please share — alexandra saint mleux
smau + written blurbs
alexandra saint mleux x !verstappen wife reader
slight max x reader as well
you didn’t mean for the glass of rosé at brunch to turn into three, and you definitely didn’t mean for brunch to last until qualifying was nearly over. but alexandra was laughing with you, clinking glasses, and leaning against your shoulder like you were lifelong best friends, and you couldn’t bring yourself to care. by the time max and charles find you both, cheeks flushed and giggles spilling out without restraint, you’re tangled up together in a booth like you’ve sworn an oath never to be parted. you can see the way max’s lips twitch into a smile, the way charles shakes his head with fond disbelief. it’s clear from the start: the rest of the day won’t be spent apart, no matter what.
requested? yes!
original request here.
fc : saradeanii on ig
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ynverstappen
liked by alexandrasaintmleux, lilymhe, maxverstappen1 and 3,400,000 others.
ynverstappen : quali days are for leo and nino play dates, alex and i having way too many cocktails and my hubby on pole (as always) 💋💕
tagged : alexandrasaintmleux & maxverstappen1
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maxverstappen1 : luckiest man in the world, with or without pole.
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↳ ynverstappen : maxxxxieee stoppp😭😭
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↳ maxverstappen1 : no seriously, you in that dress? i almost missed quali.
liked by ynverstappen
↳ ynverstappen : priorities, mr. world champion.
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↳ maxverstappen1 : exactly, mrs verstappen. you come first. always 🤍
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↳ lando : you two make me SICKKKKK
liked ynverstappen and maxverstappen1
↳ ynverstappen : less focus on us — more focus on the race and maybe you’d be the winner bub💋
liked by lando and maxverstappen1
charles_leclerc : i see brunch went very very well for you two…🤣
liked by ynverstappen and alexandrasaintmleux
↳ ynverstappen : define well…
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↳ alexandrasaintmleux : we only got lost once charlie!!!!
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↳ charles_leclerc : you literally texted me “where am i” during quali amor…
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alexandrasaintmleux : still recovering from the cocktails and the cuddles 🩷 love you more and more everyday
liked by ynverstappen
↳ ynverstappen: my partner in everything 😭💕
liked by alexandrasaintmleux
↳ alexandrasaintmleux : including bad decisions and espresso martinis
liked by charles_leclerc, maxverstappen1 and ynverstappen
danielricciardo: why do i never get invited to these elite brunches
liked by ynverstappen and maxverstappen1
↳ ynverstappen: because you turn brunch into an afterparty 😭
liked by maxverstappen1 and danielricciardo
↳ danielricciardo: and? sounds like a good time to me
liked by maxverstappen1 and ynverstappen
lando : “hubby on pole (as always)” you’re never letting us breathe huh 💔
liked by ynverstappen and maxverstappen1
↳ ynverstappen: just facts, lando 🤭
liked by maxverstappen1
↳ maxverstappen1: i like her confidence. she’s right.
liked by ynverstappen and lando
↳ oscarpiastri: god help us all.
liked by lando, maxverstappen1 and ynverstappen
lilymhe : my girls 🤤 you both are so beautiful
liked by alexandrasaintmleux and ynverstappen
↳ ynverstappen : we love you sm!!!!!!!
gerihalliwell : you and max are glowing 🩷 happiest couple in the paddock
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↳ ynverstappen : thank u geri😭🩵 we miss you so much
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victoriaverstappen : the most gorgeous girls 🥰
liked by alexandrasaintmleux and ynverstappen
↳ ynverstappen : my sister 🥹 love you forever
username00 : yn and alex are the paddock’s it girls and there’s no debate
username77 : max being soft in the comments?? she’s his entire world 🥹
username001 : yn!!!! my baby!!!! dress link please???
liked by ynverstappen
↳ ynverstappen : @/meshki babes!!!
↳ username778 : ugh she’s such a girls girl
username067 : yn and alex being besties >>> everything else
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It’s quiet when you wake up — too quiet for a race morning. The curtains are half drawn, letting in a soft, golden light that glows against the white sheets and the pale blue of the hotel walls. Max is still asleep beside you, one arm slung across your waist, his hand resting against your stomach.
For a while, you just watch him. His hair is disheveled, his jaw slightly shadowed, and there’s a faint crease on his cheek from the pillow. He looks peaceful — younger, even — like the noise of the world hasn’t found him yet. You trace your fingers along his arm, slow and gentle, until he stirs with a quiet sound, eyes fluttering open.
“You’re staring,” he murmurs, voice low and rough from sleep, Dutch accent heavier than usual.
“Can you blame me?” you whisper, smiling softly. “My husband’s kind of hot when he’s not talking about tire degradation.”
That earns you a quiet laugh, the kind that rumbles in his chest before it escapes his lips. He pulls you closer until your leg is hooked over his hip and your face is buried in his neck. He smells faintly like the hotel sheets — warm and familiar, a scent that feels like home.
“Careful,” he mutters, pressing a lazy kiss to your hair. “You keep saying things like that and I might skip the entire race.”
You laugh, the sound muffled against his skin. “You’d never.”
“I might,” he says, pretending to think. “If it meant staying here with you all day.”
You tilt your head back just enough to meet his eyes — bright and still a little sleepy, but full of that look he only gives you. The one that says he’s never really stopped being in love with you, even after all the races, the podiums, the chaos.
“You’ll win anyway,” you tease, tracing your fingers along his jaw. “You always do.”
His hand finds your chin, thumb brushing your lips before he kisses you — slow, soft, like he’s trying to commit the moment to memory. When he pulls away, he rests his forehead against yours.
“Maybe,” he whispers, “but the win is even sweeter when I get to come back to you.”
You smile, heart full in that quiet, private way only mornings with him seem to allow. For a few more minutes, you stay wrapped up together in the sheets and sunlight, pretending the world outside doesn’t exist — just Max and you, the calm before the roar of the engines.
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The drive to the circuit is filled with that quiet kind of anticipation — the kind you can feel humming in the air even through the tinted car windows. Max’s hand stays on your thigh the entire ride, his thumb tracing absent circles against your skin while the low rumble of the car engine fills the silence. You can see the focus starting to settle into him, that shift from husband to driver — sharp, precise, and composed. But when he glances your way and catches you smiling, he softens all over again.
By the time you pull up to the paddock gates, the world outside has fully come alive. The usual crowd of photographers is gathered near the entrance, the sound of camera shutters echoing faintly as Max helps you out of the car first. He looks effortlessly composed — navy polo, team cap, and that easy half smile that still manages to make headlines. You adjust your denim dress and your Chanel helmet purse, slipping your hand into his as you both walk toward the energy of the grid.
It doesn’t take long before you hear it — a burst of laughter and a familiar call of, “YN!”
You barely have time to turn before you’re ambushed by the rookies — your unofficial “grid children.” Ollie Bearman, grinning like sunshine; Isack Hadjar, wearing that mischievous smirk that never quite fades; Kimi Antonelli, a mix of nerves and excitement buzzing off him in waves; and Gabriel Bortoleto, calm but glowing with pre quali energy. They’re all dressed in their team gear, radiating that chaotic joy only young drivers can manage.
“Look at my boys,” you laugh, immediately reaching out to hug Kimi first, his curls brushing against your cheek. “Are we ready to cause some chaos today?”
“Always,” Isack answers with mock seriousness, hands shoved in his pockets. “I’m going to beat everyone into Turn 1.”
Max laughs behind you, shaking his head. “That’s what they all say before the lights go out.”
“Don’t listen to him,” you tell Isack, turning to cup his face dramatically before kissing his cheek. “Manifest, baby. I’m rooting for you.”
He grins, already pink from the attention. “You always say that, but you’re married to the guy I’m trying to beat.”
“Conflict of interest,” you reply, shrugging playfully. “What can I say? I multitask.”
Ollie swoops in next, all dimples and nervous excitement. “Do I get my good luck too?”
You don’t hesitate — you grab him lightly and kiss his cheek, the same way you have since his first test day. “You get extra,” you tease, smoothing his hair affectionately. “For being my favorite.”
“Hey!” Gabriel protests with mock offense, laughing. “What about me?”
You turn to him, pretending to consider it. “Hmm… you did bring me coffee that one time, so fine.” You kiss his cheek too, earning another round of laughter.
Kimi waits patiently at the edge of the small chaos, hands tucked behind his back, the faintest smile on his face. You’ve always had a soft spot for him — the quiet one, the one who still looks to Max like he hung the stars.
When you finally reach him, you soften your tone. “You ready, cariño?” you ask, brushing a bit of hair away from his face.
He nods, eyes bright. “More than ever.”
You press a kiss to his cheek, gentle and sincere. “Good luck my boy,” you whisper. “Go show them what you’re made of.”
Max stands nearby, watching the entire exchange with that fond, quiet pride he never quite hides when it comes to you. “You spoil them,” he says as you walk back to him, amusement dancing in his voice.
“They’re babies,” you protest, looping your arm through his. “You were the same at their age.”
He hums, a smile tugging at his lips. “Maybe. But I didn’t get a kiss before every race.”
You grin up at him, eyes glinting. “Well, that’s because you didn’t have me yet.”
That earns you a low laugh, one that makes your heart flutter no matter how many times you’ve heard it. He leans down to kiss the corner of your mouth — soft, fleeting, but enough to send a few camera flashes your way.
“You’re trouble,” he murmurs.
“You married trouble,” you shoot back, smirking as you glance toward where the other WAGs are gathering by the hospitality area — Alexandra, Lily, Carmen, and a few others, champagne glasses already in hand.
You squeeze Max’s hand once more before pulling away. “Go win your race, champ. I’ve got cocktails to share.”
He catches your wrist, bringing your knuckles to his lips. “Don’t get too crazy.”
“No promises,” you tease, winking before walking off toward the laughter and clinking glasses of your friends — the perfect pre qualifying chaos swirling around you, the paddock practically buzzing with energy and affection.
And as you disappear into the crowd, Max just shakes his head, that fond little smile still lingering — because somehow, no matter how intense the weekend gets, you always manage to make the paddock feel like home.
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You find Alexandra exactly where you expect her to be — tucked away in a corner booth of the Ferrari hospitality suite, her sunglasses perched on her head and a glossy magazine open in front of her that she clearly hasn’t turned a page of in twenty minutes. The room hums with the easy noise of race day: journalists drifting by, team members in polos and headsets walking briskly, the faint chatter from a nearby TV broadcasting pre-qualifying coverage.
When she spots you, her whole face lights up. “There you are!” she says, pushing the magazine aside and reaching out both hands like you’ve been gone for years instead of a day. “I thought Max kidnapped you again.”
You laugh, dropping your purse onto the booth seat and sliding in beside her. “He tried,” you tease, flagging down one of the servers with a smile. “But I told him I had a very important date with my favorite goddess and espresso martinis.”
Alexandra grins, pleased. “Flattery and alcohol — my two love languages.”
“Speaking of,” you say, tilting your head toward the server, “can we get two espresso martinis, please?”
The moment the drinks arrive — rich, foamy, and garnished with three perfectly placed coffee beans — it’s like the energy around you shifts. The two of you clink glasses gently, the sound soft but satisfying, and take that first sip together. The espresso hits strong, the sweetness lingering, and you both hum in appreciation at the same time.
“Oh, that’s dangerous,” Alexandra says, laughing softly. “I could have five of these.”
“Let’s not test that theory before qualifying,” you say, leaning back against the booth. “I want to stay sober enough to cheer and not start heckling the FIA.”
“Bold of you to assume you won’t anyway,” she says, and the two of you dissolve into giggles.
From there, the conversation drifts the way it always does — effortlessly. You talk about everything and nothing all at once: how hectic travel has been lately, which hotels have the best room service, what kind of pasta Charles tried to make last week (“He burned everything,” she deadpans), and how Max nearly fell asleep during a full strategy meeting (“He said the tire graph was soothing,” you reply).
Somewhere between your second sip and your third laugh, you realize just how easy it’s become with her — how what started as two women orbiting the same sport has quietly turned into something real, something warm. You reach across the table, tugging gently on her hand. “You know, I’m really glad we got close,” you admit.
Her expression softens immediately. “Me too,” she says. “It’s so nice having someone who actually gets it, you know? The travel, the schedule, the noise… it can be a lot.”
You nod, swirling the last bit of foam in your glass. “It’s like living in fast forward. But then you get mornings like this. And friends like you.”
She beams, squeezing your hand back. “Okay, now you’re going to make me emotional before quali, and then Charles is going to think something’s wrong.”
“Tell him it’s the martinis,” you joke, but your smile lingers a moment longer than you mean it to.
You settle deeper into the booth, legs crossed, watching as a few familiar faces walk past — engineers, media staff, a few other WAGs stopping to wave or whisper greetings. The whole place feels alive, pulsing with that mix of nerves and adrenaline that only happens on qualifying days.
“So,” Alexandra says suddenly, glancing at you with a mischievous glint in her eye. “On a scale from one to ‘Max Verstappen in a sprint race,’ how competitive are you feeling about the cocktail situation today?”
You raise an eyebrow. “Define ‘competitive.’”
“I bet I can drink mine faster than you,” she challenges, lifting her martini and holding it midair like she’s making a toast.
“Oh, you’re on,” you say, grinning as you grab your glass.
The count-off is dramatic and childish and perfect — “Three, two, one—” — and you both take long sips, trying not to laugh as the strong coffee flavor burns just slightly on the way down. She finishes half a second before you and slams her glass down triumphantly.
“Ha!” she crows, eyes gleaming. “Still got it!”
You shake your head, wiping the corner of your mouth with a napkin. “That’s fine. I’ll win the rematch.“
She laughs so hard she nearly snorts, drawing a few curious looks from nearby guests, but neither of you care. You’re two glasses deep, cheeks warm from laughter, and the noise of the paddock feels miles away.
Eventually, Alexandra leans her head against your shoulder, sighing contentedly. “You know,” she murmurs, “I think we’ve officially become those girls — day drinking and gossiping before qualifying.”
You tilt your head against hers, smiling. “Good. Someone has to keep the glamour alive.”
She hums in agreement. “And the espresso martini industry.”
When the announcement for the start of qualifying echoes faintly through the hospitality speakers, neither of you move right away. You just sit there for a moment — two girls in heels and laughter and a little too much caffeine — savoring the calm before the chaos of roaring engines and checkered flags.
And as you finally get up, Alexandra loops her arm through yours, your matching grins enough to make a few photographers pause. You can already tell: it’s going to be one of those days — the ones that end in champagne, blurry selfies, and maybe a little too much love to fit into one frame.
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The sound of engines below shakes the air as you and Alexandra step out onto the upper deck, the warm wind carrying the deep, rhythmic growl of qualifying laps in progress. The afternoon light has softened to a golden haze, glinting off the glass of the hospitality building and the champagne flutes waiting for you both on the table by the railing.
From up here, the paddock looks like organized chaos — mechanics rushing, tires stacked in perfect rows, the flash of team colors streaking by on the track. It’s electric, alive, and yet somehow, in this small pocket of calm, it’s just the two of you — heels clicking against the floor, laughter floating between the noise.
Alexandra tucks herself close to your side almost immediately, looping her arm through yours with an ease that feels second nature now. She leans her head on your shoulder, her hair brushing against your cheek as she sighs, smiling softly. “You know,” she says, voice nearly drowned out by the engines, “I don’t think I’ve ever liked qualifying this much.”
You laugh, lifting one of the champagne flutes and handing it to her. “It’s because you’ve got me,” you tease.
She grins, clinking her glass gently against yours. “Obviously.”
You both take slow sips, bubbles tickling your lips, the cool sweetness of the drink a perfect contrast to the humid air. When you glance over, she’s already watching the track, eyes wide behind her sunglasses. Every time Charles’ name flashes on the big screen, her fingers tighten around your arm unconsciously, like she’s trying to will the car faster. It’s adorable.
“You get so nervous for him,” you say softly, smiling.
She exhales, nodding without looking away. “I do. Every single time. It doesn’t matter how many races he’s done. I still hold my breath when he’s on a flying lap.”
You rest your head against hers, swaying a little. “That’s love, babe.”
She turns her face toward you, smiling. “What about you? Still get nervous for Max?”
“Always,” you admit, tracing the rim of your champagne flute with your fingertip. “But it’s different now. I trust him completely — he’s just… him, you know? Calm. In control. I get butterflies watching him, but not the bad kind.”
She hums thoughtfully, pressing her cheek to your shoulder. “You two are disgustingly in love.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” you laugh.
“I say that like I want it,” she says playfully, eyes shining.
That makes you both giggle, and you shift closer to her, wrapping an arm around her waist. It’s instinctive now — the way she leans into your touch, the way you absentmindedly fix the strap of her dress when it slips down her shoulder, the way she rests her hand on your thigh while she talks. It’s all so natural, so warm, so deeply affectionate it doesn’t even feel unusual anymore.
At one point, she points at the track, excited. “Look! Charles just went P4!”
You cheer right alongside her, clapping your hands and laughing as she jumps up a little. “Go, baby!” she calls out, cupping her hands around her mouth like he could somehow hear her over the roar of the engines. Then she sinks back into the seat beside you, cheeks flushed and eyes bright.
“You’re adorable,” you say, tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear.
“I’m emotionally unstable,” she corrects with a laugh. “But thank you.”
You both dissolve into laughter again, your champagne glasses clinking as the sunlight catches in the bubbles. From a distance, the two of you probably look like a picture — glossy hair, chic dresses, perfectly done nails, sipping champagne as if the world isn’t shaking beneath you. But up close, it’s a different kind of beautiful: unfiltered, messy affection, hands brushing, fingers tangled, shared smiles that come too easily.
At one point, Alexandra pulls out her phone to take a selfie. “Smile!” she says, and before you can pose properly, she leans in and kisses your cheek. You squeal, laughing, the picture coming out blurry and perfect — your wide smile, her eyes half-closed with happiness, sunlight flaring between you.
“That’s going on my story,” she announces proudly.
“Tag me,” you say, giggling as she does exactly that, adding sparkly heart emojis before hitting post.
You both sit there for a long while after, just sipping and chatting. You talk about where you want to travel next, about maybe doing a girls’ trip during the summer break.
The longer you talk, the closer you end up — your legs draped over hers, her head tucked under your chin, the two of you swaying gently to the faint hum of the crowd below. Every so often, she tilts her glass toward yours in another lazy toast: to love, to friendship, to chaos, until both of your flutes are empty.
When Max’s name flashes to P1 on the screen, your whole face lights up instinctively, pride radiating from you like sunlight. Alexandra cheers with you, clutching your hand. “There it is!” she exclaims. “The Verstappen special!”
You’re grinning so hard your cheeks hurt. “He’s ridiculous.”
“And brilliant,” she adds, nudging you gently.
The two of you stay there until the end of the session — hair tousled from the wind, champagne glasses empty, the sun dipping lower as qualifying wraps up. When the engines quiet and the cheers erupt from the grandstands, Alexandra takes your hand again, twining your fingers.
“Promise me,” she says softly, “we keep doing this. The brunches, the drinks, the cheering. All of it.”
You squeeze her hand back. “Always.”
And as the teams start preparing for the interviews below, you and Alexandra linger on the deck — still wrapped up in each other, still laughing softly, still glowing in that champagne haze that only ever happens on race weekends. From the track to the hospitality deck, the world is spinning fast — but for the two of you, it’s slowed just enough to savor it all.
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alexandrasaintmleux has added to her story!
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ynverstappen : wifey for lifeeee 🤍
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When qualifying wraps up, the paddock dissolves into its usual blur of noise and motion — mechanics wheeling equipment, cameras flashing, engines cooling under the weight of adrenaline and relief. You and Alexandra, however, are still on the upper deck, entirely oblivious to the chaos below.
You’re curled up together on one of the lounge sofas, both of you barefoot now (heels long abandoned), the remains of your second glasses of champagne catching the evening light on the table beside you. Alexandra’s head rests on your shoulder, and your arm is looped lazily around her waist, your fingers tracing idle shapes against the silk fabric of her dress. You’ve been laughing about something stupid — something about Charles accidentally putting diesel in a rental once — and neither of you can seem to stop.
“She told me I was the responsible one,” Alexandra gasps between giggles, clutching your hand dramatically.
“You were,” you wheeze, tears threatening to spill down your cheeks.
Before she can reply, a familiar low voice cuts through the air from behind you. “So this is where you two disappeared to.”
You turn around, startled and then instantly softening at the sight of Max standing a few feet away — in fresh Red Bull gear, hair messy from his shower, and that faint glow he always has. Charles stands next to him, equally amused, arms crossed, a knowing smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
Alexandra perks up immediately. “Baby!” she calls, stretching her arms toward Charles like she’s been waiting for him her whole life.
He laughs, shaking his head as he approaches. “How many drinks have you had, mon cœur?”
“Not enough to forget that you qualified P4,” she teases, sitting up a little straighter, though she’s still holding tightly to your arm.
Max walks over to you, one eyebrow raised as he looks at the two of you nestled together. “You look very cozy, liefje.”
You grin up at him, cheeks pink from the champagne and sun. “We’re celebrating,” you declare proudly. “P1 and P4! That’s teamwork.”
He hums, eyes soft with amusement. “Uh-huh. Looks like you’ve been celebrating for a while.”
“Just a little,” you say, holding up your fingers to indicate a small amount. Alexandra giggles beside you, clearly unhelpful to your defense.
Charles glances at the two of you, shaking his head in fond disbelief. “You’re adorable, but I don’t think you’re moving anytime soon.”
“Nope,” Alexandra says, popping the ‘p’ dramatically. “We’re comfortable.”
“Too comfortable,” Max mutters, though there’s no real irritation behind it — only that low, indulgent tone he always uses when you’re in one of your playful moods.
He crouches beside you, resting his forearms on his knees. “Come on, sweetheart. Let’s get some food in you before you start lecturing the stewards.”
“I would never,” you say, feigning offense, though your grin gives you away.
“Uh-huh,” he replies, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “Dinner?”
You glance at Alexandra, who immediately pouts. “I’m not leaving her,” she declares dramatically, looping her arm through yours even tighter.
“I’m not leaving her,” you echo, resting your head against hers again.
Charles sighs, though he’s smiling the entire time. “I see how it is. You two come as a set now.”
“Exactly,” Alexandra says proudly. “Buy one, get one free.”
Max straightens up, looking at Charles. “We might as well take both of them before they end up convincing security to let them on the podium.”
“Good idea,” Charles agrees. “But they’re sharing a booth, or I won’t hear the end of it.”
You and Alexandra exchange a look — the kind of wordless, tipsy telepathy that comes only from day drinking and laughter — and you both burst out laughing again.
Ten minutes later, the four of you are walking through the paddock, sunglasses on, still clinging to each other. Max keeps one steadying hand at your lower back, while Charles does the same for Alexandra, though both men look far too amused to be annoyed.
“Do you think they realize everyone’s staring?” Charles murmurs.
Max chuckles quietly. “They don’t care. And honestly… it’s kind of cute.”
When you finally make it to a quiet restaurant just outside the circuit gates, the hostess barely conceals her recognition of the group — four of the most photographed people in Formula 1, strolling in like it’s nothing. The staff moves quickly, leading you to a private booth near the back.
You and Alexandra slide in on one side, immediately leaning into each other again, giggling as you pull your phones out to show each other the blurry photos from earlier. Max and Charles sit across from you, exchanging glances that say, we’re definitely driving them home.
The waiter comes by with menus, but Alexandra waves a hand. “Four pastas and champagne,” she says decisively. “We’re celebrating!”
Max smirks. “You don’t even know what kind of pasta they have.”
“Doesn’t matter,” she replies, lifting her chin proudly. “It’s about the vibe.”
You reach for his hand across the table, your fingers brushing his knuckles. “Just let her win, babe,” you whisper conspiratorially.
He smiles, squeezing your hand. “Anything for you.”
Dinner is loud, messy, and full of laughter. Alexandra feeds Charles a bite of her pasta with too much enthusiasm and nearly drops it, while you end up stealing bites from Max’s plate, insisting yours “tastes weird” even though it doesn’t. The two men keep exchanging looks — the kind that say we’ve lost control but it’s adorable, so it’s fine.
At some point, you and Alexandra start whispering about something that makes you both giggle uncontrollably, and when Max asks what’s so funny, you both just shake your heads in unison.
“Secrets,” Alexandra says, eyes sparkling.
“Wife secrets,” you add, bumping her shoulder.
By the time dessert arrives, you’re all more relaxed than you’ve been in weeks. The night feels warm and slow, laughter echoing softly against the restaurant walls. When you finally pile into the car afterward — all four of you squeezed into the backseat because neither you nor Alexandra would agree to be separated — Max just wraps an arm around you, pulling you closer as your head drifts to his shoulder.
“Did you have fun, liefje?” he murmurs, brushing his thumb over your hand.
“The best,” you mumble sleepily, Alexandra’s head resting on your other shoulder. “You boys are the best.”
Charles glances at Max in the rearview mirror, smiling. “They’re going to fall asleep like that, aren’t they?”
Max chuckles softly. “Probably. But look at them — how could you move them?”
And as the car hums quietly back toward the hotel, the city lights flickering through the windows, you and Alexandra stay tangled together — champagne-drunk, content, and completely wrapped in the affection of the two men who adore you both more than anything.
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The elevator hums softly as the four of you ascend to the top floor, the golden light from the hotel lobby giving way to the quieter, more intimate glow of the suite levels. It’s late — the kind of late where the laughter has turned slow and sleepy, where everyone’s eyes are soft from champagne and comfort.
You’re leaning against Max’s side, your arm around his waist, your heels dangling from his hand. Alexandra is doing the same with Charles, her head resting against his shoulder, still half giggling about something you said five minutes ago that neither of you can now remember.
When the doors open, Max slides the key card and pushes open the door to your suite — and immediately, Alexandra gasps.
“Oh my god, this is huge!” she exclaims, stepping in barefoot onto the plush cream carpet. The suite stretches out before you — a living space with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the glittering skyline, a bar in the corner, a long sofa facing a fireplace, and the massive king sized bed visible through the open bedroom doorway.
Max sets your shoes down with a clatter and you twirl once dramatically, your denim dress catching the dim light. “Told you Max doesn’t do anything small,” you tease, looking over your shoulder at him.
Max just shakes his head, smiling in that quiet, indulgent way he always does when you’re happy. “You could’ve stayed with Charles and Alexandra,” he says, voice warm with amusement. “But you wanted the view.”
“Of course,” you reply innocently, walking over to the window. “The view’s my favorite part.”
Behind you, Alexandra giggles and curls up onto the floor cushions by the coffee table. “The floor’s so soft,” she murmurs, sinking down fully, cross-legged, as Charles watches her fondly.
You join her without hesitation, sitting down beside her and kicking off what’s left of your composure — your makeup slightly smudged, your hair undone from the humidity, but you’re glowing. The two of you start whispering again, laughing softly, shoulders pressed together, your heads nearly touching as you scroll through the photos from the day.
“Look, that’s Leo hiding under the table,” Alexandra points out, zooming in on the photo.
“And that one,” you say, scrolling, “that’s when you tried to take a shot at lunch.”
“I was taste testing!” she protests through her laughter.
Max and Charles exchange a look from across the room — the kind that says they’re not moving for hours, are they?
“They’re like kids at a sleepover,” Charles murmurs, setting his phone down.
“Worse,” Max replies, though his tone is full of fondness. “Kids eventually get tired.”
He walks over and crouches behind you, resting a hand lightly on your shoulder. “Liefje, you’re going to fall asleep there.”
You tilt your head back to look at him, eyes half-lidded, a drowsy little smile on your lips. “It’s comfy.”
Alexandra, ever the instigator, adds, “Yeah, Max, let her live her best life.”
Charles chuckles under his breath and sits on the edge of the couch, rubbing a hand over his face. “You’re both hopeless.”
“Completely,” Max agrees, standing up and offering a hand to Charles. “We might as well make sure they don’t pass out on the carpet.”
It takes both of them — one for each girl. Charles bends down first, scooping Alexandra into his arms like she weighs nothing, her soft laugh muffled as she hides her face against his chest. Max follows suit, sliding an arm beneath your knees and another around your back, lifting you with effortless strength.
You instinctively loop your arms around his neck, your voice muffled against his collarbone. “You always carry me like I’m fragile.”
He kisses your forehead softly. “Because you are.”
They both carry you and Alexandra into the bedroom — the lights are low, the massive bed perfectly made with crisp white sheets and a mountain of pillows. The air smells faintly of your perfume and Max’s cologne, and it feels like the world has slowed to something gentle.
Max lays you down first, carefully pulling the blanket up over you. Charles does the same with Alexandra, setting her beside you before climbing in on the opposite side.
Immediately, you both shift — like magnets — curling into each other again, your legs tangling, fingers interlacing in the space between. There’s soft laughter, half-dreamy, half-tipsy.
“I like your bed better,” Alexandra mumbles sleepily.
“That’s because you’re stealing all my warmth,” you murmur back, nuzzling closer anyway.
The two men stand side by side for a moment, watching the pair of you — tangled up and whispering nonsense through giggles. Max glances at Charles, amusement flickering in his eyes. “I don’t think they’re letting us leave.”
Charles sighs, though he’s smiling. “I think you’re right.”
“Come here,” Alexandra calls softly, eyes barely open but her voice firm with that familiar affection. “I can’t sleep without you.”
You echo her, half-whining, half-sweet: “Same. Please, Max?”
He chuckles quietly, setting his watch down on the nightstand. “You heard them,” he says to Charles. “Orders from the queens.”
Charles just laughs, shaking his head as he tugs off his shirt and slides into bed beside Alexandra. “You two are lucky you’re cute.”
Max joins from the other side, the mattress dipping slightly under his weight. He shifts closer to you, his hand immediately finding your waist, pulling you back into him.
You sigh softly, melting into the familiar warmth of him. “Perfect,” you whisper.
On the other side, Alexandra’s already tucked into Charles’s chest, her breathing slowing as he runs his fingers gently through her hair.
It’s quiet now — the kind of quiet that only happens when everything feels safe. The faint hum of the city outside, the soft sound of synchronized breathing, the steady rhythm of two men who love their girls beyond reason.
At some point, Alexandra’s hand finds yours again across the space between you, fingers brushing lightly before settling. You smile, eyes still closed, and Max leans in to kiss your temple, whispering in Dutch so softly it’s almost lost to the sheets.
“Sleep, liefje. You’ve had enough excitement for one day.”
You murmur something incoherent — maybe his name, maybe just a sleepy hum — and within minutes, the four of you are still.
Charles glances across the bed one last time, meeting Max’s eyes over the two sleeping women.
And it is — a tangle of limbs and warmth, laughter still lingering in the air, the city lights spilling through the window and painting the room gold. A perfect, quiet ending to a day full of noise and love.
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charles_leclerc has added to his story!
seen by maxverstappen1, lando, alexandrasaintmleux and 4,500,000 others.
lando : did you both ever get any sleep
↳ charles_leclerc : they passed out as soon as we got them in the bed 🤣
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f1gossipgirls
liked by maxverstappen1, charles_leclerc and 1,900,000 others.
f1gossipgirls : omg can we talk about alex and yn’s friendship for a moment???? i love them so much. they were so cute in the paddock yesterday! their friendship means sm to me. plus those pics of alex and charles’ story!!! (edit : both husband and boyfriend have liked this post. i can’t.)
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Morning filters into the suite slowly — soft and golden, the kind of sunlight that slips past the curtains in quiet ribbons, kissing the edges of pillows and tangled sheets. It’s warm, lazy light; the kind that makes the whole room feel wrapped in a dream.
Max stirs first, his arm stretching across the empty half of the bed. He blinks once, twice, frowning slightly when his hand meets only cool sheets instead of the soft weight of you beside him. Beside him, Charles does the same, blinking into wakefulness, his voice still low and gravelly with sleep.
“They’re not here?” he mumbles, lifting his head and glancing toward the other side of the bed.
Max groans quietly, running a hand down his face. “Impossible. They were dead asleep.”
Charles huffs out a quiet laugh, voice still rough. “Maybe they teleported.”
It’s only when Max hears faint giggles and the clinking of something from the bathroom that the confusion fades into realization — and amusement.
The door to the ensuite is cracked open, steam curling out in little wisps, and through the mirror reflection he can see the two of you — very much awake, perched side by side at the counter, faces glowing with that infuriating morning energy that neither of them can comprehend before coffee.
You’re brushing through Alexandra’s hair carefully, humming something under your breath, while she leans against the counter, sipping water through a straw and giggling. The vanity is already a cheerful chaos — open makeup bags, perfumes, your phone playing quiet music, the two of you in matching hotel robes with your initials stitched near the collar.
Max pushes himself up against the headboard, a small smile tugging at his lips. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” he murmurs.
Charles sits up beside him, following his gaze — and then he just starts laughing. “They’re like two completely different people,” he whispers. “Didn’t they finish half a bottle of champagne each?”
“Two bottles,” Max corrects under his breath, still watching.
You’re currently applying mascara while Alexandra rummages through her bag for lipstick, both of you chatting animatedly about something completely domestic — whether you should both wear white today or if that’s “too matchy-matchy.” Every now and then, one of you leans over to look at the other in the mirror, fixing a strand of hair or dabbing something on a cheek with gentle precision.
When Alexandra spots Max and Charles’ reflection in the mirror, she gasps dramatically. “Look who’s alive!” she announces, turning and grinning. “The sleepyheads have risen.”
You follow her gaze, eyes bright and teasing. “Good morning, my loves,” you sing song, placing your mascara wand down. “How did you sleep?”
Max stretches lazily, feigning annoyance but failing entirely. “Not as well as someone who apparently got a full salon appointment at seven in the morning.”
You giggle and blow him a kiss. “Beauty takes commitment, darling.”
Charles groans good-naturedly and flops back against the bed. “I can’t believe you two look like that after last night.”
Alexandra smiles sweetly, dabbing perfume behind her ears. “It’s called hydrating, Charles.”
“She made me drink two glasses of water before,” you add, shrugging proudly. “We’re professionals.”
Before either man can respond, there’s a soft knock at the door. You and Alexandra exchange triumphant looks.
“That’ll be breakfast,” you announce, and you’re already halfway to the door before Max can even get out of bed.
A hotel staff member wheels in a massive tray — silver domes hiding plates of croissants, scrambled eggs, fresh fruit, pancakes, smoked salmon, tiny pots of jam, and a carafe of orange juice. There’s even a vase of tiny pink roses in the center. You tip generously and thank them warmly before closing the door, and the moment it clicks shut, Alexandra throws her arms up in victory.
“Breakfast for four!” she declares.
Charles has to laugh at that — a low, sleepy sound that melts easily into the morning air. “You really planned this, didn’t you?”
“Of course we did,” you reply cheerfully, already stacking plates on the table. “You think we’d let you two survive race morning on coffee alone?”
Max finally drags himself out of bed, hair messy and voice still heavy with sleep. He walks over behind you, slipping his arms around your waist and kissing your temple. “You’re ridiculous,” he murmurs affectionately.
You tilt your head up toward him with a grin. “You love it.”
“I do,” he admits easily, his lips brushing your cheek before he sits down beside you.
Alexandra joins Charles on the couch, immediately spooning fruit onto his plate for him like it’s second nature. “Eat,” she says in a tone that leaves no room for argument. “You need your energy.”
Charles just smiles, watching her with that soft, sleepy admiration he always tries to hide but never manages to. “You’re very bossy in the mornings.”
“Someone has to be,” she replies, handing him a fork.
You and Max are no better — sharing bites off each other’s plates, laughing as you try to spread jam on a croissant without making a mess, his hand resting idly on your knee under the table.
The suite is full of quiet sounds: forks clinking, laughter spilling easily, the faint hum of a playlist in the background. The city hums outside the window, the race day sun already climbing higher.
At one point, you and Alexandra start showing the boys the photos you took the day before — the mirror selfies, the dog pictures, the blurry cocktail shots.
“You two were adorable,” Charles says, scrolling through your phone, shaking his head fondly. “A little tipsy, but adorable.”
“A little?” Max teases. “I had to carry you to bed, liefje.”
You shoot him a mock glare, cheeks warming. “You didn’t have to.”
Alexandra giggles. “Yes, he did. We were snuggled up on the floor like cats.”
The boys exchange a look again — the same amused, helpless expression as last night. They wouldn’t trade it for anything.
Eventually, the plates empty and the chatter softens. You’re sitting sideways on Max’s lap now, his hand idly tracing shapes on your thigh, while Alexandra leans against Charles’s chest, both of them scrolling through photos on his phone.
Max glances around the suite — at the half-finished croissants, the coffee cups, the two women glowing in the morning light — and smiles quietly to himself.
“You know,” he murmurs, his Dutch accent still thick from sleep, “I could get used to mornings like this.”
You turn your head to look up at him, smiling lazily. “Who says we can’t?”
Charles hums his agreement, pressing a kiss to Alexandra’s hair. “It’s a good tradition. Pre-race breakfast, post-qualifying chaos.”
“Deal,” Alexandra says sleepily, her voice muffled against his shirt.
And for a moment — before the race suits and the grid walks and the press and the chaos — it’s just the four of you. Warm sunlight, easy laughter, hands intertwined over plates of pancakes and coffee, the quiet intimacy of found family and shared love.
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several months later… (skip to summer break)
yn_verstappen
liked by maxverstappen1, charles_leclerc, alexandrasaintmleux and 5,400,000 others.
yn_verstappen : summer break with my favorite people on the planet 🤍🩵
tagged : maxverstappen1, charles_leclerc and alexandrasaintmleux
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alexandrasaintmleux
liked by ynverstappen, maxverstappen1, charles_leclerc and 1,890,000 others.
alexandrasaintmleux : happy summer break! 🩵🤍
tagged : maxverstappen1, charles_leclerc and ynverstappen
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user has limited comments on this post.
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bonus : lestappen + alexyn on vacation!
The summer heat hits like a soft, golden wave as the four of you step off the small prop plane onto the tarmac. The smell of saltwater and sunscreen immediately fills the air, and the distant sound of waves crashing against the shore makes your chest ache with happiness. The moment the breeze brushes against your skin, you can feel the tension of the season slowly peeling away — the endless hotels, the paddocks, the press events — replaced with something lighter, slower, and entirely yours.
Max is already in his element, his sunglasses perched on his nose, shirt untucked over swim trunks, carrying your bag casually over one shoulder while his other hand finds yours without even needing to look. You squeeze it, laughing as he gives a small tug forward, as if the sand itself can’t wait to greet you.
Alexandra strolls beside Charles, the way she always does — effortless, bright, radiant — her hair loose and tousled, the sun glinting off her sunglasses. Charles keeps a careful hand on her lower back, guiding her gently through the little cluster of other travelers. There’s that same quiet pride in his smile that you’ve come to love, the one that says, she’s mine, but I’ll share this adventure with the people I love most.
Your villa is waiting — whitewashed walls, terracotta tiles, and floor-to-ceiling windows that open directly onto a terrace overlooking the turquoise sea. When you walk through the door, the four of you almost squeal in unison. The living area is airy, the couches piled with soft cushions, a large dining table gleaming under the natural light. A gentle fan spins lazily from the ceiling, and the sound of the surf is constant, hypnotic.
“I can already tell,” Alexandra says, kicking off her sandals, “that I’m not leaving this place all week.”
“You won’t be allowed to,” Charles jokes, taking her hand and guiding her toward the terrace.
Max has already wandered toward the balcony doors, pulling you behind him. The sun is low in the sky, painting everything in shades of coral and gold. He leans down, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. “Welcome to paradise, liefje,” he murmurs.
You take a deep breath, letting the salty air fill your lungs. “This is… perfect,” you say softly, spinning around to grin at him. He grins back, tugging you closer until your foreheads touch, laughter bubbling between kisses.
The first day is easy. You all unpack lazily, rolling your suitcases across the terracotta tiles and tossing swimsuits and sandals onto the bed. There’s room service for a light lunch — fresh seafood, tropical fruit, and sparkling water — eaten on the terrace with the waves lapping just below. You and Alexandra steal bites of each other’s meals, laughing as the men roll their eyes fondly at your antics. Max keeps brushing his fingers over your hand across the table, while Charles slides his arm around Alexandra’s shoulders, resting his chin on top of her head.
By mid-afternoon, the four of you are ready for the water. The villa comes with a private beach just beyond a low stone wall, and you dash down barefoot, wind tugging at your hair, Alexandra laughing as she chases you into the waves. Max splashes you lightly, and you retaliate by kicking water back at him, shrieking as it soaks his hair and the front of his trunks. Charles scoops Alexandra up mid-sprint, twirling her around before setting her down gently, her laughter ringing above the surf.
Hours pass in this blissful blur — sun, salt, sand, laughter. You bury each other in the sand, create elaborate sandcastles, and dare each other to wade farther out into the warm sea. At some point, Max drags you onto his back for a piggyback swim, carrying you effortlessly into the shallows, while Charles and Alexandra chase each other in mock races, the two of them colliding in giggles as they collapse into the wet sand.
When the sun dips low, you all retreat to the terrace. Towels wrapped around your shoulders, hair dripping, you share glasses of rosé and watch the sky shift from gold to pink to deep indigo. The men tease you both endlessly, pulling strands of wet hair from your faces, stealing little kisses in between sips of wine, while you and Alexandra steal them right back.
Dinner is prepared by a private chef, a feast of local delicacies served al fresco under twinkling fairy lights strung across the terrace. You all sit cross-legged on plush cushions, barefoot, elbows brushing as you pass dishes around. Charles insists on feeding Alexandra a bite of his pasta, and Max does the same with you, both pairs laughing like teenagers. Between bites, the four of you share stories, plan the next day’s excursions, and quietly steal glances at one another when no one’s looking.
Later, when the night grows quiet and the stars sprinkle across the sky like diamonds, you curl up on the terrace sofa with Alexandra, her head on your chest, your arm around her shoulders. Max and Charles lounge beside you, their legs brushing yours, hands occasionally resting on the backs or waists of their girls. There’s laughter, murmured jokes, shared memories, and long stretches of comfortable silence.
“I could stay here forever,” Alexandra murmurs, eyes half-lidded as you run your fingers through her hair.
“Me too,” you reply softly, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.
Max and Charles exchange a look, both smiling faintly, both thinking the same thing: this is exactly what summer was meant for — soft mornings, sun-soaked afternoons, laughter echoing against waves, and the warmth of the ones they love beside them.
And as the night stretches on, with the surf below and the stars above, the four of you drift into an easy, happy exhaustion — the perfect beginning to a week where time belongs entirely to you, to love, and to each other.
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The sun is high and golden when you and Alexandra step out of the villa, tote bags slung over your shoulders, sandals clicking against the warm cobblestones of the island’s main shopping street. The air smells faintly of salt and sun-warmed stone, mixed with the rich scent of freshly baked pastries from a nearby café. You both giggle as the breeze tugs at your hair, Alexandra’s sunglasses sliding down her nose in the most perfectly charming way.
“Okay,” she says, spinning once dramatically on the cobblestones, “we are officially on a mission. Island shopping spree, part one: fashion conquest.”
You grin, grabbing her hand without a second thought. Fingers intertwining naturally, palms pressed together, the gesture effortless and intimate. “I’m ready,” you reply, tugging her forward toward the first boutique. “Lead the way, goddess of style.”
Max and Charles trail behind, slightly bewildered, sunglasses perched on their noses and hands stuffed into pockets. Max shakes his head, smiling faintly. “Do we have to come in here?” he mutters, though the corners of his mouth twitch.
“Yes,” Alexandra says firmly, tugging you through the boutique doors before either of them can protest. “Absolutely.”
The store is cool and air conditioned, racks of flowing linen dresses, tailored shorts, oversized sunglasses, and chic sandals lining the walls. You and Alexandra immediately split, hands still clasped, weaving between racks and shelves like synchronized dancers.
Max sighs, resigned, as Charles murmurs, “They’re insufferable… and adorable.”
Alexandra emerges from behind a rack, holding a sundress up against her body. “Cha,” she calls, grinning, “tell me if this screams ‘vacation goddess’ or just ‘I tried too hard.’”
He squints at her through the dim boutique lighting. “Definitely vacation goddess,” he admits, his voice low, eyes soft.
“See?” you call, tugging a bright coral dress from another rack and twirling in it. “This is totally me. What do you think, husband?”
Max’s gaze softens, and he bites back a smile. “You look… ridiculously perfect,” he mutters.
Charles, meanwhile, has been quietly observing Alexandra as she experiments with a wide-brimmed hat, sunglasses perched jauntily on her nose. “You look… dangerous,” he whispers, smirking as she strikes a mock-model pose.
“Dangerous is my middle name,” she replies with a flourish, spinning in a circle.
Soon, the two of you have amassed a small mountain of outfits: dresses, rompers, hats, sunglasses, shoes — every piece a little more dramatic than the last. You drop your arms around each other’s shoulders, letting your fingers brush as you plan your next move.
“Fashion show?” you suggest, eyes sparkling.
Alexandra’s grin is immediate. “Obviously.”
Before the boys can protest, you’ve grabbed two full-length mirrors near the corner of the store. “We’ll model them all for you,” you announce, tugging Alexandra toward the first set of outfits. You each change behind the racks with giggles and whispered commentary.
The first round emerges: you in a flowing yellow sundress, Alexandra in a crisp white linen jumpsuit. You saunter across the open space, holding hands like runway models, spinning once to show off the dresses. Alexandra tosses her hair dramatically, and you can’t help but laugh, striking your own exaggerated pose at the mirror’s reflection.
“Stop it,” Max says in mock severity, “you’re making me jealous of the clothes.”
Alexandra gasps, turning dramatically toward him. “Oh, you should be!”
Round after round, you both emerge in more ridiculous ensembles: one-piece metallic rompers, wide-brim hats that nearly cover your faces, oversized linen pants paired with crop tops, and even a sequined dress that makes you both howl with laughter at the absurdity of wearing it on a sunny island street. Each time, you twirl, hold hands, and strike poses, letting the boys critique (or groan) from the sidelines.
“You look like a goddess,” Charles says, finally, his tone soft and fond, leaning against a rack.
“You look insane,” Max mutters, holding back laughter as you and Alexandra take turns spinning into each other’s arms, laughing so hard the sequined dress nearly catches on a hanger.
By the end of the afternoon, your arms are full of shopping bags, your cheeks are flushed from laughter, and your fingers are still intertwined. You and Alexandra walk through the cobblestone streets back toward the villa, and planning which outfits you’ll wear to dinner, to the beach, and for sunset cocktails.
At one point, Alexandra tugs you gently toward her, pressing a quick kiss to your cheek. “Best shopping day ever,” she whispers.
You lean your forehead against hers. “Agreed,” you reply. “And we got the best audience.”
Max chuckles, sliding his hand over yours and squeezing gently. “The only audience that matters,” he says, eyes soft.
Charles smirks from the other side, looping an arm around Alexandra’s waist. “Next time, you two are modeling at Milan Fashion Week.”
You and Alexandra laugh, walking hand in hand through the sun-drenched streets of the island, the boys following behind, completely powerless against your charm, your antics, and the effortless, undeniable cuteness of the two of you together.
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f1gossipgirls
1,890,000 likes.
f1gossipgirls : can we please talk about how lestappen is literally spending summer break together bc their girls can’t be apart????? i’m in love #nofragilemasculinityhere
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el fín
tags : @dontreallylikemyname & @alishamai