1,2,3 — mv33 + cl16
smau + written blurbs
max verstappen x !popstar reader x charles leclerc
the internet has been in a frenzy for weeks — two of the biggest names in formula 1, your boyfriends, have been soft launching what seems like the same girl. the fans are split between “it’s the same girl” and “there’s no way”… until you take it upon yourself to drop a very sultry and suggestive track titled "3".
as you said, the more the merrier and you have triple the fun that way.
fc : zara larsson (also i did not mean to use zara twice in a row but this request asked me to use her so) (song is 3 by britney spears...which is technically about a threesome so the lyrics are a little suggestive)
(day 4 of chef's tea party series)
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maxverstappen1
liked by lando, charles_leclerc, yukitsunoda0511 and 3,500,000 others.
maxverstappen1 : incredible few weeks away
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view 75,000 other comments.
lando : another week another max soft launch
↳ maxverstappen1 : zip it
↳ lando : does daniel know?
↳ danielricciardo : yes
liked by lando and maxverstappen1
↳ lando : do not gatekeep its rude
↳ danielricciardo : suddenly i know nothing of what we are speaking of
liked by maxverstappen1
charles_leclerc : beautiful views
liked by maxverstappen1
↳ username00 : um????
yukitsunoda0511 : what a softie
liked by maxverstappen1
↳ lando : yuki what do you KNOW PLEASE
↳ yukitsunoda0511 : since you’re asking…i know nothing.
liked by maxverstappen1
↳ lando : fine i’m submitting a rumor to a gossip page
liked by maxverstappen1 and yukitsunoda0511
↳ f1gossipgirls : lando we do not want your fake rumors again pls
liked by lando, maxverstappen1 and danielricciardo
username005 : WHO IS SHE. WE DEMAND ANSWERS.
username76 : can we talk about the soft launch that charles also JUST POSTED???
↳ username008 : his comment on here confused me too
username09 : i can’t keep up rn
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charles_leclerc
liked by maxverstappen1, lando, arthur_leclerc and 4,500,000 others.
charles_leclerc : king leo and i have been enjoying holiday so far 🩵
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view 87,000 other comments.
username00 : is this the same boat and GIRL from max’s post????
↳ username77 : no clue but the background looks identical
olliebearman : “king leo and i” as there is a whole other person there. STOP BEING SO SECRETIVE 🤨
liked by charles_leclerc
↳ pierregasly : he has always been this way
liked by charles_leclerc
↳ charles_leclerc : you are just jealous you weren’t invited
liked by pierregasly
↳ pierregasly : wouldn’t want to be the third wheel…or the fourth
user has deleted this comment
↳ pierregasly : yeah yeah
liked by charles_leclerc
↳ lando : we saw that pierre
maxverstappen1 : water looks nice
liked by charles_leclerc
username005 : max posts “incredible few weeks away” and 24 hours later charles posts this???? BE SERIOUS.
username007 : WHO IS THAT WOMAN. SHOW YOURSELF.
f1gossipgirls : theory: they’re soft launching the same girl and we are witnessing history.
↳ username1010 : for the love of christ don’t let lando see this
↳ lando : lando did indeed see it
oscarpiastri : at this point i’m just here for the eventual reveal
liked by charles_leclerc
arthur_leclerc : enjoy mon frère❤️
liked by charles_leclerc
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yourusername added to her story!
seen by maxverstappen1, charles_leclerc, tatemcrae and 5,600,000 others.
tatemcrae : beautyyyy
↳ yourusername : love you angel
charles_leclerc : they definitely do mon ange 🤍
liked by yourusername
↳ yourusername : love you sm cha
liked by charles_leclerc
maxverstappen1 : such a pretty girl
liked by yourusername
↳ yourusername : just a pretty girl with her pretty boys <3
liked by maxverstappen1
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The ocean is quiet today. The kind of quiet that hums beneath your skin — a soft, rhythmic stillness that feels like the world finally exhaled. The boat rocks gently under the afternoon sun, golden light spilling across the deck, painting Max’s tanned shoulders in honey and glinting off the fine salt in Charles’ hair.
You’re tucked between them, half-asleep against Max’s chest, your legs stretched out across Charles’ lap. Leo snores lightly at your feet, his little body rising and falling in time with the slow sway of the yacht. The air smells like sunscreen, sea spray, and the faint trace of Charles’ cologne.
It’s peace — the rare kind the three of you chase whenever the world gets too loud.
Charles runs his fingers through your hair, slow and gentle, his thumb brushing over your temple in small circles. Max hums low in his throat, tracing lazy patterns on your thigh. It’s almost meditative. For a moment, it’s easy to forget the endless stream of noise waiting for you all online.
Almost.
You sigh and bury your face deeper into Max’s chest. “They’re still talking about it,” you murmur, voice muffled by his skin. “About us. About who I’m supposedly dating. About how it’s impossible to love more than one person.”
Charles’ hand pauses, then resumes its rhythm. “You shouldn’t look at the comments, chérie,” he says softly, his voice warm but steady. “People like to talk about what they don’t understand.”
“I know,” you admit, sitting up slightly. “But it’s frustrating. They think they know everything. They pick apart every photo, every lyric, every move I make — and they still get it wrong.”
Max shifts behind you, his arm wrapping around your waist as he presses his chin to your shoulder. His voice is calm, low. “Let them think what they want. They’ll keep guessing until we tell them the truth. And when we do, it won’t matter what they say.”
You turn your head slightly, catching the edge of his smile. It’s small, soft, and certain in a way that settles something inside you. Charles watches quietly, his eyes full of that patient tenderness that always makes you melt.
“I just…” You trail off, the words catching in your throat. “I wish they saw it the way I do. The way we do.”
Charles reaches for your hand, his fingers threading through yours. “They don’t need to see it,” he says simply. “They just need to know it’s real.”
Max nods, brushing a strand of hair off your cheek. “And they will. When we’re ready.”
For a moment, the three of you just sit there, the silence comfortable again. The sea sparkles like a mirror, endless and blue. You let yourself breathe — really breathe — and feel them beside you. Max’s heartbeat against your back. Charles’ thumb tracing the lines of your knuckles. The wind curling through your hair.
Eventually, Max breaks the quiet. “Swim?”
You laugh under your breath. “You’re insatiable.”
He grins, that mischievous glint flickering back into his eyes. “You love it.”
Charles stands and stretches, sunlight catching on the curve of his smile. “Come on, amour. The water’s perfect.”
You let them pull you up — Max’s strong hand gripping your waist, Charles steadying you as you move toward the edge of the deck. The ocean looks impossibly blue from here, glittering and inviting.
Charles dives first, slicing through the surface like silk. Max follows with a splash, shouting something in Dutch that makes Charles laugh underwater. You stand there for a heartbeat, watching them — the way they move together so easily, unbothered and free.
And then you jump.
The water is cool against your skin, the salt stinging pleasantly in your throat. You break the surface with a gasp, and Max is already there, grinning as he wraps an arm around your waist. Charles swims closer, his wet hair plastered to his forehead, his lips curling into that perfect, teasing smile.
“Better?” he asks.
You nod, smiling so wide your cheeks ache. “Better.”
The three of you drift there for a while — weightless, sunlit, laughing about nothing and everything. Max splashes Charles; Charles retaliates by dunking Max under; you end up caught between them, shrieking and giggling until your lungs burn. It’s playful, easy, real.
Later, when you climb back onto the deck, dripping and breathless, Max wraps a towel around your shoulders and kisses your damp hair. Charles sits beside you, fingers brushing over your knee as the sun begins to dip lower over the horizon.
For a while, no one says anything. The sky is a wash of peach and gold. The world feels far away.
And even though the noise will return — the rumors, the headlines, the endless speculation — you realize it doesn’t matter right now. Because these moments belong to the three of you. And the world can wait.
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By the time the sun sinks beneath the horizon, the whole sky glows in watercolor shades of pink, gold, and violet. The yacht is anchored close to the shore, and the island ahead looks untouched—just a curve of pale sand and the dark silhouettes of palm trees swaying in the evening breeze.
Charles is the one who suggests it.
“Let’s have dinner on the beach,” he says, eyes bright, hair still damp from the swim. “No noise, no cameras. Just us.”
You and Max exchange a look, both of you smiling before you even answer. Within an hour, the small crew has helped set up something simple but perfect—blankets spread on the sand, a low table surrounded by lanterns, soft music humming from a speaker. Plates of grilled seafood, fresh fruit, and a bottle of white wine wait in the fading light.
It feels like a secret—like the world has forgotten to find you here.
You sit between them, toes buried in the warm sand. Charles pours the wine, careful and graceful as always, while Max picks through the platter for your favorite pieces. The smell of salt and smoke lingers in the air, carried by the sea breeze.
Conversation drifts easily, soft and half-whispered—childhood memories, race stories, the kind of small, ordinary things you rarely have time for. You listen as Charles describes how Monaco looks just before sunrise, and Max teases him about never being awake early enough to see it. They laugh, and then the laughter fades into a comfortable quiet.
You rest your head on Max’s shoulder, your hand slipping into Charles’s where it rests on the table. They both look at you, smiling in that wordless way that always makes your chest ache.
“This is the part no one sees,” you say quietly. “The part that feels real.”
Charles nods, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “Maybe that’s why it’s so precious.”
Max leans over and presses a kiss to your temple. “We’ll come back to this,” he murmurs. “No matter how busy things get.”
You believe him.
When the food is gone and the lanterns are burning low, the three of you walk down to the edge of the water. The tide laps at your feet, warm and gentle. You hold both their hands, one in each of yours, and for a moment you don’t think about the future or the headlines waiting beyond this night. You just breathe.
Max’s voice breaks the silence first. “When we go back,” he says softly, “promise me we won’t lose this.”
You turn toward him, seeing the way the starlight reflects in his eyes. “We won’t,” you promise. “Even if we have to hide for a while longer.”
Charles steps closer, resting a hand at the back of your neck, the other brushing over Max’s shoulder. “We have each other,” he says. “That’s what matters.”
Then he kisses you, slow and unhurried, and Max’s hand finds your waist, grounding you between them. The ocean murmurs beside you, the night wrapping around the three of you like silk.
Later, back at the villa, you shower the salt from your hair and crawl into bed while Max fiddles with the air-conditioning and Charles turns down the lights. The sheets smell faintly of coconut and sun. When they finally join you, you end up tangled together in the middle—Charles on one side, Max on the other, your legs a mess of warmth under the blanket.
Charles traces idle shapes on your arm, each line a quiet promise. Max’s fingers brush through your hair, slow and steady, until your eyes begin to drift closed.
“You’re quiet,” Charles murmurs.
“I’m trying to remember everything,” you whisper back. “The sound of the waves, the way you’re both breathing, how the stars looked tonight. I want to keep it.”
Max’s voice rumbles softly behind you. “Then keep it,” he says. “We’ll make more.”
You smile, eyes heavy now, body weightless between them. The world feels far away—the noise, the questions, the waiting. For now there is only this: the steady rhythm of their hearts, the warmth of the sheets, and the soft whisper of the sea outside.
Charles presses a kiss to your forehead. “Sleep, mon cœur.”
And you do, knowing that when morning comes, reality will find you again—planes to catch, calls to answer, songs to release, races to run. But for tonight, you let it all go.
Tonight, it’s just the three of you, hidden away in paradise, the world turning quietly somewhere far beyond the horizon.
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The flight home is rather quiet. You’re curled up on the couch inside Max’s jet, half-asleep with your head resting against Charles’s shoulder while Max scrolls through something on his phone. The hum of the engines is steady, hypnotic. Outside the windows, the night sky stretches endless and dark.
You’ve been quiet for most of the flight, the calm of the island still clinging to you. It had felt perfect — too perfect — and now, with Monaco drawing closer, you can feel the world waiting.
When the plane begins its slow descent, Charles squeezes your hand. “We’ll be home soon, ma chérie.”
You hum in acknowledgment, but Max glances out the window, his brow furrowing. “That’s… odd.”
“What?” you ask, sitting up.
He points toward the faint line of flashing lights beyond the runway. “There shouldn’t be that many cars. It’s almost three in the morning.”
And then you see it — the cluster of silhouettes, the camera flashes already flickering in the distance. Your heart sinks. The rumors must have reached a new level while you were away.
Charles notices your expression immediately. “Hey,” he murmurs, leaning close. “Don’t worry. We’ve got you.”
The jet touches down smoothly, but by the time it rolls to a stop, the flashes are already brighter — like lightning through the cabin windows. Max stands first, pulling his hoodie from his bag. “Put this on,” he says gently, handing it to you. “Keep your head down when we walk.”
You slip into it, the fabric warm and smelling faintly of salt and his cologne. Charles drapes his own jacket over you on top of that, zipping it halfway so that it almost swallows you whole. “Better,” he says softly, adjusting the hood around your face. “No one’s going to see anything you don’t want them to.”
When the cabin door opens, the noise hits you first — shouting, camera shutters, voices calling names. Max steps out in front, tall and unbothered, his arm stretched slightly behind him to guide you. Charles stays close on your other side, his hand firm at your waist.
The world becomes a blur of light and movement. Someone calls Max’s name; another yells a question about Charles; you keep your eyes down and focus on their hands. Max’s jacket sleeve brushing yours. Charles’s fingers pressing reassuringly at the small of your back.
“Almost there,” Charles murmurs, his accent soft and steady.
Max doesn’t speak, but you can feel the tension in his shoulders — protective, controlled. Every time the flashes get too close, he moves subtly, blocking you with his body until you reach the car.
Once the doors close, the sudden quiet is overwhelming. The only sounds are your heartbeat and the low rumble of the engine as the driver pulls away from the curb. You let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding.
Max turns in his seat to look at you. “You okay?”
You nod, though your throat feels tight. “Just… a lot.”
Charles leans over, brushing a stray strand of hair out of your face. “It’s over now. You’re safe.”
Max reaches across the seat and squeezes your knee. “Next time, we’ll have security ready before we land. I didn’t think they’d find out where we were.”
You give him a small, tired smile. “It’s not your fault.”
He looks unconvinced, but he doesn’t argue. Instead, he slips his hand into yours, his thumb rubbing gentle circles over your skin until the city lights begin to appear outside the windows. Monaco at night is quieter than usual, the streets glistening from a late drizzle, everything familiar and safe again.
When the car finally stops in front of Max’s building, the doorman hurries forward, and within minutes you’re inside the private elevator. The hum of it rising through the floors feels like a lullaby.
The moment the door to the penthouse opens, the exhaustion hits all at once. Max doesn’t even give you a chance to protest before he bends down, sliding one arm under your knees and the other around your back.
“Max—” you start, but he just shakes his head.
“Let me,” he says simply, and his tone leaves no room for argument.
Charles follows close behind, turning off the lights as Max carries you through the apartment. The faint scent of the sea still clings to your hair, and you rest your head against his shoulder, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.
He carries you straight into the bedroom, setting you gently on the bed before pulling off his shoes and sitting beside you. Charles disappears for a moment, returning with a glass of water that he sets on the nightstand.
“Here,” Charles says quietly, brushing his thumb over your cheek. “Drink a little.”
You do, and the coolness settles your throat. Then Max pulls the covers back, and both of them climb in beside you — Charles on one side, Max on the other, the familiar warmth closing around you again.
No words are needed. Charles tucks you closer until your head rests against his chest, his hand tracing light patterns on your back. Max’s arm slides around your waist from behind, his palm spreading over your stomach protectively.
Outside, the city hums faintly. Inside, it’s just the three of you — the quiet breathing, the steady warmth, the sense of being exactly where you’re supposed to be.
Charles presses a kiss into your hair. “Sleep, mon amour. We’re home.”
Max murmurs something in Dutch, but the tone is soft and certain, and the last thing you feel before you drift off is the reassuring weight of both of them beside you — one heartbeat, then another, surrounding you like a promise.
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several weeks later…
yn_nation
1,792,000 likes.
yn_nation : yn had an AMAZING show last night in houston texas and then was spotted at the f1 race this morning in austin. it appears she was invited by the red bull team!
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Houston air hums differently. It’s heavy with heat and the restless excitement of thousands of voices — a low buzz that vibrates through the walls and the stage beneath your boots.
You’re halfway through the set, adrenaline rushing through your veins, the crowd chanting your name like a heartbeat. The lights are blinding, the sound is thunderous, and for those few songs, it’s easy to forget the outside world — the whispers, the speculation, the constant wondering eyes.
Up here, it’s just you.
You toss your hair, reach for the mic, smile into the spotlight, and pour everything you have into the last chorus. The crowd roars so loud it almost knocks you off balance. By the time you hit the final note, your lungs are burning and your cheeks ache from smiling.
“Thank you, Houston!” you shout, voice cracking just a little. “You’ve been unbelievable tonight!”
The stage lights dim, the music fades, and the cheers follow you all the way down the narrow hallway backstage. You’re still buzzing, sweat cooling on your skin, your heart hammering. The crew greets you with high-fives and proud smiles as you grab a bottle of water and towel off.
You’re halfway to your dressing room when your tour manager stops you.
“Hey, don’t change yet,” she says, a strange little smile tugging at her mouth. “Someone wants to see you.”
You blink. “Someone?”
She only grins wider. “Just… go.”
You push open the door, ready to see maybe your label rep or a local friend — but you freeze the second you step inside.
The smell of flowers hits you first. Dozens of them — white tulips, red roses, orange marigolds — spilling out of vases and wrapping paper and even a few paper cups from the catering table. And in the middle of it all, standing side by side with matching sheepish smiles, are Max and Charles.
For a second, your brain can’t process it. They’re here.
You let out a sound that’s somewhere between a gasp and a laugh. “You—what—how—?”
Max grins, stepping forward with his hands still full of flowers. “Surprise?”
Charles chuckles, his eyes warm and soft. “We couldn’t miss your last U.S. show, mon amour.”
You cover your mouth, the tears already threatening. “You’re supposed to be in—”
“Austin,” Max finishes for you. “We came early.”
“You maniacs,” you whisper, laughing as you finally step toward them. “You actually came?”
Charles shrugs, pretending to be casual even though there’s that proud glint in his eyes. “We thought maybe we’d surprise you. It’s not fair that we always get to have you watch from afar.”
Max sets the flowers down and closes the last few inches between you. “And,” he says, voice low now, “we brought something for you.”
He pulls out an envelope from his jacket pocket. You look at it, confused, before taking it from his hand. Inside are three lanyards — credentials. One with your name printed in bold beneath the Austin GP logo.
You look up, stunned. “You’re kidding.”
“Nope,” Charles says, clearly delighted at your expression. “You’re coming with us to Austin. Full paddock access. No excuses.”
You shake your head, laughing even as your chest feels tight. “I can’t. You know what’ll happen if people—”
Max steps forward, resting his hands gently on your shoulders. “They’ll talk no matter what, liefje. Let them.”
Charles adds quietly, “You deserve to see what we love. To be there, with us.”
And something inside you just breaks — the weeks of hiding, the careful tiptoeing, the ache of missing them while you’re halfway across the world under blinding lights. You drop the envelope and throw your arms around both of them at once.
They catch you immediately. Max’s arms around your waist, Charles’s hand cradling the back of your head, the smell of jet fuel and cologne and sea salt clinging to their shirts. You don’t realize you’re crying until Charles brushes his thumb under your eye.
“You always make me cry,” you mumble into his shoulder.
Max laughs softly. “You always make us proud.”
They hold you like that for a long time — long enough for the noise of the arena to fade, for the world to narrow to just the three of you. Then Max pulls back slightly, eyes glinting with mischief. “You were incredible, by the way. The crowd was insane.”
Charles nods. “You looked beautiful out there.”
You groan, half embarrassed, half flustered. “You guys actually watched the show?”
“Front of house,” Max admits. “We had hats and masks. No one noticed.”
“Barely,” Charles adds, laughing. “Max almost gave us away because he was filming you.”
“Was not,” Max protests, indignant.
You giggle, shaking your head. “You two are ridiculous.”
Max presses a kiss to your forehead. “And yours.”
Charles smiles, soft and certain. “Always.”
You end up sitting on the couch between them, your legs draped across Max’s lap, Charles still holding your hand like he’s afraid to let go. They tell you about the flight, about how they planned the surprise for weeks, about the ridiculous security coordination it took to sneak into the venue without anyone noticing.
Then you tell them about the tour — the exhaustion, the thrill, the chaos — and for a moment, it feels like the world outside doesn’t exist.
Eventually, Max yawns and nudges you. “We should go. Early morning tomorrow.”
You tilt your head. “Oh?”
He grins. “You have a race weekend to attend.”
Charles leans in, his voice a low murmur against your ear. “And two idiots to cheer for.”
You laugh again, your chest aching in the best way possible. “You know I’m gonna have to pick a garage to hide in the entire time, right?”
Max smirks. “We’ll see who wins that battle.”
Charles raises a brow. “And maybe wear something neutral, like… white. Or black.”
You grin, leaning back against them both. “Maybe I just wear your names on my lips and call it a day.”
Max groans. “Not fair.”
“Perfectly fair,” Charles counters, kissing your temple.
And in that little backstage room filled with flowers and laughter and the lingering hum of the show outside, you realize that maybe — just maybe — you don’t have to keep hiding forever.
Because they’d cross oceans for you. Because they already did.
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The Texas sun is merciless — the kind that blazes against the asphalt and turns the paddock into a mirage of movement and noise.
Your hands tremble slightly as you adjust your sunglasses and step out of the car. You’ve done red carpets in diamond gowns and stadium tours in front of sixty thousand people, but somehow this feels scarier.
The badge hanging from your neck reads Paddock Access – Red Bull Racing, and even though it’s technically just a laminated piece of plastic, it feels like it’s glowing neon.
You can feel the eyes already — photographers turning their lenses, reporters murmuring, fans trying to place your face. It’s nothing new to you, but this time, the context makes your stomach flutter.
You pull your hat lower, smile politely when one of the PR staff greets you, and follow her through the chaos.
The sound hits you first — the scream of an engine during warmup, the quick clack of mechanics’ tools, the low murmur of radio chatter. You’ve seen it on TV, but in person, it’s alive.
And then you see him.
Max is standing near the car, helmet in hand, talking with one of the engineers. He’s in his fireproofs, sleeves rolled to his elbows, jaw sharp and expression focused — every bit the world champion.
For a heartbeat, you forget where you are.
When he turns and spots you, that focus flickers into something else — warmth, the kind that softens his whole face. But it’s gone in a second, replaced with a professional smile as he walks over, careful and composed.
“Hey,” he says lightly, the word barely audible over the noise. “Didn’t think you’d make it.”
You play along, matching his tone. “Had to see what all the fuss is about.”
There are cameras everywhere, flashes going off, so you both keep it casual — a friendly wave, a few polite words. He gestures for you to stand with the Red Bull team as a guest, and for everyone else watching, it looks like a celebrity visit, maybe a sponsorship appearance. Nothing more.
But under all of that — under the calm smiles and practiced professionalism — you catch it: the tiny twitch of his lip when he looks at you, the quick brush of his pinky against yours as he walks past, the whisper of I’m so glad you’re here in his eyes.
Later, just before the race starts, a PR assistant escorts you through the paddock toward Ferrari.
Charles is already waiting near the garage entrance, red race suit unzipped to his waist, hair damp with the Texas humidity. He grins when he sees you — that effortless, heart-melting grin that makes time fold in on itself.
“You made it,” he says, voice bright but measured.
You nod, smiling. “Of course I did. Can’t have Max thinking I play favorites.”
He laughs under his breath, pretending to wipe imaginary sweat from his brow. “Ah, so I have to fight for your attention now.”
“Always,” you tease softly.
He leans in just enough that no one else can hear. “Good. Keeps me sharp.”
The moment barely lasts — a flash of something hidden behind layers of cameras and professionalism — but when he turns to walk away, he looks back once, and you see that spark of affection there, alive and certain.
The garages quiet a little before formation. One of the PR managers discreetly leads you into a small hospitality room between the paddocks.
It’s dim and cooler inside, the hum of engines muted behind thick walls. You’re only there for a moment before both Max and Charles appear — not in the same suit colors, not even on the same team, but perfectly in sync.
For the first time all day, you get to breathe.
Max leans back against the wall, his fingers brushing yours when you step closer. “Still nervous?” he asks gently.
“A little,” you admit. “For you guys, not me.”
Charles smiles, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “You don’t have to be nervous for us, chérie. Just enjoy it.”
You look at both of them — the red, the blue, the sweat and the focus and the impossible calm — and something swells in your chest.
“I’m proud of you,” you whisper. “Both of you. Go out there and have fun, okay? I’ll be watching.”
Max’s expression softens instantly. He dips his head, his voice quiet enough to barely exist. “Then we’ll make it worth watching.”
Charles presses his hand to your cheek, just for a second. “We’ll see you after the race.”
And then they’re gone — helmets on, engines roaring, swallowed up by the storm.
You stand in the back of the Red Bull garage, headset on, every nerve alive as you watch the laps unfold. Max’s car glides through corners like liquid lightning, Charles matching him lap for lap, the two of them pushing each other harder with every turn.
The commentators lose their minds, the crowd screams, and by the last few laps, your nails are half-mooned into your palms.
Then — the checkered flag.
P1 for Max. P2 for Charles.
You barely realize you’re clapping until one of the engineers laughs beside you.
By the time you reach parc fermé, the crowd’s already roaring for the podium. You hang back near the tunnel, your heart pounding as you watch them both climb the steps — champagne in hand, helmets off, faces glowing with triumph.
They look good up there. They look happy.
And when Max lifts his trophy, you swear — just for a second — his eyes flicker toward you in the crowd. A silent I saw you.
Charles catches the moment too, grinning faintly as the champagne sprays.
You laugh, clapping along with everyone else, and for the first time in months, the hiding doesn’t sting so much.
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You’re sitting cross-legged on Max’s hotel bed, still wearing one of his Red Bull hoodies, hair damp from the shower. The race afterglow still lingers — champagne, laughter, the echo of the crowd — but you can’t stop thinking about how it all started. How the three of you even found each other in the first place.
You close your eyes and the memory slips in easily, vivid as ever.
It had been a warm night in Monaco, the kind where the streets smelled like salt and perfume and the promise of trouble. You’d just finished a performance at a private event, exhausted but unwilling to go home, so you’d let your friends drag you to a club. The lights were low, the bass was deep, and everyone was pretending not to be watching everyone else.
You’d noticed them almost immediately.
Charles first — leaning against the bar, shirt unbuttoned one too many times, his smile lazy and magnetic. He was already a familiar face; it was impossible not to recognize him. But then your eyes found Max beside him — darker, quieter, his hand resting possessively on the small of Charles’s back, their bodies close in that way that wasn’t just friendship.
They were beautiful together. Magnetic in a way that made your chest tighten. You’d tried not to stare.
Tried.
Charles caught you looking first. His mouth curved into a grin, and then Max followed his gaze. Two sets of eyes locked on you from across the room. And that was it.
You remember Charles crossing the floor first, moving like the music belonged to him.
“You’re far too beautiful to be sitting alone,” he’d said, voice low enough to make you shiver.
Max arrived a second later, his tone drier, a smirk playing at his lips. “He says that to everyone. But this time, I might agree with him.”
The three of you ended up in a booth, laughter blending with the beat, conversation blurring into touches. There was an ease to it, as if you’d all known each other forever. Max’s hand on your thigh, Charles’s fingers tracing lazy patterns along your arm, the two of them glancing at each other with a kind of silent understanding that made your pulse race.
You don’t remember who leaned in first.
Only that you didn’t stop it.
The night dissolved into heat and breath and skin and something that felt terrifyingly right. It wasn’t just passion — it was connection, fierce and immediate. You’d never felt anything like it.
The next morning had been soft sunlight and tangled limbs and the sound of waves outside the window. You’d woken up between them, both of them still asleep — Max on his stomach, arm slung over your waist, Charles curled against your back, his breath warm against your neck.
You’d watched them for a long time, memorizing the quiet. It should’ve felt like a one-time thing, but deep down, you already knew it wasn’t.
When they finally stirred, Charles had smiled at you sleepily. “You’re still here.”
“Was I supposed to leave?” you’d teased, your voice scratchy from the night before.
Max had cracked one eye open, his grin lazy. “Not a chance.”
Breakfast had been coffee, croissants, and the kind of laughter that made your chest ache. You remember thinking, If I write about this, no one will believe me.
So you did anyway.
That afternoon, sitting in your apartment with your guitar and a half-written melody, you scribbled the first words that came to mind:
One, two, three
Not only you and me…
The song practically wrote itself.
Now, back in the present, you reach for your phone and open the audio file.
Max and Charles are sitting across from you, both still half dressed from their post-race showers — Charles in a white t-shirt, Max in joggers, hair damp, that relaxed grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.
“I want to show you something,” you say softly. “Something I’ve been working on.”
You press play.
The beat fills the room — sultry, teasing, familiar in all the right ways. Your voice floats through the speakers, smooth and deliberate:
Three is a charm, two is not the same,
I don’t see the harm, so are you game?
Max’s grin spreads immediately, slow and smug. Charles’s cheeks flush bright pink before he even finishes the first verse.
You pause it halfway through, smiling shyly. “So… it’s called ‘3’. It’s about us. Or… the start of us, I guess.”
Charles lets out a breathy laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Mon dieu. That night.” His face is still flushed, and his voice drops lower. “I don’t think I’ll ever forget it.”
Max leans back against the headboard, cocky as ever. “You wrote a song about us,” he says, smirking. “About that night. I knew it was memorable.”
You roll your eyes, laughing. “You’re insufferable.”
“But right,” he teases, his tone softening.
Charles looks up from where he’s still staring at the floor, smile tugging gently at his lips. “It’s beautiful, chérie. A little… daring, maybe. But beautiful.”
“Daring’s the point,” you say, biting your lip. “I’ve been thinking about releasing it. Not… not saying anything directly, but letting people hear it first. Let them guess.”
Max tilts his head, thoughtful. “You mean… start the storm before we tell them?”
You nod. “Exactly. A soft hard-launch. The song first. Then… us.”
He grins, amused. “You always did like a little chaos.”
Charles’s eyes meet yours, gentler. “If you’re ready for that, we’re with you. Always.”
You smile at both of them, your heart full.
In that quiet hotel room — with Max still smirking like he owns the world and Charles still blushing like he’s remembering every second of that Monaco night — you realize something.
You don’t just want to sing about them. You want to show the world the truth of what you’ve built. Three hearts, one love. No hiding anymore.
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The set smells faintly of smoke and champagne— a mixture of haze machines, stage lights, and luxury perfume drifting through the air.
You’re sitting in a velvet chair while the stylist touches up your lip gloss, the faint bass of your song playing over the studio speakers. Each time the chorus hits, the crew hums along under their breath. Everyone knows it’s a hit already — infectious, sultry, and bold.
But you know what’s making this version of the song so electric isn’t just the lyrics. It’s who’s behind the camera with you.
Max and Charles are standing near the monitors, both dressed down but camera-ready — black trousers, open-collar shirts, their usual rivalry melting into something more playful.
They’ve already filmed a few scenes with you separately — the close-up hand grazes, the silhouettes, the out-of-focus dancing — little hints of intimacy that make the song’s meaning clear without a single kiss being shown.
The director calls out, “Alright, time for the trio shot!”
Your pulse kicks.
Charles smirks, noticing the way your breath hitches. “You’re nervous?”
You shrug. “A little. This is the part that’ll start World War III on the internet.”
Max chuckles under his breath, walking up to you and offering a hand. “Then let’s make it worth the fuss.”
The lights dim, the set turns golden. The scene’s simple — three chairs, three glasses of champagne, laughter and tension as the camera circles.
You sit in the center, the boys on either side. The music plays softly, a slowed, cinematic version of 3.
The director’s voice is faint: “Just relax. Be natural. Pretend the cameras aren’t here.”
As if that’s possible.
But then Charles leans closer, whispering something in French that makes your lips curve despite yourself. Max laughs — that low, warm sound that always gives him away — and soon you’re all giggling like it’s just the three of you again, hidden away in some Monaco apartment instead of surrounded by a film crew.
“See?” Charles murmurs. “Natural.”
Max drapes his arm across the back of your chair, his thumb brushing against your shoulder. You tilt your head toward him, playing it up for the camera — the picture of casual affection.
The lens catches it all — the shared glances, the faint smirk Charles gives when you bite your lip, the way Max leans in just close enough for the tension to be unmistakable.
The director calls cut, and the crew breaks into a quiet buzz.
“That was perfect,” someone says.
Charles laughs, cheeks flushed from the heat of the lights. “I almost forgot we were being filmed.”
Max grins. “Almost?”
You shake your head, rolling your eyes. “You both were way too good at that.”
Charles feigns innocence. “It’s called acting.”
“You weren’t acting,” you tease.
He smiles softly. “Maybe not.”
Later, during a break, you’re all crammed together in a dressing room, watching the playback on a laptop. The three of you look ethereal — the gold lighting, the laughter, the quiet looks no one else would understand.
Charles rests his chin on your shoulder, his voice low. “It’s… intimate. But not too much.”
Max hums his agreement, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. “Let them guess,” he says. “Let them feel it.”
You grin. “Oh, they’ll feel it. The comments are going to be insane.”
“Good,” Max replies easily. “Let them try to figure it out. They will never truly know.”
Charles’s hand slips into yours, gentle and grounding. “But we do.”
And for a moment, the noise of the crew and the flashing lights fade away — just the three of you in your own quiet world, where nothing else matters.
The director’s assistant knocks, calling you back to set, and Max grins. “Come on, popstar. Let’s make history.”
Charles adds, with that teasing lilt, “Or at least break the internet.”
You laugh as they each take one of your hands, leading you toward the stage.
And under the glow of the lights, surrounded by cameras, you think about how wild it is — how something that started as one night in Monaco became this.
A song. A secret. A love that the world’s about to finally see — whether it’s ready or not.
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yourusername added a post to her story!
seen by charles_leclerc, maxverstappen1, lando and 10,000,000 others.
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The clock on Max’s bedside table flickers to five before midnight.
You’re curled up between him and Charles, a bowl of popcorn resting precariously on your lap, both of their phones lighting up every few seconds with notifications. You’ve been counting down the minutes all night — not for an award show or a race, but for this.
The release of the “3” music video
Charles leans his head against your shoulder, scrolling through his phone with that calm, quiet focus he always has before chaos hits. “Five minutes,” he murmurs.
Max stretches, his arm sliding across your waist, pulling you closer. “You’re nervous again.”
You glance up at him. “A little. You two aren’t?”
He smirks, eyes glinting. “I like when people go crazy.”
You laugh softly. “Of course you do.”
Charles hums. “You shouldn’t worry, mon cœur. It’s incredible. No one will know for sure.”
“That’s what you said about the soft launches,” you tease. “And the internet still figured out my nail polish matched both your posts.”
Max grins, all smug and unbothered. “That was funny, though.”
Charles shoots him a look. “You thought the edits were funny?”
“Yes,” Max says without hesitation. “Especially the one that said, ‘they’re dating the same girl and don’t even know it.’”
You dissolve into laughter right as the timer on your phone buzzes.
Midnight.
The video goes live.
At first, the room is quiet except for the soft sound of your song playing through the TV. You’ve seen the final cut already, but something about watching it here — in Max’s bed, with both of them beside you — feels different.
Your on-screen self glows under golden lights, sitting between the two silhouettes the internet is already about to analyze to death. Every touch, every look, every frame is deliberate — intimacy without explicitness, chaos wrapped in elegance.
When the final chorus fades, the room stays still for a heartbeat.
Then—
“Okay,” Charles murmurs, refreshing Twitter. “It has begun.”
You lean over, peering at his screen. The trending list is already a mess:
#3MusicVideo
#WhoAreTheGuysIn3
#LeclercSoftLaunchConfirmed??
#MaxAndCharlesSameGirl?!?!?
You groan, burying your face in his shoulder as Max starts cackling.
“Oh my god,” Charles says between laughs, reading a tweet aloud. “‘There’s no way those are not Charles Leclerc’s hands. I’d recognize them anywhere.’”
Max grins wickedly. “She’s right. Those are his hands.”
“Stop encouraging them!” you say, smacking his arm.
“Why?” he teases. “This is fun. Look — someone thinks it’s Pierre.”
Charles actually gasps. “Pierre?!”
Max’s laugh deepens. “Yeah. They said, ‘the way he moves just *screams Gasly energy.’’”
You’re crying with laughter now, clutching the popcorn bowl as Charles dramatically clutches his chest. “Gasly energy! I cannot believe this.”
“Someone says it’s Lando,” Max adds.
“What?”
You can barely breathe from laughing. “The internet is so unserious.”
A few hours later, the video has hit millions of views, and social media is a complete circus. Fan theories, slowed-down edits, frame-by-frame analyses.
Max’s phone buzzes again. “Look at this,” he says, handing it to you.
It’s a side-by-side photo comparison: your video, and one of his recent vacation pictures. The caption reads:
“The reflection in his sunglasses. That’s HER. We cracked the code.”
You groan. “They’re insane.”
Charles hums in amusement. “They’re right, though.”
You look between them, lips quirking. “You two enjoy this way too much.”
Max’s expression softens, his voice dipping low. “We enjoy you.”
And just like that, the teasing energy fades into something quieter. His fingers brush your cheek; Charles’s hand settles over yours. You melt into them, the warmth of the room wrapping around you like a secret.
The world can keep guessing. They can analyze every frame, dissect every lyric, zoom in on every little detail.
But only the three of you know what’s real — what that song means, what those touches truly were, how much love went into every moment.
Charles leans in first, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. Max follows, lips brushing your hairline.
“You did it,” Charles whispers. “You told the story.”
“And no one can take that from you,” Max adds quietly.
You close your eyes, smiling as the notifications keep buzzing, the chaos of the world humming just outside your quiet little bubble.
And right now, lying tangled between them while the world tries to guess your secret, it’s never felt more perfect.
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maxverstappen1
liked by charles_leclerc, yourusername, lando and 7,890,000 others.
maxverstappen1 : yes the song is about our first threesome now stop asking:) i love you both so much ❤️
tagged : yourusername and charles_leclerc
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