Who Would Win In A Fight For Charles Love Max Verstappen Or Franz Hermann

i have an unhealthy obsession with your works. in past days i’ve read almost all of them, some more than once, i keep sending favourite quotes to my bestie, i can’t be contained. crack is very much not my cup of tea but i eat up all of your writing like am starving.

yeah, so anyway, love your work, keep going

mate you have no idea how happy i am to hear that. thank you so so so much for reading❤️❤️❤️❤️

hm fun.

the problem with reading and writing leading to a strong vocabulary is that you tend to know the vibe of words instead of their meanings.

if I used this word in a sentence, would it make sense? absolutely. if you asked me what it meant, could I tell you? absolutely not.

daily affirmations: my whimsy will persevere my whimsy will persevere my whimsy will persevere my whimsy. my whimsy please my whimsy PLEASE NO MY WHIMSY (my whimsy is dragged away by the education system) NOOOOOOO

carlos: i heard you were talking shit about me.

oscar: yeah did you wanna hear it again or did you get everything?

lando: oscar—

Shout out to "i wanna socialize with my Internet friends but I don't have anything to talk about", gotta be one of my least favorite predicaments

lowkey will adjust to that reality if we ever get to hear "charles leclerc wins his first world championship" tbh.

devastating thought. last year could be the only time we ever hear the words "charles leclerc wins the monaco grand prix." anyways i'm doing well.

STOP THINKING THERE IS A DEADLINE. THERE IS NO DEADLINE. TAKE A DEEP BREATH AND TAKE YOUR TIME.

girls say “i like f1” and men appear from the walls like NAME EVERY WORLD CHAMPION BACKWARDS WHILE EATING A PIRELLI TYRE me? i say “i like f1” and the wind answers. a tumbleweed rolls by. a cat coughs. i am alone. quiz me coward. i’m foaming at the mouth. ask me what drs stands for i DARE you.

dont mind me im just bitter that i’ve never had that experience because the f1 fan population in my area is just me, a dying ferrari hat i found in a thrift store, and a confused puppy who once looked at a red bull livery on tv for too long.

grammar this. grammar that. sometimes 'grammatically correct' just doesn't hit the spot. the vibes are telling me to laugh in the face of the english language and that's exactly what I'm going to do, one incorrectly structured sentence at a time.

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.