👀👀👀

heyy not to be dramatic but you kind of own the bearnellli tag on ao3. like. it’s yours. you have the deed and the corresponding mortgage. i love the way you characterise kimi as this little Italian chaos gremlin (who occasionally has an insecure side that has me reading like 🥹) and ollies gay panic whenver hes near.

idk if u take requests or prompts, but (on the off chance you do) if your divine creative powers ever feel like blessing us with a fic where one of them starts reading fanfic and then spirals into a black hole of thirst and emotional devastation (as one does)... I would simply ascend. no pressure. just respectfully, desperately, on my knees 🙏✨

giggling rn. THANK YOU FOR READING MY FICS AND THANK YOU FOR PRAISING ME I AM HIGH OFF DEM EGO

also yes i take requests. and yes I will try to write something around what u have asked coz I am a very good human being and a chronic people pleaser. and thank you for being on your knees I really really really appreciate it.

hiii i love ur fics sm literally the only way im getting thru exam szn bro theyre sosososo good ty for ur works 🙇‍♀️ plsplsplspls return to the f1/pjo crossover PLEASE

I WILL I PROMISE I JUST NEED PLOT

does this race give you hope for monaco? no.

if lando norris was 3 and charles leclerc was an apple then how many centimeters is the milk that i need to burn on the antarctic refrigerator to gain 3/10ths down the straight at the rainbow road grand prix circuit?

first of all, thank you for this question. It has changed my life. second of all, the answer is clearly blueberry.

you see, if Lando is 3 (which checks out), and sharl leclair is an apple (organic ofc), then the milk (specifically emotionally unstable almond milk) needs to be cryogenically yeeted onto the antarctic refrigerator, which, as we all know, is guarded by two penguins named Lewis and Seb.

once you bypass the ice circuit boss battle (featuring rookie Fernando Alonso on skates), u pour exactly π centimetres of combusted dairy essence into the carburettor of your Mario Kart and scream "FOR MONZAAAA" while drifting at preciselyy 42° angle into rainbow road.

congratulations! you now have 3/10ths and also irreversible lactose trauma. charles is still an apple. lando has evolved into 4 somehow.

science. ✨

this speaks to me on a level that's very... low.

Writers on a random Tuesday: Sits down, locks in, giggles, writes 10k, does not sleep

Also writers on a random Tuesday: writes one sentence and then stares into the abyss for five fours

WE NEVER MADE THAT EXCEL SHEET LMAO

very not pog of us

soo wedding fic when

ver did what???

woke up to 19 comments in my inbox. I'm not gonna read any of them coz i value my peace. i might read it tomorrow. or never. that being said, i believe i have created a monster. sorry, world.

The Kingdom, The Power, The Glory.

a/n: ok so first of all, this is @souvenir116's fault for making that one post. u gave me ideas. so now i gift you trauma. hope u like it. wrote this during my self-imposed study break which lasted 3 hrs. hah.

lemme know if u guys want a full-blown 10k fic on ao3. i might be able to turn this babyboy into a fluff fic. somehow. if i have enough words. and time. and sleep deprivation. 

Tags: angst, lestappen, hurt no comfort, sad ending, canon divergence, unrequited love.

Summary: After a devastating crash with Max Verstappen in the 2021 Abu Dhabi Grand Prix, Charles Leclerc is left to face the aftermath — and Max — in silence, guilt, and unbearable grief.

Charles comes back to consciousness with the taste of carbon and gravel in his mouth and a white-hot spear of pain down his side. His vision is blurred, smudged red at the edges, like someone dipped the whole world in shame.

The first thing he hears is that Lewis has won.

The second is silence.

Max isn't Champion. Not today. Not ever, maybe.

Because of Charles.

Because of that corner.

Because he didn’t lift.

He doesn’t remember the impact. Just the blur. The smoke. The scream. He remembers pressing the brake too late, the car twitching beneath him like a frightened animal. And Max was there. Max was right there. Max was always there.

And now everything is over.

He’s wheeled into the medical bay with one arm strapped to his chest and the sharp ache of a cracked rib every time he breathes too hard. The bandage across his temple itches. His mouth is dry. His fingers are shaking. He’s nauseous with adrenaline, horror, and the metallic taste of guilt he’s swallowed since he was five years old and first learned what it meant to want something you weren’t allowed to touch.

He doesn't ask for the championship standings.

He doesn’t need to.

Max DNF.

Lewis wins his eighth.

And Charles is the reason.

The FIA room is cold. Tiled like a morgue. Smells like antiseptic and judgment. No one speaks to him when they bring him in. They sit him in the corner, like a bad child. His fireproofs are still streaked with blood and smoke. His helmet is gone. He keeps looking at his hands. He doesn’t recognise them.

Charles doesn’t lift his head. Not until he feels him.

The fury.

It walks in before Max does.

It lives in the air. It vibrates in the walls. It hums inside Charles’ lungs, stealing the breath from his chest. The rage is so alive it feels like a third person in the room. And still — Max is silent.

No screaming.

No shouting.

No finger in his face. No snarled accusations.

Max walks into the room limping, jaw locked, and then—he sits down beside him.

Not across. Not far away. Right beside him.

Like this is personal.

Like this was always personal.

Charles keeps staring at the floor, because if he looks at Max’s face, he’ll break open. And he doesn't deserve to break. Not after this. Not after everything he just destroyed.

He took Max’s title.

He took Max’s year.

He took Max’s first World Championship and drove them both into smoke.

And it doesn't matter if he didn’t mean to. It doesn’t matter that he braked late thinking he could hold it. That he thought Max would leave him space. That he thought—

It doesn’t matter.

Intentions don’t count for anything when you steal the thing someone’s spent their whole life chasing.

Max’s hand is clenched into a fist on his knee.

It’s shaking.

Charles whispers, “I’m sorry.”

It’s all he has.

Max doesn’t reply. But the air goes colder.

“I didn’t—I didn’t want that to happen.”

His throat burns. His chest twists like wire.

“I locked up.”

His voice hitches.

“I wasn’t trying to—”

He shakes his head. It’s pointless. Words are pointless. Nothing he says will change it. The moment happened. The damage is done. History has been rewritten in the time it took for two cars to kiss carbon.

“I was trying to keep it clean.”

He swallows. It tastes like bile.

“I thought I left enough space.”

Max still doesn’t say anything.

Charles doesn't know what hurts more — the silence, or the fact that Max is still sitting there.

He keeps going, because if he stops, he’ll start crying, and he doesn’t deserve to cry.

“I should’ve backed out. I know that. I should’ve just let it go.”

Max’s fingers twitch. A flinch in his jaw.

Charles doesn't look at him. He can’t.

“I didn’t want it to end like that.”

It was supposed to be Max’s year.

Charles was supposed to stand in parc fermé, watching the fireworks go off above Max’s head. He was supposed to watch him cry — but the good kind, the kind that tasted like gold and champagne and glory.

He was supposed to wait in the shadows, and maybe, later, when things had calmed down, find him. Pull him aside. Say something like, “You did it. I’m proud of you.” Not “I love you.” Never “I love you.” But something. Anything.

Not this.

Never this.

Max’s shoulder is brushing his.

He’s so still, but Charles can feel it — the thunder in him. The fury just beneath the surface, held back with the kind of restraint that hurts to witness.

“Max,” he says, quietly. “Say something.”

Max’s voice, when it comes, is low and taut, like piano wire pulled too tight.

“What do you want me to say?”

Charles flinches.

Max turns to look at him.

His eyes aren’t red. He isn’t crying. But they’re wrecked. Devastated in a way that can’t be put back together.

“I lost everything,” Max says. “Everything I’ve worked for. Everything I’ve—” He cuts himself off.

His jaw is shaking.

Charles wants to disappear.

“I know,” he whispers.

“No, you don’t.” Max laughs, short and sharp. “You’ll never understand. You’ve always been the favourite. The golden boy. You never had to fight like I did. You never had to claw for it. You had people handing you crowns before you could walk.”

“That’s not true—”

Max stands suddenly, like he can’t take it anymore.

But he doesn’t walk away.

He looks down at Charles. And for one awful second, Charles thinks he might hit him. That Max might finally let it all out.

But he doesn’t.

He just stands there, fists shaking, mouth trembling, the whole sky of him collapsing inward.

And then, quietly, he says, “You should’ve just let me have it.”

Charles nods.

He knows.

Max stares at him, like he’s trying to see something human behind Charles’ eyes and can’t find it.

Then he says, “I don’t hate you.”

It’s worse than if he did.

“But don’t come near me again.”

Charles nods again.

And then Max walks out of the room.

He doesn’t look back.

Charles stays where he is, staring down at his own bloody hands, shaking in silence.

He thinks of the corner. Of the blur. Of the second he thought he had it. The second he thought they’d make it out the other side.

He thinks of every year that brought them here.

Every lap.

Every time he held his tongue and said nothing.

Every time he watched Max walk away.

He thinks of the prayer he whispered into his gloves before the formation lap.

Let the best man win.

And now the best man is gone.

He doesn’t move. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t cry.

He just sits in the wreckage of something holy, and breathes like it’s a punishment.

And wishes the crash had taken him instead.

👀👀👀

Lestappen getting distracted because of each other and losing the wheel is so soulmate coded

Abu Dhabi 2021

Bahrain 2019

[Max might have fell first but Charles fell harder <3]

😭😭😭😭 this is a hate crime. a war crime. a psychological crime on my person. I'm reporting this to my pseudo tumblr mum/sister figure.

oh wait thats u.

shit.

just read abt anatidaephobia and now I have an irrational fear. and also a plot to a crackfic that I don't know what to do with.