#Lestappen ficlet

[lestappenforever]

DARLING! ❤️

I would like to request 22 and 38 with Lestappen.

I love you! 🙏🏻😇

Judy, my love, my light, my beautiful, wonderful darling. ❤️

The final two from the prompt list coming right up for you.

---

22. "I want to do this.", and 38. "I can't." "You can. I know you can."

Charles stares down at the phone in his hand, at the black screen. He doesn't know how long he's been sitting out on his balcony, talking on the phone, but it has to have been a least an hour.

Christian Horner's voice keeps ringing in his head.

"We want you to come to Red Bull. We want two number one drivers for the 2025 season."

"Have you talked to Max about this?" Charles had asked.

"It was Max's idea."

---

He sits in the reception area at the Red Bull Racing headquarters in Milton Keynes, waiting for Christian to come fetch him.

Max walks past him, but stops after doing a double-take to make sure his eyes weren’t deceiving him.

"You're here," Max says, raising an eyebrow.

He looks surprised.

Charles frowns.

"Surely Christian told you I was coming?" He counters incredulously.

The Dutchman snorts, nodding. "He did. I just wasn’t sure you were actually going to show up."

If he's being totally honest, Charles hadn’t been sure he would show up, either. Not until he was getting out of the car ten minutes ago and let his feet carry him into the building.

It's been a difficult decision, accepting Red Bull’s offer. His loyalty to Ferrari has always run deeper than anything else, and there is nothing Charles wants more in this life than to win a World Championship with his beloved team.

But the past three years has proved to Charles that it’s not going to happen. Not for a long time, anyway. And as much as Ferrari is the team Charles so desperately wants to succeed with, he has realized that Ferrari has never loved him as much as Charles has loved Ferrari. And if Charles wants to win, he will have to do it with someone else.

As much as it broke his fucking heart to turn down Ferrari's new contract offer, he had realized that it was time to think about himself. For the first time in his life.

"Well, here I am," Charles tells Max with a shrug.

Max narrows his eyes at him.

"Yeah, and you look fucking ecstatic about it."

The Monégasque rolls his eyes, because he knows Max knows how much it has hurt for Charles to reach the decision to leave Ferrari. After all, Max was the one who had made him come to his senses in one of their many deep, long talks over the past few months — ever since Christian extended the contract offer.

He fixes Max with a firm stare as he sits up straighter in his seat, all confidence and assertiveness.

"I want to do this."

His voice leaves no room for doubt.

One corner of Max's mouth quirks up at how sure Charles seems.

"Good. Now show the fucking world what you're capable of," Max says, before walking off.

Charles watches him go and something flutters in his chest.

---

Charles Leclerc at Red Bull is a success from the get-go.

The team actually listens to him when he gives feedback on the car during pre-season testing, and they've designed the car to suit his driving style.

He manages to snatch the win from Max on the final lap of the first race of the season, and it’s fucking beautiful. Max seems as happy for Charles as he would have been for himself had he managed to start the season off with a win.

Max hugs him so tight when Charles climbs out of his car after the race that it’s almost painful. But Charles hugs him right back, just as tight.

On the podium, as he stands on the top step, looking down at the ecstatic faces of his new team, at Max beaming at him to his right, Charles feels like he's on top of the fucking world.

At the hotel later that night, when Max comes knocking at his door to congratulate him again, Charles pulls him into the room and into a kiss — and later, his bed.

Somehow, fucking the reigning World Champion — his teammate, the bane of Charles' existence for most of his life — feels even better than his first race win at Red Bull.

---

The 2025 season is a thriller from start to finish. Being in a team that actually listens to him and a car that is actually competitive means that Charles is fighting Max for the championship title. They’re far ahead of Lando in third place and Carlos in fourth, and it will all be settled in Abu Dhabi.

Max is ahead of Charles by four measily points, meaning that if Charles wins the race, he wins his maiden world championship.

And the pressure of that is sending him into a panic in the bathroom mere minutes before he has to be in his car.

He stands over the sink, gripping the edges tight enough to turn his knuckles white as he tries and fails to control his breathing, to calm his racing heart.

The door opens.

"Charles, what are you —," Max cuts himself off mid-sentence as he lays eyes on Charles.

He shuts the door behind him and steps closer, placing a gentle hand on Charles' back.

"What's wrong? What happened? Are you okay?" He asks hurriedly.

When Charles meets his gaze, his face his pale and his eyes wide.

"I don't think I can do this," he admits weakly, shaking his head.

Max frowns at him. "What do you mean?"

"The race. I can’t do it."

It's ridiculous, Charles knows. He's come this far, his first ever world championship within reach. He's proven himself, time and time again over the past season. He's shown the world what he's capable of, he's shown the world that it was always Ferrari that was the problem, and not Charles himself. He's proved to every single person who ever doubted him and their fucking mother that he deserves this. That he deserves to be at this level.

That he deserves to win.

And yet, the past is coming back to haunt him. Coming back to try and convince him that it’s all a lie — that he doesn’t deserve a single thing he has achieved so far. Even though he knows it’s a fucking lie, it’s still there, in the back of his mind.

Taunting him.

"Of course you can," Max tells him, taking a hold of Charles' arm and pulling him upright.

Charles goes willingly, letting Max turn him until he's facing the other man.

"I can’t."

Max grabs his face, holding it between his hands and looking deep into the Monégasque's eyes.

"You can. I know you can."

Charles swallows, wants to look away. But Max isn’t having it.

"You're the most talented driver I've ever seen, and you've shown it all year, Charles," Max tells him, and it’s said with such intensity — such conviction — that Charles' heart fucking soars.

"You want me to win?" Charles asks, the panic having finally started to ease, replaced by confidence.

Max smirks at him, moving his hands down to hold the sides of Charles' neck.

"I'll do my best to make sure you don’t," Max promises, and Charles knows he means it. Knows Max would never in a million years let him win.

"But if you do win, you'll have fucking earned it."

Max kisses him then, a hard press of lips against Charles'. He pulls back mere seconds later, eyes dark.

"Now go out there and fucking prove me right."

It sounds like a challenge.

Max means it like one, too.

Another peck, and then Max is out the door.

Charles glances at himself in the mirror, squaring his shoulders and taking a deep breath. Then, he smiles and follows Max — his teammate, his rival, reigning World Champion and holder of his fucking heart and soul — out of the bathroom.

---

Charles wins the race and the World Championship in Abu Dhabi, and Max finishes less than half a second behind him.

And it’s fucking beautiful.

[maxcuntstappen]

wanted to post some comfort lestappen after yesterday and generally to kind of cleanse the energy of the tumblr dash over the last couple of days.

enjoy <3

__

“Baby,” Max says, “Come on.”

It doesn’t change anything. Charles stays lying on his front, his face buried in his pillow.

He looks so small like this. So tiny. It makes Max want to protect him, to kiss his forehead and hold him close and keep him there for as long as they live.

“Charlie,” Max whispers, fingers reaching out to comb through Charles’ soft, brown locks, “Talk to me please.” 

Charles replies, but the words reach Max all garbled, the sound swallowed up by the intruding pillow.

But still. It’s progress.

Max lies down on his side next to Charles, throwing an arm over his waist. He kisses Charles’ cheek. Once, twice. Three more times.

And finally, like the sun breaking through grey clouds, Charles’ head turns towards him. Just a little bit. Only a single beautiful green eye looking at Max. 

“Hi,” Max smiles, his hand caressing Charles’ cheek, “It’s nice to see your lovely face.”

And despite everything, Charles smiles. It makes Max feel like he’s won a goddamn trophy. 

“Do we not want to talk about what’s wrong?” 

Charles shakes his head.

Max hums.

It’s not ideal. Charles is the kind of person who always feels better once he talks his emotions out. But if he doesn’t want to, Max will not force him. 

“Is there something else we can do, that I can do which would help?”

Charles’ bottom lip sticks out, a cute little pout that makes Max’s chest ache.

“I don’t know,” Charles whispers, his voice rough and heavy, “I don’t know what to do, what will help.”

Max nods, running through his mental directory of things and activities that he knows Charles enjoys.

“I think,” Charles begins, biting his lip.

“Yes?” Max urges, running his fingers down the length of Charles’ spine, smiling gently at the shiver that follows.

“I think I just want to be sad for a bit,” Charles says, his eyes so careful, so observant, undoubtedly evaluating all of Max’s expressions, “I just want to be sad and watch some tv and that’s all.” 

Max doesn’t know what to think. Or say. 

It’s not something Charles has done before, as far as Max is aware of. Charles either talks about it or works out about it or writes some music about it. He’s never just… been with it. That’s more of Max’s thing.

“Is that okay?” Charles asks cautiously.

“Of course it’s okay, schatje,” Max says, moving closer to kiss Charles’ nose, “Of course.” 

The corners of Charles’ mouth turn up a little, making the corners of Max’s mouth turn up a whole lot. 

“Do you want to be alone? I could give you some space, go sim race for a while or play with the cats.”

Charles frowns, shaking his head, “No. Stay.” 

“Okay,” Max smiles, “Do you have something particular you want to watch?” 

“No, not really. I just don’t want to think.”

“Okay,” Max nods, “Okay. Come on then, come here”

Max sits up, leaning against the headboard, holding his arms open.

Charles is quick to move, settling into Max’s side, breathing a sigh of relief.

“I’m going to pick the third movie that’s on our watchlist, okay?” Max asks, feeling Charles nod against him, his hair tickling the inside of Max’s arm.

Max doesn’t think he’s even heard of the movie. It’s animated and about a goose and a fish and why the hell is this on their watchlist.

Doesn’t matter. He picks it anyway.

It’s quiet as they watch the film. Something Max is not used to. 

Charles is a chronic talker. Even during movies. Seriously. The man has an opinion about each scene and he will make it known. 

He is really fucking lucky that Max doesn’t care much about films and would rather be listening to Charles’ voice anyways.

Yeah, it’s odd, feeling Charles next to him, matching his own breathing to his and not knowing any of the things going on in his head.

But it’s okay. It’s what Charles needs. And that’s all that matters.

Charles snorts suddenly, scaring the shit out of Max, “I don’t get it. How can a goose and a fish be friends? Like how can a goose hear what the fish is saying underwater?”

Max has to force down a cackle to be able to reply. It makes his voice sound all strange and high-pitched.

“That’s the part you decide to question and not the fact that they of course can talk?”

Charles rolls his eyes, giving Max’s arm a hard smack, “You know what I mean, you asshole.”

Max doesn’t. He really, really doesn’t. 

But Charles has already moved onto sharing his next thought and he sounds lighter and he’s moving his hands around as he talks and so when he asks Max if he thinks it’s stupid that the main character goose has a ‘cooler haircut’ than the other geese, all Max does is nod and say, “So fucking stupid, schatje. It’s so stupid.”

[wisteriagoesvroom]

hello hello! Are you still doing fluffy prompts? If so may I please ask for cuddling in a bathtub or something?

I'm not annoning I have no shame or dignity left

so your idea spurred another idea. it is tangential, but i hope it still delivers on the Soft Vibes. thank u for prompting 🫂

don't take too much (off of me)

📝 1.3k words 💟 lestappen 🟢 rated G 🔗 also on ao3

“Stop moving.”

“I’m not.”

Charles twirls the scissors between two fingers, hoping that his posture is authoritative enough that Max will quit squirming in his chair. They are in the middle of lockdown and neither is sure when their tentative friendship turned into this – at first it was innocuous knocks on the door to play FIFA, then it was to borrow a jar of pesto here and there. Then, trampling into each other’s apartments. Max knowing to wipe his shoes on the carpet, Charles helping pick up cat food on his regular run to the grocery store (in line with lockdown mandates, they’re only allowed to go to the store twice a week.)

And now they are here. Max sitting on a dining room chair, leaning back, a makeshift cowl around his shoulders that Charles had stolen from his maman’s salon. Max tries not to twitch or move, knowing that the process of hair cutting is a delicate process. Sure, he has sat for a haircut many times before, but never under the hands of this erratic ball of energy that is Charles Leclerc, who is currently brandishing a blade like a child would a spork.

“Do you trust me, or not?” Charles says. Indignant.

“I’m here, am I not?”

“Unhappily, it seems.”

“Kerel. You have wavy hair. You look like a Disney prince. Me? One wrong move of the scissors and there will be memes in my name.”

“But it’s kind of fun when they are making the memes about you. No?”

Max glowers. “It is when they’re nice ones.”

Charles makes a noise between a snort and a guffaw. Charles perched on a stool behind him, so he can’t see the other man’s expression. But when Max looks to the corner of his living room, Max can see Charles’s face in the reflection there. Just a sliver of his face, in profile. Max expects to find Charles’s eyes crinkled, maybe teasing. Max is used to it, after all. Being the an easy target, a convenient villain. Because a lion never roars back. Not outside of the track, anyway. Even if he sometimes hides in his apartment with his cats and licks his wounds instead.

Max’s shoulders tense, hackles up. But Charles’s eyes are very soft. The punchline never comes.

“Well. I think you very handsome, Maximilian.” Charles says.

Oh. Max’s throat bobs. He doesn’t really know what to say. He’s been called many things in the past. Handsome isn’t necessarily one of them. And somehow it has a greater weight, a different bearing, when it comes from Charles. Because Charles is someone he’s begun to acknowledge that he cares about, perhaps a great deal.

“And now! We are doing the short at the sides and long at the top, oui?” Charles says. Snapping straighter in his makeshift hairdresser’s stool, energy whipping through him like lightning. Changing the topic as if he hadn’t just confessed to Max the very same thing that Max has been thinking about Charles for weeks – or if he’s honest – years, now.

“Whatever you do, make sure it’s tidy, yeah?”

“Come on mate. I am always careful.”

“Like you were when you drove into the Copse wall.”

“That was an isolated incident. Due to a combination of unexpected mechanical factors.”

“Pfft. Okay. Save that response for Sky.”

“You’re nearly as annoying as them, sometimes.” Charles says, frown gentle before he lifts the scissors again. 

Comfortably back in their banter-y element, the chatter continues. Charles is careful about his work, the blades moving slowly and carefully. And what Charles lacks in finesse he makes up for in social skills, clearly inheriting this from his parents. Talking and filling the silence comfortably, wandering from topics as diverse as sailing on the Monaco coastline, to David Guetta’s recent bizarre fundraiser video, to the latest model of automatic cat feeder that has become available on the market. Charles’s fingers brush his jaw occasionally to adjust the angle, scissors glinting in the afternoon sun. Max deliberately avoids eye contact, only glimpsing at him occasionally to share a laugh. 

At the end, Charles uses a towel to brush the loose hair off Max’s neck. They both get up to stand at Max’s living room mirror, surveying Charles’s handiwork. Their reflections loom large, shoulder to shoulder at the same height. Besides, Max isn’t really looking at himself, and neither is Charles, either.

“It’s good, yes?” Charles says. Low, conspiratorial.

Max’s grip tightens on the towel that he’s holding. His pulse etches up. The whole afternoon has been gentle touch, contact that aches because the pandemic has made him even more pathetically wanting than usual. Contact that he’s been trying very hard not to think about or keep for more nefarious purposes later. 

The other man's gaze is warm in the mirror. Max thinks of fresh cut grass at Imola, his favourite corner in Silverstone.

“Yes.” Max says. It’s good. The haircut, him, them. This strange rhythm they’ve found together. The quiet space of each other’s apartment, each other’s company, temporarily safe from the world. The trust offered to one another: enough to let them run you into gravel and trust that it was worth the fight. Enough to hold a blade in your hand and only let one other person in the world come near you with it. Risk, and promise.

Then he’s turning towards Charles. Charles mirroring him. The light is bright and the sky blue in the window, but all Max can see for a moment is Charles’s face, his half open mouth ripe like a plum. The scent, this close, of Charles’s carrefour laundry softener and woody aftershave.

And they’re leaning towards each other, a boundary they might finally cross, let the cards fall where they fucking may, when—

A yowl. A screech. A mighty crash. 

“Sassy!” Max says, practically jumping out of his skin.

Both men whip around at the source of the noise. Sassy’s frozen on a shelf, a beige mass with yellow eyes. Paw half up, looking guilty – if a cat could look guilty– at a trophy that he has just knocked off a counter. Jimmy, on the other hand, is absolutely nowhere to be seen, already having escaped the scene of the crime.

Max groans into his hands. But then Charles is laughing, an asthmatic penguin noise that Max has really come to like. It melts the fire in Max a little, amusement tempering his frustration. (The trophy is not the source of Max’s current frustration, but Charles does not need to know that.) 

“I shall get the broom.” Charles says.

“Thanks.”

So the moment passes. They clean up. On their hands and knees, near, but not touching. The broken trophy is the one he got for his overtake on Nasr in his first year in F1, and offers a chance for them to reminisce about their races. For Max to joke a little about whether Charles will get his first WDC when the pandemic is over, both of them excited about the future, a future with both of them in it, still trying, still racing each other to the brink. It’s much easier to do this, than to talk about the almost-kiss, or break the seal on this moment that they know won’t last forever.

Debris cleared, and the cats shooed into the study, Charles mentions that he should go return his equipment to his mother. They stand at the doorway for a moment that stretches too long.

Max doesn’t know how long they have. Of this, of each other. Of being left alone, of the world not encroaching with cameras or demands for explanations or labels for what they are. Of getting to know each other not as competitors, but on their own terms, in their own time.

But for a long time, Max will always remember this moment. The two of them, a dining chair. His crazy cats, Charles’s toothy smile. Their partial reflections in the mirror, an afternoon unfolding with potential.

A warm hand on his back to let him know he’s cared for, and looked after.

[xiaoluclair]

@coconutshygame nexxttttttttttt !!!!!!!!! 'nother shortie

7. to shut them up // mv1.cl16 // G

"I cannot believe you thought that was going to work," goaded Charles. Max considered throwing his spatula at him instead. "Charles," mocked Charles, "shut. Up."

Max hated England slightly.

"You are burning your eggs, I think," said Charles a minute later, and his head popped up next to Max's pan. Max closed his eyes. You cannot put tobasco on your teammate. You cannot maim your teammate with a steak knife. You cannot carve your teammate into a mushroom, chop him up, and fry him next to the tomatoes.

Daily affirmations.

Max levelled Charles with the hashbrown on his fork. You cannot throw potatoes at your teammate. "Get away from my eggs, mate."

"You call those eggs?" parried Charles, eyes horridly bright.

"You call those sausages?" retorted Max. Contrary to Max's possibly slightly overdone yolks, Charles's pork sausages looked as close to newborn babies with melanocyte defects as two things that weren't newborn babies with melanocyte defects could.

"I am cooking so much better than you," said Charles. He poked Max with the butt of his cooking spoon. From what he could remember, Carlos was never harassed this much. Sebastian, maybe. "Look at how amazing my beans look."

"Your beans that came from a can?" asked Penni, behind the camera. Charles did not reply.

He jabbed Max with his spoon instead. You cannot grab your teammate's spoon and use it to make a crater in his face. You cannot grab your teammate's spoon and use it to perforate his lungs. You cannot grab your teammate's spoon and use it to.

Max grabbed the spoon. Charles laughed when he tugged at it. "What is the problem now? Do you need my incredible cooking skills to—"

And use it to kiss him.

[maxemilianverstappen]

Prompt: first time

Max does his best to stretch Charles. He'd hate it if their first time is a painful experience for him. He hopes when Charles thinks about their first love making, all he can remember is the pleasure that he gives him. So, he painstakingly massages the tightness away and uses extra lube and watches for Charles' reactions very closely.

"That's enough..." Charles' voice is raspy between his deep breaths, his chest heaving and flushed and shiny with a sheen of sweat. "Enough already... Max... Just..."

A small almost naughty smile stretches Max's plush lips. "Just what?" He asks impishly and makes Charles groan and roll his eyes a bit at him, but he is smiling, too. Max adores it when he manages to get Charles a bit bashful like now.

"Just..." Charles takes a shy glance at Max and hides his face under his arm, quickly blurting what he wants, hoping to spare some of his dignity by voicing his desire in a rush. "Just want you inside me..."

That small victory makes Max twitch and grin, but he doesn't take his fingers away for another moment just to be on the safe side. "No need to feel shy about what you want from me..." He leans down and kisses Charles until Charles lets him take his arm away from his face and then presses it onto the bed just beside Charles' head. "When you tell me what to do, it makes me feel so hot..." His breath hitches as he slowly pushes into his boy friend. Careful, slow and patient.

At his words, Charles looks entralled, his wet gaze on Max's features, his free hand holding onto his broad back firmly. He wants to distract himself from the foreign feeling of being breeched so intimately like this. He wants to keep his face straight, wants to at least hide how close he is to losing it all for a few minutes more; so, he asks. "What else... makes you so?"

Max bites on his lower lip in concentration and control, feeling the way Charles' insides grip at every inch of him as he fills him up. He breathes out shakily, cherishes the way Charles' hand pulls him in, his eyes never leaving his. "Knowing that you want me this much." He says with a small smile and watches Charles blink at him with emotion.

Just then, Max is fully seated and Charles realizes how he has been holding his breath and with a sigh he wraps his legs around Max and relaxes. A bead of sweat drops from the tip of Max's nose and lands right on his cheek and for some reason, it is so endearing to him that his eyes tear up and he pulls Max in with the fondest of smiles. "Then, I will never stop wanting you." He decides and kisses Max, leaving him equally breathless.

[stillthe1]

5 (& maybe 16) for the fluffy prompts w lestappen 💕

1600k of lestappie following these prompts for u, c!!! 🩷🩷🩷 i tried to make it fun enough n maybe horny enough, so... yeah. kind of nsfw? don't really know what came to me. non-betaed so all mistakes r my own 🩷

Charles’ had the worst fucking weekend, Miami was not kind to him, as he found himself battling with a Haas and losing. And sure, he respects Kevin very much, but come on. Really, Ferrari?

(Maybe he should’ve let the Mercedes rumors continue–)

So it’s not a surprise, really, when Pierre forces him to go out. Let go of the feelings of the weekend, and maybe he’s right. As the music starts to get to him, Pierre comes back with a Cosmo for Charles and a Zombie for him. Fruity and bright, as Miami, non?

As soon as he tastes his cocktail, he makes a face. Holy hell. “Pierre, this is strong. Did you ask for more vodka?” His nose is scrunched up, and his eyes may or may not be watering. Sue him, he knows he’s a lightweight, but this was another level.

He already felt a bit drunk, and it was the start of the night. Welp. Let’s hope he doesn’t do anything too wild, or he would have to sit through another Ferrari meeting about the brand and how he’s supposed to act. 

Fuck Ferrari.

He lets go of the constant voices in his head that sound like Fred, and his management team. Let’s go of all the things and just dances around, listening to Bad Bunny singing about whatever – he just hopes it’s not Max’s song. He needs Max out of his brain for a night. For an hour, at least.

“So,” Pierre's smile is blinding, too bright for today, but he’s still Pierre, so Charles will ignore it for now. “Did you see who was in the paddock this weekend? It was insane!”

And trust Pierre to get all the gossip from whoever he gets it, always the first to know everything. And Charles, too. Being best friends has benefits, sometimes. 

“Huh? Who?” He thinks about guessing, it’s a fun game around the USA, the most random celebrities always show up and act like it’s their catwalk. Whatever. “David Beckham? Or maybe Shakira? Carlos told me way too many times about her leave to Miami…”

“No, Charles! Well, I don’t know, but!” Pierre’s hands do a strange movement, and Charles thinks he’s had too many drinks already. “It was Martijn Garrix and Daniel!”

“Daniel?” His voice sounds weird even to his ears, all flat and no energy behind it. “Ricciardo? What were they doing here?”

He knows that Daniel is Red Bull’s third driver, but he was around in Australia too. Did he really need to be around that much? Around Max—

Do not think about Max. Charles, do not think about Max. Abort, abort, abort.

“They were here to support Max, or so Danny told me. Oh! And they told me they’ll be here too, so we’ll see them!”

Fuck. Fuckity fucking fuck. Merde. No, no, and no. He wanted a night free of Max Verstappen, free of the thoughts he had around him, the way his heart started beating faster and faster around him. He had a bad weekend, a bad season, and a bad year, already. He needed this. Fuck.

He feels his breath come in short, and the familiar feeling of panic settles inside his chest. He excuses himself from Pierre quickly, noticing his friend’s concerned stare, and walks quickly to the patio of the club. 

He needed space. He needed to be alone for a minute. His vision is blurry, and for a moment he thinks it’s the alcohol. But no, fucking hell. He’s tearing up. At a goddamned club in Miami. What a great year, huh?

He sits on one of the couches with a view of the sea and breathes in the salty air. He closes his eyes to avoid tears, or worse, a whole breakdown. He does not have time for a breakdown, no matter what his therapist said.

He needs his bubble of personal space and some minutes to himself–

“Charles?”

He opens his eyes, a bit reluctantly, and looks up at Max. How did he find him? Has he been looking around, praying to catch him? Or was he just casually walking by and thought, huh, let’s stop a moment to talk to my ex-nemesis? Fun times, hah.

He realizes his eyes are full of tears at the same time as Max's. Max’s eyes widen, sitting quickly by his side. It feels nice, and Charles suppresses a sob.

His walls are down, a combination of alcohol and Max’s proximity, and all he wants is to cuddle up to Max, give in to the urge he has always had and kiss the freckle that frames Max’s lips. 

“Charles, hey, love. Can you hear me?” Max’s voice is soft, and it scratches all of Charles’ needs. He nods, biting his bottom lip and trying not to cry. “Okay, can you look at me?”

He shakes his head no and prays Max does not read into it. It’s just. Max’s eyes have always been Charles’ obsession. Deep blue, with the prettiest lashes known to mankind, and. Max always says so much with his eyes, wears his heart on his sleeve, and makes Charles feel untethered. 

“Tell me what I can do for you, honey. Please.” The emphasis on honey makes Charles tear up even more. Fuck, he needs Max. He needs Max for himself, maybe show everyone around them – Daniel Ricciardo, especially — that Max Verstappen is his.

But he is not. They’re not dating. They’re nothing. Charles always feels lost when he sees Max direct his soft smiles at someone that’s not him. Feels like he has traveled through time, feels the scratchy texture of the Sauber fireproofs, and feels the indifference in Max’s eyes when he looked at him back then.

Charles always tries to not be selfish and tries not to ask too much. But right now, with Max asking him what he needs, he can’t lie.

“Stay?” His voice sounds scratchy, even though he has avoided crying for now. He refuses to look up. He doesn’t want to look at Max while he feels like this. Lost, jealous, possessive. 

He feels Max’s nod against his arm, and he startles. Since when are they so close? He can smell Max’s cologne and it’s intoxicating, spicy but with enough vanilla to feel cozy. 

He feels Max’s sigh against his shoulder, and he lets himself enjoy the moment. Enjoy Max’s proximity, the smell of his sandalwood shampoo, everything that makes him Max.

It’s enough to calm him down. Enough for him to see things a bit clearer, without that much panic taking over his brain. Max is here. Max is sitting by his side, when he should be celebrating his incredible win, getting drunk with Daniel and Martijn.

But he stayed. Because Charles asked him to. It’s too much for his brain to catch up, and he can’t stop himself. He can’t help it, not with the amount of alcohol his Cosmopolitan had, not while having Max cuddling up with him.

“Max…” 

Max looks up at him, blue eyes full on display and face smushed against Charles’ arm. Fuck, he looks so beautiful. So freaking cute. Charles almost wants to kiss his nose, but he must refrain.

“Max, can I kiss you?” 

Max nods quickly, biting his bottom lip, worrying it under his teeth, and turning it a very pretty pink. As pink as the blush in Max’s ears, cheeks, and neck. He looks edible.

“Took you long enough, Leclerc. I thought you would never ask.” His smirk is ruined by the nervousness his eyes show, and really, Charles has never been patient. 

And he has always wanted Max Verstappen. So he cannot be blamed if their first kiss is a bit rushed, a bit too quick. Max smiles against his lips, and everything feels like a movie. He almost expects the techno music around them to switch to Taylor Swift.

Charles giggles, finally giving in and kissing Max’s nose, too. 

Max takes a hold of his face with one of his big hands and Charles feels the world around them disappear, his eyes focused on Max’s pretty, pink plump lips. He presses their lips together once more, and it feels like home. Max tastes like gintonic, a bit minty, and it’s heaven. Charles, being his bratty self, bites Max’s bottom lip, and finally gives fully into the kiss. 

It’s slick, hot and fucking perfect. Nothing could have prepared Charles for this, no matter how many fantasies he had as a teenager, not even the ones years later. This was his own personal heaven, with Max’s hand caressing his face softly and kissing the lights outta him.

He stops the kiss to breathe, and smiles at Max, dimples out in display. It feels unreal, having Max so close. So so so close that he can see the damned lip freckle, the one that has taunted him for years.

Without giving it too much tought, he closes in again, and it’s intoxicating to see Max close his eyes. He’s expecting a kiss, but Charles bites his freckle. Gently, extremely gentle, but. It’s there, it’s taunting Charles, and he had to take action.

Max moans, and Charles has a full-body reaction to it, and the urge to grind against Max’s thigh is too big to ignore it. 

They need to get out of here, right now. 

Or Charles will create a big mess for both Ferrari and Red Bull, they will call it Il Predestinato and the Golden Boots.

“Max, Max. Please, let’s go to the hotel. Please.”

He’s begging, pleading with the worst case of bedroom eyes he has ever used against someone. But somehow it works, and Max gets up immediately. Takes Charles’ hand on his, gently as he ever his with him, and guides them towards the private exit of the club.

“Let’s go, my love.”

[charles-leclerc-official]

Add a little bit to the Max multi-universe time travel prompt—I may be mean but I can't help laughing when I think about a more "red bull" style, free to be evil Charles and the strictly pr tightened "Maxiel be decent be elegant smile and wink!" Max.

Enjoy the hiking!

"Max what are you doing?" Silvia asked.

"Making my post about the race," Max held up his phone, "what does it look like."

"That caption is going to give the wrong idea," Silvia made to snatch his phone.

"What?" Max barely kept his phone out of reach.

"Look at this," Silvia managed to pry Max's phone away from him. "You are going to make people think you aren't happy about P2."

"I'm not," Max said flatly. Why would he be happy about losing?

"Yes, you are," Silvia said, erasing his caption, selecting a better picture with him smiling and she changed his emoji to a smiling face.

What the hell?

"Okay, well that's done, come on you have a video to shoot with Carlos, we need to get you into makeup and remember to smile. Last week people were getting the wrong idea."

Makeup? Smile? Video? Did he not get to rest?

"Oh and people are worried you and Carlos aren't getting along, so make sure you stand close to him. I don't care if you flirt, just make sure you are happy teammates. Just for five minutes," Silvia added.

"Fucking hell," Max muttered under his breath.

"What was that?"

"Nothing," Max made sure to smile, his cheeks already hurt.

This is the comedy gold of the prompt, anon you are on to something!

Part one of the alternate timeline au concept

[princemick]

Love a sewis divorce

I do not <3

[blorbocedes]

lestappen sexworkers

"Your john?" Charles asked carefully, at the purplish red bruise blooming high on Max's cheek -- better a client than the cops.

Max grinned lazily, to remove the thin material of his shirt to reveal even more bruises, hickeys down the side of his lean abs, and then tucked into his waistband a bundle of cash.

Charles sits on Max, dabbing some of his foundation to cover as much as he can. The type that goes for Charles like doing that too, leave marks like it has any claim; like it could break Charles.

[lestappenforever]

I feel like a lestappen 26 and 35 can work together quite nicely 😊

I must say I agree with you. 😉

Also, I will add a trigger warning for dark dreams with mentions of death here. I promise it's only a dream, though.

---

26. "Just breathe. Like that. That's it.", and 35. "I don't know who I am without you." "That's easy. You're the best person I've ever met."

Max always dreams.

Every night, he dreams. But he can count the amount of times he has woken up actually remembering a dream on one hand. And the few times he does, it's never good.

The touch of a front wheel to a back wheel on a slowly drying track.

A red Ferrari spinning out in Eau Rogue at Spa and being hit by another car coming up behind it, sending it flying, the car turning upside down and crashing against the barriers at high speed

A radio message going unanswered, again and again and again.

A red flag being waved almost immediately.

"Who is it?" Max demands into his radio.

"It's Leclerc, Max," Gianpiero tells him.

Max's blood runs cold.

"Is he okay? Is he out of the car?"

"Standby, waiting for a visual."

Gianpiero doesn't speak again until Max is turning into the pitlane.

"He's unresponsive, Max. They're working on getting him out of the car."

Max parks the car and as soon as he's brought into the garage, he climbs out, throws off his helmet and takes off running.

A myriad of people try to stop him, but none of them suceed.

He runs and runs and runs, not caring about his own safety, not caring about the race. All he cares about is getting to Charles and making sure he's okay.

He reaches Eau Rogue just in time to see stewards putting Charles' lifeless body on a stretcher and loading him into the ambulance. He meets the gaze of one of the paramedics and he just knows.

Max wakes up with a scream.

"Jesus Christ," Charles gasps next to him, startled awake and blinking rapidly.

He looks at Max, sitting upright and gasping for breath, and it springs Charles into action.

"Hey, Max, it's okay. You're okay," the Monégasque tells him, as he moves to position himself behind Max on the bed, his legs on either side of Max, running his hands gently over the Dutchman's shoulders, down his arms.

"It was just a nightmare."

Max's body is trembling, cold sweat coating his face, his neck, his chest.

Charles wraps his arms around him, pulling Max back against his chest and kissing his shoulder.

"Shhh, it's okay. Feel my breathing," he instructs, as he takes a deep breath in. "In, two, three, four."

Max tries to mirror him as best he can.

Charles exhales. "Out, two, three, four."

It takes him quite a few tries but eventually, Max manages to calm his breathing enough to match Charles' steady breaths, aided by the solid warmth behind him and the way he can feel Charles' chest rise and fall against his back.

He can feel Charles' heartbeat against the back of his shoulder, reminding him that it was just a dream. A horrible, terrible dream.

But a dream nevertheless.

Charles' arms tighten around him, and Max closes his eyes.

"Just breathe. Like that. That's it."

In, two, three, four.

Out, two, three, four.

"You're okay, mon chéri," Charles murmurs against his shoulder, pressing another kiss there.

"You were gone," Max eventually finds his voice and when he lifts a hand to feel his cheek, it's wet with tears. "You crashed and you weren't responding on the radio, and then you were just gone."

Charles makes a sympathetic noise against his shoulder.

"But I'm not. I'm right here."

"You were gone, Charles."

"It was a nightmare, chéri. Just a nightmare."

Max takes another deep breath.

In, two, three, four.

Out, two, three, four.

Leaning his head back against Charles' shoulder, Max looks up at the other man.

"I don't know who I am without you," he admits, voice small and quiet. Charles meets his gaze in the darkness of the bedroom.

"That's easy," Charles counters, a small smile on his lips. "You're the best person I've ever met"

A surprised chuckle escapes Max at that, and some of the tightness in his chest finally eases.

"But, lucky for you —," the Monégasque begins, trailing one hand gently up and down Max's stomach and chest. "— you'll never have to be without me. Not if I have anything to say about it."

Relief washes over Max, and he nuzzles his face against the side of Charles' neck, letting his eyes slide shut again.

"I'm going to hold you to that," Max mumbles, and he feels Charles smile against his hair.

"I would expect nothing less."

A while later, they fall asleep in that exact position; Charles leaning back against the headboard with Max between his legs, resting back against Charles' front.

And if Max dreams this time, he thankfully doesn't remember it.

[maxcuntstappen]

in honor of leo leclerc, lestappen discussing about getting a new pet or about what kind of pet they should get?

"I think we should get a bunny."

"What?" Charles responds, his eyes still stuck to his laptop where a bunch of emails and images and what not are open.

Max rolls his eyes, only slightly annoyed at having to share his boyfriend's attention with an inanimate object.

"A bunny," he repeats, "We should get one."

Finally, Charles glances up, green eyes all wide and confused.

"A bunny?" he asks.

Max nods.

"Why would we get a bunny?" Charles frowns, his nose scrunched up.

Max gives in to the urge to lean over and press a kiss to Charles' nose.

"'Cause we have the cats, and we always talk about how they're like me," Max begins.

Charles nods, "Uh-huh."

"And now we have Leo, who you also say is like me," Max continues.

"Okayyyy?"

"Now we need to get a bunny. So we can have a pet that is just like you!"

Max didn't think it was possible for Charles to look more confused. Max was wrong.

"A bunny? Why the hell would a bunny be like me?"

"So many reasons, Charlie," Max starts, holding up a finger as he recites his well-thought out list, "Smaller than they realise. Look fucking adorable but have quite sharp teeth. Often show affection by just plopping down on someone," Max pauses to pointedly look at Charles' legs, half of which are resting on Max's lap, "and of course a very active and responsive nose, always twitching and moving."

As if on command, Charles' nose rucks up, his nostrils flaring in annoyance before settling back down again.

"SEE!" Max exclaims, "Just like that!"

Charles smacks the back of his hand against Max's shoulder, "Shut the fuck up, Max. I'm not anything like a bunny!"

"But--"

"Max," Charles warns. And Max knows that tone so he lets it go. Just for now.

They fall back in to silence, each busy with their own devices.

..

....

......

"Okay, what about a hamster?"

"MAX!"

[wisteriagoesvroom]

promptfill for @clearlyclairesblog!

P.s. I don’t know if this is the direction you wanted, but here is what I ran with…

++

Mercado lestappen Rated G for general audience vibes (and a bit of angst) Minor mentions of drinking 1.2k words (Also readable on ao3)

The supermarket is playing a mariachi cover of a radio song that Charles doesn’t know the name of, nor does he particularly care to. In the last year since he’s been to Central America he’s been racing in what the newspapers would call “beautifully”, “at a level that hasn’t been seen in over seven years” — and if the Twittersphere is also to be believed, “b for big slay”. But apparently it still, still! isn’t enough to beat the number one two nights ago at the Autódromo.

Charles swats away the thoughts. This is not time to dwell on the bad race. He is here to try and forget the bad race. He rubs his eyes and holds a bottle of what he thinks is tequila, the words abstract on the amber bottle. The lights are too bright in here, and the aisles too colourful. Driving on the track suits Charles because he can expend his energy hyper focused on what he needs to do, where he needs to go. It gives his anxiety a channel of relief, where high octane and being rabbit-quick serves a glorious purpose.

Here, in the real world, sometimes he is not so sure.

There are too many soda options that could go with the bottle that he's holding. (It behooves him, a son of Monaco, to at least have some kind of chaser. To keep this nominally classy, to make this self-pity show not entirely pathetic. Even Charles when sad has standards. Maybe grapefruit jarritos would make a good accompaniment for tequila and depression?)

Andrea would probably kill him, but whatever. There’s a reason Charles left the whole team at the hotel, wandered off with a cap and big hoodie in search of quiet time. Besides, abstinence from indulgence, in all its forms still hasn’t gotten Charles any further in the standings compared to last year. So he deserves a little boozy soda, non?

Of course, to add insult to injury, Max Verstappen’s face stares at him from a can of Red Bull. And of course Charles can’t help but laugh. Of all the endorsements in the world, of all the people to see now, it is the cause of his despair, Satan on hot wheels himself who deigns to make an appearance to haunt him in the Fresko.

That is what breaks him. It starts as a giggle, ends with his face buried in his hands, and Charles wonders what the world would make of him having un petit meltdown in the middle of a suburban supermarket.

“What the hell?”

The voice knocks him right off kilter. He would know that voice anywhere. No, it could not be.

But when Charles looks up, there he is. His rival, in the flesh. Equally in a cap and dark hoodie, holding a loaf of bread and a six-pack of Corona under one arm.

“Is that bread?” Charles says. He doesn’t know what to say, really. They do not share much off the track, him and Max. They live in the same city, but don’t cross paths. They are born sixteen days apart, but besides racing have almost nothing in common. They carted together for over a decade, fought in F1 together for almost another more and somehow Max has over quadruple the WCs and Charles has nothing to show for it except a couple of podiums, and maybe a lot of shame. (He tries not to think too much about the shame.)

Max, to his credit, doesn’t seem particularly ruffled about any of this. These days, Max has mellowed out, grown from defensive boy to assertive man, relaxed in his shoulders, laughs a little more easily. In contrast Charles finds himself trying not to sink into his car, to tell himself to smile more genuinely for the cameras that are now starting to feel more and more like a burden rather than anything fun, because years of expectation and being told you’re a winner, and for it to never be true, can gnaw at your self-esteem like that.

Slightly further down the aisle from him, Max tilts his head. “I was hungry.”

“That’s fair.”

“And thirsty.”

“Me too.”

Charles doesn’t miss the way Max’s eyes flick down to the shopping basket and back up.

“That bad, huh?”

That bad? Charles fumes to himself. Max doesn’t know what it’s like, he couldn’t possibly imagine what it’s like, to always be second, to aim for something and fight for it so hard, only for it to still fall out of reach—

“You raced really well.” Max says, factually. As if the sky were blue, as if the supermarket did not at all intellectually or spiritually affect his cognitive functions like it already has thrown Charles for a loop. Max pronounces his assessment as if it were an absolute, which is Max’s power, you see. To take destiny by it’s teeth and force it to heel.

“Evidently, what I did was not enough.” Charles says.

“You took every line that was needed.”

“I did.”

“Your tyre management has been the best I’ve ever seen it.”

“Thanks. But you were better.”

“Yes. I’m not going to apologise for that. You know well, how it is.”

Charles laughs, low, a little bitter. Yes, he does know well, how it is. “The rest of us are mice. Scrambling around the ankles of an elephant.”

Max, for his part, seems to chew on this. Shifting the bread a little higher in the crook of his elbow, eyes glancing but not really looking at the cans in the aisle. The music plays on for a few moments in the background, a cheery tune with lots of fast strumming. It’s a minor miracle that they’ve not been spotted, but this late at night, it seems the only person around is the disinterested cashier who is filing her nails at the checkout.

Somewhere in the distance the cashier coughs. Max taps the side of his thigh with his index finger, once, twice. Neither of them seems to know what to say.

Finally, Max yanks a Red Bull can off the shelf, closes the distance, and drops it right into Charles’s basket. This close, Charles can see the proud tilt of Max’s chin, the brown flecks in the other man’s eyes.

“A chaser.” Max says. Both of them aware of the double meaning. The drinks, their history.

Charles swallows. So fine, maybe it because it’s 2am, or maybe it’s the desperation. Here, face to face with Max, away from the cameras and the rest of the world, they can slow their strange dance, and Charles is able to say what he has really wanted to say. He wills it into his mind with more iron and fury than he truly feels.

“I will beat you one day, you know.”

His blood swims with it. He wills it to settle, to become familiar with the feeling, asserting himself in this way, speaking what he really means.

In turn, Max smiles. Genuine, this time, crinkling to the corner of his eyes. The rare ones he grants to the rest of the competitors on the couch after a good race, when he’s come off the track with fantastic pace. The one he has when he waves to his nephews.

Max doesn’t back off at all. He leans even closer. (Charles could count every lash. Tucks it away somewhere secret, somewhere with sharp edges that he can’t look too closely at, yet.)

“Absolutely, Charles.” Max says, all conspiratorial. “I wouldn’t want it any other way.”

[xiaoluclair]

48 lestappen please

hiya nonsie! this is a very short one hehe x

48. out of habit // mv1.cl16

Charles brought him in for a hug, bright and swelled amongst the crew. Max hugged him back, helmet resting like a crown on his head. Sorry for your DNF, he thought, and maybe Charles understood, maybe he didn't. They'd won the constructors though - together, they had done that. 731 to 398. It felt surprisingly good to share that achievement.

When he pulled back, Charles was still grinning. His hair was long enough that Max could fold it away with his fingers, but not so long it would tuck behind his ear. So he just did it again, like he used to do with Kelly, and as Charles said, "Congratulations-" he drew him in by the sides of his head and pressed their mouths together.

Behind his eyelids, a thousand camera flashes exploded at once. It was about three days into the kiss that Max realized why.

Charles was slack against him. When Max pulled back quickly, his eyes were wide open.

"Uh," said Max. "Sorry."

Charles's mouth was parted and devoid of lipstick. He seemed to wrangle it into something that could have been a smile, if the definition were loose and encompassed most of the facial expressions. "No problem."

Charles, recalled Max, had a girlfriend. Charles was also not Kelly, nor was he even a girl. His hair was short and his jaw was wide and the back of his neck did not fit effortlessly into the length of Max's hand. Charles was his teammate and Max. Max had just kissed him, live, on many, many televisions.

Whoops.

[watercolor-hearts]

Hi, are you still doing the ficlets because ao3 is down?

Would love anything lestappen. Hurt comfort or fluff

Hi dear,

Yeah, I'm still doing it because I need more time to write a story than I thought so the plan has become one story a day (if everything goes well). And now I'm here with yours. A little bit of ✨ p a i n ✨ for the Lestappies. *Cough* Ferrari *cough*. I hope you enjoy the story! 😊

Max/Charles • 1396 words • angst • crying • hugs • emotional hurt/comfort • cuddling • mentions of therapy • important conversation

-

“What are you thinking about, love?” Max asked, opening a can of Red Bull, when he saw Charles sitting on a bar stool in the kitchen, fully zoned out. Charles took a long, deep breath, making Max furrow his brows with concern.

“I'm just... Tired,” came the short reply instead of something longer and more detailed Max was preparing for. He left his Red Bull on the kitchen island and went to the other side of it and put his hands on Charles' shoulders.

“Maybe a massage can help,” Max offered, starting to work on Charles' muscles but his boyfriend shook his head and leaned further to put his elbows on the island and bury his face into his hands.

“It's n—I'm not physically tired,” he mumbled.

“Oh.”

“It's just... I don't even know.”

“You can of course talk to me about it, Charlie,” Max said while caressing his boyfriend's back. “I do not want you to hold back things because you think I do not care about them. I care about y—.”

“I'm tired of Ferrari,” Carles said, not letting Max finish his sentence. “I'm tired of being Il Predestinato and I'm tired of always fucking up and I'm tired of not having one single race where everything works and we win and I'm tired of always doing my best but never being good enough and I'm also tired of always just saying that the next year will be ours. No, it won't be. It hasn't been ours in the past God knows how many years either for fucks sake!” Carles raged, slapping the surface of the kitchen island with such a great force the sound made Max twitch. “Fucking shit,�� Charles muttered under his breath, feeling his palm burn and tears filling his eyes.

“Hey, Charlie,” Max said, trying to get Charles' attention, “Baby, come here,” he guided Charles into a hug when he heard and saw that he was about to cry.

“Being titled as the Predestined was such an honor because everyone knows that I live and breathe Ferrari but... But it just doesn't work for us together,” Charles said between sobs, burying his face into Max's chest as his boyfriend was holding him close, caressing his back and kissing his hair. “Ferrari is my everything but I'm tired, I'm so fucking tired I can't do this anymore, I can't, Max. I'm tired of pretending that I can and want to continue this shitshow.”

“You can... You can stop pretending now,” Max murmured and Charles's body stiffened before the first loud sob appeared, making his body tremble. “It is of course good to let it out and it is okay to cry so you can cry. I will hold you and then we can talk about this.”

Max was familiar with Charles's struggles with Ferrari and its incompetence and he was surprised Charles was able to hold it together for years and not break down sooner. Max was impressed and worried at the same time because Ferrari wasn't a healthy environment anymore and Charles needed to go if he didn't want to suffer anymore. And now it wasn't just a joke anymore. It was serious.

“We can find another seat for you,” Max said when Charles's sobbing died down after a few minutes.

“What another seat, Max?” Charles asked in disbelief, wet sniffles showing that the worst part was over and he was about to calm down completely. “Lewis has just signed for another few years, and I—I don't want to be a second driver next to you. I want to race and—and I want to win and both of us in the same team is not a good idea.” Max nodded, thinking about what to say because Charles was right but Max still wanted to save him before Ferrari completely destroys him.

“We of course have to look at your options,” Max said, wiping Charles' tears off and then holding his face in his hand, “You are an amazing driver, talented, funny, and you have a lot of fans which is good for marketing and you are of course world champion material, Charles. Ferrari does not appreciate you and it is now time to take a step and leave them to their bullshit. I do not want them to destroy your mental health. I'm worried about you.”

“I don't—I don't know what options I have.”

“We should rest a bit and then sort your thoughts through to see how you feel when you are not distressed. Maybe a call with your therapist could also help.”

Charles nodded. “I need an appointment.”

“It is okay, love,” Max said, kissing Charles' forehead, “Make one, and then we can cuddle on the couch and you can sleep.”

“Y-yeah, okay,” Charles nodded, taking a deep breath before fishing his phone out of his pocket.

While Charles was on the phone, Max filled a glass of water for Charles and then drank the rest of his Red Bull.

“I got one for tomorrow. Video call.”

“Good,” Max smiled, handing the glass to Charles, “Now drink this because you need to hydrate.”

“Says the one that drinks more Red Bull than water.”

“That is not true!” Max protested, “Brad would kill me if I drank more Red Bull than water.”

“I'm joking, Chèri,” Charles smiled, tears making his eyes shine, and gave a quick kiss to Max before drinking the water and placing the glass on the counter.

“I know, love. Now let's go to the couch,” Max said, his hand sliding onto Charles's waist, guiding him to the living room.

When Max lay down on the couch, he pulled Charles on top of him. It took them a few seconds to find the most comfortable position but after that, it was just right; a pillow under Max's neck to support it, Charles lying on the top of him, his head on Max's chest, right over his softly thumping heart.

“Ferrari is my everything,” Charles whispered, “my heart, my soul.”

“I know, love,” Max said, softly, while massaging Charles's scalp to comfort him.

“I don't want to betray them. They gave me this opportunity, they believed in me enough to give me an eight-year contract, Max. This... This is not something you just throw away.”

“Charlie, I know how important Ferrari is for you but you're not the first driver that gets his carrier destroyed by them. I know Ferrari is one of the most important teams in Formula 1 and I of course know it has a history but it is also important to think about you, as an individual, because your mental health is important. If you are depressed you cannot perform as good as you could if you were mentally healthy. Is it worth being a Ferrari driver if your team lets you down almost every time and always just promises that the next year will be better and you feel like you cannot do this anymore?”

They both knew the answer but none of them said it.

“I want to bring Ferrari back to the top where they belong,” Charles started to draw shapes on Max's upper arm, “I can't just say ‘thanks I'm out I can't do this anymore’. They believe in me.”

“But they do not see themselves, Charles. They're a meme on the internet. This team has serious problems you can't solve, love. These problems are not because of you but they affect you. And now you are here, needing serious therapy. You have to think about yourself, Charles. You cannot always put the team before yourself. You have to be selfish for once.”

Charles shook his head and closed his eyes, hoping the tears won't find a way for themselves this way. He was wrong because in the next moment, a single teardrop was sliding down on his cheek, landing on Max's white T-shirt, and then it was followed by more. Max didn't say anything. He has already said more than enough, it was up to Charles to decide what he'll do. Max was going to be there for him, holding him no matter what.

Charles was lying on Max's chest, listening to the calm beats under his ear, letting the tears fall until there wasn't any left. There was only one thought in his mind:

I'll give my blood, sweat, and tears for this.

[charles-leclerc-official]

Exactly no one will complain about a 30k+ one shot, Luci XD we will all be celebrating (and probably demanding more, tbh)

I'm excited to read all of it, and the next thing, and the next thing, etc, for all eternity.

Also excited about the Fantasy fic. Please tell me they race dragons? XD The Ferrari dragon would be the most elegant creature known to man and then the Red Bull would just be some hulking beast that Should Not be as fast as it is XD

So guys, are we excited about the vampire lestappen fic?

And also I will let you know I am also writing a lestappen fantasy project!!!!!!! (there aren't dragons in this one but I do have a dragon rider AU marinating)

Dragon riders as an AU is being slept on for F1 fic and we really need to sit down as a fandom and have a very serious discussion about steps we can take to change that.

[landoom]

Fic - Lestappen - The day we broke Instagram

The day we broke Instagram (546 words) by Aeris444 Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Formula 1 RPF Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Charles Leclerc/Max Verstappen Characters: Lando Norris, Pierre Gasly, Daniel Ricciardo, Sebastian Vettel Additional Tags: Dialogue Heavy, Fluff Summary: “Max… Why aren’t you following me on Instagram?” “Because if I did I wouldn’t be able not to like all your pictures. Would be sus…” “Makes sense.” “And why are YOU not following me?”

Never thought I'd write Lestappen but I had this little idea.... that turned into a full ficlet!