#cl16 fic

[eicsferrari]

Sugar Talking - cl16, op81

summary the f1 season is over and yn is still learning how to handle things

a/n just as a heads up, there's a little written part. it's been so long since i narrated like that (and in english!) so pls be kind to me. and i hope you enjoy this update<3 love yall

series masterlist • masterlist

08. Manchild

yourusername lost somewhere

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user look at you omg you have never looked better

user great book!

yourusername i LOVE emily henry, i'm so eager to watch the people we meet on vacation movie!!

user it looks amazing i'm so jealous

flavybarla 🔥🔥

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📍 italy

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yourusername change of scenery

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user that tan!! so hot

user you look so much happier

yourusername ty<3 a much needed break clearly

user a goddess

haileyln i know i told you to go but pls come back ,,,

yourusername looks like someone misses me

haileyln pffffffff no, it's just bc of the bakery

yourusername yeah the bakery sure

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back home🤍

♥︎oscarpiastri liked your story

♥︎charlesleclerc liked your story

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flavybarla posted a story

my personal photographer is back // & the group is back together

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💄💋 // flavybarla // why is he literally this emoji🧍‍♂️

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↪oscarpiastri 😔😔

yourusername you still look cute tho

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hello we stole yn's phone<3 // georgieeeeee

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"I'm just tipsy," I protest. "I can make it home by myself."

Oscar doesn't look convinced —probably because I keep stumbling over my own heels. And I drank all those shots with Max half an hour ago.

"I can go home with Flavy and Estie," I negotiate.

"You're not making a strong case here, yn. They went home an hour ago. They said goodbye to you before leaving".

Oops.

I grab his arm to regain balance. We are almost at the door when Charles appears in front of us. He's wearing that shirt I got him for our first anniversary with the first buttons undone and my mind wanders to places it shouldn't. I shake my head to get rid of the thoughts.

He alternates his gaze between the two of us, "Everything ok?"

"It's fine," answers Oscar. "I'm just taking her home."

I start to protest but neither of them look my way.

"I don't think that's a good idea," says Charles. "You've been drinking too, Oscar. I didn't. I can do it."

"That can't be true," I say. But I try to remember him drinking and I can't. I've been dancing and singing and drinking for hours and everytime i looked at Charles, he has been sitting with a bottle of water and staring. At me.

Oscar doesn't want to accept. But I know even though he's not drunk now, he's responsable enough to not get behind a wheel. Still, he looks at me.

"Are you sure that's ok? We can call an Uber."

Against my better judgment I nod and kiss his cheek. "I'll be ok, Osc. I want to sleep. And I need to get my feet out of these heels."

Oscar looks back at Charles.

"Text me when you drop her off."

Charles nods and turns to me. "Do you want me to carry you?"

I shake my head. "I can do it."

"Ok but let me know if that changes. My car is this way."

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My head is resting against the car window. The lights dance and play tricks with my drunken mind as we move swiftly through the streets of Monaco.

I look at Charles driving. I remember thinking long ago, when we were together, how driving would always be his one true love —but maybe I could be his second. I laugh at that thought now.

Charles spares me a glance. “What are you laughing about?”, he asks curiously.

I chuckle, “Nothing.”

He doesn't believe me but he doesn't push it.

"I had fun tonight."

"You looked like you did," he smiles fondly. "You danced the night away. Probably why your feet hurt so much."

"You might be right."

A One Direction song starts. I get excited.

When we started dating, he lost a bet against me and this was all he was allowed to play in his car for six months. But I knew he secretly loved it, because afterwards it stayed our default music for car rides. And I hadn't been able to listen to a single song by them since the breakup.

Charles turns the volume up. I sing all the words to that song (and all the following ones) until we get home.

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I barely remember getting to my room. Probably because I had my eyes closed while Charles carried me.

Even though we spent more time at his place when we were dating than here, he is still too familiar with the layout of my house.

"Don't wake up Hailey or she'll kill me," I whisper, my face buried in the curve of his neck.

"I won't," he promises.

I try not to think of how different everything is now or the combination of alcohol and memories will make me cry. I do sniff him a little —for old time sakes.

He lays me gently on my bed and begins unbuckling my heels. They have a thousand little straps and there is no way I could get them off without help. I keep my eyes closed.

"Will this become tradition? You dragging my drunken ass home?"

"Perhaps. If it means ending the night with you, I'll take it."

I roll my eyes. "Smooth talker," I tease.

He shrugs, smirking. "You used to love it."

Even in my hazy state, I feel the conversation moving towards dangerous waters.

“So, how is it going with that actress?” I ask.

I would never ask that if I was sober. Luckily I am not.

“We broke up."

“Oh” I say. “That sucks, I’m sorry.”

He smiles with humor. “You are not.”

“I am not,” I concede.

“Want to gloat?” he asks. I cringe at the memory of those messages.

“Shut up.”

I hear his quiet laugh. It feels familiar. Too familiar.

"You and Oscar?"

"He apologized. We're just friends now."

He nods.

There's a lot unsaid in the air. I wish I could grab it and make it known. I wish I knew what's in his mind, if it mirrors mine. I miss the days when I felt like I could read him. Now the way we communicated feels like a dead language I can't decipher anymore.

“I'll hate myself for saying this in the morning. But all I ever wanted was you Charles. Not you being perfect. Just you. Being here. You know that, right?”

He sighs heavily as he takes my last heel off. “I know.”

I expect for him to say more. I need him to say more. But he doesn't.

“Why did you two break up?".

He tucks me in bed but doesn't make eye contact.

"You know why."

"Say it."

He sighs. "Yn..."

"Say it," I implore.

He kisses my head. "She's not you."

He leaves a glass of water next to my bed. I close my eyes and hear him turn off the light.

He's about to leave when I speak again. "I love you, Charles. But a heart only breaks so many times."

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yourusername up all night

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georgerussell63 a fellow directioner i knew i liked you🤝🏼

carlossainz55 delete

yourusername nope😝

carlossainz55 i take back what i said last night about missing you

yourusername sorry you can't. no take backs. you said i was like your hermanita and i have witnesses😊

lando anyone else remembers the night in pieces?

maxverstappen1 🙋‍♂️🙋‍♂️

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taglist

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[to be added]

[loveandhatex]

CL16 - Everything or nothing?

Summary - Whilst you claw at any chance to gain a sense of control, Charles blames himself for being too much and not enough at the same time, but was it really his fault? Or are you just sick?

Warnings - Angst, disordered eating habits, unhealthy relationship with exercise, physical collapse / near fainting, mentions of guilt, self-blame, negative self-image, eating disorder.

Word count - 0.9k (948 words)

Timeline - Off season. 

Pairing - Charles Leclerc x girlfriend!reader

Masterlist <3

The air is thick and heavy in your lungs, wrapping around them like it’s trying to debilitate you rather than help you. You splutter aggressively but you don’t stop, feeling the ache in your knees as your feet hit the base of the treadmill like your life depends on it. 

Maybe it does.

Maybe the twisted sense of control that you demand from every aspect of your life all boils down to this singular moment; the amount of calories you burn right now, how far you can push yourself in this one workout session, how thin you can stretch yourself before it’s finally enough. 

Beads of sweat cling to your body, rolling down your face in jagged movements. It sneaks into crevices of your hands that are gripping the sleek black handle bars of the treadmill in Charles’ empty home gym, your knuckles white from the sheer force of your grip. 

At this point you don’t even realise that you’ve blocked out the sounds of your music blasting; another attempt of drowning out your thoughts. Or the pounding headache that feels like it’s trying to split you open with a thousand mini needles. Or the sound of Charles entering the room.

“Cherie?” He calls, stepping into the room properly yet you don’t acknowledge him, you’re too busy trying to block out your own thoughts to even contemplate entertaining anyone else's. 

He hesitates slightly, pausing mid step, silently watching you push yourself like you never have before. Charles knows that one wrong word could send you into a spiral. Shut-down mode. A state of distress.

Yet was saying the wrong thing worse than saying nothing at all? 

Charles’ muscles tense, a sense of helplessness falling into pace with the rapid pace of his heart and the forced thudding of your worn shoes against the treadmill. He can feel the bright red button blinking at him. Signalling to him. He knows that he should press that emergency stop button. He knows that it’s the right thing to do, but as his rough fingertips press down on the smooth button a sense of guilt tugs at his heart.

Realisation settles over your features as you slow down to the pace of the treadmill – eventually halting to a stop. 

“Charles, what are you doing–” You burst into a fit of coughs, each one tearing from your throat like it’s been held captive and you stumble off of the treadmill, knees betraying you with every step you go to make. 

Charles snakes an arm around your waist and you try to shove him away but your knees buckle once again. Your hands fall limp against Charles’ chest and you lean your head against him.

“Fuck, cherie.” He mutters, lowering the both of you to the floor whilst cradling the back of your head. He looks around frantically for a couple of seconds, eyes landing on your pale green water bottle before his hand shoots out to grab it so quickly that he almost knocks it over. “Here, have some of this.” He offers gently, opening it for you but you shake your head in defiance, pushing it away. 

Charles sighs, running his hand over his jaw in frustration – not at you, but at the situation. How had he managed to let it get this bad? How had he managed to ignore this for so long? How had he managed to allow this to happen at all? 

Your head falls back against the cold stone wall, but maybe it’s not the walls that’s cold, maybe it’s you. Everything feels cold nowadays – dull – like life has lost all of its purpose. Your eyes flutter shut, your lips part slightly and with every passing second Charles can feel the light of your bubbly personality slipping through his fingers. Vanishing into thin air.

“Why do you insist on doing this to yourself?” He asks, mostly to himself but once he starts it’s like he can’t stop. “Why do you insist on pushing yourself to your breaking point? It’s not good for your body. It’s not good for your mind. It’s not good for your–”

“But it feels good.” You whisper. You whisper it like it’s just another sentence. Like it was just another word. Like you didn’t you just utter something that meant everything like it meant absolutely nothing. 

“What feels good?” He asks carefully, knowing that now that he’s said it he can’t take it back. He can’t unhear the answer.

“Pushing myself to see the numbers. To feel the control; the control feels good.” You admit, the walls behind you absorbing the weight of your head that had been feeling far too heavy recently and Charles feels his soul shatter into a million pieces like a glass ballerina finally hitting the floor after falling for a lifetime.

Your words play on repeat in Charles’ mind when your breathing shallows out and your head falls to the side as you fall into a state of peace.

The control feels good.

The control feels good.

The control feels good.

Maybe he loved you wrong. Maybe the way he loved you made you this fragile. Maybe it was the media; deep down Charles knew about some of the things the media had said about you, even if he pretended he didn’t and now he wonders if he was the one who drove you to this point?

Was this all his fault? Did he love you too much? Not enough?

Did he allow the media too much insight into your life? Was it even the media at all? Was it everything or nothing or all of the things that fall between those two categories?

Was it all his fault? 

love and hate

-a

[honeybadgerlena]

take it out on me | cl16

author’s note: this is really just.. angry sex. don’t have much more to say. i was thinking about those pictures of charles where he’s just pissed and having the tense conversation, and my next logical thought was ‘i need him to rail the shit out of me when he’s pissed off,’ so here you go!! charles literally fits the tortured prince narrative so well i don’t make the rules

warnings: 18+ content (minors dni), angry sex, fingering, oral (f receiving), unprotected sex, creampie, brief mentions of choking

word count: 2.4k

the door slams closed loud enough that you swear it rattles the frame of the building. it stops whatever lame excuse bryan is trying to explain to charles about what went wrong in the session, the tension rolling off of him in waves. you can hear the heavy steps he’s making, surely pacing around his driver’s room. the sheer silence in the surrounding area makes every sound from in the room audible, and you can hear him letting out a string of curses in french.

you follow the path he’d made through the garage, finding him pacing like a caged animal in the ferrari hospitality room. his suit is peeled halfway down around his waist, the red fireproofs clinging to every tense muscle.

the sight alone makes you salivate, watching his jaw lock with anger and frustration as he brings his hands up to push through his hair. the bridge of his nose and cheeks are flushed with the lingering heat of the circuit, and he keeps fidgeting with the rings he slipped back on his thick fingers.

he looks like he’s about to explode.

“charles,” you say quietly, brows knit in concern.

“putain de merde,” he grits out, his fist slamming into the table near him. the sound echoes through the room, and your breath hitches slightly. “fucking shit car. every session, something fucks it. i had pace, i had a stellar lap.. and then..” he trails off, gesturing wildly as he can’t find the right words to articulate his frustration.

you approach him cautiously, like he’s on the verge of exploding, because in this state he’s in, you wouldn’t be surprised.

“i watched, baby,” you murmur. “it wasn’t your fault.”

he scoffs bitterly, his lip curling with anger as his stormy emerald eyes meet yours. “that doesn’t fucking matter, does it?” he snaps. the look in his eyes is nothing short of molten rage, the shame of a bad performance burning alongside behind his thick lashes. “doesn’t matter who is at fault. i am starting thirteenth, behind a fucking sauber, merde..”

“then you do what i know you can do, charles,” you murmur, watching him like he’ll crack under your gaze. “fight through the field. race like you mean it.”

“i always race like i mean it,” he grits out, his jaw twitching. “and it has not been enough. maybe i should just-”

“stop,” you cut him off, his eyes widening a fraction at the stern tone he picks up on. “you’re spiraling, baby.”

“i’m fucking pissed,” he snarls.

“i know.”

your tone makes him wince, his fists clenching so hard that his knuckles are white from the strain. “i just need to..” he trails off, his chest heaving with the shallow, angry gasps of air he’s taking in. “i need to hit something, break something..”

you grab his wrist before he can rear back for another harsh slam into the table or the wall nearby. “you don’t need to break anything. but you can take it out on me.”

he freezes as soon as the words leave your mouth, his eyes darting down to the grip you’re holding his wrist in. he opens his mouth to say something, but nothing comes out.

your heard it hammering in your chest, a blush rising to your cheeks when you see his eyes darken.

“don’t..” he starts, the heated rage behind his eyes shifting into something else. “don’t say that unless you mean it, mon cœur.”

you step closer to him, pressing your body flush to his. his skin is burning hot under the fireproofs he still has on, and his pulse is hammering. “i do mean it. you need a release. you’re pissed off and angry. use me, charles. let it go.”

his eyes search your face for a long while, and then his mouth surges forward to meet yours.

it’s not a normal kiss, it feels like a claim. your lips move against his, messy and uncoordinated, full of teeth and tongue. he bites down into your bottom lip, groaning when you open up more for him with a breathy gasp. his hands grip your hips so tight that you know you’ll have the imprint of his hands there tomorrow, and you love it.

you love it when he loses control, when he’s angry and horny and takes it out on your pussy. the thought of him fucking you when he’s this worked up already has you clenching down around nothing, and he seems to notice.

“you don’t know what you’re asking for,” he hisses against your pliant mouth.

“i do,” you retort, grinning slightly. “and i want it.”

he walks you backwards and pushes you up against the wall, and your shirt is up over your head and yanked off like it offended him. his hands find your tits, squeezing them, fingers rolling and pinching your nipples until you whimper against his mouth.

“you like this, don’t you?” he growls, and the tone of his voice almost makes your legs give out right then and there. “you like it rough, mon ange?”

“yes, charles please,” you moan, eyes fluttering shut.

“good. i’m not going to be gentle with you.” he growls, licking and biting his way down until he’s sucking a nipple into his mouth, teasing the bud with his teeth. you gasp at the sensation, arching up into him. one of his hands slips under your waistband, yanking your skirt and panties down in one harsh motion. you step out of them, already soaked as he moves his head to bite at your other tit.

“fuck, you’re soaking,” he hisses, his large fingers spreading your wetness over your cunt.

“charles, please-”

he cuts off your pleas by sliding two of his fingers inside you without warning. you choke on a moan as your head falls back against the wall, your hands going to claw at any part of him you can get a grip on.

he fucks you with his fingers, fast and rough, curling to press against the spot he knows makes you see stars. his eyes are glued to your face like he’s trying to memorize every broken sound you make.

“you feel that, amour?” charles mutters against your chest. “this pussy is mine. you belong to me.”

“yours,” you pant, your mouth dropping open as you moan again. “all yours, charles, fuck..”

he pulls his fingers out and pushes them into your mouth, muffling the loud moan you let out at the lewdness of the action.

“good girl,” he purrs. “taste yourself.”

you lick them clean, whining softly around his fingers as he watches you with dark eyes. he curses under his breath as you look up at him with your lashes fluttering.

he drags you to the couch, practically throwing you down on it. before you can even say anything, he’s pushing your legs apart, dropping to his knees between your trembling thighs.

“don’t move,” he grits out, sucking a mark into the flesh of your thigh. “don’t move an inch.”

you barely nod before his mouth crashes against your wetness, his tongue licking a stripe up the center of your cunt. you let out a yelp as your hips twitch up towards his mouth despite his warnings.

his palms press against you, pinning you down to the couch as he spreads you open further, licking at your dripping folds with a rapid desperation.

“charles, oh my god- please don’t stop..”

he eats you out like he’s trying to force his frustration into making you come apart as quickly as he can on his tongue, and it’s working. you tangle a hand in his hair, whimpering as he moans into your cunt, messy and lewd, a few of his fingers pushing back into your tight heat.

“so wet, all for me, mon dieu, you taste fantastic..”

you let out a cry as he presses the slightly calloused heel of his palm against you, grinding it roughly as he sucks a mark into your thigh.

your orgasm tears through you as you come with a loud moan, thighs trembling as you try to press them together against charles’ grip. he doesn’t stop, doesn’t let up, sucking your clit into his mouth and working you through it until you’re gasping and twitching, whimpering little desperate pleas of his name.

charles finally pulls back, his chin wet and his lips glistening with your juices. “now you’re nice and ready for me..”

your face flares with heat as he tugs the fireproof shirt off over his head, your eyes scanning over his muscular torso. he climbs over you, the heat of his body overwhelming. his race suit and boxers were pushed down further in the haze, and you feel the heavy weight of his cock against your thigh.

you reach down, wrapping your hand around him, and he curses as his hips stutter forward in your grip. “i want you inside me, now,” you sigh, dragging the head of his cock through your wetness.

charles practically growls in approval, watching your hand stroke his length as his hips roll forward into your grip.

“then fucking take it.”

he thrusts in, burying himself fully inside you and you cry out, your nails digging into his back. the stretch of him pushing inside feels so good, and your eyes roll as he immediately sets a brutal pace.

“fuck,” he groans. “you’re so tight, so good.. fuck..”

charles slams into you again and again, the sound of his hips slapping against your flushed skin filling the room. you take whatever he’ll give you, the snap of his hips knocking small breathy moans from your mouth.

“look at you,” he pants, eyes still full of silent fury. “letting me fuck my anger out.. letting me use you like this..”

“you needed it,” you whine, gripping the muscular expanse of his back. “i wanted to help you, fuck charles- wanna be good..”

he grips your chin, his stormy eyes meeting yours. “you’re perfect,” he purrs, a sadistic grin slipping onto his face. “tellement parfait..”

you cry out as you clench around him, and he feels it, his jaw tense as he groans. he’s so fucking deep, so good, you feel your brain short-circuiting.

“you like that, hm?” charles grits out, his hand trailing down to wrap loosely around your throat. “you like me calling you perfect while i ruin you?”

you nod, eyes rolling as you cry out, raking your nails down his back. you clench around him again as he puts pressure behind his hand on your throat, feeling his rhythm stutter as you try to keep him as close to you as you can.

“i’m going to come inside you, fill you up so well..” he mutters, leaning down to kiss you roughly. “you want it?”

“yeah, charles, please- fuck..” you sob, your second orgasm crashing into you so hard you swear your vision goes white for a second.

he moans as he tucks his head into your neck, biting at the sweat-dampened skin. “so good, your cunt is divine, j’aime ta chatte,” he mumbles, fucking you through the aftershocks until he slams deep and stays there, coming with a choked groan.

charles’ entire body tenses as he spills into you, and you whine as you feel his cock twitching, filling you up. you pull him impossibly closer to your pliant body, even though he’s still buried deep inside you.

the only sound in the room now is your combined ragged breathing, uneven gasps of air coming in and slowly returning to normal. charles is panting against your neck, and you hum as you let your fingers run along his spine.

“feel better?” you muse, your voice slightly hoarse from moaning so much as he wrecked you.

charles lets out a breathless laugh against your collarbone, his lips pressing a soft kiss to your skin. “much better,” he murmurs. he shifts on the couch, groaning as his cock slides in deeper with the movement, you letting out a small overstimulated whimper.

“sorry, je suis désolé,” he moans, but he doesn’t make any effort to move out of you. “fuck, baby, i needed that.. you don’t even know.”

you let out a soft laugh, tilting your head back so you can meet his gaze. “i think i do,” you mumble. his hair is a mess from your frantic hands, and his eyes are glowing with satisfaction and the last hint of anger he holds onto. “fucked me so good, love. you were so good to me.”

his eyes skim your face like he’s trying to remember every feature of you, flushed and glowing with the smallest sheen of sweat on your chest. he kisses you again, slower this time, like he needs to savor it now that he’s calmed down.

“je t’adore,” he whispers against your lips, his nose brushing against yours as he pulls back.

he finally starts to soften inside you, and he pulls out slowly, watching the way your body shudders at the sensation. his thumb brushes down to your stomach, over the place where he was just buried inside you. his hand trails lower, gently swiping at the mess now leaking from between your thighs.

“you’re dripping with me, mon ange,” he mutters, voice full of something close to awe. “you’re so perfect..”

your lashes flutter at the feeling of his fingers between your legs again. “gonna keep it in for good luck tomorrow,” you muse, giggling quietly as charles lets out a broken groan at the thought.

his thumb catches some of the slick as it drips out, and he lifts his hand to your lips. “open up.”

you do, watching with dark eyes as he pushes his thumb in, sucking on it with a contented hum. his pupils dilate as he mutters a string of curses under his breath, pulling back with a slick pop.

charles lets out a groan as he settles beside you on the couch, dragging you to rest against his chest. your legs slide together lazily, the room still humid with the scent of sweat and sex.

he runs his palm against your back as your cheeks rests against his chest, his voice soft and not nearly as heated as it was when he first slammed that door shut earlier. “thank you,” he says quietly. “for letting me.. have that.”

“you didn’t do anything i wasn’t begging you to give me,” you tease, your hand tracing patterns into the muscular curve of his pecs below you. “you needed an outlet, and i needed you.”

he kisses the top of your head and exhales deeply, like the final thread of tension finally broke off from his mentality. “i’ll win tomorrow,” he mutters, more to himself than to you. “i’ll fight for it.”

you let out a contented hum, nuzzling into his chest more. “i know you will.”

[sainz43]

LOMBARDI WALKS !

Former Prema teammate to Charles Leclerc and current Ferrari reserve driver Antonella Lombardi voices intentions to sign with Cadillac’s Minerva Racing Team in 2025, just three days after Lewis Hamilton Announces His Move To Ferrari.

With less than a month until the 2024 season begins, it seems that things are already heading up in the paddock. Only three days after Seven Time World Champion Lewis Hamilton announced his departure from Mercedes at the end of the 2024 season, Ferrari reserve driver Antonella Lombardi has announced her intentions to leave Ferrari to drive for Cadillac’s Minerva Racing Team in their inaugural 2025 season.

Motorsport enthusiasts remember when the grandniece of the late Lella Lombardi stepped onto the Formula 2 track for the first time alongside her Prema teammate, Charles Leclerc. Leclerc would be the first to depart from Prema to drive with Sauber in 2018. Two years later, Lombardi would join the Monégasque driver at Ferrari, where she was signed on as a reserve driver in 2020 prior to the COVID-19 pandemic.

Even then, Lombardi made it clear that she intended to go further in her racing career. She is quoted saying “It’s an honor and a dream of mine to be able to race for Ferrari. I think I, like most women in the sport, are all hoping for more permanent positions on the grid. I hope to one day score points in red.”

A hope that would not come to pass it seems — rumors at present are that Lombardi may have felt slighted by Ferrari’s decision to sign Hamilton as opposed to herself in order to fill Carlos Sainz’s seat. This has led to debate online as well as speculation among Formula One enthusiasts— some declaring that Lombardi is acting entitled, whereas others believe that she’s doing what is best for her career.

Ferrari, like many other teams, has come under fire in the past for “performative” behavior in signing women into reserve driver roles, knowing that their opportunities to race are entirely dependent on the health of the two main, typically male drivers. Witnessing Vettel’s poor 2020 performance, Formula 1 Twitter promptly began to trend #LetLombardiRace, although no action was taken by Ferrari, and Carlos Sainz was signed for Ferrari on a two-year deal starting in 2021.

When asked for comment, Ada Caspari, former Williams test driver, Prema strategist, and current Team Principal of Cadillac had this to say:

“Getting women into the role of reserve driver was an important step forward, but that cannot be where it ends. Every team on the grid must do better. Otherwise it becomes pandering. If Cadillac must be the first then I am proud to have my name attached to it. The reserve seat has lost its novelty.”

Cadillac have yet to announce their secondary driver, who they have expressed they would like to be from the United States. With a similar limited pool of female drivers in the acclaimed Indianapolis500, the same names are often brought up, also Caspari has refused to comment on who it is that the team is looking at. All of which to say, the excitement is only just beginning as we countdown the days to the 2024 season.

BACK TO THE MASTERLIST !

[honeybadgerlena]

tangled up | cl16

author's note: i really wanted to write something angsty, but it turned into this (oops). this has been sitting in my drafts since before last season ended, just finally got around to zhuzzing it up and cleaning it!

warnings: none! only thing to fear in this fic is my insanely elementary french vocabulary usage and charles being a flirt :p

word count: 2.1k

the linen sheets under your body are the first sign that you aren’t in your own room. the second is the bare chest you feel against your back. you squeeze your eyes shut once more before opening them, pushing off the arm draped across your torso.

oh.

oh.

it all makes perfect sense now. bits and pieces of the previous night come rushing to your memory, how you stumbled out of the bar with some random guy and into his bedroom. the rumpled sheets wrap around his body in a way that makes you want to curl back in and not get up.

you silently scoot off the bed, looking for your clothing from the night before. you look down at the large shirt you have on, brows furrowing when you see it’s a ferrari shirt. you get dressed haphazardly, slipping out of the comfortable shirt and back into your dress you’re certain you left the bar in. with your heels in hand, you pad towards the exit, freezing when you hear the unmistakable noise of the man waking up.

he rolls to the side, and you’re now able to see his face as his eyes blink open. oh, you are so fucked.

charles’ hair is messy from rolling around in the sheets, and it makes you blush as he cracks an eye open to look at you.

he blinks, his eyes still weighed down by sleep when recognition passes over his face. his expression shifts, the corner of his mouth quirking up into a lazy grin that has your chest tightening. the same grin you’ve seen thousands of times, but never aimed at you in the soft morning glow feeding in from the window.

“morning,” he mumbles, voice rough with sleep. his eyes trail over you, observing your stance with curiosity. “are you okay?”

you nod, your heart still hammering against your ribs. what the fuck happened last night? more importantly, how did you end up in bed with your brother’s teammate? there are bits and pieces of memories you can recall; you laughing with him and some of the others in the group, his hand resting on the small of your back, the phantom sensation of his stubble pressed into the crook of your neck- all feels distant and foggy, like a dream you can’t fully remember.

“i um, i have to go..” you stammer, voice entirely unsteady and unconvincing. you slip your heels on, avoiding his gaze as if your life depends on it. “i never.. i didn’t mean for any of this to-”

“chérie,” he cuts off your rambling, genuine concern in his voice. the nickname makes heat rise to your cheeks, darkening when he pushes himself up in the bed, the sheets sliding down to reveal more of his bare torso. “you don’t need to run off like that. we’re fine, non?”

you feel like you’re barely breathing. we’re fine? how could he be so calm about this? you’re his teammate’s sister, for fuck’s sake. the guilt is gnawing at you, and the uncertainty about what actually went down last night is making everything worse in your head.

his accent is rich even in english, and you could swear he’s trying to make this easier with his natural charm. “it’s fine. we’re adults, yes? no need to be embarrassed.”

you can’t tell if his nonchalance is making the situation better or worse. “but,” you try to protest, struggling to find the words you need. “i don’t even remember what..”

“calme-toi,” he cuts you off again, his voice still tired, but also surprisingly reassuring to your nervousness. ”you’re.. worried about your brother, yes?” he raises a brow at you, and you see the subtle shift in his expression.

you feel like your heart is in your throat, beating so hard you’re sure charles can hear it. of course he knows why you’re panicking. carlos would kill you, or charles, if he found out. your stomach is practically twisting itself into knots about the idea of him finding out about this. about the way you’re currently standing by the door of charles’ bedroom, your dress wrinkled from a night you don’t fully remember, while he’s lounging back against the pillows like this is a normal occurrence.

“i just..” you swallow thickly, looking anywhere but at him and his toned chest. your lips press into a thin line as you wring your hands together.

“mon dieu, you look like you’re about to pass out,” he mutters, voice warm. “come sit down and take a breath, s'il te plaît.”

the spoken french makes a muscle in your jaw twitch. he’s so ridiculous with his smooth composure, and it only serves to make the situation worse because of how your heart feels like it practically skips a beat.

you shake your head again, rummaging through your bag in search of your phone. “no, this was.. this was a mistake, charles.” you look at where he’s still at on the bed, his expression faltering before he quickly masks it.

“a mistake.” he echoes, sounding much more calm about the situation than you do. “we can call it that if you’d like. but you do not have to run away like i am some terrible man, chérie.”

you huff out a bitter laugh, running a hand through your hair as you lean against his door, fully facing him. “you can’t.. don’t call me that.”

he raises a brow at your denial, the grin on his face growing. “pourquoi pas?”

you let out an irritated sigh, crossing your arms over your chest. “because i said so,” you snap, though you don’t actually have any real reason. internally you know it’s because it makes last night feel less like a mistake, because you already know this is dangerous territory even being in the same room as him.

charles grins, apparently entertained by your apparent internal conflict. “no more chérie,” he agrees, quickly continuing before you have a chance to let out a relieved sigh. “what about mon ange?”

“charles.”

“ma princesse?”

“charles!”

“oui, mon cœur?”

you let out a groan, covering your face with your hands. “you’re absolutely unbelievable.” you mutter, hating how you feel something warming inside you with his unabashed charm.

he laughs, and it’s frustrating that even his laugh is charming. “relax, mon ange,” he muses, stretching with a yawn.

you look at him through a gap in your fingers that still cover your face. “carlos is going to kill me,” you mutter, looking away from charles and his ridiculously smug and perfect and so unfairly attractive face.

“i believe you should calm down, belle,” he says, voice smooth and comforting despite your panic. “nothing happened.”

your head snaps to him, eyes wide. “what?”

he smiles at you, raising a brow in amusement as the crooked grin on his face grows. “nothing happened,” he repeats, studying you closely. “not in that way, at least.”

you stare at him for a second longer, waiting for the punchline to come, but it doesn’t. you let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, relief flooding through you. you didn’t hook up. the tension eases up before you realize you still don’t know how you ended up here with him.

“see?” he sighs, stretching his arms over his head as he yawns. “no need to look so panicked. did you really think we-”

“i don’t know what i thought!” you snap, cutting him off as a twinge of embarrassment settles into your stomach. “i woke up in your bed, next to you, and i don’t remember everything so forgive me for assuming the worst.”

charles grins again, and you blush at the way he looks at you. “so sleeping with me would be the worst thing to happen?” he hums, tilting his head.

you groan, head going to rest on the wall behind you. “i- that’s not what i meant, charles.”

he lets out a sarcastic sigh, shaking his head. “you wound me, truly,” he murmurs, the corners of his eyes crinkling up when he smiles at you again. “but no, we didn’t hook up. you were.. tipsy, sweet. we talked quite a bit, laughed.”

you press your lips together as he smiles at you, his attention making you feel warm. “we just.. talked?” you– how did we end up here?”

“i mean, we did leave the bar together. we had a few drinks here as well, but i would never try to take advantage of you like that, mon ange,” charles answers smoothly, watching you closely. “you were quite adorable, though. very chatty.”

you sit there listening to him explain, feeling more at ease with the current situation. your chest doesn’t feel like it’s going to cave in on itself anymore, still feeling the heat lingering in your face at the idea of hooking up with him. “i woke up in your clothes, though.” you mumble, feeling somehow sheepish now standing in front of him.

“tu t'es fatiguée. you fell asleep on my shoulder. i assumed you’d be more upset if i let you sleep uncomfortably in that dress on my couch,” he explains, the easiness in his tone making you let out a sigh of relief. “you were quite clingy, though. très mignon.”

your eyes widen slightly. “i was what?”

he laughs at your expression, clearly enjoying this too much for your liking. “you didn’t want to let go of me when i got you in here and let you change. i tried to move, but you were very insistent on holding onto me.” he muses, and your face flares with heat. “something about how comfortable and nice i am when i am not being annoying,”

you let out a wince, covering your mouth with your hand. “oh my god i did not.”

“you refused to let me leave, so i stayed and we fell asleep.” charles hums, pulling the covers off of himself to scoot to the edge of the bed. your eyes trail down to focus on the grey sweatpants he’s wearing, hating how your mouth feels like it goes dry at the sight of him in nothing but those with his sleep-ruffled hair.

you let out a nervous laugh, sighing as you let your head rest against the doorframe again. “why didn’t you just..” you trail off, not knowing how to ask the question.

charles shrugs, his eyes hard to read. “i respect you. you’re not just some random girl i’d hook up with once and want to leave in the morning.”

the words make your breath catch, the honesty in his eyes making a different feeling bloom in your chest. the array of emotions you’ve felt since waking up in his bed is making your slight headache from last night worse, chewing on your bottom lip as you watch him look up at you from his place on the edge of his bed. you still feel like you should be leaving, rushing home before someone, specifically carlos, asks where you are.

“so,” he starts, stretching out again with the self-assured smile back on his face that makes your heart jump for reasons you’re trying your best to ignore. “you’ll stay for breakfast? we can pretend you didn’t almost run off without talking this morning.” he teases, tone light.

you hesitate, unsure if he’s serious about such a casual offer, especially after he just told you you clung to him practically all night. “breakfast?” you repeat, looking at him.

“coffee, croissants,” he muses, standing up from the bed to walk closer to you. “just.. stay. i promise i won’t bite. unless you want me to.”

your face burns with heat, smacking his arm as he approaches you. “charles.” you admonish, though you can’t help the small grin on your face, especially as he laughs easily in return. “fine. breakfast and coffee.. sounds nice.”

his grin widens at your acceptance, offering his hand to you. “it’d be my pleasure, ma chérie.”

you roll your eyes, but your smile also grows as you accept his hand, letting him lead you into the main room of his flat. there’s something that’s shifted in the air with your acceptance to stay, even if it is just for a meal and some caffeine. it feels easy being here now, and you’re starting to believe him when he says that last night was no big deal.

maybe it’s because he’s impossible to resist, even when he’s teasing you and driving you up the wall with his stupid pet names.

maybe it’s because you and him both know that you wouldn’t have gone home with someone else last night even if the option presented itself.

and maybe it is a mistake to stay any longer with him here, but you can’t bring yourself to care about anything past the walls of this space when he’s looking at you like that.

[forzalayla]

Hey guys!!

Sorry I kind of disappeared, I've had alot going on recently but when I just checked back in on my page I realised, I'm at 50 followers! This is so crazy to me, I've only posted two things so thank you all so so much.

I'd love to start posting more regularly but I honestly have no idea where to start, so I would really appreciate some requests. I will write for any driver (formula 1 or 2) so please send something in, dont be shy!!

Layla ❤️

[piastrification]

Pay It Forward (OP81 x Reader x CL16 x MV33)

0.9k words

After the success that Oscar had at his last home race (Monaco, not Australia), the logical conclusion he comes to is that more home races equals more good race days for him. Naturally, he tries for an adoption once more.  

Consider this a sequel (or interlude) of sorts to this fic. I'd suggest to read that one first- I feel like this fic won't make sense without doing so.

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The Dutch Grand Prix is… somewhere on the calendar. How do you feel about giving Jimmy and Sassy an older brother @/maxverstappen33 ?

“Not this shit again, Osc.” You groan, smacking your boyfriend’s shoulder. 

Oscar, who is sitting on the couch beside you, just gives you a bashful grin. Brown eyes are sparkling when they meet yours. “Are you complaining, love? I mean, it seems like I do well at my home races, so might as well add more to the list.” 

“Nah,” you respond, shrugging your shoulders. Max had been your original Formula 1 crush, if you were being completely honest with yourself. If he’d asked you out before Oscar did, you would have said yes- no doubt about it. “Just saying though, you practically combusted on the spot the last time you did this, with Charles.” 

“Are you talking about me behind my back, amours?” 

Both your and Oscar’s heads turn to look behind the couch, where your other boyfriend’s voice had emerged from. Charles emerges from the shower, his brown hair still damp, little droplets of water falling onto the fabric of the sweater he’s wearing. His eyebrows are lifted inquiringly, but there’s a soft look on his face as he looks at the both of you, the corners of his lips curving upwards. 

“Oscar’s daddy issues are showing themselves again,” you deadpan, rolling your eyes exaggeratedly at the Monegasque. You let out a small chuckle before you continue speaking. “You could just say you want a cat. If this turns out anything like last time…”

Get access to the full 0.9k fic and more exclusive works on Patreon!

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[piastrification]

Goldfish (CL16 x Reader x OP81)

1.3k words

Apparently, a boring day for Oscar meant acquiring a future father-in-law for you. You come to discover that that is not exactly what Charles had in mind. Alternatively; the aftermath of the Piastri-Leclerc adoption.

Just a quick blurb in honor of Charles breaking the Monaco curse, and the Monegasque adoption.

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The whole ‘claiming every race as his home race’ thing had been funny- at first. 

Now, though? It was outright fucking hilarious. The pinnacle of comedy, you might even say, you muse to yourself as you like the tweet that had started it all.

A grin starts to creep up on your face as you hear the door to the hotel room you share with your boyfriend open. 

“Osc, that you?” You call out, barely holding back your giggles. You have to clamp your hand over your mouth to muffle the laughter that’s already spilling from your lips.

Oscar walks into your line of sight shortly, in a plain black t-shirt and jeans, pressing a kiss to your forehead in greeting. “Knew you would be in here.”

Your boyfriend sets his bag down on the floor, then plops himself onto the soft mattress you’re lounging on, face-first. He stretches out, mewling ever so slightly in relief. 

“I missed you,” the Australian accent says, muffled by the pillow his face is currently buried in. “I love you so much.”

“I know you’re talking to the bed, but I love you too,” you mutter, stroking his back gently with your fingertips. “Anything interesting happen today?” 

“Just meetings today, honestly. Not much, pretty boring,” Oscar mumbles softly, shaking his head. His face is still in the pillow, and you can feel the tiredness emanating from every inch of his body. You almost want to lay off him for now, and rib him later.

 Almost. 

You decide to go for the kill anyway. 

“So getting me a new father-in-law was boring?” You ask innocently, the corners of your lips twitching- not that Oscar would have noticed, with how he’s still face planted into the king-sized bed. 

At your words, Oscar shoots up from his position on the bed, suddenly sitting up straight and alert. His usually pale cheeks are tinged with the slightest pink, his eyes wide and doe-eyed, as if you’d caught him stealing the last cookie from the cookie jar. Brown hair is sticking out from all directions, and you’re unable to restrain yourself any further, giggles escaping your lips at Oscar’s reaction (and the bird’s nest currently atop Oscar’s head).

Oscar’s reaction not only amuses you though. Your curiosity is piqued- you hadn’t expected such an intense reaction (in Oscar terms). At most, you’d expected a sarcastic quip, or a facepalm.

Instead, you get a blushy boyfriend, whose mouth is opening and closing like a goldfish, no words coming forth from his lips. 

Your laughter only increases tenfold. 

“If you wanted to invite gridmates to the wedding someday, you could’ve just told me. No need to go through an adoption,” you titter, your hand coming to cover your mouth coquettishly. “Jesus, Oscar. Next thing you’ll be telling me is you’re calling Lawrence Stroll daddy,”

Thin lips scowl at you, though there’s amusement behind the brown eyes- and still some embarrassment. Interesting. 

Charles isn’t even out of his fireproofs yet when he rushes over to the McLaren garage after the podium ceremony. 

Understandably, he’s still ecstatic at finally beating the Monaco curse. 

You’re a committed woman, but you aren’t blind. Charles Leclerc was attractive, there was no question. That man had a face card that would never decline. 

Right now, though? He looks absolutely stunning. The Monegasque is glowing with joy- it looks good on the usually morose man. His hair is messy, from the sweat and champagne, but he still looks like an absolute prince. His green eyes are ethereal. You don’t even realize that he’s approaching you and Oscar until you hear the Monegasque accent.

“Oscar, mate, well done!” 

Oscar, who had been drinking from his water bottle at this point, ends up choking on his water. Charles’ hand comes to clap Oscar’s shoulder affectionately- 

Oscar starts spluttering, his cheeks to the tips of his ears turning cherry red when he realizes that Charles is talking to him, and he hunches over, coughing and choking. 

“Oh shit, Osc.” You breathe out, hurriedly smacking him on the back, trying to help him calm down while you try to repress your amusement. “Are you okay?” 

“Can’t have you dying on me, Piastri-Leclerc,” Charles proclaims dramatically with a slight chortle, taking the bottle from Oscar’s hand while he’s still bent over, trying to catch his breath. “My baby boy cannot die before me!” 

A few deep breaths later, and Oscar is standing upright once more, face still tinted with pink, embarrassment apparent in the way his eyes avoid Charles’ gaze. “Don’t worry, ‘m fine. Congratulations on the race, Charles. Well played.”

“You better be!” The older driver exclaims, grinning widely, almost bouncing on his heels with giddiness. “I need you, both of you, tonight at Jimmyz. Have to celebrate the family 1-2!” 

Your eyes dart to Oscar, who once more, is doing his best portrayal of a goldfish. 

On most days, Oscar is a man of few words because he intends to be, preferring to reserve his energy for things he deems more important. Today, however, Oscar is a man of few words because he’s swooning over Charles Leclerc.

You can’t really blame him. 

You do, however, wonder how the hell you’d missed Oscar’s admiration of the pride of Monaco. Thinking back to earlier this week, when you’d last mentioned the adoption in your hotel room, though, you want to smack yourself in the face. You really shouldn’t be surprised. Oscar’s previous lectures on Charles as Prema’s golden boy should’ve been a neon sign in your face.  

Now that you think about it, Charles is the epitome of Oscar’s type. Pretty, kind, a tad bit unhinged- exhibit A, yourself. 

Charles choosing to head to the McLaren garage after his dream win, in his home country, where he is revered as a deity, gives you pause. His friends and family are in abundance in Monaco in particular- yet he’s here, personally inviting you and Oscar to his afterparty? 

Not subtle. 

You can’t seem to muster up any upset for this realization. Instead, your emotions are brimming with interest. 

While you’re musing to yourself about the possibility of getting to know Charles better (and perhaps, more intimately), Oscar seems to recover his composure. 

“Family 1-2, eh? We’ll be there.” 

“Family, huh?” You tease, twirling a lock of your hair on your finger, giving both Oscar and Charles teasing looks. You flick your eyes to brown, then to green, then finally take a moment to unsubtly rest your gaze on Charles’ soft pink lips. “Should we start calling you dad now, Monsieur Leclerc?” 

“I’d actually prefer daddy, thank you very much.” Charles retorts with what he thinks is a wink, and a wide grin, his wit still sharp as ever- even after the exertion required of a Grand Prix. “See you tonight, yes? Yes. You can get your water bottle back later. In my bedroom. We can have an afterparty of our own, oui?"

You give Charles a flirty smile of your own, batting your lashes at him. “We’ll dress nice, Charles. Our winner deserves a nice prize, after all.”

Oscar is only able to mutely nod, his eyes wide, a flush starting to creep up his neck. A tent also starts to make an appearance in his trousers. 

Charles gives you and Oscar a once-over, green eyes lingering on the crotch of Oscar’s trousers for a moment. The air almost seems to thicken with tension.

Oscar gulps, his hand coming to grasp yours, fingers tightening around your hand. His eyes are nervously darting around, still looking anywhere except Charles.

Charles is anything but fazed. He gives Oscar another poor attempt at a wink. “You’ll get used to calling me daddy real soon, Osc.”

With that, the Monegasque kisses both you and Oscar on the cheek, before disappearing back into the crowds outside the garage. 

Ten minutes later, Oscar is still in shock, and you’re still helpless to your giggles.

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