Now Sam Has NEVER Questioned His Sexuality Like..ever.

Now Sam has NEVER questioned his sexuality like..ever.

And while fighting with team ironman, Sam doesn't really get to appreciate Tony, nor as he really hung around the man.

But one day, when everyone's signed the accords and the other avengers are trying to get back into Tonys good books like:

Natasha: I found that one Italian roast, stark. The one that you really like.

(And it's a really expensive brand shes payed with her own money flashing a small smile at him)

Tony simply raises and eyebrow

"I take decaf at the moment." He says dismissively.

Or Clint

"Hey, man. What did the-" and Clint gets cut off,

"Knock knock Barton" tony asks looking up from his starkpad

"Who's there, gorgeous?" He teased

"My tired legs. Stop dick riding." He snapped at him (Peter taught him that phrase)

The whole team gets ripped a new one,

One days Sam walks in, makes himself some coffee and starts drinking when stark walks in.

Tony simply glances at the mug and back at Sam, the man was dressed in a black tank top, sweaty and with loose sweatpants and simply goes,

"That's my cup, Wilson."

Sam splutters and looks at the cup, it being ironman merchandise and looking back up at Tony

"Ah, don't stress bird brain, your fine, drink out of it whenever you want sweet cheeks." He shrugged his muscles flexing for a second as he walked off

And Sam was totally staring at that ass.

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.”

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

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?

1K notes View Post

teastoriesandforgottentime

7 months ago

“I’d let you if you asked.”

Jason Todd always had a habit of being in your space. It's something you didn't mind, but it is something you kept note of. He leans towards you, head angled down to catch every sound that comes through your throat, observing every twitch of your muscles with a sharp, intent gaze.

But even if he always seems to linger in your shadow, even if his eyes darkened with the desire for something more, he was careful. He never touched you before you touched him, and he always caught himself, when his fingers instinctively reached for you.

Something as simple as a hug, a brush over the back of your hand, a tousle of your hair, he denied himself over and over again. It was almost frustrating to see him denying himself something you never held back from him.

He melts into every hug you give, relishes when you thread your fingers together, nearly drops to his knees every time you kiss his cheek.

But then he'll falter, when you pull away, like he's snapping back to reality. He'll remind you that he's not good. In not so many words, he tells you he's poison. That he'll end up ruining you. Breaking you.

You think he's silly for it, because Jason Todd is nothing but good. But you indulge him, brushing the stray strands of hair falling into his face back, "I'd let you, if you asked."

He blinks at you, eagerly leaning into your touch, with dumbfounded eyes, "You would?"

You smile at him, devouring the way his eyes flutter when you do, "I would. If you want to ruin me, all you have to do is ask."

He frowns a little, his hand raising to rest on top of yours, keeping your palm pressed to his cheek, "I don't want to ruin you."

"Then ask for something else," you encourage, voice soft and fond.

"Can I kiss you?"

It makes you laugh, maybe he's not so scared of you after all. The hope doesn't leave his eyes when you do, and you're more than happy to answer him, "Yeah. You can kiss me, Jason."

He's quick to take advantage of your agreement, and it turns out, Jason's kisses are just as sweet as he is.

1K notes View Post

teastoriesandforgottentime

1 year ago

hi i could request mafia!carlos where he is like mean to everyone but you and is super protective and possessive with reader please!?

Mine - Carlos Sainz

It was nearing on dinner time, and Carlos still wasn't finished with the meeting he had gone into hours ago. Business had been booming lately, and he always had people wanting to make deals with him.

The maids were scrambling, since they normally asked you or Carlos what you wanted for dinner. You didn't know, so then the responsibility usually landed on Carlos. It was such a small decision to make that would have zero consequences, but your mind had gone blank.

You knew you usually shouldn't interrupt Carlos' meetings, but it was surely nearing the end, and there probably weren't many more important things to talk about. You approached the door and heard some frustrated conversations on the inside. "I am not having this move screwed up by you fucking morons," you heard Carlos spit.

Knocking hesitantly, you opened the door and poked your head around it. "Not right now," Carlos huffed, and he was looking rather dishevelled. His suit jacket was sitting askew on his body, his top button had been undone and his hair was ruffled due to how many times he had run his hands through it.

Carlos looked up as the door opened, and his face completely softened. "Hey, baby, you OK?" he asked, opening his arm out to you to slot yourself into. "Can I ask you something really quick? It's OK if not, it's not important," you said as you felt the eyes of all the men in the room on you.

"Yeah, of course, c'mere," he said, glad to see you after hours of dealing with these useless wastes of oxygen. "Turn away," he commanded the people around you, not wanting them to see you or watch your body as you approached him.

He didn't want their dirty, sinful gazes on you, since he wouldn't be able to control what they were thinking like he could their actions. The thought of it made him sick, and he didn't want you to be exposed to the world he lived in.

You were his serenity in the madness, and he couldn't have that tainted by people with purely bad intentions. He could keep you safe, and that was exactly what he would do until he took his dying breath.

As the men turned their chairs away, all that could be heard was the click of your heels on the cold marble floors as they echoed in the high ceilings. "What do you want for dinner?" You asked as he rested an arm around your waist.

"How does steak sound?" He said after thinking for a moment.

"Yeah, good. Sorry for interrupting," you apologised, sweetly smiling at him. He looked tired, but only you would be able to tell. He would keep a stone cold, stoic face on while he was around other people, but would become the clingiest man you had ever met when it was just the two of you.

"Don't be sorry, I'm very glad to see you," he smiled, tugging you in for a kiss on the cheek. "And we should be done within half an hour, given that these guys stop being such fuckwits," he raised his voice slightly so that the men could hear.

"I'll see you in a bit," you smiled, turning and walking back out of the meeting. Once you were out of the room, Carlos allowed the men to turn around and look at him again. They seemed to get the hint and they stopped fucking around with him, since the realised it wouldn't get them anywhere.

If Carlos wanted something, he would get it. If he wanted something done, it would be done his way or no way. He had that power, and he was sure as hell going to use it.

As he had said, his meeting was wrapped up within half an hour, and he had his security on the doors to make sure they all left and wouldn't try anything. You were stood on the stairs as you watched them go, and one of them sent you a flirtatious wink.

If Carlos had done something like that, it would have sent shivers up your spine and butterflies in your stomach. But he had made you feel a shiver of disgust, an uncomfortable tingle that made you feel uneasy.

You saw as he leant into the guy walking beside him, whispering something to him with a filthy grin plastered on his face. Carlos' ears pricked up when he heard the mention of the men seeing a beautiful woman in the house.

"I wonder how much he pays her to saunter that cute ass of hers up to him like that, because I'd fucking give it to her," he joked, but the man he was walking with stayed silent. He saw as Carlos' face turned into pure, unbridled rage.

Without warning, Carlos rushed up to the guy, pinning him against the wall by his collar. "Who the fuck do you think you are?" he spat in his face, and the guy just stayed silent, practically shaking with fear. "I asked you a fucking question, who the fuck do you think you are talking about my wife like that?"

Carlos let the guy sweat for a bit, and he opened his mouth to answer, but no words came out. He was frozen in fear and instantly regretted what he had said and he wanted so desperately to take it back. "You say anything about her again, or you so much as think about her again, I will know and I will make sure she's the last goddamn thing you get the pleasure of fucking thinking about, got it?" he said, pressing the guy against the wall even harder.

Security didn't bother intervening, knowing full well that Carlos could handle himself. They knew when to step in, but they were enjoying the show. "Answer me when I fucking speak to you. Do you understand?" he spat in his face again.

"Y-Yes," he stuttered, not able to meet Carlos' eyes.

"Show some fucking respect, yes what?" Carlos said through gritted teeth, gripping onto the guy's collar as his knuckles turned white. "Yes, sir," the guy gulped, praying that Carlos would just let him go. Carlos released the man from against the wall, but not before he swung and punched him square in the face.

The sickening crunch of his nose echoed around you, and you took a sharp intake of breath at the sight of the blood running down his face and dripping onto the floor. "Get the fuck out of my house," Carlos commanded as the guy scurried out of the door along with the rest of them.

Carlos inspected his hand, his knuckles split and purple bruises were already blooming over the skin, but he still hadn't realised that you were there. He liked to keep you away from that side of his life, but you seeing snippets was inevitable.

You moved slightly, but the halls were very echoey, so he heard you, his head snapping up to where you were stood. "Hey, princess, we're all done," he said, trying to hide his hand behind his back. But, he could tell by the look on your face that you had seen something.

"How much did you see?" he sheepishly asked, trying to stop his hand from shaking. He couldn't feel the pain now because of all the adrenaline running through his veins, but he felt this weird numbness. "All of it," you said, descending the stairs towards him.

"Well it's been taken care of now. Sorry, you shouldn't have had to see that," he apologised, his head hung low. He didn't like the look of worry on your face, your features flushed with concern. He never wanted you to stress or worry about him. "It's OK, I don't mind," you dismissed as you stood in front of him, "You go sit down, I'll get some stuff to wrap up your hand,"

"No, no, I'll do it, don't worry," he shook his head, pulling his hand away from you as you tried to inspect the damage. He could take care of himself, and he wanted to deal with the slightly painful consequences of his violent, yet just, actions. "Carlos, please," you softly sighed, not wanting him to pull away from you.

On the day you got married, you vowed to take care of him in sickness and in health. Yes, that wasn't geared towards when your husband had broken someone's nose and his knuckles were split, but it still applied - especially in the world you were living in.

Carlos was now at the disadvantage, since he could never say no to you. You could ask him for the world, and he would burn anyone in it to give it to you. You could ask him for the stars, and he'd go to space himself to retrieve every last one for you.

"Fine," he sighed, letting you lead him over to the dining room table. You could smell dinner being made in the kitchen next door, but you still had some time to patch Carlos up before then. "I'll be back," you told him, walking out of the room and leaving him to think for a minute.

Just thinking about the way that guy had spoken about you was making his blood boil all over again as he clenched his fists, not caring about the sting that stretching the open wounds caused.

He hated the fact that he knew other people had definitely spoken about you in worse ways, and thought about you. They would have this sick, twisted, perverted version of you in their dirty little minds, where they only used you and threw you away like a ragdoll. Where they only used you for your perfect body and pretty face before discarding you.

If he had a dollar for everytime he knew someone was thinking about you, he'd be a rich man. Well, he was already rich, but he'd be filthy rich if that was the case. The worst part was: there was nothing he could do. He was only able to give that man what he deserved because he had heard him say it, but not everyone was dumb enough to say it within earshot of him.

"Hey, you OK?" you asked, placing a hand on his shoulder as you snapped him out of his thoughts. You had noticed that he was clenching his fists so hard that his nails were digging into the flesh of his palms and leaving red crescents behind.

"You know, you didn't have to punch him," you said, pushing another chair right next to him and taking his hand. "I am not letting grimy bastards like him get away with saying things like that about you, not at all," he told you.

You produced a disinfectant wipe from its packet, gently wiping it over his skin, cleaning the blood away from the area. Carlos quietly hissed as it stung, but he had been through a hell of a lot worse, so it was nothing he couldn't deal with.

"I thought you'd seen him wink at me but I guess not..." You quietly said, rooting through the first aid kit to find bandages. "Sorry, he winked at you? Fucking pussy ass bitch got off easy then. I'll kill him, I swear to god," he seethed, and you struggled to keep his hand still while you wrapped it up. "Baby, don't worry about it, he's gone," you said.

He was grappling with himself internally, wondering how you could remain so calm after what he had done and said. If he had it his way, Carlos would have hunted him down, punished him for a short while, then sent his body home in multiple parts over the span of a few weeks. "Sure, whatever you say," he reluctantly agreed, resting his hand to make it easier for you.

You wrapped the soft white cotton around his still slightly bleeding knuckles, before pinning it into place so it wouldn't come off. "Thank you, princess," he smiled, placing a hand on your thigh. "No problem," you told him, resting a head onto his shoulder while you waited for dinner.

"Have you still got that party on tonight?" You asked, tilting your head to look at him from the side. Shit he thought, having completely forgotten. It was a club that one of his associates owned, and he needed to go just to keep up appearances. Charles and Lando would be there too, so it wouldn't be all that bad.

"Yeah, yeah I do. I won't stay out too late, don't worry," he told you, kissing you softly on the top of your head. "Can I come with you?" you sweetly asked, knowing he wouldn't want you to go. But, you had the perfect plan to make him say yes.

"No, baby, no. You know what the people there are like," he dismissed, not wanting you around those people. Sure, Charles and Lando would be there, but they were the only other decent people that would be in your vicinity. "Please? I wanna go and have some fun," you pleaded, batting your eyelashes at him.

Carlos sighed, not wanting to regret the decision he was about to make. "Fine, you can come, but you have to stay by my side at all times, OK?" he said, already feeling nervous about taking you. But, saying no to you was the hardest thing he would ever do in his life, and he had never done it once.

"OK, yeah, of course," you happily giggled, glad to go out. Sure, you got to go out and do the day to day stuff, but never without security or Carlos hanging around you constantly. You understood why, since Carlos was in dangerous business with some minacious people, but it would still be nice to let loose for a night.

As soon as you had finished dinner, you ran up the stairs to get ready. Carlos smiled to himself, loving how you liked to get all dolled up whenever you went out. It also meant he would have his work cut out for him, keeping men away from you, but it was worth it if you got to feel like a million dollars.

Carlos came up to get changed not long later, spotting you pinning your hair into place at your vanity table. "Michael is ready with the car whenever you're ready to go," he told you, speaking about your driver that had been with Carlos since before you had.

"OK," you confirmed, finishing off your hair and applying a lick of lipstick across your lips. You walked into your wardrobe, scanning the hangers for a dress to wear. Despite the amount that you had, none of them really stood out to you.

"I like the red one, if that helps," Carlos called out to you, walking in as he tucked his shirt into his slacks. It was like he knew what you were thinking, and he always knew the solution to combat the problem. "Which one?"

"The one you wore for my birthday last year," he smirked, and your cheeks instantly heated up at the thought of what you got up to. You had never enjoyed a club bathroom more, and I'll leave the rest to your imagination.

"Sure, I like your thinking," you nodded, taking it off the hanger and slipping your silk robe off your shoulders. Carlos just watched as you slipped the red fabric over your body. It hugged your curves and made you look like a model.

You tried to twist your arms around to the back of the dress to zip it up, but Carlos was there in a flash to do the job for you. He braced on hand on your waist as he pulled the zip up towards your neck. When he was done, he placed soft kisses down your neck and across your bare shoulders.

"Hey, hey. Lay off it," you giggled, trying to struggle out of his grasp.

"But I don't want to," he whined, sucking on your neck and leaving red marks on the skin.

"Carlos!" you scolded, spinning away from him and looking at yourself in the mirror. The splotches were already turning a deep burgundy, and you ran your fingers over them. "Carlos," you sighed, pouting at him.

"How else are people going to know you're mine? It's for your own good, I promise," he smirked, swinging his jacket over his shoulders. Carlos walked over to the shoe rack, picking out the shiny black Louboutins that he adored on you.

He placed them in front of you and you stepped into them. They made your legs look longer, and the extra few inches looked good on you. Slinging your bag over your shoulder, Carlos held his arm out to you, and you took it.

"You look stunning, baby," he complimented, raking his eyes over your figure as you walked. "Thank you, you're looking rather handsome tonight," you returned.

"Thank you," he smiled, helping you into the car. Michael drove the pair of you to the club, and there was already a queue down the length of the street to the doors. The security guard let you and Carlos straight through with a nod of his head, pointing you in the direction of the VIP section that was cordoned off with a red rope.

Carlos threaded an arm around your waist as you weaved through the crowd in an attempt to keep you as close to him as possible. "You stay with me at all times, no matter what. If for whatever reason you can't find me, you stay with Charles or Lando, got it?" he reiterated, leaning down to talk in your ear so you could hear him over the loudness of the club.

"Yeah, I got it," you nodded, willing to do what he asked since he had reluctantly agreed to bring you with him in the first place. He saw people's eyes rake over your figure for longer than his liking, and he hated how sleazy the guys that came to these places were.

There was not a single good thing about them - they were truly the scum of the Earth that he wished he could squash beneath his feet. They were the reason he hated bringing you anywhere with him, and he didn't want them anywhere near you.

Carlos was on edge, to say the least, as he gripped onto your waist and tugged you impossibly closer to him. Charles and Lando were easy to spot as they sat together, downing some sort of shot. "Hey, guys," Carlos alerted them of your presence and they stood up to hug you.

"Hey Carlos, Y/N, you guys want a drink?" Lando shouted over the music, pointing to where the bar was. "Yeah, I'll come with, Y/N wait here with Charles," Carlos instructed, walking over with Lando. He couldn't stop himself from glancing over at you every five seconds as he waited for your drinks, and he hated being away from you.

Yes, it was only for barely even five minutes, you were in safe hands with Charles and you were in very clear view, but he still felt like he was too far away from you. Lando moved to the other side of Carlos, nodding over to two guys standing next to them at the bar.

"Listen," he said, and Carlos trained his ears on their conversation.

"You see the chick in the red dress?" one of them said, pointing in the direction of where you were sat. "Yeah, the one with Leclerc?" the other asked.

"Yeah, she is a knock-out. I'll bet you fifty that I can get with her tonight," he smirked, hitting his friend in the shoulder. "Isn't she with Leclerc? He won't let you anywhere near her,"

"No, he flies solo. She's probably just some trouncing bimbo after his money, she'll be an easy catch," he said, holding his hand out for him to shake in agreement.

"I'll take the one on the left, you get the one on the right," Lando said in his ear, eyes glued to the men who were starting to get suspicious. Carlos didn't want to cause a scene, so he had already, unfortunately, ruled out any form of violence. "No, no, I've got it covered," Carlos said, and Lando knew he'd be fine.

As Carlos approached, the men instantly knew who he was. "The chick in the red dress is pretty cute, you should go for it," he started, giving them a bit of confidence as small, sly smiles formed on their lips. "If you want to die, that is."

For a moment, they looked at him, confusion written all over their features. They really were thick and couldn't connect the dots that had all been laid out perfectly for them. "If you want to keep living your miserable, pitiful, useless little lives, I'd suggest you don't talk about or look at my wife ever again," he told them, suddenly turning serious.

Their faces completely dropped in horror as they backed away. Carlos was using every ounce of self-control that he possessed to not hit them. "S-sorry," one stuttered. Carlos loved to watch them squirm, loved to see the pure fear he could feel radiating from them.

"You should be, now fuck off," Carlos spat, wanting them out of his sight. He turned back to Lando and picked up your drinks, making a beeline straight for where you were with Charles. He sat beside you, so close that your thighs were touching as he wrapped a comfortable arm around your waist.

Holding onto you made him feel a bit more easy, knowing he could keep you safe if you were closer to him. As the boys settled into casual conversation, you had already finished your drink and were wanting another one.

As you usually would, you stood from your seat and started to walk towards the bar. "Hey, where are you going?" Carlos asked, grabbing your wrist.

"I'm going to get a drink, does anyone want one?" you asked, not seeing the meaning behind his question. "Not by yourself you're not, princess," he sighed, going to stand up with you.

"Don't worry about it, you guys got the last round, these are on me," Charles chirped, leaving the table. Carlos pulled you back down beside him as Lando carried on talking. "Remember, you don't go anywhere without me," he muttered in your ear.

No matter what, Carlos always had an arm around your waist or your shoulders, or a hand firmly on your thigh. People needed to see that you were his, and if they couldn't tell by the closeness of how you were sat with him, or the now purple marks down your neck and shoulders, then they'd be able to tell by the grasp he always had on you.

"I'm going to the bathroom," you told Carlos, taking his hand and standing from your seat again. "OK, I'll come with," he said, glad that you had told him where you were going. You were doing as he'd asked, and that made him happy.

"You wait here, I'll be out in a second," you said, trying to leave him by the door of the women's bathroom. Once he was sure you were in, he walked in and stood by the sinks. For all he knew, there could have already been some dickhead in there, waiting for some unassuming victim to walk into their lair.

One of the doors in front of him opened, and it was like the past was walking right out of there and smacking him square in the face. "Carlos! If you wanted to see me, you certainly didn't have to follow me in here," she winked, the pitch of her voice sending uncomfortable shivers down his spine.

"Marissa," he acknowledged, mentally willing you to hurry up so that he wouldn't have to deal with her for long. "Bit dodgy waiting in the ladies' room, don't you think?" she asked, sauntering up to him and running her hands across his chest. "Someone's been working out-"

"Get off me," he snapped, batting her hands away. Her touch felt agonizing, her fingertips like ice that he could feel through his shirt. "Aw Carlos, don't be so rude to your old friend, it's not like you're with anyone either," she cooed, her voice turning sultry in a way that was supposed to be seductive.

Rewind seven or so years, and Carlos would have fallen for her false charms and taken her home, maybe spent some of his hard earned money on her. But now, he had new eyes and saw right through her facade. He was glad to be out of that period of his life, because he was forced to become a better man, and that meant he could have you, and he wouldn't trade it for the world.

"I'm married, I'm waiting for my wife at the moment," he deadpanned, stepping away from her and folding his arms as a way to block her off from him. "Carlos Sainz? Married? Oh that's a funny one," she giggled, twirling her dark hair around her finger.

"I'm glad you found it funny, because I'm serious," he said, not even giving her the decency of eye contact as he spoke. "My Carlos would never commit to a relationship, let alone marry someone," she said like she knew him. She might have at one point, but she certainly didn't anymore.

"I'm not your Carlos, and I never will be again. Now go and enjoy your evening," Carlos told her, trying to get rid of her. "How about you come to my table? We've got drinks, you can bring Norris and Leclerc, I'm sure they'd love to get in on the fun," she said, batting her eyelashes at him.

"Marissa just piss off will you?" Carlos spat. As if by the grace of god, the other bathroom stall opened and you walked up. "Baby? Who's this?" You asked as if you hadn't heard their entire interaction. "Hey princess, this is Marissa, old friend of mine," Carlos explained, immediately welcoming you into his embrace.

"We were a lot more than friends," she smirked, clearly trying to make you mad. But, you knew that Carlos had a past, not a great one, but it was still a past he had been open and honest about. "I'm Y/N, it's a pleasure to meet you," you sweetly smiled, ignoring her comment.

You held your left hand for her to shake, your engagement ring shining bright and proud under the harsh lights of the bathroom. To be blunt, the rock that sat on your finger was massive, and unmissable. Marissa clearly caught it in her eyeline and visibly grimaced, before plastering a fake smile on her plastic lips.

"Likewise," she practically hissed at you, before turning back to Carlos. "Well, it's been nice chatting, but I'm going to have to go. Call me, Carlos. I've missed you," she flirted as one last attempt to make you mad, but you just found it pitiful.

When you knew she was gone, you turned to Carlos. "Call me, Carlos, I've missed you," you giggled, mocking Marissa's voice. He chuckled along, glad to have you back in his arms. "Come on, let's get back out there," Carlos said, pulling you along with him.

As you approached Lando and Charles again, you heard them cackling. "You will never guess who just came over here," Charles laughed, playfully whacking Lando on the shoulder.

"Looks like a walking corpse, awful voice, and an absolute slut for you, Carlos!" Lando giggled like a schoolboy. "Marissa?" Carlos said, cocking an eyebrow as if he were genuinely unknowing as to who they were talking about. "Aren't you clever, how'd you guess?" Lando sarcastically chuckled as the two of you sat down.

"Because she just tried to fuck me in the bathroom while I was waiting for Y/N," Carlos told them as he watched their faces turned shocked, yet extremely amused. "Shit no way!" Charles exclaimed.

"Yes way, I could hear her touching him and she said 'Someone's been working out' and I wanted to kill the bitch," you explained, Charles and Lando loudly laughing. Carlos was flabbergasted. He had never heard you say you wanted to kill anyone, or inflict any type of violence towards someone.

You were always so soft and compassionate, but he found this side to you amusing. "She might as well have gotten down on her knees and begged for it. 'Please fuck me Carlos, I'm a desperate whore for it!'" You mimed, causing Charles and Lando to double over due to how hard they were laughing.

Carlos, on the other hand, wanted you to say it again, but without mimicking Marissa. You had never begged for it, because you never had to. He gave you whatever you wanted at the drop of the hat, and most of the time, you never really asked for it. He just gave it to you. He gave anything to you.

You were loving the bitching session you were having with Charles and Lando, Carlos occasionally chipping in with a few words. Taking Carlos' hand, you inspected the red scabs on his knuckles. He was able to take the bandage off before you came out, since they had healed over pretty quickly.

"Who did you beat this time?" Lando asked with an air of levity, since he knew what Carlos was like. He had a short temper most of the time, especially when it came to anything to do with you. "Just some fuck who needs to wash his mouth out with bleach," Carlos tutted, looking at the red crusts scattered around the skin.

"I'm surprised the guy is still alive," Charles chuckled, and you never really got used to how braizen they were about ending people's lives. "So am I," Carlos agreed. You all carried on talking, and Carlos could feel eyes on him on occasion.

He looked over, past the red rope to see Marissa with her friends, all smiling and waving. He just rolled his eyes, but he saw there was a group of men with them that they had lured in. He supposed it was supposed to make him jealous, but it just made him feel sorry for them.

The guy's eyes kept on wandering onto you, and he was really wondering if this was going to be the third guy he'd have to have a word with for looking at you. It would be a new record. He stared daggers at the guy, but his eyes weren't averting from you.

He was sick of telling people you were his and he was yours. He figured he might as well just show them. You were completely oblivious to it, chatting merrily with Charles and Lando still.

Charles and Lando had clocked that he was staring someone down, and that always proved that he had something up his sleeve. "Baby, c'mere," he said, tugging you onto his lap by your waist. You straddled his thigh, slightly shifting around to get comfortable.

None of them seemed to get the hint, as the group of them carried on smirking and chatting while still watching you and Carlos. Marissa winked at Carlos, and he just couldn't take it. Without warning, Carlos captured your lips in a heated kiss.

He pulled you closer to him as your tongues danced in harmony and your hands kept him with you on the sides of his face. He kept on kissing you, barely giving you any room to breathe, but you didn't care. Kissing him was better than oxygen.

As you continued, you subconsciously rolled your hips against his thigh, and he had to brace his hands on your waist to keep you still. If you carried on like that, it would send him absolutely feral, and that was not what you needed right now. "Sorry," you smirked as you realised what he was doing.

"Don't be, not for that," he breathed, his heart pounding out of his chest as the group on the other side of the club finally got what you were doing, and finally started minding their own business.

You noticed a few of the boy's business associated approaching where you were sat, so you went to move from his lap. "No, you're staying right there," he said lowly in your ear, and you were happy to stay there.

It felt like he was talking to them for hours, and he probably was. They weren't really talking about anything of importance, since you were in public, but it was business enough to become boring. Carlos' work and deals never really interested you, you just cared that he was enjoying himself.

You yawned, resting your head on his shoulder and nuzzling your head into the crook of his neck. You had enjoyed your evening, but you were starting to become a bit weary. "You tired?" Carlos asked quietly. "Just a little bit," you confirmed as his fingers traced up and down your spine.

"We can go home, Charles and Lando are coming back with us because we've got some stuff we need to talk about, but we can go," he told you.

"It's OK, you can carry on talking to people, I don't mind," you yawned again, still clinging onto him. Sure, it was loud in there, but you didn't really mind. You were safe and comfortable with Carlos, so you weren't really bothered.

"No, we're going home. My baby is tired, and she is top priority," he said, noticing how your eyes were slightly reddened due to tiredness. You didn't protest, simply letting him stand you on the floor. He said his goodbyes, and walked out with you, Charles and Lando.

Just as you got out to the pavement, where Michael was waiting for the four of you, you heard a shriek and you audibly groaned. "Carlos! Can you drive me home? I don't have a ride," Marissa appeared, attaching herself to his other arm.

"Get off me," he said, swatting her away from him like a fly on the wall.

"What, so you're just going to leave me here, with all of these people who want to take advantage of me?" she cried, scurrying along behind you.

"If it'll get rid of you, then that sounds like the perfect plan," he scoffed, opening the front passenger door for you to get in, but you didn't budge from where you were stood. You weren't the possessive type like Carlos was, since you knew he was completely loyal to you, but Marissa was getting on your nerves.

"Please? I'll reward you," she hummed, stepping closer to him. You were getting sick of it, and you couldn't hold yourself back. "Get your slutty ass away from my husband, whore," you spat, stepping in between them.

Marissa's eyes were clouded with darkness as she turned to look at you. "I think you'll find that your husband loves a whore," she countered, closing the gap between the two of you.

"I'm sure one of those men you were throwing yourself at tonight would love to take you home, but they probably find you insufferable as well," you said, crossing your arms as she got ever more close to you.

It was as if the events unfolded in slow motion, as her arm raised, ready to bitch slap you in the face. Carlos was quicker though, grabbing her wrist. "You've seen what I've done to people, so don't think I'm scared to add you to the long list of individuals who have fallen to my mercy," he told her, and her face was priceless.

Carlos liked it when people were scared of him, and he especially liked it when the people were people who he thoroughly disliked. "Alright, alright, whatever. Someone else will gladly take me home," she scoffed, walking away.

"Who are you and what have you done with my wife?" Carlos asked, holding the car door open for you again. "Oh I'm still here, she just got on my final nerve. That bitch put her hands on what's mine, and I can't have that," you smirked, hopping in and closing the door behind you.

He'd love to hear you talk like that more often. He didn't get to see that side of you regularly, but when he did, it made this tiny thing in his brain tick.

Charles, Lando and Carlos all clambered into the back seat as Michael pulled away from the club. The car ride was serene compared to the bustling atmosphere of the club, and it had gotten completely dark outside.

Once you were home, Charles and Lando went to sit in the living room and Carlos escorted you upstairs. For a second, you just stood in the middle of the room, not mustering up the energy to undress yourself. Carlos knew you too well, his hands finding the zip of your dress.

"Can I take this off?" he asked, pulling you backwards so that you were closer to him.

"Yeah," you nodded, appreciating that he was asking, even if he knew you would always say yes. "Thank you," he softly said, tugging the zip all the way down to the small of your back, the garment falling off your body into a pool around your feet.

"Do you want to put this on for now?" he asked, unhooking your robe from the back of the door. "Yeah, thank you," you said as he slotted your arms through the sleeves and tied the thin belt around your waist. "No problem, baby," he smiled, leading you over to the bed and gently sitting you down on the edge of it.

Carlos sunk to his knees in front of you, taking your left foot into his hand and slipping your heel off of you. He moved his hands over to the other foot, taking your other heel off. He leant forward, gently kissing the inside of your calf, his lips soft against your skin.

His lips moved up, to the inside of your knee, then your thigh, before he stood and leant over to kiss you on the forehead. "What do you want to sleep in?" he asked, standing in front of you with his arms folded.

He had taken his suit jacket off, draping it over a chair in the corner. He had rolled his sleeves up to his elbows and he had undone his top two buttons. He looked downright delicious, but you couldn't help but want to see what was underneath the blue cotton.

It clung to every muscle of his arms and chest, and his cheeks were flushed a slight red due to the alcohol he had drunk. "I want this," you said, tugging at the material of his shirt. Yes, you did want the shirt, but you also wanted an excuse to see his brilliant physique.

Carlos just chuckled, seeing right through your facade, but he did as you asked anyway. He didn't say anything, he untucked it from his slacks and unbuttoned the rest of it, shrugging it off his shoulders and handing it to you. "Thank you, baby," you smirked, taking it from him.

You took your robe off and slipped your arms through the rolled up sleeves, only doing a few of the bottom buttons up. As you sat there, you couldn't help but stare at him. Perfectly sculpted muscles under lusciously tanned skin, the perfect combination. And it looked damn good on him.

"If you wanted me shirtless, all you had to do was ask, princess," he teased, a smug smile dancing across his face as he noticed your staring. He was gorgeous, anyone with eyes could see that, but he knew he was. And he knew that his girl knew it too.

"You're not going to do anymore of those buttons up?" he smirked, not even attempting to hide the fact that he was staring. He would have rather looked without the shirt in his way, but Charles and Lando were downstairs, so he needed to remain calm.

"No, it's comfier this way," you smiled as he disappeared into the bathroom and reappeared with a pack of makeup wipes in his hand. He sat beside you, gently wiping away the makeup from your face.

He held your chin with his fingers as he tilted your head up to look at him, making it easier for him to get everything off. "There we go," he softly said, inspecting your face to make sure he had gotten everything. "Can I take these out?" he asked, fingers tapping at the pins in your hair.

"Yeah, course," you confirmed, tilting your head down this time. He pulled the pins out of place, your hair falling all around your face. Carlos moved to sit behind you, splitting your hair into three strands and plaiting the sections and tying them.

"There you go, now you are all ready for bed," he smiled as you shuffled over to your side of the bed. He pulled the duvet over your body, kissing you on the forehead. "I'll be up as soon as I can, the stuff with Charles and Lando shouldn't take too long," he told you.

"No rush, take your time," you mumbled, your eyes falling shut already. Carlos collected another shirt from the wardrobe and turned the lights off. As he walked down the stairs, Charles and Lando saw that he was buttoning up the other shirt he had to get.

"What were you up to up there, Carlos?" Lando mischievously giggled, leaning forward in his seat. "Now we know why you had to take Y/N upstairs and she couldn't go by herself in her own house," Charles chipped in, also giggling along.

"If that was the case, I sure as hell wouldn't be back down here with you two. Now, what do you want to drink?" Carlos asked, approaching the drinks trolley that sat in the corner of the room. "Whatever alcoholic substance you'll give me," Lando said, and Carlos poured three glasses of some amber liquid for them.

"Perfect, now let's talk business," Charles smiled, taking his glass and handing one of the others to Lando. "So, transport is sorted, but we might have to make some changes to the personnel carrying it out, since the guys I talked to earlier today are thick as pig shit," Carlos explained.

"I've got the cargo waiting in the port until we send for it to be moved. I've had it all tested and counted every morning and every night since it's been there," Charles told them, and they carried on with their business talk.

You were still upstairs, tossing and turning. It had felt like hours since you had gotten into bed, but it had only been half an hour when you checked the clock on your bedside table. You had slept without Carlos plenty of times, but tonight was just one of those nights where you didn't want to.

Carlos had said he wasn't going to be too long, but you thought that the time you were waiting for was starting to constitute as long. There was no use in just waiting for an answer, so you shuffled out of bed and buttoned up your (Carlos') shirt a bit more.

You padded down the stairs as you heard them talking about yachts or something. Whatever it was, they seemed to have strayed away from business, but you never know. They could have started selling yachts.

"Carlos," Charles alerted him to your presence as you descended. He suddenly didn't have a single brain cell focused on business, he was solely thinking about why you would've come downstairs. One part of his brain started to worry that something was wrong, but you looked fine.

"Eyes off, boys," he quietly said, Charles and Lando averting their eyes from your shirt-clad figure. They knew how protective and possessive Carlos was with you, and they respected it. He didn't want anyone else seeing his girl the way he did. "Sorry to be a pest, I was just wondering what time you were coming to bed?" You asked, hoping he would just come up right away, but you weren't expecting anything. "Soon, I promise," he confirmed. He knew you didn't sleep overly well without him.

When he was holding you in his arms as you slept, you felt completely safe and like nothing could possibly harm you. Carlos had promised to protect you until he took his final breath, and you believed him. You had grown so used to being around him all the time, that you never wanted to be away from him.

"OK, sorry to interrupt again," you apologised, turning away and heading back for the stairs. "Don't be sorry, baby, it's OK," he told you, watching until you disappeared upstairs. Carlos finished up with whatever needed doing, and he said his goodnights to Charles and Lando.

"So, we've got the shipment moving on Thursday, set to arrive in Madrid on Saturday, and I'll be at the halfway point in Lyon, Carlos will be in Madrid, Lando will be at the start in Prague," Charles confirmed, outlining the basics of the big move that was happening.

"Yeah, and I'll be meeting you guys in Madrid on the Saturday as well to check up on everything," Lando nodded. Carlos had planned for you two to spend a couple of days in Madrid after everything had happened, and he was looking forward to the days away.

"You guys can hang around for a bit if you want, help yourself to anything and leave whenever," Carlos said, standing from his chair and leaving his glass on the table. Yes, Charles and Lando may have been his business associates, but they were also his closest friends that he trusted, so leaving them in the house wasn't an issue. They all had each other's backs, and were always there when needed.

"I'm here now, Miss Needy," he teased, opening the bedroom door and closing it behind him. "You didn't have to come up earlier than you planned, you know?" you sighed, rolling to face away from him. You didn't want to see that smug smirk of his, even when it was plastered on his handsome face.

"Well I did. If you want me, you have me at anytime of the day, no matter what, princess. But I know you already know that," he told you, clambering into bed behind you. "Goodnight," he mumbled, instantly feeling tired as he got comfortable.

Carlos wrapped his arms around your waist and pulled you as close to him as he possibly could, nuzzling his head into your neck as he softly kissed it. "Goodnight, Carlos," you muttered through that darkness, already feeling more at ease with his mere presence.

You may have lived in a dark, definitely illegal world, but you wouldn't trade it for anything. Carlos' job was less than desirable to you, but he seemed to enjoy the thrill, so you joined him for the ride, and you always would.

A/N - OK so I absolutely adored writing this, I don't know if this is very 'mafia', but I still thoroughly enjoyed myself. I don't know why I'm suggesting this, since I'm already really behind on this, but would you want a part 2 in Madrid with some... Mafia drama? I won't elaborate, just lmk! Requests are open, love you! 💖

|masterlist|

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teastoriesandforgottentime

1 year ago

Sore Loser - LN

Summary: Lando’s girlfriend is a gaming streamer and he is obsessed with her. But sometimes jealousy over her male subscribers can get the better of him. Or in other words the war he has with most of her subscribers can get a little out of hand. But he can get pouty, especially when she beats at his own game.

Lando isn’t sorry to say that he and her are easily a perfect match. Her streaming brings in plenty of money that there’s no element of her using him, she plays games with him, she’s there for every race and they support each other.

He’s been out with some of the boys today though and getting back she’s already started streaming.

“Alright, I’ll play the F1 23 game. But if Lando appears like he’s been summoned by the FIA to not let himself be beat by his girlfriend, then I won’t forgive you guys. He’s played this so much, he’ll beat me purely from having played.” Y/n states as she starts up the F1 game. “Who should I drive as? I can’t be Seb this year.”

“Be me.” Lando speaks up appearing behind her which makes her jump and turn as he leans on the back of the gaming chair. “Sorry, baby.”

“I didn’t know you were coming back so soon.”

“I’ve been gone for like 5 hours, how long did you want me to be gone for?” Lando jokes while she smiles up at him with an expression that she always seems to wear around him. “I’ll be upset if you don’t.”

“You can’t keep using that against me.” Y/n pouts before laugh when he takes her remote and begins picking and choosing her set up. “You better not be setting me up to lose.”

“I’m not. You need to worry on these trust issues.” Lando scoffs while she looks at the camera in a move that only works to be described as from The Office. “I don’t want to date a loser anyway.”

“Wow. Do you guys hear the way he talks to me? This is supposed to be love.” Y/n scoffs then looking at Lando who just looks back at her for a moment then leaning down and kissing her.

“I’m going to shower and leave you to it.” Lando states only just pulling away from the kiss before he kisses her again. “Love you.”

“Love you too.” Y/n smiles before turning to back to her PC while Lando leaves the room. She sighs seeing the chat feed and frowning. “Alright, you guys don’t be talking about my man like that. He treats me so good.”

Her subscribers really hate Lando, mainly because many of them are male and the ones who don’t hate him are fans of Lando’s who defend him without a second thought.

“I’m going to see if I can beat Lando’s fasted lap too. I think I can…I hope I can.” Y/n states then biting her lip as she begins to focus on the race.

She has to try a couple tracks to find one she stands a chance at beating Lando’s record on, but eventually she does it on the Zandvoort track of all circuits she could excel in.

“Ahaha! I did it!” Y/n exclaims jumping up and squealing in excitement as she shoots to stand up, purely out of excitement. “I beat his time! Aha!”

Audio messages from the chat begin to flood her ears. Most of congratulations while Lando appears and grins when she jumps spinning.

“I beat you in Zandvoort!” Y/n beams then sighing as she looks at the chat, clearly something being said in her ears from a subscriber that she doesn’t appreciate.

“What?”

“Nothing. It doesn’t matter. Anyway, I’m gonna do another race because I want to go on the Bahrain track.”

“Can I race with you?”

“Yeah, of course you can but promise you’ll ignore the chat. They’re just jealous about you.”

Lando looks at her with a mildly unimpressed expression since he knows what her chat is like but she also gets a lot of support.

“What track?” Y/n asks making Lando puff out a breath.

“The chat is saying Spa.” Lando states pointing at the chat.

“Spa it is.” Y/n smiles before wavering when she sees the chat flood with comments about how they should drive the Russia track. They can’t because it’s not on the game as an option but it doesn’t stop them. “Fucking trolls.”

Lando doesn’t comment deciding to just focus on the game, he’s going to prove himself. Not that he need to but his ego is getting bruised knowing that these men spend her stream either hitting on her, promising they could be better for her than him or just hating on him with no remorse.

What he doesn’t expect is for his girlfriend to completely destroy him in the race, pulling a Max Verstappen and having built a 20 second gap ahead of him.

“How did you do that?” Lando questions making her shrug innocently then shooting him a smile. “Do you have cheats?”

“No! Of course not. Spa is just my favourite one to play on when I’m not streaming so I have perfected it a bit.” Y/n pouts while the chat goes off about how he’s treating her horribly and that they’d be celebrating her doing so well. “Alright, stream is over guys.”

They both know that they’ll be comments online about this and no doubt they’re going to be all over TikTok and instagram fan accounts with claims that the relationship is on the rocks, but she doesn’t want to keep streaming with the chat being somehow even worse than it is most time.

As soon as the stream is over and her PC has been turned off.

“Hey.” Y/n sighs moving over to Lando and straddling his lap as she throws her leg over him. “You know I don’t listen to the idiots in that chat.”

“I don’t like the way they talk to you, baby.” Lando frowns rubbing her thighs while she smiles sadly then kissing him. “Or about me.”

“I know, neither do I.” Y/n sighs then shifting. “But I’m in your bed every night and they’re just sad men who think they stand a chance if they slander you when we all know they don’t.”

It should comfort him but Lando is a man who likes to make a point.

“Can I post you on my instagram?”

“If it improves your mood, you can post whatever you like of me on there.” Y/n smiles knowing that Lando’s jealous side comes through in a way of needing to show the world exactly who she belongs to and she’d be lying if she said it isn’t a little attractive for him to her. “I still beat you though.”

“Don’t remind me…But I’d beat you on a real track.”

“Yeah, well…you are an F1 driver, if you didn’t that would be incredibly embarrassing given I’ve I’m a terrible driver in real life.” Y/n laughs before running her hand through his hair. “How about you post whatever it is you have in mind and I’ll figure out what the hell we’re eating for dinner?”

“Only…if you promise we can race on the Silverstone track next time I’m here when you stream.”

“Because you know I’ll mess it up.”

“No. I just know I’ll not mess it up.” Lando shrugs in a faux innocence then sucking in a breath as he looks at her monitor. “I love that you game.”

“You’ve said.”

“But I hate when you beat me.”

“As made obvious.” Y/n hums leaning forward and kissing him. “Are you going to be grumpy all day?”

“Yes.” Lando pouts jokingly earning a grin and nod before she gets up and yanks him up after.

After a post with a carousel of pictures with y/n ranging from some cute and goofy ones with one of Lando’s hand squishing her face to a wet t-shirt picture that very much shows she’s cold and not wearing a bra at the time. His fans went insane, y/n’s fans actually imploded.

But he felt a hell of a lot better knowing he posted it in a way laying his claim. Y/n is his girlfriend and no matter how many promises strange men make in her chats or how vulgar they are with what they want to do to her, that’s never going to happen if he has a say in it.

“You got me in trouble with my parents.” Y/n states while Lando looks at her with a smirk. “The wet t-shirt?”

“It’s one of my favourite pictures of you.” Lando grins then gently pulling her forward into him. “I got in trouble too. But I’m still not sorry.”

“No, I think that’s the scorpio coming out.” Y/n hums before she’s lifted up onto the physio bed with Lando lifting up the Quadrant hoodie she’s stolen and sighing as he gets sight of her boobs. “Someone could easily come in.”

“You’re my girlfriend let me take advantage of that how I want to.” Lando huffs while she rolls her eyes but suppresses a smile.

“Yeah, enjoy it.” Y/n yawns then leaning back on her hands. “Do you know how many subscribers told me on my last stream that you gave them a new lock screen?”

“Don’t say that, don’t ruin this for me.” Lando groans since there’s no point in deleting the post now, it’s too later and the picture has been up for the better part of a week. “I hate your subscribers.”

“I know…a lot of them hate you too.” Y/n laughs before she jumps a little then his thumbs rub over her nipples. “Don’t start something we both know you don’t have time to finish.”

“Sorry, baby.” Lando grins before leaning forward and kissing her softly. “I do have to go.”

“I know.” Y/n sighs then being kissed again as he tucks her boobs away gently and pulls the hoodie back down.

“I’ll find you later.”

“I’ll be watching. Kick their butts.” Y/n smiles before they take off. “Don’t be a sore loser like when you lost to me!” “You’re not funny!”

Then he’s gone and she sighs giving herself a few minutes before she heads out to take her spot in the garage to watch her boyfriend do what he does best.

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