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ok. 🫠🔫

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charles and max smiling and giggling when they talk about their "battle" on track 🥺

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They fuckin

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2020 Testing | 📸 by Patrik Stürmlinger

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My Maxie and Charlie

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I FEEL SICKKKK

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prompt game within the tsgc and the fic gods decided to give us this a helping b wash up (whether it be their hair, body, some blood off their hands, etc) prompt! so naturally I had to make it 2022 lestappen!!!!! hope you like it darlings!!!

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“You didn't have to punch him,” Max says, watching as Charles breathes from his mouth while he scrubs his hands under the scorching hot water of the bathroom sink.

“He called you an ugly faggot, I have morals, Verstappen,” Charles huffs, taking a pause, closing the water and placing his hands on the sides of the ceramic sink.

The pain on his face is throbbing and growing and Max's constant complaining is not doing him any favours. Not even the pent up anger and repressed feelings are helping him.

“Still, punching the FIA president at the fucking gala isn't very smart,” Max argues, not knowing what to do with his hands.

Max knows shouldn't tease Charles, after all, he's the one who got punched to defend his honour.

After he accepted the World Driver's Championship trophy and made a few jokes at the expense of the FIA, making Charles laugh and Checo roll his eyes, he didn't expect the FIA president to get on the stage suddenly, and start talking about how Max should be more grateful that he was never suspended for his language or his behaviour, or his deviances.

“You should be thankful the FIA is such a great organisation and it allows people like you to participate. It takes all our strength to support your kind,” the guy had said.

Max, in another circumstance, would have joked that yeah, competitive racers are really a strange breed!, but he knows what the words of the President mean. He knows he's referring to the paparazzi pictures plastered across every single sports news outlet the past summer. Pictures of himself kissing a random guy in Spain, during the summer break.

Everyone in the paddock, after the first month conveniently forgot it. The sponsors, the fans, the media. It was better for them to ignore that side of Max. It didn't fit their narrative of him, and so they scraped it off his character's page.

Max dreaded becoming the queer driver, in his strange wonderings late at night. He hated the perspective of becoming a symbol. Maybe he would have liked better to always wear the bisexual driver on the grid title than facing the complete erasure of an essential part of his being.

But the unprompted attack on the FIA prize giving ceremony might have shifted things.

After Ben Sulayem's abhorrent speech, Charles and Checo looked at each other and nodded, deciding to charge against the man, giving him a taste of his own dog-eats-dog mentality.

Max was only able to stop Checo, not Charles, who made an impressive use of his toned biceps. He got punched back, and, before an army of angry Italian people could intervene, his nose was broken and bloody.

"It will for sure be a night to remember…” Charles mumbles, not remembering which is the position to keep one's head with a nosebleed.

“Here… Let me…” Max mumbles instead, taking the handkerchief from the pocket of his suit and wetting it with cold water.

Charles flinches lightly as Max starts cleaning the dried blood on his prominent cupid's bow and upper lip, looking up, staring into those icy blue eyes.

“You don't have to cover for me, I can punch a bitch too… But thank you, Charlie…” Max whispers, holding his face softly in one hand, caressing his cheek with a thumb.

“I'm the only one who can destroy you,” Charles mumbles, gravelly, making goosebumps appear on Max's skin.

“And slam me into a wall?” Max asks, passing his thumb on the cleaned lips, watching as Charles parts them slightly, his tongue deciding whether to lick Max's finger or not.

“Yes, I am the only one who can draw blood, others shouldn't waste it for us,” Charles whispers, opening his legs so Max can slip a thigh in between them.

"Be prepared for next year, you and the gravel will have a deep and meaningful relationship,” Max grins on Charles' lips, caring to angle his face so as not to touch Charles' broken nose.

“Fuck you,” Charles laughs on his lips, before kissing Max, latching his bruised hands behind his neck.

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baku 2017

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x

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we have been blessed in these 24 hours

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insane facecard

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https://x.com/ln4jpg/status/1943757096635232763?s=46

Cute 🤍

Omg 🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹

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if you had to choose, not knowing the context, which pair would you choose?

just asking for my wip cuz i’m indecisive as hell…

thanks everyone!!🫶

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Lando for Ralph Lauren (via buckethatlando on X)

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i have a little request for a max fic. he has been soft launching his gf for a while but no one has ever seen her and doubts she actually exists so they all the grid, horner,GP,fans continuously tease him for it. but in Silverstone he tells pr team his gf coming. n its literally Princess of Wales

the crown - MV1

Masterlist

summary: Max Verstappen has been soft-launching his girlfriend for months, but no one believes she’s real. Until Silverstone, when he tells the Red Bull PR team she’ll be joining him — and the entire world loses its mind when the Princess of Wales steps out of his car.

warnings: royal!reader, fictional monarchy, fame x fame, soft launch chaos, teasing, media frenzy, Red Bull garage madness, fluff, possessive Max, protective PR team, public debut, implied smut at the end, Christian Horner losing his mind

The jokes start in Bahrain.

You’d been mentioned once in an offhand comment during Max’s media duties.

“Max, what do you do on your days off?”

He blinked, shrugged. “Mostly spend time with my girlfriend.”

The world froze. The journalists leaned in. The transcript went viral.

Girlfriend???

No one had ever seen her. No names. No paparazzi photos. No tagged pictures. No hints. No scandals. No connections.

He didn’t even elaborate. Just smiled to himself like some smug bastard who’d found peace and wasn’t about to let the world ruin it.

The grid loses its mind.

Charles is the first to tease him, “Is she imaginary?”

“Shut up.”

George joins in. “Come on, mate. Is she AI?”

“No.”

Lando laughs for ten minutes straight. “You’re catfishing us.”

“I’m not.”

By Australia, the jokes are constant.

Christian Horner pulls Max aside at the Red Bull motorhome.

“Listen. If your imaginary girlfriend wants to come to a race, we’d love to meet her.”

“She’s not imaginary.”

“Of course not,” Christian grins. “And I’m the Queen of England.”

**

Fans catch on fast.

Memes flood social media.

‘Max Verstappen’s invisible girlfriend era’

‘Has anyone seen her and Batman in the same room?’

‘At this point I think it’s a goldfish’

**

The thing is, you’re real. Very real. And very private.

Because you’re not just his girlfriend. You’re Her Royal Highness, Princess of Wales.

The King’s niece. The late Princess Charlotte’s daughter. Media-trained since birth. Trilingual. Harvard-educated. Former Olympic equestrian. Full-time constitutional headache.

And Max has been obsessed with you since the first moment he saw you at a diplomatic charity gala two years ago.

You were wearing navy. He couldn’t speak for five full seconds.

You kissed him the second time you met.

He was yours after that.

**

Silverstone is chaos.

Max informs the Red Bull PR team four days before the race that you’ll be attending.

“Wait. She’s coming?” says GP, nearly dropping his iPad.

“Yes.”

“Like. Actually coming.”

“Yes.”

“Does she need security?”

“She is security.”

The morning of the race, Max arrives with tinted windows. The cameras swarm. So do the fans. Everyone’s screaming. Then the passenger door opens. And you step out.

Chanel cream coat. Diamond brooch. Sunglasses. Bare legs. Royal wave. Untouchable aura. Two royal guards behind you.

Silence.

The crowd goes feral.

MAX VERSTAPPEN ARRIVES AT SILVERSTONE WITH THE PRINCESS OF WALES “MAX’S GIRLFRIEND IS LITERALLY ROYALTY” “MAX DIDN’T SOFT LAUNCH A GF HE LAUNCHED A FUCKING MONARCHY”

**

The Red Bull garage is speechless.

Christian Horner stands slack-jawed as you greet him with a firm handshake and a calm, “Lovely to meet you. Max speaks highly of you.”

Lando stares. George turns purple.

Charles whispers, “Oh my god she’s real.”

You kiss Max on the cheek. He grabs your waist like it’s instinct. Everyone watches. No one blinks.

An hour later, during pre-race debrief, GP mutters into the headset: “Hey Max?”

“Yeah?”

“Your Majesty looks good in Red Bull colours.”

Max smirks. “Don’t I know it.”

That night, after the win, after the podium, after the champagne, after the dinner, you finally crash in the suite Max keeps for emergencies.

He slides between your legs like it’s home. Still buzzing. Still stunned.

“You sure you’re okay being seen?” he murmurs, kissing your collarbone.

You hum. “The world was going to find out eventually.”

“Everyone thought I made you up.”

You laugh softly. “Let them be jealous.”

Max grins, cocky and in love. “They fucking are.”