feinzleclerc

[feinzleclerc]

A Hundred Kisses I've Already Given You | Cl16

starring ; charles leclerc x reader fem!

summary ; Where you make a list of 100 kisses very important to you and Charles.

warnings ; ¹ English is not my first language. ² Brazilian making a point of mentioning Brazil. 🙋🏻‍♀️

word count ; 5.1k words.

notes ; PART 01 | 02 • 03, 04 & 05 COMING SOON.

MAIN MASTERLIST CHARLES LECLERC MASTERLIST

21. Victory Kiss

The phone was still trembling in your hands when the apartment door slammed against the wall. Charles stood there, in his gym clothes—he’d made a point of sprinting out of the gym as soon as he got the news—with the wildest eyes you’d ever seen.

—SAY IT’S TRUE.— he demanded, his voice roaring like an engine.

You barely had time to nod before he lifted you into the air, spinning you like a tire skidding through the final turn. Your phone flew onto the couch, the FIA’s message still glowing on the screen: "Congratulations, you’ve been accepted into the sports journalism program."

—YOU’RE GONNA COVER MY RACES!— he growled, his white teeth flashing in a smile that would make the sun jealous.

The kiss felt like celebrating on the podium—he pinned you against the wall, his hands—the same ones that adjusted front wings with millimeter precision—shaking as they cradled your face.

—Merde, I love you— he gasped, pulling away just enough to speak. —You’re gonna be the worst distraction on the track.

You laughed, the imaginary trophy of your career replaced by something far better—his lips tasting like cheap champagne and the future.

—Promise you’ll give me exclusive interviews?— you teased, nipping at his lower lip.

Charles responded by throwing your arms over his shoulders and marching toward the bedroom:

—I’ll give you coverage so exclusive the FIA will have to make new rules.

Now your notepad stayed open on the page where "Questions for Charles Leclerc" had turned into "1001 Ways to Distract Me in the Paddock."

And the charming way he called you "Miss Journalist" every time you complained about the next day’s practice schedule.

Your first FIA badge hung on his bedroom mirror. "To remind us we now have two careers to cheer for."

22. Relief Kiss

The apartment was silent, lit only by the blue glow of the TV tuned to some random movie channel. You sat on the couch, feet aching after an endless day, when the sound of the door opening echoed. Charles walked in, his Ferrari jumpsuit tied around his waist, his shirt damp with sweat, his eyes heavy with exhaustion. He didn’t even need to speak—you opened your arms, and he collapsed into you like a sinking boat reaching safe harbor.

—Dead?— you asked, fingers tangling in his damp curls.

He only groaned in response, burying his face in your neck like it was the only place in the world that still made sense. His warm lips brushed your skin in a kiss that was more sigh than movement, and you felt the weight of the entire day leaving him in an almost imperceptible shudder.

—Hated every second without you— his voice was muffled, the words warm against your collarbone.

You laughed, breathing in his familiar scent—gasoline, coffee, and something uniquely Charles—seeping into you.

—You’re only saying that because you lost.

He lifted his face just enough to glare at you, his green eyes dark as wet asphalt.

—Losing I can handle.— he murmured, lips finding that spot below your ear that made you squirm. —Being without you? Never.

Then he settled back into place, his cold nose nuzzling into the crook of your neck, his heavy hands pulling you closer. There was no hurry, no hunger, no desperation—just Charles, his warmth, and the certainty that the world could wait.

And when you finally led him to bed? He gripped your wrist like a child afraid of losing his favorite toy. "Stay," he mumbled, already half-asleep. As if you could be anywhere else.

23. Heart-Soothing Kiss

Your phone buzzed in your pocket as you made coffee. A message from Charles himself:

"Love, got into a little accident. I’m fine, swear. Just the bumper’s a bit bent."

Your heart stopped. This wasn’t an F1 race—no tire barriers, no medical team rushing in. Just some random intersection, a distracted driver, ordinary life proving just as dangerous as the track.

You arrived before the tow truck. His car—the one he loved so much—had its rear crumpled, glass shattered on the asphalt. And there he was, leaning against a police car’s hood with a sheepish smile and a bruise on his forehead.

—Looks worse than it is— he tried as soon as he saw you.

You didn’t answer. Just crossed the three meters between you like it was the final straight of a Grand Prix and threw your arms around his neck. The kiss was all trembling lips and hands clutching his jacket like you needed proof he was here, whole.

—I had my seatbelt, love— he murmured between kisses, hands steady on your waist. —Airbag didn’t even deploy, it was nothing...

—Shut up— you ordered, voice thick as your hands roamed his face, his arms, his chest—searching for any sign of pain. —You just gave me ten years of fear in thirty seconds.

Charles pulled you into another hug, longer this time, quieter. Your heartbeats matched, racing in sync.

—I’m here.— he whispered in your ear, face buried in your hair. —I’m okay. I’m all yours.

24. Goodbye Kiss—When Three Months Feels Like Forever

The airport was packed. You’d be spending three months visiting family in Brazil. The two of you stood still in the chaos like the only unmoving thing in the world. Charles held your hands with a grip bordering on pain, his fingers—usually so precise on the wheel—now trembling like he didn’t know how to let go.

—You’ll forget me— he murmured, his crooked smile not reaching his eyes.

You rolled your eyes, tugging him by the collar of the shirt that smelled like your favorite perfume (he’d worn it on purpose, you knew).

—Impossible. You’ll be everywhere—news, social media, our daily calls...

The loudspeaker announced your flight for the third time. Charles swallowed hard.

—Three months, mon cœur— he whispered, forehead pressed to yours. —I don’t know how to be me without you for that long.

The kiss was salty with unshed tears, sweet with promises, bitter with goodbye. When you pulled apart, your heartbeats were in sync.

—Here— he shoved something into your pocket—an old, worn Ferrari hoodie he used during practice. —So you won’t forget my smell.

25. Homecoming Kiss

The airport was louder now, but you heard nothing except the blood pounding in your ears. Three months. Three months of delayed calls, photos that couldn’t capture his scent, waking up at odd hours just to hear a "sleep well, mon cœur" in the dead of night.

And then you saw him.

Charles stood exactly where you’d left him, but different—hair a little longer, wearing that blue shirt you loved (the one that made his eyes look like the Mediterranean in July), with an expression of pure relief, desperation, adoration.

He didn’t wait.

The kiss was like crossing the finish line after the longest lap in history. Your lips collided so hard you felt his pendant—the same one that had pressed against your chest during your goodbye—digging into your skin like a "welcome home" stamp.

—Fuck— he growled against your mouth, hands gripping your hips like he wanted to fuse you together right there in the middle of the terminal. —Never again.

26. End-of-the-World Kiss

The Italian beach was nearly empty, the sky painted in honey and lavender as the waves kissed the shore in slow rhythm. You buried your feet in the still-warm sand, feeling the grains slip between your toes, when Charles’ arms wrapped around you from behind.

—Perfect, isn’t it?— he murmured in your ear, his voice rough like the wind rustling the olive trees behind you.

You smiled, feeling his heart pound against your back—the same rapid beat as race starts, but now only yours, only for you. He turned you slowly, his calloused hands cradling your face like you were made of porcelain, and then, under the golden light that gilded his lashes, he kissed you.

The kiss was slow, sweet, like the wine you’d had at lunch. When you pulled apart, the sun had nearly vanished below the horizon, leaving only the glow in his eyes.

—I love you— he said, simple, direct, just like he was with the things that truly mattered.

—I know— you answered, pulling him in for another kiss as the waves hummed softly and the world seemed to pause just for the two of you.

27. Three Words in One Breath

The Monaco hotel room was silent, lit only by the harbor lights dancing on the walls. You lay on his arm, fingers tracing the scar on his shoulder—the one he got in karting at 12—when he suddenly turned, pinning you beneath him.

The kiss started like all the others.

Light at first, his lips moving with the same precision as his steering. But then something shifted—he deepened it like he was searching for something, one hand on your neck, the other lacing your fingers against the bed.

When you broke apart, the air left your lungs. Your eyes met in the dark, and you saw in him the same vulnerability he only showed when he missed a corner.

—Je...— his voice cracked. He swallowed hard, fingers trembling slightly against your cheek. —Je t’aime. (I love You)

Three words. Three words that made your chest ache like he’d crashed straight into it. You pulled his face back, kissing him with a desperation that stole your breath all over again.

—Say it again— you begged against his lips.

Charles smiled, that rare grin that only appeared when he truly, completely couldn’t hold back.

—Eu te amo (I love you) — in Portuguese this time, his accent terrible and perfect, his hands firm on your face like you might disappear.

And the next day? He said it again. And again. And again. Until you believed it. Until he believed it. Until there was no doubt left.

28. Dance and Destiny

The Vegas nightclub was at its peak, lights cutting through the dark like lightning, the bass thrumming in your chest. You were in the middle of the dance floor, barefoot because the heels had been abandoned hours ago, when Charles appeared with two cups of something sweet and strong.

—Didn’t know you danced like this— he shouted over the music.

You laughed, spinning into him, your hands finding his shoulders like they belonged there. He wasn’t the best dancer—especially not with the Brazilian rhythm you’d tried to teach him—but he made up for it with enthusiasm, his arms locking around your waist like he feared you’d slip away.

Then the song changed. Something slow. Something hot. Something that made the outside world vanish.

Charles didn’t hesitate. He pulled you close, your bodies pressed together like two puzzle pieces finally clicking into place. Your hearts beat in sync, racing from the dance, the closeness, the sheer want.

The kiss didn’t wait for the song to end.

It was urgent, sweet, desperate—like he’d waited all night for this. Your hands tangled in his curls, the soft strands between your fingers, while the music kept playing around you, as if the universe insisted on moving forward even as the two of you stood still in time.

When you broke apart, the song had changed again, but he was still frozen, staring at you like it was the first time.

—Let’s go?— he asked, voice rough with want.

You just nodded, knowing no song in the world could compare to the silence of his room later.

29. The First "Wife"

Dinner was nearly over—melted candle wax dripping onto crystal, wine glasses half-empty, the last bite of strawberry tart forgotten on the plate. Charles toyed with the fingers of your left hand, his features softened by the restaurant’s golden light, when suddenly he stopped.

—Happy dating anniversary, my lovely wife— he said, as casually as if he were commenting on the weather.

Your fork clattered loudly against the plate.

—What?— you choked, making sure you hadn’t misheard.

He grinned, that mischievous smile he only wore when he’d caught you off guard, and lifted your hand to press a kiss to your promise ring.

—You heard— he murmured, eyes locked on yours like he was seeing decades ahead. —

One day. Our day. When you’ve had enough of me butchering Portuguese and still choose to stay.

The kiss that followed was as sweet as dessert, as warm as the candles, and as promising as the ring he’d one day replace. You could taste strawberries on his lips, and something else—future, pure and simple.

—I’ll want my name on your car— you grumbled against his mouth, making him laugh so loud the couple next to you turned.

—It’s already there— he answered, suddenly serious, his hand on your cheek like a silent vow.

30. The Bear and the Kiss

The amusement park glowed under a thousand colored lights, the air thick with cotton candy and popcorn. Charles was determined—that competitive glint he usually saved for the racetrack now fixed on the ring-toss booth.

—One more try— he insisted, shoving more bills at the attendant, his arms already marked by failed attempts.

You laughed, clutching the sad little plush bear he’d won at the fishing game after three tries and a lot of sweet-talking.

—Give it up, Charlie. Some things aren’t meant to be.

But then it happened. The last ring spun through the air and—miraculously—landed around the bottle’s neck. The booth owner sighed, handing over the giant pink teddy bear (a monstrosity with bulging eyes) reluctantly.

Charles turned to you, the ridiculous trophy in his arms, grinning prouder than you’d ever seen—more than victories, more than poles, more than anything.

—For you— he announced, shoving the bear into your arms like it was the most precious prize in the world.

You tried to thank him, but the words vanished when he pulled you in by the bear, your lips meeting his in the middle of the crowd, under the flashing lights and carnival noise.

The kiss was awkward (the bear’s nose squished between you), tasted like cotton candy and cheap soda, and was perfectly teenage, like you were both sixteen again.

31. The First Addiction

It was just a kiss. Or it should have been.

You were on the couch, the movie had ended half an hour ago, and Charles was explaining for the third time how that overtake at Silverstone had been his masterpiece. You interrupted him with a quick kiss—just to shut him up. But then…

He stopped mid-sentence. Took a deep breath. And something shifted. The first touch was soft—just his lips testing yours, like it was the first time. But when you responded, he lost control.

His fingers tangled in your hair, tilting your head back for better access. The kiss deepened, slow but relentless, like a rising tide. You tasted coffee on his tongue and something else—pure need.

—Merde— he gasped when he pulled back for a second, his eyes dark as asphalt at night. —This… this isn’t fair.

You didn’t have time to reply before he captured your lips again, this time with an urgency that made your stomach flip. It was like he’d discovered a new kind of adrenaline—and you were the only place he could get it.

—You… have to… stop— he lied between kisses, his hands already sliding under your shirt. —Or I’ll never be able to think about anything else.

32. Digital Kiss

The phone screen showed Charles sprawled on the motorhome bed, his hair a mess from how much he’d been running his hands through it, exhaustion from practice still heavy in his eyes. The connection flickered, stealing pieces of his image, but not enough to hide the way he frowned when you said:

—I have to go. Meeting in five.

He made that face—half abandoned puppy, half spoiled driver—and leaned closer to the camera until all you could see were his lips, bitten raw from missing you.

—Do this— he ordered, his whisper crackling through the speaker.

And then he kissed the screen. It was ridiculous. It was cheesy. It made your heart ache.

You laughed but ended up doing the same—your lips pressing against the cold glass where his face had been seconds before.

—Pathetic— you grumbled, the smile ruining your complaint.

—Missing someone feels like this— he replied. —See you tomorrow, mon cœur.

The call ended, leaving you staring at your own reflection in the dark phone—your lips still curved in a stupid smile, your heart heavy with something you couldn’t even name.

33. Home Remedy

The apartment smelled of garlic, ginger, and lemon—a scent that screamed home even in the middle of chaos. Charles was cocooned on the couch under a mountain of blankets, his nose red, his hair a disheveled mess, wearing that kicked-puppy look he only used on truly bad days.

You set the steaming bowl in front of him—perfect chicken soup, with the star-shaped pasta he’d loved since he was a kid.

—Nonna’s Italian cure— you announced, pushing the medicine aside.

He looked at the bowl, then at you, and something shifted in his expression—that rare vulnerability that only appeared when he was sick or deeply moved.

—Tu es…— His voice caught, more from emotion than congestion.

Before he could finish, he grabbed your wrist, knocking half the tissues to the floor. The kiss was fever-hot.

You wiped the broth off his chin with your thumb, laughing when he tried to bite your finger.

—Have some shame, Leclerc. Not even the flu makes you less insufferable.

He kissed your palm before you could pull away, his eyes half-lidded, half-dreaming.

—Love you more than nonna’s pasta— he declared solemnly, as if it were the highest compliment.

34. The Future Kiss

The press conference had ended, the murmur of journalists still echoing through the paddock, when you spotted the little boy—no older than seven, his toy F1 jumpsuit worn thin, eyes wide as saucers as he clutched a miniature helmet. You crouched, microphone in hand, and conducted the cutest interview of your life.

—What’s your name, champ?

—Enzo— he announced, proud as if he were on pole. —One day, I’ll race like Charles!

You laughed, your heart squeezing for no reason, and kept asking about his dreams. You didn’t notice Charles stopping behind you, arms crossed, smile soft.

[ .... ]

In the car back to the hotel, he was unusually quiet. You waited, knowing he’d speak when ready.

—That boy…— he started, fingers tapping the steering wheel nervously. —I thought about… if he were ours.

The air left your lungs. You’d never spoken about this directly.

Charles parked abruptly, silence heavy between you, until he turned. His green eyes were serious but soft—like he was seeing far beyond that moment.

—Have you ever thought about it?— he asked, voice quieter than you’d ever heard.

You didn’t answer with words. Just pulled his face close, the kiss starting gentle but deepening when he groaned against your lips, his hands gripping your waist like an anchor.

—I have— you admitted when you broke apart, forehead against his. —Just didn’t know if you…

He cut you off with another kiss, sweeter this time but with an urgency that made your stomach flip.

—I want it— he murmured, so softly you almost missed it. —A little Leclerc for you to teach how to be good… and for me to teach how to drive.

35. The Paper Kiss

You woke to the smell of fresh coffee and an unusual silence in the apartment. On the kitchen table—usually home to forgotten mugs and bread crumbs—was a cream-colored envelope with your initial handwritten in ink.

Inside, a sheet of Ferrari letterhead ("borrowed for noble reasons," his handwriting joked in the corner) and, in the center, the simplest note in the world:

"Love you more than pole position. Back by 6. P.S.: Look behind."

You flipped the paper and there it was—the perfect imprint of his lips in the corner. You froze, realizing Charles had secretly raided your closet for your lipstick to do what you always did—leave kiss marks on notes scattered around the apartment, since he had the memory of a goldfish.

Without thinking, you brushed your fingers over the mark, as if you could still feel his warmth. Then you noticed the tiny smudge—where he’d clearly hesitated before getting it just right.

And now you were picturing the absurd sight of Charles with red lips, all for the sake of a joke on paper.

36. The Secret Song

You pushed the apartment door open quietly, still dripping sweat from the gym, when the sound of piano music stopped you in your tracks. It was a melody you’d never heard before—sweet, melancholic, perfect—and then his voice joined in, softer than you’d ever heard in interviews or even in late-night whispers.

Your heart stalled.

Peeking through the cracked door, you saw him—Charles, his back to you, shoulders relaxed, fingers dancing over the keys. The open notebook on the piano made it obvious: scribbled lyrics, rewritten verses, a work in progress he’d never mentioned.

You couldn’t resist.

—So this is how you spend your free time?

He jumped off the bench like he’d been caught stealing a car, the notebook tumbling to the floor. His face was redder than his Ferrari race suit.

—Merde! I—

You snatched the notebook before he could hide it, your eyes scanning the page filled with “love,” “forever,” and—your pulse spiked—“children” scribbled in the corner.

The kiss didn’t wait. You grabbed his collar, your lips crashing into his with a urgency that made the piano let out a discordant note behind you.

—Sing for me— you ordered when you broke apart, cradling his face in your hands.

He swallowed hard, but when he started playing again—this time with you beside him—the music sounded different. Like it had finally found its audience.

37. Instant Kiss

The afternoon was perfect—endless lavender fields stretching to the horizon, the warm air thick with their scent. You stood with your back to the sunset, shaking the Polaroid camera in growing frustration.

—Another blurry one!— you complained as the photo slowly revealed a half-cut-off Charles, a purple smudge that was supposed to be lavender, and your finger accidentally covering the lens. —That’s five tries!

Charles, sprawled lazily in the field like he was modeling for a luxury perfume ad, let out a laugh. His green eyes glowed brighter than the setting sun.

—Maybe the problem isn’t the camera, mon cœur — he teased, lips curled in that mischievous smile you loved.

Before you could retort, he rose in one fluid motion—dirt and petals falling from his jeans—and closed the distance between you. The camera hit the grass as he cupped your face.

The kiss was like the Polaroid—instant but permanent. His lips tasted like rosé and infinite patience. When he pulled back, his expression was as soft as the twilight.

—Better?— he murmured, thumb swiping at the lipstick smudged on his mouth.

You exhaled, your heart fluttering like the birds taking flight around you.

—Take another one— you said, picking up the camera.

This time, when the flash went off, it captured perfection—him pulling you into another kiss, lavender petals swirling like natural confetti, the sun disappearing behind the two of you.

38. The Drunk Kiss

That summer night in Monaco was too hot—the city lights glittering like fallen stars, Charles drunk on wine and courage, trying to kiss you in front of everyone at the club.

You turned your face away, half-laughing, half-scolding.

—You’re drunk, Leclerc— you said, pushing lightly on his chest.

He frowned, his eyes desperate, like he couldn’t understand why the universe wasn’t aligning in his favor.

—But I—

—No buts. I’m taking you home.

But Charles, stubborn even under the influence, decided it was the perfect night for a love confession. Result? He ended up sitting on the sidewalk outside your building, clutching a bouquet of flowers he didn’t remember buying, slurring words even he didn’t understand.

—You’re… you’re my favorite corner— he announced solemnly, his grave tone ruined by a hiccup. —The one I never get right but always wanna try again.

You laughed, your heart pounding anyway, and helped him into the Uber.

—Say that again when you’re sober.

[ .... ]

Years later, on a quiet night at home, you reminisced about the incident.

—God, stop— Charles buried his face in his hands, ears red with embarrassment, as you mimicked his drunken voice: “You’re my favorite corner!”

—At least I was right— he grumbled, pulling you into a hug.

—Oh, were you?— you teased, fingers playing with his shirt buttons.

He looked at you, his eyes serious now, and finally repeated the words—no alcohol, no audience, just the raw truth you’d both known since that night.

(And if he ever found out you still kept the blurry selfie of him on the sidewalk—your secret treasure—he’d never let you live it down.)

39. The Kiss the World Discovered

The Ibiza sun gilded everything in gold when it happened. You were at that hidden café near the harbor, the one he insisted on showing you, where Charles could take off his cap and just be. He’d just told a terrible joke about the engineers, and you laughed so loudly he couldn’t resist—leaning in to press a quick, spontaneous kiss to your cheek.

Then the shutter clicked.

A quiet sound, nearly drowned by the sea, but enough to make Charles stiffen, his eyes scanning the surroundings.

—Merde — he muttered, his expression shuttering like it did after a bad race.

You laced your fingers with his under the table, a silent code: It’s okay. It was time.

[ .... ]

Forty-eight hours later, the photo was everywhere: “Leclerc in Love? F1 Star Caught Kissing Mystery Woman!”

Charles called that night, his voice uncharacteristically tense:

—I never wanted it to be like this. Are you okay?

You laughed—a light sound that made him sigh in relief through the phone.

—Charles, it’s just a peck on the cheek. The world’s seen worse.

His silence was heavy with something sweet and vulnerable:

—I wanted our first photo together to be… better.

—It’s perfect— you replied, picturing his flushed face in the image. —Because it’s real.

40. The Kiss of Lost Hours

The lamp was still on when he finally came home. 2:37 AM, according to the bedside clock. You’d fallen asleep curled on his side of the bed, the book splayed open on your chest, fingers slack against the pages.

Charles paused in the doorway, the scent of stale coffee and exhaustion clinging to him. He should’ve gone straight to the shower, should’ve been careful not to wake you—but then he saw the exposed curve of your neck, your necklace slightly twisted, and all the should’ves vanished.

He knelt onto the bed carefully, his calloused hands sinking into the mattress beside you, and leaned down.

The first kiss was just a whisper, his lips barely grazing your nape—a test. You mumbled something incoherent, turning your face away, and he took the chance to kiss the spot below your ear, the one he knew made you shiver.

—Sorry— he whispered, the words warm against your skin as his hands slowly unzipped his race suit.

You didn’t answer. Just pulled his arm around your waist, anchoring him there, as if your sleepy body already knew what it needed.

He chuckled lowly, the sound vibrating against your back, and finally settled around you—your neck still his favorite place that night.

[feinzleclerc]

A Hundred Kisses I've Already Given You | CL16

starring ; charles leclerc x reader fem!

summary ; Where you make a list of 100 kisses very important to you and Charles.

warnings ; English is not my first language.

word count ; 5k words.

notes ; PART 2, 3, 4 & 5 COMING SOON

Then I got really excited and only the first part was 5 thousand words! 😅 The next parts will be coming soon.

MAIN MASTERLIST & CHARLES LECLERC MASTERLIST

01. Morning Kiss

The golden sun streams through the gaps in the linen curtains, painting warm stripes across the unmade bed. The air still carries the coolness of dawn, mingled with the faint scent of freshly brewed coffee drifting from the distant kitchen.

Charles Leclerc is half-asleep, his unruly curls tousled over his forehead, but he smiles when his eyes meet yours. His hand—marked by subtle veins and a tan from countless hours training under the sun—caresses your face with a tenderness that makes your heart race.

— Bonjour, mon amour... — he murmurs, his voice rough with sleep, as he leans in for a slow kiss.

Your lips meet in a gentle, almost lazy touch, yet brimming with unspoken promises. The dawn light wraps around you both, highlighting the golden flecks in his lashes and the glow of your smile against his. His hand tangles in your hair, pulling you closer, while the world outside—with its races, deadlines, and noise—seems to fade away.

02. Kiss on the Top of the Head

The apartment is silent, save for the sound of pages turning and a pen scratching against a notebook. You’re deep in your studies, legs curled on the sofa, laptop open, and a half-forgotten cup of tea on the coffee table. The vanilla scent of a burning candle mixes with the soft fragrance of your shampoo—something light, like cotton flowers.

Suddenly, a pair of arms wraps around your shoulders from behind, and before you can react, Charles presses his lips to the top of your head in a kiss that’s equal parts affection and longing.

— You work too hard... — he murmurs, his voice soft, as his fingers play with the ends of your hair.

You smile, tilting your head back to look at him. He’s barefoot, wearing a loose T-shirt, his hair still slightly damp from the shower, as if he’s just returned from training. His gaze is tired but warm, and when his hand brushes your shoulder, you feel the callouses on his fingers—marks of hours spent gripping the wheel.

— I need to finish this... — you protest, but you’re already leaning into him.

He chuckles, the sound vibrating in his chest, and kisses your hair again before whispering:

— Fine, but after this, you’re all mine.

03. Kiss on the Shoulder While Cooking

The smell of garlic sizzling in butter fills the air, mingled with the aroma of red wine lightly splashing in the pan. You’re focused, stirring the risotto with one hand while the other grips the wooden spoon like an extension of your arm. French music plays softly from the phone on the counter—something Charles chose, of course—and the improvised candles cast dancing shadows on the walls.

Just as you turn to grab the grated cheese, he appears behind you like a ghost. His arms wrap around your waist in a loose embrace, and before you can complain about the interference, his lips press a light kiss to your bare shoulder—right where your oversized T-shirt has slipped down.

— Smells good... — he murmurs against your skin, and you feel his smile form there, warm and familiar.

— You’re distracting the chef — you say, trying to sound stern, but your voice comes out softer than intended.

He laughs, the sound vibrating against your back, and pulls you closer, completely ignoring the fact that the risotto might burn. His hand—still with a faint trace of grease under the nails, remnants of his earlier training session—intrudes over yours, guiding the wooden spoon with gentle pressure.

— This is our risotto, not just yours. — he argues, kissing your shoulder again, slower this time, as if memorizing the taste of your skin mixed with the scent of dinner.

And when you turn your head to face him, he’s so close that your nose almost brushes his. His eyes—green like Monaco’s fields under morning sun—dance with yours, and for a second, the risotto, the music, even the faintly burning garlic in the pan—all of it disappears.

04. Goodnight Kiss

The bedroom is bathed in the golden half-light of the bedside lamp, casting dancing shadows on the walls. The bed—a territory of rumpled sheets and contested pillows—looks inviting after a long day. You're already settled in, blankets pulled up to your chin, your hair spread across the pillow like a messy halo.

Charles lies beside you, propped up on one elbow, his fingers tracing slow paths along your exposed arm. He looks at you with an expression that's equal parts exhaustion and devotion, his eyelids heavy with sleep but still reluctant to close.

— You're beautiful like this... — he murmurs, his voice rough, almost like a sigh.

You smile, reaching up to touch his face, feeling the scratchy texture of his stubble beneath your fingers. He turns his head to kiss your palm in a gesture so natural it feels like part of an ancient ritual.

The kiss is slow, sweet—as if he's trying to memorize the taste of your lips before sleep takes him. His hand cradles your face, his thumb stroking your temple as his lips move against yours in a lazy, almost sleepy rhythm. You breathe in his scent—toothpaste and something inherently *Charles*, something warm and familiar that makes you want to bury your face in his neck and never leave.

When he finally pulls away, it's just enough to murmur against your mouth:

— Sweet dreams, mon amour.

Then, with one last touch—his lips brushing your chin, quick and light as a butterfly's wing—he reaches over to turn off the light.

In the darkness, your body fits against his like puzzle pieces, and the last thought you have before drifting off is that no matter how many races he wins, nothing compares to this quiet moment when he belongs only to you.

05. Kiss on a Bruise

The afternoon sun in Monaco paints everything in gold, glinting off the asphalt still damp from a passing rain. The bikes lean against the sidewalk, their wheels spinning lazily before coming to a stop, as if tired from your adventure through the city's steep streets. You sit on the seawall, breathing deeply, your scraped knee throbbing under the salty breeze.

Charles kneels in front of you before you can protest, his hands firm but gentle as they wrap around your ankle. His eyes—green as the Mediterranean under the sun—are serious as they examine the scrape with the same focus he gives to the curves of the racetrack.

— It's not that bad... — he murmurs, though the frown between his brows betrays his worry.

The mineral water from the bottle he brought spills over the wound, and you grimace, your fingers gripping the wall behind you. He blows softly, the cool air easing the sting, and then—without warning—he presses his lips lightly to the side of your injured knee, a kiss that's more breath than touch.

— There. All better now. — He says it like a spell, tilting his face up with a mischievous grin.

You laugh, your heart beating faster than it did climbing the hill, and nudge his shoulder.

— Kissing bruises only works on kids, you know.

He rises in one fluid motion, his hands finding your waist to pull you close. His nose brushes yours, and you breathe him in—sweat, salt, and that subtle cologne he wears even on the simplest days.

— Then I'll have to kiss something else... — he whispers, and before you can reply, his lips find yours in a kiss that tastes like the sea and unspoken promises.

Your knee still hurts a little. But honestly? You can barely remember why.

06. Paddock Kiss

The paddock buzzes around you—engines being tuned, radios crackling, the hum of conversations in a dozen languages. But in the middle of the chaos, the two of you walk slowly, as if the world has slowed down just for this moment.

Your hands are intertwined, his fingers—strong and slightly rough from gripping the wheel—tangled with yours so naturally it makes your chest ache. Suddenly, he stops, pulling your hand to his lips.

A kiss. Soft, almost reverent, on your knuckles, right where a ring might one day sit.

— Do you know what I think when I see you here, in the middle of all this? — Charles asks, his voice low, his green eyes bright under the paddock's artificial lights.

You shake your head, curious.

— I think that no matter how many turns I face out there... — He presses your hand to his chest, where his firesuit still smells like gasoline and effort, — I'll always have you as my safe harbor.

Your face warms, but you don't look away.

— What if someone sees? — you tease, feigning concern.

He laughs, the sound rough and intimate, before pulling you into a quieter corner behind the team trucks.

— Then they're lucky. Because I can't hide what I feel for you.

07. Apology Kiss

The apartment still holds the echo of your argument—the silence now thick, broken only by the irritating tick of the wall clock. You're curled on the couch, hugging a pillow like a shield, staring at the window where Monaco's lights flicker like false stars.

Charles appears in the bedroom doorway, barefoot, his hair a mess from running his hands through it during the fight. He hesitates for a second—takes a deep breath—then crosses the room in three long strides.

Without a word, he kneels before you, his hands resting on your knees. His eyes, usually so bright, are dark.

— I'm sorry... — His voice comes out rough, broken.

You frown, still resisting, but he's already pulling your hand—the same one he held for the first time in the paddock, the same one he kissed after that Silverstone victory—to his lips. He presses a desperate kiss to your fingers.

— I need to apologize too— — you murmur, but he doesn't let you finish.

The kiss comes then—not on your lips, but on your forehead. Lingering, warm, heavy with everything left unsaid. You feel him tremble slightly, as if holding back something much bigger than an apology.

— I was an idiot. — He whispers against your skin, his hands now cradling your face. — I'll do better.

When you finally meet his eyes, it's just Charles—the boy who drives like a demon but holds you like something precious—and suddenly, the fight doesn't matter anymore.

You tug his collar, pulling him in. The reconciliation kiss tastes salty—half your tears, half his.

08. Victory Kiss

The paddock party roars around you—champagne popping, team members shouting, camera flashes exploding—but everything disappears when Charles spots you. He's still in his unzipped firesuit, sweat mixed with champagne foam in his wild curls, and his smile when he sees you is brighter than the trophy in his hands.

— You saw that?! — he yells, sprinting toward you like he's still going 300km/h.

Before you can answer, he lifts you into the air, spinning you like you're the podium itself. His lips crash into yours in a kiss that tastes like gasoline, champagne, and something that exists only between you two—pure euphoria.

— That was for you — he murmurs, his forehead pressed to yours, his breathing still ragged from the race.

You laugh, wiping champagne foam from his nose with your finger.

— Liar. It was for the trophy.

He tightens his grip on your waist, the number "16" on his firesuit staining your clothes, and steals another quick kiss.

— The trophy doesn't kiss me back, mon amour.

09. Healing Kiss

The blood wells up before you even feel the pain—a quick, shallow cut on your index finger from mishandling a knife while trying (and failing) to peel mangoes for dessert.

— Merde! — Charles drops the cutting board instantly, cradling your wrist. His green eyes darken with concern, examining the cut like it's a mechanical flaw in his car.

— Ow, it's nothing... — You try to pull away, but he's already bringing your finger to his mouth.

And then it happens:

His lips press against the wound in a kiss that's too warm to be just medicinal. His tongue swipes away the blood with a care that makes your stomach flip.

— Better? — he asks, his voice rough, his eyes now filled with a different kind of worry.

You swallow hard. The cut? Barely remember it. The problem? Your racing heartbeat.

— That's not... hygienic, Charles.

He grins, that mischievous charm flashing across his face.

— You're right. — He agrees, before pulling you in by the waist and capturing your lips in a kiss that's definitely not medical. — But you prefer it this way, don't you?

10. "It'll Be Okay" Kiss

The apartment is dark, only the blue glow of the TV illuminating Charles' face—the replay of his disastrous race still looping silently. He sits on the floor, leaning against the couch, an untouched bottle of still water beside him. He hasn't even touched the whiskey you know he prefers on bad days.

You kneel behind him, wrapping your arms around his shoulders, and feel the tension leave him in a sigh that almost hurts.

— I can't... — His voice cracks, rough from gritting his teeth through those final laps. — Everything I touch turns to dust.

You turn his face toward yours, your hands firm on his stubbled cheeks.

— You're Charles Leclerc. The same man who won me over during that storm in Spa. The same one who makes Scuderia tremble when you hit the throttle.

He closes his eyes, but you don't let him.

— Look at me.

When he does, you kiss each eyelid—first the right, then the left—like sealing a promise.

— There's one turn you've never messed up — you whisper, your lips hovering over his. — The one that leads back to me.

Then, slow as Eau Rouge in slow motion, he pulls you into a kiss that needs no words.

When you part, he holds the back of your neck, forehead resting against yours:

— Tu es ma boussole... (You're my compass) — he admits in French.

You smile, stealing another quick kiss:

— And you're my driver. Now get up. The next race is already waiting.

11. Nose Kiss

The room smells like Vicks VapoRub and lemon tea, the sheets tangled from your restless turning. Buried under blankets with a red nose and glassy feverish eyes, you barely register Charles entering with a steaming bowl.

— Brought nonna's soup — he announces, sitting carefully on the bed's edge like you're made of porcelain. His pride over the homemade soup is almost cute, considering he nearly burned the kitchen down last week.

You pout.

— Can't even taste it properly...

He laughs, smoothing your tangled hair—the same fingers that adjust front wings with millimeter precision now patiently detangling your strands.

— Poor little thing — he murmurs, and before you can protest, his lips brush the tip of your red nose in a kiss that's more breath than contact.

— Ew, Charles! You'll catch it! — you complain, but he's already grinning, completely ignoring biological hazards.

— I'd take a thousand sick days over one without you — he declares dramatically, his accent thicker just to make you smile.

When you finally swallow the first spoonful (surprisingly good), he steals another nose kiss—longer this time, like a seal of approval.

— Maybe my kisses work better than medicine — he teases, that familiar smirk appearing.

12. Laughter Kiss

The apartment still echoes with your last burst of laughter—the kind that hurts your stomach and leaves tears in your eyes after that terrible joke you told. Charles is nearly rolling on the sofa, his curls disheveled and face flushed from laughing.

— No way you found that funny! — he gasps between laughs, his voice pitched higher than his team radio during qualifiers.

You try to retaliate but end up laughing too, and that's when he pulls you in.

The kiss happens mid-chaos—clumsy, with both your lips still curved in smiles, teeth accidentally clashing. It's messy, and that's what makes it perfect.

— That was... our worst kiss ever — you giggle against his mouth, but he just tightens his hold.

13. Wrist Kiss

The bedroom is quiet, lit only by a soft lamp. You're lounging on the sofa with a book when Charles approaches—his steps light, like sneaking through pitlane before race start. He kneels before you, gently taking the book from your hands.

— Let me check... — he murmurs, his fingers tracing your wrist like searching for the perfect racing line.

Then his lips press against the thin skin where blue veins map your pulse. The kiss is featherlight but burns like brandy.

— So fast... — he comments, smiling against your skin, eyes closed to better feel your racing heartbeat.

— You're distracting me — you protest, voice trembling.

He chuckles and repeats the gesture, slower now, as if memorizing each thrum.

— Now it's worse — he whispers proudly, his fingers still wrapped around your wrist like he never wants to let go.

14. Secret Kiss

You're lying with your back against Charles' chest when he leans closer—his breath on your neck making you shiver before he even whispers:

— I have a secret... — His voice blends with the wind outside as his lips brush your ear.

He shares it—maybe silly, maybe profound—in details nobody else knows. When the confession ends, he seals it with a kiss below your ear, soft as the secret itself.

— Now you're stuck with me — he teases, nipping your earlobe.

You turn to face him, but he's ready—the next kiss deeper, hotter, like the secret opened a door neither wants to close.

— Better than pole position... — he murmurs between kisses, hands tangled in your hair.

15. Missed You Kiss

The apartment door barely clicks shut before Charles crosses the room in three strides—suitcase abandoned, jacket still smelling like airplane air, his gaze starving as if he'd been gone for months, not weeks.

You're halfway off the sofa when he reaches you—his cold hands framing your face like you're a dream he feared forgetting.

— God, I missed you — his voice breaks, and then he's kissing you.

It's not a kiss.

It's a reclaiming—lips seeking yours like they're the only oxygen after weeks underwater. You grip his hair, longer now, messy from travel, tasting like airport coffee. He pins you against the wall without breaking contact, as if you'll vanish if he stops.

— Fuck, I can't do races without you — he rasps between kisses.

You laugh, but he swallows the sound with another kiss—softer now but still desperate.

— Promise you won't stay away so long? — he pleads, forehead against yours.

When you nod, he carries you to bed—suitcase forgotten, world forgotten—because some hungers can't be fed with words.

16. New Year's Kiss

The beach at Copacabana pulses with life—a sea of dancing bodies, popping champagne, fireworks painting the sky gold and silver—but you two stand still in the chaos, as if time has frozen. Charles pulls you closer to the seawall, far enough from the crowd that only you exist, close enough for firework reflections to light up his face with every explosion.

He looks breathtaking—white shirt open at the collar, skin still smelling like sea salt and sunscreen, those Mediterranean-green eyes brighter than any pyrotechnics.

— Three... — The countdown begins around you, a roar of voices, but he only looks at you.

— Two... — Your fingers tighten around his, the silver ring he gave you in Monte Carlo last year cool against your skin.

— One... — He doesn't wait.

The kiss starts before "Happy New Year"—lips tasting of saltwater and promises, hands pulling you flush against him like he wants to merge your bodies. Fireworks detonate overhead, gold and purple raining over the ocean, but all you feel is his smile when you gently bite his lower lip.

— Je t'aime — whispered between kisses, warm as the Rio summer. The way he spins you just as the sky explodes in red, like you're dancing through fire.

— Happy New Year, mon cœur — he laughs against your mouth, voice hoarse from kissing.

17. Shadow Kiss

The street lies dark under the broken streetlamp's flickering light—that one that blinks like a secret signal. Your building stands just ahead, but Charles seems in no hurry to let you go. He stands too close, his dinner-scented shirt mixing with that cologne that made you look twice at the restaurant.

— So... — he starts, fingers playing with yours like testing a new steering wheel's grip.

You smile, leaning against his car—the same one he drove slowly just to prolong the night.

— So.

He looks at your lips a second too long, then—when the streetlamp flickers again—he leans in.

The first kiss is stolen.

Light, quick, experimental. His lips barely touch yours before he pulls back, green eyes dark in the low light, watching your reaction.

— Sorry — he lies, the corner of his mouth lifting in a not-sorry-at-all smirk.

You don't answer. Just fist his collar and drag him back.

This kiss is the opposite—slow, precise, like a turn he knows by heart. Your back presses into the car door, the cold metal seeping through your dress, but who cares when all you feel is his hand cradling your neck, his thumb tracing your jawline like he's memorizing it.

— Until tomorrow — he whispers against your lips—a promise, not a question.

18. Rain Kiss

The downpour turns Monaco's streets into silver rivers. You're squeezed under a tiny umbrella—the one Charles insisted was "big enough" but now barely covers half of each of your shoulders. Your arms press together, his shirt already soaked on one side, and you're about to complain when—

He steps in a puddle, the stumble making him lurch forward—and suddenly his lips crash into yours with the perfect timing of a rom-com gag.

An utterly awkward kiss—noses bumping, teeth nearly clacking, rainwater dripping from his forehead into your collar. You break apart, wide-eyed, then...

— Mon Dieu, what a disaster — he groans, still holding the lopsided umbrella as droplets hit your hair.

— Terrible. Two out of ten — you agree, feigning disdain while already pulling him back by his belt.

19. Snow Kiss

The Swiss valley breathes snow. Thick flakes fall leisurely, blanketing the world in sacred silence. You stand frozen in this dreamscape, tears icing your lashes, when Charles' leather-gloved hands cup your face.

— Breathe, mon cœur — he orders, rubbing his nose against your frozen one. The woodsmoke scent from the lodge still clings to his scarf.

You laugh—a rough sound echoing in the white void—and that's when he kisses you. His lips taste of cognac and dark chocolate, a perfect contrast to the cold stealing your breath. Charles pulls you against his damp coat, hands firm on your waist like he fears you'll vanish into the snowfall.

— Like your present? — he asks when you part, his eyes forest-green under snow-laced lashes.

— Not fair — you complain, trembling fingers gripping his ski suit straps. — You bring me to see snow and now I can't think about anything but you.

That lopsided grin appears—the one he wears when he's won.

— Exactly the plan, ma chérie.

And when he carries you piggyback toward the lodge—grumbling that you weigh less than his skis—you know no landscape, no matter how pristine, could ever compare to the red of his ears glowing in the chalet lights.

20. Stolen Kiss

The ballroom sparkles—gold light reflecting off crystal glasses and the newlyweds' teary eyes. You sit at the table, heels already kicked off under your chair, when Charles' fingers find yours beneath the linen tablecloth.

— Bored? — he whispers, breath warm on your ear as the best man's speech drones on.

Your navy dress—the one he said made you look like "Monaco at midnight"—feels suddenly too tight when he quietly scoots your chair back.

— What are you—

The protest dies as he leads you to the winter garden's darkest corner, where party lights arrive only in faint whispers.

— Shhh — Charles presses a finger to your lips, his eyes dark as rain-slick asphalt. — I spent the whole ceremony thinking how beautiful you look tonight.

The first kiss tastes like wedding cake. The second like salt from his starched collar. The third...

— LECLERC! — the team principal's voice booms through the garden.

You spring apart so fast your dress gets caught on his pocket watch.

— Merde — he mutters, untangling you while your face burns hotter than the reception's cognac.

When you return, the groom toasts you both with a smirk:

— Glad someone's enjoying my wedding more than me!

Back at your seat, a note waits in Charles' handwriting:

*"Next ceremony will be ours."*

[feinzleclerc]

─── 💭 FORMULA 1 MASTERLIST !

hey, driver...

— ✦ Grid

001. F1 Alert ; Where you create an app for fans to play and it becomes a sensation among the grid.

— ✦ Carlos Sainz

001. Style ; Some time after the breakup, you and Sainz meet again, but this time on the set of a perfume commercial. After all, you never go out of style.

[feinzleclerc]

PHOTOGRAPHIC CAMERA | CL16

THE ONE WHERE you live a relationship with Charles and love records moments.

© feinzleclerc - 2025

[feinzleclerc]

You belong with me. 💚💛💜❤️🩵🖤

Letter on my site :)

[feinzleclerc]

She prefers roses | CL16

starring ; charles leclerc x ex-girlfriend !

summary ; Being in a relationship with Charles was one of the best things that ever happened to you, but he was always in different countries on the weekends, and his focus on a different sport made you.

warnings ; [main notice] English is not my first language.

word count ; 2k words.

notes ; When I reached a certain part of the story I ran out of things to write and so I left it like that, which in my head was good for an ending. But could there be a part 2? 🤔

MAIN MASTERLIST • CHARLES LECLERC MASTERLIST

AFTER A TIRING FRIDAY at the start of the Saudi Arabian GP, the only thing on your mind was getting to your hotel room and taking a hot shower. You walked down the hotel corridors until you reached your door, and there, lying on the mat, something caught your attention. A bouquet of daisies with a note.

"To the star of the paddock. — J"

James. The McLaren engineer. It was the third time that season. You smiled, picked up the bouquet, and—

— Daisies.

The deep, familiar voice made you spin around abruptly. Charles was in the hallway, arms crossed, his Ferrari blazer slung over his shoulder as if he hadn’t just invaded your personal space.

— What’s wrong with that? — you shot back, clutching the flowers like a shield.

He laughed, humorlessly. — Nothing. Just thought it was… curious.

— What’s so curious?

— That he doesn’t know. — Charles took a step forward, and you retreated, your back hitting the door. — Daisies mean friendship. Tulips, admiration. Lilies… — He rested his hand on the doorframe above your head. — Purity. None of that fits you.

Your heart felt like it was trying to escape your chest. — Then what does fit me?

He hesitated, his dark eyes scanning your face as if reading every secret you’d ever hidden.

— You know.

And then he was gone, leaving behind the scent of gasoline, mint, and everything you swore you’d forget. You stepped into your room like you’d crossed the finish line of a Grand Prix, but instead of celebration, what awaited you was internal chaos. You dropped the daisies on the dresser as if they’d burned your skin and stood there, staring at the arrangement with a rage you didn’t know was directed at the flowers, at James… or at Charles.

"You know."

His voice echoed in your head like engines roaring down the main straight.You knew. Of course you knew. From your first secret meeting in Monaco to your last argument in some random European airport. Charles had always been able to read you better than anyone—and that was what made everything so hard when it ended.

But had it really ended?

[ OCTOBER, 2023 📍 ]

Paris. Late afternoon. You were covering Roland Garros; he had managed a rare break from the season. It was just another casual stroll along the Seine—until it wasn’t.

— If you had to choose one flower to receive every day… what would it be? — he asked, a pain au chocolat in one hand and the other intertwined with yours.

You laughed, surprised by the question. — Is this an attempt at being romantic?

— Maybe. — He shrugged with that disarming smile of his. — Or maybe I’m just curious.

You pretended to think for a second. — Roses. But not just any roses. Red ones. The kind that look like they’re straight out of a movie.

— Classic. — He nodded, as if filing the information away in some precious corner of his memory. — Makes sense. You’re the type to turn even a boring press conference into something unforgettable.

The next morning, when you opened your hotel room door, there they were. A small, simple, yet flawless bouquet of red roses with a note:

"Now I know. — C"

[ PRESENT ]

The next day, the paddock was busier than usual. You moved between teams, microphone in hand, trying to ignore the inevitable glances. James greeted you with a shy smile, and for a second, you felt guilty. He was kind. Attentive. And even if he got the flower wrong, he tried.

But the presence that unsettled you was another.

Charles was leaning against Ferrari’s pit wall, headphones around his neck, his eyes fixed on you. He didn’t smile. Just watched. Like someone keeping secrets. Like someone who still had something to say.

After an intense qualifying session and back-to-back interviews, you almost made your escape. Almost. But fate—and a stubborn driver—had other plans.

— You got a minute?

The voice came from behind. You didn’t even need to turn to know who it was.

— Just one? — you said without looking at him.

— If I ask for two, will you give them to me?

You sighed and finally turned. He stood there, his expression the most sincere you’d seen since everything fell apart.

— Charles…

— I know. We’re over. It was my choice, it was yours too. But seeing you here every day, with another guy leaving flowers at your door…

You crossed your arms, trying to hold your ground. — You walked away. Remember? We chose different paths.

— I chose you every day. The world just wouldn’t let me.

The silence between you was almost as loud as the roar of the engines. Then, he pulled something from his jacket pocket.

A single red rose.

— You prefer roses.

Your chest tightened.

— You remember. — Your voice wavered.

— I never forgot.

His gaze wasn’t teasing anymore, nor was his expression serious. It felt like a punch to the gut, dragging you back into the past… Charles had never forgotten that your favorite flowers were roses, and he’d never forgotten how much you loved receiving them—even during the worst moments between you two.

[ BARCELONA, 2024 📍 ]

You had just finished interviewing a famous Real Madrid striker—after all, it was the Champions League, the biggest football competition, so of course you’d seize every opportunity. Besides, it was your job. But to Charles, it had been more than that.

— So you laughed at all his jokes, huh? — He tossed the car keys onto the hotel room counter harder than necessary.

— Are you serious? — you shot back, your press pass still hanging around your neck. — I was doing my job.

— Didn’t know flirting with you was part of the recording.

— And now you’re just being insecure. What a ridiculous scene, Charles.

It was one of those fights that shouldn’t have lasted more than ten minutes but dragged on for hours. You slept in silence, turned away from each other, both too wounded to admit you cared.

The next morning, as you tried to deal with the emotional hangover and your flooded inbox, there was a knock at your door. A bouquet of red roses. Impeccable.

No note. Just roses.

You didn’t need one to understand. Charles had never been good at apologizing with words. But with flowers… with flowers, he always spoke loud enough.

— Same as always. — you murmured under your breath.

[ PRESENT ]

Miami GP.

You hadn’t meant to display the rose. It was just… a detail. A gesture that deserved to be kept, yes, but away from prying eyes. So, you tucked it into your bag and forgot to take it out. Which meant James saw it when he entered your room and spotted it in your luggage. It was wilted and lifeless by then, but it was still there.

He was on the other side of the paddock, near the McLaren garage, chatting with some mechanics. But when your eyes met his, there was no confusion—just disappointment. For a second, his kind smile faltered. And you knew he’d figured it out.

You had just finished recording your last interview of the day when James appeared. Few words, as usual. But this time, he was holding something.

A bouquet of flawless red roses. You froze.

— I thought… maybe I was choosing wrong. — he said, his voice quiet but firm. — Daisies, tulips… I wanted to make you smile. But I realized someone already knew which flower did that.

Your stomach twisted.

— James…

— You don’t have to say anything. Just… — He held out the bouquet. — Take it as a thank you. For being here. For being you.

And there he was—kind, attentive, mature.

You took them and smiled. A small smile, but a real one.

What you didn’t notice was Charles, across the pit lane, arms crossed, gaze fixed. He saw it. Every flower. Every word. And your smile.

Later that night, as you headed to the hotel restaurant for dinner, one of Charles’ teammates appeared in front of you with a grin.

— Hey, (your name). — Carlos appeared, his Spanish accent thick, a smile on his lips. — How are you?

— Oh, I’m hanging in there…

— Just wanted to say I won’t take much of your time, but someone asked me to give you this. — He pulled a card from his pocket and handed it to you.

— Wow. — you said, surprised. — Thanks, Carlos.

The Spaniard quickly disappeared, and as soon as he did, you opened the card, immediately recognizing the handwriting and the words written in French:

"Nice try from your Dear J!

But he forgot you don’t just care about looks—you care about words.

If flowers could fix everything, I’d give you an entire garden. But since they can’t, I’ll give you my word: this time, I stay."

— So? — Charles pulled out the chair beside you without asking, his fingers drumming on the table. — Gonna ignore me again?

You held up the card, his handwriting still burning in your vision. — Is this fair? Using Sainz as your messenger?

He laughed, low and rough. — If it were me, you’d have torn it up without reading. With Carlos, I knew you’d open it.

You shook your head, biting back the smile threatening to break free. Before you could answer, James appeared.

— Thought Ferrari would be busy with race strategy. — he said, leaning against the back of your chair and leaving a kiss on your cheek that lingered a second too long.

Charles didn’t hesitate. — Thought McLaren would be busy… copying.

You closed your eyes. It was always like this. A competition. A race you’d never signed up for. You stood up abruptly, crumpling the napkin in your hand. — Enough. I’m not some trophy for your rivalry.

— (Your name)… — James started, his voice tense.

— Wait. — Charles said, gripping your wrist firmly but gently.

You turned, your gaze fiery. He placed something in your hand. A hotel key.

— Room 1702. Midnight. If you don’t come, I’ll leave. No chasing, no flowers, no more attempts.

James said your name again, like he was still waiting for an explanation. But you were already turning away, heading for the elevator, Charles’ key burning in your pocket and James’ bouquet still wilting on the table.

[ ROOM 1702 — 23:59 ]

You stopped in front of the door, your heart pounding louder than engines at the start line.

What if he was joking?

What if James was right?

What if you were giving up the last thing that still made sense?

The doorknob turned before you could knock. Charles opened the door, shirtless, his hair messy like he’d run his fingers through it a dozen times. His dark eyes locked onto yours with the same intensity as always.

— Late. — he whispered, pulling you in by the waist and kicking the door shut behind you. — Almost thought you wouldn’t come.

The room was dark, silent, the only sound the ragged rhythm of your breaths.

And then you saw it. On the side table, carefully folded, was your favorite article. The piece you’d written about him in 2022. Printed. Marked up in pen, as if he’d underlined every line that made him feel something.

— You kept this? — you murmured, disbelieving.

— I read it so many times I memorized it. — he said, his voice too rough to be a lie. — Because that’s when I knew you saw me… even when I couldn’t see myself.

Silence.

— That’s why I stayed. — he finished. — Because you’ve always been my finish line.

You didn’t say anything. But you didn’t need to.

Because when he pulled you close again, with a sweet urgency and a silent promise, all that existed was that room, that story, and the two of you trying—for the first time—not to run.

[feinzleclerc]

— FOOTBALL MASTERLIST !

Jude Bellingham

001. Espresso — Where you leave little clues on your social network.

Pablo Gavi

001. Chef Gavi — Where do you make a chocolate cake with your boyfriend.

Lamine Yamal

001. Barcelona — Being the daughter of a great idol of the club, perhaps it would be normal to go to Camp Nou and meet the young promise there.

Hector Fort

001. Challenge — where you and your boyfriend participate in a barcelona channel challenge.

002. As her boyfriend — headcannon.

003. A Hundred Kisses I've Already Given You — soon.

[feinzleclerc]

─── 💭 𝒞harles ℒeclerc ℳasterlist

hey, driver...

( links ) ─ main masterlist ! ── Forza Ferrari !

★ ONE-SHORT ;

001. Second Chance ─ where you decide to give Charles a second chance.

002. Finally a Yes ─ where you finally accept Charles' proposal.

003. Senna Legacy ─ where you're Senna's daughter and carry on your father's legacy through your institute

004. 10 Things I Love About You ─ where Charles makes a list.

005. She prefers roses ─ Even after months apart, Charles still remembers his favorite flowers.

★ SPECIAL ;

001. camera photographer ─ where you love to collect moments from your relationship.

★ SERIES ;

001. A Hundred Kisses I've Already Given You. ─ 01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | 05

[feinzleclerc]

𝗔𝗦 𝗛𝗘𝗥 𝗕𝗢𝗬𝗙𝗥𝗜𝗘𝗡𝗗; 𝗛𝗘𝗖𝗧𝗢𝗥 𝗙𝗢𝗥𝗧

.||✧ pairing ; hector fort x fem! reader

.||✧ summary ; compilation of moments from her relationship with Hector.

.||✧ warnings ; [main warning] English is not my first language, there may be spelling mistakes and nonsensical parts in the translation. [physiotherapy student]

.||✧ word count ; 0.3k word.

notes ; masterlist

Guys, my mind hasn't been in the mood to write imagines lately. So my box is open for orders 😉

• You’ve always had a connection to FC Barcelona — your mom was a physio there back in the Ronaldinho days.

• So yeah, you pretty much grew up as part of the Camp Nou family.

• Inspired by your mom from a young age, you followed in her footsteps: sports physiotherapy.

• Your first gig came when your mom took a vacation — and you stepped in to cover for her.

• The first time you saw Hector was after a training session. He was sitting there, holding an ice pack to his ankle.

• “Are you new here, or did I just get post-injury amnesia?”

• “I’m new. And no, your injury didn’t mess with your memory — just your ego.”

• Ever since that day, Hector found every excuse to swing by your room.

• Even when he wasn’t injured, he started showing up — bringing coffee, awful jokes, and even worse smiles.

• You, on the other hand, could already tell what he was up to — and you weren’t exactly falling for it right away.

• Your first kiss happened on a warm summer night, at the top of Montjuïc hill. He told you he liked visiting scenic spots, and that this was one of his favorites.

• “And now you’re my favorite view, too.”

• You laughed, calling it one of the cheesiest lines you’d ever heard.

• After months of back-and-forth — mostly on your end, of course — he finally asked you out.

• At first, it was all under the radar.

• I mean, Hector was still a rising star, and you were the daughter of a pretty big name at the club.

• But how do you hide the way his eyes lit up whenever he spotted you in the stands?

• Or those sneaky moments together inside an empty Camp Nou after training?

• “My lovely, adorable future wife...”

• If he used to spoil you with random gifts before, now that you were officially together? Double that.

• He even got your initial tattooed on his finger — since he can’t wear a ring during matches, he kisses it as a way of showing it off.

[feinzleclerc]

𝗦𝗧𝗬𝗟𝗘 | CS55

.||✧ pairing ; carlos sainz x journalist!fem! reader

.||✧ summary ; Where you and Carlos have been broken up for more than two years, but suddenly you meet again on a random set to film a perfume commercial. After all, you never go out of style.

.||✧ warnings ; [main warning] English is not my first language

.||✧ word count ; 2.7k word

notes ; masterlist & sportify

Your heart froze, and you could barely believe what you saw before you. The set was chaotic—stylists rushing one way, makeup artists darting another. But the moment you spotted him standing just a few steps away, everything else faded, if only for a second.

Who would’ve thought the star of the commercial you’d been cast in would be Carlos Sainz —your ex-boyfriend, the man you hadn’t seen in two years?

And when he walked onto the set, impeccable in a beige blazer, hair deliberately tousled, gaze sharp yet unsettled, your heart skipped more beats than it already had. You saw the genuine surprise flash across his face, your own breath catching in your throat.

— Hey! — someone from production called out. — (Your name), please! Come with me!

A gentle hand touched your shoulder, guiding you to a nearby dressing room. Inside, a makeup artist waited. Sit down, sweetheart.

— I think I need water. — you muttered, your mouth dry.

— You’re pale! — the makeup artist handed you the bottle you’d asked for.

Then again, who wouldn’t go pale in this situation?

But… how could you even begin to explain your history with Sainz?

[FLASHBACK]

You’d met in Madrid, where you’d gone to interview a French football coach about to take over a major club. Your schedule was tight, your mind focused: interviews, deadlines, coffee, then home. No distractions. Until the Spanish embassy’s PR manager tipped you off:

— There’s a gala tonight. Sports crowd only. Great networking.

You almost said no. High heels sounded exhausting. But you went. After all, a little networking never killed anyone.

And that’s where you saw him for the first time.

Carlos wore a navy-blue tuxedo, his hair slightly messy, a smile that said, I know you recognize me.

You tried to ignore him. Focused on your wine, the menu, small talk with some retired defender-turned-commentator. But he noticed you.

He’d always been good with curves, whether on the track or in conversation.

— You’re the journalist who asked if Mbappé understands Brazilian football, right? — He appeared at your table when you least expected it.

You turned, startled.

— And you’re the driver who’s hopelessly in love with Real Madrid?

His grin was dazzling.

— Exactly, cariño.

That night became a turning point. Between jokes about football and Formula 1, between teasing and lingering glances, something sparked. An electric chemistry. A slow-burning flirtation. He asked you out for coffee the next day. You said it wouldn’t be professional. But Carlos wasn’t the type to give up easily, he spent the rest of the night inventing a thousand reasons why you had to go.

You went. And kept going. Again and again.

The relationship unfolded slowly but intensely. He’d text you right after races:

“Podium today. Would’ve been better if you were there."

You’d pretend not to smile, sitting through yet another press conference with grumpy coaches. He’d call you in the middle of the night, from the other side of the world, just to hear you say he was more than a pretty face and a pole position.

You traveled in secret. Hotel rooms with blackout curtains. Breakfast in bed, muffled laughter, fingers tangled under the sheets. No one could know.

For months, it worked. Then the first leaked photos surfaced, and the fans weren’t kind. The world wasn’t gentle, that much was a fact.

“She doesn’t match him.”

“This is a scam.”

“Carlos, open your eyes.”

You held on. For a while.He swore it would pass. That love was stronger. That it was just noise.

But the noise became silence. He stopped defending you publicly. Stopped including you in his victories.

On your last trip together, you argued in the hotel hallway. You said you were tired of hiding. He said he didn’t know how to handle it.

— I thought I loved you enough to wait for you to grow up. But I’m tired of being invisible.

He lowered his head. Said nothing. That night, you left before his flight. There was no explosive fight. Just a quiet surrender. What was supposed to last forever turned to silence.

Yet the world kept repeating both your names, like an echo that never faded. Because even apart, you never went out of style.

[PRESENT DAY]

Two years without a single message. Not even a sign. And now, you were about to play a couple on camera. A cruel twist of fate, or a tasteless joke by that eccentric director.

You took a deep breath, trying to steady the chaos inside. But it was impossible. Every part of you still recognized Carlos, the curve of his jaw, the way his brow furrowed when he was unsettled. And there he was. The makeup artist had just started on your face when you muttered.

— This is a nightmare.

— An ex? — you nodded.

— That’s a problem. A big one.

He kept murmuring, but you barely listened. Your mind had already dragged you back two years, to your last night together. The hotel in Barcelona. The smell of coffee in the room. His suitcase tossed on the sofa. Your toothbrush beside his in the glass.

And then… silence.

The absence.

That breakup wasn’t dramatic. No explosive fights, no words meant to wound. But the pain? That was sharp. Because you’d loved each other.

You just hadn’t known how to handle everything that came with it, the pressure, the fans, the judgment, the distance.

Carlos had pulled away slowly. And you’d retreated, refusing to beg for a place in his life.

Until one day, neither of you called. And no one answered anymore. Now, in the blink of an eye, you were ready—forced to leave the dressing room, step onto the set, and finally face Sainz.

If you’d survived losing him, you’d survive this reunion.

The set lights were brighter than you remembered from any other job. Carlos stood a few feet away, adjusting the collar of his white shirt while a stylist meticulously rolled up his sleeves.

You could hear your own heartbeat in your ears. Then, the director explained the first shot:

— You’ll meet on the terrace, elegant dinner, warm night, candles lit. The perfume is the invisible thread between you. I want restrained desire. A past that still weighs heavy, but also attraction. Lots of looks, minimal touch.

— Restrained desire. A past that still weighs heavy.

You bit your lip. The irony of this script practically screamed the truth no one here knew. Or maybe they did—and were pretending not to.

Carlos stepped closer. He walked the same way you remembered: confident, but with a hint of laziness.

A charm that always seemed effortless. And that always unraveled you. He stopped inches away.

His cologne invaded your space. But it was him that dominated the air, that mix of leather, wind, and something else you could never name. Only feel.

— I had no idea… — he murmured, barely moving his lips.

You didn’t answer. Just held his gaze. In that brief silence, time seemed to collapse.

Two years condensed into a single second.

— Scene one, take one… Action!

You turned slowly, as the script demanded. Your black dress fluttered slightly in the artificial breeze from the fans. When your eyes met his, as if for the first time, the world blurred around you.

Carlos held your stare, steady. But there was something else there. A faltering breath.

He was supposed to walk to you. Take your hand. Lead you to the table like the gentleman in the commercial. But instead, for a fraction of a second, he hesitated. And you saw it.

Carlos still remembered. The way you’d lace your fingers with his when you walked. The way you’d whisper *“good luck”* before his races.

The kiss you’d press to his shoulder when he returned exhausted from a Grand Prix weekend.

He took your hand gently, but his fingers took too long to settle. Like slipping into an old piece of clothing—familiar, but tighter with time.

You followed him to the table. Both of you sat.

Two wine glasses, candles, and the silence of people who’d said everything, yet left everything unfinished.

— Look at each other. — the director instructed.

You turned slowly, meeting Carlos’s gaze with an intensity that wasn’t acting. He matched it. And in that frozen moment, you knew:

He hadn’t moved on either.

And he hated still feeling it.

— Cut! — the director clapped. — Perfect! The tension was palpable. You two have insane chemistry.

“Insane chemistry.” Oh, if only he knew the price that chemistry had cost…

Carlos released your hand almost reverently. But his eyes—those damned brown eyes—didn’t look away. You stood, heat rising to your cheeks.

— Ready for the next scene? — someone from production asked.

But all you wanted was to run. Or maybe… to ask why he left. Why he never reached out.

Why, after all this time, one glance from him could still stop your world.

During the break, you leaned against the dressing room wall, clutching an iced coffee. Your fingers trembled. The scene had been quick, scripted, professional, but none of it felt like acting. And that was the problem.

The door creaked open slowly. You didn’t need to look to know it was him.

Carlos closed it quietly. He still wore the beige blazer, sleeves now rolled up, a faint sheen of sweat on his forehead.

— Can I come in? — he asked. You nodded.

Silence.

— I swear I didn’t know. — he finally said.

— Me neither. If I had, I wouldn’t have taken this job. — Your voice was steady but low, a warning disguised as hurt.

— I thought you… didn’t even want to hear my name.

— I didn’t.

Carlos exhaled deeply. He sat across from you but kept his distance. His eyes traced yours, searching for a crack to slip back into.

— Are you still mad at me? — you let out a humorless laugh.

— That was two years ago. I’m not mad. Just… trying not to fall into the same trap.

He looked down.

— We were young. I messed up. You did too.

— You messed up more. — you fired back. — You cut me out like I meant nothing. One day I was the love of your life, the next you were ‘Carlos Sainz, F1’s most eligible bachelor.’ Easy as that.

[FLASHBACK — Monaco]

You were on a balcony overlooking the sea. Grand Prix night. You wore one of his dress shirts, hair damp from the shower, feet in his lap as his fingers traced idle patterns on your calf.

— Do you think the world would ever accept us? — you whispered.

— I don’t care about the world. — he said. — I care about you.

And that night, he made you believe it.

[PRESENT DAY]

You looked away.

— The fans never liked me. Remember? I was ‘the football girl,’ ‘Sainz’s distraction,’ ‘the one who knew nothing about cars.’ I read every comment.

— So did I. — his voice wavered.

You finally met his eyes. For the first time, he looked small. Fragile. Lost. As if only now realizing the depth of the scars.

— I ended it… because I thought I was protecting you. That if you stepped out of my shadow, my world, you could grow on your own. That it’d be better for you.

— You didn’t get to decide that for me.

He had no reply. The silence now was heavier. Not with anger. But with everything that never had the chance to unfold.

The door opened again. A producer glanced between you both with a strained smile.

— Sorry to interrupt, but we need you. Next scene’s the kiss.

Carlos looked at you. And for the first time in two years, asked:

— Can you do this?

— I don’t know.

[FLASHBACK — Six Months Before the Breakup]

You were on a small rooftop, sharing a cheap bottle of wine and laughing about absolutely nothing. Carlos tucked a strand of your hair behind your ear.

— You know, when I kiss you, it’s like time stops?

You laughed, thinking he was exaggerating. — I’m serious. — he said. — You’re my favorite kind of time.

[ — ]

— You okay? — he whispered, his nose almost brushing yours. You nodded, your throat dry. His hands slid up your back.

— Ready? — the director shouted.

Carlos held your gaze one last time, then slowly pressed his lips to yours. The first touch was cautious, hesitant, like stepping onto cracked ground. But when he felt you respond, the tension shattered. The kiss deepened. Grew urgent. And within seconds, you were just like before: as if you’d never been apart.

His hands gripped your waist like he was memorizing it. Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging lightly, something you always did when breathless, something he’d always laugh about afterward. But no one was laughing now.

It was just old desire. Pent-up hurt. Two years of swallowed screams pouring out in the most intimate way possible.

— Cut! — the director yelled. — Yes! Perfect! That was beautiful, that was real!

You pulled apart slowly. His eyes were red. Yours too. But neither of you spoke. Not yet.

Carlos wiped the corner of your mouth with his thumb, a slow, familiar gesture. Something silly and achingly old.

— Didn’t know it’d still hurt this much. — he admitted.

You swallowed hard. — Wait for me in the dressing room after. We need to talk. For real this time.

[4 MONTHS LATER]

The sky was shifting colors, bleeding into burnt gold and orange. The sea breeze tangled your hair and carried that salty scent only the beach could. Carlos sat beside you in the sand, legs stretched out, sunglasses pushed atop his head.

— Thought you’d have left straight for the hotel. —you remarked, tossing a pebble into the water.

— Thought you’d have called a taxi mid-shoot. — he shot back, the ghost of a smirk at his lips. You huffed a laugh.

— Been a while since you’ve been here? — you asked.

— Since last summer. The one with the chaotic race and those terrible tapas.

You side-eyed him. — The one where you swore you spoke Catalan?

Carlos feigned offense. — I do speak Catalan. I just chose not to—to impress you.

You shook your head, grinning.

Silence settled again, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was easy. Nostalgic. The kind of quiet you only share with someone you’ve known long enough not to fill every space with words.

— The sunset’s pretty today. — you said, almost to yourself.

— Barcelona does sunsets right. — he agreed. — But you still win.

You scoffed, giving him your most unimpressed look.

— That was terrible, Sainz.

— Still got a smile. Mission accomplished.

The sun dipped lower, kissing the sea. A couple jogged past along the shore. A dog barked in the distance. The city’s lights began flickering to life.

— Y’know… I forget how good this feels. — you murmured, sifting sand through your fingers. — Just sitting here. Watching the water.

Carlos snapped his fingers. — We could make it a habit. Chance reunions, always by the sea. Next time, maybe Rome?

— Maybe. — you said, promising nothing.

As the sun faded, you thought that of all the ways to end a day, this was one of your favorites. Light. Quiet. Almost as if life wasn’t so messy after all.

[feinzleclerc]

Anyway if nothing else matters then I hope people remember that Pope Francis used his last public address to call for a ceasefire in Gaza and call Israel a terrorist state:

"I continue to receive very serious and painful news from Gaza. Unarmed civilians are subjected to bombings and shootings. It is terrorism."

[feinzleclerc]

𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐋𝐄𝐓𝐄𝐒 ! 🏄🏻‍♀️

𝒢𝐚𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐥 ℳ𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐚

.||✧ A day with Medina ; A day of the two of you together.

.||✧ A day of surfing ; Where are you in your preparations before the official day at the Olympics.

.||✧ Trauma ; After suffering an accident at sea and spending months without doing what you love most: Surfing. You finally recover and Gabriel is by your side. [Portuguese]

[feinzleclerc]

10 Things I Love About You. | Charles Leclerc

.||✧ summary ; Where Charles lists '10 things he loves about you'

.||✧ warnings ; none....!

.||✧ word count ; 1k

notes ; masterlist

The sun had already set over Monaco’s horizon, painting the sky in golden hues with a hint of lilac. Sitting on the balcony of your apartment, Charles watched the city below, the lights starting to flicker like tiny stars reflected on the sea. You were nearby, wrapped in a blanket, flipping through a book at a leisurely pace. He smiled.

— What? — you asked, without looking up from the pages.

— Nothing — he murmured, leaning on his elbows. — I was just thinking about how much I love you.

You raised an eyebrow, intrigued.

— You just realized that now?

He chuckled, shaking his head.

— No, but sometimes I like to list the reasons. Want to hear them?

Your eyes lit up with curiosity.

— I’d love to.

Charles took a deep breath and began.

1. I love your floral perfumes

— Do you know when I realized I love your scent? — he asked, tilting his head. — The first time you got in my car.

You laughed.

— In your car?

— Yes — he nodded. — I had just given you a ride, and after you left, I noticed the whole car still smelled like you. Something between jasmine and vanilla. — He paused, trying to recall that exact scent. — Since then, I associate any floral perfume with you.

You smiled, touching your wrist as if checking the perfume you were wearing.

— Now it makes sense why you always sniff me when we hug.

— Exactly.

2. I love the way you talk to me when you’re sleepy

Charles chuckled to himself before continuing.

— You have no idea how funny you get when you’re half asleep.

— I’m perfectly normal! — you protested.

— Not even close — he teased. — You start mumbling nonsense, saying you need to do impossible things, like “buy a boat for a penguin.”

You covered your face, laughing in embarrassment.

— That’s a lie!

— It’s true! — he insisted. — And I love it because even when you’re dozing off, you still include me in your world, even if it’s just to share your wildest dreams.

3. I love how you pretend to understand Formula 1 just to impress me

Your expression turned defensive.

— I do understand!

Charles raised an eyebrow.

— Oh yeah? Then explain what "graining" is.

You hesitated.

— It’s… when the tires… decide not to cooperate?

He burst out laughing.

— See? That’s what I love! You always try, and even when you get it wrong, I can see how much effort you put into understanding what I love.

— And that doesn’t annoy you?

— How could it? You’re my number one supporter.

4. I love the way you look at me when you think I’m lying

He leaned in a little closer.

— You have this specific expression when you don’t believe me. You scrunch your forehead just a bit and cross your arms.

— I do not.

— You’re doing it right now!

You glanced down and realized you were standing exactly how he had described. Rolling your eyes, you sighed, making him laugh even more.

5. I love when you sing in the car without realizing it

— I swear you put on a full-on concert when you think no one’s paying attention — he teased.

You blushed.

— But do I sing well?

Charles hesitated, pretending to think.

— I love you anyway!

— CHARLES!

He laughed, dodging your playful slap.

— I swear, I love it! The way you drum your hands on the dashboard, how you mess up the lyrics and don’t even notice…

— I’m never singing in your car again.

— Don’t say that! — he pleaded, grabbing your hand. — I even have playlists with your versions of the songs.

6. I love how you curl up against me when you’re cold

— Especially on Sunday mornings — he sighed. — When you wrap your legs around mine and bury your face in my chest, complaining that the world outside is too cold.

— You’re always warm.

— That’s why you use me as your personal heater.

— You don’t mind?

He smiled.

— Never.

7. I love how fiercely you defend the things you love

— You can’t stand injustices, even if it’s just someone talking badly about your favorite movie.

You crossed your arms again!

— Because Pride and Prejudice is a masterpiece, and no one will convince me otherwise.

— See? — he pointed out. — That fire in your eyes… I love that.

8. I love when you run your fingers through my hair

He closed his eyes, as if feeling your touch in that very moment.

— You do it when I’m driving, when we’re watching TV, when I’m rambling about a race… It’s like second nature to you.

— It’s because I like your hair — you admitted.

— And I like being your personal hair experiment.

You laughed, remembering all the times you had styled his hair in different ways.

9. I love how you remember the little things

— Like what?

— You always get my coffee just right. You know which side of the bed I prefer. You remind me to take an umbrella when it’s going to rain.

— And that makes you love me?

He smiled.

— Because it means you’re always thinking about me, even when I forget to think about myself.

10. I love everything about you

He cupped your face in his hands, letting out a deep breath.

— If I kept going, this list would never end. I love everything about you. The way you laugh. The way you tease me. The way you make me want to be better every single day.

You blinked a few times, feeling your eyes well up.

— That was really sweet.

— I can be romantic sometimes.

— I love you too, you know?

He smiled.

— Then tell me… 10 things you love about me?

— Oh, Charles… my list is endless too.

[feinzleclerc]

Challenge | Héctor Fort

summary :: where you participate in the 'guess the weight' video with your boyfriend.

warnings :: none...!

word count :: 1.363 words

notes :: video link here 🔗

I stood in front of the cameras, positioned next to Hector. The marketing team I worked with for the Barcelona squad had decided it would be a good idea to pair me and Hector for a video on the club's channel.

After all, according to them, Hector’s fans and Barcelona supporters were always rooting for a moment of us together on camera, especially if it involved something playful.

— Hi, I’m Hector Fort, and I’m here with my girlfriend to play ‘Guess the Weight' — he introduced the video.

The camera focused on me, so I waved and smiled.

— Today we’re making mac and cheese! So we’ve got pasta, cheese… — I introduced the ingredients. — …and some other stuff I’m a bit lost about.

Hector glanced at me, grinning. — Really? — he asked. I just nodded with a smile.

First up: 40 grams of butter.

— Do you think 40 grams is a lot? — I asked, trying to guess the weight just by holding the cup.

— Forty grams is forty grams! — he replied sarcastically.

— Seriously? — I shot back. — You don’t even know what 40 grams looks like.

I watched Hector, who seemed just as clueless as I was, as he cut a block of butter in half. Meanwhile, I confidently went to check the scale.

— Each line is 20, right? — he asked, joining me. The production team confirmed.

I placed my cup on the scale, and the needle moved to exactly two lines.

— Spot on, 40 grams! — I said with a triumphant smile.

— You’re joking! — he exclaimed. — How?

— I’m just good at everything. — I teased, winking at him. — Your turn!

— I think I’ve got less. — he said, placing his cup on the scale.

Sure enough, the scale read 36 grams. — It’s because I cut the butter. — he explained.

— It’s fine, Hector, it’s fine. — I teased, giving him three light taps on his arm before moving on to the next round.

Second round: 30 grams of flour.

I started scooping flour into my cup, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw Hector looking completely lost, holding the butter cup to compare weights.

— Are you crazy? — I asked, noticing the ridiculous amount of flour in his cup.

— Why, my love?

I didn’t say anything, just placed my cup next to his. The difference was glaringly obvious.

— No! No! No! I put in too much, didn’t I?

He started removing some flour, smiling nervously. When he weighed it, the scale read 20 grams.

— You’re terrible! — I said with a grin as he gave me a disappointed look.

— If you’re so good, let’s see yours.

I placed my cup on the scale, and it also read 20 grams.

— You’re just as bad as me, cariño!

— You somehow manage to be worse, trust me. — I said with a mischievous smile.

He quickly changed the subject, focusing on the tie for that round.

Third round: 400 ml of milk.

— This one’s going to be tough for me. — I whispered.

— It’s still easy for me.— he replied confidently.

I held the pasta container to get a sense of weight, and Hector decided to tease me back.

— Looking lost, cariño, or am I wrong?

— You’re definitely wrong. The problem is this is heavy, so it’s tricky.

— I’ll give you the honor of going first.

I ended up with a surprisingly low number—200 ml. I quickly removed my cup, trying to keep Hector from seeing the result, and added more milk.

— Hey, stop that! — he protested. — She did 200!

— 200? — someone from production asked for confirmation.

— Yes!

With a victorious grin, he stuck out his tongue at me and started measuring his own.

— That’s not 400! — I said.

— But it’s 370! — he said, his grin growing wider.

— Okay, let’s see. — I placed my cup back on the scale.

— No! You already measured.

I waited, and the scale remained at 370. This led to more teasing from him about how I couldn’t even beat him when I was “cheating.”

— This round is mine!

Next up: 150 grams of cheddar cheese.

— Is 150 a lot or a little? — It was his turn to ask a “silly” question.

— I have no idea! — I said as I placed a spoonful of cheese in my cup.

— Well, I think this is it! — he said, lifting his cup confidently.

How could he? He barely added three spoonfuls of cheese before going straight to the scale. I didn’t say anything and let him proceed.

— You’ve got to be kidding me! — he exclaimed.

I glanced at the scale and understood his shock.

— I got 50! — he said, making me laugh uncontrollably. — Stop laughing.

— That was ridiculous!

— Let’s see you, then!

I smiled confidently as I placed my cup on the scale. It didn’t reach 150 grams, barely 100. Had I really done worse than Hector?

— I got 40, cariño! — I said with a disappointed smile, as he celebrated next to me.

— Alright, point to Hector! — I said, pretending to be upset.

Next up: 180 grams of Parmesan cheese.

I watched as Hector poured the Parmesan straight from the container into his cup. — Use a spoon, Hector!

— I don’t need one! This time, I’ll be spot on.

— Alright, then! — I said, smiling slightly.

When I was done, I set the container aside and checked the scale. The result wasn’t as expected. I had exactly 100 grams.

— No! No! — I ran my hands through my hair.

— Nice try, cariño!

— You probably got the same amount. — I said, eyeing his cup, which looked about the same.

It was close, but not quite a tie—he had 95 grams.

— Let’s call it 100 for both. — he suggested.

— No! You got 95! — I pointed to the scale’s line.

— Trying to cheat?

Despite Hector’s attempts to claim a tie, he failed. This round was mine.

Final round: 150 grams of pasta.

This was probably the easiest round to measure. We simply poured the pasta into our cups, waiting for each other to finish.

Hector went first and ended up with 200 grams. — Ole… 200! — I booed him.

— She won… she put less than me. — he said grudgingly.

I held my cup close to my face as if sniffing it.

— Can you smell that? The scent of victory.

— In the last round, we tied, but you cheated. That was dirty! — he tried to argue.

— Can you smell the victory? — I teased, ignoring him and pointing the cup toward him.

— No! No! You cheated! — he insisted. — Come on, put the cup on the scale.

Victory was certain, 150 grams of pasta, just as required.

— I’m the winner, right?

— We need to recount the scores.

— I guessed two right, and you guessed one. The rest were basically ties! — I told him.

— I don’t remember that. — he said, pouting like a child.

Final score: Hector Fort 3 vs. (your full name) 4.

— They’ll recount, and you’ll see this win wasn’t fair.

— We’ll see, Hector. We’ll see!

After a few more protests from him, we stood in front of the camera again as he closed out the video.

— CUT!

The production team called out, turning off the cameras.

— It was nice competing with you, but winning was even better!

I gave him a quick kiss on the lips before heading back to work.

— Stop your teasing, it was all rigged! — he called out loud enough for me to hear.

[feinzleclerc]

Chef Gavi | Pablo Gavi

summary :: Where you and Pablo record a video for YouTube making a chocolate cake.

warnings :: none...!

word count :: 0.790k

Your YouTube channel was growing rapidly, and interacting with your fans was one of your favorite things. Recently, a specific request had been popping up in the comments: “Do a cooking video with Gavi!” or “Gavi in the kitchen, please, we want to see you two together!” You loved the idea, but your excitement really kicked in when your boyfriend himself asked to join one of your videos.

— So, love, when are we making that chocolate cake? — he asked, a mischievous smile on his face as you both sat on the couch.

— Do you really want to join? Because I don’t want anyone complaining if you mess everything up. — you teased.

— Me? Mess up? You’ll see, I’m going to be the star chef of this video! — he replied confidently.

It was a sunny afternoon, and you’d carefully set up the kitchen for the shoot. Gavi walked into the room wearing an apron that read "Chef Gavi" and one of those iconic chef hats. Just looking at him, you couldn’t help but burst out laughing.

— What’s so funny? I’m in character! — he said, striking a dramatic pose.

— Alright, Chef Gavi. Let’s see if your talents go beyond the football field.

You adjusted the camera and began the video introduction:

— Hi, everyone! Today, we have a very special guest, someone many of you might know — You glanced at Gavi, who pretended to be distracted. — He’s amazing on the football field, but can he handle the kitchen? Let’s find out!

You both decided to make a simple chocolate cake, but things didn’t go quite as planned. While you explained the ingredients, Gavi decided to take matters into his own hands.

— Love, why are you cracking the egg like that? It’s going to spill everywhere! — you warned, already predicting the disaster.

— I saw a chef do it like this; it looks more professional. — And, of course, he ended up cracking an egg on the counter.

You tried to stifle your laughter as you cleaned up the mess. — Congratulations, Chef Gavi. First attempt, and we’re already in cleanup mode.

Next came the sugar. Distracted, Gavi poured almost twice the amount needed.

— Pablo! What are you doing? This is going to turn into a sugar brick!

— What? You said a full cup. Isn’t this full? — he asked, holding up a giant mug.

— Sweetheart, there’s a difference between a cup and a mug, just so you know.

— Well, you didn’t tell me that. — he shot back, heading to the cabinet to look for a proper measuring cup. — Is this it?

He held up a small white cup, and you nodded. With a proud grin, he returned to the counter.

When it was time to mix the batter, Gavi insisted on using the electric mixer, even though you explained the batter was light enough to do by hand. The real issue came when he forgot to turn off the mixer before lifting it out of the bowl. Chocolate splattered everywhere: on the counter, the camera, his apron… and even on your face.

— Look at what you’ve done! — you exclaimed, laughing as you tried to wipe your face. —Don’t forget to turn it off next time!

He looked at you with a sheepish smile. —Everything’s under control, Chef! Just trust me.

Despite all the mishaps, the batter finally made it into the oven. You and Gavi even had fun drawing little chocolate swirls on the top before baking it. While waiting, Gavi turned to you with a smug grin.

— See? I told you it would work out. It was just a little mess along the way.

— A little mess? This counter looks like a battlefield! — you replied, pointing to the chaos around you.

When the timer went off, you both pulled out a perfectly baked cake. Decorating the cake was a team effort, with Gavi spreading the frosting while you added sprinkles and other toppings.

— And here it is, everyone: the chocolate cake by Chef Gavi and Chef [Your Name]! — you said to the camera.

After wrapping up the recording, you both sat at the table to taste the cake. Gavi cut a slice and offered it to you, pretending to be overly fancy.

— I’ll admit, it’s good. But I think most of the effort was mine. — he joked.

— Sure, sure. Next time, we’ll see if you can do it on your own, Chef Gavi.

You both laughed, and the video ended up becoming one of the most-watched on your channel, with fans loving every moment of the chaos and your undeniable chemistry.

[feinzleclerc]

F1 Alert | Formula 1

➤ summary :: Where you create an interactive game for Formula 1 fans, and become the new star of the pits.

➤ warnings :: a quick imagine, with prior development.

➤ word count :: 0.839 words

➤ masterlist | sportify

➤ Notes :: I had this idea because Swifitie fans know about "Swift Alert", which was a game where we bet on the clothes from The Eras Tour. So I wanted to bring this into the context of Formula 1.

Working on F1's social media was a daily grind, but you loved every second of it. Between creating posts, planning content, and keeping up with trends, your mind was always spinning, thinking of ways to make fans feel more connected to the drivers. Then, one brainstorming night, the idea hit: an interactive game where fans could bet on little details of the race weekends.

— What if we created something like a more elaborate 'Fantasy F1,' but focusing on the small stuff? Helmets, suits, celebrations... — you suggested, drawing curious looks from the team. — We could call it 'F1 Alert'.

After a few weeks of planning, meetings, and tweaks, the app was ready. It was simple: fans could make predictions about visual and behavioral items about the drivers before the GPs. Each correct guess earned points, which could be redeemed for virtual prizes or discounts on official products.

On launch day, you were nervous. Would it be a hit or a flop? It only took a few hours to get the answer: it was a phenomenon.

The app had questions that kept fans hooked, especially with the fact that those points were worth something.

— Leclerc’s helmet in Monaco: same as always or something special?

— Which driver will complain the most on the radio?

— How many drivers will retire from the race? And who?

The numbers didn’t lie. In the first weekend, a little over 70 thousand people signed up. And the drivers quickly took notice.

At the pre-GP press conference, Russell was the first to mention it:

— Did you guys see that app? F1 Alert? Are you betting on my training suit now? That’s a lot of pressure! — he joked, drawing laughs.

Next to him was Charles, who also smiled.

— I saw it too. Someone bet my helmet will have gold on it. — he made a confused face. — Gold? I don’t know if I’m that fancy.

You didn’t realize the impact would be so big until that moment. Seeing the drivers talk about something you created was surreal. But things got even more intense in the paddock.

At the Italian GP, while you were tweaking a post backstage, Pierre showed up out of nowhere behind you.

— So, you’re the one behind the app? — he asked, crossing his arms with a big grin.

You laughed, a little startled.

— It depends. If you like it, then yes. If not, marketing came up with it.

— Oh, I like it. But now I have to think of new helmets every week, because I don’t want the fans to get bored. — He winked before walking off, leaving you laughing alone.

The F1 Alert craze grew with each race. Fans’ discussions on social media were massive, and even journalists started mentioning the game in their reports. Some drivers, like Norris, began directly engaging with the fans.

— Do you think I’ll use a special helmet in Singapore? Place your bets on the app. — he smiled at the line of fans in the stands.

Meanwhile, you started getting recognized in the paddock. It wasn’t something you expected, but the drivers and teams now knew who you were. At the Las Vegas GP, Max Verstappen stopped you during a technical meeting with a rare smile.

— Just wanna know... Who was the creative genius that put “Max will smile on the podium” in the game?

You tried to keep your composure but ended up laughing.

— My bad. Sorry, but it was irresistible.

— Well, I hope no one bets on that. It’ll be money down the drain. — he joked.

The interactions with the drivers became more frequent, but the peak came at the last GP of the year, when the season had ended and some fans were satisfied with their scores on the game. And the burning question was whether the game would continue the next year.

During the final press conference, Daniel Ricciardo — who was making a special appearance as a third driver — decided to mention you.

— I wanna thank the person behind F1 Alert. Thanks to them, I’m already thinking about how to celebrate before I even know if I’ll be on the podium.

The cameras zoomed in on you in the corner of the room, as everyone laughed. It was the moment you realized how much your idea had impacted the world of Formula 1.

After that GP, you got nicknames in the paddock: “the pit star,” “the mind behind the game,” among others. And while you tried to stay grounded, you couldn’t deny that the app’s success had put you in the spotlight.

Now, you were more than just another face in the paddock. You’d built an incredible bond with the fans who always asked you questions like, “What’s the next update for the game?” and you’d made amazing friendships with some of the drivers. It was all like a dream. F1 Alert was just the beginning.

[feinzleclerc]

Senna's Legacy | Charles Leclerc

summary :: where you're Senna's daughter and carry on your father's legacy through your institute

word count :: 2.320 words.

The atmosphere in the paddock during the Brazilian GP was unmistakable. Maybe it was the tropical breeze, the green and yellow flags swaying in the wind, or the unmatched passion of Brazilian fans that always made history. For you, though, this weekend had an even deeper meaning.

As Ayrton Senna’s daughter, your name carried a weight you bore with both pride and responsibility. For years, you had been at the helm of the Ayrton Senna Racing Dreams Institute, a project dedicated to supporting children with dreams of becoming Formula 1 drivers by providing education, infrastructure, and opportunities in such a selective sport.

The Brazilian GP was always a golden opportunity to promote the institute’s work. This time, however, Formula 1 had organized a special visit to the project for some of the drivers. They would pay tribute to your father and see firsthand the impact the institute had on these kids’ lives.

It was Thursday morning, the perfect day for the visit since it aligned with the institute’s busy class schedule and fit the drivers’ agendas before the race weekend. You stood in front of the building, waiting anxiously for your guests. A large panel featuring Ayrton’s face and the phrase Dreams Start Here welcomed visitors. As the black cars began to arrive, you adjusted your blazer and took a deep breath.

The first to step out were Verstappen, Norris, and Hamilton, all enthusiastic and friendly. Leclerc followed shortly after. Dressed in his Ferrari gear and wearing sunglasses that accentuated his sharp features, he smiled as he saw you.

─ You must be the mastermind behind all of this ─ said Lewis, shaking your hand firmly but kindly. ─ It’s an honor to be here.

─ Thank you all for coming ─ you replied with a warm smile. ─ I’m sure the kids are even more excited than I am to meet you.

Charles chuckled, removing his sunglasses and hooking them onto his shirt.

─ Well, I hope I don’t disappoint.

As you guided them through the institute, you explained every detail, from the racing simulators to the classrooms where kids learned English, math, and engineering concepts. The drivers listened attentively, but Charles seemed particularly interested.

─ How many kids does the program support each year? ─ he asked, watching a group using the simulators.

─ Around 200 directly ─ you answered. ─ But with our partnerships, we reach thousands in underserved communities.

Charles nodded, clearly impressed.

─ That’s incredible. Your father would be so proud.

A lump formed in your throat. Hearing such words from someone who genuinely admired Ayrton always stirred deep emotions.

After the tour, the children had their moment with the drivers. Photos, autographs, and simulator challenges turned the day into pure joy, as if everyone had reverted to childhood. Yet, Charles seemed to stick close to you the entire time.

─ Can I ask you something personal? ─ he began as you both watched the kids play.

─ Of course ─ you said, curious.

─ What’s it like carrying Ayrton’s name? It must be amazing, but also overwhelming.

You smiled softly, taking a moment to gather your thoughts.

─ It’s a mix of both. The pride is immense, but so is the constant expectation. It feels like I always have to live up to his legacy. That’s why I pour so much of myself into this institute.

Charles nodded, his gaze locked onto yours.

─ Well, from what I’ve seen today, you’re doing just that. He would be immensely proud.

The sincerity in his eyes made you look away briefly, your cheeks flushing as a smile crept across your lips.

That afternoon, Formula 1 held a tribute to your father. A float shaped like Ayrton’s iconic helmet made its way around, and Vettel led a walk with the drivers along the circuit. Watching these heartfelt gestures left you in awe, proud of everything being done to honor him.

Later, a professional filming team arrived to record a special segment where each driver would give a speech about Ayrton. Since you had been invited to observe, you stayed close enough to hear every word.

Max Verstappen spoke of how Ayrton had inspired his generation. Lewis Hamilton, visibly moved, shared how watching Senna race had ignited his passion for the sport.

When it was Charles’s turn, your heartbeat quickened.

─ I grew up hearing stories about Ayrton Senna ─ he began, holding the microphone with confidence. ─ To me, he was more than just a driver. He was the embodiment of determination, courage, and passion. Today, I had the privilege of visiting the institute led by his daughter. What she’s doing is nothing short of continuing his legacy, but in a way that touches lives on an even greater scale.

He paused, his eyes scanning the crowd until they found yours.

─ Ayrton inspired generations to dream, and his daughter is ensuring those dreams have a chance to become reality. It’s an honor to be here and witness this.

The cameraman lowered his equipment as murmurs of praise for Charles’s speech filled the room. Your heart raced, overwhelmed by the mix of emotions his words evoked—not only for being a Senna but for the way Charles had mentioned you so personally.

On Sunday, the stands at Interlagos were packed. The Brazilian fans were electric, and the energy was contagious. Before the race, Charles found you in the paddock, where you stood with some of the institute’s kids.

─ Ready to cheer me on? ─ he asked the kids in broken Portuguese he had hastily learned from a translator.

─ Yes! ─ they shouted in unison, laughing as they hugged the driver.

He straightened and turned to you.

─ I hope I can live up to the hype today.

─ Good luck, Charles. We’ll be rooting for you.

Later, at the post-race celebration, you were chatting with other guests when you felt a light touch on your arm. You didn’t even need to turn around to know who it was—the familiar scent of Charles’s cologne gave him away.

─ Can we talk? ─ he asked, his smile slightly shy.

─ Of course! ─ you replied, following him to a quieter corner.

─ I just wanted to thank you for this weekend ─ he began. ─ Visiting the institute and meeting the kids gave me a new perspective on racing.

─ I’m glad you enjoyed it ─ you said sincerely.

Charles hesitated, running a hand through his hair, clearly nervous.

─ Actually, there’s something else I wanted to say. Or, rather, ask.

─ Go ahead ─ you encouraged him.

─ Would you let me take you out to dinner? Not now, of course. But after the season ends.

His question caught you off guard, but the smile that spread across your face was answer enough.

─ I’d love that ─ you replied.

Charles’s grin widened.

─ Great. I promise it’ll be special—you won’t regret it.

─ I’ll be looking forward to it, Charles ─ you said, meeting his eyes as your heart raced.