#charles x reader

However, Arthur was the one who spent the most time with her lately.

Y/N had learned throughout the year that whatever she needed, Arthur would provide it to.

So when she fell and hit her elbows on the floor, she immediately knew who to look for.

She ran through the house, looking everywhere, crying uncontrollably.

She appeared at the back door while her three brothers were chatting away.

Hearing her cry, Charles opened his arms, waiting for her to come so he could help her.

But Y/n ran past him, not paying much attention, and went straight into her youngest brother's arms.

"Thur!" she cried and raised her arms for him to pick her up.

Arthur looked at Charles and then at her, who was looking at him with large, watery eyes.

He was surprised by her attitude because normally her attention was only focused on Charles when she was at home.

He picked her up when she called his name again.

"What happened to you?"

"I fell and scraped my elbows. Both of them!" She hid her face in his neck, her tears wetting his shirt and probably getting snot on it.

"Let's put some nice Band-Aids on you, okay? You can choose two."

She lifted her head from his neck. "Whichever ones I want? Even the new Barbie ones?"

Arthur pretended to be angry, making her laugh. "Fine, you can choose those too."

Charles watched everything from outside.

"I can take care of it, Arthur," he offered.

"No!" the girl shook her head agitatedly. "I want Arthur."

The younger brother shrugged, oblivious to his brother's inner turmoil. "It doesn't bother me. Come on, Y/N."

Charles watched them leave, his egos shattered. Lorenzo, who had remained silent throughout, spoke for the first time.

"And that, my dear brother, is what we always suffer. Welcome to the club. I never believe Y/N would choose anyone else over you."

You'll never forget how it felt to look into his big, brown eyes for the first time. In the middle of a shootout, in fear of your life, you sighed in relief.

You had no confirmation that he wasn't the enemy, mind you. It was just... something about him. You felt so comfortable, so safe. He practically wrapped you in his arms and hauled you away, strong muscles protecting you from harm.

Your body felt fuzzy and you snuggled into him on instinct. Pathetic, really.

Unfortunately, others agreed.

For weeks after he took you back to camp, you followed him around like a lost puppy. To be fair, it wasn't that far from the truth.

"Need somethin'?" His deep baritone voice muttered. He didn't ask you that all the time. He understood you. He knew you just needed somebody to hide behind. To feel safe with.

You breathe in, "Oh! uh- erm- Do you?"

He sputters out a breathy chuckle, "Just sit down."

You blush but obey, grateful he's not making fun of you or anything. Thats one reason you lov- cared so much for his friendship. Although... you weren't sure he saw it that way.

You were probably just some annoying little sister that wouldn't leave him alone. He was just too kind, or perhaps too busy, to tell you to leave him be finally.

It's true, the camps gossip was getting to you.

"Got your little chick, mama hen?" Uncle laughed, causing a few snickers from those within earshot.

"Sober up, Uncle. Make yourself useful, like Y/N." Charles' tone was sharp as he said it, like he might've actually cared.

He pushed a knife and rag into your hand, nudging you. He was giving you some easy work. So no one could say anything about you. Your heart warmed at his gesture.

But the day after was worse. Sean, no doubt wasted, wandered over acting like a chicken. Arms akimbo like wings and bawking like a chicken about to lay.

You hid your eyes in embarrassment but looked up in time to see the deathly glare that Charles sent Sean's way. He didn't have to say anything to make the boy back away.

"Grumpy fella' can' even take a joke!" He threw his hands in the air as though you were the strange ones.

You meant to thank Charles, but he was back to his work of cleaning saddles, this time with a frown.

That's it, you really were making things harder for him. In his kindness, he never would've pulled away first. You'd have to bite the bullet, take one for the team.

You didn't sit next to him at the fire to drink your coffee, as you usually did. You didn't follow him from task to task. You went to Grimshaw to ask for chores instead of him. You ate by the girls, sitting on the very hem of the blanket, too afraid to get any closer.

It wasn't the most miserable day of your life, at least. You kept your wandering eyes mainly to yourself, too! You should be proud of yourself.

By day three, your eyes moved of their own accord, watching him chop wood in an unbuttoned shirt, long johns nowhere to be seen. Just him, trousers, and an axe.

Surely, that loose hair is a hazard? You fantasized running your fingers through it, braiding it as he laid in your lap.

"I think it's clean, girly." Abigail said, pointing to the over-scrubbed shirt you were raking over the washboard.

"Oh!" You blinked, "There was a, ahem, stubborn stain..."

"...Right." She smirked.

You sighed obliviously, wringing the shirt out with longing eyes.

Charles' eyes darted over to you as you washed clothes. Bent forward and scrubbing with fervor. He was a respectful man, on the whole, but the angle revealed more of your chest than he'd ever seen. He was grateful for his dark skin, it hid his flush well.

He's man enough to admit that he'd... missed you a bit. He wasn't sure why you weren't with him like usual. Sure, he wants you to get closer to the women. But not at the expense of your time with him. You weren't... avoiding him, right?

He stood, leaning on the handle of the axe, catching his breath.

"Bird left the nest?" Arthur chuckled, pausing next to him with a sack of grain over his shoulder, "Happens to the best of em'. Bet she's glad not to hear them jokes anymore."

He laughed as he walked away, but Charles' eyes widened. Were you embarrassed by what the others had said? He thought that he made it plenty clear he didn't care what they said.

He only shut it down for you.

He wiped the sweat from his brow with the loose fabric of his unbuttoned shirt. Your eyes lingered on him until you saw him staring back. You looked back into the wash bin so quickly he was surprised you didn't have whiplash.

So that's how it is.

The next morning he waited around for you to grab your coffee and then followed you to the edge of camp, where you had been awkwardly standing as of late.

"Oh, good morning, Charles." You looked down and tapped the flimsy tin cup with your nail.

"Morning." His voice was raspy with disuse from the night. It sent a shiver down your spine.

"Eh... sleep?" You cleared your throat, "Did you sleep good?"

He smiled, "Yeah. You?"

His smile was contagious. You always mindlessly mimicked it when you saw it, "Mhm. I like this place. The crickets make me sleepy."

Charles reached forward and tucked a stray hair away, behind your ear. He didn't say anything. You felt your heart beat unevenly. Then thud so deeply in your chest you thought you might fall over.

"That's good. I like the crickets too." He smiled softly, sweetly.

You nodded your head, heart eyes staring at him like its the only thing you knew how to do. It kind of felt like that.

"I-I should go ask Grimshaw what she needs." You looked down sheepishly and walked over to her tent.

"I could use your help, if you're up for it."

You didn't expect it, but you turn around anyway, "Oh, really? You're... sure?"

He nodded once, patiently. He was going to get it through your thick skull sooner or later that he liked having you around as much as you did.

"So what do you need?" You sat next to him by the water.

"Need you to braid these real tight." He hands you stripped and dried grass, ready to be turned into bowstrings.

You got to work, happy to be of use to him. He smiled and snuck a look at you now and again. Your focused face charmed him, and he felt himself lean farther into you.

By the end of the day, you felt like he was the one following you. It was simultaneously strange and flattering. What was even stranger is that he kept it up for a few more days.

"Wanna go for a ride?" He said on a particularly warm afternoon.

You shrugged, "You know I haven't got a horse."

He smirked, "Didn't ask if you had a horse. Asked if you wanted to ride."

You blushed and nodded, "Sounds nice."

You were hoisted onto the horse first, Charles climbing behind you. He seemed to know where he was going, hinting at some secluded field he liked. The cool wind whipped around you, making you forget about the heat of summer.

When you arrived, the sun was threatening to set, setting the valley aglow. It was more of a ridge, high on a steep hill, overlooking a vast plain.

"Oh, Charles!" You gasped.

He laughed, "I know. It looks beautiful at this hour." He grabbed you by your waist and pulled you down.

You steadied yourself with your hands on his arm. He made no move to go, but to be fair neither did you. His hands burned into your skin through your dress, forever etching themselves onto your flesh.

He felt the same though, your fingers so much smaller than his, pressing tiny fingerprints into his forearm.

You couldn't handle it any longer, and slid your arms away. He got the hint and let go of you, walking away. He cleared his throat and walked to the edge of the ridge, sitting down.

He held out his hand and you took it, lowering yourself into the grass. A comfortable silence fell for some minutes as you both watched the sun slip away past the horizon.

Then you watched as the moon rose, taking its placing in its milky glory.

"I've gotta say..." You shifted nervously, "I'm a little surprised you asked me to come."

His brows furrowed, "Why?"

"Oh, well... you know..." You laughed and waved your hand dismissively.

"I don't." His expression didn't change.

You curled inward, "I'm just sort of... clingy. Annoying. I know it, it's fine. People joke about it-"

"I thought I told them to stop. Are they still bothering you?"

Your breath hitched, this was not going according to plan, "Well, yeah. It helps that I..."

"Avoided me for days?" He sounded almost... pouty?

You sat straight, "That's not- I wasn't!"

"But you did. You could've told me and I would've shut them up."

You shook your head and looked at your lap, "But they're right, Charles."

His hulking frame shrunk a bit with his slouch, "About what?"

"About me. I... I get in the way and I follow you around. You're just the first person I met so I thought we were friends but I took it too-"

"We are friends. Friends are around each other. I don't see what the issue is." His hand inched toward yours, fingertips brushing, "If you really bothered me, you would've known. Trust me."

His clever smirk made you twist with one of your own, before you bashfully look away.

"I guess..."

His hand fully covered yours, "Stop listening to other people when I'm right here. Listen to... me, instead."

"So you don't mind? When I hang around you?" You picked at your sleeve and hesitantly looked into his eyes. The same brown eyes that captivated you from day one.

"I don't mind." I like it. He wished he could say it but the words died on his tongue. Perhaps he could tell you soon, or maybe you'd understand him anyway. That was one reason he lov- cared so much for your friendship.

"W-Well okay, then. And thank you, for saving me. I know I've said it before, but..."

"Anytime." He leaned over and tucked your hair behind your ear with his free hand, "So I can see your eyes."

LANDO NORRIS

He doesn’t tell you he’s doing it.

Not when the cameras are in his face and he’s giving the usual practiced grin, entertaining questions about strategy and the endless ‘what if's. Not when the day officially ends but the garage is still buzzing with team personnel packing up equipment, and the media centre is a beacon of everything he'd rather avoid like a plague.

Lando's good at that. Infusing every word with enough enthusiasm to hide the fact that his heart is somewhere else entirely.

He checks his phone the second he’s out of range for any long lenses to capture his horrifyingly warm expression. There’s a message from you—sent an hour ago, because you always try to time them with when he gets in and out of the cockpit.

So so proud of you, sweetheart <3 Get some rest. And have a safe flight tmrw!

His chest tightens in that quiet way it always does when it reads the unmistakable undertone of care in your every word.

Theoretically, Lando should be on a shuttle to the Hilton where they'd checked him in for the weekend. Maybe exploit his ambassador status by ordering half the room service menu, or take up some of the other drivers on their offer of a night out.

But something in envisioning himself eating his weight in burgers and chips, or changing into something remotely appropriate for a high-end club only serves to make Lando uneasy.

So instead, he bolts it to Jon's rented Chevy Malibu and has the decency to look sheepish as the other man eyes him knowingly. Two hours later, Lando is on the next flight to Nice after bidding you an early night under the guise of feeling absolutely knackered. Which is not far from the truth, he thinks, as he snaps his headphones into place, staring at the bejeweled skyline with sleep lidded eyes.

He tells himself that it’s the right sort of impulsiveness. Why the hell does he earn so much if he won't reap the benefits once in a while? That he’s tired. That he just wants his own bed.

Though who is he kidding —Lando just wants you.

By the time he lands and books a cab to Monaco, it’s properly late. Like the kind where every straggler is sluggish on the streets: either dead on their feet or shitfaced. Lando's got his carry-on slung over one shoulder, having left most of his racing gear with his management to take to Woking. Blessed two week break, he's never been more glad for those.

No florist in their right mind is operating at this hour but the idea of showing up to your doorstep empty-handed is preposterous. So he takes his liberties at the first open 24 hour supermarket—cap pulled low, mask on—and piles all your favourite sweets in a basket to dump on the checkout counter.

There's a voice in the back of his head that oddly resembles his nutritionist nagging about so much processed sugar. But then Lando imagines your face, beaming brightly at him with one cheek stuffed full with chocolate, and he thinks he'll gladly tear up his weekly meal plan and throw it in the open sea.

And in the blink of an eye, he's standing outside your flat, nervous in a way that makes zero sense.

He's faced the fear of his life flashing before his eyes in terrible crashes, handled interviews with a straight face after heartbreak races. But this? This makes him feel faint enough for a breeze to knock over.

Before he can overthink it, he rings the doorbell.

Lando hears some shuffling on the other side, imagines the confusion on your face as you waddle down the hallway toward the entrance, clearly not expecting anyone at midnight, and peer into the CCTV display. He grins wryly at the blinking red light.

The door bangs open with frantic disbelief.

You are in pyjamas—bright pink satin with printed strawberries that have seen better days—with your hair twisted into a loose bun. The way you blink slowly reminds him of a cat while your brain catches up with your eyes.

“…Lan?”

He swallows visibly, slightly lost for words. Just gives you that soft, crooked smile—high strung caricature of a public image sanded down into something real.

“Hi,” Lando says, almost shy.

Your shoulder bumps against the doorframe when you take a step forward. “You– You’re not supposed to be here until tomorrow.”

“Yeah, well.” He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, rubbing over the stubble he hasn't shaved. Like he needs to occupy his hands with something until they inevitably reach forward. “I got bored.”

Your laugh comes out breathless. “You changed your flight because you were bored?”

He shrugs, but his ears are pink. “Might’ve wanted to see you.”

That’s when you step forward and wrap your arms around him. It should scare him how easily you fit: his arms around your waist while you hug his shoulders firmly, his chin resting on the juncture of your neck. Melded together like butter on warm toast.

Lando exhales. It’s not dramatic. It’s not cinematic. It’s just so much relief. His face presses into your hair and he holds you tighter than he means to. He’s been running on dry gulps all weekend and suddenly someone has dropped him into an oasis.

“You’re mad,” you murmur against his hoodie. “Absolutely fucking ridiculous.”

“Maybe. Possibly.”

“And exhausted probably. Jesus, Lan.”

“Oh, absolutely,” he chuckles, nosing at your skin to feel you shiver.

You pull back, hands on either side of his head, looking up at him. He only slightly choked knowing he feels so precious under your gaze. He thinks he's a mirror of your expression. “You didn’t have to do this.”

“I know.” His thumb brushes your cheek gently. “I wanted to,” Lando says, retrieving the chocolates out from behind his back like he’s in a cheesy fucking rom-com, the packaging slightly crushed. “Peace offering for abandoning you for a week.”

You cradle the heart-shaped box as if it's priceless treasure. “You were working.”

“Uh-huh. Anyway, I agreed to spoil you until forever, and that starts with giving you cavities.”

You smile at him in that way that makes his stomach flip and hug him again. “You’re so stupid. Welcome home, baby.”

And if he melts under the those orange porch lights, that is nobody's fucking business innit? You usher him inside, and Lando toes off his shoes by the door impatiently, a force of habit. They fall lopsided by your perfectly arranged shoes like they belong there. Like he belongs where you are.

CHARLES LECLERC

He doesn’t mean to overhear.

Charles makes it back after his morning run, unhooks the leash off Leo's harness and lets the puppy run free into the flat. He's walking past the bedroom while stripping off his sweat-soaked shirt when he catches your voice drifting, animated in that way it gets when you're talking to your best friend. It's a losing battle against the smile taking over his face.

“I’m serious,” you say, nearly shrieking in insistence. “Men who can cook? Husband material. Immediately.”

Charles slows. He doesn’t stop completely—he’s not that obvious—but he absolutely slows.

“Like, imagine coming home after work or something, and he's got dinner ready and plated? I would fold,” you sigh, dreamily and his eyebrows shoot towards his hairline. Huh.

Charles continues down the hallway as if nothing happened. But there's this restlessness crawling under his skin. It's not that he disagrees about culinary competence being sexy, but what the hell, he never knew it's that high in your book of ideal qualities.

A quality Charles doesn't think he's ever shown or even has. But what did you call it? Husband material? He can fucking manage that, alright.

By the time you hang up after a long drawn weekly catchup, the apartment is suspiciously quiet. Some might say it's too quiet.

Never one to deny your curiosity, you kick both feet off the side of your bed and wander towards the kitchen. And immediately you are met with a scene that looks… intense, for a lack of better adjectives.

There’s flour all over the counter. A pan that is visibly smoking. Three different spice containers are open at once in the cabinet. And in the middle of it all stands Charles, sleeves pushed up, brow furrowed in deep concentration while he wrestles with the salt and pepper shakers like he's performing some complicated folk dance.

“Cha?” you say carefully, stepping past the archway past the dining table.

He jumps, swiveling around to spot you leaning on the kitchen island. His eyes are blown wide and he looks distinctly like a toddler who got caught stealing from the cookie jar. “Ah— you’re not supposed to be here!”

You sputter, taken aback. “Supposed to— this is my kitchen.”

“Yes, but,” Charles gestures vaguely behind him, "consider this a temporary takeover. Go, sit at the table. I will be done soon.”

“Done with what?” You blink at him owlishly. “What’s happening?”

His shoulders drop as if he's being forced to confess to a crime. “I am cooking.”

You stare. “For me?”

He clears his throat, attempting casual, but there is a prominent flush to his cheeks “Yes. Now, will you please go sit down? You are ruining the surprise.”

You try very hard not to smile too widely. “Okay.”

You retreat to the dining table while he continues moving around the kitchen with determined energy. There’s a lot of stirring. A questionable amount of salt being added. A brief muttered string of curses in French when something sizzles too aggressively.

After a while, Charles appears with a plate of spaghetti with a generous amount of cheese and green onions sprinkled on top. It looks decent, if you ignore the charred bits of pasta and tomatoes that look a little too brown.

Yet you cannot help feeling giddy when he sets the food down in front of you triumphantly. A spoil of war, almost. “Voilà.”

But then you notice the stub of bandaid stuck to his little finger and a groan bubbles out. You take his hand into your own to inspect the cut and he slumps into the chair beside you. “Was butchering your finger worth it, love? Why did you suddenly want to cook anyway? Thought we were ordering in today.”

Charles squirms in place, suddenly put on the spot. He's clearly conflicted but ultimately sighs. “You said earlier… that men who cook are…” He trails off, blushing plainly for all to see.

Your eyes widen. “You heard that?”

“Maybe,” he mutters.

And oh, your heart melts. You hadn’t spared much thought when you said it, it was just gossiping for gossip's sake when your friend mentioned her latest date was an actual chef.

Not that there is anything wrong with not being able to cook five star meals. You yourself aren't too keen on it, nor do you have the patience for complicated dishes. But, Charles, with his sweet consideration and eagerness to help in any way, had always been miffed that he is utterly useless in the kitchen.

So, you have a solid system in place. You cook while Charles cleans, and you happily make do with takeout when laziness creeps in.

But knowing that he has even tried just because of an offhand comment you made? That has you reaching for a fork like a starved caveman, shovelling it into your mouth.

It’s— Okay. Slightly burnt. Definitely salty and the pasta is somewhat overdone. But it’s warm and the care Charles has put into it is clear as day. Starting with the unevenly chopped onions and excessive dairy, in a bid to follow some internet recipe, no doubt. All the while ignoring to scale down for the portion size.

And it’s him. And he’s watching you like he is waiting for the most important result of his entire life.

You light up instantly. “Charlie!”

His shoulders tense. “Yes?”

“This is amazing!”

Relief floods him so quickly it’s almost painful how sweet it is. He narrows his eyes jokingly. “Really?”

“Really.” You take another bite to prove your point, nodding. “I love it.”

The smile that breaks across his face has your stupid traitorous heart stumbling. Charles huffs, in relief perhaps, before picking up a fork and twisting the pasta onto it. You brace yourself as he takes a bite.

The smile fades. He chews, then pauses, and his eyebrows lift comically, blanching. “Mon chou, it is so fucking salty.”

You shake your head, stuffing your face to match the cavity of your chest brimming with happiness. “It is flavorful.”

Charles frowns, fingers tracing up your arm as if he's debating yanking the fork out of your grasp. “And maybe a little burned. Stop forcing yourself to eat it. It's terrible.”

“It’s caramelized,” you argue. “And you really think you can force me to do anything? I love this, and I will finish it, thank you very much.”

He looks at you suspiciously. “You are lying.”

“I am not! Seriously, you did great for your first try. You can't expect to get a Michelin star right away, can you?”

He studies you for a second longer, then laughs softly, the tension draining out of him. “Okay. Maybe I got a bit excited with the salt.”

“Yes, a bit,” you concede, squeezing his hand into your own. “Charles.” He looks up and your smile softens into something gentle and certain. “The fact that you heard me say that and decided to cook for me? That is peak husband material.”

Charles’ breath catches just slightly. “Even if I nearly gave you food poisoning?” he teases.

“Especially then." You lean in to press your lips to his cheek and laughing at the sauce smeared there.

His eyes are shining and he’s absolutely overwhelmed, yet trying his hardest not to show it. “I wanted to do something for you. I wanted you to come home and feel… taken care of.”

Your heart aches.

“I do,” you say. “I feel very taken care of.”

And it rings true especially when he tugs you into his arms without another word, and you're practically falling onto his lap. His forehead rests against yours. You like Charles even when he can't cook to save his life. You love Charles because he'll try anything to make you the happiest version of yourself.

GEORGE RUSSELL

The thing is, you hadn’t even asked him to come with. George had clocked you stumbling around the living room halfway into your shoes, scouring for car keys and unsurprisingly failing at both. He'd walked into the bedroom, came back with a scarf and gently looped it around your neck.

“Grab an energy bar, at least. I'll get the car out,” he said, dangling the keys in front of you.

“I’m literally just running errands,” you'd replied, cupping his face and getting on your tiptoes to kiss him softly. “It'll be boring. Plus, you have plans.”

“Plans of playing video games. I can ask Alex to reschedule,” George insists, already walking towards the door. “And I love boring. I can do with some boring right now.”

Now you glance back at him in the middle of the store and chuckle. There’s an inflated tote bag hooked over one shoulder, two glossy shopping bags dangling from his fingers, and somehow he’s also holding your iced coffee because you said it was “getting in the way” of sifting through clothes.

“You okay back there?” you ask sweetly.

George adjusts his grip, posture still perfectly upright despite the growing collection. “I'm alright.”

“You can put some down, you know,” you say for the hundredth time, crossing your—completely empty—arms.

“And have you carry them instead?” He scoffs playfully. “What kind of boyfriend would I be?”

You tilt your head thoughtfully. “The normal kind.”

He gives you a look. “Well, I don't want to be the normal kind. You deserve better than that. Now which dress are we thinking, because I'm not sure about the whole polka dots.”

George follows you from rack to rack without complaint—well, without real complaint. There’s the occasional sigh when you disappear into a fitting room for the fourth time. “How many versions of the same top do you need?” he calls from outside.

“They’re all different,” you giggle through the response.

When you pull back the curtains and step down from the elevated platform meant to prop you up like a doll at the back of your favorite—and only a little obnoxious—boutique, he looks up from his phone, mildly exasperated. “They’re all white, sweetheart.”

“This one is cream,” you counter, tugging the fabric down to your naval. Your face scrunches in concentration, tongue poking out.

“Ah. Of course. Game changer,” George sighs, biting back a fond smile.

But when you turn away from the mirror to show him, he straightens immediately. The teasing fades, replaced with genuine focus. He hums, “Turn, please.”

You roll your eyes, twirling around with the necessary amount of dramatic flair. “I didn’t realize I was dating a fashion guru. Which one is it gonna be, good sir?”

George taps his chin once, twice, thrice, before he nods. “Yeah, this is the one. The other is way too similar to the pink one you already have.”

“You think?” You ask, surprised.

His attention to detail always catches you off-guard but it's nothing new. He is always meticulous, especially about things he cares for. You just happen to be at the very top of that list.

“Mm.” His gaze softens. “You look… really good.”

There’s no over-the-top dramatics with him. Just quiet certainty. Like he’s stating a fact. It comes to him like a rehearsed vow but every time, the words are honeyed with so much sincerity. It swells inside your chest; unasked, unconditionally adored.

You end up buying it. And the skirt he'd picked when he got bored of waiting idly while you changed. And the shoes you definitely hadn’t planned on purchasing but he insisted, saying they complete the look.

By the time you reach the checkout counter, you’re doing that thing where you mentally calculate and pretend you’re not slightly stressed about the egregious sum total.

George, meanwhile, has neatly stacked all the bags by his feet, hands on his hips, standing like he’s waiting at an airport lounge to hear the PA system clearly.

The cashier scans the final item. “That’ll be—” You’re already reaching for your wallet as she announces the bill when George suddenly steps forward, tapping the back of his phone against the scanner.

“George,” you make a frustrated noise, feeling a little ruffled.

“I’ve got it.” He doesn’t even look at you, just smiles at the lady who hands him the receipt, scanning it to make sure everything's as it should be.

“I can pay for my own things.”

“I know,” he says calmly. His fingers find yours, entwining together perfectly while he wrangles all the shopping bags in his other hand. “But I want to. So, you just have to deal with it, darling.”

You stare at him with ill-veiled disbelief and the begrudging flutter in your stomach. Might as well commit to the bit and call it a butterfly zoo. “You didn’t have to do that.”

George glances down at you, faint grin tugging at his lips. “I like taking care of you.”

“And I love that you do! But seriously, it was a lot.”

He shrugs slightly. “It’s just money.” As though a couple thousand euros are pocket change. Well, to him maybe they are. Still it makes you squirmish with every realization. "If it bothers you, consider you looking fantastic as repayment."

“That’s not the point,” you huff, feeling increasingly like you're arguing with a wall. You cannot hate him for it, for catering to your whims whenever and wherever. Not when every action of his feels like a warm embrace.

He has that way about him, leading you without being overshadowing. You like to be independent, and that's something he cherishes about you. But more than often, he does these things without any fanfare.

Footing the entire bill on group dinners. Ordering flowers when he's away; not just for you, but all your friends if they're around. Never letting you drive if he can help it. Not because you're incapable, but because he loves to take you places. To steal glances of your wide eyes and lips parted in awe at the scenery flashing past, deliberately speeding up on empty streets to have you holding the overhead handle for dear life as you end up shrieking with laughter.

Small things that mean the world.

You barely suppress a startle when George hooks a finger under your chin, gently tipping your face up just enough to meet his bright azure gaze.

“The point,” he says, whispering it like a secret, “is that I enjoy doing things for you. Carrying your ridiculous number of things. Standing outside fitting rooms for an hour. Treating you just because it makes me very, very happy.”

And the clarity washes over you like a recurring tide: he doesn’t like the mundane so much as he likes the time spent with you. He likes being yours. The rest of it is just… confetti.

Your lips twitch. “An hour?”

George scoffs, draping an arm around your shoulders as you walk out. “At the very least.”

“Oh, you drama queen.” You nuzzle into him, resting your hand on his chest for a few seconds. You don't expect it to slow the hummingbird against your ribs. “You’re spoiling me. I'm going to develop a horrible habit and lose all my financial competence.”

He leans down enough so only you can hear him, breath ghosting over your ears, ticklish. “You got me,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the side of your head. “That was my plan all along.”

more yapping. 💌 i wanted to squeeze in carlos' part into this too. i wrote and rewrote it so many times, but it just wouldn't feel right. hope you guys still enjoyed these three and some lovin. mwah ~ (๑ᵔ⤙ᵔ๑)

--

Charles wasn’t always online, but when he was, it was either to scroll through memes Arthur had sent or to check your Instagram.

Even after a long race weekend of press conferences, media obligations, debriefs; he always made time to find you.

That night, you were curled against him on the couch of your Monaco apartment, fast asleep in one of his red team shirts. The TV hummed softly in the background, showing some home renovation show you’d both forgotten to change.

He should’ve gone to sleep too. But instead, he opened Twitter.

You were trending.

Not in a fun way.

#JusticeforYN

His brows furrowed. Clicking into the tag, his stomach tightened.

A video from the Canadian GP paddock. You and Charles, walking hand-in-hand, laughing at something he’d whispered. Normal. Sweet. Intimate.

Then another clip.

You talking to Arthur, sipping on an iced coffee with a soft smile. And in the background a loud, jarring, hateful voiceovers:

“Charles’s hoe.”

“She’s only famous because she’s fucking him.”

“She thinks she’s special? Please.”

The woman recording was clearly visible. A bright red Ferrari crop top and cowboy hat. Screaming over the barrier.

Charles’s jaw clenched as the screen glowed against his face. You hadn't even flinched. You hadn’t heard any of it over the music and crowd.

But now he had.

Scrolling deeper, he found more: the same account tweeting threats. Saying she’d be at Silverstone. That she was going to “ruin” you. That she’d won a meet and greet through a sponsor.

Not on my fucking watch.

You found him pacing the kitchen the next morning, phone pressed to his ear, wearing nothing but boxers and a deep frown.

"...yes, I want her name off the list. Immediately. No, I don’t care who approved it. It’s a safety concern."

You rubbed your eyes. "Cha? Everything okay?"

His expression softened. He pressed the phone to his chest. "It’s handled, mon coeur."

--

Silverstone.

You were chatting with Lily and Carmen near the espresso machine when Charles stiffened beside you.

“She’s here,” he murmured under his breath.

Your chest tightened. You didn’t have to ask who. You saw the flash of red and country through the corner of your eye.

She was in line for the VIP meet and greet.

Charles excused himself with a kiss to your temple. You watched him cross the room with that quiet, purposeful energy that always made people stop and stare.

“Hi,” he said politely to the girl.

She lit up like a Christmas tree. “Oh my god! Charles, I’m such a fan—”

“Can I speak with you? Privately.”

They moved off to the side. You couldn’t hear the conversation, but you saw her face fall. Security flanked them moments later.

Charles returned a few minutes later and wrapped an arm around your waist, pressing a kiss behind your ear.

“She won’t bother you again. Or anyone else.”

Later that evening, tucked in your hotel bed, his hand slid beneath your shirt.

“Still thinking about it?” you asked softly.

He kissed your shoulder. “Only how I should’ve found her sooner.”

You turned in his arms, straddling his lap. “You’re not responsible for every idiot with a Twitter account, Cha.”

His hands gripped your thighs. "Non. But I am responsible for making you feel safe."

You leaned forward, brushing your nose against his. "I feel safe."

His lips were slow, reverent, then suddenly needy. His hands pulled your underwear aside and you gasped into his mouth.

“You’re mine,” he whispered into your skin, over and over. “Only mine.”

----

Fan Footage, Later That Week:

A blurry video of Charles sneaking a kiss against your neck before heading into the team garage. Captioned: “he’s obsessed with her and I love that for him.”

A Polaroid posted to your Instagram: your feet resting on Charles’s lap in the motorhome, coffee cups on the table, his hand on your thigh. Caption: quiet moments.

Another clip from a fan outside the paddock: Charles lifting your suitcase out of the car while wearing your name embroidered on the back of his jacket.

----

Twitter Aftermath

@f1gossipgirl: charles leclerc handled that like a KING. his wife is off limits, period.

@slowmoferrari: she didn’t even flinch. queen behavior.

@theylovecarles: charles removing a fan for disrespecting yn, then going out and qualifying P1? the husband energy is CRAZY.

----

That night, as you curled into his chest, Charles whispered, “They’ll never understand what you mean to me.”

You smiled against his collarbone. “They don’t have to.”