#im so sorry i infested this with my two a.m brain energy oh god

[xiaoluclair]

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). 

general audiences | mild swears and threats of violence | lestappen | ficlet | warning: my writing | i got carried away i got carried awaaaay im sorryyyyyyy 

-###-

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.”