earth's best defender

i just think girls are neat

[cressidagrey]

The Cat Next Door

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Original Female Character

Summary:

Jimmy Verstappen has fallen in love.

Unfortunately for Max Verstappen, the love of Jimmy’s life lives on the balcony next door, which means Jimmy keeps escaping to visit her.

Even more unfortunately, her owner is very pretty.

(Sassy thinks everyone involved is an idiot.)

Warnings and Notes: 

As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble.

Jimmy knew love.

He knew it in the way he knew the sunny spot on the rug moved three times a day.

He knew it in the way he knew Max’s suitcase meant betrayal, but Max’s hoodie left on the chair meant forgiveness.

He knew it in the way he knew Sassy was going to hit him before she hit him, because her tail did a particular twitch first.

And he knew it because the most beautiful creature in the world lived on the balcony next door.

She was white.

She was fluffy.

She was round in the way expensive pillows were round.

She had a face like she had been disappointed by every human alive and was simply enduring the world until someone finally presented her with the appropriate throne.

She was, Jimmy had decided, a goddess.

The first time he saw her, she was sitting on the neighbouring balcony while the late afternoon sun made her fur glow.

Jimmy had been minding his business.

He had not been doing anything wrong.

He had merely been standing on the back of the sofa, pressing his nose against the glass door, while Max said, “Jimmy, don’t even think about it.”

Jimmy had not been thinking about anything.

Then she appeared.

White fur. Blue collar. A little gold bell. Eyes the colour of rainwater.

Jimmy forgot how to breathe.

Sassy, from her place on the armchair, opened one eye.

“Don’t,” Max said from the kitchen without looking up.

Jimmy placed one paw against the glass.

The white cat blinked at him.

Jimmy made a very soft, very dignified sound.

Sassy lifted her head.

Max looked over.

“Oh no,” he said.

Jimmy did not know what that meant, but Max sounded like he had just lost a race before the lights had even gone out.

The white cat turned, showing him the full glory of her tail, then disappeared behind a curtain.

Jimmy remained frozen.

Sassy yawned.

Max came over, crouched beside him, and looked through the glass toward the empty balcony.

“No,” Max told him.

Jimmy looked at Max.

Max narrowed his eyes. “I know that face.”

Jimmy did not know which face Max meant. He had several. 

“No escaping,” Max said. “No dramatic Romeo and Juliet balcony situation. I don’t have time for this.”

Jimmy understood only three words in that sentence.

No.

Escaping.

Balcony.

All deeply concerning.

He pressed his paw harder to the glass.

Max sighed.

Behind him, Sassy jumped down from the armchair, walked over, sniffed Jimmy’s ear, and then smacked him on the head.

Jimmy accepted this. Sassy was his sister. She had been smacking him on the head since they were kittens. It was one of her love languages, probably.

“She is right,” Max said.

Jimmy did not think Sassy was right. Sassy was never right. Sassy once hissed at a cucumber. Sassy had no authority here.

The next day, the goddess returned.

This time, Jimmy was prepared.

He had positioned himself on the dining chair closest to the balcony door after breakfast. He had ignored Sassy when she called him pathetic with her eyes. He had ignored Max when Max walked past and said, “Still? Mate.”

Jimmy was not still.

Jimmy was devoted.

The goddess appeared just after noon, carried out onto the balcony by a woman with soft hair and a long cardigan.

The woman was not Max.

Jimmy knew most humans were not Max. Humans had different smells and voices and levels of competence. Max was his human, which meant he was the best human, even when he left for loud weekends and came home smelling like champagne, rubber, and other people’s hands.

The woman next door smelled faintly of vanilla, laundry soap, and something floral. She spoke gently to the goddess as she placed her on a cushion in the sun.

“There you go, princess,” the woman said. “Fresh air.”

Princess.

Jimmy’s ears went forward.

Yes.

Correct.

The goddess was a princess.

Maybe a queen.

Maybe something above queen.

The goddess settled onto the cushion and looked across the gap between balconies.

Jimmy stood.

Sassy made a disgusted little noise from the back of the sofa.

Jimmy ignored her.

He lifted one paw.

The goddess blinked slowly.

Jimmy nearly fell off the chair.

Max, who had been drinking coffee, looked up from his phone.

“Why are you making that noise?”

Jimmy had not realized he was making a noise.

He closed his mouth.

Sassy swatted his tail.

Jimmy did not even care.

The goddess had blinked slowly at him.

That meant something.

Jimmy did not know what, exactly, but it meant something.

For three days, Jimmy watched her.

For three days, the goddess appeared on the balcony in the afternoon.

For three days, the woman in the cardigan spoke to her in a warm, amused voice.

“Careful, Cleo.”

Cleo.

Her name was Cleo.

Jimmy had a name now.

A real name.

Not just goddess, though goddess still applied.

Cleo liked sleeping in the sun. Cleo liked turning her face away when her human tried to take photos of her. Cleo liked batting lazily at the leaves of the potted olive tree on her balcony. Cleo did not chase bugs because bugs came to her. Cleo did not run. Cleo reclined.

Jimmy admired this deeply.

Sassy did not.

On the fourth day, when Jimmy climbed onto the sideboard for a better view, Sassy joined him.

For one hopeful moment, Jimmy thought his sister had come to support him.

Then she shoved him.

Jimmy landed on the floor with a soft thud.

Max looked up from where he was stretching on the mat.

“Sassy.”

Sassy sat down exactly where Jimmy had been and looked at Max like she had done him a favour.

Jimmy got up and shook himself.

Sassy began washing one paw.

Max sighed. “You deserved that, probably.”

Jimmy did not deserve that.

Jimmy was a lover.

Sassy was a criminal.

The problem was the door.

The door was glass.

Glass was unfair. Jimmy could see through it, but he could not pass through it. This was one of the great cruelties of the universe, along with empty food bowls, closed bathroom doors, and Max refusing to let him sit inside the suitcase.

But Jimmy was not stupid.

Sassy thought he was stupid because Sassy thought everyone was stupid except herself and sometimes Max, depending on whether Max had fed her recently.

Jimmy was clever.

Jimmy had observed the humans.

The balcony door opened when Max pushed the handle down and slid it across. The handle was high. Jimmy could not reach it.

But sometimes Max left the door not quite closed.

Max had a habit of doing this when he came in after watering the plants. He would slide it mostly shut, then get distracted by his phone or a call or the other human who sometimes came over and made him laugh in the soft voice.

Jimmy waited.

He was patient.

He was a hunter.

He was a romantic hero.

He was also, according to Sassy, extremely annoying.

On the fifth afternoon, the opportunity came.

Max had been on a phone call for a long time, pacing barefoot through the apartment.

“No, I know,” Max said into the phone. “But it’s stupid. Why would we do that?”

Jimmy did not know what was stupid. Many things were stupid. Vacuums. Rain. Sassy’s attitude.

Max went onto the balcony with his phone tucked between his shoulder and his ear, watered the plants, argued with someone named GP, then came back inside.

The door slid almost closed.

Almost.

Jimmy’s heart began to pound.

Cleo was on her balcony.

She was sitting on her cushion, watching him.

This was a sign.

Jimmy crouched.

Sassy, from the sofa, lifted her head.

Her eyes narrowed.

Jimmy ignored her.

He pushed his nose into the tiny gap between door and frame.

It moved.

Not much.

Enough.

“Jimmy,” Max said.

Jimmy froze.

Max was still on the phone, looking directly at him.

Jimmy looked back.

Max pointed at him. “No.”

Jimmy considered this.

Then he ran.

“Jimmy!”

The gap widened under his shoulder. The balcony air hit his whiskers. The floor was warm under his paws. Behind him, Max swore.

Jimmy darted across the balcony.

There was a gap between his balcony and Cleo’s balcony.

It was not enormous.

It was, however, a gap.

Jimmy stopped at the edge.

Cleo watched him.

Jimmy looked down.

That was very far.

Jimmy looked back.

Max had dropped his phone somewhere inside and was coming toward him with the expression he wore when someone on television said something stupid about his driving.

“Don’t,” Max said.

Jimmy looked at Cleo.

Cleo blinked.

Jimmy made his decision.

He did not jump across the gap.

Jimmy was romantic, not suicidal.

Instead, he discovered something better.

There was a low dividing wall at the far end, where the two balconies met around the corner. It was narrow. It was slightly ridiculous. It was absolutely climbable.

“Jimmy, I swear to God—”

Jimmy climbed.

Max lunged.

Jimmy was faster.

He scrambled onto the wall, tail high, paws careful, heart full of purpose.

The world became ledge and air and Max saying words Jimmy was probably not supposed to understand.

Sassy appeared at the open balcony door.

She did not look concerned.

She looked entertained.

Traitor.

Jimmy crossed the little wall and dropped onto the neighbouring balcony.

Cleo did not move.

Jimmy landed, shook himself, and looked at her.

He had done it.

He had crossed kingdoms.

He had defied glass.

He had escaped.

He had proven his love.

Cleo stretched one front paw luxuriously, then the other. Her bell gave a tiny, perfect chime.

Jimmy approached slowly.

Cleo did not hiss.

Cleo did not swat him.

Cleo leaned forward and sniffed his nose.

Jimmy’s entire soul left his body.

From the other balcony, Max said, “Oh, you little idiot.”

Jimmy did not care.

Cleo had touched noses with him.

Jimmy was never going home again.

Then the balcony door behind Cleo opened.

The woman in the cardigan stepped out.

For a second, everyone froze.

Jimmy looked up.

The woman looked down.

Cleo sat beside him, serene and innocent, as if she had personally invited him for tea.

“Oh,” the woman said.

Max, from the other balcony, said, “I am so sorry.”

The woman looked across.

Jimmy turned his head.

Max was standing on his own balcony with one hand braced on the railing, hair messy, wearing an old Red Bull T-shirt and the expression of a man whose cat had just ruined his life.

The woman blinked.

Then she smiled.

It was a nice smile.

Jimmy noticed because Max noticed.

Max always noticed things like apexes, tyre degradation, and people smiling at him.

“Is he yours?” the woman asked.

Max looked at Jimmy.

Jimmy sat down beside Cleo.

Cleo’s tail curled around her paws.

Max exhaled through his nose. “Unfortunately.”

Jimmy did not know what unfortunately meant, but Max used it often when talking about people he loved.

The woman laughed.

Max’s expression changed.

Not a lot.

A little.

Jimmy knew Max’s faces. Max had many faces even though humans often thought he only had three. There was angry Max, sleepy Max, race Max, cat Max, soft Max, and the very rare Max who had just realized someone pretty was laughing at something he said.

This was that one.

“He seems very sweet,” the woman said.

Max looked at Jimmy again.

Jimmy looked back with dignity.

“He is not,” Max said. “He is a menace.”

The woman crouched and held out her fingers.

Jimmy sniffed them politely.

Vanilla. Laundry soap. Flowers. Cleo.

Acceptable.

“Oh, he is sweet,” she said.

Max snorted. “He waited five days to break into your balcony.”

“Determined, then.”

“Stubborn.”

“Romantic.”

Max paused.

Jimmy’s ears twitched.

The woman smiled down at Jimmy. “He came to visit Cleo.”

Cleo lifted her chin.

Yes. Obviously.

Max dragged a hand through his hair. “I should come get him.”

“I can pass him over.”

“No, no. He will act like you are murdering him. Better if I come around.”

The woman stood. “I’m in 42B.”

“I know,” Max said, then immediately looked annoyed with himself. “I mean—not in a weird way. It is just next door.”

The woman’s smile widened.

Jimmy thought Max was doing badly.

This was surprising. Max was usually good at things. Driving. Cats. Looking angry at people. Opening food pouches.

Flirting, apparently, required Jimmy’s supervision.

“I’m Élise,” the woman said.

“Max.”

“I know.”

Max’s eyebrows lifted.

Élise looked amused. “Not in a weird way. It is just next door.”

Max stared at her for half a second.

Then he laughed.

Jimmy had heard Max laugh many times. Loudly, with his friends. Softly, at his phone. Breathlessly, when Sassy fell off the sofa and pretended she had meant to do it.

This laugh was different.

It came out surprised.

Jimmy was very proud of himself.

He stayed beside Cleo while Max disappeared from the balcony and reappeared a few minutes later at Élise’s front door.

Jimmy heard the bell.

Then footsteps.

Then Élise opening the door.

Then Max saying, “Hi.”

Then Élise saying, “Hi.”

Then nothing for a moment.

Humans were so inefficient.

Jimmy leaned toward Cleo and sniffed her cheek.

Cleo allowed it.

Best day of his life.

Max appeared on the balcony through Élise’s apartment, looking around like he was trying very hard not to look around too much.

“Nice place,” he said.

“Thank you,” Élise replied. “Cleo has allowed me to decorate it.”

Max glanced at Cleo. “Generous of her.”

“She’s very strict.”

“I have one like that. Her name is Sassy.”

“Is she the one who judges everyone from the window?”

Max nodded gravely. “That is her main job.”

Jimmy was offended. Sassy had other jobs too. Hitting him. Sitting in boxes. Refusing food until Max became concerned, then eating it when he turned around.

Élise crouched beside Jimmy again. “And this one is?”

“Jimmy.”

Jimmy lifted his head.

The way she said his name was nice.

“Jimmy,” Élise repeated, stroking one finger gently between his ears. “You are very handsome.”

Jimmy closed his eyes.

Yes.

Finally.

Recognition.

Max muttered, “Don’t encourage him.”

“I think he has excellent taste.”

Cleo, as though she understood that she was being admired, tucked her paws under her chest and became a cloud.

Max looked at Élise.

Élise looked at Max.

Jimmy opened one eye.

Ah.

There.

The thing.

Humans had it too, apparently.

The slow blink.

Only with more awkwardness.

Max cleared his throat. “Sorry again.”

“It’s fine. Cleo enjoyed the company.”

Jimmy perked up.

She did?

Max picked Jimmy up.

Jimmy considered protesting.

Then he remembered he was in Max’s arms, which was one of the safest places in the world, and chose magnanimity.

Élise walked them to the door.

Cleo remained on the balcony like a queen receiving departing guests.

“Maybe next time he can come through the front door,” Élise said.

Max stopped.

Jimmy felt him stop.

“Next time?” Max asked.

Élise’s mouth curved. “For Cleo, obviously.”

“Obviously.”

Jimmy looked between them.

Max was not looking at Cleo.

Élise was not looking at Jimmy.

Interesting.

“I can give you my number,” Élise said. “In case he escapes again.”

Max’s hand shifted under Jimmy’s paws.

“Yes,” Max said. “That would be good.”

Jimmy purred.

He was a genius.

When Max carried him back into their apartment, Sassy was waiting in the hallway.

Her tail flicked.

Max shut the door behind him, still looking faintly pleased with himself.

Jimmy wriggled until Max set him down.

Sassy walked up to him.

Jimmy lifted his chin.

He had touched noses with a goddess.

He had crossed a balcony.

He had helped Max acquire a number.

He was untouchable.

Sassy sniffed him.

Then she smacked him so hard he sat down.

“Sassy,” Max said, distracted, still looking at his phone.

Jimmy shook his head and glared at her.

Sassy turned and walked away, tail high.

She was jealous.

Obviously.

Over the next week, Jimmy escaped three more times.

The second time was through the window above the balcony doors, which Max had not realized opened far enough for a cat until Jimmy proved that it did.

The third time was when a delivery man arrived and Jimmy slipped between Max’s feet with the grace and determination of a professional criminal.

The fourth time was, admittedly, Sassy’s fault.

Jimmy stood by this.

Sassy had pushed a throw blanket off the sofa, distracting Max for exactly four seconds.

Jimmy used those four seconds to slide through the balcony door and make his way to Cleo.

Sassy later denied involvement by pretending to be asleep.

Max did not believe her.

“I am being outsmarted by cats,” Max said that evening, standing on Élise’s doorstep with Jimmy tucked under one arm like a furry handbag.

Élise leaned against the doorframe. She was wearing soft trousers and a jumper with the sleeves pulled over her hands.

Jimmy liked her. She always smelled kind. She always scratched his chin properly. She did not speak to him in a silly voice unless she thought no one was listening.

Cleo liked him too.

Probably.

She allowed him to sit near her. Sometimes she touched his tail with her paw. Once she had groomed his ear for six full seconds before deciding he was beneath her again.

Jimmy was prepared to be patient.

Great love required sacrifice.

“You look very defeated for someone who drives cars very fast for a living,” Élise said.

Max gave her a flat look. “The car usually listens to me.”

“Does it?”

“No,” Max admitted. “But more than Jimmy.”

Élise laughed.

Jimmy purred in support.

Max looked down. “You are the reason I am here.”

Jimmy blinked innocently.

Élise reached out and stroked his head. “Maybe he just misses Cleo.”

“He saw her two hours ago.”

“Love has no schedule.”

Max opened his mouth, then closed it.

Élise’s smile became smug.

Max huffed. “You are enjoying this.”

“A little.”

“You could pretend to be annoyed.”

“I could,” Élise said. “But then you might stop coming over.”

Max went still.

Jimmy felt it.

A tiny shift.

A change in breathing.

A moment where Max, who was usually so fast at everything, needed a second.

Élise looked suddenly less smug.

Jimmy looked between them again.

Humans.

Hopeless.

Max said, “I could come over without him escaping.”

Élise’s cheeks changed colour.

Jimmy’s ears flicked.

Oh.

Interesting.

“Yes,” Élise said. “You could.”

Max nodded once, like he had just received important strategy instructions.

“I could bring wine,” he said.

“I like wine.”

“Good.”

“Good.”

Jimmy waited.

Max waited.

Élise waited.

Cleo appeared behind Élise’s legs and gave a small, delicate meow.

Jimmy immediately forgot the humans existed.

He wriggled.

Max tightened his grip.

“No,” Max said.

Jimmy wriggled harder.

“Absolutely not.”

Cleo meowed again.

Jimmy made a desperate little sound.

Élise put a hand over her mouth.

Max looked personally betrayed. “Do not laugh. He knows when people laugh.”

“I’m not laughing.”

“You are.”

“I’m smiling supportively.”

“You are enabling him.”

“I am supporting love.”

Max looked at Jimmy.

Jimmy looked at Cleo.

Cleo blinked.

Max sighed. “Five minutes.”

Jimmy loved Max.

Max put him down.

Jimmy trotted to Cleo with great dignity.

Behind him, Max and Élise remained near the door.

“So,” Élise said. “Wine?”

“Tomorrow?” Max asked.

“I’m free tomorrow.”

“I’m free after training.”

“Is that afternoon or evening?”

“Depends if my trainer wants to kill me.”

“Should I be concerned?”

“No. He usually fails.”

Élise laughed again.

Jimmy settled beside Cleo.

This was excellent.

The following afternoon, Max spent too long choosing a shirt.

Jimmy knew this because Max changed three times.

Max did not usually change three times. Max usually wore the first thing that did not smell unacceptable. Sometimes even that standard was flexible.

Sassy sat on the bed and watched him with cool disdain.

Jimmy sat beside her.

They were united, briefly, in judgment.

Max held up a dark shirt.

Sassy blinked.

Max held up a lighter one.

Jimmy yawned.

Max looked at them. “You are no help.”

Sassy began washing her shoulder.

Max wore the dark shirt.

He smelled nervous, though he would have denied this under oath.

He picked up the wine bottle from the counter, then put it down, then picked it up again.

Jimmy followed him to the door.

“No,” Max said immediately.

Jimmy sat.

Max pointed at him. “You are not coming.”

Jimmy looked wounded.

“You are the reason this is happening,” Max said. “You do not also get to attend.”

Jimmy meowed.

Max crouched. “No.”

Jimmy meowed again, softer.

Max’s face changed.

Jimmy knew this face.

Victory was close.

Then Sassy walked over and smacked Jimmy on the back of the head.

Max stood. “Thank you, Sassy.”

Sassy accepted this praise with the regal indifference of someone who had done it for herself.

Max left.

Without Jimmy.

This was unforgivable.

Jimmy sat by the door for three minutes.

Then he went to the balcony.

Sassy followed him.

The lights were on next door. Through the glass, Jimmy could see Max standing in Élise’s kitchen while Élise poured wine. Cleo was on the bar stool, which Jimmy admired because Max never let him sit on the bar stools unless Max did not see him do it.

Max looked more relaxed now.

Élise was smiling.

Cleo flicked her tail.

Jimmy pressed one paw to the glass.

Sassy sat beside him.

For once, she did not hit him.

They watched.

Max laughed at something Élise said. Élise touched his arm. Max looked down at her hand, then back at her face.

Jimmy did not understand everything humans said.

He understood tone.

He understood warmth.

He understood Max looking like the apartment had become a little less empty while he stood in someone else’s kitchen.

Sassy’s tail brushed his.

Jimmy leaned into her side.

She allowed it for seven seconds.

Then she bit his ear.

Normal.

Max came home very late.

Jimmy was waiting in the hallway.

Sassy pretended she was not.

Max opened the door quietly, stepped inside, and looked down at them.

“You two are creepy,” he said.

Jimmy smelled Élise on him.

Wine. Vanilla. Flowers.

Also Cleo.

Jimmy immediately forgave him.

Max locked the door, kicked off his shoes, and bent to scratch Jimmy under the chin.

“She asked if you can come over tomorrow,” Max said.

Jimmy perked up.

“For Cleo,” Max added.

Jimmy purred.

Max smiled faintly.

Then he looked at Sassy. “She asked about you too.”

Sassy stared at him.

Max grinned. “Yes, I told her you are horrible.”

Sassy turned and walked away.

Jimmy thought this was fair.

The visits became regular after that.

Sometimes Jimmy went to see Cleo.

Sometimes Cleo came over to see Jimmy, carried in Élise’s arms like royalty visiting a lesser court.

The first time Cleo entered Max’s apartment, Sassy acted as though an enemy nation had invaded.

She sat on top of the bookshelf and glared down at the white Persian with magnificent hatred.

Cleo did not care.

Cleo walked directly to Jimmy’s favourite blanket, sniffed it, and sat on it.

Jimmy nearly fainted.

Sassy hissed.

Cleo blinked slowly.

Sassy seemed offended by the elegance of the response.

Max, standing beside Élise, whispered, “This is going better than expected.”

Élise whispered back, “Sassy looks like she is planning a coup.”

“She always looks like that.”

“Has she ever attempted one?”

“Several.”

Élise laughed softly and leaned into Max’s side.

Max went still for one tiny second before his arm moved around her waist like he had been doing it for years.

Jimmy saw.

Sassy saw.

Cleo probably knew already.

Cleo knew many things.

Later, when Élise and Max sat on the sofa with wine glasses on the coffee table, Jimmy lay on the rug beside Cleo. Sassy remained on the bookshelf, refusing to participate in diplomatic relations.

Élise’s voice was soft.

“I’m glad he escaped,” she said.

Max hummed. “Jimmy?”

“Yes.”

“He is very pleased with himself.”

“He should be.”

Max looked at Jimmy.

Jimmy closed his eyes and pretended not to listen.

“He is still a menace,” Max said.

Élise said, “Maybe. But a useful one.”

Max was quiet for a moment.

Then he said, “Yes.”

Jimmy’s chest warmed.

He did not know what useful meant, exactly.

But Max’s voice was soft.

That was enough.

Cleo shifted closer until her side touched his.

Jimmy stopped breathing.

Sassy, from the bookshelf, made a noise of disgust.

Jimmy ignored her.

His sister could be mean.

Max could be stubborn.

Humans could be very slow.

Glass doors could be cruel.

But Jimmy had known love when he saw it.

White fur glowing in afternoon sun.

A gold bell.

A slow blink from a balcony.

And now, Max laughing softly beside Élise while Cleo slept next to Jimmy on the rug.

Jimmy had crossed kingdoms for this.

He had escaped four times.

He had been smacked by Sassy, carried by Max, praised by Élise, and blessed by Cleo’s presence.

Worth it.

Completely worth it.

Then Cleo opened one rainwater eye and gently placed her paw on top of Jimmy’s.

Jimmy purred so loudly Max looked over.

Élise smiled.

Sassy jumped down from the bookshelf, marched across the room, and smacked him.

Jimmy barely felt it.

He was in love.

[tonyspep]

this fic is so funny i can't even. i love how you wrote jimmy here... how it really felt like you were inside his head as the reader. this was so adorable. i love jimmy being a hopeless romantic and being desperate to get to his lady love cleo which brings max his own love.

[cursedbybang]

Hi! I have a request- Can you do a Oscar x reader fic where reader is frustrated and stressed from work so naturally Oscar plans an entire stress free day and the both of them just have a good time together. I hope that made sense haha. Thank you 😊

❝reset❞

pairing: oscar piastri x fem!reader

summary: seeing his girlfriend on the verge of a breakdown, oscar plans a quiet, ordinary day away from the chaos of work.

warnings: work exhaustion, comfort, oscar being the sweetest boyfriend in the world.

word counting: 2.7k

a/n: i hope you enjoy it, my love 🤍

ଓ english is not my first language, be kind.

The silence of the flat you shared with Oscar was the starkest possible contrast to the noisy chaos of that company, which seemed to suck every last drop of your vitality out of you.

Lately, your professional life had turned into a daily test of survival. A gnawing frustration and constant stress that made your shoulders feel as though they weighed a ton. It seemed that nothing, absolutely nothing in that bloody office worked unless you were on top of every single detail, sorting out messes that weren’t even your responsibility. And, to top it all off, your boss was the very definition of unbearable. A petty man who took pleasure in picking on you over ridiculous details, the formatting of reports that nobody read, and emails sent minutes after the end of the working day. Even on your rare days off, that damned mobile wouldn’t stop ringing, vibrating on your desk with ‘urgent’ calls that could easily have waited until Monday. You were at your wits’ end, exhausted, operating purely on autopilot.

Oscar, with his absurdly observant and quiet manner, had been watching your physical and mental decline for weeks. He noticed the way you sighed heavily as you stared at your mobile screen, the way you picked at your food without any appetite, and the constant crease that refused to fade from between your eyebrows. He was more than just worried; his heart ached to see the brilliant girlfriend he loved being slowly worn down by exhaustion.

When the flat door opened late that night, the faint sound of the key in the lock was enough for Oscar to stop what he was doing in the kitchen and go to the entrance.

The scene broke his heart. You were standing in the hall, shoulders slumped, looking utterly defeated, your eyes red as you held back the tears that could no longer be contained. Your head was throbbing with pain, a pulsing migraine that made any light feel like a physical assault, and your feet were burning inside those uncomfortable heels you’d been forced to wear all day.

Oscar didn’t take a single hurried step, so as not to startle you. He simply approached with that comforting calm that was uniquely his, stretched out his broad arms and pulled you close to his chest. He didn’t ask if you were all right. He knew you weren’t, and he detested that rhetorical question which would only force you to waste energy explaining the obvious. Instead, he simply held you tightly, letting you rest your weight against him, whilst one of his hands moved up to stroke your hair with gentle fingers. You buried your face in his neck, breathing in the familiar scent of soap and fabric softener, and finally let the tears of sheer exhaustion roll down your cheeks, dampening the fabric of his t-shirt.

He held you there for several long minutes, providing a safe haven until your crying gave way to nothing but weary sighs.

"Come with me," he whispered close to your ear, his voice incredibly gentle.

​With all the patience in the world, he bent down to gently hold your ankles, helping you to slip out of your painful heels. He then took you by the hand and led you to the main bathroom. As you leaned against the wall, still feeling a little dizzy with tiredness, he knelt down beside the bath and turned on the tap, adjusting the water to a warm and extremely relaxing temperature. He poured in some aromatic bath salts that you’d been saving for ‘special occasions’, filling the bathroom with a gentle scent of lavender.

He stood up, walked over to you and, without rushing, began to take off your work clothes, piece by piece, with an almost reverent care. He helped you into the warm bath, and the feel of the water against your skin made you let out a moan of relief, closing your eyes immediately.

Oscar didn’t leave your side. He took a soft sponge, put a little of his favourite liquid soap on it and began to bathe you. He washed your tense shoulders and your back, cleaned your aching feet with gentle massages and wet your hair, washing away all the office gossip and stress from that office. He looked after you as if you were the most precious and fragile jewel in the world.

​After a while under the warm water, he helped you out, wrapping your body in a soft, fluffy towel. With the utmost gentleness, he dried your skin, running the towel over you softly, without rushing. He lifted you effortlessly into his arms and carried you to the double bed, where clean, fresh sheets were already spread out.

You lay down, still completely naked beneath the soft sheet. For both of you, being naked like that was the most natural thing in the world; he had seen your body countless times, knew every detail, every curve, and at that moment there wasn’t a trace of mischief, just a deep desire to see you well.

​At his request, you lay face down. Oscar walked over to your dressing table and picked up one of those expensive imported massage creams you’d been given for your birthday, but which you’d always said you were ‘too sorry to use’ and which had been gathering dust in the drawer.

​He climbed onto the bed, kneeling on either side of your hips without putting his weight on you. He spread a little of the cream onto his own palms, rubbing them together until the product became warm. When Oscar’s large, firm hands touched the skin of your back, you let out a deep sigh.

He began a powerful and extremely professional massage. His thumbs pressed into the tension points near the nape of her neck, working their way down towards her shoulder blades and massaging her lower back with precise pressure, releasing every knot of stress that the difficult days had built up there. The sensation of the expensive cream gliding over your skin, combined with the precise strength of his hands, was the final blow to your exhaustion. The headache began to fade, replaced by a wave of relaxation so deep that, within the first few seconds of the massage, your eyes grew heavy and you simply drifted off, surrendering to the deepest sleep you’d had in months.

​In the middle of the night, the silence in the room was absolute, broken only by the sound of Oscar’s calm breathing beside you.

​You blinked slowly, waking briefly from a dreamless sleep. The room was dimly lit by moonlight filtering through a gap in the curtains. As you shifted beneath the covers, you realised you were no longer naked; at some point after you’d fallen asleep, Oscar had dressed you in one of his grey t-shirts — which was enormous, hanging down to the middle of your thighs — and a pair of fluffy socks to keep your feet warm.

​You glanced to one side. Oscar was lying on his side, facing you, sleeping like a true angel. His features were completely relaxed, his brown hair slightly tousled on the pillow, and one arm draped protectively around your waist.

​Feeling an indescribable wave of gratitude and love warm your chest, you crawled closer to him, nestling your head into the hollow of his chest and breathing in the subtle scent of his t-shirt. Sensing your movement, even in his sleep, Oscar instinctively tightened his arm around your waist, pulling you even closer.

With your body warm, your mind finally at ease and safe in the arms of the man who looked after you like no one else, you closed your eyes and drifted back to sleep, knowing that, at least there, the outside world couldn’t touch you.

♡ • ♡ • ♡ • ♡ • ♡ • ♡ • ♡ • ♡ • ♡ • ♡ • ♡ • ♡

The morning sun began painting golden lines through the gaps in the curtains, but what truly brought you back to reality wasn't the light — it was the trail of slow, gentle kisses that started on your forehead, travelled down the tip of your nose, and finally settled against your cheek.

A sleepy murmur escaped your lips as you tried to burrow deeper beneath the duvet, but Oscar's arms quickly pulled you back, tucking you snugly against the warmth of his chest.

"Morning." His voice was even deeper with sleep, vibrating softly against your back. "Wake up, sleepyhead. We're spending the day out today."

You blinked slowly, still processing the familiar scent of his cologne mixed with the aroma of freshly brewed coffee drifting in from the kitchen.

"Out? What do you mean? Oscar, what time is it?" You tried to turn and look at the clock, already feeling yesterday's anxiety threatening to creep back in.

"Doesn't matter what time it is," he replied, lazily stroking your shoulder beneath the oversized grey t-shirt you were still wearing. "Just go to the wardrobe and pick the comfiest clothes you've got. A baggy hoodie, trainers… maybe a cap. We're keeping a low profile today."

Corporate panic settled in your chest almost instantly. Your brain, conditioned to live beneath the whip of that company, immediately jumped to the consequences.

"Oscar, I can't. My phone… I need to switch it on. If I don't answer my morning emails, they'll sack me! I swear, my boss is going to lose it if I disappear for an entire day."

Oscar let out a quiet sigh, that familiar calm half-smile appearing on his lips. He reached across to your bedside table, picked up your phone before you could grab it, and calmly pressed the power button until the screen went black. "Well, it's a rubbish job anyway," he said with a shrug, so matter of factly that you froze. "If they fire you, we'll celebrate with champagne. It's off now. And it's staying here."

You stared at him, mouth slightly open, caught somewhere between disbelief and an overwhelming urge to laugh at the sheer audacity of him.

"Have you completely lost your mind? What about you? Weren't you supposed to have physical training this morning and a team meeting this afternoon?"

"Cancelled them." He answered as though it were the most ordinary thing in the world, leaning in to steal a quick kiss before you could protest again. "I told them I had an emergency. And right now, my emergency needs to brush her teeth so we can have breakfast. Go on. Five minutes."

Half an hour later, you were wearing the softest hoodie you owned, one of Oscar's caps, and a pair of sunglasses. He looked much the same — hood pulled up and a cap pulled low, the classic disguise he wore whenever he just wanted to be an ordinary bloke in his twenties.

He drove you to the south side of the city, parking a little way down a quiet, tree-lined street. The moment you realised where you were, your heart tightened in the nicest way.

It was that bakery.

The little corner bakery with wooden tables out on the pavement and the comforting smell of toasted bread, where the two of you used to go almost every weekend when you'd first started dating, before his formula one career exploded and time became a luxury neither of you could afford. You hadn't been back in years.

"You remembered…" you whispered, looking at the familiar façade.

"Of course I did. You always ordered toasted bread with cream cheese and a fresh orange juice you insisted was the best in the city." He slipped his hand beneath the table to lace his fingers with yours, choosing the corner table furthest away from the pavement. Conversation came as naturally as if no time had passed at all.

Oscar — the quiet, analytical McLaren driver the entire world knew for speaking as little as possible, became a completely different person whenever he was alone with you. He gossiped about the ridiculous backstage drama from the last race, did hilariously accurate impressions of the engineers' accents just to make you laugh, and stubbornly insisted that you eat the last slice of the chocolate cake you'd shared.

For the first time in months, you didn't glance at the time once.

After breakfast, the two of you wandered hand in hand to an old-fashioned bookshop, the kind with bookshelves stretching all the way to the ceiling and wooden ladders to reach the highest shelves.

"Go on." Oscar folded his arms and leaned casually against one of the romance shelves while watching you browse the covers. "Pick whatever you want. As many as you like."

"Oscar, I've already got a pile at home I haven't even had time to read…"

"Then we'll buy more for when you do have time," he replied with that stubborn smile.

Before long, you'd completely lost yourself among the shelves, while Oscar followed close behind, picking up every single book you so much as glanced at and stacking them in his arms.

At the till, he insisted on paying before you even had the chance to argue, carrying the heavy shopping bag afterwards with an oddly proud grin on his face.

Lunch was at a small, traditional family restaurant — the sort that didn't take reservations and served the kind of homemade food that made your mouth water before it even reached the table.

The owner, a lovely elderly woman who clearly hadn't the faintest idea that the young man sitting opposite you drove for McLaren, placed an extra-large portion of chips in the middle of the table because you're such a lovely couple.

The rest of the afternoon disappeared into aimless wandering through the city.

At one point, you found yourselves strolling through a local craft market. Oscar bought the most hideous, tacky little wooden keyring imaginable just so he could clip it onto your handbag and laugh at your horrified expression.

He kept one arm draped comfortably around your shoulders, gently pulling you closer whenever someone seemed to look at him for a second too long, quietly protecting the little bubble of privacy you'd managed to build around yourselves.

By the time night fell, your feet were aching from walking but this time, it was the pleasant kind of tiredness.

Instead of going somewhere fancy for dinner, Oscar pulled into the drive-through of an old local burger place. Afterwards, he drove to a quiet viewpoint overlooking the city, parking the car so the lights glittered below you.

He switched off the headlights, leaving only the soft glow of the interior lights. Within seconds, the car was filled with the comforting smell of burgers and chips. You balanced the paper bags on the dashboard while sharing a can of fizzy drink between you.

"Do you know what Lando told me this week?" Oscar began, barbecue sauce smeared in the corner of his mouth as he gestured animatedly with half a burger in his hand.

He launched into the most ridiculous story imaginable about a stupid bet they'd made on the factory simulator, carefully explaining every outrageous excuse his teammate had invented to avoid paying for dinner afterwards.

You tried your hardest to hold it together. You really did.

But the utterly serious, detailed way Oscar recounted the complete nonsense was too much.

A loud laugh burst out of you. You laughed so hard with your mouth full that you nearly choked on a chip, clapping a hand over your mouth while desperately trying to catch your breath.

Oscar stopped talking immediately. Not to tell you off.

His whole face lit up with the biggest, warmest smile you'd ever seen on him. He reached over with his free hand, picked up a paper napkin, and gently wiped the corner of your mouth before his thumb lingered against your cheek in a soft caress.

"What?" You asked, your voice still shaking with laughter as warmth crept across your face.

"Nothing," he whispered.

His eyes shimmered beneath the faint glow of the dashboard lights, filled with a tenderness so overwhelming it almost felt tangible.

"It's just… it's been a long time since I've heard you laugh like that. It's my favourite sound in the whole world."

You swallowed hard, feeling that familiar flutter deep in your stomach.

The office stress. The endless phone calls from your unbearable boss. The fear of what the future might hold. All of it suddenly felt miles away, completely drowned out by the simple fact that he was sitting beside you.

"Thank you for today, Osc." You murmured softly, resting your head on his shoulder as you slipped your hand into the one he'd offered you.

"I told you," he replied, squeezing your fingers firmly before pressing a gentle kiss to the top of your head.

"That job is rubbish. But we'll figure it out… We always do."

⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠈⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁

divider by @dollywons

[lightsoutandawaywewrite]

i saw your requests were open and was wondering if you would ever write something where the drivers are asked about the bare minimum vs princess treatment and charles thinks everything is the bare minimum because he's always giving his girlfriend the princess treatment

The baseline of devotion

Pairing: Charles Leclerc x Reader (y/n)

Warnings: none, pure fluff, established relationship, romantic Charles

Summary: When a viral media trend asks about princess treatment, Charles Leclerc leaves everyone stunned by proving that completely spoiling you is just his daily bare minimum.

Requested: Yes/ @tonyspep

Word count: 5886

Author's note: Charles is truly the ultimate dream boyfriend. I really hope this story brings you so much joy, enjoy xx

Masterlist

The sun is exceptionally bright over the paddock in Budapest, baking the asphalt until the air shimmers with heat waves. It is Thursday, the designated media day, and the usual hum of activity fills the space between the team hospitalities. Engineers walk briskly with laptops under their arms, mechanics in short sleeves wheel tire stacks across the hot ground, and fans crowd the barriers near the entrance, hoping for an autograph or a quick selfie.

You are sitting in the air-conditioned sanctuary of the Ferrari hospitality building, nursing a cold glass of lemonade. Through the glass window, you can see the hustle and bustle of the paddock, but inside, the temperature is perfectly cool. Your phone rests on the wooden table, occasionally lighting up with notifications, but you are mostly enjoying the quiet moment before the chaos of the race weekend truly begins.

Outside, near the media pen, a popular social media creator working with the Formula One digital team is holding a microphone. They are filming a quick fire segment with the drivers, a lighthearted video meant to break up the serious technical talk of downforce and tire degradation. The topic of the day is a viral trend that has been circulating online, the debate between what constitutes the bare minimum in a relationship versus what qualifies as princess treatment.

Pierre Gasly is the first to be stopped. He stands with his sunglasses perched on his nose, a smirk playing on his lips as the interviewer explains the concept. Pierre laughs, shaking his head, and says, “The bare minimum is remembering her birthday and texting her when I land. Princess treatment is taking her to a nice dinner in Paris and letting her choose the music in the car.”

Next is Carlos Sainz, who leans against the barrier with an easy, confident posture. He listens to the question, rubs his chin thoughtfully, and offers his own perspective. “The bare minimum is making sure there is food in the fridge when she comes over. Princess treatment is cooking my special golf tournament victory paella for her and opening the car door every single time.”

Then, the interviewer spots Charles. He is walking back from a technical briefing, his red team shirt pristine, his hair slightly messy from the humidity. He has his hands in his pockets, but when he sees the microphone, he stops with his characteristic polite smile. The camera adjusts to focus on his face, capturing the bright green of his eyes and the dimple that appears when he greets the interviewer.

“Charles, we are asking the drivers about a popular concept today,” the interviewer says, holding the microphone closer to him. “We want to know your thoughts on the bare minimum versus princess treatment in a relationship. What do you think belongs in each category?”

Charles blinks, his brow furrowing slightly in genuine confusion. He tilts his head, digesting the words. “The bare minimum versus princess treatment,” he repeats, his accent thick and soft. “What do you mean by this?”

“Well,” the interviewer explains, smiling at his earnestness, “the bare minimum is the basic standard of how you should treat your partner, just to keep the relationship going. Princess treatment is going above and beyond, doing the extra, highly romantic things to make her feel incredibly special and spoiled.”

Charles nods slowly, but the confusion does not leave his face. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, thinking about it. “Okay, but, for me, I do not understand where the line is. Because, if you love someone, is everything not just the bare minimum?”

The interviewer pauses, caught off guard by his response. “What do you mean by that, Charles?”

“Like,” Charles begins, gesturing with his hands to emphasize his point, “if she is tired after a long flight, and you run a warm bath for her, put her favorite bath oils in, and have her pajamas waiting, is that not just normal? You want her to feel relaxed because you love her. That is just the bare minimum, no?”

The interviewer stares at him, their smile widening in disbelief. “Charles, most people would consider running a fully prepared bath with heated pajamas to be very high level princess treatment.”

Charles shakes his head, looking truly perplexed. “No, no, that is just being a good boyfriend. Or, like, when she is sleeping, and you wake up earlier to go to the bakery to buy the warm croissants and the specific orange juice she likes, and you bring it to her in bed so she does not have to step on the cold floor. Is that not just what you do? Why is that considered extra?”

“That is absolutely princess treatment, Charles,” the interviewer says, laughing.

“I do not agree,” Charles says, a soft laugh escaping him as well, though he is entirely serious. “For me, that is the base. If you do not do these things, then why are you in a relationship? Princess treatment, I think, would be something much bigger, like building a whole castle for her or buying her an island. But doing the little things every day to make her life easier and more beautiful, that is just the standard. It is the bare minimum.”

The interviewer shakes their head, clearly delighted by the goldmine of content they have just recorded. “I think every person watching this is going to agree that your standards are very different from the rest of the world, Charles. Thank you for your time.”

“Thank you,” Charles says, offering a polite wave to the camera before continuing his walk back to the Ferrari hospitality.

Inside the building, your phone buzzes violently. It is a text message from one of your close friends, containing a link to the Formula One social media account. They have uploaded the clip almost instantly, knowing it would gather millions of views within minutes. You tap the link, holding the phone to your ear to block out the low murmur of the hospitality staff.

You watch the video play out. You see Pierre’s cheeky grin, Carlos’s confident shrug, and then Charles appears on the screen. As you listen to him speak, a warm, fluttering feeling blooms in your chest. You cannot help the soft smile that spreads across your lips. He spoke with such absolute sincerity, with no intention of showing off or looking like the perfect boyfriend. He truly, deeply believes that pampering you is simply the baseline of existence.

The glass door of the hospitality suite slides open, and a draft of warm air enters before the air conditioning quickly corrects it. Charles walks in, scanning the room until his eyes land on you. His expression instantly softens, the slight tension in his shoulders melting away the moment he sees your face. He walks over to your table, pulling out the chair next to you and sinking into it with a quiet sigh of relief.

“Hi,” he murmurs, leaning over to press a gentle kiss to your temple. He smells of the warm summer air, a hint of his expensive cologne, and the faint, clean scent of the Ferrari garage. “How are you? Is the AC cold enough in here? Do you need me to get you another drink?”

You look at him, your heart swelling with affection. You turn your phone screen toward him, showing the frozen frame of his face on the video. “I am doing wonderful, Charles. But I think you have just set the expectations for every partner in the world incredibly high.”

Charles looks at the screen, then back up at you, his cheeks flushing a faint shade of pink. “Ah, they uploaded it already? I was just answering the question. I do not understand why the interviewer was looking at me like I was speaking a different language.”

“Because, Charles,” you say, reaching out to slide your hand into his, “what you described is what most people dream of receiving once a year on an anniversary. You do those things for me every single day.”

He squeezes your hand, his thumb tracing gentle circles over the back of your knuckles. “But that is my point. You deserve to have those things every day. Why would I wait for an anniversary to make you feel loved? It does not make sense to me.”

You lean your head against his shoulder, feeling the solid, comforting warmth of his body. “You are ridiculous, you know that?”

“Maybe,” he whispers, kissing the top of your head. “But I am only ridiculous for you.”

The rest of the afternoon passes in a blur of briefings and team meetings for Charles, but he never fails to check in on you. Every time he passes the hospitality suite, he looks through the glass, catches your eye, and gives you a quick, reassuring wink. When he finally finishes his duties for the day, the sun is beginning to dip below the horizon, painting the sky in soft shades of orange, pink, and purple.

You walk together to the car park, his arm draped casually over your shoulders, shielding you from the lingering crowds of fans and photographers. He guides you to the passenger side of the rental car, opening the door for you and waiting until you are safely settled inside before closing it with a gentle click. He jogs around to the driver’s side, sliding behind the wheel and immediately adjusting the air conditioning so it blows directly toward you.

“Are you hungry?” he asks, turning the key in the ignition. “I found a small, quiet Italian restaurant about thirty minutes outside the city. It is away from the main tourist areas, so we will not be bothered. I already called them to make sure they have that specific pasta dish you liked when we were in Rome.”

You look at his profile as he backs the car out of the parking space. He does it so casually, as if researching a restaurant, finding a specific dish you mentioned offhand months ago, and calling ahead to ensure they can make it is just a standard Tuesday task.

“You did that today?” you ask, your voice soft. “Between your technical meetings and the media sessions?”

“Of course,” he says, not taking his eyes off the road as he navigates the paddock exit. “You said last week that you were craving that specific tomato and burrata sauce. I wanted to make sure you could have it tonight. It took me two minutes to call them, it is nothing.”

You shake your head, a fond laugh escaping you. “Charles, that is exactly what the interviewer was talking about. That is princess treatment.”

“No,” he insists, a stubborn but playful pout forming on his lips. “That is just me wanting my girlfriend to eat a good dinner because she had to sit in a hot paddock all day. It is the bare minimum, darling.”

The drive to the restaurant is peaceful, filled with the quiet hum of the radio and the comfortable silence that only comes from years of knowing someone inside out. Charles drives with one hand on the steering wheel and the other resting on the center console, his palm facing upward, waiting. You place your hand in his, and he immediately wraps his fingers around yours, bringing your hand to his lips to press a soft kiss to your knuckles before resting it back down.

When you arrive at the restaurant, it is exactly as he described, a charming, rustic building tucked away in a quiet village, surrounded by lush green hills. The owner greets Charles with a warm smile, clearly recognizing him but treating him with the quiet respect of an old friend. He leads you both to a private table in the corner of an outdoor terrace, lit by string lights that glow softly in the gathering dusk.

As you sit down, Charles immediately pulls your chair out for you, waiting until you are comfortable before taking his own seat. He takes the menu from the waiter but does not even look at his own side, instead focusing entirely on helping you choose.

“They have the fresh truffles today,” he notes, pointing to a section of the menu. “I know you love truffles, but only when they are shaved fresh, not the oil. I can ask the chef to make sure he only uses the fresh ones for your dish.”

“Charles, please, just order what you want,” you laugh, though your heart is melting. “You do not have to micromanage the kitchen for me.”

“I am not micromanaging,” he says, his green eyes reflecting the warm glow of the string lights. “I am just making sure it is perfect for you. If it is not perfect, then there is no point.”

The waiter returns, and Charles places the order in fluent, polite Italian, making sure to specify your preferences exactly as he promised. Once the waiter leaves, Charles leans forward, resting his elbows on the table and looking at you with an intensity that always makes your breath catch, no matter how long you have been together.

“What?” you ask, feeling a warmth creep up your neck.

“Nothing,” he murmurs, a soft, contented smile on his face. “I am just happy. It feels like we have not had a quiet moment like this in weeks. The triple header was so busy, and I felt bad that I could not spend as much time with you as I wanted.”

“Charles, we live together,” you remind him gently. “We see each other every day.”

“Yes, but seeing each other while I am running between meetings or falling asleep from exhaustion is not the same,” he says, his voice dropping to a softer register. “I want to actually be present with you. I want to listen to how your day was, what you are thinking about, what is making you happy. That is what matters.”

You reach across the table, squeezing his hand. “You are always present, Charles. Even when you are exhausted, you still manage to make me feel like the only person in the room.”

He looks down at your joined hands, his expression softening further. “I hope so. Because that is my job. If I cannot do that, then I am failing.”

As the evening progresses, the food arrives, and it is spectacular. The pasta is perfectly al dente, the tomato sauce rich and sweet, topped with a generous mound of creamy burrata that melts into the dish. Charles watches your reaction as you take your first bite, waiting with bated breath until you let out a soft sigh of appreciation.

“It is amazing,” you tell him, and he grins, looking incredibly proud of himself, as if he had personally cooked the meal himself.

Throughout the dinner, he continues to take care of you in ways that have become second nature to him. He notices the moment your water glass is half empty and immediately refills it. When a cool evening breeze sweeps across the terrace, causing you to shiver slightly, he is already standing up, slipping his jacket off his shoulders and draping it over yours. It is still warm from his body, smelling deeply of him, and you wrap it tightly around yourself, feeling safe and incredibly cherished.

You watch him as he talks about his qualifying strategy for the upcoming weekend, his eyes lighting up with the passion he has for racing. You think about how easily he balances these two sides of his life, the fierce, uncompromising competitor on the track, and the incredibly gentle, attentive partner off it. To the world, he is Charles Leclerc, the golden boy of Scuderia Ferrari, a man who tames beasts of machinery at three hundred kilometers per hour. But to you, he is the boy who worries if the floor is too cold for your bare feet.

After dinner, he pays the bill before you can even reach for your purse, brushing off your attempt to split it with a gentle click of his tongue. “Do not be silly,” he says, guiding you out of the restaurant. “I took you out. It is my treat.”

On the drive back to the hotel, the fatigue of the long day finally begins to catch up with you. Your eyelids grow heavy, and you find yourself leaning your head back against the headrest, watching the streetlights flicker past in a rhythmic pattern.

When the car comes to a stop at a red light, Charles reaches over, gently adjusting the angle of your seat so you can recline more comfortably. He reaches into the back seat and pulls out a small, soft travel blanket that he always keeps in the car, specifically because he knows you get cold easily on night drives. He drapes it over your lap, tucking the edges in with a tenderness that makes your eyes prickle with happy tears.

“Sleep, darling,” he whispers, his voice a soothing balm in the quiet cabin of the car. “I will wake you up when we get to the hotel.”

You close your eyes, letting the gentle motion of the car lull you to sleep, feeling completely wrapped in his love. To Charles, this is just another Thursday night. To him, this is the bare minimum. But to you, it is a love so grand, so thoughtful, and so deep that you know you will never have to doubt your worth ever again.

The next morning, the reality of a race weekend hits with full force. Friday practice is always a intense affair, filled with data analysis, track walk discussions, and the constant pressure to find the perfect setup for the car. The paddock is crowded with VIP guests, sponsors, and media crews, all vying for a moment of the drivers' time.

You spend the morning in the Ferrari garage, wearing your team headset, listening to the radio chatter between Charles and his race engineer, Bryan. Charles’s voice over the radio is calm, analytical, and sharp. He is demanding the absolute limit from the car, describing the behavior of the tires with clinical precision.

“The rear is still too loose in turn four,” his voice crackles through your headset. “We need to adjust the differential on the entry. I am losing too much time trying to catch the slide.”

Watching him through the garage monitors, you see him flying down the main straight, his red car a blur of speed and precision. He looks like a completely different person from the man who was tucking a blanket around your legs just a few hours ago. Here, in his element, he is focused, intense, and unyielding.

When the first practice session ends, Charles climbs out of the car, his face flushed and covered in sweat. He removes his helmet and balaclava, running a hand through his damp hair as he immediately begins discussing the data with his engineers. He is surrounded by a circle of men in red shirts, all pointing at laptop screens and telemetry charts.

Despite the intensity of the moment, the second Charles spots you standing near the back of the garage, his eyes lock onto yours. He pauses mid-sentence, giving you a quick, reassuring nod and a soft smile that is meant only for you. The engineers do not notice, but you do. It is a tiny, silent anchor that connects him to you, even in the middle of his chaotic professional world.

During the break between practice sessions, Charles has to attend a quick sponsor meet and greet in the Ferrari hospitality courtyard. You walk with him, keeping a respectful distance as his PR manager guides him through the crowd.

As Charles stands on the small stage, answering questions about the weekend’s prospects, you notice Carlos walking toward you, a amused grin on his face. He leans against the railing next to you, crossing his arms.

“So,” Carlos says, his voice low so the nearby fans cannot hear. “I saw the video of Charles yesterday. The whole paddock is talking about it.”

You laugh, looking at Carlos. “Oh, really? What are they saying?”

“They are saying he has ruined it for the rest of us,” Carlos chuckles, shaking his head. “The mechanics are teasing him, telling him he needs to start carrying our bags too if that is his standard of the bare minimum. My girlfriend texted me this morning, asking why I have never run a bath for her with heated pajamas waiting.”

“To be fair, Carlos,” you say playfully, “your golf paella does sound pretty impressive.”

“It is impressive,” Carlos defends himself, grinning. “But Charles, he is on another level. He does not even realize what he is doing. He is just naturally like that. It is actually a bit annoying how perfect he is.”

You look back at the stage, where Charles is currently laughing at a joke made by the host. He looks relaxed, charming, and entirely at ease. “He really does not think it is anything special. That is the thing. He genuinely believes he is just doing the basic requirements of a relationship.”

“That is because he is completely crazy about you,” Carlos says, his tone softening into a genuine, warm smile. “We all see it. The way he looks at you when you are not paying attention, the way he worries about you. He has always been a romantic, but with you, it is different. You are his whole world, and he wants to make sure his world is perfect.”

Your heart flutters at Carlos’s words. You look back at Charles, who has just finished his stage duties. He thanks the host, steps down from the stage, and immediately makes a direct line through the crowd toward you. He ignores the sponsors trying to get his attention, his focus entirely on getting back to your side.

“Are you okay?” he asks the moment he reaches you, his hand naturally finding the small of your back, guiding you away from the crowd. “Is the sun too hot out here? We can go inside.”

“I am fine, Charles,” you assure him, looking up at him. “Carlos was just telling me how you have ruined the standards for every other driver in the paddock.”

Charles looks at Carlos, who is still standing nearby with a smirk. “Do not listen to him,” Charles says, shaking his head. “Carlos is just lazy. He wants to do the bare minimum of the bare minimum.”

“Hey,” Carlos protests, laughing as he walks away. “I heard that, Leclerc. I am a very romantic man.”

Charles rolls his eyes playfully, then turns his full attention back to you. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small, chilled bottle of water, pressing it into your hands. “Here. You need to stay hydrated. The paddock is very warm today, and I do not want you getting a headache.”

You take the water, staring at him with a mixture of amusement and deep affection. “Charles, did you seriously carry a cold water bottle in your pocket during a sponsor Q&A just to give it to me?”

He looks at you, his expression entirely innocent. “Well, yes. I knew you did not have a drink, and it is hot. Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Because,” you say, stepping closer to him and resting your hands on his chest, “you are incredibly sweet. And yes, this is also princess treatment.”

“It is just a bottle of water, darling,” he says, his voice dropping to a soft, intimate whisper as he wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you close despite the busy paddock surrounding you. “If caring about your health and making sure you are comfortable is princess treatment, then the world has very low standards. I will always take care of you. It is not a chore, it is my favorite part of the day.”

You lean up on your tiptoes, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. He responds instantly, his grip on your waist tightening slightly, his lips warm and gentle against yours. When you pull back, his eyes are bright, a beautiful shade of green in the summer sun, looking at you with a devotion that leaves you completely breathless.

The weekend continues to fly by in a whirlwind of speed and adrenaline. Saturday qualifying is a tense affair, with Charles securing a brilliant front row start, placing his Ferrari in second position for Sunday’s race. The paddock is ecstatic, the Ferrari garage buzzing with energy and anticipation.

On Sunday morning, the atmosphere in the paddock is electric. The grandstands are packed with fans wearing red, waving flags and cheering as the drivers make their way to the track for the pre-race preparations.

You are in Charles’s driver room, a small, private space inside the Ferrari hospitality building where he prepares before the race. The room is quiet, a stark contrast to the roar of the crowds outside. Charles is sitting on the physio table, his eyes closed as his trainer, Andrea, guides him through a series of physical warm ups and reaction training.

You sit quietly in the corner, watching him focus. He is in his zone, his mind entirely locked onto the race ahead. He is visualizing the track, the corners, the start, the strategy. His breathing is steady, his expression serious and determined.

When Andrea finishes the session and leaves the room to give Charles a few minutes of quiet before the driver parade, Charles opens his eyes. He looks at you, the intense, competitive gaze instantly softening into something warm and tender. He steps off the table, walking over to where you are sitting.

He kneels down in front of your chair, placing his hands on your knees, looking up at you. “Are you nervous?” he asks softly.

You laugh gently, reaching out to run your fingers through his hair. “I should be asking you that. You are the one driving a rocket ship at three hundred kilometers per hour in an hour.”

“I am not nervous,” he says, his voice calm and confident. “I know what I have to do. But I want to make sure you are okay. The grid is going to be very crowded today, very chaotic. If you do not want to come down to the grid, you can stay here or watch from the garage where it is quieter.”

“I want to be there with you,” you tell him, leaning down to press your forehead against his. “I want to see you start.”

He closes his eyes, inhaling deeply, as if drawing strength from your presence. “Okay. But stay close to my PR team. I do not want anyone bumping into you. And promise me you will wear your ear protection the entire time.”

“I promise, Charles,” you say, smiling at his constant protectiveness. Even right before the most intense race of his life, his main concern is still your safety and comfort.

The race itself is a masterpiece of strategy and skill. From the moment the five red lights go out, Charles drives with a fierce determination. He manages his tires perfectly, defending his position against attacks from behind while keeping pressure on the leader. The tension in the Ferrari garage is palpable, everyone staring at the telemetry screens, holding their breath with every corner.

When Charles finally crosses the finish line, securing a brilliant second place podium finish, the garage erupts into cheers and applause. You jump up, hugging the team members around you, your heart racing with pride and relief. He did it. He drove a flawless race, securing a crucial result for the team.

You make your way down to the pit lane, waiting near the podium area where the top three cars park. The air is thick with the smell of burning rubber and hot engines. The crowd below the podium is a sea of red, chanting Charles’s name, their voices echoing through the grandstands.

Charles climbs out of his car, standing on the nose cone and raising his arms in triumph, soaking in the cheers of the tifosi. He looks exhausted but incredibly happy. He jumps down, hugging his mechanics, before his eyes immediately begin searching the crowd.

The moment he spots you standing behind the barrier, his face lights up with a brilliant, genuine smile. He jogs over, ignoring the media cameras pointing at him, and reaches over the barrier to pull you into a sweaty, adrenaline fueled hug.

He presses his face into your neck, holding you tightly. “I did it,” he whispers against your skin, his heart beating rapidly against your chest.

“You were amazing, Charles,” you tell him, wrapping your arms around his neck, not caring about the sweat or the dirt on his race suit. “I am so incredibly proud of you.”

He pulls back slightly, looking at you with a gaze so full of love and pride that it completely eclipses the thousands of fans cheering behind him. He presses a firm, passionate kiss to your lips, a public declaration of his devotion that is captured by every camera in the pit lane.

The podium ceremony is a beautiful blur of champagne, trophies, and national anthems. You watch from below, tears of happiness pricking your eyes as you see him stand on the podium, holding his trophy high. He catches your eye from the podium, pointing the trophy toward you with a proud wink.

Once the media duties, post race interviews, and team debriefs are finally completed, the paddock begins to quiet down. The sun is setting, casting long shadows across the empty space. The exhaustion of the intense weekend is finally setting in, and you can see the fatigue in the slump of Charles’s shoulders as he walks back to his driver room.

You are waiting for him, having already packed up his personal belongings so he does not have to worry about it. When he walks through the door, he looks at the packed bags, then at you, a soft, weary smile appearing on his face.

“You packed everything?” he asks, his voice tired but incredibly sweet.

“I wanted to make sure you did not have to do anything when you finished,” you say, walking over to him. “You must be exhausted.”

He doesn't say a word. Instead, he simply steps forward, wrapping his arms around your waist and burying his face in your shoulder, letting his entire weight lean against you. You wrap your arms around his back, holding him up, gently running your fingers through his hair.

“Thank you,” he murmurs against your shoulder, his voice muffled. “You are too good to me.”

“I am just doing the bare minimum, Charles,” you tease gently, using his own words.

He lets out a soft, tired chuckle, his chest vibrating against yours. “No, that is princess treatment. You taking care of me when I am tired, that is extra. For me, taking care of you is the standard, but you taking care of me, that is a gift.”

You shake your head, amazed by his logic. Even when you are the one pampering him, he still manages to turn it around so that you are the one who deserves the credit.

“Let’s go home, Charles,” you say softly. “You need a proper rest.”

“Yes,” he agrees, pulling back to look at you, his eyes soft and full of a quiet, peaceful happiness. “Let’s go home.”

The drive back to his apartment in Monaco is quiet, the night sky clear and filled with stars. When you finally arrive, the apartment is peaceful, a sanctuary away from the high pressure world of Formula One.

Charles immediately walks into the bedroom, dropping his bags on the floor, and turns to look at you. “You go take a shower first,” he says, already walking toward the bathroom. “I will prepare the bed.”

By the time you finish your shower and walk into the bedroom, wearing one of his oversized t-shirts, you find the room transformed. The main lights are off, replaced by the warm, gentle glow of the bedside lamps. The covers of the bed are pulled back, perfectly neat and inviting.

And on the nightstand next to your side of the bed, there is a fresh, cold glass of water, your favorite lip balm, and a small, sweet note written in his messy, elegant handwriting.

*Thank you for being my strength this weekend. I love you.*

You look at the note, your heart aching with a sweetness that is almost overwhelming. You turn to see Charles walking into the bedroom, having just showered in the guest bathroom. He is wearing nothing but a pair of gray sweatpants, his hair still damp, looking incredibly relaxed and beautiful.

He looks at you holding the note, a soft, slightly shy smile appearing on his face. “Is it okay? I wanted to make sure you had everything you needed before we went to sleep.”

You walk over to him, wrapping your arms around his bare waist, looking up into his green eyes. “Charles, you are incredible. You just drove a seventy lap race, stood on a podium, survived a massive media storm, and the first thing you do when we get home is make sure I have water and a sweet note by my bed.”

He wraps his arms around you, pulling you flush against his chest, his chin resting comfortably on the top of your head. “But that is my point, darling,” he says, his voice a low, soothing purr in the quiet of the bedroom. “This is not extra. This is just how I love you. It takes no effort to write a note or pour a glass of water. It is the absolute bare minimum of what you deserve.”

You look up at him, shaking your head with a fond, defeated smile. “I don't think I will ever convince you that you are a hopeless romantic, will I?”

“Never,” he whispers, a beautiful, dimpled grin spreading across his face. “Because to me, a hopeless romantic is someone who does these things only sometimes. I want to do them for you every single second of every single day. I want you to always feel like a princess, not because it is a special treatment, but because to me, it is just the only way to live.”

He leans down, pressing a slow, deep, incredibly tender kiss to your lips. It is a kiss that speaks of promises kept, of a future shared, and of a love that knows no limits.

When he pulls back, he gently guides you toward the bed, tucking you in under the soft sheets before climbing in next to you. He pulls you into his arms, your head resting on his chest, listening to the steady, comforting beat of his heart.

As you fall asleep, wrapped in his warmth and his love, you realize that Carlos was right. Charles Leclerc has completely ruined the standards of relationships for the rest of the world. But as you listen to his steady breathing, feeling his arms hold you secure, you know you wouldn't change a single thing. To him, it might be the bare minimum, but to you, it is the most beautiful, extraordinary love you could have ever dreamed of.

[tonyspep]

omg omg omg first of all thank you so much for writing my request!!! i really appreciate it. this was more than i could have hoped for honestly. it was exactly how i imagined charles to be... not understanding how what he's doing is the princess treatment because he loves her, which means he'll draw her a bath and put out heated pajamas. he'll remember her favorite pasta. he'll have a travel blanket in his car for her. ugh the way he talked to the interviewer!! i loved it. i loved carlos teasing charles and charles taking it in stride because that's how he feels because loving her is that simple. this was so good.

[lightsoutandawaywewrite]

Welcome back! Please take care of yourself

For a request: Could you write a story where one of the drivers suprises the reader on her graduation day? Usually it doesn't fit in his schedule but he moved everything around to make it happen. He also arranged a dinner etc to spoil reader for her accomplishments

The coordinates of us

Pairing: Charles Leclerc x Reader (y/n)

Warnings: none, pure fluff, surprise appearance

Summary: Believing Charles is stuck in Maranello for simulator work, you attend your graduation alone. But Charles pulls off a massive surprise to celebrate your big day together.

Requested: Yes/ Anon

Word count: 4606

Author's note: I hope this sweet, romantic Charles makes your heart melt as much as he did mine! enjoy xx

Masterlist

The sun of a warm July morning filtered through the sheer curtains of your bedroom, casting soft, golden patches across the wooden floor. There was not a single cloud in the sky, a rare and welcome blessing for a London summer, and certainly a relief for your graduation day. You lay in bed for a moment, staring at the ceiling, letting the reality of the day wash over you. Years of endless studying, late nights fueled by cold coffee, and the constant balancing act of maintaining a relationship with a Formula One driver had finally led to this moment. You were graduating.

Reaching for your phone on the nightstand, you unlocked the screen, half hoping for a miracle. The lock screen showed a few congratulatory notifications from friends, but the message you cared about most was at the very top. It was from Charles.

“Good morning, mon amour. I wish I could be there to wake you up today of all days. I am so incredibly proud of you. I am heading into the simulator now for the pre-Hungary prep, but I will be thinking of you every second. Call me as soon as you get your diploma. I love you.”

You read the words twice, a small, bittersweet smile forming on your lips. You had known for weeks that he could not make it. The Ferrari schedule was famously brutal, and with the summer shutdown approaching, every single hour of simulator work and engineering debriefs was packed into the weekdays leading up to the race weekend. He had tried to see if there was any way to postpone his sessions, but the team had been firm. With the championship battle heating up, every millisecond on track mattered, and that meant his preparation in Maranello was non-negotiable.

You typed out a quick reply, telling him you loved him, that you understood, and that you would call him the very moment you were holding that expensive piece of paper. Setting the phone down, you let out a long breath. You truly did understand, you had supported him through the highs and lows of his career, and you knew the sacrifices that came with loving someone who lived at three hundred kilometers an hour. Still, a quiet, stubborn part of you wished he could be sitting in the crowded hall, watching you walk across the stage.

You threw off the covers and stood up, determined not to let the slight ache in your chest ruin what was supposed to be one of the best days of your life. Today was about your hard work, your sleepless nights, and your achievement.

The morning quickly turned into a flurry of activity. You showered, did your hair and makeup with meticulous care, and slipped into the elegant dress you had bought weeks ago with Charles on FaceTime, remembering how he had smiled through the screen and insisted that you had to buy it. Over the dress, you draped the heavy, dark graduation gown, smoothing out the folds before pinning the colorful hood of your faculty over your shoulders. Finally, you placed the mortarboard cap on your head, adjusting it until it sat perfectly.

Looking at your reflection in the full-length mirror, you felt a sudden rush of emotion. You looked like a graduate. You only wished he could see you in person, rather than through a pixelated phone screen.

The journey to the graduation venue was a blur of traffic and nervous excitement. The university had rented out a magnificent, historic hall in the heart of London, its grand stone pillars and towering arched windows bathed in the bright morning sunlight. The surrounding streets were alive with the chatter of excited students, all dressed in matching black gowns, their families hovering around them with cameras and bouquets of flowers.

You met up with a few of your classmates outside, sharing quick, nervous hugs and admiring how everyone looked.

“Can you believe we are actually done,” one of your friends asked, adjusting her cap. “It feels like just yesterday we were crying over our final exams.”

“It does,” you agreed, looking around the bustling plaza. “It feels completely surreal.”

“Is Charles going to make it,” she asked softly, knowing how much you had hoped he could squeeze it into his schedule.

You shook your head, keeping your smile bright. “No, he is stuck in Maranello today. The simulator schedule is crazy before the next race. But he sent a beautiful message this morning, and we are going to celebrate properly when he has some time off.”

“That is a shame, but we will make sure you have an amazing day anyway,” she promised, squeezing your arm before the marshals began ushering the students inside the grand hall.

The interior of the building was breathtaking. High, vaulted ceilings stretched overhead, decorated with intricate gold leaf that caught the light of the massive chandeliers. Rows upon rows of wooden chairs filled the center of the hall, quickly filling up with graduates, while the balconies above were packed with proud parents and friends. The air was thick with anticipation, a low hum of voices and the occasional sound of an organ tuning in the background.

You found your assigned seat in the middle of the crowd, smoothing down your gown as you sat. The seat next to you was occupied by a classmate who was busy nervously rehearsing his name pronunciation, while on your other side, someone was fanning themselves with their program. You looked up at the balconies, scanning the faces of the families, watching them wave and point down at the floor. For a fleeting second, you imagined seeing a familiar pair of green-green eyes looking back at you, but you quickly shook the thought away. He was in Italy, hundreds of miles away, wearing a red team shirt and staring at a virtual racetrack.

The ceremony began with a grand procession of academics in elaborate robes, their heavy footsteps echoing on the wooden stage. A series of speeches followed, filled with advice about the future, the importance of resilience, and the value of the education you had just completed. You tried your best to listen, but your mind kept wandering.

You remembered the nights you had spent studying at Charles’s apartment in Monaco, surrounded by textbooks while he sat on the floor nearby, stretching after a long day of training. You remembered how he would occasionally look up, make a funny face to make you laugh when you were stressed, or walk over to massage your tight shoulders without saying a word. When you had struggled with a particularly difficult module, he had sat with you and made flashcards, trying his absolute best to pronounce the complex academic terms in his soft, accented English, making you laugh so hard that the stress had simply melted away. He had been your rock throughout the entire journey, and it felt strange to cross the finish line without him standing right there.

The reading of the names began. The procession of students moving toward the stage was orderly and fast, a conveyor belt of achievements. Your heart began to beat a little faster as your row was called to stand. You filed out into the aisle, smoothing your dress one last time, your palms slightly damp.

Step by step, you moved closer to the stage. You watched your classmates walk up, shake hands with the chancellor, receive their scrolls, and walk off the other side. The applause was a continuous, rhythmic wave of sound.

“Y/N Y/LN,” the speaker’s voice boomed through the microphone.

You took a deep breath, stepped onto the stage, and walked toward the center. The bright stage lights blinded you for a brief moment, but you kept a proud, steady smile on your face. You shook the chancellor's hand, took the scroll, and turned to face the official university photographer, holding the pose for a split second before walking down the steps on the opposite side of the stage.

As you walked back to your seat, a profound sense of relief washed over you. It was done. You were officially a graduate. You sat back down, holding the scroll tightly in your lap, a genuine, joyful smile spreading across your face.

When the ceremony finally concluded with a shower of confetti and a loud, collective cheer from the graduates, the doors of the great hall were thrown open. Everyone poured out into the warm afternoon air, a sea of black gowns and flying mortarboards as students began throwing their caps into the sky for photos.

You moved through the crowd, looking for a quiet spot near the edge of the university courtyard where you could take a few photos to send to Charles. The courtyard was packed, filled with emotional parents hugging their children, friends taking group selfies, and champagne corks popping in the distance.

You found a relatively quiet corner near a stone archway, framed by climbing green ivy. You took out your phone, snapping a quick selfie of you holding up your degree, your cap slightly tilted on your head.

“I did it, Charles,” you typed out, attaching the photo. “Officially graduated.”

Before you could even hit send, a hand gently rested on your waist from behind, and a familiar, warm voice whispered directly into your ear.

“I know you did, mon amour, and you look absolutely beautiful.”

You froze, your heart stopping for a fraction of a second. You knew that voice better than any other. You turned around so quickly that your academic hood swung around your neck, and there he was.

Charles was standing right in front of you. He was wearing a tailored, dark navy suit that fit him perfectly, a crisp white shirt with the top button undone, and his hair was styled in its usual, effortlessly messy way. He was wearing a pair of dark sunglasses, but as he looked at you, he slid them down the bridge of his nose, revealing those bright green eyes, crinkled at the corners with the widest, proudest smile you had ever seen on him.

“Charles,” you gasped, your voice barely a whisper. “What, how are you here?”

He did not answer immediately. Instead, he took a step closer, wrapped his arms tightly around your waist, and lifted you slightly off the ground, pulling you into a fierce, desperate hug. You buried your face into the crook of his neck, breathing in the familiar, comforting scent of his cologne, a mix of expensive cedar and fresh mint. The weight of his arms around you made the entire world dissolve around you, the noise of the crowded courtyard fading into nothing but background static.

“I am here because there was absolutely no way I was going to miss this,” he murmured into your hair, his voice thick with emotion as he gently set you back on your feet, keeping his hands resting on your waist.

“But your simulator sessions,” you said, looking up at him, still utterly bewildered. “The team, Maranello, your meetings. You told me you were in Italy this morning.”

Charles laughed, a soft, melodic sound, and reached up to gently adjust your graduation cap, which had gone askew during the hug. “I lied, mon amour. Well, not entirely. I was in Italy yesterday. But I may have had a very long, very persuasive conversation with Fred, and some of my engineers.”

He took your hand, squeezing it tightly. “I spent the last three days working double sessions. I was in the simulator until two in the morning on Tuesday and Wednesday, just so I could get all the work done ahead of schedule. And then, I caught a private flight at four o'clock this morning from Bologna to London. I landed a few hours ago, drove straight here, and snuck into the back of the hall just as they were starting to call the names.”

You stared at him, your eyes wide as you took in the sheer logistics of what he had done. “You flew in this morning? Charles, you must be absolutely exhausted.”

“I do not care about being tired,” he said, his eyes scanning your face with an intensity that made your heart flutter. “When I saw you walk across that stage, holding your degree, with that beautiful smile on your face, every single hour of simulator work, every mile of travel, it was all completely worth it. You have worked so hard for this, Y/N. I have watched you study until your eyes were red, I have watched you doubt yourself, and I have watched you overcome every single obstacle. I was not going to let a simulator session keep me from being here to see you shine.”

A tear slid down your cheek, catching the sunlight. Charles noticed it instantly, his expression softening as he reached up with his thumb to gently wipe it away.

“Hey, do not cry,” he whispered, his voice incredibly tender. “This is a happy day. No tears allowed, unless they are because you are happy.”

“I am happy,” you laughed, wiping at your eyes as you leaned into his touch. “I am just so shocked. I really thought you were in Italy.”

“That was the plan,” he admitted, a mischievous glint in his eye. “It took a lot of coordinating. I had to make sure your friends did not ruin the surprise, and I had to coordinate with the university to get a guest pass at the last minute. But we pulled it off.”

He looked around the busy courtyard, noticing a few people starting to point and whisper as they recognized the Scuderia Ferrari driver standing in the middle of a university graduation. Charles smiled politely at a group of students who were looking over, but then turned his full attention back to you, his priority clear.

“Come,” he said, gently taking your hand and pulling you toward the edge of the courtyard where a sleek, black car with tinted windows was waiting by the curb. “We have a very long, very special evening ahead of us, and I want to spoil you properly.”

“Where are we going,” you asked as he opened the passenger door for you, holding his hand over the doorframe to make sure you did not bump your graduation cap.

“It is a surprise,” he said, walking around to the driver's side and sliding into the leather seat beside you. He started the engine, the quiet hum of the luxury car filling the cabin as he pulled out into the London traffic.

Once you were safely away from the crowded university, Charles reached across the center console and took your hand, resting it on his knee as he drove. He looked relaxed, the tension of the F1 world completely absent from his face.

“So, tell me everything,” he said, glancing over at you with a smile. “How did it feel when they called your name? Were you nervous?”

“Terrified,” you admitted, leaning back against the comfortable leather seat, still feeling like you were dreaming. “My heart was beating so fast I thought everyone in the front row could hear it. And the stage lights are so bright, I couldn't see a thing. I was so scared I was going to trip over my gown.”

Charles squeezed your hand, chuckling. “You looked perfectly graceful, mon amour. I was watching from the very back, near the exit doors, and you looked like a queen. Everyone was applauding, but I promise you, I was clapping the loudest.”

“You really saw me?”

“Of course I did. I have a video on my phone to prove it, though my hand was shaking a little bit because I was so excited,” he said, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “I am going to keep that video forever.”

The drive took you through the heart of London, past iconic landmarks bathed in the warm, golden light of the late afternoon sun. Eventually, the car pulled up to a magnificent, historic building tucked away in a quiet, exclusive neighborhood. A valet stepped forward immediately, opening your door and greeting Charles with a respectful nod.

You stepped out of the car, looking up at the grand facade of the building. It was a private, historic townhouse, converted into an ultra-exclusive hotel and restaurant, known for its absolute privacy and world-class service.

“Charles, this is beautiful,” you whispered as he joined you at the entrance, wrapping his arm around your waist.

“Only the best for my graduate,” he replied, guiding you through the heavy oak doors.

The interior was stunning, a blend of classic British heritage and modern luxury. Dark wood paneling, velvet drapes, and soft, warm lighting created an intimate, elegant atmosphere. A hostess greeted you warmly, immediately taking your graduation gown and cap with a smile and congratulating you on your achievement.

“This way, please,” she said, leading you and Charles up a grand, winding staircase.

Instead of guiding you toward the main dining room, she led you down a quiet hallway to a pair of double doors at the very end. She opened them, stepping aside to let you enter first.

You took a step inside and stopped in your tracks, your hand flying to your mouth.

The room was a private rooftop terrace, completely enclosed in glass, offering a breathtaking, panoramic view of the London skyline as the sun began to set, painting the sky in shades of deep pink, orange, and purple. In the center of the room was a single, beautifully set table, adorned with dozens of white roses, flickering candles, and crystal glasses that caught the fading light. A small ice bucket sat nearby, holding a bottle of champagne, and soft, acoustic music was playing quietly from hidden speakers.

“Charles,” you breathed, turning to look at him. “You did all of this?”

He smiled, a soft, proud look in his eyes as he walked up behind you, wrapping his arms around your shoulders and resting his chin on your head. “I wanted to make sure we had a quiet space where we could celebrate without any distractions. Just you and me. You have spent years putting up with my crazy life, my races, my travel, and my fans. Tonight, the spotlight is entirely on you. No racing, no media, no pressure. Just a celebration of you and everything you have achieved.”

You turned around in his embrace, looking up into his eyes, which were filled with a warmth that made your chest ache. “Thank you. I don't even know what to say. This is the most incredible surprise.”

“Do not say anything,” he whispered, leaning down to press a soft, lingering kiss to your lips. His lips were warm and gentle, tasting faintly of the mint he always chewed, and you melted into the kiss, letting all the residual stress of the past few weeks wash away.

When he pulled back, he smiled, his cheeks slightly flushed. “Now, let us sit down. I am starving, and I know you must be too after all that waiting.”

He pulled out your chair for you, waiting until you were comfortably seated before taking his own seat opposite you. A waiter appeared silently, popping the champagne with a soft, practiced hiss and pouring the golden, bubbling liquid into your flutes.

Charles raised his glass, looking across the table at you, his expression suddenly serious and full of emotion.

“To my beautiful, brilliant partner,” he said, his voice rich and steady. “I have seen firsthand the sacrifices you made to reach this day. I have seen you study in hotel rooms across the world, on flights, and late at night when you were exhausted. You never complained, you never gave up, and you achieved this all on your own strength and intelligence. I am the luckiest man in the world to have you by my side, and I could not be prouder of you. To your graduation, mon amour.”

Your glasses clinked with a clear, ringing sound. You took a sip of the cold, crisp champagne, the bubbles tickling your throat, feeling a deep warmth spread through your chest.

The dinner that followed was nothing short of spectacular. Charles had arranged a bespoke tasting menu, featuring some of your favorite dishes, prepared with exquisite detail. Each plate was a work of art, but the food was only a backdrop to the conversation.

Without the pressure of a race weekend looming over him, Charles was completely present. He listened intently as you described the funny moments from your final semester, the eccentricities of your professors, and the sheer relief of handing in your final dissertation. He laughed at your jokes, held your hand across the table, and looked at you with an undivided attention that made you feel like the only person in the world.

In turn, you asked him about his crazy week. You wanted to know exactly how he had managed to convince his team principal to let him escape Maranello.

“Well,” Charles said, taking a sip of his wine with a sheepish grin. “At first, Fred told me it was absolutely impossible. He said the simulator schedule was too tight, and we had a major aerodynamic update we needed to test before Hungary. But I told him, Fred, you do not understand. She has been there for me through every single race, every win, and every crash. She is graduating, and if I am not there, I will be thinking about her the entire time I am in the simulator anyway, so my feedback will be terrible.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “You did not actually tell him that.”

“I did,” Charles insisted, his eyes sparkling. “And then I promised him that if he let me go, I would arrive in Hungary earlier, work extra hours on Thursday, and do whatever it took to make up the time. I even offered to buy him a very nice bottle of Italian red wine. Eventually, he sighed, shook his head, and said, go, Charles, but do not dare be late for the flight to Budapest. So, here I am.”

“You are incredible,” you said softly, your heart swelling with love for him. “I know how much pressure you are under, especially right now. To do all of this for me, it means more than I can ever express.”

“You do not have to express it,” he said, leaning across the table to press a gentle kiss to the back of your hand. “Seeing you happy is all the reward I need.”

As the evening progressed, the sky outside turned to a deep, starry black, the lights of London glittering like a million tiny diamonds below the terrace. The waiter cleared the final plates and brought out a beautiful, miniature cake, decorated with a tiny chocolate mortarboard cap and the words, Congratulations, Graduate, written in elegant gold icing.

Charles watched with a delighted grin as you blew out the single candle on the cake.

“Wait, before we cut the cake, I have one more thing for you,” he said, reaching into the inner pocket of his suit jacket and pulling out a small, square box wrapped in heavy, cream-colored paper and tied with a delicate silk ribbon. He slid it across the table toward you.

“Charles, you didn't have to get me a gift,” you protested, even as your hands reached for the ribbon. “You being here is more than enough.”

“Of course I had to,” he said, his voice soft. “Open it.”

You carefully untied the ribbon and peeled back the paper, revealing a velvet box. Inside, resting on a bed of white silk, was a stunning, delicate gold bracelet. The chain was incredibly fine, but what caught your eye was the small, circular pendant hanging from the center. On one side, your graduation date was engraved in tiny, elegant script. On the reverse side, you noticed a set of numbers.

You looked closer, squinting slightly in the candlelight. “Are these, coordinates?”

Charles nodded, his smile soft and full of meaning. “Yes. Those are the coordinates of the library where we first met, back when you were a first-year student and I was just a driver trying to find a quiet place to read without being recognized. You didn't even know who I was, you just told me to keep my voice down because you were trying to study for an exam.”

A soft laugh escaped your lips as the memory came rushing back. It had been a rainy autumn afternoon, and he had been speaking on the phone in his native French, his voice carrying through the quiet study area. You had walked over, completely stressed about a chemistry test, and shushed him. It was only when he apologized with that sheepish, charming smile that your annoyance had melted away, starting a conversation that would change both of your lives forever.

“I wanted you to have something that represents where we started, and where you are now,” Charles said, his voice filled with a quiet sincerity. “You have accomplished so much since that day in the library, Y/N. And I wanted you to always remember that no matter how far we travel, or how crazy our lives get, that foundation is always there.”

“It is beautiful, Charles,” you whispered, your throat tight with emotion. “I love it so much. Will you put it on me?”

He stood up from his chair, walking around the table to sit beside you. He gently took the bracelet from the box, his long, skilled fingers working the delicate clasp with surprising ease. He wrapped the gold chain around your wrist, securing it, before lifting your hand to press a soft kiss to the skin right next to the pendant.

You leaned your head against his shoulder, looking out at the city lights. The warmth of his body beside you, the quiet music playing in the background, and the weight of the beautiful bracelet on your wrist made everything feel perfect, complete.

“What happens next,” Charles asked quietly, his hand resting over yours on the table, his fingers tracing slow, soothing circles on your skin. “Now that you are officially a graduate, what is the next step for my brilliant engineer?”

“I don't know,” you admitted, looking out at the glittering skyline. “For the first time in my life, I don't have a syllabus to follow or an exam to study for. It is a bit scary, to be honest. The future is completely open.”

Charles turned his head, kissing the top of your temple. “It is not scary, mon amour. It is exciting. You can do anything you want now. You have the degree, you have the talent, and you have the determination. And whatever you decide to do, wherever you decide to go, I will be right there, cheering you on, just like you have done for me.”

“You promise?”

“I promise,” he said, his voice firm and unwavering. “I will move heaven and earth to be there for you, just like I did today. You are my team, Y/N. Always.”

You smiled, turning your face to look at him, the candlelight reflecting in his green eyes. In that moment, surrounded by the quiet luxury of the private terrace, with the city of London laid out beneath you like a carpet of light, you knew that no matter what challenges the future held, you would face them together.

You leaned in, sealing his promise with a long, sweet kiss, the taste of champagne and chocolate lingering on your lips, a perfect end to a day you would never, ever forget.

[tonyspep]

omg this is literally so romantic and sweet and exactly how i imagine charles to be. he would absolutely do something like this and be so sweet and so happy to see her achieve her dreams by graduating and the necklace is EVERYTHING i love that!!!

[allsadnshit]

Keeping an alive tumblr in 2026 is proof of one's sincerity and authenticity - a type of person who enjoys posting for the sake of it with absolutely nothing to be gained....just the enjoyment of curation and self expression untainted by opportunity and relevance

[lastdollintheforest]

mwah is a very important word

[recurring-polynya]

me (crazy eyes, covered in blood): I NEED to finish writing my fanfic. so I can start writing a different fanfic.

[innerchildabortionclinic]

strange to think "private boarding school" is real & not invented for exploring relations between the wealthiest student and the student on scholarship

[tonyspep]

@fallinallincurls ummmm this has landoscar written all over it. lando the wealthiest student and oscar obviously on scholarship because we need more ideas

[rubysapphrald]

i didn’t know perez hilton was a stage name that he purposefully modelled after paris hilton’s real name i thought she just organically had an evil gay wario or something

[scalproie]

I hope I'm not just a blog to you guys but also a gateway to acquire secondhand knowledge of medias you'll never get into

[crowns-of-violets-and-roses]

Discussions of trans women in sports often focus on elite/professional sports which honestly I find it hard to care about but the more common scenario of “we’re going to legally ban a high school girl from playing sports with her friends because she’s trans” is just profoundly evil

[zzzucker]

i remember when utah's (republican) governor ended up vetoing a law banning transgender students from playing high school sports when he looked at the numbers, and there were only four trans students in the state playing sports at all. he released a clumsily worded but surprisingly compassionate statement about the decision.

I must admit, I am not an expert on transgenderism. I struggle to understand so much of it, and the science is conflicting. When in doubt, however, I always try to err on the side of kindness, mercy, and compassion. I also try to get proximate, and I am learning so much from our transgender community. They are great kids who face enormous struggles. Here are the numbers that have most impacted my decision: 75,000, 4, 1, 86 and 56. 75,000 high school kids participating in high school sports in Utah. 4 transgender kids playing high school sports in Utah. 1 transgender student playing girls sports. 86% of trans youth reporting suicidality. 56% of trans youth having attempted suicide. Four kids and only one of them playing girls sports. That’s what all of this is about. Four kids who aren’t dominating or winning trophies or taking scholarships. Four kids who are just trying to find some friends and feel like they are a part of something. Four kids trying to get through each day. Rarely has so much fear and anger been directed at so few. I don’t understand what they are going through or why they feel the way they do. But I want them to live.

of course, it didn't amount to much. they overrode his veto. it's just so cartoonishly evil. an entire state's political body so desperate to terrorize this one little trans girl.

[claracedar]

it is funny to hear that wikipedia is apparently losing site visits to AI because let me tell you wikipedia is not losing site visits from me I am all up in that bitch 24/7 I am reading her down like an enemy I am on wikipedia like white on rice

[gumuhit]

you’re going to love again, find a job again, create art again, do what you love again, feel powerful again. you’re going to be back on track. i don’t know when, but you are going to feel like yourself again, eventually. this isn’t the end. hang in there.

[imjunebitch]

actually fucking disgusting that glasses cost any money like if you actually think about it for more than a few seconds it is so unconscionably inhumane. this goes for things like insulin and mobility aids and hearing aids too ofc but fuck man, fucking glasses? the thing you need to fucking see? its genuinely sickening and inhumanly evil that those cost ANYTHING.

[heresylog]

I don’t care if you make fun of Catholicism as long as it’s accurate! The best humour has its roots in the truth.

[synebluetoo]

“You can be mean to me but there are RULES about it” is the most Catholic thing I’ve ever seen.

[heresylog]

I walked into that one

[deathgasmic]

who else is up permanently feeling like they did something Wrong

[clleanlliness]

i read tumblr like the morning paper