue eyes. Despite the neutral set of the captain’s face, Oscar missed none of the calculating assessment taking place in those crystalline depths. Heat gathered beneath the drenched shirt collar sticking uncomfortably to his skin, but Oscar refused to look away. If the captain meant to intimidate him, then he refused to give the man that satisfaction, even though something about Verstappen's gaze made Oscar incredibly self-conscious in his nearly transparent white trousers and shirt.
The captain suddenly blinked away to regard someone over Oscar’s shoulder. “Fernando,” he said, voice thick with a Dutch accent. “Why is this man bleeding on my deck?”
“The navy ship scuttled her cargo, captain.” Fernando's words floated over his shoulder. “This sailor was the only thing of any value to be found.”
“Are you sure about that?” Verstappen's gaze darted back to Oscar and the gold stripes on his uniform coat. “Tell me, sailor, what was your post?”
The corner of Oscar’s mouth lifted before he could stop it. “Sail Master.”
A hush fell on deck as everyone stared at him. The crew probably thought he was bluffing, but that would be their mistake. Even his commanding naval officers had marveled at his uncanny skill and innate talent for seafaring navigation – especially for one so young – but he had long proven himself capable. And if this pirate captain now truly doubted his worth, then that would also be his misfortune.
A disparaging, cackling laughter came from somewhere on Oscar's left. “Yeah, right mate.” A man with sandy-blonde curls and a British accent scoffed. “If you’re a Sail Master, then I’m the King of England.”
Laughter rang across the deck, but nothing changed in the intensity of the captain’s eyes despite the almost bored set of his face. Oscar held his gaze in silent challenge, in a silent assessment of his own – until the captain blinked and somehow looked even more bored than before. “Carlos, take him to my cabin.” He said as he abruptly turned away. “I’ll deal with him there, and for fuck’s sake, stop him bleeding everywhere. As for the rest of you, back to your stations and set sail!”
A roaring chorus of support sounded around him as Carlos stepped forward, glancing down the lines of Oscar’s coat. “Does that thing have pockets?”
Oscar scoffed before he could stop it. “Is that seriously your answer to my bleeding hand? Just shove it in a pocket?”
Carlos shrugged an indifferent shoulder. “The captain hasn’t decided yet if he’s keeping you or not. Best not to waste supplies until he does.”
“Keep me?” Oscar echoed. “What? Like I’m a fish to be thrown back into the sea?”
“If he decides you’re not worth it, then yes. Come on,” he stepped forward to wrap a strong hand around Oscar's upper-arm. “Hand in your pocket and let’s go. There’s work to do.”
Fernando’s voice filled the air around them, calling out orders as the men scrambled into action securing deck supplies, ascending the rigging ratlines, and taking up sailing positions. Oscar squared his jaw but loosely balled his hand to shove it in his coat pocket. He let Carlos lead him across the deck to disappear into the ship’s interior.
Gunners and powder monkeys scurried about, tying cannons down and securing barrels of shot after the thwarted attack on his navy ship. He tried to get a count of how many guns flanked the pirate ship’s deck, but Carlos pulled him through another doorway before he could finish.
“Don’t touch anything,” Carlos instructed curtly as they passed through the wardroom. “You can probably guess what will happen if you do, let alone if you’re caught stealing anything.” He pulled Oscar towards the door set in the far rear of the ship – the door that needed no introduction. “And don’t get blood on his floor or else you’ll answer to me.”
“If I’m still here, though. Right?” Oscar asked cheekily before he could stop himself.
Carlos blinked back, unimpressed. “Just for that, I’ll send you straight to Fernando.” He pulled open the captain’s cabin door and shoved Oscar inside. Despite the sun’s brilliance, the salt-crusted windows cast dim shadows about the space. It looked tidy enough – a hastily made bunk along the far wall, a sea chest strapped against the foot of the bunk, a closed-door cabinet adorning the other wall. At the center of the cabin resided a large square table – a desk, a dining table, a charting table all in one functional furnishing. The scuffed surface revealed that it once held a gleaming polished finish, but now it just bore the scars from life in the service of Captain Verstappen.
An unbidden shiver ran down Oscar’s spine despite the stale warmth of the captain’s personal space. The air hung heavy with an oddly pleasant musky, sweet scent, and he absently wondered if it came from some part of the captain’s toilette or if that was just his natural scent.
His hand started to throb as he held it in the warm confines of his pocket, and he debated seating himself at the table until the captain arrived. Despite being below decks, the increasing sway in the ship’s movement indicated a steady increase in speed as the sails caught the wind, carrying him away from the remains of his ship and the bodies of his fellow sailors.
The thought punched him in the gut. A ship of 122 hands – all elite sailors to defend the king’s treasury – and fate had decided that only he should be the one to bear their memories. He tried to summon a prayer for the lost souls, but the sudden scrape of the wooden door distracted him.
The captain entered without a second glance behind him and closed the door. His assessing stare landed on Oscar before darting around the room in a careful study as if to confirm no signs of tampering.
Oscar sighed softly. “I didn’t touch anything.”
The captain scoffed with a faint edge of amusement. “I already suspect you of lying, mate, so that won’t work.” His boots thudded off the deck as he stepped up the large table and dropped his tricorn atop the surface. His dark sandy-blonde hair held a curiously short style and loose strands flopped over his forehead. Even in the dim light, Oscar could see beads of sweat that clung to the fine hairs on the nape of his neck. He turned back to regard Oscar. “I assume that you already know who I am?”
Oscar tilted his head in a moment of consideration before answering. “Your colors are well known, Captain Verstappen.”
He looked neither pleased nor disappointed in Oscar’s answer as he pulled out a chair to sit. “Now this is where you tell me your name.”
“Oscar Piastri, Lieutenant of –“
“Just Piastri will do.” Verstappen cut him off as he leaned back against the chair and stared back at him with a gaze to cut through bullshit. “And you claim to be a Sail Master, yes?”
“If I had my sailing log, I could prove it to you.”
Verstappen tilted his own head in contemplation. “Quite a bit young, aren’t you?”
“22, sir. Older than I look.”
“Then, tell me Piastri,” the captain continued unfazed. “Your course to reach Tortuga from here?”
Oscar blinked in a moment of surprise, thrown by the sudden question. Realization slowly dawned and his brow furrowed with curiosity. “Wait, are you… are you testing me?”
“Liars waste my time.” Verstappen simply replied. “And since your sailing log isn’t available, as you said – I’m left with limited options. Either you’re a ballsy liar or you’re a truthful idiot.”
Another wave of indignation stiffened Oscar's spine as he wet his top lip, choosing to ignore the captain’s comment and instead focus on the question. He summoned the navigation chart in his mind’ eye and recalled the last known compass bearings. “Four points off the starboard bow, east by north-east.” He said, pointing his right hand in the appointed direction for emphasis. “Tack the sails larboard and ride the headwinds until sunset.”
His words hung in the cabin’s silence for a long moment as Verstappen stared back at him, betraying nothing about his thoughts. The urge to fidget under the unwavering scrutiny tugged at Oscar, but he resisted. It was nothing more than another intimidation tactic – an admittedly effective one, but Oscar still refused to back down.
“And from Tortuga,” the captain said suddenly. “To Nassau? What would be your recommendation?”
Oscar nibbled his bottom lip as he conjured the map in his mind. It wasn't a route that he had personally sailed, but the naval charts bore many markings of hidden reefs and sandbars along the Bahamian islands that just waited to ensnare unsuspecting ships. “I suppose it depends,” he started softly as the wheels of his mind worked. “On the tide and the draft of the ship.”
“We usually run 4 meters.”
“4 meters,” Oscar repeated with a nod. “Then, the coastal tides of the Cockburn Shoals will snag us. Best to stay on a westerly course. A bit more exposure to the open sea, but less risk to thread the shoreline.”
Verstappen arched a brow. “You know about Cockburn Shoals?”
A wicked lift came unbidden to the corner of Oscar’s mouth. “I’m trained to hunt pirates, sir – you have fewer secrets than you think.”
The inscrutable set of Verstappen’s face hardened, and Oscar marveled at the captain’s ability to be such a sphinx when he needed to be. It was the perfect combination of unsettling and disturbing - no wonder the man had a three-year running reputation as the Caribbean's most fearsome pirate.
Without warning, Verstappen shoved his chair back and pushed to his full height. He stood a couple of centimeters taller than Oscar and he crossed the room to the closed-up cabinet. A key materialized from his pocket, and Oscar could just see the ribbon tied to the key’s end that disappeared back into the pocket’s interior. A wise decision to sew one’s keys to one’s clothing when living on the water with known thieves.
The cabinet doors swung open to display an array of indistinguishable bottles, books, and rolled charts before its contents were blocked by the captain’s broad shoulders. “We should dress your hand,” he said matter-of-factly as he took a bottle in hand. “You’re no use to me with sepsis.”
Oscar’s ears perked. “I’m no use to you, as in… you’re keeping me onboard?”
“Perhaps you’re more valuable than you look.”
Verstappen turned back around, and Oscar fixed him with a hard look. “Respectfully, captain, I would like to request that you maroon me instead.”
“Really?” Nothing in Verstappen’s tone changed as he moved back to the table, brown bottle in one hand, a wooden bowl under one arm, and a roll of clean linen in the other hand. “Starvation and death instead of serving on a pirate ship, hmm?”
“Exactly right.” Even as Oscar spoke, Verstappen’s words settled with a lethal finality in his ears. It didn’t make his response any less true, however.
“Then, you should have kept your mouth shut, Sail Master.” Verstappen replied, dipping his head with an admonishing edge as he dropped the linen roll and bowl to the tabletop. “If you trusted that fact to keep you alive, it worked – but did you consider the ramification that it would press you into my service?”
Up close, Verstappen’s eyes glittered like the crystal sea as they reflected the dim sunlight. His scent carried hints of salt, sweat, and tarred oakum worthy of any seaman, but something about it stuck in Oscar’s gut. He didn’t realize just how close they stood, running his gaze over Verstappen’s features until he noticed the freckle on the captain’s upper lip.
He worked a swallow down his suddenly tight throat. “And you’re really going to install the man who requested death instead of your service at the helm of your ship?”
“Just because you turn the wheel doesn’t mean you know the destination,” Verstappen smoothly countered. “And since you’ll report directly to me – I’ll be the first to know if you put even just one toe out of line, and then you’ll probably lose it.” He looked down to pull the cork free from the bottle. “Give me your hand.”
The words reminded Oscar about his left hand pulsing with pain and growing uncomfortably hot inside his pocket even as he replied. “Is that the same encouraging incentive you give your crew?”
“My crew aren’t prisoners. They understand that if they follow orders and don’t try my patience, we will be successful. But I can’t speak for a navy man fresh off his ship who chooses death over my service.” He nodded down at Oscar’s arm. “Give me your hand. I won’t repeat myself again.”
Verstappen’s tone gave Oscar little room for doubt, and he swallowed his words to bide his time. Perhaps this wasn’t his moment of escape, but it may yet come. The Sea Lion will have to dock eventually, and there would be plenty of opportunities to seek freedom at that time. Deciding that he had made the captain wait just long enough, he slowly pulled his hand from his pocket.
The captain wasted no time grabbing hold of his wrist and pulling it down towards the bowl. Oscar braced himself as Verstappen tipped the bottle and a stream of brown liquid poured over the gaping wound on his palm. Fire erupted in his veins as the alcoholic grog made contact with his blood, and he hissed sharply, unable to hide a wince. It burned for a long unpleasant minute before Verstappen sloshed another wave over the oozing wound. His hand twitched in the captain’s firm grip as he bit back a groan, and Verstappen’s steadying hold tightened.
“You’re taking this well, for what it’s worth.” Verstappen commented absently as he inspected the gash.
Oscar drew a sharp breath as pain lanced up his arm. “Not my first wound. Won’t be my last.”
The captain hummed – perhaps in agreement, perhaps in consideration – before he pulled back and released Oscar’s wrist. He drew it back on protective instinct, shaking the excess grog into the wooden bowl, mindful not to throw any drops onto the floor. If he was indeed going to be stuck on this ship for the time being, then he didn’t want to risk earning Carlos’ ire too quickly.
“Keep it dry and keep it clean.” Verstappen commanded as he reached for the roll of linen and retook Oscar’s wrist. He wrapped the linen to form a crude bandage and secured the ends with a knot that rested between Oscar’s thumb and forefinger. “Report to Fernando for a hammock and another bandage. You’ll serve a 10-hour shift behind the wheel daily-”
“10 hours?”
Verstappen arched an unimpressed brow. “Do you think that’s unfair?”
It was certainly longer than any navy shift, but if he was indeed a prisoner of sorts, then he had no leg to stand on here. However much he wanted to fight and push back against Captain Verstappen, he must keep reminding himself that this was not his opportune moment. He pinched his mouth shut and curtly shook his head.
“Good. I didn’t think so.” Verstappen continued, drawing back to fix him with a hard look. “You’ll serve a 10-hour shift at the helm daily and report directly to me. Logan will be your master’s mate and minder on your off-shift hours. You will never go anywhere on this ship unaccompanied, and you will heed every order that comes from me, my quartermaster, and my bosun. Are we understood?”
The words sank like lead in Oscar’s stomach, but he vowed to find a way to turn this situation to his advantage. “Understood.”
Verstappen nodded sharply before his gaze dropped down Oscar’s body and a concerned wrinkle appeared between his eyes. “You need to remove that coat. I won’t risk those brass buttons catching the sun's gleam in someone’s spy glass.”
Oscar nearly laughed but stopped himself. “Well, if I don't wear my navy coat, sir, then what do you suggest?”
“Your whites will do, for now. If we take on cargo that includes clothing, you can perhaps have a share if your behavior warrants it.”
Well, maybe he wouldn’t stand out as a captured navy man in his blue coat, but his cream and white ensemble would still betray him. Perhaps that was Verstappen’s intent – if he remained dressed in all-light clothing, he wouldn’t be able to easily hide in the ship’s shadows, nor would his master’s mate be able to mistake him for someone else.
The moment drew out for another breath before Oscar sighed and shrugged out of his navy coat. The wet wool stuck to the linen of his soggy shirt as he pulled it free, suddenly self-conscious all over again.
Verstappen took the dark coat in hand, giving him another once over, and something in the air shifted as he no longer appeared to be assessing a threat. In fact, his gaze held almost a hint… some appreciative gleam in those glacial eyes that sparked heat in Oscar’s chest…
But then he abruptly turned away and Oscar finally remembered how to breathe.
A cry from the forward ratlines drags him out of the memory, and he watches Pierre start to climb. Blinking more water out of his eyes, he glances up to see a damaged piece of rigging swaying in the gently falling rain. He hopes the breakage isn’t too severe - Alonso had already said the canvas provisions were getting low and Carlos didn’t know when the ship would next dock.
The blister on his hand protests as he grips the wet wood, but he doesn’t dare let go. Between the thinning clouds and the hazy starlight, the horizon appears as a dark, grey smudge, but it’s enough for him to keep the ship pointed in the right direction. At least until he can relinquish the wheel long enough to use his compass.
The salt beef and potatoes settled in his stomach with a satisfying fullness as he waited for the start of his shift. Standing by the quarterdeck railing, Oscar let the refreshing evening breeze blow over him and he glanced up at the stars. He didn’t remember anything about the skies over his home. Probably because he’d been way too young to know better, but maybe that was what he loved about the Caribbean skies. No matter where the sea took him, the stars overhead always made him feel at home.
Even if that home was still a pirate ship.
The thought hit his gut with a sour note, and the singing merriment from the main deck below suddenly sounded way too loud.
“The captain’s wife was Charlotte, born and bred a harlot. Her thighs at night were lily white, by morning they were scarlet!”
Raucous laughter rose from others in the crew as they joined the chorus, but Oscar had little desire to sing along. He still couldn’t shake the guilt of helping Captain Verstappen take down yet another merchant ship. But the day’s haul of yerba mate tea and cocoa had put everyone else on board in high spirits.
Even Captain Verstappen seemed pleased by the day’s take, but the man still proved difficult to read. Glancing away from the horizon, Oscar's gaze strayed unbidden to the man currently at the helm. Captain Verstappen draped almost lazily over the large wheel, making minor course adjustments as they rode the nightly currents. He had earlier decreed a night of rest and celebration for the crew’s successful venture with a promise to dock soon and sell their ill-gotten goods for the benefit of all – and the promise of fresh coin immediately had called for a triple rationing of grog.
“You should be down there, you know.” Verstappen’s voice sliced through his thoughts. “You did your part as a member of my crew today.”
The words nearly made Oscar cringe. “No, thank you, sir. I take no joy in what we accomplished today.”
“No? It only took one shot across the bow for them to raise the white flag. They offered no resistance, no one was hurt, and they sailed off with a significantly lighter hold – but they did sail off.” Verstappen shook his head with disbelief. “If that’s not a victory, then I don’t know what is.”
Bile rose in Oscar’s throat but he swallowed it down. “Victory is not stealing from innocent people just doing their jobs.”
“Innocent people," Verstappen scoffed. “Your naivety shows itself if you think colonization is innocent – no doubt the tea and cocoa below is rooted in blood labor and their masters are the only ones who profit from its sale.”
Perhaps the captain did have a point there. Oscar had seen enough of the slave trade ships to have some idea, but by Verstappen’s logic – if someone only stole from those who stood to profit, then why not make the whole world a target? But as he blinked over at the unassuming man commanding his ship with easy competence, perhaps that was exactly Verstappen’s plan.
Why stop now when he could be king of the world?
A rush of warm appreciation rolled through Oscar, and he shook the thought away, trying to work a swallow down his suddenly dry throat. The singing from the main deck seemed to grow in volume, affording him another moment to collect himself.
“Aboard the good ship Venus, you really should have seen us! With a figurehead, a whore in bed, and a mast of a phallic genus!”
“Well,” Oscar finally said, glancing back up at the captain. “At least the crew are in good spirits. That should make you happy, either way.”
“It does,” the taller man confirmed. “But you’re part of that crew now, too.”
Oscar scoffed softly. “I don’t think so, sir.”
“But you could have run away three weeks ago, could you not?” Verstappen suddenly turned and fixed his sharp eyes on Oscar, leaving him nowhere to hide. “We docked in Antigua, and you had every opportunity to not come back.”
“You had Logan stick to me like a flea on a dog -”
“And you could have forced a brawl in a bid to win your freedom –”
“And then be arrested for brawling in the street?!”
Something mischievous twinkled in Verstappen’s eyes. “But then you’d be free of my ship.”
“At least your prison has sails and stars,” Oscar heard himself say. “A prison on land would just…” Words escaped him as his stomach soured. Even just the idea of being locked away in a dingy stone cell unable to have the sea spray on his face or feel the deck rolling beneath his feet or see the starry sky hurt his soul.
Verstappen regarded him for a long moment before stepping away from the wheel. He approached with his long steady stride, crossing over to where Oscar stood just in the shadow of the mizzenmast. Starlight shone on the captain’s Caribbean sun-kissed skin and deck torchlight gleamed in his blue eyes as he drew up close – close enough for his perpetual scent of salt, sweat, and tarred oakum to catch in Oscar’s nose. A scent that had no right to be so appealing, no right to make Oscar want to lean in and taste it on his tongue.
Memory sparked in Verstappen’s gaze, leaning down to make himself heard over the lively celebration raging on the main deck below. “That doesn’t sound any different than being marooned, you know.”
Oscar’s mind replayed the first conversation he ever had with Captain Verstappen that day in his cabin, and he couldn’t look away from the older man. “But that would have been my choice, unlike imprisonment.”
“And would you make that same choice now?” Verstappen’s voice dropped to a low register that settled uneasily in Oscar’s gut.
He worked a swallow down his throat as he debated how to answer. Somehow saying anything but ‘yes’ felt like a condemnable betrayal, a precipice from which he could never return. Yet the truth of Verstappen’s words stared him in the face - he didn’t try to escape Logan’s watchful eye, he hadn’t tried to plant subversion on the ship, and he had only helped Captain Verstappen navigate the sea to take more plunder. Everything he had ever been raised to believe dictated that he should want nothing more than to abandon this ship and see it rot at the bottom of the sea... the sea that glittered at night like the light in Verstappen’s crystalline eyes…
The corner of Verstappen’s mouth ticked up, revealing the little freckle that dotted the pink, plump skin. “You know what I think?” He purred softly. “I think that you actually like being aboard my ship. You can’t admit it, of course – betrayal of duty and honor and so forth – but I look at you and I don’t see a man wanting to escape.”
Oscar’s mouth went dry as his voice turned thready. “Then what do you see?”
An inscrutable edge came to Verstappen’s face even though nothing in his expression changed. He held Oscar’s gaze for what felt like eternity before he broke away to glance down at his coat and rummage in a pocket. A flash of brass appeared in his hand, and he reached out for Oscar’s right wrist. He upturned Oscar’s hand and placed the cool metal object in his empty palm. Oscar’s eyes darted down to his hand, stunned at the object’s familiar, circular shape.
He raised his left hand and popped the brass cover to reveal a smart, functional compass. The arrow aligned in its north-south orientation with clearly marked points of sail extending in all the designated directions. Not all compasses were suitable for sailing the sea, but this one couldn’t be more perfect.
His gaze flew back up to the captain, trying to understand. It certainly wasn’t Verstappen’s usual compass. Even though Oscar had never been allowed to use it, he had seen the captain consult it plenty of times on deck. “Where on earth did you get this?”
The corner of Verstappen's mouth ticked up with playful mischief. “Another acquisition from our merchant friend today. I thought it would suit you.”
Oscar nearly went dizzy from the implication. “But I thought… well, you said that I wasn’t allowed to know the destination.”
“Then perhaps it will help you see what I already see,” he said softly as Oscar drowned under his gaze. “Someone who’s already free if he only just chooses to be.” A stunningly handsome smile lit his face before he ducked his head with striking modesty and turned away.
As he resumed his post at the helm, his mask of calm, collected command fell back into place. But it did nothing to disguise the open fondness in his gaze as he surveyed the celebrations of his crew on the deck below, and maybe… just maybe… Oscar could admit that being on board the Sea Lion wasn’t a fate worse than death.
He pats a hand against his soaked trousers, searching the clinging fabric for the familiar shape of the compass casing. It should probably bother him how such a simple object can immediately put him at ease, but it anchors him all the same.
“Piastri?”
He straightens up on instinct, his gaze focusing on the captain’s broad shouldered form at the base of the ship ladder. “Yes, sir?”
“Assess our position. I want to know how far the storm threw us off course.” Verstappen’s voice sounds hoarse from shouting orders over the storm’s fury, but his sharp eyes still shine through his bone-weary exhaustion. “Let Lando have the helm. And report to me in my cabin once it’s done.”
Oscar nods numbly. “Yes, sir.”
Verstappen turns without another word to seek out Carlos, finding his quartermaster as the man makes his rounds on the main deck. When the storm had blown up with little warning, Oscar had stumbled up from the orlop deck to report directly to Verstappen for orders, as always. Even now, Oscar can still see the captain at the helm in his mind’s eye. Silhouetted against the pounding rain and blinding lightning as he stood with imperious dominance in defiance of the sea’s raw power. But as soon as Oscar had climbed up to the quarterdeck, shouting over the thunder to make himself heard - Verstappen hadn’t hesitated to hand the wheel over to him.
In that moment, Oscar hadn't given it another thought - but eight months ago when he first joined the crew, that never would have happened. God… eight months. The thought lands heavy in his stomach, or maybe… maybe he’s just hungry after such intense exertion? Or maybe he’s just beyond exhausted…
But he still has a job to do. He spots Charles plodding by on the wet deck, arms laden with thick cords of rope. “Charles,” he calls out, barely recognizing his own breathless voice as the sailor looks over. “Verstappen wants Lando at the helm. Pass the word along?"
Charles looks barely able to stand but he nods before hefting a heavy line over his shoulder for better balance. In fact, as Oscar glances out over the main deck, all of the deck crew moves about in a haze of weary exhaustion. Some look far too green around the gills, others look on the verge of collapse, and others… others stagger about just trying to press on with their duties.
Even Verstappen isn’t immune to it as he braces heavy hands on his hips while now talking with Alonso. Honestly, the bosun appears to have weathered the storm almost better than the captain, but maybe that’s the benefit of the man’s nearly forty years at sea. Oscar has every intention of being retired by then - or, rather… at least, that was his plan before being pressed into a life of piracy.
Again, his gaze strays to Verstappen but he can’t summon any venom through his exhaustion. As much as he faults the man for ruining his life, he just can’t… can’t quite bring himself to entirely condemn Verstappen. There’s just something in the mischievous edge of his smile, in his direct approach to the world, in his ruthless determination to be the best.
He sighs, flexing his fingers against the wheel, and the blister screams with pain. A hiss passes his lips before he can stop it as heavy thudding boots tromp up the steps. Lando looks unusually pale in the wane light, but he’s shockingly dry as he rakes his gaze up and down Oscar’s waterlogged form. “Did you fall overboard, mate?”
Oscar works a swallow down his parched throat. “Certainly feels that way.”
“Did Max have the helm the whole time?”
It still strikes Oscar as odd that Lando maintains such a causal basis when speaking about the captain while the man's not around. But he pushes the thought aside and shakes his head. “No… it wasn’t too long after the storm hit that he turned the ship over to me.”
Lando’s brows climb to his unfairly dry hairline. “You? You mean - that was you steering us through that howling gale?”
Oscar’s face pinches uneasily. “Yes, and you can give me the full critique later -”
“No, it’s just that you… he trusted you!?” Lando’s voice rings with a heavy note of incredulity. “Despite your naval rank, you’re still a greenhorn if I’ve ever seen one, but that…? You shouldn't just be able to do that!"
A modest blush tries to color Oscar’s cheeks, but he’s just so worn out. He shakes his head in dismissal as he loosens his fingers from the wheel and tries to relax them at his sides. “Well… Verstappen said for you to take the helm now. I need to go chart our position and report back.”
Lando steps up to the wheel, running his fingers over the dripping wheel pegs. “Ask Carlos to tie a rope around your waist if you feel like you’ll fall over the railing - or maybe not!" His words sound glib but Oscar doesn't doubt that Lando might just push him overboard if he outperforms the Brit under Verstappen's watch.
He forces a tired lift to the corner of his mouth as he steps back to relinquish his post. “I’ll keep that in mind, mate.” Dragging his feet that feel far too away from his head, water sloshes in the confines of his boots as he trudges across the deck. His leg muscles nearly tremble from overuse and he longs to sit down, but not yet.
Grimacing from the blister’s sting, he reaches for the lid of the navigation trunk. The sextant’s cool metal stings his overheated skin as he pulls it free and adjusts the settings. Discerning their position through hazy clouds and falling rain always involves more guess-work than actual charting, but his honed sense of direction continues to serve him well. By the time he consults the position bearing and glances at the tattered chart in the bottom of the trunk, he has enough confidence to call the task complete. Locking the trunk, he stuffs the key back into his pocket before reaching for his compass.
As the needle orients itself north, he glances out over the ship’s deck. Carlos continues his rounds, checking on the men and glancing up at Pierre and Esteban assessing the damage. Oscar doesn’t immediately spot the captain’s familiar form, and he hates that he’s actually disappointed about it. Perhaps the man has already retired to his cabin.
After all, Verstappen had spent the storm’s duration running between the quarterdeck and the main deck, relaying orders and commands - getting everyone to pull together and heave the sails, pushing to hold his ship and crew together as the storm threatened to tear them apart. Even now, the memory of the man’s unwaveringly fierce determination stirs something warm in Oscar’s chest.
Glancing down at his compass, he confirms the ship’s orientation, pleased that they haven’t drifted too far afield. They may not arrive in time to intercept the Lusail, but the merchant ship can’t be too far away. Especially not if they also suffered a battering from the same storm.
He snaps the compass lid closed and turns for a quick word with Lando to confirm the heading. His face wrinkles with a grimace, courtesy of his blister, as he takes the ship ladder down to the main deck and pushes through the door that leads into the ship’s interior. Fortunately, most of the ship’s supplies stay well-secured for life at sea, but some ropes and fastenings have broken. He navigates through a rolling minefield of grapeshot, hearing Yuki curse heavily as he works to retrieve and store them away. Loose scrolls and a few upended books litter the wardroom as he pushes towards the ship's stern.
Verstappen’s cabin door doesn’t announce itself with any ostentatious ornamentation, and Oscar steps up to it, knocking softly. He strains to listen for a reply, brow furrowing as another frustrated cry sounds from Yuki. His mind doesn’t engage fast enough to stop his hand from reaching for the door handle and pulling it open.
The interior of Verstappen’s cabin is blessedly dark and it further tempts the exhaustion gnawing at his bones. It also offers an inviting reprieve from the stifling moisture in the air - perhaps it should be stale and unwelcome compared to the sea breeze filling his lungs for the past couple of hours, but the familiar musky scent of Verstappen’s personal space draws him forward.
After all, Verstappen had told him to report to his cabin once he finished charting. And if he happened to beat the captain here, that’s hardly his fault. He closes the door behind him and indulges a long, slow breath. His eyelids grow heavy in the dim darkness, and maybe Verstappen will reward his initiative for lighting a candle.
Ignoring the uncomfortable squelch of water in his boots, he doesn’t think about how he’s been in Verstappen’s cabin enough to know where the man stores his flint. Reaching for his knife, he steps up to the glass lantern that swings from the ceiling and strikes steel to flint. Sparks catch on the wick and a soft golden glow suffuses the room. It’s not bright enough to read by, but it might just be bright enough to keep Oscar on his feet.
Or maybe not. Darkness eats at the edge of his vision and maybe if he… maybe if he just rests on the floor for a few minutes, that will be enough. At least until Verstappen arrives. With a soft groan, he lowers himself down to sit on the wooden decking and rocks onto his back. A blissful moment of relief overtakes him and he brings his hands to his face, scrubbing them up over his eyes and through his wet hair as he stretches his legs out.
His shoulders and back sing with sweet relief as he relaxes against the hard surface, unwinding from the storm’s demanding intensity. With another sigh, he unfolds his arms out at his sides against the floor, paying no mind to the wet stick of his shirt-sleeves. No doubt his drenched clothing clings to him like a second skin, but it’s of little consequence.
Especially now that reality hits him.
He hasn’t crashed the ship. He hasn’t pitched anyone overboard. He hasn’t rolled them completely off-course.
He has done everything that training and instinct compelled him to do and… maybe Lando has a point.
"You shouldn't just be able to do that!"
The door’s dull scrape slices through his thoughts, but his mind moves too slow for his body to catch up. He hears the crisp thud of Verstappen’s boots and the wet slap of his discarded canvas coat against the wood floor before his eyes fly open. Turning his head against the wooden planks, he watches in disbelief as Captain Max Verstappen folds himself in half and lowers down to the floor. He settles his back against the cabin wall, stretching his long legs out to give Oscar a prime view of his boot soles. Verstappen sighs, running a hand through his dripping hair as his eyes close in a moment of... relief? Relaxation? Respite?
Oscar can’t place it, but it’s a shockingly vulnerable look on his commanding officer. And yet… Verstappen has proved so different from any naval commander that it just…
Something twists in Oscar’s gut as he continues to glance up at Verstappen, watching the candle’s glow catch in the water dripping from his hair like golden jewels. But as Verstappen opens his eyes, and those glacial pools connect with his gaze, Oscar’s throat begins to tighten. “I-I apologize, sir. If this…” He trails off as a dull ache lodges in the back of his skull. “I just needed a minute.”
“Clearly.” Verstappen deadpans but there’s no displeasure behind it. “I think everyone who was on deck does. That storm…” He pauses with a heavy sigh. “One of the top five worst I’ve ever seen, I think.”
“That was definitely the hardest fight of my life.” Oscar doesn’t hesitate to say. “It just never let up… a constant attack, a constant struggle to hold steady and keep the course.”
The corner of Verstappen’s mouth lifts with heavy exhaustion but also… is it pride? “But infinitely worth the reward.”
Oscar’s brow furrows gently. “The reward?”
Verstappen hums low in his throat. “Or perhaps satisfaction is the better word. That… man versus nature, the freedom of life at sea, braving the elements… whatever it is that compels you to a life at sea.” He shakes his head slowly as he tilts it back against the wall. “There’s little else more satisfying than a contest fought and won.”
Oscar turns away from the captain to blink up at the long shadows playing on the ceiling. “There’s just… nothing else that I wanted to do with my life. The sea is all I’ve ever wanted.”
The words hang in the cabin’s silence for the space of several breaths before movement shuffles over Oscar’s shoulder. He turns his head as Verstappen sits forward, folding his legs underneath him. Sitting so close, he nearly looms over Oscar in his wet trousers and clinging drenched shirt, and the firelight casts a mesmerizing glow in his clear blue eyes. “Me, too,” he says softly. “It’s what I’m good at. It’s what I like to do. If someone took away my ability to sail… I guess I don’t know what I would do.”
“I think you’d surprise yourself, sir.” Oscar offers a small smile as he rallies his strength to sit up. Bracing his hands against the floor, the painful pressure on his blister draws a hiss between his clenched teeth. He also isn’t quick enough to hide his grimace from the captain’s concerned gaze as he meets the older man at eye level, close enough to breathe in the scent of rain on Verstappen's skin.
“Are you hurt?” Verstappen’s tone comes softly but there’s no mistaking the command on his words.
“Not really,” Oscar answers with a slow shake of his head. “Just a blister. From the wheel, I guess. I thought after all these years my skin would be tough enough, but… still not enough, it seems.”
Verstappen’s gaze roams over his face as if looking for something before he drops down to study Oscar’s hands. It takes nothing for him to reach out for Oscar's blistered hand. He holds it up in the faint candle light, studying the inflamed welt with a strange look of reverence and care. It makes him look so young… much younger than the 26 years that Oscar knows him to be. Loose strands of wet hair hang over his forehead, casting dark shadows that contrast to the exhausted pallor of his skin, and the sight of him tears through Oscar’s heart.
Verstappen wets his top lip thoughtfully. “When I first met you, you had also injured this hand.” He strokes a long finger along the dark pink scar crossing Oscar’s palm. “But you survived that, and you’ll survive this. You… you’re a lot tougher than you think, you know.”
Oscar’s heart lodges in his heart and he tries to swallow around it. “I-I guess so. I mean - well, we didn’t lose anyone today. The ship’s still in one piece. So, I guess that’s the reward I most care about.”
Despite his weariness, a spark of mischief catches in Verstappen’s gaze. “Even though we’re just a ship of pirates?”
Oscar takes a long minute to look at him and the air thickens. “Even though.” He confirms as his voice drops to a low, soft tone. “It’s like you said… it’s what I’m good at.”
Another heavy silence falls as Verstappen regards him in equal measure, still holding his left hand. Heat grows along his skin from the shared point of contact and an unspeakable urge itches under his skin. The captain looks at him with such… awe and satisfaction and longing and -
Oscar’s heart stops when he finally recognizes it.
Desire.
His breathing quickens as his mouth goes dry. He has no defense left to offer, and he doesn’t know what Verstappen can read on his own face in return and he’s too tired to care. But it shouldn’t matter - all that matters is that they achieved their goal, they persevered in the face of intensity, and they’re both still alive and still here.
Beneath the scent of rain, Verstappen's natural scent of salt, sweat and tarred oakum still permeates the air, intoxicating him as it reaches deep into his lungs, urging him closer. He doesn’t know who falls into who, but as their mouths slot together, some long lost part of Oscar snaps into place. For the longest moment, they just hold the kiss together, breathing each other in, basking in the solid, reassuring contact. The slow pace of the embrace takes Oscar’s breath away as his exhaustion amplifies each sensation.
The captain’s broad hand raises to cup Oscar’s cheek, holding him closer in the slow, lingering, exploratory kiss. A sigh falls from Oscar’s lips as he leans into Verstappen’s strong hand, and the heat from the sensual kiss spreads through his tired muscles. The edge of Verstappen’s tongue prods at the seam of his mouth, and he relaxes his jaw to deepen their embrace.
A moan rumbles low in Verstappen’s chest as they learn each other’s taste, curling Oscar’s toes in his soggy boots. He chases the velvety heat of Verstappen’s mouth as an answering moan crawls up his throat, and the hunger of their kiss grows. Oscar nearly goes dizzy as Verstappen’s strong fingers tighten around his jaw, dragging his mouth down to lick and nibble at Oscar’s throat.
His heart threatens to beat out of his chest as he tries to catch his breath. “C-captain…?”
“Max,” the other man murmurs with a pleading edge against his skin. “I just want to be Max right now…”
The vulnerability in Max’s voice swallows Oscar whole, and both hands surge up to cup Max’s face. He doesn’t feel the blister’s sting as he crushes their mouths together in a searing, endless, breathless kiss. The heavy weight of Max’s hand grips his shoulder in fierce encouragement as their tongues tangle and get lost in each other. Everything about it sets Oscar’s body aflame, blood rushing to fill out his cock despite the weary state of his body. But somehow… this feels like the perfect answer after such a harrowing experience.
Max’s hand drifts down the plane of his chest, settling over a nipple. The plastered fit of Oscar’s drenched shirt adds a delicious friction as Max rolls the hardening nub between his fingers. Pleasure arcs down Oscar’s spine and he whimpers into Max’s mouth. A pleased growl sounds in Max’s throat as he licks into the heat of Oscar’s mouth while his fingers continue their sweet torture against the shirt's wet fabric.
His cock aches with need, growing impossibly harder with each twisting pinch of Max’s fingers, and, God… what would it be to have Max’s fingers on his skin without his shirt or trousers in the way? He goes blind with delirious desire as Max works the sensitive nub, scraping a blunt nail across for added effect.
The groan that punches from Oscar’s chest sounds way too loud in the deafeningly silent cabin, not helped when Max’s other hand cups his right hand and guides it down the expanse of his broad chest. His finger skim over the drenched fabric of Max’s shirt, feeling the sea-toughened muscles beneath before Max guides him over the waist of his trousers to settle on his straining erection.
“Oh, fuck… Max.” The words spill from Oscar with abandon as he gives a gentle squeeze, swallowing Max’s answering groan. The delicious sound settles in Oscar’s chest and it’s everything that he wants to hear as Max’s fingers deliver one last teasing caress before dropping down the length of Oscar’s torso.
Anticipation burns as Max’s fingers skim lower and finally cup his own aching erection. He doesn’t care if Max can taste his desperation as kisses turn messy and frantic. With Max’s calloused fingers tracing the hardened shape of him and Max’s erection in the palm of his hand, there’s no turning back from what they both want.
His tongue chases the water drops on Max’s neck as he fumbles with the laces of the man’s trousers. His blister only announces itself one time, drowned by the rush of eager need as Max’s fingers tug at his own laces. The first touch of Max’s bare skin in his hand takes his breath away, but it’s all he can do to hold on to his sanity as Max’s hand wraps around his own naked cock.
The raw touch borders on uncomfortable as their wet skin chafes but it couldn’t be more perfect. Their mouths reconnect in a sloppy kiss as they pant their pleasure into each other’s mouth. Max’s salty, sweet musky scent surrounds him as he works his hand over Max’s cock, drowning in the pleasured gasps and moans that fall from the older man’s lips. It fuels his own building pleasure as Max’s hand twists and squeezes in return, driving him closer to the brink of sweet, maddening release.
He’s far too keyed up and far too gone far too soon, and he spills over Max’s hand with a choked off cry as Max’s teeth scrape against his neck. It’s only two strokes later that Max’s own release coats his hand, and a new scent permeates the air as they slump together in post-orgasmic bliss. Oscar drops his head to Max’s shoulder, chest heaving as he tries to calm the thundering of his heart. His eyes grow heavy as the wonderful high rolls through him, relaxing his tense muscles, and God… he just wants to sleep for days.
Max groans in relief as his head rests similarly on Oscar’s other shoulder, his lips pressing a hard kiss to the side of Oscar’s neck. A pleasant aftershock courses through him and he gives Max’s softening cock one last gentle squeeze.
Max grunts. “You tease.”
Oscar hums low in his throat. “I do believe that you encouraged me.” He gasps in oversensitized pleasure as Max imparts a farewell squeeze to his own spent cock. It sparks another aftershock in his blood, but every muscle in his body is far too overworked to respond. Max’s release turns tacky on his hand and he probably has a mess in own trousers to deal with before it dries too much further. Max seems to have the same idea as he pulls back and reaches for his discarded wet coat.
He tugs an inside flap free and wipes down his hand before attempting to clean himself up. The wordless invitation extends to Oscar, and he hesitates for a brief moment before Max sighs. “It’s alright,” he says as Oscar finally reaches for the coat. “It’s on the inside so I can carry it out without anyone seeing. Easier to wash that way, too.”
With their hands mostly clean and their trousers mostly presentable, Oscar finds himself at a loss. Just what does he say to his captain now? Now that he knows how the man sounds when licking into Oscar’s mouth, when spilling into his hand? The memory curls a bolt of latent heat down his spine as he glances over at Max in the flickering, swaying candlelight. Fortunately for him, Max looks just equally lost for words as if… as if this is the first time he’s ever encountered a situation like this.
And maybe it is.
Something about that thought warms Oscar’s chest, and he desperately hopes that he is the first person aboard that Max has taken in his cabin like this. At length, he sighs and scrubs a hand over his face, breathing in the remnants of Max on his skin. “Two points south-southwest.” He suddenly says, drawing Max’s confused, piqued gaze. “That’s how far off course we are… I told Lando to hold a steady southerly course and we should be closer by morning. Though, we can’t know how the Lusail fared in the storm, either. She could be even further off course.”
Max takes a moment to respond, nodding gently. “Then, we’ll just have to keep on her shadow. Until the opportunity presents itself, we keep to what we know and see what the dawn brings.” His gaze drops to his feet in an uncharacteristically hesitant moment. “Oscar, I don’t…” He starts and stops just as quickly before raising his eyes. They shine with a painfully raw determination and something unspeakably intimate. “The dawn already brings about one change for me… but whatever we have shared - or may yet share - behind that closed door must never escape that closed door.”
Oscar immediately nods as his heart leaps. “Of course, Max. Yes, I understand.” Even as he responds, he suddenly doubts his hearing. Maybe it’s just his exhausted mind playing tricks on him, but did Max really just imply that this could happen again? It’s more than Oscar could have ever hoped for, and the corner of his mouth lifts with a hopeful edge as he meets Max’s gaze in the candlelight.
Despite the desperation and need with which they had clung to each other on the floor, the moment now isn’t right to kiss Max again and so he doesn’t. In fact, he watches as Max starts to replace his armor, transforming from the young man who shook apart in his hand back into Captain Verstappen, legendary pirate of the Caribbean Sea.
He nods again, this time in farewell. “Good night, captain.” He turns without another word, reaching for the door handle just as Verstappen’s voice sounds over his shoulder.
“Good to have you aboard, Piastri.”
Fin
More Posts from Teastoriesandforgottentime and Others
Hey gal, I hope you had a good Monday! I saw your requests were open and I’m so in the mood for some super soft Lando like all he wants to do is cradle your head and cuddle you after you’ve both had long days. And when you wake in the morning, he brings you coffee and pulls the duvet round you tighter before he leaves for training 😭 thank you xxx
ꔫ all I want is my sweet lover
°. — pairings ( lando norris x fem! reader )
°. — summary ( a sweet night and morning with the sweetest boyfriend to ever exist )
°. — details ( g; pure fluff. w; kissing and just lando being the fucking cutest. wc; 2k )
˖ ་ 💭 roro’s notes ( omg ahhh my first request! I absolutely love you and your mind, I had so much fun writing this. Lando had me kicking and giggling while I wrote this. I of course had to add my comfort movie tangled into this since I was watching it while writing. I hope you enjoy this!! xoxo but also omg?! I never write this fast, this might be my favorite thing I’ve written )
“And at last, I see the light” you quietly sing along to your comfort movie that was playing on the tv in your room. You had gotten home from work a few hours ago and you were absolutely worn out from your long day at work, it was just a bad day, nothing seemed to go right for you. So, when you walked through you and your boyfriend's apartment, you ate some dinner then quickly showered and got in bed.
You were very much tired and could happily fall asleep, but you missed your boyfriend so you forced yourself to stay up, watching a movie that you knew would keep you distracted. And it definitely did distract you, you were so caught up in the movie that you didn't notice or hear your boyfriend come home. Lando leaned against the door frame with a big smile on his face as he watched you sing along to one of your favorite movies.
You looked so pretty, all curled up in your shared big bed. He could see the familiar sight of his hoodie that you were wearing, peeking out from under the duvet. He never understood why you slept in long sleeves, both of you knowing that she would take it off in her sleep; most likely accidentally hitting him while doing so.
You quickly turn your head to the door when you hear the familiar sound of your boyfriend's giggle. You almost jump out of your skin when you see your boyfriend standing there, you never heard him come in, you hope he wasn't there long enough to see you recite the dialogue. You rested your hand on your hoodie covered chest and gasped out loud “Lando! You scared me!”
“I’m sorry love, I just couldn't help it. You're just too adorable” Lando said between his laughter, pushing up from leaning against the door frame and walking over to sit at the edge of the bed, by your side. You stop lying on your side and roll to lay on your back so you could face him better, Lando smiles and tucks the duvet under your chin so he could see your pretty face. “That's better”
“You look exhausted baby” you frown when you see how tired your boyfriend truly looks, and it makes you even more sad knowing that he has to wake up early tomorrow for even more training. Lando always works and trains so hard, you wish he could get more rest.
“I feel exhausted, but I'll feel better when I get you in my arms” Lando flirts, giving you a cheeky smile as he moves to lean down. He has thought about being in your arms all day.
“No, no, no “ You refused as you gently pushed his chest back, stopping him from laying down on you. You just showered and you washed the linen yesterday, you were not going to let your stinky and sweaty boyfriend stink up your sheets. You give him a sweet smile and softly Boop his nose “Go shower first stinky then I’m all yours.”
“All mine?” he mumbles with a pout, having to stop himself from smiling when he feels you Boop his nose. You were right he should shower, and it would make him feel better but being in your arms sounded so much better.
“All yours” you promised softly, sitting up so you could be level with him. You lean forward and place your hand on Lando's shoulder, pulling him closer to you and locking your lips in a kiss. Your boyfriend lets out a hum of surprise, but he flutters his eyes closed and eagerly kisses you back. You feel your boyfriend slide his hand down your side and gently squeeze your waist wanting to deepen the kiss, but before he could you pull away and whisper with a small smirk “hurry back please.”
You giggle when Lando mutters curse words under his breath, but nonetheless he listens to you and dramatically stops over to the bathroom. You purposely call him a good boy loudly, laughing loudly and laying back down when he turns his head to playfully glare at you. You turn your attention back to the movie, watching as Mother Gothel and Rapunzel start arguing and, in the background, you can faintly hear the sound of the shower turning on.
It wasn't long until your smiley boyfriend was jumping in bed and clinging to your side, his arm wrapped around your waist and his face in your neck. You scrunch your nose in distaste when you feel Lando's damp hair tickle your neck, you pull back a little causing him to give you a confused pout, pulling you closer by your waist. You bring your hand up and gently move his damp curls away from his face, your boyfriend's eyes closing at your touch. “You're going to get sick if you go to bed with wet hair lovely.”
“It's okay, I have you to keep me warm” Lando whispers sweetly, opening his eyes to look into your beautiful ones. You feel your lips curl into a grin at your boyfriend's cuteness, you just want to kiss his face off. Your boyfriend feels the same way when he sees your big smile, his favorite thing is to see you happy, but unlike you he doesn't stop himself from fulfilling his desires.
Lando sits up a little, leaning back on the arm that wasn't wrapped around your waist. He leans down and quickly starts placing soft but wet kisses all over your face, starting with your nose then your cheeks, then moving up to your forehead before repeating. Dangerously kissing close to your lips, fighting the urge to take your lips in his. His heart fills with warmth at the sound of your giggles and pleads for him to stop, you were always so ticklish.
You twist your body trying to flee from your boyfriend's relentless attack on your face and now neck, giggles sipping past your parted lips. You don't move far, Lando's hold on you was tight but not painful, he wasn't going to let you get out of his arms.
“Oh, my baby you're so cute” he cooed as he stopped his attack, he watched as you panted, trying to catch your breath. ‘GAHH YOUR SO CUTE’ he screams in his mind as he looks down at his pretty girlfriend. Lando lays back down and pulls you to his body, basically cradling your head to his chest, his fingers tangling into your hair and softly scratching at your head; just how he knows you like it.
You close your eyes, feeling yourself melt into his warmth and soft touch. You rest your arm on his midsection and tangle your legs with his, his body warmth spreading over you, making you even more tired. His warmth and head scratches, lulling you to sleep. Lando looks away from the tear-jerking scene that was on the tv and down at you. Your eyes were closed, and you had that cute pout on your lips you always seemed to have when you fall asleep.
Lando softly kisses your forehead careful not to wake you up, he whispers as he looks down at the love of his life safe in his arms
“Sweet dreams pretty girl.”
If there was one thing you hated more than your food touching, it was waking up alone. So, when you open your eyes and don't see your boyfriend by your side, a grumpy frown appears on your face. You let out a disappointed sigh and rolled over to Lando's side of the bed, believing that you didn't get to say goodbye before he left for morning training. The smell of your boyfriend coming from his pillow only makes your frown deepen, you missed him already, how are you going to survive all day without him?
You were so caught up with your depressing thoughts you didn't hear the door of the room creak open. Already dressed and ready for his day, Lando was welcomed by the sight of your bare back as you laid on your stomach on his side of the bed. As expected, you took off the hoodie in your sleep. Lando has to remind himself at that moment that he has to go to training and that he can't join you in bed, he hates early mornings when he has to leave you.
“Baby are you up?” Lando speaks up, loud enough so you could hear, but not loud enough to wake you up if you were sleeping. He sets your favorite mug filled with coffee on the bedside table, accompanied with a chocolate croissant that he got for you before he came home last night.
“You're still here?!” You exclaim happily when you hear your boyfriend's voice behind you. You quickly sit up and turn around, holding the duvet up to cover your bare chest with one hand. Your frown turning to a big smile at the sight of your smiling boyfriend, also the smell of coffee and the sight of a croissant helped with your happiness as well.
“Of course, I am, I can't leave without saying goodbye to my girl” Lando flirted as he sat on the edge of the bed, watching as you scooted closer to him. His favorite sight has always been you when you wake up, you always looked so cute with your messy hair and tired eyes.
“Good because I can't survive the day without one of your kisses” your tone showing that you woke up a few minutes ago. Your words are true, your days always seemed worse if you didn't get a kiss or cuddle from your boyfriend. Okay…maybe you were a little needy and clingy, but to be fair so was Lando. That's why the two of you were the perfect couple.
“Well i can't have that” Lando gasped dramatically, moving his hands up and cupping your face with his big and warm hands. A giggle escaping his lips at the sight of your squished cheeks, your lips puckering at the touch. Lando watches as your eyes flutter close, and he leans down, his eyes closing as well as he takes your lips in his in a loud and wet kiss that makes you giggle against his lips at the feeling.
“Okay, okay one more” You pleaded after your fit of giggles, lifting your head up from his shoulder that you rested it on while laughing. Lando just looks at you with stars in his eyes, he loves seeing you so happy. He mentally took a picture of your smile so he could lock back at it all day. He would need that to survive the day.
“Baby you're going to make me late” Lando whines but nonetheless he leans his body down to kiss you, slowly pushing you down on your back, his lips not leaving yours. You bring your hand up to his nape, your fingers tangling into his hair. Your lips moved against his following his lead as he led you through a breathless kiss.
Even though every part of him was telling him to stay in bed with you, he slowly pulled away from the kiss and rested his forehead against yours. You both had your eyes closed as you panted from the breathtaking kiss. Lando opens his eyes and places a soft and loving kiss on your forehead before ruffling your hair and sitting back up. You opened your eyes when you felt his body leave yours, you watched as he brought the duvet up under your chin and tucked you in.
“Stay warm,” Lando whispered, nodding his head as he tried to keep a stern look on his face. You smile and nod along, leaning your head back against the headboard. You playfully salute him before saying
“Stay safe handsome.”
Lando smiles at your cuteness and places one more kiss on your forehead and mumbling the words ‘i love you’ before he sat up and made his way to the bedroom door. You watch him go with a frown before shouting “I love you more.”
He looked back and sent you a wink before he fully walked out of your sight. ‘Fuck’ you thought. You already missed him.
°. — taglist ( @iloveyou3000morgan @ophcelia )
Tangerine
Oscar Piastri x reader
Masterlist
Summary: You’re definitely not an insomniac. But Oscar keeps finding you awake at all hours, and he’s starting to get worried. Or: I wrote this while actually being unable to sleep, passed out for 3 hours, woke up and finished it. So… here you go, I guess?
Warnings: insomnia, anxiety/mild paranoia?, alcohol, limited knowledge of the actual structure of the MTC and the corporate structure of McLaren in general, a poorly researched night in Tokyo
The MTC lobby is empty, besides you. The lights are half turned off, motion sensors that have gone hours without detecting anything. You’ve stuck to your table in the corner. It’s quiet, just how you like it.
You look up from your notebook after who knows how long, blinking your weary eyes. Outside, the floodlights reflect off the inky black lake. There’s a car, pulling up in the drop off area outside the front doors. It’s Oscar, you think, his car one of a few that are easily recognizable. Sure enough, it’s confirmed when he climbs out of the driver’s side door. He leaves it running as he makes his way up to the door.
Oscar scans his pass and the doors wing open, followed by all of the lights in the lobby flickering on. You squint, fighting the urge to shield your eyes from the harsh lighting. Oscar is rushing through the lobby, a man on a mission, but he skids to a stop about halfway across the shiny tiled floor.
He turns, slowly, and makes eye contact with you. “Jesus, you scared the shit out of me.”
You hold back a laugh, thinking that might be a little mean, all things considered. “What are you doing here?”
He sighs, hands hanging at his sides. “I forgot my phone charger, and my laptop, and…” he pauses, frowning at you. “What are you doing here?”
You raise your brows right back. “Working?”
You watch his eyes flicker across your setup. You’re still in the same McLaren sweatshirt you’d been wearing when you saw him that morning. Your hair is piled atop your head. Your laptop sits open in front of you, the only source of light before Oscar burst through the doors. There are papers and notebooks scattered on the tabletop. Your pen is missing- you selfishly hope that as he scours your table, he’ll spot it.
“You got here at 8am,” he says, bewildered. “It’s almost midnight. That’s almost 16 hours.”
He says nothing about the pen. Why would he? He doesn’t know it’s missing. Logically, it must be here somewhere, probably under a paper or clipped to a notebook, but you’ve given up.
“Yes,” you answer, smirking. “You’re great at math, Oscar.”
He rolls his eyes. “Shouldn’t you be, I don’t know, home? Sleeping?”
You shrug. “I took breaks. It’s not like I’ve been working all day straight.”
You’re not lying. You’d taken a good, long lunch break, and an afternoon walk around the grounds. You’ve gotten up to stretch a couple times, made runs to the break room for coffee. You hope he doesn’t see straight through it, though. Hope he can’t see the dark circles under your eyes, the paleness of your skin, the exhaustion weighing your shoulders.
It’s not that you weren’t tired. You just knew you wouldn’t be able to sleep. One of those days. So instead, you had decided to be productive. Which had led to this- you in the lobby of your office building, hunched over a laptop. Oscar, the driver whose data you’re scouring, staring at you with wide eyes.
“Go grab your stuff,” you tell him, nodding towards the doors he’d been headed to. “You have an early flight tomorrow.”
He blinks wildly. “We’re on the same flight.”
You nod, because you both know this quite well. There’d been a meeting this morning about who had to be where and at what times. You’re on the first flight out with the main team, headed to Singapore.
“I’m not the one who has to drive the car at very high speeds this weekend,” you remind him, pointing the eraser of your pencil at him. “Or the one who has to be in front of the cameras. You need your beauty sleep.”
Oscar laughs at that, a happy sound that makes you smile, too. “Okay, okay. I’ll be right back.”
You think about disappearing to the bathroom or the break room while he’s gone, just to avoid any further questions. You know Oscar relatively well, though, and knowing him, he’d just wait around until you came back. Or worse, come and try to find you. You can picture it- you pouring your third cup of coffee in the last hour, Oscar watching from the doorway with disdain. You stay put, sipping from your mug and scribbling notes.
He’s back within a few minutes, a backpack in hand. His keys dangle from his fingertips. You don’t look up from your laptop as he walks towards you, that is until he’s standing right in front of you. You blink up at him through your lashes. There’s a frown on his face- this close, you know your lack of sleep must be obvious.
He nudges the top panel of your laptop with a single fingertip. “C’mon. Time to go home.”
“I’m fine,” you tell him, shaking your head. “I’ll see you tomorrow, bright and early.”
“What, you just gonna stay here until we all meet up in the morning to go to the airport?” He scoffs.
“That would be ridiculous,” you laugh.
“It would,” he agrees. He seems to see straight through you, though. “Come on. Close the laptop, close the notebooks. You can work on this on the flight, like a normal person.”
“I’m trying to improve your car, you know.”
“I’m not leaving until you do,” he finally says, and you scoff with wide eyes. “And remember, I’m the one who has to actually drive the car. And go in front of the cameras. I need my beauty sleep.”
You rear your head back, unsure how to even counter that. He takes the opportunity to close the laptop for you, and you bat at his hands. Then he’s sweeping your papers into piles, stacking your notebooks and gathering them up into his arms.
“That’s my intellectual property, you know,” you scold him, reaching for the papers. He holds them up above your head easily, and you groan. “Okay, okay, I’ll go, just- I lost my pen, earlier. It’s my favorite one. I just have find it and then I promise I’ll go- you can go home, really, I’ll see you-“
He’s reaching for your head, suddenly, and you freeze. When his hand returns to your view, he’d holding the pen between his fingertips. You blink once, twice, then reach for it, but he’s holding it above your head within seconds, too.
“We’re leaving,” he tells you, firmly. “Come on. Up we go.”
You get to your feet reluctantly and pack your things into your bag. Oscar helps, handing you your papers in neat little piles. He keeps you in front of him as you both exit the lobby, like he’s afraid you might take off running further into the office building. His car is still parked out front, still running, and you see him wince.
“Didn’t expect to be inside for so long,” he says sheepishly.
You laugh lightly, starting your walk towards the employee lot. It’s down a well lit path, but every step feels heavy this late at night.
“Wait,” he says, and you pause. “Do you want a ride? You seem tired. You know, sometimes that’s as bad as driving drunk.”
“I’m not gonna fall asleep behind the wheel,” you tell him. You say it with confidence, because it’s pretty likely you’re not going to fall asleep at all tonight.
He cocks his head at you, cast in the bright glow of the floodlights. “At least let me drive you to your car. Otherwise, how do I know you’re not going to just go back inside?”
You roll your eyes. “And how do I know you’re not trying to kidnap me?”
You end up getting in the car, because he makes it pretty clear he’s not leaving until you do. You contemplate just walking to your own car, but honestly your feet feel so heavy it’s just not worth the fight. Oscar, to his credit, doesn’t kidnap you. He also doesn’t comment on your very modest car, the only one left in the parking lot. He does try to offer you a ride home one more time, but he lets it go after your repeat refusal.
You say goodbye, climb into your own car, and start the engine. The heat kicks on quickly, thank god, and you start up a playlist. It’s only when you look up, ready to leave, that you notice his car is still sitting there. You can just barely see Oscar behind the windshield, and he waves at you. He’s waiting for you to leave.
You flip him off as you roll out of the parking lot, and you watch him laugh in response.
…..
You’re one of the first ones at the office the next morning, and therefore one of the first ones on a shuttle to the airport. Oscar’s chronically late, or as he would call it, chronically precisely on time, so you don’t see him until he’s climbing on the plane. McLaren’s rented out a charter plane for this trip, with the double header making it the easiest solution.
You’re already settled into a seat, laptop open on the table in front of you, headphones on. You barely even look up when you feel him looking over you, but then he’s tugging one side of your headphones off your ear.
“Did you even sleep?” He asks, brows furrowed.
“Yes,” you lie, raising your brows at him defensively.
Oscar raises his brows in return. He obviously doesn’t believe you.
Before he can say anything else, Lando’s behind him, leaning up over his shoulder. “Oscar, mate, get a move on.”
Oscar rolls his eyes but does as Lando’s urging. There’s not assigned seats, per say, but the two drivers are headed towards the middle of the plane where their trainers and other senior staff are sitting. That’s how these things normally go- it just makes sense. They’ll have meeting on the plane, talk about meal plans and strategies and get ready for the weekend. You’ll spend your flight going through the data just one more time, trying to unlock all of the secrets to give Oscar the best possible chance on Sunday.
…..
Singapore is good. Not great, not perfect, but good. For Lando’s team, it’s a huge weekend. And honestly, 4th place for Oscar in his rookie year is huge too. He’s thrilled, tells you as much after the race, after the briefing.
“I know you worked hard this weekend, put in a lot of hours,” he says. “Thank you.”
“Just doing my job,” you say with a shrug.
“Right.” He says. “Thanks, though.”
You smile up at him, knowing it’s wobbly and insincere. You don’t take compliments well. “No problem.”
When you get to the hotel that night, you lay down in the bed and try to fall asleep. It’s no use, really, because it’s not your bed, and because your mind is racing. There’s nothing even bothering you, that’s the stupid thing. Just… a billion thoughts flying by all at once. So you wander the hotel, up and down the stairs, down the halls. You make a pit stop in the exercise room, walk on the treadmill, try out the towing machine. You’ve never been one for working out, but the internet says exercise can help with sleep issues. It’s worth a try, but it doesn’t work.
You contemplate sneaking into the closed hotel pool, but ultimately decide against it. You’d probably get caught, and then you’d get in trouble, and it would somehow make it back to your boss. Then you’d get fired in Singapore, left to find your own way home. So instead, you head for the vending machines on your floor. There’s got to be something in there that’ll cure the racing in your head. Or at least bring you some comfort in the dead of night.
What doesn’t bring you comfort in the dead of night is a face in the reflection on the glass of the vending machine. You nearly scream when you meet someone else’s eyes. You whirl around, arms in a defensive position, and come face to face with Oscar.
“Would’ve pegged you for flight, not fight,” he says drowsily.
“You can’t sneak up on people like that,” you hiss, dropping your hands to your sides.
“Payback,” he mutters, dragging a hand down his face clumsily. “B‘sides, I wasn’t trying to sneak up on you. I was trying to get a snack.”
You blink at him. “Oscar, it’s 3am.”
He nods, blinks slowly. You almost expect his eyes to stay closed, almost expect him to fall asleep standing up.
“I woke up starving,” he says, shuffling towards one of the vending machines. “Promise you won’t tell Kim? I’ll buy you whatever you want.”
He’s cute when he’s sleepy. You want to tuck him into bed and tell him bedtime stories. You want to kiss his forehead. You blink hard, trying to reset your brain. The sleep deprivation is really getting to you. This is your coworker, your teammate.
You shrug and nod in agreement. “Would’ve kept the secret without the bribe, but if you’re offering…”
Oscar laughs, a quiet sound in the empty night air. “What’ll it be, then?”
He’s leaning against the glass heavily. He must still be half asleep. You can’t blame him. You point at the bag of chips you’d been eyeing, and then at the gummy worms in the corner. He nods in approval of both, selects them, feeds the machine his money. Then he’s picking his own snack- a poptart and a bag of Cheetos. He backs away, but you make a noise and point at the drinks machine.
“And a Red Bull?” You ask, pointing at your favorite flavor where it sits, lit up by fluorescent light.
He turns back, almost puts the money in, and then he pauses and looks at you. “It’s 3am.”
“Right, we established that.”
“Why would you drink Red Bull at 3am?” He asks, bewildered.
You shrug. “Because I like Red Bull.”
“Go work for them, then,” he suggests. You laugh. “Actually, I have a feeling that would be severely detrimental to your health. Too many free energy drinks. Do you ever sleep?”
“Those are big words for 3am,” you tease, nudging his shoulder. “Come on. The tangerine one, please.”
“I’m not buying you a Red Bull.” He shakes his head. “I am walking you back to your room and you’re going to bed.”
“I’ll tell Kim about your snacks.”
“No, you won’t.”
You let him walk you back to your room. He stands there as you swipe the key card, as you open the door and shuffle inside. He says goodnight from the doorway. You close the door after you echo the sentiment, lock all the locks, and lay down in your bed. You close your eyes and try to go to sleep. You really, truly try. But when the clock turns over to 4am, and you realize it’s useless, you roll out of bed and head down to the vending machine. You buy the Redbull with your own money, carry it back to your room, turn on the tv, and settle in until the sun comes up.
…..
Tokyo may just be your favorite city in the entire world. Everything is open all the time. You’ve never felt more seen by a city. The days that you and the rest of the team spend there between the two races are heaven. You have meetings during the day, but they’re short and easy. At night, there are plenty of places for you to roam, plenty of things to do and see.
You spend your nights in ramen bars, in arcades, in toy stores that seem to stretch on for miles. You collect so many souvenirs you’re worried you’ll have to buy a second suitcase. Frankly, you’re going on week two of sleeping only in one to two hour stints, and it’s likely you’re beginning to get a little manic. In Tokyo, though, nobody bats an eye.
You join the team for breakfast in the hotel lobby on Thursday. You’ve somehow ended up at a table with Oscar and Lando- you’d gotten here before anyone else, and Oscar had chosen the seat across from you. Lando asks what you’ve been up to. They’ve been busy with promo stuff, you’ve hardly seen the two of them all week.
You regale them with your stories and hand off your phone to Lando so he can scroll through your pictures. Oscar listens with rapt attention, leaning to look at the photos too.
“How do you do all this and find time to sleep?” Lando asks, an amused tone in his voice.
“She doesn’t, mate,” Oscar replies, pointing at your phone. “Look at the time stamps.”
You roll your eyes and snatch the phone away from them. Lando’s looking at you with wide eyes, Oscar is smiling amusedly.
“Sleep is for the weak,” you tell them, and you swear Lando’s eyes are going to bug out of his head. “We’re in Tokyo, I’m making the most of it.”
To Oscar’s credit, he doesn’t bring up the encounter at the MTC, or the run in at the vending machines. Still, this revelation seems to bewilder Lando.
“Sleep is like, the most important thing,” he says, shaking his head. “For your health.”
“Not all of us have to be in tip top shape,” you say, stabbing your fork into a waffle on your plate. “Some of us get to have fun. Exhibit B. Our breakfasts.”
Lando looks at your plate, filled with waffles and bacon and your cup of coffee, next to it. He casts his glance to his sad looking bowl of oatmeal, then, and sighs heavily. Oscar’s laughing at the two of you, though his plate looks just as sad.
“When you pass out halfway through the day,” Lando says, a retaliatory furrow in his brow, “I’m telling Andrea why.”
“That won’t happen,” you reassure him. “And besides, it’s media day. I have it easy.”
…..
Oscar makes it on the podium on Sunday. You scream your lungs out with the rest of the team, run to the pit wall, watch the podium celebrations. He’s wrapping everyone in enthusiastic hugs, slapping everyone’s backs and grinning so, so widely. All the lost sleep feels worth it, just to see him smile like that.
When he makes it to you, he hauls you into his chest, arms around your shoulders, holding you tight. You could stay like that forever, if he’d let you. He tucks his chin atop your head and you think you’d like to make a home right there, in his arms.
The celebrations go late, and so does the debrief. By the time it’s all said and done, everyone looks exhausted, including the drivers. They start shuttling you all back to the hotel for the night, back in Tokyo so you can get on the plane easily tomorrow morning. You’re just glad to be back in the city. On a night like tonight, buzzing with adrenaline and caffeine, there’s no way you’re falling asleep.
You somehow end up in a shuttle with Oscar. He smells like champagne and sweat, and you tease him about it when he sits down in the back row next to you.
He smiled sheepishly. “So I smell like a podium finisher, then.”
You watch as the city goes by out the window and listen to him chat idly with the others in the van. When you get back, you’re the last one out of the car. He’s waiting outside the hotel, leaning on the wall.
“So, what’s your plan for the night?” He asks, cocking a brow.
“No judgement?” You ask.
“No judgement,” he promises.
You shrug. “Not exactly sure. There’s a lot to do. I’ll probably get some ramen, maybe go shopping. Might just take a walk.”
He nods. “Sleep?”
“Not high on the priority list,” you admit.
He nods again. “Can I come with?”
You blank, staring at him. “What?”
“On your adventure,” he asks, crossing his arms over his chest. “Can I come along?”
Suddenly your heart is pounding in your chest. He wants to come with? Why? There’s a part of you that doesn’t like the idea, that thinks your sleepless adventures are for you and you alone. The other part of you, the one that wins out, thinks it might not be so bad to have some companionship.
“… sure,” you agree, eyeing him carefully. “But you have to play along. No forcing me to go to sleep.”
“Promise,” he says, holding out his pinky.
You hook yours with his and seal the deal.
…..
You both head up to your hotel rooms to change clothes, and in Oscar’s case, to take a shower. He sends you a text when he’s ready and you meet him in the lobby. He’s in a casual outfit, jeans and a hoodie. You’re dressed similarly, in a pair of black jeans and a crewneck.
“Where to?” He asks, wide grin on his face.
It turns out that Oscar is the ideal late night adventure companion. You start your night out at a sushi conveyor restaurant, both of you joking about how Lando would never dare to eat there. You eat to your heart’s content and make comments about fueling up for the night ahead. He even joins you in having an energy drink, some Japanese brand that you’ve never heard of. Oscar reads part of the label to you, balks at the amount of caffeine in it, and drinks it anyways.
After the restaurant, the two of you climb into a cab and head to the Shibuya district. It’s crawling with people, buzzing with energy, and you feel right at home. Oscar sticks close to your side, hanging onto the back of your sweatshirt as you cross the busy crosswalks in a sea of people. When you turn, though, he’s smiling like he’s having the time of his life. The two of you climb the stairs to an observatory where you can watch the dance of pedestrians and traffic from above. There’s a glow to the city that feels akin to how your brain feels when you can’t sleep- like it never goes out, never turns off.
You tell this to Oscar, who gives you a contemplative look.
“Is it the energy drinks?” He asks. His hand is on your wrist, likely just to keep track of you in the crowds.
You shake your head. “The energy drinks came after the… not sleeping-“
“Insomnia,” he suggests.
“… not sleeping,” you repeat, narrowing your eyes at him. “Anyways. I was like a zombie. The energy drinks make it so I’m functional. I figure if I’m gonna be awake, may as well enjoy it.”
You head back out onto the streets and begin to wander again. Oscar follows along, always holding onto you in some way, always smiling when you look at him. The two of you wander through art galleries and museums lit up with neon lights. Somewhere in the middle of one of them, he slips his fingers between yours. You’re not complaining. There’s something grounding, leveling about his presence.
You stop for drinks at a bar- some sort of local beer that Oscar orders for both of you in Japanese. It’s followed by a vodka Red Bull, at your insistence. Oscar wrinkles his nose but drinks the whole thing, seemingly determined to match you.
Next door, there’s a highly American themed bowling alley. Oscar laughs about how Logan would love it and pulls you inside. It’s the first stop of the night that he’s suggested, so you go along eagerly. He’s snapping pictures, ones to send to Logan, ones for himself, ones of you smiling, renting out bowling shoes. He pays for the game, and you both do terribly. The worker puts the bumper guards up out of pity, because the two of you obviously have no idea what you’re doing. He’s a world renowned athlete, you’re a highly skilled engineer, and yet, you both suck at bowling.
“When did the in-“ you fix him with a glare, and he stops mid sentence. “When did the not sleeping start?”
You look up at the ceiling of the bowling alley and purse your lips, watching the disco ball spin. “Next question.”
He huffs and shrugs, rolling the ball down the lane. “I don’t have a next question.”
“What’s your family like?”’you ask him, and he smiles, softer than you’ve ever seen him smile before.
“Well, I have three sisters,” he starts, eyes lighting up.
Somewhere between the bowling alley, the next bar, and the shopping mall you end up in, you start to really get to know Oscar. It’s funny how the night opens people up. Everything feels safer in the dark, surrounded by other people. It’s creeping up on 1am- in theory, both of you should be sound asleep. The fact that you’re not makes anything okay. You learn about his family, his childhood, his friends back home and in the UK. You tell him about yourself, too. He listens with an eager look on his face, laughing at all the right moments, squeezing your hand at the right ones, too.
You end up in a store that’s packed to the brim with stuffed animals. He lets you drag him around the whole thing, pointing out cute ones and the ones you think are a bit odd. Then you gasp, pointing excitedly, pulling on his hand.
“It’s you,” you squeak, the delirium beginning to set in. It’s a stuffed Kangaroo, and he groans softly. “Look, you’re even making the same face.”
Oscar seems unable to argue with that. Both he and the stuffed kangaroo do seem to be scowling. He smiles instead, picks it up, and takes it to the register. He buys it before you can really even say anything, and the cashier packages it in a bag. The kangaroo’s head sticks out over the paper, your second faithful companion for the night.
By 3am, Oscar is starting to drag. He perks up every time you look at him and smiles brightly, but you can tell. His grip on your hand is looser lately, and his blinks are growing longer and longer. You turn to him, a sympathetic smile on your face.
“We can go back to the hotel, if you want,” you say, poking his cheek lightly.
He smiles. “Are you tired?”
You sigh. “No, but you are.”
“I’m okay,” he insists, shaking his head. “What about the batting cages you mentioned? That sounded fun.”
You pout at him. “Oscar, you’re half asleep. You’d definitely get hit by a ball.”
He nods in agreement. “Maybe I just need another energy drink?”
You cock your head at him, take in his heavy eyelids, his parted lips. “That would be your third one of the night. And that would be very unhealthy.”
He nods again. “Yeah. Okay. Just… I said I’d be along for the ride.”
“We can hang out at the hotel,” you suggest. “The pool area is open all night.”
“I didn’t bring my swimsuit.”
“Me neither.”
You somehow end up with a pizza on your way back, and the two of you plant yourselves in the pool area on one of the chaise lounge chairs, the pizza box in front of you. You eat the greasy, cheesy food, and even Oscar indulges in it. He has his hand planted on the chair behind your back. Every so often you lean backs against his arm just to feel his presence. His knee bumps against yours, and you smile.
The pool is clear and blue. Neither of you will be swimming, but this felt like a neutral enough place. You’d thought about inviting him back to your room but had felt weird about it. There’s something calming about the still water and the smell of the chlorine, anyways.
He leans his head on your shoulder. The heavy weight of him is nice. He’s solid, sturdy, grounding. You’re chatting idly about something that happened at the race, something he’d missed while he was driving the car. You break off in the middle of a sentence to yawn, and then you close your eyes for just a moment. Oscar’s breath hitches.
The two of you are silent for a moment. You stare into the clear water, aching to drift and float and fall asleep. You sigh and pull your knees up to your chest.
“It started when I was a kid,” you tell him. “I just… stopped sleeping. It comes and goes in cycles. Sometimes I’m fine, sometimes I just…”
“Can’t sleep,” Oscar finishes for you, his words contradicting the sleepy tone of his voice.
“Yeah,” you say, blinking slowly again.
Your head droops, resting against his. He’s so warm, so comforting. He must feel you drifting, must feel your grip faltering, because then he’s sitting up, tucking you into his chest.
“Is there anything I can do?” He asks, drowsily.
“M’so tired,” you admit, curling into him. “Justwannasleep.”
Tears are stinging at your eyes. You hadn’t expected this, hadn’t been prepared for this part. The moment when your lack of sleep catches up to you, and you become an emotional, distraught mess. You’re seconds away from full on sobbing.
Oscar seems to sense this. “Okay. Okay, how about- I have a pull out couch in my suite. Why don’t you- if you’re comfortable, you could come sleep there. Maybe it would help to know somebody’s there if you need it? Maybe-“
“Okay,” you answer, nodding against his chest. “Okay, yeah.”
He takes care of the empty pizza box and guides you up to his room. You know there’ll be questions to answer if anyone sees you, but you’re comforted by the fact that it’s 4am and nearly every sane person is sound asleep. He scans into the room, and you let out a sigh when he lets go of your hand. He moves quickly, unfolding the pull out couch, grabbing extra blankets from the cabinets. Before you know it, you’re sitting down on the bed, rubbing your eyes.
It’s strange, now that you’re here. You’re in Oscar’s hotel room. You’ve just spent the night wandering Tokyo with him. You’re exhausted, sleep deprived, still on the verge of tears. Everything feels hazy and blurry.
“I can… go, if you want,” he says, and you blink up at him through your blurry vision. “Or I can sit with you till you fall asleep.”
“That might take a while,” you tell him. “Like, you’re more likely to fall asleep. Even… when I finally get to this point, it takes a while.”
He shrugs. “We could put on a movie.”
That’s exactly what you do. He turns on the tv, spots Finding Nemo on the guide, and turns it on. He sinks down on the bed, leaning against the couch back. You crawl up next to him as he turns the volume low. At first, you just sit shoulder to shoulder. Then he reaches out, wraps an arm around your shoulders, pulls you into his side. You sigh against him. Cradled close, you let the exhausted tears flow. He can’t see you, probably, and even if he can, you can’t bring yourself to care. He leans down, brushes his lips against your forehead.
“M’right here,” he says, softly. “I’ve got you.”
You wake up at 8am with your head in his lap. His alarm is blaring from the side table, and you’re both springing apart. He fumbles for his phone, shutting the alarm off with the shaky hands of someone who’s just been woken up from not nearly enough sleep.
You, on the other hand, have gotten the most consecutive sleep of your last two weeks. You stretch, rubbing the blur from your eyes and blinking at him.
“Sorry,” you mumble.
“For what?” He asks, voice steady.
“For… I don’t know. Keeping you up so late? Falling asleep on you?” You shrug. “I… that was a lot, for me to put that all on you.”
Oscar shrugs, so nonchalant about it. “It’s what friends are for.”
You nod, though you’re not convinced. You pull away, and Oscar’s soft smile drops to a flat frown. He reaches for you, but you dodge his touch.
“I should go,” you tell him. “We have to leave soon, people are going to be getting up and- if they see me come out of your room-“
“We can be friends,” he says, again, brows furrowing. “We didn’t do anything wrong, everything is okay-“
He doesn’t understand. It’s fine for him, but this is too much for you. He wants to be friends, but you’re looking at him and thinking about how if you could curl up on his chest every night, you might never have trouble sleeping again. He wants friends, you want more. You can’t have more, though, because there’s no way you’ll keep your job. And he doesn’t want that, anyways. Why would he? You’re just his pity project, the poor girl who can’t sleep, who fails at counting sheep.
“I should go,” you repeat, standing up. You can’t look at him, can’t watch him watching you. “Thank you. For everything. I’m sorry.”
He stands up too, and he grabs your hand. You pause, stuck between ripping your hand from his and running, or whirling around and snapping at him. Fight or flight. Instead, you take a deep breath. You’re still sleep deprived, still exhausted. 4 hours doesn’t fix two weeks of little to no sleep.
“I’m sorry,” you breathe, shoulders sagging. “I have a hard time letting people take care of me.”
“It’s okay,” Oscar says. “Just- come sit down? Let’s talk, okay?”
You sink down on the bed, rest your elbows on your knees and your face in your hands. “Why do you care?”
Oscar sits down next to you. He reaches out, knits your fingers together. You’re reminded of the art galleries, of the crowds, of the bowling alley. You split yourself open last night, in the safety of the time when you should’ve been sleeping. He saw you and he’s still here, somehow, hanging on. Your bones are tired. Your head is pounding. You need caffeine.
“I care,” he says, gently, “because I care about you. Because I think you’re a good person, and I want to get to know you better. And because this whole thing is not healthy.”
You sigh. His thumb brushes over the back of your hand methodically, back and forth. The funny thing is, you could fall asleep again, just like this. You could lean into his shoulder, let the warmth of him deep into your skin, and fall asleep. You wonder if he knows it.
“I’m fine,” you tell him, rubbing at your face sleepily. “Osc, I’ve been like this for years. It’s not just going to change now.”
“Not overnight,” he says, softly. There’s a callous on his thumb, you can feel the scrape of it over your skin. It’s oddly soothing. “But I can try. I can be here.”
“Why would you want to?”
“Because despite all the craziness, last night was the most fun I’ve had in weeks,” he says, and you could cry. “I want to spend time with you. I want to get to know you. Take you on dates. The whole nine yards.”
You should’ve expected this. Oscar can be shy, and quiet, but he can be straightforward, too. He’s pretty easy to read. He’s blunt with Lando, almost to the point of contention sometimes. But you’d been so focused on trying to prove to him that you were just fine that you hadn’t considered he was feeling the sparks, too. That maybe he wasn’t holding onto you in the crowd just so he didn’t lose you. That maybe he liked the feeling of your skin on his, too.
“If you want that,” he says, voice low.
You blink blearily, pull away to look up at him. “I do.”
He nods, leans forward, kisses your forehead. The rest of it will come later, you think. You can work all the details out when you’re both more awake. Right now, he pulls you into his chest and flops back onto the bed.
“We have an hour before anyone comes looking for us,” he says, rubbing your back lightly. “Close your eyes? You don’t have to sleep, just-“
You blink once, twice, and then you’re fast asleep before he can get another word out.
…..
Oscar wins the sprint race in Qatar, and then takes second on Sunday. He’s nothing but endless wide grins all weekend, despite the heat and the dehydration and his obvious exhaustion. You laugh when you watch him lay down on the floor in the cool down room and smile when he gets sprayed with champagne on the podium. He chases you through the garage afterwards to give you a hug, despite your screeching about how sticky he is.
He tucks you into his chest. “Couldn’t have done it without you, baby.”
Later, you help corral a very tired Oscar and Lando to the shuttles and back to the hotel. They’re each stumbling over their own feet, giggling and laughing about the race, shoving at each other’s shoulders. For a minute, you’re walking through an empty parking lot, far from any other McLaren staff, and Oscar links his fingers with yours. They fit together like puzzle pieces. His fingers are sticky with champagne, but you can’t bring yourself to care. Lando sees and doesn’t say anything, just smiles.
You’re keeping it quiet for now. Time to figure it out between the two of you before you get your bosses involved. You have a feeling it’ll be mostly okay. You’ll figure it out, one way or another.
You follow Oscar up to his hotel room, saying goodnight to Lando as he heads further down the hall. He knits his fingers with yours again, leads you into his room, and collapses onto the bed.
“I’m exhausted,” he says, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Are you?”
You smile down at him, laid out on the bed. He should probably shower, at the very least change his clothes, but you can’t bring yourself to tell him that.
You sigh. “I mean, yeah, but if you’re asking if I’ll be able to sleep… probably not.”
He nods in understanding and purses his lips. “D’you think… would you just… stay, until I fall asleep?” He asks, blinking up at you. “After that you can take my card and get a Red Bull and go do whatever, just-“
“Yeah, I’ll stay,” you tell him.
It’s the easiest thing you’ve ever done. He gets ready for bed, and you do the same. You lean against the headboard and he crawls up the bed. He puts his head on a pillow in your lap, curls up into a little c shape. He’s very cat like, you’ve noticed, especially when he’s sleepy. You run your fingers through his hair, the tv playing quietly in the background, and he sighs and closes his eyes.
“Goodnight,” you murmur, leaning down to press a kiss to his temple.
He’s out within minutes. Oscar is a sound sleeper. You could move him, could shift his head and get up. You could wander the halls, take his card and buy all the energy drinks you desire. But you look down at him, his brow unfurrowed, lips parted, and you can’t bring yourself to do it. You could sit here and watch him breathe all night. It’s a terrifying and comforting thought, all at once.
You don’t sleep. It’s likely you’ll crash on the flight home, or maybe shortly after that. With your luck, you’ll pass out in a meeting when you get back to the MTC. Oscar doesn’t scold you when he wakes up and it’s obvious you’ve been awake all night.
He gets you coffee from the breakfast bar, exactly how you like it. And when he finds you in the backseat of the airport shuttle, he hands you a tangerine Red Bull. It’s early, the sun just peeking up over the horizon, washing the whole city with orange. He’s smiling at you, and you’re smiling right back.
When you fall asleep on his shoulder on the way to the airport, nobody dares to say a word.
…..
“Did you hear we’re gonna be sponsored by Monster next year?” Lando asks, throwing a tennis ball at a wall in the courtyard.
You sit up in the grass nearby, eyes lighting up. “You’re kidding. Free Monster?”
Oscar, whose stomach you’d been laying on, sits up behind you and wraps his arm around your waist. He rests his chin on your shoulder.
“Your consumption will be restricted,” he says, and you laugh.
You suppose that’s fair. Besides, Monster is fine, but nothing will ever top tangerine Red Bull.
check out the companion blurb, Glad You’re Here
thanks for reading, hope you sleep better than me! you can find my other fics here! sweet dreams y’all
Changing Lanes
Charles Leclerc x Horner!Reader
Summary: Charles Leclerc always thought he would spend the rest of his career racing in red. But you make him see that he deserves better than false promises and unrequited love
“Took you long enough,” you say, lounging casually on the small leather couch in Charles’ driver’s room, your fingertips tracing intricate patterns on the cushion beside you.
Charles raises an eyebrow, letting out a dry laugh as he kicks off his shoes. “Every single time I see you, Y/N, you always have something to say.”
You linger on him. “Is it my fault you had to chat with the entire paddock before coming here?”
He smirks, crossing the room. “It’s called being polite. Something you could learn from.”
“Polite?” You scoff, feigning innocence. “Oh, like how Ferrari celebrated that P3 like it was a win? That kind of polite?”
Charles stiffens but he keeps his cool. “We take what we can get.”
You tilt your head, eyes narrowing. “Starting on pole and settling for P3? Charles, you deserve better.”
“I know,” he sighs, avoiding your gaze. “But this is racing. Sometimes it just doesn’t go your way.”
You lean in closer, your voice dropping an octave. “It could, though. If you were with a team that actually valued you, that gave you a car worthy of your talent.”
He looks up, meeting your gaze with a challenge. “You mean Red Bull?”
A coy smile plays on your lips. “It’s not a secret that Dad wants you. And imagine … you, in a competitive car, and me, right by your side as your race engineer.”
Charles’ eyes dart to your lips then back up to your eyes. “Tempting,” he murmurs, leaning in just a fraction closer. “But is this for the team or for you?”
“Can’t it be both?” You whisper back.
His breath hitches and he pulls back slightly. “This isn’t just about racing, is it?”
You hesitate. “I see how they treat you. How they let you down time and time again. But with us ... with me ... it would be different.”
He looks conflicted. “It’s not that simple.”
“Why not?” You press. “With Red Bull, you’d have support, a competitive car, and … me.”
Charles sighs, running a hand through his hair. “It’s not just about what happens on track. It’s about the politics, the contracts, the media ... it’s all complicated.”
“You make it sound like an impossible puzzle,” you say, tracing circles on his wrist. You gaze locks with his, trying to convey everything you feel.
“It might be.”
You lean in, lips just inches from his. “Then let’s solve it together.”
He hesitates, searching your eyes. “You’re playing a dangerous game, Y/N.”
You smirk, confidence oozing from every pore. “Isn’t that what racing’s all about?”
Charles chuckles softly, the tension in the room slowly melting away. “You always have an answer for everything.”
“It’s the Horner in me,” you retort with a smug smile. “Besides, aren’t you tired of being just another pawn in Ferrari’s game?”
“It’s not easy. To just switch teams, to give up on something you’ve worked for your entire life.”
You reach up, tucking a stray lock of hair behind his ear. “Who says you’re giving up? You’d be making a choice. A choice to be somewhere you’re valued. Somewhere you have a real shot at the championship. With people who truly care about you and actions that reflect that.”
He closes his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath. “It’s not just about the racing. There are so many other factors.”
“Like what?”
He opens his eyes, meeting yours. “Like us.”
You blink, taken aback. “What do you mean?”
“If I come to Red Bull … if I work with you … it changes everything. Our relationship. Our dynamic. Everything.”
You take a moment, absorbing his words. “We can handle it. We’re strong enough.”
He gives you a sad smile. “I wish I had your confidence.”
You cup his cheek, your thumb stroking his skin. “You have me. Together, we can face anything.”
Charles looks at you for a long moment, his emotions raw and exposed. Finally, he speaks. “I’ll think about it. But whatever I decide … know that it’s not just about racing. I refuse to give you up.”
“Just promise me one thing.”
He raises an eyebrow. “What?”
You lean in, your lips brushing his ear. “Never settle for less than you deserve.”
He smiles, capturing your lips in a soft, lingering kiss. “Same goes for you, Y/N Horner.”
***
“I still can’t believe they forgot to remove the radiator blank,” you murmur, your fingers softly tracing patterns on Charles’ bare chest as he lies next to you in his São Paulo hotel. The dim light from the bedside lamp paints soft shadows on his face, emphasizing the frustration in his eyes.
Charles sighs heavily, turning his head to look at you. “Neither can I. Another race, another issue. I don’t even know why I’m surprised anymore.”
You lean in closer, lips brushing against his ear. “You don’t deserve this, Charles. You’re better than this. Better than them.”
He chuckles humorlessly, eyes closing. “It seems like it’s one thing after another.”
“Come to Red Bull,” you whisper, fingertips dancing down his arm. “You know it’s the right move.”
He opens his eyes, looking deep into yours. “Y/N, we talked about this.”
You press a gentle kiss on his jaw, speaking against his skin. “Hear me out. If McLaren overtakes Ferrari in the Constructors’ standings, you can activate your exit clause. You could leave them, Charles.”
Charles swallows hard, feeling the warmth of your breath on his neck. “And if they don’t?”
“Then we’ll buy you out,” you say confidently, trailing kisses down his collarbone. “Dad’s already spoken about it. We want you. I want you.”
Charles’ breath catches as your hands explore his torso but he tries to focus. “Equal status with Max?”
“Of course,” you assure him, pressing your body flush against his. “You and Max, racing side by side. Just think of the possibilities.”
He groans, both from your touch and the tempting offer. “A car designed by Adrian Newey ...”
You nod, “With plenty of oversteer, just how you like it. No more one-sided compromises.”
He laughs softly. “You’ve thought of everything, haven’t you?”
You smirk, lips hovering over his. “Always. And instead of Xavi, you’d hear my voice on the other end of the radio, guiding you, supporting you.”
Charles captures your lips with his, deepening the kiss before pulling back. “You’re making it very hard to think.”
“That’s the point,” you whisper with a playful grin, your hands tugging at his waistband.
He bites his lip, trying to resist your charms. “But Y/N ... it’s not just about the racing. It’s ... it’s us. What happens to us?”
You cup his cheek, gazing deep into his eyes. “We fight together, we win together. Every podium, every championship, we celebrate together.”
He closes his eyes, taking a deep breath. “You make it sound so perfect.”
“It can be,” you promise, pressing soft kisses on his eyelids. “With Red Bull, you’d have everything you’ve ever dreamed of. And me.”
Charles smiles, caressing your cheek. “You’re very persuasive, you know?”
You grin. “It’s one of my many talents.”
He chuckles, capturing your lips once more. “I’ll think about it.”
“Whatever you decide, I’ll still be by your side.”
He smiles, pulling you closer. “I know. And that’s what makes this decision so hard.”
***
“Absolutely unbelievable,” your father mutters, watching the replay of Ferrari’s disastrous double stack. “You would think they’ve never done a pit stop before.”
You nod, equally shocked. But your attention shifts as the familiar figure of your favorite Monegasque storms into the Red Bull garage, his helmet still on and visor obscuring his face. You can feel the fury emanating from him.
“Charles?” You question hesitantly.
He doesn’t respond to you but instead turns to your father, “Christian, can we talk? Now. Somewhere private.”
Christian looks taken aback by the intensity in Charles’ voice but nods. “Of course.”
Charles glances at you. “You too, Y/N. Please.”
You follow, the weight of the moment heavy on your shoulders. Once inside the small office, Charles finally removes his helmet, revealing eyes red from restrained tears. He takes a moment, collecting himself before he speaks.
“I can’t do this anymore,” Charles exhales. “Every single time I think they’ve hit rock bottom, they find a new low. Today was the last straw.”
You approach him, gently placing a hand on his arm. “Charles, I’m so sorry.”
Your father is equally sympathetic. “That was hard to watch. I can’t even imagine what it felt like.”
Charles closes his eyes, taking a deep breath. “It’s not just today. It’s everything. I gave them everything. I wanted to win with them. For my father. For Jules.”
You swallow hard, emotions swirling. “They would be so incredibly proud of you. No matter what.”
He blinks back tears, voice strained. “I wanted to drive that red car to the top for them. But I can’t keep sacrificing myself for a team that clearly does not value me in return.”
Your father speaks up, “Charles, if you’re thinking of a change ... Red Bull is ready to welcome you with open arms.”
Charles looks up, locking eyes with him. “I know. And as much as Ferrari has been my dream, my home, I can’t do this anymore. I want to be with a team that values me. I want to join Red Bull.”
You’re taken aback by his sudden declaration but the look in his eyes tells you that he’s made up his mind. “Charles,” you whisper, stepping closer. “Are you absolutely sure?”
“It’s hard,” he admits. “But this is where my heart is telling me to go.”
Your father gives the two of you a moment, leaving the office to give you privacy.
Charles takes a shaky breath, pulling you close. “I never imagined leaving Ferrari. But after everything, I know it’s the right decision.”
You wrap your arms around him, resting your forehead against his. “They will be so proud of you, Charles. No matter what colors you wear or what car you drive.”
He smiles weakly. “Thank you. I really needed to hear that.”
You pull back slightly, searching his eyes. “This is a big step. I don’t want you to regret anything. Are you still sure?”
He nods, determination in his gaze. “More than I’ve ever been.”
You smile, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. “Then welcome to Red Bull.”
***
“I have to tell Ferrari,” Charles straightens, determination evident in his eyes. “I just need to get it over with. Will you come with me?”
“Of course.“
Charles grabs your hand, pulling you towards his driver’s room. “Wait here,” he says, going in and returning moments later with his Ferrari jacket. He places it over your Red Bull team polo, attempting to keep your allegiance concealed for now. You both then proceed to the debrief room where the Ferrari team is waiting.
Fred Vasseur begins his speech the moment you both enter, “This wasn’t how we wanted to end the year but looking ahead to next season—”
Charles cuts him off, “Actually, there won’t be a next season. Not for me.”
The room falls into a tense silence, all eyes on the driver who has given them his heart and soul.
“What do you mean?”
Charles takes a deep breath, “I’ve decided to leave Ferrari.”
Gasps fill the room. Fred’s eyes land on you, finally noticing the Red Bull logo peeking out from under the jacket you’re borrowing. “And you bring her, of all people, here to tell us this?”
Charles squares his shoulders. “Y/N is here because I asked her to be. This decision is mine and mine alone.”
Xavi stands up, “After everything we’ve done for you! This is how you repay us?”
You can’t hold back any longer. “Everything you’ve done? You mean the countless strategy mistakes, the endless car issues, the complete lack of support?”
Another team member cuts in, “This is not your place, Y/N!”
“It is today,” you retort. “I’m here to support my new driver.”
Charles’ voice shakes but he speaks with conviction, “I gave everything for this team. I bled Ferrari red. But I can’t keep doing this. Not when it’s clear that my effort and commitment is not matched in return.”
Fred’s voice softens. “Charles, we’ve had our challenges but we can overcome them together.”
Charles shakes his head, tears threatening to spill. “I’ve made up my mind. I’m joining Red Bull. My manager will send over the necessary legal paperwork as soon as possible.”
The room is filled with murmurs, disbelief evident on every face. Charles takes one last look around, his eyes filled with pain, and turns to leave.
You follow closely, feeling the weight of every step as you exit the debrief room.
The second you’re around the corner, Charles breaks down. He rests his forehead against the wall, tears rolling down his face silently. “I didn’t ... I didn’t think it would hurt this much.”
You pull him close and try to find the right words. “It was never going to be easy. But you did what you had to. For yourself. For your future.”
He turns to look at you, eyes red-rimmed but determined. “I just wanted to make them proud.”
You cup his cheek, wiping away a tear with your thumb. “They would be proud of you. Not for the badge you wear or the car you drive but for the man you’ve become.”
Charles takes a shaky breath, pulling you into a tight embrace. The two of you stand there for a moment, finding solace in each other’s presence.
When he finally pulls away, he manages a weak smile. “Thank you. For standing by me.”
You squeeze his hand. “Always.”
***
***
***
Charles stands in front of the massive two-story trophy wall at the Red Bull Racing factory in Milton Keynes, eyes wide with wonder. “Ferrari would never do something so ... gaudy.”
You smirk, sidling up next to him. “And yet, you love it.”
“I do,” he laughs. “It’s … different.”
You lean in, whispering conspiratorially, “Well, Ferrari hasn’t had all that much to exhibit in the last two decades. Not for lack of trying from the drivers, of course.”
He playfully nudges you with his elbow, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Cheeky.”
The two of you walk further into the factory. “So,” Charles draws out, “I was wondering if you could recommend a good real estate agent in the area.”
You raise an eyebrow in confusion. “Why would you need an agent when I have a perfectly good apartment we can share?”
“Really? Are you sure? I just … I wasn’t sure if you would want that and I don’t want to pressure you.”
You roll your eyes affectionately. “Of course I do, Charles. It’s not even a question.”
He smiles, the weight of the decision to move seeming a little lighter now. “Thank you.”
You wink, taking his hand. “Come on, let me show you around.”
As you guide him through the factory, he’s like a kid in a candy store, eyes wide with wonder and curiosity. “This place is incredible,” he murmurs, running a hand along a piece of machinery.
You grin, pulling him towards the simulator room. “Wait until you see this.”
He steps inside, eyes immediately drawn to the impressive simulator setup. “Wow.”
You gesture for him to sit down, watching as he takes a seat, adjusting the settings. “Ready for your first sim run in the RB20?”
He nods eagerly, “Let’s do it.”
As he starts the simulation, you watch closely, monitoring the data and providing feedback. The two of you work seamlessly together, the connection between race engineer and driver already forming and growing.
After several runs, Charles steps out of the simulator, a huge grin on his face. “That was incredible! The car feels amazing.”
You smile. “I’m glad you think so. The team has put a lot of work into it.”
He pulls you into a hug, burying his face in your hair. “I can’t wait to get on track with you on the other side of the radio.”
You pull back, looking into his eyes. “Me too. We’re going to do great things together. I know it.”
He nods. “I know we will too.”
***
“I have to admit,” Charles says, eyes scanning the paddock, “I’m thankful that Mercedes and McLaren are between our motorhome and Ferrari’s. Makes things less ... awkward.”
You glance towards the distant red of the mobile Ferrari building, understanding the sentiment. “Must be weird being so close and yet so far.”
He nods, a hint of melancholy in his gaze as he looks at the place he called home for so long. “It’s bittersweet.”
Pulling him from his thoughts, you nudge him playfully. “Come on, Mr. Pole-Sitter. We have a race to prep for.”
Charles smirks, playfully rolling his eyes. “Always so professional, Miss Horner.”
You grin. “Only when it counts.”
The atmosphere in the Red Bull garage is electric. Mechanics and engineers hustle around, getting everything ready. The RB20 sits gleaming, waiting for its moment to shine.
Charles adjusts his gloves, taking a deep breath. “Feels different,” he admits, looking at you. “Being here, in this car, with this team. But a good kind of different.”
You lean in, placing a reassuring hand on his arm. “You’ve got this. It’s just another race.”
He smiles. “Easy for you to say. You’re not the one in the hot seat.”
“True, but I’ll be with you every step of the way. Just listen to my voice and trust me.”
“I always do.”
As he gets into the car, you lean in closer to his helmet, your lips touching it’s hard shell. “And Charles? Stay safe out there.”
He looks at you and winks. “I’ll come back to you.”
The race begins with a burst of energy. Charles takes off from pole, holding his position as the field jockeys for placement behind him.
“Good start,” you say through the radio, your voice calm and composed. “Keep it steady.”
“Copy.”
The race is intense, with Charles and Max battling for the lead, their cars dancing on the edge of perfection. The radio chatter between the two of you flows naturally, filled with technical details, strategy adjustments, and the occasional personal quip.
“Feeling the heat from Max?” You tease after a particularly close call between the two Red Bulls.
Charles laughs breathlessly. “Just keeping things interesting for the fans.”
The race continues at a blistering pace, with Charles and Max pushing each other to the limit. But through it all, Charles remains in the lead, with you guiding him from the pit wall.
“Final lap,” you inform. “Bring it home.”
He nods, pushing the car to its limit. The cheers of the crowd grow louder as he crosses the finish line, securing his first victory with Red Bull.
“Amazing job, Charles! I knew you could do it!”
He lets out a whoop of joy. “Yes! Thank you, team. Thank you, Y/N. I couldn’t have done it without you all.”
The two of you celebrate the victory, and as the rose water sprays and the cheers of the crowd fill the air, you know that this is just the beginning of an incredible journey together.
***
“You’re sure about the medium tyres, Y/N?” Charles asks nervously as he looks at the other cars lining up. “Everyone else is starting on softs.”
You nod confidently, tapping the race strategy on your clipboard. “Yes. The upside of using the mediums is it gives us flexibility. We can extend our first stint if needed, especially with possible rain on the forecast. While everyone else has to pit early for hards and then again for inters when the rain starts, we’ll only have to pit once. Trust me.”
He inhales deeply, trying to quell the unease bubbling inside. “I do trust you. It’s just ... Ferrari ... the strategies there ...”
“I know,” you interrupt softly, understanding the trauma and distrust years with Ferrari had instilled in him. “But this isn’t Ferrari. It’s Red Bull and we work differently. I’ve got your back.”
“Alright,” he looks into your eyes, finding assurance and conviction there, “let’s do this.”
The race begins, and Charles holds his ground well on the medium tyres, though the drivers running softs initially show quicker pace. But as predicted, the clouds soon darken and the threat of rain becomes increasingly evident.
“Stay focused,” you guide through the radio. “Remember the plan.”
He pushes on, expertly handling the streets of Monaco. The cars around him begin to lose grip and one by one they dive into the pits for hard tyres.
Charles keeps lapping. He moves up the order.
“You’re doing great,” you encourage. “Stick to the plan. We’re right on schedule.”
However, as the first raindrops begin to fall, panic sets in among the other teams on the grid. Those who just pitted for hard tyres are forced to pit again for intermediate tyres, losing precious time.
“Now,” you command, “Box this lap.”
He follows your instruction, driving into the pits, and with a flawless stop by his Red Bull crew, re-emerges in the lead.
The rain continues but Charles navigates the treacherous streets of Monaco expertly, maintaining his lead. When the chequered flag waves, it’s Charles who crosses the line first and finally claims victory at his home Grand Prix.
Tears of joy and relief pour from Charles’ eyes as he takes in the moment. “Thank you,” he says over the radio, voice choked with emotion. “I can’t believe it. We did it in Monaco!”
You smile, tears in your own eyes. “We did. I told you to trust me, didn’t I?”
He laughs, the sound full of pure joy. “You did. And I’m so glad I did. Thank you for everything.”
As he steps out of the car and jumps on its nose, arms spread wide, the crowd roars in approval, their prince finally crowned in his home race.
Then he rushes to the barriers and jumps into the cheering crowd of dark blue waiting for him. When his sweaty lips find yours surrounded by the celebrating Red Bull team, you take a moment to whisper a promise, “This is just the beginning. It will only get better from here.”
***
The season flies by in a blur of champagne showers. Heading into the Italian Grand Prix, Charles find himself leading the Drivers’ Championship with Max nipping at his heels.
“I’m not sure I can do this,” Charles confesses, staring out at the Autodromo Nazionale Monza. “This was home. I don’t know how they will react now that I’m no longer wearing red.”
You rest a reassuring hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently. “Many fans support the driver, not just the color he wears.”
He takes a deep breath and looks over the crowd. “The Tifosi are different. They bleed Ferrari red. I’m afraid they will see me only as a traitor.”
“You gave them your all,” you counter. “They’ve seen the struggles. They know why you left. They understand. Trust in them and in yourself.”
As the two of you make your way towards the paddock, the familiar chorus of cheers fills the air. But instead of the jeers and boos he feared, a chant begins to rise among the crowd of red: “Charles! Charles! Charles!”
Charles stops in his tracks. “They’re ... they’re cheering for me.”
You nod, a smile playing on your lips. “Told you.”
He’s soon swarmed by a group of fans, all clamoring for autographs, photos, and just a moment of his time. It’s clear that the bond between Charles and the Tifosi remains unbroken.
An older fan steps forward, his Ferrari cap worn with age. “You are still Il Predestinato. We wish it ended differently but we have eyes. We watched the races. We know why you left. No matter what team you drive for, you always have our hearts.”
Charles blinks back tears, deeply touched. “Grazie,” he whispers and claps the fan’s weathered hands in thanks.
Another fan, a young girl with a homemade sign that reads Once a Tifosi, Always a Tifosi, shyly approaches. “We still love you, Charles,” she says.
He kneels down to give her a gentle hug. “Thank you,” he murmurs, taking off his Red Bull cap and placing it on her head.
As the day goes on, the support from the Tifosi only grows. They cheer for him during practice, during qualifying, and every time he appears in front of the stands.
It’s clear that the bond between Charles and the Tifosi is as strong as ever.
That evening, as the two of you sit in the garage looking over data, Charles reflects on his day. “I was so afraid,” he admits. “Afraid of being rejected, of losing their love. But today ... today was incredible.”
You close the analytics. “The Tifosi love you. Not because of the car you drive or the colors you wear but because of who you are. Just like I do.”
He nods slowly. “It’s overwhelming. Monza has always been special to me. To feel this level of love and support ... it’s more than I ever expected.”
You lean closer, resting your head on his shoulder. “They see your passion. They see how much you give on and off the track. Anyone who does not love and respect you for that needs to reconsider.”
He exhales slowly, “I just ... I wanted to make them proud, to win for them in red and bring glory back to Maranello. But knowing they still support me no matter what ... it means everything.”
You look up into his eyes. “And they always will. Because they know you always gave and will continue to give your best. They love you because they are loved in return.”
He laughs, pulling you into a tight hug. “Thank you,” he murmurs into your hair. “For always being my rock, especially in moments like these.”
“Now let’s go out there tomorrow and win.”
***
“Vegas, baby!” Charles shouts, swinging an arm around your shoulders, both of you holding champagne glasses that have been refilled one too many times.
You giggle, distinctly feeling all of the alcohol you’ve consumed. “We won! We did it!”
Charles laughs, pulling you closer. “We did! And do you know what people do when they’re in love and win in Vegas?”
You think about it for a moment, a mischievous glint appearing in your eyes. “Get ... married?”
Charles nods enthusiastically. “Exactly! Y/N Horner, will you marry me tonight?”
You don’t hesitate, “Hell yes!”
The two of you, in your drunken stupor, begin your mission to find a wedding chapel. However, before you can get very far, Max spots you and quickly catches on to what you’re planning.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Max exclaims, grabbing Charles by the shoulder. “Where do you think you’re going with Y/N?”
Charles replies with a sloppy grin, “To make her Mrs. Leclerc!”
Max bursts into laughter, trying to play the voice of reason. “Mate, as much fun as that sounds, I think you might want to sleep on that idea.”
But you’re not having it. “No, Max! We’re in love and it’s Vegas. We’re doing it!”
Before the conversation can escalate further, your father joins the fray, looking both amused and concerned. “What on earth is going on here?”
Max chuckles, “Your daughter and Charles here have some ... ambitious plans for the evening.”
You pout and stumble slightly, “Daddy, we want to get married! Right now!”
Your father’s eyebrows shoot up. “Married? Tonight? Seriously?”
Charles nods with absolute seriousness, though his precarious swaying contradicts his tone. “Christian, I love your daughter. And we won. In Vegas. So ... wedding?”
Your father places a firm hand on his driver’s shoulder. “Listen, Charles, I have no doubt about your feelings for Y/N. But my baby girl deserves the world. When and if you ever decide to propose, I expect you to get down on one knee, stone-cold sober, and ask her properly.”
Charles blinks, processing the words. “But ... Vegas?”
You laugh and go to hug your father, almost falling over in the process. “He’s right. Let’s just enjoy tonight. And if we still feel like getting married in the morning, we can discuss it then.”
Max smirks, “Trust me, you’ll thank us in the morning. If you can even remember this conversation, that is.”
***
“Charles,” you begin, your voice echoing in his helmet, “The team has made the call. You and Max are free to race. No team orders.”
There’s a pause on the other end. “Understood. May the best man win.”
The tension in the garage skyrockets as soon as the lights go out. It’s evident that this is going to be an epic battle from the very first turn. Max and Charles swap places multiple times, pushing their cars to the very edge of their limits.
“Breathe,” you remind him calmly as the laps go by, “Don’t loose sight of the race as a whole. There’s a championship at stake.”
The entire race is a blur of overtakes, pit strategies, and nail-biting moments. The two Red Bull cars battle wheel-to-wheel lap after lap. One side of the garage against the other.
Coming into the final laps, Charles is right on Max’s tail — the championship hanging in the balance between them.
You know there’s not much you can do to guide him anymore … it’s all up to Charles.
“Last lap,” you try to sound composed despite the pounding of your heart. “You can do this.”
The cheers and gasps of the crowd are deafening as Charles makes his move, taking the inside line and overtaking Max on the penultimate turn.
“Push now! Just a few more corners.”
As Charles crosses the finish line, the enormity of the moment crashes over both of you.
“Charles Leclerc,” you scream over the radio as tears stream down your face, “you are the World Champion!”
“Yeeeesssss! Yes! Yes! I ... I can’t believe it. This is ... thank you, everyone. To the entire Red Bull team, you’ve given me the chance to chase and achieve my dreams. To my friends, my family, to every single person who’s been by my side, believed in me, and supported me … thank you. And Y/N, you’ve been my rock and my oxygen. Without you, this wouldn’t have been possible. Thank you! Thank you. Thank you so much!”
***
“Whew! That was a lot of rose water!” Charles laughs, wiping the bubbly liquid from his eyes.
You chuckle and try to wring out your hair. “You didn’t have to drench me, you know!”
Charles grins cheekily. “It’s a special occasion, after all. Both of us on this podium? It’s a dream!”
Then suddenly, he turns serious and signals to his brother in the crowd below, who throws him a small leather box. Charles catches it and promptly lowers himself down on one knee in front of you, making the crowd fall into a stunned silence.
“I tried this in Vegas,” he starts with a laugh, “But I might have been too drunk and missed a few pretty important steps.”
Charles takes a deep breath and his eyes lock onto yours, saying everything that words would never be sufficient to. “Y/N, being on this podium with you, winning the World Championship, it’s the pinnacle of my career. But what we have ... it’s the pinnacle of my life. I can’t imagine going on this journey with anyone else, facing the highs, the lows, the in-betweens. Will you marry me?”
Tears flow steadily down your cheeks and you nod with a fervor that would make bobbleheads jealous, “Yes! There’s no one else I’d want to spend forever with.”
The crowd erupts into cheers and applause, the deafening roar echoing around the Yas Marina Circuit. Max gives a loud whistle, his face lit up with a big grin next to you on the podium stage.
Charles rises to his feet and pulls you close, attacking your lips as the crowd goes wild.
“Promise me we won’t head to a chapel right after this race?” You joke, sniffling and giggling at the same time.
Charles laughs, looking slightly sheepish. “I promise, mainly because I’m too young to die and your father would definitely kill me if I even thought about pulling the stunt we tried in Vegas again. You deserve a fairytale wedding.”
You press your face against his chest, feeling the rhythm of his heartbeat as fireworks explode overhead. “All I need for my fairytale is you.”
Who Had A Cookie?
Blurb: One where you're the f1 drivers manager, and when all the boys seem to have eaten a 'magic cookie' you're the one who needs to clean up all the mess.
Notes: I was inspired by the one greys anatomy episode lol but I thought this was a funny concept. This is also my first fic I’ve posted in 6 months!! I found it in my drafts and decided to post! Enjoy xx
Warnings: well mention of drugs, might be some swearing but other than that nothing lol Platonic!reader x f1 drivers and a little bit of reader x Charles leclerc
Who had the cookies?
You loved charity events, especially f1 charity events. You loved your job for giving you the opportunity to attend these events. A very easy night if you say so yourself, babysitting twenty grown men, what could go wrong? Especially when cameras and fancy investors are around they behave all on their own, leaving you to relax, and indulge in some free champagne.
“Y/n.” your name was mumbled behind you, startling you as your attention now shifted to your assistant.
You knew something was wrong by the way she was twiddling her fingers, her black nails contrast to her white dress as she brings her left index nail up to hold between her teeth.
“Jenny? Spit it out.” You stood up straight, urging your assistant.
She stands up straight as if she's trying to muster up some sort of courage, she looks around before she leans in closer to you, you can almost hear her shaky breaths.
“There were some cookies… and erm, well they were placed in the drivers dressing room, and I don’t know how they got there. I mean, I certainly didn’t sign them off so this is no way my fault and-“ she was talking a mile a minute you couldn't even understand her.
“Jenny!” You took her hands that were waving in the air and bought them back down to her chest.
“Take a deep breath and tell me what’s wrong?” you said sternly.
“Don’t fire me… please.” You could see the tears brimming in her eyes, but the anticipation was killing you, you windened your eyes and stayed quiet so she could carry on.
“There were compromised cookies gifted to the driver's dressing room.”
“And?”
“And- and now the tin is empty, as in they've all gone. The cookies have been eaten y/n. Cannabis cookies.”
Your hands ran to your mouth as your eyes immediately darted around the room to look for anything out of the ordinary.
The room was spinning as you whipped your neck around in different directions.
George russel was the first to catch your attention.
He looked fine…he was leaning against a wall, chewing…
He was chewing on a cookie.
“Oh my god.” You started to push through the crowd of people in the hall.
“George! Drop that cookie!”
George’s eyes lit up when he saw you, one of his many managers. You could see the cookie crumbs falling from his mouth as he smiled, chocolate smudged around the corners of his lips.
“Y/n, you have to try these cookies!” He desperately said, holding up his half eaten cookie. But much to his dismay you slapped it out of his hand, letting it fall right to the floor. George’s lips downturned and your name fell in a groan from his lips as he looked at his cookie on the floor.
“Spit.” You held your hand out, as gross as it was.
“I will not!” He sassed you as you pointed your finger at him, eyebrows furring trying to be as intimidating to the six foot man as possible. George sent you one of his signature smirks as he swallowed the mouthful of cookie in one large gulp.
“George, those are not regular cookies-“
“Tell me about it! Send from the heavens.” he smiled, almost robotic, like the smile didn't reach his eyes.
Your own eyes widened as you realised one of your clients was stoned.
Completely and utterly stoned.
You were fucked.
You could feel Jenny breathe behind you, she let out a small giggle at George's actions causing you to turn and scowl at her.
“Grab him and take him to the dressing room, and don’t let him talk to anyone. lock him in there and then come back to help me gather anyone else who had had a cookie.”
She nodded as she grabbed George’s arm, telling him they were going on an adventure, George happily complying.
You sighed as you looked for anyone else.
You were at a very high class charity gala in Monaco. This night was about to be ruined and you were about to be fired for letting your drivers get out of control and well, high.
You decided making an announcement on the stage was your best bet, walking through the crowds of people you felt someone grab your arm.
“Y/n!” Lando Norris.
He giggled as he said your name. Making him repeat himself.
“Y/nnnnnn.” He covered his mouth to stop the giggles. “Sorry, just, why does your name sound so weird?”
You had to try so hard to keep your face straight at the boy's child like giggles.
“Why are you laughing like that?” Carlos walked over, playing his arm over his wobbly ex teammate.
“Carlos!” you and lando both said in unison.
“Your hair is so soft, like fur.” Lando said as his hands made their way into Carlos's long brown locks. Carlos eyes widen as he looks at the boy then back at you, trying to pull Landos hands out of his hair.
“Carlos, did you have a cookie?” You eyed up the Spaniard.
“What cookie?” He frowned at you.
“Ugh, thank god! Landos had a erm.” You leaned into him so no one around would hear, “Some of the drivers have eaten cannabis laced cookies.”
Carlos’ head turned as he looked back at Lando, eyes widening.
“Take him back to the dressing room please, just lock him in there with George, and if you see anyone else take them with you.”
Carlos just nodded, letting his mate lean on him as he dragged him to the back of the room.
You let out a sigh of relief, that was three out of a possible twenty.
Only seventeen more to find.
You walked up to the stage, grabbing the mic, tapping it slightly.
“Hello, everyone. I hope everyone is having a good night, erm, could all formula one drivers that have eaten a cookie this afternoon please meet back in the dressing room, important meeting. Thank you.” You smiled at the crowd, you could hear the whispers as you stopped off the stage.
“Y/n?”
Max.
“I had a cookie, and I don't feel too good, like - like i'm not here, i've been over there.” He pointed to the corner of the room, “and I thought I was dreaming y/n. I dont know whats happening to me?” He looked panicked as he clutched onto your upper arm.
“You're okay max, you had some magic cookies.”
“Magic cookies?”
“Just come with me okay?”
He nodded his head vigorously as he followed you though the crows, clutched to your hand like a toddler.
You noticed Daniel on the way, opting to grab him too.
“Danny!”
“Hello.” he had, in a very nonchalant tone, unlike his bubbly self. He was definitely stoned.
“Are you okay?”
“I feel great.” he smiled, but his eyes didn't quite catch up to him.
You grabbed his arm and dragged him along with max.
“Y/n? Where are we going?” Max asked anxiously.
“To sit down.”
You dragged them both into the room, when you got in there you could see George sat curled up on the window seal, lance was sat back against the wall staring at the floor. Seb was giggling at Mick who had all of a sudden become hyper aware of his body, saying he could feel his ‘skin’.
Pierre was touching his face in the mirror while Yuki was at the snack table.
You let out a relieved sigh as Jenny had managed to capture some of the drivers, a few turning up after hearing your announcement.
“Okay boys go play.” You pushed Daniel and Max into the room.
“Dan, dan, danny, daniel.” Pierre called Daniel over to the mirror. “Why don't I look like me?” Pierre asked daniel.
Pierre gasped and turned to a very relaxed Daniel, placing his hands on his shoulders.
“Daniel, do you think I look weird?” Panicked.
“Coolllll.” Daniel replied as he smiled straight though pierre.
“You're right, I'm too cool to care.” Pierre nodded and turned back to the mirror to straighten out his shirt.
“This room is full of some very… high men.” Seb looked at you with raised eyebrows.
“Seb? Please tell me-”
“I didn't. Don't worry. I'm watching my weight.” he winked at you. “I'm happy to look after these guys while you get the others?”
You replied a quick thank you as you quickly shut the door, bolting back into the hall. Then you realised, opening the door back open and peering through,
Where were Lando and carlos?
You rushed back out, looking down the bottom of the hallway, choosing to search the rest of the building, you came to the fire escape stairs where you found a curled up charles rocking back and forward.
“Charlie?” you gently called out as you crouched down next to him, placing a hand on his knee.
“Y/n?” He quietly replied.
“It's me, it's just me. How are you feeling?” you gently asked him.
“I- i don't know, i've never felt like this before.” He said raising his head, his eyes bloodshot and skin pale, he had a cookie.
You smiled at him as you brushed his fallen hair back from his forehead.
“You're going to be alright, come with me okay?”
You pulled him up to his feet where he looked down at you, sniffing before a little smile climbed his face.
“You're so pretty y/n.” You giggled at the boy as you took his hand and made your way down the steps to the drivers room.
“Like a princess.” he added, his hands waving in the air.
“Thank you, charlie.” you giggled.
“Charlie,” he smiled, “have i ever told you how much i love it when you call me that, charlie.” he smiled and repeated the nickname again, leaning his head on your shoulder as you both made your way down the stairs.
Charles lightly sighed as you pushed him into the drivers room, “Where are you going?” Charles whispered, pulling on your arm.
“I'll be back in five minutes okay, Seb will look after you.”
Charles nodded his head to look for seb, you both grimace when you saw mick with his head in the trash can, seb rubbing his back as pierre and yuki giggle at him in the corner.
You walked back out the room when Jenny was running up to you, “Y/n! Huge problem, Carlos and Lando are on the stage!”
Ou barge past her and walk into the room to see Carlos with a mic in his hand, Lando leaning into him in fits of laughter.
“All I'm saying is, I race really fast cars, like that's super cool, right? There's only twenty of us that do that. So cool, im so cool, im a cool guy.'' Carlos giggled as he spoke about himself on stage.
“You could die? I could die? Imagine that! The world would be so sad, my smooth operator.” Lando giggled at the nickname and then started to sing.
And before you knew it they were two verses deep into smooth operator, Carlos opting to show off his opera skills at one point.
You jumped on the stage taking the mic out of Carlos' hands and putting your hand over it so you could whisper shout in his ear, “You said you didn't have any cookies!”
Carlos snickered as he looked at Lando who gasped and held his hand over his mouth.
“You lied to y/n?” Lando giggled. “Oh man you're in so much trouble.” Landos face dropped as he leaned into carlos’ face, “she looks mad, we should probably run.”
Carlos nodded along with the boy when you grabbed both of their arms, “Nope. No more running, you're coming with me.”
Carlos shook his head like a caught child and both men giggled as you pushed them off the stage, apologising to the crowd before handing the mic back to the dj.
“Y/n!”
You sighed as your name was called for about the fifth time that night, this time though, it was serious.
Zac Brown made his way over to the three of you, a scowl on his face and his arms crossed over his chest. Lando straightened his posture as Carlos crossed his arms and impersonated Zac, Lando caught onto this and all of a sudden the boys were in crying fits of laughter again. You winced as Landos cackle echoed through the hall, catching the attention of people around.
“What. The. Hell?”
“I can explain.” you winced at the man.
“What is going on here?” He eyed up his driver and ex driver, who he presumed had too much to drink.
“They're high. Someone laced some cookies and I'm so sorry, I have the situation under wraps, they won't be a problem anymore.”
But when Zac started to laugh along you realised maybe it wasn't just some of the drivers who had had some cookies.
“Oh you’ve got to be kidding me.” You grabbed Zac as well as Lando and Carlos and dragged them back to the dressing room.
“Y/n, Your back!” Charles made his way over to you, engulfing you into a hug.
“Y/ns back!” Max screamed as he fell off the sofa, plunging his way into your arms along with charles.
“Hey get off her, she's my manager!” Max shoved Charles hand that was loosely placed on your shoulder.
“She's mine too!”
While the two men started to fight over your attention you scanned the drivers that were in the room. Jenny had managed to catch the majority and even some of the drivers that weren't high had opted to help.
Max shoved Charles in hopes he would let go of you, instead causing you to stumble back into the arms of someone else.
“Okay okay, we get it, she's pretty but you're suffocating her, and she won't be very pretty when she's dead on the floor.” a spanish accent can be heard behind you.
Fernando unwrapped both men as they both started to profusely apologise about ‘nearly killing you.’
You rubbed your hand over your head after smiling at Fernando in a thank you as he sent Charles and Max to the food table.
“You look stressed.” he said with a smirk as you both watched the men in the room.
“I need a cookie.” you joked, your eyes on mick who was still throwing up.
“I could always make you some.” he shrugged.
You laughed at the man before your eyes widened in realisation, you turned to him, face like thunder, “You!”
He threw his hands up in the air, “In my defence i didn't mean for anyone to eat them. It was a total accident.”
Your mouth agape you turned to look at the Spaniard ready to scream every curse word you know. He sensed your anger, “it was an honest mistake y/n, trust me. You think I would have wasted all of them cookies on these people on purpose.”
Your eyes darted daggers and Fernando understood you were really mad, in an attempt to lighten the mood he pointed at Yuki and Pierre who were having the time of their lives giggling like two school girls in the corner.
“You have to admit, it is kinda funny,” he said.
A smile crept on your face as you giggled, it was kinda funny.
Yours and Fernandos giggling soon stopped when you saw Max and Checo arguing in the corner.
“I think Max is about to punch Checo for taking the last slice of pizza.” you said.
“Shit.”
Ice: Hey Pete, can I borrow your keys? I lost mine. Mav, grabbing and throwing something from his pocket: Yeah sure, here. Ice: ... Ice: Babe? Mav: What? Ice: This is an engagement ring. Mav, patting his pockets: STUPID CARGO PANTS AND THEIR STUPID POCKETS
With a few tips, he wasn’t so boring after all. Secretly, I’ll tell you that you aren’t either. Anyone who tells you otherwise is trying to lower your value. Don’t trust them. They know they can’t afford you otherwise.
— Brandon Sanderson, Tress of the Emerald Sea
Congrats world champion ❤️
Can you please please write smt about doing body shots off either Charles or lando. I keep staring at their necks in pics and I’m imaging just licking salt off it. I feel like lando would be soooo cocky about it and just let you lick it off his neck and make you grab the lime from his lips and then he ready to do it back to you
A/N: Lando is so perfect for this, Lando would be so cocky while Charles a blushing mess so we picked Lando in this house
You needed to be careful. The party was starting to get out of hand, but Lando had gotten P2 and Carlos P1 so the party was ragging. Everyone was getting tipsy and drunk while others were sober because of the slights they would be catching in a few hours.
Unable to remember who screamed it but all you knew is that everyone was doing body shots and the person who cracked the first was the next victim. And that's how you ended up standing in front of a smirking Lando. His hair was messed up and lips swollen.
No telling who he's been kissing or doing body shots off od, but you hated this. Standing in front of everyone has Daniel and Carlos explained the concept of what was going on. If either of you kissed, then you cracked, and someone will have to do a body shot off you.
Lando was following your every movement as Daniel placed you in front of Lando. The music was pounding and people everywhere but when Lando spoke in his low husky voice, something that happened when he's worked up and tipsy. "Are you okay?" Lando asks, pulling you in which has you leaning onto his chest for support. "Yeah, I've done this before." You whisper back, clearing your throat. The hands on your waist tighten and Lando's bright eyes darken but he says nothing as he smiles.
"So, who made you crack?" You asks, trying to forget your own nerves. "Don't worry about it," "Carlos did," Daniel teases craning Lando's neck to the side you swallow hard.
It's hard not to stare at Lando with his large hands, perfect smile, and neck he was just, perfectly imperfect. "Really? Can't believe I missed that." Lando giggles, from your words and the salt being stuck to his neck. "Alright! LET'S GO!" Daniel yells loudly which has everyone turning but still, it was a rather large party not even half the people were paying attention.
From the corner of your eye you see the other drivers laughing and watching you two closely. "Here goes nothing." Taking the bottle from Carlos's hand you take a swing, ignoring the burn in your throat as you lean in to lick the salt.
Slowly you move your tongue, a shudder passing through Lando's body, causing some wolf whistles as Lando's hands move from your waist to your ass squeezing it. Pulling back you look for the lime, looking at Lando he smiles and you groan seeing it in his mouth. "Cheater," You whisper, fingers tangle in curls as you yank him forward sending the drivers crazy as you kiss him deeply.
Groaning into the kiss Lando loses the lime as you curl your tongue sending him crazy you pull away with the lime in your mouth. Everyone laughing and cheering when you pull back with it in your mouth. "I think I win, yes?" You ask Daniel who is clapping and nodding. "Hell yeah!" Turning you see Lando standing there dazed. "Maybe next time, baby boy." Patting his cheek, unsure where that courage came from.
Walking away you move your hips from side to side, uncaring that everyone is going crazy as you slip into the crowd. If he wanted you, he'd come to you.
Sleepy Endearment
Charles Leclerc X Reader
Genre: Fluff
Summary: Reader becomes a human teddy bear
Warnings: none :)
Notes: Happy birthday to Lord Percival!
Masterlist
The thing about Charles Leclerc is that he loves to sleep more than he lets on. So when his girlfriend decided to get up to make breakfast, a birthday tradition, he didn't let her go.
A heavy arm around her waist kept pulling her back into bed every time she tried to escape. Which was not helping her mission of trying to make her lovely (and clingy) boyfriend something to eat.
"Sleep, mon chéri. It's too early to be awake." His raspy morning voice pleads.
"Sharl, I'm trying to be cute and make you breakfast."
He simply responds by rolling over on top of the female. "Could eat you instead."
She giggles at his antics. The clingy Monegasque continues to pull her underneath him. Their limbs tangled up in the sheets.
"Isn't it your birthday?"
"But you're sweet enough for me."
Finally, he gets both arms around her and flips them. He squeezes her like she's a teddy bear and refuses to let her go. "Warm."
She gives in to his embrace. It's not worth fighting him over this. At least, that's what she convinces herself the reason is and definitely not that he's stronger than her.
She attempts to tickle him only to be stopped and blocked from all angles. Again, she sighs in exasperation.
"At this rate, we'll starve to death." She huffs into his chest.
"The I will die a happy man."
"You're very endearing when you are sleepy. Did you know that?"
"Yes, because you say it almost daily in your beautiful morning voice." Charles punctuates each word with a kiss in a different place.
"Maybe if you keep kissing me, I won't try to leave."
"Oh mon amour, I can do much more then just kiss you if you want." Charles wiggles his eyebrows and both of them fall into a fit of laughter.
Breakfast didn't happen until almost noon kn a Monday. The afternoon sun filtering over their bodies as the Kitchen becomes a mess. But, on the brightside, they have enough energy to clean the mess up.
And maybe for some other things as well...
Unfinished Business
Ghost!Charles Leclerc x Reader
Summary: you arrive in Monaco expecting a once-in-a-lifetime vacation and you certainly get one — a fairytale romance with a Monegasque Prince … from the late 19th century
The gentle hum of a luxury sedan fades as you and your three best friends step out onto the sun-drenched streets of Monaco. The air is thick with anticipation and the salty tang of the Mediterranean. Your eyes widen as they trace the elegant facade of the Palais Grimaldi, its pale stone walls gleaming in the afternoon light.
“I still can’t believe we’re actually here,” Mia breathes, her voice tinged with awe. “An all-expenses-paid trip to Monaco? It feels like a dream.”
You nod, unable to tear your gaze from the intricate architecture. “It’s even more beautiful than the pictures,” you murmur.
Zoe hefts her designer luggage. “Well, ladies, shall we see if the inside is as impressive as the outside?”
As your group approaches the grand entrance, a smartly dressed concierge greets you with a warm smile. “Welcome to the Palais Grimaldi. You must be our contest winners. We’ve been eagerly awaiting your arrival.”
“That’s us!” Olivia chirps, practically bouncing with excitement. “I’m Olivia, and these are Mia, Zoe, and Y/N.”
The concierge, whose name tag reads ‘Philippe,’ bows slightly. “It’s a pleasure to meet you all. If you’ll follow me, I’ll show you to your suite.”
As you trail behind Philippe through opulent hallways adorned with priceless art and glittering chandeliers, you can’t shake the feeling that you’ve stepped into another world — or perhaps another time. The weight of history presses in around you, whispering secrets from centuries past.
“The Palais Grimaldi has quite a storied past,” Philippe explains as he leads you up a sweeping marble staircase. “It’s been home to Monaco’s ruling family for over 700 years.”
“700 years?” You echo, your mind reeling at the concept. “That’s incredible. Has it been a hotel for long?”
Philippe chuckles. “Oh no, mademoiselle. The palace only opened its doors to the public a few years ago. It’s still used for official state functions, but the family decided to share its beauty with the world.”
Mia leans in close, her voice low. “I bet these walls have seen some scandalous things over the centuries.”
“More than you can imagine,” Philippe says with a wink. “If these walls could talk ...”
As you reach the top of the stairs, a long corridor stretches before you, lined with ornate doors. Philippe stops before one and produces an old-fashioned key with a flourish. “Your suite, ladies.”
The door swings open, revealing a space that takes your breath away. Soaring ceilings, silk wallpaper, and antique furnishings create an atmosphere of timeless luxury.
“Holy. Crap.” Zoe’s usual composure cracks as she takes in the opulence. “This is insane.”
Olivia immediately flops onto one of the plush sofas. “I’m never leaving. You’ll have to drag me out kicking and screaming when the week is up.”
You wander to one of the tall windows, mesmerized by the view of the sparkling Mediterranean. “I can’t believe we get to stay here for a whole week.”
Philippe clears his throat. “I’ll leave you to settle in. Your luggage will be brought up shortly. Please don’t hesitate to call if you need anything at all.”
As the door closes behind him, your friends erupt into excited chatter.
“Did you see the size of that bathroom?” Mia gushes. “The tub is practically a swimming pool!”
Zoe is already examining the ornate writing desk. “Look at this. It’s probably worth more than my entire apartment.”
You run your hand along the silk-covered walls, feeling a strange thrill as your fingers trace the intricate patterns. “It’s like stepping back in time,” you murmur.
Olivia bounces on the bed, giggling. “Well, I for one plan to enjoy every modern amenity this place has to offer. Who’s up for raiding the mini bar?”
The rest of the afternoon passes in a whirlwind of unpacking, exploring every nook and cranny of your suite, and planning your itinerary for the week ahead.
As evening falls, you find yourself drawn back to the window. The sun dips below the horizon, painting the sky in vibrant hues of pink and gold. The principality below comes alive with twinkling lights, promising endless possibilities.
“Earth to Y/N!” Mia’s voice breaks through your reverie. “We’re thinking of heading down to the hotel restaurant for dinner. You in?”
You turn from the window, smiling at your friends. “Absolutely. Just let me freshen up a bit.”
In the bathroom, you splash some water on your face and reapply your lipstick. As you study your reflection in the ornate mirror, a strange sensation washes over you — almost as if someone is watching. You shake your head, dismissing the feeling as jetlag-induced imagination.
Rejoining your friends, you make your way down to the restaurant. The maître d’ leads you to a table with a stunning view of the moonlit gardens.
“I propose a toast,” Zoe says, raising her glass of champagne. “To friendship, adventure, and a week we’ll never forget!”
You clink glasses, the bubbles tickling your nose as you sip. As your friends chatter excitedly about their plans for tomorrow, your gaze drifts to the gardens below. For a moment, you could swear you see a figure in old-fashioned dress moving among the hedges. You blink, and the apparition vanishes.
“Y/N? Hello? Anyone home?” Olivia waves her hand in front of your face.
You snap back to attention. “Sorry, what?”
“I was asking what you wanted to do first tomorrow. Beach or shopping?”
You consider for a moment. “Actually, I was thinking about taking a tour of the palace. I’d love to learn more about its history.”
Mia grins. “Ooh, good call. Maybe we’ll run into a handsome prince.”
You laugh, but something in your chest flutters at the thought. “I don’t think that’s very likely.”
As the evening wears on and the wine flows freely, you find your thoughts continually drifting back to the palace and its centuries of secrets. By the time you return to your suite, a pleasant exhaustion has settled over you.
You bid your friends goodnight and curl up in your luxurious bed, the Egyptian cotton sheets cool against your skin. As you drift off to sleep, the last thing you see is the moonlight streaming through the window, casting ethereal shadows on the walls.
In your dreams, you wander the halls of the palace. Everything is hazy, like looking through frosted glass. You turn a corner and come face to face with a young man dressed in 19th-century finery. His eyes, a startling shade of green, seem to pierce right through you.
He opens his mouth as if to speak, but no sound comes out. A profound sadness radiates from him, tugging at your heart. You reach out, wanting to comfort him, but your hand passes through him like smoke.
You jolt awake, heart racing. The room is bathed in the soft glow of pre-dawn light. You sit up, running a hand through your tousled hair.
“What was that?” You whisper to the empty room.
As the sun begins to peek over the horizon, you can’t shake the feeling that your dream was more than just a product of your imagination. Something about this place, about that mysterious figure, calls to you in a way you can’t explain.
You slip out of bed and pad to the window, watching as Monaco comes to life below. Whatever secrets the Palais Grimaldi holds, you’re determined to uncover them. Little do you know, this is just the beginning of an adventure that will change your life forever.
***
The Monégasque sun beats down relentlessly as you and your friends lounge by the hotel’s exclusive rooftop pool. The glittering Mediterranean stretches out before you, a canvas of blue punctuated by gleaming white yachts.
“Now this is what I call a vacation,” Mia sighs contentedly, adjusting her oversized sunglasses.
Zoe nods in agreement, not looking up from her book. “I could get used to this kind of luxury.”
You smile and close your eyes, trying to focus on the warmth of the sun and the gentle lapping of the pool water. But there’s a nagging feeling in the pit of your stomach that you can’t shake off.
Olivia notices your furrowed brow. “Y/N, what’s up? You look like you’re solving world hunger over there.”
You hesitate, unsure how to explain the strange occurrences of the past few days. “It’s nothing, really. I just ... have you guys noticed anything weird happening in the palace?”
Mia perks up, always ready for gossip. “Weird how?”
“Well ...” you start, then falter. How can you describe the way your hairbrush moved across the dresser on its own? Or the whispers you heard in the empty library? “It’s going to sound crazy, but I think there might be something ... supernatural going on.”
There’s a moment of silence before Olivia bursts out laughing. “Supernatural? Come on, Y/N. I know you’ve always been into that ghost hunter stuff, but this is a five-star hotel, not a haunted house.”
Zoe looks up from her book, her expression skeptical. “Are you sure you’re not just jet-lagged? Or maybe it’s all that rich food we’ve been eating.”
You feel a flush creeping up your neck. “I know how it sounds, but I swear, strange things keep happening. Last night, I saw a man’s reflection in the mirror, but when I turned around, no one was there.”
Mia sits up, suddenly interested. “Ooh, was he hot?”
“Mia!” Zoe admonishes, but there’s a hint of amusement in her voice.
You sigh, realizing how ridiculous you must sound. “Never mind. You’re probably right, it’s just my imagination running wild.”
But as the day wears on, you can’t shake the feeling that you’re being watched. Every shadow seems to hold a secret, every creaking floorboard a whispered message.
That night, as your friends snore softly in their beds, you find yourself wide awake, staring at the ornate ceiling. The moonlight filtering through the curtains casts eerie shadows on the walls, and the silence of the night seems to pulse with an otherworldly energy.
Unable to bear it any longer, you slip out of bed and into a robe. Your bare feet are silent on the plush carpet as you make your way to the door. You pause, hand on the doorknob, heart racing. Are you really going to do this?
Taking a deep breath, you step out into the dimly lit hallway. The palace is different at night, the opulence muted, shadows deepening the corners. You walk aimlessly, letting your instincts guide you through the maze-like corridors.
As you round a corner, a chill runs down your spine. At the end of the hallway, you see a figure. It’s only for a split second before it vanishes around the next bend, but you’re certain it was the same man you saw in the mirror.
“Wait!” You call out, breaking into a run. You turn the corner, but the hallway is empty.
Breathing heavily, you lean against the wall. “I’m losing my mind,” you mutter to yourself.
“I can assure you, mademoiselle, that your mind is quite intact.”
You whirl around, heart leaping into your throat. There, standing before you, is the man from your dreams and glimpses.
He’s of average height, with wavy dark hair and piercing green eyes. His clothes are old-fashioned — a tailored suit that wouldn’t look out of place in the late 19th century. But the most shocking thing is that you can see right through him to the painting on the wall behind.
You open your mouth to scream, but no sound comes out. The ghost — because what else could he be — holds up his hands in a placating gesture.
“Please, do not be afraid. I mean you no harm.”
His voice is gentle, with a slight accent you can’t quite place. Despite your terror, you find yourself oddly calmed by his presence.
“Who ... what are you?” You manage to whisper.
The ghost bows slightly. “I am Prince Charles of Monaco, at your service. Or at least, I was Prince Charles. Now, I’m not entirely sure what I am.”
You blink, trying to process this information. “Prince Charles? But that’s impossible. The current Prince of Monaco is Albert.”
Charles smiles sadly. “You are correct. I’m afraid my time as prince was cut rather short. I died in 1894.”
“1894,” you repeat, feeling light-headed. “So you’re ... a ghost?”
“It would appear so, yes.” Charles looks down at his translucent hands. “Though I prefer to think of myself as ... temporarily disembodied.”
Despite the absurdity of the situation, you feel a laugh bubbling up in your chest. “Temporarily disembodied? That’s one way to put it.”
Charles’ eyes crinkle with amusement. “I find a touch of humor helps in most situations, even death.”
You shake your head, still struggling to believe what’s happening. “Why can I see you? Why now?”
“I’m not entirely sure,” Charles admits. “I’ve been bound to this palace since my death, unable to move on. Most of the time, I’m invisible to the living. But occasionally, someone comes along who can perceive me. You, mon chérie, seem to be one of those rare individuals.”
You take a step closer, fascinated despite your lingering fear. “So all those strange things that have been happening ...”
“My apologies,” Charles says, looking sheepish. “I’m afraid I got a bit ... overeager when I realized you could sense me. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
“Well, mission not accomplished,” you say dryly. “I’ve been terrified for days.”
Charles’ expression turns contrite. “I am truly sorry. It’s been so long since I’ve been able to interact with anyone. I forgot how alarming it might be.”
You study him closely. Now that the initial shock has worn off, you’re struck by how young he looks — no older than his mid-twenties. And there’s a sadness in his eyes that tugs at your heart.
“How did you die?” You ask softly.
Charles’ face clouds over. “That, I’m afraid, is a rather long and complicated story. One that I’m not entirely sure I understand myself.”
You’re about to press further when a noise down the hallway makes you jump. Charles holds a finger to his lips and gestures for you to follow him. He leads you to a hidden door behind a tapestry, revealing a narrow servants’ staircase.
“Quick, in here,” he whispers.
You hesitate for a moment before ducking into the passageway. Charles follows, closing the door behind you. In the dim light filtering through cracks in the wall, you can barely make out his ghostly form.
“Why are we hiding?” You whisper.
“The night guards,” Charles explains. “They wouldn’t take kindly to a guest wandering the halls at this hour. And I’d rather not have to explain why you’re talking to thin air.”
You nod, seeing the logic. “So ... what now?”
Charles gives you a mischievous smile that makes your heart skip a beat. “Well, since you’re already up and about, how would you like a private tour of the palace? I can show you things no living guide knows about.”
The sensible part of your brain is screaming that this is insane. You should go back to your room, crawl into bed, and pretend this was all a vivid dream. But the adventurous part of you, the part that’s always longed for magic and mystery, is practically buzzing with excitement.
“Lead the way, Your Highness,” you say with a grin.
Charles’ smile widens. “Please, call me Charles. I think we’re a bit beyond titles at this point.”
He starts up the narrow staircase, and you follow close behind. As you climb, Charles begins to speak in a low, melodious voice.
“This palace has been the heart of Monaco for centuries. Every stone, every timber holds a piece of history. There are secret passages like this one crisscrossing the entire building — escape routes, trysting spots for illicit lovers, hiding places for treasures.”
You emerge from the staircase into a small, circular room at the top of one of the palace towers. The view of Monaco at night is breathtaking, the city a glittering jewel box beneath a canopy of stars.
“Oh, wow,” you breathe, moving to the window.
Charles stands beside you, his presence cool but not unpleasant. “Beautiful, isn’t it? Even after all these years, it still takes my breath away. Well, metaphorically speaking.”
You turn to look at him, struck by the wistfulness in his voice. “It must be hard, watching the world change around you while you stay the same.”
Charles nods slowly. “It is ... challenging. But it has its compensations. I’ve witnessed history unfold, seen my beloved Monaco grow and flourish. And occasionally, I get to meet fascinating people like yourself.”
You feel a blush creeping up your cheeks and are grateful for the darkness. “I’m hardly fascinating compared to a ghost prince.”
“I beg to differ,” Charles says softly. “You saw me when no one else could. You followed me up here without hesitation. That takes a special kind of courage and openness to the extraordinary.”
For a moment, you’re lost in his intense gaze. Then you remember that he’s, well, dead, and clear your throat awkwardly. “So, um, what else can you show me?”
Charles seems to shake himself out of a reverie. “Ah, yes. Follow me. There’s so much to see.”
The rest of the night passes in a blur of hidden rooms, secret passages, and Charles’ stories. He tells you about the palace’s construction, about the triumphs and tragedies of the Grimaldi family, about the small, everyday moments that history books never record.
As the sky begins to lighten with the first hints of dawn, you find yourself back in the hallway near your suite. You’re exhausted but exhilarated, your mind whirling with everything you’ve seen and learned.
“I suppose I should let you get some rest,” Charles says, a note of reluctance in his voice.
You stifle a yawn. “I suppose so. My friends will be wondering where I am if I’m not there when they wake up.”
Charles nods, then hesitates. “I ... I hope this won’t be our last conversation. It’s been so long since I’ve had someone to talk to.”
The vulnerability in his voice tugs at your heart. “Of course not. I still have so many questions. Like how you ended up ... you know.”
“Another time,” Charles promises. “For now, sleep well, Y/N.”
As you watch, his form begins to fade. Just before he disappears completely, you could swear you see him wink.
You slip back into your room, your mind racing. As you crawl into bed, you wonder how on earth you’re going to explain any of this to your friends. But one thing’s for certain — your vacation in Monaco just got a whole lot more interesting.
***
The sun dips below the horizon, painting the sky in vibrant hues of orange and pink. You stand on the balcony of your suite, outwardly admiring the view, but your mind is elsewhere. Your friends’ voices drift out from the room behind you.
“Y/N? Y/N!” Mia calls. “Are you coming to dinner or what?”
You turn, plastering on a smile. “Actually, I think I’ll skip it tonight. I’m not feeling very hungry.”
Zoe frowns, concern etching her features. “Are you okay? You’ve been acting strange all week.”
“I’m fine,” you assure her quickly. “Just ... taking in all the history of this place, you know?”
Olivia rolls her eyes good-naturedly. “Only you would come to Monaco and spend all your time geeking out over old buildings instead of hitting the beach.”
You laugh, but it sounds forced even to your own ears. “What can I say? I contain multitudes.”
As your friends file out of the room, Mia lingers behind. “Seriously, Y/N, is everything alright? You know you can talk to us about anything, right?”
For a moment, you’re tempted to spill everything. But how could you possibly explain Charles? “I’m fine, really,” you insist. “Go enjoy dinner. I’ll see you later.”
Once they’re gone, you wait a few minutes to ensure the coast is clear. Then you slip out into the hallway, your heart racing with anticipation.
You make your way to the library, which has become your usual meeting spot. As you enter, you see Charles materializing near the fireplace, a warm smile lighting up his translucent features.
“Good evening, Y/N,” he greets you, his voice as smooth and rich as aged whiskey. “I trust you’re well?”
You can’t help but smile back. “Better now,” you admit, then immediately feel a blush creeping up your cheeks. “I mean, you know, because ... history and stuff.”
Charles chuckles, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “Ah yes, the fascinating history and stuff. Shall we delve into more of it tonight?”
You nod eagerly. “What do you have in store for me this time?”
“I thought we might explore the east wing tonight,” Charles says, moving towards one of the bookshelves. “There’s a passage behind this Voltaire that leads to some rather interesting places.”
As he speaks, Charles reaches for the book, his hand passing right through it. A flicker of frustration crosses his face.
“Allow me,” you say softly, stepping forward to pull the book. The shelf swings open, revealing a narrow passageway.
Charles bows slightly. “After you, mademoiselle.”
You enter the passage, Charles’ cool presence right behind you. As you walk, he begins to speak, his voice low and melodious in the confined space.
“This passage was built during the reign of Prince Charles III — my grandfather,” he explains. “It was meant as an escape route in case of invasion. Monaco’s sovereignty was often threatened in those days.”
“But not anymore?” You ask, ducking under a low-hanging beam.
Charles sighs. “Monaco’s position is more secure now, but it wasn’t always so. In my time, we were constantly navigating a delicate balance between France and Italy, trying to maintain our independence.”
You emerge into a small, octagonal room with windows overlooking the sea. Moonlight streams in, casting everything in a silvery glow.
“This was my private study,” Charles says, a note of wistfulness in his voice. “I spent many hours here, dreaming of what Monaco could become.”
You turn to him, curious. “What kind of dreams?”
Charles’ eyes light up with passion. “I wanted to modernize Monaco, to bring it into the new century. We were so dependent on the casino for revenue — I wanted to diversify our economy, improve education, and implement new technologies.”
“That sounds incredibly progressive for the time,” you say, impressed.
Charles nods. “Some thought too progressive. There were those who resisted change, who wanted to cling to the old ways. But I believed — I still believe — that progress is essential for survival.”
As he speaks, you find yourself drawn in by his enthusiasm, his intelligence. This isn’t just some stuffy old royal — this is a man with vision, with dreams that were cut short far too soon.
“What stopped you?” You ask softly.
Charles’ expression clouds over. “Ah, well, dying tends to put a damper on one’s plans.”
You wince. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to-”
“No, no,” Charles interrupts gently. “It’s alright. It was a long time ago.”
An awkward silence falls. You move to the window, looking out at the moonlit sea. “It must be hard,” you say eventually. “Watching the world change around you, unable to participate.”
You feel Charles move closer, his presence cool at your side. “It has its challenges,” he admits. “But it also has its joys. I’ve seen Monaco grow and flourish in ways I never could have imagined. And now ...” He trails off.
You turn to look at him. “And now?”
Charles’ gaze is intense, making your heart race. “And now I have the pleasure of sharing it all with you.”
You swallow hard, acutely aware of how close he is, ghost or not. “I ... I’m glad,” you manage to say. “I’ve never met anyone like you, Charles.”
He smiles, a touch of sadness in his eyes. “Nor I you, Y/N. In life or in death.”
The moment stretches between you, charged with unspoken emotions. Then Charles clears his throat (do ghosts need to clear their throats?) and steps back.
“Come,” he says, his tone lighter. “There’s much more to see.”
The rest of the night passes in a whirlwind of secret rooms and hidden treasures. Charles shows you a concealed vault where the crown jewels were once kept, a forgotten ballroom with faded frescoes on the ceiling, even the old dungeons deep beneath the palace.
Throughout it all, Charles regales you with stories — some historical, some personal. You learn about the political intrigues of 19th century Monaco, about Charles’ childhood pranks, about the hopes and fears he had for his country’s future.
As dawn begins to break, you find yourself back in the library, reluctant for the night to end.
“I suppose I should let you get some rest,” Charles says, echoing his words from your first meeting.
You stifle a yawn. “I suppose so. But I don’t want to go.”
Charles’ expression softens. “Nor do I want you to. But your friends will worry if you’re not there when they wake.”
You sigh, knowing he’s right. “Will I see you tomorrow night?”
“I’ll be here,” Charles promises. “I’m not going anywhere, after all.”
As you watch him fade away, you’re struck by a realization that both thrills and terrifies you. You’re falling in love with a ghost.
The next few days pass in a blur. During the day, you go through the motions with your friends, trying to show enthusiasm for the beaches, the shops, the nightlife. But your mind is always elsewhere, counting down the hours until you can see Charles again.
Your friends notice, of course. How could they not?
“Okay, spill,” Mia demands one afternoon as you all lounge by the pool. “Who is he?”
You nearly choke on your drink. “What? Who’s who?”
Olivia rolls her eyes. “The guy you’re obviously sneaking out to meet every night. Don’t think we haven’t noticed you coming back to the room at dawn.”
“I ... I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you stammer.
Zoe puts a hand on your arm. “Y/N, we’re your friends. You can tell us anything. We’re just worried about you.”
You look at their concerned faces and feel a pang of guilt. You hate lying to them, but how can you possibly explain the truth?
“It’s not ... it’s not what you think,” you say finally. “I’ve just been exploring the palace at night. It’s quieter then, easier to imagine what it was like in the past.”
Your friends exchange skeptical looks.
“Right,” Mia says slowly. “And this has nothing to do with the ‘supernatural occurrences’ you were going on about earlier?”
You force a laugh. “Of course not. That was just my imagination running wild. I’ve just been ... really into the history of this place, that’s all.”
Olivia shakes her head. “If you say so. But Y/N, this is supposed to be a fun vacation. Don’t spend the whole time with your nose in a history book, okay?”
You nod, grateful they’re not pushing further. “You’re right. I’ll try to be more present.”
But that night, as your friends sleep, you find yourself slipping out once again, drawn to Charles like a moth to a flame.
He’s waiting for you in the library, a book hovering open in front of him. As you enter, he looks up with a smile that makes your heart flutter.
“Ah, Y/N,” he says warmly. “I was just refreshing my memory on some of Monaco’s more obscure laws. Did you know it’s technically illegal to wear stiletto heels in the palace?”
You laugh, some of the tension from earlier melting away. “Seriously? Why?”
Charles grins. “Apparently, they damage the floors. It was enacted in 1898, four years after my ... departure. I always wonder about the story behind laws like that. What outrageous incident prompted such a specific prohibition?”
You settle into a nearby armchair, tucking your legs underneath you. “Maybe a scorned lover stabbed someone with a stiletto?”
Charles’ eyebrows shoot up. “My, what a violent imagination you have. I was thinking more along the lines of a clumsy debutante wreaking havoc on the ballroom floor.”
“Boring,” you tease. “My version is much more exciting.”
Charles chuckles, the sound warming you from the inside out. “I suppose I can’t argue with that. Your mind is a constant source of fascination to me.”
You feel a blush creeping up your cheeks. “Oh? How so?”
Charles moves closer, his form shimmering slightly in the moonlight streaming through the windows. “You see the world in such a unique way. You’re not bound by the conventions and expectations of my time. It’s ... refreshing.”
“I could say the same about you,” you reply softly. “You’re nothing like I would have expected a 19th-century prince to be.”
Charles’ smile turns wry. “Ah, but I’ve had over a century to adapt and learn. Though I must admit, much of modern life still baffles me. Perhaps you could explain to me the appeal of this ‘Instagram’ your friends keep mentioning?”
You laugh, launching into an explanation of social media that leaves Charles looking both intrigued and mildly horrified. The conversation flows easily from there, jumping from topic to topic with the effortless rhythm you’ve come to cherish in your nightly meetings.
As the hours pass, you find yourself moving closer to Charles, drawn in by his warmth (metaphorical, of course — he’s actually quite cool to be near) and charm. You’re acutely aware of every movement, every fleeting expression that crosses his face.
At one point, Charles reaches out as if to touch your hand, then seems to catch himself, pulling back with a flicker of frustration crossing his features.
“I’m sorry,” he says softly. “Sometimes I forget ...”
You swallow hard, your heart aching. “It’s okay. I ... I wish you could too.”
The words hang in the air between you, heavy with unspoken longing. Charles’ eyes meet yours, and for a moment, the impossibility of your situation crashes over you like a wave.
“Y/N,” Charles begins, his voice rough with emotion. “I-”
But before he can finish, a noise in the hallway makes you both freeze. Footsteps are approaching the library.
“Quick,” Charles whispers urgently. “Hide behind the curtain.”
You scramble to conceal yourself just as the door opens. Through a gap in the heavy fabric, you see a security guard sweep his flashlight around the room.
Your heart pounds in your chest as the beam of light passes inches from your hiding spot. After what feels like an eternity, the guard seems satisfied and leaves, closing the door behind him.
You wait a few more moments before emerging, your legs shaky with leftover adrenaline.
“That was close,” you breathe.
Charles nods, his form flickering with agitation. “Too close. Y/N, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be putting you in these situations. If you were caught ...”
You shake your head vehemently. “No, don’t say that. I don’t care about the risk. Being with you, learning about you and your time — it’s worth it.”
Charles’ expression softens, a mix of affection and sorrow in his eyes. “You’re extraordinary, do you know that? But I fear ... I fear I’m being selfish, keeping you to myself like this.”
You take a step closer to him, wishing more than anything that you could take his hand. “You’re not keeping me anywhere I don’t want to be.”
The words hang between you, charged with meaning. Charles opens his mouth as if to speak, then closes it again, conflict clear on his face.
Finally, he says, “It’s nearly dawn. You should go, before your friends wake.”
You nod reluctantly, knowing he’s right but hating to leave. As you reach the door, you turn back to look at him one last time.
“Charles,” you say softly. “I ... I’ll see you tomorrow night?”
He smiles, but there’s a sadness in it that tugs at your heart. “I’ll be here. I’m always here.”
As you make your way back to your room, your mind is a whirlwind of emotions. You’re falling hard and fast for a man who’s been dead for over a century.
It’s impossible, it’s insane, and yet ... you wouldn’t trade these moments with Charles for anything in the world.
But as you slip back into bed, the first rays of sunlight peeking through the curtains, a nagging doubt creeps in. How long can this go on? What happens when your vacation ends? And most troublingly of all — what aren’t you seeing in your infatuation with this charming ghost prince?
***
The musty scent of old books fills your nostrils as you hunch over a stack of historical tomes in the palace library. Sunlight streams through the tall windows, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. You’ve been here for hours, your friends long since departed for a day of sunbathing and shopping.
“Find anything interesting?” Charles’ voice makes you jump. You look up to see him materializing near the bookshelf, a curious expression on his translucent face.
You sigh, rubbing your tired eyes. “Nothing concrete yet. There’s frustratingly little information about your death in these official histories. It’s always just ‘Prince Charles died tragically young’ with no details.”
Charles moves closer, peering at the book you’re reading. “Ah, Gustave Saige’s ‘Monaco: Ses Origines et Son Histoire’. A rather dry read, if I recall correctly.”
You can’t help but chuckle. “You’re not wrong. But I thought it might have some clues.” You hesitate, then ask, “Charles, why don’t you just tell me what happened? How you ... died?”
A shadow passes over Charles’ face. “I wish I could. But the truth is, my memories of that time are ... fragmented. I remember tensions rising, arguments with the council, and then ... nothing. Just waking up like this, bound to the palace.”
You reach out instinctively to comfort him, your hand passing through his arm with a chill. “I’m sorry. I can’t imagine how frustrating that must be.”
Charles gives you a sad smile. “It’s been my reality for over a century now. But I must admit, your determination to uncover the truth has given me hope I haven’t felt in a very long time.”
Your heart swells at his words, even as a pang of guilt hits you. Are you really doing this for Charles, or for yourself? The thought of him finding peace and moving on fills you with a complicated mix of emotions you’re not ready to examine too closely.
Pushing those thoughts aside, you turn back to your research. “Well, if these books aren’t giving us answers, maybe we need to look elsewhere. You mentioned arguments with the council. Were there records kept of those meetings?”
Charles’ brow furrows in concentration. “Yes, there would have been. Minutes were always taken. But they would have been considered sensitive documents. Not something you’d find in the public library.”
You lean forward, excitement building. “So where would they be kept?”
“There’s an archive room,” Charles says slowly. “Hidden behind the throne room. It’s where the most confidential state papers were stored.”
You’re already on your feet, shoving books back onto shelves. “Well, what are we waiting for? Let’s go!”
Charles holds up a ghostly hand. “Not so fast, Y/N. That room has been sealed for decades. It’s not somewhere a tourist can just wander into.”
You deflate slightly, but your determination doesn’t waver. “Then we’ll have to find a way in after hours. You can get me there, right?”
Charles looks conflicted. “I could, but Y/N, if you were caught ...”
“I won’t be,” you insist. “Please, Charles. This might be our only chance to find out what really happened to you.”
For a long moment, Charles studies your face. Then he sighs, a sound tinged with both resignation and admiration. “Very well. Meet me here at midnight. I’ll show you the way.”
The hours crawl by as you wait for night to fall. You make a show of going to bed early, claiming a headache to avoid your friends’ plans for a night out. As the clock strikes twelve, you slip out of your room and make your way to the library.
Charles is waiting for you, his form glowing faintly in the moonlight. “Are you sure about this?” He asks one last time.
You nod firmly. “Let’s do it.”
Charles leads you through a maze of corridors and hidden passages. Your heart races with every creak of the floorboards, every shadow that might be a security guard. Finally, you arrive at an ornate door hidden behind a tapestry.
“This is it,” Charles whispers. “The archive room.”
You reach for the handle, but it’s locked. “Damn,” you mutter. “Any ideas?”
Charles frowns, concentrating. “There used to be a spare key ... ah!” He points to a small crevice in the intricate woodwork. “Try there.”
You feel around and, to your amazement, your fingers close around a small key. With trembling hands, you insert it into the lock. It turns with a satisfying click.
The door swings open, revealing a room packed floor to ceiling with shelves of documents. The air is thick with dust and the smell of old paper.
“Where do we even start?” You whisper, overwhelmed by the sheer volume of information.
Charles moves to a section near the back. “The council records from my time should be here. Look for anything dated 1894.”
You begin sifting through stacks of yellowed papers, careful not to damage the fragile documents. Minutes pass in tense silence as you search.
Suddenly, Charles’ voice cuts through the quiet. “Y/N, over here. I think I’ve found something.”
You hurry to his side. He’s pointing at a leather-bound ledger. You carefully open it, coughing slightly at the dust it raises.
As you scan the pages, your eyes widen. “Charles, this ... this is incredible. It’s a record of council meetings leading up to your death. Look at this entry from two weeks before: ‘Prince Charles continues to push for radical reforms. Concerns raised about stability of the principality if plans proceed.’”
Charles leans in, his face a mix of emotions. “I remember that meeting. It was ... heated. Keep reading.”
You flip through more pages, your heart pounding as the story unfolds. “There’s more. ‘Prince’s proposed changes to casino regulations deemed unacceptable. Alternative measures must be considered.’ Charles, this sounds like ...”
“A conspiracy,” Charles finishes, his voice hollow. “They were plotting against me.”
You reach the final entry, dated the day before Charles’ death. Your blood runs cold as you read it aloud. “Situation untenable. Drastic action required to preserve Monaco’s interests. God forgive us.”
A heavy silence falls over the room as the implications sink in. Charles turns away, his form flickering with agitation.
“They killed me,” he says softly. “My own council ... they murdered me to stop my reforms.”
You feel tears pricking at your eyes. “Charles, I’m so sorry. This is ... it’s unthinkable.”
Charles is quiet for a long moment, then turns back to you with a determined expression. “We need to take this ledger. The truth needs to come out, even after all this time.”
You nod, carefully closing the book and tucking it into your bag. As you do, something catches your eye. “Wait, there’s something else here.”
Behind where the ledger was sitting, you spot a small leather pouch. You open it carefully, gasping as several folded papers and a small object fall out.
“What is it?” Charles asks, moving closer.
You unfold one of the papers with trembling hands. “It’s ... it’s a letter. From you.” You begin to read aloud:
“To whoever finds this, I fear my time may be short. I write this in haste, knowing that forces within Monaco seek to silence me. My efforts to modernize our beloved principality and free us from our dependence on gambling have made me enemies in powerful places. If anything should happen to me, know that it was not an accident. The proof of their treachery is contained within these documents and the vial of poison they intend to use. I pray this never sees the light of day, but if it does, may it bring justice and push Monaco towards the future I envisioned.”
You look up at Charles, tears now flowing freely down your cheeks. “You knew. You tried to protect yourself.”
Charles nods slowly, his own eyes shimmering with ghostly tears. “I ... I remember now. I wrote this the night before ... before it happened. I must have hidden it here, hoping someone would find it.”
You carefully gather up the documents and the small vial, adding them to your bag with the ledger. “We have to make this public, Charles. Your murder, the cover-up ... people need to know the truth.”
Charles looks at you with a mix of gratitude and sadness. “You’re right, of course. But Y/N, you must understand what this means. If the truth comes out, if justice is served ...”
“You might be able to move on,” you finish, your voice barely a whisper. The thought sends a dagger through your heart, but you force yourself to continue. “That’s ... that’s a good thing, right? It’s what you’ve been waiting for all this time.”
Charles moves closer, his hand hovering near your cheek as if he could wipe away your tears. “It is. But I find myself reluctant to leave, now that I’ve found something — someone — worth staying for.”
Your breath catches in your throat. “Charles, I ...”
Before you can finish, a noise in the hallway makes you both freeze. Footsteps are approaching.
“Quick,” Charles whispers urgently. “Behind that cabinet.”
You scramble to hide, your heart pounding so loudly you’re sure it must be audible. The door to the archive room creaks open, and a beam of light sweeps across the space.
“Hello?” A gruff voice calls out. “Is someone in here?”
You hold your breath, pressing yourself further into the shadows. After what feels like an eternity, the guard seems satisfied and leaves, closing the door behind him.
You wait a few more moments before emerging from your hiding spot, legs shaky with adrenaline.
“That was too close,” Charles says, his form flickering with agitation. “We need to get you out of here.”
You nod, clutching your bag with its precious cargo close to your chest. “How do we get back?”
Charles leads you to a hidden panel in the wall. “This passage will take you directly to the guest wing. Hurry, before the guard comes back.”
As you step into the secret corridor, you turn back to look at Charles. “What happens now?” You ask softly.
Charles’ expression is a complex mix of emotions — hope, fear, sadness, and something that looks a lot like love. “Now, mon chérie, we bring the truth to light. Whatever comes after ... we’ll face it together.”
You nod, your throat tight with unshed tears. As you make your way back to your room, your mind races with the implications of what you’ve discovered. You’ve found the key to setting Charles free, to bringing him the peace he’s been denied for over a century.
But as you clutch the bag containing the proof of his murder, you can’t help but wonder: at what cost? The thought of losing Charles, of never seeing his smile or hearing his laugh again, fills you with a grief so profound it takes your breath away.
As you slip back into your bed, the first rays of dawn peeking through the curtains, you know that the hardest part of your journey is yet to come. You’ve uncovered the truth, but now you face an impossible choice: keep Charles with you in this half-life or set him free and lose him forever.
***
The golden light of a Monaco sunset streams through the windows of your hotel suite, casting long shadows across the room. You stand before the mirror, adjusting the elaborate 19th-century gown you’ve rented for the evening’s ball. Your fingers tremble slightly as you fasten a delicate necklace, your mind a whirlwind of emotions.
“You look absolutely stunning,” Charles’ voice comes from behind you. You turn to see him materializing near the balcony, his eyes wide with admiration.
“Thank you,” you say softly, your heart aching at the sight of him. “I wish you could really be there tonight, dancing with me.”
Charles moves closer, his form shimmering in the fading sunlight. “As do I, ma chérie. But I’ll be with you in spirit, if you’ll pardon the expression.”
You can’t help but laugh, even as tears prick at your eyes. “Always with the jokes, even now.”
“Well, one must maintain one’s sense of humor, even in the face of ... impending departure,” Charles says, his light tone belied by the sadness in his eyes.
The word hangs heavy between you. Departure. In just two days, you’ll be leaving Monaco, returning to your life back home. The thought fills you with a grief so profound it’s almost physical.
“It doesn’t have to be this way,” you blurt out, the words escaping before you can stop them. “I could stay. I could find a job here, an apartment. We could-”
“Y/N,” Charles interrupts gently, “we’ve discussed this. You can’t put your life on hold for a ghost.”
You turn away, blinking back tears. “But what if I want to? What if being here, with you, is the life I want?”
Charles is quiet for a moment. When he speaks, his voice is thick with emotion. “My dearest Y/N, you cannot imagine how much I wish things could be different. But I am tied to this place, to this half-existence. You have a whole life ahead of you, full of possibilities and adventures. I won’t let you sacrifice that for me.”
You whirl back to face him, frustration bubbling up. “Shouldn’t that be my choice to make?”
“Perhaps,” Charles concedes. “But it is also my choice to refuse to be the anchor that holds you back. You deserve so much more than stolen moments with a specter.”
The truth of his words cuts deep, even as you want to rail against them. You slump onto the edge of the bed, suddenly feeling the weight of your elaborate costume.
“I don’t want to lose you,” you whisper.
Charles moves to sit beside you, the mattress not even dipping under his non-existent weight. “Nor I you. But perhaps ... perhaps this is why we found each other. Not for a lifetime, but for this moment. To bring truth to light, to right an old wrong, and to experience a love that transcends time itself.”
You look up at him, struck by the depth of emotion in his ghostly eyes. “When did you get so wise?”
Charles grins, a hint of his usual mischief returning. “Well, I have had over a century to work on my philosophical musings.”
You can’t help but laugh, even as a tear escapes down your cheek. Charles reaches out, his hand hovering just above your skin in a gesture of comfort.
“Come now,” he says gently. “Let’s not waste our last evening together in sorrow. You have a ball to attend, and I, for one, am eager to see how the modern world interprets the grandeur of my era.”
You nod, standing and giving yourself one last look in the mirror. “You’re right. Let’s make tonight a night to remember.”
As you make your way down to the grand ballroom, you can feel Charles’ presence beside you, a comforting coolness in the warm evening air. The sounds of music and laughter grow louder as you approach.
You pause at the entrance, taking in the transformed space. The ballroom has been decorated to recreate its 19th-century splendor, with crystal chandeliers, elaborate floral arrangements, and guests in period costumes whirling across the dance floor.
“It’s beautiful,” you breathe.
“Indeed,” Charles agrees, his voice tinged with nostalgia. “Though I must say, some of these costumes are rather ... creative interpretations of the fashion of my time.”
You stifle a giggle as you spot a guest in what appears to be a mash-up of Victorian and Edwardian styles. “Well, not everyone can have a ghostly fashion consultant.”
You make your way into the crowd, accepting a glass of champagne from a passing waiter. Your friends spot you and wave enthusiastically.
“Y/N! Over here!” Mia calls out. “You look amazing!”
You join them, smiling as you take in their costumes. “You all look great too. Are you enjoying the ball?”
Zoe nods enthusiastically. “It’s like stepping back in time. Can you imagine living in an era like this?”
You feel Charles’ amusement radiating beside you. “Oh, I don’t know,” you say airily. “I think it might have its charms.”
As the evening progresses, you find yourself swept up in the festivities. You dance with several partners, all the while acutely aware of Charles’ presence, watching from the sidelines.
During a lull in the music, you manage to slip away from the crowd, finding a secluded alcove near one of the large windows.
“Having fun?” Charles asks, materializing beside you.
You nod, a bit breathless from dancing. “It’s wonderful. But I wish ...”
“You wish I could truly be here,” Charles finishes for you. He holds out his hand in an old-fashioned gesture. “Well, my lady, may I have this dance?”
You glance around, making sure no one is watching, then place your hand over his incorporeal one. As the music starts up again, a slow, romantic waltz, you begin to move together.
It’s a strange sensation, dancing with a ghost. You can’t feel Charles’ hand on your waist or his fingers intertwined with yours, but somehow, you move in perfect synchronization. For a few precious moments, it’s as if the rest of the world fades away, leaving just the two of you, swaying to the music.
“I love you,” you whisper, the words slipping out before you can stop them.
Charles’ eyes widen, then soften with an emotion so deep it takes your breath away. “And I love you, Y/N. More than I ever thought possible.”
As you gaze into each other’s eyes, lost in the moment, a sudden chill sweeps through the room. The lights flicker, and a murmur of confusion ripples through the crowd.
Charles stiffens, his form becoming more translucent. “Something’s wrong,” he mutters, looking around warily.
Before you can ask what he means, a commotion breaks out near the center of the ballroom. Guests are backing away from a spot on the dance floor, pointing and gasping in shock.
You push your way through the crowd, Charles right behind you. As you reach the cleared space, your blood runs cold. Three ghostly figures have appeared, dressed in outdated formal wear, their faces contorted with rage and fear.
“Impossible,” Charles breathes beside you. “It’s them. The council members who ... who murdered me.”
As if hearing his words, the three ghosts turn towards you. Their eyes widen in recognition as they spot Charles.
“You!” One of them snarls, his voice echoing unnaturally in the stunned silence of the ballroom. “How are you here?”
Charles steps forward, his own form becoming more visible to the shocked onlookers. “I could ask you the same question, Lord Beaumont. Or should I say, murderer?”
A collective gasp runs through the crowd. Hotel staff are rushing about, trying to maintain order, but everyone’s attention is fixed on the supernatural drama unfolding before them.
“We did what was necessary,” another ghost, a portly man with a walrus mustache, blusters. “You would have ruined Monaco with your radical ideas!”
“Ruined?” Charles’ voice rises in indignation. “I was trying to save our principality, to secure its future beyond the whims of fortune and gambling!”
The third ghost, a thin man with a pinched face, sneers. “And in doing so, you would have destroyed the very thing that made Monaco unique. We couldn’t allow it.”
You find your voice, anger overcoming your fear. “So you murdered him? Your own prince?”
The ghosts turn their baleful gazes on you. “And who are you to question the affairs of state from a century past?” Lord Beaumont demands.
“She,” Charles says, moving to stand beside you, “is the one who uncovered your treachery. The proof of your crimes has been found.”
A murmur runs through the crowd. You see hotel management huddled in a corner, speaking urgently into phones. In the distance, you can hear police sirens approaching.
“It doesn’t matter now,” the portly ghost says dismissively. “We’re long dead, beyond the reach of earthly justice.”
“Perhaps,” you counter, your voice stronger than you feel. “But the truth will be known. History will remember Prince Charles as the visionary he was, and you as the small-minded murderers who cut his life short.”
As you speak, a strange energy begins to build in the room. The three ghosts start to flicker, their forms becoming less substantial.
“What’s happening?” The thin ghost cries out, panic in his voice.
Charles steps forward, his expression a mix of pity and righteousness. “You’re facing judgment at last, gentlemen. Your unfinished business is complete. The truth is out.”
With a howl of despair, the three ghosts begin to fade away. In moments, they’ve vanished completely, leaving behind a stunned silence.
As the implications of what’s just happened sink in, chaos erupts in the ballroom. People are shouting, phones are out recording, and security is trying desperately to maintain order.
But you only have eyes for Charles. His form is starting to shimmer, becoming more translucent by the second.
“Charles,” you gasp, reaching for him. “What’s happening? Are you ...”
He looks down at his fading hands, then back up at you with a sad smile. “It seems my unfinished business is complete as well. The truth is out, justice, in some form, has been served.”
“No,” you whisper, tears streaming down your face. “Please, not yet. I’m not ready to say goodbye.”
Charles moves closer, his hand hovering just above your cheek. “My dearest Y/N, meeting you has been the greatest gift. You’ve brought light to my long darkness, and given me peace I never thought I’d find.”
“I don’t want you to go,” you sob, your heart breaking.
“Nor do I wish to leave you,” Charles says softly. “But perhaps this isn’t truly goodbye. I don’t know what lies beyond, but I do know this — a love like ours transcends time and death itself. Somehow, someway, I believe we’ll find each other again.”
You manage a watery smile. “You promise?”
“I swear it,” Charles vows. He leans in, and for the briefest moment, you swear you can feel the ghost of a kiss on your lips. “Until we meet again, mon amour.”
And with that, Charles fades away completely, leaving behind nothing but a lingering chill in the air and the memory of a love that defied all boundaries.
As the commotion swirls around you, police and hotel management trying to make sense of what’s happened, you stand still in the center of it all. Your heart is breaking, but there’s also a sense of peace, of completion.
You touch your lips, still feeling the echo of that impossible kiss, and whisper to the empty air, “Until we meet again, Charles.”
In that moment, surrounded by the trappings of a bygone era and the chaos of the present, you know that your life has been forever changed. Whatever comes next, you’ll face it with the strength and love Charles gave you, carrying his memory in your heart until, somehow, someway, you find each other once more.
***
The Mediterranean sun bathes Monaco in a warm glow as you climb the steps to the Palais Grimaldi. Five years have passed since that fateful summer, but your heart still quickens as you approach the familiar facade. You adjust the strap of your messenger bag, filled with research materials for your graduate thesis on 19th-century Monégasque politics.
As you enter the palace, now partly converted into a museum, you’re struck by how much has changed. Plaques and displays line the halls, detailing the history of the Grimaldi family. But your eyes are drawn to a new addition: a whole wing dedicated to Prince Charles and his progressive vision for Monaco.
You pause before a large portrait of Charles, your breath catching in your throat. The artist has captured his piercing green eyes perfectly, that hint of mischief in his smile that you remember so well.
“It’s remarkable, isn’t it?” A voice beside you says, startling you from your reverie. “How much history these walls have seen.”
You turn, a polite response on your lips, but the words die in your throat. Standing next to you is a young man who could be Charles’ twin. The same wavy dark hair, the same chiseled jawline, and most strikingly, those same intense green eyes.
For a moment, you forget how to breathe. “Charles?” You whisper, hardly daring to believe it.
The young man looks at you curiously, a small smile playing on his lips. “Well, yes, but I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage. Have we met before?”
You blink rapidly, reality reasserting itself. Of course this isn’t your Charles. It can’t be. You clear your throat, feeling a blush creep up your cheeks. “I’m so sorry, you just ... you look remarkably like someone I used to know. I’m Y/N.”
The young man’s smile widens, and he holds out his hand. “Charles Leclerc. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Y/N.”
You shake his hand, trying to ignore the jolt of electricity that runs through you at his touch. “Leclerc? As in the Formula 1 driver?”
Charles nods, looking slightly sheepish. “The very same. Though today I’m just a tourist like anyone else, enjoying a bit of home between races.”
“Home?” You ask, intrigued despite yourself.
“Born and raised in Monaco,” Charles explains. “Though I admit, I haven’t spent as much time in the palace as I perhaps should have. It’s quite fascinating, especially this new exhibit.”
You nod, turning back to the portrait of Prince Charles. “It really is. The prince was quite a remarkable figure. His ideas were so ahead of their time.”
Charles steps closer, studying the portrait. “You seem to know a lot about him. Are you a historian?”
“A graduate student,” you explain. “I’m here on a research grant, studying 19th-century Monégasque politics at the International University of Monaco.”
Charles’ eyes light up with interest. “Really? That sounds fascinating. I’ve always been interested in history, especially the history of Monaco. It’s a small place, but it’s played such an outsized role in European affairs.”
You can’t help but smile at his enthusiasm. “It really has. Prince Charles, in particular, had some revolutionary ideas about diversifying Monaco’s economy beyond just gambling. If he hadn’t died so young, who knows how things might have turned out?”
A shadow passes over Charles’ face. “Yes, his death was quite tragic. And mysterious, from what I understand. Wasn’t there some recent discovery about the circumstances?”
You nod, your heart racing as you remember that night five years ago. “Yes, documents were found that suggested he was actually assassinated by members of his own council who opposed his reforms.”
Charles shakes his head, looking troubled. “How terrible. To be betrayed by those closest to you, all for wanting to make positive changes.”
“It was a different time,” you say softly. “Change is always frightening to those in power.”
Charles nods thoughtfully. “True, but it’s also necessary for growth. Monaco has come a long way since then, but I sometimes wonder if we couldn’t be doing more to realize Prince Charles’ vision.”
You look at him in surprise. “That’s ... that’s exactly what I’ve been thinking in my research. The prince had ideas about sustainable development and diversifying the economy that are still relevant today.”
Charles grins, and for a moment, the resemblance to your Charles is so strong it takes your breath away. “Great minds think alike, it seems. You know, I’ve been looking for ways to use my platform as an athlete to promote positive change in Monaco. Perhaps we could compare notes sometime?”
Your heart skips a beat. “I’d like that,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady. “I’m always happy to discuss history with someone who’s genuinely interested.”
“Excellent,” Charles says, pulling out his phone. “Why don’t we exchange numbers? We could meet for coffee and continue this conversation.”
As you input your number into his phone, you can’t help but notice a small charm dangling from it — a miniature racing helmet. “That’s cute,” you comment.
Charles looks at it and chuckles. “Ah, yes. It was a gift from my mother. She says it’s for luck, but I think she just worries about me on the track.”
The casual mention of his mother sends a pang through your heart. This Charles is very much alive, with a family and a life of his own. You have to remind yourself that he’s not the same person you knew, no matter how similar he might seem.
“Well, it seems to be working,” you say lightly. “You’ve had quite a successful season so far. Won your home race, if I’m not mistaken.”
Charles looks pleased. “You follow Formula 1?”
You shake your head. “Not really, but it’s hard to miss the news when you’re living in Monaco. The Grand Prix is quite an event.”
“That it is,” Charles agrees. “You know, if you’re interested, I could give you a behind-the-scenes tour of the circuit sometime. It’s quite fascinating from a historical perspective as well. The race has been run on essentially the same streets since 1929.”
You can’t help but laugh. “Are you always this charming with strangers you meet in museums?”
Charles grins, a mischievous glint in his eye that’s achingly familiar. “Only the ones who can discuss 19th-century political reform with such passion.”
You feel a blush creeping up your cheeks. “Well, in that case, how can I refuse? A tour sounds lovely.”
As you continue to chat, moving through the exhibit, you’re struck by how easy it is to talk to Charles. He’s knowledgeable and curious, asking insightful questions about your research and offering his own perspectives on Monaco’s history and future.
At one point, you pause before a display showcasing some of Prince Charles’ personal effects. Among them is a small, ornate pocket watch.
“Beautiful craftsmanship,” Charles comments, leaning in for a closer look.
You nod, a lump forming in your throat as you remember your Charles checking a similar watch during your midnight explorations. “It’s a shame it’s not working anymore.”
Charles tilts his head, studying the watch intently. “Actually, I think it is. Look closely at the second hand.”
You peer into the display case, and to your amazement, you see the tiny hand ticking away steadily. “You’re right! How did you notice that?”
Charles shrugs, looking slightly embarrassed. “I’ve always had a thing for timepieces. Comes with the racing territory, I suppose. Hundreths of a second are everything on the track.”
You shake your head in wonder. “You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?”
“I try to keep things interesting,” Charles says with a wink. Then his expression turns more serious. “You know, it’s strange. Being here, learning about Prince Charles ... I feel an odd connection to him. Almost as if I knew him somehow.”
Your heart races at his words. Could it be possible? You push the thought away, reminding yourself that such things only happen in fairy tales. “Well, he is your ancestor, in a way. All Monégasques are connected to the Grimaldi family, aren’t they?”
Charles nods slowly. “True, but this feels different. When I look at his portrait, it’s almost like looking in a mirror. And his ideas, his passion for progress ... it resonates with me in a way I can’t quite explain.”
You swallow hard, trying to keep your voice steady. “Maybe some things are just meant to be. Some connections transcend time.”
Charles looks at you intently, and for a moment, you swear you see a flicker of recognition in his eyes. “Perhaps you’re right. It’s a comforting thought, isn’t it? That the past isn’t really gone, just ... waiting to be rediscovered.”
You’re saved from having to respond by the chiming of the palace clock, signaling the approach of closing time.
“Oh, I didn’t realize it was so late,” you say, glancing at your watch. “I should probably get going. I have a meeting with my advisor in the morning.”
Charles nods, looking slightly disappointed. “Of course. But we’re still on for that coffee and circuit tour, right?”
You smile, feeling a warmth spreading through your chest. “Absolutely. I’m looking forward to it.”
As you gather your things and prepare to leave, Charles touches your arm lightly. “Y/N, I know this might sound strange, but ... I feel like we were meant to meet today. Like some force in the universe brought us together.”
You look into his eyes, so familiar and yet new, and feel a spark of hope ignite in your heart. “I know exactly what you mean.”
He smiles, and in that moment, you see not just the Charles of the present, but echoes of the Charles you knew and loved. “Until we meet again, then?”
The phrase, so similar to your Charles’ last words, sends a shiver down your spine. “Until then,” you agree softly.
As you walk out of the palace and into the warm Monaco evening, your mind is whirling. You can’t shake the feeling that something extraordinary has happened, that a promise made long ago is somehow being fulfilled.
You pause at the top of the steps, looking back at the palace that has played such a pivotal role in your life. As the setting sun gilds the stone facade, you allow yourself to imagine, just for a moment, that maybe, just maybe, some loves really are strong enough to transcend time and death itself.
With a smile on your face and hope in your heart, you descend the steps, ready to embrace whatever new adventure awaits. After all, in a world where ghosts can fall in love and centuries-old mysteries can be solved, anything seems possible.
And, as the promise of a new beginning beckons, you can’t help but feel that the best chapters of your story are yet to be written.
***
The sun-drenched streets of Monaco buzz with excitement as Sofia, a die-hard Scuderia Ferrari fan, makes her way towards the Palais Grimaldi. Her red Ferrari cap and matching team shirt make her stand out among the tourists, but she doesn’t mind. She’s here on a mission: to soak up every bit of Monaco’s rich racing history.
As Sofia enters the palace-turned-museum, her eyes widen in awe at the opulent surroundings. “Wow,” she breathes, spinning slowly to take it all in. “Talk about living like royalty.”
She wanders through the exhibits, pausing occasionally to read plaques or admire artifacts. But her mind keeps drifting to thoughts of sleek racing cars and the roar of engines. That is, until she rounds a corner and comes face to face with a large portrait that stops her in her tracks.
“No way,” Sofia mutters, stepping closer to the painting. Her brow furrows as she studies the face of the young prince depicted. “That’s ... that’s impossible.”
Just then, a tour group passes by, led by an enthusiastic guide. Sofia catches snippets of the commentary.
“... Prince Charles, one of Monaco’s most progressive rulers ...”
“... tragically died young under mysterious circumstances ...”
“... recent discoveries suggest he may have been assassinated ...”
Sofia’s head is spinning. She pulls out her phone, quickly pulling up a photo of Charles Leclerc, her favorite driver. She holds it up next to the portrait, her jaw dropping at the uncanny resemblance.
“Excuse me,” she says, tapping the tour guide on the shoulder. “This Prince Charles, when exactly did he live?”
The guide smiles, always happy to share historical tidbits. “Prince Charles ruled briefly in the late 19th century. He died in 1894 at the young age of 26.”
Sofia’s mind races. “And has anyone ever noticed how much he looks like Charles Leclerc? The F1 driver?”
The guide’s eyes twinkle with amusement. “Ah, you’re not the first to notice that similarity. It’s become quite a popular topic of discussion lately. Some even joke that Leclerc is the prince reincarnated.”
Sofia laughs nervously. “Right, of course. Just a coincidence, I’m sure.”
As the tour moves on, Sofia remains rooted to the spot, her eyes darting between her phone and the portrait. It’s more than just a passing resemblance. The shape of the eyes, the curve of the jaw, even the hint of a mischievous smile — it’s all pure Leclerc.
Lost in thought, she doesn’t notice someone approaching until a voice beside her says, “Fascinating portrait, isn’t it?”
Sofia jumps, turning to see a young woman standing next to her. The newcomer is dressed casually in a flowing sundress, a messenger bag slung over her shoulder.
“Oh, um, yes,” Sofia stammers. “It’s quite ... striking.”
The woman smiles knowingly. “Let me guess. You couldn’t help but notice the resemblance to a certain Formula 1 driver?”
Sofia’s eyes widen. “You see it too? I thought I was going crazy!”
The woman laughs, a warm, genuine sound. “Trust me, you’re not crazy. I’m Y/N, by the way. I’m doing some research here for my graduate thesis.”
“Sofia,” she replies, shaking your hand. “So, what’s the deal? Is Leclerc secretly a time-traveling prince or something?”
You chuckle, but there’s a strange look in your eyes that Sofia can’t quite decipher. “I’m afraid the explanation is probably much more mundane. Many Monégasques have some connection to the Grimaldi family. It’s likely just a case of strong genes persisting through the generations.”
Sofia nods, but she’s not entirely convinced. There’s something about the way you’re looking at the portrait, a mix of fondness and melancholy, that piques her curiosity.
“You seem to know a lot about this,” Sofia probes gently. “Are you a big history buff?”
You smile, turning away from the portrait. “You could say that. I’ve been studying Prince Charles and his era for my thesis. It’s a fascinating period in Monaco’s history.”
Sofia’s about to ask more when she notices someone approaching over your shoulder. Her eyes go wide, and she has to stifle a gasp.
You turn to see what’s caught her attention, and your face lights up. “Charles! I didn’t expect to see you here today.”
Sofia’s jaw drops as Charles Leclerc himself joins you, greeting you with a warm smile and a kiss on the cheek. He’s dressed casually in jeans and an oversized hoodie, a baseball cap pulled low over his eyes, but there’s no mistaking that face — especially not when it’s right next to the portrait of his doppelganger.
“I had some free time between meetings and thought I’d stop by,” Charles explains. “How’s the research going?”
You launch into an explanation of your latest findings, and Sofia watches in fascination as Charles listens intently, asking insightful questions and offering his own thoughts. It’s clear this is far from the first time they’ve discussed the topic.
Finally, Charles seems to notice Sofia’s presence. “Oh, I’m sorry, how rude of me. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
Sofia manages to close her mouth, which had been hanging open in shock. “No, no, it’s fine. I’m Sofia. I’m a huge fan, Mr. Leclerc.”
Charles grins, shaking her hand. “Please, call me Charles. Always nice to meet a tifosa.”
Sofia gestures weakly to the portrait. “I was just ... I mean ... has anyone ever told you that you look exactly like ...”
Charles and you exchange a look that Sofia can’t quite interpret. Then Charles turns back to her with a wry smile. “Once or twice, yes. It’s quite the coincidence, isn’t it?”
Sofia nods, still feeling like she’s stepped into some kind of twilight zone. “Coincidence. Right.”
You clear your throat, seemingly eager to change the subject. “So, Sofia, are you here on vacation?”
Grateful for the change of topic, Sofia launches into an enthusiastic description of her plans for the next week. As they chat, she can’t help but notice the way Charles and you interact — the casual touches, the inside jokes, the way your eyes continually find each other. There’s clearly a deep connection there.
At one point, Charles excuses himself to take a phone call. As soon as he’s out of earshot, Sofia turns to you with wide eyes. “Okay, you have to tell me. What’s the real story here? How long have you two been together?”
You laugh, a slight blush coloring your cheeks. “Is it that obvious? We’ve been seeing each other for a few months now. We met right here, actually, in front of this very portrait.”
Sofia’s romantic heart melts a little at that. “That’s so sweet! But come on, you have to admit, the resemblance is freaky. And the way you two were talking about history ... it’s like he lived it or something.”
You get that strange look in your eyes again, a mix of secrecy and wonder. “Charles has always had a deep connection to Monaco’s past. It’s one of the things that drew us together.”
Sofia’s about to press for more details when Charles returns, slipping his arm around your waist with casual familiarity.
“I hate to cut this short,” he says apologetically, “but I’ve got to run to a sponsor meeting. Y/N, we’re still on for dinner tonight?”
You nod, smiling up at him. “Wouldn’t miss it. I’ll see you at eight.”
As Charles says his goodbyes and leaves, Sofia watches him go with a mix of admiration and lingering confusion. She turns back to you, determined to get to the bottom of this mystery.
“Okay, I know this is going to sound crazy,” Sofia starts, lowering her voice conspiratorially, “but is there any chance ... I mean, has anyone ever considered the possibility that Charles might be, I don’t know, the reincarnation of Prince Charles or something?”
You pause for a long moment, and Sofia holds her breath, half-expecting you to laugh in her face. But instead, you give her a small, enigmatic smile.
“The universe works in mysterious ways,” you say softly. “Sometimes, the past has a way of coming back to us in forms we least expect. Who’s to say what’s possible and what isn’t?”
Sofia’s mind reels at the implications. “So you’re saying ...”
You hold up a hand, your expression turning more serious. “I’m not saying anything definitively. But I will say this: getting to know Charles — the Charles of today — has been like rediscovering a part of history I thought was lost forever. Whether that’s due to reincarnation, cosmic coincidence, or just the magic of human connection, I can’t say for sure. But I do know that it feels like a second chance at something extraordinary.”
Sofia listens, enthralled. It’s like something out of a movie or a romance novel. “That’s ... wow. I don’t even know what to say.”
You laugh, the sound tinged with wonder. “Trust me, I know the feeling. Life has a way of surprising you when you least expect it.”
As you chat a bit more, Sofia can’t help but feel like she’s been let in on some grand secret. The way you talk about Charles, about history, about the strange twists of fate — it’s all so fantastical and yet, standing here in the shadow of that eerily familiar portrait, she can’t quite bring herself to disbelieve it entirely.
Finally, you glance at your watch and sigh. “I should get going. I’ve got to prepare for dinner soon. It was lovely meeting you, Sofia.”
Sofia nods, still feeling slightly dazed. “You too. And ... thanks. For sharing all of that. It’s given me a lot to think about.”
You smile warmly. “Just keep an open mind. You never know what kind of magic you might encounter, especially in a place like Monaco.”
As you leave, Sofia turns back to the portrait of Prince Charles. She studies it intently, trying to reconcile the historical figure with the modern-day race driver she admires so much.
“Second chances,” she murmurs to herself. “Who’d have thought?”
With one last look at the portrait, Sofia continues her tour of the museum. But now, every artifact seems to pulse with new significance. The weight of history feels more present than ever, intertwining with the present in ways she never could have imagined.
As she steps out of the museum and into the bright Monaco sunshine, Sofia finds herself looking at the city with new eyes. The sleek modern buildings and ancient narrow streets no longer seem at odds, but part of a continuous, living history.
She thinks of Charles Leclerc, of the mysterious Y/N, of a long-dead prince whose legacy seems to echo through time. And as she makes her way towards the harbor, where she knows the Monaco circuit snakes through the city streets, Sofia can’t help but feel that she’s stumbled upon a story far greater and more magical than any single victory.
With a smile on her face and a newfound appreciation for the mysteries of the universe, Sofia sets off to explore more of Monaco. After all, in a place where princes can become race drivers and love can transcend time itself, who knows what other wonders she might discover?
-
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