CHARLES LOVES MARKING YOUR THIGHS WITH HIS SHARP TEETHS !
charles chevalier was known for his sharp cat-like teeth that made every grin look a little more smug and every laugh a little more mischievous. they only added to his naturally cocky attitude, making it seem like he was always one step ahead of everyone else.
whether he was pulling off an impossible pass or teasing someone just to get a reaction, those sharp teeth somehow fit him perfectly, becoming one of the little features that made him so easy to recognize—and even harder to forget.
recently, he was laying down in between your thighs while you were just watching a movies. his sharp teeth’s barely graze your skin as he presses a slow, deliberate kiss to your inner thigh. the gesture seems almost reverent, contrasting with his usual cocky and teasing demeanor.
he lingers there, warmth from his breath seeping through the fabric, and his fingers tighten ever so slightly on your hip.
"don't mind me,"
his teeth sink slightly into your thigh, marking the soft skin with tiny red punctures. he doesn't break the skin, just leaves his mark like a possessive animal. his eyes darken with sudden, unexpected primal possessiveness. "mine," — “ouch! charles that hurt..!” you complain.
the mark he left is already starting to bruise, a faint, angry red against your skin. he doesn't even look up, but something shifts in his expression—a slight darkening of his features as if he hasn't even registered the sting.
his tongue slides along the mark, licking the spot where his teeth had just bitten, and you feel a low growl vibrate through him.
he lifts his head, those sharp teeth flashing again as he makes a wicked grin that doesn't quite match the intensity in his eyes. "oops," he murmurs, though there's no hint of apology in his tone. instead, his hand slides down to roughly squeeze your ass, pulling you closer. "keep still,"
you try to wiggle away from the sting, but his grip on your hip only tightens, effectively pinning you in place. he leans down again, pressing a soft, soothing kiss against the fresh bite mark—his tongue darting out to cool the sensitive skin. "it’ll look pretty," he murmurs against your thigh, his tone sickeningly sweet.
oh my.. it looks like charles has marked his territory on you 🌬️ !
The paddock had seen Charles Leclerc in many forms—focused, serious, intense behind the wheel. But recently, The entire F1 world had started seeing a new Charles.
The “husband and dad Charles.”
It started with the first time YN showed up to a Grand Prix with their son—Jules, who was barely walking but already had the Leclerc curls and those same green eyes that gave away who his father was in an instant.
Charles had scooped the boy up the moment he spotted them in the paddock, completely ignoring the cameras and interviewers nearby.
"Mon petit lion," my little he murmured, holding Jules like he was something fragile and magical all at once. “Tu me portes chance.”You bring me luck.
That video alone had gone viral. But what fans really loved was what came next.
Charles didn’t let go of either of them.
Every time he wasn’t in the garage or in meetings, he was with them. YN, tucked under his arm, Jules sitting on his shoulders with both tiny hands gripping Charles’s hair and giggling. Even when Charles walked onto the grid pre-race, he’d glance over to the side, scanning the crowd for YN and Jules, like he couldn’t fully lock in until he saw them safe and smiling.
There was a clip from Monaco—Charles putting his arm around YN after a chaotic day, his eyes narrowing when a photographer stepped too close to her. That moment had fans spiraling.
“Protective Charles is my Roman Empire.”
“Not him moving her behind him like a security guard 😭😭😭 husband coded.”
“Charles Leclerc breathing = hot.
Charles Leclerc with a baby and his wife = emotional damage.”
But it wasn’t just how protective he was—it was how obsessed he was.
He posted pictures of Jules sleeping on his chest, captioned simply, “He sleeps better than me.”
Stories of YN dancing with Jules in the kitchen to old Italian songs.
Videos of Charles reading bedtime stories in a French accent that made everyone’s heart melt.
And during one press conference, when a reporter joked,
“Charles, does Jules already have a favorite driver?”
Charles had smirked and said,
“No. He has a favorite person. It’s his mama.”
He said it so casually, but the smile he gave the camera after? The kind that said he knew exactly how lucky he was.
Even the other drivers started teasing him for being whipped.
“Charles is not coming out tonight, he’s got baby duty,” Pierre laughed in a vlog.
“He FaceTimes them at least five times a day,” Carlos added. “I’ve seen it.”
But Charles didn’t care. He wore his love for his little family loud and proud.
Every win was for them.
Every tired moment after a long race weekend ended with Jules’s arms around his neck and YN kissing his temple.
Every piece of him belonged to them—and he made sure the world knew it.
Because for Charles, F1 would always be his dream.
fav genre of men ? the ones who love to love you i.e. sweet gestures they make when they're smitten
﹙ 🥐 ﹚ 𝒻em ! 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋 ✴ 𝖻𝗈𝗒𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽 ! multi f1 ◟ 🏁 blurbs ◜ᴗ◝ featuring. ln¹ cl¹⁶ gr⁶³ radio. hi, lovelies! here's a very late valentine's treat. and a good practice round for me at writing for these dudes <3 ／ 𝐋𝐈𝐁𝐑𝐀𝐑𝐘.
LANDO NORRIS
He doesn’t tell you he’s doing it.
Not when the cameras are in his face and he’s giving the usual practiced grin, entertaining questions about strategy and the endless ‘what if's. Not when the day officially ends but the garage is still buzzing with team personnel packing up equipment, and the media centre is a beacon of everything he'd rather avoid like a plague.
Lando's good at that. Infusing every word with enough enthusiasm to hide the fact that his heart is somewhere else entirely.
He checks his phone the second he’s out of range for any long lenses to capture his horrifyingly warm expression. There’s a message from you—sent an hour ago, because you always try to time them with when he gets in and out of the cockpit.
So so proud of you, sweetheart <3 Get some rest. And have a safe flight tmrw!
His chest tightens in that quiet way it always does when it reads the unmistakable undertone of care in your every word.
Theoretically, Lando should be on a shuttle to the Hilton where they'd checked him in for the weekend. Maybe exploit his ambassador status by ordering half the room service menu, or take up some of the other drivers on their offer of a night out.
But something in envisioning himself eating his weight in burgers and chips, or changing into something remotely appropriate for a high-end club only serves to make Lando uneasy.
So instead, he bolts it to Jon's rented Chevy Malibu and has the decency to look sheepish as the other man eyes him knowingly. Two hours later, Lando is on the next flight to Nice after bidding you an early night under the guise of feeling absolutely knackered. Which is not far from the truth, he thinks, as he snaps his headphones into place, staring at the bejeweled skyline with sleep lidded eyes.
He tells himself that it’s the right sort of impulsiveness. Why the hell does he earn so much if he won't reap the benefits once in a while? That he’s tired. That he just wants his own bed.
Though who is he kidding —Lando just wants you.
By the time he lands and books a cab to Monaco, it’s properly late. Like the kind where every straggler is sluggish on the streets: either dead on their feet or shitfaced. Lando's got his carry-on slung over one shoulder, having left most of his racing gear with his management to take to Woking. Blessed two week break, he's never been more glad for those.
No florist in their right mind is operating at this hour but the idea of showing up to your doorstep empty-handed is preposterous. So he takes his liberties at the first open 24 hour supermarket—cap pulled low, mask on—and piles all your favourite sweets in a basket to dump on the checkout counter.
There's a voice in the back of his head that oddly resembles his nutritionist nagging about so much processed sugar. But then Lando imagines your face, beaming brightly at him with one cheek stuffed full with chocolate, and he thinks he'll gladly tear up his weekly meal plan and throw it in the open sea.
And in the blink of an eye, he's standing outside your flat, nervous in a way that makes zero sense.
He's faced the fear of his life flashing before his eyes in terrible crashes, handled interviews with a straight face after heartbreak races. But this? This makes him feel faint enough for a breeze to knock over.
Before he can overthink it, he rings the doorbell.
Lando hears some shuffling on the other side, imagines the confusion on your face as you waddle down the hallway toward the entrance, clearly not expecting anyone at midnight, and peer into the CCTV display. He grins wryly at the blinking red light.
The door bangs open with frantic disbelief.
You are in pyjamas—bright pink satin with printed strawberries that have seen better days—with your hair twisted into a loose bun. The way you blink slowly reminds him of a cat while your brain catches up with your eyes.
“…Lan?”
He swallows visibly, slightly lost for words. Just gives you that soft, crooked smile—high strung caricature of a public image sanded down into something real.
“Hi,” Lando says, almost shy.
Your shoulder bumps against the doorframe when you take a step forward. “You– You’re not supposed to be here until tomorrow.”
“Yeah, well.” He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, rubbing over the stubble he hasn't shaved. Like he needs to occupy his hands with something until they inevitably reach forward. “I got bored.”
Your laugh comes out breathless. “You changed your flight because you were bored?”
He shrugs, but his ears are pink. “Might’ve wanted to see you.”
That’s when you step forward and wrap your arms around him. It should scare him how easily you fit: his arms around your waist while you hug his shoulders firmly, his chin resting on the juncture of your neck. Melded together like butter on warm toast.
Lando exhales. It’s not dramatic. It’s not cinematic. It’s just so much relief. His face presses into your hair and he holds you tighter than he means to. He’s been running on dry gulps all weekend and suddenly someone has dropped him into an oasis.
“You’re mad,” you murmur against his hoodie. “Absolutely fucking ridiculous.”
“Maybe. Possibly.”
“And exhausted probably. Jesus, Lan.”
“Oh, absolutely,” he chuckles, nosing at your skin to feel you shiver.
You pull back, hands on either side of his head, looking up at him. He only slightly choked knowing he feels so precious under your gaze. He thinks he's a mirror of your expression. “You didn’t have to do this.”
“I know.” His thumb brushes your cheek gently. “I wanted to,” Lando says, retrieving the chocolates out from behind his back like he’s in a cheesy fucking rom-com, the packaging slightly crushed. “Peace offering for abandoning you for a week.”
You cradle the heart-shaped box as if it's priceless treasure. “You were working.”
“Uh-huh. Anyway, I agreed to spoil you until forever, and that starts with giving you cavities.”
You smile at him in that way that makes his stomach flip and hug him again. “You’re so stupid. Welcome home, baby.”
And if he melts under the those orange porch lights, that is nobody's fucking business innit? You usher him inside, and Lando toes off his shoes by the door impatiently, a force of habit. They fall lopsided by your perfectly arranged shoes like they belong there. Like he belongs where you are.
CHARLES LECLERC
He doesn’t mean to overhear.
Charles makes it back after his morning run, unhooks the leash off Leo's harness and lets the puppy run free into the flat. He's walking past the bedroom while stripping off his sweat-soaked shirt when he catches your voice drifting, animated in that way it gets when you're talking to your best friend. It's a losing battle against the smile taking over his face.
“I’m serious,” you say, nearly shrieking in insistence. “Men who can cook? Husband material. Immediately.”
Charles slows. He doesn’t stop completely—he’s not that obvious—but he absolutely slows.
“Like, imagine coming home after work or something, and he's got dinner ready and plated? I would fold,” you sigh, dreamily and his eyebrows shoot towards his hairline. Huh.
Charles continues down the hallway as if nothing happened. But there's this restlessness crawling under his skin. It's not that he disagrees about culinary competence being sexy, but what the hell, he never knew it's that high in your book of ideal qualities.
A quality Charles doesn't think he's ever shown or even has. But what did you call it? Husband material? He can fucking manage that, alright.
By the time you hang up after a long drawn weekly catchup, the apartment is suspiciously quiet. Some might say it's too quiet.
Never one to deny your curiosity, you kick both feet off the side of your bed and wander towards the kitchen. And immediately you are met with a scene that looks… intense, for a lack of better adjectives.
There’s flour all over the counter. A pan that is visibly smoking. Three different spice containers are open at once in the cabinet. And in the middle of it all stands Charles, sleeves pushed up, brow furrowed in deep concentration while he wrestles with the salt and pepper shakers like he's performing some complicated folk dance.
“Cha?” you say carefully, stepping past the archway past the dining table.
He jumps, swiveling around to spot you leaning on the kitchen island. His eyes are blown wide and he looks distinctly like a toddler who got caught stealing from the cookie jar. “Ah— you’re not supposed to be here!”
You sputter, taken aback. “Supposed to— this is my kitchen.”
“Yes, but,” Charles gestures vaguely behind him, "consider this a temporary takeover. Go, sit at the table. I will be done soon.”
“Done with what?” You blink at him owlishly. “What’s happening?”
His shoulders drop as if he's being forced to confess to a crime. “I am cooking.”
You stare. “For me?”
He clears his throat, attempting casual, but there is a prominent flush to his cheeks “Yes. Now, will you please go sit down? You are ruining the surprise.”
You try very hard not to smile too widely. “Okay.”
You retreat to the dining table while he continues moving around the kitchen with determined energy. There’s a lot of stirring. A questionable amount of salt being added. A brief muttered string of curses in French when something sizzles too aggressively.
After a while, Charles appears with a plate of spaghetti with a generous amount of cheese and green onions sprinkled on top. It looks decent, if you ignore the charred bits of pasta and tomatoes that look a little too brown.
Yet you cannot help feeling giddy when he sets the food down in front of you triumphantly. A spoil of war, almost. “Voilà.”
But then you notice the stub of bandaid stuck to his little finger and a groan bubbles out. You take his hand into your own to inspect the cut and he slumps into the chair beside you. “Was butchering your finger worth it, love? Why did you suddenly want to cook anyway? Thought we were ordering in today.”
Charles squirms in place, suddenly put on the spot. He's clearly conflicted but ultimately sighs. “You said earlier… that men who cook are…” He trails off, blushing plainly for all to see.
Your eyes widen. “You heard that?”
“Maybe,” he mutters.
And oh, your heart melts. You hadn’t spared much thought when you said it, it was just gossiping for gossip's sake when your friend mentioned her latest date was an actual chef.
Not that there is anything wrong with not being able to cook five star meals. You yourself aren't too keen on it, nor do you have the patience for complicated dishes. But, Charles, with his sweet consideration and eagerness to help in any way, had always been miffed that he is utterly useless in the kitchen.
So, you have a solid system in place. You cook while Charles cleans, and you happily make do with takeout when laziness creeps in.
But knowing that he has even tried just because of an offhand comment you made? That has you reaching for a fork like a starved caveman, shovelling it into your mouth.
It’s— Okay. Slightly burnt. Definitely salty and the pasta is somewhat overdone. But it’s warm and the care Charles has put into it is clear as day. Starting with the unevenly chopped onions and excessive dairy, in a bid to follow some internet recipe, no doubt. All the while ignoring to scale down for the portion size.
And it’s him. And he’s watching you like he is waiting for the most important result of his entire life.
You light up instantly. “Charlie!”
His shoulders tense. “Yes?”
“This is amazing!”
Relief floods him so quickly it’s almost painful how sweet it is. He narrows his eyes jokingly. “Really?”
“Really.” You take another bite to prove your point, nodding. “I love it.”
The smile that breaks across his face has your stupid traitorous heart stumbling. Charles huffs, in relief perhaps, before picking up a fork and twisting the pasta onto it. You brace yourself as he takes a bite.
The smile fades. He chews, then pauses, and his eyebrows lift comically, blanching. “Mon chou, it is so fucking salty.”
You shake your head, stuffing your face to match the cavity of your chest brimming with happiness. “It is flavorful.”
Charles frowns, fingers tracing up your arm as if he's debating yanking the fork out of your grasp. “And maybe a little burned. Stop forcing yourself to eat it. It's terrible.”
“It’s caramelized,” you argue. “And you really think you can force me to do anything? I love this, and I will finish it, thank you very much.”
He looks at you suspiciously. “You are lying.”
“I am not! Seriously, you did great for your first try. You can't expect to get a Michelin star right away, can you?”
He studies you for a second longer, then laughs softly, the tension draining out of him. “Okay. Maybe I got a bit excited with the salt.”
“Yes, a bit,” you concede, squeezing his hand into your own. “Charles.” He looks up and your smile softens into something gentle and certain. “The fact that you heard me say that and decided to cook for me? That is peak husband material.”
Charles’ breath catches just slightly. “Even if I nearly gave you food poisoning?” he teases.
“Especially then." You lean in to press your lips to his cheek and laughing at the sauce smeared there.
His eyes are shining and he’s absolutely overwhelmed, yet trying his hardest not to show it. “I wanted to do something for you. I wanted you to come home and feel… taken care of.”
Your heart aches.
“I do,” you say. “I feel very taken care of.”
And it rings true especially when he tugs you into his arms without another word, and you're practically falling onto his lap. His forehead rests against yours. You like Charles even when he can't cook to save his life. You love Charles because he'll try anything to make you the happiest version of yourself.
GEORGE RUSSELL
The thing is, you hadn’t even asked him to come with. George had clocked you stumbling around the living room halfway into your shoes, scouring for car keys and unsurprisingly failing at both. He'd walked into the bedroom, came back with a scarf and gently looped it around your neck.
“Grab an energy bar, at least. I'll get the car out,” he said, dangling the keys in front of you.
“I’m literally just running errands,” you'd replied, cupping his face and getting on your tiptoes to kiss him softly. “It'll be boring. Plus, you have plans.”
“Plans of playing video games. I can ask Alex to reschedule,” George insists, already walking towards the door. “And I love boring. I can do with some boring right now.”
Now you glance back at him in the middle of the store and chuckle. There’s an inflated tote bag hooked over one shoulder, two glossy shopping bags dangling from his fingers, and somehow he’s also holding your iced coffee because you said it was “getting in the way” of sifting through clothes.
“You okay back there?” you ask sweetly.
George adjusts his grip, posture still perfectly upright despite the growing collection. “I'm alright.”
“You can put some down, you know,” you say for the hundredth time, crossing your—completely empty—arms.
“And have you carry them instead?” He scoffs playfully. “What kind of boyfriend would I be?”
You tilt your head thoughtfully. “The normal kind.”
He gives you a look. “Well, I don't want to be the normal kind. You deserve better than that. Now which dress are we thinking, because I'm not sure about the whole polka dots.”
George follows you from rack to rack without complaint—well, without real complaint. There’s the occasional sigh when you disappear into a fitting room for the fourth time. “How many versions of the same top do you need?” he calls from outside.
“They’re all different,” you giggle through the response.
When you pull back the curtains and step down from the elevated platform meant to prop you up like a doll at the back of your favorite—and only a little obnoxious—boutique, he looks up from his phone, mildly exasperated. “They’re all white, sweetheart.”
“This one is cream,” you counter, tugging the fabric down to your naval. Your face scrunches in concentration, tongue poking out.
“Ah. Of course. Game changer,” George sighs, biting back a fond smile.
But when you turn away from the mirror to show him, he straightens immediately. The teasing fades, replaced with genuine focus. He hums, “Turn, please.”
You roll your eyes, twirling around with the necessary amount of dramatic flair. “I didn’t realize I was dating a fashion guru. Which one is it gonna be, good sir?”
George taps his chin once, twice, thrice, before he nods. “Yeah, this is the one. The other is way too similar to the pink one you already have.”
“You think?” You ask, surprised.
His attention to detail always catches you off-guard but it's nothing new. He is always meticulous, especially about things he cares for. You just happen to be at the very top of that list.
“Mm.” His gaze softens. “You look… really good.”
There’s no over-the-top dramatics with him. Just quiet certainty. Like he’s stating a fact. It comes to him like a rehearsed vow but every time, the words are honeyed with so much sincerity. It swells inside your chest; unasked, unconditionally adored.
You end up buying it. And the skirt he'd picked when he got bored of waiting idly while you changed. And the shoes you definitely hadn’t planned on purchasing but he insisted, saying they complete the look.
By the time you reach the checkout counter, you’re doing that thing where you mentally calculate and pretend you’re not slightly stressed about the egregious sum total.
George, meanwhile, has neatly stacked all the bags by his feet, hands on his hips, standing like he’s waiting at an airport lounge to hear the PA system clearly.
The cashier scans the final item. “That’ll be—” You’re already reaching for your wallet as she announces the bill when George suddenly steps forward, tapping the back of his phone against the scanner.
“George,” you make a frustrated noise, feeling a little ruffled.
“I’ve got it.” He doesn’t even look at you, just smiles at the lady who hands him the receipt, scanning it to make sure everything's as it should be.
“I can pay for my own things.”
“I know,” he says calmly. His fingers find yours, entwining together perfectly while he wrangles all the shopping bags in his other hand. “But I want to. So, you just have to deal with it, darling.”
You stare at him with ill-veiled disbelief and the begrudging flutter in your stomach. Might as well commit to the bit and call it a butterfly zoo. “You didn’t have to do that.”
George glances down at you, faint grin tugging at his lips. “I like taking care of you.”
“And I love that you do! But seriously, it was a lot.”
He shrugs slightly. “It’s just money.” As though a couple thousand euros are pocket change. Well, to him maybe they are. Still it makes you squirmish with every realization. "If it bothers you, consider you looking fantastic as repayment."
“That’s not the point,” you huff, feeling increasingly like you're arguing with a wall. You cannot hate him for it, for catering to your whims whenever and wherever. Not when every action of his feels like a warm embrace.
He has that way about him, leading you without being overshadowing. You like to be independent, and that's something he cherishes about you. But more than often, he does these things without any fanfare.
Footing the entire bill on group dinners. Ordering flowers when he's away; not just for you, but all your friends if they're around. Never letting you drive if he can help it. Not because you're incapable, but because he loves to take you places. To steal glances of your wide eyes and lips parted in awe at the scenery flashing past, deliberately speeding up on empty streets to have you holding the overhead handle for dear life as you end up shrieking with laughter.
Small things that mean the world.
You barely suppress a startle when George hooks a finger under your chin, gently tipping your face up just enough to meet his bright azure gaze.
“The point,” he says, whispering it like a secret, “is that I enjoy doing things for you. Carrying your ridiculous number of things. Standing outside fitting rooms for an hour. Treating you just because it makes me very, very happy.”
And the clarity washes over you like a recurring tide: he doesn’t like the mundane so much as he likes the time spent with you. He likes being yours. The rest of it is just… confetti.
Your lips twitch. “An hour?”
George scoffs, draping an arm around your shoulders as you walk out. “At the very least.”
“Oh, you drama queen.” You nuzzle into him, resting your hand on his chest for a few seconds. You don't expect it to slow the hummingbird against your ribs. “You’re spoiling me. I'm going to develop a horrible habit and lose all my financial competence.”
He leans down enough so only you can hear him, breath ghosting over your ears, ticklish. “You got me,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the side of your head. “That was my plan all along.”
more yapping. 💌 i wanted to squeeze in carlos' part into this too. i wrote and rewrote it so many times, but it just wouldn't feel right. hope you guys still enjoyed these three and some lovin. mwah ~ (๑ᵔ⤙ᵔ๑)
Charles Leclerc x Wife!Reader
Summary... When online hate targets you, Charles takes matters into his own hands. A fan gets banned. The fandom gets obsessed. And you? You get reminded that Charles will always choose you, loudly, publicly, and intimately.
Trigger Warnings: Online harassment, misogynistic slurs, public confrontation, smut, explicit language
A/N: enjoy reading this little piece. let me know how you like it. dont forget to like, reblog, and comment your thoughts. request are open guys, so feel free to request anything. have a beautiful day :)
--
Charles wasn’t always online, but when he was, it was either to scroll through memes Arthur had sent or to check your Instagram.
Even after a long race weekend of press conferences, media obligations, debriefs; he always made time to find you.
That night, you were curled against him on the couch of your Monaco apartment, fast asleep in one of his red team shirts. The TV hummed softly in the background, showing some home renovation show you’d both forgotten to change.
He should’ve gone to sleep too. But instead, he opened Twitter.
You were trending.
Not in a fun way.
#JusticeforYN
His brows furrowed. Clicking into the tag, his stomach tightened.
A video from the Canadian GP paddock. You and Charles, walking hand-in-hand, laughing at something he’d whispered. Normal. Sweet. Intimate.
Then another clip.
You talking to Arthur, sipping on an iced coffee with a soft smile. And in the background a loud, jarring, hateful voiceovers:
“Charles’s hoe.”
“She’s only famous because she’s fucking him.”
“She thinks she’s special? Please.”
The woman recording was clearly visible. A bright red Ferrari crop top and cowboy hat. Screaming over the barrier.
Charles’s jaw clenched as the screen glowed against his face. You hadn't even flinched. You hadn’t heard any of it over the music and crowd.
But now he had.
Scrolling deeper, he found more: the same account tweeting threats. Saying she’d be at Silverstone. That she was going to “ruin” you. That she’d won a meet and greet through a sponsor.
Not on my fucking watch.
You found him pacing the kitchen the next morning, phone pressed to his ear, wearing nothing but boxers and a deep frown.
"...yes, I want her name off the list. Immediately. No, I don’t care who approved it. It’s a safety concern."
You rubbed your eyes. "Cha? Everything okay?"
His expression softened. He pressed the phone to his chest. "It’s handled, mon coeur."
--
Silverstone.
You were chatting with Lily and Carmen near the espresso machine when Charles stiffened beside you.
“She’s here,” he murmured under his breath.
Your chest tightened. You didn’t have to ask who. You saw the flash of red and country through the corner of your eye.
She was in line for the VIP meet and greet.
Charles excused himself with a kiss to your temple. You watched him cross the room with that quiet, purposeful energy that always made people stop and stare.
“Hi,” he said politely to the girl.
She lit up like a Christmas tree. “Oh my god! Charles, I’m such a fan—”
“Can I speak with you? Privately.”
They moved off to the side. You couldn’t hear the conversation, but you saw her face fall. Security flanked them moments later.
Charles returned a few minutes later and wrapped an arm around your waist, pressing a kiss behind your ear.
“She won’t bother you again. Or anyone else.”
Later that evening, tucked in your hotel bed, his hand slid beneath your shirt.
“Still thinking about it?” you asked softly.
He kissed your shoulder. “Only how I should’ve found her sooner.”
You turned in his arms, straddling his lap. “You’re not responsible for every idiot with a Twitter account, Cha.”
His hands gripped your thighs. "Non. But I am responsible for making you feel safe."
You leaned forward, brushing your nose against his. "I feel safe."
His lips were slow, reverent, then suddenly needy. His hands pulled your underwear aside and you gasped into his mouth.
“You’re mine,” he whispered into your skin, over and over. “Only mine.”
----
Fan Footage, Later That Week:
A blurry video of Charles sneaking a kiss against your neck before heading into the team garage. Captioned: “he’s obsessed with her and I love that for him.”
A Polaroid posted to your Instagram: your feet resting on Charles’s lap in the motorhome, coffee cups on the table, his hand on your thigh. Caption: quiet moments.
Another clip from a fan outside the paddock: Charles lifting your suitcase out of the car while wearing your name embroidered on the back of his jacket.
----
Twitter Aftermath
@f1gossipgirl: charles leclerc handled that like a KING. his wife is off limits, period.
@slowmoferrari: she didn’t even flinch. queen behavior.
@theylovecarles: charles removing a fan for disrespecting yn, then going out and qualifying P1? the husband energy is CRAZY.
----
That night, as you curled into his chest, Charles whispered, “They’ll never understand what you mean to me.”
You smiled against his collarbone. “They don’t have to.”
He kissed your hair, heart steady now. “I’ll always protect you. Always.”
୨ৎ : featuring : boyfriend!charles x reader
୨ৎ : synopsis : charles, the man who loves saving all your voicemails just to hear your voice when he misses you
୨ৎ masterlist ୨ৎ 10k event | masterlist ୨ৎ
ᡣ𐭩 a/n : so i lowkey forgot to upload yesterday .. whoops 😭 charles qp2, im proud but i hope ferrari can pull through for the race and get p1 he deserves it :(
you didn’t think much of it when charles missed your call. it happened sometimes—travel, media, meetings. his schedule could get intense, and you’d long ago stopped reading into the occasional missed ring.
so you left a voicemail. nothing fancy.
“hi baby,” you said softly, your voice a little sleepy. “no reason for the call really. i just miss you. that’s all. i’ll talk to you soon, okay? i love you.”
you hung up, tossed your phone onto the couch, and moved on with your day.
but halfway across the world, in a hotel room too cold and far too quiet, charles listened to your message three times before even thinking about moving.
and then, like he always did, he saved it.
it wasn’t the first one. not even close.
you found out by accident, days later, while borrowing his phone to look something up. he was in the shower, humming off-key to some playlist you'd made for him, and you were scrolling when the screen lit up.
a folder titled: y/n’s voicemails.
you blinked.
curious, you tapped it open.
16 saved entries.
sixteen.
some were short. some you didn’t even remember leaving. one was just you laughing because you’d accidentally pocket-dialed him and ended up narrating your entire walk home.
and yet… they were all there.
you pressed play on one from months ago.
“hey, i know you’re probably in the sim right now, but i just wanted to say i made that pasta you love and accidentally spilled all the sauce. please pretend to be impressed when i show you the mess later. okay. that’s all. love you, idiot.”
you smiled, heart warm and full.
when charles came back into the room, towel around his shoulders, he paused at the sight of you curled up on the bed, his phone pressed to your ear.
“you saved them,” you said quietly, blinking up at him.
he rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly sheepish. “i didn’t mean for you to find those.”
“why didn’t you tell me?”
he sat beside you, lifting your legs into his lap. “because they’re for me. when i miss you. when i can’t fall asleep. when everything feels too loud, and i need to remember what soft sounds like.”
your throat tightened. “charles…”
“i know they’re silly. i just—your voice calms me. even when it’s just you yelling about burnt cookies or asking if we have almond milk.”
you leaned forward and kissed his cheek, then his jaw, then the corner of his mouth.
“it’s not silly,” you whispered. “it’s perfect.”
he smiled, eyes soft and a little shy. “so… keep leaving them?”
you nodded. “always.”
and he pulled you into his arms like it was the only place he ever wanted to be.
♪ — 𝗟𝗘𝗧 𝗠𝗘 𝗣𝗔𝗬
charles leclerc x girlfriend! reader ( fluff )
fic summary . . . you take the opportunity to pay for dinner while Charles was distracted, he, of course, has to protest like an injured victorian woman in disbelief because what do you mean you paid? (0.4k)
( main master list | more of charles leclerc ) ( requests )
The two of you are curled on the couch, limbs tangled and blanket-draped, the TV casting soft light across Charles’s cheekbones while he’s too busy scrolling Deliveroo to notice your scheming.
“Pizza or Thai?” he mumbles, his voice already full of sleep and Monaco softness.
“Thai,” you say, leaning into him. “Craving spring rolls. And your spice tolerance is tragic.”
“I’m getting better!”
“You cried over medium spice last time.”
“It was emotional,” he pouts. “The rice was perfect.”
You giggle as he hands you the phone to confirm the order. “Okay, I’m getting my wallet, one sec—”
He slides off the couch, feet pat-patting toward the kitchen. It takes him all of six seconds.
Six seconds too long.
“Okay, here’s my card,” he says as he returns, holding it out like Simba at Pride Rock.
You glance up, already setting the phone down. “Oh, it’s done.”
He pauses mid-step. Blinks. “What?”
“I paid.”
“ . . . you what?”
“I already paid, Charles. It’s done.”
He freezes, staring at you like the app just cursed your firstborn.
“It’s done?” he echoes. “What do you mean it’s done? Is it free? Did they make it free for you?”
“No—”
“Then how is it DONE if I didn’t PAY?”
You burst out laughing as he kneels dramatically on the floor, still holding out the card like it might reverse time.
“I told you to wait!” he groans. “I was supposed to pay! It was my idea to order food!”
“You were too slow, Speed Racer.”
“I’m literally a professional driver! You cheated!”
You toss a cushion at him. He catches it, slumps over it like a fainting Victorian woman.
“This is humiliating,” he mutters into the couch. “I’m never going to financially recover from this.”
“It was thirty euros, Charles.”
“That’s not the point,” he says, crawling back onto the couch like a man defeated. “You’re my girlfriend. I am supposed to pay. I’m the one who spoils you. That is my job.”
You smirk, pulling him into your lap. “So let me spoil you for once.”
He grumbles something unintelligible against your hoodie.
“Sorry, what was that?”
“ . . . fine. But next time, I’m buying the entire menu. And dessert.”
“You always buy dessert.”
“I’m buying your future dessert cravings. All of them.”
You roll your eyes, kissing his forehead. “Deal. But only if you don’t cry over the spice level again.”
He lifts his head, utterly affronted. “You’re evil.”
a/n :: charles crumbs in the new chapter leaks i missed him sooo much :c also kaiser totally had me going FERALLL
childhood bestfriend! charles who you've known since birth. like genuinely, his birthday is one day before yours.
childhood bestfriend! charles who's mom is your mom's best friend from their school days and who's dad is also really good friends with yours. your family goes a long way apparently.
childhood bestfriend! charles who used to collect bugs whenever the two of you went out to play as kids, and would purposefully try to scare you with them.
childhood bestfriend! charles who you have sleepovers with way too often.
childhood bestfriend! charles who made up a fake language for the two of you to talk to in secret when it came to passing notes in class.
childhood bestfriend! charles who was your partner in everything: your buddy in school, your date to your first school dance, your partner in school projects, everything.
childhood bestfriend! charles who is always attached to the hip with you. hugs are no stranger when it comes to the both of you.
childhood bestfriend! charles who made sure your relationship was always the same, a comforting friendship. despite the two of you growing up, and the fact that the way you two acted could've been seen as non-platonic, he always made sure you never felt awkward or weirded out.
childhood bestfriend! charles who held you when a boy rejected you, comforting you and saying he wasn't worth your time.
childhood bestfriend! charles who hugs you, holds hands with you, always hangs out with you, and is always there with and for you.
childhood bestfriend! charles who never really had a love life of his own, why need another girl when everything 'couple related' was already being done with you?
childhood bestfriend! charles who you've been with since he first started playing football.
childhood bestfriend! charles who you support by going to every single one of his matches, regardless of how busy you were.
childhood bestfriend! charles who, in return, always came when you needed him. even if there was training, even if he was forced to do 10 laps around the field because he was late to practice, he'd do it if you wanted him to go with you somewhere afterschool.
childhood bestfriend! charles who told you first when he was scouted to play professionally for pxg.
childhood bestfriend! charles who calls you "mon bonbon" as a petname, despite it being an unconventional name. it's cute though, 'my candy' is totally cute. you're so sweet you give him a toothache.
childhood bestfriend! charles who everyone he knows, know about you. he talks about you so much and so endearingly, the people he talks to that you don't know (his teammates) practically know all about you already.
childhood bestfriend! charles who has so many inside jokes with you, every time the two of you are together is filled with laughter.
childhood bestfriend! charles who has a secret place he goes to, that the both of you found out together. he goes there whenever his mind is being a bit too active, even for him. and as fate would have it, more often that not, he'll see you running over there not too long after he arrives. he didn't even tell you he was going there, it's like you had some kind of spider sense to go.
childhood bestfriend! charles who also experiences the previously mentioned phenomenon, he always knows your mood and he's always the first to tell you exactly what you need to hear.
childhood bestfriend! charles who can only really focus on playing football seriously when you encourage him.
childhood bestfriend! charles who loki also knows, as loki calls you everytime charles is acting all contrarian. loki also uses you as a way to get charles off his freaking ass and to do his drills.
childhood bestfriend! charles who you, at some point, realized that you might have feelings for. this genuinely shook your world, as you started to think about your relationship with him.
childhood bestfriend! charles who noticed when you were slightly distancing from him, who noticed when you would react more to his touch than before, who couldn't tell why your relationship was changing.
childhood bestfriend! charles who pondered over and over if he did something, something to change the stillness and constance of your relationship.
childhood bestfriend! charles who you couldn't tell if he liked you back or not.
childhood bestfriend! charles who did like you back, but decided long ago he would never tell you.
childhood bestfriend! charles who thought it was okay not to tell you, for the sake of your friendship.
childhood bestfriend! charles who tried talking to you about your distance, but ended up being too busy from football taking over his schedule.
childhood bestfriend! charles who saw you text him, "our special place, in 10 minutes. please." the very instant you sent the message.
childhood bestfriend! charles who immediately got up, brushed his teeth, and then bolted for the door when he registered your message after reading it so many times.
childhood bestfriend! charles who runs quicker than he ever has before to your safehaven, like if he ran any slower, he'd lose you.
childhood bestfriend! charles who saw you across from him, walking as to the place at the same time as you stared at the ground.
childhood bestfriend! charles who called at your name without thinking, bringing you out of your daze.
childhood bestfriend! charles who, when you noticed him, you ran up to him as well. bringing him to a halt when you both stood directly across from each other.
childhood bestfriend! charles he was going to ask you what was up, but you already started speaking and you weren't stopping.
childhood bestfriend! charles who listened as your words registered to him. you confessed to him, tears welling up in your eyes as you complained how he could act like how you both acted was normal when it was anything but that.
childhood bestfriend! charles who you told you liked him, and all he could do was stare in awe.
childhood bestfriend! charles who hugged you before you could continue, hugging you so tightly like he was afraid you'd slip out of his grasp.
childhood bestfriend! charles who told you it was never just casual for him, and that he liked you back. screw that, he loved you. more than anyone or anything else.
childhood bestfriend! charles who said he didn't — no, he couldn't, be your boyfriend. not yet.
childhood bestfriend! charles who asked his parents over dinner if they'd give him permission to date you.
childhood bestfriend! charles who's parents obviously said yes.
childhood bestfriend! charles who immediately bought flowers the next day, after texting your parents asking if he could have lunch with just the two of them.
childhood bestfriend! charles who dressed nicely for once, preparing for that lunch with your parents. who made sure to bring the freshest bouquet of flowers, and your dad's favorite chocolate as well.
childhood bestfriend! charles who got your parents to force you out of the house, under the guise of heavily encouraging you to go to the mall with some of your friends or something.
childhood bestfriend! charles who had a private lunch at your house with your parents, where he asked for permission for them to allow him to date you.
childhood bestfriend! charles who obviously got the approval extremely quickly, and he thanked them so heavily.
childhood bestfriend! charles who took you out on a date, where he officially asked if he could be your boyfriend.
childhood bestfriend! charles, your very corny, cheesy, and hyperactive bestfriend, who you could now call your boyfriend.
a/n :: i had so much fun writing this !! i hope you guys enjoyed this hehe theyre so freaking cute i love charles my baby
thank you for reading !! ᢉ𐭩 please consider reblogging, commenting, or sending an ask if you enjoyed, it would really motivate me hehe! do not feed into ai, copy, translate, edit, or repost, any of my content on any platforms. this is my only account.
