Red [Charles Leclerc x reader]
a/n: hello! sorry for the wait. i tried to cook with this one hehe. Please, be mindful of the fact english is not my first language. I hope you like this! WARNING: smut, cheating, This is a fanfic and should be treated as such!
- âJust because your mind works like that, it doesnât mean I function the same way, Alex!" you say, putting your hand over your eyes, shocked by the words (which were better left unsaid) from your brunette friend.
Alex grins at your reaction whichâat least in her opinionâmakes you seem a bit too naĂŻve to think about the naughty things that would make an old lady cross herself and say: âGod, save this generation!â
âAnd youâre thinking the same thing, admit it! You like menâs attention, donât you?â âYouâre being naughty again, bĂ©bĂ©?â her boyfriend, Charles, appears, smiling.âTake her with you and drop her off at the Vatican, so they can perform an exorcism,â you say, defeated and a bit tired of your friendâs cheeky jokes. âDrama queenâŠâ Charles mutters, rolling his eyes.
The truth is, deep inside, youâve always felt a love for the grotesque, for shock and tragedy, but you donât want to mutilate your life by feeding those thoughts.
Sure, sometimes the images in your mind look like scenes from a forgotten playâwhispers, every piece of skin marked up, broken mirrors etc. Youâve never confessed it, not even to Alex, but youâve always found a strange kind of beauty in the things people choose to look away from. The damaged. The chaotic. The tragic.
The grotesque calls to you like a half-remembered melody, promising honesty where the world paints everything in pastels and polite lies. In your private thoughts, tragedy has teeth, and perfection looks like a plastic smile pressed onto a porcelain mask.
You shake your head lightly, forcing yourself back into the living room where the lights are warm, the jokes are loud, and Charlesâ arm now rests comfortably around your shoulders. His presence is the anchor you need, softening the sharp edges of your imagination.
âDonât let her corrupt you,â Charles whispers jokingly in your ear, his chin brushing your temple.Too late, you think. The corruption isnât hersâitâs mine.
You smile, and no one questions why.
âWeâre thinking of going as a group to a cabin after the season.â âIn a group?â âYes, the three of us, McLaren, Williams, and probably Mercedes will come too. Iâve told you how much I miss Carmen, right? I hope sheâs coming, and if sheâs not, then George can stay in Monaco,â Alex says quickly, barely breathing, not even trying to make eye contact with either you or her boyfriend. Not that it would help because Alexandra is always planning the world like itâs her personal chessboard.
Charles looks at you, widening his smile in a playful way.âWellââ âCharles, do you know something?â âNo, bĂ©bĂ©âŠâ âThen Iâll call her,â Alexandra says, rising from the armchair, the sound of her heels echoing in the room.
And for a moment, silence.Silence has been here ever since the season ended⊠you tell yourself.
Charles and Alexandra have come back to Monaco and with that, theyâve started going out again, together, the way they always do when theyâre not flying across the world. And you⊠you let yourself fall into the quiet of the apartment: books left half open, late breakfasts, the city shimmering like a secret.
Charles moves his hand from your shoulder to your wrist, almost absent-mindedly, but the contact sends a tension through you that you pretend not to notice. His thumb brushes your skin once and slow, like heâs thinking of something he wonât say out loud.
âYouâre quiet today,â he murmurs, not looking at you, just staring ahead at the window where Monacoâs lights blur into the night.
âIâm thinking,â you sighed. âAbout what?â You hesitate. The truth feels too sharp to speak. âAre really that bored that you want to know what I think?â you joke instead.
He huffs a soft laugh, but his hand stays on your wrist, warm and grounding.
Charles studies the window like the night has something to confess. His hand stays on your wrist, warm, steady, too aware. You pretend itâs casual, but your pulse betrays you. He feels it. You know he does, because his thumb pauses, then presses lightly in a way that says: I know youâre lying.
A part of you wants to pull away. Not because you donât want him, but because wanting him feels really dirty.
âIâm tired,â you answer instead. Itâs true, but not the truth.
âYouâre not.â he murmurs.
Charles leans back into the couch, still holding your wrist, like he knows if he lets go youâll drift somewhere he canât follow. His eyes soften, not pity, never pity, just understanding. The kind that feels invasive, even when itâs gentle.
âYouâre somewhere else,â he adds quietly.
His words linger like dust in sunlight.
You blink once and youâre back. The apartment is too bright, too warm. Charlesâ presence makes reality almost unbearable in how clean it is.
âYou ever feel,â you begin, surprising yourself, "like the world is pretending? Like everything is painted the wrong color?â You say after you sigh, letting a huge breath, like it was a burden in your chest.
Charles turns to you fully. You rarely start conversations like this.
âWhat color should it be?â he asks.
Your lips part, then close again.The real answer is too strange, too raw:
Red.
âNot pastel,â you settle on.
He smiles a little sadly, like heâs recognizing a truth heâs known but waited for you to speak first. His thumb brushes your skin again. A slow gesture. Careful, careful like youâre something fragile that pretends to be strong.
âI donât need you to be perfect,â he says. The words land heavy in a way it feels dangerous and shameful. Your breath catches. Because thatâs the thing: he sees it. The sharp edges under your silence.
"Iâm not,â you say.
âI know,â he answers.
A simple responseâyet it shakes something loose in you. You expected denial, comforting lies. Not acceptance so calm it feels like an invitation.
Before you speak again, the sharp staccato of heels echoes through the apartmentâAlexâs return slicing the tension clean. The world snaps back into place like a broken bone forced into alignment.
âI talked to Carmen!â Alex shouts from the hallway. âAnd she said yes, so you can all thank me later!â
Charles lets your wrist go. A polite exit from a moment too real.
You stare at your hand. You swear you can still feel his pulse under your skin, like the echo of distant applause after a scene ends. Alex crashes back into the room with her usual hurricane energy, filling the silence with plans and laughter. The safe kind. The pastel kind.
-
The cabin felt alive, warm and comforting, filled with the hum of conversation. The girls paced back and forth, laughing over the new year trends. Your right hand resting lightly under your chin as you listened to Lily Zneimer describe her upcoming vacation in Norway with her family and Oscar.
Charles was right beside you, and Alexandra leaned next to him, speaking about her new collaboration. Yet your attention kept drifting to him. Your eyes met, and his gaze was cunning, magnetic, waiting, calculating, yet not for you. His hand inched closer to your leg, brushing against it just enough to remind you that he existed, here and now, pulling you into the same reality he inhabited
"Pasta is ready!" Lando announced, setting the enormous bowl on the table.
Everyone grabbed their plates and began serving themselves, the aroma of pasta filling the air. Charles reached for the parmesan, and Alexandraâs warm smile followed him, clearly proud of how attentive her boyfriend was to every culinary detail.
And then, as if the universe had a wicked sense of humor, the parmesan bowl slid toward you instead, answering your gastronomic prayers.
Count number one. Suspicion, but no evidence, just kindness from her boyfriend.
"Y/N, did you miss us?" Lando asks, sly as a snake.
"Um... wellâ"
"Uh, oh, um..." Carlos mocks you.
"Fuck off, Carlos," you say, laughing. The table lights up with joy at your sharp answer.
Charles slides his hand under the table to rest on your leg, his touch gentle but deliberate, as if saying, this is how I want you. You feel a rush of anxiety, a mix of excitement and unease.
"Tomorrow we should go sledding," Oscar said, eyes sparkling at the sight of snow piling up outside.
"How old are you, ten?" George teased, a laugh escaping him.
"Hey!" Carmen slapped his arm gently, her expression soft but firm, like a mother trying to calm a mischievous child.
"Okay! Okay! We'll go sledding tomorrow!" George conceded, mock-defeated.
The room erupted in applause and laughter. Amid the joy, Charlesâs hand found its way back to your leg. This time, it crept higher, deliberately, dangerously. You felt a jolt run through you, a mix of anticipation and unease. His gaze met yours, sharp and knowing, while the laughter around you faded into the background.
-
Shouts of joy echoed across the remote mountain area where the cabin you were staying in was nestled.
"Alex, smile for the picture!" you called.
She posed and smiled, but just then a snowball hit her square in the face. Charles burst into laughter and tackled her to the ground. Both of them grinned while you stood there, feeling a mix of shame and disbelief. Oh, what a cruel world. But it was your own fault for thinking he would do that to you. No, he would only do that to his girlfriend.
You snapped a picture of them, shoved your phone into your jacket, and walked a few feet away.
"I'm so full of snow now!" she exclaimed, shaking the flakes from her hair and clothes. She stood up. "I need to change my jacket before I catch a cold. Je tâaime!" she added, planting a kiss on him.
He smiled, looking down at her with quiet affection. Alex felt weird, again.
Count number two. Suspicion. But she might be a little extreme.
"Y/N, wait. Letâs go sledding!" Charles said, excitement in his voice.
"There are so many people here," you replied.
"Come on," he insisted.
Thoughtful, you scanned the area and spotted the farthest hillâthe one that looked the most fun, the perfect slope for sledding. He caught your wrist and gently pulled you toward that direction, understanding immediately where your gaze had been fixed.
When you reached the hill and sat on the sled, pure joy lit up your face as you realized Charles would be the one to go down with you. Your delighted screams made his heart flutter, because he loved being the reason you were happy.
You went again, and again, sledding over the hill like a child, and Charles happily went along with it.
The final run brought you to the base of the hill. Both of you knew it was time to return to the group at the cabin, hearts still racing, cheeks flushed, and laughter lingering in the cold mountain air.
"Let's go back." you say, smiling.
The snow thickens, falling faster now, blurring the edges of the trees and the path ahead. Each flake seems to hang in the air longer, drifting lazily before settling on the ground, creating a soft, muffled world around you.
âI think we should go back,â you repeat, more insistently this time, your voice almost lost to the wind. You sigh again, letting your breath fog in the cold air, a soft rhythm that feels both nervous and deliberate.
Charles watches you closely, the blue of his eyes startling against the whiteness around him. Snowflakes cling to his lashes, melting slowly from the warmth of his skin, making his gaze even more hypnotic. âYou sigh too much,â he says again, but thereâs a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth now, a tease in his tone that makes your chest tighten.
âWhat?â you ask, a little sharper than intended.
âYouâre restless. Always sighing. Are you upset because of me?â
âYou? Never.â you answer, though your voice falters just slightly under his scrutiny.
He steps closer, and the snow crunches softly beneath his boots. The cold air presses around you both, but somehow, the space between you is warm, charged, electric. âIâm glad. I wouldnât want to be the cause of your unease,â he murmurs, his words brushing against you like a feather caught in the wind.
You notice how the snow rests on his shoulders, melting where it touches him, and your gaze keeps returning to his eyes. Every blink is deliberate, every glance a pull, as if heâs drawing you closer without touching. The storm rages around you, isolating you in this frozen cathedral of trees, where only the two of you exist, the world beyond the forest disappearing in a blur of white.
A flake lands on your cheek. You reach up to brush it away, and his hand moves almost instinctively, hovering near yours, close enough that you feel the heat of him without even noticing. The wind gusts, pressing the snow harder against your cheeks and hair, but inside, the quiet tension between you grows, thick and unspoken, more intimate than any words could convey.
âYouâre thinking too much,â he says softly, leaning closer, the sound of his voice competing with the storm.
âMaybe,â you whisper. âOr maybe Iâm just noticing things.â
âAnd what are you noticing?â he asks, his voice low, teasing, dangerous in its calmness.
âYou,â you say, barely audible. The word carries through the storm like a secret between you.
His smile is slow, sly. Snow continues to fall, softening the world, but the air between you crackles with a warmth the winter cannot touch. For a moment, the forest, the storm, even the snow itself, fades into the background, leaving only you and himâtwo figures frozen in time, in the white wilderness, where tension and desire mingle like fire and ice.
He steps closer, the sound of his boots muffled by the snow, every step deliberate, measured, a rhythm that pulls you in without a word. His eyes catch yours, blue like frozen glass, impossibly clear, holding you hostage in the swirling white.
âI can feel your breath,â he murmurs, soft, teasing, but thereâs something serious beneath it.
You shiver not from the cold, though itâs sharp, but from the way his gaze seems to reach inside you, seeing what youâve never let anyone touch. âIââ you start, and your voice falters, swallowed by the wind.
He raises a hand, almost brushing your cheek. The movement is slow, deliberate, almost torturous in its restraint. Your pulse spikes; every nerve in your body seems to hum. The air between you thickens, charged, as if the storm itself is holding its breath.
âYouâre trembling,â he says softly, leaning slightly closer, his words brushing against your lips. âIs it the cold⊠or me?â
You donât answer. You canât. Your hands tighten on your coat, then drop, then find themselves hovering near his. The snowflakes land on your hair and lashes, melting in the warmth of your skin, making every glance, every subtle movement electric.
Finally, his hand rests lightly against yours. Not holding, not gripping, just touching. The contact is minimal, yet the tension ignites like lightning in your veins. You inch closer without realizing it, drawn in by gravity you never asked for.
Charles leans his forehead against yours. The wind tears at your hair and clothes, but inside this storm, itâs silent, intimate.
âI donât want to move away,â he whispers. âDo you?â
Your heart races, your lips part. The answer is obvious, though unspoken. You tilt your head slightly. Just an inch. Just enough.
He mirrors you. Breath mingles with breath. Snow drifts onto his eyelashes, glistening like tiny stars in the pale light. For a moment, nothing exists but the space between your lips, the storm raging around you, and the unbearable closeness that has been building since the moment you left the cabin.
The air is electric, taut, fragile. The almost-kiss lingers long enough that it feels like time has slowed. You can feel every heartbeat, every tiny tremor of movement, every fraction of distance that separates you.
Your lips crash against his, fierce and demanding, every movement urgent, insatiable. His right hand tangles in your hair, gripping tightly, pulling you impossibly close to him as if he could fuse your bodies together. The snowstorm, the forest, the world beyond all of it disappears under the weight of this hunger.
He devours the kiss with an intensity that makes your knees weaken, as if he is tasting something he has craved for a lifetime. Each press of his lips, each growl in his throat, drives the need deeper, and your own hands claw at him, desperate, needing to anchor yourself while giving in.
Nothing else exists. Not the wind, not the cold, not the trees swaying under the storm. Only the fire between you, raw and unrelenting.
His mouth moves with possession, claiming, testing, searching, and you answer with equal ferocity. Breaths are ragged, mingling in the freezing air, melting together in the heat of your closeness.
Every inch of distance disappears. Every thought vanishes. Hunger that has been held in check for too long finds release in every kiss, every bite of his lips, every desperate tug of his hands through your hair.
The kiss is endless, a storm itself, and yet intimate, consuming, leaving nothing but the pure, unfiltered desire that has built between you both.
When he finally breaks the kiss for a fraction of a second, it is only to stare, blue eyes wild and unrelenting, as if asking silently, is this enough?
"You canât stay away,â he murmurs, voice low, hoarse, almost a growl. âNot from me.â
âI⊠I donât want to,â you whisper, breathless. The words are barely audible, but he hears them.
Then he kisses you again, and it is not gentle. It is hungry, feral, an echo of the storm compressed into the space between your lips. His mouth claims yours with urgency, teeth grazing, lips pressing, tongue tasting. Every kiss, every bite, every press of his body against yours is insatiable, like he has been starving for this moment for years.
Your hands move over him, grasping, clinging, pulling him closer as if letting him go would erase the intensity that has built between you.
He tilts your head back slightly, one hand still gripping your hair, the other tracing the curve of your back, holding you flush against him. You feel the sharp edge of desire in every touch, every movement, the way his body reacts to yours, mirroring the fire that has ignited in your chest.
For a moment, neither of you breathe, only moving together in the rhythm of urgent, desperate need. The kiss is endless, a storm contained within the forest, raw and untamed, consuming and intimate all at once.
"Charles... stop! This... this doesn't feel right..."
"No-one has to know... It's just us here..."
"I donât want to kiss you hidden from the world, where no eyes can witness us."
âTell me to walk away,â he says quietly, âand I will. But if thereâs even a piece of you that feels what I feel⊠then stay with me."
"Charles... please..."
âLet me feel you,â he says, caressing your cheek.
He shakes his head slowly, his forehead pressing over your forehead. âDonât run from this,â he murmurs. âWhatever happens tomorrow, whatever people say⊠I don't care right now. I just want you."
He kisses you deeply, pressing you on the tree behind you. His kiss doesnât fulfill you; it only consumes you in a vicious way. His hands starts to touch you tits, and then to carries them. He pulls them down, to your butt. A growl escapes and you feel like his pray. A lamb in the wolfâs fangs. His jacked unzips and your hand plams his dick that are covered by his pants.
"Do you want this?"
"Yes."
You don't think about the consequences. You don't think about those brown eyes you swore you'll never want to see cry. You only think about the pleasure.
He pulls you down and places his hand under your chin. He guides your face towards him. You open you lips and start tasting everything you wanted: him. Your moans create a vibration on his dick that make him loose his mind.
"That's... that's it." he says loud, not carrying about the surroundings because after all, you're all alone in the woods.
He starts fucking your throat in a animalistic way that makes you feel inferior. But behind the grotesque, you like it. You like to feel like this. Down, inferior, like your purpose is to serve his cravings. His whore. And what a whore you feel like in that moment.Â
"I need to be inside you. Now." he declares.
Charles guides you to sit on the thick snow. You feel like a puppet in his hands. Light as a feather.
He pulls his fingers into you and starts pulling in and out in a animalistic way because frankly you are already wet.
"That's it, accept everything, mon trésor." he moans at the sight of you falling apart only because of him.
Just as you were about to cum on his fingers, he presses his dick inside your warm parts. Adrenaline rushes over both of you and you don't feel a bit of the cold outside, just the pleasure. He starts kissing your necks without biting, then kisses your cheeks and goes for your mouth, moaning. Because he loves all of the pleasure, the gaze of your eyes, the brush of your lips, and even the guilt itself.
-
âGoodbye, darling. It was lovely to see you,â Carmen says, and you smile brightly in response.
You hug her and give a small wave to George and Lando, who return the gesture with sly, knowing smiles.
Charles approaches the car after loading the luggage into the trunk. He doesnât smile. He simply looks at you, his gaze lingering, and opens your door. For a moment, you both freeze, eyes locking not in lust, but in a silent understanding, a desire to be close, to sit in the front passenger seat by his side. That seat is taken, though.
You both slide into the car, and he starts the radio, the music is a feeble attempt to dissolve the tension hanging between you. The atmosphere is rough, taunting.
The first stretch of the road is heavy with unspoken thoughts. You wonder if this will be the only time. You try to convince yourself it is, but a quiet, stubborn part of you hopes it wonât be the last
As your eyes met the rearview mirror, his did too. Both of you froze, staring into the same reflection, and your heart skipped, caught in a rhythm you couldnât control. What ifâŠThen Alexandra reached the mirror to look at you. Her eyes landed on the reflection and everything clicked. Both of you looking at each other at the exact same moment, a truth so electric it seemed to charge the air between you. Her breath caugh and your eyes widen when you catch her eyes.
Count 3. Guilty.










