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strawberrysainz · 12 days

Text

racing in the street. charles leclerc.

“ it’s a dream that has surpassed many others in both of your lives. to win the monaco grand prix - it had evaded him for many years. this year felt different. ”

charles leclerc x reader

word count: 2.5k

warnings: mentions of alcohol, suggestive themes.

this is a love letter to his win - years and years in the making. ❤️‍🔥

The first time you had known Charles would win in Monaco one day was when you were both seven, in the back of his dad’s car on the way to a friend’s party.

You had passed Mirabeau, and Charles had pointed out the red and white on the ground as you whizzed past.

“One day if I get to-“

“When,” his father had corrected from the front, and Charles had rolled his eyes playfully.

“-when I get to Formula 1, this is going to be very cool to pass by,”

You had nodded briefly - a seven year old’s attention span could only focus on something abstract for so long - and you had paused. “You can win it, right Cha?”

He had shrugged modestly. It was terribly annoying how modest he had been, even back then.

“You can. You win everything you want to win.” You were certain of this, even so many years ago.

Hervé had laughed loudly and you had blushed crimson.

Charles had smiled then, looking out the window, eyes shining with the hope of it all. The look in his eyes had startled you, one of wisdom only an adult could have.

One day in 2017 Lorenzo called you and Charles had staggered out of the hotel bathroom, face white. He had sat there next to you on the bed.

“I lied.”

“What?”

“I told him a few weeks ago I got to F1. So he would be happy knowing I achieved our dream. And I haven’t.”

Tears burned in your eyes.

He had fallen into your embrace, sobs shaking his whole body.

Standing on the top step in Baku three days later, you had stood there below him, crying, his mother on the phone.

You were eating sushi you’d ordered in at his place a few months later, and he’d had a sneakily happy look on his face the whole day.

“What’s up with you?” You’d said with a mouth full of california roll.

“Sauber is giving me a seat for next year.”

You’d broken a glass jumping up and soy sauce had stained both of your shirts as you screamed.

That first Monaco race day in 2018 had been a magical affair, up until the sixth-last lap, when his brakes had failed, spinning him into Brendan Hartley as they approached the Nouvelle Chicane.

You had winced in the garage, and he’d been dejected when he approached you a few hours afterward.

You’d thought of that day passing Mirabeau when you saw him. “Was it as cool as you thought doing it in F1?” You’d said quietly.

Tears had shone in his eyes. “I got to race it. Dad knew I could race it in F1.”

You had nearly choked months later when he’d told you over a glass of wine dipping your toes in the sea that he’d been called by Ferrari.

Shivers had run through you as you thought of Jules, and of Hervé. All they all had ever wanted.

“You know, your dad would have not been prouder. He would have dragged you to Rampoldi to celebrate.”

“Shall we go?” He had asked, and you’d both made the trip back to Monte-Carlo and when you phoned the restaurant in the back of the Uber, they’d said it was full with a little bit of regret.

But when they’d heard Charles was going to be there - oh, they’d all loved him from the beginning - they’d gotten a table for you both near closing time, when everyone was dispersing.

You’d both laughed and cried over the plates of his dad’s favourite ravioli.

Monaco had felt different in 2019, more eyes on him.

He’d started P15. Then on lap 16 - the irony - his puncture due to contact had called him back to the garage.

Pure grief had decorated his face as he got out of the car, shaking his head. Finding you after the Grand Prix, you saw the light dimming from his eyes and gave him the biggest hug you could.

That night you’d both cycled back to his place and sat all night in his kitchen, the dim light doing little to hide his sadness.

2021 was even worse; he’d had no chance to even start, and this time he was angry.

You hadn’t even seen him and had gone to bed when he called up at 2am, drunk, asking for a lift home.

You had gone in your pajama shorts and glasses, and he had sat in the back seat and asked why he always had worser luck here than anywhere else.

You didn’t really have an answer. “I just know one day it’s going to work out for you,” you said softly.

2022 had been spent in his friend’s apartment, watching from their balcony with a cocktail in hand, watching his girlfriend smile on the television.

You’d watched on as disaster had struck, Ferrari making an awful call, sacrificing his P1 for a measly P4.

You’d seen him two days later, out for breakfast, and he had just sighed. “Fucking stupid,” he’d murmured. “I think we have to accept I might never get this.”

That belief of your seven year old self was still strong, cemented in your soul when you shook your head.

In 2023, he’d just been annoyed at sixth place once he came back from the stewards. You’d left the paddock and he’d just gone home, bidding you a good night. As you walked to your apartment, you’d thought of all the nights as teenagers racing on bicycles in the streets.

Monaco would love him back as much as he did it one day. You knew it - deep down, he knew it too.

Well, Saturday in Monaco this year had felt different. He’d oozed confidence all weekend. And you felt different about him.

After he’d broken up with his girlfriend, all you’d been thinking about was him. He had been making unnecessary trips to see you, inviting you to more races than usual.

It had culminated a few months ago in Miami, where things were just different; he had come on the podium, and you had kissed his cheek when you saw him an hour later. You swore he almost moved his face to meet your lips.

You’d both spent the night partying with Lando, the drinks making you both different, dancing sensually, eyes dark. He had kissed your neck, and you’d both realised what the hell you were doing, moving back.

The next time you saw him you both pretended it had never happened.

You hadn’t seen him again until last Sunday, at your place. He’d come for your birthday dinner, handing you a present and flowers with two kisses to your cheeks. You’d blushed amongst all your friends, champagne flowing.

On Wednesday night after a long day of press, he’d come over again. “I have a feeling about the race this year.” You nodded, silently inviting him to expand.

“It feels different. Like I can definitely do it.”

You smiled. “I know you can do it. And you’ve been really strong this year.”

“I was cycling last month through Mirabeau and I really remembered one day when we were walking around there or driving when we were young and you told me you knew I could win.”

“It was when we were driving with your dad.” He’d let out a little sigh.

“I can do it this year for him. And me and Jules and you.”

You’d gotten emotional all of sudden. “I know you can do it, Cha. I’ve always known.”

He hugged you, his body soft and warm against yours in the dark room. You’d wanted nothing more than to kiss him.

Well, he’d got on pole on Saturday, reinforcing his determination and confidence. You’d seen how calm and collected he looked and it had been noticed by nearly everyone. You’d given him a fist bump and he’d grabbed you, hugging you, the smell of his sweat a testament to how badly he wanted it.

You’d gone home after a dinner with the Leclercs (minus him, he had sponsorship engagements to fulfill) and there was the quiet knowledge amongst all of them that this was the year.

Your mom had phoned on Sunday morning, and you spoke about your lives, then about Charles. “I hope he knows how loved he is by all of us. And I know Hervé and Jules are watching on today with the utmost pride.”

You nodded. “I think he does know, mama.”

You had picked out a red dress, short and flowing to accommodate the welcome heat. As you did your makeup, you thought of all the years that had come before, previous versions of yourself that had wanted him so badly to win.

The entire race you’d had stubborn tears in your eyes, blurring your vision. The last two laps you could barely look, too emotional at the thought of even seeing this happen.

Joris had gently guided you up to look again in the room and you just knew Charles was crying too on that last lap. The thought of the little boy in the car staring out at these streets made you wonder how he must be feeling.

All these years of this dream.

He had crossed the finish line and you had erupted into tears, turning into Lorenzo’s chest to take a breath. Later, you’d seen the camera footage of your teary eyes and the glimmer of hope in them as you looked back.

Then everyone had run down to the podium and you were in the second row, all of his team in the front. You saw him jump in slow motion into the air from his car and saw the joy in his steps.

He had jumped into the roar, and didn’t manage to see you but you could tell he was looking. Then he’d done the post race interview and him talking about his dad made you burst out crying again.

Someone had found you and dragged you to the front of the barrier underneath the podium. You must have looked awful. As he walked to the cool down room he cast a look back and your eyes caught his for a fraction of a second before he disappeared.

You had used the five minutes to take big deep breaths, multiple hands grasping you.

Then he’d walked out onto the podium and you saw how Prince Albert had gripped him like a son, tears in his own eyes. And Charles had held up his flag, full of hopes and dreams.

And then you all sang the anthems and then he was given the trophy and you were taking videos and photos as if in a dream.

He’d not seen you again, scanning, but gave up when the attentions of everyone else were cast on him.

You hadn’t caught sight of him again until you were hanging around in the paddock, wondering. Your phone rang and your heart skipped a beat.

“Hello?”

He was breathless and you couldn’t hear him, really, over the sound of the wind.

“Wh-“

“I’m cycling home…”

You had snorted. “Alone?”

“Yeah.”

You had paused.

“I wanted to just think of all the years and moments I raced and rode these streets and prayed I would win here one day. It felt right.”

You had laughed. “I’m proud of you.”

“Yeah, yeah… meet me at home? Then we go out?”

“Sounds like a plan.”

He ended the call. You saw videos of him on TikTok later on the bike on speakerphone and he had grinned as the people drove past him.

You had stopped at your place first, freshening up, and grabbed a bag and a power bank and downed a shot of vodka (to ease the nerves). Putting on heels with the red dress this time, you ordered an Uber to his place. You had used your key to get in and music was blaring when you opened the door. He was shirtless, trying to find an appropriate one.

“Hi,” you smiled.

He had forgotten what he was doing to basically run over and hug you, the force of it nearly knocking you over.

You were in tears again when he pulled away. “Love you,” you whispered, and he smiled. “I’m so proud. I keep thinking of little you.”

“I could never be here without you throughout the years. Never. You have picked me up and glued me back together so many times.”

You let out a small sound of emotion.

“I thought so much of all of you the last laps. I couldn’t see I was so emotional.” He laughed.

“And just all the times you told me you just knew I could do it. And my dad. And Jules. And my mom and brothers. Oh, I want to cry even now!”

You laughed as he ran back to his room to get a shirt.

“But-” he called from the room- “now we have to party like crazy!”

The next morning, you woke up at Arthur’s apartment with a pounding headache and a few missed calls and texts.

Charles 🕺 4:37

Let me know if you got back okay?

Charles 🕺 5:13

I think I’m going home now

Charles 🕺 10:52

I’m going to come pick you up I think Arthur won’t wake until 3pm

You checked the time. 11:04. Getting up from the couch and groaning, you went to the bathroom and pulled your hair into a ponytail, trying to wipe the makeup and finding a disposable toothbrush in his drawer to brush your teeth and the stale smell of tequila away.

You heard his car horn outside and you pulled on your heels that had been thrown on the ground a few meters from the couch. Leaving and letting the door close quietly you walked down the stairs, wincing at every loud noise your high heels made.

He was in his car and thank God there was no one around because you looked crazy. “Hiii,” you said, and he handed you a pair of sunglasses you thought you lost (but clearly just left in his car).

“How’s the race winner doing?” You said, and slid into the seat.

“Incredible,” he said dramatically and his voice was raspy, nearly gone. You laughed and then grasped your head.

Coming out of your bedroom with your hair wrapped in a towel and a crop top and sweatpants, he was making coffee for you both. Finding leftover pasta from Saturday night that Pascale had sent you home with, you heated it up and offered him some. He shook his head.

When you turned around from the microwave with the pasta in hand, he kissed you.

Your eyes widened. He set down the pasta, not breaking the kiss, and hoisted you onto the kitchen counter. You let him open you up, your body leaning into his. Your arms wrapped around his neck and his hand rested underneath your shirt.

“You make me feel so lucky,” he whispered.

Your mouth fell open slightly. “Well, you deserve all of it.”

He did. He did.

omg i just started crying over this stupid fic for the third time. i feel like this encompasses all i feel for him. i hope you feel it. ❤️‍🔥

#f1 imagine #f1 x reader #f1 #f1 x you #f1 fanfic #f1 one shot #f1 fic #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc x you #charles leclerc imagine #charles leclerc fluff

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