feinzleclerc

[feinzleclerc]

Parallels...

[feinzleclerc]

✷ RELAPSE | F1 GRID ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎

starring ‎‎‎✷ charles leclerc, carlos sainz, lewis hamilton, oscar piastri, lando norris, max verstappen, franco colapinto & kimi antonelli

‎‎‎‎summary ‎‎‎✷ Loving someone goes far beyond just being by their side. Maybe he hasn’t moved on from you yet—maybe he never will. But how would they react if they saw you now?

word count ‎‎‎✷ 2.9k words.

notes ‎‎‎✷ My first fic in this style. I hope you like it!

F1 GRID MASTERLIST (SOON)

✷ charles leclerc — the Night in Monte Carlo

It was supposed to be just a quiet night after the Grand Prix, a way to shut off his mind from the whirlwind of the race. But Monte Carlo had never been an innocent place for Charles. It was where everything had begun and, eventually, where it had all ended.

Just one drink, he repeated to himself, trying to ignore the knot in his stomach as the icy glass burned in his hand. And then he saw you.

Your laughter cut through the bar like a familiar melody. The same laugh that used to fill his home, the one he still claimed belonged to the two of you years ago, back when you both still believed the world could wait. Now, seeing you there—so close, yet so out of reach—made every muscle in his body tense.

You noticed him too. How could you not? Charles had always carried that presence—the magnetism of someone who bore the weight of millions of eyes, yet here, he just seemed like a man wrestling with his own memories.

— Charles… — Your voice was barely a whisper, laced with surprise and something else—or was it resentment?

He smiled, that crooked, half-guilty smile of his.

Minutes later, you were walking through the warm Monte Carlo night, the distant hum of luxury cars echoing through the narrow streets. Neither of you wanted to admit you remembered every step of that path. But memory was treacherous, as vivid as the feeling of his fingers laced with yours in the past.

And then it happened.

In the same alley where, years ago, you had said goodbye amid tears and accusations, Charles stopped. There was something in his eyes—an apology, a regret, and a desperate longing for one more chance.

— I can’t do this — you began, but the words came out weak.

He stepped closer, the scent of his cologne mixed with the faint trace of alcohol making resistance impossible.

— Then don’t say anything — Charles murmured before his lips found yours, hungry, urgent, as if they could erase every mistake of the past.

It was wrong. It was dangerous. But it was inevitable.

✷ carlos sainz — the Innocent Lie

Carlos parked the car on the nearly empty street, fingers tapping impatiently on the steering wheel. He repeated it to himself like a mantra: Just here to grab my things. Nothing more. A simple task—get in, take what he’d left in the apartment, and leave before any old feelings could sink their claws back into him.

But his heart knew it was a lie.

When you opened the door, the familiar scent of your perfume hit him like a wave. Everything was the same—the messy sofa, the soft glow of the living room lamp, and your expression, caught between surprise and a quiet exhaustion only those who’ve loved too much recognize.

— You came… — Your voice was low, almost disbelieving.

— Just getting my things, — he replied, firm, as if believing it hard enough could save them both from the inevitable disaster.

But then you offered wine. A flimsy excuse to keep the conversation from dying in the hallway. And he accepted. One glass became two, then three, and before they realized it, they were sitting side by side on the living room rug, laughing at old jokes, reliving memories neither of them had dared touch since the breakup.

Longing was an invisible guest between them, thickening the air. Every laugh melted into a lingering glance, every brush of fingers against a glass lasted a second too long.

— You’ve always been terrible at just grabbing your things — you teased, but there was sadness beneath the lightness.

Carlos took a deep breath, eyes locked on yours. He knew he was about to make the same mistake all over again.

— Just this once… — he murmured, pulling you closer.

When your lips met, it was as if Madrid faded around them. Only the heat of skin, the taste of wine, and the raw need to lose themselves in each other existed.

And then, morning came.

Light seeped through the thin curtains, the distant hum of the city creeping into the room. You were there, head resting on his chest, breathing steady. And in that moment, Carlos felt the weight of déjà vu. This was the third time. Three reunions, three postponed goodbyes, three innocent lies he told himself.

— Just this once… — he whispered, fingers tracing imaginary lines along your skin. But deep down, he knew—it was just another lie.

✷ lewis hamilton — the Reckoning in Ibiza

The music pulsed like a racing heartbeat, vibrating through the walls of the club bathed in neon purples and blues. Lewis wasn’t the type to lose himself in places like this—not anymore. But there was something about this Ibiza night, something in the mix of salt air and expensive perfume, that dragged up memories he’d buried against his will.

And then he saw you.

Dancing at the center of the floor, skin glowing under the strobe lights, smile effortless, eyes closed as if the entire world was just the rhythm of the bass. You’d always had that gift—existing so fiercely that everything else blurred into the background.

Lewis felt his stomach twist. He didn’t want to be here. Didn’t want to feel this. But he couldn’t look away.

Just one dance, he told himself. Harmless. Like the old days, when you were just two kids in the middle of an endless summer, before broken promises and continents of distance.

When your eyes met his, the smile you gave was as dangerous as a wet track curve. You didn’t have to say a word. Lewis crossed the floor, and suddenly, the space between you didn’t exist anymore.

The touch of your hands was a spark. That first lap on slick asphalt—unpredictable, impossible to control.

— Just one dance, huh? — you teased, lips too close to his ear, your voice nearly swallowed by the DJ’s beat.

— That’s what I keep telling myself, — he answered, hands on your waist, guiding your movements like your bodies still remembered every step, every mistake, every perfect turn.

The night stretched like a loop. Drinks. Laughter. Lingering glances. And when the club began to empty, neither of you could let go.

You ended up on the beach.

The crash of waves replaced the electronic thrum, and the sun began to bleed into the horizon, staining the sky orange and pink. Lewis lay back in the sand, you curled beside him, fingers tangled like that alone could freeze time.

— We said we wouldn’t do this again, — you murmured, voice drowsy, half-lost to exhaustion.

— I know… — he said, eyes fixed on the sea — But with you, it was never simple.

It was a mistake. You both knew. But on that Ibiza morning, with the taste of salt and want still on your lips, it felt like the only road left to take.

✷ oscar piastri — the Slip-Up in Melbourne

It was just coffee.

Oscar kept repeating it to himself as he waited in line at the Fitzroy café, the scent of roasted beans mixing with the damp air after the rain. There was nothing wrong with catching up with someone from the past—just a quick chat. They were adults, mature enough to handle this. Right?

Then you walked in.

His heart kicked up—annoyingly, unexpectedly. You were smiling as you shook the drizzle from your hair, and suddenly, everything felt exactly like before: lazy afternoons, quiet laughter, fingers tangled under the dinner table.

— Oscar… — you said, hesitant, like his name was an old taste on your tongue.

He gave you a half-smile. Familiar, but with an edge of nerves.

— Hey. Just… grabbing coffee? — He tried to sound casual.

And that’s what they did. For nearly two hours.

But it wasn’t just coffee. It was the sound of your laugh cutting through the café chatter, the absent-minded way you tucked your hair behind your ear while listening to his stories about races, airports, life on the road. It was that inside joke—the one only the two of you understood—that made you both laugh so hard the couple at the next table glanced over.

When you suggested walking back to your apartment because it’s close, Oscar didn’t hesitate.

He should have.

Because there, in the narrow hallway, you both stopped. The silence was heavy, the air thick with memories. A minefield.

— This is a terrible idea — you whispered, eyes locked on his.

— I know — Oscar said, but his hands were already cradling your face.

The kiss was urgent, almost desperate, like it could make up for lost time. Clothes were forgotten on the way to the couch. Quiet laughter, muffled sighs—the kind of intimacy that only exists between people who’ve known each other too well to pretend they feel nothing.

Afterward, Oscar lay there, chest rising and falling too fast, scrambling for an excuse, some logic to cling to. You were propped up on the pillow, watching him with something caught between fondness and wariness.

He broke the silence first:

— This doesn’t mean anything.

You just smiled. Didn’t answer.

Because both of you knew it was a lie.

✷ lando norris — the Late-Night Call

It was 2 AM.

His phone buzzed on the nightstand, lighting up the dark room with your name on the screen. Lando stared at the glow, his pulse quickening for a reason he refused to name.

Don’t answer.

The thought looped like a mantra.

But his finger swiped across the screen anyway.

— Hey… — His voice was rough with sleep and something else.

On the other end, your silence spoke louder than words. Lando closed his eyes, exhaling. He knew what this meant. He always knew.

— You okay? — he asked, already knowing the answer didn’t matter.

— No. — That was it. Simple. Direct. Enough to make his chest tighten.

Don’t go over there.

That’s what he told himself as he grabbed his keys, shoved his shoes on in a hurry.

The city was quiet, almost complicit. Lando parked outside your building, trying to convince his heart to stay put. But when you opened the door—the familiar scent, the exhaustion mixed with relief in your expression—it dismantled every barrier he’d built.

— I know this is a terrible idea, — you whispered.

He smiled, sad.

— Me too.

Don’t kiss her.

That was his last warning before his lips found yours.

The kiss was a necessary disaster—hungry, urgent, a silent apology and a scream of longing all at once. The night stretched between tangled sheets, ragged breaths, and the illusion that maybe, just maybe, you could fix what was broken.

Then the alarm went off.

The sound was cruel, reminding you both that the world outside still existed, that promises of last time were just that—empty words.

Lando lay there, his arm still around you, and closed his eyes, feeling the weight of the same emotional trap he swore he’d avoid.

Just one more time, he told himself.

But he knew it was a lie.

✷ max verstappen — the Secret in Zandvoort

He saw you before the race even started.

Amid the sea of orange, between waving flags and colored smoke, there you were. Smiling. Like nothing had happened. Like you didn’t share a past sharp with words, slammed doors, and nights as intense as the races he fought.

Max felt his blood boil. Anger, surprise, but mostly—what he feared most—want.

Not again, he told himself as he accelerated down the track, forcing focus into every turn. But every lap, every glimpse of that smile—the one that used to be his alone—chipped at his resolve like smoke dissolving in the wind.

When the race ended, Max went straight to the motorhome, trying to escape the storm inside him.

Fate had other plans.

You were there, leaning against the wall, arms crossed, with that look that always undid him.

— Nice work, champion, — you said, tone too light for the chaos it sparked in him.

He scoffed, gripping control.

— What are you doing here? — His voice came out harsher than he meant.

— Just watching. Not allowed? — you teased, but there was something in your eyes—a flicker of nerves, a silent acknowledgment of the danger in being here.

Then, silence. The tension was thick, heavier than the scent of fuel in the air.

Max stepped closer. Then again. Until there was no space left between you.

— Just tonight, — he murmured, breath hot against your skin.

His lips met yours with the hunger of a man denying his own heart. Anger turned to want, want turned to relapse, and before they knew it, they were locked in the motorhome, hands frantic, words lost between kisses and gasps.

It was fast. Urgent. A storm. Like always.

After, Max stayed there, forehead against yours, trying to catch his breath—and his sanity.

— We said we wouldn’t do this anymore, — you reminded him, voice weak.

— I know, — he said, fingers still tracing your waist. — But with you… it’s never that simple.

✷ franco colapinto — the Reunion in Buenos Aires

He’d told himself he wouldn’t come back here. But Buenos Aires had a way of tricking the heart. The streets lit by old lanterns, the distant sound of a bandoneón from some nearby restaurant—it all felt like an invitation to the past.

Then he saw you.

Across the dimly lit bar in San Telmo, your eyes met his through the crowd. Impossible not to remember. The last time, you were in the same hotel, the same room, with bitter promises between tears and kisses that shouldn’t have happened.

— Franco… — you said, like his name was an old secret on the tip of your tongue.

He smiled, that restrained smile that hid more than it showed.

— Didn’t think I’d see you here again.

— Me neither. — You took a sip of wine, the glass trembling slightly in your hand.

The tango started. Slow, hypnotic, filling the space between you. Franco held out his hand, and before you could hesitate, you were in his arms.

The world disappeared.

Every step, every turn, was a memory etched into skin. The heat of bodies too close, his gaze locked on yours, the scent of wine and want mixing in the air. A dance you both knew by heart—and hated loving.

When the song ended, the silence between you said more than words ever could.

Then, almost without realizing, you were in the hotel elevator, fingers tangled, breaths unsteady. The same hotel. The same room.

Franco shut the door behind him, eyes searching yours for an excuse not to do what you both knew would happen.

— We’re good at this, — you whispered, lips almost brushing his.

He should’ve said something. Should’ve reminded you of all the promises to stay away, of why the breakup had been necessary. But his hand was already on your waist, pulling you closer.

— Yeah — was all he managed before losing himself in you again.

✷ kimi antonelli — the Mistake in Bologna

Rain poured over Bologna’s narrow streets, turning the old stones into liquid mirrors reflecting the streetlights.

Kimi was sprawled on the couch, staring at the ceiling, trying to ignore the unsent message on his phone. He’d promised. Promised himself he wouldn’t do this again.

Then, three knocks at the door.

He hesitated, pulse spiking. Maybe the neighbor, maybe a delivery… but deep down, he already knew.

When he opened the door, there you were.

Drenched from the rain, hair clinging to your skin, eyes wide and pleading like the weight of the world was right there in the hallway.

— I shouldn’t be here… — you started, voice shaking as much as your hands.

— I shouldn’t be opening the door, — he replied, but he was already pulling you inside.

The scent of rain and perfume filled the apartment. Neither of you spoke for a moment. Every breath felt like a string pulled too tight, ready to snap.

— Just for tonight, — you whispered, almost begging.

Kimi clenched his jaw. He should say no. But he’d never known how to say no to you.

— One more time, — he surrendered, the words sounding like defeat.

The kiss was desperate, wet from the rain still dripping from your skin. His hands gripped your waist like he wanted to memorize every curve.

By the time they came up for air, they were in the bedroom, clothes scattered, low sighs filling the silence. It was wrong. It was stupid. But it felt so right.

Later, lying beside you, Kimi stared at the ceiling again. You slept, face peaceful, as if the outside world didn’t exist.

He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling heavily.

One more time, he told himself.

But he knew it was a lie. He was stuck in this cycle, like a car stuck in gravel, spinning its wheels, going nowhere.

[feinzleclerc]

🖤.

Our number 20

[feinzleclerc]

Thank you my dear! I admire you so much 🥹🫶🏻

CL16 ✷ ONE HUNDRED... SERIES

feinzleclerc!rádio! Welcome to all chapters of the "one hundred..." series.

❝ A HUNDRED KISSES I'VE ALREADY GIVEN YOU ❞

summary ✷ Where you list one hundred kisses very important to you and Charles.

★ Chapter 01 - From kiss 01 to 20.

★ Chapter 02 - From kiss 21 to 40.

★ Chapter 03 - From kiss 41 to 60.

★ Chapter 04 - From kiss 61 to 80. - soon

★ Chapter 05 - From kiss 81 to 100. - soon

feinzleclerc!radio! leave your feedback about the series here.

❝ A HUNDRED TIMES OF US ❞

COMING SOON

CHARLES LECLERC MASTERLIST ✷ DAILY LIFEMASTERLIST (SOON)

special project made by feinzleclerc ²⁰²⁵. Translations or adaptations prohibited without my consultation/permission.

© All rights reserved

[feinzleclerc]

CL16 ✷ ONE HUNDRED... SERIES

feinzleclerc!rádio! Welcome to all chapters of the "one hundred..." series.

❝ A HUNDRED KISSES I'VE ALREADY GIVEN YOU ❞

summary ✷ Where you list one hundred kisses very important to you and Charles.

★ Chapter 01 - From kiss 01 to 20.

★ Chapter 02 - From kiss 21 to 40.

★ Chapter 03 - From kiss 41 to 60.

★ Chapter 04 - From kiss 61 to 80. - soon

★ Chapter 05 - From kiss 81 to 100. - soon

feinzleclerc!radio! leave your feedback about the series here.

❝ A HUNDRED TIMES OF US ❞

COMING SOON

CHARLES LECLERC MASTERLIST ✷ DAILY LIFEMASTERLIST (SOON)

special project made by feinzleclerc ²⁰²⁵. Translations or adaptations prohibited without my consultation/permission.

© All rights reserved

[feinzleclerc]

its fucking wimdy!

[feinzleclerc]

"nico, it's gabi. you have no idea how happy i am for you, you're an absolute legend"

[feinzleclerc]

A Hundred Kisses I've Already Given You | CL16

starring ; charles leclerc x reader fem !

summary ; Where you list one hundred kisses very important to you and Charles.

warnings ; ¹ English is not my first language.

word count ; 3.6k words

notes ; PART 01 | 02 | 03 • 04 & 05 COMING SOON

feinzleclerc!radio! ; I haven't even finished this series and I already want to start another one about "one hundred..."

CHARLES LECLERC MASTERLIST

41. The Air Kiss

The restaurant was loud, packed with politicians and important businessmen for some tedious charity dinner. You were sitting three tables ahead of him, wearing that black dress he hated because it attracted too many stares, while he tried to look interested in a conversation with some FIA director.

Your eyes met over a waiter’s shoulder. He made that troublemaker-boy face.

You raised a warning eyebrow in silent alarm: Don’t.

Charles, of course, ignored it completely.

With his hand hidden under the table, he lifted two fingers discreetly to his lips—holding eye contact like he was challenging you—and blew a kiss through the air.

And you… how could you, you nearly knocked over your wine glass trying to catch the air kiss subtly. When you glanced back at him, he was biting back laughter while pretending to care about the directors’ table talk.

42. Post-Nightmare Kiss

The hotel room was bathed in shadows, only the ticking wall clock breaking the silence. You woke suddenly, cold sweat sticking your camisole to your back, your heart pounding so hard it seemed to want to escape your chest. The nightmare clung to your skin like a second bedsheet.

Before you could steady yourself, the warmth of a body pressed against your back, and a firm arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you close as if he knew exactly what you needed.

—Shhh, I’m here…— Charles’ voice, rough with sleep and thick with that never-fading French accent, soothed like a balm.

He didn’t ask what happened. He already knew. He always knew.

You turned, your eyes finding his in the dark—and he didn’t hesitate. His lips met yours in a kiss that was half comfort, half promise.

It was slow, deep enough to erase every trace of the nightmare. Your fingers tangled in his sleep-mussed curls while his traced circles on your back, as if writing you’re safe directly onto your skin.

When you pulled apart, he kept his nose pressed to yours, eyes half-lidded, a mischievous smile on his lips.

—Better?— he murmured, his voice so low you felt it more than heard it.

You didn’t answer with words. Just pulled him back for another kiss—this one sweeter, lazier. The kind that said yes without a single syllable.

And when you finally fell asleep again, curled into him like a riddle only he could solve, he stayed awake a little longer, his lips brushing your forehead in a silent vow: no nightmare stood a chance against him.

43. The Journey Kiss

The taxi honked outside the apartment, engine already running, as you adjusted your bag on your shoulder. Charles stood in the doorway, hair a mess from waking at 5 AM just to make you coffee, his gaze heavier than it should’ve been for a simple work trip.

—Only three days— you reminded him, fingers playing with the collar of his shirt.

He took your right hand, turned your palm up like reading a fortune, and before you could ask—

Kissed your wrist—where your pulse beat closest to the skin.

—Save that one— he murmured, lips warm against your veins.

Then kissed your lifeline slowly, as if trying to stretch it.

—That one too.

Finally, he pressed his lips to the center of your palm, folding your fingers over the spot like sealing a precious package.

—Only open it when you get to the hotel.

44. The Kiss That Never Came

The yellowed envelope slipped from the sock drawer where you’d hidden it for years. Charles, sitting on the bed with a wineglass in hand, raised an eyebrow at your expression.

—What’s that?— he asked, bare feet finding yours under the sheets.

You turned the envelope in your fingers, his address written in a hesitant script you barely recognized as your own. The letter inside was a monument to fear and hope—three pages of confessions scribbled on a sleepless night, back when he was just the driver who let his coffee go cold in press conferences.

—I was going to send this to you— you admitted, heart pounding like you were betraying a secret from another life. —At the 2019 British GP.

Charles took the envelope with the reverence he reserved for trophies, green eyes scanning every curve of your handwriting like a treasure map.

—Why didn’t you?

—Because on mailing day, you posted that photo with the Red Bull blonde.— You laughed, poking his chest with the envelope. —Almost threw it out.

He smiled—that slow smile that still tied your stomach in knots—then brought the envelope to his lips, kissing it right where your name was written.

—It’s late— he murmured, eyes brighter than the wine in his glass. —But it arrived.

And that night? He read every word aloud, feigning outrage at the parts where you doubted him, until you stole the letter back—sealing it with a kiss far better than the envelope’s.

45. The Ticklish Kiss

The couch was warm, the TV movie just background noise, your bare foot resting shamelessly in Charles’ lap. He was distracted, fingers drawing random circles on your leg, when something shifted.

You felt it first—the warm exhale that always meant he was about to do something stupid.

—Charles, don’t—

The kiss started at your heel—light, almost polite, making you squirm.

—STOP!— you shrieked, trying to yank your foot back.

He held your ankle with a racer’s grip, green eyes gleaming with pure mischief.

—Haven’t found the right spot yet— he murmured, before kissing the arch of your foot where he knew you were weakest.

Your laughter echoed through the house—loud, uncontrollable, the kind that made your stomach ache.

—I’ll kill you!— you threatened between giggles, struggling to escape.

—There— he finally released your foot, smug as if he’d won a race. —Now you’re officially kissed from head to toe.

46. Ice Cream Kiss

The summer heat was brutal, the GP food truck line endless. You stood under the umbrella, fanning yourself with a press pass, when Charles appeared with two LEC-branded ice cream cups.

—Got you chocolate— he announced, as if he didn’t do this every time.

You raised an eyebrow, pointing to the other flavors from his own brand.

—Amazing how the brand ambassador always picks the same one.

He sat beside you, knees brushing yours, and took an exaggerated first spoonful from your cup.

—It’s my favorite too— he lied, chocolate-smeared smile giving him away.

You rolled your eyes but let him steal another bite before grabbing his collar.

The kiss was cold at first—the ice cream still fresh on his lips—but warmed fast when he deepened it, his free hand finding your waist.

When you pulled apart, a drop of ice cream dripped from your chin.

—Definitely better than vanilla— he murmured, swiping it away with his thumb before licking it.

47. The Angry Kiss

The fight started over nothing—maybe him forgetting your anniversary (again) or you using his favorite shirt to clean makeup brushes. Arguments flew like sparks until, in a fury, you hurled a couch pillow at him.

Charles caught it midair and in one fluid motion closed the distance between you. His green eyes were dark—but not with anger.

—You’re unbearable— you spat.

—You love it— he shot back, voice low and rough.

The kiss began as an attack—teeth clashing, lips pressed too hard—but in three seconds, it became something else. Your hands, which had been shoving his chest, now pulled him closer, fingers digging into his shirt.

Charles groaned against your mouth, his hands sliding to your waist like taking a sharp turn at high speed.

—We’re not done fighting— you murmured, already arching into him.

—You’re lying— he retorted, smile audible as he nipped your lower lip. —Already forgot what we were arguing about.

He was right.

48. The Perfect Knot

The Ferrari event required full dress code—impeccable suit, polished shoes, and of course, the red tie you hated. Charles stood before the mirror, fumbling with the knot for the third time, when you stepped behind him.

—Let me— you offered, fingers already tugging the red silk.

He sighed in relief, tilting his head back to watch you.

—You always do it better— he admitted, voice softer than necessary.

Your hands worked quickly, crossing the fabric with practiced ease, but then you noticed his gaze—not on the knot, but on your face, your lips just inches from his.

—Almost done— you murmured, tightening the knot with exaggerated force.

Charles couldn’t resist.

The kiss started with him leaning forward—the tie still in your hands—pulling you close by the fabric like reins. Your lips met mid-protest, and suddenly, the perfect knot didn’t matter anymore.

—Ruined my work— you complained when you parted, fingers still tangled in the tie.

—You’re lying— he countered, smirk returning. —You did that on purpose.

49. Escape

The party was in full swing—champagne, loud laughter, and the inevitable fans angling for selfies with Charles. You spotted him across the room, jacket already half-open, drink in hand like social armor, when your eyes met.

You raised a questioning brow, but he was already excusing himself from the journalists. Two minutes later, you accidentally bumped into each other near the restrooms.

—Couldn’t take it anymore— he murmured, hands already on your waist as he pushed you into the only open stall.

The kiss was desperate and sweet all at once—tasting of cheap champagne and something uniquely him. Your fingers twisted in his hair.

—People will notice we’re gone— you laughed between kisses, back pressed to the cold door.

Charles just groaned, lips trailing down your neck like he was in a hurry to mark his territory.

—Let them look— he rasped against your skin.

50. Kiss in the Overtaking Zone

Charles’ electric kart rammed yours on the final turn, a calculated nudge that sent you off-track. You yelled, helmet muffling your laughter, as he crossed the finish line celebrating like he’d won a Grand Prix.

—Cheater!— you accused, tearing off your helmet as he approached with that troublemaker grin.

—Protests must be submitted in writing to the race director— he deadpanned in perfect FIA tone.

You went to complain, jabbing a finger at his chest, but he suddenly grabbed your waist and hoisted you onto the hood of his winning kart.

—Champion’s prize— he declared, hands gripping your dress before leaning in for a kiss sweeter than any trophy.

51. The Loud Kiss

The living room couch was the perfect stage for another lazy night—you buried in blankets, Charles sprawled with his head in your lap, ranting about practice.

—The guy just doesn’t respect the racing line—

Smack!

Your kiss interrupted him, landing loudly on his slightly sweaty cheek before he could finish.

Charles blinked, protest dying as his brain processed the attack.

—What was that?— he asked, fingers touching the spot like checking for marks.

—A kiss with sound effects— you explained proudly, already prepping another. —My own invention.

Smack! This time on the other side.

Charles laughed—that warm laugh that made your chest glow—and before you could reload, he pulled you down by the neck.

—My turn— he announced, lips comically exaggerated before returning the smack with interest.

52. Vegas, Baby!

The Vegas night was hot, the air thick with cheap promises and flashing lights. You’d sworn you only wanted one drink after dinner, but three tequilas later, you were laughing like fools outside a neon-lit chapel.

—Two people enter, one leaves married!— the sign blared in shocking pink, and Charles—tie undone, eyes bright—grabbed your hand.

—Running away, journalist?— he teased, his drunk smile gorgeous under the city lights.

You matched his grin, the challenge sparking between you.

—Only if you promise to remember my name tomorrow.

Inside, a tired Elvis united you in a five-minute ceremony—your rings were plastic trinkets from a toy machine, and the kiss…

The kiss was pure chaos.

Charles pulled you in so eagerly you stumbled into his arms, your lips colliding in a sweet, clumsy crash. Someone (probably him) knocked over the microphone, feedback screeching as you laughed like there was no tomorrow, like consequences didn’t exist, like the whole world could wait.

53. Post-Vegas

You woke with a weight on your chest—Charles’ arm. The hangover hit like a hammer to the skull.

You turned to look at him and froze. A paper lay between you. Squinting, you read: Chapel of Eternal Love.

—Charles. CHARLES. Wake up and look at this.— You shook the paper under his nose, voice equal parts panic and hangover.

He opened one eye, then the other. When he read the document, his lips curved into that same disheveled smile from last night.

—Pretty.— He pulled you back under the sheets before you could flee. —But they spelled your name wrong. It’s Leclerc now, chérie.

You groaned into your hands, but he wasn’t fazed. He kissed your exposed shoulder.

—Relax.— Another kiss, this time on your elbow. —We’ll do it again. Proper church. No tequila.

—NO tequila?— You rolled your eyes, already feeling a smile ruin your fury.

—Okay, a little tequila.— He conceded, sealing the promise with a kiss to your nose. —But only after I do.

54. The Sweet Spot

You were in the kitchen, focused on chopping vegetables, when warmth suddenly pressed against your back. Before you could turn, your hair was brushed aside—

The kiss came without warning.

Your lips parted in a gasp as Charles’ mouth found that spot on your neck he knew melted you. Your body shuddered, the knife forgotten, as he kissed just below your ear, slower this time, savoring your shiver.

—Charles— you tried to protest, but it came out a moan.

—Shhh— he whispered, breath hot. —Just helping with dinner.

55. The Elevator Kiss

The luxury Monaco elevator climbed slowly, the display ticking like a countdown. You were back from an event, in the long dress and heels Charles loved, when he grabbed your wrist.

—Fifteen seconds— he warned.

—For what?—

The kiss was fast but devastating.

His lips met yours with the urgency of borrowed time. One hand on your waist, the other cupping your face, he kissed you like he wanted to memorize you in seconds. You tasted champagne on his tongue, the expensive cologne clinging to his jacket, then—

Ding.

The doors opened.

Charles stepped back smoothly, leaving you lips tingling, heart racing.

—Good evening, Mr. Leclerc— greeted the neighbor, oblivious.

Charles nodded, face the picture of professional calm, while his fingers secretly found yours behind his back, squeezing in a coded promise.

56. The Bet

The team plane was taxiing after the Singapore GP, cabin buzzing with victory champagne. Charles, still smelling of rubber and champagne, turned to you with that competitive glint.

—Bet you won’t kiss me before we hit 10,000 feet— he challenged, fingers drumming the armrest like counting seconds.

You raised a brow. It was a stupid bet. The plane was full of teammates, reporters, and—worst of all—the Ferrari boss three rows ahead.

—What do I get?—

—I’ll do dishes for a month.

—Deal.

The plane accelerated. You feigned disinterest, watching the city lights shrink. 9,500 feet. The captain announced seatbelt removal.

9,800 feet.

Charles smirked, confident he’d won.

10,000 feet.

You struck fast.

Grabbing his tie, you yanked him close and kissed him with practiced precision—quick but enough to taste the champagne on his lips.

When you pulled back, half the team was staring. The Ferrari boss coughed loudly.

—Looks like someone’s doing my dishes— you whispered into his shoulder.

Charles froze, then laughed into your hair.

—Worth every cent of the fine I’ll get.

57. A Kiss on the Yacht, Under the Stars – When the Sky Turned Accomplice.

The Mediterranean breathed that night, gentle waves kissing the yacht’s hull like whispered secrets. You stood on the upper deck, your light dress dancing with the breeze, when Charles appeared with two champagne flutes and an expression that screamed anything but "coincidence."

—Sky’s beautiful tonight— he remarked, as if he hadn’t rented the entire boat just for this moment.

You pointed to the clouds threatening to smother the stars.

—So beautiful you can barely see a thing.

He laughed, fingers sliding down your arm to interlace with yours, pulling you toward the railing.

—Give it five minutes.

Then, as if by magic—or a Charles who’d clearly checked the weather—the clouds parted. The sky erupted into constellations, and he stole your gasp of surprise to press against you, hands firm on your waist.

The first kiss was theft—quick, sweet, tasting of champagne and audacity. The second? A slow-motion surrender, with tangled hands in hair and that quiet moan that made him smile against your lips.

When you pulled apart, your lipstick was smudged at the corner of his mouth.

—Better than stargazing— he murmured, thumb tracing your lower lip like underlining an obvious truth.

And on the way back? He "coincidentally" stalled the yacht mid-sea—"Technical trouble," he lied—just to prolong the night and the taste of you on his lips.

58. Persistence

Beginnings are always messy. You had moments worth remembering—and moments when doubt gnawed at your mind, when Charles seemed like a riddle you’d never solve.

The bar was packed, music throbbing, and you’d spent twenty minutes pretending not to see Charles across the room. He, in turn, spent twenty minutes pretending not to watch you every time you turned away.

Until he finally appeared beside you, his whiskey glass clinking pointedly against yours.

—Avoiding me?— His voice was pure challenge, dark eyes playing with the dim light.

You smiled, deliberately slow as you sipped your drink.

—Stalking me?

He laughed, the sound rough and too close to your ear.

—Only if you let me.

That’s when you turned fully to him, fingers twisting in the cold chain of his necklace, yanking him close until his body heat seared into yours.

—Then kiss me or walk away, Leclerc. I’m tired of games.

The kiss was an explosion—hands cradling your face like he’d waited a lifetime, lips that didn’t ask permission, bodies slotting together like puzzle pieces only they knew how to fit. You tasted challenge and victory on his tongue, felt the low groan when you bit his lower lip.

—Still think I’m avoiding you?— you breathed, fingers trembling slightly against his chest.

Charles grinned, that dangerous smile promising more.

—No. But we should test the theory again. Just to be sure.

59. The Calm-After-the-Storm Kiss

The Santiago Bernabéu roared around you, the scoreboard cruelly lit: 2-0 to the rivals. You were on your feet, hands gripping your hair, eyes burning with outrage.

—Charles, if they’d made that cross in the first half—— You dropped back into your seat.

Your despair was so intense even nearby fans laughed. Charles, calmly beside you with a crooked smile, seemed more entertained by your meltdown than the match.

—Mon amour, it’s just a game—

— JUST A GAME?— You whirled on him, eyes flashing as if he’d insulted your entire bloodline. —Real Madrid isn’t ‘just a game,’ it’s a religion. If Bellingham had—

That’s when he struck.

A firm hand tilted your chin, his lips cutting off your fury mid-rant. The kiss was pure surprise—soft but deliberate, his tongue silencing your protests before you could blame the goalkeeper. You tried to grumble, but his fingers at your neck were a better argument.

When he pulled back, your outrage had vanished.

—Better?— he murmured, thumb brushing your lower lip like a post-storm caress.

—…Maybe I overreacted.

— Maybe — he agreed, eyes glittering with amusement.

60. You’re Already Family

The Leclerc home in Monaco was warm, the air sweet with vanilla and caramel as you stepped into the kitchen—and saw, on the table, exactly the chocolate-raspberry cake you’d casually mentioned loving the week before.

—Voilà, ma chérie! (there, my dear!) — Pascale smiled, her hands still dusted with flour. —Charles told me it was your favorite.

Your heart lurched. You glanced at Charles, leaning in the doorway with a smirk half-guilty, half-proud.

—You… told her?— you whispered, ears burning.

—Of course— He shrugged, eyes bright with mischief. —She insisted.

Your throat tightened. You hadn’t wanted to be a bother, hadn’t expected special treatment… But when you looked at Pascale, at Lorenzo laughing as he sliced the cake, at Arthur stealing a raspberry before it was served—you realized: they weren’t doing this out of obligation. They wanted to.

—Merci, Pascale— you murmured, voice thicker than you’d like.

Charles slid closer, his hand finding yours under the table.

—They adore you, you know?— he whispered, lips grazing your ear. —Almost more than they adore me.

You laughed, heart light, and he took the chance to tilt your chin, sealing your lips with a kiss as sweet as the cake but as warm as the coffee Pascale served afterward.

—There— he murmured, dark eyes smiling into yours. —Now you can’t say you’re not family.

(And when you left, Pascale shoved an entire tray of cake into your bag—"For snacks this week.")

[feinzleclerc]

FINE LINE

summary ; You’re the new physical therapist, determined not to fall for the charms of a spoiled athlete. But when an injury sidelines one of the players and you’re assigned to his recovery, the daily sessions, heated arguments, and stolen glances start wearing down your resolve. Then, on the night of a victory, he pulls you into the empty locker room and asks if you hate him. Well… guess not, because all that time together sparked an intimacy that was never supposed to happen.

starring ; hector fort x physiotherapist reader

warnings ; ¹English is not my first language. So the translation may be a bit nonsensical in some parts. (translator)

word count ; 3.1 words

notes; kind of cliché, but in my defense, I love writing stories like this.

MAIN MASTERLIST

THE STARRY BARCELONA night matched the glow of the fans - it was incredible how they had enough voice to sing through all ninety minutes. The game was tied two-two, just one goal away from Barcelona taking the championship lead.

The opposing attack found an opening on the flank. Hector managed to intercept the play, but the opposing striker pressed and regained possession.

If only it had been just any ordinary ball recovery. The game was fierce and hungry, the opposing attack thirsty. The tackle was brutal, sending Hector crashing down instantly as he clutched his knee.

The referee blew the whistle and teammates rushed to Hector. He groaned in pain as they tried lifting him so the game could continue. Pedri shot a look and gesture to the coach suggesting this looked worse than they'd thought.

Your first meeting with Hector had happened two days earlier at the training facility. And let's just say it might have been... tense.

You were reviewing the players' old files - you know, that paperwork of keeping everything updated - when Hector walked into the room.

— So you're Carlos's replacement? — he said.

— Not a replacement. I'm the club's new physical therapist. — you replied.

He let out a short laugh. — You like challenges? Because working with me will be one.

— If you act like a professional player, we won't have problems, Fort.

He gave you one last look before leaving and slamming the door hard. Ego - that was your first impression of Hector Fort.

But now he lay on the grass, writhing in pain. And above all, you had to keep professional separate from personal.

The diagnosis wasn't good. Torn ligament. Minimum six weeks out.

When you entered the physio room next day, he was already there, sitting on the treatment table with his knee immobilized, face unreadable.

— So... — he began as soon as he saw you. — Guess we'll be seeing each other more than intended.

You sighed deeply, put on your gloves and approached to examine the injury site.

— You always this serious?

— When dealing with irresponsible people, maybe.

— I wasn't irresponsible, it was a normal play. — he defended.

— Not talking about the play. — He looked curious.— Played hungover?

— I didn't even drink at the party.

— So it's true you went to a party the night before the game? — You stopped to stare. — Not sure why I'm surprised.

— You said it so certainly I thought you'd seen me there. — He gave another mocking laugh. — Been watching me... (your name)? — He made some effort to read your name stitched on your clothes.

— I watch everyone, it's my job to know what you're doing that affects performance.

— Or maybe you were enjoying the party and I just didn't see you. — he teased.

— Enough about this!

You discarded the gloves you'd put on and went to your desk.

— What's wrong? — he asked watching you write excessively on the file.

— Nothing serious, but... — you sighed deeply. — Don't want to inflate your ego, player. But I'll need you to take off your shorts.

He raised an eyebrow and grinned. — Didn't even buy me a drink and already want me undressed.

— Hector. — You fixed him with an impatient look. — Either cooperate, or I'll put you in a rigid brace.

Maybe he thought you'd give him an opening for his joke, just maybe. So he sighed irritated and pulled down his shorts. — Happy?

You ignored the comment and continued your work. — Just checking swelling, don't misunderstand.

Days became weeks, and you could see Hector wasn't what you'd thought. Remember your first impression was ego? You discarded it - not 100%, but most of it.

Hector was easy to talk to when in good mood. You'd discovered and memorized things about each other. For example, you learned he loved pasta and got nervous in front of cameras, whether recording for Barcelona's channel or interviews.

He discovered you loved gold jewelry, hence bought you a pricey gold necklace. You questioned his gesture but he said it was thanks for caring about his recovery. He'd also memorized your coffee time - 9:30 AM with sugar just right. Once he tried making it for you but got the sugar wrong, and kept trying since.

— Got it right today? — he asked as you set the cup down.

— No. But almost. Maybe someday.

— Think I got it long ago, you just won't admit.

— Always so provocative. — You teased. His gaze lingered. — Something on my face?

— I recognize that necklace.

— Oh, the one you gave me? — you said simply.

— Of course I remember, first time seeing you wear it here. — he smiled.

— Because it's first time wearing it to work. — You feigned indifference and kept typing.

— To work? So you've worn it other times outside?

— Wasn't I supposed to?

— Not that. Just thought you'd tossed it in your closet.

Through these small details, you noticed his attentiveness. Like when he saw you arguing with a staff member and wordlessly stood by you, arms crossed. Of course the guy found it strange and backed off.

And the looks.

God, the looks.

When your hands worked his muscles and you felt his body tense - not from pain, but something else. When he'd go quiet, watching you with intensity that twisted your stomach.

But you wouldn't fall for his game.

— Know gum isn't healthy. — he said taking the gum from your desk.

— Then go without mobility exercises too, know that?

He chuckled. — I know! But I worry about you, can't have my favorite therapist getting diabetes. — He started chewing.

— Favorite therapist? Sure Hector, we're done today.

He laughed while grabbing his phone from some corner. — Till tomorrow, favorite therapist.

Days passed with near-comfortable predictability. Each session, Hector seemed to open up more - not just his injured knee, but with words, glances, small gestures. You noticed he talked less about football and more about mundane things: favorite foods, dream trips, his parents' dog.

— Notice how people here say " vale " for everything? — he commented one day as you adjusted the resistance band on his leg.

— Part of Catalan charm. — you replied. — Now keep posture, your hip's tilting.

— Always so bossy. — he teased. — Bet you're like this at home too.

— Only with those who deserve it.

He laughed again, but his gaze lingered on your face too long. You quickly focused on his thigh muscles responding to the exercise.

— Feeling pain? — you asked, forcing professionalism.

— Only in my heart. — he murmured with a crooked smile.

— Hector... — you closed your eyes briefly. — Focus.

Some afternoons, he started staying after sessions. Sometimes with two coffee mugs. Others, just sitting while you organized reports.

— You always stay this late? — he once asked, more curious than teasing.

— Someone's got to keep you whole for next game. — you replied without looking up.

He stayed quiet, but you felt his gaze again - like he was mapping your face.

— Know I don't do this with everyone. — he said suddenly.

— Do what? — you asked distractedly.

— This. Bringing coffee, talking so much... noticing if someone's tired.

— Hector, getting sentimental? — You raised a brow, hiding the warmth in your cheeks.

— Maybe. Or maybe my therapist deserves some care too.

You didn't reply, focusing on your screen. But your heart raced anyway.

His improvement was clear - stronger knee muscles, less swelling, smoother movements. Yet oddly, Hector never seemed eager to be discharged.

He'd joke about missing these sessions. You'd tease back asking if he'd miss the pain. He even marked the café near training center you frequented every Friday for their classic chocolate cake. He'd wave like he'd been expecting you.

Small things, almost insignificant, but building tension hard to ignore.

Like when your hand accidentally brushed his abs adjusting bandages. Your eyes would meet again. He'd say nothing, but the smile at his lips spoke volumes.

Or when you, unconsciously, started wearing his gold necklace more often. And Hector always noticed.

— Like how it looks on you. — he'd say quietly, almost intimately.

— Keep this up, I'll think you enjoy testing my patience. — you'd reply, feigning disinterest.

But you'd started wondering: who was really testing whom?

You wanted to believe this was temporary, that Hector was just someone you coexisted with at the facility - nothing beyond. But then it hit you, hit when you accidentally crashed your car on the road. That weekend you'd visited friends living far away, with no way back.

The tow truck had taken your car, you'd done all necessary procedures. But you? How would you return?

You started thinking who to call... your mom was traveling with your sister, no chance. Then Hector's name came to mind. You dialed and he answered quickly.

— (Your name) what's the honor? — he said upon answering.

— Hector, I crashed my car. Help me.

— You hurt? At hospital? — concern clear in his voice. — Tell me where.

— Don't want to bother, but I can't get home, I'm kinda far.

— Ah... I don't have a car, but...

— Sorry to bother Hector, bye. — you cut him off thinking he couldn't come.

— No! No! — he said before you hung up. — But my dad does.

— Your dad knows?

— No, and he doesn't need to. — he laughed. — Send location, I'm coming.

— Okay. Waiting, Hector.

This was pivotal. If you'd been close before, now it intensified. Hector spent the whole night thinking how you'd reached out to him. Especially knowing you'd called him first after your mom. Next day, he brought the usual coffee to see if he'd gotten the sugar right, plus chocolate cake.

— Not Friday, Hector. — you took the slice.

— Would you refuse cake I brought just for you?

— Cheap shot! — you said smelling the chocolate. — Want some?

— It's all yours.

Hector sat across, watching as you took a bite. — Hey, got frosting.

He leaned in, thumb brushing your lip corner.

— Thanks! — you thanked but quickly looked away.

— You always like this? Or just cold with me? — he asked.

— Maybe I like seeing you try to resist. — you said. — You're no saint either, Fort.

— Oh come on. — he leaned back. — Know I've dreamed about you? And worse, even in dreams you don't make it easy.

— Try harder, maybe in your dreams I'll give in. — he grinned.

— Problem is, you are the dream.

— Hector...

Hector recovered. The weeks - months even - flew by. You couldn't deny missing the player.

Missing the coffees. How he always got the sugar wrong yet appeared every morning with a cup, just to chat while you updated reports. How he'd sit nearby, on his phone like the facility was his comfort zone.

Especially the teasing. Those little barbs disguised as jokes making you roll eyes yet hide smiles. Strange how these memories now returned vivid, like imprinted: his voice saying your name, his gaze full of something you refused to decipher.

You caught yourself thinking of him more than you'd admit. If he remembered the necklace. If he still had coffee at 9:30 out of habit. If he missed you too.

And it hadn't even been two weeks since his return. Your thoughts were interrupted by knocking.

— Hector? — A smile surfaced seeing him at your door.

— Brought coffee. — he smiled sheepishly. — Know it's past 9:30, but didn't forget.

— Didn't have to, Hector.

Liar.

— Of course I did. So favorite therapist, how's life without me?

— Most peaceful ever.

— Who said you like peace? — he stared.

— Where'd that come from?

— You've been moping around. Didn't you notice your smile yesterday when I waved at you from the field?

— Polite smile.

— Sure. — he scoffed. — I don't get it.

— Get what?

— I can't play, but can't stay here with you either. How's that work?

Truth was, he couldn't play yet. But physio sessions were over - now just training adjustments. If not, they'd reconsider more physio.

— Already explained, physio sessions are limited.

He sighed tiredly. — You'll be at the stadium tomorrow?

— Definitely Hector.

Next night, post Barcelona's important victory - you entered to grab your bag and found the place empty.

Almost empty.

Because he was there.

And before you could react, Hector grabbed you, your back hitting the wall, his warm body pressing against yours.

— Say you hate me. — He whispered, voice rough, lips centimeters from yours. — Because I can't stop thinking about you. Because I can't stop thinking about you?

Your heart raced. You should push him away. Should curse him.

But when he finally closed the distance, you discovered...

The locker room was silent, just distant victory celebrations echoing. Harsh lights cast cold tones on white tiles, but the air between you burned.

Hector didn't hesitate.

He gripped your waist, pulling you flush against him. His other hand tangled in your hair, tilting your head back like claiming you.

His kiss wasn't gentle. It was collision of pent-up frustration and desire. You tried resisting, hands against his chest, but he just laughed against your lips.

— Lie. — He breathed before recapturing your mouth.

And it was true.

Your body betrayed you before your mind, hands fisting his hair to pull him closer. He groaned, satisfied, and you felt his smirk before his tongue slid against yours - slow, deliberate, like memorizing your taste.

The wall was cold. His touch burned. When you broke apart breathless, foreheads touching, his gaze locked onto yours.

— And yet I'm still at peace. — you breathed shakily.

He smiled - that smile you'd sworn to resist.

— You lie as badly as you kiss well, therapist.

Then he pinned you against the lockers, and this time, you didn't resist.

© FEINZLECLERC ²⁰²⁵ — translation prohibited without my permission

— inbox open. taglist coming soon.

[feinzleclerc]

✷ MAIN MASTERLIST

last work ; Fine Line ─ physiotherapist! female reader ! You’re the new physical therapist, determined not to fall for the charms of a spoiled athlete. But when an injury sidelines one of the players and you’re assigned to his recovery, the daily sessions, heated arguments, and stolen glances start wearing down your resolve. Then, on the night of a victory, he pulls you into the empty locker room and asks if you hate him. Well… guess not, because all that time together sparked an intimacy that was never supposed to happen. w/ Hector Fort.

✷ A Hundred Kisses I've Already Given You ─ Where you list one hundred kisses very important to you and Charles. ( Part 3 ) w/ Charles Leclerc.

✷ Relapse ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎─ ‎‎‎Loving someone goes far beyond just being by their side. Maybe he hasn’t moved on from you yet—maybe he never will. But how would they react if they saw you now? w/ F1 Grid.

✷ future works ; no forecast.

✷ FORMULA 1

001. GRID

002. CHARLES LECLERC

003. CARLOS SAINZ

✷ FOOTBALL

001. GENERAL

footballer with one-shorts available ; jude bellingham. pablo gavi. lamine yamal & hector fort.

✷ OTHER ATHLETES

001. GENERAL

available ; Gabriel Medina

[feinzleclerc]

KISS IN THE SNOW | CL16

moodboard inspired by the imagine "snow kiss" by "A Hundred Kisses I've Already Given You"

❝ — Like your present? — he asks when you leave, his eyes forest-green beneath snow-laced lashes. ❞

[feinzleclerc]

Anyway if nothing else matters then I hope people remember that Pope Francis used his last public address to call for a ceasefire in Gaza and call Israel a terrorist state:

"I continue to receive very serious and painful news from Gaza. Unarmed civilians are subjected to bombings and shootings. It is terrorism."

[feinzleclerc]

THANK YOU FOR THE CLUB WORLD CUP! LONG LIVE BRAZILIAN FOOTBALL

[feinzleclerc]

guidelines & rules

─── YOU WON'T FIND IT HERE ; stories involving: racism, prejudice, pedophilia, bestiality, any type of violence, among other things.

─── MAIN WARNINGS ; 001. I don't write explicit content, nothing involving related things like that! The most I do is some mention, but not in detail! If you're looking for that, you won't find it on this profile.

002. Likewise, I don't write clichés involving pregnancy, unless you have a good idea to be developed in the middle of the story. I don't write betrayals that have a sad ending, like "that the girl accepts and becomes sad" or "the cliché of turning things around"

003. English is not my first language, so all the stories are translated, which can get a bit confusing since I don't know a lot of English slang.

004. I don't have specific days to write and post, which could mean I go weeks and even months (as has happened in the past) without posting anything.

─── WHAT I WRITE ABOUT ; 001. Basically almost everything, except for the things already said above. I write one-shorts, long-shorts, headcanons, social media. ( as long as you don't look for sad and emotional attachment. )

─── WHO I WRITE FOR ; 001. Formula 1 drivers ; mainly for Charles Leclerc. 002. Football players ; I don't have a preference yet since I haven't explored much around here yet.

─── INBOX ; 001. Good manners are always good, it doesn't hurt to say "please" and "thank you".

002. Please be specific when requesting, requests of three or four words will not be counted. I like a lot of detail, and if I am fulfilling a request, I like to include your details, not just the ones that come to mind. This ensures that I have answered and understood the request in the best possible way.

003. If my box is open, will always have " ⛽.🏟️ " or something written. But if it is closed it will only be written.

004. My inbox is not only open for requests, but also for feedback and suggestions that you want to give on the stories. All opinions and evaluations are welcome.

[feinzleclerc]

A Hundred Kisses I've Already Given You | Cl16

starring ; charles leclerc x reader fem!

summary ; Where you make a list of 100 kisses very important to you and Charles.

warnings ; ¹ English is not my first language. ² Brazilian making a point of mentioning Brazil. 🙋🏻‍♀️

word count ; 5.1k words.

notes ; PART 01 | 02 • 03, 04 & 05 COMING SOON.

MAIN MASTERLIST CHARLES LECLERC MASTERLIST

21. Victory Kiss

The phone was still trembling in your hands when the apartment door slammed against the wall. Charles stood there, in his gym clothes—he’d made a point of sprinting out of the gym as soon as he got the news—with the wildest eyes you’d ever seen.

—SAY IT’S TRUE.— he demanded, his voice roaring like an engine.

You barely had time to nod before he lifted you into the air, spinning you like a tire skidding through the final turn. Your phone flew onto the couch, the FIA’s message still glowing on the screen: "Congratulations, you’ve been accepted into the sports journalism program."

—YOU’RE GONNA COVER MY RACES!— he growled, his white teeth flashing in a smile that would make the sun jealous.

The kiss felt like celebrating on the podium—he pinned you against the wall, his hands—the same ones that adjusted front wings with millimeter precision—shaking as they cradled your face.

—Merde, I love you— he gasped, pulling away just enough to speak. —You’re gonna be the worst distraction on the track.

You laughed, the imaginary trophy of your career replaced by something far better—his lips tasting like cheap champagne and the future.

—Promise you’ll give me exclusive interviews?— you teased, nipping at his lower lip.

Charles responded by throwing your arms over his shoulders and marching toward the bedroom:

—I’ll give you coverage so exclusive the FIA will have to make new rules.

Now your notepad stayed open on the page where "Questions for Charles Leclerc" had turned into "1001 Ways to Distract Me in the Paddock."

And the charming way he called you "Miss Journalist" every time you complained about the next day’s practice schedule.

Your first FIA badge hung on his bedroom mirror. "To remind us we now have two careers to cheer for."

22. Relief Kiss

The apartment was silent, lit only by the blue glow of the TV tuned to some random movie channel. You sat on the couch, feet aching after an endless day, when the sound of the door opening echoed. Charles walked in, his Ferrari jumpsuit tied around his waist, his shirt damp with sweat, his eyes heavy with exhaustion. He didn’t even need to speak—you opened your arms, and he collapsed into you like a sinking boat reaching safe harbor.

—Dead?— you asked, fingers tangling in his damp curls.

He only groaned in response, burying his face in your neck like it was the only place in the world that still made sense. His warm lips brushed your skin in a kiss that was more sigh than movement, and you felt the weight of the entire day leaving him in an almost imperceptible shudder.

—Hated every second without you— his voice was muffled, the words warm against your collarbone.

You laughed, breathing in his familiar scent—gasoline, coffee, and something uniquely Charles—seeping into you.

—You’re only saying that because you lost.

He lifted his face just enough to glare at you, his green eyes dark as wet asphalt.

—Losing I can handle.— he murmured, lips finding that spot below your ear that made you squirm. —Being without you? Never.

Then he settled back into place, his cold nose nuzzling into the crook of your neck, his heavy hands pulling you closer. There was no hurry, no hunger, no desperation—just Charles, his warmth, and the certainty that the world could wait.

And when you finally led him to bed? He gripped your wrist like a child afraid of losing his favorite toy. "Stay," he mumbled, already half-asleep. As if you could be anywhere else.

23. Heart-Soothing Kiss

Your phone buzzed in your pocket as you made coffee. A message from Charles himself:

"Love, got into a little accident. I’m fine, swear. Just the bumper’s a bit bent."

Your heart stopped. This wasn’t an F1 race—no tire barriers, no medical team rushing in. Just some random intersection, a distracted driver, ordinary life proving just as dangerous as the track.

You arrived before the tow truck. His car—the one he loved so much—had its rear crumpled, glass shattered on the asphalt. And there he was, leaning against a police car’s hood with a sheepish smile and a bruise on his forehead.

—Looks worse than it is— he tried as soon as he saw you.

You didn’t answer. Just crossed the three meters between you like it was the final straight of a Grand Prix and threw your arms around his neck. The kiss was all trembling lips and hands clutching his jacket like you needed proof he was here, whole.

—I had my seatbelt, love— he murmured between kisses, hands steady on your waist. —Airbag didn’t even deploy, it was nothing...

—Shut up— you ordered, voice thick as your hands roamed his face, his arms, his chest—searching for any sign of pain. —You just gave me ten years of fear in thirty seconds.

Charles pulled you into another hug, longer this time, quieter. Your heartbeats matched, racing in sync.

—I’m here.— he whispered in your ear, face buried in your hair. —I’m okay. I’m all yours.

24. Goodbye Kiss—When Three Months Feels Like Forever

The airport was packed. You’d be spending three months visiting family in Brazil. The two of you stood still in the chaos like the only unmoving thing in the world. Charles held your hands with a grip bordering on pain, his fingers—usually so precise on the wheel—now trembling like he didn’t know how to let go.

—You’ll forget me— he murmured, his crooked smile not reaching his eyes.

You rolled your eyes, tugging him by the collar of the shirt that smelled like your favorite perfume (he’d worn it on purpose, you knew).

—Impossible. You’ll be everywhere—news, social media, our daily calls...

The loudspeaker announced your flight for the third time. Charles swallowed hard.

—Three months, mon cœur— he whispered, forehead pressed to yours. —I don’t know how to be me without you for that long.

The kiss was salty with unshed tears, sweet with promises, bitter with goodbye. When you pulled apart, your heartbeats were in sync.

—Here— he shoved something into your pocket—an old, worn Ferrari hoodie he used during practice. —So you won’t forget my smell.

25. Homecoming Kiss

The airport was louder now, but you heard nothing except the blood pounding in your ears. Three months. Three months of delayed calls, photos that couldn’t capture his scent, waking up at odd hours just to hear a "sleep well, mon cœur" in the dead of night.

And then you saw him.

Charles stood exactly where you’d left him, but different—hair a little longer, wearing that blue shirt you loved (the one that made his eyes look like the Mediterranean in July), with an expression of pure relief, desperation, adoration.

He didn’t wait.

The kiss was like crossing the finish line after the longest lap in history. Your lips collided so hard you felt his pendant—the same one that had pressed against your chest during your goodbye—digging into your skin like a "welcome home" stamp.

—Fuck— he growled against your mouth, hands gripping your hips like he wanted to fuse you together right there in the middle of the terminal. —Never again.

26. End-of-the-World Kiss

The Italian beach was nearly empty, the sky painted in honey and lavender as the waves kissed the shore in slow rhythm. You buried your feet in the still-warm sand, feeling the grains slip between your toes, when Charles’ arms wrapped around you from behind.

—Perfect, isn’t it?— he murmured in your ear, his voice rough like the wind rustling the olive trees behind you.

You smiled, feeling his heart pound against your back—the same rapid beat as race starts, but now only yours, only for you. He turned you slowly, his calloused hands cradling your face like you were made of porcelain, and then, under the golden light that gilded his lashes, he kissed you.

The kiss was slow, sweet, like the wine you’d had at lunch. When you pulled apart, the sun had nearly vanished below the horizon, leaving only the glow in his eyes.

—I love you— he said, simple, direct, just like he was with the things that truly mattered.

—I know— you answered, pulling him in for another kiss as the waves hummed softly and the world seemed to pause just for the two of you.

27. Three Words in One Breath

The Monaco hotel room was silent, lit only by the harbor lights dancing on the walls. You lay on his arm, fingers tracing the scar on his shoulder—the one he got in karting at 12—when he suddenly turned, pinning you beneath him.

The kiss started like all the others.

Light at first, his lips moving with the same precision as his steering. But then something shifted—he deepened it like he was searching for something, one hand on your neck, the other lacing your fingers against the bed.

When you broke apart, the air left your lungs. Your eyes met in the dark, and you saw in him the same vulnerability he only showed when he missed a corner.

—Je...— his voice cracked. He swallowed hard, fingers trembling slightly against your cheek. —Je t’aime. (I love You)

Three words. Three words that made your chest ache like he’d crashed straight into it. You pulled his face back, kissing him with a desperation that stole your breath all over again.

—Say it again— you begged against his lips.

Charles smiled, that rare grin that only appeared when he truly, completely couldn’t hold back.

—Eu te amo (I love you) — in Portuguese this time, his accent terrible and perfect, his hands firm on your face like you might disappear.

And the next day? He said it again. And again. And again. Until you believed it. Until he believed it. Until there was no doubt left.

28. Dance and Destiny

The Vegas nightclub was at its peak, lights cutting through the dark like lightning, the bass thrumming in your chest. You were in the middle of the dance floor, barefoot because the heels had been abandoned hours ago, when Charles appeared with two cups of something sweet and strong.

—Didn’t know you danced like this— he shouted over the music.

You laughed, spinning into him, your hands finding his shoulders like they belonged there. He wasn’t the best dancer—especially not with the Brazilian rhythm you’d tried to teach him—but he made up for it with enthusiasm, his arms locking around your waist like he feared you’d slip away.

Then the song changed. Something slow. Something hot. Something that made the outside world vanish.

Charles didn’t hesitate. He pulled you close, your bodies pressed together like two puzzle pieces finally clicking into place. Your hearts beat in sync, racing from the dance, the closeness, the sheer want.

The kiss didn’t wait for the song to end.

It was urgent, sweet, desperate—like he’d waited all night for this. Your hands tangled in his curls, the soft strands between your fingers, while the music kept playing around you, as if the universe insisted on moving forward even as the two of you stood still in time.

When you broke apart, the song had changed again, but he was still frozen, staring at you like it was the first time.

—Let’s go?— he asked, voice rough with want.

You just nodded, knowing no song in the world could compare to the silence of his room later.

29. The First "Wife"

Dinner was nearly over—melted candle wax dripping onto crystal, wine glasses half-empty, the last bite of strawberry tart forgotten on the plate. Charles toyed with the fingers of your left hand, his features softened by the restaurant’s golden light, when suddenly he stopped.

—Happy dating anniversary, my lovely wife— he said, as casually as if he were commenting on the weather.

Your fork clattered loudly against the plate.

—What?— you choked, making sure you hadn’t misheard.

He grinned, that mischievous smile he only wore when he’d caught you off guard, and lifted your hand to press a kiss to your promise ring.

—You heard— he murmured, eyes locked on yours like he was seeing decades ahead. —

One day. Our day. When you’ve had enough of me butchering Portuguese and still choose to stay.

The kiss that followed was as sweet as dessert, as warm as the candles, and as promising as the ring he’d one day replace. You could taste strawberries on his lips, and something else—future, pure and simple.

—I’ll want my name on your car— you grumbled against his mouth, making him laugh so loud the couple next to you turned.

—It’s already there— he answered, suddenly serious, his hand on your cheek like a silent vow.

30. The Bear and the Kiss

The amusement park glowed under a thousand colored lights, the air thick with cotton candy and popcorn. Charles was determined—that competitive glint he usually saved for the racetrack now fixed on the ring-toss booth.

—One more try— he insisted, shoving more bills at the attendant, his arms already marked by failed attempts.

You laughed, clutching the sad little plush bear he’d won at the fishing game after three tries and a lot of sweet-talking.

—Give it up, Charlie. Some things aren’t meant to be.

But then it happened. The last ring spun through the air and—miraculously—landed around the bottle’s neck. The booth owner sighed, handing over the giant pink teddy bear (a monstrosity with bulging eyes) reluctantly.

Charles turned to you, the ridiculous trophy in his arms, grinning prouder than you’d ever seen—more than victories, more than poles, more than anything.

—For you— he announced, shoving the bear into your arms like it was the most precious prize in the world.

You tried to thank him, but the words vanished when he pulled you in by the bear, your lips meeting his in the middle of the crowd, under the flashing lights and carnival noise.

The kiss was awkward (the bear’s nose squished between you), tasted like cotton candy and cheap soda, and was perfectly teenage, like you were both sixteen again.

31. The First Addiction

It was just a kiss. Or it should have been.

You were on the couch, the movie had ended half an hour ago, and Charles was explaining for the third time how that overtake at Silverstone had been his masterpiece. You interrupted him with a quick kiss—just to shut him up. But then…

He stopped mid-sentence. Took a deep breath. And something shifted. The first touch was soft—just his lips testing yours, like it was the first time. But when you responded, he lost control.

His fingers tangled in your hair, tilting your head back for better access. The kiss deepened, slow but relentless, like a rising tide. You tasted coffee on his tongue and something else—pure need.

—Merde— he gasped when he pulled back for a second, his eyes dark as asphalt at night. —This… this isn’t fair.

You didn’t have time to reply before he captured your lips again, this time with an urgency that made your stomach flip. It was like he’d discovered a new kind of adrenaline—and you were the only place he could get it.

—You… have to… stop— he lied between kisses, his hands already sliding under your shirt. —Or I’ll never be able to think about anything else.

32. Digital Kiss

The phone screen showed Charles sprawled on the motorhome bed, his hair a mess from how much he’d been running his hands through it, exhaustion from practice still heavy in his eyes. The connection flickered, stealing pieces of his image, but not enough to hide the way he frowned when you said:

—I have to go. Meeting in five.

He made that face—half abandoned puppy, half spoiled driver—and leaned closer to the camera until all you could see were his lips, bitten raw from missing you.

—Do this— he ordered, his whisper crackling through the speaker.

And then he kissed the screen. It was ridiculous. It was cheesy. It made your heart ache.

You laughed but ended up doing the same—your lips pressing against the cold glass where his face had been seconds before.

—Pathetic— you grumbled, the smile ruining your complaint.

—Missing someone feels like this— he replied. —See you tomorrow, mon cœur.

The call ended, leaving you staring at your own reflection in the dark phone—your lips still curved in a stupid smile, your heart heavy with something you couldn’t even name.

33. Home Remedy

The apartment smelled of garlic, ginger, and lemon—a scent that screamed home even in the middle of chaos. Charles was cocooned on the couch under a mountain of blankets, his nose red, his hair a disheveled mess, wearing that kicked-puppy look he only used on truly bad days.

You set the steaming bowl in front of him—perfect chicken soup, with the star-shaped pasta he’d loved since he was a kid.

—Nonna’s Italian cure— you announced, pushing the medicine aside.

He looked at the bowl, then at you, and something shifted in his expression—that rare vulnerability that only appeared when he was sick or deeply moved.

—Tu es…— His voice caught, more from emotion than congestion.

Before he could finish, he grabbed your wrist, knocking half the tissues to the floor. The kiss was fever-hot.

You wiped the broth off his chin with your thumb, laughing when he tried to bite your finger.

—Have some shame, Leclerc. Not even the flu makes you less insufferable.

He kissed your palm before you could pull away, his eyes half-lidded, half-dreaming.

—Love you more than nonna’s pasta— he declared solemnly, as if it were the highest compliment.

34. The Future Kiss

The press conference had ended, the murmur of journalists still echoing through the paddock, when you spotted the little boy—no older than seven, his toy F1 jumpsuit worn thin, eyes wide as saucers as he clutched a miniature helmet. You crouched, microphone in hand, and conducted the cutest interview of your life.

—What’s your name, champ?

—Enzo— he announced, proud as if he were on pole. —One day, I’ll race like Charles!

You laughed, your heart squeezing for no reason, and kept asking about his dreams. You didn’t notice Charles stopping behind you, arms crossed, smile soft.

[ .... ]

In the car back to the hotel, he was unusually quiet. You waited, knowing he’d speak when ready.

—That boy…— he started, fingers tapping the steering wheel nervously. —I thought about… if he were ours.

The air left your lungs. You’d never spoken about this directly.

Charles parked abruptly, silence heavy between you, until he turned. His green eyes were serious but soft—like he was seeing far beyond that moment.

—Have you ever thought about it?— he asked, voice quieter than you’d ever heard.

You didn’t answer with words. Just pulled his face close, the kiss starting gentle but deepening when he groaned against your lips, his hands gripping your waist like an anchor.

—I have— you admitted when you broke apart, forehead against his. —Just didn’t know if you…

He cut you off with another kiss, sweeter this time but with an urgency that made your stomach flip.

—I want it— he murmured, so softly you almost missed it. —A little Leclerc for you to teach how to be good… and for me to teach how to drive.

35. The Paper Kiss

You woke to the smell of fresh coffee and an unusual silence in the apartment. On the kitchen table—usually home to forgotten mugs and bread crumbs—was a cream-colored envelope with your initial handwritten in ink.

Inside, a sheet of Ferrari letterhead ("borrowed for noble reasons," his handwriting joked in the corner) and, in the center, the simplest note in the world:

"Love you more than pole position. Back by 6. P.S.: Look behind."

You flipped the paper and there it was—the perfect imprint of his lips in the corner. You froze, realizing Charles had secretly raided your closet for your lipstick to do what you always did—leave kiss marks on notes scattered around the apartment, since he had the memory of a goldfish.

Without thinking, you brushed your fingers over the mark, as if you could still feel his warmth. Then you noticed the tiny smudge—where he’d clearly hesitated before getting it just right.

And now you were picturing the absurd sight of Charles with red lips, all for the sake of a joke on paper.

36. The Secret Song

You pushed the apartment door open quietly, still dripping sweat from the gym, when the sound of piano music stopped you in your tracks. It was a melody you’d never heard before—sweet, melancholic, perfect—and then his voice joined in, softer than you’d ever heard in interviews or even in late-night whispers.

Your heart stalled.

Peeking through the cracked door, you saw him—Charles, his back to you, shoulders relaxed, fingers dancing over the keys. The open notebook on the piano made it obvious: scribbled lyrics, rewritten verses, a work in progress he’d never mentioned.

You couldn’t resist.

—So this is how you spend your free time?

He jumped off the bench like he’d been caught stealing a car, the notebook tumbling to the floor. His face was redder than his Ferrari race suit.

—Merde! I—

You snatched the notebook before he could hide it, your eyes scanning the page filled with “love,” “forever,” and—your pulse spiked—“children” scribbled in the corner.

The kiss didn’t wait. You grabbed his collar, your lips crashing into his with a urgency that made the piano let out a discordant note behind you.

—Sing for me— you ordered when you broke apart, cradling his face in your hands.

He swallowed hard, but when he started playing again—this time with you beside him—the music sounded different. Like it had finally found its audience.

37. Instant Kiss

The afternoon was perfect—endless lavender fields stretching to the horizon, the warm air thick with their scent. You stood with your back to the sunset, shaking the Polaroid camera in growing frustration.

—Another blurry one!— you complained as the photo slowly revealed a half-cut-off Charles, a purple smudge that was supposed to be lavender, and your finger accidentally covering the lens. —That’s five tries!

Charles, sprawled lazily in the field like he was modeling for a luxury perfume ad, let out a laugh. His green eyes glowed brighter than the setting sun.

—Maybe the problem isn’t the camera, mon cœur — he teased, lips curled in that mischievous smile you loved.

Before you could retort, he rose in one fluid motion—dirt and petals falling from his jeans—and closed the distance between you. The camera hit the grass as he cupped your face.

The kiss was like the Polaroid—instant but permanent. His lips tasted like rosé and infinite patience. When he pulled back, his expression was as soft as the twilight.

—Better?— he murmured, thumb swiping at the lipstick smudged on his mouth.

You exhaled, your heart fluttering like the birds taking flight around you.

—Take another one— you said, picking up the camera.

This time, when the flash went off, it captured perfection—him pulling you into another kiss, lavender petals swirling like natural confetti, the sun disappearing behind the two of you.

38. The Drunk Kiss

That summer night in Monaco was too hot—the city lights glittering like fallen stars, Charles drunk on wine and courage, trying to kiss you in front of everyone at the club.

You turned your face away, half-laughing, half-scolding.

—You’re drunk, Leclerc— you said, pushing lightly on his chest.

He frowned, his eyes desperate, like he couldn’t understand why the universe wasn’t aligning in his favor.

—But I—

—No buts. I’m taking you home.

But Charles, stubborn even under the influence, decided it was the perfect night for a love confession. Result? He ended up sitting on the sidewalk outside your building, clutching a bouquet of flowers he didn’t remember buying, slurring words even he didn’t understand.

—You’re… you’re my favorite corner— he announced solemnly, his grave tone ruined by a hiccup. —The one I never get right but always wanna try again.

You laughed, your heart pounding anyway, and helped him into the Uber.

—Say that again when you’re sober.

[ .... ]

Years later, on a quiet night at home, you reminisced about the incident.

—God, stop— Charles buried his face in his hands, ears red with embarrassment, as you mimicked his drunken voice: “You’re my favorite corner!”

—At least I was right— he grumbled, pulling you into a hug.

—Oh, were you?— you teased, fingers playing with his shirt buttons.

He looked at you, his eyes serious now, and finally repeated the words—no alcohol, no audience, just the raw truth you’d both known since that night.

(And if he ever found out you still kept the blurry selfie of him on the sidewalk—your secret treasure—he’d never let you live it down.)

39. The Kiss the World Discovered

The Ibiza sun gilded everything in gold when it happened. You were at that hidden café near the harbor, the one he insisted on showing you, where Charles could take off his cap and just be. He’d just told a terrible joke about the engineers, and you laughed so loudly he couldn’t resist—leaning in to press a quick, spontaneous kiss to your cheek.

Then the shutter clicked.

A quiet sound, nearly drowned by the sea, but enough to make Charles stiffen, his eyes scanning the surroundings.

—Merde — he muttered, his expression shuttering like it did after a bad race.

You laced your fingers with his under the table, a silent code: It’s okay. It was time.

[ .... ]

Forty-eight hours later, the photo was everywhere: “Leclerc in Love? F1 Star Caught Kissing Mystery Woman!”

Charles called that night, his voice uncharacteristically tense:

—I never wanted it to be like this. Are you okay?

You laughed—a light sound that made him sigh in relief through the phone.

—Charles, it’s just a peck on the cheek. The world’s seen worse.

His silence was heavy with something sweet and vulnerable:

—I wanted our first photo together to be… better.

—It’s perfect— you replied, picturing his flushed face in the image. —Because it’s real.

40. The Kiss of Lost Hours

The lamp was still on when he finally came home. 2:37 AM, according to the bedside clock. You’d fallen asleep curled on his side of the bed, the book splayed open on your chest, fingers slack against the pages.

Charles paused in the doorway, the scent of stale coffee and exhaustion clinging to him. He should’ve gone straight to the shower, should’ve been careful not to wake you—but then he saw the exposed curve of your neck, your necklace slightly twisted, and all the should’ves vanished.

He knelt onto the bed carefully, his calloused hands sinking into the mattress beside you, and leaned down.

The first kiss was just a whisper, his lips barely grazing your nape—a test. You mumbled something incoherent, turning your face away, and he took the chance to kiss the spot below your ear, the one he knew made you shiver.

—Sorry— he whispered, the words warm against your skin as his hands slowly unzipped his race suit.

You didn’t answer. Just pulled his arm around your waist, anchoring him there, as if your sleepy body already knew what it needed.

He chuckled lowly, the sound vibrating against your back, and finally settled around you—your neck still his favorite place that night.

[feinzleclerc]

A Hundred Kisses I've Already Given You | CL16

starring ; charles leclerc x reader fem!

summary ; Where you make a list of 100 kisses very important to you and Charles.

warnings ; English is not my first language.

word count ; 5k words.

notes ; PART 2, 3, 4 & 5 COMING SOON

Then I got really excited and only the first part was 5 thousand words! 😅 The next parts will be coming soon.

MAIN MASTERLIST & CHARLES LECLERC MASTERLIST

01. Morning Kiss

The golden sun streams through the gaps in the linen curtains, painting warm stripes across the unmade bed. The air still carries the coolness of dawn, mingled with the faint scent of freshly brewed coffee drifting from the distant kitchen.

Charles Leclerc is half-asleep, his unruly curls tousled over his forehead, but he smiles when his eyes meet yours. His hand—marked by subtle veins and a tan from countless hours training under the sun—caresses your face with a tenderness that makes your heart race.

— Bonjour, mon amour... — he murmurs, his voice rough with sleep, as he leans in for a slow kiss.

Your lips meet in a gentle, almost lazy touch, yet brimming with unspoken promises. The dawn light wraps around you both, highlighting the golden flecks in his lashes and the glow of your smile against his. His hand tangles in your hair, pulling you closer, while the world outside—with its races, deadlines, and noise—seems to fade away.

02. Kiss on the Top of the Head

The apartment is silent, save for the sound of pages turning and a pen scratching against a notebook. You’re deep in your studies, legs curled on the sofa, laptop open, and a half-forgotten cup of tea on the coffee table. The vanilla scent of a burning candle mixes with the soft fragrance of your shampoo—something light, like cotton flowers.

Suddenly, a pair of arms wraps around your shoulders from behind, and before you can react, Charles presses his lips to the top of your head in a kiss that’s equal parts affection and longing.

— You work too hard... — he murmurs, his voice soft, as his fingers play with the ends of your hair.

You smile, tilting your head back to look at him. He’s barefoot, wearing a loose T-shirt, his hair still slightly damp from the shower, as if he’s just returned from training. His gaze is tired but warm, and when his hand brushes your shoulder, you feel the callouses on his fingers—marks of hours spent gripping the wheel.

— I need to finish this... — you protest, but you’re already leaning into him.

He chuckles, the sound vibrating in his chest, and kisses your hair again before whispering:

— Fine, but after this, you’re all mine.

03. Kiss on the Shoulder While Cooking

The smell of garlic sizzling in butter fills the air, mingled with the aroma of red wine lightly splashing in the pan. You’re focused, stirring the risotto with one hand while the other grips the wooden spoon like an extension of your arm. French music plays softly from the phone on the counter—something Charles chose, of course—and the improvised candles cast dancing shadows on the walls.

Just as you turn to grab the grated cheese, he appears behind you like a ghost. His arms wrap around your waist in a loose embrace, and before you can complain about the interference, his lips press a light kiss to your bare shoulder—right where your oversized T-shirt has slipped down.

— Smells good... — he murmurs against your skin, and you feel his smile form there, warm and familiar.

— You’re distracting the chef — you say, trying to sound stern, but your voice comes out softer than intended.

He laughs, the sound vibrating against your back, and pulls you closer, completely ignoring the fact that the risotto might burn. His hand—still with a faint trace of grease under the nails, remnants of his earlier training session—intrudes over yours, guiding the wooden spoon with gentle pressure.

— This is our risotto, not just yours. — he argues, kissing your shoulder again, slower this time, as if memorizing the taste of your skin mixed with the scent of dinner.

And when you turn your head to face him, he’s so close that your nose almost brushes his. His eyes—green like Monaco’s fields under morning sun—dance with yours, and for a second, the risotto, the music, even the faintly burning garlic in the pan—all of it disappears.

04. Goodnight Kiss

The bedroom is bathed in the golden half-light of the bedside lamp, casting dancing shadows on the walls. The bed—a territory of rumpled sheets and contested pillows—looks inviting after a long day. You're already settled in, blankets pulled up to your chin, your hair spread across the pillow like a messy halo.

Charles lies beside you, propped up on one elbow, his fingers tracing slow paths along your exposed arm. He looks at you with an expression that's equal parts exhaustion and devotion, his eyelids heavy with sleep but still reluctant to close.

— You're beautiful like this... — he murmurs, his voice rough, almost like a sigh.

You smile, reaching up to touch his face, feeling the scratchy texture of his stubble beneath your fingers. He turns his head to kiss your palm in a gesture so natural it feels like part of an ancient ritual.

The kiss is slow, sweet—as if he's trying to memorize the taste of your lips before sleep takes him. His hand cradles your face, his thumb stroking your temple as his lips move against yours in a lazy, almost sleepy rhythm. You breathe in his scent—toothpaste and something inherently *Charles*, something warm and familiar that makes you want to bury your face in his neck and never leave.

When he finally pulls away, it's just enough to murmur against your mouth:

— Sweet dreams, mon amour.

Then, with one last touch—his lips brushing your chin, quick and light as a butterfly's wing—he reaches over to turn off the light.

In the darkness, your body fits against his like puzzle pieces, and the last thought you have before drifting off is that no matter how many races he wins, nothing compares to this quiet moment when he belongs only to you.

05. Kiss on a Bruise

The afternoon sun in Monaco paints everything in gold, glinting off the asphalt still damp from a passing rain. The bikes lean against the sidewalk, their wheels spinning lazily before coming to a stop, as if tired from your adventure through the city's steep streets. You sit on the seawall, breathing deeply, your scraped knee throbbing under the salty breeze.

Charles kneels in front of you before you can protest, his hands firm but gentle as they wrap around your ankle. His eyes—green as the Mediterranean under the sun—are serious as they examine the scrape with the same focus he gives to the curves of the racetrack.

— It's not that bad... — he murmurs, though the frown between his brows betrays his worry.

The mineral water from the bottle he brought spills over the wound, and you grimace, your fingers gripping the wall behind you. He blows softly, the cool air easing the sting, and then—without warning—he presses his lips lightly to the side of your injured knee, a kiss that's more breath than touch.

— There. All better now. — He says it like a spell, tilting his face up with a mischievous grin.

You laugh, your heart beating faster than it did climbing the hill, and nudge his shoulder.

— Kissing bruises only works on kids, you know.

He rises in one fluid motion, his hands finding your waist to pull you close. His nose brushes yours, and you breathe him in—sweat, salt, and that subtle cologne he wears even on the simplest days.

— Then I'll have to kiss something else... — he whispers, and before you can reply, his lips find yours in a kiss that tastes like the sea and unspoken promises.

Your knee still hurts a little. But honestly? You can barely remember why.

06. Paddock Kiss

The paddock buzzes around you—engines being tuned, radios crackling, the hum of conversations in a dozen languages. But in the middle of the chaos, the two of you walk slowly, as if the world has slowed down just for this moment.

Your hands are intertwined, his fingers—strong and slightly rough from gripping the wheel—tangled with yours so naturally it makes your chest ache. Suddenly, he stops, pulling your hand to his lips.

A kiss. Soft, almost reverent, on your knuckles, right where a ring might one day sit.

— Do you know what I think when I see you here, in the middle of all this? — Charles asks, his voice low, his green eyes bright under the paddock's artificial lights.

You shake your head, curious.

— I think that no matter how many turns I face out there... — He presses your hand to his chest, where his firesuit still smells like gasoline and effort, — I'll always have you as my safe harbor.

Your face warms, but you don't look away.

— What if someone sees? — you tease, feigning concern.

He laughs, the sound rough and intimate, before pulling you into a quieter corner behind the team trucks.

— Then they're lucky. Because I can't hide what I feel for you.

07. Apology Kiss

The apartment still holds the echo of your argument—the silence now thick, broken only by the irritating tick of the wall clock. You're curled on the couch, hugging a pillow like a shield, staring at the window where Monaco's lights flicker like false stars.

Charles appears in the bedroom doorway, barefoot, his hair a mess from running his hands through it during the fight. He hesitates for a second—takes a deep breath—then crosses the room in three long strides.

Without a word, he kneels before you, his hands resting on your knees. His eyes, usually so bright, are dark.

— I'm sorry... — His voice comes out rough, broken.

You frown, still resisting, but he's already pulling your hand—the same one he held for the first time in the paddock, the same one he kissed after that Silverstone victory—to his lips. He presses a desperate kiss to your fingers.

— I need to apologize too— — you murmur, but he doesn't let you finish.

The kiss comes then—not on your lips, but on your forehead. Lingering, warm, heavy with everything left unsaid. You feel him tremble slightly, as if holding back something much bigger than an apology.

— I was an idiot. — He whispers against your skin, his hands now cradling your face. — I'll do better.

When you finally meet his eyes, it's just Charles—the boy who drives like a demon but holds you like something precious—and suddenly, the fight doesn't matter anymore.

You tug his collar, pulling him in. The reconciliation kiss tastes salty—half your tears, half his.

08. Victory Kiss

The paddock party roars around you—champagne popping, team members shouting, camera flashes exploding—but everything disappears when Charles spots you. He's still in his unzipped firesuit, sweat mixed with champagne foam in his wild curls, and his smile when he sees you is brighter than the trophy in his hands.

— You saw that?! — he yells, sprinting toward you like he's still going 300km/h.

Before you can answer, he lifts you into the air, spinning you like you're the podium itself. His lips crash into yours in a kiss that tastes like gasoline, champagne, and something that exists only between you two—pure euphoria.

— That was for you — he murmurs, his forehead pressed to yours, his breathing still ragged from the race.

You laugh, wiping champagne foam from his nose with your finger.

— Liar. It was for the trophy.

He tightens his grip on your waist, the number "16" on his firesuit staining your clothes, and steals another quick kiss.

— The trophy doesn't kiss me back, mon amour.

09. Healing Kiss

The blood wells up before you even feel the pain—a quick, shallow cut on your index finger from mishandling a knife while trying (and failing) to peel mangoes for dessert.

— Merde! — Charles drops the cutting board instantly, cradling your wrist. His green eyes darken with concern, examining the cut like it's a mechanical flaw in his car.

— Ow, it's nothing... — You try to pull away, but he's already bringing your finger to his mouth.

And then it happens:

His lips press against the wound in a kiss that's too warm to be just medicinal. His tongue swipes away the blood with a care that makes your stomach flip.

— Better? — he asks, his voice rough, his eyes now filled with a different kind of worry.

You swallow hard. The cut? Barely remember it. The problem? Your racing heartbeat.

— That's not... hygienic, Charles.

He grins, that mischievous charm flashing across his face.

— You're right. — He agrees, before pulling you in by the waist and capturing your lips in a kiss that's definitely not medical. — But you prefer it this way, don't you?

10. "It'll Be Okay" Kiss

The apartment is dark, only the blue glow of the TV illuminating Charles' face—the replay of his disastrous race still looping silently. He sits on the floor, leaning against the couch, an untouched bottle of still water beside him. He hasn't even touched the whiskey you know he prefers on bad days.

You kneel behind him, wrapping your arms around his shoulders, and feel the tension leave him in a sigh that almost hurts.

— I can't... — His voice cracks, rough from gritting his teeth through those final laps. — Everything I touch turns to dust.

You turn his face toward yours, your hands firm on his stubbled cheeks.

— You're Charles Leclerc. The same man who won me over during that storm in Spa. The same one who makes Scuderia tremble when you hit the throttle.

He closes his eyes, but you don't let him.

— Look at me.

When he does, you kiss each eyelid—first the right, then the left—like sealing a promise.

— There's one turn you've never messed up — you whisper, your lips hovering over his. — The one that leads back to me.

Then, slow as Eau Rouge in slow motion, he pulls you into a kiss that needs no words.

When you part, he holds the back of your neck, forehead resting against yours:

— Tu es ma boussole... (You're my compass) — he admits in French.

You smile, stealing another quick kiss:

— And you're my driver. Now get up. The next race is already waiting.

11. Nose Kiss

The room smells like Vicks VapoRub and lemon tea, the sheets tangled from your restless turning. Buried under blankets with a red nose and glassy feverish eyes, you barely register Charles entering with a steaming bowl.

— Brought nonna's soup — he announces, sitting carefully on the bed's edge like you're made of porcelain. His pride over the homemade soup is almost cute, considering he nearly burned the kitchen down last week.

You pout.

— Can't even taste it properly...

He laughs, smoothing your tangled hair—the same fingers that adjust front wings with millimeter precision now patiently detangling your strands.

— Poor little thing — he murmurs, and before you can protest, his lips brush the tip of your red nose in a kiss that's more breath than contact.

— Ew, Charles! You'll catch it! — you complain, but he's already grinning, completely ignoring biological hazards.

— I'd take a thousand sick days over one without you — he declares dramatically, his accent thicker just to make you smile.

When you finally swallow the first spoonful (surprisingly good), he steals another nose kiss—longer this time, like a seal of approval.

— Maybe my kisses work better than medicine — he teases, that familiar smirk appearing.

12. Laughter Kiss

The apartment still echoes with your last burst of laughter—the kind that hurts your stomach and leaves tears in your eyes after that terrible joke you told. Charles is nearly rolling on the sofa, his curls disheveled and face flushed from laughing.

— No way you found that funny! — he gasps between laughs, his voice pitched higher than his team radio during qualifiers.

You try to retaliate but end up laughing too, and that's when he pulls you in.

The kiss happens mid-chaos—clumsy, with both your lips still curved in smiles, teeth accidentally clashing. It's messy, and that's what makes it perfect.

— That was... our worst kiss ever — you giggle against his mouth, but he just tightens his hold.

13. Wrist Kiss

The bedroom is quiet, lit only by a soft lamp. You're lounging on the sofa with a book when Charles approaches—his steps light, like sneaking through pitlane before race start. He kneels before you, gently taking the book from your hands.

— Let me check... — he murmurs, his fingers tracing your wrist like searching for the perfect racing line.

Then his lips press against the thin skin where blue veins map your pulse. The kiss is featherlight but burns like brandy.

— So fast... — he comments, smiling against your skin, eyes closed to better feel your racing heartbeat.

— You're distracting me — you protest, voice trembling.

He chuckles and repeats the gesture, slower now, as if memorizing each thrum.

— Now it's worse — he whispers proudly, his fingers still wrapped around your wrist like he never wants to let go.

14. Secret Kiss

You're lying with your back against Charles' chest when he leans closer—his breath on your neck making you shiver before he even whispers:

— I have a secret... — His voice blends with the wind outside as his lips brush your ear.

He shares it—maybe silly, maybe profound—in details nobody else knows. When the confession ends, he seals it with a kiss below your ear, soft as the secret itself.

— Now you're stuck with me — he teases, nipping your earlobe.

You turn to face him, but he's ready—the next kiss deeper, hotter, like the secret opened a door neither wants to close.

— Better than pole position... — he murmurs between kisses, hands tangled in your hair.

15. Missed You Kiss

The apartment door barely clicks shut before Charles crosses the room in three strides—suitcase abandoned, jacket still smelling like airplane air, his gaze starving as if he'd been gone for months, not weeks.

You're halfway off the sofa when he reaches you—his cold hands framing your face like you're a dream he feared forgetting.

— God, I missed you — his voice breaks, and then he's kissing you.

It's not a kiss.

It's a reclaiming—lips seeking yours like they're the only oxygen after weeks underwater. You grip his hair, longer now, messy from travel, tasting like airport coffee. He pins you against the wall without breaking contact, as if you'll vanish if he stops.

— Fuck, I can't do races without you — he rasps between kisses.

You laugh, but he swallows the sound with another kiss—softer now but still desperate.

— Promise you won't stay away so long? — he pleads, forehead against yours.

When you nod, he carries you to bed—suitcase forgotten, world forgotten—because some hungers can't be fed with words.

16. New Year's Kiss

The beach at Copacabana pulses with life—a sea of dancing bodies, popping champagne, fireworks painting the sky gold and silver—but you two stand still in the chaos, as if time has frozen. Charles pulls you closer to the seawall, far enough from the crowd that only you exist, close enough for firework reflections to light up his face with every explosion.

He looks breathtaking—white shirt open at the collar, skin still smelling like sea salt and sunscreen, those Mediterranean-green eyes brighter than any pyrotechnics.

— Three... — The countdown begins around you, a roar of voices, but he only looks at you.

— Two... — Your fingers tighten around his, the silver ring he gave you in Monte Carlo last year cool against your skin.

— One... — He doesn't wait.

The kiss starts before "Happy New Year"—lips tasting of saltwater and promises, hands pulling you flush against him like he wants to merge your bodies. Fireworks detonate overhead, gold and purple raining over the ocean, but all you feel is his smile when you gently bite his lower lip.

— Je t'aime — whispered between kisses, warm as the Rio summer. The way he spins you just as the sky explodes in red, like you're dancing through fire.

— Happy New Year, mon cœur — he laughs against your mouth, voice hoarse from kissing.

17. Shadow Kiss

The street lies dark under the broken streetlamp's flickering light—that one that blinks like a secret signal. Your building stands just ahead, but Charles seems in no hurry to let you go. He stands too close, his dinner-scented shirt mixing with that cologne that made you look twice at the restaurant.

— So... — he starts, fingers playing with yours like testing a new steering wheel's grip.

You smile, leaning against his car—the same one he drove slowly just to prolong the night.

— So.

He looks at your lips a second too long, then—when the streetlamp flickers again—he leans in.

The first kiss is stolen.

Light, quick, experimental. His lips barely touch yours before he pulls back, green eyes dark in the low light, watching your reaction.

— Sorry — he lies, the corner of his mouth lifting in a not-sorry-at-all smirk.

You don't answer. Just fist his collar and drag him back.

This kiss is the opposite—slow, precise, like a turn he knows by heart. Your back presses into the car door, the cold metal seeping through your dress, but who cares when all you feel is his hand cradling your neck, his thumb tracing your jawline like he's memorizing it.

— Until tomorrow — he whispers against your lips—a promise, not a question.

18. Rain Kiss

The downpour turns Monaco's streets into silver rivers. You're squeezed under a tiny umbrella—the one Charles insisted was "big enough" but now barely covers half of each of your shoulders. Your arms press together, his shirt already soaked on one side, and you're about to complain when—

He steps in a puddle, the stumble making him lurch forward—and suddenly his lips crash into yours with the perfect timing of a rom-com gag.

An utterly awkward kiss—noses bumping, teeth nearly clacking, rainwater dripping from his forehead into your collar. You break apart, wide-eyed, then...

— Mon Dieu, what a disaster — he groans, still holding the lopsided umbrella as droplets hit your hair.

— Terrible. Two out of ten — you agree, feigning disdain while already pulling him back by his belt.

19. Snow Kiss

The Swiss valley breathes snow. Thick flakes fall leisurely, blanketing the world in sacred silence. You stand frozen in this dreamscape, tears icing your lashes, when Charles' leather-gloved hands cup your face.

— Breathe, mon cœur — he orders, rubbing his nose against your frozen one. The woodsmoke scent from the lodge still clings to his scarf.

You laugh—a rough sound echoing in the white void—and that's when he kisses you. His lips taste of cognac and dark chocolate, a perfect contrast to the cold stealing your breath. Charles pulls you against his damp coat, hands firm on your waist like he fears you'll vanish into the snowfall.

— Like your present? — he asks when you part, his eyes forest-green under snow-laced lashes.

— Not fair — you complain, trembling fingers gripping his ski suit straps. — You bring me to see snow and now I can't think about anything but you.

That lopsided grin appears—the one he wears when he's won.

— Exactly the plan, ma chérie.

And when he carries you piggyback toward the lodge—grumbling that you weigh less than his skis—you know no landscape, no matter how pristine, could ever compare to the red of his ears glowing in the chalet lights.

20. Stolen Kiss

The ballroom sparkles—gold light reflecting off crystal glasses and the newlyweds' teary eyes. You sit at the table, heels already kicked off under your chair, when Charles' fingers find yours beneath the linen tablecloth.

— Bored? — he whispers, breath warm on your ear as the best man's speech drones on.

Your navy dress—the one he said made you look like "Monaco at midnight"—feels suddenly too tight when he quietly scoots your chair back.

— What are you—

The protest dies as he leads you to the winter garden's darkest corner, where party lights arrive only in faint whispers.

— Shhh — Charles presses a finger to your lips, his eyes dark as rain-slick asphalt. — I spent the whole ceremony thinking how beautiful you look tonight.

The first kiss tastes like wedding cake. The second like salt from his starched collar. The third...

— LECLERC! — the team principal's voice booms through the garden.

You spring apart so fast your dress gets caught on his pocket watch.

— Merde — he mutters, untangling you while your face burns hotter than the reception's cognac.

When you return, the groom toasts you both with a smirk:

— Glad someone's enjoying my wedding more than me!

Back at your seat, a note waits in Charles' handwriting:

*"Next ceremony will be ours."*

[feinzleclerc]

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THE ONE WHERE you live a relationship with Charles and love records moments.

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