when I drift off, I will dream about you

+ Bonus Angle -> tummy pat

🏎️✨🏆💋

Charles crosses the finish line second. This could have been his second driver’s championship. This could have been his sweet victory. But he finished second, he lost.

He’s grinning like crazy under his helmet.

“P2, that’s P2, Charles. That was really close. You drove brilliantly,” Xavi says. “And mode slow, mode slow. To the grid.”

Charles is still beaming as he presses the radio button to answer to Xavi, to thank the team for the incredible year they had, to all they did for him and with him, thank Lewis for his last year in red and the constructor championship they fought so hard to take.

But neither of them won the driver’s championship. Someone else stole the trophy right from their hands, from Charles’ hands (he was so close, so so close to winning). And yet, he is still smiling like a mad man.

Beaming when he stops in front of the number 2 panel.

Cheeks hurting from smiling too wide, when he extricates himself from his car, waves at the cheering crowd and takes off his helmet.

Grinning still when the next car parks in front of the number one. Charles is waiting for him.

In the time it takes for the new crowned champion to get out of his car, Lewis comes next to Charles and embraces him briefly.

“Man, we were so close,” he says into Charles’ ear. Charles is still looking at the number 1, at the driver. “Not too disappointed?”

“I’m okay.”

The winner stands up on his car, bumping his fists in the air in victory. He’s still wearing his helmet so Charles can’t see his smile. He can imagine it though, so brilliant, so wide. The eyes gleaming with unshed tears, happy tears.

The crowd cheers. Charles only looks at him, getting closer.

When Carlos jumps down from the car, Charles is there to catch him.

“I told you I would do it!” Carlos shouts.

Happy, so so happy.

“Yes, you did.”

Charles is still smiling.

“I did it!”

“You did it!”

They fall into each other’s arms and Charles hears the laughter and the tears through the helmet. No one else can see, no one else can hear. It’s just for him and Carlos.

Carlos’ arms pull him closer and suddenly, Charles’ feet don’t touch the ground anymore and he’s twirling in Carlos’ arms. On the track. In front of the crowd and the cameras. In front of so many people.

He doesn’t care.

Carlos won.

And Charles is happy.

Carlos drops him back down on the ground but, even if he’s not the one who won, Charles still feels like he’s floating. To ground himself, to bring himself back to reality in a way, he puts both hands on each side of Carlos’ head, looking right through his visor at his brilliant eyes. Happy eyes.

And because he’s so happy.

Because he can.

Because there’s still a helmet between them that gives them a sort of privacy, that gives them an excuse for all the cameras pointed at them, for all the eyes turned to the old and new champions together.

Because he can and because he wants to.

Charles kisses Carlos.

🏎️✨🏆💋

-> send me another prompt!

he wants to ask about the details, because he hadn’t known carlos then, but carlos pulls up the video for him, and he feels dread like no other pool in his stomach. he’d known of the crash, of course, but he hadn’t felt the same weightiness then. seeing it now hurts like pain he’s never felt - for the way he’d seen the car’s front wheel blister apart against an errant wall, causing the car to careen recklessly into the barriers. he barely breathes when he counts the harrowingly few seconds that pass between the first hit and the final crash.

he remembers now how his heart had been in his mouth back then, praying for any god that would hear for the driver to be safe.

now he recasts the memory with the man sitting in front of him - and the image is so much more haunting - making him sick at the thought of carlos being flung across violently, the crushing force of gravity and the weight of the car… the way his body would have certainly froze in fear… how he might have had to have made peace with death in those microseconds before impact.

his eyes grow glassy - he cannot help it. carlos just looks at him with soft eyes (as if charles were the one in danger) and reaches a palm over to cup his face - a tenderness he does not usually show. “charles. it was nothing, i promise.”

but he cannot let go of the thought of losing carlos. because there’s nothing that can prepare him for the gaping emptiness that a loss like that would bring. no more warm, muscled arms to hold him in the middle of their c2 challenges - no more beautiful brown eyes to gaze at him with what he hopes is more than just friendly affection - no more of his raspy, low voice whispering encouragement in his ear after a bad race.

and worst of all - no chance for charles to tell carlos what he really feels.

his heart is pounding - anxious. desperate. a whimsical thought - so stupid he wants to shut it down immediately:

you should tell him before-

“are you okay?” carlos asks, eyes darting across his face, “you’re not usually so-”

he blinks away the tears. “I’m fine.”

carlos persists. “you can tell me… I’ve upset you, haven’t i?”

“no,” but his vision’s blurry again, and this time carlos leans in close, and god he smells good…

“then what is it?”

the worry he hears in carlos’ voice makes his cock twitch.

charles lets his eyes wander of their own accord, down to his lush bottom lip, biting his own in contemplation. his eyes flash up to meet carlos’ - and he gathers the courage to do what he’s been wanting to for longer than he’s cared to admit.

he leans in, his eyes open and wanting, and he sees the way carlos’ own eyes grow bigger and more beautiful, if possible.

he doesn’t know who moves first, but one second he’s wondering what Carlos’ mouth tastes like, and the next, he’s floored by the reality of it - the softest, most delicate press of his lips, a kiss that feels at once too tender and powerful, sweeping him away in an all-consuming tide.

his knees go weak, but Carlos has his arms around him in a second, holding him close as the kiss between them spirals into madness like his heartbeat. he threads his fingers through Carlos’ hair and can’t get enough of the slide of his tongue against his.

I love you, he wants to say, with his words, but it’s too dangerous, like smashing into barriers, unsure if he’ll come out alive.

Instead he says the words with the way he tears off Carlos’ clothes and his own, his hands raking eager paths along his taut muscles, the movements of his body under Carlos as he grows warm and pliant in Carlos’ bed, tangled in sheets and each other, and by the end he’s gasping in tune to Carlos’ groans, trembling at the way Carlos mouths at his skin, chasing the mottled pink blush that spreads across him freely.

He grips the bunched up muscles along Carlos’ back, and tightens up against him, feeling the achingly delicious way Carlos fills him, floods him - so full, so hot.

They hold each other, dazed, silent except for their harsh breaths against each other. Carlos kisses his forehead, and he closes his eyes and tucks his face into his chest.

If he was afraid to lose Carlos before… he doesn’t know how to face the impossible notion of giving him up, now that he knows what Carlos tastes like, how good their bodies feel together.

He curls up against him and hopes against hope that he never has to let go of Carlos - ever.

-

He keeps himself in check for as long as he can, paint splattering when he tries to decorate the wood with a stripe of yellow, and swearing not to lose his mind when Carlos brushes by him, impatiently edging in his own smear of black paint and messing up his careful placement. He doesn’t even think to get angry - because Carlos’ scent is almost drug-like, and he grins with so much goofy, light-hearted energy that Charles just can’t bear to be annoyed with him at all. And when Carlos touches him and gets way too close in his personal space - Charles has to remind himself to breathe - to not lose his head. There are cameras everywhere. He has to be careful.

He ought to get a prize, really, for how he manages to keep it together, even when Carlos puts his face near his and they take a photo for promo… and it’s all he can do not to lean just a fraction of an inch to his right to brush his cheek against Carlos’ enticing stubble.

But he falters, once, when Carlos teases him, “you’re doing great, honey,” and he has to laugh awkwardly and wave it off as smoothly as he can, when really his heart is beating a thousand miles per second and all he wants to do is to hear Carlos say those words to him when they’re in the privacy of their own room, away from other people, or when they’re sharing a podium together and there’s champagne fizzing all over his face… or when he’s on his knees, perched between those thighs, begging Carlos for a taste.

He hopes Carlos doesn’t notice the blush that surfaces on his cheeks - but of course he does. 

When the cameras are turned away, Carlos leans in and brushes his mouth against the delicate shell of his ear and whispers, “I think we have a visitor.”

Charles blinks up into Carlos’ beautiful eyes, dumbfounded and ready to burst into an awkward giggle, when Carlos gestures to a little stray bee that has landed on the edge of a wooden panel, crawling towards the little stack of hay that they’d earlier put in.

“It’s all alone,” he says, noticing the occasional flutter of its glassy wings, the yellow pollen dusted all over its tiny body. 

Carlos tuts. “No - look.” And just in time, another bee flits in, taking its place beside the first one and brushing gently against it - much like how Carlos is pressing against him now. He looks up into pretty, glossy eyes, so full of mirth and mischief and tenderness (for him, maybe?). Carlos beams at him proudly. “Our first couple in our bee hotel.”

Charles giggles - he can’t help it. “How cute.”

They watch as the two bees crawl all over their newfound space, wings aflutter, buzzing in sync. They sip at the little droplets of nectar on offer, and shiver against each other when their wings touch, but the sensing is clear - they like each other, and they’re happy to share this space equally.

Carlos shifts closer to him, his arm brushing his, and Charles does not have the strength or will in him to pull away from the warmth that radiates off Carlos.

It must be his imagination - they’re not near any of the hives that Seb’s set up, but there’s the sticky-sweet scent of honey that hangs faintly in the air - a smell that Charles will forever associate with love, love, love.

-

inspired by:

you’re doing great, honey

Carlos, however, was careless.. stupidly careless. But as with everything he did - even his carelessness was kind of sexy.

He did not bother to hide that single, incriminating bite mark that hadn’t quite faded, imprinted on the base of his neck. Instead of closing his collar modestly, he left it almost obscenely open with buttons undone. Charles could almost see the peek of his chest that he definitely did not want to taste (maybe later). Not to mention that incredibly suspicious stain on his jeans… he did not want to think about that, either. And when they were taking turns to be asked questions, Carlos found every excuse to put a hand on his shoulder, to shove him more aggressively than the situation warranted - to brush their thighs together as he settled in closer to him on the couch. Even the interviewer was starting to grow a little uncomfortable - staring distractedly at their lack of personal space, at their ease and familiarity with touching each other.

Barely ten minutes in, their filmed interview is paused for a moment, as a director calls for an assistant to help adjust Charles’ mic on his shirt. Carlos just smiles and turns to him, his hands already drawn to the errant little black clip-on by his collar. “Let me.”

Charles hides his nervousness with a laugh. “Suddenly you’re an audio engineer.”

Carlos winks at him. “Only for you, darling.”

Charles is pretty sure he blushes. He does not know how to stop the swell of his heart, the rising heat of his cheeks. He wants to swear. He wants to smile. Fucking careless fucker.

Carlos’ hands linger, and Charles can see the moment Carlos’ eyes dip down to the hickeys he can definitely spot from his vantage view, peering down Charles’ shirt with an open survey that would be leery if it wasn’t so… hot.

The image that flashes in his mind is instinctive and erotic - it hits Charles that this is the same way Carlos was looking at him barely twenty minutes ago, with his mouth wrapped around his - 

“All fixed,” Charles says, a little too quickly, with something like panic filling his chest. He shoves away at his hands, resisting the urge to think about where they’d been on his body earlier that day. “Carlos. You can stop.”

Carlos lets his gaze drift lazily back up to his face. “Perhaps we should stop, before we start a scandal.” He wags his eyebrows, and Charles wants to punch him. Kiss him.

The word hangs in the air - stupid, ridiculous even. It’s rich, coming from the man who nearly stripped his shirt off when Charles was tasked to draw him, who called them a literal couple on more than one occasion, and had moved to unzip his jacket at a photoshoot when he knew Charles was not wearing anything underneath…

They’d done way worse things in the past - and surely this innocent little fixing of the mic was too far-fetched to be labelled a scandal.

Surely.

The interviewer laughs brightly, and Charles blinks at the shrill sound. The moment of hazy want snaps back into sheer normalcy (or as normal as it can feel with Carlos’ thigh against his). The facade that Charles is always so very careful to maintain settles back into its neatly-tucked in edges - smoothed out, perfectly wrinkle-free.

He darts a quick glance at Carlos, who gives him that smug grin and dreamy, bedroom eyes that make him squirm in his seat.

Well. Maybe just one, Spanish-shaped wrinkle he will never get rid of, no matter how hard he tries.

-

.

They meet in the south of France.

Except for a few texts and one or two silly memes, they haven't been in contact much during the summer break. A like on an Instagram post here and there, keeping up with the other through social media. Kinda. Realizing they are not far from each other and yet they haven't planned to spend a single day together.

They spend enough days together working. This is summer break. This is for fun.

Still. They do meet. Somewhere in the south of France. In a private yet crowded club. Neither wanted to go, dragged by their friends. And yet here they are. Catching eyes from across the room.

Carlos wiggles his eyebrows. Charles giggles.

They go back to their friends.

They meet again later at the bar.

"I didn't know you would be here."

"They dragged me here, it wasn't planned."

They shout over the loud music and the alcohol slowly settling in their veins.

They go back to their friends again. They meet up again later. Much much later. In the bathroom. By accident.

Charles sways (drunk) and collides with Carlos' chest. Carlos laughs (too high, too loud, too drunk).

"Missed me this much, Lord Percival?"

"Maybe," Charles mumbles in Carlos' collar.

Carlos' shirt hangs open almost all the way down. There's only one or two buttons still attached.

"At this point, you should just take it off," Charles slurs.

(Or at least, that's what he is trying to say.) His alcohol-addled brain cannot really form sentences anymore. So he mumbles a few words then proceeds to rip the last two buttons on Carlos' shirt and opens it wide over the expanse of his muscled chest.

"Charles," Carlos groans. In warning. In lust.

But Charles barely listens, hypnotized by the glistening skin of Carlos' stomach, reaching a hand to trace the lines on Carlos' abs. He draws a shiver out of his teammate, a strangled moan, and a visible bulge in his pants.

Charles' mind buzzes with alcohol and the heady feeling of getting this kind of reaction from Carlos. It's exhilarating. He wants more.

He puts his hand on Carlos' crotch. Carlos pushes him back, slamming him back against the bathroom door.

"Charles," he whispers. Another warning.

He sounds wrecked, shaking with desire, rendered helpless from a single touch from Charles. Charles feels all too powerful. He needs more.

"Don't play with me," Carlos says.

"You want this?"

A nod. A step forward. One of them (Charles doesn't remember who) has the presence of mind to lock the door. The click is loud even with the music blasting from the club.

They are alone and Charles' hands are all over Carlos' body, eliciting all sorts of reactions from him and reveling in them all. The power he has over him is heady.

Carlos kisses him, messy and hungry.

Charles' hand slides into Carlos' pants, his fingers wrapping around a hard and leaking cock. Carlos gasps.

It's so so exhilarating.

He gets closer, his pelvis grinding against Carlos' hip as he strokes faster and faster. He drinks in all the little gasps and moans that escape Carlos' mouth. He bites on that plump bottom lip as Carlos exhales and comes right into Charles' palm.

"Charles..." he shudders.

Charles comes in his pants.

.

Charles wakes up the next morning, in his bed, with a headache pounding like crazy inside his skull. The nausea is strong but the dawning feeling as he remembers the previous night is stronger.

He kissed Carlos.

He gave him a handjob.

He came in his pants while doing it.

But most of all...