empyrealix

[empyrealix]

⊹ ࣪˖ THE BRIGHTEST DAYS | #CS55

pairing. carlos sainz x clinical psychologist!reader

synopsis. you've just graduated from university with a degree in clincial psychology. this monumental event obviously has to be celebrated by both you and carlos

warnings. none

note. thank you so much for the request! i hope you like it <3

MASTERLIST ; requests open

yn

liked by carlossainz55, carlossainzoficial and 697 others

yn i feel so incredibly proud to finally graduate (with a degree in clinical psychology). i, honestly, couldn't have done any of it without the never ending support of my family, my friends, and my lovely boyfriend. if you need any psychology textbooks, i'm selling mine (joking, but not really)

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charles_leclerc do you provide therapy sessions now?

yn only if you pay me

charles_leclerc i think i need some after ferrari

yn my very professional advice would be to leave ferrari

charles_leclerc i would never do such a thing

user1 OMG?? CONGRATULATIONS 🎉

user2 YN'S A WHOLE DOCTOR OF PSYCHOLOGY NOW

carlossainz55 i've seen how hard you've worked to achieve this, and I couldn't be more proud of you, mi vida <3

yn stop, i'm gonna cry, you're so sweet i love you so much

lando noo, don't cry, you're too sexy haha

yn shut up, lando

carlossainz55 shut up before i cut your brakes

lando williamsracing do you see this?

williamsracing Please do not cut lando's brakes carlossainz55

user3 i want to BE her

user4 i'd gladly buy the textbooks

alex_albon congratulations, yn 🥳

carlossainz55

liked by yn, lando and 235,459 others

carlossainz55 my girl is a clinical psychologist!! i'm so incredibly proud of you and everything you've achieved. i cannot wait to watch you embark on this new chapter

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user5 carlos' dad liking yn's post but not carlos' post is so funny to me

yn carlosito i love you so much <3 your endless support has meant so incredibly much to me over the past few years. i can't begin to tell you how much it means to me that you (and carlos sr and reyes) came to my graduation

carlossainz55 there's nowhere i'd rather be than your graduation, amor

yn 🥺

user6 carlosito? oh, that's the cutest thing ever

user7 carlos sr AND reyes went to her graduation? i'm sick

charles_leclerc please tell your girlfriend that telling me to leave ferrari is not good professional advice

carlossainz55 no can do. leaving ferrari worked for me

charles_leclerc thanks for this utterly useless advice 😀

yn it's very sound professional advice, charles

charles_leclerc no

user8 yn is STUNNING

user9 that's dr yn yln to you

user10 i think we moved on from carlos' parents going to her graduation too quick

yn

liked by fernandoalo_oficial, carlossainz55 and 1,231 others

yn finally back here now that my exams are over (forever) and i've graduated (that is still very insane to me)

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carlossainz55 mi amor, why are you in the aston martin garage??

yn i had to go say hi to THE fernando alonso

kimi.antonelli come to the mercedes garage next ‼️

olliebearman ignore kimi, come to haas next

kimi.antonelli NO?

gabrielbortoleto_ umm, ignore both of them? i want to see you

isackhadjar you're very welcome to the vcarb garage, yn!!

liamlawson30 second that

carlossainz55 no?? she's MY girlfriend, she's here for ME not for any of you rascals. stop trying to take her from me

gabrielbortoleto_ too late, hehe

carlossainz55 WHAT DID YOU DO

gabrielbortoleto_ nothing

kimi.antonelli i say we storm sauber and rescue yn

olliebearman i agree

isackhadjar on behalf of me and liam, i agree

carlossainz55 for once i actually agree with you rascals

user11 what is going on in this comment section

user12 i don't know, but it's very entertaining

astonmartinf1 you're welcome back to the garage anytime, yn!

yn thank you!!

carlossainz55 what about williams?

yn they have better pastries at aston martin

carlossainz55 ???

user13 carlos fighting for his life in these comments

yn

liked by carlossainz55, lando and 896 others

yn finally got my first big girl job

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user14 i remember the late night breakdowns on the ig stories and now look how far we've come

yn that was NOT a good time

charles_leclerc you've grown so much 🥲

yn i'm older than you, leclerc shut up

charles_leclerc by like A YEAR?

yn idk what sort of rich kid school you went to in monaco, but that's considered being older

lando they're fighting again scuderiaferrari williamsracing

scuderiaferrari This is your public account, Charles

williamsracing yn is not employed by us, so it is not our concern what she does on her personal account

carlossainz55 dinner tonight to celebrate this?

yn yes, yes, absolutely (as long as you pay; i'm still drowning in student debt)

alex_albon why are you using the ig comments to plan a date? just text like NORMAL people

carlossainz55 because it's more fun

yn i don't know actually- oh, yeah, sure, whatever carlos said

user15 why is charles constantly under attack in these comments

carlossainz55

liked by alex_albon, yn and 346,697 others

carlossainz55 my favourite girl ❤️ congratulations on your new job, i couldn't be prouder of you (yes, she made me post the picture of the pasta)

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user16 i love how she just asks him to do things and he's like yes ma'am

yn the pasta was 10/10 by the way

carlossainz55 and the company?

yn eh, 6/10?

carlossainz55 mi vida 🥹

yn noo carlosito, i jest, the company was 100/10

alex_albon he almost cried, just so you know

user17 they're both so HOT it's so unfair

lando when's it MY turn❓

yn your boyfriend is throwing a fit again carlossainz55

carlossainz55 he's NOT my boyfriend

lando how could you? i thought we had something

carlossainz55 we did not

lando i think i need therapy after this

yn i have a free session on friday?

lando perfect

[empyrealix]

⊹ ࣪˖ ILLICIT AFFAIRS | #GR63

pairing. george russell x wolff!reader

synopsis. you and george are dating. there's only one problem, really, toto is you father. what could possibly go wrong?

warnings. slightly suggestive; talks of killing (but in a non-serious way)

note. should i be studying for my exam? yes. did i do this instead? also yes.

MASTERLIST ; requests open

mercedesamgf1

liked by georgerussell63, kimi.antonelli and 64,296 others

mercedesamgf1 A disappointing end to the weekend with George finishing P6 and Kimi finishing P10. We’ll come back stronger next race!

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kimi.antonelli sorry i couldn’t do better guys 😞

mercedesamgf1 We’re still proud of you, Kimi ❤️ 

user1 kimi you did your best!!

georgerussell63 The track conditions were difficult this race, cannot wait to do better at the next race

ynwolff we’ll be stronger next weekend 💪

kimi.antonelli how long will you stay in italy, yn?

ynwolff i leave tomorrow

kimi.antonelli 😔 i wanted to take you and george to my favourite restaurant in bologna

ynwolff next time, kimi!!

user2 what is going on

user3 next week will be our week!!

user4 keep fighting, we’ll get it next week ❤️

georgerussell63

liked by mercedesamgf1, ynwolff and 293,503 others

georgerussell63 Gutted at how the weekend ended. We did our best, but the performance wasn’t there. We’ll try again next weekend and give it our all! 👊

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ynwolff next weekend will be better 🩵

kimi.antonelli thank you for believing in us, yn ‼️

user5 the heart??

ynwolff user5 don’t worry, my dad isn’t on this app

susie_wolff I am on this app sometimes. I don’t appreciate the heart emoji under a post one of my drivers posted. -Toto Wolff

user6 why is yn in george’s comments

user7 her dad’s the tp for merc, she probably knows george

charles_leclerc non, non, continue doing bad. it’s good for ferrari

user8 FORZA FERRARI SEMPRE

georgerussell63 We will be better next weekend

lando yn wasn’t in the garage this weekend, that’s why you did so bad

georgerussell63 I always do better when she’s in the garage

user9 GEORGE?

ynwolff my dad sees this, george russell!!

georgerussell63 Whoops?

kimi.antonelli i also do better when yn is in the garage

user10 double merc podium in monaco??

ynwolff

liked by susie_wolff, georgerussell63 and 58,392 others

ynwolff is this right?

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susie_wolff Who is that man? -Toto Wolff

ynwolff no one…

georgerussell63 I wonder who this is 🤔

alex_albon what do you know

ynwolff he knows nothing

kimi.antonelli this makes me think he knows something

georgerussell63 Legally, I know nothing

kimi.antonelli what about illegally?

alex_albon 3… 2… 1…

ynwolff he still knows nothing

georgerussell63 I still know nothing

user11 this is very suspicious

user12 George Russell in the likes 🧐

user13 so who do we think this is?

user14 charles?

user15 i don’t think it would be charles. toto would lose it if it was charles

user16 toto would be pissed if it was anyone on the grid

susie_wolff

liked by ynwolff, georgerussell63 and 103,340 others

susie_wolff I had a wonderful trip with some great people. It was such a joy to have georgerussell63 join us (you’re welcome back anytime).

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user17 george being invited to wolff family outings is the cutest thing ever

georgerussell63 Thank you for inviting me. I had such a great time!

lando read: i had such a great time making out with yn in your boat, toto, without you knowing

ynwolff die, you cretin (if the mercedes pr team sees this, this comment was never posted)

user18 soo, what do i have to do to be invited on a wolff family trip?

kimi.antonelli i would also like to know this

ynwolff you can come next time, kimi!! it was just a spontaneous outing this time and we happened to run into george

kimi.antonelli uhu, just happened to run into george 🤭

georgerussell63

liked by charles_leclerc, kimi.antonelli and 304,406 others

georgerussell63 I cannot believe it has been six months with you by my side already ❤️

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user19 omg?? george soft launch??

user20 george has been off the market for six whole months 💔 heart been broke so many times

f1wags 👀👀

oscarpiastri oh thank god you’re finally saying something

user21 you know something

user22 what do you know?

mercedesamgf1 We’re happy for you, George!

ynwolff cute ♥️

georgerussell63 Not as cute as you

charles_leclerc ???

alex_albon ???

kimi.antonelli on your soft launch???

lando what is going on in the house of commons

susie_wolff 🤨 -Toto Wolff

ynwolff who taught you how to use emojis, old man?

f1wags

liked by user34, user12 and 21,340 others

f1wags Is there a new WAG in the paddock? George Russell ran up to and kissed yn Wolff—yes, THAT yn Wolff—after the race today. Toto looked less than happy at these developments. What does this mean for yn and George?

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user23 WHAT IS HAPPENING??

user24 oh my god, is this who george was soft launching

user25 forget george, is this who yn was soft launching

user26 toto’s gonna be livid

user27 IS THIS WHAT OSCAR MEANT??

user28 OSCAR, what have you seen??

user29 can george fight

user30 forget george, i want her

user31 REAL

ynwolff

liked by georgerussell63, oscarpiastri, and 305,659 others

ynwolff i guess the cat’s out of the bag now

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charles_leclerc ???

alex_albon insane, actually

user32 oh, i don’t wanna be in the wolff household right now

georgerussell63 I love you, darling 🩵 hopefully Toto doesn’t kill me

ynwolff i’ll make sure he doesn’t

lando you gonna let her be your knight in shining armour?

georgerussell63 At least I have someone who’s willing to do that for me, unlike you

lando uncalled for

user33 THEY’RE SO HOT

user34 adopt me, pls

kimi.antonelli no one told me? i feel abandoned AND excluded

susie_wolff What the fuck is this. Explain yourself. -Toto Wolff

user35 GEORGE, SAVE YOURSELF

user36 this next race is gonna be eventful

user37 as long as toto doesn’t kill george before that

user38 i pray for george

georgerussell63

liked by ynwolff, carlossainz55 and 579,456 others

georgerussell63 i still don’t understand how i got her to say yes 💕

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susie_wolff Get away from my daughter, George William Russell. -Toto Wolff

user39 see, if i was george, i would’ve run for the hills right about now

alex_albon this is kinda… cute?

charles_leclerc except for the whole toto threatening murder thing

lando totally agree

oscarpiastri for the record, i knew nothing about this it was george and yn ONLY

user40 suspicious behaviour from piastri

ynwolff you were very charming

georgerussell63 i almost caused you to trip and fall into the harbour in monaco?

ynwolff but you didn’t, so very charming

user41 the pure unfiltered chaos of this meeting is sending me

carlossainz55 ❤️

kimi.antonelli i also don’t understand how you got her to say yes what does she see in you

ynwolff

liked by susie_wolff, georgerussell63 and 234,167 others

ynwolff they’re friends again 🩵 i made dad invite george to spend some of the winter break with us in the alps

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susie_wolff It’ll be so nice to have George with us

mercedesamgf1 You’re not sleeping in the same bedroom. -Toto Wolff

ynwolff DAD???

georgerussell63 i promise i will not do anything untoward

mercedesamgf1 Still no. -Toto Wolff

user42 oh to spend time with the wolffs in the alps

user43 the things i would do to be invited to this

georgerussell63 i cannot wait to spend this winter break and every winter break after this with you ❤️

ynwolff it’ll be so much fun, mostly because you’re there this year (and every year after) ❤️

kimi.anotnelli happy for you, even though i still don’t know how this happened

charles_leclerc it still befuddles me

pierregasly befuddles? did you finally open a dictionary?

charles_leclerc rude

[empyrealix]

hellooo❕❕i LOVED that linguist smau with carlos you did😻 can you do one where reader is a psychologist with a career as a therapist/ clinical psychologist with carlos pls🙏🏼🙏🏼

i loveee this idea <33 it's been written down in my list of ideas, so i'll definitely write it at some point 💕

[empyrealix]

⊹ ࣪˖ MY LOVE, MY LIFE | #CS55

pairing. carlos sainz x linguist!reader

synopsis. in which everyone thinks you and carlos should get married

warnings. none; linguistics rambles

note. i rambled a bit about linguistics in this one, i'm sorry

MASTERLIST ; requests open

yn

liked by carlossainz55, georgerussell63 and 365 others

yn Happy birthday to the man, the myth, the legend Paul Grice, whose pioneering work (alongside J. L. Austin) is the reason pragmatics exists as its own subfield in linguistics. Central to Grice is the cooperative principle, conversational implicature, and his maxims (of which there are four: maxim of quality; maxim of quantity; maxim of manner; maxim of relation/relevance). Grice thought that speakers may communicate either by breaking the maxims or by obeying them, when a maxim appears to be violated, a pragmatic inference is created. This is only possible if the speaker is believed to be cooperative. An important point is that speakers—as long as they are cooperative—are generally guided by these maxims.

Happy anniversary to me and Carlos too, I guess.

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alex_albon please wish him a proper happy anniversary, he’s been whining for ten minutes

yn Sorry, but Grice > Carlos

charles_leclerc yn, please. he cornered me in the paddock, and now i’m late for a strategy meeting 🥹

scuderiaferrari Get to the meeting right now, Charles. -Fred

user1 yn is so real for that

carlossainz55 happy anniversary, mi amor <3 i love you, and i cannot wait for our dinner later today

yn I love you more, Carlito <33 I’m so excited to see you later and to celebrate our anniversary

carlossainz55 i love you the most, actually

user2 PLEASE JUST GET MARRIED ALREADY

user3 okay, so yncarlos marriage when?

user4 second this

user5 fourth this

user6 MOTHER

carlossainz55

liked by yn, alex_albon and 467,075 others

carlossainz55 she brought me here only to spend the entire time talking about accents

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lando there was a race?

carlossainz55 and? she’s more important

charles_leclerc you’re so whipped

alex_albon you’re so whipped

user7 GET MARRIED PLEASE

georgerussell63 photo credit: georgerussell63

user8 guys, what if they’re already married?

user9 that’s delusional

user10 there’s no way charles would be able to keep it secret if that was the case

charles_leclerc I CAN KEEP A SECRET

lando no, you can’t

alex_albon no, you can’t

georgerussell63 no, you can’t

yn No, you can’t

carlossainz55 no, you can’t

charles_leclerc you’re all so MEAN to me

yn You loved it

carlossainz55 i love you

yn

liked by charles_leclerc, carlossainz55 and 643 others

yn Since it’s race weekend here in Australia, it is only right that some facts are shared about the variety of English which is spoken here, Australian English (AusE, for short). English came to Australia through convicts being transported from Britain. It eventually became a killer language, which means that it replaced the aboriginal languages which already existed in Australia—and had existed in Australia long before English made its entrance. Unlike other varieties of English (like British English and American English) there is little regional variation in AusE, but there is social variation. When talking about AusE, it is possible to differentiate between three main varieties: broad AusE, general AusE, and cultivated AusE. Some noticeable features of this variety is that it has two productive noun suffixes: -ie and -o; she may be used as a generic pronoun; and it has highly characteristic vocabulary. Regarding phonetics, AusE is non-rhotic, which means that /r/ is only pronounced in front of vowels. Another notable feature of AusE phonology is that it has HRTs (this is sometimes referred to as Australian Questioning Intonation). HRT is short for high rise terminals; this means that declarative sentences often end with a rising pitch.

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user11 my favourite part about the races is yn’s linguistic rambles

user12 my favourite part of her instagram is her linguistic rambles

user13 when’s the wedding?

user14 stop asking them about when they’re getting married. it’s getting weird

charles_leclerc thank you, this was very informative

user15 i imagine carlos asking a million questions and getting increasingly confused

carlossainz55 i understood all of this actually

yn You got distracted and asked if we could get ice cream in the middle of my explanation of killer languages.

carlossainz55 i still enjoy listening to you, even though most of it goes over my head

user16 ditch carlos, yn, i’ll listen to your explanations of killer languages

carlossainz55 don’t flirt with my wife??

user17 WIFE? WIFE? MR SAINZ?

carlossainz55

liked by yn, williamsracing and 923,460 others

carlossainz55 summer break spent in spain with the love of my life. i’m ready to get back to racing and scoring points

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williamsracing We’re excited to see you back in the garage carlossainz55

carlossainz55 i'm excited to be back!

user18 MR SAINZ, YOU HAVE TO EXPLAIN THE WIFE COMMENT

user19 what wife comment??

user20 on one of yn’s posts carlos referred to yn as his wife

user19 i log off for one day and suddenly carlos has a whole WIFE??

user20 we don’t know for sure, yet

yn Carlos <333 please come back to bed :(

carlossainz55 i’ll be right there, mi vida

yn

liked by carlossainz55, alex_albon and 1,230 others

yn So sad I couldn’t be at the race this weekend, but duty called. I wish Carlos, Alex and Williams the best luck this weekend!

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williamsracing Thank you, yn. We’re so sad you couldn’t be here this weekend, but we’ll see you at the next race?

yn Absolutely!

lando god, just get married already

carlossainz55 we did??

yn CARLOS

user21 did anyone else see carlos’ comment or am i going insane?

user9 what if user8 was right?

user8 I TOLD YOU BUT YOU ALL THOUGHT I WAS DELUSIONAL

carlossainz55

liked by yn, georgerussell63 and 943,124 others

carlossainz55 three months ago, i married the love of my life in a small courthouse in a coastal town in spain

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yn And I got to marry the love of my life. Here’s to many more years with you

carlossainz55 to the rest of our lives

user8 WHAT DID I TELL YOU, BUT NO, I WAS DELUSIONAL

georgerussell63 congratulations, you two!

charles_leclerc I KNEW IT

user22 THEY’VE BEEN MARRIED SINCE THE SUMMER BREAK? I’M SICK

williamsracing Congratulations on your wedding! We’re so happy for you!

user23 A YNCARLOS MARRIAGE?? FINALLY!!

user24 OUR PRAYERS HAVE BEEN ANSWERED

lando i feel betrayed, you were married for three months and didn’t tell me?? we are no longer friends

yn

liked by carlossainz55, lando and 943 others

yn Does the language people speak influence the way they think? If you ask Edward Sapir and Benjamin Lee Whorf, that is true. Though neither Sapir or Whorf coined the term “Sapir-Whorf hypothesis�� they have come to be associated with it. The central idea of the Sapir-Whorf hypothesis is that the languages a person speaks determines the way people perceive and think about the world. There are three version of this hypothesis: the strong Sapir-Whorf hypothesis, which claims that the only conceptual distinctions people can make are those encoded in language because language imposes these distinctions on sense data; the restricted Sapir-Whorf hypothesis claims that some topics are such that the only conceptual distinctions are those encoded in language. This is because language imposes these distinctions on relevant sense data. The last version of the Sapir-Whorf hypothesis is the watered-down Sapir-Whorf hypothesis. This version claims that there are some topics that are influenced by language, specifically this happens for things that are habitually or stereotypically thought about, an example of this is grammatical gender. The strong Sapir-Whorf hypothesis is false; the restricted Sapir-Whorf hypothesis is unproven; the watered-down one is the only one which may be true. The answer to my question, then, suggests that languages influences the way people think in respect to scarcely perceptible cognitive biases and subtle stereotypes.

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user25 GIRL, you just got married to THE carlos sainz and you’re talking about linguistics

yn Linguistics is the love of my life

carlossainz55 i cannot wait to spend the rest of my life listening to you talking about linguistics

yn Forever <3

lando oh no, they’re more insufferable now than they were before

carlossainz55 this is your fault

yn I second that

user26 yn really said the Sapir-Whorf hypothesis is more important than her husband

user27 an icon

[empyrealix]

⊹ ࣪˖ GUILTY AS SIN? | #CL16

pairing. charles leclerc x wolff!reader

genre. angst; some fluff

synopsis. days after you showed up in the paddock wearing charles' shirt, toto wolff is still not talking to you. it tears at you, him, and your relationship with charles. tired of living life scared you'll disappoint toto, you show up to the paddock holding charles' hand.

warnings. none; guest appearances from carlos and george

word count. 3.1k

note. this is the second part to ‘but daddy i love him’. this makes sense if you haven't read that, but reading the first part provides context for a lot of the things happening in this part. i want to write drabbles set in this universe, so if you have requests/ideas, please send them <3

MASTERLIST ; part one ; requests open

LOVE WAS SUPPOSED TO BE EASY; loving Charles had—since the beginning of your relationship—been as easy as breathing. Until reality eventually caught up. The love you held for Charles had not become more difficult since that fateful moment when you walked onto the paddock draped in Charles’ jacket; everything around it had become more complicated—more difficult—ever since then.

Toto’s voice still rang in your ears; his voice lingered in your mind like an echo you couldn’t get rid of—“Can someone explain why my daughter is wearing Leclerc’s Ferrari jacket?”. You remembered freezing in your tracks, glancing over at Charles—who looked just as much a deer in headlights as you; then Toto’s narrowed eyes. The events which followed passed by in a blur; silence; you opening your mouth to explain; disappointment radiating off Toto; his silent—sharp—”I don’t want to hear it.”. That had been the end of it; Toto had stridden past you and disappeared into the Mercedes garage; Charles had gently placed a hand on your lower back and led you to the Ferrari motorhome, where he left you with a kiss to your forehead and a promise that everything would be okay.

George passed by—he stopped to chat for a few minutes before realising he was late to a strategy meeting and had to sprint across the paddock. Then Carlos walked by, he pulled out a chair opposite you—his navy Williams t-shirt contrasting against the bright red of the Ferrari motorhome—and sat down; he handed you snacks stolen from the Williams motorhome wrapped in a napkin—they were slid over the table as if they were contraband. 

“You know there’s snacks here, right?” You laughed, even though the laugh didn’t reach your eyes; Carlos noticed, he tilted his head, smiling at you.

“Yes, but they’re not as good, no?”

The former Ferrari, now Williams, driver nodded towards the snacks wrapped in a napkin sitting on the table in front of you, encouraging you to unwrap the snacks and eat one—you did. Inside the napkin was an assortment of grapes, chocolate, and cookies; you muttered a thank you to Carlos which he waved off, telling you that it was nothing. He sat there for a while, telling jokes; you tried to laugh at them, but the laughter never reached your eyes; it was all an act and Carlos could clearly tell.

“It’s going to be okay, you know. Toto might be pissed now, but we all know how much he adores you; he’ll accept it eventually.” Carlos’ voice was soft—comforting—as it reached your ears. You pressed your lips together, nodding solemnly.

“What if he doesn’t?” You didn’t want to admit it outloud, but the thought had pierced through every corner of your brain ever since that morning—ever since Toto had stormed off to the Mercedes garage with a “I don’t want to hear it”. Carlos stood up from his chair—he had to go to a meeting which was far less important than you—still, he didn’t have much of a choice.

“Then maybe he is not who you thought he was.” 

That had been days ago. You hadn’t spoken to Toto since; it was strange not speaking to him. You had gone back to Vienna after the race; you’d walked by the café you’d gone to with Toto for years ever since you were old enough to ask the barista for a hot chocolate—”Ich hätte gern eine heiße Schokolade, bitte”. A peculiar feeling—longing, perhaps—coursed through your veins, settled deep in the very marrow of your bones, at the sight of the table you and Toto used to occupy being empty. Usually when you walked through this part of Vienna, it was to meet Toto at this café; he would always sit and wait when you walked in—books clutched in your arms—he’d meet you with a smile and a comment about how the books made you forget about life again—that was true sometimes, other times it was because Charles distracted you, made you forget that there was a world outside the bubble which only contained you and him. You never told Toto this; you’d smile at him and tell him that ja, papa, it was the books again. The memory felt faint; the more you tried to reach for it, the fainter it became until it was like a sun faded cassette tape someone had left out in the sun for too long.

You hadn’t seen Charles since the end of the race weekend. You went with Charles to celebrate Oscar’s Grand Prix win with the rest of the grid; your heart hammering in your chest—joy encapsulating you—as Charles wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you to him, kissing you in front of everyone in the middle of the dance floor; he had stuck close to you the entire evening, just as you had stuck close to him––now you were in two different countries, miles separating you. You missed Charles’ presence—his laugh, his small touches. He suggested you come with him to Monaco after the race; you declined, worried that you would inevitably run into Toto there—”Chérie, you can come stay with me in Monaco.” he’d pleaded, almost begged, looking at you; you shook your head, watching as his eyes filled with tears, as his bottom lip wobbled. Walking through the Viennese streets, you regretted every action you had taken, every word spoken, during that exchange. You had spoken to Charles occasionally and briefly ever since; it was as though a chasm had opened between you—one that neither of you knew how to close. The last exchange you had was Charles asking if you were going to the next race—Monza—you’d told him no, claiming that you were buried under schoolwork—that had been a lie; you weren’t buried under schoolwork, you just didn’t want to go to the paddock; didn’t want to face the disappointment Toto’s entire being would exude the moment he laid eyes on you. If you went, you would—for the first time—go as a guest of Ferrari and not Mercedes; there was something bittersweet over it.

Charles waited outside your flat when you arrived back home; he gently pried the bags you were carrying from your hands—warmth bloomed where his fingertips made contact with your skin. He smiled softly at you, muttering a quick “hi”, which you returned; he shuffled into the flat after you, closing and locking the door behind him. His presence in your flat felt familiar—welcome. During the months of your (secret) relationship, Charles spent many days in this flat; playing the pianoforte you never knew why you had—you couldn’t play piano—putting away groceries; laughing; smiling; kissing you whenever he could. Before you could say anything, Charles had slipped out of his shoes; his humming fluttered through the air as he put the groceries away.

“Charles? What are you doing here?” At the sound of your voice, Charles looked up from the grocery bag he was digging through—one hand cradling a bag of flour. He paused, his eyes searching yours. He turned, opening the cabinet you kept your flour in before turning back to you and sighing; his hands flattening against the countertop.

“I wanted to see you. We’ve barely talked since the race and when we have talked, it has been brief. Mon ange, tell me what’s going on; we’re in this together.” Charles’ voice had grown steadily quieter as he spoke; you could only stare at him, blood coursing through your veins, your heart hammering in your chest. Charles took a step towards you, then another, then his arms wrapped around you—his scent surrounding you—one hand placed on your back, the other on the back of your head; pulling you into him. Instinctively, you wrapped your arms around him, burying your face in the junction between his neck and shoulder. The tears flowed slowly at first; Charles didn’t speak, he just held you, waiting for you to speak, even though the feeling of your tears wetting his skin broke his heart—tugged painfully at strings attached to it. He wanted nothing more than for you to be happy.

“It’s papa. I love you, I do. I just feel like I’ve disappointed him.” You stumbled through the sentence, unsure of how to express your feelings, how to word them in a coherent—understandable—way. Charles understood; he knew you better than anyone—he would always understand what you were trying to tell him, even though it was veiled, slurred, or incomprehensible.

“You can’t live your entire life scared that you’ll disappoint him. He talks about you all the time when you’re not present; he’s so proud of you, of everything you’ve achieved. This—our relationship—shocked him, but he’ll come around eventually. He’s not unreasonable. I think the way he found out was jarring for him, unexpected. He’ll come around, chérie, I promise.” Echoes of Carlos’ words rang through your mind as you listened to Charles speak. You didn’t want him to be right, but he was—you couldn’t live life scared of disappointing Toto. Charles cupped your cheeks, his thumbs wiping away the remaining tears—his touch was soft, gentle, as it always was. You wanted desperately to believe him; your mind screamed at you to forget every worry you had bottled up since you started dating Charles. You nodded, pulling your bottom lip between your teeth—gnawing at it. The more you thought about it, the clearer it became that Charles was right; Toto would accept it eventually. He had no other choice.

“Where are you going?” Your voice was still shaky—raw—from crying. You vaguely gestured to the bags Charles had left in your entry. Charles, for a moment, glanced from you at his bags; his hands still cupped your cheeks, your bodies still pressed impossibly close together.

“The race. I just had to see you first, since you’re not coming.” Charles’ voice was tinged with hope—hope that you may change your mind and attend the race with him; there was no one he wanted there more than you. He often joked—as you laid beside him, his fingers drawing patterns on your skin—that you were his lucky charm; he insisted that he performed better whenever you were in the paddock. You weren’t sure you believed that claim. 

“Is it too late to go with you?” Charles’ eyes lit up, his lips widening into a smile as he shook his head, rambling in French—various combinations of “non, mon ange”, “il n'est pas trop tard”, and “j'adorerais t'avoir là”.

If anyone had asked you later what thoughts coursed through your mind as you agreed to go to the race with Charles, you wouldn’t have been able to give them an answer—the spur of the moment decision was inexplicable even to you; perhaps it had been the hope in Charles’ eyes, in his voice; or maybe it had been something else entirely—you were not sure. Charles pressed his lips against yours, pulling you closer. You led Charles down the same hallway he had walked through time and time again, pulling him into your bedroom. He stood by your bed—which he had been in more times than you could remember—putting items of clothing into your open suitcase as you handed it to him.

Standing outside the paddock gates, Charles entwined your fingers. This time—unlike the last—you wore your own clothes. Your heart hammered in your chest; Charles squeezed your hand, smiling softly at you. Whatever happened beyond the paddock gates, you would face together. The entire paddock stilled as you walked through the gates; Carlos smiled at you as he walked by; Charles pulled you closer to him as you made your way across the paddock.

Toto paused as he saw you and Charles walking hand-in-hand through the paddock, smiles plastered on both your faces; he sighed, his hand coming up to rub his temples. He pulled his lips into a thin line, greeting both you and Charles when he walked by you. You stopped, opening your mouth to say something; when no words formed, you closed it; your lips pulled up into a tight smile—Toto would recognise that smile anywhere, it was the same tight smile he wore when he had to be polite. He watched—from the Mercedes motorhome—as Charles kissed you— your forehead, your cheeks, your lips—before running off to a meeting. The day was littered with small, affectionate touches between you and Charles and conversations which left you beaming—smiling so brightly and so much that your muscles hurt.

“This went well?” You looked up at Charles, who had sat down beside you on the couch; he pressed a kiss to the crown of your head.

“It did.” Doubt still gnawed at you; crawling up your throat, clenching around your heart. Toto’s greeting had been brief, but it had been more than you’d talked to him in a week. He looked tired; bags had appeared under his eyes; he looked older than he did the last time you saw him—this was clearly taking a toll on Toto too. Charles pulled you closer to him, slinging his arm around your shoulder; brushing a lock of hair away from your face—you smiled at him, kissing his cheek. You couldn’t help but look over at the Mercedes motorhome—Toto was nowhere to be seen. Charles noticed the glances you would—periodically—throw in that direction; he nudged you gently, his eyes filled with a softness he only held for you.

“What’s on your mind, mon amour?”

“I think I want to go talk to papa.” You gnawed at your bottom lip, your gaze fixed on the motorhome across the paddock.

“Go.” Charles gently urged you. He could see—he had seen, this past week—how much this argument—which wasn’t really an argument—tore at you, threatening to rip you apart. You and Toto had always been close—Charles had discovered this on numerous occasions, from how you talked about your childhood with Toto to how you told him you couldn’t go on a date with him once because you had your monthly coffee date with Toto.

You left the Ferrari motorhome headed for the Mercedes motorhome. Stepping through the sliding doors, you saw George sitting in the cafeteria alone; he looked up as the doors slid open. A smile spread across his lips at the sight of you.

“Welcome back, you here to see Toto?” You swallowed thickly, nodding. George smiled, pointing in the general direction of Toto’s office, “Last I saw him, he was in his office. Good luck!” You shook your head, scoffing at him, muttering something about how you didn’t need luck to speak to Toto; that was a lie—you needed all the luck you could get.

Toto’s head shot up when the door to his office opened; the last person he expected to see stood on the other side of it—one hand clutched the door handle, only letting go when Toto gestured for you to come inside. He closed his computer, folding his hands on top of it.

“Schatz.”

“Hi, papa.” You sank down in a chair opposite Toto’s desk, his eyes followed your every move. On your way over, you had planned exactly what you wanted to say, but as you sat in Toto’s office—Toto sitting opposite you—your mouth dried, every word you had prepared disappearing into thin air; you had never felt like this with Toto—you had always been able to tell him whatever was on your mind. It was a strange feeling; one you didn’t revel in. Toto patiently waited for you to speak—he had a meeting, but you were far more important than the meeting; the meeting could be rescheduled.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about Charles; I just didn’t know how to. I should’ve told you. I’ve thought a bit since then, and it wasn’t fair to you to find out the way you did.” Toto listened intently to every word pouring from your lips, “I love Charles, I’m not going to apologise for that. Charles is one of the nicest, kindest, people I’ve met and he treats me so well. You don’t have to like it, I’m not asking you to, you just have to accept it and stop being upset with me for, what, falling in love?” Your heart hammered in your chest, sweat beading on your forehead, your hands grew clammy; you tried to wipe them on your jeans, but it did nothing. Toto sighed softly.

“I’m not mad at you for falling in love; I’m upset you didn’t trust me enough to tell me, schatz. I’m upset I had to find out from you walking into the paddock in Leclerc’s shirt.” He looked at you for a moment, before glancing out the window; the Ferrari motorhome was clearly visible from where he was sitting, “I see how happy he makes you; how happy you are when you are with him. He’s one of the better drivers you could have chosen.” He laughed softly, his mouth quirking up into a smile, his crows feet appearing around his eyes. At the sound of Toto’s laughter, you couldn’t help the giggle that burst from your lips. You stood from your chair at the same moment Toto did; he pulled you into a hug.

“I’m sorry, papa.” You mumbled into the white button-up he always wore to race weekends.

“It’s okay. Tell that Leclerc kid that if he hurts you, he’ll have to deal with me.”

It was with much lighter steps that you walked back to the Ferrari motorhome. You found Charles exactly where you had left him—sitting on the couch—only this time, he was playing some game on his phone. He looked up when he heard steps; a smile etched itself across his face, his eyes filling with joy, at the sight of you; he—immediately—noticed a lightness in your steps, one that he had dearly missed. He stood up to meet you halfway—in full view of the Mercedes motorhome—you wrapped your arms around him; Charles had to take a step back to stop from stumbling from the force with which you hugged him.

“How did it go?” He could feel your smile—the smile which he loved so much; which he would do anything to see—break out across your face.

“It went well. I apologised and he said he was never upset at the idea of us dating; he was just upset because of how he found out.” You had to stop, a giggle forced its way up your throat, “he said that if you ever hurt me, you’d have to deal with him.”

Charles groaned, dropping his face in the crook of your neck. You threw your head back, laughter bursting from you at Charles’ ticklish kisses pressed to your neck.

“Good thing I’m not planning on hurting you, then.”

[empyrealix]

⊹ ࣪˖ LOVER | #CS55

pairing. carlos sainz x reader

genre. fluff; suggestive

synopsis. you and carlos are on holiday, which includes ignoring all of your responsibilities and kissing—making out—until you're both nearly dizzy.

warnings. suggestive

word count. 1k

note. this was supposed to have more plot, but it doesn't. i wrote this to a, procrastinate my philosophy exam and b, to procrastinate writing the second part to my wolff!reader fic. ALSO CARLOS P9?? WE'RE IN THE POINTS !! AND OSCAR WIN !!

MASTERLIST ; requests open

CARLOS HAD GONE ON A RUN early in the morning, just as the birds began to wake, hours before you woke. He walked into the hotel room just as you stirred; blinking sleep from your eyes; staring at Carlos in his exercise gear, sweat clinging to his brow, with bleary eyes—Carlos smiled at the sight of you; cocooned in the white duvet, blinking blearily up at him as though your eyes had just fluttered open. The smell of sweat and sea surrounded you as Carlos stepped closer to the bed, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead with the whispered promise that you would get breakfast as soon as he was done showering—you mumbled something about wanting to go back to sleep while you squinted against the unwelcome light streaming in through the floor-to-ceiling windows; Carlos laughed.

“Okay, mi amor.”

You laced your fingers with his before he could fully pull away and disappear into the bathroom; a smile quirked up the corners of his lips; his thumb running over the back of your hand; Carlos brought your hand up to his lips, pressing his soft—pillowy, almost—lips to the back of it. He leaned over you—the smell which surrounded him, which came from him, surrounded both of you—nuzzling his nose with yours, pressing his lips to yours—the same tender way he had been doing the four years you’d been together; the same way Carlos hoped you would let him do as long as the both of you lived. A smile curved up your lips; you placed two fingers on his shoulder, gently—teasingly—pushing him away from you. When Carlos took a step backwards—his hand still holding yours, your fingers still entwined—he saw the disgusted look on your face; your nose was scrunched up, and the smile which previously sat etched on your face was turned into a frown.

“Go shower. You smell like sweat.” You shooed him away, removing your hand from his—still sweaty—hand. Chuckles bubbled past his lips, filling the room; whenever you heard that sound, you swore you would bottle it if you could—sadly, that wasn’t possible; sound couldn’t be bottled. His chuckles lingered in the air long after he closed the bathroom door after him.

You curled up on your side, closing your eyes, waiting for Mr Sandman to pull you back to sleep; Mr Sandman never came. With a frustrated huff—and a misplaced, almost malicious, muttered curse meant for Carlos—you sat up in the soft hotel bed. Light streamed in through the windows facing the bed, bathing the room in sunlight; you squinted against the sun, reaching for the remote on Carlos’ side of the bed—the blinds made a mechanic whirring sound as they were lowered. With the light gone—you didn’t mind light, necessarily, it was just this light; it was too bright and it was too early—your fingers curled around the book left abandoned on your nightstand—the book you had been itching to start for weeks, but had never found the time to.

Before you could finish the first chapter, Carlos stepped out of the bathroom; a white towel was wrapped around his waist; moisture clung to his skin. He smiled as he saw you sitting in bed, the duvet gathered around your hips, your hair messy, an old shirt of his hanging off your frame, a book open on your lap—Carlos recognised it as the book you had carried around in your bag for weeks, opening occasionally only to read the first page before putting it away. Carlos Sainz realised again—as he had realised so many times before this—that he could stare at you forever; it never seemed to matter to him what you were doing; your mere existence was enough to stop him, momentarily, in his tracks.

“You finally started that book?”

You hummed softly, glancing up at him from where you sat, holding the book up so he could read the title. In two short strides, Carlos was standing beside you; he pulled a shirt over his head; he—gently—placed two fingers under your chin, tilting your head upwards to meet his warm, brown eyes—you swore you could get lost in them if you only stared into them long enough; you smiled into the kiss he placed on your lips—which you eagerly reciprocated; you tugged him down towards you, your hands curling into this t-shirt; the book long forgotten as Carlos’ lips pressed against yours and his fingers tangled in your hair. The moment was broken—shattered like glass against concrete—as Carlos—in an attempt to get closer to you, despite the awkward position he was in—stumbled; he yelped; his body falling forward, collapsing on the bed. You couldn’t stop the burst of laughter springing from your lips. Carlos twisted his head to look at you.

“Stop laughing at me, mi vida.” He whined—you could see amusement dancing in his face, pulling the corners of his mouth into a smile.

“I’m sorry, honey. It was just unexpected.” You ran your fingers through his hair, scratching his scalp; Carlos immediately relaxed into your touch; he shifted his body weight, shuffling around until he was no longer halfway draped over you. He looked at you in disbelief, as though not fully believing your apology—you didn’t blame him; you wouldn’t have believed your apology either. Again, your fingers curled into the fabric of his t-shirt, pulling him closer until your breaths mixed and the only smell surrounding you was Carlos and that soap he accidentally bought in Italy once, and now swore by. You pressed your lips to his—for the third time that morning—hesitantly at first, slowly, until that faded away and Carlos’ strong hands rested on your hips, steadying you as you straddled him. His lips trailed from your lips down to your jaw; he pressed feather-light kisses to the column of your neck. You gently tugged at his hair, bringing his lips up to yours again.

“I thought you wanted to sleep.” Carlos muttered against your lips, his hands tightening on your waist as he felt you almost losing your balance.

“I thought you wanted to eat breakfast.” you quipped back, your lips still pressed to his.

“I never specified what I wanted to eat for breakfast.”

“Shut up, Sainz.” He laughed at your comment, which held no real malice, continuing to press kisses to your lips, pulling you closer to him.

[empyrealix]

Omg I NEED more of "BUT DADDY I LOVE HIM" When are next parts out?

Hihi, I’m so happy u like it 💞 idk yet actually, I’ve started writing it, so hopefully maybe by the end of the week !!

[empyrealix]

⊹ ࣪˖ BUT DADDY I LOVE HIM | #CL16

pairing. charles leclerc x wolff!reader

genre. fluff; maybe a twinge of angst

synopsis. being toto wolff's child, you never expected to fall in love with charles leclerc, until you did. the subsequent relationship is a well-kept secret, until a certain carlos sainz stumbles upon you and charles doing something you definitely shouldn't be doing—at least according to toto. you're almost late to the race and nothing goes according to plan.

warnings. none; carlos going through it

word count. 2.8k

note. i'm apparently incapable of writing pieces that are short (i'll try, one day). also, wishing for a good result for charles and lewis on sunday!!

MASTERLIST ; part two ; requests open

TOTO HAD BEEN MILDLY CONFUSED when you, sitting across from him in a café in Vienna, asked if you could go with him to the next Grand Prix. You couldn’t understand why he was so confused at your request; you had gone with him to various Grands Prix since he started working in Formula 1. He froze with his coffee cup halfway to his lips—black, he always took his coffee black with no sugar and no milk. Somehow, through his—in your opinion—unfounded shock, he choked out a question.

“You want to go to the Grand Prix?”

When you nodded, offering him a small smile, his face softened, a smile curled up his lips; wrinkles appeared around his eyes and his mouth. Formula 1 had, despite growing up surrounded by it, never particularly interested you—perhaps the reason it never interested you was precisely because you had grown up surrounded by it. You were not, and had never been, a stranger to the paddock; Toto had brought you since he bought shares in Williams in 2009. As you grew older, your presence in the paddock and in the Mercedes garage became more and more sporadic; the Mercedes garage was slowly replaced by classrooms and long days in old libraries surrounded by towers of books.

“Of course you can come to the Grand Prix, schatz.”

Days later, you walked through the security gates, your access card—which Toto had handed to you at the airport in Vienna with a smile etched onto his face—hung around your neck. Your heart beat ferociously in your chest, threatening to burst through your ribcage. This was a terrible idea. For each step you took, for every metre closer you got to the Mercedes motorhome, your heartbeat quickened and your resolve faltered. Standing in the middle of the paddock, surrounded by engineers, the press, and various trainers and managers, it felt as though the earth would open up and swallow you; you wished it would.

Charles had planted the idea—then a seed, now a tree—in your mind one night as you laid tangled in him and his bedsheets in his flat in Monaco. That evening felt vivid, material, as though you could reach out and conjure it up again; as though you could escape the stifling paddock with all its expectations to Charles’ warm, comforting bed with none of those expectations, where the only expectation was—as he told you jokingly one evening—that you laugh at his jokes, regardless of how terrible they may be. His hand had softly caressed your side, while his mouth pressed gentle, barely-there kisses to your neck. You had agreed when he suggested you come to the next Grand Prix; the proposition was mumbled against your neck, you had to pull away and ask Charles to repeat it; he did, with a crooked smile on his face which made your heart soar in your chest. Looking into his hopeful green eyes, your resolve weakened; any reservation you might have had against Charles’—utterly insane—plan faded away. He had smiled so brightly, pressed a kiss to your lips, whispered “je t’aime” so reverently against your lips that blood rushed to your cheeks when you agreed.

You had missed practice three, instead stepping onto the paddock in time to meet your father for lunch before watching the qualifying. Walking by the Ferrari motorhome—squeezed between the McLaren and the Red Bull motorhomes—a hand brushed over your back; fingers curling around your wrist; cold rings pressed against your warm skin. Charles. Your eyes met his green ones; they glistened, shining with happiness at the sight of you. His soft lips—which you had become so well acquainted with over the past few months—quirked up into a smile. The Monégasque driver, still sweaty and clad in his Ferrari suit, beckoned you to follow him between the Ferrari and Red Bull motorhomes; you followed him—you always would,ever since the first time he smiled that devastatingly charming smile at you, you were lost, completely and utterly.

“I missed you.” He murmured, pulling you against him in a hug. You closed your eyes, letting his warmth spread over you and settle around you like a soft blanket; his mere presence had always been enough to make you forget about the consequences of what you were doing; he always made you forget about the betrayal your father would feel if he found out—when he finds out, rather. You would tell him at some point, but for now you were content with just you and Charles knowing; it was a secret you were happy to keep. You mumbled his words back to him as his lips pressed against yours; one hand settling at your waist, pulling you impossibly closer to him—almost as if he wanted to fuse with you—the other hand cradling your jaw, his fingers ghosting against the skin behind your ear. You wrapped your hands around his neck, your fingers tangling in the mop of brown hair atop his head. Sweat clung to your fingertips. Neither of you knew how much time eclipsed before the need for air became greater than the need of having Charles pressed against you, his lips moving against yours in a familiar dance as they whispered reverent words only meant for you.

“I have to go, I promised papa I’d meet him for lunch.”

The secrecy tore at you—almost pulling you apart with its sharp claws. The idea of simply telling Toto had been discussed at length, but neither of you knew how to broach the topic. You had always been close to your father, ever since you were little. Vivid memories of you pulling him away from his work with a book clutched in your small hand flashed through your mind. Toto would gently take the book from your hands—it was Heidi more often than not—and he would read to you; he acted it out for you; pretending to be the characters in the novel. It always amused you how quickly he could go from being Heidi’s grumpy grandfather to being Heidi running around the summer pasture surrounded by the Swiss alps.

You kissed Charles once more before leaving him in the sanctuary you had created for yourselves between the Ferrari and Red Bull motorhomes.

You didn’t see Charles until after qualifying—he qualified for pole. During qualifying, you stood in the back of the Mercedes garage, a headset placed on your head, hoping that Charles would do well; trying not to look too happy when he was three hundreds faster than George Russell. With some terrible excuse, which no one probably believed, you left the Mercedes garage. This time it was your turn to beckon Charles to a secluded corner of the paddock; he didn’t hesitate to follow you—he never really had. You still remembered how exhilarating it was the first time you pulled Charles with you to some empty room in the Mercedes garage just to kiss him; you remembered the way your heart had jumped in your chest and your face flushed as his hands slithered under the shirt you were wearing. Charles grinned at you as soon as you stopped and turned towards him; he laughed as you threw yourself at him, wrapping your arms around him and burying your face in the crook of his neck. He smelled like sweat, petrol, and rubber—a smell which was so unlike the one which surrounded him off-track.

“Pole, Charlie! That’s great news for tomorrow.” Charles nodded, kissing the top of your head. Any reservation you may have had against coming to the race disappeared completely at the feeling of Charles’ arms wrapped around you; dissipated like storm clouds after heavy rain at the knowledge that you would get to spend two days together—two days spent sneaking around, kissing in shadowed corners of the paddock away from its prying eyes. He pulled away from the hug, his fingers entwining with yours; his eyes softened in the way they always seemed to whenever he looked at you—as if he was trying to memorise every pore, every crease of your skin, every imperfection (to Charles, they weren’t imperfections, they were part of what made you, you).

“Stay the night with me, mon ange.” His nose pressed into your scalp as he placed another kiss to the crown of your head, “we’ll order dinner and cuddle and talk.” It had always confused you why Charles felt the need to argue for the things he suggested; you didn’t need to be convinced, you’d happily go along with whatever he suggested as long as you got to spend time with him.

“I was planning on doing that regardless.” You teased, your fingers tangling in his hair. Laughter bubbled past his lips; his eyes closing; his mouth stretched into a smile; his dimples appearing. He tugged you closer to him, gently tilting your chin up to meet his lips; his nose brushing against yours. 

Wrapped in your own bubble, neither of you noticed that the relative safety you had created had burst. Carlos, who had simply been looking for a place far removed from the ever watchful eye of the paddock, had wandered straight into yours and Charles’ hideout behind a motorhome. It took him a second to process what he was seeing, but when he did, all colour drained from his face; this was the last thing he wanted to see. His knuckles whitened around his water bottle. No matter how much Carlos wanted to leave, he couldn’t—it was as if he was rooted to the grass he was standing on, watching something private, almost forbidden; something not meant for his eyes.

Your eyes met Carlos’, making eye contact with him, your entire body froze. Charles pulled away, confusion written all over his face—he couldn’t understand why you would suddenly stop kissing him; it was so out of character for you; you were always the one to pull him in for another kiss when the first inevitably broke, when the need for air became too great. With a shaky finger, you pointed to Carlos standing a few metres behind you and Charles; Charles spun around, his eyes widening as he spotted his former teammate. His cheeks flushed; his hand found yours, entwining your fingers—you’d first noticed a few weeks into dating how he seemed to always want to touch you in some way when you were near, almost as if you were an anchor he used to ground himself; to reassure himself that you were real and not just someone his imagination had conjured.

Carlos stared at you, then at Charles, then at your hand entwined with Charles’. Carlos closed his eyes, rubbing his temples—as though he hoped that you would be gone and he would be alone when he opened them again; this was a futile wish. When he opened his eyes again, you were still standing in front of him, and you were still holding hands; that was probably the worst part of the entire situation. He was perhaps overreacting; in truth, he was happy for you—he had seen you and Charles hopelessly pine for the other; he’d listened to Charles talk about someone he liked and completely shutting down when Carlos asked who it was, eventually Carlos stopped asking.

“Carlos.” You took a step towards him, your voice was slow—uncertain—like a bird leaving its nest for the first time, not knowing if it would shatter against the ground or soar towards the sky. Carlos pointed between you and Charles; the shock of finding you kissing had settled; confusion replaced it; his mind struggled to process the implications of what he had stumbled upon—he wasn’t entirely sure if he wanted to consider the implications of it.

“What? How long has this been going on?”

Charles stepped closer to you, his hand landing on your hip, gently tugging you closer towards him. You couldn’t take your eyes off Carlos. In an attempt—a failed attempt—to ease the tension that had settled between the three of you, you cracked a smile; it did nothing—the tension still laid around you, thick and strangling.

“A couple months. We meant to tell people, but we never figured out how to.” You had opened your mouth to answer—the words had formed on your tongue—when Charles interrupted you; his accent was heavier than usual. Carlos’ face broke out into a smile. He muttered something about being happy for you before turning around; he’d begun to walk away when your voice ringing out across the space between you stopped him.

“Don’t tell anyone, please.”

“I won’t. I don’t want to be how Toto finds out.” His words hung in the air long after he had rounded a corner and disappeared. When Carlos had gone, you turned to Charles; he pressed his lips together, his eyes sparkling with mirth. A burst of laughter slipped past your lips; you clamped your hand over your mouth; relief flooded your body. Before long, you and Charles had succumbed to laughter; it didn’t stop as you left the sanctuary you had created and—for now—abandoned the paddock.

Wearing Charles’ Ferrari jacket to the paddock was a terrible idea. In the haze of waking up in Charles’ arms and the ensuing chaos once you both realised that you were late, it had seemed like a great idea; he had handed it to you—”It’s going to be cold today, mon amour.”—you had taken it, without really thinking about what jacket it was, only that it was Charles’ jacket and that it would shield you against the cold Charles predicted. Realisation washed over you the moment you—walking beside Charles—stepped onto the paddock; no one had noticed yet, but it was only a matter of time until someone looked over and spotted the bright red—rosso corsa—jacket you were wearing. You assumed panic would take you—that a ball would grow in your throat until it was difficult to breathe—it never did; an eerie calmness settled over you; sunk into your bones as if it had always belonged there.

“I think you should wear Ferrari red all the time. It looks better than the black.” Charles’ lips ghosted against the shell of your ear as he whispered; his hand brushing over the small of your back. You looked up at him, pulling his jacket tighter around you—he had been right; it was cold.

Carlos, who had just stepped out of the Williams motorhome, stilled completely—for the second time in two days—when he saw you and Charles; his mouth fell open; the coffee he had just brewed himself, burned his fingers through the brown paper cup; he muttered a curse word in Spanish, ‘mierda’. He glanced around the paddock, no one had noticed yet; people were milling around, minding their own business—an unusual sight in the paddock. Carlos watched as you laughed as Charles whispered something to you; his hand tenderly—softly, like you were precious and would break if he was too heavy-handed—brushed over the small of your back. Joy radiated from the both of you, despite the chaos this—Charles’ and your relationship; Charles’ jacket draped over your shoulder like it was normal—would cause. The shock which had run through Carlos like a current when he caught you kissing after qualifying had settled; it had been replaced by happiness—he was happy that you had accidentally revealed it; Carlos no longer had to face Toto, pretending that he knew nothing about how your extracurricular activities involved a certain Monégasque Ferrari driver.

You stopped outside the Mercedes motorhome—unsure if you would be welcome, the team colours of Ferrari a stark contrast to the black you normally wore. Kimi and George sat outside; George’s legs stretched out in front of him; Kimi sat pouring over a book, a pen clutched in his hands—probably his Italian homework. George’s eyes widened—much in the same way Carlos’ eyes had widened the day before—when he saw you and Charles; he elbowed Kimi, who yelped, before he looked up from his homework, his eyes landed on you and Charles—Charles laughed at something you told him; a smile etched onto your face as you pulled his jacket tighter around yourself to shield you from the cold gust sweeping through the paddock. 

As if on cue, the door to the motorhome slid open; Toto Wolff, dressed in his usual crisp white shirt and black trousers, stood in the doorway. He blinked slowly—struggling to process the scene that met him; Carlos standing by the Williams motorhome, a smug grin playing at his lips; George and Kimi sitting by a table in front of the Mercedes motorhome, eyes wide with shock; Charles and you standing far too close, Charles’ jacket draped over your shoulders as Charles giggled—giggled—at something you told him. The bright red jacket was the first thing Toto noticed; Charles’ proximity to you was the second. Toto pressed his lips together, his face twisting into a sourly expression; as Toto stood in the doorway leading into the Mercedes motorhome, he had this creeping feeling that the scene playing out in front of him was something he had never wished to see. The entire paddock froze as his voice—loud and crystal clear—rang out,

“Can someone explain why my daughter is wearing Leclerc’s Ferrari jacket?”

[empyrealix]

⊹ ࣪˖ CHARLES WORRIES THAT YOU'RE NOT OKAY

warnings. mentions of stalking (as a joke)

note. accident is not misspelled; it's a play on charles' ‘inchident’ because accident and incident have the same sound, /sɪ/ (GB) or /sə/ (GA)

MASTERLIST

[empyrealix]

⊹ ࣪˖ ENFANCE | #CL16

pairing. charles leclerc x reader

genre. fluff

synopsis. you and charles hadn't met before; that whole idea was ludicrous. or was it? a box with charles' old things from his childhood shares a different story, one where you met many, many years before the present.

warnings. none (french, if that counts)

word count. 2.9k

note. i hope u like it <3

MASTERLIST

STEPPING INTO THE FLAT you shared with Charles always brought a sense of comfort over you; it washed over you in soft waves until all aches and pains of the day were gone, washed away by waves gently lapping against the shoreline. You had never figured out why it was like this, perhaps it was the way Charles put his shoes away when he walked through the door— right next to your shoes—or if it was the smell of home, whatever that entailed, and the knowledge that the day’s events hardly mattered—seemed trivial, almost—as soon as you locked the front door behind you. 

You were used to silence. What met you as you stepped over the threshold was not the usual dreary silence of Charles’ absence, rather the flat was filled with life; of noises pouring into every empty space in the air; pushing itself through your skin. A piano sonata bloomed through speakers, filling the room swelling and deflating as piano keys were pressed. Sounds of clattering in the kitchen, as though someone were cooking, reached your ears. You stepped further into the flat, past framed pictures of you and Charles in various places at various stages of your—now three year long—relationship. As you walked by, you ran the tip of your finger over the top of the frame of your favourite picture. It was taken by Arthur a year ago when you and Charles visited his mother for dinner; Charles had his hand wrapped around your waist, he was smiling and listening intently to whatever you were saying—it had been so long, regardless of how much you tried you couldn’t recall what you had been speaking about. Your hands were thrown up into a gesture, crinkles had appeared at the corners of your eyes. Arthur had printed it out and given it to Charles with some comment about how he was so sentimental that he would probably want it printed so he could frame it.

Charles stood in front of the kitchen counter when you walked in. His fingers were curled around a block of pecorino romano; a pot of pasta was boiling on the hob beside him; guanciale was sizzling in a pan. The room smelled like guanciale and something unmistakably him, which you had never been able to place. He hadn’t noticed you yet. You stood in the doorway, just watching him; admiring how the sun hit his messy brown hair, and how his back flexed as he grated the cheese. Lost in your thoughts, you didn’t realise that Charles had stopped grating the cheese; you didn’t notice that he had noticed you leaning against the doorway watching him.

“Hey, come here.” he said, his eyes glistening and the smile  you knew so well curling up his lips. Charles leaned against the counter, reaching over to the sink, he grabbed the flower patterned kitchen towel. You watched as he  wiped his hands on the towel before hanging it back on the hook you had installed one weekend he was away on a race—you couldn’t remember where he had been, maybe it had been Baku or perhaps it had been Singapore.

You stepped closer to him, feeling his arms pull you into a hug as soon as you were close enough. Charles pressed a soft kiss to the crown of your head. Wrapped in the warmth he so willingly gave out, the entire world melted away, until it was just you and Charles drifting through an endless microcosmos; not tethered to any particular place. For the first time since you walked into the flat, you noticed a translucent plastic box seemingly placed and then abandoned on the island counter. You pulled away from Charles and a frown tugged at the corners of his lips.; clearly not happy with how the situation had unfolded. When you pulled the box towards you, the plastic screeched against the marble countertop—Charles flinched at the sound—someone had scrawled “Charles - enfance” on the lid in black permanent marker.

“What’s this?” You ask, looking at Charles. His hand was splayed across your lower back; he always seemed to find some way to touch you whenever you were close. You’d asked him about it once, and he’d spewed something poetic about how he wanted you to know that he was there and that he would always be there for as long as you wanted him; you kissed him, then, and told him to shut up even though his words caused a warmth to spread from the tips of your toes to the tips of your fingers.

“It’s just some stuff from my childhood maman dropped off.” He murmured the words into your hair. Somehow, in the two seconds it had taken you to utter your question, he had placed yet another kiss to the crown of your head. He knew you far too well, because he nudged the box towards you, “you can look through it if you want, chérie.”

That was the only encouragement you needed to remove the lid and look inside. It was filled with things from Charles’ childhood; drawings he’d made at school; his first notebook from when he was in first grade; loose pictures of Charles at various stages in his life, some were of him as a baby sitting in the sand on the beach, giggling as a wave washed over his legs, some were of Charles as an older boy; his first day at school; a halloween—Charles was dressed as a Formula 1 driver—; some holiday to the south of Italy; Charles in a red Ferrari cap at the Monaco Grand Prix in 2006. That particular image made you pause; you took it out of the box, gently holding it in your hand as you looked at it. Charles, whose hand was still resting on the small of your back, shifted his gaze from the boiling pasta water to you. He smiled, and chuckled softly as he saw the image.

“I remember that. Alonso won. I met this girl, she was my age and wore this bright orange McLaren-cap the entire weekend.” He smiled, seemingly lost in the memory, completely oblivious to the way your eyes widened and your eyebrows creased; shock was spelled across your face as Charles continued to reminisce.

Monaco 2006

The air was vibrating with excitement; the grandstands buzzed as people filed in through the gates. The Monegasques with flats overlooking the circuit stood patiently leaning against railings. Posters and painted cloths were draped over those very same railings the Monegasques were leaning against. You sat in a grandstand, wide-eyed with wonder at the spectacle around you; the many yachts in the harbour; the amount of people everywhere; the luxury that seemed embedded in the very earth in Monaco. Most of all, the track. It was empty for now, but soon, soon the cars would be given the sign to drive and qualifying would start. 

Your dad, sitting beside you, pulled the McLaren-cap you had begged for over your eyes. Everything went dark for a second before you pulled the cap back to sit properly on your head. Pretend annoyance rose in your chest. Your gaze flickered from the wonder of the Monaco Grand Prix to your father, sitting beside you, looking smug. He let out a soft hmph as you elbowed his stomach.

This was your first time at a Formula 1 race, and though you didn’t know it at the time, it certainly would not be your last. Years later, you would be standing in the back of the Ferrari garage with bated breath, watching a man in a red Ferrari suit with the number 16 printed onto his car race. For now, you were content with the hot, plastic seats of the grandstand with the sun beating down on you.

You were broken out of your reverie by a voice. Whoever the voice belonged to spoke softly in French, a language you did not understand.

“Puis-je m'asseoir ici?”

When you looked up, you were met with the face of a boy, no more than your own age, looking at you. A bright red Ferrari cap was pulled down over his brown hair. Your eyebrows creased, and the space between them—the glabella—wrinkled. The boy stood there, smiling, waiting for you to reply, when you didn’t, when the only thing you could do was look at him in confusion, the smile painted on his face slowly dropped. An older woman whom you assumed was his mother leaned down and whispered something to him in French. The boy’s face lit up again. It was as if he had suddenly understood something. In heavily accented English, the boy—clearly embarrassed by his lack of English skills—croaked out, “can I sit here?”.

You looked from the boy then back to your parents, unsure if he could. It wouldn’t have made sense to you if the boy and his family weren’t allowed to sit there, but still, you wanted to make sure. Your parents nodded. In an effort to seem nice, you smiled at the boy with the red Ferrari cap.

“Yes.”

Qualification started just as the boy sat down. From the corner of your eye, you noticed the boy glancing at you. It didn’t take him long before he’d twisted his body towards you and stretched out his hand; it was important to be polite, he thought. That was what he had always been taught. You glanced from his hand to his face. For the first time, you noticed his piercing green eyes and the mole under his eye. Shortly after, your hand shook his. It felt clammy in the Monaco heat.

“I’m Charles. I’m eight. You like Formula 1?” His cheeks were dusted pink. It was as if those four words—”you like Formula 1?”—opened something inside you, and suddenly you sat there talking about your favourite team and your favourite driver in non-standard English. Charles didn’t mind, his English was just as non-standard as yours. The correctness of the language which spilled from both your lips didn’t matter. It didn’t matter as you sat in the grandstand, watching the race, discussing whether Ferrari or McLaren were best. It certainly didn’t matter when Alonso qualified for pole, and you, with an impish smile on your face, teased Charles about Ferrari not qualifying while McLaren qualified third.

The weekend went by in a blur, and suddenly the race was over. A wide smile spread across your face as the McLaren crossed the finish line second. You glanced over and watched Charles’ face fall as two other cars—Red Bull and Honda—crossed the finish line before the Ferrari finally crossed in fifth.

“She gave me a drawing the last day of the race. I don’t know if maman kept it; she should have. It was of a Ferrari car with me as the driver.” Recognition dawned on you, finally. It had existed at the edge of your consciousness ever since Charles mentioned a girl with a bright orange McLaren-cap, but now it rammed into you, knocking the air out of your lungs. Charles dug through the box, searching almost desperately for the drawing. Eventually, he pulled it out with a triumphant grin. He handed it to you. It was more crumpled than it had been when you had handed it to him, but he still had it. The thought of that made your heart soar in your chest; butterflies, just like the ones you’d got the first time Charles kissed you beneath the open sky, erupted in your stomach.

You walked with Charles to the exit gates; both your families trailing behind you. Your face was lit up by a smile. The McLaren cap you had been wearing since the start of the race weekend was still placed atop your head. Charles held his Ferrari cap in his hands (he had claimed it had been too hot to wear it). Just before you reached the exit gate, your hand curled around Charles’ arm. He stopped abruptly, and looked at you questioningly. Your heart hammered against your ribcage; it made no sense why you were so nervous. It was just a drawing, except that to you, aged 8 years old, it wasn’t just a drawing.

The idea dawned on you as you left the grandstand the day before, just after Charles had told you that he was karting and that he one day dreamed of being a Formula 1 driver. When you brought it up to your mother, she’d only smiled, pinched your cheek—which you pouted at; “Stop, I’m not a child, mum.”—and told you it was a great idea and that Charles would be happy to receive a drawing.

As you stood in front of Charles in front of the exit, you hoped your mother was right. You reached into your pocket. Charles watched you with curious eyes as you pulled a folded drawing, clutching it in your hand before you handed it to him. Your heart pounded as Charles took the drawing, a small smile curved up his lips.

“For me?” His voice was soft. It was only when you nodded that Charles unfolded the drawing. His bright green eyes shone with wonder as he unfolded the paper. Joy settled in his face. He turned the drawing to show his parents. It was a drawing of a red race car, Ferrari was written along the side of it. Inside sat a stick figure with a helmet dressed in a red Ferrari suit. At the end of an arrow pointing to the driver of the car, you had written “you”. On the bottom of the page, in child’s handwriting, the words “to Charles, my friend from Monaco. I hope you get to be a Formula 1 driver!” were written. A smile etched itself across his face, it spread from his mouth all the way up to his eyes. His dimples appeared, and before you could comprehend what was happening, Charles’ arms were wrapped around you and he pulled you into a hug.

“I’m happy you like it.” You muttered, partly into his shoulder. Despite being the same age, he was already taller than you. Charles muttered something to you in French. Then, as if suddenly remembering that the only language you shared was English, he pulled away and, in English, a stream of words rushed out of his mouth.

“Thank you. I adore. The drawing is nice, really nice.”

That was the last time you saw Charles in years.

You stared at the drawing in your hand for far too long. Long enough for Charles’ to tilt his head and concern to etch itself into his face. With his thumb, he gently drew soft circles into the skin stretched across your back.

“Mon ange? Are you okay?”

“Y-yeah, I’m fine.” You waved him off with a very unconvincing wave of your hand; he caught it and brought it up to his lips to press a gentle kiss to the back of it. There were so many things you wanted to say, but the words to say them constantly escaped you, no matter how hard you tried to catch them. Until, you caught all of them at the same time, and everything spilled from your lips.

“I went to the Monaco GP in 2006 with my parents. I met this boy there in this bright red Ferrari-cap—I thought it looked horrible. He asked to sit down beside me, and I told him he could. He said his name was Charles, he told me he wanted to be a Formula 1 driver when he grew up. I made him that drawing for encouragement.”

Realisation slowly dawned on Charles. When he realised, his eyes widened. Charles had never believed in fate; this power which controlled the outcome of every single person’s life didn’t exist. Except now? Now he maybe thought that it did exist. The realisation settled around them like a soft blanket. It seemed impossible that two strangers, children, would meet in Monaco at a Formula 1 race, only to meet in Monza years later, fall in love and move in together.

“I always wondered what happened to you, turns out I fell in love with you and converted you to root for Ferrari.” Charles’ voice was reverent as he spoke, as if he couldn’t quite believe what was happening. He laughed, a soft laugh, filled with amusement and tenderness. His fingers found your chin, gently he turned your head towards him. HIs lips slotted perfectly against yours, as they had done so many times before. You smiled against his lips.

“I don’t know about the whole rooting for Ferrari thing, I’m still quite fond of McLaren.” The words fell from your lips the moment Charles pulled away from the kiss. With them came the teasing tone you always used when you wanted to get a rise out of him and the way your eyes twinkled mischievously. Charles scoffed, and the next thing you know, his hands were placed on either side of your hips. Laughter spilled from your lips as Charles gently spun you around, his chest pressing into yours. He nuzzled his nose against yours. Crinkles appeared in the outer corners of his eyes, his lips curved up into a smile. You had always insisted that Charles’ eyes always betrayed his real emotions, now they were flooded with mischief and mock offence.

“No, chérie.” He whined, pressing a line of kisses down your neck; his hands tightening on your hips. His stubble tickled against your neck; you tilt your head back, laughter bubbling up from your chest. With tender hands, you cupped his cheeks in both your hands, tilting his head up so his eyes—those green eyes which you love so much; which are so expressive—met yours.

“I root for Ferrari, I promise.” Charles smiled at you, kissing your nose. When you add ‘I root for McLaren, too,’ he groaned and buried his face in the juncture between your neck and shoulder.

[empyrealix]

⊹ ࣪˖ EMPYREALIX'S NAVIGATION

SOFIE ⟡ she/her

I take requests. If you have any, feel free to send them <3 or just send me an ask if you want to yap

⟡ CHARLES LECLERC

WRITTEN WORKS

enfance (fluff)

⤷ you and charles hadn't met before; that whole idea was ludicrous. or was it? a box with charles' old things from his childhood shares a different story, one where you met many, many years before the present.

but daddy i love him (wolff!reader; fluff; maybe a twinge of angst)

⤷ being toto wolff's child, you never expected to fall in love with charles leclerc, until you did. the subsequent relationship is a well-kept secret, until a certain carlos sainz stumbles upon you and charles doing something you definitely shouldn't be doing—at least according to toto. you're almost late to the race and nothing goes according to plan.

guilty as sin? (wolff!reader; part two of ‘but daddy i love him’; angst; some fluff)

⤷ days after you showed up in the paddock wearing charles' shirt, toto wolff is still not talking to you. it tears at you, him, and your relationship with charles. tired of living life scared you'll disappoint toto, you show up to the paddock holding charles' hand.

TEXTS

calling him french

charles worries that you're not okay

⟡ CARLOS SAINZ

WRITTEN WORKS

lover (fluff; suggestive)

⤷ you and carlos are on holiday, which includes ignoring all of your responsibilities and kissing—making out—until you're both nearly dizzy.

SOCIAL MEDIA AU

my love, my life

the brightest days

⟡ GEORGE RUSSELL

SOCIAL MEDIA AU

illicit affairs

[empyrealix]

⊹ ࣪˖ CALLING CHARLES FRENCH

warnings. mentions of killing (as a joke); french

note. hi hi, this is my first f1 fic, i hope u like it 🫶🏻

MASTERLIST