18. What’s one of your favorite lines you’ve written in a fic?
29. Share a bit from a fic you’ll never post OR from a scene that was cut from an already posted fic. (If you don’t have either, just share a random fic idea you have that you don’t plan on getting to.)
Hello my dear! Thank you for the ask! <3 I've got a treat for you 😘
18. Favourite lines
This feels like choosing which child you love the most lol. But I am really fond of this bit of an evolutionary theory of the soul:
You put your faith in modern technology, but you call it halo because science can only get you so far, and so you hope—pray—that, somewhere, there is a God who is listening.
29. Scene from a fic I'll never post
Well, here is your treat! I might like to do something with this in the future but most likely I will not, so here's some lestappen (mild nsfw) for you:
It starts as a misunderstanding.
But, as with many things in Max’s life—and particularly in the scope of his tricky, hum, arrangement with Charles—Max lacks the necessary amount of common sense to simply admit it.
Plus, he has never been one to back out of a challenge.
His father had taught him, early in life, that you should never lay down your guard near your enemies—childhood rivals, annoyingly good-looking championship opponents, tentative-friends-who-screw-your-brains-out-on-a-regular-basis, whichever category describes Charles the best.
But Max was tired, and he had finished second on the race and he had lost his lead on the championship to his championship-opponent-you-get-the-point, and all he wanted was to drown his sorrows in the fanciest cocktail the hotel bar could offer and then maybe getting-the-point for some nice ten minutes afterwards (he was fucking exhausted, okay) and then go to sleep and forget all about the race and the championship and all things F1 for the blissful duration of the summer break (who was he kidding, he’d be on the sim as soon as he got home).
But of course, Charles couldn’t have made it easy for him (that’s one thing Max loves about him) and he’d been staring at him far too intently from across the table (wait, did he say lo-?) while Max tried to hide his reddening face behind the cocktail list (nah, it was just the exhaustion speaking), searching for something to drink that would immediately loosen the sickening lump in his throat (honestly, lo- he can't even say the word), and then. Then, Charles hummed and casually asked him something inane and totally Charles-like, along the lines of “What is your heart’s deepest desire?” and Max’s brain—exhausted, thirsty, in-the-middle-of-an-existential-crisis Max’s brain—chose that particular moment to zero-in on the solution to all his problems, inconspicuously hiding on the vodka cocktails section of the menu, and he opened his big mouth to say, “A-ha. Sex on the Beach!”
Max knew he’d messed up the second he dared to peek from behind the menu to find Charles staring at him with fiery determination in his eyes.
I come to humbly beg for you to deep dive into another abandoned Lestappen fic if there is another in your list! 🧎♀️
String theory and/or I’m loving it have intrigued me most! 🥰
Hello :)
Well.... String Theory is the very first lestappen fic i tried to write (back in 2021, set during the 2020 season) and I've got pages and pages of scenes written for it that regret never finishing. The story line is an 'enemies with benefits' type of thing and here's the very first scene/intro:
If you were to ask Max how it all started, that moment in time where it became inevitable that Max and Charles were to become Max and Charles, he wouldn't quite know what to say.
It wasn't the moment of the realization that nearly gave Max a concussion, nor that first kiss that neither of them holds in good memory.
A good case could be made for the year when Max first joined Red Bull, and fell madly, desperately, head over heels in love with Daniel. But Charles might actually kill him if he were to say that out loud.
Max doesn't even know how long it took them to get there. Maybe it was merely the span of a ten second countdown to midnight. Maybe it was the long and tortuous season they spent unraveling each other, or the longest winter break that followed.
Or maybe it had already been in the making for the whole decade that passed since they first crossed paths on a go-kart track.
Max doesn't believe in fate, he won't go as far as to say it was written in the stars, or something equally cheesy that Charles would certainly adore.
Every story must have a start, some place in their lives where a loose string of the universe was pulled to unravel the events that followed, with a cataclysmic force that neither of them could have foreseen.
But it wasn't a first glance, nor a kiss, nor the frightening moment when Max realized he was in love that ultimately brought them together.
It was something quite more inconspicuous, and so funnily, utterly them.
For an unlikely love story needs an equally unlikely beginning.
For the WIP ask game, do you mind sharing more about "greece" and "max is sorry" please 🙏 thank you !
Hi :) thank you!
I have answered about "greece" here.
"Max is sorry" was going to be an established relationship lestappen one-shot (set in 2022) that I had in mind for an exchange and then promptly discarded. In this one, Max is definitely sorry - about what? Well, I never fully figured that out, which is why I abandoned it. But he was trying very hard to make up for it. Here's a snippet (cw: cursing).
For someone whose job relies on analytical thinking just as much as it does on skill, Max is not too good at planning things.
It may be that his immediate instincts often take precedence over any shred of reason—and now that he thinks about it, maybe that’s exactly what makes him so good at his job—but his immediate instincts were also what got him into this mess in the first place, so he should’ve known better this time around.
But he doesn’t.
So when he looks through the window of the Alpha Tauri hospitality and catches a glimpse of Pierre sitting at one of the long tables in the cafeteria, he doesn’t hesitate to walk inside and sit down right in front of the Frenchman.
Pierre is slow to react, lifting his eyes from his phone screen and blinking at Max in slow motion with an impassive look on his face.
“Yes?” he drawls in his heavy, annoyed accent.
Max gulps down the lump in his throat.
“You know Charles,” he states. Which, he realizes, is a stupid thing to say, but there are no possible openings to this conversation that don’t sound stupid. He needs Pierre’s help in any case.
“Charles,” Pierre hums. “Hmm. Charles.” He turns to his teammate sitting next to him, drawing Max’s attention to the other occupant of the table for the first time. “Do we know a Charles, Yuki?”
Had Yuki always been sitting there?
This is why he should plan these things in advance.
“Ferrari guy,” Yuki mumbles through a mouthful of—is that porridge? At two in the afternoon?
“Ah, yes,” Pierre nods. “Charles, the Ferrari guy. Brown hair, terrible taste in men, my best friend since we were kids. I’ve heard of him.”
Max rolls his eyes, but bites the sarcastic remark off his tongue. He needs Pierre’s help, he reminds himself.
“Yes, that Charles,” he deadpans.
Pierre smiles in response, wide and saccharine which makes him look strangely terrifying.
“And how can my knowledge of Charles be of assistance to you on this fine day, Max?”
“I was wondering if you know what is Charles favourite type of...” he swallows audibly, “flowers?”
Pierre pauses for a moment, staring at Max with all-too-bright eyes and an unfaltering smile, and Max is definitely shitting his pants right now. But Pierre merely shrugs, turning to Yuki once again.
“Yuki, do we know what is Charles’ favourite type of flower?”
“You’re a cunt, Max,” Yuki replies matter-of-factly.
A little harsh, but maybe not entirely undeserved, so he lets it pass.
Pierre opens his hands in a gesture that every French-speaking person uses to say 'et voila’. It’s one Max is well familiar with. Which reminds him, he’s running out of time.
“Can we please focus on the subject here?” he begs.
“You’re a giant cunt,” Yuki adds. Jesus, what the fuck?
“Well, Max,” Pierre says in a calm voice, “from what I remember, Charles’ favourite type of flowers are the ones that come with a big ass apology.”
Well, that’s the whole point of this conversation, isn’t it?
“You’re a giant, toad-faced cun-”
“Okay, Yuki, I get it, Jesus!” he finally snaps. “How’s the therapy going?”
“It’s going well, thanks for asking,” Yuki grins, as if he wasn’t insulting Max just a second ago. “My therapist says I need to work on expressing my feelings better.”
“I’m glad to see that’s working for you,” he huffs.
This was a mistake. He should’ve just asked Charles’ PA. Or Carlos.
“Look, I know I screwed up,” Max says, desperate enough to admit it. “But I didn’t mean to, I just panicked, okay. And I am going to apologize but Charles, he- I don’t know if he wants to see me, and I need- I need your help, Pierre. Please.”
Pierre studies him, chewing on his bottom lip as piercing blue eyes burn holes on Max’s skin. He wants nothing more than to bolt out of the cafeteria, but he’s not making that mistake twice.
“Daffodils,” Pierre finally says.
“Excuse me?”
“Daffodils are his favourite flowers,” Pierre repeats. “You do know what daffodils are, right?”
“Sure,” Max lies.
“I don’t know what he sees in you,” Pierre says, which-ouch. But okay. Max’s ego has gotten used to all the blows by now. “But while your grovelling is quite entertaining, Charles’ moping is not and that is the only reason why I am helping you. So it better be the best apology the world has ever seen, or I swear to God, Max...”
“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” Max says, standing up and grabbing Pierre’s face to plant a kiss on his forehead. Pierre jerks back, aghast. “You will not regret this,” Max promises.
“Oh, I am pretty sure I will,” Pierre sighs. “Just make sure that Charles doesn’t.”
I'm curious about the Greece wip, is it a brocedes fic? Also you said it's abandonned fic but is there zero chance you'll continue them?
Aaaah no, the Greece fic is not brocedes (though it should be. what happened in Greece anyway?)
The Greece fic was Sebchal, and it was the first idea I had for a post-retirement Charles-centric fic. I ended up using that concept (and some recycled scenes) in Time and Again, and therefore the original one was abandoned. But this one was supposed to be set on a remote Greek island and follow Charles' journey post-retirement as he tries to find out where Seb has disappeared to when he retired, many years before. I imagined a lot of original characters for this one and wrote quite a few scenes, like this one:
The first words Charles understands come in the croaking voice of a little girl. She must not be older than seven, with dark hair pulled into messy braids, olive skin, and an open smile with gapped teeth. She runs up the dirt road in his wake, deceptively fast on bare feet, calling after him, “Monsieur! MONSIEUR!”
Charles stops in his tracks, stunned. The girl smiles as she stops in front of him, bowing her head and giving a little curtsy.
“For you,” she says, this time in scratchy English, offering him a white piece of cloth.
At first glance, Charles thinks it’s a handkerchief, but when he picks it up, he sees that it’s larger, like a napkin or, perhaps, a tea towel. The thick linen fabric is embroidered with blue and green stitching that makes a rough sketch of the map of the island. Below it, the misspelled cross-stitch word makes Charles smile.
Sousvenir.
“Thank you. It is very pretty.” he tells the girl. “What is your name?”
The girl grins wider, pleased with the compliment, showing the milk tooth gaps in her smile.
“I am Maria,” she says, holding out her open hand. Charles thinks she might want him to shake her hand, but then her eyes sparkle with business-like determination. “Five euros.”
Charles freezes, caught off guard, and a surprised chuckle bursts through his chest. He laughs, and the girl laughs too, and then she insists in her childish voice—
“One for five euros. Three for ten.”
“Oh. Okay,” Charles says, still laughing. He fishes his wallet from the back pocket of his jeans and hands her a twenty. Her eyes light up with mirth.
“Thank you. I will bring you the rest or your order, monsieur,”
Charles is quick to wave her. “Oh-no. There is no need for that. Keep it. It’s fine."
The girl frowns, staring at the crumpled twenty-euro bill in her hand, then looks back at him and shakes her head, proud and resolute.
“Six for twenty. Paid in advance by the Monsieur.” She curtsies once more, and then runs off, disappearing down the path as quickly as she came.
I actually shared a snippet from it before. It was, of course, going to be Charles/Seb/Jenson, and it was, of course, going to be mostly smut which I never got around to write. So here's another part that I did write:
“So, does anyone want dessert?”
If Sebastian had to explain how he has ended up here—sitting between Charles and Jenson at Charles' sleek round dining table, like some pathetic modern-day version of Arthur, Lancelot, and, well, Percival—he probably wouldn’t know what to say.
It is, of course, all Charles’ doing, he’s sure of that. Mostly.
No one would believe it though, judging by Charles’ angelic expression as he embodies the perfect host, refilling their wine glasses and offering them dessert. He'd looked thoroughly pleased as Jenson gulped down the meal he'd prepared with meticulous care, not sparing compliments. Sebastian had barely touched the main course.
Jenson drains the last of his wine in one swift motion, peering at Sebastian over the rim of his glass.
“What’s for dessert?” he asks, not even attempting to suppress the twitch of his lips. After all these years, that smirk still makes Sebastian’s stomach tighten in anticipation.
Charles takes matters into his own hands, determined and overconfident. He grabs Sebastian’s hand, holds it over the table, as if he's wrapping them together in a pretty little bow.
“Us.”
Ann, sweet Ann! Can I have your top, your number 1, please!
Or if someone has already asked for 1 then can you pretty please do 5 for our voice-of-reason Sebby?! ❤️🥰
So the thing about my number 1 is that it's just a song in my native tongue that I play on repeat for my kid to fall asleep. Funnily enough this song references an old F1 street circuit in my hometown (but I digress).
Just for you, here are 200 words of karting days Charles Leclerc/Max Verstappen inspired by it 🥰:
1. Anda Comigo Ver Os Aviões - Os Azeitonas/Miguel Araújo
It is an irrefutable truth, an inevitability of chance sealed by the fate that brought them to the same tracks, the same corners, the same racing lines—
Max Verstappen does not like Charles Leclerc.
He does not like his stupid hair, he does not like the way his accent sounds, so soft around his words, and he does not like the way Charles drives his kart as if he has nothing to lose, as if he can’t lose, and that Max must either yield (never.) or crash (often.) or—worse, much worse—that he must share with Charles the spoils of glory—not through will or lack of talent, but simply because, as destiny wills, they must.
He does not like the way Charles smiles at him and hands him a box of cookies—home-made, carefully wrapped in tin-foil—‘I know you are hungry.’—smelling heavenly, tasting heavenly—‘Maman made them.’
He does not like how they sit so comfortably in the dewy grass that lines the karting track, and how Charles’ laughter carries in the wind and melts away in the rev of the engines.
‘Do you think you will make it, one day?’ Charles asks, and Max hates that he does not sound taunting, not even a little bit, not when the softness of his voice shines so hopeful in his eyes. ‘Do you think you’ll ever race in Formula One?’
‘We both will,’ Max replies, brushing cookie crumbs from the folds of his jeans.
Max Verstappen does not like Charles Leclerc, but he will make sure of that.
He wouldn’t have it any other way.
send me a number i’ll write a fic based on that song in my spotify wrapped
so here is some Charles Leclerc/Ferrari nonsense (if you really want it to be):
The rosso corsa that once glazed the shiny hopes of men now wanes on the battlefield, bleeding across the face of the earth, from the scorched hills of Tarraconensis to the Pannonian plains, drying into stale rust.
The battle is lost, yet the commander spears on, his black stallion galloping down the smoking hill, spurred on by the chants of the ancient Gods who once ruled the land.
Can you keep this pace? Mercury’s voice echoes in the thunder that shakes the sky, drumming into the beat of the commander’s heart. Question?
There is no way to go but down, to the piles of the commanders’ corpses that lie down hopeless in the crumbling ruins of the empire. There is no way to go but to follow to where their dreams lie shattered, still draped in the tattered scarlet of the imperial banners. There is no way to go but down, yet the commander never yields.
The will of the Gods cannot be questioned.
send me a number i’ll write a fic based on that song in my spotify wrapped
A million years late but I was tagged by the lovelies @antimonyandthyme @saintlysebchal @lemonsgovroom @jjustcallmejuliett and @astronomical-light Thank you all <3
Rules: Post the last line you wrote in your wip, then tag as many people as there are words.
(from my plot-less introspective!dan maxiel wip, which is not really a wip because it will likely never see the light of day)
And isn’t it the cruellest form of self-flattery, to stay on the sidelines, thinking—knowing—if I were still there, I could’ve ruined it for us both?
I have no idea who hasn’t done this already sooo i think i’m gonna cop out with a consider yourselves tagged <3
