#charles leclerc fic recs
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fic recs ﹐ ( charles leclerc x reader )
— key . fluff (❀) angst (✿) smau (❁) mature (❃) —
leclercs type (❀) @thebearchives
always, evermore, even after and still (❁) @love-belle
it’s never over (❀) (❃) @leclsrc
fix what has been broken (❁) @lorarri
you’ll change your name, or change your mind (✿) @monzabee
heartbreak on tour series (❁) @twobluejeans
right timing (✿) (❀) @moneymasnn
baby leclerc series (❀) @starkwlkr
lightning mclover (❀) @f1version
10 seconds (❀) @lxclerc
itch (❃) @monzamash
this is what it feels like (❁) @love-belle
sweet pea (❀) @leclsrc
delicate series (✿) (❀) (❁) @redclercs
north star series (✿) (❀) @harley-sunday
amour rose (❁) @cartierre
cherry tomato (❀) @xxblairexxss
to live for the hope of it all (❁) @pierregazly
una noche en monaco (✿) (❀) (❃) @charlesswife
sparks (❀) @writingstoraes
a house, a home (✿) @vetteltea
saw your mom at the grocery store (❁) @love-belle
it’s called love (❀) (✿) @racinggirl
honeymoon (❃) @lecsainz
what would you say (if i told you i loved you) (❁) @cieloclercs
what could’ve been (✿) @norrisleclercf1
pardesi girl (❁) @fleetwooods
i’d never walk cornelia street again (❁) @love-belle
night tea and tears (❀) (✿) @httpiastri
the seasons of love series (❀) (✿) (❃) @formulaforza
pretty visitors (❀) @strawberrysainz
still writing pages (✿) @leclercsbunny
royal series (❁) @maryleclerc
lonely call (✿) @lxclerc
for sentimental reasons (❀) (✿) (❃) @deadaydreams
the delicate series (❀) (✿) @fleetwooods
when it rains it pours (✿) @silverszobo
you gotta move, or move on (✿) @formulaforza
thirsty thoughts (❃) (❁) @lorarri
you’re losing me (✿) @oconso
why we broke up (✿) @charlesluvr
shoulder to lean on (✿) (❀) @silverszobo
ma moitié (❀) (✿) @thebearchives
the winner takes it all series (✿) @silverstonesainz
stories old and true (❀) (❃) @cherry-leclerc
i have forgotten (✿) (❃) @cherry-leclerc
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lily’s notes , if i studied for half the time i spent on tumblr i’d be a genius. but this is more fun and i slowly find myself tumbling down the tumblr black hole and re-experiencing my old fav fics that i’ve stumbled across again , and omg wow im having so much fun making fic recs so expect a lot more !! so this is the charles rec list aka the current f1 poster boy , max rec list next !! thank you to all the amazing writers for pushing their hard work onto these masterpieces mwah xx
#౨ৎ my recs#charles leclerc x reader#charles leclerc x you#charles leclerc fic recs#charles leclerc fic#charles leclerc x y/n
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Charles leclerc¹⁶ fic recs
Masterlist
Master chef: smau, fluff
Birds of a feather: angst to fluff, long
Honorary wag: smau parts, fluff
Mini-manager: fluff
Just silly: smau, fluff
Just the two of us: fluff
Littlest surprise: smau, fluff
#f1#formula 1#formula one#charles leclerc#charles leclerc imagine#charles leclerc x reader#charles leclerc fic recs#f1 fic rec#f1 smau#smau
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LIZ'S CHARLES LECLERC FIC RECS
rec masterlist
last updated october 14th, 2024
FLUFF
company by @hugleclerc
SMUT
you got me touching by @httpsserene
almost lost you by @fastandcarlos
piano punishment by @thef1diary
edged by ^
ANGST
break in, breakdown by @pucksandpower
SMAUS
nothing yet...
#formula 1#f1#charles leclerc smau#f1 charles leclerc#charles leclerc headcanon#charles leclerc#leo leclerc#alexandra saint mleux#charles leclerc fluff#charles leclerc smut#cl16 x reader#cl16 imagine#cl16#cl16 x you#cl16 one shot#cl16 fic#cl16 fluff#fic rec#charles leclerc fic recs#charles leclerc fix#.recs
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i need charles leclerc fic recs 😫😫
i just feel like ive read so many but i just want to see what else is out there!!!
comment with the best ones you’ve read or some of your own works please please! thank youuuu🫶
#ssprayberrythings talks#ssprayberrythings x formula one#charles leclerc#charles leclerc fic recs#fix recs#f1 fic recs
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Hey God... WHEN WILL IT BE MEEEEEEE???!
This man is gonna be the death of me honestly 🫠 Boyfriend of the Year award goes to Monsieur Charles Lerclerc 🏆✨
Nat this little blurb was soooo cute!! ❤️
So Good to Me
Charles Leclerc x Reader
Summary: Charles Leclerc is the perfect man for you … getting stopped on the street for a random TikTok challenge just serves to prove that even further
The warm Monaco sun beats down on you as you stroll leisurely along the bustling sidewalk, a canvas tote bag filled with fresh produce and flowers from the local farmer’s market hanging from your shoulder. The salty sea breeze wafts across your face, carrying with it the excited chatter and laughter of tourists admiring the luxurious yachts bobbing in Port Hercules.
You smile to yourself, relishing this perfect Mediterranean afternoon. Just a quick stop at home to drop off your purchases, and then maybe you’ll take a dip in the infinity pool on the terrace to cool off before Charles is done with-
“Excusez-moi, mademoiselle!” A young man’s voice breaks through your daydreaming. You glance over to see a twenty-something guy with a neatly trimmed beard, expensive-looking sunglasses, and a black t-shirt emblazoned with HUSTLE in white block letters. He’s holding a mini microphone and has his iPhone pointed at you, clearly filming.
A TikToker.
You sigh internally but force a polite smile.
“Oui, puis-je vous aider?” You reply in French.
“Ah sorry, I don’t speak much French! Do you speak English?” The TikToker asks eagerly in a British accent.
“Yes, I do. Can I help you with something?” You say, switching to English yourself. You just want to get home but you know these influencer types can be annoyingly persistent.
The TikToker grins. “Brilliant! I’m doing a social experiment for my followers. I was wondering — do you have a significant other? A boyfriend or husband perhaps?”
You raise an eyebrow questioningly but decide to humor him. “Um, yes, I have a boyfriend,” you answer simply.
His eyes light up. “Fantastic! And would you say your boyfriend loves you very much?”
You can’t help but chuckle at the boldness of this stranger’s line of questioning. “Yes, I would definitely say that. He loves me a lot,” you confirm, a soft smile playing on your lips as you think of Charles.
“Perfect! Okay, here’s the challenge,” the TikToker announces dramatically, staring intensely into his camera. “I want you to call up your boyfriend right now and ask him to send you some money. Doesn’t matter how much. But for every €100 he sends, I’ll give you €20 to keep for yourself. Let’s see how much he really loves you, shall we?”
You stare at this guy incredulously for a moment before bursting out laughing. Is he serious? He clearly has no idea who your boyfriend is. An amused smirk spreads across your face as you fish your iPhone out of your designer purse.
“Alright, you’re on,” you say confidently, already unlocking your phone and tapping on Charles’ contact. The TikToker looks surprised but excited that you actually agreed to his silly challenge.
“Put it on speaker phone,” he instructs, zooming his camera in on your phone screen which is now dialing Charles.
After a few rings, the warm, honey-smooth voice you adore comes through. “Allô mon amour, what’s up?” Charles greets you sweetly. “I’m just finishing up some simulator runs but I should be done soon to help with dinner.”
“Hey baby,” you reply, your voice automatically softening. “Sorry to bother you, I know you’re busy. But I’m out right now and I just passed by that little boutique near the casino, you know the one? And I saw the most incredible pair of shoes in the window. I swear they were calling my name.”
Charles laughs affectionately, the sound like music to your ears even through the cell phone speaker. “Oh yeah? The ones that were calling your name last week turned out to be, what was it, €900?” He teases.
You roll your eyes playfully even though he can’t see. “Okay, fair, but you know I hardly ever splurge on myself. I’m usually so frugal!”
“Mmhmm, whatever you need to tell yourself, chérie,” Charles says wryly and you can practically hear the smirk in his voice. “Let me guess, you need to go get these dream shoes right now? Or else they’ll haunt you forever?”
“You know me so well,” you gush dramatically. “I promise I’ll pay you back though! I get paid next week and-”
“Hey, hey, stop,” Charles cuts you off gently. “Mon cœur, you never have to pay me back, you know that. I love being able to treat you and spoil you. You deserve the world. Never forget that.”
You feel yourself melt at his earnest words, momentarily forgetting you have an audience. “I love you so much,” you murmur. “Thank you for always being so good to me.”
“Right back at you, ma belle. Je t’aime,” Charles says tenderly. “There, check your banking app. Let me know if you need any more. And have fun shopping! I’ll see you at home in a bit, okay? À bientôt!”
You glance down at your phone as a notification from your bank pops up on the screen. Your eyes widen slightly when you see the amount Charles sent over, but you recover quickly.
“Thank you, baby. See you soon!” You reply before hanging up. You turn back to the TikToker who is gaping at you in disbelief. Casually, you turn your phone screen towards him and his camera so he can clearly see the notification that €10,000 has just been deposited into your account.
The poor guy looks like he’s about to pass out from shock. He opens and closes his mouth a few times, rendered speechless. You just laugh good-naturedly.
“Well, guess I won your little challenge, huh?” You remark, slipping your phone back into your purse. “Tell you what, why don’t you donate whatever money you were going to give me to a local animal shelter instead? I think it’ll be put to much better use there.”
The TikToker finally manages to pick his jaw up off the floor. He laughs shakily and nods. “Yeah ... yeah I can do that. Wow. Um, thanks for being such a good sport about this. And congrats on, uh, winning, I guess?”
You give him a friendly wink. “Anytime. Have a nice rest of your day!” With that, you turn gracefully on your heel and continue on your way back home, feeling rather smug and deeply appreciative of your wonderfully generous boyfriend.
“Wait!” The TikToker calls out after you. You glance back over your shoulder curiously. He hesitates before asking in an awed voice, “If you don’t mind me asking ... who the hell is your boyfriend?”
An enigmatic smile plays on your lips. “No one special really,” you reply breezily. “Just a guy who loves driving fast cars.”
You leave the gaping TikToker in your wake as you saunter off, already daydreaming about showing your appreciation to Charles later for being the most incredible boyfriend imaginable.
Maybe you really will splurge on those designer shoes after all … and pick up a little something special from the lingerie boutique next door while you’re at it.
Your smile widens. Just as a little thank you to your man, of course. Life is good when you’re in love with Charles Leclerc.
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— Charles Leclerc Recs
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▸ fic recs
christmas in monaco // part two // part three ~ @everythingne
orange theory ~ @forzalando
Welcome to the chalet ���� ~ @theemporium
orange peel theory ↑
all you got ~ @scuderiahoney
after all ↑
nothing's new ~ @struggling-with-drivers
kumquats and oranges ~ @uglyducklingofthe2000s
you make it too easy ↑
our love was made for movie screens ↑
snip snip ~ @dreamauri
cherry tomato? ~ @xxblairexxss
said something stupid, instead of 'I love you' 💕 ~ @absolutelynotmate-archive
how you get the girl ~ @monzabee
everyone adores you ~ @leclsrc
begin again ↑
the sweatshirt ~ @charles-leclerizz
bear hugs // the one where ollie lives alone ~ @lightsoutletsgo
theories of relativity ~ @pucksandpower
changing lanes ↑
so good to me ↑
oscar jack piastri-leclerc ↑
some extra goodies ~ @chrisevansonly
backwards cap ↑
il pawdestinato ~ @fangirl-dot-com
sons, sons, and more sons ↑
new hair stylist ~ @formula1simp
photograph ~ @no-144444
watch my boyfriend for a sec ~ @youaresimplylovely
speechless ~ @sunrizef1
did I do that? ~ @chlerc
social media au
nonsense...or is it? ~ @astonmartinii
undercover verstappen ↑
the father who stepped up ↑
guilty as sin ↑
your #1 wag/f1 reporter ~ @lovecanyon
safety first ~ @starkwlkr
chicken shop date ~ @rosyblooom
chaotic texts ~ @norris55s
april fools' day ↑
looked for stars and I found a supernova ~ @love-belle
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the universe needs leclerc!sister x harry. by the universe i mean me
kiss a musician - hs
summary: harry wants to date yn leclerc. the only girl out of the four leclerc siblings. her older brother who happens to be a formula 1 driver is not happy about it folkie radio: guys you have no idea how nervous i am of posting this idk why 😭😭 i really hope you like this otherwise i'll feel silly okay
MASTERLIST | MY PATREON
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liked by charles_leclerc, alexandrasaintmleux and 502,255 others
ynleclerc hot girls cry on their birthday 💌
view all 9,736 comments
username1 HAPPY BIRTHDAY LITTLE LECLERC
username2 she’s the moment
scuderiaferarri Happy Birthday, Ferrari queen ❤️♥︎ by author
username3 AHH WE SHARE THE SAME BIRTHDAY
pierregasly Wow! I still remember when you were a little kid and you wanted to play with Charles’ kart. Happy birthday 🎉 ♥︎ by author
↳ yourinstagram when you and charles rocked justin bieber haircuts. cheers
↳ username1 HEEELP
carmenmmundt Happy birthday gorgeous gorgeous girl ✨ ♥︎ by author
↳ yourinstagram love youuu ty 💓
pascale_leclerc Joyeux anniversaire ma petite fille ♥︎ by author
lorenzotl Stop growing up right now 🥲🥲 ♥︎ by author
↳ username1 the leclercs are cry babies when it comes to her
arthur_leclerc It’s giving old lady
↳ ynleclerc stfu you’re like 5
↳ username2 LOVE THEMMM
alexandrasaintmleux My girl ❣️ ♥︎ by author
landonorris HAPPY BIRTHDAY BABE 😍 getting more gorgeous by the second ♥︎ by author
↳ username1 LANDO YOU’RE ON MAIN
↳ charles_leclerc How many times do I have to tell you to back off?
↳ username2 CHILL
lilyhme happy birthdayyy beauty, can’t wait to celebrate tonight 🕺♥︎ by author
↳ alexandrasaintmleux She has no idea of the surprise that’s coming her way
↳ ynleclerc JUST TELL ME ALREADY
charles_leclerc Happy birthday petite soeur, you might be older now but you’ll always be our baby ❤️ ♥︎ by author
↳ username1 AWEEE
↳ username2 protective big bro
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liked by harrystyles, ynleclerc and 2,011,268
charles_leclerc I’ll always look after you. Joyeux anniversaire ma petite soeur ❤️
tagged: ynleclerc
view all 13,944 comments
username1 AWEEE
username2 MY HEART CANT TAKE THIS
alexandrasaintmleux 🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹 ♥︎ by author
carlossainz55 Happy birthday @ynleclerc 🎉
username3 charles adores her so much i can’t do this
landonorris happy birthday (again) i hope you got my flowers @ynleclerc 😘
↳ charles_leclerc That’s it.
↳ ynleclerc HE DIDNT SEND ME ANYTHING HES JUST MESSING WITH YOU FFS 😭
↳ username1 HELP MEEEEEEEEEE
username4 what is HARRY STYLES doing in the likes
↳ username1 charles x harry lore is real
ynleclerc Love you forever 💓 ♥︎ by author
lorenzotl Before both of you became annoying teenagers
↳ ynleclerc stfu you’re like 50
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liked by username1, username2 and 27,936 others
harryupdates Harry performing at a private event in Monaco tonight !
view all 1,976 comments
username1 WTF?????
username2 WHATS GOING ONNNNN
username3 GOD I MISSED HIM SO MUCH
username4 someone dig in more information bc wtffff
username5 MONACO OUT OF ALL PLACES THATS SO RANDOM
username6 YALL I HAVE INFO!! apparently this is charles leclerc’s (formula 1 ferrari driver) sister’s bday party
↳ username1 OMFGGG
↳ username2 THIS CROSSOVER
↳ username3 imagine having a rich brother who can get harry styles to perform at your birthday party
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liked by harrystyles, landonorris and 654,835 others
ynleclerc BEST PARTY EVER 😭😭 thank you to my angels @/charles_leclerc @/alexandrasaintmleux for putting this together for me, HARRY STYLES ARE YOU FREAKING KIDDING ME ???? love you all so much 💓💓
tagged: alexandrasaintmleux, lilymhe, charles_leclerc, landonorris, harrystyles
view all 15,937 comments
username1 OMFGGGG
username2 OH TO BE YN LECLERC
oscarpiastri Coolest party ever 🤘♥︎ by author
username3 imagine being rich and pretty and having a rich and pretty brother who hires harry styles to perform at your party
arthur_leclerc Your gift from me was a Chanel purse, where is my post?
↳ ynleclerc sorry turtur but harry styles > chanel purse
↳ arthur_leclerc Fine I agree, Harry Styles is out of this world
username4 IT GIRL FR FR
francisca.cgomes I’m still hungover ♥︎ by author, iamrebeccad, alexandrasaintmleux, lilymhe
↳ iamrebeccad Same
↳ ynleclerc come to my place let’s bed rot together ♥︎ by francisca.cgomes, alexandrasaintmleux, lilymhe, iamrebeccad
↳ username1 i just want to be one of them 😩
username5 charles really got HARRY STYLES like antisocial harry styles who never leaves the house to perform at his little sister’s wedding. wow
username6 THIS IS FOR THE F1 x HARRY GIRLIES
alexandrasaintmleux You deserve it my gorgeous girl ❤️ ♥︎ by author
↳ ynleclerc you’re my favorite human on earth
↳ charles_leclerc I paid for the entire thing…
↳ ynleclerc did i ask?
↳ username1 LOVE THEM 😭
harrystyles Happy birthday again, YN. It was a pleasure to meet you and your brothers. Big love to the entire family x ♥︎ by author, charles_leclerc, arthur_leclerc
↳ username1 HARRYYYYY
↳ username2 we NEED to see that harry x charles pic
↳ charles_leclerc Thank you for the performance, mate 🙌
↳ username3 this is still surreal to me
↳ ynleclerc best birthday thanks to youuuu ❣️
↳ username1 charles or harry?
↳ yourinstagram harry ofc
lorenzotl Love you so much, little one 💓 ♥︎ by author
landonorris When your babe posts you on main 😍 ♥︎ by author
↳ username1 LANDOOOO😭
↳ username2 i love their friendship and how they mess around to piss charles off
↳ ynleclerc my main bitch 😘
↳ charles_leclerc I’m logging out now
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liked by charles_leclerc, harrystyles and 597,367 others
ynleclerc anything interesting happening in monza this weekend?
view all 13,199 comments
username1 COOL GIRL
username2 if charles doesn’t win then we don’t care ♥︎ by author
arthur_leclerc Is that my hoodie?
↳ ynleclerc whoops
iamrebeccad You’re hanging out with me 🥰 ♥︎ by author
↳ carmenmmundt And me ♥︎ by author
↳ ynleclerc highlight of my weekend
username3 FORZA FERRARI
↳ ynleclerc forza charles*
↳ username1 REAL
landonorris Papaya looks better on you babe 🤩
↳ username1 sometimes idk if lando is just joking or if he’s being fr
↳ ynleclerc NO
↳ charles_leclerc I’m in your walls
username4 HARRY IN THE LIKES ???
charles_leclerc Ma petite soeur always supportive ❤️ ♥︎ by author
↳ ynleclerc im here for other reasons
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liked by charles_leclerc, carlossainz55 and 599,637 others
ynleclerc HE WON 🥺🥺 i’ve never felt prouder of being your sister, you teach me what being resilient and fighting for your dreams means. IL PREDESTINATO. THE KING OF MONZA. FIER DE TOIN TOUJOURS
view all 13,986 comments
username1 AWEEEEE
username2 THE LECLERCS MAKING ME CRY TODAY
scuderiaferrari It's in his blood ❤️
username3 the way she was crying and hugging arthur when the camera showed them THE LECLERC SIBLINGS HAVE MY HEART ♥︎ by author
alexandrasaintmleux 🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺 ♥︎ by author
username4 BEST RACE EVER
landonorris I'll win more races for you babe 😘 ♥︎ by author
↳ username1 LANDO STOP
↳ ynleclerc you're all talk and no trousers
↳ username2 i love their friendship sm
harrystyles Congratulations @/charles_leclerc! ♥︎ by author, charles_leclerc
↳ username2 hARRY STYLES???
↳ username3 THIS IS SO RANDOM WTF
↳ username4 LSJSAFH WHAT??
↳ username5 I guess he became with the leclercs after the party 😭
↳ charles_leclerc Wow thank you mate! ♥︎ by harrystyles
charles_leclerc Je t'aime petite soeur ❤️ ♥︎ by ynleclerc
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liked by username1, username2 and 18,037 others
harryupdates Harry having in dinner in Italy tonight !
view all 1,028 comments
username1 BABYYYY
username2 italyrry lives
username3 IS HE ON A DATE
username4 BUUUB
username5 i was there and he was with a girl 👀
↳ username1 hello spill the deets ??
↳ username2 HUH
↳ username5 the girl was really pretty and they were chatting and laughing all night long, they looked cute
↳ username3 IM PANICKING NOW
ynleclerc has added to their close friends story
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replies:
carmenmmundt Omg you went on a date !! So happy for you beauty ✨
↳ ynleclerc love youuu carm
francisca.cgomes THATS MY BABYYY who’s the lucky guy?
↳ ynleclerc can’t say yet 🤫🤫
alex_albon Charles won’t like this..
↳ ynleclerc he doesn’t have to know
landonorris NOOOO YOU’RE MY BABE
landonorris WHO’S THAT????
↳ ynleclerc that’s a secret i’ll never tell
harrystyles ❤️
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liked by username1, username2 and 25,477 others
harryupdates Harry out and about in Monaco today !
view all 1,987 comments
username1 BABYYY
username2 HE LOOKS SO RICH???
username3 ooohhh is monaco the new italy ??
username4 THE OUTFIT IM SALIVATING
username5 dilf dilf
username6 singlerry is the best thing ever
deuxmoi has added to their stories
![Tumblr media](https://64.media.tumblr.com/d7835dd3a448fd06a08f92c1f9250f10/b192a5b2247803e4-4d/s640x960/e9457ac696382c6ad04ca592c55e2ed84444db77.jpg)
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liked by harrystyles, alexandrasaintmleux and 601,275 others
ynleclerc happy ❤️
view all 14,837 comments
username1 OMG BABY LECLERC HAS A BOYFRIEND ??
username2 PRETTYYY
francisca.cgomes 😍😍 my baby! ♥︎ by author
username3 BRO CHARLES IS NOT GOING TO LIKE THIS
username4 WAITING FOR CHARLES’ MELTDOWN
lorenzotl Wow I didn’t know about this, I’m happy for your, soeur 🤍 ♥︎ by author
↳ username1 the only sane leclerc ♥︎ by author
↳ charles_leclerc Don’t support this
landonorris BABE?? ♥︎ by author
↳ username1 OMFG THE FLOWERS COULD BE FROM LANDO
↳ username2 LANDOYN IS REAL
leclerc_pascale ❤️ ♥︎ by author
↳ charles_leclerc Don’t support this
alexandrasaintmleux 🥹🥹 ♥︎ by author
↳ charles_leclerc Don’t support this
↳ username3 HELP CHARLES IS SO ANNOYING
arthur_leclerc EXCUSE ME WHEN WAS THIS
↳ ynleclerc just flowers turtur
username5 CHARLES WAS FOUND SOBBING
username6 HARRY IN THE LIKES
charles_leclerc YN Pascale Leclerc, answer your phone right this second
↳ username1 NOT THE FULL GOVERNMENT NAME
↳ username2 PROTECTIVE BRO
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liked by harrystyles, landonorris and 604,827 others
ynleclerc but god i love the english ‼️‼️
view all 15,002 comments
username1 OMG
username2 AHH I FEEL LIKE SHES DATING LANDO
carmenmmundt 🤍🤍 ♥︎ by author
username3 HOW DID CHARLES ALLOW THIS
leclerc_pascale Belle 💕♥︎ by author
username4 HOLD ON. THATS HARRY STYLES IN THE SECOND PIC??
↳ username1 YOU’RE RIGHT THOSE ARE HIS TATTOOS
↳ username2 OH LORD
arthur_leclerc JUST SPILL
↳ username1 yn not telling her brothers anything is so 😭
username4 someone put charles on a straightjacket
username5 so yn is dating either lando norris or harry styles ?? what an icon
landonorris YOU’LL ALWAYS BE MY BABE IDC 😤
↳ username1 SO ITS NOT LANDO
↳ ynleclerc dude give it up
gemmastyles 💓♥︎ by author
↳ username1 OH
↳ username2 STYLES-LECLERC CONFIRMED
username6 CHARLES IS RADIO SILENT THIS IS SCARY
alexandrasaintmleux Prettiest girl forever 🥰 i’m happy for you ♥︎ by author
↳ username3 charles is single now
lorenzotl Petite soeur! Your happiness is mine 🙌 ♥︎ by author
↳ ynleclerc 🥹
↳ username1 lorenzo is such a supportive big brother :(
charles_leclerc You’re not allowed to leave the house once you’re back in Monaco
↳ username1 HEEELP
↳ username2 HES SO DAMN ANNOYING
↳ username3 POOR YN
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liked by username1, username2 and 21,937 others
harryupdates Harry out in London today!
view all 2,011 comments
username1 BUBBBB
username2 WHOS THAT
username3 guys guys yn leclerc had that same outfit on her last insta story
username4 THATS YN LECLERC 😭
username5 HARRYYN STYLECLERC CONFIRMED
username6 bro how did this happen…
username7 that’s why he performed at her birthday and he kept going to monaco OMG
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ynleclerc has added to their close friends story
![Tumblr media](https://64.media.tumblr.com/a12ead8b91b70c44a0c85b3ebdd5cec0/b192a5b2247803e4-c8/s640x960/4b3f17e5aab2b14275ccf28b50ddc880c0c35885.jpg)
replies:
francisca.cgomes 😂😂😂😂😂
alexandrasaintmleux He has his phone with him now
↳ ynleclerc i’ve muted the groupchat for my own sanity
alex_albon You’re going to give your brother a heart attack…
↳ ynleclerc that’s not on me he’s just dramatic
landonorris HARRY STYLES ????? HOW?????
↳ ynleclerc you don’t think i’m capable of pulling him?
↳ landonorris yes you are 😩
↳ landonorris you’ll always be my babe tho
harrystyles Don’t joke about that love I’ve been panicking all day
harrystyles has added to their close friends story
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replies:
mitchrowland And one of them can run you over with a Ferrari, by the way
↳ harrystyles This is not helping my case
jefezoff 😂😂😂😂😂
gemmastyles You’ll survive brother (hopefully)
niallhoran YOOO you and Leclerc’s sister? How did that happen
↳ harrystyles I’ll tell you about it if i make it out alive after family dinner
ynleclerc you’re a cutie
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liked by harrystyles, alexandrasaintmleux and 602,838 others
ynleclerc 💋
view all 14,088 comments
username1 OMFG
username2 SHES INSANE
username3 GIRLLL ADDRESS THE RUMORS
gerogerussell63 🤣🤣🤣
alex_albon You're really going to give your brother a heart attack...
↳ ynleclerc he'll survive
↳ username1 THE WOMAN THAT YOU ARE
username4 THE HARRY LIKE PLEASE HES NOT SURVIVING THAT FIRST DINNER
username5 the vintage racing jacket and the shirt SHE KNOWS WHAT SHES DOING
arthur_leclerc DISGUSTING
↳ username1 HEEEELPPP
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liked by username1, username2 and 48,047
gossiphub The Leclerc family was seen out to dinner in Monaco tonight, joined by Harry Styles, who's dating YN Leclerc
view all 3,099 comments
username1 OOOHHH MY GOD
username2 IT HAPPENED
username3 i can only imagine the talk charles gave to harry
username4 DID HARRY MAKE IT OUT ALIVE
username5 oh im praying for harry
username6 STYLECLERC IS ALIVE
username7 meeting her brothers 😭😭😭 i cant
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liked by harrystyles, arthur_leclerc and 1,022,337 others
yourinstagram dinner update: he made it out alive
view all 10,278 comments
username1 AHHHH
username2 THIS HARD LAUNCH
alex_albon 😂😂😂😂😂
username3 i just need to know how that dinner went
↳ ynleclerc enzo was a sweetheart as always, arthur was a fanboy the entire time and charles couldn't stop yapping about driving fast cars in order to scare harry
↳ username1 HEEEEEELPPP
pierregasly Now he needs to meet your chosen brothers
↳ ynleclerc NO
↳ francisca.cgomes Leave her alone ♥︎ by author
landonorris This is who took my babe away from me? 😩
↳ harrystyles Proudly ♥︎ by author
↳ username2 OMFGGGGGG
↳ username3 THIS IS TOO GOOD
↳ landonorris Can't even complain you're cool as hell mate
lorenzotl He's part of our family now ♥︎ by author, harrystyles
↳ charles_leclerc 😵
↳ arthur_leclerc CRY CHARLES
harrystyles First Leclerc dinner done. Now I need to survive my first Grand Prix ♥︎ by author
↳ username1 IM YELLING
↳ username2 OMFG HARRY AT A GP
↳ charles_leclerc See you in the Paddock, mAtE
↳ ynleclerc LEAVE MY BOYFRIEND ALONE
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liked by harrystyles, ynleclerc and 2,011,272 others
charles_leclerc Ma petite soeur pour toujours ❤️🤷♂️
view all 16,043 comments
username1 AWEEE
username2 he's such a big brother
alexandrasaintmleux My 🤍🤍 ♥︎ by author
username3 i wish my brothers loved me
pierregasly Everyone needs to watch out for Charles when he's in big brother mode ♥︎ by author
↳ username1 tell that to harry styles
scuderiaferrari Name a more iconic duo ❤️
username4 I NEED TO KNOW HOW THEIR CONVERSATION WENT LIKE
arthur_leclerc I'll always be on your side @/harrystyles ♥︎ by ynleclerc, harrystyles
↳ username1 HEEEEELPPP
↳ username2 ARTHUR IS SUCH A FAN
↳ lorenzotl Same 🙌
↳ username3 HELP CHARLES IS ON HIS OWN
↳ ynleclerc my favorite brothers 🤍🤍
↳ harrystyles Thank you, Arthur and Lorenzo. I can't wait for golf this weekend x ♥︎ by arthur_leclerc, lorenzotl, ynleclerc
↳ username4 OMG HE HAS PLANS WITH THE LECLERCS YALL
↳ charles_leclerc I think I just got kicked out of my own family
ynleclerc you’re annoying and want to scare my boyfriend away, but i love you ♥︎ by author
↳ username1 they’re the besttt
#harry styles#harry styles fake instagram#harry styles imagine#harry styles fluff#harry styles x reader#harry styles blurb#harry styles one shot#harry styles writing#harry styles x you#harry styles fic#harry styles fanfiction#harry styles fic rec#harrysfolklore#harry styles fanfic#charles leclerc x reader#f1 x reader#formula 1 fanfiction#charles leclerc fanfiction#leclerc!reader#leclerc!sister
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my hormones are everywhere 😩 someone let that man know my uterus is free pleaseeeee 🥵
𝗟𝗔 𝗣𝗘𝗧𝗜𝗧𝗘 𝗙𝗜𝗟𝗟𝗘 𝗔 𝗣𝗔𝗣𝗔
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𝗣𝗔𝗜𝗥𝗜𝗡𝗚: dad!charles leclerc x mom!reader
𝗦𝗨𝗠𝗠𝗔𝗥𝗬: charles returns from a weekend of racing to his girls.
𝗪𝗔𝗥𝗡𝗜𝗡𝗚 just extreme cuteness, and maybe some bad french
𝗔𝗨𝗧𝗛𝗢𝗥 𝗡𝗢𝗧𝗘𝗦: charles with baby C made my uterus itch, and also gave me ideas to write.
𝗥𝗘𝗤𝗨𝗘𝗦𝗧 𝗠𝗔𝗦𝗧𝗘𝗥𝗟𝗜𝗦𝗧 𝗚𝗨𝗜𝗗𝗟𝗜𝗡𝗘𝗦
Your feet touched the cold floor as you moved away from the bed, drawn by the laughter of your five-month-old daughter. Opening the bedroom door, you were greeted by an adorable sight: Charles, your husband, shirtless and smiling, entertaining your little one with playful antics. She clapped her tiny hands and giggled, her infectious joy filling the room. You stood in the doorway, arms crossed, waiting for him to notice your presence, but Charles was completely absorbed in the fun with your daughter.
"Charles?" you called, raising an eyebrow. He quickly turned his head in your direction, still grinning, and rushed to explain, "She was having a blast in her crib, love. I was just watching from a distance, but she noticed me and started calling for me. She even said 'Papa,' it's the cutest thing I've ever heard..." You struggled to contain a smile at his endearing explanation.
"Alright, you're putting her to sleep..." you commented. "She's hardly been sleeping these past three days. She must have missed you." You informed him. Charles made an adorable face, turned to your daughter, and gently nuzzled her nose with his, saying, "Did you miss Papa? Papa missed you a lot, little princess."
"Papa missed me? Or just his little girl?" you teased, narrowing your eyes playfully.
"Oh, don't be jealous, my love. You'll always be my number one girl. Now come give me a kiss." He extended an arm to you, while the other remained carefully close to your daughter, who couldn't sit up on her own yet. You approached and wrapped your arms around your husband's torso. "Mon amour," he said before kissing your lips, causing butterflies to flutter in your stomach.
Your daughter squealed, "Apah!" You both pulled away to look at her, and she opened her arms toward her father. You laughed, "You didn't seem to be complaining when Papa was away!" Charles picked up your daughter and chuckled as she wrapped her tiny arms around his neck. "She's definitely petite fille à Papa, isn't she?"
"No, she shouldn't be. After all, I was the one who carried her for nine months, not you," you joked.
"Alright, I'll fetch a new one, dear. You've used that argument too much," Charles said, leaning in to kiss you before leaving the room.
He lay down on the bed, pulled the blanket over himself, and tucked your daughter in before winking at you, a part of the playful routine you both had since your daughter started smiling and laughing. "Where did she go? What happened to her, Charles?" you asked, looking left and right in an exaggerated manner before sitting on the edge of the bed. Charles opened the blanket, revealing your daughter, and you pretended to be surprised and scared, as you always did, making your daughter laugh and clap her hands before pointing at you and turning to look at her father. "Yes, Papa, you scared Maman! We scared Maman, give me a high five!" You both clapped when she high-fived Charles, witnessing the girl you both were raising grow and learn new things.
Minutes later, your daughter was asleep on Charles' chest, her tiny arms wrapped around his neck, while the two of you gently rocked back and forth. "I thought your flight was tomorrow. You should have told me, amour. I would've waited for you," you whispered softly, stroking his hair.
"I knew you would have, cher. That's why I didn't say anything. You were too busy with all the photos yesterday, barely had time to call, what with the birth of our petite fille. And we've both been busy, between work and her. But I'm not complaining. Just look at that face, just like mine," he said, smiling.
You smiled at the sight before you. "Come on, hand her over. I'll put her in her crib," you suggested, moving slightly, but Charles stopped you. Tearfully, he said, "No, let her sleep with us."
"Amour", you toss and turn in your sleep, and I can only keep you in check by wrapping my arms around you so you don't fall off the bed. "I don't want to wake up tomorrow and find our daughter under you, do you?" You argued.
He huffed but handed over your daughter. You placed her in her crib before returning to bed. Lying on your back, you allowed Charles to settle comfortably on top of you, his head buried in your neck. "Je t'aime, tu sais?"
"Je sais maintenant."
"Femez-la."
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please please please, charles leclerc
summary : "please please please don't prove them right" charles leclerc has been labelled as a noterious playboy so when popstar starts y/n y/ln starts dating him she puts him in his place. warnings : language, suggestive content, hate comments. a/n : i acc have so much unfinished works in my drafts rnnn
y/nusername n1 in sydney.
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liked by taylorswift, gracieabrams, tyla, and 4,628,925 others.
user72 ugh i love her so bad
username13 taylor liking is crazyy like she has been y/n's idol for years
user99 so so proud about how far she has come stopp i could cry
username222 sold out show in melbourne WHAT
fangirl truly the best night of my life (not an exaggeration i fear)
༘˚⋆𐙚。⋆𖦹.✧˚
y/nusername 48 hours in australia next to miami !!
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》 TAYLOR MF SWIFT Y/N WHAT
》 cutest dump ever stfu
》 screamingggg
》 stopp she looks so happy let me sob 😭😭
》 confirmed she loves us aussies 🇦🇺
》 the dress was *chef kisses*
》 storytime rnnnn
༘˚⋆𐙚。⋆𖦹.✧˚
charlesleclerc miami prep 💪
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liked by landonorris, carlossainz, scuderiaferrari, and 1,992,451 others.
user23 oh damn.
username788 holy shit i just woke up
f1fan oml
user00 i'm so jealous of any girl he has ever been with
user23 my dreams are just dreams 😫
f1lover podium plssss
༘˚⋆𐙚。⋆𖦹.✧˚
y/nusername guess where i am hehe
![Tumblr media](https://64.media.tumblr.com/1b716798c723570462ac0c18b9aa3713/b65766dea3038a00-e6/s540x810/b107c94d55505b3b258fd26a6df65b82fdf878bb.jpg)
》 miami gp !!
》 is that charles's car i see 👀
》 "everybody is a ferrari fan"
》 y/n and f1 i'm here for it
》 oh great another influencer being invited to an f1 race
》 oh yessss
》 f1 omggg queen i love youuuu
༘˚⋆𐙚。⋆𖦹.✧˚
y/nusername a little pit stop before my show tonight ;)
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liked by charlesleclerc, taylorswift, sadiesink and 2,728,667 others.
sadiesink ugh i had the best time
f1fan i'm not okay y/n and f1 MY TWO WORLDS COLLIDING
user13 im shooketh
username22 omg sadie and y/n together again i love them smmm
f1lover OMG GUYS WHAT IF SHE WAS THERE FOR CHARLES
user72 this is too insane....but he did like her post so maybeee user23 omgg and on the podium he did wink at someone maybe it was her?!?! f1girl okay not to alarm anyone but i did see him walk into the paddock with y/n 🤭 user23 OMFG ACC
༘˚⋆𐙚。⋆𖦹.✧˚
charlesleclerc miami the city that keeps the roof blazing
![Tumblr media](https://64.media.tumblr.com/a021fa4afb51d99e02a705d2036766ea/b65766dea3038a00-32/s540x810/253c2dea4e7ef9b6ec4e14901e390c26600f065b.jpg)
liked by y/nusername, carlossainz, taylorswift and 4,729,901 others.
user23 i love charlos so bad pls never seperate them
f1fan oh girl....
user52 yesss charles back on the podium again
f1girl yesss the caption miami by will smith on toppp
f1lover are u dating y/n???
user626 yesss give the people what they want
༘˚⋆𐙚。⋆𖦹.✧˚
y/nusername miami you were amazing 💋
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liked by taylorswift, charlesleclerc, chappellroan and 3,791,551 others.
user72 mommy
username90 we need the makeup routine rnn
fangirl the pose tonight was crazyyy
user52 omggg i was with my mum fangirl stoppp i would die
user00 her tour fits always eat so bad
f1fan in a perfect universe this would be my life
user22 okayyy what if charles was there?!?
f1lover y/n plsss come to monaco
༘˚⋆𐙚。⋆𖦹.✧˚
༘˚⋆𐙚。⋆𖦹.✧˚
hotones video with y/n out now !!
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liked by y/nusername, tyla, charlesleclerc and 426,829 others.
y/nusername I TOLD YOU TO CUT THAT PART OMG GOING TO GO KMS
user627 oop
username22 i mean she has a chance so she might as well shoot her shot
f1fan not charles in the likes this is so messy
user72 oh to have her confidence
username78 omggg she is such a legend for this
f1girl this interview was so good omggg
༘˚⋆𐙚。⋆𖦹.✧˚
charlesleclerc the best weekend of my life
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liked by carlossainz, y/nusername, landonorris and 6,916,411 others.
y/nusername 💗
user62 girl f1fan wait was she there?? user62 nope
carlossainz finally
user562 i actually shed like real tears
f1girl so so proud
user90 im a new fan but this was emotional for me
username82 i hope he knows that we are all so happy for him
༘˚⋆𐙚。⋆𖦹.✧˚
༘˚⋆𐙚。⋆𖦹.✧˚
messages between taylor and y/n
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༘˚⋆𐙚。⋆𖦹.✧˚
y/nusername please please please out now hope you enjoy 🤭🫣
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liked by charlesleclerc, landonorris, taylorswift and 7,291,081 others.
user72 NOW THIS IS A HARD LAUNCH
username90 i died dead
f1fan fuck idek who i want to be more
taylorswift omggg i'm so shocked i defo didn't know about this for months
y/nusername 😭😭 plsss ily
user62 THE MV WAS SO GODDAMN HOT THE WAY HE WAS LOOKING AT HER OMLLL
f1girl this is just so perfect
user90 i fear im in a state of shock rn
user52 im not even phased cause i saw it coming
landonorris can i plss be in a mv next plssss
user62 helpppp
username11 y/n my queen
taglist⭑.ᐟ
@lottalove4evelyn @sweetestgirlintown111 @mxryxmfooty @hadidsworld @llando4norris @heavy-vettel @love2readd @depressedriches @nichmeddar @seonghwaexile
#f1 fanfic#f1 imagine#f1 fic#f1 fanfiction#f1 fluff#masterlist#f1 2024#fic rec#formula 1#f1 blurb#charles leclerc x you#charles leclerc#charles leclerc fanfic#charles leclerc fluff#charles leclerc imagine#charles leclerc x reader#charles leclerc smau#miami gp 2024#f1 grid x reader#f1 gifs#f1 instagram au#f1 memes#f1 scenario#f1 smau#f1 social media au#f1 x female reader#f1 x reader#f1 x you#f1
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would you maybe write an smau (oscar x norris or leclerc!reader) where the reader is just super clumsy and everyone makes fun of that?
ᯓᡣ𐭩 SUCH A KLUTZ ! ᡣ𐭩ᯓ
pairing. oscar piastri x leclerc!reader
summary. in which reader can’t walk straight to save her life and formula fans (as well as some of the drivers) find it extremely amusing, while her boyfriend is the greenest flag of all time.
yourusername
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liked by oscarpiastri, francisca.cgomes, charles_leclerc and 89 623 others.
yourusername rumour has it that the best couple on grid is enjoying the summer break and the rumors are TRUE! though it is also said that the girl in third slide fell off the scooter and got a concussion so her boyfriend took her phone away for three days — this may or may not be true!
view all comments!
user1 oscar is so whipped the guy is the first like whenever she posts something 😭😭
user2 i know ehic isnt a thing in monaco unfortunately but my other european girlies please remember to get yourself an ehic card if you travel across europe it can save you a lot of nerves if you injury yourself on vacay 😭😭😭
priniya european girlies always remember to have a valid european health insurance card! <3
oscarpiastri she might say its not true but it is 👎👎 the girl almost gave me a heart attack
landonorris yourusername someone should lock you up because at this rate youre gonna hurt yourself by breathing
yourusername im having a brat summer ☹️
arthur_leclerc dont think its how it works lutin
francisca.cgomes rumour has it that she didn’t take her girlfriend with her to her trip
lilymhe rumour has it that she broke her other girlfriend’s heart
yourusername NOOOO IM SORRY 😭😭😭 LET ME MAKE IT UP WHEN THE BREAK ENDS
marverstappen1 girl how do you even function with that clumsy brain of yours?
yourusername kellypiquet please tell p that max is making fun of me because i got hurt
kellypiquet she’s making you a card rn
maxverstappen1 our house turned into a glitterlandia because of that card
yourusername I LOVE HER SO MUCH
user3 i honestly cant wait for the pyn reunion in zandvoort 🥹🥹🥹
yourusername same shes my true one 👊👊
charles_leclerc oscarpiastri take your aussie hands off my baby sister or ill crash into you in zandvoort 😁
charles_leclerc for legal purpose this may or may not be a joke
yourusername crash into him and i’ll do something worse than have his hands on me and make you watch
francisca.cgomes
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liked by pierregasly, alexandrasaintmleux, charles_leclerc and 432 621 others.
francisca.cgomes a girls night gone wrong…
— tagged alexandrasaintmleux, yourusername
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user4 i bet my LIFE that yn had to go to the er 😭😭😭
pierregasly THIS is what you meant by a surprise??????
francisca.cgomes surprise . . . 😦
alexandrasaintmleux it was fun while it lasted . . .
user5 WHY DOES THE COMMENTS SEEM LIKE YN DIED WHERE IS HER COMMENT
user6 yn rn 💀🪦🪦
user7 you are not funny! hope that helps ❤️
charles_leclerc girl where is my sister 😭😭😭😭
yourusername WHY ARE YALL ACTING LIKE I DIED?????
user8 SHES ALIVE YOU GUYS
oscarpiastri kika you were supposed to bring her back in one piece?
francisca.cgomes sorry it was not my fault
francisca.cgomes literally not my fault this time a guy bumped into her shoulder and she fell 😭😭😭
yourusername i sprained my ankle :(
alexandrasaintmleux we still love you 🫶
user9 ngl i would give my leg to be a part of this friendship
user10 same
landonorris petition to keep yourusername locked in a cage
user11 😧😧😧
yourusername you gotta catch me first 🙂↕️🙂↕️🙂↕️
pierregasly i second this
lilymhe i third
alexandrasaintmleux ily yn but i fourth ☹️
twitter !
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user13 WHEN ITS GONNA BE MY TURN???
user14 i need an oscar in my life but idk if i wanna be yn 😭
user15 you r so real for that oomf
user16 ngl i wish i could be oscar to be with yn
user17 god just knew that if she made yn flawless she would be too much for mortals
user18 she ?
user17 god is a woman and her name is pascale leclerc 🙂↕️🙂↕️
user19 LMAO
lando.jpg
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liked by alex_albon, yourusername, logansargeant and 772 812 others.
lando.jpg never accept an invitation from yourusername for a dinner at her house because there’s a 100% chance she’s gonna burn herself while making you food
view all comments!
oscarpiastri shouldnt have invited YOU
lando.jpg ??? MEAN ???
oscarpiastri dont make fun of my clumsy girlfriend
yourusername when he’s protective ⸜(。˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡
yourusername i burnt myself while YOU ALL WERE LAUGHING
user20 oscar was laughing too?😭
arthur_leclerc he was glaring at everyone laughing while looking after yn
user21 oscar is the bestest boyfriend possible i need an oscar in my life
user22 yourusername can you fight?
yourusername i have three older brothers, go figure it out
user22 (。•́︿•̀。)
charles_leclerc cant believe they didn’t invite ME and they invited YOU
arthur_leclerc she invited me and enzo LOL
user23 lando.jpg comeback to make fun of oscars gf 😭😭😭
charles_leclerc SHE WAS MY SISTER FIRST
user24 yn is a klutz first human second
oscarpiastri
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liked by pascale_leclerc, nicolepiastri, yourusername and 921 728 others.
oscarpiasti a few things that summer break gave me: a dog (yes, i’m officially a dog dad), relaxing time with my friends n family, a fiancée and lots of headaches due to the clumsiness of my gorgeous fiancée.
view all comments!
yourusername i love youuuuuu
hattiepiastri THIS IS HOW I FIND OUT???
hattiepiastri yourusername YOURE MARRYING MY BROTHER????
hattiepiastri HOW DID THAT HAPPEN??
yourusername i flipped a coin
georgerussell63 it probably hit you in the face too, no?
user25 IMAGINE THE FAMILY GATHERINGS???
user26 hold on is oscar gonna go there as charles’ son or yn’s throphy husband??
user27 the family dynamics must be crazy??? because wdym his girlfriend’s brother ADOPTED him??
oscarpiasti fiancee’s*
user27 oh hes not playing
user28 this gon be soooo awkward at the family dinner
yourusername BURN THE PAPERS charles_leclerc HES MINE NOW
charles_leclerc HE WAS MINE FIRST
nicolepiastri i’m pretty sure he was mine first 🥰
pascale_leclerc now we have to share children nicolepiastri
landonorris love you guys but you shouldn’t have a wedding because with yns abilities she might turn the party into a funeral
mclaren so glad to have yn in the mclaren family! 🧡
user29 engagement this engagement that we KNEW you would tie the knot sooner or later WHAT IS THE DOGS NAME 🗣️🗣️🗣️
oscarpiastri pepper :)
user30 yn and lorenzo both engaged in 2024?? leclerc siblings are going STRONG
lewishamilton congratulations to you guys 💚💚
sebastianvettel lots of love and patience with that one, oscar :)
user31 not the girls not congratulating oscyn… fake friends?
user32 gtfo they prob knew abt it already and congratulated them IN PERSON and not in instagram photo comments
francocolapinto lost my chance 😞😔😭😭😢
user33 LMAOOO??? bro saw her at ONE (1) race and fell in love
user34 honestly cant blame him
user35 pls never media train him
yourusername pls franco never change 🫶
pierregasly pls dont elope i need that free food
yukitsunoda0511 dude youre a MILLIONAIRE?
pierregasly dude gtfo
yukitsunoda0511 if i were them i would elope just to spite you
oscarpiastri dont give yn any ideas pls
yourusername no eloping for us i need my brothers to walk me down the aisle 😁😁😁
georgerussell63 to make sure you don’t trip over the dress?
yourusername youre officially uninvited 👎
user36 SHE WANTS CHARLES ENZO AND ARTHUR WALKING HER DOWN THE AISLE??? OH IM GONNA KILL MYSELF
#oscar piastri x leclerc!reader#oscar piastri <3#oscar piastri drabble#oscar piastri social media au#oscar piastri smau#oscar piastri fanfic#oscar piastri au#oscar piastri x you#oscar piastri imagine#oscar piastri#op81 fluff#op81 fic#op81 imagine#op81#op81 x reader#op81 smau#formula 1 x reader#f1 smau#charles leclerc x reader#lando norris x reader#ln4#cl16#f1 social media au#f1 instagram au#f1 fluff#f1 x reader#oscar piastri x reader#oscar piastri x lec!reader#oscar piastri rec#niki’s works 🫂
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Lestappen au where Charles is a reporter who lives to torment Max with questions so absurd they make the Dutchman question his life choices.
"Do you think your car would perform better if it didn’t have to carry the weight of your confidence everywhere?"
“Do you think your ego has its own zip code?”
Max tries to stay cool, but Charles’ smirk is a red flag he can’t ignore.
#lestappen#f1 fic#charles leclerc#max verstappen#f1 fanfic#f1 fic rec#allumni#charles leclerc/max verstappen#lestappen fic#lestappen fanfiction#lestappen au#mv1#cl16
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This got me smiling from the very beginning 🥰 your writing style, duuuude (gender neutral) *chef's kiss* 🙂↕️🤯 so sweet, so cute, so perfect!
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— caught in a blue summ. but to love her is to need her everywhere (a gentle kind of love) charles x fem reader, wc 4.1k ish, no warnings, no y/n! fueled by one single praise from @silverstonesainz
You’re three paragraphs into an all-too-lengthy work email when he sits down in the chair next to you silently, one elbow on the sage green tablecloth. He sits in the chair sideways, something you can both see and feel, even without looking away from your phone screen. His presence is accompanied by the gentle thud of two heavy glasses.
You look over briefly—long enough to suggest to him that his presence is mildly perturbing—and then return your attention to the email. You can hardly concentrate over the jazz band in the corner of the hall, rotating through their collection of love songs sung in different romance languages, and now a strange man has set up camp next to you, only further reminding you why you shouldn’t be responding to emails when you’re out of office.
“Hi,” he says, after more seconds of silence.
You finish your email before you give him the time of day. “Hi,” you smile, soft but forced. “Who are you?”
“Charles,” He smiles, holding his hand out to shake yours. You stare at his waiting hand until he takes it away. “Nice to meet you,” he laughs, moving one of the drinks closer to you. “For you. White Negroni. Céline told me it’s your drink.”
You give him a sideways glance before looking past him, scanning the reception hall for your friend. She should stand out in her bridesmaid dress. The wedding invite had specifically requested guests to follow a color code, and nobody was wearing that shade besides the bridesmaids. Your eyes finally land on her, glass of champagne in her hand, long blonde hair falling over her shoulders, leaning over to whisper something to the groom—her brother. No doubt the two of them conspiring, a theory only proved when Mathéo’s eyes land on yours from across the room. You roll your eyes.
“How do you know Céline?” you ask, as if half the guests here tonight aren’t related to her.
“I went to school with Mathéo,” he says, and you nod slowly, confusion growing, curiosity peaked. “I suppose technically I went to school with Céline as well.”
“I went to school with Céline,” you say, and Charles furrows his brows.
“Are you sure?” He asks, and you laugh softly, picking up the drink he’d offered, pulling the garnish off the lip of the glass and dropping it on top of the ice. “I’m serious!” He says, matching your laugh, taking a sip of his drink. “Because I would remember you. And I do not remember you.”
“I’m sure,” you shake your head, bringing the glass to your lips. “Lycée. Première.”
Charles nods. “That is why. I was graduated by then.”
Someone laughs so loud at the next table over that it steals both of your attention. It’s the mother-of-the-bride, and she's visibly drunk in a way that only a divorced French socialite can manage. The sudden attention tones her down, and the room is once again filled with wealthy laughter and crisp clinking crystal glasses.
You love weddings. You love this wedding; the delicate scent of blooming lavender, the smoked salmon canapés and delicate foie gras pâté that sit half-eaten at most of the tables, the perfectly chilled glasses of champagne waiting to be toasted, and the sun. The golden sun that casts itself across the terraces and into the tall windows, painting the dancing figures in golden hues.
And then he’s speaking again, and you look back at him, and the sun casts a warm shadow through his brown hair that you're noticing for the first time. “Parles-tu français?” he asks.
You wince, tilting your head to the side, holding up two fingers pinched together. “Un petit peu. Je suis grec,” you explain, pulling your hair around to drape over one shoulder.
“Ah,” he says. “How do you say, ‘Would you like to dance?’ in Greek?”
You smile gently, taking another sip of your drink. It’s important to keep yourself paced. Especially when you’re staring at someone who looks like that. “Θα χορέψεις μαζί μου?” You finally say, and he stares at you blankly. The expression forces a laugh from you, which in turn pulls one from him.
“Again?”
“Θα χορέψεις μαζί μου?”
Charles nods for what feels like a very extended period, before downing the remainder of his drink. “Tha horeps…” he winces at his pronunciation so you don’t have to, “mazi-moo?”
You smile at his hopeful expression, and wonder if he’s more hopeful for a correct pronunciation or an agreement to dance. You shrug, swirling your drink around the glass, looking past him to your friend again.
She’s watching you this time and wears a grin the size of the wedding. She holds up both her thumbs, and then makes a heart with her hands, pretends to have it beating out of her chest. You shake your head, smiling softly, eyes moving back to Charles.
“One dance.”
— — —
Your feet drag across the stone pathway like maybe you’ll slow yourself down and get to spend a half-second longer on the phone with him. You hear it over the voices of drunken uncles pouring from open windows and the radio sat on one of the sills playing a Christiana classic. The air is warm, but dry, and the elastic at the end of your braid tickles the skin on your back while you walk.
Ahead of your scraping shoes, a cat cleans their paw in the yellow of a porch light. You’re in Paros, and life is so sweet you’re finding porch lights and the smell of your yia-yia’s karidopita to be the most romantic thing in the world.
“I’m nearly home,” you hum into your phone’s receiver. He laughs on the other end, and you wish all the aunts with the drunken, ballad-performing husbands could hear it so they’d stop asking when you’re going to settle down. It would make sense to them, then, the way you behave about Charles. It would all make sense if they heard him laugh, if they could imagine his dimples.
“Well, you should probably hang up, then,” he says. You roll your eyes. Your cheeks ache from smiling all evening. Your cousin joked before dinner that your face was going to freeze like that if you weren’t careful.
“I should,” you agree, but you don’t hang up. You stay on the line, quiet, and stop in front of the resident street cat—he’s small and sweet and purrs against your skin when you run your hand over its sleek black fur, scratch your nails under its chin. You’d bring him home if you knew he didn’t belong to someone, to everyone. “Or you could.”
He laughs again. It’s like honey. You’d swan dive into it if you could, drown all slow and blissfully. “I’m not the one nearly home,” he retorts. I could get far from home again, you think. You could do another lap around the neighborhood. You’d already done it thrice, and then two more times after that. What’s another in the grand scheme of things? “I’ll call you again in the morning,” he says, like it’s routine. You suppose it’s sort of becoming that.
You take a seat on your porch steps. Voices pour out louder, now. They’ve gotten rowdier with every lap you’ve done. A cousin pulls the old squeaky door open behind you, and you jump in your seat, turning around to see who’s busted you. They hold their hands up defensively, mouth a quick sorry like they’d walked in on you changing, and disappear back into the house. You pull your braid over your shoulder, twirl it around your finger carefully. Nervously, you ask:“Do you think we speak too often?”
“Why do you say that?”
You shrug like he can see it. “We talk too much to be friends.”
“Do we?” You imagine him quirking a brow goofily, based solely on his tone of voice.
“Yeah,” you chuckle, dropping your braid. “Yeah, I think we do.”
Charles sighs. All you can smell is cinnamon and walnuts. You wonder which one of your cousins ate the heel of the bread while you were out walking. “Well, good thing I would never be just friends with you, then.”
The apples of your cheeks burn like they’d been pinched. You flatten your dress over your legs and a careful giggle tumbles from your lips, teeth biting down on the stupid smile there. “Good thing.”
“Goodnight?”
“Yeah,” you nod. “Goodnight.”
— — —
It’s raining in Milan when you pinky promise your best friends that you and Charles aren’t dating.
The sky has been threatening all afternoon, dull and gray and humidity that was anything but friendly to your hair. It poured through the window like your own personal heatwave every time you walked past the open kitchen window,coated the tiled countertop in an irritable condensation.
It came wafting through the air with the smell of the impending storm when you opened the door to your friends. Finally, after hours of building up, heavy raindrops patter against the porcelain of your kitchen sink, forcing you to hastily close the window while giggles pour from your friends’ mouths.
Between your two hands, you can count the number of times the lot of you have been in the same time zone since graduation, let alone the same city. You’d spent the entire humid day wiping condensation off the counters and cutting cheese into perfect cubes and gathering the nicest bundles of grapes you could from the three grocery shops within walking distance.
The sound of the storm against the glass is drowned out by red-wine laughter and tales of big cities and big dreams, all so vastly different. You sit with your legs crossed underneath you, phone face-up on your thigh, the stem of an empty wine glass pinched between two fingers, twisting the glass around mindlessly.
Your phone buzzes, for the fourth time in eight minutes. And for the fourth time in eight minutes, you pick it up, abandoning glass on the cluttered coffee table next to the week-old vase of pink anemones.
Stop texting me, he’s messaged. Enjoy your time with your friends.
You smile softly, your incriminating grin illuminated bright OLED white in contrast to the soft yellow lamp lighting the dim room. You stop texting me, you replied, because you’re a pig-tailed girl on the schoolyard when you talk to him, your normally composed, carefully developed persona melting into a puddle of mush at the mere thought of him.
Can’t, he responds. I am bored.
Why? You’re never bored.
“Oh, my God!” your best friend, Roma, teases in broken English, her Italian accent not nearly as light as the cube of Gorgonzola she’d tossed at your head from the other end of the sofa. “Who are you speaking to?” She questions.
“Just a friend,” you say too quickly, too defensive for anyone in the room to believe.
Roma quirks her brow at you, curious grin painted on her face. “Yeah? Just a friend?”
“I’m serious,” you insist, turning your phone off. You set it face down on the table, and it vibrates there almost immediately, all of your friends’ eyes watching for your reaction. The corners of your lips tremble, fighting a soft smile, and you shrug, bringing your empty wine glass to your lips, turning your head up to the ceiling, the last few drops of red falling through your lips. And then it vibrates again, the bright colors of your background pouring out in a soft ring of light around your phone. You still don’t flinch, but Roma does, lurching forward and snatching it up before you have time to react.
“‘Because,” she reads. “‘I’m normally speaking with you at this time,’” she looks over to another friend, grinning,“From Charles. With the emoji that does like this,” she says, mimicking the blushing emoji you have next to his name.“But with the pink on the cheek, yes?” She continues explaining.
You sink into the sofa, popping that cube of cheese into your mouth before gathering up the baby hairs and bangs that had fallen loose from your ponytail, carefully twisting the hair into a tiny, thin braid coming out from the middle of your hairline.
“Just your friend?” Roma questions, and you don’t have to look up from your distraction braid to know she’s raising her brows and grinning at you.
— — —
You sit next to him in the fourth row of church pews, one leg crossed over the other, desperately wishing the wedding mass program that sat on your lap was a paper fan, not yet having resorted to the lengths some of your fellow guests had gone to and actually using the cardstock to cool down.
One leg is crossed over the other, the tip of your heel-clad foot threatening to tap the back of the pew in front of you with every awkward, uncomfortable roll of your ankle you attempt. At least your dress is sleeveless, you think. Charles is not as lucky, a formal suit perfectly fitted to his frame, one arm draped behind you over the back of the pew, his fingers mindlessly twirling one of the tiny braids that riddle your ponytail. Neither of you speak nearly enough Spanish or know nearly enough people for this to be any sort of enjoyable.
“Do you understand them at all?” You whisper, your head falling onto his shoulder. “Because I do not.”
“Absolutely not,” he whispers back, kissing the top of your head, his hand finding yours, interlocking in your lap. “And I am about to die from heatstroke.”
You nod. “You, me, and the rest of the church,” you sigh, pretending not to hear the crying baby or the stressed mother in the back of the church. You figure she has the eyes of enough judgy relatives to drown out any soft sentiments from a stranger. “Can they just kiss and wrap it up?” You ask, and as is on cue, the newlyweds are locking lips under the cathedral candlelight.
“Oh shit,” Charles giggles, the two of you hurrying to stand with everyone else in the room who understood what's been happening for the last hour and a half. You hastily adjust the skirt of your dress, feeling quickly to make sure you hadn’t sweat-stained the fabric, or worse, the bench you’d been all but stuck to. “Thank God,” he says, just above a whisper, just loud enough for you to hear.
The church quickly funnels out of the church behind the couple, filing into the cars that were driving to the reception location. Police officers line the road on either side, cameras and strangers gathered at their barriers. You walk out with your hand interlaced in his, watching every step you take down the steep concrete stairs.
“Is it like this every time one of you gets married?” You ask, staring at the uniformed officers. They’re a stark contrast to the summer air, to the leaves of the trees drenched in sunlight, and to the flowers buzzing with bees. It feels like you’re at a royal wedding—the ones with professional watchers and ceremonies that get broadcast to millions of people around the world. But it’s not that. It’s just your boyfriend’s teammate.
“Um,” Charles shrugs. “I’m not sure, to be honest,” he admits. “I don’t think so,” he continues, letting you duck into the black sedan first. “I think it’s just his family.”
“Gosh,” you breathe out, relaxing in the calm of the air-conditioned car. “It’s like a whole production.”
“I know,” he shakes his head, uncapping a water bottle that was waiting in the car door cup holder and passing it to you first. “It’s like they’re Spanish royalty or something,” he laughs.
You nod animatedly, drinking down the water before passing the now half-full bottle to him. “Exactly like that!” you laugh.
— — —
“Three wishes,” you grin, spinning around to face him, antique Arabian oil lamp in your hand.
The second-hand shop smells like vintage leather and dusty velvet. La Dolce Vita plays from the store radio, and it sounds like it’s on vinyl even though it isn’t. The store is full of gaudy outfits and gaudier decor, and there in the middle of it is you and Charles, the ladder laughing every time the former makes the same joke about twenty different items, each uglier than the one before, being ‘just what I was looking for.’
“I wish for unlimited wishes, obviously,” He says, and you shake your head.
“Absolutely not. That goes against Genie rule number three.”
It’s chilly, the early morning dew still crisp in the air. A gentle breeze pours in from the propped open door, and with it comes the smell of fresh pastries and espresso from the bakery next door. It smells gentle and warm and makes the vintage store feel like your yia-yia’s house on the last morning of your last visit to her house.
You’re wearing your favorite pair of jeans, a pair of pink sneakers, and a sweater that was your favorite before you shrunk it a size in the dryer the day before. You cover up the fashion faux pas with a tan wool coat and long, hardly managed hair. He’s dressed like you, but elevated. Always more elevated than you, even if the only brand he seems to bring into his closet anymore is his friend’s.
“Ah,” he nods, pulling you closer by the opening of your coat. “Of course,” he smiles, speaking softly. “And what are the other rules?”
“Oh, you know,” you shrug, dimples digging into your cheeks at the mere sight of his. “No bringing people back from the dead, no making someone fall in love,” you hum, “and no wishing for more wishes.”
Charles quirks a brow, dropping his head to the side. “Those are stupid rules,” he protests, pouting. “What if those were all three of my wishes?”
You shrug, holding up the lamp to his eye level. “Got to get educated on Genie’s, man,” you tease, cheeks aching. “I don’t know what to tell you,” you giggle, stepping even closer. “Them’s the rules.”
“Them’s the rules,” he repeats. “How about…” he says, leaning in, still grinning. “Wish one,” he says, pressing a soft kiss into your lips. “Wish two,” he says, repeating the action. “And,” he grins, pulling away momentarily to tuck a piece of hair behind your ear. You think you could die on the spot, melt right into a puddle on the shop floor. Your face is so hot. “Wish three?” he says, and as a surprise to nobody, leans in to kiss you again.
“Nope,” you shake your head, desperate for another breeze to blow through the shop, to cool you down, to keep you standing. “I expected better wishes. Very… μη πρωτότυπο.”
“Mi protótypo?” he repeats, and your grin grows.
“Not original.”
— — —
Charles’ apartment couldn’t be more different than yours, and not even solely on a decoration level. Fundamentally, you two come from two different spaces, and trying to merge those spaces has been nothing short of a treat.
Not that your decor styles are the same either, because you think his are one-of-kind. So one of a kind, that the two of you had gone through each other’s apartment with yard-sale stickers from the corner store, tagging everything you refused to mesh with in red, and everything you refused to part with in green. Who else can say they have three dozen racing helmets and trophies in the living room, a blown-up shot of a homeless American man on their dining room wall, and a piano that costs more than your net worth in the foyer? That is some perfectly Charles Leclerc decor, and if you had told yourself once that you would be endeared by all of it, you’d have laughed in your face.
But you do. You adore it, the way it perfectly encapsulates her personality. And you adore him, and the way he put a green sticker on a total of seven things in his whole apartment because he wanted to make sure it felt like your space too.
“Why did you not label any of these boxes?” He asks, the two of you stood in his dining room. In your dining room. In the dining room.
“Um…” you hesitate. “You know, I was going to. I really was,” you nod, staring at at least twenty cardboard boxes, each of them completely indistinguishable from the others, not a single identifying marker on any of them.
“And then?” He asks, shoving his hands in his pockets, rocking on his heels, the herringbone hardwood creaking under his feet with the shifting of his weight.
“And then I realized I packed my Sharpie,” you nod.
“Mmm,” he hums, scratching his beard, his fingers moving over his face and into his hair, combing through it stressfully. He’s so patient with you. Hopelessly patient with you, and would never admit it. “But you could not find the box it was in?” You shake your head, agreeing with his statement. “Because you forgot to label any of the boxes?”
“Because I didn’t label any of the boxes,” you confirm, an apologetic look painted across your face, eyes soft and sweet, attempting to remind him just how much he loves you. “And suddenly the movers were there. And now I’m here.”
“Oh,” he sighs, wrapping his arms around your chest from behind, kissing the top of your head. “I love you so much,” he says. “I love you so much,” he repeats, voice blank, unconvincing.
“Yeah,” you nod. “I was thinking we start in the dining room,” you joke, smiling softly, pulling a chuckle from his lips. You can always count on him to laugh at your stupid jokes. Even when he’s pretending not to be annoyed with you.“I’m sorry,” you say softly, kissing the forearm crossed over your chest.
“I know,” he hums. “It’s okay. It won’t be too bad.”
— — —
A soft summer breeze floats through the air, blows through the linen pinned to clotheslines in the neighborhood. It brings with it salt air and the careful wafts of cinnamon and nutmeg and eggplants and tomatoes. You sip a glass of Retsina, ignoring the bitter and accepting the sweet.
The olive trees are draped in endless strings of lights, and gentle, traditional music plays from the live band and the wooden stage your uncles had built with your dad. Your Yia-yia moves around from table to table pinching the cheeks of your cousins, reminding the single girls to check their shoes for their prince charmings.
The sun is setting on the water, golden shadows cutting around the soft cement architecture. The air is light. Charles wears a tan linen suit with an evil-eye boutonniere. You wear a white dress and a cold coin in your left shoe.
“You told them no to the money, right?” He asks softly, sipping a glass of white.
“I did,” you nod. “Well. I told my parents,” You shrug. “Whether or not they convey the message to the four hundred other people here, I guess we’ll find out.”
“It’s weird, no? A first dance and a last dance?”
You smile softly, watching a stray cat hurry down an alleyway. “My family keeps coming up to us and pretending to spit,” you giggle, “But the second dance is where you draw the line in the weird sand?”
“None of it’s weird” he shakes his head, reaching to tuck a curly piece of hair behind your ear, adjusting your veil accordingly. “It’s all you,” he says, leaning in to kiss you softly. His lips are soft, and he tastes like apples and melon and citrus, as easy to kiss as ever. “And I love you.”
“Ah,” you nod, a teasingly soft smile parting your lips. “He loves me,” you say, pretending to wipe sweat from your brow. “I was worried.”
“You act very worried,” he grins. “Wedding dress and all.”
“Oh,” you feign surprise as if you've noticed the setting for the first time. “This old thing? The one that costs a quarter of my salary?”
Charles nods, humming. “That’s the one. Keeps taking my damn breath away.”
You look down at yourself, an innocent, girlish smile draped over your lips, the pink shades of the sunset painting themselves warm over your cheeks. A gust of wind blows through the space, the breeze gently blowing through your veil, through the fabric of your dress.
“Are you ready?” You ask, watching the sun creep closer to the horizon, be swallowed up inch by inch into the sea, using your hand as a shade-visor. “No time like the present, right?” You add, downing what’s left in your glass. “Our second dance as newlyweds.”
“Our second dance,” Charles nods, holding out his hand, waiting for your fingers to interlock with his. “Let’s go.”
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texts- lando norris
summary: texts between you and lando
an: i’ve been lacking in here lately, first post in a while. gonna post more soon😛
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#lando norris#f1 x reader#lando norizz#lando norris imagine#lando norris x reader#charles leclerc#mclaren#fic recs👽#lando norris scenarios#lando norris fluff#lando norris blurb#lando norris smut#lando x reader
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Bisous
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Pairing: Charles Leclerc x reader
Summary: Charles' daughter loves to prank him <3
Word count: 2.3k
Warnings: fluff
A/N:
English is not my first language, so I apologize if I made any (grammar) mistakes. Feedback, requests, talks, vents, recommendations or just simple questions are always welcome.
Happy reading xxx
I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site.
The morning sun began its slow ascent over the horizon, filtering through the sheer curtains of your Monaco apartment. The soft, honey-hued glow that spread across the room seemed to breathe life into every corner. The elegant furniture, a blend of sleek modernity and comfortable coziness, caught the light in just the right way, creating an atmosphere of peaceful serenity. Outside, the sounds of the city were a distant hum—a low, constant pulse that blended with the faint rustling of leaves from the balcony plants, which swayed gently in the breeze. Every so often, you could hear the soft cry of seagulls soaring above the harbor, a reminder of the water that lay just beyond the city’s edge. Together, these sounds formed a comforting melody, one that had become the soundtrack to your mornings. It was a rhythm you cherished deeply, a moment of stillness amidst the sometimes overwhelming pace of life.
The rich, inviting aroma of freshly brewed coffee drifted from the kitchen, swirling through the air and wrapping around you like a cozy embrace. It was your daily ritual—the one constant in your life that always brought a sense of calm. The familiar scent, warm and robust, settled in your chest as you took a slow, deep breath, savoring it. No matter how chaotic the rest of the day might become, this quiet moment was yours. It was the calm before the storm, the stillness before the world outside demanded your attention.
However, as is often the case with motherhood, this tranquil morning wouldn’t last long.
The soft, rhythmic sound of tiny feet pattering against the hardwood floor quickly broke the serenity. You turned just in time to see Amelie—your 2.5-year-old whirlwind—darting through the living room, her chestnut curls bouncing with every step. She was full of energy, her cheeks flushed with excitement, as she chased Leo, the family dog, around the room. The dog, who was equally enthusiastic, skidded around the furniture, dodging her tiny hands that reached for him. Her laughter echoed throughout the apartment, a sound so pure and infectious that it filled the space with a warmth only she could bring.
You couldn’t help but smile as you watched the playful scene unfold from the kitchen. Despite the exhaustion that motherhood often brought, these moments—these bursts of joy—made it all worth it. The sight of Amelie, with her sparkling eyes that seemed to mirror Charles’ in their depth, and her tiny arms flailing as she ran after the dog, made your heart swell. She was the perfect blend of him—her father—and you.
It was almost hard to believe how fast she was growing up. Just a few months ago, she was still babbling nonsensically, and now she could say over 180 words (yes, you had counted them all), stringing together simple sentences that left you in awe. The way she repeated words, mimicking both you and Charles, was nothing short of miraculous. Each new sentence felt like a little victory, a reminder of how quickly time passed.
Amelie’s bond with Charles was a thing of its own. The two of them were inseparable, a pair that seemed destined for each other from the moment she was born. When Charles was home, she followed him everywhere, clinging to him with a love that was both adorable and touching. It was no surprise that her first word had been ‘Papa.’ Whenever Charles was around, her little world seemed to revolve around him, her every action drawing him into her orbit.
Today, though, was different. Today was special. Charles was finally coming home after weeks of being away for races. The moment Amelie heard the news that morning, she could hardly contain herself. She’d been bouncing on the bed, her tiny legs kicking in excitement, her high-pitched voice squealing with joy. "Papa come today! Maman, me excited!" she had exclaimed, her face lighting up with the kind of joy that only a child could express.
You couldn’t help but laugh at her enthusiasm, pulling her into your arms for a quick hug. "I know, baby, I’m excited too," you said softly, brushing her curls out of her face. "But you have to save some of that energy for Papa so you can play together later, okay?"
Amelie nodded, her excitement practically radiating off her. "Otay, Maman," she had replied, her eyes gleaming with anticipation and went straight to the living room.
That promise was long forgotten as she was now chasing Leo around the living room, they were running around as though the whole apartment was their personal racetrack. The scene was one of pure chaos, but it was the kind of chaos that made life so full.
"Amelie Leclerc, can you please stop chasing Leo?" You called out playfully, though you could barely keep up with her giggles and the sound of her tiny feet tapping across the floor. You tried to grab her, but she managed to duck away with a squeal of laughter, running in the opposite direction.
Despite the exhaustion you could already feel creeping in, you couldn’t help but smile. Watching her run, her little body so full of life, it was impossible to not be filled with love. You finally caught her, scooping her up into your arms, the warmth of her small frame against you grounding you in the moment.
"What's up with you, young lady? Where is all this energy coming from?" You asked, brushing the hair out of her face. "It’s not even noon yet, and Maman is already tired." You teased, brushing the hair out of her face.
You carried her to the kitchen and began preparing her breakfast. Charles had always been very careful about her diet, ensuring she had balanced, healthy meals, and you followed that lead. Today’s breakfast was simple but wholesome—milk, cereal, a little fruit, and a slice of whole wheat toast, all made with love. She ate everything, happily chatting about how she was going to greet Charles and show him her new toy car collection. Her excitement was palpable, filling the space around you with a warmth that seemed to echo the sunlight streaming through the windows.
After breakfast, you helped Amelie get ready, brushing her hair and letting her pick out a pink bow to match her outfit—a red Ferrari T-shirt and tiny denim shorts. As she twirled around, admiring herself in the mirror, she beamed with pride. "Look, Maman! I am beautiful!"
Your heart swelled with love for her, your eyes soft with affection. "Yes, you are, honey—the most beautiful girl I have ever seen," you told her, your voice thick with emotion.
Just as you were about to sit down on the couch, the front door creaked open, and the familiar sound of Leo’s excited bark filled the apartment. The dog’s tail wagged furiously as he bolted toward the door, clearly recognizing the scent of the one person he always welcomed with open arms—Charles. You turned toward the door, and your heart skipped a beat as you saw your husband step inside, his face lighting up the moment he saw you.
Leo sprinted toward him, jumping up to cover him in kisses, and Charles laughed as he crouched down to greet him. "Hey, Leo! Did you take care of our girls? Good boy!" he chuckled, scratching the dog’s ears.
You ran to him, wrapping your arms around his neck.
"Hey, baby. Welcome home," you whispered against his skin, your heart racing at the feel of him in your arms once more. His familiar scent enveloped you, grounding you in the moment.
Charles’s response was immediate. He cupped your face with both hands, his lips pressing against yours in a kiss that was both urgent and tender. A soft, needy sigh escaped him as his lips trailed down to your jaw, then to the side of your neck. His breath was warm against your skin, and his hands roamed down your back, pulling you tighter to him as though he never wanted to let go.
"God, I missed you so much," he breathed, his voice thick with emotion. His hands slid into your hair, gently tugging you closer, burying his face in the softness of it. "I thought about you every damn day. Your scent... the way you feel in my arms… I couldn’t wait to come home to you guys. Speaking of, where's Amelie? I missed her like crazy."
That was a good question. Normally, Amelie would be the first one to run to him, her little feet pounding against the hardwood floor as she squealed with excitement. But today, when you turned to see her, there she was, still sitting on the couch, staring intently at the TV, completely oblivious to her father’s return.
You raised an eyebrow, confused. “Amelie, look! Papa is home! Aren’t you happy?” You called out gently, stepping toward her with Charles following close behind. The two of you sat down in front of her, a bit hesitant, unsure of what was going on.
Charles leaned forward slightly, his voice soft but laced with concern. “Hey, chérie, Papa is home! Didn’t you miss me?” He gave her a hopeful smile, but his eyes betrayed a hint of nervousness, clearly wondering if she’d forgotten him after all this time.
You joined in, trying to jog her memory. “Amelie, remember how excited you were this morning? You even picked your outfit for Papa.” You smiled as you spoke, trying to make the connection for her.
Amelie paused, still staring at the TV, her little fingers absently tracing the edge of her shirt. Then, without any warning, she leaned in and gave you a big, sloppy kiss right on the lips, her face lighting up with affection. “MUAH! Maman, I love you,” she said in her sweetest little voice, her eyes sparkling with pure love.
You were taken aback for a moment, smiling warmly at her. You could feel the surprise and confusion rising in Charles’s gaze, his mouth slightly open as he looked from Amelie to you. Why wasn’t she rushing to him, as she always did?
The silence hung in the air for a moment before Charles spoke up again, his voice tinged with disbelief. “I knew it. She forgot me! Mon Dieu, my own daughter forgot me!” He let out an exaggerated groan, clutching his chest in mock despair.
You couldn’t help but laugh, though a part of you shared the same confusion. You reached over and gently placed a reassuring hand on his chest, your thumb brushing over his shirt as you looked up at him with a small smile. “Relax, Charles. She was ecstatic this morning. Maybe she’s just shy. You know how she can get when she's in a new mood.”
Charles gave you a skeptical look, but before he could say anything else, Amelie turned toward you again and planted another kiss on your cheek. “MUAH! Maman is mine,” she said, giggling as she gave you a tight hug.
The affectionate gesture only made Charles’s face drop even further. He sighed dramatically, shaking his head. “I’ve been replaced, haven’t I? She’s all yours now, Maman.”
Just as Charles began to stand up, clearly disheartened, Amelie’s expression suddenly shifted. A twinkle danced in her eyes, and before either of you could react, she burst out laughing, a mischievous grin spreading across her face. “Surprise, Papa! I joke youuu!”
With a squeal of laughter, Amelie jumped off the couch and ran straight into Charles’s arms. He was caught off guard for a moment, but then, as if on instinct, he swept her up into his arms, his heart visibly lifting as he pulled her close.
“Oh my God, Amelie, you pranked Papa! You got me so good, chérie!” Charles laughed, his voice full of relief and pure joy as he kissed her cheeks over and over, showering her with affection. “Papa thought you forgot about him! You’re going to be trouble, little one.”
Amelie giggled, her tiny hands grasping his face, and with all the innocence of a child, she responded, “I remember you. Always. I love you, Papa.”
Charles’s eyes softened, and he blinked away a tear that had unexpectedly formed. He held her tightly, his voice full of emotion. “I love you too, mon amour,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to her forehead.
You watched the scene unfold, feeling a rush of warmth flood through you. It was moments like these that made everything worthwhile—the simple, genuine love and affection that filled your home.
Amelie, still clinging to her father’s neck, turned toward you eagerly. “Papa, play cars with me now?” she asked, her voice full of anticipation.
Charles smiled, the familiar light returning to his eyes as he nodded. “Of course, let’s go! But first, a big group hug.” He pulled you both in close, wrapping his arms tightly around you and Amelie. The three of you stood there for a moment, savoring the closeness, the warmth of your little family.
“I love my girls,” he whispered, his voice filled with adoration.
You kissed his cheek, feeling a deep sense of gratitude and love in your heart. “And we love you too,” you replied, your words sincere and full of warmth.
#charles leclerc#charles leclerc x reader#fluff#charles leclerc x you#charles leclerc x female reader#charles leclerc fic#charles leclerc blurb#charles leclerc x wife!reader#charles leclerc fluff#charles leclerc imagine#charles leclerc fanfic#charles leclerc fic rec#fic rec#formula one fic#formual one#formula 1#formula one#f1 fanfic#f1 fic#f1#f1 x reader#f1 imagine#f1 one shot#cl16#cl16 x reader#cl16 imagine
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f1 fic recs
a compilation of all the fics i've been reading in the f1 rpf tag on ao3! please leave comments and kudos for the authors, and check the tags before reading. sorted by pairing, and summary and word count are provided. none of these fics are mine.
if your fic is on here and you want it removed, please let me know!
charles leclerc / max verstappen
bloodsport by 140445 | 37,711 words | M
“I don’t care about then, you are here now,” Charles says. “You are on my side now.” Max is on his side. It’ll feel like that, too, at some point. Surely. Or: Max and Charles as teammates for the 24 hours of Le Mans.
such murderous and vengeful desire by foggystars | 20,676 words | E
Where Carlos’ girlfriend has her fingers crossed, keeps covering her eyes as if she can’t bear to watch, Max is focused, mouth set in a hard line. He’s leaning in, balancing on the edge of his seat. To anybody else he looks intent, focused on the screen. To Charles, he looks like a bird, poised to take wing. Like he’s about to fly right through the screen and take the steering wheel from Charles’ clumsy hands, get in there and drive the car himself. When Max Verstappen suffers a career ending injury, he pours all his effort into turning his old rival, Charles Leclerc, into a worthy champion. Five years and two world championships later, they finally decide to talk about it.
like in love with me by linearity | 7,800 words | T
Austria 2019, a two-person house party, Abu Dhabi 2021, a silly lover’s quarrel, and a stove-side morning proposal.
Anonym by additiv | 13,971 words | E
The truth is, Max finds Charles unbelievably annoying. He’s chaotic and unpredictable. He’s staring at Max across the room one moment, and in the next, seems to have forgotten he exists. He swaps clothes with people at random, whipping off his faded Gucci t-shirt in the middle of the dance floor, to trade it for some girl’s crop top, laughing and crowding close to block the view of her body while they make the exchange. When he disappears to the bathroom, Max never knows whether he’ll reappear with glitter on his eyelids, or white powder on his nose. He flirts with every person in the room, and probably sleeps with them too. He ignores Max completely, then goes home with him. He’s always gone when Max wakes up; nothing left behind, nothing missing. He refuses to stay the night, but refuses to let Max get over him. And, he refuses to let Max know anything about him.
when you cut me open by triangularity (linearity) | 44,900 words | E
Well, Charles concedes, miserably. He did die last night. A few days staying with his vampire ex-boyfriend probably isn’t the worst thing he’ll have gone through in January.
a life in your shape by weiwuxian (BreathOfDream) | 29,431 words | E
“Oh god, not you,” Charles groans, crossing his arms on his chest. The Batman visibly rolls his eyes (blue, of course, because all men that messed with Charles’ life had that in common apparently) at his reaction, but another look at Charles makes him step closer. “Yes, always a pleasure. Are you ok?” or: 5 times both Max and the Batman makes Charles' life a lot more complicated than needed + 1 time he doesn't
Frecheit by additiv | 208,723 words | E
The first time that Max heard the name Charles Leclerc was in 2022, just after winning his first WDC. Maybe it only stuck because he heard it twice in one night; first as Leclerc was announced as the 2022 F3 champion. Second, as Helmut lamented not signing him to the Red Bull driver development program. Now, Max is ready to put the newly-promoted Ferrari driver in his place. The problem is, Leclerc seems to think his place is on the top step of the podium. And he is not playing by the rules. An age-difference fic, where they never got to work out their differences as kids. 3-time WDC Max's experience of being personally victimised by baby-Charles.
in dream by 140445 | 81,025 words | E
Charles tried to figure out the dream on his own. In the morning he sat down with a cup of coffee, trying to make sense of what he had seen—he even googled it. Surely, Charles couldn't be the first or only person to dream about someone he shouldn't. But there were no search results for my professional rival is suddenly also my soulmate or soulmate dream of someone i'm not supposed to want???. (In a world where soulmates identified each other by sharing a dream, Charles dreamt of the last person he expected.)
heart of the wind by pipitass | 13,830 words | M
There’s a slip of paper taped next to one of the doorbells — third floor, second door. It should, in theory, be the one directly across from his own. Max V. “Yes?” “Uh— hi.” He clears his throat. “It’s your neighbor. From across the street. Your, your clothes…” He doesn’t really know what to say after that. Hi, I got into a street fight with your bedsheets yesterday. Welcome to the neighborhood.
charles_leclerc ✔️ posted: 😘 by ninetqs | 11,500 words | M
Charles posts a photo with a mystery man and casually breaks the Internet in the process.
cameras in the traffic lights by c_e_1 | 9,958 words | M
Pop Crave @PopCrave • Aug 13 2023 Popstar Charles Leclerc has put his instagram on private after fans spotted Formula 1 driver Max Verstappen in the background of his vacation photos 303 comments | 1.6K retweets | 10K likes
(don't read) the last page by mintchocolatechip97 | 7,475 words | E
Max feels a light tap on his arm, and turns to see the beautiful door-opener, chestnut brown curls fluffed up on his head like he’s been running his hands through his hair. “I have been on a set a time or two,” the man says, trying and failing to wink, “but this is my first time in a writers room, so you are not the only rookie here.” He clearly speaks English fluently, but has a smidge of a European accent, which Max thinks might be French. “I’m sorry,” Max says, a little annoyed that this stranger is speaking to him as if they know each other, “I didn’t catch your name?” Several emotions flit over the man’s face, in such quick succession that Max can’t quite catch them all. In the end, he looks mortified. “Oh, I am so sorry,” he says, “This is going to sound terrible, like I am the worst kind of person, but I thought you would know who I was.” Dr. Max Verstappen gets hired as the expert medical consultant for a new Netflix show. Charles Leclerc, former teen heartthrob, stars.
all i know of love is hunger by 140445 | 28,509 words | E
Anger flares in Charles’ chest. Not the kind that he feels in the car, when he’s on Max’s tail, when they are braking late and later. The one that’s been looming over his head ever since Max announced his retirement. The one he hasn’t been able to tame until now, until he can give it a name. Betrayal.
hollywood and highland by japrufrocks | 26,730 words | E
Max had left New York a week before Charles had, seven days exactly. Max had gone to Hollywood; Charles had gone to a hospital. Now they're starring in the same film. Hollywood gives its darlings everything. It takes everything too.
straight lines (that unwind you) by 140445 | 16,330 words | E
“Do you know him?” Arthur asks. “No,” Charles decides. Because he does not. He knows Max is a mathematics major, and that he plays chess. And that he hits the gym. And what he looks like when he comes. Details.
all to play for by linearity | 49,300 words | E
Charles Leclerc is not at Red Bull to win races. He is here to win championships.
my thoughts will echo your name by witchee_writer | 38,826 words | M
“Do you think you’ll ever want to do Le Mans one day?” asked Max, glancing sideways at the man sitting next to him. Charles’ eyes lit up, a grin spreading across his face. “I think I want to win Le Mans one day.”
heart on your sleeve by nyoomfruits | 4,812 words | T
The thing about having a racing helmet that constantly displays your emotions for the whole world to see, is that you kind of get used to it after a while. These days Charles almost forgets it’s even a thing. Almost. But then he goes and falls in love.
ghost of you by nyoomfruits | 3,436 words | T
“All right, are you now finally ready to explain why four time world driver champion Charles Leclerc is currently in my living room?” Max says, as Charles towels off his hair. Charles pauses, lets the towel fall into his lap, stares at Max with wide eyes. “I’m sorry, did you say four time?”
The HR Situation by thearchercore | 3,027 words | Gen
Jacob found out many things during his first month in the new HR role - Mary and Connor from Aero Engineering were dating. Thomas and Nick from Comms got recently divorced and it's a sensitive subject. Eddie from Legal had to go to an Anger Management class but hasn't had any issues since his return. Oh, and also - Max Verstappen and Charles Leclerc were fucking weird about each other. or: Charles and Max go to Mercedes and the HR Department is in shambles.
Sawtooth by nottonyharrison | 40,305 words | E
In another universe, Max rejected karting at the age of fifteen, no longer prepared to be a proxy for his father’s dream. He moved back to Belgium to live with his mum and sister, excelled at school, and eventually went on to complete a Masters of Mechanical Engineering. Now 27, after four years working for Alfa Romeo and Sauber, first as a junior performance engineer and then on the pit wall for Zhou Guanyu, he’s put forward for a job with Ferrari when Carlos Sainz is left without a race engineer thanks to the increasingly hectic F1 schedule. The problem is, Max has a crush on Carlos’ teammate. A huge, obvious, embarrassing crush that leaves him stumbling for words, face burning every time he’s within six feet of the guy. What makes it even worse is that sometimes he’s sure that Charles is looking right back.
leminiscate by weiwuxian (BreathofDream) | 27,799 words | E
Charles tries to imagine Max, on the opposite side of the kitchen. Eating bread too, like he did that first morning of the After—gross and charming. Tries to think about the way he would hold him, maybe. Of the softness of his lips, glossed by butter; and how he would laugh and push him away. His phone dings and he blinks himself awake once again.
achilles comes down by sincerelylancelot | 21,068 words | M
The World Championship trophy rests in his trembling hands, his name etched in fine gold. It isn't until he's staring down at it—his name nestled close to Max’s—that he realises his dreams have always been carved out of someone else’s pain. Jules. Max. And now, maybe even himself.
charles leclerc / carlos sainz jr
a bad recompense for your love by steviethenarwhal | 65,162 words | M
“I do not want to date you,” Charles says. Carlos’s eyes slide warily over to him. He tries to explain. “I do not date men. It would be… not smart.” “I don’t want to date you either,” Carlos says. “I do not date racecar drivers.”
translation theory by linearity | 9,500 words | E
Charles Leclerc, Ferrari’s golden boy, their Il Predestinato. He likes it up the ass and likes getting fucked by rockstars who have more tattoos than thoughts in their brains. What a fucking joke.
semiotic study by linearity | 8,600 words | E
Carlos knows. He knows what this is and what this is not. This is not romance, this is not love, but Charles makes it so easy to slip into that illusion. Charles makes it so hard, and Carlos cannot be without.
last night by venerat | 24,259 words | E
Rule #1: When you go to America, don't lose your virginity to your best friend's roommate. Charles fails Rule #1.
Good Boy by chiliconcarlos | 8,445 words | E
Really, it’s all Alex’s fault. ~~ Or: the one where Charles and Carlos want to settle the question of who's better in bed.
at the dinner table with god and my father by Cloudcollector | 4,599 words | M
There is a table in his house that knows more about him than his father. Or, Carlos and his father. And the family dinner table through the years.
win or lose (it's how you play the game) by chiliconcarlos | 18,321 words | E
It all starts because of a stupid bet. Or: Carlos suggests a hickey bet for their '23 season, and it goes about how you'd expect.
darling by magnificentbirb | 6,579 words | T
The pet names begin as a joke.
carlos sainz jr / oscar piastri
take it or leave it by venerat | 6,771 words | E
r/relationships: My (22M) coworker (29M) keeps irritating me at work
he just turned in like i didn't exist by linearity | 36,500 words | E
Oscar doesn’t have a problem with his soulmate. It’s his soulmate who has the fucking problem.
Happy Death Race by powerfulowl (playmyace) | 28,390 words | E
Carlos gazes up at the fake blue sky. Dopey grin, contrapposto pose, head as empty as the cottony clouds above. “Look, look. Look, Piastri. It is always daylight.” Oscar imagines pushing him into the piss water canal. "Yeah, cool. Stop dying!" (Oscar is in a time loop and Carlos won't stop dying.)
when both our cars collide by buildyourfences | 8,483 words | M
It’s race day, which means his phone shouldn’t be ringing. And yet, it is. “Carlos, why are you not at the track yet? We are waiting for you.” “But–” “I sent you the updated schedule last night, please get here as soon as possible.” The call ends. He blinks down at the phone in his hand. Friday, March 1. Well, that’s not right. Carlos is trapped in a time loop. He can't stop crashing with Oscar.
at a constant speed by wisteriagoesvroom (bobaheadshark) | 11,676 words | E
“Are you close?” Oscar asks. “What does it look like?” “I wasn’t expecting it to be, uh, so…” What? Oscar wants to add. Hot? Desperate? Pathetic? All of the above? --- Or, carcar get themselves into a situationship, and it just keeps situating.
left a calling card so they would know that it was me by xxxdeerlordxxx | 6,139 words | E
Carlos continues to sit there, in the cockpit with his back to the wall, pieces of the torn advertisements raining down on him. He can see a big screen from where he’s at, the replays they show over and over, of Carlos spinning out, of Oscar driving away from the incident like nothing happened. Because of course no one believes him. But Carlos knows that Oscar’s to blame. Just not in the way people might think.
hatred cradles you by foggystars | 6,829 words | E
“You see?” Carlos asks, hanging up the phone. “He does not pick up.” Oscar shrugs, unsure why Carlos seems to think this is his problem. Just because Oscar’s his teammate doesn’t mean he knows where Lando is at all times, like some sort of twink-seeking missile. Then Carlos says, “I wait for him in here,” and nods to himself. He’s walking into Oscar’s hotel room before he can stop him, and all Oscar can do is blink stupidly at the empty stretch of hallway where Carlos once stood.
in midnight’s jaws by Springsteen | 30,806 words | E
Werewolves are fiction, the stuff of books and movies just like witches and zombies. Men do not turn into wolves, or fly on broomsticks, or raise the dead. There must be a logical explanation for the restlessness in Carlos's blood, for the waves of pain so sudden and intense it feels as though his bones are trying to break free of his body. Surely there is a perfectly good reason for Carlos to have woken in the dirt the morning after a full moon, with no idea where he is or how he got there. And surely there was a reason he turned to Oscar Piastri, of all people, for help.
pulling teeth by arboretics | 9,030 words | Not Rated
Oscar is very private, very in control. Carlos pretends he is both of those things, too. But after a late night collision in Baku 2024, things spiral between them into something straddling a game and an uncomfortable intimacy. A year on, Oscar and Lando are battling for the championship, Carlos is fighting for low points finishes, and Oscar loses his grip on the whole situation.
the better half of a good time by antimonyandthyme | 4,413 words | E
“Most guys, they look at the date.” He manages to make it sound both admiring and chiding. Oscar is very quickly losing control of this conversation. “Do you make a habit of just giving your license out? To every stranger you meet?” “Only those I really like.”
reckless attention by crescenteluce | 4,290 words | E
It’s probably on Oscar to be the bigger person here, to tell Carlos if he can’t do it sober, he shouldn’t be doing it at all. But that’s the thing about Carlos – he doesn’t exactly inspire Oscar to be the best version of himself.
george russell / max verstappen
winning mentality by linearity | 18,500 words | E
It’s not, like, a thing. It’s only happened twice, if you don’t count the time during the pre-season when Max shoved a thigh against George’s crotch, and George, touched-deprived and broken-hearted, let out a sharp gasp and came instantly. Max, looking shocked and frightened, stormed away.
cut your teeth by 140445 | 9,224 words | E
And that is the thing that brought George here. Eat or be eaten. It’ll happen either way. Maybe here, he will like the taste.
full throttle by calenmirel | 3,397 words | E
Later, Max will turn to him, meeting his gaze head on, and ask if George truly hadn’t seen him in his mirrors at turn eight, like George had claimed. He'll rub his hands on his racesuit as he says it, like he'll be rid of the phantom feeling of George's hair from between his fingers if he wipes them hard enough. George will look back at him, licking the taste of Max from the back of his teeth like he can savour it, and will reply, “of course I didn’t,” lying through his smile.
alexander albon / george russell
a feeling all brand new by ginnydear | 16,481 words | M
Alex is halfway through his sandwich when he starts to feel talkative, so he takes a sip of his tea and waits for Logan to finish chewing before he says what’s running through his mind at full speed. “I think I’m homophobic.”
nothing but teeth by crescenteluce | 25,057 words | E
“Oh, come on.” Alex says, poking George in the thigh again with his foot. “Don’t tell me you’ve never done a little-” Alex makes a complicated hand-wavy gesture that has the contents of his glass nearly sloshing over the sides. “At your fancy boy schools, a little stiff upper-lipped make-out amongst the chaps? In between rounds of cricket and fox hunting?”
carlos sainz jr / max verstappen
ease the madness by magnificentbirb | 12,231 words | M
Max signed away his soul on his sixteenth birthday.
pierre gasly / charles leclerc
a long time (maybe forever) by strongestavenger | 10,021 words | T
AITA: homophobic but only to my roommate/best friend? First of all, I swear I have never been a discriminatory person – I have lots of gay friends and my little brother is bisexual. I know that sounds stupid as hell but it’s my only defense right now. My problem is that I (Marc, 26M, straight) have a roommate (Jacques, 28M, gay), who has also been my best friend since we were kids, and I think I’ve started to feel homophobic towards him? (or: Charles needs some outside help to figure things out.)
miscellaneous / general / multi
One thousand laps of jeddah by in_in_in_in_in_in_in | 68,585 words | Gen
George feels sick for the whole ride to the track. He has no idea how he got from breakfast to the car, let alone how he shook off Alex. He knows that he said ‘for god’s sake, Alex, I’m not on drugs’ about a hundred times, even though he’s not at all sure that it’s the truth. What else could have happened to him? Did he dream the race last night?
eat them alive by linearity | 57,000 words | E
Oscar lost Lando a championship and left McLaren. There was still a year in between.
the condominium community committee by jusst_you_wait | 36,452 words | T
the condominium community - 2:36pm Oscar and Logan have been added to the chat George Hello, welcome to a group chat we have for the Formula apartment building! There are only 18 (20 now) of us so we like to keep in contact about the building maintenance and other neighbourly orders of business. I’m George, and I liaise with the building manager on behalf of all of us when there is a building specific issue rather than an apartment issue. Welcome to the building! Lando do u copy and paste that from ur notes every time Alex I bet he has it memorised ~ or, the ridiculous chat fic where the f1 grid all live in the same apartment building
temperature get to you by minieggs11 | 9,339 words | E
It’s Logan’s last ride of the night, it’s clearly two drunk tourists going back to their hotel. As long as they give him a five star rating, he doesn’t care what happens.
sugar and spice by pipitass | 10,785 words | E
“Do you know already? Who you’ll pick?” Oscar frowns. Eyes still closed, scrunched now. Sharp brows downturned, meeting in the middle of his face. “When you win.” The frown deepens for a second. Then his face releases, and he shrugs. Shuffles as he goes to lay down, kicking his shoes off before he brings them up so his toes are poking at Max’s thigh, settling in. “Someone nice.”
triple header by 140445 | 7,890 words | E
Because Oscar isn’t here with Charles. And he’s not here with Max. He doesn’t get it, this thing between Max and Charles. They look like they’re here together, share glances that make Oscar feel like an intruder—but Max brought Oscar back to the booth to sit with them. For Charles to flirt with him. As if it’s some kind of game, where Max brings back prey for Charles to take.
somebody else by piastrism | 31,252 words | E
Oscar misses the color lilac — the color of the twilight sky behind Charles as they drank wine on Sedici, and the long-faded color left behind on his hips by Max’s fingertips.
we'll take the shadows (since the limelight isn't ours) by magnificentbirb | 2,177 words | T
Lando hears the screech of tires on asphalt behind him, the distant crunch of carbon fiber colliding with a wall. He glimpses only the aftermath of the carnage—the dust and smoke, the flashing lights, the unmistakable gleam of bright red—and then he’s clear. And that’s when the seconds slow down.
possessed by light by Anonymous | 6,885 words | Gen
It is a lesson you learn alone. Or that you are supposed to learn alone. At some point you will look at yourself in the mirror and see not just flesh and blood. You will see the capabilities beyond that. You will see your body as a ladder to forever ascend, to always want more. You will see just what you’re made of—and you will realise it has to be used. You will learn not to waste it. Charles did not learn that on his own.
#f1 rpf#fic rec#f1 fic rec#lestappen#charlos#carcar#gax#1633#charles leclerc x max verstappen#charles leclerc x carlos sainz#carlos sainz x oscar piastri#george russell x max verstappen#5581#3363#i do not know how to tag everything uhhhh#thank u fic writers for my life#need to go through my own list bc i'm behind on leaving comments and bookmarks
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the tears omfg
it’s never over ✴︎ cl16
genre: childhood friends to friends with benefits to lovers (a mouthful), smut, humor, Fluffff!!!!, several references to 70’s music,
word count: 12.9k
You must have lost the plot along the way, because pretending to date your childhood best friend was not on your 2023 bingo card. (Neither was the fact that things are looking a lot more real as time passes.)
nsfw warnings under the cut!
18+ because... handjob (f receiving), penetrative sex, semi public sex, praise central, size kink
auds here… hi hi hi!!! you’ve no idea how much i missed writing posting and interacting w u guys. thank u for all the love & follows i’ve gotten in my periods of mia. more things soon i promise ty for ur patience love love love u allll 🌟🤎🤠💋 this is my love letter to fic tropes. i feared if it was too long i’d lose the plot somehow so i had to condense it. i truly hope u all like it :) will try & reopen reqs sometime soon to get inspo kicking
It’s later than late. The lights are strobing purple and blue, the “let’s get you even drunker than you are” headache inducing kind. The floor is crowded, swelling with teenagers who are probably too young to get in, drunk off cheap aperol and watered-down tequila shots. You’re balancing yourself on a barstool, one hand busy wrapped around a slim glass, the other clawing your miniskirt lower because the air bites at your legs.
“Another voddy Red Bull!” You’re slurring, mind spinning almost as fast as your vision. You almost drop your empty glass in your rush to look for another one—but right as it slips clumsily out of your fingers, it’s caught.
Charles, your cocktail’s knight in armor and yours just as well, is eighteen. His hair is light brown and long, but not draping over his eyes like before. You know before because you’ve never not known before—Charles has been your best friend since you were five.
Snoopy, he says, voice steady and calm in your ear. His frame is still lanky but he’s tall and his grip on your shoulders is enough to quell the yelling. You pout. Get me another voddy red, you plead. Charlie, it’s my birthday. He smiles to himself, knowing your vision’s too cloudy to see him and your mind’s too bogged to remember any of this. You’d already slipped up and told two bouncers you were seventeen and not eighteen, like your poorly-Photoshopped ID suggested; Charles had to keep you in check, lest you or your friends end up kicked out of the club.
A song booms in through the speakers and your eyes widen with recognition. Charles doesn’t anticipate your reaction fast enough, affording only a stumble backwards when you attempt to leave the barstool to dance. He swears under his breath, mind recounting the five previous dance sessions that left you exhausted and out of breath earlier.
I’ll get you a vodka Red Bull if you sit down, he tells you. He enunciates because, twelve years later, you still can’t wrap your mind around his thick European accent. Sit down.
Alriiiight! You hoot, throwing two fists up in the air. Customary for many bartenders on nights as busy as this one, a free shot is thrust into your vacant hand and you cheer loudly, much to Charles’ chagrin. With whatever malice the eighteen-year-old can muster, he casts the bartender a dirty look before turning to face you again, worried. He places a hand on your shoulder and watches, half-anxious and half-endeared, you take the shot and visibly grimace at the raw taste. Fuck. It’s gin I think, you sputter. Charles presses: You okay?
More than, you holler, smiling. I am officially seventeeee—
The bartender’s eyebrows furrow, the thirty-something businessman in the adjacent stool turns to look—so Charles has no choice but to shut you up, leaning in and pressing his lips to yours before you can seal your fate.
Your eyes widen briefly, and when Charles feels the passed seconds are sufficient, he pulls away. You stare, eyes hazy, at the pretty boy you’ve had feelings for since you turned fourteen, and lean in to kiss him again.
—
Pascale is hosting her weekly Sunday brunch at the Leclerc residence, all French windows and wide kitchens and bowls of fruit. As always, your place is at the kitchen island picking at plates to taste test them. Bonjour, Arthur drawls when he walks in. He turns to Pascale. Mum. Then you. Snoopy.
You halt biting into your forkful of arugula and turn toward the younger Leclerc, eyebrows raised. “What’d you just call me?”
“Snoopy,” he says simply. He’s beside Pascale, one arm wrapped around her affectionately. “Or, Snoops, if you like that. Yes?”
“Who told you about that nickname?”
“Lorenzo.”
“Hasn’t been in use since your voice was cracking every sentence.”
“Tête de noeud.” Pascale swats his arm and he yelps, so you resume your arugula with satisfaction.
Charles is late for reasons he did not disclose, but everyone is used to it. The open kitchen door stretches into the front yard, where the table is set up and Lorenzo is setting the places. You know that although you usually expect a few more relatives, today’s just for the family—and you, but you’re basically family.
“How is Paris?” Arthur asks, licking hummus off a spoon opposite you. Your position is reminiscent of how you spent afternoons after school with Charles before, and the memory strikes a chord in you. Strange nostalgia, fondness.
“It’s fine.”
“Oh really?” He laughs in-between nibbles of carrot.
“I got an offer for a higher position,” you relent. Pascale calls you both, and you get up and walk toward the yard to sit down. “If you must know.”
“Oh? Let me know how that goes.” He follows you, carrot slice in hand, chewing. The conversation is cut short by the smooth noise of Charles’ decidedly un-smooth parking outside.
You’re seated at your usual spot—in-between Charles and Lorenzo, across Arthur—when the former finally walks into the yard. He looks tired, moreso than usual, bags under his eyes deep and hair a bit more disheveled.
He sits beside you. “I need to talk to you.” Then, quieter, “Private.”
You hum confusedly, eyes flitting across the three other people at the table to gauge their reactions. They’re equally aloof. “Wh—now?” He nods.
You end up talking in the kitchen. He’s sighing the whole fifteen steps there, rubbing the bridge of his nose, exhaling, inhaling. Ever observant, and of someone as close to you as he is, you pick up on the tiny actions, behaviors. Charles is wringing his hands. He’s tried to pop the same knuckle twice. He isn’t frantic—he’s scared. You lean against the counter, waiting, eyes looking him up and down to identify his exact emotions.
“Tell me,” you press. “Whatever it is, I won’t judge.”
“The—my—the iCloud of my phone has been leaked. The press found out.”
When you were eight and he was nine, you and Charles summered in Villefranche with your mum and dad. The weather then was the kind you could write love letters to and about—blue skies, salty wind, soft sand. The current was calm enough that you could ride the gentle waves without fear of going under or straying far from the shore, where your parents sunbathed blissfully.
Don’t drown, he’d warned you, ever protective. You wore pink floaties over your arms, so it was already difficult to.
You dove under with great effort, fighting against the buoyancy, and poked his bare knee, surfacing to watch his reaction. He grimaced. Slowpoke, you teased, swimming away. You wondered then what it might feel to drown. Maybe not in the blue water of Villefranche, but anywhere else.
You think it hurts to drown? You blubbered, bobbing above the wave. Charles swam in front of you and wiped water off your face gently. I hope you never find out, he said, smiling.
But this is you finding out. This is it now, the drowning. Your fingers flex over the edge of the counter and you gulp, eyes fluttering with nerves. “Shit?” It comes out like a question from how nervous you are. “Um, sorry. What are we—” But your question is cut short by Pascale’s voice, cutting through the tension like it’s wet cardboard. The agreement is silent and mutual: save this discussion for later.
—
Charles can’t wake up fast enough. There are calls, texts, voicemails from every officer on his team, which isn’t that surprising given he’s up two hours late. But the amount—the sheer amount of notifications is dizzying. Overwhelmed, he finds it in himself to pull up his search engine app and let his fingers possess themselves.
All he types is his last name, and then The Sun article is splashed onto his face like a pot of scalding coffee: “F1 DRIVER ICLOUD LEAKED, PERSONAL PHOTOS ALL OVER INTERNET.” Daily Mail is next, of course, watering down the situation to seem more dirty and scandalous: “Naughty Driver? Charles Leclerc’s iCloud Hacked, Reveals Mystery Girl.” And then of course Page Six, who doesn’t miss a beat—
Wait. He blinks and presses the back arrow to return to the previous webpage. He reads over it again, slower this time. Mystery Girl? Shit—no. No way. It’s almost (it should be) silly, the way he’s reading vigorously over the reports like he’s a fan, but he’s anxious. He scrolls, because if any tabloid is daft enough to publish the leaked photos, it’s got to be the Daily Mail.
He pauses his quick swiping when his eyes harden with recognition, and staring back at him, on his phone’s full brightness, is a picture of you on his lap at Christmas. It’s the one Lance took while attempting to guess Charles’ password, one of you wine drunk with his head buried in your neck.
It’s unmistakably him, at his own house in Monaco where the drivers had a holiday get-together. It’s unmistakably you, hair draped over your face, three gold rings on your fingers. You had just given him a Strokes vinyl, he recalls. That’s why you were hugging.
There’s another one of you playing Scrabble in his bed—he’s not in the frame, but he remembers taking it. This, he could deny. He’s not in it, and he’s pretty sure the fans don’t know his house this well. Already his brain’s doing manual damage control, dread filling his veins at the thought of reading through his team’s frantic messages.
Another message stands out, pinned on top of all the others—from his mum, reminding him about brunch. He gets ready half-focused, half-lucid. Fully worried. He worries about the PR crisis this may cause, about his iCloud security, about the reactions online. Above all, though, he worries about you. About what he should tell the press. About how “actually, we’re not dating, we just fuck constantly” might hold up for the fans.
—
You’re twelve and Charles thirteen, both of you seated across Hervé and Pascale. Behind them stand your own parents, and they all look stern. What this is, Pascale says gently, is a family meeting. Okay?
Okay. It leaves your high voices in shaky unison. You both know what you’re doing here—you snuck out of school to catch a movie earlier, the teacher naturally caught wind of the misdeed, and now you’re in a meeting for it.
Snoops, Charles whispers, trying to ease your nerves with lighthearted commentary. This is the worst.
No, you want to tell preteen Charles—this is. You’re older now, yet still subjected to similar questioning, though today it’s Pascale going solo. It’s been three days since the fated day where the press leaked the pictures of you and Charles in compromising positions, and like any boomer, she’s used Facebook to her advantage and gotten ahold of the compromising pictures, too.
“How long?” Her voice is enunciated in hard syllables.
“Mum—”
“Answer the question.” She looks back and forth, moving into territory of intense questions. “Both of you.”
“Um.”
“Because… I’ve been…”
You notice it immediately, given your observant track record: her shoulders relax and her lips smile just slightly. You sit still, and wait for the next words out of her mouth. “…waiting for this all my life!”
You and Charles watch in mild horror as Pascale’s face goes from firm to absolutely elated. Her eyes soften and a smile spreads over her face, illuminating her with pure joy. Do you even know how many bets I made with your papa, Charles? She claps her hands together several times.
Charles opens his mouth to verbalize dissent, but she doesn’t take it—she’s already droning on and on about how long she’s waited for this to finally happen. Your eyes glide over to the doorway of the dining area, where Lorenzo and Arthur watch with smug looks on their faces. Little shits won’t help you. You don’t even try to protest, and at some point Charles gives up, too. You don’t know how it’ll come across, anyway.
Ninety minutes later, you’re in Arthur’s bedroom rifling through his desk and praying you don’t find anything too gross. He’s on his bed throwing a bouncy ball up in the air, conversing with Charles about your gameplan with their mum.
The sky outside is in limbo between afternoon and night. It’s cloudy, so the sunset is a pale yellow instead of angry orange. “Why not just tell her the truth?”
You’d also thought that was the easiest option, escape route, exit path. But that would involve breaking Pascale’s heart, and that was out of the question for you, let alone Charles, certified mommy’s boy.
“I can’t, Arthur.” Charles’ voice is steady and unwavering.
“You can.”
“No.”
“Fine. Next best thing then.”
You fiddle with a Rubik’s cube, then turn in the seat. “What?”
“Pretend you’re dating.”
“Arthur,” you say seriously. “Shut up.” But he doesn’t join you, and you realize neither does Charles. You stare blankly at both of them, unwilling to believe they’d actually bank on this as an actual plan.
“You guys realize this kind of thing never works? Zero percent success rate.”
“It’s just paddock appearences. You’re not pretending for millions of people,” Arthur says, shrugging. He catches the ball and throws it to you—you catch it one-handed. “You’re pretending for Mum.”
“Sure. And by extension, millions of people. Are you dense, or do you think the paddock appearances will just breeze by everyone who saw the leaks?”
“Ughhh. You’re acting like it’s impossible.” Arthur holds his breath before he utters the next sentence. “Like you two aren’t fucking every other w—”
“—oh, my God!” Shocked, you get up, and so does Charles. “Wh—I’m—language, Arthur!”
Charles balks. “How did you even—”
“I didn’t. But merci mille fois for confirming my theory,” Arthur quips faux-sweetly, smiling dopily. “I mean, I was going to find out! Your pictures are so… intimate. So just pretend to date and throw Maman off your scent.”
You protest briefly, wrestling with the option, and reconvene on the bed, you cross-legged and leaning on Charles’ shoulder and Arthur in front of the both of you. He’s always had a knack for schemes—he never got caught sneaking out, which destroyed your and Charles’ record of being caught twelve times by either of your parents. It’s a bit childish, but he gets the job done.
“Do it for… let’s say a month. Tell Mum you’ve been dating a while—Christmas isn’t that long ago, and that was the least recent picture. D’accord?”
You both nod, hyperfocused.
“During race weekends, be all over each other—shouldn’t be hard—especially in front of Mum. People might catch you doing it, but I wouldn’t worry.”
“No, wait—I mean.” You shrug. “People—tifosi—they know I’m Charles’ friend. They’re going to be all over the fact that we’re apparently dating.”
“Don’t worry. We’ll use palatable density,” Charles says, nodding.
You pause. Arthur does, too, sensing something off.
“You mean plausible deniability.” Your deadpan voice is tinged with amusement, muffled into his shoulder.
“Right, ouais, that.” He smiles, chuckling a bit; his shoulder shakes with it and your head nearly slips off. He brings a hand to cup over your jaw and hold you steady. “Sorry.”
“S’fine.” You sigh. “I’m totally okay with this. Just worried it’s going to have unintended consequences.”
Arthur quells you with rushed explanations about how it’ll be over and you two can say something like we decided we’re better off as friends to really sell the thing. At the seven-minute mark of your and Charles’ intense interrogation, he promptly kicks you out to figure out if you’re willing to do it yourselves.
You wedge yourself into Charles’ front seat, knowing you were headed to his place anyway. You massage your temples with one hand and fiddle with the hem of your shorts with the other. Nervous. Antsy. “Did Fred say anything?”
“Got the IT team to fortify my account.”
“You think this thing’s going to be okay from a professional standpoint?” You look up and toward him; he’s already gazing at you, eyes soft. “I’m worried. Plus, with my job offer thing in London and New Y—”
“Don’t be.” He starts the car and maneuvers out of the driveway, into the dips of Monaco streets and the familiar route back to his place. “Bitter with the sweet. The only thing you need to worry about”—he takes your hand in the centre console, laces your fingers together loosely—“is your acting skills.”
“God, you’re right.” You sigh, looking out the window. “How am I going to pretend I can stand you?” Then, for good measure, you squeeze his hand wrapped in yours.
—
You visit Monaco from uni in London over spring, and for the first time in months, your schedule aligns with Charles’—though you learn this indirectly when you visit the Leclerc home. Pascale, of course, is the one who tells you his new flat’s address before she presses a kiss to your cheek and then leaves to run errands in the city. Alone, and in a burst of excitement, you make the drive there, take the elevator upstairs and shove the door open without knocking. He’s there. Your Charles. You can tell because the music he plays is loud—The Kooks—like his ears are still fourteen and not twenty-one, like he’s still in middle school and not in Formula One.
“Save your eardrums,” you say, before beelining toward the couch and leaping onto him for a hug. He sits up to match your energy, arms wrapping around you, sitting up straighter to keep you from totally falling atop him.
“How’s uni?”
“Shit,” you say into his hair. It smells like his shampoo and his favorite cologne. Clean, soapy. “Obviously. How’s the Ferrari?”
“Amazing.” He smiles. “Obviously. How’d you know I was in? Mum told you?”
“Ouais. She’s running errands. Listen, can we drink tonight?” You sigh, parting from the hug and sitting across him.
Yeah, sure. His voice is concerned, thick with worry. You shake your head—it’s not that deep, you tell him. It’s just—I had a bad date before I left and it’s put me in the worst mood.
Oh? He leans back, clasping two hands behind his head as he goes.What happened? He laughs.
You tense visibly, rolling your eyes despite yourself. “He was just weird. Nothing.”
He wiggles his eyebrows. “You shy, Snoops?”
Ha-ha. You roll your eyes, but your face is flushed and your gaze avoids him. You reach up to tuck the loose strands of hair by your ears behind them, face warm. You’d never talked with Charles about boys or flings before—maybe several times, but never in full detail. It was always vague umbrella statements, like Ryan is boring or Greg is such a prick, but never anything beyond that. Come to think of it, you don’t know why, either.
“You can tell me.”
“The—when we—I had to fake,” you say cuttingly. “You know.”
He purses his lips and smiles, eyebrows furrowing. I don’t, actually. Something unnamed trills through you—through your stomach and into your fingertips. Your first time talking to your best friend in real life after months of uni and racing and this is the topic? It’s, if anything, a sign of your growing up, you guess.
Charles lets up on the teasing and you end up rejecting the club in lieu of sharing a bottle of vodka, throwing it back raw and without any type of chaser (to really prove nothing at all; you don’t even know why any sane human would do this). You do a Just Dance party on his TV, even try out drunk sim racing and FIFA, but by the end you’re well exhausted and retired to the couch again.
His voice is wavy and tipsy when he speaks. “You really had to fake it?”
“Yeah.” You pout. “Can never—um, finish, I dunno.” Your inhibition’s gone, shame loosened and untied by the vodka. You shift in your position on the couch.
“Maybe because it was too casual.” His voice hardens.
“So you’re saying I should…” You swallow dryly, eyes fluttering. “Sleep with somebody I know?” You’ve dropped the implication and it floats up, hangs above.
His eyes flick over to your legs, folded on the couch. The hem of your shorts. Your fingers playing with your empty shot glass. He didn’t mean anything by that. He’s half-sure you didn’t.
“I am just saying that a good friend would do that for you.”
“You’re a good friend,” you say, volume low.
Five minutes later you’ve properly crashed into each other, him pinning you down against the couch, licking fire up your throat. His lips trail across your jaw.
He dips a hand into your shorts, presses against your clothed core. He’s smiling. So wet for me. He’s got his mouth pressed messily up to your jaw, when he sinks one finger all the way in, slow and stretching; and you’re clenching around him—
Come on, he’s saying. Insisting. You’re trembling, yanking desperately at his hair as he pumps his finger slowly in and out of you, aching to be full of him, to take him deeper.
He slips another one in, and you feel the cold of his ring pressed against your entrance, then he’s fucking them into you and you’re leaking around them.
Yes, yeah, Charles—you’re gasping, airy breaths tapering into whimpers that sound sinful, desperate. He knows you so well already. Presses his fingers against your sweet spot, watches your eyes flutter.
So needy, and you’re chanting his name under your breath as he quickens his pace, craving the stretch of him desperately. I know you want to cum, baby. He’s calling you baby and you’re closer, so much closer. Come on, for me, yeah?
You melt, crashing and crumpling into him and shuddering as you release all over his fingers. He presses his forehead to yours and lets you take a beat. You feel giddy and dizzy and warm, which is weird because you don’t feel drunk at all anymore. This dizziness is something different. It’s Charles.
“Are we going to do that again?” You ask meekly, hand still in his hair.
“Only if you want. Whatever you want,” he says. He’d do anything for you. He’d do whatever you wanted.
“I do, I do want.” And Charles, the good friend he is, helps you out.
—
Imola is humid, warm, and the racetrack is absolutely teeming with people. But you’re not there—clad in linen shorts and a fresh tank top, you’re walking around the vicinity of the track, cup of gelato in hand, sunglasses over your eyes. The restaurant near you is playing music out loud. Beside you, singing along and drafting a list of wedding appetizers, is Lorenzo.
“Lamb chops?” You suggest, licking amaretto off the plastic spoon. The weather is pleasant enough that people are crowding the streets without it being too unbearably hot. Stevie Wonder flows from the speakers, permeates the entire block.
“I was thinking more seafood.”
“Tuna? Make ‘em little tacos.”
“Good idea. Think I’ll go for those. Hey, are you sure you’re on board with fake-dating my brother?”
You turn sharply toward him, taken aback. He hadn’t brought it up in the week and a half this plan had been in the works—he’d been privy to it the entire time, too, which makes it weirder that he’s asking so suddenly.
“I meaaan…” You slow your pace, contemplative. A shy smile plays at your lips, brows knitted together. “It’s only going to be for a month. Ish. So, yeah. Are you—do you—sorry. Is it alright with you? Sorry.”
“It is not not okay.”
“So it’s…” You pause. “Okay.”
“It’s—yes, but I worry, is all. How sure are you that this won’t hurt anyone?”
“I don’t know, it’s… bitter with the sweet. And who’s getting hurt… like the fans?” You laugh a little. “They’ll live, won’t they?”
“Like you.” He pauses. “Like Charles.”
—
Pierre is running a comb through his hair, staring at himself in the mirror; his Narcissus moment is interrupted by a banana to the back of his head. Bonjour, he says, monotone and already knowing the culprit.
“We need to talk.”
“Could this possibly be about the news of your brand new ‘girlfriend’ over last week? Where is she, by the way?”
“With Lorenzo. Listen, here’s the thing. Mum thinks we’re dating, and I don’t know how to tell her we’re not—so I won’t.”
“Lie to your mum, go ahead.” Pierre crosses his arms and hums.
“Tais-toi. It’s for her own good.”
“So you’re going to pretend to date.”
“Ouais.”
“Should be easy. You guys are hooking up and making out or whatever all the time.”
Charles pauses and lets the silence speak for itself. When Pierre makes a noise of confusion, he gives. We don’t kiss, he says finally. She thinks it is too intimate, and we ‘are not dating,’ so sex is the only thing we do. Sex, and if you still have leftover antsy energy, you pull on his shirt and sit up against the headboard to finish a crossword puzzle. Sometimes he helps you, but most of the time he’s just there to press lazy kisses to your hair and temple, cheekbone and jaw—never your lips.
“You don’t kiss?” Pierre’s genuinely shocked. “Putain, you’re a hero. How does that even work?”
“We just do not kiss. We fuck, but no kissing.” He shrugs. “It’s always been that way.”
“So how about her birthday?”
“She doesn’t…” Charlex exhales tightly. “Remember.”
“Charles,” you suddenly say, head appearing into the doorway. “Oh, hey. Fred said you might be here. What are you guys talking about?”
“Sprint racing,” Pierre says, an easy lie.
Charles, though, is never good at the lying bit. “International tariffs.”
—
Your only memories of your seventeenth birthday are applying lip gloss and mascara, wearing your shortest skirt and tightest top, and reciting your supposed date of birth in line like a mantra. Anything after that’s been sprayed off by the ultra-clutch strength of vodka. Which, you’ve been told, was your drink of choice.
“Headache’s better,” you moan over the phone, face squashed onto your pillow. “Mum gave me an Advil but I was so sick all morning.”
“Did you snog anyone?” Charles is always teasing.
“God, I wish.” You shut your eyes and try to remember if your drunken stupor had somehow managed to get you successful in lip-locked matters. Nothing comes up and you wipe a dry hand over your face, heaving a sigh. “I really wanted to kiss Matthew but I think he left before you and I did.”
A pause. Then Charles clears his throat. “You mean you and me and the police car that escorted us home?” He snorts.
“You’re such a prick!” You scream into your pillow, laughing. “I already thanked you for being my literal savior last night.”
He smiles to himself. “You’re welcome.”
“Did you have fun?” You flop onto your back and stare at the stick-on stars on your ceiling. You make a mental note to try and remove them.
“Bit boring because I vowed not to drink at all, but I got to dance. Bitter with the sweet, right?”
—
“Nervous?”
“I mean, fuck, yeah.” You fix the hem of your dress, speaking to Giada through the phone. “Pascale’s waiting for us on the paddock. And so are, like, a hundred photographers.” You wince. “Can you even imagine Charles and me? It’s just—I dunno—it’s weird.”
“It isn’t,” she says, laughing. “Not really. It makes sense. Plus, aren’t you on the whole arrangement?” You envision her air quotes.
“Yeah, but”—you slip your sandals on—“it’s on and off, and that’s not dating. It’s sex. Two different things.”
“Is it really, though? Considering how close you are outside of bed, aren’t y—”
“Okay, input no longer needed,” you laugh. “Bye, Gi. I’ll text you later.”
You reunite with Charles just by the paddock entrance. The throng of fans holding cutouts and posters notice you two before anyone else does, inciting a collective bout of yells around the both of you. He notices your blue silk dress first, eyes unmoving. “You look like the sky.”
“Thanks, man.” A beat, and you squint through your sunglasses. “That’s a compliment, right?”
“Sure.”
“Prick.” You peek over them and to the fans, who wave more aggressively when they notice you’re looking. Nervously, you raise a hand and wave back, and the noise heightens. “I think I’m going to be replacing you.”
“Dream on. On y va?”
You turn back to him, smiling, and you both enter at the same time. His hand wraps around your waist, dips a bit lower to rest at the small of your back as you walk—the fans clearly dig it, because everyone’s yelling in a frenzy as you depart. What are you doing, you ask through your smiling teeth.
“Did you forget we’re supposed to be dating?” He maintains an equally pleasant (totally duplicitous) façade, smiling.
“I didn’t think,” you say, still smiling falsely, “that you’d put your hands on me five minutes into the whole agreement.”
“Smile, honey,” he teases. “I see at least five cameras at us right now.”
“It’s seven,” you beam. “Dumbass.”
“Again with the competitive streak.” memory
“I totally deserved to win last week’s game. You’re just a sore loser.”
“No you’re just a—hi, hi, hello!”
Your walk to the motorhome is interrupted by running into a friend of Charles’—someone from McLaren, one of the executives there. While Lando has been informed of your stunt, nobody else on that team has.
They handshake and he waves at you politely. “Whole paddock’s buzzing with news of you dating,” he says, smiling. “It’s a tad crazy! I remember seeing you as Charles’ plus one back when he was in Formula Two. And now you two are dating. How did—well, if you don’t mind me asking, where’d it all happen?”
“Oh,” you say, laughing. “Yeah, Monaco.”
“Texas,” Charles says at the same time.
Alarm bells go off in your head at the totally random, unwarranted statement out of Charles’ mouth. Texas? Neither of you have even ever been at the same time. “He means”—you say, coughing and nodding—“we went on this, um. Wild West themed, um, restaurant in Monaco, and that’s where he asked me out.” You make a face that you hope conveys you get it, and it seems to work.
“Definitely not what I had in mind, but if it worked, it worked, eh?” He grins. “I guess I always knew you two would end up together. Alright, ciao!”
You’re smiling and waving after him as he leaves, and then you’re (semi) alone again, or at least within your own space on the incredibly crowded paddock.
You turn to him, unable to hide your confusion. “Um? Texas?! What’s up with the backstories?”
“It slipped out! Sorry. But nice save.”
“You’re so f—” You try to scold him, but can’t, bursting into laughter and leaning forward to laugh into his chest. “Texas, really?”
“Sorry,” he says. You feel the vibration of his own laugh through his chest and it’s warm and nice. You peel yourself off lest you look too clingy, and resume your walk to the motorhome.
Ferrari is crowded, filled with people and strategists and guests. You’re given a bottle of water and then hounded with questions from the team who haven’t been informed of the situation at hand. David, one of the engineers close to Charles who you’d previously spoken to in one of the earlier races, asks to borrow him.
“Ciao, ciao.” They speak in one of the outdoor patio areas. “Is everything okay?”
“The car is fine. I just wanted to ask about the girl.” David punches his arm, playful. “You finally got her!”
“Oh.”
“It’s just… I remember all the times she would show up and you’d tell me about how much you liked her… I don’t know, it’s perfect for things to end up like this, no? Bravo!”
“Oh, si. I’ve just been, you know…” He looks through the glass sliding door and into the hospitality, where you’re talking to Isa and Carlos, sunglasses over your hair. Your hands are moving quickly, and you’re smiling while talking. He wonders what you’re so passionate about. When you’re caught in fits of happiness and passion, you’re extra animated. Your eyes are lively, and your lips can’t stop curling into a slight beaming smile. Now, maybe it’s France, maybe it’s crossword puzzles, slim chance it’s your job—whatever it is, he could watch you talk like this for hours. He thinks it’s beautiful, the way you transform, the way you smile, when you talk of things you absolutely love.
“… crazy about her forever.”
—
There are banners, Italian flags, and Charles’ face on every other wall. He’s done his first hat-trick of the season (of several more, you’re hoping). You’ve foregone the usual clubbing for dinner with a smaller group of people, but only because you’ve been told the nightlife is bleak and you’d rather save that energy for the next race.
Lando picked out the restaurant—he’s “on a massive Yelp high” trying to get the best restaurants in every city they get to. He’s tried two over the weekend, and is hoping this guns for first place. The restaurant’s name is long and so very Italian, to the point where your semi-fluency fails you. The food is amazing, though, and so is the wine—a whole other level of grape-flavored bliss.
You’re in-between Joris and Charles, nursing your fourth glass while Charles downs a bottle of beer. Light conversation flows through the table, but your sleepiness only allows you to hear some of it. You’re content with the white noise.
Lando is getting a new cat, Lewis bought a new pair of shoes—oh, no, shares in the company that makes the shoes—Joris bought the shoes, Lorenzo will now buy the shoes, why isn’t anyone paying attention to Lando’s cat. It’s funny, entertaining, and the perfect nightcap to your immensely exhausting day of acting.
Wine tipsy makes you loopy and snoozy. By default, your head lolls onto Charles’ body; he immediately wraps a sweater-clad arm around your frame, leans back, pulls you closer. Doesn’t miss a beat. In fact, while doing so, he’s even able to get a dig in against Lando’s affinity for cats.
“No more wine, m’kay?” He whispers quietly, angling his head to yours.
“Oh, but it was so good, though.” You mope, but nod in agreement. “I could seriously drink wine out of a keg here.”
“Sure did that a lot with beer.” You laugh, punching his bicep with what little space you’re given. “You sleepy?”
“Yeah. But I’m fine,” you respond, smiling. “Now shut up. I need to know what happened to Lando’s cat.”
Lewis leaves first, claiming he’s into this whole “sleeping at 9PM” thing, and Lorenzo follows to get ahead of an early flight tomorrow. It’s you, Joris, Charles, and Lando now, and you’re good as dead, eyes half-shut and fluttering, head slipping off his shoulder.
How was it? Lando asks, lowering his volume to keep from being too jarring. Day 1, fake dating? I actually read something like this in one of those, um, fanfiction stuff the fans do. Joris and Charles cast him a half-weirded out, half-amused pair of looks, but Lando defends himself. They’re actually pretty good, guys. I read one where I ended up with my rival or summat.
“Sorry to burst your bubble, Lando,” you croak, voice raspy with sleepiness and a day of bubbling laughter, “but Charles and I probably didn’t do your fanfiction kink justice.”
“Ignoring the emasculation.” He says, turning beet red. “What’d you do, then? Wasn’t it hard?”
“It was hard, but it’s like that.” Charles likes to substitute the phrase it is what it is to it’s like that, a result likely stemming from his trilingual childhood. “We just. Pretended. Oi, we held hands in front of the cameras.”
“Yeah, you can get a good wank in if that does it for you,” you joke. Lando hurls a cube of parmigiano at your face; it lands squarely and you flip him off, the table erupting with peals of laughter.
“In all seriousness, though—how are you two okay with this? I know I’d be second guessing my feelings every second.”
You shift, trying to hide your obvious lack of answer. It’s quiet for a few seconds, and then Charles says, “We’re both comfortable with each other, I think.”
“Yeah, comfortable enough that we can, you know, be honest.” You’re looking at Lando when you say that. You don’t know how well you could repeat the sentence if you were looking straight into Charles’ eyes.
You leave the restaurant with a generous tip, and Charles helps you pull your coat on when you’re out the door, back into the chilly night air. It’s then that all four of you catch news via text, of a club invite somewhere in the city.
“It’ll be fun, guys.” Joris and Lando stand in front of you and Charles, bumbling with excitement. “I heard Lil Tjay is going to be there.”
“It sounds very fun,” you say, smiling, “but I might pass out if I drink anything other than water, and I have zero energy. You three go ahead.”
“Wh—no, I’m not going, either.” You raise an eyebrow at Charles. “Serious! I wasn’t in the mood much, anyway. Joris, take Lando’s car and we’ll take mine.”
“Alright,” Lando whistles. “Suit yourselves, agoraphobes.”
“Joke’s on you”—Charles smiles, smug—“I don’t know what that means.”
“Not the dig you think it is, Charles,” you say, rolling your eyes. “Night, Joris, Lando. See you guys tomorrow. Use protection!”
“Should be saying that to you guys,” quips Joris with an evil grin that he closes the car door on.
The climb into the car feels like a chore in itself with how tipsy and sleepy you’ve become. Charles likes to bring his Ferrari to race weekends, but you convinced him to use a different car for this one, because you honest-to-God can’t stand the low seats anymore.
“You want dessert?” He asks when he’s rounded the car and settled into his seat. “Gelato, a cone, biscotti…”
“No, no,” you say, voice thin. A palm covers your shutting eyes; blindly, you reach for his hand. It’s easy because he sees you searching and takes your hand to cut it short. “I’m good. So sleepy. Can I sleep at your hotel room?”
“Sure.” He starts the car, waves to the wait staff idle by the entrance, and drives off. “How was the day as my fake girlfriend? Anyone ask about me?” He wiggles his eyebrows, flickering his gaze to your figure beside him. “Wasn’t too tough, I hope.”
Imola whizzes by, trees and city, and a poorly stifled yawn escapes your lips, wine stained. You laugh sleepily. “It was a bit awkward, but bitter with the sweet, right?” He smiles, nodding, and you continue. “Yeah, few strategists, some people who knew you from Prema. I was talking to Isa and Carlos, too, earlier. Even if they know it’s fake.”
He recalls seeing you talk to them through the glass. “About?”
“You.”
—
The sun is merciless on the clay courts, and so are your shoes, shuddering against the surface in your continuing attempt to beat the opposing team. Charles cowers behind you—he’s scored less than half of your points thus far—but you’re on a mission, like your competitive self always is when you’re put in a position to be able to win.
You’re two points down now, and the noontime is becoming increasingly itchy and unforgiving; across you both, Giada and Joris call a mutual time out. “That’s not allowed!” You say, petulant.
“This is a practice session,” Charles says gently, nearing you. “Mate, none of us are actual players.”
You wipe sweat off your forehead. “Right. Désolée. I’m just—I’m in the zone.”
“Ouais, I get it. Relax, m’kay? We got this.”
You shake yourself off and hop a few times, skirt bobbing by your waist as you go. Your braid bounces on your shoulder and you nod, turning your racquet over in your grip.
Charles pings the ball hard and it soars over to land just shy of the line, seemingly scoring a point for you two and securing your win. Giada and Joris chime in with protests, claiming that the ball’s out. You throw your hands up in question.
“Okay, what? That was clearly a point!”
“Snoops, I think they might be right. The ball looked out to me,” Charles says, wrapping a sweaty arm around your red shoulders.
“What are you talking about, Charlie? That ball was in! I saw it!” You elbow yourself out of his grip, aghast.
“How about…” He suggests quietly. “We let them win? You did win the last”—he pauses to count—“five sets. Come on, Snoops. They need this. Bitter with the—”
You take a deep breath, staring into his eyes. “Fucking sweet, right, okay. Fine, fine.”
Charles thinks he’s in the clear and he’s managed to extinguish your flames of frustration—that is, until you walk into the Leclerc household for lunch an hour later and, after greeting Pascale and Hervé, you point squarely to the jar on the kitchen counter. “Five euros.”
He splutters. “Five? Wh—non, non! I was trying to calm you down.”
“You were blind and gave Giada and Joris a fake win,” you say playfully.
“Saluuut,” Lorenzo greets, sitting at the stool beside yours. “Quoi de neuf?”
“Charles has five euros for the jar.” The jar, the infamous jar, sometimes dubbed the Dumbass Jar when Pascale’s out of earshot. It was Lorenzo who first made it up after three straight instances of Charles pulling a push door (three different establishments).
Arthur’s joined in at this point, but its biggest indirect donors are definitely Lorenzo and Hervé, who view it as just about the funniest thing in the world. Out of pity, you don’t call dumbass too often, but the tennis loss is bruising enough that you warrant the usage.
“You heard Snoopy. Five euros. We’ll be able to get milkshakes with this money after next week.” You high five. “At this rate, Charles, you could open a restaurant in Paris.”
“He’s going to race,” you correct. You both watch a begrudged Charles junk a bill into the nearly-full jar. “What race driver is going to open a restaurant?”
—
You meet Yuki Tsunoda on a flight to Nice. You’ve seen him several times before, not too frequently but enough that his name and face are familiar on your mind. Also a personality trait that Pierre would bring up in fond conversations with you and/or Charles: he loves food, apparently.
“Yuki’s volunteering AlphaTauri to be your hideout,” Pierre tells you and Charles, across him.
Turns out, the hardest part (insofar) of this whole schtick: the officially appointed paddock photographers are being extra sneaky with it, finding the best vantage points to snap pictures of an unwitting you and Charles.
They’re like hawks, watching for even the slightest glimpse so they can post the photos on Instagram and get clicks.
So, just a few hours earlier, Charles asked if there was a place you and him could talk if needed where photographers wouldn’t be awaiting you already, and this was the answer.
“If it’s too much trouble, feel no need to… you know.”
“Nonsense.” Pierre smiles goofily and Yuki pokes him to stop, pausing his session of eating a quesadilla (where he’d even acquired it, you’re clueless). “Yukino would be happy to.”
The flight lands and the drive to Monaco is infected with notoriously slow traffic; you pop an Advil to try and alleviate the motion sickness. Pierre and Yuki, it seems, have joined you even outside of the flight. They’re in the backseat offering bits of conversation.
“Oh, mate, we should totally play tennis while we’re here.” Pierre sighs. “Didn’t you guys play before?”
“Mmm, yeah,” you mumble with a lilt of amusement at the memories from basically a decade ago. “At the country club. Doubles always, otherwise I’d knock Charles out of the park.”
“Hey, I won a couple times!” He protests weakly. “Like… twice.”
You laugh out loud. “Anyway, Pierre, do not bring me into tennis. I get all competitive and develop anger issues.”
“I had to calm her down twice a set,” Charles says; you swat him lightly to silence him. “Still do.”
“You know, if the Dumbass Jar still existed,” you say cuttingly, “I swear I’d be able to buy off Ferrari with that money.”
—
Monaco is swelterinly hot today. You know this because you know the weather here, you know the curves and ups and downs of it—this is your home. And today is hot. Every few minutes a breeze filters through the air and you can hear journalists or PAs sigh a collective breath of relief before they’re all subjected to the inane, high-degree weather again.
It’s also, according to Arthur, a good day to kiss in front of the cameras. He says it easily over a plate of sliced kiwi, with a devious smile, because he assumes your friends-with-benefits arrangement equates to constant kissing. But the truth is you’ve never kissed Charles, and it intimidates you.
“Do we have to kiss?” You play with his bracelets, sitting beside him on the sofa. The talk of kissing entertains the thought of sex and you can’t help but mentally complain at the remembrance that you haven’t gotten laid in weeks.
“If you don’t want to—”
“I do.” You splutter, eyes going wide, face warm. “No! I mean I don’t mind. If it sells the thing.”
“D’accord, then we will.” He smiles. “That okay?”
“Sure. First kiss,” you say. Your voice feels as clammy as your hands.
“First.” He looks away.
You take your woes off the kiss by playing a friendly round of tennis with your favourite opponents, Giada and Joris. They bemoan your competitive nature (that, to be fair, allots you and Charles three straight wins), and Giada incites a protest for a girls versus boys round.
You both embarrass Charles and Joris, heckling them as you win another two straight games. Charles runs over to you when you throw up the L sign on your hand, lifting you up and making you squeal.
“Put me down, loser!”
Giada and Joris exchange a look. Amused, knowing. “Charles! You’re such a cunt.” You kick hard, and manage to snag his abdomen, so he gently places you onto the clay again. He laughs and paces back over to his side, and you play with the tail of your braid as you watch.
You play set after set, but the kiss comes anyway. When you know photographers can see you—by the entrance—and it happens faster than your mind can muster. He’s leaning in, you’re reaching up, and your mouths slot together. It’s—and it feels crazy to say it, but—
It’s perfect. It’s lovely. You smile against his lips like they belong there and like they’re familiar and yours and like maybe this is all you’ve ever wanted, and like they deserve the smile, because they do. You feel your need to pull away before you can’t help but keep him tethered to you always. It’s strange and it’s not platonic—you’re mature enough to admit that, but not enough to label exactly what it is.
You spend the day with your fingers pressed to your lips, like you’re sealing the memory. Hours later, Charles wins. There’s massive uproar and you’re in the crowd when it happens, in the sea of strategists going to congratulate him on winning Monaco, which—that’s—it’s winning Monaco. Your ears ring by the end of it and your throat’s dry from your own cheering. Carlos comes in second, and the outlook for their team is going much better than it’d been at the start of the year, so there’s a lot to celebrate.
And celebrate you do. It starts with being pinned up against the door, hungry kisses along your jaw and neck. One kiss, it seems, has broken the dam from the few years you’ve spent abstaining from the kissing. He’s just finished interviews. He’s only just changed into his polo, and now he’s tugging it off again, feverish.
This is rushed and dirty, down low and dark. Only one light’s been switched on and he’s hiking your dress up, panties down with one hand to tug his cock out with the other. He’s kissing you—kissing you stupid, almost. Like he’s waited forever to taste your lips and now he’ll starve if he’s away for just a moment. He needs you. So have me, you want to say, all of me, push me up against the wall again and cover my mouth with your palm. Or don’t, don’t—so everyone knows I’m yours.
He presses your chest against the wall so your back’s turned to him, thrusts in with a breathless, throaty grunt.
“S’ big,” you’re saying, clawing at words the pleasure bars you from finding.
“Barely even in,” he whispers. “Slow down, baby, come on, take it.”
Your toes curl. You’re high on the win, on the kissing, on Charles, on the slow delicious stretch of his cock. “I’m taking it, I’m taking it,” you say, shaky. He thrusts, slow and deep and dirty, until he’s bottomed out and you’re tiptoeing from the overwhelm.
“I feel you,” you’re whimpering, moans and gasps leaving your mouth. You blindly search for his hand, find it against your hip, drag it to your abdomen, under your dress that he hasn’t even fully removed. “I feel you there,” you say, an edge of teasing to your voice.
His cock’s bulging, almost, out of your stomach, and it’s getting you both all lightheaded. He thrusts harder, a devious smile felt against your neck.
I need it, Charles, you plead, please, please fuck me harder. You feel it coming, the familiar pleasure intensifying so quickly—you don’t usually cum so early, he’s always making you wait for it—pussy squeezing around him.
Jesus, already? He’s groaning but a laugh escapes, breathy and amused and taunting. He’s fucking you harder, faster. It’s so good, each hit getting you closer. Taking me so well, you’re bruised all over now, baby. You hate how well he knows what turns you on; memories of mornings post-sex spent inspecting the purple marks on your hips flash through your head and you’re even closer now, shaking, whimpering, begging.
You’re half-sure someone can hear, but it doesn’t even phase you. Harder, deeper— and you’re collapsing, legs spasming uncontrollably, orgasm so intense it’s on the brink of totally hurting. Tears roll down your sweaty face and he kisses them away, cumming onto your back to wipe off in a few minutes.
“I never even”—you pant, tired—“got to say congratulations.”
“That was more than enough.”
—
Charles is elated when you tell him his family has thrown a party for him the day next. He’s boyish in that way, optimistic and kiddy, the kind of person who’s up at five-thirty to announce their own birthday.
He drives you both to his childhood home, a route so familiar he could drive with his eyes closed. (“I hope you’re not driving closed-eyed,” you’d warned.)
Even if he could, anyway, he’d rather not. The scenery of Monaco is stunning, ever-changing, and he never tires of it—the buildings, the skies, the trees and shrubbery, stores lining the streets, clean entrances.
And you—in the passenger seat, humming softly to a song of his choosing. Drives are always better when you’re in the passenger seat.
The turnout is generous: extended family, and several friends from school. There’s bowls of fruit, salad, plates of salmon and racks of lamb, knobs of butter with warm bread. Pascale commands the kitchen—visible in how she leaves it cluttered with bowls, ingredients, whisks still dripping with syrup or batter, spoons licked for tasting. The good kind of clutter.
Lorenzo has also taken reign of the AUX, because it’s 70’s music playing, which is what he’s fond of for family gatherings like these. It’s My Cherie Amour now, Stevie Wonder mellowing across the lawn and into the house.
Charles knows you love the kitchen as much as his mum does, so when you get to the house, he’s not surprised to see you leave him in favor of checking out what damage has been done to your favorite marble countertops. He watches Pascale turn from the gas range, her eyes lit when she sees you, inviting you into an embrace.
You look like the song playing, pretty and lovely, breeze in the summer. He almost loses himself in thought before his great-aunt Eden places two bony hands on his arms and greets him in feeble Italian.
He flits his eyes away from you, if just briefly, and faces the woman with a smile on his face. “Ciao, zia,” he says, voice buoyant, happy. “You came here to see me, no?”
All five-foot-one of her shakes in disagreement. She wags a finger for extra measure. “No,” she says. “Sono venuto a vedere la tua ragazza.”
His eyes widen. “She’s—” He pauses. He debates telling Eden you’re not actually his girlfriend, that this was a setup to appease Pascale and, by extension, tifosi. But he backtracks.
He shouldn’t, but he gives in, lives out his dreams for a bit. “Ah, she’s over there, zia. Con mamma.” He points to the open door, and to you on the far end of the room inside, holding a spoon. “Beautiful, yes?”
“Molto,” she says proudly. “You marry her?”
Fact: his great-aunt has the worst memory. She forgot Charles’ name twenty times, let alone niche facts like this one. Another fact: she rarely shows up to family events. Maybe now, because it’s a racing thing; but baby showers and funerals, she’s at home. So he indulges a bit more.
“Si, we’re engaged. But—it’s a secret, zia.” He grins. “Non dire a nessuno. Okay?”
“Sei fidanzato?!” She claps once, excited. “Ay, Charles. I waited my whole life for this moment, si?” And she’s wobbling away, still muttering under her breath.
—
“How is my son?” Pascale’s voice is teasing. She sighs happily. “For years I wondered if this would happen. And it really is.”
“Oui, sure is,” you sing-song, laughing a bit awkwardly. “We’re—he’s okay. We’re great. In love.”
“Oh, in love,” she swoons. She leaves you, after fifteen more minutes of detailed discussion, with half a spoonful of vinaigrette to taste-test, departing to check on the guests for a few minutes. In her place arrives Lorenzo, already bearing a shit-eating grin. “Saluuut.”
“Mmm, good to see you, too.” You taste the liquid and add lemon to the bowl. “How’s wedding planning?”
“Think we’ll throw a shower. Is that pretentious?”
“No,” you say, mulling over it. “Sure, a bit. But just don’t make it a whole thing, you’re golden.”
“I see.” He sighs fondly. “You know, many a conversation we’ve had right here at this counter. About anything.”
—
You loosen your school tie, slicing an apple like you so often do, waiting for Charles’ karting practice to end. Pascale had fixed you a bowl of something, Hervé a glass of orange juice. And somebody else would always, without fail, steal your food. A hand swipes two slices form your chopping board and your head whips up.
“Lorenzo!” You stomp your foot. “Stop stealing! That is my apple.”
“You mean the Leclercs’ apple.” He laughs, pops another slice into his mouth, smiling.
You roll your eyes, shaking your head. The braid beside your head shakes with it as you continue slicing it into perfect quarters. He pipes up again: “How was school?”
“Shit, as usual.” You lower your voice and smile, leaning in. “Pascale scolded me earlier, for saying that word.”
“Did Papa?”
“Obviously not. He fist bumped me.” You share a laugh, both chewing on apple slices now. “Anyway, I aced a math test, had aubergine for lunch… got driven here by Charlotte’s mum.”
“Charlotte?” Lorenzo hums conspiratorially, making a mmmm sound. You look up from the yellow chopping board, furrowing your eyebrows. He persists: “Mmm. Cha-r-lotte.”
“What’s up with Charlotte?” Bit impolitely, you ask, in-between chews.
“I think she likes Charles, a little.” You nod slowly, trying to follow. Charlotte liking Charles. Your Charles. Wait, no. Not your—or nobody’s, really. Just Charles. Yeah.
“What? Bull!” You narrow your eyes. “Says who?”
“Why do you care?”
“Wh—I don’t!” You squeak, caught. “Just… I think I’d know, Lorenzo.” You make a tch noise, crossing your sweater-clad arms. “So—says who?”
“I saw her leering at him during his birthday party.”
“You’re wrong,” you say, but you don’t really know who you’re convincing. He reaches over for an apple slice, and you move the chopping board out of the way sharply.
“Mon dieu, you’re snappy. Fine, fine. I might be wrong,” he relents, shrugging. He gets up and slides beside you to be able to acquire more slices. “I talked to her during the party, too.”
“Weirdo,” you tease, allowing him to take a few more. “About Charles, yes?
“No, about her brand new dress.”
“You’re the funniest Leclerc brother, I assure you.”
“She told me…” He says, louder this time, shushing you effectively. “She told me she ‘finds Charles cute.’” Air quotes, shrug. “But that they ‘probably won’t’ date.”
“Huh. Did, um. Did she say why?” You play with the tail of your braid, shuffling back and forth on your flats. You don’t know why you’re so fidgety—you aren’t nervous, you don’t think.
“Because…” he says, chewing to allow for a pause. “She said every time she looks for Charles to try and ask for time alone, or on a date, or something, he’s already following you around like some puppy.”
—
You comb your hair into a bun and venture into the patio, having avoided a good chunk of the noon heat. You greet some relatives politely along the way, and receive a hand squeeze from great-aunt Eden. At one of the tables is Charles, beside Joris and another friend, and Giada and Charlotte across them, an empty seat beside the latter.
You seat yourself in it and Giada kisses your cheek. “Hey. Ça va?”
“Fine,” you say, smiling. Then you lower your voice to a whisper. “Do you remember when I told you about my crush on Charlie? For the first time?”
“Yeah,” she whispers back. “Around… 2013.”
“Ouais. And… and it disappeared after that,” you say. “Right?”
“You said it did,” she says. “A year later. When we were sixteen.”
“Right.” You think. Seventeen onwards—you’d never formed a full-fledged crush on Charles. “Okay. It’s nothing. Just a memory. I was just. Yeah, oui.”
“Oui, let’s eat.” The memory fades and so does your running mind. Charles’ eyes meet yours across the table, and suddenly you feel a little less like your thoughts have ripped you open.
—
When you and Charles were younger, you adopted the adage “bitter with the sweet.” Charles will have people believe it was made by the both of you, with philosophical minds stretched so far beyond their years. Well, revisionist history. The truth lay in the Carole King song of the same name you’d heard on the stereo.
Those are the exact words Charles tells Ted when he’s interviewing for the Spain Grand Prix. It’s a hot day and you’re especially doubled down on by the fact that he’s finished ninth.
You’d been fake-dating for the cameras all weekend. At all costs, you try and avoid interviews, but the damned Drive to Survive producers insist on a soundbite and start following the two of you around everywhere (only to find your conversations sound very weird and niche, and not scandalous or sexy).
Pascale also called—Charles first, and when he didn’t check his phone, you. You spent an hour on the phone just talking about the race. About the penalties and the nasty headlines that followed, and just everything.
“I’m glad you’re there,” she says. “God knows he needs you.”
You end up biking to try and relieve the stress, posing with fans for pictures.
“I’m such a big fan. I stalk Charles’ Insta like, all the time, and it’s crazy how you guys are dating.” A teenaged girl laughs nervously. “Where’d it happen?”
“Texas!” He, again, tries out the bit to appease the fans but you have to extinguish the flames of his blatant lies.
“He’s kidding,” you interject. “It’s just—it just happened, really.”
How does something just happen? Someone told you once, in a Paris bar, that love is like an echo. It’s always there, in the underbelly, underneath it all, and then one day it echoes, like a bass drum or a cymbal. And the echo—the echo is you feeling it. You feel the echo, the all-encompassing echo, even if the love itself’s been there all along.
With Charles, it’s out of the question. You love him. He’s your best friend. You trusted him before you even learned what trust meant, for Chrissake.
How could you not love him? That seemed impossible. The love was there. The love’s always been there and it’ll never go away.
It echoes at half-past-two in Barcelona, when he whips past you on his bike and says on your left. The breeze pulls your hair to the left, covers your face, and when you rake it away he’s stopped to check if he accidentally bumped you in his rush to look cool.
You’re creepily observant; you’ve been told this many times before. What people don’t know is with the observance comes even more questions. Ifs, whys, wheres, whens, hows, God the hows. The questions keep coming because there’s never an answer.
“Are you okay?” He asks. Green eyes glittering like a lake. Smile like the sun. Hair curly at the ends. “Did I hurt you?”
Then you realize. In the matters of love, every question—every single question. Every single one. The answer is Charles.
“Of course not,” you say. And you smile.
—
You almost drop your book in your rush to scurry past the paparazzi. They’re still busy on the two figures (Alex and Lily, you think) on another end of the paddock, which allows you only a few moments to try and evade them.
Others are stationed near the Ferrari hospitality, which means you’re going to need your hideout. Yuki had texted Pierre who had texted Charles who had told you that it was all clear to go there for a few minutes while waiting for the photographers to clear out.
Hurry, Charles is saying. Laughing. His hand’s gentle in yours. You want them there forever. You want to drag the tip of your nail over the barely-perceptible grooves of his fingerprints so he knows how much you need him.
The days post-Spain were spent biking, watching shows, listening to music, eating food. The travel to Canada—long, cold, compression socks. Pascale had called mid-flight to check on her “favorite pair”—you maneuvered yourselves into a much more cuddly position to appease her, and her giddy smile was incentive enough to stay that way for ninety minutes.
You’d been in a weird mental state trying to grapple with your rapidly returning and intensifying feelings for him, which have dawned on you all at once.
But he makes it better. You’re still laughing when you wedge yourselves in, eyes meeting.
And then you’re quiet.
The gaze you share is intense, but almost unsure, like you’re supposed to be looking away anytime now. You step backward shakily, and his hand moves from your waist to the small of your back to keep you from stumbling any further. You’re closer now. But this shouldn’t feel as strange as it does when you two have been in much more scandalous positions before—what’s different?
He’s so close, so so close, his green eyes looking right through you. You lean closer, ready to kiss him like you have before, ready to feel his mouth slot softly over yours, comforting and safe and Charles.
Funnily enough, it’s then that the illusion breaks, his grip loosening and the distance between you increasing. He coughs twice, awkwardly.
“Shit—sorry,” you say profusely, clearly having read the moment wrong. Embarrassment wells up in your system, warming your face. You laugh to diffuse the tension but it barely does anything.
“No, don’t—” He exhales, squeezes the bridge of his nose, trying to find words. “It’s not that I don’t want to kiss you. I do.”
“So kiss me,” you suggest simply, looking around for anything that might stop him. The embarrassment ebbs away, replaced quickly by confusion.
“I don’t want to kiss you in an AlphaTauri stock room,” he mopes, burying his head in his hands in clear frustration. “An AlphaTauri stock room.” He repeats it in a hushed whisper, disbelief etched all over his pretty face.
“Charles,” you begin, smiling already, the quaint way that makes his knees go weak every time. “You’re acting like you and I haven’t kissed before.”
“This is different.” He says firmly, looking away lest he lean in involuntarily. He interjects with conviction, not realizing what he’s implying until the implication’s hanging in the air. The longing kills him softly, and he feels if he looks at you a second longer he’ll kiss you anyway.
It’s a wonderfully confusing feeling. You open your mouth to respond but you can’t; your brain tacks itself onto his sentence, the division created between the kisses before now and the kiss that might happen anytime soon.
“H…” you trail off, throat drying. Blinking, you try again, “How different?”
He looks up, eyes conveying all the things his lips never will. This is different. You know it. I love you this time.
The answer is exchanged and accepted wordlessly. You slip out of the room when Pierre tells you it’s okay to, and it’s only then—only then—that Charles’ hand leaves your body. You seem to burn alive with its absence.
It’s a Ferrari 1-2. You snap a thousand pictures with Isa and Carlos holding Carlos’ trophy while Charles is doing interviews, and they invite you to join them for the break. You’re open to it—the win, the good standings, they definitely warrant a celebration for the few weeks’ break. So your original itinerary is Portugal—beaches, coasts, food—but the jet re-charts a route and the flight is cut much shorter because you’re in New York City.
—
Somewhere in Manhattan, a wedding shower is thrown on an outdoor rooftop. “This is one hell of a wedding shower,” you squeal excitedly when you spot him, bringing Lorenzo in for a hug. Your yellow dress flows in the wind. “I thought you guys were going to throw it in Monaco?”
“Yeah, well… why not here, right? It’s beautiful.” He gestures to the skyline, smiling. “Plus, Charles, Arthur, and Mum were already near the country for work, so we got ahead of it. Everyone was happy to fly out.”
“Well, for what it’s worth, I love it.” You beam. “I can’t believe it, either. When’s the final date?”
He opens his mouth to reply, but the wind is knocked out of him by Charles barreling into his arms for a hug. You roll your eyes at the latter’s childish behavior, smiling despite yourself. They part and Charles finds his place beside you, arm snaking around your shoulders. “What a wedding shower!”
“Don’t flatter me, dipshit,” Lorenzo jokes.
“It’s a lovely one.” Lorenzo thanks him. “An amazing shower. You know, it’s a total golden shower!”
You purse your lips. “Charles—”
“A golden shower, mate. Absolutely.”
That garners at least three odd looks and you calmly place a hand on his chest to whisper don’t ever fucking say that again it means something completely different please don’t embarrass me or your brother.
For all your embarrassment, you make up for it in having the literal time of your life. The food is good, the city view is amazing, the weather is fair and the music—Desafinado now—is amazing. “I could see myself here,” you say offhandedly to Charles, who nods back with a faint smile. He’s half-distracted.
“You look beautiful, by the way,” he says, squinting from the sun in his eyes. “Very.”
You part ways at some point—Pascale whisks him off, no doubt for another long round of questioning about your relationship, and you meander around with a glass of champagne.
You’re halfway through swiping a mini quiche when a hand wraps around your wrist and squeezes to get your attention—Charles’ great-aunt Eden. She speaks only intermittent English, and your Italian fails to carry you through well enough, but you smile and greet her. “Ciao, Eden!”
“Ciao, bella.” She smiles. “Flight was long.”
“Oh, yeah. New York’s far. I might work here someday. I’ll hear results in around two weeks, but I’m hoping for London instead.” You slow your speech.
“When will you two wed?”
“Wed?” Your face warms and you stutter through a giggly mess of a sentence. “Oh, Eden—zia—no, no! We’re just friends.”
“My Charles told me you two are to be married.” You both crane your heads to the right, where Charles is leaning against the terrace railing talking to one of your friends, Matthew, animatedly. He meets your eyes, sees Eden beside you, and seems to connect the dots.
Jokingly, perhaps, he raises his hand and wiggles his empty ring finger. You can’t help but smile as you turn back to the old woman. “Oh, did he, zia?”
“Si, he did.”
“Well, we’re just going to let it happen, then. You’re invited. Front row.” You kiss her cheek and she smiles, wobbling off to drink more wine before any of the adults can stop her.
It’s announced then that the dance floor is open, and many of Pascale’s friends filter through to show off their moves to the 70’s music. You watch, amused, at the display of dexterity to Frankie Valli and Aretha Franklin. You cheer them on, content to watch them against the backdrop of the New York sunset.
When Ain’t No Mountain High Enough plays, the dance floor grows, because nobody can resist the song—not even Charles, apparently, who takes your hand without preamble and takes you, squealing, to the centre.
You sing each of the parts, like you always do when the song comes on. It’s semi-tradition at this point: you take Marvin Gaye’s, Charles takes Tammi Terrell’s. You both exaggerate your dance moves and pretend you’re performing.
His hand’s in yours, winding you around and pulling you close. At some point he starts robot dancing to entertain you. It works—you laugh out loud, your eyes half-shut and faced to the stars above. He could write a poem about this. Or a song.
The song ends and you lean onto his shoulder to take a breather—then the photographer swoops in and takes a picture. “That’s going into the RSVPs!” He says, accent unmistakably American.
“Does he know we’re not the couple here?” You ask.
Do we know we’re not the couple? Charles asks himself.
The night escalates as the “oldies” leave, and Matthew, Joris, and Giada join you both for one last round of drinks again. You’re all standing at the exit making conversation; Lorenzo attends to his friends at the other end of the terrace.
“I feel young again,” Matthew says, liberated by Tito’s vodka. He takes another swig and pulls his coat on.
“You’re twenty-five, calm down,” you joke. “Dodged that bullet.” You’re poking fun at the semi-massive crush you had on Matthew in secondary school, and a laugh passes through the four of you. “Anyway, you three be careful. No driving.”
“Jesus, but really—I haven’t been this drunk since you”—he points at you, laughing—“turned seventeen at that club, Amber? No?”
“Oh, God. Y’know, same.” You fail to notice Charles and Giada share a look. “I remember nothing from that night! Or, like, the first two hours at least.”
“I remember drinking my body weight because of heartbreak,” he jeers.
“Heartbreak? Were you—were you with anyone?” You ask, confused.
It happens before anyone can stop it. “No, when Charles kissed you. And you kissed him after. Alright, night mates! Lorenzo—merci!”
Oh, fuck, you hear in the back of your now-muddled brain. Giada’s voice.
You open and close your mouth. “Ch—wait, he—what?”
“I—let’s talk here,” Charles flounders, dragging you to a more secluded spot and facing you. The three of your friends exit; Giada waves, apologetic. “When… we were at Amber… and you were absolutely hammered, we kissed. It was twice—just twice. And you didn’t, um. Remember a thing.”
You’re unsure. “In Amber?” You blink, confused. “What do you mean?”
“We… I don’t—I mean, I understand why you don’t remember. We kissed that night.”
“So that’s… Charles… You didn’t tell me.” Your voice quivers, like a wire flicked. “Why didn’t you say it at the time?”
He doesn’t give you an answer. He just looks at the counter, imagines the way your eyebrows furrow, your lips move, eyes glitter. He can’t give you one. He doesn’t want to hurt, disappoint, sadden you. He wants to get on his knees and root you here, so he’ll have all the time in the world to come up with an answer.
“Charles.” But he loves you, and he can at the very least be honest for you. “Look at me.”
“I was scared.” His eyes gravitate to yours.
“Of?”
“It felt stupid, is all. That you didn’t remember, and maybe you did but you were pretending you weren’t. I didn’t—it didn’t—sorry.” He laughs, stutters. “I convinced myself it didn’t mean anything because we didn’t have feelings for each other.” He pauses. “Then.”
“Well,” you say, slow. Eyes stuck to his. “How about now?”
“Now?”
“I love you, now. I mean, isn’t that all this is? Loving? Even if? De—despite of?”
And this—God. This is how it feels. He’s looking at you and you’re telling him you love him because you do, and finally he’s been over with reassurance.
You love him, too. That way. He trembles with it. His hands are shaky when they lace into yours, like you’re a shrine, a prayer, and he feels like maybe these are the emotions that swirl through the human body when one wins the lottery and gets struck by angry lightning at the same time.
This is it, he thinks. Profound and lovely and an echo of sweet memories. He’s yours. Here in a city unfamiliar to both of you, yet to be conquered, your fingers lace lightly and you smile, smile, smile at each other, as if you’re the last two people on Earth. He’s yours, so foolishly in love with you.
Even far from home, you’re both filled with warmth, with longing. Extended stares, pits of your stomachs welling up with something lovely in between homesickness and nostalgia. Here again, you again, us again—it’ll always be us again, your heart seems to say, surrounded by the same love the same hurt the same sad the same everything, you and me, all the love in the world, all the confusion, we’re here. It’s never over.
Across the terrace, Lorenzo watches. Two figures, laughing, emanating happiness, gentle unkowing love. You two have finally made it here, after what felt like a thousand trials and dreams and stories.
So even if you’re taller, in high heels and a yellow dress—and Charles is broader, in a suit and tie—Lorenzo thinks he can blink and see the two little kids who hosted a tea party in the backyard. He can blink again and see you hugging, eyes shut, his lips pressed to your forehead to convey the intimacy nothing else will do as well.
“So what now?” You ask. Again with the questions. In your defense—it begs so many follow-up questions. A love so many years in the making—layer after layer after layer—of course it begs all the questions, almost to the point of overwhelming capacity. What’ll we tell Pascale? The fans? The family? Everyone?!
But one look and he makes it better. His green eyes, bright against the deep black of the skyline. You’ve grown. You’ve done it. You’re here. “We’ll figure it out.” He smiles. “We deserve this kind of ending, don’t you think?”
—
“He has my name.” A tubby finger points to the boy on the greeting card. “That one.”
“And who’s the dog?” Asks the girl beside him, hair wound into a plait. She likes this boy. He’s cute. She plays with the end of her braid and stares, eyes flickering in-between him and the card they’re staring at.
“The name’s right there. They’re best friends.”
“Okay, that’ll be me.”
“So that’s us.”
“Oui.” She smiles. “Charlie and Snoopy.”
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