i understand charles’ frustration because lewis in the car is bringing results and now it’s three races where he feels out of control. i believe charles can still bring us back to the top. a race for big moves tomorrow
🪼

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will byers stan first human second
One Nice Bug Per Day
Misplaced Lens Cap

#extradirty

ellievsbear
Xuebing Du

Andulka
trying on a metaphor
Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her

❣ Chile in a Photography ❣
$LAYYYTER
Mike Driver
hello vonnie
Keni
Show & Tell
i don't do bad sauce passes
"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"
taylor price
seen from Argentina
seen from Uzbekistan

seen from Türkiye

seen from United States

seen from Malaysia
seen from United Kingdom
seen from United States

seen from Japan

seen from Malaysia

seen from United Kingdom
seen from France
seen from Germany

seen from United States

seen from Netherlands

seen from India
seen from Malaysia

seen from United States
seen from Malaysia

seen from United States

seen from United States
@goldenleclerc
i understand charles’ frustration because lewis in the car is bringing results and now it’s three races where he feels out of control. i believe charles can still bring us back to the top. a race for big moves tomorrow

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i’m glad charles is okay :(
can u write smthg on reader feeling like she is bad luck because max did not win one or two races when she was there nd people on social media says it too and feels awful which max finds out
Bad Luck Charm
Pairing: Max Verstappen x Reader
Summary: When fans starts calling you Max's bad luck charm, you decide staying away is the best thing you can do for him. Max thinks that's complete bullshit.
4.7k words / Masterlist
The first time someone called you bad luck you laughed.
It was stupid, ridiculous really. A throwaway comment under a fan edit, buried somewhere beneath heart emojis, fire and lion emojis, and arguments about strategy. You had only seen it because you were sprawled across Max's hotel bed in one of his oversized Red Bull hoodies, shamelessly scrolling through edits of him on TikTok while he showered.
@verstappenator33: not saying she’s cursed but max hasn’t won a single race she’s attended this season 😭
At the time it felt harmless enough, a little mean maybe, but that’s the internet.
so hungry, i could eat … | oscar piastri
summary: one little conversation between Nicole Piastri and the McLaren social media admin brings you back into Oscar's life
fc: gala nikolic
warning: I am aware of all the spelling errors, but to change them I’d have to rewrite, screenshot and insert the slides all over again and I’m just too lazy to do that, so you’ll just have to life with it
a/n: I love them you guys!!! I’m totally open to writing a part two if you’re interested, but I also might just do it anyway. I hope you enjoy🍀
oscatpiastri
Can you write a story where y/n is in the paddock and get's ambushed from paparazzi in the Paddock. At first Charles doesn't notice it but when he does he get's very protective and angry. People in the Paddock are able to see how much he loves y/n.
Thank you very much
Out of the Spotlight
Pairing: Charles Leclerc x Reader (y/n)
Warnings: angst, paparazzi ambush, panic attack, sensory overload, heavy comfort, protective Charles Leclerc
Summary: When an aggressive swarm of paparazzi corners Y/N in the middle of the Monza paddock, she gets completely trapped by the flashing lights and invasive questions. The second Charles spots the commotion, his usual polite media persona completely vanishes. He furiously cuts through the crowd to shield her, showing the entire paddock exactly how fiercely he loves and protects his girl.
Word count: 4596
Author’s note: This one is super emotional but filled with so much comfort! I really wanted to write that protective, unyielding side of Charles when someone he loves is pushed past their limit. I hope it’s what you had in mind! xx
Masterlist
The high-pitched whine of pneumatic wheel guns echo through the narrow concrete corridors of the Monza paddock, a sharp, mechanical symphony that usually brings a sense of familiar comfort. Today, however, the air feels unusually heavy, thick with the stagnant heat of late afternoon and the frantic energy of a championship deciding weekend.
You weave through the bustling crowds of team personnel, VIP guests, and hospitality staff, keeping your head low. Charles had been called into an unexpected, late-career engineering debrief after the second practice session, leaving you to navigate the walk from the Ferrari motorhome back to the garage alone. It is a walk you have done a hundred times before, usually with his large, warm hand securely anchored around yours, his thumb tracing soothing circles against your knuckles to ward off the overwhelming nature of the paddock.
Without him beside you, the environment shifts from an exhilarating behind-the-scenes spectacle into a daunting gauntlet.
You quicken your pace, your sneakers squeaking faintly against the polished asphalt. The paddock is supposed to be a sanctuary for the drivers and their inner circles, a highly restricted zone where they can breathe without the crushing weight of public scrutiny. But boundaries have been blurring lately. The sport has exploded in popularity, and with that meteoric rise came a new, desperate breed of media hungry for any scrap of personal drama. As the girlfriend of Scuderia Ferrari’s golden boy, you have inadvertently become the ultimate prize for those looking to score a viral headline.
You pull the brim of your red team cap a little lower, your eyes fixed on the bright red turn-off that leads to the rear of the Ferrari garage, just fifty yards away.
Then, the air shifts.
It starts with a hurried shuffle of footsteps behind you, followed by the heavy, metallic clatter of oversized camera lenses colliding. Before you can even turn your head to investigate, a wall of human bodies materializes out of nowhere, cutting off your path forward.
"Y/N! Y/N, look over here!"
The first shout is loud, piercing through the ambient noise of the paddock like a siren. Within a fraction of a second, three photographers turn into ten, and ten quickly morph into a suffocating swarm of nearly thirty people. They move with a terrifying, predatory synchronization, circling you until you are completely boxed in against the concrete barrier of an old support building.
"Y/N, are the rumors true? Is Charles looking to extend his contract, or are the tensions within the team pushing him out?"
"Give us a smile, Y/N! How does it feel to be the distraction keeping him off the podium this weekend?"
The questions are hurled at you like physical projectiles, sharp, invasive, and intentionally malicious designed to elicit a reaction. The blinding, rapid-fire flash of professional strobes begins, exploding in your eyes in a relentless strobe effect that instantly disorients you. You raise a hand to shield your face, your heart hammering violently against your ribs like a trapped bird.
"Please," you mutter, your voice instantly swallowed by the roar of the crowd. "Please, let me through. I just need to get to the garage."
They don’t move. In fact, they press closer. A heavy telephoto lens brushes past your shoulder, missing your ear by mere inches. The physical proximity is stifling, the heat radiating from the aggressive crowd making it difficult to breathe. You take a step backward, but your spine hits the rough, unforgiving concrete of the building wall. You are completely trapped, surrounded by a wall of glass, flashing lights, and shouting strangers who see you not as a human being, but as a paycheck.
"Look at the camera, Y/N! Just one shot without the hand!"
"Is it true you two are on the rocks? Is that why he’s arrived alone every morning this week?"
The panic sets in fully now, a cold, paralyzing wave that tightens around your throat. Your breaths become shallow and rapid. You look frantically over the shoulders of the paparazzi, searching for a familiar face, a security guard, a team member, anyone, but the crowd is too dense, a human barricade isolating you from the safety of the paddock.
Meanwhile, just forty yards away inside the cool, dimly lit depths of the Ferrari garage, Charles is standing near the telemetry screens. He still has his fireproof undershirt pulled up around his neck, the top half of his race suit tied loosely around his waist. His hair is a messy, damp mop from the sweat of the practice session, and his brow is furrowed as he points at a jagged line on the computer monitor, debating setup options with his race engineer, Bryan.
"The snap oversteer in Turn 11 is still there, Bryan," Charles says, his voice low, steady, and carrying that melodic Monégasque lilt that usually commands attention without needing to raise its volume. "If we don’t stiffen the rear, I am going to lose the back end during the long runs tomorrow."
Bryan nods, tapping his pen against his clipboard, shifting through data sheets. "We can try adjusting the anti-roll bar, Charles, but it might compromise your tire life on the soft compounds."
Charles sighs, running a hand through his hair, nodding abstractedly. He is completely locked into his professional zone, a mindset where nothing exists outside of lap times, tire degradation, and apex speeds. He takes a sip from his driver drink bottle, his eyes scanning the garage out of habit.
He always scans the garage. He is looking for you.
Usually, by this time in the afternoon, you would be sitting on one of the Pirelli tire stacks, or standing in the back corner of the garage with a pair of headphones on, offering him a quiet, reassuring smile whenever he looked up from his data.
He notices your absence immediately, a subtle flicker of concern crossing his sharp features. He checks the digital clock on the wall. It has been twenty minutes since he told you he would meet you here. The walk from the motorhome takes five, maybe six minutes if the paddock is crowded.
"Charles? Are you listening?" Bryan asks, noticing his driver’s sudden distraction.
"Yeah, yeah, sorry, Bryan," Charles murmurs, his eyes still lingering on the empty space near the back of the garage. "Just, give me one second."
He steps away from the engineering station, walking toward the wide open back doors of the garage that look out onto the paddock. The bright Italian sunlight makes him squint after being in the darkness of the garage for so long. He looks left, toward the hospitality units, then right.
At first, he doesn't notice anything out of the ordinary. The paddock is always chaotic. There is always a cluster of people moving here and there, a blur of team shirts and media passes.
But then, his eyes catch on a specific commotion near the support building.
It is a dense, unruly pack of people, moving with a frenetic, aggressive energy that looks entirely different from the usual orderly chaos of the paddock. He watches as the crowd surges forward, the distinct, rapid clicking of camera shutters firing in unison echoing across the open space. He sees the bright, blinding flashes of strobe lights reflecting off the glass windows of the building.
Charles frowns, his body tensing instinctively. He hates when the paparazzi get aggressive with anyone in the paddock, but as he takes a step closer to the threshold of the garage, his eyes narrow, focusing on the center of the frantic circle.
Through a small gap between two oversized camera lenses, he catches a glimpse of a familiar color. It is a flash of Ferrari red, a specific cap pulled low over a head of hair he knows better than his own.
He freezes, his heart stopping for a single, terrifying beat as his brain processes the image.
It’s you.
He sees your small hand raised in a futile attempt to block the blinding lights. He sees the way your shoulders are hunched forward, your body pressed flat against the concrete wall, looking incredibly small, incredibly vulnerable, and completely defenseless against the predatory sea of media surrounding you.
In an instant, the calm, calculated racing driver vanishes.
A raw, primal fury, something fierce and terrifyingly protective, detonates inside Charles’s chest. The change in his demeanor is instantaneous and visceral. The easygoing, polite young man who always smiles for the cameras, who always stops to sign autographs, who handles the media with grace and patience, disappears entirely.
His jaw sets so hard the muscles in his cheek twitch violently. His green eyes, usually warm and expressive, darken into ice, burning with a lethal, focused rage.
Without a word to anyone, Charles steps out of the garage.
He doesn’t walk, he marches, his boots hitting the paddock ground with heavy, thunderous intent. His posture is rigid, his chest puffed out, radiating an aura of pure, unadulterated anger that instantly cuts through the afternoon heat.
People in his direct path, PR representatives, Alpine mechanics, a pair of FIA officials, take one look at his face and immediately scramble out of his way, their conversations dying in their throats. Nobody has ever seen Charles Leclerc look like this. He looks dangerous.
As he closes the distance, the shouts of the paparazzi grow louder, their questions becoming more invasive, oblivious to the storm bearing down on them.
"Come on, Y/N, just look up! Give us the million dollar shot!"
You are trembling now, your vision swimming with tears of sheer panic and sensory overload from the non-stop flashing lights. You press yourself harder against the wall, wishing the concrete would simply swallow you whole, closing your eyes tight to shut it all out.
"Get out of the way."
The voice isn’t shouted, but it possesses a low, freezing, venomous authority that cuts through the noise of the paparazzi like a razor blade through paper.
The photographer closest to the edge of the circle turns around, irritation on his face at being interrupted, but the complaint dies instantly in his throat.
Charles is standing right there.
He doesn’t look like the poster boy for Formula One. He looks like a man possessed. Before the photographer can even lower his camera, Charles shoves his way into the crowd. He doesn’t use his hands to strike, but he uses the full weight of his athletic frame, his shoulder slamming into a cameraman, forcefully throwing the man off balance and sending him stumbling sideways into his colleague.
"Move!" Charles snaps, his voice a dangerous growl as he violently rips through the human barricade. He physically grabs the shoulder of another reporter who is blocking his path, wrenching the man backward with enough force to nearly send him to the ground.
The paparazzi scramble in absolute shock, a collective gasp rippling through them as they realize who has just invaded their circle. The relentless flashing stops for a brief second, replaced by the stunned silence of a crowd that knows they have pushed a very dangerous line.
Within seconds, Charles breaks through the inner ring of the ambush.
The moment his eyes land on you, seeing your tear-streaked face, your trembling hands, and the sheer terror in your eyes, something breaks inside him. The anger in his expression shifts into a heartbreaking mask of pure anguish and protective desperation, before hardening right back into fury as he turns his back to you, effectively shielding your entire body with his own.
He steps directly into your personal space, his large frame completely blocking you from the view of every camera lens in the area.
"Charles! Charles, over here! What do you have to say about—"
"Back off!" Charles roars, his voice exploding with a raw, thunderous power that echoes off the surrounding buildings. He steps forward, planting his feet, his chest heaving as he glares at the journalists closest to him. His hands are clenched into tight fists at his sides, the knuckles white, his entire body vibrating with the effort it takes not to physically attack the people in front of him.
"Get those cameras out of her face right now!" he snarls, his eyes darting from person to person, locking onto anyone who dares to keep their lens pointed toward you. "Step back! Every single one of you, step the hell back before I lose my mind!"
The sheer intensity of his rage is terrifying. Several photographers instinctively take three steps backward, their cameras lowering as they look at Charles with wide, fearful eyes. They have never seen him raise his voice like this, let alone threaten them with such physical, unbridled aggression.
"Charles, we are just doing our jobs—" one brave reporter attempts to say, holding a microphone out.
"I don't give a damn about your job!" Charles spits out, his voice laced with venom, his face turning a dangerous shade of crimson. "She is not part of this! She is not your story! If you come near her again, if you put a camera in her face ever again, I will personally ensure your passes are revoked permanently! Do you understand me? Get out of my sight!"
The paddock has gone completely still. Dozens of onlookers, mechanics from rival teams, team principals, and hospitality guests have stopped in their tracks, turning to watch the scene unfold. The space around the support building has become a theater, and everyone is witnessing the absolute, terrifying depth of Charles Leclerc’s love and protectiveness over you. There is no PR filter, no media training, no calculated image. This is a man defending the person he loves more than life itself, and it is painfully clear to everyone watching that he would tear the entire paddock apart to keep you safe.
Without waiting for a response from the stunned crowd, Charles turns his back on them entirely, dismissing them as if they no longer exist.
The transformation when he faces you is instantaneous. The terrifying, murderous rage vanishes from his eyes, replaced by an overwhelming, desperate tenderness that leaves him looking breathless.
"Mon amour," he breathes out, his voice cracked and trembling with emotion.
He drops to his knees slightly so he is at eye level with you, his large, warm hands coming up to gently cup both sides of your face. His thumbs immediately begin wiping away the tears streaming down your cheeks, his touch incredibly soft, as if he is terrified you might break if he presses too hard.
"I'm here, I'm so sorry, Y/N, I'm so sorry I wasn't here," he whispers frantically, his green eyes searching yours, filled with a profound, agonizing guilt. "Look at me, cherie, just look at me. Ignore them. They are gone. It's just me."
The moment his hands touch your skin, the icy paralysis of the panic attack begins to thaw. You let out a broken, ragged sob, your hands flying up to grip his wrists desperately, leaning your weight fully into his touch.
"Charles," you choke out, your voice barely a whisper, your body shaking uncontrollably.
"I’ve got you, I’ve got you, baby," he murmurs against your skin, his forehead leaning forward to rest gently against yours. He doesn't care about the cameras that are slowly starting to raise again from a distance, he doesn't care about the hundreds of eyes watching them, he doesn't care about the headlines this will cause tomorrow. The only thing that matters in his entire universe is the girl trembling in his arms.
He shifts his position, wrapping one powerful arm securely around your waist, pulling you tightly against his chest, tucking your head securely under his chin. His other hand remains firmly planted on the back of your head, his fingers tangling in your hair, pressing your face into the warm fireproof material of his shirt, shielding your eyes from any residual flashes.
He lifts you slightly, absorbing most of your weight against his strong frame as he begins to guide you away from the wall.
As he walks you toward the Ferrari garage, a few persistent photographers try to shuffle alongside to get a profile shot of your face.
Charles stops dead in his tracks. He doesn't let go of you for even a fraction of a second, keeping you tucked securely against his side, but he turns his head toward the photographers. The look he gives them is so incredibly cold, so full of lethal promises, that the journalists immediately halt, stepping back into the shadows of the paddock walkway.
By now, the commotion has drawn the attention of Ferrari security. Two large men in black team gear come sprinting around the corner, looking panicked.
"Charles, what happened?" one of them asks, looking at the retreating crowd of media.
"Keep them away from her," Charles commands, his voice dropping into a low, hard register that brooks absolutely no argument. "None of them come near this garage. If I see a single camera pass that door, you’re fired."
"Understood," the guard says quickly, immediately turning to form a human wall across the entrance of the garage alongside his partner.
Charles guides you through the back doors of the garage, passing the engineering station. The entire Ferrari crew has gone dead silent. Mechanics have stopped working on the car, engineers have looked up from their screens, and Fred Vasseur himself is standing near the tire racks, watching his star driver walk in.
Nobody says a word. The raw, emotional intensity radiating off Charles is palpable, a heavy, suffocating force that demands respect. They see the way he is holding you, as if you are the most precious, fragile thing in the world, his hand never leaving your head, keeping you hidden from the world. They see the tight, rigid set of his shoulders, the lingering fury in his eyes, and the absolute devotion in his posture.
He doesn’t stop to explain anything to his team. He doesn’t look at Fred. He walks straight through the garage, leading you down the private corridor into his driver’s room, the small, secluded sanctuary where he prepares before races.
He pushes the door open with his foot, guides you inside, and clicks the lock firmly into place, finally shutting out the rest of the world.
The moment the lock clicks, the silence of the room settles over you. The distant sounds of the paddock are muffled, reduced to a low, insignificant hum.
Charles doesn't let go of you. He pulls you into the center of the small room, his arms wrapping around you even tighter, pulling you flush against his body. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling sharply, his chest heaving as he lets out a long, shuddering breath.
"Mon Dieu, Y/N," he chokes out, his voice muffled against your skin. You can feel the rapid, violent pounding of his heart against your chest, matching the frantic rhythm of your own. "I am so sorry. I should have walked with you. I should have known."
"It's... it's not your fault," you manage to say, your voice still shaky, though the security of his arms is finally slowing your racing pulse. You wrap your arms around his neck, burying your fingers in his soft hair, holding onto him like an anchor in a storm. "They just came out of nowhere, Charles. There were so many of them."
He pulls back just enough to look at you, his hands coming down to rest on your shoulders, his eyes scanning your face with desperate concern. He notices a small red mark near your shoulder where the camera lens had brushed past you.
His eyes darken again, a flash of that terrifying anger returning for a split second before he forces it down, not wanting to scare you.
"Did they touch you?" he asks, his voice dangerously quiet, his grip tightening slightly on your shoulders. "Tell me, Y/N. Did someone hurt you?"
"No, no," you say quickly, reaching up to place your hands over his, trying to soothe the tension rolling off him in waves. "One of them bumped into me with a lens, but it was just an accident because they were pushing. I'm okay, Charles. Just scared."
He lets out a breath that sounds like a ragged prayer, closing his eyes for a moment as he leans down to press a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead. Then to your eyelids, then to your cheeks, catching the remnants of your tears, before finally pressing his lips to yours.
The kiss is different from his usual gentle, playful affection. It is intense, desperate, and filled with a profound, unspoken devotion, a silent vow to protect you from everything and everyone. It is his way of pouring all the love, fear, and anger inside him into a single action, making sure you feel absolutely safe, absolutely cherished.
When he pulls away, his forehead rests against yours again, his breaths uneven.
"I was so scared when I saw you against that wall," he whispers, his voice cracking, revealing the vulnerability beneath his anger. "To see you like that, so small, and those... those animals treating you like an object. I have never felt an anger like that, Y/N. I swear to you, if I had to, I would have fought every single one of them to get to you."
A small, watery smile finally breaks through your fear, your thumb tracing the sharp line of his jaw. "I know you would have. You looked pretty terrifying, you know. I've never seen you like that."
Charles lets out a self-deprecating, breathless laugh, his eyes softening completely as he gazes down at you. "I don't care about them, Y/N. I don't care about the fines, I don't care what the media writes about me tomorrow. They can call me unprofessional, they can call me aggressive, I don't give a damn. But nobody touches you. Nobody makes you cry."
He leads you over to the small sofa in the corner of the room, pulling you down with him. He sits back, pulling your body onto his lap, wrapping his arms around you like a protective cocoon, resting his chin on your shoulder. One of his hands gently strokes your arm, up and down, a steady, rhythmic motion designed to soothe the last lingering remnants of your anxiety.
"You need to stay in here for the rest of the day," he murmurs softly, his lips brushing against your temple. "I will have someone bring our things from the motorhome. We will leave through the private back exit straight to the car, okay? No cameras. I won't let them see you."
"What about your engineering debrief?" you ask softly, turning your head slightly to look at him. "You were in the middle of talking to Bryan about Turn 11."
Charles dismisses the question with a soft shake of his head, his arms tightening around you. "The car doesn't matter, Y/N. The race doesn't matter. Nothing is more important than you. They can figure out the setup without me for one afternoon."
For the next hour, you stay wrapped in his embrace, the quiet safety of the room allowing your nervous system to finally settle back into a state of calm. Charles doesn't move a muscle, content to simply hold you, his chest rising and falling against your back, his constant, reassuring presence a shield against the outside world.
Eventually, there is a soft, hesitant knock on the door.
Charles’s body tenses instinctively, his arms locking around you again, his eyes turning toward the door with a lingering trace of caution. "Who is it?" he calls out, his voice firm and unwelcoming.
"Charles, it’s Fred," a muffled voice responds from the other side. "Can I speak to you for a moment?"
Charles looks down at you, checking your expression. You give him a small, reassuring nod, showing him that you are okay. He sighs softly, kissing your cheek before carefully shifting you to sit beside him on the sofa.
He stands up, running a hand through his hair, straightening his fireproof shirt. He walks over to the door and unlocks it, opening it just a crack, his large frame still blocking the view into the room.
Fred Vasseur is standing in the corridor, his expression a mix of concern and characteristic pragmatism. He looks past Charles’s shoulder, catching a glimpse of you sitting safely on the sofa, before looking back up at his driver.
"Is she okay?" Fred asks quietly, his tone genuinely gentle.
"She’s fine now," Charles replies, his voice low, clipped, and still carrying a defensive edge. "But what happened out there was unacceptable, Fred. The paddock security is supposed to protect us, protect our families. They let a mob corner her against a wall."
Fred sighs, nodding his head in agreement. "I know, Charles. I have already spoken to the track organizers and the FIA paddock master. The credentials of the three main agencies involved have been suspended immediately for the rest of the weekend. There will be an investigation into how that many media members managed to congregate in a restricted support area."
Charles’s expression doesn't soften much, but he nods, accepting the action. "Thank you. But I am serious, Fred. If I see any of them near her again, I am not going to be polite."
"I know you won't," Fred says, a small, subtle smile touching the corners of his lips as he looks at the young driver he has known since his junior career. "Nobody in the paddock doubts that right now, Charles. The whole world just saw how far you will go to protect her. The videos are already everywhere."
Charles frowns slightly, but he simply shrugs his shoulders, his posture dripping with complete indifference to public opinion. "Let them watch. I don't care. I have to take care of her now, Fred. I am skipping the rest of the media pen tonight."
Fred opens his mouth as if to protest the massive media fine that will surely follow a driver skipping mandatory press duties, but he takes one look at the fierce, unyielding look in Charles’s green eyes and decides better of it. He knows Charles Leclerc, he knows how compliant and professional he usually is, but he also knows that when it comes to you, Charles is an immovable object.
"Go," Fred says softly, patting Charles’s arm. "Take her back to the hotel. We will handle the media. Focus on tomorrow."
"Thank you, Fred," Charles murmurs, his voice finally softening with a touch of gratitude.
He closes the door, locking it once more, and walks back over to you. He doesn't say anything about the videos, or the headlines, or the fines. He simply reaches out his hand, his long fingers open, waiting for yours.
"Let’s go home, mon amour," he says softly, a tender, loving smile finally returning to his beautiful face.
You stand up, slipping your hand into his. His fingers instantly interlock with yours, his grip firm, warm, and utterly unshakeable. As he guides you out of the private room, through the quieted garage, and out to the hidden car park, you look up at his profile, his jaw relaxed but his eyes alert, always scanning, always protecting.
You know the world can be cruel, chaotic, and overwhelming, especially in the fishbowl of his profession. But as you walk beside him, wrapped in the warmth of his undeniable devotion, you know that as long as Charles Leclerc has breath in his lungs, you will never have to face the storm alone.

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Charles Leclerc x Reader
Charles Leclerc fanfic
Even When It Hurts, It’s Still Home
Word count: 2,146
Warnings: tooth-rotting fluff, angst, brief crash mention, emotional distress
Summary:
A stressful Monaco weekend pushes Charles to his limits, but no matter how chaotic the race gets, there’s always one constant that brings him back to himself you.
Author Note:
Thank you so much for all the love on my f1 driver fics, I’ve genuinely been having so much fun writing them lately and I’m definitely planning to make more for other drivers soon
if there are any drivers you want to see that I haven’t written for yet, feel free to comment requests!!
Happy reading 🤍
Monaco always felt different.
For everyone else, it was glamorous.
For Charles, it was pressure.
His home race meant expectation, history, and Ferrari’s constant questions about strategy, pace, and perfection.
But none of that mattered the second he looked at you.
Because somehow, in the middle of all of it, you were still his calm.
His constant.
His wife.
The person who had been there long before the trophies, long before the headlines, long before the world decided who he was supposed to be.
And to him, that was what mattered most.
That morning, Monaco was soft.
Quiet in a way the race weekend never usually was.
Sunlight poured through the curtains of your apartment overlooking the harbor.
For once, there was no rush.
No cameras.
No noise.
Just you and Charles.
He was already awake when you rolled over.
Barely.
“Bon matin, mon amour,” he murmured softly, brushing a strand of hair from your face.
You blinked up at him.
“Why are you up already?”
He smiled faintly.
“Important day.”
You groaned softly.
“Every day is an important day for you.”
“Not like this one.”
Still, he leaned in and pressed a slow kiss to your forehead.
Then got up anyway.
You watched him from the bed as he walked into the kitchen.
Barefoot.
Hair messy.
Still half asleep.
You smiled into your pillow.
A few minutes later, the smell of coffee filled the apartment.
And tea.
Because Charles didn’t like coffee the way you did, but he still made it exactly how you liked it.
Every time.
When you finally walked into the kitchen, he handed you your mug without even asking.
“You’re spoiling me,” you mumbled.
“Always,” he said simply.
You leaned against the counter.
For a moment, it almost felt normal.
Like he wasn’t about to step into one of the most stressful races of his life.
Like the world outside didn’t exist yet.
“You nervous?” you asked quietly.
Charles hesitated.
Then nodded once.
“A little.”
You stepped closer and adjusted his collar gently.
“You’ll be fine.”
He looked down at you.
“I always am when you’re here.”
You rolled your eyes.
“Don’t start getting emotional before coffee.”
He laughed softly.
“Oui, madame.”
By the time you reached the paddock, everything changed.
Monaco turned loud.
Fast.
Sharp.
Cameras everywhere.
Team radios already buzzing.
Charles shifted immediately.
Focused.
Locked in.
You could see it in his eyes the version of him the world knew best.
But before he walked away, he stopped you for a second.
Just one second.
His hand cupped your face gently.
“Stay close today,” he murmured.
“I always do.”
A soft smile.
“Je t’aime, ma femme.”
“I know,” you whispered back.
He kissed you.
Quick.
Grounding.
Then he was gone.
The race didn’t feel right from the start.
You knew it before anyone said anything.
Something in the air was tense.
Too tense.
Ferrari strategy calls coming through.
Charles pushing harder than usual.
Lap after lap, you stood near the screens in hospitality, arms crossed, watching every corner like you could will it go right.
Then it happened.
The crash.
Not massive.
But enough.
Enough for silence to fall in your chest instantly.
“No, no, no…” you whispered.
You watched him climb out of the car.
Slow.
Frustrated.
Helmet off.
That familiar expression of anger he tried so hard to control.
But you knew him.
You always did.
“He’s pissed,” someone beside you murmured.
“Yeah,” you said quietly.
Then softer:
“He has every right to be.”
On the screen, he was arguing.
Hands moving.
Jaw tight.
Controlled chaos.
You exhaled slowly.
“…he looks kind of hot when he’s angry,” you muttered without thinking.
A nearby engineer almost choked.
“What?”
You shrugged.
“I said what I said.”
It took a while before he came back.
Long enough for the energy to settle into something heavy.
By the time Charles walked into Ferrari hospitality, his face was still tight.
Still frustrated.
Still carrying the race on his shoulders.
But the moment he saw you
Everything shifted.
Not gone.
Just softened.
His pace slowed immediately.
“Mon cœur,” he breathed out.
You stood up right away.
He didn’t say anything else.
Just pulled you into him.
Not gentle.
Not fragile.
Just real.
Like he needed to feel something steady again.
“I’m sorry,” he muttered against your shoulder.
You shook your head.
“Don’t start.”
He let out a tired breath.
“It was supposed to be perfect.”
You pulled back slightly.
“And it wasn’t,” you said softly. “That doesn’t change anything.”
He looked at you for a moment.
Then nodded once.
Because he trusted you more than he trusted the result.
The drive home was quiet.
No debrief in the car.
No forced conversation.
Just silence that understood itself.
When you got back to the apartment, Charles didn’t even take off his shoes properly.
He just walked in and exhaled like he had been holding everything in since the crash.
You didn’t ask questions.
You never did right away.
Instead, you made tea.
Again.
And sat on the couch waiting.
When he finally came over, he didn’t speak.
Just lay down with his head in your lap.
Heavy.
Tired.
Human.
Your fingers instinctively went into his hair.
Slow.
Calming.
After a long silence, he finally spoke.
“I thought I had it today.”
You didn’t interrupt.
“I know what they expected from me,” he continued quietly. “And I wanted to give it to them.”
“You don’t owe them anything,” you said softly.
He let out a breath.
“I know.”
Another pause.
Then quieter:
“I just… wanted it to be good. Here.”
You leaned down and kissed his forehead.
“It’s still you, Charles.”
He closed his eyes.
“And I still love you.”
That made him smile slightly.
“Toujours?” he murmured.
“Always.”
His hand found yours instantly.
Holding it like an anchor.
The apartment stayed quiet after that.
Not empty.
Just peaceful again.
And for the first time since the crash, Charles finally looked like he could breathe.
Because no matter what Monaco gave him that day
He still came home to you.
And after a long silence, you added softly, brushing his hair back:
“Also… I’m still not over how hot you looked arguing with Ferrari engineers.”
That made him stop for half a second.
Then he let out a tired laugh.
“Please don’t encourage that.”
You smiled.
“I’m just being honest.”
He shook his head slightly, but he was smiling now.
The tension in his body easing just a little more.
“Only you would say that to me after a DNF.”
“What? I support you emotionally and aesthetically.”
That finally got a real laugh out of him.
Quiet.
Warm.
Real.
“God,” he muttered. “You’re impossible.”
“You love me.”
A pause.
“…yeah,” he said softly. “I really do.”
French Translation Guide 🇫🇷
Bon matin, mon amour — Good morning, my love
Oui, madame — Yes, ma’am
Je t’aime, ma femme — I love you, my wife
Mon cœur — My heart
Toujours — Always
CHECO SCORED A POINT FOR CADILLAC 🇲🇽🇲🇽🇲🇽
THE FIA CAN KEEP THEIR FUCK AS PENALTY!!!!!!! UGHHHHHHHHH
listen your driver renews his contract then you go and pit him behind his teammate who has a penalty. all for what to respect track position. no you prioritise the driver who didn’t get the penalty.
i did not expect 15 cars to finish in monaco…it’s been a wild one
A POINT FOR CADILLAC!!!!! let’s go checo 🍾🇲🇽

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happy hadjar is on the podium
KIMI 5 IN A ROW IS NUTS! he’s so good in the machinery
AND IT WASN’T LECLERC’S FAULT I AM WITH HIM!
i’m done. the race is over
verstappen out on opening lap :( he’s in the pits

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it’s race day! (at six am)
p4. we hit the wall. i know leclerc leaves it all on the circuit but it always hurts in monaco