leclerity

[leclerity]

i come back stronger | charles leclerc

[leclerity]

SIR ?????

[leclerity]

heart-wrenching & beautiful excerpts from the article on esteban ocon

[leclerity]

“this is something for me which is absolutely fine as long as i stand on the top” – max verstappen

[leclerity]

𝐛𝐞𝐝 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝 - 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐞𝐬 𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐥𝐞𝐫𝐜

˖♡ - ̗̀ ⇢ saw this tt about how these two toddlers shared their dad's notoriously rough bed head and this post when i opened tumblr last night and had to write smth for it! sorry, for the baby content 💀 i'll get back to writing y'alls requests now xxx

the careful messiness of brunette curls has been charles’s signature hairstyle for ages. it suits him, and when paired with his dimples and green eyes—it’s no wonder why every italian and monegasque prays for his success on sundays. well, maybe bleeding rosso corsa and winning two championships driving the famed red car are the proper reasons.

if only they knew that the artful styling of his curls is nowhere to be found after he sleeps. when he wakes, his hair is in absolute disarray—the deep brown ringlets are clumped together as they stick straight upwards and yet they manage to point in every direction possible.

when you first moved in with charles, you convinced him to buy a satin pillowcase to combat the bed head. it didn’t help, and neither did the bonnets you tried to have him wear. no matter if the ties were knotted, buttoned, or even velcro-strapped tightly, the bonnet would end up by the foot of the bed and his hair was in it’s usual disordered state by the early morning hours.

so, your morning routine begins with taming charles’s severe case of bed head. he awakens slowly as your fingertips gently untangle the deep brown ringlets, moaning lowly and nudging his head into your hand like a large cat when your nails glide along his scalp. you carefully guide each curl back into their assigned positions, tutting disapprovingly at the one strand that never seems to stay in it’s place.

charles’s chest shakes with a chuckle at your slight irritation and he shifts to meet your eyes, tenderly directing your hands away from his now orderly hair to his lips, pressing kisses to your fingertips before pulling you forward to cuddle into his chest.

you didn’t expect to have to deal with more than one head of messy hair. unfortunately, it seems like your daughter inherited her father’s bed head.

your mornings now consist of charles climbing out of bed at the first crackle of noise through the baby monitor, rushing to scoop the 9-month-old from her nursery and have her join the two of you in bed. he crosses the doorway with your daughter cradled to his bare chest and leo yipping at his feet—she stares up at at him, a perfect reflection of the sea green pools of his eyes, the absence of a bonnet, and the chaotic sprawl of his brunette curls. you’ve never been bothered with the fact that she’s an exact replica of her father, as some tried to tease that your genes didn’t do more than deepen her complexion. however, you always joke back that it means that she’s been blessed to be as beautiful as charles is.

she coos and babbles up at her father and he dutifully responds in french as if he understands her baby gibberish. he sits in bed with her on his lap and she beams, her little arms and grabby hands reaching towards you. you smile back widely, stealing her from his lap and greeting your babygirl with a flurry of kisses pressed all over her cute little face. her giggles ring through the air as you pull backwards to watch her laugh and, there’s another trait she shares with her father; deep dimples decorate her chubby cheeks and you can’t help but press your thumb into them with adoration.

charles picks up his first baby, plopping the mini dachshund in bed, and leo bounds forward to press his own kisses to your daughter’s socked feet.

addressing charles’s wild bed head will have to wait as you settle her back in his lap. you rest your head on his shoulder, apologizing for interrupting the clearly important conversation the two were having. you start fixing the jumbled ringlets on her scalp with the softest touch of your digits and she nuzzles up into your hand the same way her father does. he continues from were he left off, asking your daughter if she thinks a one-stop strategy is too ambitious for the next race and she babbles back to him in reply.

charles nods in agreement, promising her that regardless of a one-stop or two-stop, he’ll bring back his third championship trophy for her.

© httpsserene - do not repost. photos in header from pinterest.

[leclerity]

good company

Charles Leclerc x Reader count: 1.5k words summary: Charles keeps running into you at a Ferrari sponsor event with flirtatious comments and sneaky touches thrown both ways, a game you've been playing for months, and it seems that you're about to find out how it ends. a/n: this may be one i'm considering continuing...

You step through the doors, taking in the low hum of the gala. Another night, another sponsor event, but it feels almost like déjà vu—the same forced conversations, the same rehearsed smiles, even if the decorum is draped in rosso corsa. There’s one good thing about the Ferrari events, though, you remind yourself as you pick up a champagne flute from the bar with a thank you, and you catch him watching you across the room.

Charles raises his glass.

You raise an eyebrow back. Already?

He smirks, as if to say, Definitely.

The show goes on and you sit at your table, making small talk with people who will hopefully remember your name by the end of the night. Still, your eyes keep darting to one of the men of the night, entertaining table by table, until he’s approaching yours.

He entertains your colleagues with the same practised smiles they’re giving him, and takes a seat next to you, leaning close enough that whatever is said would stay between the two of you.

The realisation makes you shiver.

“Enjoying yourself?”

“Oh, absolutely,” you say, poker-faced. “Nothing like hearing about the right way to market the team this season over and over again.”

He chuckles. “You’re convincing. I’d almost believe you.”

“Right back at you. How many people have you spoken to so far?”

“Lost count already.” He sighs. “The team wants approachability, but I think they’re underestimating how difficult that is with champagne and two hours of sleep.”

You smile, nudging him lightly. “You're doing fine for someone who’s a better driver than talker.”

Charles’s grin softens, and then he’s swept back into the crowd, with a sneaky squeeze of your thigh. For the next hour, it’s like that—a series of silent glances, shared smirks. A little game of hide and seek across the room. Every time you look up, he’s already looking.

It’s a game you shouldn’t be playing—either of you—but it’s been on for months now, ramping up each time, and you can’t help but need to know how—or where—it ends.

He finds you again at the bar. “If you could leave right now, skip the rest of this…where would you go?”

“Anywhere quiet.” You glance at him, dropping your voice. “Somewhere with a view of the city.”

“And good company?”

“Depends on the company.”

A quick flash of something in his eyes before he says, “I’m sure you could figure something out.”

He’s gone again before you can get a word in, dragged away by a hand on his shoulder. You sip your drink, feeling a little breathless from the way his glance dropped to your lips, his hand barely brushing the small of your back, and you tell yourself you’re treading a line you’re not sure you want to cross.

Man after man speaks to him and you see the charm seeping from him. You’ve done plenty work with stars like him, but none of them have ever gotten close. Charles Leclerc has the ability to wrap everyone around his little finger with no more than a smile – the politeness and humility unseen in most people of his rank.

There’s a glance your way, every now and then, so brief you think you’re imagining it. You indulge people in conversations, write down names and numbers and even some potential campaigns, but your mind keeps flashing back to his eyes, the shape of his lips, the way his hand felt on your back, on your thigh.

When he finds you this time, your brain is in overdrive, and you’re standing at the balcony. Fresh air feels nice on your skin, and the enchanting smell of his cologne reaches you before he does.

“Still surviving?”

“Barely.” You laugh. “You?”

“Could use a rescue.” He turns so that he’s facing the inside of the building, his voice lower. “Think we’d go unnoticed if we disappeared?”

You’re smarter than this. You should be smarter than this.

But he’s looking at you, and his hand is brushing the bare skin on your arm, and his eyes are devouring you with no shame.

“Maybe,” you say. “If we were careful.”

Charles nods, but the corners of his lips are betraying his amusement. “Careful, huh?”

“Discreet, I mean.”

“I could do discreet.”

“So could I.”

He’s close now, the conversation dropping to a murmur that’s almost drowned out by the music. “Meet me outside in ten?”

No, you think. You’d be risking everything—your job, your reputation, your integrity—but those eyes… Villainous, your mind flashed to his hand on your thigh, and you shivered.

There was no way you would say no.

“Don’t be late.”

Charles is the first to leave. You follow a couple minutes later, making sure you walk away in a different direction. The people at your table are still engaged in a conversation your briefly join, all too aware of his movements around the room. You speak to the few people you hadn’t spoken to yet, make sure your presence was felt, and bid them farewell as you make your getaway.

He’s there already. You didn’t even notice him slip out.

“You can sure do discreet,” you say, quietly. “I thought I’d be the one waiting.”

“Couldn’t risk it.” His gaze is steady. “Needed to make sure you’d actually show up.”

For the first time, you get a good look at him under the moonlight. He’s wearing a tailored suit and you couldn’t have made him more perfect if you tried, with five o’clock shadow lining his jaw. There’s something in that gaze—something unfamiliar, something hungry—and you find yourself a little too eager to find out what.

“We shouldn’t be doing this,” you say.

“Didn’t think you’d be a quitter.”

“I’m not. I’m just saying. Do you usually not do the things you’re not supposed to?”

“Usually,” he says. “I don’t think today’s one of those times.”

Silence stretches between you, the sounds of the gala fading into the background. His hand brushes yours, and you feel the spark, the same thing that’s been simmering all night. When he speaks again, his voice is lower, warmer.

“You’re really not a fan of these events, are you?”

“Not unless there’s good company.”

He grins. “Guess that’s my cue.”

“Or mine.” You give him a small, almost teasing smile. “If I didn’t know better, I would’ve thought you were having the time of your life in there.”

“Like you said, good company makes everything better.”

The night weaves a chill around you and he’s leaning a little closer, the space between you growing smaller by the second.

He’s close enough for you to feel his breath on your neck. “Think we’d miss much if we stayed out here?”

“Not a chance.”

He glances back at the glow of the gala inside, then looks at you. “Good.”

You stand there, inches apart, the city spread out before you, the whole world feeling smaller, closer somehow. Neither of you speaks, but you both know what’s coming next. You tilt your head up to meet his gaze, a quiet question in your eyes that he answers without a word.

And then, finally, he closes the distance, his lips brushing yours, a kiss that’s soft but full of all the things neither of you has dared to say. It lingers, like you both know you’ve been waiting months for this moment. When he pulls back, there’s a softness in his gaze that’s new, but it feels familiar all the same.

“So,” he murmurs, thumb brushing your hand. “You think we’ve been discreet enough?”

Here, outside, you were all alone in the world.

You kiss him again. “Discreet, sure. I’m just not sure it’s…enough.”

Even in the darkness, you can see his eyes darken, feel his body tense. He takes hold of your hand and you can feel his heart racing through his palm. He takes a step closer, cheek against cheek, and he places a tentative kiss on the corner of your jaw.

“I guess I know of a place where you could be away from this all,” he whispers, his voice a hum against your skin. “A place with the view of the city.”

And it’s in this moment—with his hands on your waist and lips on your neck—that you decide to take the leap.

Risk it all.

Your hand travels to the nape of his neck and you tug at the hair until he’s looking at you, as hungry as you feel.

“Tell me, then,” you whisper, “why are we wasting our time here?”

And the way Charles kisses you, you feel like he’d take you to the stars if it meant he could kiss you just a little bit longer.

[leclerity]

WINNER

[leclerity]

really, it’s been a thrill

CHARLES MARC HERVÉ PERCEVAL LECLERC (OCTOBER 16, 1997)

[leclerity]

i like how “il predestinato” is literally: religious experience, the prophecy has been seen, tarot cards have been read, spells have been casted, the chosen one who came to bring the glory to the main opponent of catholic church in italy

and “the inevitable” is: atheism, despite the fate, impending natural disaster, “maybe god is with him, but he is not god”, i'll do it with my own hands, we don't need any magic, “there is no other ending of this story”, “i will win, watch me”, the antagonist of f1

they are so different but also the same

[leclerity]

would you be mine?

Charles Leclerc x Female PR Manager!Reader count: 1.6k words summary: You go to Charles's room to deal with post-race issues as his PR manager, only for him to distract you in... not very professional ways. a/n: 18+ as this is basically pure smut. (female receiving)

Yes, the race was an absolute disaster, the fault entirely Sauber’s for releasing Bottas into Charles, and it was expected that Charles would lose his shit but not in front of everyone.

Leaving you to deal with him and do damage control on what everyone’s already calling a PR nightmare. To top it all off, Charles has already gone to his hotel room, and is refusing to come out even for his PR manager.

So you go to him.

“You’re acting like an idiot,” you say as you walk into the room.

Charles steps to the side to let you in, then locks up behind you. “You’re supposed to be a professional.”

You scoff. “Right, Charles. You’re one to talk. After what you pulled today—”

“Am I not allowed to be dissatisfied? My race was ruined, Y/N. You can’t expect me to be okay with it.”

“Nobody is. I’m just asking you to word it differently, is all.”

“Well I was mad,” he says. “I wanted to let it out.”

There’s a pause and you wait—one long heartbeat—and then his hands are on your waist. “And you weren’t around.”

Your hands on his chest push him away. “We can’t—This is not the time—”

“It’s never the time,”  he says.

And when you finally look up, you see his pupils wide, fixed on your lips. Your heart stutters and you feel a shiver run down your spine, at the mere thought of—

“Charles,” you say. “I need five minutes.”

He looks at you expectantly, but you see the moment resignation washes over him. He sits on the couch and leans back, manspreading in a way that’s all too inviting. “What do you want me to do?”

You’ve got a list. You take your phone to pull it up and when you glance up, his face is so open and vulnerable and you see how much the race has hurt him, how much of this is just a front he’s putting on.

Fuck it.

The list can wait.

The couch is cold when you sit down, but his body warms you up as he wraps his arms around you, pulling you close to him.

“I’m sorry,” you say. “I never even asked if you’re okay.”

He chuckles. “That wouldn’t be very professional of you.”

“We both know I’m not the best at being professional.”

Charles’s gaze drops to your lips again. “Yeah. We do.”

“You can talk to me. As a friend, not your PR manager.”

“A friend.”

“Yeah.”

“Is that what we are?”

One of his hands is on your thigh, moving up and down, reaching higher each time. The touch is electric, your skin responding to the impulses like charged. You’ve spent a good portion of your days trying not to think about it, and he’s been so, so—

So careless.

But he’s just as irresistible.

You lean in. “We can be whatever you want.”

His lips find yours and they’re soft, and gentle, and exploring, and you open your mouth and he slides in a tongue and you fall into the familiar pattern, an all-too-known sensation, with him leading. His hand reaches higher and higher until it’s cupping your ass, gripping it as his teeth graze at your bottom lip.

His kissing your neck, now, and you’re thinking about how fresh he smells, how he must’ve showered just before you came, and you’re thinking about him in the shower, the water gliding down his sculpted body, and you wish—

You push him away.

Charles is out of breath, frowning, his big eyes confused. “Did I do something?”

“We can’t—We need to stop.”

You’re breathless, too, and your heart is beating out of your chest, with heat pooling in your core, a familiar throbbing making itself known.

But you couldn’t.

“What do you mean?”

“I could lose my job,” you remind him. “I could lose everything I’ve worked for.”

“I could get you a job, if that happened.”

You scoff. “It’s not that simple.”

His hand is on your thigh again. “It could be.”

“This—this thing that we’re doing—We can’t.”

“Why?”

Your voice is starting to falter and your breath is quickening, and he’s noticing, because he’s coming closer, and your hands are on his chest but there’s no force, no real power to it. “Because—”

“Because you’re afraid of what could happen,” he whispers. His voice is honey next to your ears. “Because you’re afraid to give in.”

“Because you could break my heart.”

“The only thing I might break is your bed,” he says, then leaves a kiss behind your ear, trailing down your neck. “If I promise not to break your heart, would you be mine?”

I’m already yours, you think.

“Yes.”

Charles looks up at you. His eyes are dark, and you can tell he’s just as desperate as you are, but his smile is gentle. “Be mine, then.”

He kisses you.

Your hands are in his hair and he pushes you down the couch, his arms on either side of you. He’s kissing you and now one of his hands is trailing down, under your shirt, then up your stomach and now he’s pulling the shirt over, and all you can think about is just—

“Charles.”

He hums in the crevice between your breasts.

“It better be fucking worth my job.”

He looks up at you, grinning. “It will be.”

Your bra’s off next and he plays with your nipples, twirling his tongue around one and caressing the other with his hand, and you know you’re tugging way too much of his hair, and he’s sucking on your skin, biting, too, and your hand’s in your mouth to stop the other guests at the hotel from hearing you.

Charles rises to meet you, kissing you on the corner of the mouth. “Be a good girl for me,” he whispers, “and be quiet.”

You nod, shivering at the nickname.

Charles kisses you, fully, and his hands are working with the zipper on your pants, pulling them off with kisses filling the empty space. Once they’re off, he takes his own shirt off, and you reach out to touch his chest, his stomach, feeling the raw muscle under your fingers.

No matter how many times you’ve done this, seen him bare in front of you, it was never enough.

His hand travels up and down the inside of your thigh, edging closer, until his thumb brushes your underwear and you see him grin as he feels just how wet you already are.

You can’t help but moan.

“Come on,” he whispers, “didn’t you promise to be quiet for me?”

You nod.

“Do I need to make sure?”

You shake your head.

“I think I do.”

His hand is on your mouth and the other slips under your underwear, teasing you for a mere moment until his fingers are sinking in, gentle but thick, determined. He’s exploring you, like he always does, and this part always drives you crazy, and he knows it.

He knows it, because he leans over you, and he’s whispering sweet nothings as he pumps in and out, curling his fingers, slowing down then speeding up until you feel your core tighten and you’re biting into his hand, his body preventing you from pulling your knees together.

“You managed to stay quiet,” he says, then kisses you. “Good girl.”

“Charles—Please—”

“Relax,” he says. “Enjoy.”

You need him. You need him so bad that it hurts, and you just want—

His tongue is warm against your clit, cleaning you up, his moans of pleasure reverberating through your core. You latch onto his hair and push him down, deeper, and you grind against his face until you feel the pressure, his hands firm on your stomach, holding you down, and you squeeze his head as a shiver runs through your whole body.

Charles kisses your thighs.

“Please,” you say again.

“You going to beg for me?”

“Yes. Yes. Please.”

He unbuckles his belt. “What do you need?”

“You.”

“What?”

“You.”

“Use your words, baby.” He pulls his trousers down and you can see his erection through his boxers. “What do you need from me?”

“I need you to fuck me.”

“You need me to fuck you?”

“I need you to fuck me.”

“And fuck you, I will.” He pulls down his boxers and his dick springs up, all ready. “You still think we shouldn’t do this?”

You shake your head, propping your hips up. “Fuck that.”

Charles laughs and then he’s sinking into you, not letting you adjust as he fills you, in and out, over and over, gasping over you, kissing your neck and your breasts and choking you, and you feel like you’re in heaven as he hits the spot, over and over, and you gasp his name until he kisses you quiet, being rougher for it.

When he comes, he leaves a bite on your neck you know you will need to cover later, and he kisses you again, devouring you still.

He grabs tissues and cleans you up, then himself, and he takes you into a shower were you get to see the curves you were thinking about earlier, and he kisses you until your lips are swollen, again.

And when you’re done, he asks about the PR thing, and promises to do it only if you stay the night.

And maybe you don’t know what you are, and neither does he, but when you have sex again before going to sleep, and again the next morning, you realise that maybe it doesn’t matter.

[leclerity]

my favorite fics (f1 version)

hii i wanted to start a fic rec list so i can keep track of the fics that i love and also get more people to read them <33 i’ll be adding more stories as i read them

all of the stories and authors below are amazing ! give them a read and a follow 🤍

MY MASTERLIST

oscar piastri:

tangerine by @scuderiahoney

but mama i love him by @pierregazly

somethin stupid by @taasgirl

uh oh by @uluvjay

late night talking by @jamminvroomvroom

lost in japan by @sunrizef1

call me your fool by @userlando

my own pastry by @f14fun

can i tempt you? by @uglyducklingofthe2000s

charles leclerc:

that’s who i’m racing for by @leclerity

so long monaco by @goldsainz

tis the season, i guess by @predestinatos

you'll change your name or your mind by @monzabee

this is a relationship i don't think anyone saw coming by monzabee

i'll look after you by @roostersgirlfriendlovesf1

it’s called love by @racinggirl

max verstappen:

the vegas saga by @theemporium

and they were roommates by @itsallyscorner

café de paris by tinycoffeeroom

at fault by itsallyscorner

there she goes by @heartysworld

chaotic texts by @norris55s

let me be the lighter by @nostappen

guilty as sin? by sunrizef1

look after you by weeknd-ogoc

cat-sitter by @be4chywritez

hungry for life by @predestinatos

baby verstappen by @driverlando

glitter by @disneyprincemuke

helmets and hats by @foreveradreamaway

playing with fire by @chrisevansonly

prison for life by monzabee

all i want by @verstappen-cult

unknown by @thatsdemko

carlos sainz:

treat you better by @tinycoffeeroom

money, money, money by @norrisleclercf1

style by mickyschumacher

playing cupid by @somejazzinthemorning

future replacement by @edwardslvrr

mini sainz by norrisleclercf1

no mustache by @chillipeppersainz

don't go by @thef1diary

always and forever by @55szn

this by @cutielando

handprint by @vivwritesfics

one of your girls by disneyprincemuke

birthday posts by @f1version

lando norris:

matchmaker by @dumbseee

just us by @calumthomcs

you came you called by @dilemmaontwolegs

walk him like a dog by @sharlsworld

this by norrisleclercf1

drinks and jackets by @of-many-fandomss

lewis hamilton:

get him back by @theyluvkarolina

warm, buttery and soft by @laneywrld

family ties by @eccentricwritingbaby

george russell:

broken bones by @coco-loco-nut

million dollar baby by @everythingne

he got the girl by @claypgeon

my jacket now by fastandcarlos

ollie bearman:

paddock princess by jo-com

under investigation by @lxclerc

[leclerity]

a promise of what’s to come

Charles Leclerc x Norris!Reader count: 1.7k words summary: After the podium celebrations, you join your brother at a club, where a certain driver is testing what's left of your resolve after a year's worth of sexual tension. a/n: this talks about alcohol consumption, with spice, so 18+. let me know if you want more like this one!

You see him in the club—the way he’s looking at you, undressing you with his eyes even across half the dance floor—and you see yourself on your knees in his bedroom, knowing fully well that it can’t—won’t—happen.

Not with Lando’s arm around your shoulders, asking you to join him and his driver mates, like any good younger brother would.

But if you do, if you walk over there where Charles’s hands look so ready to latch onto any part of your body they can get on, then you know things could get very, very ugly.

It never officially began, the thing between you two, but it might’ve started some year or so ago.

It was always just stolen glances and smiles that shouldn’t have meant anything, but did. You’d see him around the paddock and the events your family attended with the drivers, and he’d only ever be so polite, greeting you as if you were a true lady.

“You need to stop making the eyes at Charles,” Lando had told you, once. “I don’t want my sister getting in with a driver.”

“Just because you’re a heartbreaker, doesn’t mean they all are,” you fired back.

“Take that back.”

“Stop telling me what I can and can’t do.”

It became a squabble and ended up with you pinned down, apologising, and Lando saying that he’s not here to tell you what to do, but doesn’t want you to get hurt.

A few months down the line, it started to feel like you shared a secret kind of language with the Monegasque. It’d be in the paddock, where his eyes would find you and stare, openly, watching you as you did whatever it was you were doing. You’d sometimes stare at him, too, and the way he held himself told you he knew you were doing it, too.

It became a game. It wasn’t hidden glances anymore, but open invitations, open declarations that there was something. You’d fix your lipstick in the handheld mirror, watching his eyes through it. His gaze was the same as always, but when there were fewer people around, it would sharpen, as if honing in on you.

Then it became touches. Just in the passing, accidents, where his hands grazed the small of your back or your ass, while you’d stumble against his chest and apologise with no intent.

If Lando noticed, he never said anything.

You knew there was something.

He was on a few thrones and you came to watch, and his eyes would search the crowd until finding you and he’d raise the trophy with your eyes interlocked, as if taunting you. Challenging you. Come celebrate with me, Y/N Norris.

You never did.

But this time it’s both of them on the podium, with Oscar between them, and you were dragged to the club despite your protests – despite knowing Charles would be there, and alcohol would be involved, and you’re not trusting yourself to keep your hands to yourself in that combination.

“Let’s join the others,” Lando says.

You can’t say no.

He brings you to the circle and you say hi, but Lando’s already twirling you around. Charles’s eyes are on you, never dropping, never looking elsewhere. You feel your skin burning under his gaze but it gives you energy, and you part from Lando and feel the confidence to be sultry, to perform.

If anyone else is watching, you don’t know and you don’t care.

Charles is barely moving, but he is – closer to you.

His hands are gentle, tentative as he twirls you, experimenting with amount of pressure he gives into the touch. You dance closer and his breath is on your ear, cheek against cheek briefly before he spins you again.

You know Lando’s watching.

You don’t want to think about what would happen if he weren’t.

“I saw you at the podium today,” he says.

“What about it?”

Charles brings you closer. “You were watching me.”

“No.” You give him a gentle push, but he spins you around, chest to back, making it seem like a dance move. “I was watching Lando.”

His lips brush your ear. “Little liar.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, I do. I know so much more than you think.”

His hands are on your waist and they’re slipping, sliding down, they’re at your thigh, inching closer—

You push him away. “My brother is here.”

“We can go somehwere he isn’t.”

That, with the look in his eyes—the darkness—it makes your head spin, and you’ve had hardly anything to drink.

You waggle your finger at him and back away, closer to Lando and the rest of the group. Lando hands you your drink and you down it, but you don’t get the next one just yet. No – Charles is watching you, and Lando is thankfully to busy to watch either of you.

Charles walks up to you, that sly hand on the middle of your back. “Can I get you another one?”

You hand it to him and he’s away with a kiss to your cheek, eyes darting to see if Lando’s noticed. He hasn’t – but if Charles keeps it up, he will.

People like Charles and Lando don’t have to wait around in a queue, so your drink is back in your hand within minutes. The others are doing shots and you refuse, as does Charles, and you’re watching your brother get drunker – and Charles’s attention intenser.

Your body is on fire. It’s a mixture of alcohol, dancing, and the crowd, but you know it’s mostly from the way Charles undresses you with his eyes. If you were alone, the way his hands keep passing a little too close to you, you know things would escalate.

You promised to Lando they wouldn’t.

But if Lando didn’t know…

If you were to be honest – it was starting to become a struggle.

Charles looked at you and grinned, beckoning you to come closer, and there it was: your resolve crumbling to ashes. You approached him and he danced with you at a respectable distance, but you knew it was all just pretend. You could see it on his face, in the linger of his touch, in the way his eyes gleamed when you twirled and he’d look you up and down, all around.

Lando went to get drinks, and so did the rest of your group.

You had minutes.

“Meet me outside in five minutes,” you whispered to him.

“What?”

“You letting me change my mind, Leclerc?”

“No,” he breathed. “Not if we want the same thing.”

You give him a kiss on the cheek so chaste it nearly explodes with sexual tension. He steadies himself with his hand on your waist and when you pull away, his lips land on yours, unyielding. It’s sloppy and quick but it’s a promise of what’s to come, and you take it.

Lando’s still at the bar when you tell him goodnight, congratulate him once more, and promise to text when you’re home and no, you don’t need a chaffeur, you’re perfectly capable on your own.

The air outside is crisp and chill, and you’re counting down the minutes, wondering if this was all a big mistake.

It couldn’t be.

Not with the way things have been.

At five minutes, on the dot, Charles is outside and he’s around you and he’s kissing you with your back pressed against the windows of a parked car, your skirt hiked high where his fingers had buried themselves.

“Charles,” you moan. “We need to—”

He kisses you quiet. “I know. I know.”

“Someone could—”

“Stop talking.”

“Charles—”

“Trust me.”

Lando’s inside and there weren’t people who could see, so you let him leave gentle bites on your neck until a car honks and he helps you in, then he’s looking at you as if giving you the choice.

You give the driver your address.

Charles pulls up the privacy window.

His mouth is all over you and so is yours, your clothes crumbled, hiked up, half-discarded. You’re all touch and taste and pleasure and by the sounds of it, so is he. His hands are warm and gentle but determined, and so is his mouth, on you he hadn’t eaten in days – and when you return the favour, your mascara trailing down your cheeks, his moans of pleasure make you nearly there with mere anticipation.

The car pulls up and Charles motions for the driver to go, and then you’re leading him up the stairs and there you are again, making out, his fingers under your skirt, keeping you pleased and stretched for him.

You fumble with your keys and so does he, but you’re in and you’re locked and you’re on the bed and you’re showing him where the condoms are and you want to take your clothes off, but he says no.

He says, “That’s my job.”

So you wait until he’s kissing you as your clothes come off, piece by piece, traded in for kisses and soft pleasure. He gives you a push so that you’re on your back and he spends a few seconds devouring your body with his eyes, just like he’d done at the club.

The condom is in his hand, and he’s about to take his boxers off, and your core is throbbing at the mere thought of it.

He puts a hand on your cheek. “You sure?”

“Charles?”

“Yeah?”

“I’ve been sure for a very, very long time, but if you wait another moment I might—”

He doesn’t. He’s on you, kissing you, cradling your body, and he’s inside you and it’s glorious. You feel a moment of resentment towards yourself, for spending so long telling yourself you didn’t want this, but he grabs your chin, makes you look him in the eye as he thrusts, and any comprehensive thought you had is gone.

It’s you, and him.

The rest of the world can go fuck itself.

[leclerity]

u ever see pictures of charles leclerc and immediately understand why peasants were flocking to the catholic church despite not being able to read any religious text bc imagery like this fucks so hard

[leclerity]

the middle of the night

Charles Leclerc x Girlfriend!Reader count: 1.2k words summary: Charles shows up to your apartment in the middle of the night, drunk, and wanting one thing and one thing only. a/n: i bet you couldn't say no to drunk charles wanting to have sex... (18+)

You hear something thud in your room. You pick up the broom from the hallway and creep to your bedroom, slowly peeking through the door—

Only to find your boyfriend halfway through your window, dragging his left leg over the windowsill.

The light comes on with a flick. “Is there a reason you’re crawling through my window?”

Charles shields his eyes, finally flopping to the floor, then fumbles about with the window until it’s closed. “I didn’t want to disturb you.”

“What was your plan, exactly?”

“Well.” He stands with his hands on his waist, beaming at you. “I’d take my clothes off, get into bed with you, and be there when you wake up.”

“And you thought that wouldn’t disturb me.”

“It wouldn’t. Because you love me.”

His grin widens and you drop your pretence – yes, your boyfriend is a little dumb when he’s drunk, but at least he’s the kind to try to get into your bed when drunk and not someone else’s.

“Charles, it’s”—you check your phone—“the middle of the night.”

He nods. “Bedtime, then.”

Before you respond, he starts taking off his clothes, starting with the white polo he wore to the night out with the boys. He unbuttons it quickly, then looks at you—pauses—grins—and starts unbuttoning it slowly, keeping eye contact.

“You’re adorable,” you say, shaking your head. “Not happening, though.”

Charles pouts. “Why?”

“You’re drunk.”

“And in love,” he says, singing the “love”. He closes the distance between you and pulls you in by your waste, tickling your neck with kisses. “You’re the only thing I want tonight, baby.”

“Charles.”

“Mhm?”

The kisses continue, so you put your hands on his cheek, making him face you. You give him a quick kiss on the lips. “I’ll get you some water.”

He kisses you back. “I need you, not water.”

“Charles—”

“I can tell,” he says. “I know you want me, too.”

And you do—god, you do—because he keeps kissing you, brushing that sweet spot on your neck as his kisses threaten to trail lower, and because his hands are dropping lower, too, gripping you just right, and—

“Charles.”

He takes a step back immediately, noting the lack of playfulness in your voice. “Okay.”

You kiss him on the cheek. “Get in bed. I’ll join you in a minute.”

He nods and you can tell he’s disappointed, but he’d never go against your wishes. There’s a line between being playful, debating, maybe even considering his proposal – and the no that means a flat-out no, no considerations included. He never pushes when you don’t want him to.

And, unfortunately, that just makes him want you more.

You fill up two glasses of water and take some aspirin from the medicine cabinet, some chocolates, too. Either of you could get peckish later, or in the morning, and you’d rather account for that in advance.

In your bedroom, as you approach it—gently, just in case—Charles is sprawled on top of the covers, with only boxers to hide his modesty. You chuckle and he startles, then beckons you to come over.

“I just want to cuddle,” he says. “I promise.”

You give him the glass and he downs it, then puts it on the nightstand on your side of the bed. The light’s still on but it’s a warm, gentle yellow, and you think about leaving it on for just a little longer.

“Y/N. Mon amour. Come here.”

You kiss him as you join him on top of the covers. His arms close around you as if that’s all they were made to do and you feel tension drift from your body. He smells like his most recent aftershave, and you inhale it as if it were a drug – even sweaty after a night out, he still smells like a god.

Charles kisses the top of your head.

“Charles,” you say.

“Mhm?”

“You tired?”

“Not very.” He kisses you again, snuggles you closer. “Why?”

“I’m think I’m too awake to fall back asleep.”

His palm is flat on your side and his thumb moves side to side, and you hear him sigh. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“I can’t believe you thought that getting in through the window wouldn’t wake me.”

He kisses you again. “You’re a heavy sleeper, bebe.”

“Not today. Not when you’re out,” you remind him.

“But I’m here now, and you’re still not sleepy.”

You hesitate for a moment—you can still hear the life outside your window, and the world is still wide awake, it seems—but then you push yourself up, kissing the corner of Charles’s jaw.

“I can think of a way you could make up for it,” you whisper.

His hands are on your waist in an instant and he’s kissing you, no, devouring you, and you feel taste the alcohol on his lips and start to feel a little drunk, yourself, as his kisses outline your jaw and stick to your neck, a little too long, long enough that you’ll have little bruises tomorrow, and—

He hits the spot and you moan his name.

“Mon amour.” His hand’s on your mouth and face above yours, pupils dilated and eyes wild. “We don’t want to be too loud, do we?”

“No,” you mutter through his hand.

“You want to go to sleep after this, right?”

“Yes.”

He kisses the corner of your jaw like you did to him earlier and he’s nibbling at your earlobe. “Then relax and enjoy.”

His hands cup the bottom of your shorts, getting a handful off your ass. He squeezes it, just enough to draw out a moan, and his lips are on yours again, reminding you to keep quiet, you don’t want the neighbours hearing, now, do you? You don’t want them to know how hard I fuck you when I haven’t seen you all day, when I’ve spent the last five hours thinking about coming here and taking you, all of you, mon amour.

You’re not sure if he’s saying this or if you’re imagining it, but you’re not even thinking about being quiet anymore because his head’s between your thighs now, telling you how good you taste, and his fingers are pressing down on your lower belly and the neighbours will know how hard he fucks you, they already do.

After a while, he stops asking you to hold back, but he smacks your ass until it’s red and you’re writhing in pleasure because you’re been a bad girl, and he’s filling you up so well that you wonder how in hell you thought you’d be able to go without this tonight.

By the time he’s done, you’re exhausted and so is he, and you fall asleep quicker than you thought it possible, with his hand still tangled in your hair.

[leclerity]

CHARLES LECLERC WINS THE 2024 MONZA GP

[leclerity]

🖤💛

[leclerity]

📷: lilianspotting