Kezervised95 - Kezic.

me: I write for myself, not validation

also me after posting a fic *refreshes ao3 every five minutes*

(two things can be true)

might have to use 'have a good one tomorrow 👍' next time i've told someone they were wrong on the internet

i’m happy you exist, that you’ve made it so far. it’s not an easy thing. waking up every morning and existing. i hope today you’re safe and that something makes you smile.

its amazing how if you decide not to do something day after day it never gets done. not how i would have things

I LOVE YOUR FICS.

Could you write a fic that's basically Lestappen 2022 with all the RANCID vibes. They hate each other. They are still in their enemies phase. I just saw a post the other day talking abt how no one writes Lestappen in its true form anymore. I just feel like you could make it work. I love you/p. Take care, babe.

OKOKOK I have come up with like a snippet of sorts. not proof read. Grammarly hopefully did me justice. enjoy!!! (and I hope this is what u were looking for. I'm not exactly all that good at writing anger without overdoing it so if this seems a bit theatrical I m SORRY)

Charles Leclerc does not see Max Verstappen until it’s too late.

Not until Bahrain, when the red and the blue clash like blood in water. Not until the mirrors show an outline of a charging oracle-blue machine, cold and venomous as if Milton Keynes had spit out a monster shaped like a man and tfold it to hunt Ferrari dreams until they were roadkill.

And Charles — oh, Charles — blinks only once. Stares ahead with the sun of Maranello behind his eyes and burns.

He pretends he does not see. He lies. He drives like he's the only one on track, and Max drives like the world owes him a crown and Charles is wearing it wrong.

But the thing is: Charles was first. The prodigy. The golden child, the prince of Monaco, the one they said would rise like the sun. He earned the world’s love with his smile and his storms, carved himself into Ferrari like a sacrament, bled for the reds.

And now here comes Verstappen. Entitled. Ruthless. Son of a serpent and bastard of a legacy, forged in Red Bull steel, who takes and takes and wins.

Charles doesn’t just hate Max. He despises him. Deep in the marrow. In the clenched jaw during cool-down rooms. In the snatched glances in press conferences, when Max’s voice slinks around words like he’s choking on contempt and Charles’s fists curl beneath the tablecloth.

It’s war. Has always been war.

"You brake tested me,” Max snarls in Saudi. “What are we doing? Playing games?"

Charles smiles, eyes wide with holy fury, flicking the switch on his steering wheel like he’s executing judgment. “Maybe drive better.”

The lion does not forget the leopard’s teeth.

He dreams of tearing Max off the racing line by the throat. Not to kill. Never that. But to remind. He has claws too. The desert heat licks at his halo, sweat under fireproofs, and Max breathes down his neck like a curse from the dark side of the grid.

They play DRS chicken in Jeddah and it is not racing. It is theatre. It is a cathedral built from engine smoke and tire marks. Two titans circling, noses bloodied, hearts rabid. This is not a rivalry. This is a fucking holy war.

And when Max gets the better of him — again — when the RB18 slips past and Charles sees the blue of it slice through the night like a guillotine, he does not feel defeat.

He feels rage.

The kind that settles in the bones. The kind that remembers.

In Imola, it rains. The kind of rain that tastes like betrayal.

Charles spins. He spins. The world turns red, then brown, then blue. Mud flays the Ferrari livery. His hands slam the wheel. The scream he lets out is not of a driver who made a mistake. It is of a man who can feel the season slipping through his fingers like a dying animal.

Max wins.

Of course Max wins.

And Charles watches from the podium, third place and humiliated, wet hair clinging to his forehead, hatred soaking deeper than water ever could. Max grins. The champagne sprays.

Charles doesn’t blink.

He thinks of claws in the wet. Of animals cornered. Of leopards waiting for the desert to dry again.

"You were pushing too hard," Max says later, lazy in the press pen. "You tend to do that."

And Charles — Charles bares his teeth. “At least I was trying.”

The cameras catch the flash of something in his eyes. The way his whole body coils like he's seconds from lunging across the gap. Journalists say it’s rivalry. F1TV edits it with dramatic music.

But it’s hatred. Real, pure, searing. It burns.

By Spain, the gods mock him.

Pole. Glory. Domination. And then —

Smoke.

Engine failure like a slap across the face.

Max inherits the win.

Charles punches the wall in the garage. Carbon dust on his knuckles. Sainz stays back, wisely, like a man who knows not to disturb a hurricane.

Later, Charles walks through the paddock with a stillness that frightens. He sees Max celebrating with Christian Horner. Sees the way he laughs with his whole body like it never hurt to lose anything.

Charles wants to ask: How does it feel to win when the world hands it to you? But he doesn’t.

Instead, he walks past. Like Max is already dead to him.

But he is not. He never is. He is always there.

Monaco is a bloodletting.

His home race. His city. The weight of decades behind him. Every street named after the ghosts of his childhood. And yet, strategy fucks him. Ferrari fucks him. The weather fucks him.

Max — Max’s silence fucks him harder.

Charles doesn’t place. Doesn’t matter.

Max says nothing. Not to him. Not even a smug smile. That would’ve been human. Instead, Max gives him a glance so blank it’s worse. Like Charles is just another name on the board. Like he is irrelevant.

Charles doesn’t sleep that night. Stares at the ceiling of his Monte Carlo apartment, listening to the sound of celebration down the coastline. Fireworks. Laughter. Somewhere, Max is grinning.

Charles thinks of drowning.

Silverstone, Austria, Paul Ricard. Brief flashes of redemption. Hope. Fire.

But Max is always there. Like a stain he can’t bleach out. Like the fucking shadow to Charles’s sun. They do not speak unless forced. When they do, the air turns to static.

“I liked your overtake,” Max mutters after Austria, like it chokes him to say it.

Charles looks at him, slow and sharp. “I didn’t do it for your approval.”

Max shrugs. His eyes glitter. “Did it to win, then?”

Charles bares his teeth again. “Did it to beat you.”

Max just nods. Like he’s waited a lifetime to hear it.

The summer break does nothing. Spa arrives and Max devours the grid from 14th like it was fated. Like the car was just a weapon and he was the hand of God. Charles gets fastest lap — a fucking consolation.

It’s not enough.

Nothing is.

By Monza, the Tifosi scream his name. Red flags wave. Italy breathes Charles Leclerc like incense. But Max is on pole. Or second. Or close enough it doesn’t fucking matter. They are always too close.

A lion and a leopard in the Colosseum. And the leopard always finds a way to bite.

Verstappen wins Monza. In front of the Tifosi. In front of him.

And Charles — Charles doesn’t cry. He can’t. The rage has burned the tears away.

He does not shake Max’s hand. Not properly. Just the barest brush. Their eyes meet, and there’s something in Max’s stare. Not victory. Not arrogance.

Longing.

Charles looks away like it’ll kill him otherwise.

Later, Max finds him. Alone. Behind the paddock, in the dark. No cameras. No team.

“You drive beautifully,” Max says, quiet, almost gentle.

Charles turns. “Don’t.”

Max tilts his head. “You hate me that much?”

“I hate everything you are,” Charles whispers. “I hate that you’re winning. I hate that I can’t catch you. I hate that I used to respect you. I hate that you look at me like you understand. You don’t. You never did.”

Max steps closer.

“I do,” he says. “I do.”

Charles shoves past him like it hurts to breathe the same air.

By Japan, it’s over.

Championship gone. Max crowned. Rain falling in sheets. Suzuka blurred in tragedy.

Charles finishes second. By seconds.

Max hugs him on the podium. And Charles lets him.

Just for a second.

Just for the world.

He doesn’t look at him. Can’t.

But when Max leans close, breath hot by his ear, and murmurs — “You made me fight for it,” — Charles feels something rupture inside.

He will not forgive. He will not forget.

But he will come back.

Because the phoenix may lose the crown.

But he never loses the memory of blood and ashes.

______________________

Charles Leclerc starts 2023 with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes and a soul stitched together by winter silence and rehearsed optimism.

He’s healed. Or he’s trying to be. Ferrari has a new boss, a new philosophy, a new promise. He wears the suit again like it’s not weighing him down, speaks in press conferences like he believes in second chances, and nods politely whenever someone brings up 2022 — the season of knives and thunder and Max fucking Verstappen.

He says, “We’ve learned a lot. We’ll fight again.”

But the leopard’s dewlap is wet. His claws dulled. His roar gone quiet.

Because how do you keep roaring when the jungle moved on without you?

Max stands on the other side of the paddock like he owns the world now. WDC twice over. Chin high. Eyes colder. He doesn’t gloat anymore — he doesn’t need to. Charles sees it in the way Red Bull walks into the paddock like a death march and leaves with trophies. Over and over and over. Max doesn’t need to say a word. The wins do it for him.

Bahrain is a ghost.

Charles qualifies P3. The car is twitchy, but he handles it. And then. And then. Lap 39. The engine dies again like it’s remembering what it’s meant to do — betray him.

He says, “No, no, no, come on.” And it sounds so much like last year that even the commentary box goes quiet.

Max wins.

And Charles watches from the garage. Headphones off. Mouth a straight line. He doesn’t punch the wall this time. Doesn’t scream. Doesn’t cry.

He just leaves. Quiet. Swallowed whole.

By Jeddah, he’s already slipping.

Ten-place grid penalty for a new ECU. Brilliant. A P2 in quali becomes a P12. He drives like a man chasing redemption with a gun to his own head. Finishes P7. Not a single camera captures his face.

He doesn’t speak to Max.

Not when Max brushes past in parc fermé with a nod.

Not when Max mentions his name in interviews with something close to regret.

And certainly not when, behind closed doors, Max leans against a wall in the Red Bull motorhome and says, "He’s not the same."

Because he’s not.

The leopard has forgotten how to be anything but cornered.

By Australia, it’s a joke.

Lap 1, Turn 3. Contact. Gravel. DNF.

He climbs out of the car with the gait of a man walking away from a battlefield where he was the only one bleeding. Helmet on. No words.

He sees the highlights later. Sees Max. Calm. P1 again.

He wants to smash the screen.

He doesn’t.

He just turns it off.

They ask him in Baku how he's feeling. He says, “Okay.”

He’s not.

He says, “It’s progress.”

It isn’t.

Pole in the sprint shootout. Max beside him. They touch. Max throws his hands up. Shoves his way past post-race, voice sharp. “You didn’t leave space.”

And Charles — Charles snaps. Not publicly. Not yet.

But inside, the mirror cracks.

Because it’s always Max. Always him with the better strategy, the faster car, the answers. Always the golden boy with the wrecking ball smile and no consequences. While Charles is left to count the splinters of every single choice he's made.

He wants to fight him again. Like last year. The game. The war. The myth.

But there’s nothing to fight for.

Not anymore.

In Miami, he crashes in Q3. Twice. The walls feel closer. The track too narrow. The air too loud. He drives like he doesn’t care if it breaks.

Max wins from P9. Makes it look easy.

Charles stares at his reflection in the Ferrari trailer window for five full minutes before he speaks to anyone.

Later, Max comes by.

Stands by the door. Doesn’t enter. Doesn’t smile.

“You okay?” he asks.

Charles doesn’t look at him. Just mutters, “Does it fucking matter?”

Max leaves.

Charles doesn’t watch him go. But he feels it. Like he always does.

Imola gets cancelled. Flooding. A week to think. Charles doesn’t use it.

Monaco is supposed to be redemption.

He qualifies P3. Then takes a three-place penalty for impeding Lando. The city that raised him turns on him with sharp teeth and shaking heads. He walks through the paddock like he doesn’t hear it.

But he hears everything.

Max wins again. Again. Again.

And Charles — Charles doesn’t even stay for the champagne.

By Canada, he’s halfway back to the man he used to be before 2019. Silent. Guarded. Sharp only when he needs to be.

He finishes P4. Nobody notices.

Not even Max.

Austria is worse.

Sprint weekend. Chaos. Charles finishes P2 in the race, behind Max again. Always behind. Always the shadow. They shake hands on the podium. Cameras flash.

Max says, “You were quick today.”

Charles just nods. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t smile.

He’s slipping again and he knows it.

Silverstone. Pole. Maybe. If the wind’s right. If Ferrari remembers how to strategy. If the gods stop laughing.

They don’t.

He finishes ninth.

After the race, he sits in the garage long after everyone’s gone. Alone. Gloves still on. Visor down.

Max walks past. Glances in.

Doesn’t enter.

By summer break, the standings speak louder than any interview could. Max is flying. Charles is drowning. And the only thing worse than being beaten is being forgotten.

In Zandvoort, the rain comes. Not like Imola, not like last year, but enough to feel like a metaphor. Charles DNFs again.

Max wins again.

Charles stares at him on the podium like he might tear his face off with his teeth.

“You’re not even trying anymore,” Max says one day. Quiet. Private. Like a wound he doesn’t want to show.

Charles blinks. That gets through. Because Max never says that. Not unless he means it.

“I am,” Charles whispers.

Max shakes his head. “No. You’re surviving.”

Charles laughs. It’s dry. Broken. “Maybe that’s all there is now.”

They don’t talk again until Vegas. Not properly.

Charles is on fire. P1. Finally. Finally fighting again. The leopard, remembering.

He drives like he’s starving. Like the desert gave him back his goddamn pulse.

Max tries to defend. Can’t. Charles takes the lead and keeps it.

And he loses it in the pits.

Max wins.

Of course he fucking does.

Charles stands on the second step of the podium like a crucifixion. He smiles. It’s fake. It’s perfect. His hands shake around the champagne.

Max glances over at him.

“You deserved that one,” he says, later.

Charles doesn’t answer.

Because maybe he did. Maybe he does.

But deserving doesn’t mean anything when you're standing under the lights of Las Vegas with a bottle in your hand and your name second.

Abu Dhabi comes. Quiet. Inevitable.

Max dominates.

Charles finishes second in the race. Again. Again. Again.

And in the cool-down room, they don’t speak.

But when Max leaves the room first, Charles glances at his empty chair. Just for a second.

And he thinks: I miss hating you.

Because hatred means fire. Hatred means power.

And now, all he feels is tired.

But somewhere in his chest, something stirs. A memory. A rumble.

The leopard isn’t dead.

He’s just learning how to roar again.

______________________

He says the right things. Says he’s ready. Says they’ve made progress. Says this is the year they fight again.

But his eyes twitch when people say Lando Norris is Max Verstappen’s greatest rival.

The first time he hears it, it’s Miami, lap 57, champagne flying like mockery in the night. Max P1. Lando P2. Charles? P5, behind Oscar. The camera pans too long across the podium. Zooms in on Max’s smile. The easy, unbothered kind. Lando’s grin, soft and hungry at once.

They say, the new rivalry of a generation.

Charles doesn’t breathe for five full seconds.

He flinches. A tiny tick in his jaw. But the cameras catch it. The stills go viral. “Charles watching Max and Lando like it should’ve been him.”

Because it should have been.

Max used to look at him like that. Like war. Like danger. Like the only one worth swinging at. In 2022, it was a duet of destruction. Parry and lunge. Predator and prey. But now?

Now Max talks about Lando in interviews with heat. Respects him. Argues with him on track like he used to with Charles. Door-to-door. Elbows out. Flares of fury.

Charles?

Charles is clinical. Careful. Controlled.

Because fire got him burned. And the scars are still too raw.

In Jeddah, the Ferrari is quick. Not Red Bull quick, but close. Close enough that Charles should be bold.

He isn’t.

Lap 27. Lando sends it on him into Turn 1. Late. Arrogant. Perfect. The Charles of 2022 would’ve held it around the outside. Trusted himself. Gone wheel-to-wheel into 2. Dared Max to follow.

But this Charles?

He lifts.

Let’s him go.

They ask him why after. He says, “It wasn’t worth the risk.”

Max raises a brow in his interview. “Sometimes you’ve got to risk it.”

And Lando—Lando just shrugs. Says, “You either go for it or you don’t.”

Charles doesn’t sleep that night.

He sits in the dark hotel room, watching footage of the move. Over and over. Listening to the soft squeal of tyres, the engine downshift, the roar of Lando’s McLaren. And the silence of his own hesitation.

He used to be brave.

Too brave, maybe. 2019 brave. Rookie brave. Divebomb into Max-at-Austria brave. Wet Monaco laps like he was driving for God. Spa. Silverstone. Bahrain. That boy with the bleeding heart and hands of thunder.

But he died in 2022.

He just didn’t stay dead.

In Australia, he qualifies well. Not pole — that’s Max — but close. Second. Lando third. The old script. A chance to rewrite the ending.

And for twenty laps, he fights. Really fights.

Max pushes. Charles defends.

It’s beautiful. Familiar. Like stretching a broken bone that’s healed just enough to ache again.

But then Lando’s on the radio. “He’s holding me up.”

And then he’s past.

And then Max is gone.

And Charles is alone.

Again.

They say, What a move by Lando Norris.

They say, Max Verstappen’s new equal?

They say, Charles Leclerc struggling to keep up.

He watches the interviews after. Lando laughing, standing next to Max like they were born from the same stormcloud. They talk about each other like future legends. Like equals.

And Charles feels it. That acid burn in the throat. The ugly ache of being replaced.

Is it jealousy?

Of course it is.

But it’s not just that.

It’s the hollow space where fear lives now.

Because in 2022, he flew too close. He was brave. Too brave. Max clipped his wings. The team lit him on fire. The strategy gods cursed his name. And now—

Now every time he gets close, he hesitates.

Because bravery is a luxury you lose when you learn what it costs.

Imola comes. The upgrades work. Ferrari has pace. More than McLaren. Maybe even enough for Max.

Charles leads for a while. Feels the wind again. Feels alive.

And then there’s a Safety Car. Late. Bunched field. Max right behind.

Ten laps to go.

Charles in P1.

Max in P2.

Lando in P3.

And the voice in Charles’ head whispers: Don’t fuck it up.

He drives tight. Over-defensive. Nervous.

Lap 60. Max lunges.

Charles squeezes him.

Tyres touch.

They both slide.

Lando passes both of them.

Wins the race.

Max P2.

Charles P3.

He doesn’t even stay for the cool-down room.

He walks through the paddock, helmet still on. People part around him like a ghost made flesh. He sits alone in the back of the Ferrari garage. Hands on his knees. Shaking.

He says nothing.

Later, Fred puts a hand on his shoulder. “You did well.”

He doesn’t respond.

Because he didn’t. He flinched. Again. At the worst moment.

And the worst part?

Max doesn’t even seem mad.

He just says, “It happens. That’s racing.”

Charles wants to scream. Wants him to fight. To push him into a wall. To glare at him like 2022. Like rivals. Like enemies. Like he matters.

But Max just… looks at him.

With something sad in his eyes.

Like he knows.

Barcelona is quiet.

Charles finishes second to Max. He does everything right. No mistakes. Perfect execution.

And still—

Second.

He shakes Max’s hand on the podium. Doesn't meet his eyes.

Lando finishes fourth.

They still call him Max’s rival.

Charles laughs bitterly in the hotel elevator. Alone.

I came back wrong, he thinks. I came back afraid.

Because he used to be first to the fire. Now he checks for exits before he breathes.

He’s scared. Not of Max. Not of Lando. Not even of losing.

But of what it means if he’s no longer the one.

Max finds him in Austria. Late night. After quali. They’re both on the front row.

“You were brave today,” Max says.

Charles shrugs. “Didn’t have a choice.”

“You always have a choice.”

Silence.

Charles looks at him. Really looks.

And Max — Max doesn’t hate him. Never did. He’s looking at him like something rare. Something he lost once and doesn’t know how to get back.

“You still have it,” Max says, voice low. “You just don’t trust yourself anymore.”

Charles laughs. But it’s broken. “Why would I?”

Max doesn’t answer.

And maybe that’s the worst part.

Because Max understands. And Charles hates him for it.

Hates him for still being fearless. For making it look easy. For moving on to Lando without ever needing to look back.

But he also wants to earn it again.

The hate. The war. The rivalry.

The reason Max used to look at him like that.

So in Silverstone, when it rains, and the track is a sheet of glass, Charles doesn’t lift.

Not when Lando lunges. Not when Max breathes down his neck. Not when everything in his brain screams, Flinch.

He holds.

He fucking holds.

P2. Behind Max. Ahead of Lando.

They shake hands in parc fermé. Max meets his eyes this time. And smiles.

Not like a friend.

Like a foe.

Charles walks away with a ghost of fire in his chest.

He’s still afraid.

But he’s learning to roar through it.

@iluvoscarpiastri HIIIII IM GETTING A SIBLING YESSS

fellas i’ve done it again. i’ve accidentally adopted another child/sibling on tumblr. again. how i manage this is beyond me

I want my fic to be cited in someone's villain origin story. i want it to emotionally devastate a reader so badly they look out the window in the rain and whisper my AO3 username like it's a curse.

my dream as a fanfic writer is for one day, one of my fics to be someones comfort fic. like the fic that they reread when they don't feel good and want to be happy. i want my words to comfort someone one day

you put into words memes.

I understand Ferrari because if I had a man that pretty hopelessly devoted to me I would torture him for fun too