i understand charles’ frustration because lewis in the car is bringing results and now it’s three races where he feels out of control. i believe charles can still bring us back to the top. a race for big moves tomorrow
can u write smthg on reader feeling like she is bad luck because max did not win one or two races when she was there nd people on social media says it too and feels awful which max finds out
Bad Luck Charm
Pairing: Max Verstappen x Reader
Summary: When fans starts calling you Max's bad luck charm, you decide staying away is the best thing you can do for him. Max thinks that's complete bullshit.
4.7k words / Masterlist
The first time someone called you bad luck you laughed.
It was stupid, ridiculous really. A throwaway comment under a fan edit, buried somewhere beneath heart emojis, fire and lion emojis, and arguments about strategy. You had only seen it because you were sprawled across Max's hotel bed in one of his oversized Red Bull hoodies, shamelessly scrolling through edits of him on TikTok while he showered.
@verstappenator33: not saying she’s cursed but max hasn’t won a single race she’s attended this season 😭
At the time it felt harmless enough, a little mean maybe, but that’s the internet.
Max had finished third that day. Third. It was hardly a disaster. He had been annoyed about strategy, about balance, about a lock-up that had cost him time in the first stint, but when he came back to the garage and found you waiting there he had smiled.
He had pulled you into his arms, kissed your temple and muttered, “Long day.”
You had rubbed your hand over the back of his neck and whispered, “You still did amazing.”
He had grumbled something about not wanting amazing, wanting first, but he had leaned into you anyway. So no you didn’t think much of the comment.
The second time you noticed more.
Monaco was supposed to be fun. It was one of your favourite races to attend, even though Max always complained about the current celebrification of it all. You loved the narrow streets, the balconies, the impossible glitter of the harbour, the way the whole weekend felt like it existed in some strange, historic bubble.
Max had qualified poorly after a messy final sector. Then the race had been worse, you can’t overtake here at the best of times but the car looked like it wanted to fight him at every corner.
He finished seventh.
By the time you got back to the motorhome your phone was already burning with notifications.
You told yourself not to look.
@f1_tea: Max when his girlfriend is there: fighting for his LIFE
Max when she’s not there: untouchable
make it make sense.
@orangearmy: She seems nice but the stats are getting scary now.
@rbrupdates: Races attended by Y/N this season: P3, P5, P7
Races missed: P1, P1
Interesting…
@maximylove33: Red Bull need to ban her from the garage I’m sorry.
You stared at that one a little longer than the others.
Ban her from the garage.
Your chest tightened, but you forced yourself to laugh under your breath because it was absurd. It was social media. People said anything online. They blamed girlfriends, mechanics, fans, helmets, haircuts, cats, moon phases.
It didn’t mean anything.
Still when Max came into the room, damp-haired and exhausted, you locked your phone before he could see. His eyes flicked to the movement immediately.
“You okay?”
“Yeah,” you said too quickly. “Just tired.”
Max studied you for a second, blue eyes narrowing with that sharp, quiet attention he always had when something felt off. He might have been blunt with the rest of the world, impatient with questions he didn’t like, but with you he noticed everything. The forced smile, the tucked-away phone, the way your shoulders sat too high. He crossed the room and sat beside you.
“What’s happened?”
You blinked. “What?”
“Don’t do that.”
You looked down at your hands. “It’s nothing.”
“Y/N.”
“It’s just stupid fan stuff.”
Max exhaled through his nose, already irritated, never at you, but at the invisible crowd of people who seemed to think loving him meant they owned every part of his life.
He reached for your phone. “Show me.”
“No.”
His expression softened at once, that was somehow worse, the anger you could handle but the softness made your throat close.
“Mijn liefje,” he murmured, quieter now. “What is it?”
You shook your head. “They’re just saying I’m bad luck.”
Max stared at you, then he let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “That is the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.” You didn’t say anything and so he shifted closer, his knee pressing against yours. “I could drive into a wall by myself and they would find a way to blame you if you were standing three countries away.”
You laughed, but it came out weak.
“I’m serious,” he said. “You’re not bad luck.”
“I know,” you said, but neither of you quite believed that you meant it.
The third time was Austria.
You loved Austria because Max loved Austria. Even before the weekend started he was lighter there, still intense and focused, still Max, but happier. The sea of orange in the grandstands always did something to him even if he pretended it didn’t.
You wanted that weekend to go well for him more than anything.
Instead qualifying was messy and then the race unravelled.
A poor start again then a strategy gamble that didn’t pay off. A late-race battle that left Max furious over the radio and fifth at the flag.
You didn’t need to check your phone to know what people were saying. You felt it before you saw it.
In the garage people were careful around you, no one was outright rude, you didn’t think anyone would dare be rude, not openly and certianly not around Max, but there were glances. Tiny pauses. Conversations that dipped quieter when you walked past.
You told yourself you were imagining it. Then you heard one of the junior PR assistants whisper, “It’s going to be a nightmare online again.”
Someone else said, “Honestly they should just keep her away for Silverstone. Not because it’s real, obviously, but the optics… the comment sections are getting brutal.”
The optics.
Your stomach dropped. You stood frozen in the corridor outside hospitality, one hand still on the door you had been about to push open.
The first voice replied, “Yeah. It’s becoming a thing now.”
A thing.
You were becoming a thing.
You're Max’s girlfriend. The person who holds his hands all night when he's too wired after races to sleep, the person who knows exactly what he needs before early flights, the person who watched him be too hard on himself again and again and loved him through it all.
Now you’re reduced to a thing.
A bad-luck narrative.
A problem to manage.
You stepped back before anyone could see you.
Silverstone was the next weekend. You had planned to go. Max had asked you three times if you were sure you wanted to come because he knew the British media could be brutal, and you had kissed him in the kitchen and said, “Of course I’m coming.”
He had smirked at that, pulling you closer by the hips. “Good. Then you can watch very carefully.”
Later, sitting alone in bed waiting for Max to finish on the sim you felt something inside you twist.
What if you went and he didn’t win or missed the podium again?
What if everyone was waiting for it?
What if even the team didn’t want you there?
By the time Max came to bed you had fixed your face. His hair was a mess and his expression stormy, but when he saw you the storm eased.
He came closer, his hand finding your waist automatically. “You okay?”
You looked at him, at the tiredness in his face, at the frustration he was trying to swallow because he didn’t want to bring it to you and you couldn’t do it. You couldn’t add yourself to the list of things he had to handle.
So you smiled.
“Yeah,” you said. “I’m okay.”
Max did not win Silverstone.
But you weren’t there. You watched from home, sitting cross-legged on your sofa in one of his hoodies your phone face down on the cushion beside you.
He finished second after a late safety car, close enough to make it painful.
When he called you afterward, his face appeared on your screen still flushed from the race, hair damp and eyes tired.
“You should've been here,” he said.
Your chest ached.
“I watched.”
“It’s not the same.”
“I know.”
He frowned. “Why didn’t you come again?”
You had told him you weren’t feeling well, it wasn’t entirely a lie. You had felt sick every time you imagined stepping into the paddock and seeing everyone wonder if you were going to ruin his weekend just by existing.
“I told you,” you said. “Headache.”
“For four days?”
“It was a very committed headache.”
Usually he would have laughed but he very pointedly didn’t.
“Y/N.”
You looked away from the screen. “Max.”
“What is going on?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re lying.”
You swallowed. “I’m just tired.”
He watched you in silence and for one terrifying second you thought he was going to push. Max was stubborn. He hated being shut out, especially by you, but then someone called his name in the background.
His jaw tightened. “I have to go,” he said reluctantly. “We’re going to talk later.”
“Okay.”
His voice softened. “I love you.”
You closed your eyes for half a second.
“I love you too.”
After the call ended, you turned your phone over.
You lasted eight minutes before checking socials.
@f1girlies: She wasn’t there and Max was back on the podium. Coincidence? 👀
@mv1nation: Not a win but better than last week. Keep the pattern going.
@paddockspy: Red Bull garage seemed calmer without Y/N there, just saying.
@verstappening1: I don’t hate her but if she loves him she should stay home until the championship is safe.
If she loves him.
That was the one that got you, because of course you do.
You loved him so much it terrified you sometimes. You loved him when he won and when he didn’t. You loved him when he was impossible after bad races, pacing hotel rooms and replaying overtakes in his head. You loved him when he was soft in the mornings, half-asleep and clingy, pulling you back into bed with a grumbled “five more minutes” even though he was always the one with the schedule.
You loved him enough to wonder whether loving him meant removing yourself.
The thought was unbearable so you did what people always did when something hurt too much you tried to make it logical, you told yourself it was temporary. Just a few races. Just until the noise died down.
Until Max won again.
And he did.
Hungary.
You stayed home again, claiming work, though you had finished everything by Friday afternoon and spent the entire weekend watching coverage with a knot in your stomach.
Max won.
Dominantly.
The internet exploded.
@f1tea: Y/N absent = Max win. Third time lucky. I fear the curse is real.
@orangeprophecy: Someone send her flowers and also keep her away from the paddock please.
@mv1updates: Max has won or come 2nd at every race she hasn’t attended this season btw.
@paddockwives: Imagine being such bad luck your boyfriend performs better when you’re not there.
You stared at the screen until the words blurred. You watched him smiling up there, happy and champagne-soaked, feeling like the whole world thought your absence had helped put him there.
Max called you after.
You didn’t answer.
Then he texted.
Max: Where are you?
Max: I wanted to see your face.
Max: Schatje?
Max: Are you asleep?
You stared at the messages until the screen went dark. Then you cried so hard you had to press the hoodie sleeve against your mouth to keep quiet even though there was no one there to hear you.
A few hours later you replied.
You: Sorry I fell asleep. I’m so proud of you. You were amazing.
The typing bubble appeared almost instantly.
Then disappeared.
Then appeared again.
Max: Thank you.
Max: I missed you.
You squeezed your eyes tight.
You: I missed you too.
Spa was where everything broke.
You weren’t going to go, in fact you had promised yourself you wouldn’t. Hungary had confirmed it, hadn’t it? He was better off without you there. But Max had been strange all week, he wasn’t angry or even mad, but he was quiet. He kept asking if you were coming, casually at first, then less casually.
“You love Spa,” he said over dinner one evening, pushing vegetables around his plate like they had personally offended him.
“I do.”
“So come.”
“I have some things to do.”
“What things?”
“Work things.”
“You can work from the hotel.”
You gave him a look. “Not everything can be done from a hotel Max.”
He leaned back in his chair, eyes fixed on you. “You sure?”
In that moment you hated how well he knew you. You hated that you had built a life with someone who could tell the shape of your lies before you even finished speaking. Excpet you didn’t really hate it, because really it was part of the million reasons why you loved him.
“I just can’t this weekend,” you said.
Max’s mouth pressed into a flat line.
“Okay.”
That was all he said.
Okay.
Later when you were brushing your teeth you heard him on the phone in the bedroom, his voice was low and irritated.
“No, I don’t care what they’re saying.”
A pause.
“I said no.”
Another pause.
Then, sharper, “Because she’s my girlfriend, are you stupid?”
You froze, toothbrush still in your mouth. His tone changed after that, quieter but no less furious.
“You think I don’t know what people are saying? Of course I know.”
Your heart slammed against your ribs.
“I’m not asking you to manage her. I’m asking you to shut it down.”
Silence.
Then Max said, “If anyone in the team has made her feel unwelcome I’ll find out.”
You stepped back from the door and a strange panic rose in your throat. Somehow instead of making it better, it made you feel worse because now he was worried and he was distracted. Now you weren't only bad luck you were also a problem.
So the next morning when Max left early for training you booked a last-minute flight to Belgium.
You told yourself you just needed to prove something to yourself. That you could be near him and not ruin anything. That the world was not actually keeping score.
You arrived on Saturday and stayed hidden. It was pathetic really, you wore sunglasses and a cap low over your face, sitting in a quiet hospitality corner you knew cameras rarely reached. You didn’t tell anyone except one security guard you trusted, who looked at you like he wanted to ask questions but wisely chose not to.
Qualifying went badly. Not catastrophically but badly enough. A mistake in Q3. A snap of oversteer. A lap that should have been pole but turned into fourth. You felt the garage change around you before the session had even ended.
Then you heard the buzz of a message, but it wasn’t to you. It came through on the screen of a team tablet someone had left on the table beside you, a notification from a group chat flashing bright before disappearing.
But you saw enough.
Is Y/N here? Because this is going to become a whole thing again.
Your whole body went cold.
A second message appeared.
Can someone please make sure she’s not around tomorrow? Max doesn’t need the distraction.
The distraction.
For a second you couldn’t breathe.
Not bad luck this time.
Worse.
A distraction.
You stood up so fast your chair scraped loudly against the floor but no one seemed to notice, or maybe they did and pretended not to. You left before Max got out of the car and by the time he called you were already on your way back to the airport.
“Where are you?” he asked, hearing the noise around you.
“At home.”
“No you’re not.”
Your silence betrayed you.
Max’s breathing changed.
“Y/N.”
“I came for qualifying,” you whispered.
There was a pause.
“What?”
“I’m sorry.”
“Why are you sorry? Where are you I’ll come—”
You closed your eyes, and the tears slipped out anyway. “I shouldn’t have come.”
Max went very quiet.
“What do you mean? Did someone say something?”
“No.”
“Please don’t lie to me.”
“Max, please.”
“Who said that to you?”
Your voice broke. “Everyone.”
The word came out small.
Humiliating.
And then you couldn’t stop.
“Everyone says it. Online, in the comments, in the paddock, your team, everyone. When I’m there, you don’t win. When I’m not, you do. And I know it’s stupid, I know it isn’t real, but then I come and something goes wrong and people look at me like I brought it with me and it feels real.”
Max said nothing.
You wiped your face with the heel of your hand.
“And then today I saw a message. Someone said to make sure I’m not around tomorrow because you don’t need the distraction.”
His voice, when it came, was low and rough.
“Who?”
“I don’t know.”
“Who, Y/N?”
“I don’t know, Max. I just saw it.”
Another pause.
Then he said, “Where are you right now?”
“The airport.”
“I’m coming to you.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“You have a race tomorrow.”
“I don’t really care.”
“Max this is exactly the—.”
“No,” he snapped, and you flinched even though he wasn’t angry at you. It was as if he felt it anyway, because his voice softened immediately. “No, listen to me. I care about the race. Of course I care but not more than you.”
“I don’t want to be something you choose over racing.”
“You’re not something I'm choose over racing,” he said. “You’re my world. That’s not the same thing.”
“But what if I make it harder?”
“You don’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Yes, I do.”
“How?”
“Because I drive the car,” he said, blunt and immediate. “Not Twitter or the team or the fans. Me.”
A sob caught in your throat. Max breathed out shakily.
“Schatje,” he said, softer now. “You think I win because you stay home?”
You couldn’t answer.
“You think when I am in the car I‘m faster because you’re sad somewhere without me? You think I don’t put every single ounce of effort into the race no matter what.”
The words hit you hard enough to hurt.
“No,” you whispered. “I know you do”
“That’s not what you’re saying.”
You went still. “I just don’t want to hurt you.”
“You are hurting me by disappearing.” Max rarely said things like that, it wasn’t because he didn’t feel them, but because feeling them out loud had always been hard for him.
“You don’t answer after races,” he continued. “You lie about work. You say you’re sick. You look at me like you’re already leaving and I don’t know what I did wrong.”
Your chest caved.
“You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Then why am I being punished?”
You broke. Right there, in the corner of an airport lounge, with people walking past and announcements echoing overhead, you pressed your hand to your mouth and cried.
Max stayed on the phone. He didn’t fill the silence with useless comfort, he just breathed with you until you could speak again.
“I saw the comments after Hungary,” you admitted. “Everyone was so happy you won without me there and I was happy for you, I was, but I felt like I wasn’t allowed to miss being there. Like the best thing I could do for you was stay away.”
Max cursed softly in Dutch.
Then he said, “Do not get on that plane.”
You sniffed. “What?”
“Don’t get on it… please. I’m sending someone to bring you back.”
“Max, no.”
“Yes.”
“I can’t walk into that paddock tomorrow.”
“You can.”
“I can’t.”
“You can,” he repeated, steady now. “Because you’ll walk in with me. And if anyone has something to say then they can say it to my face.”
The next morning you woke up in Max’s hotel room. You had planned to come back, talk to him, then hide somewhere until the weekend was over.
Max had other ideas. He had met you at the hotel entrance himself, even though it was late, even though he had meetings, even though everyone would have told him rest mattered more. He was wearing sweats and a hoodie, hair messy, face tight with worry.
The second he saw you, he crossed the lobby and pulled you into his arms.
Hard.
You’d whispered, “I’m sorry,” into his chest.
He’d answered, “Stop saying that.”
Then he took you upstairs, gave you one of his shirts, made you drink water and got into bed beside you fully dressed because you were crying too hard for either of you to pretend sleep would come easily. At some point in the night you had woken to him gently taking your phone from your hand.
“No more,” he murmured.
“I wasn’t looking.”
“You were going to.”
You hadn’t argued.
Now in the grey morning light Max stood at the end of the bed already dressed in the team kit, watching you carefully.
“You don’t have to come ,” he said.
Your stomach dropped and he saw your expression change immediately.
“No,” he said, moving toward you. “Not like that. I just mean you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. I would never force you, but please don’t not come because of them.”
You sat up slowly. “Do you want me there?”
Max looked almost offended.
“I always want you there.”
Your eyes burned.
“But I under—”
“I want to come,” you said.
His face softened.
“Okay.”
“I’m scared.”
He sat on the edge of the bed and took your hand. “I’ll be there.”
You finally smiled, small and private.
“There she is,” he murmured.
The paddock noticed. Of course it did. You arrived with Max, his hand firmly intertwined with yours, his expression giving absolutely nothing away except the very clear message that anyone with an opinion should reconsider having it near him.
Cameras turned and whispers started and you felt them against your skin like heat.
Max did not let go of your hand when you passed photographers or when you entered Red Bull hospitality, or when two members of staff glanced at you and then quickly away. In fact he tightened his grip.
“Max,” you whispered.
He leaned closer, eyes forward. “I’m behaving.”
“You’re walking like you’re about to commit a crime.”
Inside the garage, the air felt strange. Then GP looked up from his station and smiled at you.
A geuine smile.
“Good to see you,” he said.
Something in your chest loosened.
“Thanks,” you said softly.
A few minutes later Laurent came over, his expression was professional, but gentler than usual. Max stood beside you like a guard dog.
“Y/N,” he said. “Glad you’re here.”
You weren’t sure if Max had spoken to him. Judging by the slightly haunted look behind his eyes he probably had. In fact you had a feeling he had a spoken to a few people.
GP cleared his throat. “For what it’s worth I’m sorry if anyone made you feel otherwise.”
Your throat tightened. “Thank you.”
Max’s jaw flexed. That, apparently, was him continuing to behave.
The race was chaos. Spa always was. Rain threatened, then disappeared, then threatened again. Strategy shifted every few laps. The start was messy, the midfield dangerous, the radio tense.
You stood in the garage with headphones on, heart pounding so hard you could feel it in your fingertips.
Max climbed from fourth to third.
Then third to second.
Then, with twelve laps to go, he hunted down the leader.
The garage barely breathed.
You watched the timing screens one hand pressed to your mouth as Max closed the gap lap by lap.
A defensive squeeze, and then Max went around the outside with the kind of impossible bravery that made your stomach drop and your heart soar at the same time and reminded everyone exactly why he was the best.
The garage erupted.
You didn’t move.
Not until GP’s voice came over the radio after the chequered flag.
“P1, Max. That’s P1. Great job mate.”
The sound that left you was half laugh, half sob.
On the screen, Max’s car slowed on the cooldown lap.
His radio crackled and his voice came through.
“Yes! What a race!”
Then.
“Is she there?”
The garage went quiet and GP glanced over at you, smiling.
“She’s here mate.”
Max breathed out.
“Good,” he said.
A pause.
Then, clear enough for everyone to hear he added, “Tell her she’s my good luck charm.”
Your face crumpled.
He had made sure they heard. He had made sure the world would hear too.
By the time Max got back, you were trying very hard not to cry and failing miserably. He climbed out of the car, pulled off his helmet, and looked for you before anyone else.
He pushed through the crowd and reached for you. He was sweaty and champagne-less, but the second he reached you none of that seemed to matter. He wrapped both arms around you and lifted you clean off your feet. Cheers erupted around you, cameras flashed, and for a moment it felt impossibly cinematic, like the final scene of a film. You buried your face in his neck, holding on as tightly as he was holding you.
“You’re incredible,” you whispered.
His hand spread across your back.
“We did it.”
You shook your head. “Max—”
“No.” He set you down but didn’t let go. His eyes locked on yours, intense and unflinching. “Listen to me. I don’t ever want to hear you say you’re bad luck again.”
Your lips trembled.
“I mean it,” he said. “If I lose, its because of racing. If I win, its because of racing. But you? You are the person I want to come back to after both.”
The tears spilled over. He wiped them away with his thumbs, not caring that cameras were catching every second.
“I’m sorry I disappeared.”
“I know.”
Later after the podium, after the anthem, after champagne and interviews and a hundred people trying to pull him in a hundred directions, Max posted a rare photo. It was a picture someone had taken in the garage just after the race. Max still in his race suit, arms around you, your face hidden against his shoulder while he pressed a kiss to the side of your head.
The caption was simple.
My good luck. Always.
The internet, predictably, lost its mind.
@f1tea: MAX SAW THE COMMENTS AND SAID ABSOLUTELY NOT.
@mv1nation: Never calling her bad luck again. I fear he will personally fight us.
@paddockspy: Max Verstappen hard launching a defence of his girlfriend was not on my bingo card but I support it.
@orangearmy: “My good luck” I’m crying he loves her so much.
You didn’t read most of them. Max made sure of that.
That night back at the hotel your phone stayed on the bedside table while you sat between his legs on the bed, his arms wrapped around your waist, his chin resting on your shoulder.
The trophy sat on the desk across the room. Max had barely looked at it.
“Do you want to celebrate?” you said softly.
“I am.”
“You’re sitting in bed.”
“With you.”
You smiled faintly. “Very wild.”
“I’m older now.”
“You’re twenty-eight.”
“Exactly. Ancient.”
You laughed and felt him smile against your neck. For a while neither of you said anything, then Max’s arms tightened around you.
“I need you to promise me something.”
You turned slightly. “What?”
“If you ever feel like that again you tell me.”
Your chest tightened.
“Max—”
“You tell me. Even if you think it is stupid. Even if you think I have more important things. Especially then.”
You looked down at his hands, warm and secure over yours.
“I didn’t want to distract you.”
“You’re allowed to need me.”
After a moment, you whispered, “I promise.”
He kissed your shoulder. “Good.”
You turned in his arms to face him. He reached up and brushed a strand of hair away from your face, his touch gentle in a way the world rarely got to see.
“You are the furthest thing from bad luck,” he said again.
This time you believed him.
“I know.”
His eyes searched yours and then he nodded, satisfied.
Outside somewhere far below, fans were still singing, the city was still buzzing. The internet was still doing what the internet always did, loud and frantic and hungry for the next thing to tear apart or worship, but in the quiet of Max’s hotel room none of it reached you.
There was only him. His steady hands and his heartbeat beneath your palm.
summary: one little conversation between Nicole Piastri and the McLaren social media admin brings you back into Oscar's life
fc: gala nikolic
warning: I am aware of all the spelling errors, but to change them I’d have to rewrite, screenshot and insert the slides all over again and I’m just too lazy to do that, so you’ll just have to life with it
a/n: I love them you guys!!! I’m totally open to writing a part two if you’re interested, but I also might just do it anyway. I hope you enjoy🍀
oscatpiastri
oscatpiastri LMAO admin just said ‘I’m so hungry, I could eat YN YLN’ and that was the face Oscar pulled😭😭 what kind of trauma did they unlock??
view all comments…
user I’M CRYING the man was flabbergasted
user I NEED TO KNOW WHO THAT IS IK YOU GUYS ARE GOOD AT STALKING
-> user I could only find a private acc with that name @.yourusername but there is no way to tell if it’s actually her
-> user wow you guys are quick
user oh to be able to read his mind rn
user admin chose violence today
-> user he looked so betrayed my poor boy💀
user how did admin even get such private information about Oscar?? like there is absolutely no history of a YN YLN anywhere in Oscar’s digital footprint
-> user I mean, that’s their entire job no? find things that get clicks and oscar’s past def does that
🔒 yourusername
yourusername university is slowly turning me into a hermit
view all comments…
yourfriend1 caption is so real dude
yourfriend1 one more class with professor brenner and I’ll actually break all of my good pencils
-> yourusername REAL
yourfriend2 movie binge night was so good we have to do it again
-> yourusername ‼️‼️
yourbestfriend girly you’re famous
-> yourusername fuck you mean by that?
-> yourbestfriend have you ever watched f1? does the name oscar piastri ring a bell?
-> yourusername YOURE FUCKING JOKING
yourfriend3 I’m so hungry I could eat oscar piastri🤔🤔
yourfriend4 what just happened
yourfriend5 the art faculty bathroom is actually so peak
yourfriend6 you’re so gorgeous one chance pls pls pls
TEXTS BETWEEN NICOLE AND OSCAR
TEXTS BETWEEN YOU AND YOUR BEST FRIEND
👤 OSCAR PIASTRI WANTS TO SEND YOU A MESSAGE
oscarpiastri: Hello YN, I’m not sure if you remember me, we went to kindergarten together. I just wanted to give you a heads up, incase you haven’t seen it yet. There is a video going around on the internet of the McLaren social media admin mentioning you in an interview and people are taking it all sorts of ways. I hope it doesn’t cause you any trouble, if it does, please don’t hesitate to reach out and I will take full responsibility for it. I hope you are doing well!
INSTAGRAM DIRECT MESSAGES BETWEEN YOU AND OSCAR
yourusername: Hello Oscar, it’s nice to hear from you! Thank you for the heads up, that’s really kind of you. I saw the video and the reactions, but don’t worry, it’s really no trouble. How are you? Maybe we could catch up? We haven’t seen each other for so long
oscarpiastri: Good to hear that it’s not troubling you. I’m sorry anyway. And I’d love to catch up. Are you still in AUS? I’m there from December until February, incase you are.
yourusername: Yep! Still an Australian resident:) I have a small semester break in Janurary, if that works for you?
oscarpiastri: Great! 👍
🔒 yourusername
yourusername touching grass because why am I doing all that over a MAN
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yourfriend1 I just looked oscar piastri up and jeezus YN go get him or I will
yourbestfriend my girl is crushing on the f1 championship leader… i always knew you had big ambitions but I didn’t think they were that big
-> yourusername YOU REALLY ARE NOT HELPING IT
yourfriend2 we’ve lost her😞😞
-> yourfriend3 to a MAN of all things smh
-> yourusername YOU GUYS
yourfriend4 why do I have to be on an semester abroad right now of all moments I FEEL SO LEFT OUT
yourfriend5 she was crouching like that for a good 5 minutes btw
-> yourusername STOP EXPOSING ME
-> yourfriend4 why was she even crouching??
-> yourfriend5 he was texting her really dryly and she freaked out bc obviously that means he hates her and she wants to die and he should crash
-> yourfriend4 you are absolutely hopeless YN
-> yourusername I need to find friends that actually love me
yourfriend6 yk when you start dating you’ll have to open this insta to him and he’ll see how pathetic you are for him
-> yourusername WAIT THATS SO EMBARRASSING
🔒 yourusername
yourusername no idea what just happened I just know it wasn’t good at all I’M SO SORRY OSCAR WHEN I SAID I WANTED YOU TO CRASH I DIDNT MEAN IT
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yourfriend1 you’re so unserious wearing a tshirt that says your tears don’t fall they crash around me after your CRUSH DNFED
-> yourusername gotta have some humour or I’ll cry
yourfriend2 I’m seeing this as a sign that he’s so obsessed with you that he does everything you say
-> yourusername THEN HE SHOULD LOCK IN AND WIN THE STUPID CHAMPIGNONCHIP OR WHATEVER
-> yourfriend2 CHAMPIGNONCHIP I‘M CHOKING
f1updates
f1updates oscar piastri when asked about the title fight and the support of family and friends for the race this weekend:
“I know a lot of things have to go right today, in order for me to win, but as long as it is a possibility, I will stay positive that I can do it.” Said the Australian. “I’ve got a lot of people here to cheer me on, my mum, dad and sisters, for one, but also an old friend, who I haven’t seen in a long time. They give me the strength to push one last time.”
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user I KNOW HE CAN DO IT
user Norris needs to fuck off it’s Oscar’s turn
user I wonder who the “old friend” is🤔🤔
-> user YN YLN? I’m still not over that mystery
-> user that would be the plot twist of a century
user my entire body is vibrating like I just drank four gallons of coffee
user THIS IS STILL MY BOY
🔒 yourusername
yourusername ABU DHABI ARE YOU READY?
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yourfriend1 HE WILL NOT KNOW WHAT TO DO WITH HIMSELF WHEN HE SEES YOU
yourfriend2 wow😳
yourbestfriend forget that wanna be athlete and come home to your wife (me)
yourfriend3 your nervous f1 rambling made me invested as well, I’m rooting for the blonde with an attitude problem
-> yourusername max verstappen?
-> yourfriend3 that one, yes
yourfriend4 HOW ARE YOU FEELING ABT TODAYS RACE?
-> yourusername I’m fucking shaking bro, Verstappen idk you like that but please find the closest barrier and take that Norris guy with you
oscarpiastri
oscarpiastri lots achieved. lots learnt. coming back stronger next year
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mclarenf1 we are so proud of you oscar🧡
user no one is in doubt that you’ll win the title one day
user not even Norris bottled this hard
user I don’t get why people are so harsh on him all of the sudden, have we all forgotten that he lead the wdc for half a season in his 3rd year in f1??
user op the man you are
user AURA
user oh 2025 you were so promising
yourusername still not sure if I understood it all, but I know that I’m incredibly impressed:)
-> oscarpiastri I’m glad you could make it🙂
-> user OMG IT WAS YN YLN
-> user he’s so awkward with emojis💀💀
-> user GIRL PLEASE OPEN YOUR INSTA I NEED TO BE PARASOCIAL
🔒 yourusername
yourusername nothing to sayyyy🧚♀️
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yourfriend1 do we have to act normal now bc he can see the posts?
yourbestfriend you smart little finch, I recognise a thirst trap when I see one😛😛
-> yourusername BE QUIET
yourfriend2 RIP unhinged instagram posts, you will be missed😞
-> yourusername you guys are so dramatic
oscarpiastri I'm not sure if I want to look at the other posts
-> yourusername don't, just don't do it
yourfriend3 one man in your life and you have an entire rebrand smh 🤦♀️
yourfriend4 you? speechless? what have you done to my girl, oscar piastri🤨
yourfriend5 WHAT IS A MAN DOING HERE?
-> yourusername BE NICE
yourbestfriend my girl is gonna be a famous wag🥲
yourfriend6 he can take great pictures at least
f1gossip
f1gossip Oscar Piastri was sighted in Melbourne, Australia with a mysterious woman on his arm. Who do we think she is?
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user NO😫
user oscar piastri daring rumours in the first weeks of 2026 what is going on
-> user I started to doubt his abilities
user cant even see her properly but i already know shes so pretty
user wait I think I’ve seen her before?? At the Abu Dhabi GP
yourbestfriend OMG MY GIRL IS ON A GOSSIP PAGE @.yourusername LOOK MY GIRL GOT PAPARAZZIED
-> yourusername GIRL DON'T PUT ME ON BLAST LIKE THAT
user i’m not ready for everyone to become parasocial about him all of the sudden
user not him wearing the fugly ass burgundy shirt on a DATE
-> user we don’t even know if it’s a date, could just be a friend
user did anyone see that comment from @.yourbestfriend?? they tagged a user named YN YLN….. coincidence???
-> user did I miss something?? who is that?
-> user there is a video of the mcl admin saying I’m so hungry, I could eat YN YLN and everyone and their mother has been trying to find out who she is and what correlation oscar has to her since then
-> user yeah and her account is private, so there’s absolutely NO WAY for us to find out anything about her
81_updates
81_updates Oscar Piastri, Mark Webber and friends on Melbourne Beach. Some fans even stated that Oscar was with a girl and they seemed to be very close🤔
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user HOLD ME BACK
user I hate to say this, but I think oscar really does have a girlfriend now
user congratulations to whoever get’s to have that every night
user lmao the imprint on his chest looks like a 4
user god that girl is lucky
user I think it’s safe to say it’s YN
user oscar jack piastri I was unfamiliar with your game
🔒 yourusername
yourusername after being forced to participate in all of Oscar’s hobbies, I think it’s only fair if I force him to paint with me, right?
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yourfriend1 turn that frown upside down😛
yourfriend2 you guys make me sick
-> yourusername jealousy doesn’t suit you babe💋
yourfriend2 and yes, that’s absolutely fair
yourfriend3 be honest, who won the race?
-> yourusername I love how much faith you have in me, but be fr who is winning the race? A girl who has known about f1 for 3 months or an actual f1 driver??
-> yourfriend3 he didn’t let you win? break up with him
-> oscarpiastri she told me not to let her win🤷 said it would be satisfying for her ego if she beat me on raw talent
-> yourfriend3 oh my sweet angel😞 THAT MEANS LET HER WIN
yourbestfriend no photo credit for the picture smh🙁
-> yourusername sorry babe, credit to you for pic 6, and to osc for literally every other one
oscarpiastri I don’t think you want to see the monster I create when I touch a pencil
-> yourusername as if I was graceful playing paddle
-> oscarpiastri you’d look beautiful while digging in dirt
-> yourusername HKDBHAYPQA
-> oscarpiastri are you ok?
-> yourusername just fine:)) my cat walked over my keyboard:))))
-> yourfriend4 you don’t…..have a cat?
-> yourusername SHHH
oscarpiastri and I did not force you
oscarpiastri
oscarpiastri 🔋☀️
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user when hes good with words😍😍
user I’m so obsessed with his gf and I don’t know anything about her
-> user I think that’s part of the appeal
user KARTING OSCAR
user that looks suspiciously like a date🧐
user I can’t wait for them to feel more comfortable and reveal a little more about their relationship
-> user I’m so excited for her to attend more races next year
user I don’t think they will ever confirm anything you guys, this is all we’re gonna get THEY ARE JUST SO PRIVATE
user HES SO CUTE
user our boy has a girlfriend… he’s actually done it
Can you write a story where y/n is in the paddock and get's ambushed from paparazzi in the Paddock. At first Charles doesn't notice it but when he does he get's very protective and angry. People in the Paddock are able to see how much he loves y/n.
Thank you very much
Out of the Spotlight
Pairing: Charles Leclerc x Reader (y/n)
Warnings: angst, paparazzi ambush, panic attack, sensory overload, heavy comfort, protective Charles Leclerc
Summary: When an aggressive swarm of paparazzi corners Y/N in the middle of the Monza paddock, she gets completely trapped by the flashing lights and invasive questions. The second Charles spots the commotion, his usual polite media persona completely vanishes. He furiously cuts through the crowd to shield her, showing the entire paddock exactly how fiercely he loves and protects his girl.
Word count: 4596
Author’s note: This one is super emotional but filled with so much comfort! I really wanted to write that protective, unyielding side of Charles when someone he loves is pushed past their limit. I hope it’s what you had in mind! xx
Masterlist
The high-pitched whine of pneumatic wheel guns echo through the narrow concrete corridors of the Monza paddock, a sharp, mechanical symphony that usually brings a sense of familiar comfort. Today, however, the air feels unusually heavy, thick with the stagnant heat of late afternoon and the frantic energy of a championship deciding weekend.
You weave through the bustling crowds of team personnel, VIP guests, and hospitality staff, keeping your head low. Charles had been called into an unexpected, late-career engineering debrief after the second practice session, leaving you to navigate the walk from the Ferrari motorhome back to the garage alone. It is a walk you have done a hundred times before, usually with his large, warm hand securely anchored around yours, his thumb tracing soothing circles against your knuckles to ward off the overwhelming nature of the paddock.
Without him beside you, the environment shifts from an exhilarating behind-the-scenes spectacle into a daunting gauntlet.
You quicken your pace, your sneakers squeaking faintly against the polished asphalt. The paddock is supposed to be a sanctuary for the drivers and their inner circles, a highly restricted zone where they can breathe without the crushing weight of public scrutiny. But boundaries have been blurring lately. The sport has exploded in popularity, and with that meteoric rise came a new, desperate breed of media hungry for any scrap of personal drama. As the girlfriend of Scuderia Ferrari’s golden boy, you have inadvertently become the ultimate prize for those looking to score a viral headline.
You pull the brim of your red team cap a little lower, your eyes fixed on the bright red turn-off that leads to the rear of the Ferrari garage, just fifty yards away.
Then, the air shifts.
It starts with a hurried shuffle of footsteps behind you, followed by the heavy, metallic clatter of oversized camera lenses colliding. Before you can even turn your head to investigate, a wall of human bodies materializes out of nowhere, cutting off your path forward.
"Y/N! Y/N, look over here!"
The first shout is loud, piercing through the ambient noise of the paddock like a siren. Within a fraction of a second, three photographers turn into ten, and ten quickly morph into a suffocating swarm of nearly thirty people. They move with a terrifying, predatory synchronization, circling you until you are completely boxed in against the concrete barrier of an old support building.
"Y/N, are the rumors true? Is Charles looking to extend his contract, or are the tensions within the team pushing him out?"
"Give us a smile, Y/N! How does it feel to be the distraction keeping him off the podium this weekend?"
The questions are hurled at you like physical projectiles, sharp, invasive, and intentionally malicious designed to elicit a reaction. The blinding, rapid-fire flash of professional strobes begins, exploding in your eyes in a relentless strobe effect that instantly disorients you. You raise a hand to shield your face, your heart hammering violently against your ribs like a trapped bird.
"Please," you mutter, your voice instantly swallowed by the roar of the crowd. "Please, let me through. I just need to get to the garage."
They don’t move. In fact, they press closer. A heavy telephoto lens brushes past your shoulder, missing your ear by mere inches. The physical proximity is stifling, the heat radiating from the aggressive crowd making it difficult to breathe. You take a step backward, but your spine hits the rough, unforgiving concrete of the building wall. You are completely trapped, surrounded by a wall of glass, flashing lights, and shouting strangers who see you not as a human being, but as a paycheck.
"Look at the camera, Y/N! Just one shot without the hand!"
"Is it true you two are on the rocks? Is that why he’s arrived alone every morning this week?"
The panic sets in fully now, a cold, paralyzing wave that tightens around your throat. Your breaths become shallow and rapid. You look frantically over the shoulders of the paparazzi, searching for a familiar face, a security guard, a team member, anyone, but the crowd is too dense, a human barricade isolating you from the safety of the paddock.
Meanwhile, just forty yards away inside the cool, dimly lit depths of the Ferrari garage, Charles is standing near the telemetry screens. He still has his fireproof undershirt pulled up around his neck, the top half of his race suit tied loosely around his waist. His hair is a messy, damp mop from the sweat of the practice session, and his brow is furrowed as he points at a jagged line on the computer monitor, debating setup options with his race engineer, Bryan.
"The snap oversteer in Turn 11 is still there, Bryan," Charles says, his voice low, steady, and carrying that melodic Monégasque lilt that usually commands attention without needing to raise its volume. "If we don’t stiffen the rear, I am going to lose the back end during the long runs tomorrow."
Bryan nods, tapping his pen against his clipboard, shifting through data sheets. "We can try adjusting the anti-roll bar, Charles, but it might compromise your tire life on the soft compounds."
Charles sighs, running a hand through his hair, nodding abstractedly. He is completely locked into his professional zone, a mindset where nothing exists outside of lap times, tire degradation, and apex speeds. He takes a sip from his driver drink bottle, his eyes scanning the garage out of habit.
He always scans the garage. He is looking for you.
Usually, by this time in the afternoon, you would be sitting on one of the Pirelli tire stacks, or standing in the back corner of the garage with a pair of headphones on, offering him a quiet, reassuring smile whenever he looked up from his data.
He notices your absence immediately, a subtle flicker of concern crossing his sharp features. He checks the digital clock on the wall. It has been twenty minutes since he told you he would meet you here. The walk from the motorhome takes five, maybe six minutes if the paddock is crowded.
"Charles? Are you listening?" Bryan asks, noticing his driver’s sudden distraction.
"Yeah, yeah, sorry, Bryan," Charles murmurs, his eyes still lingering on the empty space near the back of the garage. "Just, give me one second."
He steps away from the engineering station, walking toward the wide open back doors of the garage that look out onto the paddock. The bright Italian sunlight makes him squint after being in the darkness of the garage for so long. He looks left, toward the hospitality units, then right.
At first, he doesn't notice anything out of the ordinary. The paddock is always chaotic. There is always a cluster of people moving here and there, a blur of team shirts and media passes.
But then, his eyes catch on a specific commotion near the support building.
It is a dense, unruly pack of people, moving with a frenetic, aggressive energy that looks entirely different from the usual orderly chaos of the paddock. He watches as the crowd surges forward, the distinct, rapid clicking of camera shutters firing in unison echoing across the open space. He sees the bright, blinding flashes of strobe lights reflecting off the glass windows of the building.
Charles frowns, his body tensing instinctively. He hates when the paparazzi get aggressive with anyone in the paddock, but as he takes a step closer to the threshold of the garage, his eyes narrow, focusing on the center of the frantic circle.
Through a small gap between two oversized camera lenses, he catches a glimpse of a familiar color. It is a flash of Ferrari red, a specific cap pulled low over a head of hair he knows better than his own.
He freezes, his heart stopping for a single, terrifying beat as his brain processes the image.
It’s you.
He sees your small hand raised in a futile attempt to block the blinding lights. He sees the way your shoulders are hunched forward, your body pressed flat against the concrete wall, looking incredibly small, incredibly vulnerable, and completely defenseless against the predatory sea of media surrounding you.
In an instant, the calm, calculated racing driver vanishes.
A raw, primal fury, something fierce and terrifyingly protective, detonates inside Charles’s chest. The change in his demeanor is instantaneous and visceral. The easygoing, polite young man who always smiles for the cameras, who always stops to sign autographs, who handles the media with grace and patience, disappears entirely.
His jaw sets so hard the muscles in his cheek twitch violently. His green eyes, usually warm and expressive, darken into ice, burning with a lethal, focused rage.
Without a word to anyone, Charles steps out of the garage.
He doesn’t walk, he marches, his boots hitting the paddock ground with heavy, thunderous intent. His posture is rigid, his chest puffed out, radiating an aura of pure, unadulterated anger that instantly cuts through the afternoon heat.
People in his direct path, PR representatives, Alpine mechanics, a pair of FIA officials, take one look at his face and immediately scramble out of his way, their conversations dying in their throats. Nobody has ever seen Charles Leclerc look like this. He looks dangerous.
As he closes the distance, the shouts of the paparazzi grow louder, their questions becoming more invasive, oblivious to the storm bearing down on them.
"Come on, Y/N, just look up! Give us the million dollar shot!"
You are trembling now, your vision swimming with tears of sheer panic and sensory overload from the non-stop flashing lights. You press yourself harder against the wall, wishing the concrete would simply swallow you whole, closing your eyes tight to shut it all out.
"Get out of the way."
The voice isn’t shouted, but it possesses a low, freezing, venomous authority that cuts through the noise of the paparazzi like a razor blade through paper.
The photographer closest to the edge of the circle turns around, irritation on his face at being interrupted, but the complaint dies instantly in his throat.
Charles is standing right there.
He doesn’t look like the poster boy for Formula One. He looks like a man possessed. Before the photographer can even lower his camera, Charles shoves his way into the crowd. He doesn’t use his hands to strike, but he uses the full weight of his athletic frame, his shoulder slamming into a cameraman, forcefully throwing the man off balance and sending him stumbling sideways into his colleague.
"Move!" Charles snaps, his voice a dangerous growl as he violently rips through the human barricade. He physically grabs the shoulder of another reporter who is blocking his path, wrenching the man backward with enough force to nearly send him to the ground.
The paparazzi scramble in absolute shock, a collective gasp rippling through them as they realize who has just invaded their circle. The relentless flashing stops for a brief second, replaced by the stunned silence of a crowd that knows they have pushed a very dangerous line.
Within seconds, Charles breaks through the inner ring of the ambush.
The moment his eyes land on you, seeing your tear-streaked face, your trembling hands, and the sheer terror in your eyes, something breaks inside him. The anger in his expression shifts into a heartbreaking mask of pure anguish and protective desperation, before hardening right back into fury as he turns his back to you, effectively shielding your entire body with his own.
He steps directly into your personal space, his large frame completely blocking you from the view of every camera lens in the area.
"Charles! Charles, over here! What do you have to say about—"
"Back off!" Charles roars, his voice exploding with a raw, thunderous power that echoes off the surrounding buildings. He steps forward, planting his feet, his chest heaving as he glares at the journalists closest to him. His hands are clenched into tight fists at his sides, the knuckles white, his entire body vibrating with the effort it takes not to physically attack the people in front of him.
"Get those cameras out of her face right now!" he snarls, his eyes darting from person to person, locking onto anyone who dares to keep their lens pointed toward you. "Step back! Every single one of you, step the hell back before I lose my mind!"
The sheer intensity of his rage is terrifying. Several photographers instinctively take three steps backward, their cameras lowering as they look at Charles with wide, fearful eyes. They have never seen him raise his voice like this, let alone threaten them with such physical, unbridled aggression.
"Charles, we are just doing our jobs—" one brave reporter attempts to say, holding a microphone out.
"I don't give a damn about your job!" Charles spits out, his voice laced with venom, his face turning a dangerous shade of crimson. "She is not part of this! She is not your story! If you come near her again, if you put a camera in her face ever again, I will personally ensure your passes are revoked permanently! Do you understand me? Get out of my sight!"
The paddock has gone completely still. Dozens of onlookers, mechanics from rival teams, team principals, and hospitality guests have stopped in their tracks, turning to watch the scene unfold. The space around the support building has become a theater, and everyone is witnessing the absolute, terrifying depth of Charles Leclerc’s love and protectiveness over you. There is no PR filter, no media training, no calculated image. This is a man defending the person he loves more than life itself, and it is painfully clear to everyone watching that he would tear the entire paddock apart to keep you safe.
Without waiting for a response from the stunned crowd, Charles turns his back on them entirely, dismissing them as if they no longer exist.
The transformation when he faces you is instantaneous. The terrifying, murderous rage vanishes from his eyes, replaced by an overwhelming, desperate tenderness that leaves him looking breathless.
"Mon amour," he breathes out, his voice cracked and trembling with emotion.
He drops to his knees slightly so he is at eye level with you, his large, warm hands coming up to gently cup both sides of your face. His thumbs immediately begin wiping away the tears streaming down your cheeks, his touch incredibly soft, as if he is terrified you might break if he presses too hard.
"I'm here, I'm so sorry, Y/N, I'm so sorry I wasn't here," he whispers frantically, his green eyes searching yours, filled with a profound, agonizing guilt. "Look at me, cherie, just look at me. Ignore them. They are gone. It's just me."
The moment his hands touch your skin, the icy paralysis of the panic attack begins to thaw. You let out a broken, ragged sob, your hands flying up to grip his wrists desperately, leaning your weight fully into his touch.
"Charles," you choke out, your voice barely a whisper, your body shaking uncontrollably.
"I’ve got you, I’ve got you, baby," he murmurs against your skin, his forehead leaning forward to rest gently against yours. He doesn't care about the cameras that are slowly starting to raise again from a distance, he doesn't care about the hundreds of eyes watching them, he doesn't care about the headlines this will cause tomorrow. The only thing that matters in his entire universe is the girl trembling in his arms.
He shifts his position, wrapping one powerful arm securely around your waist, pulling you tightly against his chest, tucking your head securely under his chin. His other hand remains firmly planted on the back of your head, his fingers tangling in your hair, pressing your face into the warm fireproof material of his shirt, shielding your eyes from any residual flashes.
He lifts you slightly, absorbing most of your weight against his strong frame as he begins to guide you away from the wall.
As he walks you toward the Ferrari garage, a few persistent photographers try to shuffle alongside to get a profile shot of your face.
Charles stops dead in his tracks. He doesn't let go of you for even a fraction of a second, keeping you tucked securely against his side, but he turns his head toward the photographers. The look he gives them is so incredibly cold, so full of lethal promises, that the journalists immediately halt, stepping back into the shadows of the paddock walkway.
By now, the commotion has drawn the attention of Ferrari security. Two large men in black team gear come sprinting around the corner, looking panicked.
"Charles, what happened?" one of them asks, looking at the retreating crowd of media.
"Keep them away from her," Charles commands, his voice dropping into a low, hard register that brooks absolutely no argument. "None of them come near this garage. If I see a single camera pass that door, you’re fired."
"Understood," the guard says quickly, immediately turning to form a human wall across the entrance of the garage alongside his partner.
Charles guides you through the back doors of the garage, passing the engineering station. The entire Ferrari crew has gone dead silent. Mechanics have stopped working on the car, engineers have looked up from their screens, and Fred Vasseur himself is standing near the tire racks, watching his star driver walk in.
Nobody says a word. The raw, emotional intensity radiating off Charles is palpable, a heavy, suffocating force that demands respect. They see the way he is holding you, as if you are the most precious, fragile thing in the world, his hand never leaving your head, keeping you hidden from the world. They see the tight, rigid set of his shoulders, the lingering fury in his eyes, and the absolute devotion in his posture.
He doesn’t stop to explain anything to his team. He doesn’t look at Fred. He walks straight through the garage, leading you down the private corridor into his driver’s room, the small, secluded sanctuary where he prepares before races.
He pushes the door open with his foot, guides you inside, and clicks the lock firmly into place, finally shutting out the rest of the world.
The moment the lock clicks, the silence of the room settles over you. The distant sounds of the paddock are muffled, reduced to a low, insignificant hum.
Charles doesn't let go of you. He pulls you into the center of the small room, his arms wrapping around you even tighter, pulling you flush against his body. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling sharply, his chest heaving as he lets out a long, shuddering breath.
"Mon Dieu, Y/N," he chokes out, his voice muffled against your skin. You can feel the rapid, violent pounding of his heart against your chest, matching the frantic rhythm of your own. "I am so sorry. I should have walked with you. I should have known."
"It's... it's not your fault," you manage to say, your voice still shaky, though the security of his arms is finally slowing your racing pulse. You wrap your arms around his neck, burying your fingers in his soft hair, holding onto him like an anchor in a storm. "They just came out of nowhere, Charles. There were so many of them."
He pulls back just enough to look at you, his hands coming down to rest on your shoulders, his eyes scanning your face with desperate concern. He notices a small red mark near your shoulder where the camera lens had brushed past you.
His eyes darken again, a flash of that terrifying anger returning for a split second before he forces it down, not wanting to scare you.
"Did they touch you?" he asks, his voice dangerously quiet, his grip tightening slightly on your shoulders. "Tell me, Y/N. Did someone hurt you?"
"No, no," you say quickly, reaching up to place your hands over his, trying to soothe the tension rolling off him in waves. "One of them bumped into me with a lens, but it was just an accident because they were pushing. I'm okay, Charles. Just scared."
He lets out a breath that sounds like a ragged prayer, closing his eyes for a moment as he leans down to press a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead. Then to your eyelids, then to your cheeks, catching the remnants of your tears, before finally pressing his lips to yours.
The kiss is different from his usual gentle, playful affection. It is intense, desperate, and filled with a profound, unspoken devotion, a silent vow to protect you from everything and everyone. It is his way of pouring all the love, fear, and anger inside him into a single action, making sure you feel absolutely safe, absolutely cherished.
When he pulls away, his forehead rests against yours again, his breaths uneven.
"I was so scared when I saw you against that wall," he whispers, his voice cracking, revealing the vulnerability beneath his anger. "To see you like that, so small, and those... those animals treating you like an object. I have never felt an anger like that, Y/N. I swear to you, if I had to, I would have fought every single one of them to get to you."
A small, watery smile finally breaks through your fear, your thumb tracing the sharp line of his jaw. "I know you would have. You looked pretty terrifying, you know. I've never seen you like that."
Charles lets out a self-deprecating, breathless laugh, his eyes softening completely as he gazes down at you. "I don't care about them, Y/N. I don't care about the fines, I don't care what the media writes about me tomorrow. They can call me unprofessional, they can call me aggressive, I don't give a damn. But nobody touches you. Nobody makes you cry."
He leads you over to the small sofa in the corner of the room, pulling you down with him. He sits back, pulling your body onto his lap, wrapping his arms around you like a protective cocoon, resting his chin on your shoulder. One of his hands gently strokes your arm, up and down, a steady, rhythmic motion designed to soothe the last lingering remnants of your anxiety.
"You need to stay in here for the rest of the day," he murmurs softly, his lips brushing against your temple. "I will have someone bring our things from the motorhome. We will leave through the private back exit straight to the car, okay? No cameras. I won't let them see you."
"What about your engineering debrief?" you ask softly, turning your head slightly to look at him. "You were in the middle of talking to Bryan about Turn 11."
Charles dismisses the question with a soft shake of his head, his arms tightening around you. "The car doesn't matter, Y/N. The race doesn't matter. Nothing is more important than you. They can figure out the setup without me for one afternoon."
For the next hour, you stay wrapped in his embrace, the quiet safety of the room allowing your nervous system to finally settle back into a state of calm. Charles doesn't move a muscle, content to simply hold you, his chest rising and falling against your back, his constant, reassuring presence a shield against the outside world.
Eventually, there is a soft, hesitant knock on the door.
Charles’s body tenses instinctively, his arms locking around you again, his eyes turning toward the door with a lingering trace of caution. "Who is it?" he calls out, his voice firm and unwelcoming.
"Charles, it’s Fred," a muffled voice responds from the other side. "Can I speak to you for a moment?"
Charles looks down at you, checking your expression. You give him a small, reassuring nod, showing him that you are okay. He sighs softly, kissing your cheek before carefully shifting you to sit beside him on the sofa.
He stands up, running a hand through his hair, straightening his fireproof shirt. He walks over to the door and unlocks it, opening it just a crack, his large frame still blocking the view into the room.
Fred Vasseur is standing in the corridor, his expression a mix of concern and characteristic pragmatism. He looks past Charles’s shoulder, catching a glimpse of you sitting safely on the sofa, before looking back up at his driver.
"Is she okay?" Fred asks quietly, his tone genuinely gentle.
"She’s fine now," Charles replies, his voice low, clipped, and still carrying a defensive edge. "But what happened out there was unacceptable, Fred. The paddock security is supposed to protect us, protect our families. They let a mob corner her against a wall."
Fred sighs, nodding his head in agreement. "I know, Charles. I have already spoken to the track organizers and the FIA paddock master. The credentials of the three main agencies involved have been suspended immediately for the rest of the weekend. There will be an investigation into how that many media members managed to congregate in a restricted support area."
Charles’s expression doesn't soften much, but he nods, accepting the action. "Thank you. But I am serious, Fred. If I see any of them near her again, I am not going to be polite."
"I know you won't," Fred says, a small, subtle smile touching the corners of his lips as he looks at the young driver he has known since his junior career. "Nobody in the paddock doubts that right now, Charles. The whole world just saw how far you will go to protect her. The videos are already everywhere."
Charles frowns slightly, but he simply shrugs his shoulders, his posture dripping with complete indifference to public opinion. "Let them watch. I don't care. I have to take care of her now, Fred. I am skipping the rest of the media pen tonight."
Fred opens his mouth as if to protest the massive media fine that will surely follow a driver skipping mandatory press duties, but he takes one look at the fierce, unyielding look in Charles’s green eyes and decides better of it. He knows Charles Leclerc, he knows how compliant and professional he usually is, but he also knows that when it comes to you, Charles is an immovable object.
"Go," Fred says softly, patting Charles’s arm. "Take her back to the hotel. We will handle the media. Focus on tomorrow."
"Thank you, Fred," Charles murmurs, his voice finally softening with a touch of gratitude.
He closes the door, locking it once more, and walks back over to you. He doesn't say anything about the videos, or the headlines, or the fines. He simply reaches out his hand, his long fingers open, waiting for yours.
"Let’s go home, mon amour," he says softly, a tender, loving smile finally returning to his beautiful face.
You stand up, slipping your hand into his. His fingers instantly interlock with yours, his grip firm, warm, and utterly unshakeable. As he guides you out of the private room, through the quieted garage, and out to the hidden car park, you look up at his profile, his jaw relaxed but his eyes alert, always scanning, always protecting.
You know the world can be cruel, chaotic, and overwhelming, especially in the fishbowl of his profession. But as you walk beside him, wrapped in the warmth of his undeniable devotion, you know that as long as Charles Leclerc has breath in his lungs, you will never have to face the storm alone.
A stressful Monaco weekend pushes Charles to his limits, but no matter how chaotic the race gets, there’s always one constant that brings him back to himself you.
Author Note:
Thank you so much for all the love on my f1 driver fics, I’ve genuinely been having so much fun writing them lately and I’m definitely planning to make more for other drivers soon
if there are any drivers you want to see that I haven’t written for yet, feel free to comment requests!!
Happy reading 🤍
Monaco always felt different.
For everyone else, it was glamorous.
For Charles, it was pressure.
His home race meant expectation, history, and Ferrari’s constant questions about strategy, pace, and perfection.
But none of that mattered the second he looked at you.
Because somehow, in the middle of all of it, you were still his calm.
His constant.
His wife.
The person who had been there long before the trophies, long before the headlines, long before the world decided who he was supposed to be.
And to him, that was what mattered most.
That morning, Monaco was soft.
Quiet in a way the race weekend never usually was.
Sunlight poured through the curtains of your apartment overlooking the harbor.
For once, there was no rush.
No cameras.
No noise.
Just you and Charles.
He was already awake when you rolled over.
Barely.
“Bon matin, mon amour,” he murmured softly, brushing a strand of hair from your face.
You blinked up at him.
“Why are you up already?”
He smiled faintly.
“Important day.”
You groaned softly.
“Every day is an important day for you.”
“Not like this one.”
Still, he leaned in and pressed a slow kiss to your forehead.
Then got up anyway.
You watched him from the bed as he walked into the kitchen.
Barefoot.
Hair messy.
Still half asleep.
You smiled into your pillow.
A few minutes later, the smell of coffee filled the apartment.
And tea.
Because Charles didn’t like coffee the way you did, but he still made it exactly how you liked it.
Every time.
When you finally walked into the kitchen, he handed you your mug without even asking.
“You’re spoiling me,” you mumbled.
“Always,” he said simply.
You leaned against the counter.
For a moment, it almost felt normal.
Like he wasn’t about to step into one of the most stressful races of his life.
Like the world outside didn’t exist yet.
“You nervous?” you asked quietly.
Charles hesitated.
Then nodded once.
“A little.”
You stepped closer and adjusted his collar gently.
“You’ll be fine.”
He looked down at you.
“I always am when you’re here.”
You rolled your eyes.
“Don’t start getting emotional before coffee.”
He laughed softly.
“Oui, madame.”
By the time you reached the paddock, everything changed.
Monaco turned loud.
Fast.
Sharp.
Cameras everywhere.
Team radios already buzzing.
Charles shifted immediately.
Focused.
Locked in.
You could see it in his eyes the version of him the world knew best.
But before he walked away, he stopped you for a second.
Just one second.
His hand cupped your face gently.
“Stay close today,” he murmured.
“I always do.”
A soft smile.
“Je t’aime, ma femme.”
“I know,” you whispered back.
He kissed you.
Quick.
Grounding.
Then he was gone.
The race didn’t feel right from the start.
You knew it before anyone said anything.
Something in the air was tense.
Too tense.
Ferrari strategy calls coming through.
Charles pushing harder than usual.
Lap after lap, you stood near the screens in hospitality, arms crossed, watching every corner like you could will it go right.
Then it happened.
The crash.
Not massive.
But enough.
Enough for silence to fall in your chest instantly.
“No, no, no…” you whispered.
You watched him climb out of the car.
Slow.
Frustrated.
Helmet off.
That familiar expression of anger he tried so hard to control.
But you knew him.
You always did.
“He’s pissed,” someone beside you murmured.
“Yeah,” you said quietly.
Then softer:
“He has every right to be.”
On the screen, he was arguing.
Hands moving.
Jaw tight.
Controlled chaos.
You exhaled slowly.
“…he looks kind of hot when he’s angry,” you muttered without thinking.
A nearby engineer almost choked.
“What?”
You shrugged.
“I said what I said.”
It took a while before he came back.
Long enough for the energy to settle into something heavy.
By the time Charles walked into Ferrari hospitality, his face was still tight.
Still frustrated.
Still carrying the race on his shoulders.
But the moment he saw you
Everything shifted.
Not gone.
Just softened.
His pace slowed immediately.
“Mon cœur,” he breathed out.
You stood up right away.
He didn’t say anything else.
Just pulled you into him.
Not gentle.
Not fragile.
Just real.
Like he needed to feel something steady again.
“I’m sorry,” he muttered against your shoulder.
You shook your head.
“Don’t start.”
He let out a tired breath.
“It was supposed to be perfect.”
You pulled back slightly.
“And it wasn’t,” you said softly. “That doesn’t change anything.”
He looked at you for a moment.
Then nodded once.
Because he trusted you more than he trusted the result.
The drive home was quiet.
No debrief in the car.
No forced conversation.
Just silence that understood itself.
When you got back to the apartment, Charles didn’t even take off his shoes properly.
He just walked in and exhaled like he had been holding everything in since the crash.
You didn’t ask questions.
You never did right away.
Instead, you made tea.
Again.
And sat on the couch waiting.
When he finally came over, he didn’t speak.
Just lay down with his head in your lap.
Heavy.
Tired.
Human.
Your fingers instinctively went into his hair.
Slow.
Calming.
After a long silence, he finally spoke.
“I thought I had it today.”
You didn’t interrupt.
“I know what they expected from me,” he continued quietly. “And I wanted to give it to them.”
“You don’t owe them anything,” you said softly.
He let out a breath.
“I know.”
Another pause.
Then quieter:
“I just… wanted it to be good. Here.”
You leaned down and kissed his forehead.
“It’s still you, Charles.”
He closed his eyes.
“And I still love you.”
That made him smile slightly.
“Toujours?” he murmured.
“Always.”
His hand found yours instantly.
Holding it like an anchor.
The apartment stayed quiet after that.
Not empty.
Just peaceful again.
And for the first time since the crash, Charles finally looked like he could breathe.
Because no matter what Monaco gave him that day
He still came home to you.
And after a long silence, you added softly, brushing his hair back:
“Also… I’m still not over how hot you looked arguing with Ferrari engineers.”
That made him stop for half a second.
Then he let out a tired laugh.
“Please don’t encourage that.”
You smiled.
“I’m just being honest.”
He shook his head slightly, but he was smiling now.
The tension in his body easing just a little more.
“Only you would say that to me after a DNF.”
“What? I support you emotionally and aesthetically.”
listen your driver renews his contract then you go and pit him behind his teammate who has a penalty. all for what to respect track position. no you prioritise the driver who didn’t get the penalty.
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