Chapter Text
Carlos Sainz knocked on Charles Leclerc’s driver room door. They weren't supposed to have any downtime this afternoon. But right after midday practice, a sudden text from a sponsor changed everything: the afternoon shoot was canceled.
Four hours cleared out. The afternoon was suddenly wide open. After debriefing and goal-setting with the team, Carlos wasn’t tired, but he felt a wave of relief. He habitually turned to the teammate beside him.
Charles Leclerc’s eyes were cast down, lashes thick as sea mist. His lower lip tucked slightly, pulling into a faint dimple on his left cheek.
Carlos flashed his teeth in an automatic smile. Looking at Charles when he smiled like that always made him forget to control his own face.
"I'm going to take a break in my room," Charles said, scanning the hallway for his manager. "I’m good. I’ll come get you in a bit." Carlos clamped both hands on Charles’s shoulders, thumbs digging slightly into the tight muscle. "No—stop... Carlos."
The Monégasque tilted his neck away immediately, his upper body sinking right into Carlos’s chest. "Just wake me up in forty minutes." "Oh—" Carlos gave his shoulders one last squeeze before letting go. Charles was too used to his hands-on antics—which was both a good and a bad thing.
Forty minutes blurred past. Standing outside Charles’s door, Carlos was still thinking about how to spend this extra time together. But even after running through a dozen ideas, there was only silence inside.
"Charllll?" Carlos looked at the keypad, amused but resigned. No matter how close they were, the team would never let them register fingerprints for each other's rooms. To avoid accidental "news."
Guess he’d have to find the manager for wake-up duty. Carlos arched an eyebrow at the glossy door. In the mirror-like finish, he caught his own disappointed face.
Then, a shift.
The door wasn’t fully shut. It was unlatched, a sliver of light spilling through the gap.
Careless, Charlulu.
A door like this just took a push. Mischief won out. Carlos nudged it open and stepped inside, dead quiet.
His teammate was on the massage table, fast asleep against the wall. The TV was still running race replays. Charles clearly hadn't meant to sleep, but had drifted off sitting up.
Driven by some weird impulse, Carlos reached back and pulled the door shut. Just habit, he told himself, but stayed right there—one step away from the sleeping beauty.
The warm, amber light drizzled over Charles’s head like maple syrup. The natural upturn of his mouth hovered like a resting butterfly, twitching faintly with his breath. His relaxed brows made him look incredibly soft. Carlos slowed his breathing ,then one step, reached the bed.
Sitting up like that, Charles was almost eye-level with him. All Carlos had to do was lean in a fraction, and Charles’s breath would hit his skin.
Carlos froze. He felt like he should be thinking, but his usually fast brain was running in slow motion.
His lips were thick—good for kissing, or so he’d been told by many people. But hovering over Charles, he hated his mouth for the first time. It was too blunt, too obvious. Too easy to catch at a moment like this.
Carlos felt like he could swallow Charles whole, but he only dared to brush his lower lip against the seam of Charles’s. His excitement made his breathing heavy, forcing him to split his focus just to keep it quiet while his tongue slicked and tested that fragile line.
This close, he could smell him. Beneath the cologne and deodorant, Charles's actual scent.
Charles only wore one kit a day. Carlos changed after every single session just to stay fresh for their hugs. He loved this about Charles. He could isolate Charles’s scent perfectly from any artificial spray, and it wired him instantly. Though honestly, just the touch and the sight of him were enough to keep him there.
Carlos finally coaxed the seam wet. Maybe stimulated by the heat, nectar pooled under Charles’s tongue. The moment Carlos broke into the space, it was already slick and giving. Tilting his head, Carlos parted his lips, his tongue lifting Charles’s, swirling, tasting, drinking in the wet heat of his mouth.
His last shred of sanity kept him from leaning his weight down. He stayed suspended over Charles in an awkward, bowing curve. Carlos thought it tasted sweet, but honestly, the panic and adrenaline had killed his sense of taste. He just decided it was sweet. Sweet and warm.
He was usually so quick, so agile, but right now he felt like a clumsy bumblebee—terrified he’d crush the flower.
Realization hit him late: he hadn't wanted to think earlier. Think about the consequences, how to look at him afterward, what the fruit in front of him actually tasted like. As a driver, he was built to stay sharp and analyze data while pumping adrenaline. So even now, he snapped back. The scent was still right there, but Carlos decided to end this cheap kiss.
Reluctantly, he traced a half-circle on Charles’s lower lip. Just as the cool air rushed into the gap, something slick and soft hooked the tip of his tongue.
Carlos did freeze for a fraction of a second. His gaze dropped; Charles’s eyes were still closed, but the soft, velvet touch against the tip of his tongue had already seized control, its intensity jolting straight to his every nerve ending.
A shiver coursed through Carlos, and he met the attack instantly, tangling his tongue with his clever, elusive adversary.
Their breaths grew shallow and ragged. Charles’s eyelashes fluttered sharply, his half-open eyes misted over with a hazy glaze—it was impossible to tell whether it was from rising desire or lingering drowsiness.
Better slow down a bit, Carlos thought, looking at his teammate, looking at this image of a freshly awoken kitten. He finally broke the kiss. But just as he was about to speak, Charles beat him to it.
"Thanks for waking me up,"
Charles looked at him with half-open, heavy eyes. Green, soft, and smug. Even looking up from below, Carlos feel like he is the one being judged.
Carlos felt like he should explain, but his throat was bone-dry. Charles beat him to it: "What's wrong? Let's go train."
A massive wave of absurdity hit him. The sheer, cold ridiculousness made it hard to breathe, his lungs burning. "Aren't you going to say anything? Do you just not care?"
His teammate was always like this—slick, slipping out of every trap. The second Carlos showed his real self, Charles brushed it off, refusing to look at it.
Carlos felt himself smile. Dropping it like a bad joke, he turned and reached for the door. Then he heard the thud of Charles’s feet hitting the floor. He spun around and slammed back into him.
They wrestled, a sharp, fierce tangle, and Carlos got hard instantly. Hot breath crossed—no split lips, no taste of blood, just a clean surrender of the fortress.
Carlos liked the distant, secretly pleased look Charles got when Carlos initiated things. But he liked it better when he ripped Charles out of that cool restraint, watching him lose control as raw emotion spilled out.
Charles thought he held the leash, thought his hound was broken. An occasional snap was just playing, but this was a baring of fangs—the perfect, dark catalyst for whatever twisted thing they had.
If Charles’s first response was a scrap of candy, what Carlos was taking now was a feast.
"Carlos," Charles pushed him back for a split second, the words tight and angry. "Say my name when you kiss me. I’ll work harder."
Carlos rode the shove, absorbing the force, then tilted his head and went back in from the other side. He felt Charles’s hands soften.
Carlos opened his eyes to look at the green. The pitying smugness was gone, but he couldn't tell what was burning in its place.