leclerity

[leclerity]

Charles Leclerc x Scuderia Ferrari - Sun Bleached Flies by Ethel Cain

[leclerity]

stolen sweethearts ☆ cl16

genre: humor, angst, yearning, pining after three years so maybe slowburn??, fluff, second chances, whipped!charles

word count: 4.3k

Everything that leads to your wedding day and ends up with a knock on your door from your ex-boyfreind and an infamous letter.

req!...longer than intended, whoops! enjoy, anons :)

inspired by this !

“You’re making a mistake—”

Your eye twitches in the slightest, glossy lips curling into a snarl. “Shut up and be quiet.”

“What?” 

Looking down at your boyfriend, dressed in Armani from head to toe and a blank expression, you wince apologetically. You grasp his hand tighter, knuckles becoming white, and smile widely, tears brimming the corner of your eyes. “Not you, honey!” A wet chuckle escapes when he visibly relaxes. “Yes! Yes! A thousand times yes.”

The engagement party was a pleasant surprise, filled with congratulations and early wedding gifts. It also brought out a large group of your friends from hibernation. “Felicidades,” Carlos says with a teasing smirk. “I truly never thought I’d see the day you settle.” 

You bit the air. “Ha ha. That was the old me. New me is a completely changed woman thanks to true unconditional love. It’s crazy, try it out some time,” you shoot back. 

The Spaniard simply scowls and bows away, returning to his earlier conversation. You consider yourself lucky—as if you committed a successful heist and somehow got away with it. He was handsome, with bright eyes, dark hair, and tempting lips. There truly wasn’t a single flaw to your now fiancé. And if there were, no one ironically saw it but Lando.

“You’re making a—”

“Mistake?” you finish off his sentence, sighing and rubbing your temples. “So you say.” You were in the middle of ordering yourself another piña colada when he hounded you like a madman. The Brit blows out with a tired expression, as if he were giving up on all of humanity. 

“Yes. Yes. A thousand times yes.” Angling your head to aim a dirty glare, you silently flip him off as he uses your earlier words against you. 

“Aren’t you tired, Lan? It’s been three years, let it go.”

The blue eyed boy musters a threatening look and then rips your sweet treat away from your grip, immediately claiming ownership. Your brows fly up with an offended scoff. He chugs it all down before shaking his curls adamantly. “No, I will not let it go. Bloody hell, you’re one stubborn gal—you can’t go through with this.”

For the shortest second, a ray of hesitance strikes your face when you spot your fiancé, happily indulging in a round of shots with Carlos, Max, and Daniel. The group laughs with amusement over something he says. Your lips wobble, turning back to your friend, shooting lasers. “Why not? And please don’t say—”

“Charles.” Somehow, even with the mention of his name, your world still manages to spin off its axis, alarming your remaining sanity. Last time you saw the Monegasque was quite the day, ending with regretful words and inferior decisions. Lando grimaces when you let out a shaky breath. “You know you haven’t gotten over him. And I can guarantee you that this…” He spins his index finger around the flashing room. “Will not make the difference you're hoping it will.”

-

Have you made your Christmas list? I told you I need it at least two weeks prior. I work well under pressure, but for God’s sake, honey, this is too much. Charles chuckles, cleaning his pair of Ray Bans against the hem of your skirt. You sigh. 

Oui. Making his way over to his duffel bag, he retreats a crumpled up piece of paper. Oh, um, shit. The green eyed boy cringes with embarrassment, pouting modestly. You swallow the giggle sliding up your throat when he frowns furthermore. I swear I had it! It must've gotten crushed with all my stuff. You know what? Charles strolls over to the flight of stairs. I’ll just make a new one, give me a sec. 

As soon as he leaves, you yawn, stretching out like a cat. You can’t help the fluffy feeling; Christmas always adds to it. But something about this one felt distinctively different and you couldn’t place the reason why. 

Your orbs flicker across the dimly lit room before falling back to the thin piece of paper. Patting your palms on your thighs, you get up and delicately open it up, curiosity overflowing. It shouldn’t have mattered, he was going to re-write it anyways. 

His calligraphy had always been messy, and yet you always—somehow—understood; from the start of his sentences to the final dot. But this had to be the one and only time you wish you weren’t so comprehensive. 

I’ve been thinking about us

A lot recently, actually

I’ve had some thoughts over these past few weeks and

I think we should just end things.

You bat your eyes, already feeling the pressure forming behind, stinging harshly. Was this meant for you? For you to find? Had it been intentional the moment he pulled out the fucking note? Would he just not come back and was it all an excuse?

But he does. And his pale face answers all of your questions. 

Oh fuck, what have you done?

Rage fuels within you as you briskly brush away the acid sliding down your burgundy cheeks, heat rushing through your body. What have I done? What the fuck is this bullshit, Charles? 

The Monegasque instantly rushes over, trying to get ahold of the piece of paper. You rapidly pull it away and force a step back as you let out a wet chuckle. He winces at the cold sound. Why would you do that? Why did you do that?

So you’re not denying it? You wrote this? You knew he had, his writing was imprinted into your brain like a manuscript you had professionally studied endless hours.

His skin only loses more color with every passing second. I’m not trying to blame you! I did. I did write that—but that was so long ago, you have to believe me, and I can explain! He kneels down, silently pleading you to bless him with a spare minute. Just let me explain it all to you. 

I never took you for a poet, you bitterly spit out as you continue skimming through the full page. You have a lot on your mind—a lot. Scanning his desperate state, you can’t help but let out a soft whimper, scrunching your nose. 

I’m not, shit. He grips your thighs from where he is and lets out a set of shaky breaths. Do you remember when—

I don't want to remember, you let out. I just simply want to forget. 

He can creepily hear the way your heart is breaking and how his follows along with every word, puncturing his soul. You don’t even notice his coming arm, taking half of the note away and you irritatedly pull back, causing it to rip in half. 

That does it, bullying you down to the floor where you start to cry. Out of anger, out of betrayal, out of everything. The green eyed boy tries to soothe you, mumbling into your hair but you’re too busy zoning out that you don’t catch a single confession.

Leave.

Charles flinches; you can feel it as he presses close to you. What?

He almost doesn’t recognize you when you furiously push him off, crawling back with a sense of suffocation. Pain crosses his eyes as he watches you create distance. I don’t want you anymore. I don’t want you here anymore—leave.

Anyone who knows Charles would know that he never gave up. He either spoke down on himself and pitied for a while, but never ever gave up. So this was a first. A tough pill to swallow.

If that's what you want me to do, then…okay. He stands up firmly, but inside he’s terrified that his limbs might call out for the day. But I love you. So don’t ever ask me to stop. And he walks out of your life after evilly twisting the knife.

With a new note and ring box deep inside his pocket.

-

Despaired eyes flicker over to where Charles eases into a conversation with Carmen and George, occasionally clenching his jaw. You hadn’t invited him—that’s just absurd—but he had gotten word from blabbermouth Pierre and you didn’t have the solidity to say no. From the looks of it, he didn’t want to be here either.

“Well I’ve got news for you, my dear friend, I love Hudson, so climb on board because this is happening…” Your voice trails off the second your ex looks up, as if he felt your eyes drawn onto him. Normally they’re dazzling and filled with joy, but the unfamiliar injured expression is like a punch to the gut. Your conscience calls you out on it, slapping you back into reality. Turning to Lando, you purse your lips tightly. “Who even is Charles?”

-

“God! When I saw Charles had showed up I just wanted to dig up a hole and never come out! Who would willingly go to their exes' engagement party?” Like a spinning top, you fume at Kika whose eyes shine at the sight of you, even after barking. “You should have warned me Pierre would do that. God, I hate that jerk sometimes.”

The Portuguese hums. “Me too…” You flick a questionable brow. Kika giggles, fixing your white gown, feathering it out like a dove. “I know, I should have! Bad friend, bad friend,” she childishly says. You can’t help rolling your eyes, returning your attention back to your reflection. “But if we’re being truthful here, someone should have warned Charles.” 

“What are you talking about?”

Taking a quick sip of the complimentary champagne, she nods enthusiastically. “No one gave him a heads up. He thought it was just any other ordinary party—nowhere near a proposal.” 

Your stomach churns, mortification taking over at the sudden report. Charles’ reaction was odd, but you couldn’t help filling up with satisfaction, climbing onto your high horse when you saw it. Never in a million years did you ever consider that being a surprise to him too. Hellooo? Coughing awkwardly, you swat her hand far away. Kika yelps. 

“Yeah, well he deserves it.” You chug down the rest of her drink in a matter of seconds. Her wide eyes grow larger as she nervously giggles. “No one ever gave me a warning either.”

-

You were never one for being superstitious, but if anyone ever taught you something valuable, then it would be to never make contact with the groom before the wedding ceremony. He probably didn’t know any better—it of course wasn’t intentional—but that doesn’t stop your heartbeat from spiking up when you spot your fiancé sauntering over to where to stand.

“What are you doing here?” you hiss. Hudson furrows his thick brow. What are you talking about? I came to see you. You look fucking hot by the way. Squeezing your eyes shut, you shoo him, expensive jewelry clinking against one another. “Listen, that’s sweet and all, but you need to leave or else you’re going to ruin it!” You already did, the devil on your shoulder growls. You try relaxing, but can still feel the tenseness shifting between your shoulder blades. “Hudson, I’m dead serious, go.”

The stubborn brunette raises his arms in defense, mouthing a quick wow and walking back out. Were you being a tad bit colder than intended? Was there a better way to deal with the unwanted interaction? Yes. Probably. That’s what you tried to convince yourself because you knew the longer you pondered, the quicker you would realize that Lando was right.

You were making a mistake. 

Charles isn’t any better off. He twists and turns the entire night, debating whether he should attend the occasion he knew would most likely make him flat line, but the curiosity definitely got to him. He always wondered what type of dress you would exclusively choose, perfect in every detail. Your hair, your heels. Your smile. Because they weren’t all the same. There was the kind that would sort of slip to a subtle, shy frown when he would compliment you, so he often saw lots of those. Or the kind that would cause your eyes to crinkle—he witnessed those when he would tickle you half to death, laughing loudly as tears would start to form. What he would kill to see you beam back at him once again…

But naturally, he talked himself out of it. What good does it do for him? The following morning, as he blinks strangely at the white wall, he starts to reminisce to himself. Like your first date—which was originally for both Carlos and Isa—but you both weaseled your way in. Or the time he taught you how to skate; only to remember he doesn’t know how to skate. He kept apologizing as the doctor secured your arm with a bright pink cast, but you only laughed, begging him to be the first to sign it. You were probably high off of meds, but still. 

A peculiar feeling washes over as he spots an old shoe box. He almost dashes out of the arctic room when he realizes what it holds, but deliberately crunches down to open it. 

And he knows what to do.

-

“He wants to see you,” Lily shrieks, peeking out into the hallway, then jumping back in. The teal dress was doing wonders for her skin tone, but you couldn’t help the agitation. Tell him I don’t want to see him. We have a whole lifetime to do that, you groan, slipping onto your heels. 

Your bridesmaid clicks her tongue, widening the entrance as you hold back a much needed gasp. “I think you should tell him yourself…”

“I only need a minute,” Charles stammers, a thin layer of sweat coating his sharp nose. You’re too afraid to speak, so you robotically nod as you watch everyone scurry out, giving you two privacy. The twenty-six year old shyly gets closer, gently pinching a piece of paper in between his clammy grip. Your heart stops. “I walked beneath a ladder…on my way here,” he clarifies. You blink, long lashes fluttering like a fan. “I don’t think I’ll ever learn.”

-

If I had known you were this manly, I would’ve married you a lifetime ago. It slips out like a force of nature before you can stop yourself as your boyfriend halts from his task. The day was soon ending, late November, and you were both working together on painting the bedroom your dream shade. He had tried talking you out of it because it was simply—just white— but you had hounded him until he agreed. Now he stands here with a white coloring staining his dark gray shirt and you’ve never been happier.

Is that something you might want? Charles tries to play it cool, picking up from where he left off, lips itching into a goofy grin. To get married?

You’re almost glad he’s not facing you since you're as bright as a tomato. I won’t lie, I’ve definitely thought about it. You take a sip of water, suddenly caught with a dry throat. Could be nice. 

The Monegaque flips around to face you, placing the paint roller down and strolling over to where you sit criss-cross. You visibly gulp; electricity slipping into the small room. It would be, wouldn’t it? His pink lips ghost over yours as you lean in a bit. 

Yeah…

Could kiss you anytime I want… Kiss. Fuck you anytime I want… Another kiss. My fucking dream.

You moan against his touch, melting away like an ice cream sundae. I-I-I really think we could do it; be married. You had been together for so long now, you’re honestly surprised you hadn’t had this conversation any sooner. I would choose that exact same shade for my dress, you squeal, pointing at the wet wall. He hums. Not eggshell, not timid white—whipped cream, if you will.

Ahhhh, smart girl, he teases, nipping at your bottom lip. You practice this shit when I’m not around?

You laugh. I’ve been taught all kinds of tones from birth. My father was a painter himself, remember?

Of course I do, mon amour. He only created the best piece of art yet, he announces with a cheshire smile, watercolor eyes pointing down at you. You blush. 

You’re such a klutz, you would probably do something stupid like walk underneath a ladder on our wedding day. You only do it every time, you say, wiggling out of his grip as he tickles you. 

I swear I don't do that shit on purpose, it just happens, okay?

Pressing your nose against his, you cozily sigh. As long as we don’t see eachother until the actual ceremony, then I won’t be too upset. 

Is that a promise?

You nod. That’s a fucking vow.

-

“You called it.”

Shifting uncomfortably, you chuckle when you nearly tip over. “Yeah, you’ve always been like that, but don’t think about it too much—it’s not like it’s your wedding.”

He clenches his sharp jaw. “Sure, but bad luck is bad luck, no? And I think I’m quite familiar with it.”

His words shouldn’t impact you so much years laters, but they do. Perhaps it’s due to his sorrowful stare, or his anxious tick, but it kills you just the same way it did that December night. You let out a light shudder, blinking away tears. “What do you want, Charles?”

“I wrote you a letter.”

God—a heartfelt note is the last thing you wanted and today was not the day to receive it either. Or ever. Not when it came from him. “I’m sorry, but it’s a bit too late for that. I’m about to be a married woman in approximately an hour.” You narrow your neat brows, flawless makeup shimmering against the sunbeams. “What gives you the right to walk back into my life, get shit off your chest for your own sake, and just for you to do what? Leave?” 

You’re not being fair; not completely, but you can't help it. For the longest time, you thought you were over it, but clearly not. Charles licks his rosy lips, closing the gap between you two. “This isn’t something I just came up with.” He extends his arm out. “I wrote this three years ago.”

You inhale sharply, suspiciously eyeing the white paper. Please, just read it. Back then you could never turn him down, as much as you tried…

And it appears like today wasn’t any different.

It’s almost hilarious to think about how much you cried on your proposal date and how much you are now. You were a light rain at best when Hudson got down on one knee, but Charles stands here, tall, and you’re a complete waterfall. 

“Y-you were going to ask me to…” A headache comes rolling in as you let out a wet cry. “This isn’t true; it isn’t real. You wrote this today and came here to fuck with me.”

The Monegasque shakes his head in panic, blood painting his higher cheekbones. “No—listen; the first letter you found, I did write that.” You grimace. “But I swear I took it back immediately. It’s just that you were getting so much hate during that time, and you would always cry, and then you’d say you were never crying…You were in a really dark place. Do you remember?”

How could you not? You knew not everyone was going to love you for dating one of the top Formula One drivers, but you never expected to read such brutal messages either. They were descriptive, and cruel, and ruthless, and it crushed you more than you’d like to admit. Which was fucking stupid since there was always a rather large community that loved and adored you, and Charles loved and adored you—and yet.

You release a shaky breath, desperately rubbing your eyelids. Lily would probably throw a fit at your now snotty and smudged makeup, but you couldn’t really think too deeply about any of that right now. “What does that have to do with anything?”

The brunette cradles your face and you hate when you lean into his warm touch. “I just wanted all of that to end; for you to feel better. And I could never actually say the words, so I drafted a letter, and I’m so fucking sorry, mon amour.” The tides crash inside your chest, getting harder to breathe. “It has been my biggest regret. Hurting you.”

He did more than hurt you; he broke you completely. Like a porcelain doll, like a trophy, like a mirrorball; it ruined you. But you know he knows that when his eyes slowly turn red. “But then I thought to myself, it doesn’t have to be that way! W-we could restrict comments, I could post something and stand up for the woman I love, and I could reassure her by vowing the most sacred thing there could ever exist…And I sat down and wrote this letter.”

If you thought Charles loved you before, then you’re a fool. He was utterly infatuated, devoted, obsessed and drowning in fervor. This letter may be old, slightly cutting loose around the edges, but it’s pinned as straight as can be. Not like the last.

“My only mistake was writing the first, and to even consider giving up on us. My best decision has been writing the second, and promising to stick by you the way I knew I was put on this Earth to do.” Charles carefully draws you in closer. “But I know nothing could ever fix the shit I’ve put you through, but I’m begging for the chance to try.” He kisses your temple and you relax against his lips. “I’m fucking desperate—just one.”

He slips out his original ring box and shines the gem back at you. It’s smaller than the one Hudson had given you, thinner too.

But it has you written all over.

A dizzy spell hovers over as you blink hastily. Charles doesn’t dare to breathe, waiting for you. “This isn’t…I just…” You bite your lower lip, glossy orbs flickering towards the band and then back at him. “Thank you for taking the time to apologize and clear things up; I really needed that, but I can’t do this.” You step out of his embrace, immediately freezing as if you were spending a winter in Iceland. His heart palpitates hysterically, green eyes skimming your features. “This isn’t what I had in mind—this isn’t what’s supposed to happen,” you press sternly.

“You’re right; it’s not.” Though you had just said the same, hearing him repeat it jams the knife deeper into your heart. You can hear chaos ensuing down the hallway, your friends chirping happily at one another. Contrary to what was going on in here. “It’s not because you can’t marry him. Because you know you don’t love him the way you say you do.” He laughs. “You tolerate him at best! I saw the way you avoided him getting down on one knee that day. You kept running off until you couldn’t anymore.” You burn up. “And who was the first person you looked for as he slipped that ring onto your finger? Me.”

“You’re paying too much attention to detail,” you retort, almost snarling.

 “Sure, and that’s eggshell.”

It’s like a slap to the face. Your blurry vision focuses onto your dress for a second before snapping back up. “It’s whipped cream. The way I wanted.”

The Monegasque rolls his watercolor eyes, nostrils fuming. “Open up your eyes and see—It’s. Eggshell. Nothing about this is anything you ever dreamt of for your wedding! From your dress, to your ring, to your fucking fiancé!” He huffs. “This ring is all I could have afforded back then, but I would have sold my heart to get you a fucking star if that’s what you wanted…But you’ve always liked the simpler things. You always said you didn’t need a huge diamond to prove your devotion. Look at you now,” he says, signaling to your ring that swallows your hand whole. “All of this is fake.”

You’re sobbing now. You’re bubbling with anger. Because he was here, with you, out of all days. Because he was still the same man who broke your heart and stitched it back up. 

Because he was right.

Brushing your nose with the back of your hand, you stare up weakly, defeated. “What do you want me to do?” you whisper, brows drawn together as he folds over completely over your goddess state.

“Don’t marry him and come with me.”

Though you knew that was what he wanted from the moment he walked past the door, it still knocked the last breath you held. 

Things were never easy with him. There were constant fights—but that never seemed to matter by the end of the day. There was constant hate—but you always braved through it because you needed him. 

And he steadied you. Charles was the first one to apologize, even if the majority of arguments weren’t his fault. Charles was the one who despite crushing his own heart, he wrote that letter to keep you untouched from his fans, from the media.

The letter hurt; like a motherfucker—and it would take a while to forgive…

But there’s no one else you would rather work through with it than with him.

Smiling softly, you nod, almost as if you can’t believe you’re actually doing this. Charles lets out a heavy exhale, laughing as he hugs you tightly, leaving you like a fish out on land. But you’re giggling through it all. “I have to talk to Hudson first, oh God, I have to talk to his family…” you shriek, pale and mortified.

“You know,” he starts. “We could skip all of that and just—”

“No,” you coldly press. Charles’ brows fly up. “I have to do this.” Distancing yourself from him, you wobble to the wooden door before looking back at the handsome man who stands proudly with his neat suit. Butterflies expand freely. “You’ll still be here when I get back, right?”

With a single hand pressed against his heart, he nods, as if you held the keys to all gates. “I’ll be wherever you need me to be from now on.” With that, you grin, eyes crinkling and exit the room.

What happened to your makeup? Lily squeals when she spots you running down the hallway, tripping over her tall heels as Alex catches her. There better be a reasonable explanation to this!

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[leclerity]

do you regret it?

Charles Leclerc x Lando's Girlfriend!Reader count: 2.2k words summary: You're dating Lando, but a whirlwind of a night finds you waking up in Charles's bed, with a mountain of consequences and decisions to make - and realities you need to face about your relationship. a/n: some mentions of smut, but 18+ only please!

You wake with a throbbing headache, a parched mouth, and sheets that smell of familiar-but-not-enough cologne. Your eyes flicker open and shut immediately, the light blinding you. Why is there light? The shutters are set to automatically go down once the sun sets.

Next to you, a body stirs. The weight of an arm rests on your waist, underneath the covers, and you feel them snuggle closer, nuzzling their nose in the back of your neck.

Lando never holds you in the morning.

Memories of last night flash before you—a club, salt burning on your tongue with the aftertaste of tequila, hungry lips on your neck, wandering hands under your miniskirt, the pleasant ache of a body pounding into yours—and for a moment you’re fine, thinking it was just another night out, until you remember your boyfriend isn’t even in the country.

It wasn’t your home you went back to – it was Charles’s.

“Stay,” you hear a murmur, a deep voice still laced with sleep. “Let’s just pretend, for a few more minutes.”

“Charles—”

“Please.”

He pulls you even closer, kissing your neck, and more memories flash before you. He held you last night, he pulled you back together when you told him about your troubles with Lando, he showed you what it meant to be—

Safe, you realise.

What it felt like to be safe with another person. Loved and cherished. Devoured. Worshipped.

Your shoulders relax against your will and his hand finds your arm, holding you. He kisses your neck again before you hear him snore a few moments later, his arm falling limp again.

This wasn’t right. This was—

What you have with Lando might not be the best, or even good, most of the time, but this is another thing entirely.

“This shouldn’t—This shouldn’t have happened.”

Charles stirs awake, pulling you gently until you’re facing him. His hair is ruffled and you remember tugging at it last night, screaming his name in pleasure. Your centre gives a little throb at the memory. You can’t tear your eyes from him – sleepy, dazed Charles, looking at you like all he wants is you.

“We can feel bad about it later,” says Charles. “What’s done is done.”

You wait a beat. “Do you regret it?”

He laughs; you can’t help but smile at the sound. “I’m not an idiot to regret something like that. Do you?”

There’s an ache in your chest and you turn away. He clears his throat and gets himself out of bed, and you know you’ve made yourself clear. Just because it was good doesn’t mean you shouldn’t regret it.

If he’s hurt by your silence, Charles doesn’t show. He hands you some of his clothes and a glass of water with a smile. He talks about his plans for the day, too – there’s a gala he’ll be attending later, with a few interviews before that and a photoshoot scheduled in a few hours. The more he talks, the less it feels like what happened last night really happened, and you find yourself going back to it, almost as if making sure you remember it.

It started at the club. There was a text from Lando, contents of which you can’t recall, and your phone is dead on the nightstand. It brought you spiralling, whatever it was – you’d been arguing a lot, lately. Over the smallest things. He’d been staying away from the flat you shared more, too, with friends or at conferences you were only invited to if there was a need to show the two of you as a couple.

Charles was there.

It’s not like it was the first, or even the hundredth time you spoke. He was always around, at the periphery of everything going on, and you’ve seen him walk past during some of the heated exchanges you’ve shared with your boyfriend. You didn’t even need to say what happened before he was at your side, a consoling arm over your shoulder in the VIP section of the club.

Lando was the reason you went out in the first place. Have fun without me. You didn’t want to, but it didn’t matter, because he wasn’t coming home.

That was the text, you remember. Lando said he’d be staying elsewhere for the next few weeks.

“You alright?” asks Charles.

“Yeah.”

“You’ve got…”

He reaches forward and wipes your cheek with his thumb, a black stain marring it.

Neither of you speak, for a while.

“You deserve better.” He doesn’t look at you while he says this. “He doesn’t—He can’t treat you right.”

“That’s not for you to decide,” you snap back.

His eyes find yours. “That wasn’t the case last night.”

“Last night was…”

“Different?” he offers. His hand makes its way to your thigh, still bare. “Good?”

Your breath hitches in your throat at the sight of him like this, at the memory of him in the cab, where you should’ve gone to yours, when you kissed him and asked him if you were worth it, and he said—

“You’re worth everything, if you ask me,” Charles says again. “You could—We could have everything.”

You never ended up going back to yours, last night. You drove straight to his and then he fucked you on this bed, better than Lando’s fucked you your whole relationship. When he looked at you, deep inside of you, you could tell that he was looking at you. He was present. He was savouring every moment.

Lando only ever fucks you from behind.

Charles’s hand finds yours, pulling you back to the present. “I meant every word I said last night.”

“You mean, when you were fucking Lando’s girlfriend?”

He looks as if struck. “I couldn’t care less about Lando.”

“You said all the right things last night,” you say. “All the right things to get me in your bed.”

“If you tell me you regret it, I’ll know you’re lying.”

“That doesn’t ma—”

“You wanted it,” Charles says, pushing himself across the bed until you’re against the headboard, his face inches from yours. “You needed it as much as I did. You know there’s more between us than there is between you and him.”

“There’s a relationship—”

“Sure. But the way you were moaning my name last night, nobody’s made you feel that good in a while.”

His mouth is on your neck again and his hand is slipping up your thigh, gentle and slow but determined. You want to push him away—you need to—but you don’t. You let him touch the spot between your legs, kiss your neck, grab your hair at the nape of your neck, and you let him do so with a shudder, a moan.

“That’s my girl,” he whispers.

And you are, you realise. When did it start? You’ve been orbiting each other for years, like twin suns, laughing at each other’s jokes in the paddock and during press events, but it was never like this.

But you knew. Deep down, you’ve always known. His jaw would harden at the sight of you and Lando arguing, he’d always hold the door for you when Lando left you in his wake. He’d always be the gentleman by your side.

Until he was no longer the gentleman, nor by your side, but on top of you when you needed him the most.

“Charles,” you breathe out, and he stops. “We shouldn’t.”

“Do you want to?”

You can’t say no.

His phone rings, saving you, and he backs away from you with a heavy sigh. Through the fabric of his sweatpants, you can see the bulge – it’s only hours since you had it in your hands, in your mouth.

Your mouth goes dry again.

Charles talks on the phone in another room, but you hear the grunts, the apologies, the anger rising in his voice. When he comes through you’re all dressed, ready to see yourself out, only the look on his face freezes you in place.

He opens his mouth, then closes it.

“What’s going on?”

He’s pale, now.

Some part of you already knows. You brace yourself, one hand on the door, the other twirling a loose thread in your pocket.

He doesn’t say anything, though. He just hands you his phone.

You scroll through the photos and your heart sinks to your stomach. There’s that cheeky grin on your face, the dazed look, smudged mascara on your cheeks, but your hand is in Charles’s, and then in his hair, and then his lips are on yours. Breaking news, it says. The article outlines the events of last night in a wrong, disorderly fashion, but close enough to the truth that you know it’s game over.

You’ve gone and fucked it all.

Charles holds you and you realise your knees are shaking, giving in. He guides you to the couch and you sit there, breathing deeply, scrolling through the photos as if they’d change, tell a story that wasn’t so incriminating.

All you can manage is, “How?”

“Some people knew I’d be there,” he says. “They probably just got more than they bargained for.”

“Lando must be blowing up my phone by now.”

Even as you say it, you know it’s not true. You know it as you knew what Charles would show you – certain truths don’t need to be acknowledged to be true. Lando might be pissed, but he won’t show. He won’t care to show.

“I’ve ruined everything,” you whisper.

“Maybe this—It could be a good thing. It could be a fresh start.”

You laugh.

“I mean it,” says Charles. He comes closer, wrapping his arms around you, pulling you against him. “We don’t have to hide what happened.”

“Do you expect me to just drop my whole life?”

“Do you love him?”

“Yes.”

“Do you?”

The whole time you’ve known him, Charles has never been anything but sincere with you. He’s never questioned anything you didn’t want questioned, when the paddock seemed to breathe in relief once Lando made things official, the story of childhood friends turned sweethearts. He didn’t ask when he caught you preparing to be Lando’s girlfriend, to act different, to enjoy the changes between you.

It was always meant to be. That’s what everyone’s been saying your whole life. You grew up with Lando, you travelled with him when you could, of course you’d be the one. Of course you’d spend the last three years of your life going through the motions, doing what’s expected, not once asking yourself if you really love him.

“I do,” you say.

He’s always been there for you.

When you were friends. When you were younger. When there was no expectations, at least not vocal ones, when the world didn’t care for who you were.

You feel Charles stiffen, but you hold onto his arm. “But not as a boyfriend,” you admit. “I don’t know if—I don’t think I ever did.”

He lets the statement hang in the air, but not for him – for you. By the looks of it, he’s known this for a while.

His hand finds your face and you lean into it. “We can deal with the media. The whole thing. It’s—I can talk to the right people and make it disappear. Tell a different story.”

“Lando would want—”

“I don’t care. I don’t. He lost the right to you a long time ago. He never should’ve had it in the first place.”

“He didn’t have the right to me,” you snap. “No one does. Not him, not you.”

Charles sighs. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. You know what I’m talking about.”

You do, you have for a while, but that doesn’t mean you can bring yourself to say it, too.

It doesn’t seem to matter, because his thumb brushes your cheek and his eyes gaze into yours with so much affection and care and desire that you realise you’ve known about how he’s felt about you, too.

Another one of those truths.

“We could have it, you know,” he whispers. “We could have it all. If you want to.”

“If I want what?”

“Me.”

This – this is what it boils down to. You can walk out that door and deal with the aftermath by yourself, knowing there’ll be no one to tell you to hold your head high as you collect your belongings, because there’s no going back. Even if the situation could be salvaged, Charles has shown you what you’ve been hiding from yourself. This wasn’t a relationship you wanted to salvage.

Or you could let him take you through that door. Show you to the world as his, kiss you like nothing else matters, fuck you while moaning your name just as loud as you moan his. You could have it, all of it.

All you have to do is give in.

You kiss him, instead of an answer, but the way he kisses you back, you know he doesn’t need one.

[leclerity]

you're mine now

Charles Leclerc x Best Friend!Reader count: 3.1k words summary: Charles invites you over for a movie night, that ends on his kitchen counter, no clothes involved. a/n: explicit smut, so strictly 18+

It isn’t supposed to be anything more than friends hanging out. You know this, and you remind yourself of it as you pat down your dress, ignoring the winter chill your bare legs give you. Maybe sundress wasn’t the best option, but it was the most chill-but-still-sexy option you had in the closet.

You rang the bell and Charles opens the door.

He looks good, to say the least – his hair has grown out a little and the curls are making their way back, alongside the ease in his shoulders that he regains during the off-season months. He pulls you in for a hug, and you suppress the shiver his cologne gives you.

Charles kisses your cheek. “Stunning, as always.”

“You’re outdoing me.”

“You’re putting a dress against sweatpants and a tee? Sure.”

“Sweatpants and a tee on you are a different story,” you argued.

He laughs and leads you through the house, even though you could’ve made your way to the living room in the dark, if you had to. The conversation takes you to the bar where he pulls out a bottle of champagne too expensive for the occasion, and tells you about the week since the last race.

You are listening—you pull yourself out of your thoughts a few times—but all you can think about is how good he looks. It’s like you haven’t seen him in years, not months. His hair’s messy and you know he was taking a nap shortly before you arrived because there’s red marks on his face, and he hasn’t shaved in a few days and great, now you’re looking at his lips—

“Do I have something on my face?”

You down the champagne in your glass. “No.”

“Want a refill?”

“Yes. Please.”

He takes the bottle and begins pouring, and your eyes are glued to his biceps, and the way they’re stretching the shirt—

“There you go.”

“Are you going to judge me if I finish that one, too?”

Charles laughs. Your legs go jelly.

“Only if you let me catch up, first.”

Three glasses of champagne down—each—later, you’re sitting on the couch. It’s a little bit cold and you complain, and the heating’s turned up within moments. He returns to the couch and looks at you; you catch him adjusting his sweatpants as he retakes his seat.

“Your sofa’s not small, you know.”

“What’s the point of sitting further away?” he asks. “I need to be able to annoy you during the movie.”

“Sure. Let’s go with that.”

It’s Charles’s turn to pick a movie. He scrolls through the list, asking you if you’ve seen this one, or that one, and you respond with your mind half there, half on the champagne resting against the side of the couch. You pour yourself another glass and one for him, too.

“We’re going to need another bottle.”

Charles shrugged. “We could start doing shots.”

“Charles!”

“What?” He looks at you so innocently, so full of something, that you feel a shiver. It doesn’t help when he puts a hand on your bare calf, thumb moving just slightly. “Shots are for later, alright. Do you want more champagne or wine?”

You hesitate: champagne would be perfect, because that was absolutely delicious, but you also know how much it costs.

“Wine,” you say.

Yet when he returns with the bottle, it’s not wine he’s holding.

“Charles—”

“We can have more champagne if we want, okay? We’re celebrating.”

“Celebrating what?”

He smiles as you clink your glasses together; something in your gaze grounds you, making you aware of every millimetre where his skin is touching yours.

“Us,” he says, and drinks to it.

He slots back into the spot at your side as his fingers absentmindedly brush your calves. It’s enough to keep you distracted – the way he’s sitting, or half-lying, you can clearly see the outline of the bulge in his sweatpants. He adjusts himself a few times, when he thinks you’re not looking, but it’s all you can see.

That, and the biceps, and the hair, and the slope of his nose that would feel so damn good against your—

You clear your throat. “I’ll be right back.”

“Where are you going?”

“Do you want an itinerary? The bathroom.”

“Don’t take too long,” he says. “The movie’s getting good.”

Ah, the movie. The one you’re definitely watching.

In the bathroom, you splash some water over your neck. Your face would’ve been better but you spent an hour doing a no-makeup makeup look and you’re not foolish enough to ruin it.

You think about it. It would be a lie to say you don’t.

You sit on the closed toilet and breathe, your hands on your thighs, itching to slip under your dress.

Behind closed eyes, you picture Charles on the couch, waiting for you. His hands are in his hair, making it messier, and you can just make out the outline of his—

Something cold touches the inside of your thigh. Your hand. You were about to—

It’s tempting. You can feel the pulsing, the need, the way your core responds to Charles’s every movement. If you took care of it here, and now, you’d be able to go through the movie without distractions. It wouldn’t even take long, considering how fired up you already are, and the image of your best friend so clear in your mind.

The outline gave you enough of an idea of what you’d expect. Of how it would feel in your mouth, between your legs, and maybe you could slip a finger in and think of it some more and—

“Y/N, you alright?”

Your hand flies to your mouth, masking the gasp. The other hand comes out from under your dress, the tip of your finger slick with your wetness.

“I’ll be out in a minute!”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, just… Just give me a minute.”

“I’m here if you need anything.”

The words made you leave out a long, controlled breath, willing your heart to stop racing. You promise you’d be out in a few seconds and when you hear his footsteps getting quieter, you wash your hands.

In the reflection, the woman looks as if she’s judging you.

“Shut up,” you tell her. “I know it’s bad.”

More water ends up on your neck and you dap it off with a bit of toilet paper. If Charles didn’t knock when he did, you probably would’ve gone more than just put a single finger in, and the thought of doing that while he sat across the wall is…

Exciting.

The whole place feels warmer as you make your way back to the living room. There’s a falter in your step – he’s sitting exactly the way you were picturing him. Even with the bulge still visible, if not as big as you supposed he could get.

If he knew what you were doing in his bathroom…

You slot back into your place, but make it so that no parts of your bodies are touching. If Charles notices, he doesn’t say anything.

He laughs along to the movie, and he’s enjoying it, for the most part, but it’s taking you every bit of self-control to keep your hands to yourself, when he’s so close. It’s not like you haven’t thought about this before—hell, you two even kissed on a dare when you were twelve—but this is different.

His attention is back on you as the movie ends. “You feeling alright?”

“Yeah, why?”

“I don’t know. You’re a bit quiet.”

“I was watching the movie.”

“Sure,” he says, though it’s clear he doesn’t believe you.

He’s close – so close you feel his breath on your lips. Your gaze flickers to his before you can help it and when you look up, your cheeks burning, he’s smiling.

“Hi,” he says.

“Hi.”

His hand’s on your calf—has it always been there?—and you swallow the lump in your throat. You hear the noise from the TV, the high-pitch of the fridge, and your own heart trying to beat its way out of its cage.

“We should, um.” You clear your throat. “Drinks?”

Charles follows you to the island counter, placing the glasses on it. You pour the champagne this time and your hand’s shaky enough you wonder if he’ll comment on it, but he doesn’t.

You look at his hands—his fingers—and remember that less than an hour ago, you were taking care of yourself in his bathroom thinking of these.

“Truth or dare,” you blurt out.

Charles laughs. “What are we, twelve?”

“Truth or dare. No backing out.”

“Fine,” he says. “Truth.”

“Boo. Pussy.” You swirl the champagne around your glass, thinking. “When’s the last time you had good sex?”

“Three weeks ago,” he answers.

“Good,” you repeat. Three weeks ago, he was texting you about a girl he hooked up with, who could barely hold a dick in her mouth without gagging. “Answer honestly.”

He leaned against the counter, blowing air out of his mouth. “I don’t know. It’s been a while. A few months, maybe? What about you?”

You smile. “The question was for you.”

“Fine. Truth or dare?”

“Dare.”

“That’s not fair! You knew what I was about to ask.” When all you do is shrug, he shakes his head, but he’s smiling. His cheeks are a soft tint of red, and you wonder if they’d feel warm against your touch. “I can’t think of any good dares.”

“Oh, come on.”

“Seriously!”

“You’re boring,” you say. “I can think of one.”

“For yourself?”

You hum in response. “It’s getting hot in here.”

Charles was quiet for a few moments – you left the ball in his court, and it was up to him to accept it. If you weren’t already tipsy, you could’ve sworn his cheeks had gone redder.

On the counter, your hands were touched just the slightest bit, but the sensation ran down your spine.

“Okay,” he says, stepping the tiniest bit closer. “I dare you to take off your dress.”

Aware of your eyes on your body, you grab the hem of your sundress. It’s not often you can see him take you in piece by piece, cheeks reddening, eyes hazing over as if unsavoury thoughts are running across his mind. You slow down, stick your hip out a little, trailing your hands on your thigh higher, higher, higher—

You watch his Adam’s apple bobble as he swallows at the sight of your lacy underwear.

“Y/N—” he tries, but his voice gives out, deep and husky and so, so needy.

You tug the rest of the dress over, throwing it on the floor between you. His eyes are on your chest, with his tongue brushing over his lips. Even without needing to check, you know there’ll be an outline on his trousers – not once has a man looked at you like this without wanting to jump your bones.

You smile. Innocently. “Your turn.”

Charles hesitates, but only for a moment. His eyes dart to your face and whatever he finds there must agree with him, because he grabs the bottom of his shirt and tugs it over in one movement, dropping it on top of your dress.

Your heart beats in two places, looking at him like this. The light is dim and you could trace the abs on his stomach, the firmness of his pecks, even the shoulders, memorising it to make a statue of him in his mind.

The thought of him, bare, makes your mouth go dry.

“Sweatpants too,” you say.

He quirks an eyebrow.

“I’m in my underwear.”

“We’re both wearing two pieces of clothing.”

There’s the moment—the opening you’ve been waiting for—and you look at him in the eye, searching, until you see the way his lips are parted, the speed of his chest rising, the outline of his dick screaming to be let out, and you make your decision.

“Why,” you say, “when we could be wearing none?”

Charles’s eyes darken in a way you haven’t seen before. Gone was the gentleman, the strong man with a kind heart, and you think of him looking at you like this with his hands on your throat, pounding into you, and your knees buckle.

“Are you sure?” he asks.

“We’ve been dancing around this long enough.” You hook your thumbs in the waistband of your panties. “I can do it, or you can.”

He crosses the distance between you in a moment, his body crashing against yours as he snatches you by the wrists, pulling them around his back. His mouth is against your neck and his breath sends shivers down your spine as he murmurs, “It would be my pleasure.”

He kisses you, then. His lips are soft against your skin they trail towards your collarbone, between your breasts. His hands are on your waist, now, just above the waistband, but travel behind your back as his mouth finds your nipple over the fabric of your bralette, pulling it in, the mixture of sensations making your body relax into his arms. Your hands are in his hair, now, tugging at it the way you’ve pictured yourself doing a million times, and he’s moaning against your breast, and you feel unravelled and you haven’t even done anything yet.

Charles pushes you against the counter and he pulls you up by the waist, and your legs wrap around him as if they were created for this. One hand on your chest tries to push you down but you shake your head, pulling one finger into your mouth, twirling your tongue around it as if it were a lolly.

“No,” you whisper. “I want to watch.”

“Fussy,” he says, dropping to his knees with a smile.

Your hands go back to his hair as he spreads your thighs with his hands, kissing the skin behind your knee, travelling inwards with soft kisses.

“Charles,” you moan. “I need—”

You gasp as his teeth sink into your thigh, followed by a kiss. “We’re doing this my way, princess.”

You’d protest—you’ve thought about this moment too often for it to go wrong—but his hand found your centre over your panties with soft, but confident strokes, with his mouth peppering kisses closer, and closer, and closer—

He kisses you over the fabric. He teases you, tongue flicking at your clit, and you tug his hair to tell him to hurry the fuck up and he parts your legs wider, pulling your panties to the side with his teeth and holding them there with his thumb. You feel his hot breath against your core, bare and exposed like this.

He looks up at you and you feel yourself melting into the sight. Those big green eyes, darkened with desire, his mouth an inch aware of your most private part…

You breathe out his name as if it were a prayer.

He smiles, satisfied, and burrows himself between your legs.

If heaven is real, you sure have died and gone to it, because your best friend is a master of the art of pleasure. He holds you steady against the counter as his tongue does the work even with your writhing and pleading for more, more, more, until he pushes a finger inside you, pumping and curling and it could be a minute or it could be an hour and your thighs are clenching his face and shaking, warms rushing through your body, and you breathe out his name again and again and again as he kisses you through your high, only pulling himself up from between your legs when your breathing steadied.

“I’m glad you enjoyed yourself,” he says, smirking.

You shake your head, with what little energy you had left, but the sight of him like this—the bulge still trying to escape his sweatpants—has you yanking his clothes down until his cock springs free, every bit the thing you’d hoped for and more.

You kiss the head, lightly, teasing, hearing Charles’s moan. His hand moves to the back of your head and you take him into your mouth, bobbing your head on it. He even tastes good.

He moans, again, grabbing a fistful of your hair, urging you to go faster, sloppier, and you do. You let him into the back of your throat, not gagging, and he starts moving into you, shivering as his eyes meet yours.

“You’re so fucking beautiful.” He lets out a moan, loud, and pulls out. “Get back on the counter.”

You do as told and then he’s between your legs, lining himself up at your entrance. Both of you are too needy, too excited, too drunk to worry about a condom, and he pushes himself in, but you’ve been waiting for this the whole night, and he slides in with little to no resistance.

He moans, again, in the crook of your neck. You arch your back into him and he starts pumping, head buried against you and hands planted on the counter behind you. Your nails dig lines into his back and he bites and sucks on the skin below your chin as he fills you up to the brim, over and over and over again.

“Charles,” you say against his ear, half-whisper, half-moan.

You feel him shiver.

“Yes?”

“I want you,” you whisper. “All of you.”

He looks at you and you give him a nod, and then he’s pumping into you faster, harder. You take his hand and drag it to your neck while lowering your back against the counter, biting onto your hand to suppress a moan as the new angle hits even deeper. Charles’s hand curls around your neck, just like you were imagining not too long ago, and his eyes bore into yours as you whisper his name, feeling yourself close, again.

It’s a few more pumps and a light squeeze on your neck and then your legs are shaking around him again and he moans, loud, guttural, as you feel the warmth of him spread inside you.

Charles does one last thrust and melts against your body, replacing your neck with more kisses, lazy this time, weary. Your hands are in his hair and you pull him up, your lips less than an inch away.

He kisses you. It’s tired, too, and sloppy, but you feel him twitch still inside of you, and his tongue explores your mouth. You can still taste yourself on it, and you remember how it felt, to have him buried between your legs, and you think, how could anyone give this up?

You couldn’t. You won’t.

“Charles,” you breathe out.

“Mhm?”

“You’re mine now.”

[leclerity]

⟡ cₕₐᵣₗₑₛ ₗₑcₗₑᵣc ₂ ⟡

NONE OF THESE ARE WRITTEN BY ME

ᵐʸ ᵒᵗʰᵉʳ ʳᵉᶜˢ ᶠ¹ ʳᵉᶜˢ

— ᶠᴸᵁᶠᶠ ⟡

a dulcet evening - @f1daydreamers

orange theory - @forzalando

making movies out of memories - @uglyducklingofthe2000s

prettiest - @starlost97

sleepy endearment - @adventuringblind

study hard - @fastandcarlos

sentimental - @illicitlimerence-writes

matchmaker pets - @the-flaneur

beause it matters - @chlerc

something - @leclsrc

the moment divine (^)

name(s) of love - @kiwisa

birthday - @norrisleclercf1

pick me up? - @captainreecejames

your hand fits in mine (so cute, i'll sob) - @the-offside-rule

hungry for you - @writtenfangirl

call me by your name (^)

car's outside (^)

the prettiest star - @lovings4turn

nothing's scary when i'm with you - @amirasainz

tradition - @heartmix

kisses (^)

sun and sand - @paddockletters

— ᴬᴺᴳˢᵀ⟡

i'll look after you (tw: not eating, passing out, etc.) - @roostersgirlfriendlovesf1

wait for your love - @leclerc-hs

all i'm asking for is your time - @mariahcarreyyy

as long as he's here (mentions of death of parents) - @forzalayla

just a mother - @natwritesf1

all of me for you (dark stuff !!! and smut towards the end) - @annie115

flushed (!!!! spiking drinks !!!!)- @xxblairexxss

ashamed (^)

break in, breakdown (tw: house getting broken into) - @pucksandpower

be my sanctuary (tw: domestic violence & abuse) (^)

blue birthday - @coco-loco-nut

stalker (tw: injury, stalking, etc.) - @norrisleclercf1

lay all your love on me - @foreveralbon

cellophane - @verstappensrealwife

— ˢᴹᵁᵀ⟡

like real people do - @monzabee

you're laughing (suggestive) - @scuderiahoney

one too many bites - @va1entinesg4l

something angelic - @agendabymooner

do i wanna know - @leclerc-hs

lose control - @hugleclerc

wine (alludes to smut) - @sinofwriting

giggles (^)

fling (^)

dangerous distraction - @thef1diary

so in love - @pierregazly

lazy sunday - @thelostconsultant

the middle of the night (sexual) - @leclerity

— ˢᴼᶜᴵᴬᴸ ᴹᴱᴰᴵᴬ ⟡

king of manifesting - @thisismeracing

dream girl - @lunavrse

wrong city - @captainreecejames

the short con - @planetpiastri

"you" in church - @slyscoutess

booktube - @edwardslvrr

that boy is mine - @imnameimswrld

the prettiest girl - @delewlew

i'm thirsty, refreshing - @5sospenguinqueen

needle little love (^)

best moments - @valstranquility

monaco official - @lovemomhatepolice

self care queen - the original creator deactivated this is the reblogged version

baby alonso - @cockkette

notes - @hugleclerc

tease - @marlenesluv

espresso - @keerysfreckles

looked for stars and i found a supernova - @love-belle

modern day romeo and juliet (^)

can't hear the haters - @forzamonza

— ˢᴱᴿᴵᴱˢ ⟡

something just like this two lay all your love on me - @imthebadguyyy

a house, a home where do we go? you think, you know love will always show green eyes - @vetteltea

to live for the hope of it all two three (smau) - @pierregazly

secrets he'll keep ne quitte pas - @hey-kae

night after night one man warrior (smau) - @charles-eclair16

post race tension post breakfast tension post space tension post tension - @5sospenguinqueen

play pretend two (^)

say don't go now that we don't talk suburban legends - @dannyriccsupremacy

archived what once was mardy bum - @leclsrc

[leclerity]

lately i've been pleading with the wild thing in my chest to behave i can feel its teeth gnawing on my ribcage, daring to open old wounds just to taste blood

insp

[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