delicate - charles leclerc

ʟᴀᴛᴇʀ...

d e l i c a t e

˜"*°•.˜"*°•.•°*"˜.•°*"˜

we might just get away with it,
the altar is my hips,
even if it's a false god.

.҉     .҉     .҉

I WASN'T SURE if it was the alcohol or the feeling of eyes on me that gave me the confidence to dance the way I did, but either way I was really enjoying myself for once. I can't even remember why I stopped going out, though it probably wasn't my decision.

As the club starts to get hazy and the lights blur into one, I can register a few things still. The song; it's slow, sensual, sexy, and Charles Leclerc sitting at the bar. The club was quieter now, not as many on the dance floor, I knew that much. He could see me, and I knew he was watching. I felt him watch my every move and I was enjoying it.

I felt like a stranger on the outside, watching my body move the way it did. A man's hands found their way around my waist, then trailed down to my hips as he pressed and swayed our bodies against one another in time with the music.

When I looked back to the bar, Charles wasn't in the seat. I was confused by the empty feeling in my stomach, and even more so when it disappeared in a flurry that sent a tingling up my spine when I found him again, sitting near the edge of the dance floor. He was casually leaning back in the booth, comfortably sprawled out, but there was this look in his eyes.

I had seen lots of Charles Leclerc over the years and I've drank enough now to confidently admit how he often caught my eye. But rarely did I ever see a look like that. He was biting down on the side of his middle finger, his eyebrows furrowed. There was no smugness, no smirk, no humour.

The chorus of the song picks up again, the man behind me pulls me closer, one hand on my hip, one by my waist, I know he's enjoying this dance, and I know I should be too but I can't take my eyes off of Charles. I hook one of my arms around his neck, pulling him closer. At the same time, I watch as Charles sits forward, his jaw flexing as he looks away from me but those eyes are back on me as soon as they left.

Oh— oh my.

In one moment, I can feel the consequences of everything I had drank tonight. My stomach feels like a churning volcano, my legs are weak and my cheeks are flushed. I stumble forward, away from the man I had been dancing with and use what's left of my strength to apologise as I make my way for the front door.

I knew Charles was watching me leave, I can feel his eyes burning holes into the back of my head.

Why?

What is his deal? Why has he decided to torture me?

I feel sick. Then I am sick. All over a cute pair of Prada heels.

.҉     .҉     .҉

I WAKE UP with a pounding headache and mild to severe memory loss. The severity depends on what time I got home because I can only remember up until one, and given the horrible headache and memory loss, I did not go home that early.

"Nora?" I call, blindly feeling the bed for her body. Or any body, really. "Nora?" I call out again, rolling over to an empty bed. I sit up in a panic, momentarily unsure if this was even my room.
My eyes adjust the sunlight that fills the room through the crack in the curtain. It was my room but I was alone. It was a weird mixture of relief and panic, knowing I'm alone.

I find my phone in one of my boots, it was dead.

Sitting down on the edge of the bed, I wait for my phone to charge. My head is killing me and the more I try to remember last night the more it hurts. Parts of the night come back in flashes, dancing with a stranger in the club, talking to Charles, Nora tripping up a flight of stairs. It's like tapping through someone's Instagram story. You get a glimpse, but don't catch any of the details.

I fall back in the bed, staring up at the hotel room ceiling, closing my eyes and trying to concentrate on any memories.

Charles' voice in my ear, asking me about my life.
Shots.
Dancing with the elegance of Bambi on ice.
Doing shots with Nora.
Talking to Charles. Staring at his pretty little dimples.
More shots.
Dancing with Nora, her spinning me around to show me off.
Shots with the drivers.
Shots with Max.
Shots with Lando.
Talking to Charles again, feeling his hand on my lower back as he orders me a glass of water.
More shots.
Dancing with a stranger.
Charles.

I groan, the final events of the night becoming less hazy. I backed up into some random guy—he had a nice face—and we started dancing. Though I can't remember what happened between, I remember a vague sense of panic, or lightheadedness, and I ran out of the club to empty my stomach on Nora's shoes.

My phone lights up as it finally powers on, it's eleven in the morning and I find I've been bombarded with missed calls and unopened messages. 

imessage

nora<3
hey babes i drunk fcked that journalist
hes still cute when im sober though so
im ok xx

hope youre not too traumatised from
last night 

also stay off twitter until im back juni it's
for the better xx

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is this a cliffhanger?? idk. also im way too lazy to proofread. i am many things but someone who proofreads is not(and never will be)one of them

also finally coming out the other side of a onesided situationship/issueationship and omg?? like how wild is it that a medium ugly man had me doubting how much of a bad bitch i am??
NEVER and i mean NEVER let a medium ugly (OR ANY) man make you forget how much of a bad bitch you are. i know you a bad bitch because not all hot girls are f1 girlies but all f1 girlies are hot

<m3