summary: you disappear for a week, come back with new hair, and accidentally start a cheating scandal that breaks the f1 internet.
pairing: charles leclerc x gf!reader
warnings: media/fan speculation, online harassment (mentioned), mild language, public rumor stress, miscommunication, fake cheating accusations, parasocial nonsense, use of y/n, established relationship (duh)
notes: sorry i've been so inactive gang 😔, i've got more midterms starting up and i've been so locked in with that + living my normal life that i've been neglecting writing LMAO BUT HERE YALL GO!! a cute lil smau fic to hold you over while i balance my shit 😝
f1 masterlist !
INSTAGRAM
yourusername
liked by charles_leclerc, carmenmmundt, carlossainz55 and others
yourusername, this weekend <3
view comments
charles_leclerc, ❤️ ♥︎ liked by creator
friend3, most beautiful girl 😏
— yourusername, you gon make me blush 😊
lilymhe, stop being cute it’s making the rest of us look bad 😭
— alex_albon, honestly.
— yourusername, LMAO
f1wagupdates, imagine being this soft omg
carmenmmudt, body tea or whatever the kids say these days
— yourusername, CARMEN AHAHAHA
yncharlesenthusiast, her laying down on him 🥹🥹🥹
user1, if you see someone laying on the road tonight, thats me! 🤗
arthur_leclerc, it was torture being with the two of you. disgusting people.
— yourusername, ur just jelly 🤣🤣
— arthur_leclerc, jealous of people who dont have to third wheel you? yes. 100%.
iamrebeccad, my beautiful girl 🤍 ♥︎ liked by creator
Posted 1 week ago.
══════════════════════
TWITTER
══════════════════════
INSTAGRAM
f1wagsightings
liked by charlesleclercupdates, wagsoff1 and others
f1wagsightings, Charles Leclerc seen with mystery girl in Monaco 👀 thoughts?
view comments
y/nfanpage, brooo that’s def not her 😭
charlesleclercupdates, he’s moving mad again 😭 someone slap the shit out of him
yncharlesenthusiast, you must be fucking joking.
wagsleuths, y/n hasn’t posted in a week either... oh my days
charlestheangel, MAN. i've got to change my username cuz what the hell.
y/nhatepage, finally. y/n didnt deserve him anyway
— 16lovergirl, man shut up.
══════════════════════
TEXTS
══════════════════════
TWITTER
══════════════════════
INSTAGRAM
yourusername
liked by lilymhe, pierregasly, iamrebeccad and others
yourusername, same girl, new hair 💋
view comments
charles_leclerc, never taking you to dinner again 😭
— yourusername, you love me
kikagomez, bro he almost died for no reason 💀 ♥︎ liked by creator
iamrebeccad, well, atleast you look beautiful as a brunette 😅 ♥︎ liked by creator
lilymhe, the chaos you caused omg 😭
— yourusername, whoops
wagsleuths, well, i guess were all truly stupid LMAO
friend3, Twitter owes you an apology fr 😭😭
carmenmmundt, next time you dye your hair, maybe upload the change immediately 😙 ♥︎ liked by creator
yncharlesenthusiast, mother’s power even with a color change 🫶
arthur_leclerc, i was gonna rip a new one into charles...
— yourusername, i was told🤣🤣
charynprotector, I WAS RIGHT!!! never doubt me 😎 ♥︎ liked by creator
— charynprotector, OMG SHE LIKED MY COMMENT
══════════════════════
charles_leclerc
liked by landonorris, pierregasly, alex_albon and others
charles_leclerc, the only thing I cheat on is UNO when she’s winning 😇
view comments
yourusername, I KNEW IT. THERE WAS NO WAY YOU WENT FROM 8 CARDS TO 2💀
— charles_leclerc, sorry chérie 😍
landonorris, we almost had a national crisis because of you two 😭 ♥︎ liked by creator and yourusername
y/nfanpage, welp. atleast we know he didnt cheat on her 😅
alex_albon, UNO cheating > relationship cheating
carlossainz55, deleting my paragraph... ♥︎ liked by yourusername
— charles_leclerc, what paragraph...😟
— iamrebeccad, dont worry about it charles!
pierregasly, never a dull moment with the Leclercs! ♥︎ liked by creator
maxverstappen1, this was a fun adventure, do it again. ♥︎ liked by yourusername
yourusername, dyed my hair for fun and almost started a global crisis #sorrycharles
— charles_leclerc, never again. stay brunette forever pls 😭
❝ Charles loves to spoil his younger girlfriend, because in fact, that’s the bare minimum!
𝓬ontains. fem!reader. face claim: none (but pics of Alex included). established relationship. age gap (23/28). a few hate comments. based on Базовый минимум.
liked by user1, user2 and others
deuxmoi NEW COUPLE ALERT 🚨 ? Charles Leclerc has reportedly been spotted multiple times over the past two weeks in Monaco with a mysterious girl. The pair allegedly kept things low-key but were seen together on several occasions around the city, sparking chatter that Ferrari’s golden boy might not be so single after all.
view more comments
user1 not surprised tbh, he’s always being spotted somewhere with someone😭
user2 if it’s real I’m happy for him, if it’s not I’m still invested anyway
user3 again? lmaoo
user4 she’s either a long-term gf or his cousin and there is no in between
user5 i think her insta is @/yourusername
liked by arthurleclerc, user6 and others
yourusername 🛥️☀️
view more comments
user7 is this the girl charles was spotted with?
user8 it’s her. you can literally see leo in the last pic. user9 + arthur liked the post
user10 she looks soo young
user11 wtf? she’s 23. she’s an ADULT
user12 soo pretty ❤️❤️
liked by scuderiaferrari, user13 and others
charlesleclerc rest days
view more comments
user14 😍😍
user15 oh so this is serious
user16 just soft-launching each other
liked by charlesleclerc, user17 and others
yourusername grateful 🤍
view more comments
user18 posting everything but her bf
user19 he is literally on the last slide. hope that helps!
user20 he got her a KELLY? oh he’s WHIPPED
user21 i’d be too if i was him no lie 😩
📍 International University Of Monaco ♫ YOUNG DUMB & BROKE • Khalid (official audio)
liked by yourbsf, charlesleclerc and others
yourusername young dumb & broke ✅ uni kids ❌
view more comments
yourbsf we did it babyy ❤️😩 it’s gonna be so boring without us ❤︎ liked by author
yourusername it was a wild ride
user22 so the gossip account did not lie
user23 congrats girl!
charlesleclerc congratulations chérie ❤️ ❤︎ liked by author
yourusername i love you ❤️❤️ user24 awww so cute
user25 wdym broke 😭😭
liked by yourusername, scuderiaferrari and others
charlesleclerc my girl just graduated, congrats baby 😘
view more comments
yourusername ❤️❤️❤️
user26 he is sooo in love
user27 HE posted HER btw
user28 bare minimum
user29 i just know she’s gonna get something big
liked by charlesleclerc, user30 and others
yourusername thank you @/charlesleclerc 💞💗💕
view more comments
charlesleclerc for you, bare minimum chérie 😘 ❤︎ liked by author
SUMMARY: At the end-of-season drivers' dinner, Charles accidentally lets slip that he has a wife and a five-year-old daughter
PAIRING: charles leclerc x reader
It was the end-of-season drivers' dinner and Carlos was currently on a desperate mission to find a golf partner for the next morning. So far, he was failing miserably.
"Lando. Golf tomorrow? Come on, give yourself a chance to take revenge, cabrón," Carlos coaxed, leaning across the table with full enthusiasm.
"Mate, I literally can't. McLaren is holding me hostage for filming all day," Lando said, playing with his fork. "But a Carlando rematch will happen, but not tomorrow"
Carlos let out a dramatic sigh. "Unbelievable. Charles! You're not busy, right?"
Before Charles could even open his mouth, Lando scoffed, "Does he even know how to play golf? He’s going to hit the grass more than the ball."
"He knows! ...I think," Carlos snapped, before staring intensely at his ex-teammate. "So, Charles. Golf?"
"No, I can't either," Charles replied naturally. "I have to stay with my daughter tomorrow.".
Charles froze. His brain caught up with his mouth about two seconds too late. Did I really just say that out loud?!
"WHAT?!" Max choked on his water"You have a DAUGHTER?!"
"Wait, wait, wait," Lando cut in, suddenly leaning across the table "How old is she? How many months?"
Charles blinked, debating if jumping out the restaurant window was a viable exit strategy. But he’d already dug the hole, might as well jump in.
"She's five years old," Charles confessed, rubbing his temples. "And I don't know, Lando! Who counts in months after two years?!"
"FIVE YEARS?!" It was a full-on unison scream.
"Hold on a second!" George interrupted, throwing his hands in the air, instantly stepping into his role as the grid's official FBI agent. "You don't even have a girlfriend! Who are you making children with?"
Charles buried his face in his hands. If the secret's out, I might as well throw the whole bomb.
"I’m actually married," Charles muttered into his palms. "For six years."
"Six years?! And we weren't invited to the wedding?! I thought we were friends, Charles!" George said, sounding offended.
"How tf is this possible?!" Lando yelled, completely exasperated.
Meanwhile, Carlos had officially reached his limit. He didn't care about the marriage or the secret kid. He had a crisis of his own.
"OKAY, GREAT, CHARLES IS SECRETLY A FAMILY MAN!" Carlos yelled, "BUT WHO THE HELL AM I PLAYING GOLF WITH TOMORROW? Alex?"
Alex, who was quietly trying to blend into the wallpaper, blinked. "I can't."
Carlos’s jaw dropped in absolute betrayal. "WHY? Do you have a secret family too? Is everyone secretly married with three kids?"
"Uhh... no," Alex said slowly, raising his hands in defense. "I just... have a flight tomorrow, Carlos."
───────── ౨ৎ ─────────
The second Charles stepped into the apartment, he was already rehearsing how to break the news. He had kept the secret perfectly for six years and had crumbled under zero pressure.
But the moment he closed the door, he heard it, the familiar sound of a Disney movie playing in the living room. Before he could even call out, tiny footsteps came running.
“Papa! Papa!” your daughter screamed, launching herself at him.
Charles’ face instantly softened. He dropped his bag and caught her, spinning her around as she giggled.
“Mon petit cœur! Did you miss me?” he asked, pressing kisses all over her cheeks.
“So much!” she said dramatically, wrapping her little arms around his neck. “We watched Encanto again. Mom said I could stay up until you came home.”
You appeared in the doorway, smiling at the scene. Charles looked at you over your daughter’s head, eyes full of guilt and love at the same time.
After the bedtime routine, your daughter was finally asleep. Charles joined you in the bedroom, both of you getting ready for bed.
“So…” he started, sitting on the edge of the bed. “I fucked up.”
You raised an eyebrow “How bad?”
“We had the drivers’ dinner tonight and I accidentally told Carlos I couldn’t play golf tomorrow because I have to stay with my daughter. Then I had to confess everything.” He said it in one breath.
“Well… I can’t believe you managed to keep it a secret for this long,” you said, shaking your head. “Six years, Charles. That’s actually impressive.”
He looked up at you, surprised. “So you’re not mad at me?”
“No, I’m not mad.” You sat beside him and took his hand. “I think it was always going to come out one day. We didn’t know when… but I guess now is the time.”
Charles let out a big sigh of relief and pulled you closer, resting his forehead against yours.
“We should announce it publicly, right? Maybe a soft launch or something?” he asked.
You let out a laugh. “Charles, we’ve been married for six years and have a five-year-old. If we post anything now, it’s going to be a hard launch."
Hi! Can you write a request for Charles Leclerc where his fiancee has the habit to get lost in the paddock (because she’s not around there much because of her job). And the social media and the fans always think it’s cute. And Charles always losing his mind because of it. The Ferrari Team has already a search them for her.
Missing: Future Mrs Leclerc
Charles Leclerc × Fiancée!reader
Synopsis: Charles’ fiancée keeps getting adorably lost in the paddock, sending Ferrari into search‑mode every race while fans eat it up — and Charles slowly loses his mind trying to keep track of the woman he loves.
You arrive at the paddock with Charles, hand in hand, sunglasses on, smiling for the cameras. Everything is normal. Everything is fine.
And then someone says your name.
A journalist, a fan, a Ferrari staff member — it doesn’t matter who. You turn your head, answer politely, and Charles lets go of your hand for two seconds.
Two.
Seconds.
And when he turns back?
You’re gone.
“Not again,” he mutters, already rubbing his forehead.
Carlos walks past, clapping him on the shoulder. “Lost your fiancée?”
“She was right here.”
“She’s an adult, mate.”
“She has the directional awareness of a baguette.”
Carlos snorts. “Good luck.”
---
Meanwhile, you are absolutely not lost.
You’re just… exploring.
You don’t come to the paddock often — your job keeps you traveling, and you only manage a handful of races each season. So when you do come, everything feels new again. The garages, the hospitality units, the fans waving from behind the barriers — it’s all exciting.
You’re halfway through admiring a display of vintage Ferrari helmets when a group of fans spots you.
“Oh my god, it’s her!”
“She’s so cute, she’s lost again.”
“Someone tell Charles!”
You laugh, waving shyly. “I’m not lost, I promise.”
They don’t believe you. They never do.
One girl holds up her phone. “Can we take a picture? Charles is going to freak out when he sees this.”
You grin. “Sure.”
You pose, chat for a moment, and then continue your little adventure — blissfully unaware that your disappearance has already hit social media.
---
Back in the Ferrari garage, Charles is pacing.
“She cannot have gone far,” Fred Vasseur says, trying to be reassuring but failing miserably.
“She gets distracted,” Charles insists. “She sees one interesting thing and— pouf — gone.”
Fred sighs. “We know.”
Because this is not the first time.
Or the second.
Or the fifth.
In fact, Ferrari has an unofficial protocol for this now.
A mechanic approaches. “Boss, the hashtag is trending again.”
Charles groans. “Which one?”
“#FindCharlesFiancee.”
He drags a hand down his face. “Merde.”
Another mechanic adds, “There’s also #LostButMakeItFerrari.”
Fred pinches the bridge of his nose. “Okay. Activate the search.”
And just like that, the entire Ferrari team springs into action.
Mechanics check the hospitality area. Engineers sweep the walkways. Someone radios McLaren to ask if you’ve wandered into their motorhome again.
Carlos sends a selfie: Found a cat. Not your fiancée. Continuing search.
Charles is two seconds away from losing his mind.
---
You, meanwhile, are having a lovely time.
You’ve somehow ended up in the Red Bull garage — not on purpose, but because you followed a very cute dog and didn’t realize where it was going.
Max raises an eyebrow when he sees you. “You’re not supposed to be here.”
“I know,” you say sheepishly. “I got… sidetracked.”
He sighs, but he’s smiling. “Charles is going to combust.”
“I texted him!” you protest.
Max checks your phone.
You did not text him.
You texted Carlos.
Max shakes his head. “Come on. I’ll walk you back before he starts a full paddock evacuation.”
You follow him out, waving goodbye to the dog.
---
Charles spots you before you spot him.
He’s mid‑rant with a Ferrari engineer when he freezes, eyes widening like he’s seen a ghost.
You’re walking beside Max, chatting happily, completely unaware of the chaos you’ve caused.
Charles storms over.
“Amour.”
You blink. “Hi, baby.”
“Hi?” he repeats, incredulous. “Hi? Do you know how many people are looking for you?”
You look around.
A lot of people are looking for you.
Some wave when you make eye contact.
You wince. “Oops?”
“Oops,” he echoes, hands on his hips. “You disappeared.”
“I didn’t disappear,” you argue. “I was just—”
“Lost,” Max supplies.
“Exploring,” you correct.
Charles groans. “You cannot just wander off.”
“I didn’t wander off,” you insist. “I followed a dog.”
Max nods. “It was a very cute dog.”
Charles glares at him. “You are not helping.”
Max shrugs. “She’s safe. That’s what matters.”
Charles sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Amour, please. Stay with me.”
You step closer, wrapping your arms around his waist. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to stress you out.”
He softens immediately — because he always does with you.
“I know,” he murmurs, kissing your forehead. “But every time you get lost, social media explodes, the team panics, and I age five years.”
You laugh, leaning into him. “I’ll try to be better.”
“You say that every time.”
“And I mean it every time.”
He kisses you again, longer this time. “Come on. Stay with me.”
You nod, taking his hand.
He holds it like you might float away if he loosens his grip.
---
Of course, ten minutes later, you get distracted again.
This time by a little girl holding a handmade sign that says CHARLES CAN I HAVE A HUG?
You stop, crouch down, and talk to her. She’s sweet, shy, and absolutely thrilled when you offer to take her to Charles yourself.
But when you turn around?
Charles is gone.
You blink. “Oh no.”
The little girl giggles. “Did you lose him?”
You sigh. “Unfortunately… yes.”
She pats your hand. “It’s okay. My mum loses my dad all the time.”
You laugh. “Thank you.”
You walk her toward the Ferrari garage, and the moment Charles sees you — with a child — his panic dissolves into something soft and warm.
He hugs the girl, signs her sign, takes a picture with her, and sends her off beaming.
Then he turns to you.
“You lost me this time.”
You grin. “See? It happens to everyone.”
He narrows his eyes. “Not helping.”
You kiss his cheek. “You love me.”
He sighs dramatically. “I do. Unfortunately for my blood pressure.”
---
Later, when the chaos has settled and Charles is finally in his race suit, he pulls you into the back of the garage.
“You know,” he murmurs, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear, “one day, when we’re married, I’m going to put a tracker on you.”
You laugh. “Like a cat?”
“Exactly like a cat.”
“You wouldn’t.”
He kisses you, slow and warm. “I would.”
You smile against his lips. “You know the fans think it’s cute, right? Me getting lost?”
He groans. “They encourage you.”
“They do.”
“They make edits.”
“They do.”
“They think it’s adorable.”
“It is.”
He pulls you closer, forehead resting against yours. “I just want you safe.”
“I am safe,” you whisper. “Because I always find my way back to you.”
He melts — completely, utterly, hopelessly.
“Okay,” he murmurs. “But stay with me today. Please.”
pairing: charles leclerc x fem!reader
summary: in which every summer, at the villa your families rent together every year, gives you a version of charles OR you and charles are childhood best friends with a complicated history.
warnings: angst, language, childhood friends with complicated history, smut, angst, yearning, etc... idk what I'm missing, NOT PROOFREAD (prob typos or things that might not make sense), lots of back and forth, messy messy messy, also cute, jealousy jealousy, seriously lots of YEARNING, them being stupid also
word count: ~8k
author's note: this idea came to me a few days ago and i've spent as much time as possible working on it since (in between carlos version). y'know when the creativity just hits right and the words pour out of you?? that was me with this. i hope you guys like it!!!! xoxo
◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤
Age 7.
“I’m gonna marry you one day.”
The villa smells of sun lotion and salty air.
Your dad’s playing music through some tiny old speaker he brought. And the adults are laughing too loud over their drinks.
The sun is beginning to sink, but it’s still hot.
You’re sticky with juice, hair tangled, and bathing suit clinging awkwardly.
Charles is chasing you. A water balloon in his hands.
You shriek, running against the hot stones. Smiling so hard that it hurts.
“Y’already got me twice!” You shout in between giggles. “S’not fair!”
Charles appears closer. Face sunburnt. A smile tugged on his lips. “You cheated at Candy Land!”
“You cheated first!”
“Because you always win!”
And he raises the balloon over his head.
“If you throw that, I’m telling maman you said a bad word the other day.”
His smile drops. “I did not!”
You cross your arms over your chest. “Uh huh…you said ‘shit’ when you hit your funny bone.”
“It hurt!” He argues.
You stick your tongue out.
And then he hesitates. Looking at the balloon. Then at you.
Throws the balloon anyway.
It explodes against your stomach. Cold water soaking you.
And you gasp.
Then lunge for him. Chase him all the way into the back yard, shrieking. Laughing so hard that you both struggle to breathe properly.
And eventually you both collapse into the grass. Side by side. Near the lemon tree.
There’s a few moments of silence. Both of you panting from trying to catch your breath.
“I’m gonna marry you one day.”
You blink. “Why?”
“Because you’re funny. And you like ice pops. And you beat me at Mario Kart once.”
You look at him. And he’s staring at the leaves above your heads. Arms touching.
“I don’t think that’s how marriage works,” your voice soft.
“Don’t care.” He shrugs.
You roll your eyes. “Okay. But I don’t want to wear a dress.”
“Fine. But you have to split the cake with me.”
“Only if it’s chocolate.”
“Well duh.”
And you both fall asleep like that. In the grass. Smelling like chlorine. Sticky with sugar.
-
Age 12
“Why are you being weird?”
The summer heat is burning.
Heat clings to you like a second skin. And you’re still dripping from the pool. The stone tiles are too hot to stand on for too long, so everyone moves around them quickly. Your hair is wet. Trying to read a book, but can’t focus.
Because Charles won’t stop staring at you.
Well, he’s technically not staring. But he’s in the pool in your direct eyesight. Hands behind his head as he sits on a float. Sunglasses almost too big for his face. Smirking.
And every so often, he splashes water your way.
“Would you stop?” You snap. Wiping the water off your ankles.
“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says. Blinking. Innocent.
You groan, falling back on the lounger. Trying to ignore him.
He floats closer. “You haven’t turned the page in almost twenty minutes.”
“That’s because you’re distracting me.”
And he grins. A full sheepish grin. “You think I’m cute.”
You don’t answer. Keep your eyes on your book.
“Y’gonna tell your friends I have a six pack now?” He calls out.
You raise your eyebrows, “Six pack of what?”
“Muscles.” He says. Dead serious.
And your mouth twitches. “Your voice still cracks.”
Charles slips off the floatie. Swims to the edge and rests his arms on the ledge. Chin on his forearm as he looks at you.
“Yeah? And what does it do to you when I say your name?”
Your breath hitches.
“You’re blushing.”
“It’s the sun.”
He laughs. And you throw your book at him.
He ducks under the water. And when he resurfaces, grinning…you’re trying so hard to not smile. And he knows it.
“Why are you being so weird?” you ask.
He shrugs.
“You’re just starting to notice me now.”
And you don’t answer.
And later that night, when you’re brushing your teeth. Still burnt from the sun. You wonder what he meant.
You don’t ask.
But you do start to.
-
Age 15
“That didn’t count.”
“So kiss me again.”
The villa is quiet.
Your parents and his mom stay up talking. Your siblings long asleep. Arthur passed out on the couch.
A few candles flicker near the steps, but most of the light is coming from the moonlight.
You’re barefoot. The grass cool and soft beneath your toes as you walk to the lemon tree. The one where you and Charles always meet when its too late and you’re supposed to be asleep.
He’s already there. Leaning against it.
He looks different this year. Taller. A little bit sharper. More grown into his body.
He glances at you. “Took you long enough.”
“Had to sneak past my sister.”
He grins, holding up a bag of chips.
And you sit beside him. Your shoulder brushing his.
Talking about nothing for a while. Catching up on the weeks you aren’t together. How he kissed a girl in Monaco and it was fine but also kind of awkward. And you pretend you don’t hate hearing it.
You tell him about the boy from school who tried to hold your hand during a movie when you went with your group of friends.
Charles almost immediately demands his full name. And address.
And you laugh.
He tosses a lemon up and catches it. Again and again.
“I heard you tell Joris that I was in love with you.” You say.
And he glances at you. “I did not.”
You narrow your eyes. A smile on your lips.
And he shrugs. “I said you were obsessed with me. S’not the same.”
And you laugh. Then scoff. “You wish.”
You shove his arm. And he grabs your wrist before you can pull it back. Fingers wrapping around you. Warm. Familiar. But somehow different.
Neither of you speak for a few moments. Just take in the sound of the cicadas, the faint chatter of the adults on the terrace.
“Y’ever kissed anyone?”
And your stomach twists. Look away. “No.”
He nods. “Me either…at least, not really.”
Silence.
And then he says, “Wanna try?”
You look at him. But he’s already looking at you. And he looks nervous. Hopeful. Like he’s been thinking about this for a long time. Nothing like the boy who used to throw water balloons and stick paint in your hair.
You nod.
And it’s awkward. Your noses bump. One of you breathes too loudly. His hands tremble at your cheek.
But it’s sweet. Slow.
And his lips are soft.
And when you pull apart, you both stare at each other. Lips a little rosier than before.
“That didn’t count.” You whisper.
And he blinks. “Why not?”
“There was no tongue.”
And he grins. Slowly.
And then pulls you back into him.
And this time….it’s real.
-
Age 17
“This doesn’t have to mean anything.”
The villa’s light glow behind you. Laughter echoing from the kitchen where your parents and his maman are finishing a bottle of wine.
You and Charles are on the terrace. Barefoot. A shared bottle of win between you. Practically empty. And his leg brushes against yours every time he fidgets.
It’s the first summer where you’ve both been allowed to really drink. Not just a stolen sip of a half-empty bottle found on the kitchen counter. Or a watered down spritz. Real drinks. Poured and given to you like adults.
And you’re a little tipsy. Cheeks warm and rosy. Limbs loose.
“You’re quiet tonight,” you glance at him.
He nods. “Jus’ thinking.”
“You do that?”
And he laughs. “Shut up.”
You smile. Taking a small sip straight from the bottle before placing it back down. “What are you thinking about?”
He hesitates for a little. “Uh…that night last year.”
You don’t have to ask which night. You already know.
The night behind the lemon tree. His mouth on yours. And you think about it often.
“Me too,” You admit. Soft.
And he looks at you. Watch as his gaze dips to your mouth.
And then he’s leaning in.
The kiss is soft. Deeper. Not rushed. And his lips are warm. Tastes of wine and something sweet. Like the fruit you guys were picking at earlier.
When he pulls back, his voice cracks a little bit. “I want you.”
You don’t answer. Just smile soft. Pulling his hand into yours as you drag him into the villa. Into the bedroom.
Your clothes peel off slowly. Clumsy. And he’s careful. Like he’s afraid if he moves too fast, it’ll ruin the moment.
“Y’sure about this?” He whispers.
You nod. “Yeah…want it to be you.”
And he closes his eyes for a second. Like his heart is in his throat.
And then it happens.
It’s slow. Messy. You both laugh when your arms bump. And he curses softly when he cant get the condom wrapper open. But then he’s inside you, and your laughter becomes hushed gasps. Fingers digging into each other.
“Y’okay?” He mutters. His forehead pressed to yours.
And your nails dig into his back. “Yeah.”
And then he kisses you again. Harder. Holds you closer.
Later, when you’re both lying tangled in the dark…you feel his fingers tracing your skin. Both of you enjoying the silence.
Then a good few moments later.
“This doesn’t have to mean anything.”
You swallow hard.
“Yeah.”
-
Age 19
“Y’gonna dance with him again?”
“He asked.”
“You let him kiss your cheek.”
“You fingered me in the kitchen pantry last night.”
“That’s different.”
You’re barefoot in the sand. Music loud. And Luca…or maybe it was Leo? You weren’t sure. Had his hands lightly on your hips. Flirty.
You’re laughing at something dumb he said into your ear. And then you feel it.
The heat. The stare.
Glance over your shoulder and…
Charles. Leaning against the beach bar. Beer in hand.
Eyes on you with a glint in his eye like you’ve offended him.
You try not to react. But the next time Luca spins you, you pull away with a smile and a I’ll be right back.
You only make it a few steps before Charles intercepts your path.
“Having fun?” He says. Trying to be casual. But his voice is too tight. Too bitter.
“Yes.” You brush past him. And he falls right into step with you.
“You’ve got weird taste in music.”
“That’s not my music taste. It’s called dancing.”
And he scoffs.
You walk to the side of the bar. To a more private area. Grabbing his shoulder to face you.
“Are you okay?” Voice sweet. Gentle. Caring.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re glaring too much.”
And looks at you. “I just think it’s funny.”
“Oh, here we go.”
“I mean, you don’t even like that song.”
You cross your arms against your chest. And he steps closer.
“You let him put his hands on you.”
You raise a brow. “So?”
“So…you let him touch you. Kiss your cheek”
And you laugh. Soft. “You fingered me in the kitchen pantry last night, Charles.”
His jaw clenches. Hands twitch. “That’s different.”
“Is it?”
You take a step closer. Testing him, And he doesn’t budge.
“It’s not the same.”
You stare at him. His cheeks are sunburned. And his eyes are so green it makes your heart rate spike. So handsome.
“So I’m not allowed to dance with a guy I’ll never see again?”
He runs a hand over his face. Grazing the slight stubble on his jaw. “You’re not just dancing.”
“No,” You admit. “But you’re not just fucking me either.”
His eyes widen. Slightly stunned.
And you don’t back down. Step even closer until your chests are touching.. “You don’t wanna talk about what this is? That’s fine. But you don’t get to act jealous then.”
“I’m not jealous.”
And you grin. Snort. Just a tiny bit.
“Okay,” he says. Throwing his hands up. “Maybe I am.”
Your stomach twists.
“I just…I don’t like seeing you with other guys.” His voice is low.
“Well…it’s not like you don’t talk to other girls, Charles.”
And then you leave him standing there. Alone.
-
“Wanna go out for a bit?” He asks. “Just us?”
And you say yes without even thinking.
You’re on a light blue towel, sunglasses over your face, pretending to read a book. Charles is stretched out next to you. An arm tucked under his head. Throwing grapes in the air and trying to catch them in his mouth.
You glance over just as a grape hits his forehead and falls into the sand.
“Impressive.”
He laughs. “The wind interfered!”
He tosses another grape. Misses again.
And you burst into laughter.
“I’m warming up.”
He laughs with you. Giving up and rolling onto his side to face you.
He squints his eyes at you. “Do you have sunscreen on?”
“Yes.”
“Are you positive?”
Your brows furrow. “Why?”
“I think that….” His hand reaches for the bottle of sun lotion, flicking it open. “That you missed a spot.”
He squirts some into his hand, a smirk on his lips.
“Back off.”
And he reaches for you, smearing it all over your chest. You shriek, tossing your book into the sand beside you.
And somewhere between this sun lotion assault, you’re both breathless and laughing so hard.
He pins you down, dropping heaps of sun lotion onto your skin.
“Truce,” You laugh. Stomach burning from laughter.
He nods. Smiling. Rubbing the sunscreen into your skin.
“Don’t want you to burn.”
You throw a pile of sand at him. And he doesn’t even flinch.
-
His cock is already buried inside you. Deep. Thick. Fucking aching.
“God, you’re fuckin soaked.” He groans into your neck. Hand pressed into your stomach.
You claw at his back. Back arched. Legs spread. Shaking every time he hits that spot in your tummy just right.
He looks down at you like he’s overwhelmed. Like he doesn’t understand how you can feel this fucking good.
“Swear to God,” He grunts. Pulling back slow, then snapping his hips forward. “S’like your pussy jus gets tighter every time.”
Your mouth falls open. Gasping.
His hands slip under your thigh, pushing your knee into your chest. Fucking you deeper.
And then he moans.
“Jesus….fuck.” He chokes out. “Y’feel that?”
You sob out.
“I’ve been inside you like a hundred times this summer and it still feels like fuckin heaven.”
His forehead drops and presses into yours. Voice rough.
“M’not gonna last.” He huffs. “You’re too wet. Too fuckin tight.”
You grip his shoulders, nails digging into the skin. “Don’t stop…”
“You’re fuckin milking me.” He cuts you off. “Y’gonna come? Please come on me. C’mon baby…please, yeah? Please let me have it.”
And you fall apart. Gasping. Shaking. Coming so hard around his cock it makes his head fall back.
And he swears. Filthily. French tumbling out go his mouth.
And then he’s spilling inside of you. Chest pressed to yours. Hips jerking.
He buries his face in your beck. Collapsing on you.
And neither of you speak for a bit.
Just catch your breath. Comfortable silence. Holding each other.
Eventually, he reaches up. Tucks a strand of hair behind your ear.
Then whispers into the dark.
“I like it here.”
And he doesn’t elaborate.
You don’t ask him to.
-
Age 21
“He seems tense.”
“He’s fine.”
“He didn’t even blink when I mentioned that guy from Madrid.”
“I told you not to bring it up.”
Your best friend’s been here for five days and already the villa feels different.
She means well. But she talks fast, drinks fast, and has no filter.
She also loves to talk about your love life.
The one that you’re apparently “thriving in”.
“So wait,” she says over breakfast, digging her fork into her food. “You never texted that guy from Madrid back? Y’know the one with the sexy voice?”
Across the table, Charles is picking at his plate. Fork pausing. Just for a little bit. Enough for you to notice.
You look at her, “No.”
“Why not? He was so hot.”
“Didn’t feel like it.”
“But he was so into you…” She takes a sip of her drink. “What about the Italian one? The one you really liked.”
Charles cuts into his eggs. A little bit harder. Knife scraping the plate.
“He ghosted.”
“Ugh, yeah total loser.” She laughs. “Oh my god, remember…what was his name? From the bar crawl.”
“Liam.” You choke out.
“Yes! Liam!” She snaps her fingers. “Didn’t he pick you up at the bar? Like just threw you over his shoulder?”
You laugh, slightly embarrassed. Nodding.
Charles sets his mug down a little too hard.
And then he stands. Takes his plate to the sink.
And walks out.
“Was it something I said?” Your best friend asks.
-
You find him in the kitchen later. Your best friend is lounging out by the pool and you slipped inside to grab a water.
He’s rinsing the plates. Back to you. But his jaw is clenched tight.
You lean against the counter by him. “Hey.”
He doesn’t look at you. Just keeps scrubbing the dishes. A little harder than before.
“You okay?”
“Yeah,” He says. “Just didn’t realize breakfast started with a running list of every guy you’ve fucked.”
You wince.
And he breathes deeply. Dropping the dish in the sink. “Sorry…that was, uh harsh.”
You give a tiny nod.
“I just…” He turns off the water. Looks at you. “Didn’t know it was like that?”
“Like what?”
He shrugs.
“Is it a problem?”
He stares at you. Sucks his bottom lip in for a moment. Like he’s deep in thought. Before finally saying…
“No. It’s not my place.”
And there it is.
You step back. “Right.”
And then you’re turning around, reaching in the cabinet for a glass. “Still going to the bonfire later?”
He shrugs. “Yeah, if you still want to.”
“Cool,” Your voice is light.
-
Age 22
“You’ve been quiet lately.”
“I’m just tired.”
The long table on the terrace is full.
Extra chairs from inside scattered around it, one of your younger cousins crawling underneath it.
Your dad is asking your mom if there’s more grilled vegetables. Meanwhile your sister insists on telling the story about the jellyfish sting again.
“And she was crying so hard, she had actual snot bubbles on her face,” She says. Laughing.
You lift your hand, “I was six!”
Charles laughs. “You thought you were dying.”
“I thought it was venom!” You laugh. “And no one even helped me.”
“We were too busy laughing at the snot,” He says. Looking at you. That familiar grin pulled on his face, eyes crinkled. Like it was just you two.
And then Alex leans into him. Whispers into his ear. And whatever she says makes him smile wider. Makes him shift toward her without even thinking.
You chug your wine.
“I love that photo,” Alex says softly. And you glance at her to find her already looking at you. “The one of you and everyone in the inflatable pool. You’re the only one not smiling.”
You curl your lips. “We were sinking.”
“It’s so funny though,” She says. “You look so unimpressed by them.”
“She always looks like that,” Charles chimes in. “Probably came out of the womb judging people.”
You narrow your eyes, but the smile pulling on your lips gives you away.
Alex laughs. And your mom’s already popping open the next bottle of wine.
And it would be perfect.
If it weren’t for Charles sitting across from you, arms wrapped around another person. Like he’s not yours anymore.
You ask Alex about her job, and you mean it. She answers so soft and kind that it almost makes you hate her. Almost.
But you can’t. Because she’s nice.
“She’s good for him,” Your sister whispers under her breath, leaning toward you. “You’ve been quiet lately.”
You nod. “I’m just tired.”
Eventually, dinner ends. Alex excuses herself to help your mom bring out dessert. And Charles follows.
And when they come back, head thrown back laughing.
He sets a slice of cake in front of you without a word.
And you thank him like its normal.
-
Someone suggest drinks at the beach bar. Something to do. The one with the bulbs on string down the street.
You come barefoot, some sweet drink already in hand. Alex walks beside you, her wedges hooked in her fingers, hem of her dress brushing her knees.
She’s pretty in a way that doesn’t feel threatening. Not showy. Just perfect.
Inside the bar, you spot Charles leaned against the bar with a beer, grinning at something Arthur’s saying. And he’s wearing that linen button up that you used to tell him he looks like a recently divorced rich guy in.
You find yourself smiling.
Alex touches your arm. “Hey…you want a new drink?”
You shake your head. “I’m good for now.”
She nods. A small smile on her lips.
“I was really nervous to meet you.”
You blink. Eyes slightly wider. “Me?”
She nods. “Charles talks about you all the time.”
You freeze for a moment.
“Yeah,” she smiles. “Not like in a weird way. Just like you’re part of the picture. In his life. Almost every story he tells involves you.”
You don’t know how to respond.
“I’m just glad you’re not..uh, like intimidating.” She laughs.
And you laugh back. “I save the intimidation after a few weeks.”
She smiles. “So I’ve still got time?”
You nod. “Yeah.”
And for this moment, you like her. Even if it hurts.
Because she’s kind.
Because she doesn’t know that you and Charles shared a bed when thunderstorms were scary.
Because she wasn’t there the summer he kissed you against the sand and told you he’d never want anyone else.
You chug your drink.
Later, you’re all gathered near the back of the deck, huddled around a wooden table and wobbly stools. Someone ordered a side of fries. Someone else ordered a round of shots no one really wanted but drank anyways.
You’re pressed between Charles and your sister. You’re laughing. Tipsy. Warm.
Charles is teasing your sister about something but you’re not really listening.
And that’s when another guy slides in.
Not dramatically. Just casual. Confident.
He’s tall. Tanned. Cute.
He talks to the guy beside him, someone you’ve definitely seen before, and then turns to you.
“Did I hear something about you getting stung by a jellyfish?”
You smile. “Unfortunately.”
He nods. A grin. “Survival stories always get me.”
“Tragic,” you say.
He laughs. “I’m Nick.”
You take a sip of your drink, tilting your head. “Do you open with tragedy stories for flirting a lot? Or is it just me?”
“Only for girls who look like they bite back.”
You grin. Slow. “You say that like its a challenge.”
“Depends,” He shrugs, gaze dropping to your bare legs, then back to your face.
“On?”
“Depends how hard you bite.”
And you laugh. Like really laugh. Hard. Head falling back. And then you feel it. The way Charles stills beside you. The way his fingers grip his cup just a little bit tighter.
And Nick leans in closer. More private. “So…what other tragedies should I know about you?”
“That depends.”
“On?”
“If you want facts or warnings.”
He raises a brow. “Any preference?”
You place your cup down on the table. “I like a little risk.”
And Charles says something to your sister now. A little louder. Like he’s trying to distract you.
You don’t bother to look at him.
Nick grins. “And just how dangerous are you exactly?”
You grin back. “Pretty dangerous.”
He laughs. “Good.”
You both just stare at each other for a little. Grinning.
“You dancing?” He asks, nodding his head in direction of the dance floor.
“Are you asking or telling?”
“I’m hoping.”
You slide off the stool.
“Let’s go tragedy boy.”
And as he takes your hand. Leads you into the crowd. You catch Charles’s eyes.
Watching.
Burning.
-
The music’s slowed a little. Just swaying to the music, instead of the rapid jumping you were doing earlier.
Nick’s hand rests at your hip. His other is holding your drink while you talk with your hands.
“You can’t seriously think pineapple belongs on pizza,” You yell over the music.
Nick grins. “It’s good.”
“You’re weird.”
“I’ve been told that before.”
And you laugh, bumping your shoulder into his. He leans in, speaking into your ear.
“You know your friend’s been staring at us for like ten minutes, right?”
You blink. “Huh?”
He tips his head. Over your shoulder. And you turn just a little bit. Just enough to see Charles still sitting at the table.
Drink in hand. Not talking. Not even blinking. Just looking.
You breathe out, turning back. “That Charles.”
Nick raises a brow, nodding. “Ahh.”
“Don’t read into it.”
He watches you.
“He has a girlfriend.”
Nick hums, a teasing grin. “He doesn’t look like he remembers that right now.”
“We’re just friends.”
“Cool.”
You shrug. “You don’t believe me?”
He smiles. “Doesn’t matter what I believe. Just means if I kiss you, he might kill me.”
You laugh. “You’re awful.”
“You’re still here.”
And you look at each other. Smiling.
You kiss him. Not because you’re falling for him. But because you’re single. Because Charles brought someone else. Because he gets to have her. Because you’re tired of thinking about him.
So you kiss him to feel good. To forget. To remind yourself that you’re free.
Hands in his shirt. Hands on your waist.
And you let yourself lean into it.
Enjoy the uncomplicated.
And for a few moments…it almost works.
-
Age 23
“You brought him here.”
“Yeah. Remember you said he wouldn’t last.”
You’re late this year.
Flight was delayed. Rental car place was too busy. And by the time your feet hit the familiar stone of the villa’s terrace, the sun is already low in the sky.
Theo’s beside you. Rolling your suitcase like a pure gentleman. He’s good. Kind. Gets along with your parents. Laughs at your sister’s jokes.
And still, your heart flutters when you hear his voice.
Charles.
Laughing louder than necessary. As if he wants you to hear it.
You follow the sound. Trying not to think about the last time you saw him. A few months ago in Monaco. A hotel room you both swore you wouldn’t end up in. Both seeing other people. Both pretending it didn’t count.
And it wasn’t even the first time.
Since last summer, it’s happened a few times too many. Whenever him and Alex called it off. On and off. On and off. You slipped between the cracks. A quiet fuck in your apartment. A drunken make out at a birthday party. You pressed against the shower tiles. Bent over his kitchen counter.
Always followed by soft smiles and easy goodbyes. A promise to act normal.
Best friends first.
And the moment you step further into the terrace, you see him.
Charles standing against the bar, shirt unbuttoned. Tanned. Holding a drink with the confidence of someone who knows exactly how hot he looks.
And worse…Alex is next to him.
Beautiful of course. Sundress swaying. Hand on his chest like it belongs there.
He notices you before you can even speak. Smile faltering for a fraction of a second. Just enough for you to really feel it. And then it’s back.
And he lifts his glass in a salute. “You’re late.”
Alex smiles. “We thought you weren’t coming til’ tomorrow!”
You smile back. She was always so nice. “Surprise!”
Theo steps forward. Hand extended with that charm that always made it hard to hate him. “Hey…Charles, right?”
And Charles doesn’t hesitate. Shakes his hand. But its the same one he uses with driver’s he never liked. “Yeah. We’ve met.”
And it hits you like a knife to the ribs.
You remember that night clear as day. Theo was still new. Only a few dates in. And you invited him to a party.
Charles showed up late. And barely looked at Theo. Offered him a lazy smile before finding you later into the night. Pulling you into his car thirty minutes later and fucking you in the back seat.
And Theo’s smiling. “Nice to see you again.”
Charles smiles. But his eyes stay on you. Never leave your face.
Alex swings her arm into his. “So glad you made it. Saved you the good room too.”
You smile at her. “That’s sweet of you.”
Charles lifts a brow. “Didn’t know you needed a good room to enjoy yourself here.”
And you hum. “Guess I’ve gotten a little pickier.”
He takes a sip of his drink. “Since when?”
And you shrug your shoulders. “Since I started dating someone who doesn’t forget my birthday.”
And it hits him like a bullet. You see the way his jaw shifts. Swallow.
Theo’s hand slips onto your lower back. Whispering softly into your ear. Nothing specific. Just something that makes you smile.
And Charles swear’s he might just vomit.
-
The ocean is calm. Waves hitting the rocks. A few birds chirping. Air cool before the sun is fully up.
You slip out of bed, letting Theo sleep. Making your way down the stony path that you walked hundreds of times. Towel slung over your shoulder. Hair twisted up in a clip.
And you’re halfway across the sand when you see him.
Already waist deep in the water. Back facing you.
You freeze. Debating if you should turn around.
But it’s too late. He see’s you. And his face shifts into something. Longing? Guilt? You’re not sure.
“You’re always here early,” He calls out.
You drop your towel, walking into the water without glancing at him. “Not always.”
He watches you. You can feel the burn of his eyes on your skin. “You do when you’re avoiding me.”
You glance up. The water cool against your skin. “Who said I’m avoiding you?”
He shrugs. “History.”
You reach him in the water. You both stand there, not touching. Not moving.
Eventually…he speaks.
“He’s staying the entire time?”
You raise a brow. “Are you asking as my best friend or something else?”
He doesn’t answer.
You move a little closer. “You said he wouldn’t last.”
“I was wrong.” His voice is low. “Clearly.”
He swallows. Looks away from you. “Does he know?”
And your stomach twists. “Know what?”
He doesn’t say anything. Lets the silence tell you.
You feel your throat tightening. “He know’s we’re close.”
“Close.” He repeats. Half snort, half laugh.
“Best friends.”
He turns to fully face you now. Jaw clenched.
“Right. Just best friends.”
You don’t respond. Because what else are you supposed to say? That you still feel his fingers dig into your skin. That no matter how many nights pass, you still wonder what this could’ve been if you both spoke up all those years ago.
He steps closer. Too close now.
“Y’still taste like that shitty rosé we used to drink.”
And you blink. Trying not to smile. “You’re not funny.”
“Not trying to be.”
His fingers brush against your shoulder.
“You have a girlfriend.”
And his eyes look sad. He breathes loudly. “And you have him.”
-
The villa is loud tonight. Music is blasting. Too many drinks are being poured. Bowls of snacks turning stale.
All of you are packed into the living room. Sunburn. Sprawled into chairs or the floor. Hoodies thrown on.
Your families are here. Everyone laughing and shouting. Bickering. Like its still 15 years ago.
Theo sits behind you on the rug, legs wrapped around you. Hand resting on your hip. And he’s been sweet all evening. He fits.
Yet every time you crack a joke. Or win a game. It’s Charles who looks at you first. Like he’s your person.
His leg bounces restlessly.
“Alright,” Arthur announces. “We’re playing that game again. The one with the acting.” He holds up a deck of cards.
“Y’mean charades?” Alex asks. Soft.
“No.” Charles says. “The one I always win.”
And it’s you rolling your eyes now. “Y’mean the one you always cheat during?”
He leans forward. “I win.”
Theo laughs behind you.
Your sister tries to act out like Snow White. Falling over and laughing when Arthur misreads a motion. Theo keeps guessing too many times. And Alex’s impressions are almost too good.
And later…when the game’s over. You find yourself in the kitchen, stacking freshly cleaned glass and bowls onto the drying towel.
Humming to yourself.
And Charles leans against the doorway, arms crossed. Watching you with a lazy grin.
“You two are cute,” He says.
You roll your eyes. “Don’t be weird.”
“M’not.” He shrugs. Pushing off the archway and stepping closer. “It’s just…uh.” He scratches the back of his neck. “You let him touch you a lot.”
You pause with a glass in your hand. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
And he smiles. Tight. Not genuine. “Nothing.”
“You’re being weird.”
He raises his hands. Says something mocking of Theo.
And it has you gasp lightly. “You’re such an asshole.” You try not to smile.
He steps even closer.
“Yeah.” He whispers. “But I’m still your favorite.”
And then he’s stepping beside you, taking the glass from your hand and dries it.
Finishes washing the dishes with you in silence.
-
“You’re staring again.”
“Yeah. Looks like you’re having fun.”
“Jealous?”
“Of him? Never.”
Silence.
“But of you? Maybe.”
The bar is tucked into the cliffs. A grand view of the sea. Well lit by bulbs on strings.
Everyone’s dressed for the night. Sun-kissed. Hair soft and flows. Laughter echoing.
You’re on your second drink. Lightly buzzed. Your dress clinging to you just right. And you feel good. Happy.
Theo’s spinning you around. His hands warm on your waist as you move slowly in the corner of the makeshift dance floor. He’s not much of a dancer. But he’s trying. And in the end…that’s all that really matters.
He leans in close. “Y’look so beautiful.”
You smile. “Yeah?”
“I mean…y’always do.” He grins. “But-“
You don’t let him finish. Kiss him. Easy. Soft.
And when you pull back, you catch him in the corner of your eye.
Charles. At the bar.
Sitting with Arthur and Alex. Drink in front of him. Head tilted.
And he’s watching you. Not listening to either of them.
And when you’re eyes meet, he lifts his drink.
A challenge.
And later when you slip away from the loud music. He’s there. Leaning casually against the table. Shirt undone just enough to make your throat dry.
“You’re having fun.” He says. A statement. Not a question.
“Isn’t that the point?”
He nods. “Theo’s a big fan of spinning you around like you’re some prize.”
You roll your eyes. “It’s called dancing.”
“More like claiming.” He huffs under his breath.
And you look at him.
Hard.
Trying to read him.
“What’s your problem?”
He doesn’t answer right away. Eyes dropping to the floor. Then to his half empty drink.
“You kissed him.” He still isn’t looking at you.
You squint your eyes a little. “Yeah. I did.”
He swallows. Harsh. “Cool.”
You laugh. Dry. “You’re being ridiculous.”
“I’m the ridiculous one?” He finally looks at you. “You’re out here making heart eyes at a guy you know won’t last more than another year.”
Your mouth falls open. “You don’t even know him.”
“I don’t need to know him. I know you.”
And he steps forward. Voice dropping.
“And I know that’s the same dress you wore the night I…”
“Charles.”
You both go quiet.
Alex’s frame flickers by. Laughter erupts. People keep dancing.
“Whatever. You’re right. Have fun with your fling.”
You narrow your eyes. “Jealous?”
He smiles. Sad. “Of him? Never.”
A moment of silence. And his gaze drops to your mouth. Stays there.
“But you? Maybe.”
-
The trip is winding down. Bags are beginning to be packed. Towels still damp. Nights slower. Everyone pretending that they’re not ready to be home.
The sky’s dark. Everyone’s inside finishing up packing. Winding down.
You slipped out.
Without thinking, ended up here. The lemon tree.
The same as always.
You hear footsteps. Uneven. Dragging.
And you turn. Charles.
He’s drunk. Swearing under his breath as he loses his footing. A bottle dangling from his hand. Shirtless. Barefoot.
His eyes meet yours and there’s something bitter in them. “Of course you’re here.”
You breathe. “You’re drunk.”
“A lil’ bit,” His words slur. “Celebrating your last night as someone else’s girl.”
You cross your arms. “We’re not doing this.”
But he’s already walking closer.
“Y’know….s’kinda funny.”
You don’t speak.
“How he holds your hand like its somethin’ delicate. Like you’re some untouchable thing.” He takes another step closer. Voice shaking.
“I’ve had you on your knees on the kitchen floor.” He says, bitter.
Your heart pounds. “Stop.”
“In the pool too,” He slurs. “Begged me to not pull out. Said you wanted to feel it. Feel me.”
He doesn’t even let you speak. Just rambles on. Slurring. Drunk. Angry.
“Had you in every room in that house,” He grunts. “Fingers shoved in you while our parents set the dinner table. Bent you over the bathroom sink. Panties still halfway up your thighs because you were too desperate to wait.”
“Charles…”
“The pantry…remember that one?” His voice drops lower. “You were so wet it dripped onto the floor. Had to stuff my fingers in your mouth so no one would hear you cryin while you came.”
“Don’t do this.”
“I fucking have to.” He snaps. “Because I can’t fucking sleep this entire trip knowing he gets to touch you.”
You swallow. “I’m not some prize.”
“No. You’re worse.” He spits. Stepping close enough that his chest is close enough and you have to crane your neck to look at him. “You’re everything I’ve ever wanted, and you handed it to someone else like I never fucking existed.”
“Stop it.”
“He doesn’t know what its like to hear you lose control. How you cry when you come. Shaking and begging.”
And your breathing hard now.
He leans in. Bending down to be eye to eye.
“He gets to hold you in public.” His eyes are glaring. “And I got your thighs shaking around my face while you said my name like a fuckin’ prayer.”
You don’t speak. Can’t.
Silence for a few moments.
And then…
“Tell me.” He slurs, small grin tugged on the corner of his lips. “Tell me which of us you think about when you touch yourself.”
You slap him.
Hard.
And his face whips to the side. He breathes heavily. Like he’s trying not to cry. Or scream. Or grab your face and kiss you.
He swallows.
“He gets you in the daylight.”
You don’t speak.
“He gets the sunlight.”
And you whisper back. Soft. Heart breaking. “You only met me in the dark.”
You walk away barefoot. Tears forming in your eyes.
And Charles?
He stays at the lemon tree until sunrise. Alone.
-
You don’t talk for three months.
Which is considered a lifetime for you and Charles.
And then on a random weekday at nearly three in the morning, he sends a photo of the lemon tree in the winter.
No message beneath it.
You don’t answer.
Not for a day. Not even for three.
But then, on a random day the following week, you send a photo back.
A shot of your bedroom wall. A blurry photo of your hand holding a book in the corner.
Can’t sleep.
And the three dots appear before you can overthink it.
Me either.
And that’s how it begins.
You don’t FaceTime each other. At least, not at first.
You fall back into a rhythm neither of you thought would come back. Almost normal. The funny kind of banter you guys always had.
Charles broke up with Alex. You broke it off with Theo.
Neither of you really said why.
-
Age 25
“Don’t sit in my chair.”
“This isn’t your chair?”
“I licked it.”
“You haven’t changed.”
“You haven’t either.”
The sun is long gone. You’re curled up in one of the cushioned chairs on the front patio. A half finished glass of wine on the stone table beside you.
The front door swings open.
“Don’t sit in my chair”
He doesn’t even hesitate. Charles drops into the cushion next to you. Barefoot. Hoodie swallowing him.
“This isn’t your chair?”
“I licked it.”
He makes a funny face. “You haven’t changed.”
And you smile. “You haven’t either.”
And its easy. The way he stretches out, folding his arms behind his head. Like nothing ever happened.
You sip your wine.
His knee bumps into yours. Gaze on you.
“Thought it’d feel weird.”
“It did…for like,” You pause. Whisper. “For like a day.”
He holds your gaze. Doesnt look away. Smiles.
You break the tension first. “Maman said you still haven’t unpacked.”
He shrugs. “I’ll get there.”
“It’s been almost a whole week. That’s psychotic.”
“You’re just mad I haven’t asked to borrow your good smelling shampoo yet.”
“You are so not borrowing that.”
“I already did.”
You elbow him in the side. Laughing. Body shaking. He laughs with you. Head falling back.
He clears his throat. “I missed this.”
And you bump your knee back into his. “Rematch tomorrow?”
“Candy Land?”
“Don’t cheat.”
“I didn’t cheat.”
You narrow your eyes, smiling so hard. “You’re the worst.”
-
Monaco, Age 26
Your back hits the wall of his apartment.
Urgent. Focused.
Like he’s waited for forever to get you alone again. And doesn’t want to waste a single second of it.
His mouth is hot on yours. Hands at your hips. Your thighs. Slipped under your dress. And you’re clinging onto him like he’s a lifeline.
You can still taste the champagne on his skin. Skin warm from the race. But his mouth is desperate against you.
He groans against your lips. “Thought about this almost every night.”
You gasp when his fingers curl around your thigh. “Stop thinking.”
And he’s about to take you right there. Dress bunched at your waist. Pants halfway down. But then you press your hand to his chest.
He stills. Panting. Flushed.
“I need to say something first,” You breathe.
He waits. Hands still gripping you.
And you look up at him. The man who just won Monaco. The boy you’ve known who’s been chasing that dream since you can remember. The one you loved. Hated. Missed.
“Your dad would be so proud of you.” You whisper.
And you feel his chest rise. Jaw clench. Fingers curl harder into your skin.
“I’m serious.” Your voice is soft. “Not just because you won. But because of how you’ve carried him with you.”
And his eyes are glassy.
He swallows hard. “I heard him.” His voice soft. “Right after I saw that checkered flag.”
You bring your hand to his check, pressing your palm. And he leans into you.
And then he’s kissing you again. But its different.
Still hungry. But more grateful. More claiming.
He whispers I love you into your mouth. Again and again.
He whispers it when you tug his shirt over his head. When you lift your hips to pull your panties off.
Whispers it into your skin when he touches your bare skin. Like he’s seeing it all for the first time again.
And when he sinks in, he groans. Leaning over you, gripping you like you might just slip through his fingers.
“Y’feel like fuckin heaven.” He mutters against your lips. “You are heaven.”
And then he starts moving. Not fast.
Slow. Deep.
“Squeezing me like you missed it,” He huffs. “Did you, hm? Did you miss me?”
“Yes…” You pant. “Fuck…yes.”
He kisses your throat. Hot open mouthed kisses at the corner of your jaw. Hips rolling into you. Each thrust making you cry out.
“I love you.”
He thrusts.
“I love you.”
Another.
“Not just tonight. Not just now. Always.” He cries out.
And you clench around him. Yelling out as your orgasm builds too fast.
“C’mon that’s it..” He breathes. “Come for me. Let me feel it, yeah? Let me have it…please baby.”
“I love you,” You gasp. “I love you…I love you..”
And then you’re coming. Body shaking, mouth falling slack as he fucks you through it.
Following seconds later, spilling into you.
He collapses over you. “Fuck. You’re it for me.”
You hold him close.
-
“You still take it with milk?” He asks, voice soft.
You nod.
He hands you a mug. His fingers brushing against yours.
You sit on the couch together. Close.
“I keep thinking about the lemon tree,” You say. Cradling the mug in your hands.
He looks at you. “Yeah?”
You nod. “How many summers we sat there pretending everything was normal.”
He huffs a soft laugh. “We were idiots.”
You smile. “Still are.”
“I’ve loved you since we were kids.” He says quietly. “Since you made me sleep outside by the lemon tree because you said it wasn’t fair that only the birds got to live outside.”
You laugh, heart clenching.
“I’ve loved every version of you.” He continues. “The snot version. The barefoot version. The one who laughs too loud after a few drinks. The one who tried to date other people. The one who…the one who kissed other people in front of me because I waited too fucking long.”
You pause. Placing the mug down on the side table.
“I was scared that loving you would ruin everything.”
He pushes you hair behind your ear.
“I love you too.” You whisper. “You idiot.”
He laughs.
Leans in.
Kisses you.
-
Age 28
“This is where I almost lost you.”
“And now it’s where you’re asking to keep me?”
“No. Not asking.”
“Oh.”
Its late.
You’ve changed into one of Charles’s old shirts. Barefoot. As usual.
He finds you standing at the edge of the yard.
Where the broken stone path curves. Where the grass bends. Where the lemon tree leans.
You hear him before you see him. His footsteps always so loud.
Neither of you speak. He wraps his arms over your shoulders from behind. Your back to his chest as he nudges his head into the space between your shoulder and neck.
You hold his arms. Swaying to the light breeze. Staring at the lemon tree together.
“This is where I almost lost you.” He says.
And you glance at your side to him.
“And now it’s where you’re gonna ask to keep me?” You say, laughing. Teasing. Soft.
He smiles. Small. Shaky.
“No.” He says. Unwrapping his arms from you. “Not asking.”
And then you’re turning towards him.
And he drops to one knee.
Just like that.
Just him in the grass. Kneeling by the lemon tree. Choosing it to be the place where he does the most important thing he’ll ever do.
Your breath catches. And his hands tremble as he pulls a ring from his pocket.
“I wanted to do this right.” He says. “I want to choose you the way I should’ve all those years ago. Not just when it’s easy..or when we’re alone. But in front of every version of us we used to be.”
Your throat burns.
“I want every summer.” He whispers. Eyes glued to you. “Every winter. Every fight. Every make up. I want to kiss you goodnight when we’re tired. Want to raise mini versions of us.”
You laugh. You cry. And you’re nodding before he even finishes.
“I want you forever.”
And then finally, “Will you marry me?”
You fall to your knees right there in the grass. In front of the lemon tree. And kiss him hard enough that you both fall into it. Laughing. Like little kids again.
“Yes.” You whisper against his lips. “Always. In every lifetime…yes.”
taglist: @softtdaisy @zicosbitch @esmeextraa @evie-119 @teamnovalak @leclercmylove @skylyn-vais @tabisswag @annaswrites00 @chaconadine @sassy-persona @im-an-overthinker @ptrickbateman @angelique-rose-valentine @agmoon03 @whistlef0rthechoir @bvbyacid-666 @jenxjar @crazynyctophilia @theoriginalsfan124
xoxo love u all :)
Omg wait, the shirt story was so cute! What about CL16 being a new dad and his baby girl loves sleeping in the car and maybe the fans have noticed that he is driving slower? I hope that makes sense
Baby on board [CL16)
Summary: Charles newborn baby girl Yn loves to sleep in the car. So Charles doesn't hesitate to drive her around Monaco whenever she wants.
Authors Note: Hello everyone! I hope you enjoy this story. I tried to add my own special touch in this and added a "social media" part? (Idk what it's actually called). Thank you to this lovely user for this sweet request.
♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡
F1_gossip posted
Liked by username7, username9 and others
Seems like Monaco's darling Charles Leclerc has started some interesting driving habits. Apparently the driver was not only seen out driving at very weird times, but he always drove very slowly. What could be going on with Leclerc?
View comments:
username1 omg so true? Like what's going on with him???
username2 he always looks so good
username3 driving for Ferrari does that to you
username0 wait, he has a new car?!
username07 why is he driving so slow
username55 please don't post this, it doesn't concern us
username23 did someone steal his accelerator
username87 true, I actually saw him driving around at 3am, he was going super slow
username74 is he okay
username63 maybe he has insomnia???
username41 Did yall forget that he just became a dad or?
username33 so???
username41 so what if he had his baby there
username88 wait, why is this valid
username6 if this is true, please take down the post
username90 ture, let's respect their privacy
The apartment was quiet in that very particular way that only existed after midnight in Monaco.
Not the glamorous, postcard Monaco. Not the yachts or champagne or music drifting through open balconies. This was the soft, sleepy version—streetlights humming gently, the distant echo of waves somewhere below the cliff, and the low ticking of a kitchen clock that Charles had forgotten to turn off.
Yn was awake.
He knew it before she made a sound.
Charles lay on his side on the couch, one arm draped awkwardly around a folded blanket, eyes half-open, listening. He held his breath, counting in his head.
One.
Two.
Three—
A tiny noise broke the silence. Not a full cry. Just a soft, confused whimper, like she wasn’t sure yet whether she wanted to be upset.
He padded barefoot across the living room toward the bassinet by the window. Yn lay bundled in pale pink, impossibly small, her fists tucked close to her chest. Her face scrunched up as she blinked, dark lashes fluttering.
Charles leaned over her, heart doing that stupid painful thing it had been doing since the day she was born.
“How are you this tiny,” he murmured. “You’re not real.”
Her lip trembled.
“Okay, okay,” he said quickly, sliding his hands beneath her with practiced care. He lifted her against his chest, supporting her head exactly the way the nurse had shown him, the way he had practiced over and over until his movements were muscle memory.
Yn let out a quiet cry. Not loud. Just offended.
“I know,” Charles whispered, swaying gently. “I know. It’s terrible being awake at two in the morning.”
He walked slow circles around the living room, rocking her softly. He hummed under his breath—something tuneless, something his own father used to hum when Arthur was small.
Yn didn’t settle.
Her cry grew sharper, her little body stiffening slightly against his chest.
Charles stopped walking.
“Hmm,” he murmured, brow furrowing. “Okay. Okay, let’s think.”
He tried the bottle. She took a few sips, then pushed it away, frowning like she was deeply unimpressed.
He changed her diaper, whispering apologies the whole time.
“I know, I know. Worst thing ever. I’m sorry. I would be mad too.”
Still, she fussed.
Charles sighed quietly and glanced at the clock on the wall.
2:07 a.m.
He looked down at her face, red and scrunched, eyes shiny with tears.
And then he smiled.
“Oh,” he breathed, realization clicking into place. “You want the car.”
It had surprised him the first time it happened.
She’d been only a few days old. Nothing had worked—rocking, feeding, walking, bouncing on an exercise ball at four in the morning like a man who had completely lost his mind.
Out of sheer desperation, he’d buckled her into the car seat and gone for a drive.
She’d fallen asleep before he reached the end of the street.
Since then, it had become their thing.
Charles moved quietly, deliberately, slipping on a hoodie and sneakers while holding Yn against his chest. He grabbed the car seat with his free hand, checking—again—that everything was properly adjusted.
“You and me,” he whispered to her. “Let’s go.”
The garage echoed softly as he opened the door. The car lights blinked on, gentle and dim, as he settled Yn into her seat with careful hands.
“Okay,” he murmured, leaning in close. “You’re safe. Papa’s here.”
He kissed her forehead, right between her eyebrows, then straightened and slid into the driver’s seat.
The engine started with a soft purr.
Charles pulled out of the garage and onto the empty street, driving slower than he ever had in his life.
Monaco at night felt like a secret.
The roads were empty, the city hushed, like it was holding its breath. Streetlights cast golden pools on the pavement as Charles drove, one hand on the wheel, the other resting lightly near Yn’s seat as if proximity alone could protect her.
Within minutes, her cries softened.
Then stopped.
Charles glanced in the rearview mirror.
Yn was asleep.
Her mouth had fallen open just slightly, lashes resting against her cheeks. One tiny hand was curled into the fabric of her blanket.
Charles smiled so hard his cheeks hurt.
“Of course,” he whispered. “Of course this works.”
He drove on, tracing familiar routes—along the harbor, past silent cafés, up the winding roads where he usually attacked corners with precision and speed.
Tonight, he barely touched the accelerator.
Every turn was smooth. Every movement careful.
It didn’t matter.
She slept.
He was turning onto a long, empty stretch near the port when flashing blue lights suddenly filled the mirrors.
Charles’s heart jumped straight into his throat.
“Oh,” he breathed, instinctively easing off the accelerator even more. “Oh no.”
He pulled over immediately, parking carefully at the curb. His hands were steady, but his mind raced.
It’s two in the morning. I’m driving at twenty kilometers per hour. This looks ridiculous.
He glanced back at Yn.
Still asleep.
“Okay,” he whispered. “Okay. Papa’s got this.”
The police car pulled in behind him. A door opened. Footsteps approached.
Charles rolled down the window slowly.
The officer leaned in slightly, flashlight angled toward the car.
“Bonsoir,” the officer said politely. “Everything okay tonight?”
“Yes—yes,” Charles replied quickly, then stopped himself and smiled sheepishly. “I mean, yes. Sorry. I wasn’t speeding or—”
“We noticed,” the officer said, glancing at the speedometer. His tone was neutral, curious rather than stern. “You were driving very slowly.”
Charles nodded. “Yes. I know. I’m sorry if that’s not—”
The officer’s gaze shifted past Charles, toward the back seat.
“What’s going on?” he asked.
Charles followed his look and softened immediately.
“My daughter,” he said quietly. “She’s a newborn.”
The officer leaned slightly to the side, peering in more carefully.
Yn slept peacefully, completely unaware of the situation.
“Oh,” the officer said, his voice dropping automatically. “She’s tiny.”
Charles nodded, unable to stop himself from smiling. “She really likes the car. It helps her sleep. So… I drive.”
“At two in the morning,” the officer added, amused.
Charles chuckled under his breath. “Yes. At two in the morning. Or three. Or whenever she needs it.”
The officer straightened, exchanging a glance with his partner.
“Well,” he said, clearing his throat. “Congratulations.”
“Thank you,” Charles replied sincerely.
“You’re doing nothing wrong,” the officer continued. “Just… maybe keep it safe.”
“I promise,” Charles said immediately. “Very safe.”
The officer smiled, stepping back. “Alright. Keep going.”
“Thank you,” Charles said, relief washing over him. “Really.”
As the police car pulled away, Charles let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head.
“Did you hear that?” he whispered to Yn. “You charmed the police.”
He drove a little longer, just to be sure she was settled, before heading home.
The next morning—or afternoon, really—Charles was on the couch with Yn asleep on his chest when his phone buzzed.
Arthur.
He reached for it carefully, making sure not to disturb her.
Arthur:
bro 😭
Charles frowned slightly and typed back.
Charles:
What?
Arthur:
Have you been driving like a grandpa lately?
Charles blinked.
Charles:
…maybe
Arthur:
Twitter is losing it
Charles sighed, already smiling.
Charles:
What did I do now
Arthur:
People think you’ve lost your edge 😭
“why is he driving so slow”
“is he okay”
“did someone steal his accelerator”
Charles laughed silently, shoulders shaking just a little. Yn stirred but didn’t wake.
Arthur:
Someone literally tracked your night drives 😭
Charles shook his head, amused.
Charles:
Tell them it’s strategic
Arthur:
I told them you’re training for endurance at 20 km/h
Charles snorted.
He looked down at Yn, her tiny chest rising and falling against his own.
“Worth it,” he whispered.
His phone buzzed again.
Arthur:
You’re a good dad, you know
Charles swallowed, emotion tightening his chest unexpectedly.
Charles:
I’m trying
Arthur:
She’s lucky
Charles turned off his phone and rested his head back, eyes closing as he breathed her in.
pairing: charles leclerc x italian!fem!reader
summary: Charles falls in love with a girl in Austin. She tries to tell him that her family is part of a dangerous international crime syndicate. Charles, however, is fully convinced they are just "passionate Italians" who run a very exclusive waste management company and enjoy deep-sea fishing at night.
wc: 6.4k
💭 this one will stay as a standalone :)
note: thank you for the idea @fraaaaankiiiiieee <3
The Texas sun was relentless, baking the asphalt of the Circuit of the Americas until the air shimmered above it. But in the VIP hospitality suite, the vibe was surprisingly chill. The roar of the F2 cars finishing their practice session was just a background hum against the clinking of glasses and the bass of the DJ’s set.
You were leaning against the railing of the balcony, sunglasses perched on your head, laughing at something your friend shouted over the noise. It was one of those days where everything felt electric—the smell of burnt rubber, the humidity, the sheer chaos of the paddock.
"I’m telling you," you shouted back, gesturing wildly with your champagne flute, "if we don’t get inside in five minutes, I’m going to melt. È un disastro totale. I need AC, like, ieri."
It was a habit you couldn't break—that dangerous, chaotic mix of English and Italian that slipped out whenever you were excited or annoyed. You turned to head back inside, spinning on your heel, and nearly collided with a wall of Ferrari red.
Hands steadied you by the shoulders. You looked up, blinking.
Charles Leclerc was standing there. He looked slightly winded, hair a mess from a helmet, but his green eyes were crinkled in amusement. He hadn't let go of your shoulders.
"Italian?" he asked, his voice smooth despite the noise around you. He looked pleasantly surprised, as if finding a diamond in a pile of Texas dust. "In Austin?"
You felt the heat rush to your cheeks, and it wasn't from the sun. "Oh. barely," you laughed, stepping back to give him space. "It’s a mess. My friends hate it when I switch mid-sentence."
Charles tilted his head, a soft smile playing on his lips. He took a small step closer, ignoring the press officer tapping at his watch behind him.
“Il tuo accento… è molto carino,” he said softly. Your accent… is very cute.
The way he said it—low, intimate, and entirely focused on you—made the crowded paddock fade away.
You waved a hand dismissively, laughing. "You’re lying. It’s not perfect. It’s broken."
"No," Charles corrected, his gaze dropping to your lips for a fraction of a second before meeting your eyes again. To him, it sounded like poetry. "It’s charming. Different."
He glanced at the pass hanging around your neck—a generic VIP guest pass that gave away absolutely nothing about who you really were. He saw a pretty girl in a sundress, laughing with her friends, seemingly dazzled by the F1 world but not part of it. A mystery. A normal, lovely escape from the pressure of the race weekend.
"I’m Charles," he said, extending a hand, as if the entire world didn't know his name.
"I know," you grinned, shaking his hand. "I’m Y/N."
"Y/N," he tested the name, nodding as if sealing it in his memory. "I have to go. Briefing. But… I hope I hear more of that 'broken' Italian later?"
"Maybe," you teased. "If you drive fast enough."
He laughed, a genuine, bright sound, and walked away backwards for a few steps, holding your gaze until his press officer physically steered him toward the garage.
As he disappeared into the sea of red mechanics, Charles thought to himself: Finally. Just a normal, sweet girl. No politics, no drama. Just a nice connection.
You turned back to your friends, sipping your drink, a small smirk playing on your lips.
If only he knew.
You had texted him the address with a simple, terrifying stipulation: “If you want to take me out for dinner, you have to survive an appetizer with Nonna first.”
Charles took this incredibly seriously.
He arrived at the gate of the rented estate twenty minutes early, dressed in a crisp linen shirt and tailored trousers, holding a massive bouquet of white lilies. He looked like he was about to propose, or perhaps attend a royal garden party. He checked his reflection in the Ferrari’s side mirror three times.
You opened the door, leaning against the frame with a smirk. "Relax, Leclerc. She doesn't bite. Usually."
"I am relaxed," he lied, his voice pitching up an octave.
You led him to the kitchen, where the air was thick with the scent of garlic, basil, and simmering tomatoes. Standing at the stove was a tiny woman with silver hair pulled into a tight bun, stirring a pot with the focus of a chemist.
"Nonna," you called out. "He's here."
She turned slowly. Her eyes, sharp and dark, scanned Charles from his loafers to his perfectly styled hair. The room went silent.
Charles stepped forward, swallowing hard. He bowed his head slightly, extended the flowers, and took her hand.
“Piacere, signora. Questi sono per lei,” he said, his Italian flawless, his tone dripping with reverence. It is a pleasure, madam. These are for you.
He kissed her hand. It was a move straight out of a 1950s romance movie.
Nonna stared at him. Then, her face broke into a radiant smile.
"Oh, che bello," she cooed, taking the flowers. She patted his cheek with a hand that felt surprisingly strong. "Finally, a boy with manners! Y/N, look at him. He is respectful."
Charles beamed, his shoulders dropping two inches as the tension left his body. He looked at you with a triumphant 'see?' expression.
"Come, come," Nonna commanded, pulling him toward the stove. "You look too skinny. You drive the fast cars, yes? You need strength."
She dipped a wooden spoon into the bubbling red sauce, blew on it, and held it up to his mouth. It wasn't a request; it was an order.
Charles opened his mouth dutifully. He tasted it, closing his eyes as the flavor hit him.
"Wow," he breathed out, looking genuinely moved. "This is art."
Nonna’s heart melted right there on the kitchen tiles. She loved him. She loved that he was polite. She loved that he was handsome. She loved that he was a little bit absentminded—he had nearly knocked over the salt shaker with his elbow while praising her, catching it at the last second with his reflexes.
"He is a good boy," Nonna declared to you, pinching Charles's cheek again. "You keep this one."
Charles smiled at her, thinking: What a warm, loving grandmother. Italian families are so wholesome.
Charles had no idea that the hand he just kissed used to count stacks of unmarked bills in the back of a butchery in Naples. He didn't know that "Nonna" was once the most feared woman in the Camorra, the right hand of a Capo who ruled three territories.
He didn't know that the spoon she fed him with had been used to threaten a snitch in 1988.
He just thought the sauce was good.
You watched them from the doorway, biting your lip to keep from laughing. "Okay, Nonna. I think he passes. Can we go now?"
"Go, go," she shooed you both away, but not before slipping a foil-wrapped bundle of leftovers into Charles's hand. "Drive safe. But not too slow, eh?"
As you walked to his car, Charles exhaled, looking starry-eyed. "She is amazing, Y/N. So sweet. I feel like I’ve known her for years."
"Yeah," you said, buckling your seatbelt. "She's a real sweetheart. Just... don't ever cross her."
"I wouldn't dare," Charles laughed, starting the engine. "She reminds me of my own grandmother."
Oh, Charles, you thought. Not even close.
The Sunday lunch was supposed to be intimate. It was not.
Just as Charles was helping set the table in the backyard, the gate swung open. A convoy of black SUVs had parked outside, and out stepped the "uncles and cousins."
They were mountains of men. Necks as thick as tree trunks, expensive suits straining against biceps, gold chains glinting in the sun, and tattoos creeping up from their collars—some faded, some ominously fresh. There was Uncle Rocco, who had a scar running through his eyebrow, and Cousin Vito, who looked like he could lift the Ferrari SF-24 with one hand.
You watched them arrive with a sinking feeling in your stomach. You rushed to Charles’s side, ready to intercept.
"Charles, listen, they can be a little… intense," you whispered frantically.
Charles looked at them, his eyes wide. He didn't look scared. He looked enchanted.
"Wow," he whispered back, beaming. “Your family is so passionate!”
Before you could correct him, Uncle Rocco approached. He didn't walk; he stalked. He loomed over Charles, blocking out the sun. The backyard went quiet. Even the birds stopped singing.
Rocco placed a hand on Charles’s shoulder. It felt heavy, like a warning.
"So," Rocco rumbled, his voice sounding like gravel in a blender. "You are the one driving the fast cars, eh?"
"Yes, sir," Charles smiled, shaking Rocco's free hand vigorously. "It's a pleasure to meet you."
Rocco didn't smile. He leaned in close, smelling of expensive cologne and cigars. "Listen to me good, pretty boy. Y/N is our jewel. You treat her right."
"Of course," Charles nodded earnestly.
Rocco narrowed his eyes. “Because if you make a fool of yourself… or if you make her cry… we’ll put you next to the fish. Capisci?”
The threat hung in the air, heavy and violent. You held your breath, waiting for Charles to realize he was being threatened with a concrete pair of shoes and a swim in the harbor.
Charles’s face lit up.
“Oh! I love fishing!” Charles exclaimed, clapping his hands together. "I have a boat in Monaco! Do you like deep sea fishing? Maybe we can go together next summer! I catch a very big tuna last year."
Uncle Rocco blinked. Cousin Vito’s jaw dropped slightly. The ominous silence stretched out, confused and awkward.
Charles continued, completely unfazed. "It is so relaxing, no? Just you and the water. I understand why you suggest it. Thank you for the invitation!"
Rocco looked at Vito. Vito looked at Rocco.
They looked at Charles, who was smiling with the pure, unadulterated innocence of a golden retriever who had never seen a rolled-up newspaper in his life.
Rocco slowly removed his hand from Charles’s shoulder. He patted Charles’s cheek, not gently, but not violently either.
"Yeah," Rocco grunted, looking baffled. "Sure. The tuna. We go for the tuna."
The uncles huddled together by the grill a moment later, turning their backs to Charles.
"He's mocking us," Vito whispered.
"No," Rocco shook his head, watching Charles happily pouring lemonade for Nonna. "Look at him. The lights are on, but nobody is home. He thinks we want to go boating."
“Perfect,” Rocco decided, lighting a cigar. “He doesn't understand ANYTHING.”
"He’s safe," Vito agreed. "He knows nothing. He sees nothing. He is just… happy."
From across the yard, Charles gave them a thumbs up.
"Y/N," Charles said to you, looking thrilled. "Your uncle Rocco is so nice. He wants to take me fishing! I think they really accept me."
You took a long sip of wine. "Yeah, Charles. They really do."
Over the next few months, Charles spent more time with your family. Any normal person would have called the FBI by week two. Charles, however, lived in a world of sunshine and rainbows, interpreting every felony as a wholesome family activity.
One Tuesday evening, you stopped by Luigi’s Trattoria, the family’s main "business." It was 8:00 PM. The lights were dim, the chairs were upside down on the tables, and there wasn't a single paying customer in sight.
However, the back door was wide open. Uncle Rocco and three massive cousins were sweating profusely, hauling heavy, unmarked black crates from a van into the kitchen freezer.
Charles watched them, sipping an espresso at the bar.
"It is strange," he mused, watching Cousin Vito struggle with a particularly heavy box that clinked metallically. "The dining room is empty, but the kitchen is so busy."
You froze. "Uh, yeah. It’s a... slow night for walk-ins."
Charles nodded sagely. “They must be very popular on Uber Eats.”
He turned to Rocco as he passed by. "Keep up the good work! Food delivery is the future!"
Rocco, who was currently moving a shipment of unlicensed firearms, paused. He looked at the box, then at Charles.
"Yeah," Rocco grunted. "Delivery. Extra spicy."
A few weeks later, at a family gathering, loud shouting erupted from the basement. There was a crash, a thud, and then silence. Suddenly, the door flew open.
Cousins Tony and Sal stumbled out. Their suits were wrinkled, their ties were undone, and they were covered in a thick haze of cigar smoke. Tony was rubbing a bruised knuckle. Sal looked exhausted and sweaty.
They looked like they had just finished an intense interrogation.
Charles looked up from his phone, his eyes widening in admiration.
“Oh! Were you rehearsing a musical?” he asked brightly.
The room went dead silent. Sal blinked, wiping sweat from his forehead. "A... what?"
"A musical!" Charles insisted. "The passion! The shouting! The dramatic exit! It is like Les Misérables, no? Are you doing community theater?"
Tony looked at his bruised knuckle, then at Charles. "Uh. Yeah. Theater. We're doing... West Side Story."
"I knew it!" Charles beamed. "You have the energy of a Jet."
The final straw—or what should have been the final straw—happened on a Sunday morning.
Charles walked into the kitchen to find Uncle Enzo sitting at the table. The surface was covered in stacks of cash. Rubber-banded bundles of hundreds, fifties, and twenties. It was easily half a million dollars in loose bills. There was no ledger, only a burner phone.
Most people would assume money laundering.
Charles poured himself a bowl of cereal and sat down opposite Enzo. He looked at the mountain of cash, then at Enzo’s stressed face.
“Is tax season early this year??” Charles asked sympathetically.
Enzo froze, a bill halfway to the stack. "Taxes?"
"Yes," Charles sighed, shaking his head. "I hate it too. So much paperwork. It is good that you are so organized, doing it in cash. Very traditional. Do you need a calculator?"
Enzo stared at him for a long, long time. Then, he slowly pushed a stack of bills toward Charles.
"Go buy yourself an ice cream, kid."
Later that night, the family held a meeting while Charles was outside playing fetch with the guard dogs (dobermans trained to kill, which were currently rolling over for belly rubs).
"He thinks the guns are Uber Eats," Rocco said. "He thinks the beatings are West Side Story," Tony added. "He thinks the racketeering money is for the IRS," Enzo finished.
They all looked out the window at Charles, who was laughing as a dog licked his face.
"He is an angel," Nonna declared from her armchair. "He is too pure for this world."
"We keep him," Rocco decided. "And nobody—nobody—tells him the truth. I don't want to break his heart."
"We love him," Vito agreed emotionally.
You just put your head in your hands. "I'm dating a golden retriever."
The entrance to the Formula 1 paddock is usually a runway for fashion and exclusivity. Today, it looked like a scene from The Godfather meets Drive to Survive.
You swiped your pass at the turnstile. Behind you, three electronic beeps followed in rapid succession.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
Rocco, Vito, and Cousin "Tiny" (who was 6'5" and wide as a fridge) squeezed through the gates. They were wearing matching black suits, dark sunglasses, and earpieces. They weren't looking at the cars; they were scanning the perimeter, checking the rooftops, and glaring at a passing Red Bull mechanic as if he were an assassin.
Charles was waiting for you on the other side, wearing his scarlet Ferrari team kit. He looked at the phalanx of terrifying men surrounding you and beamed.
"Amore!" he called out, jogging over. He didn't even notice that Tiny automatically stepped in front of you to block his path before realizing it was Charles.
Charles simply sidestepped the 250-pound wall of muscle and kissed your cheek. "I am so happy you brought the cousins! It is great that they want to learn about engineering."
"Yeah," you said, watching Vito pat down a startled Netflix cameraman. "They're... big fans of aerodynamics."
As Charles walked you down the main thoroughfare toward the Ferrari hospitality, the energy in the paddock shifted. Usually, fans scream and photographers shout for attention.
Today, there was a hushed, terrified silence.
The photographers lowered their cameras. They didn't click. They just stared. They knew an expensive camera lens could be replaced; kneecaps could not.
"Charles!" A journalist tried to approach with a microphone.
Rocco simply held up one hand. He didn't speak. He just stared at the journalist through his sunglasses and cracked his knuckles. The sound echoed off the motorhome walls.
The journalist turned pale, lowered the mic, and pretended to tie his shoe.
Charles, oblivious, waved at the journalist. "Sorry! We are in a rush! Catch you later!" Then he turned to you, whispering loudly, "Wow, the press is so respectful today. Usually they are pushing and shoving. Your cousins have a very calming aura."
Suddenly, Carlos Sainz walked by.
"Hey, Charles! Mate!" Carlos grinned, coming over to say hello.
Vito and Tiny immediately stepped forward, crossing their arms. They loomed over Carlos, creating a human eclipse.
Carlos stopped dead in his tracks. "Uh... hola?"
"Carlos!" Charles grabbed Vito’s shoulder (which was like grabbing a rock). "I want you to meet Y/N's family. This is Vito. He is... very passionate about loyalty."
Vito stared at Carlos. "You are a friend?"
"Yes?" Carlos squeaked slightly.
"You help him win," Vito rumbled, pointing a thick finger at Carlos's chest. "You don't push him off the track. You protect the boy. Or we have a problem. Capisci?"
Carlos looked at Vito, then at the bulge in Vito's jacket, then at Charles. "Loud and clear. I love helping. Teamwork. Smooth operation."
"Good," Vito grunted, stepping back.
Charles clapped his hands. "See? Everyone is getting along so well!"
He led the group toward the Ferrari garage, walking with a bounce in his step. Behind him, the sea of people parted like the Red Sea. No one asked for a selfie. No one asked for an autograph.
As you entered the hospitality unit, you heard a photographer whisper to his colleague: "Is Charles Leclerc being held hostage?" "I don't know, but I'm not asking. Did you see the size of that guy's neck?"
Charles pulled out a chair for you and turned to the cousins. "Guys, do you want cappuccinos? The hospitality makes the best ones."
Rocco scanned the room for exits. "Espresso. Short. Black."
"Coming right up!" Charles chirped, skipping off to the coffee bar.
Rocco leaned into his earpiece. "Target is making coffee. The perimeter is secure. Nobody touches the Golden Boy."
It was the Monday morning after the race. The sun was shining, the birds were singing, and Twitter was absolutely melting down.
You were in the hotel room, packing your suitcase, when you heard a gasp from the bed.
Charles was sitting up, phone in hand, his face drained of all color. He looked like he had just seen a ghost, or worse, a tire strategy meeting.
"Amore..." he whispered, his voice trembling. "Have you seen the news?"
You froze, holding a folded t-shirt. "Uh. No? Why?"
He turned the phone toward you. The screen was bright with bold, sensationalist fonts.
THE SUN: "DANGEROUS LIAISONS: IS LECLERC DATING THE DAUGHTER OF A CRIME LORD?"
GAZZETTA DELLO SPORT: "Leclerc and the Camorra: A Love Story on the Grid?"
TWITTER TRENDING: #MobWifeEra #FreeCharles
You felt your soul leave your body. The secret was out. It was over. The police, the FIA, Ferrari PR—it was all going to come crashing down.
Charles looked up at you, his green eyes wide with confusion and genuine hurt.
"...amore... What do they mean? Mafia??"
You opened your mouth to explain. To confess. To tell him that yes, your uncle really did break kneecaps for a living and that "waste management" wasn't just about recycling.
But Charles continued, his voice rising in panicked indignation.
"Why would they say that?? It makes no sense! They talk about The Godfather... they talk about the horse..."
He stood up, pacing the room in his boxers, gesturing wildly with his phone.
"We don't even own a horse! Your family lives in the suburbs! Where would you keep a horse? In the garage? Beside the frozen tomato sauce??"
You blinked. "Wait... that's your takeaway?"
"It is bad journalism!" Charles cried, throwing his hands up. "They say 'Leclerc sleeps with the fishes.' I do not sleep with fishes! I sleep in a bed! With you! And sometimes I go fishing with Uncle Rocco, but that is a hobby! It is not a lifestyle!"
He sat back down on the bed, looking sulky. "People are so mean. Your family is just... enthusiastic. And very protective. And they wear a lot of gold. That is just fashion! Lewis Hamilton wears jewelry too, but nobody calls him a Don!"
You slowly sat down next to him, patting his back, fighting the urge to scream with laughter. "You're right, Charles. It's just... stupid rumors. Because they're jealous."
"Exactly," Charles huffed, crossing his arms. "Jealousy. They see how much Uncle Rocco loves me. They see Cousin Vito carrying my helmet like a bodyguard. They want a supportive family like yours."
He picked up his phone again and started typing furiously.
"What are you doing?" you asked cautiously.
"I am posting a story," he said firmly. "I am clarifying the situation."
Before you could stop him, he hit post.
@.charles_leclerc Instagram Story: “Please stop the fake news. Y/N’s family is the kindest people I know. They are just passionate Italians! And for the record, we do not own horses. Only cats. 🐈 ❤️ 🇮🇹”
Meanwhile, at the Ferrari Hospitality:
Fred Vasseur was staring at a newspaper, rubbing his temples. "Fred," the press officer whispered. "Do we issue a statement?" Fred looked at the photo of Uncle Rocco cracking his knuckles at a journalist. "No," Fred said, closing the paper. "We say nothing. If we deny it, the Uncles might get upset. And I would like to keep my kneecaps."
Back in the Hotel:
Charles tossed his phone aside and hugged you. "Don't worry, chérie. I handled it. No one will believe these lies now."
"You're my hero, Charles," you said, kissing his cheek.
"I know," he smiled. "Now, let's go. Uncle Rocco said he has a 'surprise' for the journalist who wrote that article. He said he's going to 'take him for a ride.' Isn't that nice? He wants to give him a tour of the city!"
Your smile froze. "I... I think we should call Rocco. Right now."
The living room was tense. You had disconnected the Wi-Fi so Charles couldn't read any more tweets about his "Mob Wife Era."
He was sitting on the sofa, holding a cup of tea Nonna had made him, looking between you and the wall of uncles standing with their arms crossed.
"Charles," you started, taking a deep breath. You held his hands. They were warm and calloused from the steering wheel. "We need to talk. Serious talk. No metaphors."
"Okay," he nodded slowly. "Is this about the horse? I told you, I will buy you a pony if that is the issue."
"It's not about the horse," you sighed. "Charles... the newspapers. They aren't lying. Not entirely."
He tilted his head. "I don't understand."
You looked at Uncle Rocco. Rocco shrugged, adjusting his silk tie.
"Kid," Rocco rumbled. "You know how I said I work in... 'waste management'?"
"Yes," Charles said politely. "Recycling. Very eco-friendly."
"It ain't recycling," Rocco said flatly. "And the restaurant? We don't sell food."
"But... the sauce..." Charles stammered.
"That's for family," Vito chimed in. "The boxes? That’s guns, Charles. Unregistered ones. And the 'fishing trips'? That’s for people who don't pay us back."
Charles looked at you, his eyes searching yours. "So... West Side Story?"
"Interrogation," you whispered.
"And the taxes?"
"Money laundering," Cousin Sal admitted proudly from the corner.
"And Nonna?" Charles looked at the sweet old lady knitting in the armchair.
Nonna didn't look up from her needles. "I made the rules, caro. They just follow them."
The room fell into a heavy silence. You could practically hear the CPU in Charles's brain whirring.
Charles: Loading... 25% He looked at Rocco. The scars made sense now.
Charles: Loading... 50% He thought about the terrifying silence in the paddock. The "respect."
Charles: Loading... 75% He realized why the "fishing" trip involved a boat but no fishing rods.
Charles: Loading... 99% He looked at you. He saw the worry in your eyes. He saw that you were terrified he would run out the door and never come back.
System Complete.
Charles blinked. He took a sip of his tea. He set the cup down on the saucer with a gentle clink.
Then, that signature, blindingly bright Monegasque smile spread across his face.
“Ah! Okay” he chirped.
You stared at him. "Okay? That's it? Okay?! Charles, my family is an international criminal syndicate!"
Charles shrugged, squeezing your hands tighter. "Nobody is perfect, mon amour. My team messes up pit stops. Your family does... organized crime. We all have our struggles."
He looked around the room at the terrifying men who had threatened to drown him.
"You love Y/N, yes?" Charles asked Rocco.
"More than life," Rocco grunted.
"And you treat me like a son?"
"You're a good kid," Vito admitted.
Charles turned back to you, his expression softening into something incredibly tender. The danger didn't matter. The guns didn't matter. The headlines didn't matter.
Absolute Priority: You.
"You are the best thing that ever happened to me," Charles said, his voice dropping to that low, sincere register that always made your heart stop. "I don't care about the rest. If this is your world, then I will live in it."
He paused, biting his lip nervously, a sudden blush creeping up his neck.
"So... seeing as everything is out in the open..." he started, fumbling for something in his pocket. "Would it be crazy to get married next year?"
The room exploded.
"YES!" Nonna screamed, throwing her knitting across the room. "FINALLY!" Rocco roared. Vito started crying.
You sat there, stunned, as Charles pulled out a ring box. "Is that a yes?"
"You're an idiot," you laughed, tears streaming down your face. "Yes. Yes, let's get married."
"Great," Charles beamed, slipping the ring on your finger. "But... maybe for the wedding, we sit the drivers stewards at a different table than Uncle Rocco? Just to be safe?"
"Good idea," you kissed him.
As the family engulfed you both in a massive, suffocating group hug, Charles thought to himself: Life is good. I have a beautiful fiancée, a loving family, and if Max tries to pass me at Monza, I can just ask Uncle Rocco to make a phone call.
Life had changed for Charles. He was no longer just a Ferrari driver; he was a "Made Man" (by marriage).
The change was subtle at first, then impossible to ignore.
Nonna didn't trust the team nutritionist ("He feeds you birdseed!"). Now, before every session, Nonna waltzed into the garage with a security clearance level higher than the Team Principal.
She would lean into the cockpit while Charles was strapped in. "Mangia, tesoro," she’d say, shoving a meatball into his mouth through the open visor. "You look pale. You need iron." "Mmph-tanks-Nonna," Charles would mumble, chewing happily while his race engineer, Xavi, looked on in terror.
Uncle Rocco and Cousin Vito were now fixtures in the paddock. They wore Ferrari shirts that were three sizes too small for their biceps. They stood outside the driver’s room like gargoyles.
When George tried to cut the queue for the weigh-bridge, Vito didn't shove him. He just cleared his throat. It sounded like a tectonic plate shifting. George immediately stepped back. "After you, Charles. lovely day, isn't it?"
Charles beamed. "Thanks, George! You are such a gentleman!"
But the biggest change was Charles’s vocabulary. Spending every Sunday with your uncles meant he was picking up the dialect. Specifically, the kind of heavy, threatening Neapolitan slang used to extort shopkeepers, which Charles assumed were just colorful idioms.
The Incident: FP3
Charles was on a hot lap. A slow-moving Haas was blocking the racing line. Old Charles would have sighed, "Ah, come on, blue flags."
New Charles, emboldened by the family spirit, keyed the radio.
Charles: "He is blocking me! Tell him to move!"
Xavi: "Copy, we are reporting it."
Charles: "No! Tell him if he doesn't move, gli faccio le scarpe di cemento!"
The radio went dead silent.
Xavi: "...Charles, confirm? Did you just say... cement shoes?"
Charles: "Yes! It means I will weigh him down with my speed! It’s a metaphor!"
In the Haas garage, the mechanic listening to the feed turned pale and whispered to the driver: "Move. Now. Or we die." The Haas swerved off the track into the gravel just to be safe.
The Post-Qualifying Interview
Charles took pole position. He hopped out of the car, adrenaline pumping. A interviewer approached him.
"Charles, fantastic lap. You really attacked the kerbs."
"Yes," Charles nodded, wiping sweat from his brow. He looked directly into the camera, channeling Uncle Rocco’s energy.
"I drove with passion. You know, you have to be aggressive. Chi non paga, non campa." (He who doesn't pay, doesn't live.)
The interviewer froze. "I... beg your pardon?"
Charles smiled angelically. "It is something Y/N's uncle says! It means... uh... if you don't pay the price of hard work, you don't win! It is very inspirational, no?"
Twitter exploded immediately:
@.leclercfan16 "DID CHARLES JUST THREATEN THE ENTIRE GRID??"
@.f1updates "Leclerc entering his villain era is the content I needed."
@.fbi "Following."
You pulled Charles aside, trying to suppress a hysterical giggle. "Baby, you can't say that on TV."
"Why?" Charles asked, sipping his espresso, his legs crossed. "Uncle Rocco says it to the supplier when the shipment is late. It just means 'be punctual', right?"
Behind him, Rocco wiped a tear of pride from his eye. "He speaks like a poet," Rocco sniffled. "My boy."
Charles wrapped an arm around you. "Don't worry, amore. I am just asserting dominance. Like you taught me. Now, excuse me, I have to go see the Stewards. I will make them an offer they cannot refuse."
"Charles, that means a bribe. Or a horse head."
"No, no," Charles laughed, walking away. "It means I will offer them a signed cap! Everybody loves merchandise!"
You watched him walk into the Stewards' office, flanked by Vito and Rocco.
Five minutes later, the investigation was dropped.
The Media Pen was a zoo. Cameras were flashing, microphones were being shoved over barriers, and the air was thick with humidity and desperation.
You were trying to make your way to the hospitality, but a particularly aggressive tabloid journalist had cornered you. He wasn't asking about tire degradation.
"Y/N! Is it true your father is on a watchlist?" he shouted, thrusting a recorder inches from your face. "What about the rumors of money laundering? Does Charles know about the offshore accounts?"
You stepped back, uncomfortable. "Please, I'm not answering questions."
"Just one comment! Is the Ferrari sponsorship dirty money?" He stepped closer, blocking your path.
Suddenly, a red gloved hand clamped down on the journalist's shoulder.
It was Charles. He had just weighed in, helmet still under his arm, looking like a sweaty angel of vengeance. He didn't look angry; he looked concerned for you. He wanted to de-escalate the situation using the "firm conflict resolution" techniques he’d learned at Sunday dinner.
"Excuse me," Charles said, his voice pleasant but projecting over the noise. "She said no."
The journalist sneered. "I'm just doing my job, Leclerc."
Charles smiled. A bright, dimpled, media-trained smile. He leaned in, just like he’d seen Uncle Rocco do to the health inspector last week.
“Hey, my friend. You are too tense,” Charles chirped.
The entire media pen went quiet to listen.
“You need to relax,” Charles continued, beaming. “Leave her alone, or I’ll send you swimming with the fish”
The silence that followed was louder than a V10 engine.
The journalist’s blood ran cold. His eyes darted to the background, where Uncle Rocco and Cousin Vito were standing by the espresso machine. They weren't smiling. They were nodding slowly.
"I... I..." The journalist stammered, dropping his voice recorder. "I'm leaving. Right now. I love fish. I mean—I hate water. Goodbye."
He turned and sprinted—actually sprinted—out of the paddock, leaving a cloud of dust behind him.
You stood there, mouth agape, staring at your boyfriend.
“CHARLES,” you hissed.
Charles looked at you, confused by your tone. He looked incredibly proud of himself. "What? I handled it! I was polite!"
"You just threatened to murder him!"
"What? No!" Charles laughed, waving his hand dismissively. "It is a metaphor! Uncle Rocco says it all the time! 'Go swim with the fishes.' It means... go to the beach! Cool off! Have a nice swim to relax your mind!"
He looked at you with wide, innocent puppy eyes. "That journalist looked very stressed. I was suggesting a spa day."
You buried your face in your hands. "Charles. 'Sleeping with the fishes' means wearing concrete shoes at the bottom of the ocean."
Charles froze. The smile vanished.
“Oh.”
He looked at the spot where the journalist had fled. Then he looked at Uncle Rocco.
Rocco gave him a thumbs up and mouthed: Professional.
Charles turned back to you, a slow blush creeping up his cheeks. "Okay. Maybe the idiom is different in French. But... look on the bright side?"
"What is the bright side, Charles?"
He gestured to the empty space around you. The other journalists had terrifiedly backed away, giving you a distinct 10-foot radius of personal space.
"It is very peaceful now," Charles grinned, taking your hand. "And nobody is asking about the tires."
The hearing took place in a sterile, white conference room at the FIA headquarters. At one end of the table sat the Ethics Committee, looking stern and reviewing a thick file labeled "LECLERC: ALLEGED TIES."
At the other end sat Charles. He was wearing his team polo and looking around the room with polite curiosity.
Behind him stood You, Uncle Rocco, Cousin Vito, and Nonna. They were not looking curious. They were looking like a wall of granite.
"Mr. Leclerc," the Head Steward began, adjusting his glasses. "We have reports of alarming terminology used on team radio. References to 'concrete shoes.' Threats regarding 'fishes.' And frequent visits to a bakery in Naples that hasn't sold a loaf of bread since 1994."
Charles leaned into the microphone. "The bakery? Yes! It is very exclusive. They are always sold out when I arrive. But the espresso is free!"
The Steward sighed. "We suspect you are a key player in a sophisticated money laundering operation."
Before Charles could answer, Uncle Rocco slammed his hand on the table. The water pitcher jumped.
"Objection!" Rocco bellowed. "This is slander!"
"Sir, you are not a lawyer," the Steward said nervously.
"I am better," Rocco pointed a finger at Charles. "Look at this boy. Look at his face. Do you really think he is running a criminal empire?"
"Well..." the Steward hesitated.
"He called me last week," Cousin Vito interrupted, stepping forward, "because he got locked out of his hotel room. He was holding the key card. He was pushing 'pull' doors. He doesn't even know what Front Business is."
The room went silent.
"Excuse me?" the Steward asked.
"A front!" Vito shouted. "He thinks it means the front wing! We told him we 'wash money' and he bought us a bottle of fabric softener! He thinks the 'Godfather' is a documentary about the Pope!"
You stepped in, suppressing a laugh. "What my family is trying to say, gentlemen, is that Charles is innocent. Not because of a lack of evidence. But because of a surplus of... purity."
Charles looked back at you and the uncles, beaming. Wow, he thought. They are defending my honor so passionately. They really want the FIA to know how focused I am on racing.
The Head Steward looked at Charles, who was currently trying to balance a pen on his upper lip to pass the time.
"Case dismissed," the Steward whispered, closing the file. "God help you all."
Six months later, the wedding of the century took place in Lake Como.
It was the ultimate crossover event. On the left side of the aisle: The Ferrari strategy team, Pierre, Lewis, and Fred Vasseur. On the right side of the aisle: 300 men in pinstripe suits, crying openly, with bulges in their jackets that were definitely not confetti.
The priest (Cousin Vinny, ordained online five minutes ago) cleared his throat.
"Do you, Charles Marc Hervé Percival Leclerc, take Y/N..."
"I do," Charles said, his eyes shining with tears.
"And do you promise to love her, honor her, and..." Vinny went off script, glaring at the groom, "...never, ever make her sad, or we will find you, and there is no pit lane fast enough to escape us?"
Charles laughed, thinking it was a cute joke. "I promise! Cross my heart!"
"Good," Vinny grunted. "You may kiss the bride."
The party was legendary.
Fred gave a speech about lap times. Uncle Rocco gave a speech about "loyalty" that sounded vaguely like a declaration of war against Red Bull.
You saw Lando teaching Cousin Tiny how to do the "Shoey," while Nonna cornered Max, pinching his cheek and forcing him to eat a cannoli. Max looked terrified but was eating it obediently.
Charles was in the center of it all, crowd-surfing on the hands of your cousins.
He found you later on the balcony, overlooking the lake. He was disheveled, tie undone, face covered in lipstick from his aunts.
"This is perfect," he sighed, wrapping his arms around you. "Your family is so energetic. Cousin Sal just gave me a wedding gift."
"Oh no," you flinched. "What is it?"
"He said he 'took care of' my grid penalty for next week," Charles smiled innocently. "I don't know what that means, but it was so thoughtful!"
You laughed, resting your head on his shoulder. "Yeah. Thoughtful. Let's just say you're starting P1, baby."
Charles kissed your forehead. He didn't know about the crimes. He didn't know about the FBI file. He just knew he was loved, protected, and part of the most "passionate" family in the world.
summary : drunk you has an itch than only charles can scratch
wc : 2,3k
warnings : SMUT !! p in v, rough sex, degrading language, drunk sex, implied consent, dom!charles, dirty talk, basically porn with very little plot
a/n : short because i’m veeeery busy with uni :( i’m planning a longer one tho!

just trying different numbers
didn't think that you'd pick up!
It wasn't your fault, not really.
You weren't supposed to drink, not on a Tuesday. But it was one of your friend's birthday, you were all out, and this was Monaco. C'mon, who wouldn't have taken at least one cosmo?
And two. And then a few more.
It had been a long while since the last time you'd been in a club anyway, might as well make the most of it, right?
So you drank, and danced, and then drank again. Your friends were all happy and so were you. After a difficult week, this was exactly what you needed.
Because God, it had been a hard few days. Your new job was kicking your ass, and you’d had about ten free hours in the last month. Being generous. You needed to have fun, and to fucking relax.
"Babe, I swear you’re so on edge lately." Dina, one of your friends, said while you were by the bar getting your who-knows-which drink. "You need to get laid."
Yeah, that too.
At this point in the night, you couldn’t help but laugh. Because what the hell, she was right.
You were young, and hot, and not to brag but also fun to be around. It wouldn’t be hard to find yourself some guy you could take back home. But that wasn’t what you wanted.
You wanted him.
Charles Leclerc was as handsome as he was insufferable. And if you had to use another adjective to describe him, it would be fucking unreachable.
He spent half his life around the globe, and the other half around his—as he tended to remind you every time he could—many fans. So it was a rare occurrence that you and him were even in the same country.
You had met last year, in a club that felt like he owned and that you were dragged to, one of those days you hardly had enough energy to get out of bed.
Your grumpiness had amused him when his friends introduced themselves to yours, and it was immediately obvious to you that he liked a challenge. From all the women in your group, he had his focus on the one that clearly didn’t want to be there.
Needless to say, you both left pretty early that night. And woke up late the next morning.
To your surprise—because he looked like a one stop kinda guy—he gave you his number, and insisted you'd stay for breakfast.
Maybe if you had, the story could've been different. Perhaps it would've been more natural, more tidy. Instead, it turned into something messier, more fun.
You'd never been on a date, nor you were expecting him to ask you out. That wasn't your game. It was more primal, more needy.
Just a matter of who caved first.
And tonight, that was you. It had been too long since the last time anyway, he sure as hell shouldn’t be surprised.
So you took your phone and difficultly walked to a corner in the club, trying to get at least a bit away from the speakers.
His voice was rough when he picked up, he was probably either sleeping or just about to go to bed. "Well, look at that. It’s been a while."
"Hi." You simply said, and you were sure he could hear the smile on your face.
Charles let out a deep laugh, obviously amused. "Someone’s drunk, huh."
You heard rustling at the other end of the line, which lead you to believe he was getting comfortable.
"Not like it’s stopped you before, has it?"
You could hear him scoffing, knowing you were right. "Oh? So you’re calling me on a Tuesday night to remind me of how much fun we’ve had in the past?"
"I’m more focused on the present." You replied, your hand playing with the edge of your dress.
He paused for a moment, a smirk appearing on his face, enjoying the flirty banter.
"Is that so?" He said in a lower tone. "And just what do you want from me in the present, ma chérie?"
He leaned back into the pillows, holding the phone close to his ear.
You took another sip of your cosmo. "Take a wild guess"
Charles let out a soft, breathy laugh. "How about I pick you up in 15? See where this wild guess takes us."
"Nice plan."
He chuckled again, clearly amused by your willingness. "Atta girl."
He hung up the phone and got out of his bed, getting dressed quickly in some comfy sweatpants and a plain black t-shirt. He took his wallet and car keys just as fast, and in a minute he was out.
He didn't even have to check the location you sent him to know the club you were at. You always went to the same one; fancy, but not overwhelming. The perfect balance between both your lives, if anyone wanted to get poetic.
Ten minutes later, he was standing right next to his favourite Ferrari, leaning against the neat and expensive car, waiting for you to walk out of the club.
He immediately smirked when he saw you, walking difficulty towards him.
"Sober as a judge, huh?" He teased you, crossing his arms.
You shrugged, getting to him. "You've seen me worse."
"True." He nodded. "The call was a surprise tho."
You smiled when he opened the door for you, getting in and looking up at him from your seat. "I was just trying different numbers. Didn't even think you'd pick up."
"When have I ever ignored your calls?"
You hummed, and he walked around the car to get in the driver's seat.
"Like you said, it's been a while."
And it had indeed. Charles could still remember the last time, im your apartment instead of his, after he came home from a bad race.
God, he had really needed the relief that night.
And honestly? Ferrari was still kicking his ass, he could definitely use it today too.
So when you got to his penthouse, he didn't waste any time. You both took your jackets off, and just a minute later your were already laying on the bed with him over you, effusively kissing your neck.
He looked up at you for a second, heavily breathing. "Are you sure?"
Your eyes were pleading when you replied, nodding. "Very."
His heart raced at your answer, the amount of time he'd been away from you adding to his desire. He kissed his way up your neck, capturing your lips in a fierce kiss as his hand slipped under your top.
It didn't take him long to pull it off you, a mischievous glint in his eye as he slowly removed it, tossing it aside. He took a moment to admire your chest before leaning down to kiss along the swells of your breasts.
He smirked against your skin, clearly pleased by the sounds he was eliciting. Slowly, teasingly, he kissed his way down to one nipple, flicking it lightly with his tongue before taking it fully into his mouth.
His other hand continued to explore under your panties, his fingers finding their way to your wet center. He rubbed circles against your clit, his thumb pushing inside you as he sucked on your nipple. "Fuck, baby..." He murmured against your breast. "You're so fucking wet already..."
"Just for you..." You moaned back, heavily breathing.
Charles' ego inflated at your words, and he kissed his way to your other nipple, giving it the same attention as the first. He added a second finger to your pussy, stretching you open as he continued to rub your clit. "Just for me, huh? That's fucking hot."
Your hands moved to his hair, pulling slightly as your head fell back into the pillows.
"You make such pretty noises..." He growled softly, adding a third finger to test your tightness. He was fully hard, listening to your whimpers and moans.
"Spread your legs wider, mon amour." He ordered softly, pumping his fingers slowly. "Let's see how you take my dick."
You obeyed immediately.
Charles swallowed hard at the sight of your spread thighs. He removed his fingers from inside you, making you whimper at the loss. He smirked, licking your wetness off his fingers, before quickly removing his boxers, freeing his large, hard cock.
You looked down at him, making him chuckle.
"Like what you see?" He asked arrogantly, wrapping a hand around his length and giving it a slow pump. He was long and thick, and he knew he'd fill you up completely. "You're about to get fucked so hard, you'll forget all about those other numbers you were calling."
You shook your head, looking at him with your eyebrows pinched together. "I only called you."
"I know, baby." He smirked, grabbing your hips firmly as he slowly pushed just the head inside, stretching your tight entry. "Fuck, you're still so tight." His breathing became heavier, fighting the urge to thrust all the way in. "Should I go slow... or fuck you rough? What do you want tonight, huh?"
"Rough... please, need you..."
"Rough it is then..." He replied, slamming his hips forward, burying himself inside you in one brutal thrust. You cried out in pain and pleasure as he stretched you wide open. He pulled back slightly before slamming into you again, setting a brutal pace.
Charles pounded into you relentlessly, the sound of skin slapping against skin echoing through the room. His balls slapped against your ass with each thrust, his cock hitting deep inside you. "Fuck, your pussy was made f'me." He grunted, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
His pace quickened as he watched his body slap against yours, your breasts bouncing wildly. He spread your legs wider, hitting even deeper.
You almost cried out at how deep he was, but instead you bit your lower lip and scratched his back with your nails, trying to keep quiet.
The slight pain from your nails digging into his back only fueled his desire. He fucked you harder, faster, sweat beading on his forehead. "Fuck..." He whispered against your neck, kissing you roughly.
He continued to pound into you, his thrusts becoming erratic. "Shit... you're so fucking tight," He grunted, his face scrunched in concentration.
Charles watched his body slap against yours again and again. Your breasts bounced wildly, making his mouth water. He lowered his head suddenly, capturing one peak between his teeth softly, making you moan again.
He bit down slightly, the small pain mixing with the pleasure. He released your breast, kissing the red mark he left before pulling out suddenly, flipping you onto your stomach. "On your knees," He ordered, giving your ass a hard slap. "Now."
You immediately obeyed, and he kneeled behind you, grabbing your hips and pulling you back onto his thick cock. He started to thrust again, this new position allowing him to go even deeper. His balls slapped against your clit with each thrust, the sound wet and obscene. "Fuck, you feel so good, baby."
You moan again before he held your head down firmly against the mattress with one hand, the other gripping your hip as he fucked you mercilessly. His thrusts were brutal, each one causing the bed to shake beneath you. "That's it... fucking take my cock like a good girl."
Charles felt your nails digging into the sheets, knowing how close you must be. His thrusts became shorter, more intense, targeting your deepest spots. Leaning over, he growled in your ear. "Gonna fucking ruin this tight pussy. No one will ever fuck you like this."
He reached down with one hand, grabbing one of your breasts roughly and squeezing it tightly as he continued to thrust into you from behind. "Fucking hell... these tits..." He groaned deeply.
Feeling your muffled moans against the mattress, he pushed your head down harder, knowing it was making you feel helpless and completely dominated. He leaned down over your back, fucking you harder than ever before. "Is this what you wanted, huh?"
You could only moan in reply, nodding against the sheets.
His hips moved like a machine, slamming against your round ass with each thrust. He could hear you loudly moaning against the mattress, but he didn't care. Right now, he was only concerned with destroying your pussy. "Fucking slut... taking my big dick so well."
Charles kept holding you down. With your face buried in the bed, he could feel your moans vibrating against it as he fucked you relentlessly. He reached around, finding your clit and rubbing it roughly with his thumb. The combination of the intense thrusts and the direct stimulation sent you over the edge. "Fuck... I'm gonna cum...!"
"Ah!" Your back arched against him. "Holy shit!"
He felt your body tense up, your pussy clamping down on his cock as you came. The feeling was too much for him, and with a loud groan, he buried himself deep inside you. He came violently, filling your pussy with his hot seed. "FUCK!"
Charles growled as he kept releasing inside you, and then he held you tightly, making sure you stayed grounded before collapsing on top of you.
You let out a deep breath, and he pulled out, laying on his back after groaning, one of his hands moving to the back of his head. An instant went by, and you looked at Charles. He immediately moved you closer to him, making you rest on his naked and sweaty chest.
After a few seconds in silence, trying to catch his breath, the monegasque moved a bit so he could look down at you. "Were you serious? About me being your only call."
You looked up at him, smiling, your cheeks still blushed. "Maybe."
He hummed. "Maybe. Okay, I can work with that."
"Am I a project now?" You asked, still teasing him.
"I wouldn’t say a project." He replied, leaning closer to you so he could kiss you. Slowly this time.
And after you both pulled away, he added: "You’re a goal."
You couldn’t hide a smirk. This should be interesting.