Blog disclaimer: I’m here to escape real life. That includes ignoring hot dudes being problematic. If I can do something about it irl I will, but I’m on tumblr to objectify men, not to right the ills of society. Thank you for your time.
Hello <3 I saw a photo of Carlos. This one in particular. And maybe went insane. If this is all over the place please forgive me. I wrote it in a few hours. Enjoy!
Carlos was big. In many senses of the word (in all sense of the word). Big personality, big smile, big hair, big nose. He wasn't the tallest in the room, or the largest, but he somehow managed to occupy a space twice his own. He had what people would call an aura, and it was like the sun, taking up space and pulling people into his orbit.
Charles, for all that he was taller than Carlos, honestly even buffer than him, had always felt small in his presence. Not in a bad way.
It's just that when Carlos was around him, he felt enveloped. He took up less space, let the boundaries between his space and Carlos' space blur to nothing. His waist suddenly fit exactly in the span of Carlos' hand, the force of his smile swallowed up by Carlos' eyes.
He didn't dislike it.
He really liked it.
They were in Miami this weekend. It was a lot. It always was but this year felt like even more a lot. Somehow.
They had new everything for Miami, and they'd probably have new everything for Austin and for Vegas. That was just how it was in the US. At least that's what they were told. Charles liked it. He always liked creating new things.
So Miami.
New outfits, new helmets, new merch, new paddock it seemed.
It was the first of these things that was the cause of Charles' current crisis.
Ferrari had come up with some baseball inspired outfits for them. Nothing crazy, just a simple shirt, loose, button-down, red. Charles liked them. He loved loose clothing, paired up the shirt with a vest and a chain that he'd been aching to try out for a while now. He would probably wear this at home, even if Ferrari hadn't made them do it.
Carlos looked -
he.
focus.
Carlos looked fine. he looked a bit awkward, the shirts not something he'd usually go for. Not so far removed from his beloved polos yet somehow world's apart.
He filled them out well though (when did he not), and he looked fine really. Nothing more.
Nothing more except -
he.
deep breaths.
He looked small.
The new top was cut the same way from top to bottom and so it didn't hug Carlos' stupidly massive chest and shoulders and just swallowed him up. It made him look tiny.
Every time Charles saw him walking around in that shirt, smiling and grinning and glowing his fingers itched. He wanted to fit his hand to Carlos' waist and see if, for once, Carlos would sit just right. He wants to wrap his arms around him and plaster himself against his back and press kisses into the long line of his neck and see if he could get his blush to show for once.
(he wanted to tear the damned shirt off him and bite bruises into his hips and his waist and press the impression of his fingers onto him and cover his small small small body with reminders of himself).
Charles has a problem. A small one.
Carlos knows. Or Charles thinks he knows. Or maybe neither of them know anything but it really seems like Carlos knows. Becuase he's always in front of Charles. Bending over. Bending closer. Leaning into him. Making himself small.
Or he's just being normal and Charles is going crazy.
So Charles has a problem. A large one.
They're doing the 87th PR event of the day. It's probably the 5th but it doesn't feel like it. But it's Miami so it could be.
Ugh. It's hot.
Charles shoots of some variation of it's a big step forward but we need to do more because the red bulls could still outpace us on 3 tyres and an extra pitstop and then it was just a fun project could you please stop comparing me to mozart and then yeah I love Miami it's fantastic it's always fun and I'm carefully not saying anything about the actual racing because it's so boring and then finally, mercifully it is over.
He flees walks calmly back to his room and absolutely does not duck behind an outrageously large potted plant to avoid Silvia. He opens the door and is hit by a gust of cold, lovely, air. He would never say he could live without airconditioning again.
He goes to flop onto his couch and just sort of groan into it for a few minutes. Except he can't. Because it's occupied. By Carlos.
Why is Carlos in my driver's room, he might have thought, if his brain wasn't currently operating on the equivalent of three monkeys tossing around a brain cell. Maybe I'm in Carlos' room? he might have thought if the monkeys in his head weren't passed out from the heat.
What he does say is "You."
"Me", Carlos responds, raising one of those fuzzy eyebrows.
What are you doing here Carlos? Why are you here Carlos? Can I fuck you against a wall Carlos? Or you can do me it's fine I don't care either w -
His line of thought is stopped gloriously short when Carlos gets up and looks at him, hands placed on his hips like he's his middle school english teacher, Mme. Lily about to lecture Charles on why he can't say that the two guys in Merchant of Venice were definitely gay and in love even if they definitely were gay and in love.
Charles wasn't able to focus on that lecture then because Mme. Lily was way too pretty to be a middle school english teacher, her wavy blond hair, and tight shirts the stuff of every pubescent boys dreams. Charles isn't able to focus on Carlos now because his hands are on his hips. His hands are on his hips, and the material is bunched up and drawn tight. It's drawn tight and Carlos tiny tiny waist is suddenly accentuated, fitting so well in Carlos' own large hands that he can probably span the whole thing himself.
God he's so small and all Charles wants to do is touch.
Carlos is definitely saying something. About his day? Or maybe it's PR? Or something about who Dom Toretto was and why Lando kept sending him incoherent texts about family and muscles and Oscar? He should reply. He wracks his brain for a moment, prods the monkeys around to search for something to say. A banana. Or a reply preferably. Anything except blurting our the refrain of small tiny teensy small that's been looping around in his brain.
"You look small".
Well. The monkeys had given him a banana and he'd slipped on the peel.
Carlos does not look weirded out. He just raises his other fuzzy eyebrow. Then he raises both fuzzy shoulders. They're not fuzzy Charles just can't really see too clearly with the heat and the lust and the lack of glasses.
"Yeah?", Carlos asks. Then, inexplicably, he steps forward.
"Hnrgh", Charles replies.
Carlos stops walking closer. Wrong reply, try again.
"Yes." he says. Carlos nods and steps forward until he's in his favourite spot - just one step too far into Charles' personal space.
"It's the shirt", Charles continues, peeling more mental bananas and walking over the peels eyes wide open. "It's really wide you know? Makes you look like you're drowning in it."
"What do you mean?", Carlos asks. Except it doesn't really sound like a question. That's ok, there's a what in front so that means it has to be a question so Charles has to answer.
"Well see here", he says, raising both hands up to Carlos' shoulders. "These are very wide no? They don't fit you well".
He pats Carlos' shoulders lightly and then skitters his hands down his sides. Down, down, down until they land on - o dio - on his hips. He can feel Carlos' eye's burning circles into his forehead.
Somewhere along the way, Carlos has dropped his hands to the side, clearly a signal for Charles to replace them with his own. So he does, placing his hands on his hips, resting them lightly , nonchalantly.
"And your hips are kind of small so the shirt looks oversized. So", he says, squeezing his hands for emphasis. "You look small."
He looks back up at Carlos. He hasn't said a word for a while. His lips are red (bitten red his mind supplies). His eyes are wide and blown black and big. His big nose is almost bumping up against Charles. He looms large in Charles' vision. Big.
The space between them is small.
"Can I ki-", he says.
"Kiss me", Carlos says, almost at the same time.
So he does, pulling Carlos to him, hands tight around his tiny waist.
He presses his lips to Carlos, licks into his mouth and his brain short circuits.
Everything is heat and wet and Carlos. Carlos' hands are on his biceps, holding them so tight they might bruise. He's so small but he envelops Charles. He can feel him everywhere.
Charles moans and pulls Carlos closer to him, arms tight around his waist.
He can feel Carlos where they're pressed together and oh. He definitely isn't small everywhere.
It's been a long day. Charles is tired and sweaty and has two armfuls of the most gorgeous man he's ever seen.
He mentally picks up a banana, peels it, and slides on it, all the way down.
"Carlos, how do you feel about fucking me against that wall?".
Carlos' only response is to bite his own lips so hard they bleed.
Later, when Charles' legs are wrapped around Carlos small tiny teensy waist, he will pull Carlos close (even closer), and kiss his big full lips softly. So softly.
His heart will swell to three times its normal size and everything is warm and bright and Carlos.
