A Hundred Kisses I've Already Given You | CL16
starring ; charles leclerc x reader fem !
summary ; Where you list one hundred kisses very important to you and Charles.
warnings ; ΒΉ English is not my first language.
notes ; PART 01 | 02 | 03 β’ 04 & 05 COMING SOON
feinzleclerc!radio! ; I haven't even finished this series and I already want to start another one about "one hundred..."
CHARLES LECLERC MASTERLIST
The restaurant was loud, packed with politicians and important businessmen for some tedious charity dinner. You were sitting three tables ahead of him, wearing that black dress he hated because it attracted too many stares, while he tried to look interested in a conversation with some FIA director.
Your eyes met over a waiterβs shoulder. He made that troublemaker-boy face.
You raised a warning eyebrow in silent alarm: Donβt.
Charles, of course, ignored it completely.
With his hand hidden under the table, he lifted two fingers discreetly to his lipsβholding eye contact like he was challenging youβand blew a kiss through the air.
And youβ¦ how could you, you nearly knocked over your wine glass trying to catch the air kiss subtly. When you glanced back at him, he was biting back laughter while pretending to care about the directorsβ table talk.
The hotel room was bathed in shadows, only the ticking wall clock breaking the silence. You woke suddenly, cold sweat sticking your camisole to your back, your heart pounding so hard it seemed to want to escape your chest. The nightmare clung to your skin like a second bedsheet.
Before you could steady yourself, the warmth of a body pressed against your back, and a firm arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you close as if he knew exactly what you needed.
βShhh, Iβm hereβ¦β Charlesβ voice, rough with sleep and thick with that never-fading French accent, soothed like a balm.
He didnβt ask what happened. He already knew. He always knew.
You turned, your eyes finding his in the darkβand he didnβt hesitate. His lips met yours in a kiss that was half comfort, half promise.
It was slow, deep enough to erase every trace of the nightmare. Your fingers tangled in his sleep-mussed curls while his traced circles on your back, as if writing youβre safe directly onto your skin.
When you pulled apart, he kept his nose pressed to yours, eyes half-lidded, a mischievous smile on his lips.
βBetter?β he murmured, his voice so low you felt it more than heard it.
You didnβt answer with words. Just pulled him back for another kissβthis one sweeter, lazier. The kind that said yes without a single syllable.
And when you finally fell asleep again, curled into him like a riddle only he could solve, he stayed awake a little longer, his lips brushing your forehead in a silent vow: no nightmare stood a chance against him.
The taxi honked outside the apartment, engine already running, as you adjusted your bag on your shoulder. Charles stood in the doorway, hair a mess from waking at 5 AM just to make you coffee, his gaze heavier than it shouldβve been for a simple work trip.
βOnly three daysβ you reminded him, fingers playing with the collar of his shirt.
He took your right hand, turned your palm up like reading a fortune, and before you could askβ
Kissed your wristβwhere your pulse beat closest to the skin.
βSave that oneβ he murmured, lips warm against your veins.
Then kissed your lifeline slowly, as if trying to stretch it.
Finally, he pressed his lips to the center of your palm, folding your fingers over the spot like sealing a precious package.
βOnly open it when you get to the hotel.
44. The Kiss That Never Came
The yellowed envelope slipped from the sock drawer where youβd hidden it for years. Charles, sitting on the bed with a wineglass in hand, raised an eyebrow at your expression.
βWhatβs that?β he asked, bare feet finding yours under the sheets.
You turned the envelope in your fingers, his address written in a hesitant script you barely recognized as your own. The letter inside was a monument to fear and hopeβthree pages of confessions scribbled on a sleepless night, back when he was just the driver who let his coffee go cold in press conferences.
βI was going to send this to youβ you admitted, heart pounding like you were betraying a secret from another life. βAt the 2019 British GP.
Charles took the envelope with the reverence he reserved for trophies, green eyes scanning every curve of your handwriting like a treasure map.
βBecause on mailing day, you posted that photo with the Red Bull blonde.β You laughed, poking his chest with the envelope. βAlmost threw it out.
He smiledβthat slow smile that still tied your stomach in knotsβthen brought the envelope to his lips, kissing it right where your name was written.
βItβs lateβ he murmured, eyes brighter than the wine in his glass. βBut it arrived.
And that night? He read every word aloud, feigning outrage at the parts where you doubted him, until you stole the letter backβsealing it with a kiss far better than the envelopeβs.
The couch was warm, the TV movie just background noise, your bare foot resting shamelessly in Charlesβ lap. He was distracted, fingers drawing random circles on your leg, when something shifted.
You felt it firstβthe warm exhale that always meant he was about to do something stupid.
The kiss started at your heelβlight, almost polite, making you squirm.
βSTOP!β you shrieked, trying to yank your foot back.
He held your ankle with a racerβs grip, green eyes gleaming with pure mischief.
βHavenβt found the right spot yetβ he murmured, before kissing the arch of your foot where he knew you were weakest.
Your laughter echoed through the houseβloud, uncontrollable, the kind that made your stomach ache.
βIβll kill you!β you threatened between giggles, struggling to escape.
βThereβ he finally released your foot, smug as if heβd won a race. βNow youβre officially kissed from head to toe.
The summer heat was brutal, the GP food truck line endless. You stood under the umbrella, fanning yourself with a press pass, when Charles appeared with two LEC-branded ice cream cups.
βGot you chocolateβ he announced, as if he didnβt do this every time.
You raised an eyebrow, pointing to the other flavors from his own brand.
βAmazing how the brand ambassador always picks the same one.
He sat beside you, knees brushing yours, and took an exaggerated first spoonful from your cup.
βItβs my favorite tooβ he lied, chocolate-smeared smile giving him away.
You rolled your eyes but let him steal another bite before grabbing his collar.
The kiss was cold at firstβthe ice cream still fresh on his lipsβbut warmed fast when he deepened it, his free hand finding your waist.
When you pulled apart, a drop of ice cream dripped from your chin.
βDefinitely better than vanillaβ he murmured, swiping it away with his thumb before licking it.
The fight started over nothingβmaybe him forgetting your anniversary (again) or you using his favorite shirt to clean makeup brushes. Arguments flew like sparks until, in a fury, you hurled a couch pillow at him.
Charles caught it midair and in one fluid motion closed the distance between you. His green eyes were darkβbut not with anger.
βYouβre unbearableβ you spat.
βYou love itβ he shot back, voice low and rough.
The kiss began as an attackβteeth clashing, lips pressed too hardβbut in three seconds, it became something else. Your hands, which had been shoving his chest, now pulled him closer, fingers digging into his shirt.
Charles groaned against your mouth, his hands sliding to your waist like taking a sharp turn at high speed.
βWeβre not done fightingβ you murmured, already arching into him.
βYouβre lyingβ he retorted, smile audible as he nipped your lower lip. βAlready forgot what we were arguing about.
The Ferrari event required full dress codeβimpeccable suit, polished shoes, and of course, the red tie you hated. Charles stood before the mirror, fumbling with the knot for the third time, when you stepped behind him.
βLet meβ you offered, fingers already tugging the red silk.
He sighed in relief, tilting his head back to watch you.
βYou always do it betterβ he admitted, voice softer than necessary.
Your hands worked quickly, crossing the fabric with practiced ease, but then you noticed his gazeβnot on the knot, but on your face, your lips just inches from his.
βAlmost doneβ you murmured, tightening the knot with exaggerated force.
Charles couldnβt resist.
The kiss started with him leaning forwardβthe tie still in your handsβpulling you close by the fabric like reins. Your lips met mid-protest, and suddenly, the perfect knot didnβt matter anymore.
βRuined my workβ you complained when you parted, fingers still tangled in the tie.
βYouβre lyingβ he countered, smirk returning. βYou did that on purpose.
The party was in full swingβchampagne, loud laughter, and the inevitable fans angling for selfies with Charles. You spotted him across the room, jacket already half-open, drink in hand like social armor, when your eyes met.
You raised a questioning brow, but he was already excusing himself from the journalists. Two minutes later, you accidentally bumped into each other near the restrooms.
βCouldnβt take it anymoreβ he murmured, hands already on your waist as he pushed you into the only open stall.
The kiss was desperate and sweet all at onceβtasting of cheap champagne and something uniquely him. Your fingers twisted in his hair.
βPeople will notice weβre goneβ you laughed between kisses, back pressed to the cold door.
Charles just groaned, lips trailing down your neck like he was in a hurry to mark his territory.
βLet them lookβ he rasped against your skin.
50. Kiss in the Overtaking Zone
Charlesβ electric kart rammed yours on the final turn, a calculated nudge that sent you off-track. You yelled, helmet muffling your laughter, as he crossed the finish line celebrating like heβd won a Grand Prix.
βCheater!β you accused, tearing off your helmet as he approached with that troublemaker grin.
βProtests must be submitted in writing to the race directorβ he deadpanned in perfect FIA tone.
You went to complain, jabbing a finger at his chest, but he suddenly grabbed your waist and hoisted you onto the hood of his winning kart.
βChampionβs prizeβ he declared, hands gripping your dress before leaning in for a kiss sweeter than any trophy.
The living room couch was the perfect stage for another lazy nightβyou buried in blankets, Charles sprawled with his head in your lap, ranting about practice.
βThe guy just doesnβt respect the racing lineβ
Your kiss interrupted him, landing loudly on his slightly sweaty cheek before he could finish.
Charles blinked, protest dying as his brain processed the attack.
βWhat was that?β he asked, fingers touching the spot like checking for marks.
βA kiss with sound effectsβ you explained proudly, already prepping another. βMy own invention.
Smack! This time on the other side.
Charles laughedβthat warm laugh that made your chest glowβand before you could reload, he pulled you down by the neck.
βMy turnβ he announced, lips comically exaggerated before returning the smack with interest.
The Vegas night was hot, the air thick with cheap promises and flashing lights. Youβd sworn you only wanted one drink after dinner, but three tequilas later, you were laughing like fools outside a neon-lit chapel.
βTwo people enter, one leaves married!β the sign blared in shocking pink, and Charlesβtie undone, eyes brightβgrabbed your hand.
βRunning away, journalist?β he teased, his drunk smile gorgeous under the city lights.
You matched his grin, the challenge sparking between you.
βOnly if you promise to remember my name tomorrow.
Inside, a tired Elvis united you in a five-minute ceremonyβyour rings were plastic trinkets from a toy machine, and the kissβ¦
Charles pulled you in so eagerly you stumbled into his arms, your lips colliding in a sweet, clumsy crash. Someone (probably him) knocked over the microphone, feedback screeching as you laughed like there was no tomorrow, like consequences didnβt exist, like the whole world could wait.
You woke with a weight on your chestβCharlesβ arm. The hangover hit like a hammer to the skull.
You turned to look at him and froze. A paper lay between you. Squinting, you read: Chapel of Eternal Love.
βCharles. CHARLES. Wake up and look at this.β You shook the paper under his nose, voice equal parts panic and hangover.
He opened one eye, then the other. When he read the document, his lips curved into that same disheveled smile from last night.
βPretty.β He pulled you back under the sheets before you could flee. βBut they spelled your name wrong. Itβs Leclerc now, chΓ©rie.
You groaned into your hands, but he wasnβt fazed. He kissed your exposed shoulder.
βRelax.β Another kiss, this time on your elbow. βWeβll do it again. Proper church. No tequila.
βNO tequila?β You rolled your eyes, already feeling a smile ruin your fury.
βOkay, a little tequila.β He conceded, sealing the promise with a kiss to your nose. βBut only after I do.
You were in the kitchen, focused on chopping vegetables, when warmth suddenly pressed against your back. Before you could turn, your hair was brushed asideβ
The kiss came without warning.
Your lips parted in a gasp as Charlesβ mouth found that spot on your neck he knew melted you. Your body shuddered, the knife forgotten, as he kissed just below your ear, slower this time, savoring your shiver.
βCharlesβ you tried to protest, but it came out a moan.
βShhhβ he whispered, breath hot. βJust helping with dinner.
The luxury Monaco elevator climbed slowly, the display ticking like a countdown. You were back from an event, in the long dress and heels Charles loved, when he grabbed your wrist.
βFifteen secondsβ he warned.
The kiss was fast but devastating.
His lips met yours with the urgency of borrowed time. One hand on your waist, the other cupping your face, he kissed you like he wanted to memorize you in seconds. You tasted champagne on his tongue, the expensive cologne clinging to his jacket, thenβ
Charles stepped back smoothly, leaving you lips tingling, heart racing.
βGood evening, Mr. Leclercβ greeted the neighbor, oblivious.
Charles nodded, face the picture of professional calm, while his fingers secretly found yours behind his back, squeezing in a coded promise.
The team plane was taxiing after the Singapore GP, cabin buzzing with victory champagne. Charles, still smelling of rubber and champagne, turned to you with that competitive glint.
βBet you wonβt kiss me before we hit 10,000 feetβ he challenged, fingers drumming the armrest like counting seconds.
You raised a brow. It was a stupid bet. The plane was full of teammates, reporters, andβworst of allβthe Ferrari boss three rows ahead.
βIβll do dishes for a month.
The plane accelerated. You feigned disinterest, watching the city lights shrink. 9,500 feet. The captain announced seatbelt removal.
Charles smirked, confident heβd won.
Grabbing his tie, you yanked him close and kissed him with practiced precisionβquick but enough to taste the champagne on his lips.
When you pulled back, half the team was staring. The Ferrari boss coughed loudly.
βLooks like someoneβs doing my dishesβ you whispered into his shoulder.
Charles froze, then laughed into your hair.
βWorth every cent of the fine Iβll get.
57. A Kiss on the Yacht, Under the Stars β When the Sky Turned Accomplice.
The Mediterranean breathed that night, gentle waves kissing the yachtβs hull like whispered secrets. You stood on the upper deck, your light dress dancing with the breeze, when Charles appeared with two champagne flutes and an expression that screamed anything but "coincidence."
βSkyβs beautiful tonightβ he remarked, as if he hadnβt rented the entire boat just for this moment.
You pointed to the clouds threatening to smother the stars.
βSo beautiful you can barely see a thing.
He laughed, fingers sliding down your arm to interlace with yours, pulling you toward the railing.
Then, as if by magicβor a Charles whoβd clearly checked the weatherβthe clouds parted. The sky erupted into constellations, and he stole your gasp of surprise to press against you, hands firm on your waist.
The first kiss was theftβquick, sweet, tasting of champagne and audacity. The second? A slow-motion surrender, with tangled hands in hair and that quiet moan that made him smile against your lips.
When you pulled apart, your lipstick was smudged at the corner of his mouth.
βBetter than stargazingβ he murmured, thumb tracing your lower lip like underlining an obvious truth.
And on the way back? He "coincidentally" stalled the yacht mid-seaβ"Technical trouble," he liedβjust to prolong the night and the taste of you on his lips.
Beginnings are always messy. You had moments worth rememberingβand moments when doubt gnawed at your mind, when Charles seemed like a riddle youβd never solve.
The bar was packed, music throbbing, and youβd spent twenty minutes pretending not to see Charles across the room. He, in turn, spent twenty minutes pretending not to watch you every time you turned away.
Until he finally appeared beside you, his whiskey glass clinking pointedly against yours.
βAvoiding me?β His voice was pure challenge, dark eyes playing with the dim light.
You smiled, deliberately slow as you sipped your drink.
He laughed, the sound rough and too close to your ear.
Thatβs when you turned fully to him, fingers twisting in the cold chain of his necklace, yanking him close until his body heat seared into yours.
βThen kiss me or walk away, Leclerc. Iβm tired of games.
The kiss was an explosionβhands cradling your face like heβd waited a lifetime, lips that didnβt ask permission, bodies slotting together like puzzle pieces only they knew how to fit. You tasted challenge and victory on his tongue, felt the low groan when you bit his lower lip.
βStill think Iβm avoiding you?β you breathed, fingers trembling slightly against his chest.
Charles grinned, that dangerous smile promising more.
βNo. But we should test the theory again. Just to be sure.
59. The Calm-After-the-Storm Kiss
The Santiago BernabΓ©u roared around you, the scoreboard cruelly lit: 2-0 to the rivals. You were on your feet, hands gripping your hair, eyes burning with outrage.
βCharles, if theyβd made that cross in the first halfββ You dropped back into your seat.
Your despair was so intense even nearby fans laughed. Charles, calmly beside you with a crooked smile, seemed more entertained by your meltdown than the match.
βMon amour, itβs just a gameβ
β JUST A GAME?β You whirled on him, eyes flashing as if heβd insulted your entire bloodline. βReal Madrid isnβt βjust a game,β itβs a religion. If Bellingham hadβ
A firm hand tilted your chin, his lips cutting off your fury mid-rant. The kiss was pure surpriseβsoft but deliberate, his tongue silencing your protests before you could blame the goalkeeper. You tried to grumble, but his fingers at your neck were a better argument.
When he pulled back, your outrage had vanished.
βBetter?β he murmured, thumb brushing your lower lip like a post-storm caress.
ββ¦Maybe I overreacted.
β Maybe β he agreed, eyes glittering with amusement.
60. Youβre Already Family
The Leclerc home in Monaco was warm, the air sweet with vanilla and caramel as you stepped into the kitchenβand saw, on the table, exactly the chocolate-raspberry cake youβd casually mentioned loving the week before.
βVoilΓ , ma chΓ©rie! (there, my dear!) β Pascale smiled, her hands still dusted with flour. βCharles told me it was your favorite.
Your heart lurched. You glanced at Charles, leaning in the doorway with a smirk half-guilty, half-proud.
βYouβ¦ told her?β you whispered, ears burning.
βOf courseβ He shrugged, eyes bright with mischief. βShe insisted.
Your throat tightened. You hadnβt wanted to be a bother, hadnβt expected special treatmentβ¦ But when you looked at Pascale, at Lorenzo laughing as he sliced the cake, at Arthur stealing a raspberry before it was servedβyou realized: they werenβt doing this out of obligation. They wanted to.
βMerci, Pascaleβ you murmured, voice thicker than youβd like.
Charles slid closer, his hand finding yours under the table.
βThey adore you, you know?β he whispered, lips grazing your ear. βAlmost more than they adore me.
You laughed, heart light, and he took the chance to tilt your chin, sealing your lips with a kiss as sweet as the cake but as warm as the coffee Pascale served afterward.
βThereβ he murmured, dark eyes smiling into yours. βNow you canβt say youβre not family.
(And when you left, Pascale shoved an entire tray of cake into your bagβ"For snacks this week.")