you're mine now
Charles Leclerc x Best Friend!Reader count: 3.1k words summary: Charles invites you over for a movie night, that ends on his kitchen counter, no clothes involved. a/n: explicit smut, so strictly 18+
It isn’t supposed to be anything more than friends hanging out. You know this, and you remind yourself of it as you pat down your dress, ignoring the winter chill your bare legs give you. Maybe sundress wasn’t the best option, but it was the most chill-but-still-sexy option you had in the closet.
You rang the bell and Charles opens the door.
He looks good, to say the least – his hair has grown out a little and the curls are making their way back, alongside the ease in his shoulders that he regains during the off-season months. He pulls you in for a hug, and you suppress the shiver his cologne gives you.
Charles kisses your cheek. “Stunning, as always.”
“You’re outdoing me.”
“You’re putting a dress against sweatpants and a tee? Sure.”
“Sweatpants and a tee on you are a different story,” you argued.
He laughs and leads you through the house, even though you could’ve made your way to the living room in the dark, if you had to. The conversation takes you to the bar where he pulls out a bottle of champagne too expensive for the occasion, and tells you about the week since the last race.
You are listening—you pull yourself out of your thoughts a few times—but all you can think about is how good he looks. It’s like you haven’t seen him in years, not months. His hair’s messy and you know he was taking a nap shortly before you arrived because there’s red marks on his face, and he hasn’t shaved in a few days and great, now you’re looking at his lips—
“Do I have something on my face?”
You down the champagne in your glass. “No.”
“Want a refill?”
“Yes. Please.”
He takes the bottle and begins pouring, and your eyes are glued to his biceps, and the way they’re stretching the shirt—
“There you go.”
“Are you going to judge me if I finish that one, too?”
Charles laughs. Your legs go jelly.
“Only if you let me catch up, first.”
Three glasses of champagne down—each—later, you’re sitting on the couch. It’s a little bit cold and you complain, and the heating’s turned up within moments. He returns to the couch and looks at you; you catch him adjusting his sweatpants as he retakes his seat.
“Your sofa’s not small, you know.”
“What’s the point of sitting further away?” he asks. “I need to be able to annoy you during the movie.”
“Sure. Let’s go with that.”
It’s Charles’s turn to pick a movie. He scrolls through the list, asking you if you’ve seen this one, or that one, and you respond with your mind half there, half on the champagne resting against the side of the couch. You pour yourself another glass and one for him, too.
“We’re going to need another bottle.”
Charles shrugged. “We could start doing shots.”
“Charles!”
“What?” He looks at you so innocently, so full of something, that you feel a shiver. It doesn’t help when he puts a hand on your bare calf, thumb moving just slightly. “Shots are for later, alright. Do you want more champagne or wine?”
You hesitate: champagne would be perfect, because that was absolutely delicious, but you also know how much it costs.
“Wine,” you say.
Yet when he returns with the bottle, it’s not wine he’s holding.
“Charles—”
“We can have more champagne if we want, okay? We’re celebrating.”
“Celebrating what?”
He smiles as you clink your glasses together; something in your gaze grounds you, making you aware of every millimetre where his skin is touching yours.
“Us,” he says, and drinks to it.
He slots back into the spot at your side as his fingers absentmindedly brush your calves. It’s enough to keep you distracted – the way he’s sitting, or half-lying, you can clearly see the outline of the bulge in his sweatpants. He adjusts himself a few times, when he thinks you’re not looking, but it’s all you can see.
That, and the biceps, and the hair, and the slope of his nose that would feel so damn good against your—
You clear your throat. “I’ll be right back.”
“Where are you going?”
“Do you want an itinerary? The bathroom.”
“Don’t take too long,” he says. “The movie’s getting good.”
Ah, the movie. The one you’re definitely watching.
In the bathroom, you splash some water over your neck. Your face would’ve been better but you spent an hour doing a no-makeup makeup look and you’re not foolish enough to ruin it.
You think about it. It would be a lie to say you don’t.
You sit on the closed toilet and breathe, your hands on your thighs, itching to slip under your dress.
Behind closed eyes, you picture Charles on the couch, waiting for you. His hands are in his hair, making it messier, and you can just make out the outline of his—
Something cold touches the inside of your thigh. Your hand. You were about to—
It’s tempting. You can feel the pulsing, the need, the way your core responds to Charles’s every movement. If you took care of it here, and now, you’d be able to go through the movie without distractions. It wouldn’t even take long, considering how fired up you already are, and the image of your best friend so clear in your mind.
The outline gave you enough of an idea of what you’d expect. Of how it would feel in your mouth, between your legs, and maybe you could slip a finger in and think of it some more and—
“Y/N, you alright?”
Your hand flies to your mouth, masking the gasp. The other hand comes out from under your dress, the tip of your finger slick with your wetness.
“I’ll be out in a minute!”
“You sure?”
“Yeah, just… Just give me a minute.”
“I’m here if you need anything.”
The words made you leave out a long, controlled breath, willing your heart to stop racing. You promise you’d be out in a few seconds and when you hear his footsteps getting quieter, you wash your hands.
In the reflection, the woman looks as if she’s judging you.
“Shut up,” you tell her. “I know it’s bad.”
More water ends up on your neck and you dap it off with a bit of toilet paper. If Charles didn’t knock when he did, you probably would’ve gone more than just put a single finger in, and the thought of doing that while he sat across the wall is…
Exciting.
The whole place feels warmer as you make your way back to the living room. There’s a falter in your step – he’s sitting exactly the way you were picturing him. Even with the bulge still visible, if not as big as you supposed he could get.
If he knew what you were doing in his bathroom…
You slot back into your place, but make it so that no parts of your bodies are touching. If Charles notices, he doesn’t say anything.
He laughs along to the movie, and he’s enjoying it, for the most part, but it’s taking you every bit of self-control to keep your hands to yourself, when he’s so close. It’s not like you haven’t thought about this before—hell, you two even kissed on a dare when you were twelve—but this is different.
His attention is back on you as the movie ends. “You feeling alright?”
“Yeah, why?”
“I don’t know. You’re a bit quiet.”
“I was watching the movie.”
“Sure,” he says, though it’s clear he doesn’t believe you.
He’s close – so close you feel his breath on your lips. Your gaze flickers to his before you can help it and when you look up, your cheeks burning, he’s smiling.
“Hi,” he says.
“Hi.”
His hand’s on your calf—has it always been there?—and you swallow the lump in your throat. You hear the noise from the TV, the high-pitch of the fridge, and your own heart trying to beat its way out of its cage.
“We should, um.” You clear your throat. “Drinks?”
Charles follows you to the island counter, placing the glasses on it. You pour the champagne this time and your hand’s shaky enough you wonder if he’ll comment on it, but he doesn’t.
You look at his hands—his fingers—and remember that less than an hour ago, you were taking care of yourself in his bathroom thinking of these.
“Truth or dare,” you blurt out.
Charles laughs. “What are we, twelve?”
“Truth or dare. No backing out.”
“Fine,” he says. “Truth.”
“Boo. Pussy.” You swirl the champagne around your glass, thinking. “When’s the last time you had good sex?”
“Three weeks ago,” he answers.
“Good,” you repeat. Three weeks ago, he was texting you about a girl he hooked up with, who could barely hold a dick in her mouth without gagging. “Answer honestly.”
He leaned against the counter, blowing air out of his mouth. “I don’t know. It’s been a while. A few months, maybe? What about you?”
You smile. “The question was for you.”
“Fine. Truth or dare?”
“Dare.”
“That’s not fair! You knew what I was about to ask.” When all you do is shrug, he shakes his head, but he’s smiling. His cheeks are a soft tint of red, and you wonder if they’d feel warm against your touch. “I can’t think of any good dares.”
“Oh, come on.”
“Seriously!”
“You’re boring,” you say. “I can think of one.”
“For yourself?”
You hum in response. “It’s getting hot in here.”
Charles was quiet for a few moments – you left the ball in his court, and it was up to him to accept it. If you weren’t already tipsy, you could’ve sworn his cheeks had gone redder.
On the counter, your hands were touched just the slightest bit, but the sensation ran down your spine.
“Okay,” he says, stepping the tiniest bit closer. “I dare you to take off your dress.”
Aware of your eyes on your body, you grab the hem of your sundress. It’s not often you can see him take you in piece by piece, cheeks reddening, eyes hazing over as if unsavoury thoughts are running across his mind. You slow down, stick your hip out a little, trailing your hands on your thigh higher, higher, higher—
You watch his Adam’s apple bobble as he swallows at the sight of your lacy underwear.
“Y/N—” he tries, but his voice gives out, deep and husky and so, so needy.
You tug the rest of the dress over, throwing it on the floor between you. His eyes are on your chest, with his tongue brushing over his lips. Even without needing to check, you know there’ll be an outline on his trousers – not once has a man looked at you like this without wanting to jump your bones.
You smile. Innocently. “Your turn.”
Charles hesitates, but only for a moment. His eyes dart to your face and whatever he finds there must agree with him, because he grabs the bottom of his shirt and tugs it over in one movement, dropping it on top of your dress.
Your heart beats in two places, looking at him like this. The light is dim and you could trace the abs on his stomach, the firmness of his pecks, even the shoulders, memorising it to make a statue of him in his mind.
The thought of him, bare, makes your mouth go dry.
“Sweatpants too,” you say.
He quirks an eyebrow.
“I’m in my underwear.”
“We’re both wearing two pieces of clothing.”
There’s the moment—the opening you’ve been waiting for—and you look at him in the eye, searching, until you see the way his lips are parted, the speed of his chest rising, the outline of his dick screaming to be let out, and you make your decision.
“Why,” you say, “when we could be wearing none?”
Charles’s eyes darken in a way you haven’t seen before. Gone was the gentleman, the strong man with a kind heart, and you think of him looking at you like this with his hands on your throat, pounding into you, and your knees buckle.
“Are you sure?” he asks.
“We’ve been dancing around this long enough.” You hook your thumbs in the waistband of your panties. “I can do it, or you can.”
He crosses the distance between you in a moment, his body crashing against yours as he snatches you by the wrists, pulling them around his back. His mouth is against your neck and his breath sends shivers down your spine as he murmurs, “It would be my pleasure.”
He kisses you, then. His lips are soft against your skin they trail towards your collarbone, between your breasts. His hands are on your waist, now, just above the waistband, but travel behind your back as his mouth finds your nipple over the fabric of your bralette, pulling it in, the mixture of sensations making your body relax into his arms. Your hands are in his hair, now, tugging at it the way you’ve pictured yourself doing a million times, and he’s moaning against your breast, and you feel unravelled and you haven’t even done anything yet.
Charles pushes you against the counter and he pulls you up by the waist, and your legs wrap around him as if they were created for this. One hand on your chest tries to push you down but you shake your head, pulling one finger into your mouth, twirling your tongue around it as if it were a lolly.
“No,” you whisper. “I want to watch.”
“Fussy,” he says, dropping to his knees with a smile.
Your hands go back to his hair as he spreads your thighs with his hands, kissing the skin behind your knee, travelling inwards with soft kisses.
“Charles,” you moan. “I need—”
You gasp as his teeth sink into your thigh, followed by a kiss. “We’re doing this my way, princess.”
You’d protest—you’ve thought about this moment too often for it to go wrong—but his hand found your centre over your panties with soft, but confident strokes, with his mouth peppering kisses closer, and closer, and closer—
He kisses you over the fabric. He teases you, tongue flicking at your clit, and you tug his hair to tell him to hurry the fuck up and he parts your legs wider, pulling your panties to the side with his teeth and holding them there with his thumb. You feel his hot breath against your core, bare and exposed like this.
He looks up at you and you feel yourself melting into the sight. Those big green eyes, darkened with desire, his mouth an inch aware of your most private part…
You breathe out his name as if it were a prayer.
He smiles, satisfied, and burrows himself between your legs.
If heaven is real, you sure have died and gone to it, because your best friend is a master of the art of pleasure. He holds you steady against the counter as his tongue does the work even with your writhing and pleading for more, more, more, until he pushes a finger inside you, pumping and curling and it could be a minute or it could be an hour and your thighs are clenching his face and shaking, warms rushing through your body, and you breathe out his name again and again and again as he kisses you through your high, only pulling himself up from between your legs when your breathing steadied.
“I’m glad you enjoyed yourself,” he says, smirking.
You shake your head, with what little energy you had left, but the sight of him like this—the bulge still trying to escape his sweatpants—has you yanking his clothes down until his cock springs free, every bit the thing you’d hoped for and more.
You kiss the head, lightly, teasing, hearing Charles’s moan. His hand moves to the back of your head and you take him into your mouth, bobbing your head on it. He even tastes good.
He moans, again, grabbing a fistful of your hair, urging you to go faster, sloppier, and you do. You let him into the back of your throat, not gagging, and he starts moving into you, shivering as his eyes meet yours.
“You’re so fucking beautiful.” He lets out a moan, loud, and pulls out. “Get back on the counter.”
You do as told and then he’s between your legs, lining himself up at your entrance. Both of you are too needy, too excited, too drunk to worry about a condom, and he pushes himself in, but you’ve been waiting for this the whole night, and he slides in with little to no resistance.
He moans, again, in the crook of your neck. You arch your back into him and he starts pumping, head buried against you and hands planted on the counter behind you. Your nails dig lines into his back and he bites and sucks on the skin below your chin as he fills you up to the brim, over and over and over again.
“Charles,” you say against his ear, half-whisper, half-moan.
You feel him shiver.
“Yes?”
“I want you,” you whisper. “All of you.”
He looks at you and you give him a nod, and then he’s pumping into you faster, harder. You take his hand and drag it to your neck while lowering your back against the counter, biting onto your hand to suppress a moan as the new angle hits even deeper. Charles’s hand curls around your neck, just like you were imagining not too long ago, and his eyes bore into yours as you whisper his name, feeling yourself close, again.
It’s a few more pumps and a light squeeze on your neck and then your legs are shaking around him again and he moans, loud, guttural, as you feel the warmth of him spread inside you.
Charles does one last thrust and melts against your body, replacing your neck with more kisses, lazy this time, weary. Your hands are in his hair and you pull him up, your lips less than an inch away.
He kisses you. It’s tired, too, and sloppy, but you feel him twitch still inside of you, and his tongue explores your mouth. You can still taste yourself on it, and you remember how it felt, to have him buried between your legs, and you think, how could anyone give this up?
You couldn’t. You won’t.
“Charles,” you breathe out.
“Mhm?”
“You’re mine now.”
