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xiaoluclair · 8 months

Note

Lestappen + accidental hand touching in the paddock!!! <3

no idea WOT this is, please proceed with caution!

accidental hand touching in the paddock // lestappen // [ rating: T ]

Known for the record, Charles is entirely okay and nonplussed by all of this. He is not a prude, he is not homophobic, he has touched dick before. His own. And now.

Max's laughter is very loud and very obnoxious. It grates, it guffaws. It grinds a horridly echoing noise right through Charles's bones, from his elbows to his toes.

“Charles,” snaps Andrea from behind him. Startled back into motion, Charles finished hurrying down the steps, sweat letting the railing slip through the circle of his palm. In front of them, Max has broken into a jog of his own.

His cap does not like this.

Just as Charles has thumped into a rhythm, it goes flinging itself off Max’s head and rolling through the air and eventually over the ground. Max’s head whips around, sees it where it is: a few feet behind him. Charles sees it too: a few feet in front of him.

Something thick growing in his stomach, Charles slows down to pluck up the godawful thing.

“Ferrari’s golden boy,” quips Max, “late.” He sounds slightly breathy. Jesus. His hair is flattened — how sympathetic of you, glowers Charles to the universe.

Charles slows. Holds out the stupid cap. “Kettle meet pot.”

Max reaches for it with a grin. Charles tracks in slow motion from a comfortable distance outside his body: the angular stretch of Max’s fingers. His left hand — his left hand and Charles’s left hand, and the space eaten between them. Fourth fingers brush. The base of it, bare where it roots into his palm, screeches an opera of nightmare bells.

Here comes the bride, all fat and wide…

Max takes the cap and fits it over his head. Charles watches him. The bold, boasting 1 stamped there. His brain, because it hates him, thinks things like: his eyes are really bright. When the sun catches the wisps of his hair, they look like gold thread. The cap on his head would look better off his head. The clothes on his body would look better on the f

“Charles!” Andrea. Again. Bless.

Charles throws himself into a sprint. Not because he is a prude, not because he is homophobic, not because he has a phobia of dicks or rings in places they should not be. But because likely, he is going to be incarcerated for tardiness by the ninth high duchess of Abu Dhabi. At least Max, hot on his heels, probably will too.

In sickness and in health, right?

#JELLO #i dunno wot this is but have funnn #maybe #ficlet: mv1.cl16 #f1 rpf

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xiaoluclair · 3 months

Note

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.

#writing this while watching TCOG and BRO #'like fire in water - dark water' DUDE IF THIS ISNT IT THEN I DONT WANT IT #anyway #ficlet: mv1.cl16 #lestappen #f1 rpf #x: writes #i realize its like #a fraction of what i usually write but its all i got :sob:

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xiaoluclair · 11 months

Note

4/5/6

4. nose kisses

5. jawline kisses

6. eyelid kisses // lestappen // rating: G

FORMULA 1 ETIHAD AIRWAYS ABU DHABI GRAND PRIX 2027 ↳ COMMENTATORS’ BOX TRANSCRIPT

19:01 [David CROFTY, with crescendo] And Liam Lawson brings it home to win the Abu Dhabi Grand Prix in brilliant succession, and brilliant it certainly was but we can’t focus for long right now because the man about to be second place, he’s been called many things in his lifetime: Il Predestinato, The Curse Breaker, Ferrari’s Salvation, and now after this night he can finally etch one more onto that list—

SCUDERIA FERRARI PIT WALL | DRIVER RADIO ↳ C. LECLERC

18:59 [Max VERSTAPPEN] CHARLES LECLE

18:59 [Charles LECLERC] AHHHHHHHHHHHH

18:59 [VERSTAPPEN] YOU ****ING DID IT YOU ****ING WENT AND D

18:59 [LECLERC] OH MY ****ING GOD AHHHHHHHHHHHH OH MY

19:00 [VERSTAPPEN] CHARLES LECLERC YOU ARE OFFICIALLY THE TWO THOUSAND AND TWENTY SEVEN WORLD CHAMPION!

19:00 [LECLERC] **** LET'S ****ING GOOO BABY!

19:00 [VERSTAPPEN] Ahaha, let's go baby indeed!

19:00 [LECLERC] Are you crying?

19:00 [VERSTAPPEN] My eyes are just a little bit sweaty, mate.

19:00 [LECLERC] Mine too.

START—FINISH STRAIGHT | POST RACE CELEBRATIONS ↳ VISUAL TRANSCRIPT

19:06 [Liam LAWSON parks in P1 and pulls himself out of the RB23. He stands on the front of the car and yells in delight.]

19:06 [Charles LECLERC pulls carefully into the P2 position, knocking over the P2 BOARD.]

19:06 [LAWSON jumps down from his car and runs to his team. The RED BULL RACING crew catch him like quicksand.]

19:06 [Oscar PIASTRI takes the final P3 spot, smoke trailing after his wheels.]

19:06 [Much like LAWSON, LECLERC balances himself on top of the SF-27 and pumps his fists into the air over and over again. He leaps onto the ground and sprints right for the SCUDERIA FERRARI crew, who are akin to a pack of screaming animals.]

19:07 [PIASTRI descends from his car in slightly a calmer manner. Still, he also seems to have forgotten the concept of walking. Before he can reach the RED BULL RACING crew, LAWSON catches him around the abdomen and pulls him into a hug. Their helmets knock together a little and the embrace is reciprocated quickly.]

19:07 [LECLERC, now pulled away from the arms of his team, is standing on his tip-toes. He appears to be searching for someone. He leans into a SCUDERIA FERRARI crew member and, after a few moments, they shout a reply, pointing in the direction of the garages. LECLERC starts to move, seemingly to where the crew member showed, but is pulled back by the same crew member. Rapid conversation is shared between them.]

19:08 [PIASTRI, LAWSON and LECLERC all congratulate each other before documenting their weight in quick succession, as per the FiA's Sporting Regulation 29.1 (a)(ii).]

19:08 [PIASTRI is quick to chug down half a bottle of water. He wears a tired expression that smiles readily at LAWSON's grin. LAWSON puts an arm around PIASTRI's shoulders. The two lean against each other as they share words.]

FORMULA 1 ETIHAD AIRWAYS ABU DHABI GRAND PRIX 2027 ↳ POST RACE INTERVIEWS | HOSTED BY Sebastian VETTEL

19:15 [Sebastian VETTEL, smiling] Charles.

19:15 [Charles LECLERC, grinning] Sebastian.

19:15 [VETTEL] How are you feeling right now?

19:15 [LECLERC, glancing to the side] You just asked me that five minutes ago before this interview, my answer has not changed. I am very, very, very happy, I. There are no words. No words.

19:15 [VETTEL] That could be a problem considering this interview has to last at least two minutes.

19:15 [LECLERC, glancing to the side again] I am very sorry.

19:15 [VETTEL, grinning] Tell everyone else how you're feeling then. It's your very first World Championship, there's got to be a lot of emotions rattling around inside.

19:16 [LECLERC] Oh absolutely. I am. I mean, first I would like to say well done to Liam because he was absolutely amazing this race, and it is a shame we could not battle because of the penalty. But right now, right now I am unbelievably happy right now, I cannot even say it. I am shaking, I think, my hands feel so light and I will probably crash into bed completely later but for now it is. Unbelievable.

19:16 [VETTEL, teasing] No gratuitous 'thank you's?

19:16 [LECLERC] Sorry?

19:16 [VETTEL, grinning] People you want to thank. Any past teammates maybe?

19:17 [LECLERC, laughing] Oh! I mean of course, Marcus taught me a lot so yes I would like to thank him. [laughs again, seemingly at the look on VETTEL's face.] Of course I would also like to thank you, Seb. And I am actually very happy it is you interviewing me here when you were— oh my God, sorry.

19:17 [LECLERC, suddenly sprinting almost too fast for the camera to follow] Where the fuck were you?!

19:17 [Max VERSTAPPEN, catching LECLERC in his arms] Paul dropped a coffee all over me, mate, it was

19:17 [VETTEL, amused] Seemed a bit half-hearted, but I'll take it.

19:17 [LECLERC, against VERSTAPPEN's jaw] God-damnit, Paul.

19:18 [VERSTAPPEN, grinning] Keep it PG, Leclerc.

19:18 [LECLERC, pressing his smile into kisses all over VERSTAPPEN's face] I love [Mia DJACIC takes the microphone easily from his hand] *Unintelligible*.

FORMULA 1 ETIHAD AIRWAYS ABU DHABI GRAND PRIX 2027 ↳ COMMENTATORS’ BOX TRANSCRIPT

19:18 [David CROFTY] Oh, and a little one on the nose to round it off. Do you think that's why Xavi left?

19:18 [Martin BRUNDLE, dryly] On the contrary, I'm pretty sure that's why anyone would stay.

#xiao: writes #ficlet: mv1.cl16 #lol i have No Idea what im doing lmao #other than absolutely Butchering these prompts teehee #angel emoji #f1 rpf #lestappen #anyway! as per this weekend's events #@ xavi YOU'RE FIRED #:)#i think this is probably an alternate reality #ANYWAY

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xiaoluclair · 10 months

Note

“I wouldn’t be here entertaining you if I was avoiding you.”

And/or

“You’re the one avoiding me”

Once again I beg you for lestappen🧎‍♀️

mmm lestappen u say?? but we (max verstappen voice) boat know how averse my body is to writing scenes of lestappen 😔😔....

pairing: max verstappen x charles leclerc // [ rating: T ]

could be interpreted as a prequel to this: [ x ] . also i Did get carried away, Oops. (apologies in advance for spelling meestakes)

Max opens the only channel that has proven to work. "So." He folds his feet under himself. The air has long since turned dry, and dusk is green legged along the floor. "Why are you avoiding me?"

Charles looks, very suddenly, at him, fingers on his arm. There is still the stain of ground where he gripped the cliff face and Max's stomach did a trapeze artist's twist. "You are the one avoiding me."

The eyes on the ceiling — he has noticed, now, that they are beady and blinking — grow a little wide, then a little small. Narrow yellow. It hands him plenty of conviction, and even a snort, to say, "I would not be here, entertaining you, if I was avoiding you."

I would be on the other side of this cave, somewhere by the pinkie of the palm that scooped it out. Instead, I am sat beside you in this stupid thumb that is starting to glow, just a little. Like some sadist.

One thick eyebrow climbs Charles's forehead. "So you would still be here, talking to me, if we were not stuck?"

Max shrugs. "Of course. Would you?"

An affronted face. Like Max's doubt is the most atrocious insult. "Yes."

"Okay."

Then they are waiting again. Silent. Still. Hands off the channel so his ears have his lungs for company, not much else. The light has turned firm. Coming from above, staring down at them. Max is still watching when it starts to drop. Shit.

Option #1: Leave the cave. Get eaten.

Option #2: Do not leave cave. Do not get eaten.

His fingers twitch again. Red button. LECLERC. Before he can get a word out: "Uh, Max?"

Whispering is pretty useless. Still, "Come to me," he whispers.

It takes a second. Then, Charles moves carefully, near silent. What Max means: come next to me, to my right or left. What Max gets: half a body on top of his own.

He blinks. "Are you. Body shielding me right now?"

"Hypothetically," replies Charles. Only then it turns out to be much less of a reply, "if I was avoiding you — hypothetically — would you. Would you still.

Max huffs. "No," he says, and the light is now long and much less green. Instead, turned yellow by the dripping things, all along the ceiling. "I would obviously be too insulted to go on a very important professional mission with you."

"Insulted?" repeats Charles.

"Yeah," says Max. "Like, was my dick really that bad, that kind of insulted. I feel like that is a fair thing to be insulted about." Between the two sentences, Charles has made a groaning sound, kept his touch on Max's name as he did. It makes Max grin, maybe even giggle. Just a little.

"You promised you would not speak about that," scolds Charles. When Max glances at his face, helmets knocking slightly, it is yellow and dark. Like a little ball of piss or an anaemic main sequence. Still, there is just enough in his imagination to color it in, crude chubby hands holding a pink pencil.

He bites his lip. "Was it actually. Was it. We didn't really speak after so."

It sounds almost grudging. "No, it was not. I." Then, just as reluctant maybe, "Thank you, Max."

See: Charles's mother tongue is not English. Neither is Max's but Max still grew up with it, on the same crust of dirt where it was born and lived and sung. Charles did not. So it does not mean so much when he says, a second later, staring at Max like he needs to see him when he does, "You were everything I needed."

Max stretches his fingers, swallows. Puts them back onto his arm. "No problem." His eyes flick away. To the threads, just as one comes loose.

Instinct, might be the best word for it. Max lurches and rolls. That is not the instinctual part though — not quite, anyway. What is: his arms bend at the elbows. His legs flatten out, as long as they can. Grit goes spewing, rough below his suit and probably too loud. His head comes to an unsteady, clunking rest against Charles's, two curves of pressure proof transparency between their wide eyes.

Then the world tips over once more. Max knows what has happened, Charles's body a bracket over his own, eyes screwed shut. They are a mirror of the moment before, only Charles has planted himself so much more firmly, holds more mass too, is denser by stupid alien design. Max has a second to try and shove him off, before he realizes—

He has a second. Then: another. He has many seconds.

One arm is trapped, hand a sandwich filling. Thighs for bread: his, Charles's. So he taps instead, the dip of Charles's spine. First, he flinches. Then his eyes flick open. Max jerks his head to the side with a huff, the motion rattling Charles too. He scowls. But his neck turns to the side, regardless.

What the fuck. That is Charles's mouth, the movement of it. So Max looks away and lets his head roll too.

And nearly gapes. The cave is filled with tiny baubles.

Floating through the space. As Charles starts to sit up, one bounces lightly off his helmet like a jelly ball. They've turned slightly darker too, like a flame set off in their stomachs. It makes some of them almost gold, others red. A few burn bright, poignant white, so small they could slip under Max's nails.

Arms free, he says, "What is."

Charles, neck spinning on slow, says, "I have no." Pauses. "Hey, is that." His finger pointing to a particular cluster of them, and he shifts that way too, a sheet of heat all across Max's heat proof suit. Absurd.

Max ignores it. Says, instead, "Libra Major," because yeah, it looks a little bit like it. Has the tails like tentacles, the triangle at the top. But then.

"Holy shit." Sat up, Charles's eyes round and green — not the same dusk green of this predator planet, but deeper. Held in the shine of stars— actual. Actual stars. Or— replicas anyway. Some small stitch of the Universe woven around them, and isn’t that magnificent and beautiful and astounding. Bright, thinks Max, when what could be the Lindsay—Shapley Ring goes knocking into the middle of Charles's helmet and he goes nearly cross—eyed with tracking it. Mouth opens, dimples cratering.

He glances down at Max, and Max’s fingers find the blue VERSTAPPEN on his arm. Just fast enough for it to come through, the last living lines of Charles’s joy. Charles breathes out with it: “Wow.”

And Max thinks: I could be on the other side of Space, somewhere by the kneecap of the body that has folded itself into five dimensions. I could be in a house on a farm, safe among maize and potatoes with a wife and kids. I could be anywhere but here, anywhere beyond this ache in my leg escaping from a six-legged set of carnivorous teeth. But instead, I am lying under you in a stupid, stinking, glowing armpit of that body. And I am looking at your grin and grinning back. Like I would not want to be anywhere. Anywhere but here.

Max thinks, too: Fucking sadist indeed.

#xiao: writes #ficlet: mv1.cl16 #Hnrrhgbghgbdkfhgs yes so Okay I DUNNO DUDE #writes: mv1.cl16 #nobody ask me What this is i actually ahve no cludebjfs #lestappen #f1 rpf #NWAYEAFEFA

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xiaoluclair · 8 months

Note

20. Clumsy attempts at flirting

and/or

29. Visiting their home for the first time

Lestappen pretty please!! ❤️ thanking you and loving you endlessly!

live scenes of me visiting your house for the first time under the cut

clumsy flirting attempts + first home visit // lestappen // [ rating: T ]

"You have," proclaims Charles, "the most gregarious set of spoons."

Max sort of wants to run him over with a significantly large bus. Or kiss him silly. His father looks like he does not know what to do. Is, for once, terribly out of his depth. Fuck, maybe Max does want to kiss him silly. Charles, that is, not—

"Thank you," his dad lands on before Max can offer a trip to the local depot or scar his old man brain with things far from P and–or G.

"And your cabinets!" continues Charles, banging into said cabinets with his enthusiasm, "almost as — ow —luminescent as your eyes." He practically leaps over to the faucet to twist it on until steam starts fitting itself to the window behind. “Gosh!” because Max brought home a 1775 housewife, "and this water, almost as hot as," his eyes slant to Max’s dad. Or, the fire hydrant that has replaced Max’s dad.

Max takes pity on him. "We will be going upstairs now," he announces. His dad makes a face like an agreeable sauerkraut. Charles follows Max with a wave and a wink over his shoulder and Max seriously weighs the benefits of murder versus jail time.

"What the fuck was that?" is what he says instead after the door has shut. "Actually, I know what that was — why the fuck was that?"

"Hmm?" replies Charles. "This is you and your sister?"

"Do not ‘hmm’ me — yeah, first time rock climbing — and could stop being nosy and answer me."

With a great, heaving sigh, like it physically pains him to do so, Charles turns around on the spot and takes his face out of Max’s shelves. He is grinning. Rubbing his hip and grinning. "I did nothing."

Max lets his head fall to one side. Hopes it conveys something along the lines of what a load of bull.

"Really," insists wide–eyed Charles, "I was just making a good first impression." He is trying to adopt a straight face and failing horrendously. His mouth is puckering like he is biting his own lip. Max is this close to biting it himself. He might if No grievous bodily harm was not #7 on the Fake Boyfriend: Conditions Of Use list.

"Just because you think he was a bit of a dick sometimes—"

Charles snorts.

"—more than sometimes," corrects Max, "he is still my dad. Plus, he is generally nicer now."

"I just think he could have been generally nicer a bit sooner," is the genial reply.

"Next time," huffs Max, "I am asking Lando."

Charles harrumphs. "Then have fun dealing with your 'boyfriend' eating nothing but baked chicken and granny dodgers."

He looks so smug. He looks so smug, Max wants to strangle him with the silly Ferrari bedsheets he’s had since he was thirteen. "Okay, first, no more terrible—" Max’s nose wrinkles and his stomach rebels violently, "flirting with my dad."

Charles smirks. Leers in a way that makes Max question if he is still fully clothed. "You think you could do better?"

Max shrugs. "At least I would know not to call his spoons gregarious."

"Prove it," retorts Charles. "Tell daddy his spoons are not gregarious." And then he gestures to himself.

"Are you my daddy," asks Max, "or the spoons?"

"Clearly," says Charles, "I am your daddy—"

Just as there is a knock on the door. Only after he has opened it does Max realize his mouth feels like something out of unforgiving sun. A dried leaf, curled up and into itself. He throws a thumb into it to rub it down into something less… manic.

"Your mum and sister will be here by six," his dad says. He looks mildly traumatised. Max wonders how much he heard. “They are excited to meet your... boyfriend." Probably more than he wanted to, if the way he cannot look at Max for longer than two seconds is any indication. "And the tank is full for you both to shower."

"Oh, thank you," says Charles normally. Max fails to take advantage of the sweet second of relief from the universe before: "Would you mind showing me how it works? I have always been quite a... visual learner."

Max has always wanted a bus anyway.

#👻 my beloved #xiao: writes #ficlet: mv1.cl16 #f1 rpf #this is exactly how they would flirt fight me #gregarious btw is not an adjective one often associates with silverware #at least not to my admittedly limited knowledge

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xiaoluclair · 11 months

Note

Xiao my dear! I don’t know if this an invite to send you prompts but if so 👀 I’m taking my opportunity! 😌🤍🤍

What about: “You think I’m still in love with you after all of this shit you decided to put me through? Well… ha. I guess I am somewhat of an idiot.” With lestappen? 🥰

Love ya!! 😘

bby, hi 😘! any and all times i reblog prompts are an invite 💛💜 and OKAY:

pairing: max verstappen x charles leclerc | rating: G | not checked over by any second parties so beware of spelling/grammar bumbles

Charles glances up when he enters the room. There is a second where his face looks like it cannot decide whether to behave as a wave or a particle. Max doesn't spare him much of a glance. Walks over to the co-pilot's seat, reaches over to disengage the starboard lithium thrusters. Pulls both knees up until he is a cocoon in the cockpit.

For a while, they sit simply in silence. It is both horridly new and terrifyingly old. Max would have broken it by now, a hundred times over probably. Not anymore. He watches as Space crawls around them, vast and dark and infinite.

"So," says Charles at last. On trajectory, the numbers oscillate between -0.071/+0.039 and -0.069/+0.039. Out of the corner of his eye, Max can see Charles lean forward to adjust accordingly. He does the same, feet have to fall back to the floor. "You and Martijn?"

Max snorts. The number shoots to -0.067/-0.064. He hastily rectifies it before replying, "I don't see how that matters right now."

"I am just. Catching up."

"Yeah?" says Max, only a little snippily. "How come."

There is a pause. "Lookㅡ"

And isn't that a funny little word.

"I did," says Max, cutting him off. He thinks he might be amused. Or unimaginably pissed off. Maybe both at this point. "Trust me, I fucking did. Want to know what I found?"

No reply.

Max laughs, continues, one hand flipping the port thrusters up to 0.4%, "Nada. Not a damn thing. For two whole years. So yeah, mate, do you really want to tell me to look?"

"I would not change anything," says Charles, ever entirely, aggravatingly stubborn.

Max snorts. "Fucking course you wouldn't."

"I loved you."

And that's even funnier, thinks Max. "I don't see what that has to do with anything right now."

"Of course you do not," says Charles. It is biting. They fall silent again with it, words left to hang heavy. Max wishes Daniel were here. Or Lando. Or Martijn. Even Pierre. Anyone else, anything else, to fit into this great, gaping void. He wishes when Seb gave them their rotation posts, he'd said, Actuallyㅡ

But he did not. And Max is. Max is a little tired. Max is suddenly, stupidly, outrageously, a little bit tired.

He says, to the ship and the ship alone, "Martijn is my friend."

"Pierre is mine," says Charles.

Max rolls his eyes. "I was notㅡ"

"Do not lie."

"Hypocrite."

"I would notㅡ"

"Change a thing." Max's jaw goes stiff for a moment, a hop and a skip through time.

There are enough particles between them right now to fill five thousand bathtubs if they were the size of marbles. Still, he can hear Charles's exhale. He can hear, "I love you."

And is that not horrid. The way the words sink, tail and claw and nuclear fission, into Max's stomach. The way the words sink, warm and soft and nuclear fusion into his belly.

"Max," whispers Charles. Or maybe it was the wind, in the vacuum of Space.

The ceiling is ripe with shadows. "You think I’m still in love with you," he says, "after all of this shit you decided to put me through?" Charles does not say anything. When Max looks over, finally, finally, he has his hands gripped over the controls, thumbs pressed to the adjustments like profactors, staring, staring, staring. Until Max catches him; then, he glances away, resumes fiddling. His cheeks are glowing, begging to be held, felt. Kissed.

Max has to laugh. Lean back into his seat to work on his own course adjustments. They're out in space, a billion stars at his fingertips and a billion more planets. A hundred hot-headed supernovas and a thousand dragging blackholes. A million twisting galaxies and a trillion folds of gravity. An awful amount of ways to hold the very simple thing Max is trying to say, which is:

All this, and Charles fucking Leclerc is still the greatest force he has ever known.

"Well," he says at last, finger presses the dial a little further to the left as Charles presses his up, "I guess I am somewhat of an idiot." He catches Charles's eyes as their hands still, half a console between them.

+0.000/+0.000.

#f1 rpf #xiao: writes #ficlet: mv1.cl16 #charlie my beloved #hope you find this okay hun! kisses kisses <3 #lestappen #i dunno where they're going u dunno where they're going do we really NEED to know where they're going??#No.

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xiaoluclair · 1 year

Note

lestappen - i don’t need your pity (for the prompts thingy)

it’s been a while anonsie and for that i can only say i hope you’ve stuck around long enough to see this (or maybe not because i had no idea WHAT i was doing). its been off and on in my mind but i only figured something out recently so thank you for unknowingly challenging me, it was certainly Something to write and i’m glad it was! i hope you enjoy if you find it hidden somewhere in the dash <3

warnings: waffle | severe lack of coherent thought from author (that is grotesquely obvious in the story mess(tm)) | not exactly the fluffiest thing i've ever written | parallel-universes-esque storymessline | post monza 2022 | not exactly a happy ending ... oopsie??

word count: 1926 (aka so much longer than i thought it would be wtf)

- ꭘıаӧᴸu℄ɐiɾ - ꭘıаӧᴸu℄ɐiɾ - ꭘıаӧᴸu℄ɐiɾ -

Question: What Happens When Two Stars Collide?

Answer: They Merge Into A Single Star.

On one side of the door, in fluorescence and sweats, is a man. In his hands is a little bag. His name is Max. He raises a hand and knocks.

On the other side of the door is a space of silence. Into it moves another man - a different man (how different, this is unclear). His name is Charles. He tilts his head back and stares at the moon touches on the ceiling and exhales.

Max knocks again after a few seconds. His fingers are flush to the base of the bag, collecting the warmth that remains. What the bag is, this is not yet known.

When Charles opens the door, this is the second thing he considers. The first, is that the man on the other side is soft and smiling and tantalizingly alive. Then, we get to the bag.

“What is this?” he asks. A thing the room missed: the hollows under his eyes. They are easier to see in sick yellow light, stark with cowering shadows. They glitter slightly too - Max does not notice this.

He holds up his arms like an offering. Fitting, because what else could this be. “Dinner for us?”

Pity, perhaps. After all, what is more pitying than someone sad for no pinpointable reason of their own other than someone with an exact pinpointable reason. Charles thinks about this too much. He does not want to think about it now but.

“What do you want, Max?”

“I want to be with you." Max's answer is simple. It is how he feels, after all. And what is the truth other than simple.

Charles considers it for a bare amount of time. He says bitterly, "I do not want pity."

Max only says, again, "I want to be with you."

It takes a moment. A few moments. But then he steps to the wall and gestures the offering inside. Max comes with it.

It is not something so much worked out as simply occurring: Charles sits on the bed, close to the wall and curled around himself. Max sets the bag upon the sheets, between both of their bodies. He is stretched over the other side, his legs doused in moonlight.

They share two little tupperwares of tomato soup between them.

Max's chest is warm and beating. Charles listens to it until sleep weighs his eyelids, stomach filled, and lost at the edge of peace.

Answer: The Smaller (If There Is A Smaller) Is Swallowed.

"What do you want?"

This is, objectively, a simple question. Simpler when you regard the context:

Sex.

Something like it, anyway.

There are two men. One - blue - is flush to the wall. The other one - red - is flush to the blue. Hands are gripping, teeth clashing, and the tyres beside them are not the only things that are hard.

Perhaps a silly observation: there is no purple between them.

"I do not- I do not know." Red is breathless. He is also lying. The truth is, he wants it all. He wants to place himself against the wall without a care, he wants to be asking What Do You Want because he already has everything he wants. He does not want pity. He wants pride.

Surrounded by red, he wants to be Blue.

It does not matter. He is only kissed harder, crushed closer. Blue takes his face with reverence. Red cannot afford this. But he tries anyway, because the last thing he wants right now is to crumble. He lets himself be held together and touched and tries his best to do so in return. To give back the emotion he is being pressed with. For whatever reason, he thinks he fails.

The air twitches.

Blue pulls away, happy and hazy and blinking away the dilation from his pupils. He and Red share a stark look. His body moves, forceful nod of his head.

Panic pushes Red right behind the tall tyre trolleys, his breath held and lungs screaming. There are few gaps between the blankets. He looks through these as best as he can and listens for all the rest.

"Max?" Surprise - his teammate. "What are you doing here?"

"I was looking for you," says Blue as they share a shake of hands. "Are you free for dinner?"

"Sure, man. You have something in mind?"

Blue does actually. Tomato Soup, Blue is thinking, but he cannot say this. Only, he cannot think of anything else to say. So he says, "I really want tomato soup."

A laugh, "That is very specific. I will take it."

"Excellent!"

Conversation continues to ebb between them as they leave. Blue feels bad, but only a little. He will leave tomorrow and Red will stay but they can always Facetime. Besides, he has Italy to explore tonight, a win to remember, and a friend to share it with along with some soup.

Left in shadows, Red crouches in his own garage. He hides until the pain does not trail down his face and his eyes feel less itchy. He wipes his mouth, still sticky with saliva that is not his own. It comes away on his hand, reflective. He licks his lips.

A bitter taste lingers.

Answer: A Neutron Star Is Born That Dissolves Into A Black Hole.

If you stood on the ground, among the fairy-lit treeline and quartz potted gerberas, and tilted your view up to the sky, you would see stars, fresh with memories of red seas and Dutch anthems.

If you tilted your view just a little but lower, you would see a man.

He lifts a hand, hollowed with shadow, and itches the skin on his cheeks. Again, and again, and again; one side, then the other. This might have continued forever. It does not.

His hand moves, instead to the dust beside him. And then his entire self moves, swallowed into the darkness breathing behind him. But wait, for a few seconds. You see him, spat out with his elbow bent. Squint and there is the movement of his mouth, voice sucked into the base of the phone.

Lip-reading from so far down - impossible, probably.

This does not matter. We simply go a little closer.

If you sat with your spine curled flush to the glass - cold, freezing - you would hear a voice, see it being spoken. "I am fine."

If you inched a little closer, until his skin - freezing, cold - pressed to yours, you would hear the reply. "So you are not crying in your room?"

"No," laughs this man in front of you. "Of course not."

"Tell me, what are you doing?"

Teeth worry over lips for a moment. A flash of red is left behind, swept up by the smooth motion of a tongue. "Just watching TV, writing a little bit. Might take another shower but I do not know if I should take a warm one or cold."

Static sounds, a moment. "Sounds like a simple evening."

The man makes a noise. Something like happiness if happiness were a Wikipedia article. "Very."

They breathe together, for a long long time. You might breathe with them if you were more than an apparition, a ghost. But even bodiless, the quiet flush of thermia set on this man's cheeks is clear, slight tremor in the phone as the surface refracts the moon.

"Hey."

He stays silent.

The line continues. "I love you."

Finally, a smile. It brightens as few things do: small, flickering, absent. Joyous and pained.

"I have to go but. You did really really good today. And I am sure next weekend will be better."

The inevitable beep sounds then, of a line hung up. Warmth still lingers though from the explicable words, comfort in every syllable.

To you.

The man - Charles, it would reason - his eyes are drawing up, tight. Much like the corners of his mouth. Where something light once rested, darkness is swallowing, stamping its hooves.

If you were to swim between the neurones in his brain, you would be dead. So would he.

His thoughts are his own only. All that is there is the twist of his lips, as though closed around something bitter.

Answer: Supernova.

On one side of the door, in fluorescence and sweats, is a man. His hands are pressed together in his hoodie pocket. He is thinking something about tomato soup, but it is difficult to remember with a mind so addled by gin. His knuckles rap. He calls, "Charles?"

Louder: "Charles!"

On the other side of the door, another man is rushing. It swings open in bare seconds. "Max?"

"Charles," says Max. He is happy. He is squinting.

"What the fuck?" says Charles. He is not.

The smell of alcohol is filling the air, of champagne. Like a taunt.

“What do you want?”

Max shrugs, smiling dripping a little less. “To be with you.”

Because Max does not think like this. After all, he has no need to taunt anyone, he has no threat. Especially not from Charles. And if he does not come to taunt, then there is only one other thing.

Charles starts the inch shut the door, hinges giving way freely. “I think I should be alone.”

Max steps forward, a hand flashing out. "What?" He holds the wood still, presses against Charles's weight and his eyes are searching. He is drunk; he focuses on small, insignificant details. "Why? Are you- you have been crying."

Charles shakes his head and the undersides of his eyes glimmer again. "Go away."

Patience is something racing will often inevitably drag with itself. There are ways to place a car and ways to keep it placed and ways to change its place, all perfectly times, all learned and being learned by the two men in this hallway and this room.

It is too bad, then, that being human comes with hiccups even in something akin to heartbeat.

"What is wrong?" asks Max. The door has stopped shoving into his palm; he does not stop shoving his palm into the door. It cracks open, loud into the plaster. A dent - neither of them care or notice.

“Nothing!” says Charles, only now he sounds hysterical. Case in point: his arms are up, like crackers shooting to the clouds, pupils dilating even under the drench of gutted yellow. Only he does not stop: "I hate you, I hate you."

The reply is factual. "You do not."

What once glittered only, now flows. "I love you." It breaks. "I love you."

"So tell me," says Max as though waving a wad of cash against a bag of groceries: tomatoes, onions, herbs, a stick of butter. "What is wrong."

There is this thing in competition. It is well-known and well-played and when rested on a tongue, makes it curl in unpleasant ways.

Charles takes Max by the plastic-ended strings of his hoodie then. It hurts, the crack of their teeth together. The door crashes shut behind them, and mattresses are not hard but perhaps this one is. It nearly breaks Max's back.

There is nothing lovely about this. It burns with ache and pain and, aloud in every touch Charles feels, something unspoken. It makes him pull away, skin flush and sliding thickly against the man below him, stretched out and pliant. An invitation - Do what you wish. I can afford it.

It rises a hiss, a far cry from prideful Ferrari: "I do not need your pity."

Who knew the bitterest thing of all could be a smile.

#lestappen #max verstappen #charles leclerc #f1 rpf #xiao: writes #asks: prompt #xiao: asks #ficlet: mv1.cl16 #anon my beloved #danke danke d a n k e #this was harrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr to write but thank you for the lil push!#definitely think i put too much into this #and yet it all turned out to be a complete assfuck!#i love me and everything i do i still tell myself :3

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xiaoluclair · 1 year

Note

🥹 😍 My precious, beloved Xiao, if you’d be so kind as to indulge me:

4. A gentle hand holding the other’s neck while staring into their eyes

for you? anything at all 😘

---

When he is four, his maman places her hands on his shoulders and says, "We never, ever hurt people. Ever." Behind her, the girl he was fighting with glares at him from around the tissue pressed to her face and makes a shape with her hand, like a number one. It does not feel like a number one; it feels meaner. Still, he nods, “Sorry,” and feels the soft stinging dig of thumbs against his purpling neck, a kiss on his forehead. I am proud of you.

The first time he wins a championship race is no record. "There will be lots of those," laughs his brother. There will, he thinks, when he is older but still young enough, and Lorenzo grips him with joy and his fumbling hands as they hug. He is still sweaty and sticky but his brother does not seem to mind as he holds by his collar and squeezes against his back, I am proud of you.

An unequivocal thing, he thinks, is when someone twenty and none says, "We did it, papa." A breath. "I signed." When hands reach, but not too far, not too free, and he takes them or perhaps they take him. When skin rests against skin, salty and wet and painful, and a person's touch exists against someone's nape and replies, I am proud of us. I am proud of you.

He is seventeen, twenty, twenty and one. He is eighteen and nineteen and twenty and two, twenty and three, and so on and so on. He is sat on gravel and against fibreglass and staring at the stars, reaching up and around and feeling for his own throat. Pressing into his own fingers, the warmth of his skin and throb of his pulse great and grieving and alive under his thumb. He is whispering, I am proud of you.

Infinite. Stretched across space and time, unravelled to thread and bone and blood. Red stains his lips, his clothes, the tips of his sight and sore fingers. He stumbles into its halo, catches his breath. Glances up to something blue and gold and hurrying towards him, reaching. It finds his nape, a drape of hot skin beneath as their helmets bump and his visor is pushed up to shining eyes. It takes his name, his number, his dream, plucks it right out of the sky and writes it somewhere on a thousand pages in a thousand books in a thousand versions of history. It holds him gently around his neck and squeezes. I am proud of you, says Max. I am proud of you, I am proud of you, I am proud of you.

#xiao: asks #asks: prompt #ficlet: mv1.cl16 #👻 my beloved #i am actually very much supposed to be writing something else #so ofc #i write this instead #lestappen #five paragraph fic lmao #xiao: writes

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xiaoluclair · 1 year

Note

lestappen (obvi) - "it doesn't feel the same is all i'm saying"

(feel free to make this anything from angsty to fluffy to sexy)

Charles will say, in five, ten, fifteen years time, that it would always have come to this; he will leave fingerprints pressed like fossils into the enamel coat of a high end Brazilian club sink and tell his blurry twin: We Were Always Evitable.

He watches those same fingerprints now shift purple and blue and almost shiny under a lather of moonlight, dancing like a laugh until Max pulls the band of his sweats over his hip with a muffled snap and they are swallowed, (they were never there, mists over the glass, convincing).

“But then why tonight?” he asks, spine twisted and pillow warm, “Why this?”

He is over it by this point, has been for a while if he remembers correctly with his ring drowning under the steady stream of tap water and Kuduro thumping deep through the ground, vibrating the bones in his legs; there is still memory though, the polaris of Max’s lip moving as he says, “I just wanted to give you something,” and it sounds painfully earnest, “one last time.”

And I wanted to give you everything, thinks Charles, and the little black box his knuckle nudged while he grabbed the lube with frenzied fingers hours earlier burns like ember behind his blinks as he feels something distant and aching leak over his cheeks, lets them wash away in a vortex down the Portuguese-engraved drain; Forever.

#take a wild guess at which one i went with #see if you're right #give yourself a kiss if you were and a kiss if you weren't.#xiao: asks #asks: prompt #shan my beloved #ficlet: mv1.cl16 #ty for the prompt it was soooooooo !!!!!!!! i love you and your brain #also not sure if this Thing makes ANY sense at all bUT ... ta da!#xiao: writes #lestappen #five sentence fic #f1 rpf

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xiaoluclair · 2 years

Note

prompt: dialogue 42, lestappen

THE WAY I FELL IN LOVE WITH THIS PROMPT THE MOMENT I READ IT AND YOU'VE JUST GIVEN IT TO ME ON A SILVER PLATTER I. also yes it has been roughly an entire twenty seven thousand bagels since you sent this ask but i like bagels so i'll happily take them all.

anyway. [coughs.] yes. okay i've completely butchered this one but hooha who cares (at least, i hope you don't [winces]).

prompt: "Touch me again, and I'm pushing you off the bed."

-###-

"Careful," says Charles, reaching out to grip Max by the foot and drag him back from death's edge for the fifth time.

Max shakes him off immediately with a wet huff. "Touch me again," he sniffs grumpily, "and I am pushing you off the bed."

It is meant to be threatening. Charles grips the duvet a little higher, bites it to keep his laughter from further angering Max. There is a grunt, a face peeking out from under its arms with glaring creases and an expression of sincerely Put Out.

There has never, thinks Charles only a little delightfully, existed anything cuter.

Aloud, he huffs. "Fine," he says with a wave of his shoulders. "Roll off the bed and die for all I care. Mind if I?"

Max shrugs. Somewhat.

Charles turns over and flicks off the bedside lamp. In darkness and the fabric of his pillow, he lets a grin finally open his teeth to the cold air, burrows deeper within the covers. Beside him, Max is shuffling around too and the mattress dips occasionally.

"Still cold?" asks Charles after a minute of this.

"Fuck off," mutters Max.

The face-breaking smile never leaving his lips, Charles lets his eyes fall shut. And then, despite the sporadic noisy movement just a few inches away, starts to feel himself drift off. Scaly dreams paint themselves bright, snowy caps and steering wheels.

He wakes to something small and dry flicking against his cheek.

Half-asleep, Charles twists around and lifts his T-shirt. Ice drips its way right onto his chest within the millisecond in little patters, and Charles grins dopily down at Max's dark grumping eyes when they peek out from under his collar.

"So cute," he teases.

Max's forked tongue nearly stabs his eye out. "Shut the fuck up."

With a happy hum, Charles settles back into sleep to the tickle of Max's little lizard tail curling around his belly button.

#lestappen #max verstappen #charles leclerc #f1 rpf #xiao: asks #toni my beloved #ficlet: mv1.cl16 #xiao: writes #asks: prompt #look man #i just went with it #and it went with this #hence #i went with this #i will be taking no inquiries about my mental health #there is no context #no background #no exposition #it is what it is

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xiaoluclair · 2 years

Note

Protecting your lover's sleep as they doze on your lap, making sure nobody bothers them as they entrusted their peace to you + "Don't you dare wake them up."/"I'm right here; I won't leave your side. Go back to sleep, darling." ? 👀

any time i read a petname that doesn't seem ironic, it throws me so far off balance i need 3-5 business days to recover. however for you, anon, i pull through (very valiantly, might i add, with extreme courage and bravery [cue sideways glance at the dts writers] like, gay-sitcom-rewarding levels of extreme courage and bravery. [cough.])

i’m gonna assume, based on the vast majority of my blog’s contents, that you would be okay with lestappen? idk why i put a question mark there, it’s probably a given that you’re getting lestappen unless stated otherwise! (and hopefully you enjoy <3) (i got a bit carried away lmao. AND i got severe deja vu while writing it. not bc ive ever written anything like it before, just that genuine falling deja vu feeling).

-###-

Charles’s thighs have never been prestigiously named. Or, rather, they have never been named, period.

However, this was before one (1) Alex Albon decided to walk in on one (1) Max Verstappen with his head on one (1) Charles Leclerc’s lap two years - two whole years - after walking in on one (1) Sebastian Vettel snoozing on the very same one (1) Charles Leclerc’s lap, and snapped his fingers under the lightbulb that brightened the ridge of his ferrari-approved hair.

And now, the very same one (1) Alex Albon vaults right over a chair - multiple chairs actually - to land rather clatteringly beside the same one (1) Charles Leclerc on the floor.

Charles glares at him, feels his face contort in tickles and leans to the side for the oncoming sneeze.

“What?” asks Alex innocently. “Also gesundheit.”

“Thank you.” A mechanic glides by with a wide berth, almost soundlessly. “You could not have simply walked through?”

“Now where’s the fun in that?”

“Keeping your toes, Alexander,” says Charles lightly, shifts carefully over the pins and needles that have been living in his ass for the past ten minutes now.

Alex makes a noise of consideration. “Not sure I like the use of my full name with those words.”

“Good, now. Why are you here?”

The offended ruffle of race suit dragging along the floor, a satisfied grunt of a sound as Alex leans against the adjacent wall. He grins, teeth flash between the light layering of cupboard-cast shadows. “Just wanted to,” a hand reaches out, “say hello.”

Charles slaps it out of the air. “Do not you dare, Alexander.”

Alex’s eyes roll, breath huffs as he pets his knuckles. “You get two syllables, Charles.”

“Do not you dare, tit-”

“Everything alright, boys?”

A knock on the wall to signify dull contact with the back of Charles’s skull. He smiles, a little lazy, tilts his face into the feeling of a soft haystack. “Just peachy.”

“Yeah,” echoes Alex, sincerity severely lacking, “just peachy.”

Impossible would be a tone of voice flying over one (1) Christian Horner’s head, so Charles supposes sarcasm can only be something he is used to. He nods to Charles. “We need him in five.”

“Fifteen.”

“Five, Charles. Doesn’t Mattia need you, too?”

“Sure,” says Charles without a shrug. He thinks there must be enough needles to supply a retirement home and then some falling out of his ass about now. But even so, “In fifteen.”

Christian’s perpetually constipated face shows its usual impatience when it comes to these Times. “Charles-”

“Shut up,” says Charles shortly before he brings Max closer to his chest to try and still the stirring. “I will emancipate you if he wakes.”

Fear so clear in Christian Horner’s eyes is a rare thing. Which is probably why he just looks fed up while Alex looks like he’s gone through the five stages of grief and is on an improvised eighth that involves stuffing a hand into his mouth and making weird, semi-coherent monkey noises.

All of which amass to Max’s head shifting, eyes fluttering, and Charles grabbing a pen lid to throw at Alex’s arm.

A string of noises follow. One spruced with curses, the other siphoned in sleep. Dust stains the corners of Max’s eyes, crusty and clear as he yawns wider than Marko’s mouth when it’s shit-stirring.

Charles gently tucks his head back under his chin without a single bout of resistance. “Unconscious, Verstappen. Now.”

Max hums. A single bar of Charles’ ribcage resonates with it, soft.

He strokes Max’s spine as it moves quietly, follows it with fingerprints through the fireproofs. “I am here, still here. I am not leaving.”

Alex sniggers. Christian’s eyes roll far back enough to find his own head up his ass. Max’s mouth slots to the hollow of his throat for barely a second before he goes slack.

Charles closes his eyes. Settles once again into the lack of blood flow with the declaration, “Do not mess with The Lap of Champions.”

“Damnit, I should’ve coined that.”

“Shut it, titbag.”

#i would just like to share that i was also fighting VERY violent hiccups while writing this #i nearly suffocated myself four times trying to flush them out #hiccups HURT man goddamn #xiao: asks #asks: prompt #ficlet: mv1.cl16 #anon my beloved #[smooches your forehead]#danke for this!!#im so sorry i infested this with my two a.m brain energy oh god #*brain cell energy i should say #xiao: ficlet #does emancipation make up for the lack of ‘darling’??#xiao: writes

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xiaoluclair · 2 years

Note

XIAOOOO my beloved

for that prompt list if you ever feel like it??

19. After coming home from work/a long trip, finding your lover sobbing on the couch/in bed after a hard day, wiping away their tears with soft touches and gentle words--trying to convince them it's okay, and that you're there for them now.

buuut? hear me out.. make charles the one comforting for once bc i feel like he's always the one being sad in the fics and i need some soft max crying in his bfs arms?

if u don't all good, love u anyways xxxx

it’s always 'max help', it’s never 'max do you need help' 😤😭

no but fr i would’ve written this as charles comforting max regardless bc yes i agree!!! the image that immediately came to mind was sad charles so, naturally, i say fuck you! to that and go in exactly the opposite direction ;D

anyway SHANNNN MY DARLING MY DEAREST MY ANGEL ON EARTH!!! for u, i hope this is okay!! we went away from the crack a little but i hope you still like it <3

-###-

He enters to darkness and the absence of sound.

It should not set Charles on edge as it does. The walls hold the light that floods the corridor when he flicks the switch by the coat pegs, puts up his jacket next to the hanging sack of eggplants they have yet to return to Lando.

Suitcase wheels roll loudly behind him as Charles trails fingers along the paint. All he can think is that it is his toes aching, out of everything. Not being able to bury them under Max’s thighs for almost a month - deprivation, quite frankly.

The wall gives way to edge and Charles whispers, “Hellooo?”

Shadows shift, the barest noise. Charles turns on the light. “Max?”

The ball moves and something falls out, soft and purring on the floor and immediately reaching again for the body vibrating between couch cushions. Charles blinks and finds himself beside it, fabric between his fingers and Jimmy climbing through his arms. “Max? Max- hey.”

A swipe to his face. Sassy hisses from her place half-hidden in Max’s chest. Charles is making hushing sounds, without realizing at first, hands reaching slowly. His touch, and Max’s face falls into illumination. Tear traces draw themselves over the soft of his cheeks, seep into puffy skin that glows red. It is terrible and breaking and Charles says, “I would like to hold you.”

Max’s sniff breaks halfway in. “Thank fucking god.”

He rolls off the sofa, right on top of Charles. Oxygen crushes out of his lungs, arms envelop Max’s joints as they curl between his embrace and Charles shifts them against the foot of the couch. Sassy escapes within the motions, and she’s stretching over Charles’s skull while Jimmy butts Max’s chin.

“You smell like plane,” says Max quietly.

“Yeah?” murmurs Charles. “What does plane smell like?”

“Stale air conditioning. Daniel’s underwear.”

A snort, soft as the hair it burrows into. “I have questions.”

The laugh jars Max’s body, hard against his chest. And then it continues to shake and Charles feels something unpleasant and hollow expanding in his chest behind the place Max’s tears are blooming a patch into his T-shirt. He tilts his face, moves his arm around Jimmy to collect the sadness dripping from Max’s eyes with his thumb, over and over. Words seem out of place so he says nothing at all, not yet. A touch instead, a noise he hopes holds comfort, a kiss on the corner of a mouth.

Stillness comes slowly. Sassy claws lines over Charles’s ear, licks them clean as Jimmy paws at Max’s jaw with ignorant innocence. When it finally settles, he thinks he has an entire spa of cat spit tracing his neck. “Would you. Do you want to tell me what it is?”

A moment of silence, messy hiccups. Then, something Charles cannot quite hear. “Say that again?”

“The little turnips,” sniffs Max a little louder, “the little turnips and they are so small, Charles, and they are so cute and I want to- I want to hold- I want to have- Charles-”

Charles scrambles to resume the hushing sounds, strokes the sides of Max’s face as Sassy slinks off his forehead to burrow in the blankets spooled on the floor. Careful, touch still soft and slightly tentative, Charles says, “What, um. Where did you see these little turnips?”

A finger, right to the TV. “With the underwater otter.”

“Underwater otter.”

“And underwater cat.”

“Underwater cat-” Charles blinks. “You mean the Octonauts?”

Max’s wail burrows into his chest and Charles jumps to hold him closer. “They’re so cute!”

“Okay,” he rushes, “okay, I know they are, they are very very cute.” Jimmy pats Max’s face with sympathy. Beside them, Sassy snorts. Charles kisses Max’s forehead and hugs him into the warmth starting to bud between his ribs. He wonders if Lando has any sacks of turnips lying around.

#ficlet: mv1/cl16 #xiao: asks #asks: prompt #asks: mv1/cl16 #shan i have not said this for so long so just know that I #LOVE #YOU #SO #MUCH #have this trash as part of that love #lestappen #f1 rpf #shan my beloved #xiao: writes

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xiaoluclair · 1 year

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☕️my unpopular opinion (fanfic related) is: lestappen are so vanilla they have never even tried the simplest of kinks! And when they do they end up crying cause "just so wrong"

Also Lando is the kinkiest of the entire grid! He absolutely gets them the most horrifying (to them) gifts for literally any occasion just to watch them try to figure out how it works or what it does!

warnings: implied/referenced smut -- implied/referenced kinks -- my writing

word count: 826

Everybody knows the drill by now. Lando, Max, Charles, and - Lando is almost three hundred percent certain - Sassy. She's eyeing them from around the flowered E on Charles's piano (Present #3 - Max couldn't handle the feeling of petals getting in the way of Charles's skin apparently), tail looped through the end of an emotion she definitely isn't feeling. Jimmy is somewhere - probably out on the balcony playing with discarded solo cups. He's a macho man. Lando might join him at some point.

"Okay." The cushions sink beside him and Lando twists to throw his feet into Max's lap. Fingers fit to the bones of his ankles, warm through the white ankle socks. "Get this over with, mate."

Max sounds about as uncasual as he can sound while trying to sound casual. Which is to say, the air is practically tripping over the trepidation. Lando grins and grins wider when he hears the footsteps.

Charles pulls to a halt by the piano seat. "Oh no."

"Oh yes," says Lando with glee. He sits up straight, sliding free of Max's fingers. With a groan, Charles drops onto the floor by Max's feet (Present #11 - the smell of cheese was simply too persistent for Charles's fragile nose).

"Okay," he says, a man readying himself for the final fatal blow of a bludgeon. Regardless, the words bite out of him in punctured monagasque sounds. "What is it?"

Lando remains, wordlessly scratching an itch behind his ear.

"Mate," says Max. "Lando."

Continuing to the edge of his jaw, Lando hums, a laugh thrashing against his teeth as he keeps his face cool. Then his nail catches on a pimple, startling a wince out of him and completely ruining the jaded vibes he was going for. Fucking puberty.

"Lando," snaps Charles.

"What?" drawls Lando. Or, what he thinks is a drawl, and not simply the impression of someone with a swollen tongue. The other two are glaring shiftily at him now, and Max even twists to look behind the couch, hand disappearing between the cushions while Charles's gropes underneath.

"Where is it?" demands Max. "Lando, where-"

"Oh my god, is it already inside?"

The laugh is torn, rather viciously, from Lando's throat.

Suddenly scandalized, Charles's groping flies to his own ass, his ears, his crotch. Max watches, a sort of horror in his features and fingers floating in the air as if unsure whether he should help or stuff his own ears to block out voices.

Lando cackles. "No, you idiot. How the hell would I manage that?"

The look Charles throws him communicates enough, palms poised around his nostrils (Present #25 - pegs are for hanging clothes only, got it).

Max arms are raised defensively when he speaks. "Is it in this room?"

"Yup," says Lando cheerfully. This is going even better than planned, to be honest. The build up - teasing, edging, whatever the word - is, as always, the best part. (Present #26 - subsequently, rings are for specific purposes only. More specifically, Not This One, Lando!)

"Is it small?" asks Max, eyes flicking around.

"Hmm ... averages would suggest no."

"Can we see it?" presses Charles, over the sounds of Max threatening averages. He's still pressing fingers to his body, as if his subconscious still hasn't stopped believing the notion Lando could somehow squeeze an entire dildo into it completely inconspicuously.

Lando nods.

"Is it yellow?"

"A bit."

"Black?"

"Uh ... technically no, but also yes?"

"What the fu-"

"White?"

"Ha, yeah."

"Green?"

"A small bit." He makes the symbol with his fingers for the hell of it. Max and Charles fit like two floating heads of aggravation in the space between his index and thumb, shared glance of exasperation flying across the fingerprints.

"Red?" asks Charles, only then Max says, "Hang on," and his face starts to twist.

Lando raises his eyebrows. "Yes?"

Squinted, wide, blinking, narrow and protruding are the five emotional states Max's expression cycles through as Lando and Charles wait. Lando enjoys it particularly. Charles just touches Max's knee, looking so anxious it's almost not funny. But then Lando remembers the reason for it and it's not funny at all.

It's hilarious.

"Max," says Charles, gaze flitting over to where Lando is getting comfortable against the arm of the couch and Lando's pretty sure it lingers. "Are you-"

"He-" is all Max manages to get out, before simply twisting Charles cheek around and waiting for the message to sink in.

To help, because he is nothing if not helpful, Lando cheerily spreads his arms as far as they will go. "Surprise!"

The twin looks of terror are priceless and do nothing to hide the heavy swallow of Max's apple, nor the sharp dip of Charles's eyes.

This, thinks Lando with a grin, is going to be great.

(Present #31 - one small step for man, one giant orgasm for- JIMMY WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING GET INSIDE BEFORE YOU CATCH A COLD-)

(*Present #31 - purge the earth of cats cockblockers.)

#xiao: writes #xiao: asks #asks: prompt #aya my beloved #this took agesss to finish lmao #but you said you like to be surprised to HA bet you weren't expecting THIS today ;P #ficlet: mv1.ln4.cl16 #norlestappen #f1 rpf

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xiaoluclair · 2 years

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I was about to send you a prompt saying I beat you to it but- ☹️🙄

Anyhow HERE:

11. Putting your hand on your lover's thigh and feeling their eyes on you as they try to figure out your motives. Whether the touch is teasing or just for fun.

Hehehehehehe 🐓

HA, FUCK YOU! im just faster, quicker, zoomier, speedier, valterrier, synonyms ;D

and oh god idk if you just reached right into my brain and dragged out one of probably fifty prompts i knew i would shit all over (and not the good kinda shitting) if i wrote but. [big sigh.] i guess a challenge is never not in order, right?

(right?????)

pairing: max verstappen x lewi- i mean, charles leclerc

-###-

It is awkward, unnatural, and entirely exhilarating to the point where Max is considering if it would be tactfully beneficial to grab the napkin from under the cutlery and spruce it over his lap for. Entirely innocent, dining-etiquette-related purposes. Of course.

And the best part - the part that, quite honestly, makes this entire thing worth it - is that he knows Charles wasn’t expecting it. How would he? How could he?

Max can feel it in the tense of muscle. He can hear it in the hardly-audible stir of air in Charles’s next exhale. He can see it in the shrimp that catches on a nose instead of a mouth. Call it lover’s curse, call it observance, call it creepy talent. Surprise drips from Charles in all the unnoticeable ways Max cannot help but notice.

And with every fresh block of startle comes a sideways slant that Max catches out of the corner of his own eye. For a few seconds there is only the wordless drill of question into his skull as conversation clouds on around them. Max tampers the smirk down as best he can.

“They think much of history, I am sure,” Prince Albert is saying, a topic worn over for too long by now. “Still, a shame, no?”

Charles nods. Once, twice. Fingers skitter over Max’s knuckles as he brushes them just a little higher while picking up his flute for a sip. “I agree, I do. But I trust the sport to come to a fair decision.”

No, you don't, thinks Max. His palm slips right to the inner stitching and, on a whim, he pinches.

Charles coughs whatever alcohol he took in right back out. It makes Max feel fucking high and he isn’t sure what to do with it, isn’t sure whether his chest is supposed to be expanding with his lungs or if his ribs are broken, and where the fuck does someone get new ribs from if this is the case?

But he pats Charles’s back with the same hand, as the Prince worries with a glass of water and Charles accepts it with watery eyes. And he thinks he will have to find that place when Charles shoots him a heated glare after everything is settled again and Max dares a wink under the shadows of attention and his diaphragm snaps with the rush of it all.

#xiao: asks #asks: mv1/cl16 #xiao: ficlet #ficlet: mv1/cl16 #truth be told #idk what the fuck that ending is #but hey we roll ig???#⛱ my beloved #i hope this is okay!!!

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