IEatDeodorant
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Summary
"We have the halo system. It was a turning point for reducing head and neck injuries."
What a fitting name, Max thought, as he envisioned a glowing ring above Charles's head.
OR Max is a MotoGP rider, and Charles is a Formula 1 driver. They fall in love.
*Revised and edited
Bookmarked by IEatDeodorant
10 Jun 2026
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At 25, Max Verstappen is the youngest head chef that Michelin star restauranteur Christian Horner has ever trusted in the position. Max is focused, dialled in, and eager to get Christian a fifth star, his first. Enter Charles Leclerc, the son of famed Monaco food critic and writer, Pascale Leclerc, a part-time server and architecture student.
He's just... fucking annoying.
**title change, this used to be 'i wanna get better!'.
Series
- Part 1 of grapefruit mignonette
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There’s someone standing in his kitchen.
He looks young, maybe close to Max’s age, with messy dark brown hair that’s pulled back from his face by a red bandana, and he’s leaning against the kitchen counter like he’s supposed to be here.
Max’s first rather unhelpful thought is; fuck, he’s gorgeous. His second, more reasonable thought is;
“Who the fuck are you?”
“Charles Leclerc,” the man smiles. It's a little bit dazzling and Max is not at all distracted by it. He extends his hand for Max to shake. “I’m your new executive sous chef.”
Or: Max is very happy with his life, thank you very much. He has his restaurant, his team, and two Michelin stars at the age of 24. He definitely does not need some pretentious Monegasque chef coming in and throwing everything into chaos.
Except, maybe he does.
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Jackson Storm may be a cocky, arrogant, next-generation racer, but no one can deny he has skill. So why is Cruz Ramirez of all people passing him on the track in her bright yellow race car, with Lightning McQueen’s racing number painted on it. It takes Storm a minute to comprehend the fact that Lightning has given up his racing number, and now plans to quit racing. That does not sit well with him, not at all. Storm doesn’t know what he’s going to do next, all he knows is that he’s worked too hard and for too long to let Lightning quit that easily.
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In his bones, the ache of loneliness has set in. Worse than that, the seatbelt digs into his ribs and one of his arms is twisted uncomfortably. Broken, maybe. The ship has realigned, and he can hear the dinging warning of oxygen leaks and damage, flashing red lights, but he lets his head drop to his chest. He closes his eyes.
Tommy is alone.
Floating in the middle of space as his water supply runs out is the last place that Tommy wants to be, but he's resigned to the fact that it might be his fate. That is, until a ship finally picks up on his transmissions...