Charles Lecrelc - Blog Posts
HE'S DONE IT! WON HIS HOME RACE!! ❤️❤️❤️
trying to find fem f1 driver reader stories where there’s no romance is like trying to pull blood from a rock. please i’m just trying to live out my f1 driver fantasies not soft launch to the world
https://www.tumblr.com/no-144444/780788902343622656/a-little-better-cleclerc?source=share
Yes! More parts
the time is nigh- c.leclerc
꩜ summary: imola is fast-approaching and a decision needs to be made
꩜ pairing: husband! charles leclerc x fem! pregnant! wife! reader
꩜ a/n: suggestive mentions 18+
part one, part two (this can be read on it's own tho but this just gives more context)
The Imola Gp was fast-approaching. Charles was becoming increasingly nervous, due to the fact that you were a few days past your due date, and he’d have to make a decision, either miss the race and risk the baby not being born yet, or don’t miss the race and risk missing the baby.
Realistically, he knew he was going to choose you. Either way, whatever that meant, he would choose you.
“I need an answer,” Fred sighed. “You have to have your full focus on this team Charles, when you’re here, you need to be here.”
He glanced your way from where he sat- back against the headboard. You were still asleep, looking ridiculously gorgeous as you slept soundly beside him, the early morning light shining in through the gaps in the blinds. Your hair a little messy, your mouth a little open, your brow furrowed. You had trouble getting to sleep these days, especially with Lina (a name you two were trying out) constantly kicking and moving about. He smoothed a hand over your forehead, brushing some hair out of your face, your nose scratched up, and subconsciously leaned further into his touch. His heart squeezed, and his decision was even easier. “I can’t come this weekend Fred, my family has to come first. Fred, you know better than anyone that I have given our team my everything for as long as I’ve been there, and I’ll continue to when I’m on working hours. Other than that, it’s up to me to decide on what I need.”
“I understand. I’ll tell Zhou he’ll be driving this weekend. Thank you for being honest, Charles,” Fred ended the call before Charles could ask what that meant, but regardless, as the decision settled in his mind, it didn’t create a black hole around his heart, as so many of his decisions had before. Decisions that put you on the chopping block. Decisions that he knew would make your life harder.
“Who was on the phone?” you wrapped an arm around his middle, leaning your head against his lower stomach. He wrapped an arm around your back. He missed this. Mornings with nothing to do. Mornings with you.
“I’m sorry I woke you up,” he sighed, pulling you closer. “Just Fred.”
You stiffened, eyes turning up to meet him. Your hand turned to a fist and retracted from his body. You sat up. “Oh,” you nodded. “When do you leave?”
He shook his head, a hand reaching out to take yours. “No baby! No, I’m staying here, obviously.”
You stared at him. “You’re staying?” you questioned. He nodded. He couldn’t help but see the way your eyes lit up, the way your shoulders dropped a bit, the way your ears perked up. “That’s great,” you smiled, clearly trying to contain your excitement.
“I don’t want to miss Lina,” he smiled, rubbing a hand over your swollen belly. “And I want to be there for you.”
You smiled right back at him, eyes bright and shining. You leaned into him again, his warm skin against yours. “Thank you,” you whispered. He just stared as you relaxed beside him, eyes closing again. The soothing circles he was drawing on your stomach, his heat warming you up, that feeling of being cared for, something you hadn’t realised had been so absent from your life. He watched you like you were his favourite channel now, when before he could barely spare you a glance. “We can go to the market today,” you whispered, a sleepy tone of voice. Charles chuckled beside you.
A ringing doorbell broke you both out of your bed, and he rushed to get up before you even moved. You chuckled as he slid across the hardwood floors, making sure you didn’t have to move a muscle.
“Maman?” he questioned. “What are you doing here?”
“We need to have a baby,” she answered as if it were obvious. Her and Arthur pushed into the house, moving Charles to the side. “Doctor’s don’t want to induce yet, so we have our own ideas!”
If it weren’t for the early hour and the fact that Charles had wanted you to himself for a day before all the crazy baby stuff started and he had to go back to work, he would’ve thought this was super sweet. He frowned as his mother placed a grocery bag on the counter. “Maman, Lina will come when she’s ready-”
“You’ve picked a name?!” she squealed. “Oh, Lina is so beautiful, I love it!”
Charles sighed. “Maman, she will come when she’s ready, we don’t need to-”
“It’s not a terrible idea,” you shrugged, standing in the doorway. One of Charles’s old ferrari hoodies draped over your swollen belly, tiny pyjama shorts, and a curious look in your eyes. “I wouldn’t mind if it happened today.”
He would’ve argued if you didn’t look so beautiful it made him lightheaded. “Smart girl!” his mother quipped, kissing your cheek. “So I looked it up, and it said spicy things help, so I got you some peppers. Dates are also supposed to be good, so there’s a bag of those,” she unpacked the bag as you listened intently, and Charles just watched in awe. “Raspberry leaf tea, pineapple-”
“Lube?” Arthur chuckled, picking up the bottle. “Maman, how do you think they got into this situation-?”
“Turtur,” Pascale slapped his arm as he giggled. “The last thing is sex, apparently it helps,” she shrugged. “Anyway, you guys have fun, call us if little Lina is on her way!” she smiled, leaving the both of you standing shocked in the apartment.
“Never thought I’d hear your mom talk about sex,” you admitted, placing the lube on the counter. “Kind of shocked.”
“Agreed,” Charles sighed, cheeks red. “Well, we’ll give them a shot. Dates first?” he looked at you, and you looked down. He could sense there was something behind it, but he didn’t want to pry. This balancing game he’d gotten so used to being able to figure out, got a little bit more complex. He stared. “Or the spicy food?”
You sighed. This shouldn’t be so awkward! You told yourself. Just tell him! “Ummm,” you cleared your throat. “I could… I think I’d like to have sex,” you responded in the most awkward way possible. “Or not. I don’t mind.”
He looked at you with all the affection in the world. “Oh ma chérie,” he chuckled, wrapping his arms around your waist (as best he could). “Why do you look so nervous?”
You shrugged. “It’s been a while,” you didn’t meet his eyes. That was fine. “I didn’t know if you were still… y’know.”
He stilled. “What are you trying to say?” he asked, his voice low. You didn’t answer. “Mon cœur-”
You pulled away, crossing your arms as you leaned against the counter. This is so humiliating. You thought, wanting to just crawl up in a ball and die. He was your husband, and yes, you noticed the way he pulled away as your body changed. You didn’t think much of it in the beginning, then it became the only reason you could think of. But you’d pushed it away in recent weeks, focusing on the new Charles, the one who cared. “You’ve been so distant for so long, especially since the second trimester. I just… I don’t know. I thought you didn’t think I was sexy to you anymore, or something. We don’t have to do it, it’s stupid anyway-”
“Baby,” he took your hand. You kept your eyes on the ground. “I think you’re the most beautiful,” he pressed a kiss to your cheek. “Most kind,” he pressed a kiss to your neck. “Seixiest,” he pressed a kiss to your collarbone. “Most wonderful,” he pressed a kiss to your bump. “Most irresistible woman on the planet, and I plan on reminding you of that, right now.”
He smirked from his kneeling position in front of you, and you felt that flicker in your chest, the kind that you felt at the beginning. That fun you’d both missed for so long.
You woke up at about 4pm, surfacing after a long morning, where Charles showed you exactly what he meant.
“Mon amour,” Charles whispered, turning over and switching on the light. “Why is the bed wet?”
Holy shit. Now was the moment. You were going to be a mom. Charles was going to be a dad.
navigation for my blog :)
ferrari masterlist
taglist:
@awritingtree @boherahpsody @janeh22 @dustie-faerie @anayaverse @buckybarnessweetheart @scriptedinkbyxim @ferrarisstr @freyathehuntress @isagrace22 @htpssgavi @chloemehchloe @ggaslyp1 @pookynknowntranger
Mon Soleil
Charles Leclerc x high school sweetheart!Reader
Summary: you don’t belong in the shadows, but selfishly Charles loves that you’re only his there (in which Charles Leclerc has kept his girlfriend hidden from the world for years and years … until he didn’t)
The door shuts softly behind him.
That in itself is telling — Charles always shuts it gently when he’s trying not to bring the world inside with him. Shoes scuffed, travel-worn jacket slung over one shoulder, eyes a little too tired to be young, he exhales like the weight of the grid is still pressing against his spine.
Silence greets him, familiar and warm. It’s not the absence of noise, but the presence of peace.
He walks through the apartment slowly, like something might break if he moves too fast. The city hums outside, Monaco golden and quiet beneath the early evening sky. From the living room, the sliding balcony doors are cracked open just enough to let in the scent of sea salt and sun-warmed stone.
That’s where you are.
Curled up on the balcony chaise, legs tucked beneath you, a loose cardigan slipping off one shoulder. There’s a book in your lap, but it’s long since fallen shut. Your eyes are closed, head tipped toward the sky like you’re soaking in the last of the daylight. Hair soft, skin glowing in the low sun — it hits him all at once, how desperately he’s missed you.
Charles leans against the doorframe, watching for a moment, throat tight.
“Mon soleil,” he says softly, barely more than breath.
You blink your eyes open, slow and sleepy, like your mind’s still somewhere inside the pages or the sunlight or the quiet. Then you smile.
“Hey,” you say, voice rough with rest.
He crosses the distance in seconds. The moment his lips brush your temple, everything else dissolves — the cameras, the interviews, the brutal double-header, the fake smiles. All of it gone. You tilt your head so he can press a second kiss just under your ear, and his arms wrap around you from behind, grounding.
“You’re home early,” you murmur.
Charles huffs a quiet laugh against your skin. “It’s nine.”
Your fingers find his. “Early for you.”
He exhales, forehead pressed to your shoulder. “Didn’t want to go to the after-party. Couldn’t take another question about the championship.”
“Did you win?”
“Yeah.”
There’s a pause.
“I’m proud of you,” you say, simply, gently. Like you mean it and nothing else. No noise. No expectations.
He closes his eyes.
“You know they had me filming a social media bit with Lewis twenty minutes after I crossed the finish line?” He says, muffled against your collarbone. “I was still sweating. I hadn’t even called Maman yet.”
“Sounds like a dream job.”
Charles snorts. “Yeah. The dream.”
You twist a little to look at him. There’s a faint crease between his brows, like something he hasn’t said yet is still sitting there, waiting.
“What is it?”
He doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he brushes your hair back, fingers gentle at your temple, then your jaw. The kind of touch that says you’re real. I need that right now. You lean into it.
“They want me to fake date someone,” he says finally, eyes fixed on yours. “For a brand thing. PR stunt. ‘Broaden my audience appeal.’ Some model who’s apparently very into vintage cars and barely has a pulse.”
You blink.
He watches you, gauging the flicker of emotion across your face. “I said no,” he adds, quickly. “Obviously. I didn’t even let them finish the pitch.”
Your voice is dry. “But you told me anyway.”
“I had to,” Charles says. “It’s your life too.”
You’re quiet for a moment. “Do you think they’d actually push it?”
He sighs. “They’re not stupid. They know I’d walk before I let them touch this.” His thumb presses to the space over your heart. “But they’re not used to me saying no to everything else.”
“You’ve said no to a lot.”
He smiles faintly. “Yeah, but only when it’s worth it.”
You reach for his hand, the one still resting on your shoulder. Your fingers link instinctively.
“Was it hard?” You ask. “To say no?”
“No,” he says immediately. “What’s hard is not being able to tell the world why.”
There’s something deeper in that — something that aches.
You look at him. “You’d want to?”
He hesitates.
“I would,” Charles says quietly. “But I know what it would do to you.”
That stings, a little. Not because it’s wrong, but because it’s true.
He sees it in your expression. “Hey,” he says, gently. “I didn’t mean that like — like you can’t handle it. I know you could. I just … I like this. Us. The quiet. The privacy.”
“I like it too,” you admit, leaning your cheek into his shoulder. “But sometimes I think … maybe I’m hiding.”
“You’re not,” he says immediately, and there’s something fierce about it, the way his arms tighten around you. “You’re not. You just like peace. And that doesn’t mean you’re hiding.”
You shrug.
He shifts to face you more directly, hands cupping your jaw now. “You don’t belong in the shadows,” Charles murmurs, brushing his thumbs across your cheeks. “But selfishly, I love that you’re only mine there.”
You exhale a shaky little laugh. “That’s kind of possessive.”
He smiles. “Yeah. It is.”
“You’re usually not.”
“Not with the world, no,” he says. “But with you? Yeah. I am. I want to be.”
You look at him for a long time.
There’s still sea breeze in the air, warm and thick with salt. The sun is low now, slipping behind the hills. The light on your skin is rose-gold, and he looks at you like you hung the sun there yourself.
“I wrote today,” you say finally.
His eyes brighten. “Yeah?”
You nod. “Couple thousand words. Not great ones. But better than the last few days.”
“I want to read them.”
You raise a brow. “You always say that.”
“And I always mean it.”
“I’m not ready.”
He doesn’t push. “Okay.”
You smile, just a little. “But I like that you ask.”
Charles leans forward, brushing his lips across your forehead. “Always will.”
The wind stirs a strand of hair across your cheek, and he tucks it behind your ear with a kind of reverence.
“How long are you home for?” You ask.
“Five days.”
“Before Spain?”
“Yeah. I was going to train tomorrow, but I think I’ll take the morning off.”
Your voice is quiet. “For rest?”
“For you,” he says, and the way he says it makes your heart stumble.
“Charles-”
“No,” he says, gently. “You don’t have to earn it. I want time with you. You’re the only place I feel human lately.”
You swallow.
He leans in and kisses your cheek, slow and warm. Then your jaw. Then your neck, just above your pulse. You shiver slightly, but it’s comfort more than anything else — being found, being known.
“You want to go to bed?” He asks quietly.
You nod.
So he takes your hand, and it’s not rushed — it’s not hungry or dramatic. It’s grounding. Soft. He guides you inside, flicking off lights as you go, easing you into your shared room like he’s placing you somewhere safe.
In the bedroom, he pulls off your cardigan for you, brushing your shoulders with his hands. He peels back the covers, helps you climb in, then joins you. Not an inch of space between your bodies. His arms come around your waist from behind, holding you steady.
He presses a kiss to the back of your neck. “You’re not hiding,” he whispers. “You’re home.”
You reach back for his hand under the sheets. “Even when I’m quiet?”
“Especially when you’re quiet.”
He’s tracing patterns across your ribs now, soothing. Breathing slow. The world doesn’t exist here.
“Mon soleil,” he murmurs again, a little sleepier this time. “Even when the lights go out.”
You hum. “I’m glad you’re home.”
“I always come back to you.”
And in the hush of the room, you believe him.
He holds you closer.
Outside, Monaco sleeps.
Inside, he dreams only of you.
***
The car pulls up to the curb in front of the Palais de Tokyo, slow and deliberate like it knows what’s waiting outside.
Flashes ignite immediately — paparazzi like moths drawn to the promise of fame. The bulbs flicker against the polished black of the car, against the glittering heels stepping out before them, against the tension sitting thick in Charles’ chest.
He glances over at you.
“You sure?” He murmurs.
You nod, hands smoothed over the deep navy fabric of your dress. His fingers brush over yours where they rest in your lap — one soft, grounding touch.
“Okay,” he breathes. Then he adds, a little lower, “Stay close to me.”
The door opens.
The noise hits first — camera shutters, yelling voices, someone shouting his name in five different accents. It’s not unusual. It’s just … amplified. Paris amplifies everything. This isn’t a race weekend. This is Fashion Week. Which means the crowd outside isn’t just motorsport fans — it’s models, influencers, press junkies, people who invent rumors for fun and watch them come to life in real time.
You step out first.
And it’s small, the moment. Barely three seconds between your heels touching pavement and Charles following behind you, hand briefly ghosting the small of your back.
But it’s enough.
The buzz changes pitch the second he emerges.
There’s a flicker — a sharp inhale among the crowd, someone saying “Wait, who is that?” and another whispering your name as a question. Not as a fact. Just an idea. But ideas are dangerous here. Ideas spark headlines.
“Keep walking,” Charles mutters under his breath, close enough for only you to hear. “Just smile. Straight through.”
You nod. You’ve done this before — stepped through this minefield together. But something feels different tonight. Sharper.
Inside, the noise doesn’t follow. The air changes. The show hasn’t started yet, and the room is full of champagne flutes, soft designer scents, the low hum of fashion people pretending not to care who else is watching. You don’t drink — your fingers toy with the stem of a glass while Charles excuses himself for a brief interview across the room.
You watch him go.
He’s good at this. Too good. Easy smile, charming accent, sharp tux — he blends in so well it’s almost hard to remember how badly he used to flinch under attention.
The memory hits like a whisper.
***
It was at school, back in Monaco. He’d shown up to class ten minutes late, hair still wet from training, a smudge of grease on his collar. You were already sitting near the back, half-hiding behind a copy of Little Women.
He slid into the seat next to you, awkward and quiet. Everyone knew who he was. Charles Leclerc — the golden boy. The kid with the karting trophies and the tragic backstory. But up close, he didn’t seem golden. He seemed … tired.
He hadn’t spoken until three days later, when you’d accidentally left your notebook behind after class. He ran it out to you — literally ran. You were already halfway down the hall when he called your name.
You turned.
He held it out. “You forgot this.”
You took it, quietly. “Thanks.”
He hesitated, then blurted, “You write poems in the margins.”
Your eyes narrowed. “You read it?”
“No, I mean, just that one page. The one on the train. It was … good.”
You tilted your head. “You read poetry?”
“No,” he said, too quickly. Then, “Sometimes. I don’t understand most of it.”
You smiled. “That’s okay. Most people don’t.”
He paused. “Can I sit next to you again tomorrow?”
You nodded.
That was it. That was the moment it began.
Not with a spark. But a softness.
***
Now, across the room, Charles finishes his interview and makes his way back to you, expression slightly tight.
“Are we okay?” You ask under your breath.
He kisses your cheek. “Fine. One of the photographers caught a weird angle of us getting out of the car. It’ll blow over.”
You nod slowly. “You sure?”
“No,” he admits, low. “But I’m pretending.”
The lights dim then, and conversation dissolves into applause as the show begins. Your friend’s collection floats down the runway — fluid and sharp, dramatic and quiet all at once. You squeeze Charles’ hand, and he leans in to whisper, “He’ll be huge after this.”
You smile. “I know.”
But it doesn’t last.
After the show, as the crowd floods the exit, there’s a moment — a flash of something too fast to be fully seen. A journalist stepping forward, recorder in hand.
“Charles, Charles, one question?”
He stops out of habit. You hesitate beside him.
The journalist glances at you, sharp and curious. “Is this your girlfriend?”
Silence.
For a second — just one — he doesn’t say anything. The beat stretches, too long, too brittle.
Then, “No comment.”
You flinch, barely. But he feels it. Of course he does.
He wraps a protective arm around your waist, not possessive but anchoring. “We’re here supporting a friend.”
The journalist tilts her head, eyes narrowing. “Right. So the matching entrance was just coincidence?”
Charles doesn’t answer.
You can feel the tension in his body, coiled and barely held.
He pulls you away before it escalates. No scene. Just a quick exit, one hand in yours as you disappear back into the private car waiting in the alley.
The moment the doors shut, the silence is deafening.
You stare out the window.
He speaks first. “I didn’t mean-”
“I know,” you say, too quickly.
“But it didn’t sound like-”
“I know, Charles.”
Another pause.
“I just …” he sighs. “It wasn’t the moment.”
You nod. “It never is.”
He closes his eyes. “That’s not fair.”
“Maybe not. But it’s true.”
There’s a sharp quiet between you now, the kind that doesn’t come from anger but from ache.
Charles leans forward, elbows on his knees, hands in his hair. “I’m trying to protect you.”
You stare at him. “And I love you for it. But I’m not breakable.”
“I know that.”
You exhale, soft. “Do you?”
He turns to face you fully. “I do. But you didn’t see the headlines they almost ran after Monaco. They twist everything. I don’t want you swallowed up in that circus. I want you safe.”
“And I want you honest.”
His jaw tightens.
You look away. “This is the first time in months we’ve fought.”
“I hate it.”
“Me too.”
The car pulls up to the hotel. You walk inside together, quiet, each step heavy with words unspoken. You ride the elevator without touching. Not out of distance, but because neither of you knows how to fix this yet.
The second the hotel door clicks shut, Charles exhales.
You kick off your shoes, walk toward the window. The Paris skyline is lit in gold and white. The Eiffel Tower gleams in the distance, unbothered.
You don’t hear him cross the room, but you feel it when his hands come to your waist.
“I didn’t say it,” he murmurs, voice rough. “But I thought it.”
You swallow.
His lips brush your shoulder. “I always think it.”
“I know.”
His hands move slowly, drawing you back into him, arms around your waist. His voice dips lower. “I’m yours. Always. Even when I can’t say it out loud.”
You turn in his arms, looking up at him. “You shouldn’t have to hide the things you love.”
“I’m not hiding,” Charles says, quiet but certain. “I’m guarding. There’s a difference.”
Your eyes search his.
He leans in, forehead resting against yours. “Don’t shrink from the light,” you whisper.
“I don’t,” he breathes. “I just want the light to stay mine.”
You kiss him first.
And then everything slows.
There’s no rush in the way he undresses you — just reverence. His fingers skim your spine, your ribs, the sides of your thighs. You feel his breath at your neck, his lips brushing over your skin like apology and promise all at once.
He lifts you gently, lays you back against the sheets with a kind of sacred care. Like the whole world could fall apart and he’d still hold you steady. Every movement is deliberate, grounding. He touches you like you’re sunlight made tangible — something fleeting he wants to memorize again and again.
His hands stay on your hips, firm and steady, even as his mouth whispers over your skin — your collarbone, your chest, your stomach.
“I don’t need the world to know,” he murmurs, voice thick. “But I need you to know.”
“I do,” you breathe. “I’ve always known.”
He kisses you like that’s the only answer he’ll ever need.
When it’s over, your limbs tangled, breath synced, he brushes a strand of hair off your forehead.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “For freezing.”
You shake your head. “You were scared.”
He holds you tighter. “I just want to keep you.”
“You have me.”
He nods.
Outside, Paris lives loud. Inside, Charles stays quiet — arms around you like gravity.
He says it again, barely audible.
“Mon soleil.”
And you fall asleep knowing he means it.
***
It’s early when Charles wakes, the sky outside a soft watercolor of dawn. The city’s barely breathing yet, Paris muted under pale blue and silver. The sheets are warm. You’re tucked against him, one arm slung across his ribs, your face buried somewhere near his collarbone.
He stays still for a moment.
Watches you.
You’re beautiful in the way only people at rest can be — unguarded, soft-edged, not thinking of the world or the weight of it. And Charles, for all his fame, for all his speed, has always worshipped slowness with you. He memorizes the shape of your mouth, the curve of your spine under the duvet. It makes him ache, how safe you look here, next to him. Like maybe, just maybe, he hasn’t ruined that yet.
He slips out of bed carefully, not waking you. Pads across the hotel room barefoot, dragging his fingers through sleep-mussed hair. There’s a note of stillness in him this morning, unusual but welcome. The weight of last night is still there, but it’s different now. Muted.
Your suitcase sits open in the corner, a paperback wedged between layers of clothing. The spine cracked, corners worn.
But it’s not the book that stops him.
It’s the manila folder on the desk.
The pages are stacked neatly, a thick rubber band holding them together. His name’s not on the front, and you haven’t told him much — only that it’s your second book, slower going than the first. But the edges are filled with your handwriting, your margin notes, your scratched-out titles.
He tells himself not to look.
Then he does.
Just one page, he promises.
Then two.
Then-
A line.
To the boy who lives at 320 km/h but holds me like I’m fragile porcelain.
Charles stops breathing for a second.
The words blur.
He sinks into the desk chair, pages cradled in his hands like they might shatter. He flips through more — just a few at first, then faster, scanning blocks of dialogue and prose, your voice echoing in every line. It’s fiction. Of course it is. But he knows himself in the spaces between. In the way the protagonist runs from everything except her. In the way he comes back. Always.
There’s a passage — midway through — that hits too close.
He doesn’t know how to rest. His body hums even in sleep. But when he touches her, something changes. It’s not desperation — it’s reverence. He holds her like she’s a map, and he’s finally found home.
Charles exhales, long and slow.
He reads on.
The world never asked him who he was. They only told him what to be. But with her, he can become something else. Someone honest. Someone flawed. Someone who doesn’t always win but is still worth loving.
He closes the manuscript after that, heart pounding. A different kind of pressure — intimate, unbearable, right under his ribs.
You see him.
You always have.
And suddenly, he wants to speak. To tell you everything he never quite knows how to say out loud.
So he finds a notepad in the hotel drawer. Quietly, without thinking too much, he writes.
***
Letter one.
Found tucked inside your book the next morning.
I am so tired of being the world’s Charles Leclerc. But I never tire of being yours.
***
Letter two.
Slipped between your sketchbook pages a few days later.
Sometimes I think you’re a quiet kind of genius. The world sees flashes, but I get the whole storm. You make me want to be more than fast. You make me want to be still.
***
Letter three.
Folded into the pocket of your jacket before he leaves for Spain.
I dreamt once that we lived in a house by the sea. No press. No racing. Just your words, my hands, and time. I don’t know if I’ll ever deserve that. But I want it.
***
He doesn’t sign them.
Doesn’t say they’re from him. Doesn’t need to.
You’d know his handwriting anywhere.
***
The morning after you return from Paris, you find the first one.
It’s there, plain as anything, pressed between two chapters of the book you’ve been reading for weeks. You weren’t even sure where you’d packed it. But it finds you.
You don’t say anything.
You just … sit with it.
Read it twice. Three times.
Then you place the paper back inside the pages and slide the book onto the nightstand like nothing happened.
When Charles stirs, you’re already watching him.
He groans a little, stretching. “What time is it?”
“Still early,” you murmur.
“Mm,” he rolls closer, eyes half-lidded. “You’re staring.”
“Maybe.”
He grins. “Lucky me.”
You lean in and kiss him.
It’s longer than usual. Slower. More certain. His hands come up to cradle your face, a little confused but not resisting.
When you pull back, he’s blinking at you. “What was that for?”
You shrug. “Felt like it.”
He hums, pulling you in again. “Do it again.”
So you do.
***
That day, he flies out for a press shoot in Spain. You stay in Monaco, returning to your writing, to your own quiet world.
But something’s shifted.
You start noticing the notes.
They don’t come every day. They’re not dramatic or poetic. They’re just him. Honest. Raw. Tucked where you least expect them — inside your journal, between the receipts in your wallet, once even in the fridge, stuck to the almond milk.
And still, you don’t mention them.
Because that’s the thing about Charles.
He’s loud on track. Loud when he’s winning. Loud when he’s fighting.
But when he loves — it’s quiet.
***
A few nights later, you’re on FaceTime. He’s sprawled across a hotel bed, hair wet from a shower, wearing a T-shirt that used to be yours.
“You find any new letters?” He asks, casual, but you see the corner of his mouth twitch.
You tilt your head. “Should I be looking?”
He smirks. “Maybe.”
You smile. “No new ones today.”
He feigns offense. “That you found.”
“Exactly.”
He laughs, soft and real. “You like them?”
“I do.”
There’s a pause.
“Even when I’m not good at saying it out loud,” Charles murmurs, “I’m thinking about you.”
“I know.”
He leans back, arms crossed under his head. “I think about how we met, sometimes. How I didn’t talk for like two weeks. You probably thought I was an idiot.”
“I thought you were shy.”
He blinks. “Really?”
“Yeah. You were always rushing somewhere, but you looked like you were trying not to bump into anyone.”
He laughs. “Because I was. Monaco’s small but brutal.”
You soften. “You’ve always been good at seeing everything.”
He nods. “But you were the first person who saw me. Before the racing. Before the trophies.”
“I still do.”
He swallows hard.
***
Later that week, another letter finds you inside your typewriter cover.
Letter four.
I don’t always know who I am to the world. Sometimes it changes by the hour. But with you, I never have to wonder. You anchor me. You make the noise stop. I hope I do the same for you. Even if I don’t say it, I’m trying.
You fold it gently, slide it under your pillow.
He’s not with you tonight, but the space beside you feels a little less empty.
***
A few days later, you call him out of the blue.
He answers on the second ring, breathless. “Everything okay?”
You smile. “Yeah. Just wanted to hear your voice.”
He sighs, soft and happy. “I miss you.”
“I miss you too.”
There’s a pause. Then:
“Do you want me to stop?” He asks.
You blink. “Stop what?”
“The notes. The letters. If it’s too much.”
Your heart twists. “Charles. No. I love them.”
He lets out a breath. “Okay.”
You add, quieter, “I keep them. All of them.”
“I know,” he says, and you can hear the smile in his voice. “I figured.”
***
That weekend, he comes home.
No cameras. No entourage. Just him, shoulders looser than they’ve been in months.
You open the door in sweatpants, hair still damp from a shower, and he smiles like it’s the only thing he’s been waiting for all week.
“Hi,” you say.
He drops his bag and kisses you before you can say anything else.
Later, curled up on the couch, his head in your lap, he murmurs, “You wrote about me.”
You pretend not to know what he means. “Everyone writes about you.”
“No,” he says, tilting his head to look up at you. “You wrote about me.”
You brush your fingers through his hair. “I write about what matters.”
He closes his eyes. “I hope you always do.”
You kiss his forehead. “And you’ll keep writing letters?”
He grins. “Until I run out of hiding spots.”
You smile. “Then you’ll just have to start saying them.”
He nods. “I will. One day.”
But until then-
The notes are enough.
***
He sounds like someone else on the phone.
The call comes after the sprint race in Miami, crackling with poor reception and exhaustion. He’s finished P2, and the media's already torn him apart for not converting pole into a win. Again. You can hear it in his voice — the frayed edges, the clipped tone he tries to soften for you.
“They said I’m not aggressive enough,” Charles mutters. “That I’m too emotional. That I’m-” he breaks off, breathing hard. “That I don’t have the killer instinct.”
You’re silent for a moment. “Do you believe them?”
“No,” he says, too fast. “But maybe … I don’t know. Maybe they’re right. Maybe I’m-” he trails off again, breath catching in his throat.
You sit up straighter, your grip on the phone tightening. “Charles.”
He doesn’t respond right away.
“Charles, look at me.”
“I can’t,” he whispers. “You’re not here.”
And that’s all it takes.
You’re already moving, throwing clothes into a carry-on bag with more purpose than coordination. You book a last-minute flight while brushing your teeth, your laptop balanced on the bathroom counter. The Miami heat feels a world away, but you can already see it — the chaos of the paddock, the swarm of cameras, the sound bites dissecting his every word.
And underneath it all: him.
Raw. Alone.
Not anymore.
***
By the time you arrive, the Sunday sun is already bruising the skyline, and you haven’t slept in seventeen hours. But the moment you step through the paddock gates, heart pounding behind your lanyard and sunglasses, you know exactly what you’re looking for.
He doesn’t see you at first.
He’s talking to an engineer, brow furrowed, body wound tight like wire. But then someone taps his shoulder, nods in your direction, and Charles turns.
His whole face shifts.
Like breathing after holding it too long.
He doesn’t say anything. Just strides across the paddock like the ground might collapse between you if he doesn’t close the distance fast enough. And then he’s there — eyes wild, chest rising and falling fast.
“You’re here,” he breathes, voice cracked.
You nod. “Of course I am.”
He grabs your wrist — not roughly, but with urgency. “Come with me.”
He pulls you through a back hallway you’ve never seen before, past mechanics and closed doors, until he finds an unlocked storage closet that smells like tires and adrenaline. He drags you in, shuts the door behind him, and exhales like he’s finally allowed to fall apart.
And then-
His arms are around you.
Just like that.
He buries his face in your neck, hands shaking at your waist. “I couldn’t do it anymore,” he whispers. “I tried. I really tried.”
“I know,” you say, threading your fingers into his hair. “I know you did.”
“They said so many things,” he murmurs against your skin. “Not just about driving. About who I am. About what I’m not. It was so loud, and I just — I needed you.”
You pull back just enough to cup his face, forcing him to look at you. “Charles. Listen to me. You are not what they say. You’re still my Charles. Not just Ferrari’s. Not theirs.”
His eyes close, a single tear slipping down. “You always say the right thing.”
“No,” you say, brushing it away. “I just say what’s true.”
He looks at you then, really looks at you — hair a mess from travel, skin tired from the flight, sunglasses still tangled in your hair. And he kisses you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.
Like if he doesn’t hold you tight enough, the world will take you too.
Your back hits the supply shelf with a soft thud, and his hands are on your jaw, your shoulders, your waist — everywhere at once. You kiss him back just as fiercely, anchoring him with every breath.
“Say it again,” he murmurs, lips brushing yours.
“You’re still mine,” you whisper. “Always mine.”
***
That night, the hotel room is dark and quiet, lit only by the faint glow of Miami’s skyline outside the floor-to-ceiling windows. You’re on the bed, curled up in one of his shirts, freshly showered, still buzzing from the day.
He sits on the edge, towel around his neck, hands braced on his knees like he’s holding himself together.
You crawl over to him slowly, wrapping your arms around his torso from behind.
“Hey,” you murmur against his shoulder.
He exhales. “I keep thinking I have to be perfect. Not just on track. Everywhere.”
“You don’t.”
“I know,” he says. “But they make it feel like I do. Like if I’m not smiling enough, or fast enough, or hard enough, I’m … replaceable.”
You press a kiss between his shoulder blades. “You’re not.”
He turns to face you, eyes dark and heavy with everything he’s been carrying.
“You always know how to make it stop hurting,” he whispers.
You crawl into his lap, straddling him slowly, hands cupping his cheeks.
“Because I love you,” you say simply.
His lips find yours again, slower this time. Less desperation. More reverence. His hands slide under your thighs, then up your back, anchoring you to him like you’re the only solid thing he has left.
“You’re my girl,” he murmurs, voice hoarse. “My warmth. My sun.”
You kiss his temple. “Then let me be.”
And he does.
He lays you back on the sheets like you’re fragile and sacred all at once. His touch is soft but sure, worshipful, his hands tracing every inch of skin like it’s familiar scripture. He whispers in French sometimes, half-prayer, half-plea. His mouth brushes over your collarbone, your ribs, the inside of your wrist.
“Mon soleil,” he says again and again. “My girl. My warmth. My sun.”
You thread your fingers through his hair, breath catching as he kisses a slow trail along your sternum.
“You don’t have to prove anything here,” you whisper.
“I know,” he says. “But I still want to show you.”
His voice trembles — not from nerves, but from feeling. Too much of it, barely contained.
“If I crash out of everything,” he says, forehead resting against yours, “I want to crash into you.”
Your heart stutters.
“I’d catch you,” you breathe.
His lips find yours again, and this time it’s softer. Slower. Full of promises neither of you speak aloud. He moves like he’s memorizing you. Not rushing. Not conquering. Just … loving. Tracing you with quiet devotion.
When it’s over, he doesn’t let go. Just holds you to his chest, face buried in your hair.
Neither of you speaks for a while.
Eventually, you say into the silence, “I’m coming to the next race.”
He nods, arm tightening around you. “Good.”
“I’ll be at the track. No press. Just watching.”
He kisses the crown of your head. “Knowing you’re there changes everything.”
You press a hand to his heart. “It’s still yours, you know. Even when you think you’ve lost yourself.”
He closes his eyes. “You always bring me back.”
***
And in the morning, before you leave for the airport, you find another note.
Folded into the pocket of your hoodie.
His handwriting, scrawled but certain.
You saved me this weekend. You keep saving me. I love you more than the silence between races, more than the moments I win. You are the only finish line that matters.
You don’t cry.
But you hold it to your chest for a long time before tucking it into your wallet.
Where all the others live.
***
The mirror glints with a kind of reverence.
Your reflection blurs around the edges, not because of the makeup or the soft updo or the silk pooling at your ankles, but because tonight — the first time ever — you are not just his secret. You’re stepping into the light with him.
He’s behind you in the hotel room, shirtless and warm from the shower, towel still low on his hips. His eyes are on you like you’re something he dreamed up. Slowly, he crosses the floor, wrapping his arms around your waist from behind and resting his chin on your shoulder.
“You look like starlight,” Charles murmurs against your skin.
You smile softly. “That’s poetic.”
“It’s just true.”
Your fingers rest lightly over his. “You still sure about this? We can still back out. Stay here. Order room service. Watch old races until you fall asleep in your pasta again.”
He laughs quietly, that low, melted sound. “And miss the chance to show you off? No, mon solei.”
He kisses your shoulder, breath warm. “Besides,” he says, voice dropping to a whisper, “you’ve been mine in the shadows for too long.”
***
The carpet is a blur of white lights and velvet ropes, of camera flashes and murmured names, but his hand never leaves yours.
Not once.
You step out of the car together, and everything slows.
You feel the collective intake of breath from the press line, from the onlookers who’ve speculated, dissected, whispered. Your dress shimmers under the strobes, and his tux is impeccable — tailored like the life he lives — but it’s the way he looks at you that steals the attention.
Not just affection. Not even pride.
A kind of awe. Like he can’t believe you’re real, and that you chose him.
It’s the kind of look that writes headlines before they’re even typed.
Charles doesn't falter. He doesn’t glance around to see who’s watching. His eyes are only for you. Fingers laced, thumb rubbing the inside of your wrist in slow, grounding circles.
You hear one journalist gasp softly into her mic, like she’s realizing it in real time.
“That’s her,” someone murmurs. “The girl Charles Leclerc looks at like she hung the stars.”
And still, his eyes don’t leave yours.
“Too late to run?” You whisper as cameras flash like lightning.
He grins. “You run, I follow.”
A dozen questions are hurled in your direction as you move down the carpet together.
“Is this your girlfriend?”
“Are you official?”
“When did it start?”
Charles only smiles — polite but cool. Still untouchable. But his hand never wavers in yours. He lets the silence answer for him.
A look. A touch. A truth held in the space between bodies.
The world sees it.
And for once, you let them.
***
Later, when the speeches are done and the champagne has long gone warm, you both slip away.
Charles leads you up to the rooftop of the venue — one of those quiet, off-limits spots only someone like him could access without question. The wind brushes against your skin, and the lights of Monaco twinkle in the distance, reflected on the sea like fallen stars.
You kick off your heels the second the door closes behind you.
“God, I thought I was going to trip over a camera cable and faceplant into Toto Wolff,” you mutter.
Charles laughs, pulling off his bowtie and pocketing it. “I was watching your feet the entire time, just in case.”
You walk to the edge of the rooftop together, city stretched out below you like something painted. He stands behind you again, wrapping his arms around your waist, just like in the mirror hours ago.
“Everyone was staring,” you say, voice quieter now.
“Good,” he murmurs.
You turn your head, just enough to see him. “Not too much?”
He shakes his head. “I wanted them to see. Finally.”
There’s a silence — comfortable, but heavy with something unsaid. You rest your head against his shoulder and close your eyes, letting the night soak into your skin.
“I’m proud of you,” you whisper.
“For what?”
“For being brave. For letting them see the real thing.”
He exhales slowly. “It wasn’t hard. Not with you next to me.”
You feel him shift behind you, hands moving, and then he’s stepping around to face you. His expression is unreadable — tender but serious, eyes darker than usual under the moonlight.
Then he pulls something from his jacket pocket.
A ring.
Small. Delicate. Not flashy.
Two stones nestled together, pressed into a slim gold band.
One for his birth month. One for yours.
Not a proposal.
But something more sacred, somehow.
A promise.
“Charles-”
“I don’t want headlines,” he says quietly. “I don’t want statements. I don’t even want to trend on Twitter.”
He takes your hand.
“I want you to know, here and now, that even if no one ever saw us, if this had stayed ours forever — I would still love you like this. With everything.”
He slides the ring onto your finger. It fits perfectly.
“It’s not for the world,” he adds. “It’s for you. For us. For the days you stayed when I gave you nothing but exhaustion and travel and chaos. For the nights you held me when I came home empty. It’s a reminder. That no matter where I am, what I win, how loud it gets …”
He cups your cheek.
“You are still the only thing I want to come home to.”
You’re crying before you can stop it.
He pulls you into his chest, rocking you gently as you try to speak.
“You always make me feel like I’m not just … orbiting your world,” you manage. “Like I belong.”
He pulls back just enough to look at you, thumbs brushing the corners of your eyes.
“You are my world.”
You shake your head slowly, overwhelmed. “You’re always giving and giving. Aren’t you tired?”
His expression softens. “I am,” he admits. “But I’m less tired when I’m with you.”
You lean your forehead against his, the ring cool against his skin.
“I’ll wear this every day,” you whisper. “Even if it’s just for me.”
He smiles. “It’s always just for you.”
***
Much later, back in the hotel room, you sit on the balcony while he undresses inside. The city hums below, faint and electric. The air smells like salt and roses.
He comes out in soft cotton and bare feet, moving quietly.
And he sees you — bathed in the golden spill of the balcony lights, skin glowing, hair a little undone from the night, ring catching the faint glint of stars.
It mirrors the first night you sat like this, back at the beginning.
When he came home unraveling and found you, grounding him without even trying.
Now, he stops in the doorway, watching you like he’s memorizing it.
Like if he looks away, the light might disappear.
You glance up. “What?”
He smiles, slow and quiet. Walks over and leans down to kiss the top of your head.
“Mon soleil.”
You tilt your face toward him, teasing. “You’re really not gonna retire that nickname, huh?”
“Never,” he says simply, kissing your temple again. “Because it’s still true.”
You shift so he can sit behind you, and he wraps his arms around your waist, legs bracketing yours as you both look out at the water.
“The world saw you tonight,” he says after a long silence.
“And?” You murmur.
He presses his lips to the curve of your neck.
“And they finally know what I’ve always known,” he whispers.
You turn to look at him.
“That I revolve around you.”
The wind tugs gently at your hair, and his hands find yours again. His grip is warm. Steady.
You lean into him and close your eyes.
And for once, the world doesn’t feel too loud.
Because it’s not just you in the shadows anymore.
It’s you, glowing.
And him — right where he’s always been.
Yours.
swaddle- c.leclerc
summary: the joys of being a father
pairing: dad!charles leclerc x fem! mom! reader
୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ
Charles sighed again as Theo, your newborn baby, wriggled still. He’d been born 2 weeks ago, and the swaddling wasn’t going so well for him. Everytime you’d had to step in and help him, and it made him feel… shitty. He already felt guilty for barely making it to the birth (and not being there mentally or physically for the majority of the 3rd trimester) But tonight, you’d fallen asleep on the couch, which meant he had a chance at Theo duty.
“Come on my love,” he whispered. “Keep your legs still,” he pleaded with the little bundle of you and him, all mixed up into the perfect baby boy. He had your eyes, but Charles’s lips, your cheekbones, but Charles’s eyelashes and so on. He adored him, and his favourite thing to do was just stare at you holding him. His entire world in one place. When he met you, his brain had finally decided to let go of some of the racing shit he had and let you take up space instead. The same happened when Theo came, and suddenly the thought of going to work got harder. Nevertheless, his son was in his arms and he still had to swaddle him before he could fall asleep. “You’re doing great Theo, just stay still.”
Theo moved his legs again, almost as if he didn’t want to be swaddled by him. Theo’s bottom lip jutted out and Charles left the situation tense. Theo would cry and wake you, and Charles would be a failure again. He had to get this.
“Theo,” he whispered gently. He tried not to notice the way his and your voice soothed Theo because if he did, he’d probably start sobbing and never stop. “It’s alright,” he whispered, rubbing his finger over his nose. Theo was so small, such a bundle of light in your lives. Theo’s bottom lip retracted, and Charles felt some of the pressure lift off.
He quickly went to work, expertly swaddling him, and pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead as he left asleep. He turned to the door, ready to take you off the couch and carry you to your shared bed, but he saw you standing there with a soft, prideful (yet tired) smile. Honestly, you’d been glowing ever since Theo was born (and before then, obviously), everything about you was perfect to him. Everything.
You walked up to him, wrapping your arms around his neck. “You did it,” you whispered.
“I did it,” he smiled, his voice low as he wrapped his arms around your waist. “You woke up?”
You nodded. “Mom instincts or something,” you shrugged. “But you had it covered,” you smiled and kissed his cheek. “Come on Char, bedtime for mom and dad too,” you chuckled, taking his hand and leading him to your bed on the other side of the room.
He adored his life, even when he was going slow.
Slow was gentle. Slow was love.
Slow was everything.
୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ
navigation for my blog :)
ferrari masterlist
a little better - c.leclerc
꩜ summary: charles puts a bit more effort in and it seems your bond is becoming stronger.
꩜ pairing: husband! charles leclerc x fem! pregnant! wife! reader
꩜ a/n: would yall want more parts of this? pray tell :0
part one (this can be read on it's own tho but this just gives more context)
“My love!” he called out as he came in the door. While Bahrain hadn’t been great, he still wanted to come home before the triple header ended. He’d been around the house so much during the break that not seeing you had become weird. In the past few weeks, he’d really noticed how different your lives had become now. Long gone were the late-night phone calls that used to define your relationship. Replaced only by text updates on things that concerned you both. He tried asking how your day was, but you just turned it straight back on him and started discussing strategy and asking how he was feeling. Long gone were the small flirty or sweet texts throughout the day. It seemed you were allergic to your phone before 9pm at night, or maybe you just knew his routines so well and didn’t think he’d want to hear from you before that. Which broke his heart.
Apparently everyone else had noticed it too. Carlos had thought he was in the process of a divorce when he went to him about it. All of Ferrari assumed you two were separated and trying to figure out how to co-parent. It made him sick. Mostly, because he knew it was all his fault. Where was the Charles that used to speak about you everyday? Where was the Charles that defended you to the press so fiercely when you first entered his life? Where was the Charles who wasn’t a complacent, selfish asshole, who cared about his family and work for them, not himself? That Charles was gone. Or just hidden, somewhere, deep inside of him. He just had to… bring him back from the dead.
“Charles?” you questioned, getting up from the couch and scrambling to hide something. He stopped in his tracks as you turned to face him. “What are you doing here?”
“I wanted to see you,” he admitted, trying to see what you were hiding. He snapped his attention back to you. “I got you these,” he smiled, handing over your favourite flowers. You looked dumb-struck.
“Oh,” you said, blatantly surprised. “Well, thank you,” you smiled back at him. “How was your weekend?”
“You know how my weekend was, mi amour,” he shook his head. “How was your weekend?”
Again, dumb-struck. If this was the standard he’d actually set for his love life, he was pathetic. “Oh, well… It was good. I watched the race, watched Arthur’s race. Umm…” you thought for a moment. “I went to Maria’s baby shower. Looked around for Montessori's. Called my parents. Went for lunch with your mom,” you shrugged. “Pretty simple.”
He nodded, the smile on his face never leaving. “That’s good. Seems relaxed.”
“It was,” you shrugged. There was a silence. An awkward silence. He would have punched his past self in the face. How were things awkward with his own wife? “Have you eaten?”
He shook his head. “N-no, not yet. Just… got a flight straight here.”
You nodded, seemingly shocked by his being there.
“What were you working on, there?” he pointed to the couch and whatever object you were trying to hide. You looked down.
“It’s stupid,” you shook your head. “Doesn’t matter.”
“I care,” he assured you, taking your hand. “I want to see.”
You took a deep breath and picked up a half-finished quilt, the crochet needles still in. It was all of the cars on the grid, but the Ferrari had his number on it. “Just… like having something to do with my hands when I watch tv. It’s stupid, I know-”
“It’s wonderful,” he whispered, emotion catching in his throat. How could he neglect you for so long? His wonderful, creative, caring, loving, intelligent wife. “I think it’s wonderful.”
“You do?” you questioned, your voice small. He nodded, his eyes clouding with tears.
“I do,” he nodded, wiping his eyes. There was a silence and he wrapped an arm around you (as much as he could, the bump was in the way). “We’re going to be parents,” he whispered out.
You nodded, a small smile on your face. “We are,” you were in quiet contemplation for a moment. “Do you want to see what I’ve done to the nursery so far?”
Another promise he’d broken, but alas, this was progress. You were here, you were talking, and you were close to him. He’d take whatever he could get from you.
“I’d love to,” he smiled and took your hand as you led him to the nursery. You opened the door and inside was a sanctuary. Playmats, toys, a diaper changing table, etc. It was yellow, and overlooked Monaco bay, the wonderful sight it was now as the sun set. His breath caught in his throat when he saw the mini helmets of his on the windowsill. The little pockets of Ferrari merch. Odes to him. He could’ve cried. “I’m sorry,” he whispered out and your face fell. “I’m so sorry,” his voice cracked.
You turned back to him.“Charles, what–”
“You never call me Charles,” he whispered, wiping his eyes. “It’s always Char, or Charlie, or love, or something else, but it’s never Charles. It’s too impersonal, remember?” He placed a hand on your cheek. He was referencing a night many years ago, when you said you’d only call him Char from then on. You were only friends then, yet he knew he was in love with you from that moment on. The way you smiled when you said it, the view of Mt. Fuji behind you, couldn’t compare. He just stared at you all night long.
“I don’t have to call you Charles-” you offered and he let out a teary cough.
He took a deep breath, gathering himself again. “It’s not that I don’t want you to,” he sniffled. “I want you to not want to. I want you to feel close to me again,” he admitted. “And I know that has everything to do with me, and nothing to do with you, but please baby, I can’t lose you.”
“You haven’t-” you stressed, but he cut you off again.
“When was the last time we went on a date that wasn’t a public event?” he asked. You were quiet.
“When was the last time I did something nice for you before today?”
You were quiet.
“When was the last time we had sex?”
“I'm pregnant-” “So your libido should be heightened,” he sighed and you looked down at the floor again. “When was the last time you felt loved by me? Cared for by me?”
“Tonight,” you shrugged. “You liked the blanket. You didn’t think it was stupid.”
“I don’t think anything you do is stupid,” he shook his head, his eyes focused on you. “But before then? When?”
“Maybe Monaco last year? When you ran up to me at the barrier and kissed me in front of everyone,” you shrugged, acting like that hadn’t been the memory holding you together for the past 8 months. “When you said you won it for me and your dad and Jules.”
He sniffled again and nodded, though his heart was aching. “I’ve really fucked this up, haven’t I?”
You didn’t speak. You just leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek. “Let’s get some food, yeah?”
That didn’t leave much room for questioning. He followed you to the kitchen where you already had food cooking. Soup. Something comfortable and diet-approved as always. Catering everything to him. You sat across from each other and ate.
“How has the pregnancy been for you?” he asked.
`”We don’t have to get into that now-”
“I want to,” he pushed. “If you want to.”
You breathed out. “It’s… difficult. I’m in pain quite a lot, but I’m really excited to meet her,” you smiled softly. “I’m pretty scared about doing the delivery on my own, but my mom and your mom said they could be there, so that’s nice. My parents are going to come and help out the week I’m due and stay with your mom for two weeks, so that should be good. They’ll come over to help me out during the day and any nights I can’t do it on my own, since you’ll be racing,” you listed it all off, as if it wasn’t his biggest failing that he couldn’t be there. “So yeah. Scared but excited. What about you?”
He cleared his throat. “I’m excited too,” his voice was somber. “And I think I’d want to be with you in the delivery room… if you’d let me.”
“You don’t have to miss a race for me. I understand Charle- Char,” another knife in his heart. “I was just being dramatic and hormonal that day. Your career is important. You’re ambitious. It’s one of the things I love about you.”
He shook his head. “I want to be there. I really want to be there.”
“I don’t think Ferrari would let you-”
“Fuck ferrari,” he scoffed. “You’re my wife! If they can’t understand me wanting to be there for the birth of my child then I think I might be on the wrong team. Bon sang, je ne suis pas un robot de course.” (fuck’s sake, I’m not a racing robot).
You let out a small chuckle at how pressed he was getting. He stared back at you.
“What?” he questioned, a smirk creeping onto his lips.
“Nothing,” you shook your head, that small smile on your lips as you turned your attention back to your food. He shook his head and chuckled. “I missed you,” you admitted, the candle between you two lighting your face with a wonderful warm glow.
“I missed you too,” he reached across the table, taking your hand. “And I’ll be there for you, I promise.”
“Get it approved by Ferrari first,” ever the logical one. “Then we’ll talk about it,” you answered. “And this,” you signalled around you, and he knew you meant the whole night. Him caring. “Has to not just be a once-off, alright?”
He nodded. “I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you. I promise.”
Something about the way he said it made you believe him. You didn’t know if it terrified or exhilarated you. Either way, you had a long road to walk, but he would actually be there now, not just a figure in the distance.
And that felt a little better than before.
navigation for my blog :)
ferrari masterlist
taglist:
@awritingtree @boherahpsody @janeh22 @dustie-faerie @anayaverse @buckybarnessweetheart @scriptedinkbyxim @ferrarisstrategy
lucky kisses
⋆ 𐙚 ̊. charles leclerc x reader ⋆ 𐙚 ̊.
It starts with a nervous smile in Monaco and a soft kiss on the tip of Charles’s nose—just a little kiss for good luck. It becomes a habit. max version here
It starts in Monaco.
You’re leaning against the Ferrari garage wall, arms crossed and sunglasses on, trying not to look like you’re bursting with nerves. Charles is in his race suit. Half-zipped. Bouncing on his heels like he’s got Red Bull running through his veins.
He walks over, fiddling with his gloves, and gives you that crooked little smile—the one that melts you every time. His head tilts just slightly to the side. Butterflies still erupt in your stomach everytime he smiles like that. Even after months of dating.
“You nervous for me, chérie?” he teases, as if he isn’t just as stressed himself.
“I’m always nervous,” you reply honestly. You reach for his wrist, tug him closer to you.
He laughs and bumps his forehead against yours for a second. It’s all you need to press a soft kiss right on the tip of his nose, spontaneous and sweet.
“There,” you murmur. “For good luck.”
He blinks, surprised, but a cautious smile spreads across his face. “You think that’ll help?”
You shrug. “It felt right.”
Charles just grins, red tinting his cheeks. “Then I better win.”
He’s quiet for a moment, about to turn away towards the garage. He should go. But instead he turns back to you and whispers softly in your ear:
“Maybe I need just a bit more luck first.”
The kiss he presses to your lips is soft, a feeling of complete devotion behind it. Then he’s gone. Being pulled away by engineers before you can even whisper goodbye to each other.
He finishes second.
Not a win, but a clean race. A podium in his hometown. Smart overtakes. No mechanical failures. And—most importantly—a smile so wide it crinkles at the corners of his eyes when he spots you after the race.
He practically bounds into your arms the second he’s free from interviews, suit half-peeled off, hair flattened from the helmet, skin sticky from champagne, and absolutely glowing.
“P2,” he says breathlessly. “Not bad, huh?”
You grin, looping your arms around his neck. “I told you: my kisses are lucky.”
He kisses your cheek. Then your temple. Then rests his forehead against yours and sighs contently.
“Next time, I’ll win.”
The next race, you’re sitting on the pit wall bench when he approaches you in full race kit, gloves tucked under his arm.
He says nothing—just stands in front of you and raises a brow, expectantly.
You blink up at him. “What?”
He leans in. Taps the bridge of his nose. “I believe you owe me something.”
You laugh, cheeks warm. “Oh, we’re doing that again?”
“Chérie,” he says, deadly serious, “I need it. I promised you I’d win. The team says tire degradation will be bad. I’m starting P4. There’s no way I’m going out there without my good luck.”
You lean in, laugh breathily, and press a gentle kiss to his nose.
“There,” you say. “You're ready now.”
Charles closes his eyes like he’s soaking it in. “Mmh. Already feel faster.”
He opens his eyes again, lashes fluttering, and looks at you with that infuriating, devastating half-smile.
“You sure you don’t want to kiss the front wing too?” he teases. “Could use all the help we can get.”
You snort. “Tell the front wing to get its own girlfriend.”
Charles laughs, full and bright, and leans in for a quick kiss on your lips—just a brush, fleeting but grounding. Then he’s off, jogging toward the car with a kind of lightness in his step that hasn’t been there in a while.
This time, the race unfolds perfectly.
Lap after lap, Charles seems to move impossibly faster. He glides past his opponents with a practiced ease, pushes hard but stays smooth. The tires hold better than expected. The car responds like it’s alive, perfectly tuned to his every desire and move.
When the checkered flag waves, the timing screens flash his name first.
He wins.
You scream louder than anyone else in the garage.
Later, on the podium, the crowd is roaring. Charles stands tall, champagne in hand, eyes scanning the sea of fans and cameras. Then, his gaze locks on you—your heart leaps.
With a mischievous grin, he taps the tip of his nose once—twice—then points directly at you. You're sure the internet will erupt in jokes and speculation about it later, but for now the moment is just between the two of you.
You press a kiss to your fingers and send it flying up to him.
That night, when you're wrapped in his arms and the soft hum of the city outside his bedroom window, you kiss the bridge of his nose again.
His eyes are still closed as you curl into his chest, his breath steady and slow. He holds your hand tight. When he finally speaks, his voice is low and certain.
“Don’t ever stop.”
And you won’t.
Because some things—like him—are forever.
requested by: @skz8riley (thanks for the request! i hope you enjoy!)
Like Father, Like Son | CL16
pairing: Charles Leclerc x reader
summary: Leo is just as clingy as Charles. Some cute little fluff moments
warnings: none! Italics are flashbacks, if there’s any spelling errors pretend you didn’t see them x
author’s note: A little all over the place, but I hope you guys enjoy the read! First time writing for Charles, so I hope it’s decent :)
Charles was a clingy boyfriend.
He knew it, you knew it, and everyone else who’s witnessed him practically attached to you knew it. But he couldn’t help it, Charles loved and adored every single part of you. Which was why he somehow needed to always be attached to you.
Whether you guys were at home, at the paddock, or just out and about, Charles always had to have you close. Majority of the time, he can be seen having his hand interlocked with yours or walking about with his arm around your waist. On rare occasions, fans have even spotted the Ferrari driver walking around while hugging you from behind, his chin resting on your shoulder and hands connected at the front of your waist.
Fans melted at the sight of Charles being so clingy. His friends on the other hand—along with some fellow drivers on the grid—found Charles’s little habit as the perfect opportunity to tease him until he was as red as his race suit.
The Miami sun beamed on you as you and Charles entered the paddock. Immediately, fans recognized your boyfriend, calling him for his attention to sign merch and take pictures.
You gently released his hand, causing him to look at you with a pout, “Bébé, hold my hand.”
“Cha, they’re calling you and I know you want to go say hi.” You insisted, encouraging him to greet the fans by nudging him towards the barricades.
With a pout still on his face, Charles looked around, “You might get lost, it’s your first time here.” He knew you were fully capable of finding your way around the paddock and locating the Ferrari motorhome, but he just didn’t want you to leave his side. The moment he’d step into the Ferrari hospitality, he’d be pulled away from you to film content and do media. Which meant he wouldn’t see you till a couple of hours later. So basically, he was shamelessly finding excuses for you to stay with him.
“I’ll be fine, Joris is here and he’s going to hospitality too, I’ll just go with him.” You assured your boyfriend, motioning to his best friend behind you.
Charles’s brows furrowed together, his hand finding yours and tangling them together.
“Joris doesn’t know where the hospitality is.” Charles reasoned, obviously lying. Joris opened his mouth to object but quickly shut his mouth once his friend shot him a look.
“Please bébé, just come with me. They’re going to make me do media once I get there and I won’t see you till after.” Charles tried again to make you stay, slightly tugging on your hand. Joris shook his head at his best friend.
“Charles, your fans want to see you, they don’t want to see me. Just have some one on one time with them.” You encouraged him again, a slight smile on your face at how clingy your boyfriend was being.
“Nonsense, I’m sure they have some of those friendship bracelets you like so much. They’re always telling me to share them with you.” Charles said, dragging you along with him to the fans.
Once you get to the barricades, you’re approached by Lando and Fernando, who are already smirking at the both of you.
“Morning love birds!” Lando greeted you both, shifting his eye from Charles to you, “Is he holding you hostage again? Blink if you need help (y/n), security’s right there.”
Charles rolled his eyes at his friend, signing posters for a couple of fans and taking selfies with them.
“Pretty sure it’s going to take more than security to get him off of me.” You teased, raising your interlocked hands up and shaking it in the air. Charles paused the selfie he was about to take and turned to you with a feigned look of offense.
“I’m kidding, babe.” You smiled at him, rubbing your thumb over his hand. Fernando tsked at Charles playfully, “Ai, Charles no one is going to steal her away from you!”
A couple of the fans caught on with the banter you were all having and decided to join in.
“WE’LL STEAL HER!” A fan screamed.
“CAN WE HAVE (Y/N)?” Another fan from the back chimed in. Charles’s eyes widened at the crowd in front of him, a slight blush on his cheeks from all the teasing.
“You guys are all mean!” He jokingly yelled at the fans, pulling you away with him as he ran towards the garages.
While your boyfriend was clingy, you did not hate it one single bit. Majority of the time, you weren’t in the same time zones, so all the cuddling and hand holding made up for lost time.
Charles hated being away from you. He hated it even more when you were at his apartment in Monaco, sleeping in your shared bed without him after admitting how much you missed him. He knew you understood why he had to travel so much, it came with his job, but he still felt guilty leaving you alone so often.
Which is how you both ended up with sweet Leo.
Charles watched through his phone as you adjusted yourself in bed. You were in your pajamas, your nightly skin routine was done, and you were ready for bed. Before you can settle, you grabbed Charles’s pillow and cuddled it.
“I miss you, Cha.” You hummed quietly. You looked so cuddly, the blankets were pulled up to your chin and the pillows looked so fluffy around you. He wished he were there to snuggle up beside you and hide his face in your neck, basking in the scent of you.
“I know mon cœur (my heart), I miss you too, so much.” He was currently in Australia for the third race of the season. He wanted you to be there, but too many things were happening at your job for you to travel this weekend.
“It’s so quiet, I miss hearing you just yap and play piano.” You pouted, eyes beginning to feel heavy.
“I don’t yap.” Charles’s disagreed, his nose wrinkling.
You huffed out a laugh, “Yes, you do! Sometimes you’re just as bad a Max!”
Charles gasped at you, “That is a strong accusation, bébé. I am not as bad as Max, he never stops.”
You playfully rolled your eyes at your boyfriend, “Whatever helps you sleep at night, Cha.”
Charles went quiet for a bit, causing you to look at him.
“What’s wrong?” You asked him through the phone. You see him shrug, “Nothing’s wrong, don’t worry.”
“So what is it?”
“What if we got a dog?” He suddenly suggested. The thought of a dog made your sleepiness go away. You weren’t against getting a dog, but with how busy you and Charles got, you weren’t really sure if now was the right time.
“A dog?” Your eyes squinted at your boyfriend. Charles hummed and nodded at you, “Yeah. I think it would be nice, no? You could have company whenever I’m away and we’ll be our own little family.”
Your heart swelled at Charles, the thought of having a family together one day was definitely something you both saw in your futures. But again, you were both too busy to start one, so maybe a dog would suffice.
“You’re right.” You began, “But having a dog is a big responsibility, Cha. Who’s going to watch them if we’re both away?”
“We can always take them. If we can’t, I’m sure maman wouldn’t mind.” Charles suggested, running a hand through his hair. He began to go through the other logistics, but sleep was beginning to take over you.
“I guess, baby. Let me sleep on it and I’ll let you know tomorrow, okay Cha?” You tell him, rubbing your eye. Charles smiled at you and blew you a kiss through the phone, “Don’t worry too much, mon chéri (my darling). I love you, sleep well.”
You mirrored his smile, “I love you too, Cha.”
After having a conversation about the responsibilities of having a dog, you and Charles decided that you were ready. So he reached out to a couple of breeders and some pet shops in Monaco until you guys found the right pup fit for you and Charles.
Leo was like the missing piece of you and Charles. You didn’t feel it before, but after seeing the small pup nuzzling between you and Charles you felt complete.
The English cream miniature dachshund was a bundle of joy and full of energy despite his small size. Leo’s daily schedule consisted of him eating, sleeping, playing, cuddles, eating, and more sleeping. He demanded both yours and Charles’s attention, though he demanded yours more. It was like he was in his own little world and the two of you were living in it.
Charles and Leo were like two peas in a pod. While one was a dog and the other was human, the similarities in their personalities were uncanny. They were the biggest sweethearts around you, constantly cuddling into your side and pressing kisses (or in Leo’s case—licks) onto your face—the two adored you and always wanted to be in your space. Wherever you went, they followed. But whenever you were gone, they were miserable.
Which brings you to today.
Leo whined as he sat beside the front door of Charles’s apartment. He pawed at the door, the sound of his tiny nails filling the room. You had gone out to have a girls day, visiting your favorite cafe with a couple of your friends and getting your nails done. Which left Leo to his own devices at his dad’s (Charles’s) apartment.
Charles was in the living room, going through a couple of emails from the team and his engineers about data from recent races and about the car. Though, he wasn’t able to focus since the six pound dog you both shared was constantly whining at the door waiting for you to come home.
Getting up from the couch, Charles made his way to the entrance of his apartment. Leo jumped up at the sight of Charles, immediately approaching his giant feet.
“Mon cœur, maman will be home soon.” He crouched to pick up Leo, who climbed up his chest and began licking his face. Charles let out a chuckle, “You’ve been acting like I was chopped liver for the past two hours, Leo. Don’t act so surprised to see me.”
As if Leo understood him, the dog nipped at his nose, making Charles yelp, “Ah! Leo!”
“You’re lucky you’re cute.”
Holding the dog against his chest, Charles made his way back to the couch. He moved his laptop aside, already knowing he wouldn’t be getting any work done anytime soon. He laid horizontally on the couch with Leo sat on his chest, the dog still nipping and licking at him excitedly.
“Do you miss maman too, Leo?” He softly asked the dog, petting Leo’s head and smoothing the soft fur of his ears. The dog let out a small sound, as if he agreed with his dad.
Still stroking Leo’s head, Charles continued to talk to the dog, “I always miss your maman, Leo. Whether she’s gone for a couple of hours or when I’m away overseas, she’s always on my mind. Just like you mon cœur.”
Leo had settled on nuzzling himself into the crook of Charles’s neck, similar to how you would, and laid down against his chest. Charles soothingly rubbed Leo’s back as his eyes began to feel heavier.
“We’re very lucky to have maman, right Leo? She’s perfect for us and she takes care of us all the time. I know you like to cuddle with her more, that’s okay though, she gives very nice cuddles.” Charles could feel himself doze off. The afternoon sun was shining against the windows of his living room and the couch was incredibly comfy—it was perfect for an afternoon nap.
Before he can completely fall asleep, Leo suddenly whipped his head away from Charles, making the man groan at the dog. Leo’s tail began to wag excitedly, his paws tapping on Charles’s chest, begging to be let go.
Leo barked at the sound of your keys turning in the lock. Instead of placing Leo back on the floor, Charles picked him up and walked towards the entrance to greet you once you’ve come in.
Leo’s tiny body shook even more as he watched you walk through the door. You beamed at the sight before you, your boyfriend dressed in sweatpants and a sweatshirt, cradling your extremely hyper dog.
“Aww, hi babies!” You cooed, dropping your bag to the side and gently taking Leo from Charles. You giggled as Leo covered your face in kisses, sniffing at your hair, and nudging your face with his cold wet nose.
Charles softly smiled at you and Leo, “Hey, I missed you too, bébé.”
“I know you did, Cha.” You hummed, walking into his waiting arms and pressing a kiss onto his cheek. Charles made a sound of disapproval, “You missed, mon chéri.”
You chucked at your boyfriend, “Oh, I’m sorry.” You pressed a tender kiss onto his awaiting lips, a hum of satisfaction coming from Charles. His arms tightened around you as he led you to the couch, only letting you go so you can settle onto the cushions.
Picking up your hand, Charles inspected your nails, “I like them, they look good on you.”
“Thank you, Cha. How was your day with Leo?” You sat back into the couch with Leo still cuddled into your chest. Charles sat beside you, wrapping his arms around you and placing his chin on your shoulder.
“I tried to get work done but Leo kept crying, so we decided to cuddle and talk about how much we missed you.” Charles answered, feeling the sleepiness come over him again.
“Oh, really?”
Charles nodded, “Yeah, our child’s a boy of many words, mon chéri.” You looked down at the pup to see him dozing off like Charles.
“Can we take a nap?” Charles asked, moving the both of you so you were laying down on the couch. You laid beneath Charles and Leo, your two boys nuzzled into your sides.
“Of course we can, Cha.” You hummed, pressing a kiss to his forehead and another onto Leo’s.
“I love you.” You whispered to Charles, you felt him smile against you, “I love you always, Mon cœur (my heart).”
You watched the two of them as they fell fast asleep on you. Your boys were clingy, but you wouldn’t have it any other way.
“Like father, like son, I guess.” You whispered before falling asleep yourself.