#lestappen fic prompt

[charles-leclerc-official]

For a fic title:

My boyfriend’s cats hate me

My Boyfriend’s Cats Hate Me

Charles and Max have been together for almost a full season. Once winter break hits they decide to try living together for those few months. It's perfect. At least that's what Charles thought.

At least until moving day arrives and Charles isn't even allowed near the bed by Sassy, while Jimmy manages to scratch his hand while Charles is just trying to give him a treat.

Max assures Charles that the cats will accept him, just give them time.

Time makes it worse. One morning Jimmy knocked Charles' breakfast right off the table. Sassy takes up what is supposed to be his side of the bed and only scratches his linens.

Charles spends the next few months trying to win the favor of two cats that seem intent on driving him insane, or killing him, or both, to be honest it's probably both.

All the while he and Max try to navigate their new chaos of their living situation.

Anon this is a good one, you are on to something!

this post for ask game

[panevanbuckley]

soulmate au where your soulmate's thoughts appear on your skin except your soulmate has adhd and your body becomes a living canvas of nonsensical, never-ending, constantly entertaining trails of thought

[maaxverstappen]

help me hold onto you | T | 9/13

f1driver!max and streamer!charles

The man—Charles, Max assumes—sounds French. He loves that. He should be used to a French accent, he was forced to converse with Pierre often enough, but it sounds different coming from Charles. More melodic. Almost similar to someone he used to know once. “And that made me think,” Charles says, voice bellowing from Max’s speakers. “That it was stupid that we didn't have carrots before. Like, come on, it's a farming game.” Max has no fucking idea what the hell he is on about.

or: Max is lonely and finds Charles streaming on Twitch.

based on this prompt sent to @f1prompts

[maxcuntstappen]

for a prompt,

max as the f1 world champion. charles is the heir to the monaco throne. [lorenzo is king currently]

max and charles love each other. max wins the monaco gp for charles. monaco goes crazy.

"Max," Charles tries to sound stern, he really does. But he doesn't think it comes across too well with how he cannot stop giggling.

It's not his fault really.

It's his boyfriend's.

His boyfriend who has him pressed against a wall of his motorhome, relentlessly kissing at Charles' cheeks.

"Maxxxx," Charles tries again, "You need to go."

A 'uh-huh' is the only indicator of Max having even heard him.

Max redirects his attack of pecks to Charles' neck and it makes Charles squirm.

"Max, that tickles!" he exclaims, trying to wiggle his way out from under his boyfriend's grasp.

Max chuckles, finally moving his mouth away from Charles' body, to look him in the eye, "I know," he grins.

It makes Charles' heart jump, how happy Max looks, how pretty.

Time seems to stop as Charles cradles Max's face in his palm, relishing in how Max turns his face to nuzzle into it.

Blue eyes twinkling, lips perpetually pulled upward, cheeks pink and puffed up. Max is a beauty.

Charles opens his mouth to tell him so when a firm knock interrupts him.

"Prince Charles," one of his guards calls out, "Nous devons partir maintenant. Prince Lorenzo et Prince Arthur attendent."

Charles sighs, wishing he could stay with Max longer.

Max seems to be wishing for the same, if his drawn out groan is anything to go by.

Yet, Max doesn't move away. He only snuggles into Charles harder, head buried into the crook of Charles' neck.

Charles laughs, running his fingers through Max's hair, "Come on, mon amour. Time to go."

Max huffs, "No."

Charles rolls his eyes, fondness seeping through his pores, and gently tugs at Max's hair.

Max pulls his head away with an exaggerated moan, "Ouch," frown lines covering his pretty face.

Charles pecks Max's nose and all of them disappear in a second.

"I'll see you after, okay?" Charles says, squeezing the nape of Max's neck.

"Yeah," Max says, a small smile on his lips, "Yeah, okay."

Max steps back and Charles walks to the door.

"Wait!" Max exclaims, making Charles jump.

He turns around.

"What about my good luck kiss?" Max asks, the corner of his mouth twitching as he pouts, clearly trying to suppress the smile trying to break through.

"You don't need a good luck kiss, mon amour. You're Max Verstappen," Charles reminds him.

Even after all this time, ever after multiple world championships, countless podiums and several records broken, Max still lights up when Charles compliments him.

He hopes he never stops.

"Charles, but what if you don't kiss me and the race goes badly? Do you really want that on your conscience?"

Charles scoffs, "Okay but what if I do kiss you and then the race doesn't go well? Will it be my fault then?"

"Of course not, schatje. Then it'll mean that your kiss protected me from anything worse happening," Max replies, like it's the most obvious information in the world.

Charles' heart throbs with adoration. He takes a quick two steps and grabs Max's face in his hand, pressing a firm, soft kiss to Max's lips.

When Charles pulls away, Max looks dazed.

Charles gets it. He feels it, the overwhelming rush he gets when he cannot believe this is his life.

"Good luck, mon amour," Charles smiles, dropping his hands, and walking backwards to the door, "See you on the podium, okay?"

Max simply nods, seeming to still be too lost for words.

That's okay. Charles knows what he would've said anyways.

--

"And the winner of the 2024 Monaco Grand Prix... Max Verstappen!"

The roaring in Charles' ears nearly blocks out the raucous applause of the Red Bull team. But Charles hears them still, faintly. Acknowledges them, thanks them for loving Max and appreciating him and taking care of him.

His cheeks ache because of how hard he is smiling.

And yet, when Max steps up on the top step, quickly turning around to catch Charles' eye, his grin somehow widens.

Charles winks at him, his hands not pausing their applause, and Max laughs, softly shaking his head, before facing the crowd.

Charles' eyes are glued to Max's back as the Dutch and Austrian anthems play. It's a beautiful back, all broad, strong shoulders, tapering down into a small waist.

The only thing that could make Max look any better is if he was wearing red, Charles thinks to himself.

Well, all in due time.

Soon, he's being indicated to step up to award the second place trophy.

Charles looks straight ahead as he walks to the platform, not risking turning into an ooey-gooey mess for a glance of Max's face.

Lando stands tall and proud on the podium, his face split into a grin.

Charles hands Lando his trophy and Lando holds out a hand for Charles to shake.

It makes Charles roll his eyes. There's no need to pretend that Charles doesn't see Lando every other weekend, that he hasn't seen Lando sloshed out of his mind and passed out on the floor of Max's jet, that he doesn't send Lando memes constantly and bitches about it if he doesn't give an adequate reply.

Charles grasps his hand and pulls Lando into a hug.

Lando yelps, and gosh, Charles so hopes that there is some camera somewhere that has recorded the noise.

"Good job, mate," Charles says, arms tight around Lando.

"Thanks, mate," Lando replies, and Charles can hear the smile in his voice.

Charles beelines back to his original spot, next to his brother, standing behind the podium finishers.

As Lorenzo awards Max with his trophy, Charles has to suppress the urge to shout and scream and hoot.

All he can do is clap a bit more aggressively than he did for the others.

It doesn't miss his notice how Arthur does the same.

It's soon after that Charles and his brothers, along with the other dignitaries, are being hurried off of the stage in an attempt to keep them safe from the champagne flying in the air.

Charles has just stepped into the protection of the wings when he's being pushed back out to the stage again.

"Va!" Arthur urges, literally shooing Charles away with his hand.

"Ne fais rien de trop stupide!" Lorenzo warns, but he's grinning wide too.

God, Charles loves his family.

It's Lando that spots him first.

The very next second, Charles is drenched head to toe.

But it's worth it to have Max's giggle in his ear as he hugs him tight tight tight.

His race suit under Charles' hands feels sticky and cold and like home.

"Mon Dieu, Max, tu es incroyable. So incredible. I love you. I'm proud of you," Charles rambles, trying to make the most of the couple of moments he'll get to speak to Max before he's swallowed up by his team and media duties.

Max pulls away, smiling at him, all crinkle eyed, "Thank you for your good luck kiss, schatje," he gives him a quick soft peck before gently pressing the trophy into his arms, "This one is for you," and then Charles is swallowed up in Max's embrace again, the roars of the crowd ringing in his ear, nowhere as loud as the beat of his own heart.

[monacodarling]

[cupidskissx]

a funny fic about lestappen being caught doing the dirty by drivers/team principals?😂

Hello sweet Anon, I hope you see this, I’m sorry it took so long 🙈❤️

Now, I know you wanted funny, this has its moments, 2 lines probably, because my inspiration came mostly from this masterful artwork by @lihuiantipyretic so I hope you still enjoy this!

TW: light Dom/Sub, light choking

1.1K

Charles had seen Max win his third WDC from two car lengths behind, it was something to behold, him weaving down the straight after he passed the checkered flag. Then he’d been rushed off his feet, caught in the whirlwind, probed and prodded, cameras in his face. It wasn’t until the press conference that Charles saw him finally decompress, but something wasn’t right. Charles could see him shifting in his seat, he looked uncomfortable, antsy, and when Charles finally caught his eye he knew instantly.

Fuck.

Max held his gaze for a beat too long, eyebrows pinched, pleading, for the whole room to see.

The newly re-crowned champion, having taken the title off Charles, was looking at him like that in front of everyone. Charles crossed one leg over the other, hands in his lap.

If Charles was a weaker man he would have stood up and dragged him away then and there. But he’s not. As much as he wanted to, needed to, he couldn’t. They couldn’t.

It was another, agonising, 15 minutes before they finished. Their release prolonged due to the fact Max occasionally stumbled over his words, or floundered to recollect the championship winning overtake.

They barely made it into the bathroom down the hall before Charles was kissing him. “You okay?” He asked, shoving Max against the wall.

“Mmm, I am now.”

“Do you still need me to…”

“Yes, need you to bring me back down.”

“Okay, baby, you relax,” Charles pressed him into the wall, hands roaming over his chest as Max’s linked together around his lower back. “Let me take your mind off it all.”

Max nodded.

They didn’t do this so openly, so publicly, it’s something that remained hidden away in dark hotel rooms. But Charles couldn’t deny him, not now, not today, not when he needed it the most.

He got his mouth back on him, slid his tongue into his mouth, and one of his hands up to his neck. He cupped the flesh, the solid muscles shifted as Max tilted his head up for Charles to have better access.

Charles gently added more weight into his hold, Max melted into kiss, into him. The power that ran through Charles’ veins was thick and dangerous. The urge to keep going, to test the limits, got stronger with each laboured breath Max puffed into his mouth.

“More,” Max begged, “Please.”

Charles didn’t need to be told twice, he ran his other hand up to his neck, interlocking his thumbs over his throat, and adding more pressure. Max’s Adam’s apple strained against the tips of his thumbs. Max started to lose the ability to kiss him back.

“That’s it, Cheri, just like that. I’ve got you.”

Max broke away to rest his head back against the tiled wall. Eyes squeezed shut.

Charles pushed his thigh between Max’s legs, he instantly sank down enough to slowly grind against it. Charles rested his forehead against Max’s, whispering to him, telling him how good he is, how Max is his, and only his. Max’s cheeks flushed and Charles didn’t know if it was from being showered in praise or from the lack of air, so Charles eased off, just in case, and kissed him again.

Max didn’t expect the warm mouth on his, he grunted in surprise and tightened his hold around Charles’ waist, pulling him closer, his thigh rutting against Max’s bulge. Max rocked on him, harder and faster, until he stilled. He came undone, still fully clothed, moaning into Charles mouth.

“You really did need that, didn’t you? Didn’t even get to touch you,” Charles murmured. He slipped his thigh out from between his legs and loosened the hold on his neck, but he kept his hands cupped over his throat. The absence of them too soon often made things worse.

“Later,” Max promised, voice tight. “Do you need me to…”

Max unlinked his fingers from around his back and reached for him. Charles grabbed his wrist. “Later sounds good.”

Max nodded and kissed him, long and slow, until they broke away, snapping their heads to look in the direction of the bathroom door as it swept open.

Charles swallowed thickly at the sight of Christian Horner, stock-still, staring at them. The door swung back on its hinges, colliding into Christian’s shoulder, knocking him out of his daze.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing, Leclerc?” Christian advanced on them, “Get off him!”

Charles dropped his hands instantly, “It’s not what is looks like,” he tried to step back but Max’s tight hold prevented him from moving.

Max’s clear intention to keep Charles in place made Christian stop in his tracks before he could yank Charles off him.

“Max?” Christian turned his fiery glare onto his driver for conformation.

“It’s okay,” he agrees, “Charles and I…”

He didn’t need to say more, Christian filled in the blanks, cutting him off with a breathless: “Jesus…”

Charles could see him fight the urge to tell them this was a PR nightmare. That if the wrong person had walked in it would have been career ending.

Christian sighed, heavy and prolonged. “How long?”

Charles looked at Max who had the tiniest smile on his lips. “A year and a bit.”

Christian nodded, likely piecing together all the small moments that didn’t make sense over. Like when Max arrived at a TAG Heuer sponsorship event wearing a Richard Mille. Or when Max left last year’s Zandvoort debrief early, citing a tummy bug, when in actuality he needed Charles’ hands around his neck. Or more recently when Christian arrived unexpectedly at Max’s hotel room last month only for Max not to let him in because Charles was still spread out, naked, barely lucid, after getting his brain sucked out of his dick not even three minutes prior.

“Don’t become complacent,” it was the closest they’d get to Christian’s blessing for now. He’d likely pull Max into his office and force him to have the conversation they’d both tried so hard to avoid.

“I’m gonna go pee,” Christian said, “When I’m done one of you better be gone.”

Christian went into one of the stalls, and flicked the lock.

“I love you, you know that, right?” Max whispered. Out of all the scenarios, Charles never expected Max to confess those words for the first time inside a small Brazilian bathroom with the sound of Christian Horner peeing in the background.

Charles laughed at the absurdity of the situation and kissed him, “I love you too,” he whispered against his lips. “I’ll see you later, yeah?”

Max nodded, “I’ll be a while, you know how it is.”

Charles recalled being pulled in every direction for hours after winning his championship title. He nodded, “I’ll stay awake for you.”

Max kissed him, long and slow.

“I was serious, stop making out and get out of here,” Christian’s strained voice grumbled.

“Okay, okay. Good luck with him,” Charles grinned, kissed Max one more time then left.

*

Feel free to send a prompt any time if you don’t mind waiting literal months for me to get my act together 😇🥰

[randomwordsonpaper]

The First Noël

Charles Leclerc/Max Verstappen | 24/31 chapters | part of Winter Warmers 2024 | by Randomwordsonpaper

After a few moments, the blond speaks again, his voice lighter this time. “Maybe we should do something different.”

“What do you mean?”

Max leans back, a small grin playing on his lips. “I rented a chalet in Austria. Just me, some peace and quiet, maybe some skiing if I feel like it. No family, no expectations. You should come.”

Charles’s eyes widen. “With you?”

“Why not? It’s not like I planned for company, but I think it could be fun. Better than staying cooped up in Monaco.”

Charles’s gaze drops to his coffee, his fingers tracing the edge of the cup as he considers. There’s a flicker of something in his expression—doubt, perhaps, but also a hint of hope. “Maybe it’s not such a bad idea,” he says finally, his voice tentative.

OR: Max decides to avoid the annual Christmas obligations and rents a cabin in Austria. He spontaneously asks Charles to join him.

Updated daily, avaliable here on AO3!

[bbygirlverstappen]

shiny and new (ao3)

e | 4k | lestappen

Max pulls his hand away. His heart is hammering, slamming against his chest. That’s a pussy. Right between his legs where his cock used to be. -- Max Verstappen wakes up and finds that something has inexplicably changed between his legs. It doesn't take long for him to get horny about it.

for the winter warmers prompt 11: virginity

[likedbycheri]

And I ain't gotta tell him, I think he knows (does he, really?)

Charles Leclerc/ Max Verstappen | 5+1 one shot (wip)

summary

Max is quite certain this is not supposed to be complicated, he just wants to ask Charles out on a date. Daniel says he might actually need to use his words in order to that. Surely, Charles can tell he is being flirted with, right? Right?

snippet under the cut :))) for the lovely @nameification

“Can I take you out, Charles?"

Charles blinks, confused. "What did I do?"

Max blinks back, just as confused. "What? What do you mean?"

He furrows his eyebrows. "Well, I have gotten many creative death threats before, but I do not know what I did to you that would make you want to kill me."

Someone groans behind him. Charles still doesn't understand what he did to make Max want to kill him.

Max stares, incredulous. "Wha- wait. Did you say death threats?! You've been getting death threats?!"

Max is so silly, sometimes. And cute, with his startled blue eyes, brows furrowed and hair mussed up adorably. He is also blushing red. Charles decides red looks good on him.

"You are cute."

Max splutters, hands flailing. "Bu- I- you-" He cuts himself off to groan, tugging a hand at his hair and looking thoroughly stressed out.

Charles still isn't sure what he did wrong, but Max is still looking too upset for his liking. Maybe he should give him a hug. Hugs always make him feel better.

He puts a hand on Max's shoulder and squeezes softly until blue eyes peak through pale fingers. "Hey, would you-"

"Charles!"

They all whip around to look in the direction of the voice, Pierre muffles a scream into his palms.

.... more later on :)))

[its-all-papaya]

can we get a lestappen or a landoscar + 13? maybe after waiting for a long time? or after one of them thought the other had been injured? 👀

heyyyyyy bestie anon, I come with gift ! it didn't end up that desperate, but I started in a direction and loved it too much to abandon, so if you want, I'll write that injury landoscar for you down the road as an apology.

other disclaimers include: I do not speak any of these languages & I am not remarkably well-versed in lestappen lore. ALLLLL that being said, I am quite fond of this one.

send me a ship and a number and i will write a kiss

13. desperately | lestappen | ~800

Charles thinks he’s been in love with Max since before he knew the word for it. He had amour and he had amore, but Max had neither of those. And by the time they both had love, there were too many other words between them in all their varied languages, a mess of translations.

Because before Charles had love, he had colère, fighting back from P7 after Max edged him off the track in France. There was envie, watching his childhood rival slide into the seat of an F1 car through the screen of his laptop, balanced on his knees where he sat on the floor of his bedroom. With Ferrari, there was frustrazione from the garage as Charles watched Max take the chequered flag in front of a backdrop that he’d been looking at for 23 years. It was Charles’ view before Max knew it existed, and that was devastazione, heartbreak.

(Charles knows now that for Max, before there was love, there was pijn and there was snelheid and there was very little else.)

He’s known how to battle Max since before he knew English. He learned how it felt to overtake Max on track before he learned how to fit his mouth around the word - ‘overtake.’ Before he knew disappointment, before he knew victory, he knew déception, watching Max beat him and la victoire, beating Max.

In all of Charles’ memories, in each of his milestones, Max is there. In the pits, on the podium, thighs pressed together in the curve of the couch. For as far back as his memory extends, there has been racing boots and rubber, and around the apex of every turn, always there is Max.

Seven months after that afternoon in Monaco, Charles watches Max take the top step of a podium for the tenth time in a year and the hundredth time in his memory. He looks up at the boy he’s been battling nearly all his life and it’s the first time he’s seen him and thought fierté, proud.

Somewhere between that night in Abu Dhabi and two and a half years later in Imola, though, the weight of the world has switched shoulders. Charles has never been unburdened in F1, has never been light (if he’s allowed for a moment to be maudlin, he’ll admit he doesn’t know anybody who’s donned rosso corsa and come out the other side without an ache in their bones from the weight of it), but that has always been just another thing he shares with Max. He’s been comparing them one to the other for so long that it has become a part of his every weekend, like strapping his helmet, like saying his prayers. Max has never been soft, but his success has settled his fury, and when they interact now – more than ever – often he is doux, gentle. There are three World Championships between them and enough points that Charles doesn’t bother counting. He should look up the grid and feel jalousie, but instead he looks up from P3 through a mist of champagne and realizes the feeling (next to his motivation) is friand, fond.

Every weekend there is Max, and every summer there is Monaco. They occupy adjacent places in Charles’ chest: constant like racing, glittering like trophies. Always what he is chasing, always out of reach.

Only this summer, impossibly, there is no devastazione. There is no frustrazione. There is just vittoria, euforia, victory in Monaco.

He’s won, and it’s not a Championship but for now, for today, he can’t imagine winning anything that would matter more. Fresh out of the harbor, the Monégasque salt still stinging in his eyes, he thinks of every kilometer he’s ever driven, every podium he’s ever stood on, every moment he’s spent fighting for this, and always, toujours, sempre the person beside him. Monaco is Formula 1 and Monaco is home – a pair of associations that belong to the streets of Monte Carlo and only one other thing.

The champagne is sparkling in his bloodstream when he returns to the paddock, but it dims in comparison to the feeling he gets when he meets Max’s eyes. It is nothing to run to him and it is everything to reach him.

Max whispers words and they are English, but they could be any language and Charles would still understand. It is Abu Dhabi, it is Val D’Argenton, it is Monaco in Max’s gaze when his arms fit tightly around Charles. When Charles kisses Max, there are no words left. It’s desperation, it’s passion, it’s two decades in the making. It’s wet with Charles’ tears – relief like a victory lap – and it’s amour, amore. Charles’ hands bracket a face he’s spent his whole life watching and his mouth slides against a mouth he’s loved since before it could even speak to him. It is a long time until they part.

Charles thinks enfin, finally, and pour toujours, forever.

[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.

[charles-leclerc-official]

Rpf Monday let’s go!

Ever since charles said fuck in the press conference (and then giggled and squirmed about it) I’ve been having thoughts about an a/b/o au where omega charles is feeling increasingly possessive of his rival max (an alpha) and also for some reason cannot stop thinking about max getting assigned community service for swearing (hence why charles keeps mentioning it). It culminates in him saying fuck at the press conference in a quarter-baked attempt at getting assigned community service along with him because what if max is doing community service and some other omega is assigned to supervise him? What if max is doing community service and not thinking about charles?? What if doing community service with max is charles’ best chance to get max to notice him???

I may or may not do anything with this, but it’s fun thoughts nonetheless XD

- Zoomimal

Charles: "Fuck"

Everybody: . . . .

Charles: "Oh no PLEASE don't give me community service, I have been DREADING the possibility of having to do MANUAL LABOR with Max. PLEASE this isn't fair."

Everybody: . . . .

Charles: "Please make sure I am put on the same community service with Max as a form of protest of this very unfair and biased system. For reasons."

Press con continues ignoring Charles

Charles: "How the fuck is it when Max says fuck he get community service but when I say fuck no one is listening? It seems a little fucking biased, no?"

*Charles is shockingly given community service* *Charles requests that they pick up trash off the track together so he can bend over a lot in front of Max*

[theswansblog]

@ao3 writers, who's magnanimous enough to write the fluffy lestappen oneshot based on these lyrics? I'd be eternally grateful.

"I feel like laughing in the middle of practice

to that impression you did of your dad again

I'm hearing voices like a madman'

I'm losing my mind over how lestappen coded these specific lyrics are.

[neptunescore]

Paring, lestappen, word, piano🎹🎵

Prompt word: Piano | Pairing: Lestappen

The melodic symphony echoes against his living room walls, a slow tune, but one that never fails to bring him comfort. Charles tips his head back, a hum on his lips as his fingers dance upon keys of black and white with easy familiarity; the stool beneath him creaking slightly, protesting against the shifting weight on top as Charles��� body sways slightly.

A second creak makes itself known — sudden and loud — causing the slow blink of drowsy eyes and an abrupt silence as long tanned fingers hover still over the ornate piano.

“Schatje.”

A soothing rumble, the voice vibrating against his back as a chest presses against him and larger calloused hands pull him towards the warmth behind. Charles melts against the man immediately, a satisfied sigh leaving his lips, “Max.”

Max’s head drops against the younger man’s shoulder, tousled blonde hair falling this way and that as the driver nuzzles into Charles’ neck, “they kept me for so fucking long,” he groans; pale hands squeezing and pinching his boyfriend’s waist in an attempt to express his obvious unhappiness.

“Hey! Don’t take it out on me!”

Another groan, muffled by the soft sweater it’s pressed against — and this time Charles’ can’t help but let out a small chuckle, “Stop pouting, mon chéri. You’re here now, get off so we can go sit somewhere more comfortable,” a pause, “preferably in bed.”

Max’s head lifts up, eyes narrowing as he frowns at the other man, “Charles. It’s 3AM. What in the fuck are you still doing out of bed.”

His boyfriend flushes immediately, a squeak leaving his mouth as he turns around to look at Max, a slow smirk forming on the other man’s tired face.

“Oh my god! Oh my god, you were waiting up for me, weren’t you?” He shouts with glee, “you’re such a clingy idiot! You couldn't fall asleep without me, could you?”

“NON-” Charles exclaims, hands flailing around as he tries to think of something — anything — to save himself from the mortified embarrassment coursing through him, “No! Max-” the ferrari driver leans back as the blonde man steps closer with a smug smile; the brunette’s arms reaching behind himself as he blindly searches for anything to grasp and steady himself with.

“Charles, wait- NO!”

A cacophony of sounds boom through the quiet apartment, both men flinching as Charles hurriedly lets go of the various keys he’d unknowingly clutched onto, gulping as he locks eyes with Max’s sleep-addled ones.

Blue irises stare into green as a silent pause rings through. Max smiles,“you ready to sleep now that I’m finally here, mijn vervelende jongen?”

“Max!” Charles scowls, yet a thick honeyed happiness seeps through him as he reaches up to interlace his hand with the one being held out to him.

Thin, sun kissed fingers intertwine with big pale ones. “Yes. Let’s go to bed now, mon chéri.”

It's been a while since I wrote anything so be nice to me😔, let me get back into the writing grind before you start judging me please😩🙏🏽. Anyway, I hope you liked this, anon!!💗

Divider by @cafekitsune (guys how tf do you make dividers, someone help me please)

Edit: I just reread this and do I have a hand kink or smthng😭? Why have I described their hands like 10 times😭😭

Rules and details☆°•~

[lestappenforever]

For the print: 41. “Is that my shirt?” “Is… is that okay?”

Lestappen sharing clothes is one of my favourite things 😍

I was hoping for this one! Thank you. 🥰

Also, throwing in a bonus 50. "Kiss me like you mean it." "With pleasure." for you.

---

41. “Is that my shirt?” “Is… is that okay?” and 50. "Kiss me like you mean it." "With pleasure."

Look, it wasn't as if Max had planned this, okay? Any of it. It just happened.

He'd been on one of his typical late night grocery shopping runs, because he could not for the life of him plan to do it at a more reasonable time of day, or when the store wasn't 10 minutes from closing.

He'd also decided to walk to the store because he'd had a couple of beers and he wasn't about to risk his livelihood for a five minute drive.

The cashier — a woman in her fifties named Stella, who has checked Max out numerous times in the past and has long since stopped caring about him being a Formula 1 World Champion and his attempts at being charming — rolls her eyes dramatically at him as he apologizes for once again being there last minute.

"Every time you say this, and every time you come in at this time, Max," she tells him, not at all amused.

(If he's being perfectly honest, Max doesn't think she's been amused once in her life.)

The disappointment in her eyes could rival that of his mother whenever Max had done something she didn't like growing up, which is unsettling. It makes Max feel like a little kid waiting for a scolding.

Completing his purchase, Max apologizes profusely once more to Stella on his way out.

As he exits the store, somebody practically barrels into him from the side.

"Shit," Max mutters, regaining his footing and turning to face the stranger who apparently has no disregard for anyone's safety or well-being, anger already building in his chest.

But the stranger turns out to be none other than Charles Leclerc, apparently out on a late-night run if his sweaty forehead and running attire is anything to go by.

And, well, Max's anger drains from him as quickly as it had appeared, because there is no way in hell he can stay angry at Charles.

Especially not a sweaty Charles, which is a sight that's doing all sorts of things to Max's mind and body.

"Merde, désolé," Charles tells him, taking a step back and finally looking up at Max's face. "Max?"

Max doesn't really think that question warrants an answer, given how Charles is clearly not blind.

"I'm sorry," he repeats in English, and his cheeks redden even further, which Max assumes isn't from the physical exertion of running.

"It's fine," Max says, waving the hand that isn't holding the grocery bag dismissively.

Charles glances at the bag in his hand, at the watch on his wrist, then at the large sign on the store front behind Max announcing their opening hours, raising an eyebrow.

"The employees must love you," he says teasingly, a small smirk on his face.

Max rolls his eyes at him.

"Yeah, they all light up with glee when I come in," Max replies, voice dripping with sarcasm.

It draws a laugh from Charles, which is a beautiful sound. Max kind of wishes he could bottle it.

Suddenly, there's a flash in the sky followed by a loud crack of thunder, making Charles jump and Max look up to see ominously dark clouds having gathered in the sky.

And then the clouds unleash hell — or ridiculously heavy rain — on Monaco.

"Fuck!" Charles hisses, and Max doesn't need to ask why because he knows Charles lives on the other side of town and that he was nowhere near being done with his run.

Before he can think better of it, Max grabs Charles' hand.

"Come on," he says, not giving Charles the chance to argue or question as he tugs the Monégasque right along with him as he sets off running in the direction of his own home.

Charles goes willingly.

---

By the time they make it into Max's apartment, they're both soaked to the core, and Charles' grey t-shirt is clinging to his body like a second layer of skin.

It's making Max want to do all sorts of unseemly things to him, so he promptly looks away.

"You can use the shower in the master bathroom. There's a pretty efficient drying rack in there," Max tells him, gesturing vaguely in the direction of his bedroom.

Charles has been to his place before and even if he doesn't remember the entire layout of the apartment, Max has a feeling he'll figure it out.

"Thanks," Charles tells him, apparently not needing to be told twice as he disappears down the hall.

Max, for his part, goes to the guest bathroom where he strips out of his wet clothes and takes a quick shower, just to keep his core temperature from dropping too low. Once he's clean and dry, he grabs a clean pair of soft sweats and a Red Bull t-shirt from the dryer in the bathroom, and tosses his soaked clothes into the washing machine. He was going to put on a load tomorrow morning anyway, so might as well do it now.

He's in the kitchen, finishing up on unloading the groceries, when Charles comes padding into the kitchen behind him.

"Do you want tea?" Max asks without turning to look at him.

"Yes please," Charles answers without hesitation.

Max puts the water on, and when he finally does turn to face the other man, he sees that Charles has hoisted himself up to sit on the kitchen island instead of sitting in an actual chair, like a normal person.

His hair is still damp and Charles is wearing his running shorts that now appear to be fully dry, thanks to the heated drying rack and the quick-drying fabric of the shorts. He's also wearing an awfully familiar-looking black hoodie that doesn't fit him properly over the shoulders.

Max has to blink a couple of times to make sure he's not seeing things.

"Is that my shirt?"

Charles glances down at himself. When he looks back up to meet Max's gaze, his cheeks are flushed.

"Is... Is that okay?" He asks, voice soft and uncertain and small.

He sounds and looks so fucking cute that Max might actually implode on the spot.

"My t-shirt doesn't dry as quickly as my shorts and I was cold, and I had a feeling you didn't need me walking around shirtles and —,"

Max doesn't let him finish, because before he even realizes he's moving, he's crossed the kitchen and situated himself right between Charles' legs, hands curled in the fabric of the hoodie, lips pressed against the Monégasque's.

Charles flails a little and makes a surprised noise in the back of his throat, but when he recovers, he returns the kiss. It's a closed-mouthed kiss — nothing but a firm press of lips, really — but it's still the best kiss either man has ever had.

When he pulls back a small eternity later, Charles' lips are a little puffy and red and his eyes are unfocused.

Max finds himself thinking that he's never seen anyone or anything as beautiful.

"Yes, Charles. That's okay," the Red Bull driver says with a smile, finally answering Charles' question.

Charles smiles back, all dimples and bright eyes and sunshine.

It makes Max's heart leap.

"Good," Charles tells him, hands coming up to tangle in Max's hair, tugging ever so slightly. "Now kiss me like you mean it."

It's not a question, it's a command.

"With pleasure," Max says, and that's exactly what he does.

[monacodarling]

Need a short prompt to get me going…any requests?? For Lestappen or 1644 maybe or the 163381 fam lmao…some sebchal…anyone?