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[pucksandpower]

Yeah … I’m not sure how I feel about this.

I know Logan is far from the best driver on the grid but the way Williams has treated him this season and actively made it hard for him to show improvement, continue to develop, or work to succeed has really just left a bad taste in my mouth. Essentially dropping Logan for lack of performance when much of that was likely due to the team itself (considering the whole chassis issue and then the fact that he was made to run an experimental setup being tested for Miami last weekend) is not it.

Kimi is a fantastic driver — one who I have no doubt will succeed in Formula 1 soon — but he has barely even had a chance to find his bearings in Formula 2. What is the purpose of further shaking up his season only to put him in a backmarker car? There is no need to rush his development and put unnecessary pressure on his shoulders.

I just don’t see how this would make any sense.

[pucksandpower]

Crazy Cravings

Max Verstappen x wife!Reader

Summary: pregnancy cravings can make you (and your husband) do crazy things … neither of you particularly minds

Warnings: 18+ content and pregnancy

You sit in the Red Bull Racing garage, feeling the warm Spanish sun on your face through the open door. The roar of engines and whirring of power tools surrounds you as the mechanics prepare for the race.

Your eyes are drawn to the iconic blue and silver cans scattered around the garage. Those tantalizing cans of Red Bull that everyone else seems to be drinking so casually.

Everyone except you and Max, that is.

You rub your rounded belly, feeling your precious cargo kick and squirm inside you. At six months pregnant, your cravings have been … intense, to say the least. But none more powerful than your longing for the crisp, fizzy taste of Red Bull.

The caffeine is off limits, of course. You would never dream of jeopardizing your baby’s health. But oh, how you crave that sweet, energizing flavor that used to be such a routine part of your life.

Max emerges from the back room, his bright grey eyes instantly finding you. He strides over, that effortless confidence and raw athleticism making your heart flutter, even after all these years. His gaze drifts to the Red Bull can in a mechanic’s hand and a grimace crosses his face.

“Liefje, are you alright?” He murmurs, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face. “I know how much those are torturing you lately.”

You force a smile, not wanting him to worry. “I’m fine, Maxie. Just … ignoring the siren call of carbonated temptation.”

His thumb strokes your cheek as he studies you, clearly not convinced. Max has been so incredibly supportive during this pregnancy, abstaining from Red Bull himself in solidarity. Cutting out his biggest vice, just so you don’t have to be tormented by the sight and scent of it everywhere.

“We should get you out of here,” he says, looping an arm around your waist to help leverage your bulk out of the chair. “The smells can’t be helping those crazy cravings.”

You open your mouth to protest, not wanting to pull him away from his work, but a fresh wave of dizzying desire hits you as a mechanic cracks open another can. The fizzing hiss and unmistakable scent make your mouth water uncontrollably.

“Max ...” you whisper, feeling your throat tighten with barely restrained craving and hormonal tears prickling your eyes.

He follows your yearning gaze to the Red Bull can and understanding dawns. “Oh, liefje ...” Scooping you into his arms, he strides from the garage, shooting an apologetic look at his crew.

Once outside in the fresh air, you bury your face against Max’s shoulder, inhaling his familiar, comforting cologne as he carries you to the motorhome. He eases you onto the couch, brushing kisses along your forehead and temple.

“I’m so sorry, schatje,” he murmurs, anguish lining his handsome features. “I hate seeing you suffer like this. If there was any way I could make the cravings stop ...”

You catch his hand, lacing your fingers through his calloused ones. “Max, you know I would never actually ask you to give up Red Bull, right?”

He shakes his head fiercely. “Not being able to have it for nine months is nothing compared to your sacrifice, carrying our baby. I don’t deserve you.”

Pulling him down beside you, you cup the chiseled line of his jaw, making him meet your gaze. “I happen to think you deserve the very best, Mr. Verstappen. And right now, the very best for both of us would be ...” Your voice cracks with fresh longing. “A damn Red Bull.”

Max’s eyes blaze with sudden determination, that iron willpower that has made him a champion coming to life. “Then that’s what I’ll get you. If those tossers at Red Bull Company won’t make a safe, caffeine-free version for pregnant women, I’ll personally make them regret it.”

You laugh shakily. “Max, you can’t just bully a corporation into creating a new product line for one person’s weird craving!”

“You’re not just one person,” he growls, tangling his fingers in your hair and bringing his forehead to rest against yours. “You’re my everything. And our baby deserves for its mother to be happy and have her cravings satisfied.”

Pressing a fierce kiss to your lips, he adds, “I’m calling them right now. And then straight to the CEO, if I have to. I’ll get you that Red Bull if it’s the last thing I do.”

True to his word, the indomitable Max Verstappen spends the next several days working every possible connection and calling in every favor. You catch bits of conversations, his clipped tones making it clear just how serious he is about this bizarre quest.

“No, I don’t care if it’s not ‘cost-effective’. This is for my very pregnant wife ...”

“She’s risking her health to grow an entire person! The least your company can do is make a freaking caffeine-free energy drink ...”

The crew quickly learns not to open any Red Bull around you, lest they face the wrath of an overprotective Max. Which is slightly embarrassing … but also incredibly sweet.

Your hormones most definitely approve.

Finally, there’s a break in the stalemate. Helmut Marko himself shows up at the motor home, those bushy salt-and-pepper eyebrows furrowed.

“Max, this is ridiculous. They will not reconfigure an entire product line just because Y/N is having a little … craving.”

You brace yourself for the explosion, but Max just levels Helmut with that intense stare. “If you could experience these cravings yourself, you would be singing a different tune. Y/N is sacrificing everything to have our baby. The least Red Bull can do is give her a safe option to have the flavor she misses so much.”

Helmut’s expression softens slightly at the obvious devotion in Max’s voice. “You know that corporate will never go for it. Not for just one person ...”

“Then make it for all the other pregnant women dealing with the same issues,” Max returns, unruffled. “Or is a company that plasters ‘Gives You Wings’ on every can really too cowardly to follow through on empowering people?”

You suck in a shocked breath at his daring play. But the flicker of anger and resigned capitulation in Helmut’s eyes shows that it worked.

“Fine, you little shit,” the older man growls. “I’ll talk to product development. But I’m not making any promises!”

Except somehow … Max’s sheer bullheaded tenacity eventually batters through all the corporate resistance and red tape. Three weeks later, an unmistakable bright blue can appears on the counter, the iconic Red Bull logo stamped across it.

“What’s this?” You ask in confusion.

Max slides an arm around your waist, beaming proudly. “Open it and see.”

You crack the seal, sniffing cautiously … and almost melt at the nostalgic, beloved scent of Red Bull. But just as you start to panic about caffeine, you notice the slightly different flavor.

“Max, is this ...”

He nods, grinning. “Zero caffeine but all the taste you’ve been craving. No more tears over those damn energy drink cans, okay?”

Throwing your arms around him, you yank his head down to capture his mouth in a grateful kiss. “Have I mentioned lately how incredible you are?”

“Once or twice,” he jokes, then sobers, cupping your belly. “There’s nothing I wouldn’t do to make you and our baby happy.”

“You’re giving me everything I ever wanted and more.” You take a long pull of the perfectly flavored liquid, sighing in blissful satisfaction. “We hit the jackpot with you, Max Verstappen.”

He kisses you again, reveling in your obvious enjoyment. “The only jackpot I need is right here.”

***

Your baby bump has popped out to truly impressive proportions now at eight months along. What started as an innocent craving for Red Bull has escalated into an all-out physiological war.

Nothing seems to satisfy you for long — you’re a walking bundle of hormones and insatiable desires.

From the plush solitude of the Red Bull hospitality suite, you try not to gaze wistfully toward the Ferrari encampment. But you can’t resist fixating on the tantalizing cones of rich gelato constantly streaming from their hospitality tent.

Watching a couple of Ferrari mechanics stroll by, licking at scoops of pistachio and stracciatella, is enough to kickstart a powerful new yearning. Your mouth waters shamelessly as they pass, the creamy dessert leaving you weak in the knees. Before you can overthink it, you’re shuffling toward the entrance, one hand cradling your belly.

“Scusi,” you call out hesitantly as you peek inside. “Mi dispiace … is it possible to get some gelato?”

You half expect to be waved away — it’s well known that the Ferrari team is notoriously insular and protective of their spoils. But the cheerful greeting you receive is instantaneous and overwhelming.

“Madonna mia! Look at this beautiful piccina!”

Suddenly you’re engulfed by a whirlwind of chattering Italian voices, greeted by smiling faces from the team of elderly signoras who comprise the Ferrari hospitality staff. Weathered hands pat your belly and cheeks, clucking sympathetically at your swollen state.

“You poor bambina, absolutely enorme! Of course we’ll get you some gelato to refresh you. And biscotti too! You need to keep up your energy, si?”

You’re ushered toward a plush sofa, various grandmotherly types fussing over you like you’re the most delicate, precious thing. It’s … surprisingly wonderful. They clearly adore babies and pregnant women. You get the sense that indulging a mother-to-be is hardwired into their very beings.

A tray of gelato cups appears, the rainbow of flavors almost dazzling in their variety — chocolate, pistachio, prickly pear, lemon, stracciatella. Before you can reach for one, it’s plucked from your grasp.

“No no no! Leave it to Nonna Maria.” A stout signora with a green paisley dress and frosted silver curls shakes her head sternly. “I’ll start you with the lemon to whet your appetite. Then a nice creamy stracciatella as a proper treat for the bambino.”

The tangy flavor of the lemon gelato hits your craving exquisitely. As soon as you’ve polished off that cup, Nonna Maria presents another brimming with the creamy chocolate chip perfection of stracciatella. You moan in appreciation, unbothered by the chorus of approving noises from your doting new entourage.

Before you know it, you’ve been plied with cups of hazelnut, strawberry, and caramel flavors as well. These hospitable Italian ladies simply won’t be deterred from pampering a future mamma. As you scrape the last smears of gelato from a ramekin, a new grandmother settles on the sofa beside you.

“Now ... tell Nonna Gina what this little maschietto or bambina has been craving, eh?” She pats your belly affectionately. “We have chefs who can whip up anything your heart desires!”

Is it a pregnancy thing, this sudden wave of tears that blurs your vision? Or just being so insanely touched by the kindness and maternal care of these lovely strangers? You blink rapidly, swallowing hard.

“Honestly … gelato has been my biggest craving these past couple days. I don’t know if I can eat another bite.”

A chorus of disapproving gasps and tuts rises from the assembled grandmothers. “Bah! This pregnancy has ruined your appetite, piccina,” one crows, waving a hand dismissively. “We’ll soon get it back to rights, don’t you worry.”

For the next hour, you’re lavished with attention, fussed over and coddled like the most precious jewel. Cold drinks and chilled towels appear to keep you comfortable as the nonnas take turns sitting with you, petting your belly and swapping outrageous birth stories.

Their colorful Italian voices swell and ebb as they bicker over whose recipe for pasta al ragu is most authentic, who has the most grandchildren, and whose first-born grandson is most handsome.

It’s chaos and noise and overwhelming affection … and you’ve never felt so utterly content.

As the afternoon light slants golden through the awning, a familiar figure appears in the entrance, haloed by the fiery rays.

“Liefje? I’ve been looking everywhere ...” Max’s disbelieving gaze sweeps over the scene in front of him — you, surrounded by a veritable coven of grandmotherly Italians who seem entirely absorbed with you. “What in the world ...”

A chubby signora with a bright orange shawl wrapped around her ample form hops up, beaming widely. “Ahh! We have been absolutely spoiling your beautiful wife, of course. Did you know she had a craving for gelato? Well, no problem for us — we have taken her like one of our own bambinas!”

The others cluck and murmur in outraged agreement at his shocked expression.

“We absolutely will not let a piccina in such a state go hungry or uncomfortable! Now you sit down so we can get you a plate of some proper food too!”

Max gapes at you, utterly nonplussed as you grin back at him with unabashed glee, utterly stuffed with Italian desserts and reveling in the indulgent babying. You pat the space beside you invitingly.

“You’ve got to try Nonna Gina’s tiramisu, Maxie. It’ll knock your socks off.”

He settles beside you, slinging an arm around your shoulders and still looking rather dazed. But the instant the first warm smile and pat lands on his arm or knee, Max’s expression melts. This team of fussing Italian grandmothers has clearly adopted you both as their own.

Nonna Maria reappears, shoving a plate stacked with crispy arancini, indulgent risotto alla Milanese, and a creamy slice of tiramisu into your husband’s hands. “Eat up! You need to keep your strength up too, caring for this sweet cosa bella.” She plants bristly kisses on both your cheeks before scurrying off again.

Max watches her go, then turns to you with a bemused chuckle, squeezing you close. “Well, schatje. I have to hand it to you — at least your pregnancy cravings bring you to some … interesting places.”

You hum in agreement, perfectly content as you snuggle against his side. “Can you really think of a better place for me to nest?” You grin as another nonna appears to pat his cheek, welcoming him into the chaotic fold. “I think I may have just found my second family.”

He tilts your chin up, eyes sparkling with warmth. “Anything that makes you happy and keeps our baby healthy.”

As he kisses you tenderly, surrounded by clucking encouragement and rapturous croons of “bello, bellisimo” from your new Italian grandmothers, you know you’ve never felt so blissfully cherished.

You and Max make your way slowly back to the Red Bull motorhome, stuffed to the gills with gelato and trailed by a gaggle of besotted well-wishers calling out farewells and advice.

“I still can’t believe you managed to befriend the entirety of Ferrari hospitality,” Max laughs, helping ease you onto the couch in his driver’s room. He nudges your belly playfully. “This little one is shaping up to be quite the international charmer!”

“Says the man who single-handedly compelled Red Bull to create an entirely new product line,” you point out, patting your swollen middle contentedly. “I have a feeling this baby is going to be the most spoiled child on earth.”

Max settled beside you, gathering you close with a tender smile. “Can you blame all our people for wanting to give the world to you two?” His thumb traced your jawline reverently. “You’re carrying a little miracle, liefje.”

Your breath catches, as it so often did when he looks at you like that. Like you’re his entire universe. With so much pure adoration and love shining in those grey eyes.

“Our miracle,” you correct softly, cradling his calloused hand over your belly. “I couldn’t have done it without you. Not just supporting me … but giving me everything I could ever dream of.”

He opens his mouth like he wanted to protest, but you press on, needing him to understand how treasured he makes you feel.

“You don’t stop until I’m happy. Even when I get these raging, random cravings that probably seem crazy, you move heaven and earth to give me whatever I need. Most people would never ...”

“Neither of us is most people,” Max interrupts fiercely. He presses a searing kiss to your lips, then the swell of your abdomen. “You and our little one are my entire world. I’ll spend every day showing you how much I love you both, how grateful I am to have you in my life.”

Hormones raging, you pull his mouth back to yours, savoring the taste and feel of him surrounding you. When you finally part, you rest your forehead against his.

“In that case, you better rest up for tonight,” you tease. “I have a feeling that someone’s going to get a craving for sardines and waffles right around midnight.”

***

At nine months pregnant, you feel like a blissfully beached whale.

Your belly protrudes so massively that you can barely see your feet anymore. Simple tasks like tying your shoes or rolling over in bed have become awkward geometric obstacles. Max has to help you up from every chair or couch, his strong arms levering your frame into a vertical position.

Lingering in the paddock is no longer an option either. You’ve been gently but firmly ordered back home to Monaco to prepare for the baby’s arrival.

Thank goodness your nesting instincts are going full tilt — otherwise you might go stir crazy waiting for this little one to make their grand debut. You’ve rearranged and re-organized the nursery a dozen times, washed and rewashed all the tiny onesies and miniature accessories, and baked enough lactation cookies to feed an army of nursing mothers.

Really, there’s only one craving occupying your mind now …

The thump of shoes in the hall makes you look up eagerly. Max appears in the doorway of the sunlit nursery, loose waves of brown hair framing his face. The plain white tee stretches enticingly across his chest and shoulders, making your mouth water for an entirely different reason than food.

“Hey schatje,” he greets, eyes crinkling at the corners as he takes in your flushed cheeks. A knowing smirk tugs at one side of his mouth. “Were you just ... thinking about me?”

You shake your head adamantly, wincing as the motion makes your whole body ache in protest. “Maybe just a little. This particular craving is getting out of control.”

Crossing to you in two strides, Max cups your jaw and brings your lips crashing together in a searing kiss. His tongue sweeps demanding and possessive into your mouth, making you whimper faintly. That intoxicating masculine scent of fresh sweat, motor oil, and sandalwood surrounds you in an alluring cloud.

After all these years, just the taste and smell of your husband is enough to drench you in molten wanting. Baby or no baby, Max Verstappen is still the sexiest goddamn thing on two legs.

“Mmm, I know exactly what you need,” he rumbles against your neck, nipping a tingling path along your sensitive skin. “Luckily for you, I’ve got a free schedule all afternoon to help take care of this craving ...”

He scoops you into his arms effortlessly, cradling your heavy weight against his chest to carry you to the bedroom. You twine your arms shamelessly around his neck, luxuriating in the hard strength of his body against yours.

“Aren’t you worried about ... squashing the baby?”

“Not at all,” he deposits you carefully on the bed. Those bright grey eyes darken with blazing lust. “I’m going to take such good care of you and our little one.”

His hands and mouth seem to be everywhere at once — caressing, nibbling, and stroking every sensitive inch he can lavish adoring attention on. You keen softly when he dips his tongue into your navel, rubbing reverent circles over the tight swell of your belly.

“You’re so gorgeous like this,” Max murmurs, lips brushing the crease where your torso and bump meet. “So ripe and round and radiant with our child. My beautiful, strong girl ...”

All you can do is lie there gasping, overwhelmed in the best possible way. He strips you methodically, leaving a trail of scorching, openmouthed kisses over every newly exposed inch.

“My sexy little pregnant wife,” he husks, tongue dragging up the slick crease at the apex of your thighs. “Can’t resist this craving can you, liefje?”

His fingers plunge inside you, curling expertly as his mouth closes over your throbbing bud. You throw your head back shamelessly, mindless with pleasure as Max devours you.

So good, so unbearably good …

He ravishes you thoroughly, sending gushing waves of release crashing through your body over and over again until you’re gasping and quivering. Atoms of blissful satisfaction hum in your bloodstream as you float back into sweet oblivion.

An insistent nudge against your belly slowly rouses you. Max looms over you, hair deliciously rumpled and eyes glittering wickedly. “Did I satisfy that craving sufficiently? Or should I keep going?”

Your mouth curves in a greedy smile, hands gliding over his flexing shoulders and chest. “Again, please ...”

It had long since become a running gag around the paddock and team — before you were advised to stop flying. When you couldn’t be located, someone would joke that you must be off ravaging your utterly besotten husband yet again.

Max took the ribbing with surprising grace, grinning unrepentantly whenever his shirt collar revealed another blossom of lovebites discoloring the skin of his throat.

You really didn’t care about the teasing. You’re indulging an entirely healthy and normal craving — just a wife thoroughly appreciating her man.

“Can you believe people used to call this a punishment?” You giggle breathlessly one afternoon.

Max nips a stinging path along the soft skin of your inner thighs, tracing tantalizingly close to your heated center. He laves his tongue soothingly over the reddened marks, leering up at you from between your parted legs.

“Let them call it whatever they want. I’m just taking advantage of your hormones making you insatiable for me.”

“Mmm, well I can’t seem to resist your obscenely perfect body either,” you admit with a lazy stretch. “Maybe we really are being punished.”

One dark brow wings up eloquently as Max drags his eyes over you in a deliberately insolent perusal. Taking your leg in hand, he licks an achingly slow, filthy stripe up the crease where thigh meets hip.

You choke on a whimper, whole body jolting as he sucks a blossom of wet kisses into the satiny expanse of your inner thigh. Those bright grey eyes hold yours in wicked challenge as his clever tongue massages and swirls over your sensitized flesh.

“This certainly doesn’t seem like punishment to me,” he husks darkly. “Does it feel like punishment when I do this ...” His mouth moves higher. “Or this ...”

By the time he finishes torturing you into a quivering, needy wreck, you’re more than ready to beg.

“Please, Max!” You sob, bucking helplessly against the maddening sensations. “I need you, oh god I need you so bad ...”

He settles heavily over you, nuzzling your hair aside to trail searing kisses along your damp throat. “Then you shall have me. My needy wife can have whatever she craves ...”

It’s midway through one such shattering round of lovemaking that Max’s phone begins to ring shrilly. You try to disentangle, burning embarrassment tinting your cheeks, but he simply growls and clutches you tighter.

“Leave it!” He bites out, surging forward to recapture your mouth in a bruising clash of teeth and tongue between thrusts. “I’m busy ... satisfying … my wife ...”

After, as you lie tangled in a sweaty heap of satiation, you can’t resist asking with a wry smile, “Was that another craving I just demanded you satisfy?”

Max props himself up on one elbow, thumb stroking idly along your abdomen as his piercing gaze roams over your flushed, disheveled form.

“Whatever my wife needs,” he responds huskily. Those burning eyes promise infinite carnal delights to come as they caress your body. “I’ll always crave giving her everything she desires.”

He stretches beside you, a blissful smile curving his lips as you snuggle up against his side to exchange lazy kisses.

You’ve got a sneaking suspicion this is one craving that might outlast the pregnancy ...

[pucksandpower]

Ferrari giving Charles a competitive car (soon … hopefully) is going to hit like crack when we finally get him going wheel-to-wheel with Max again

[pucksandpower]

Smooth-Talker

Lando Norris x press officer!Reader

Summary: in which Lando has a pick up line for every occasion

“Did it hurt?” Lando asks, leaning casually against the wall outside the McLaren garage.

You glance up from your clipboard, raising an eyebrow. “Did what hurt?”

“When you fell from heaven,” Lando says with a cheeky grin.

You roll your eyes, but can’t help the smile tugging at your lips. As one of McLaren’s press officers, you’re used to Lando’s constant stream of corny pick up lines and good-natured flirting.

“You know, I think that line was old even when my grandpa used it.”

Lando clutches his chest dramatically. “Ouch, straight to the heart!”

You laugh and continue reviewing the schedule for the race weekend. Lando falls into step beside you as you start walking towards the paddock.

“But seriously,” Lando says, “You should be arrested.”

You glance over at him. “Oh? And why’s that?”

“For stealing my heart,” Lando says with a wink.

“Mhm, nice try,” you reply dryly, though you feel your cheeks flush slightly.

“Hey, are you religious?” Lando asks.

You raise an eyebrow. “Not particularly, why?”

“Cause you’re the answer to all my prayers,” Lando says earnestly.

You bite your lip to hide your smile. “That one was pretty good, not gonna lie.”

Lando pumps his fist triumphantly. “Yes! I knew you’d like that one.”

You reach the motorhome and pause, checking your watch. “Okay Casanova, I’ve got to prep for the press conference.”

“Before you go, quick question,” Lando says, gently catching your arm. “Do you have a map?”

You frown in confusion. “A map? What for?”

“Because I keep getting lost in your eyes,” Lando says softly, gazing at you.

You feel your heart skip a beat as you meet his own warm eyes. You open your mouth but no witty comeback comes out.

Lando grins and releases your arm. “I’ll see you later, Y/N.” He winks and saunters off towards the hospitality tent.

You watch him go, butterflies swirling in your stomach. You’ve always thought Lando was cute, with his curly hair and infectious smile that lights up any room. But since joining McLaren, your feelings have slowly deepened into something more. And based on his incessant flirting, you’re starting to think maybe, just maybe, he feels the same way.

Shaking your head, you refocus on the task at hand — prepping talking points for the upcoming press conference. Still, you can’t stop thinking about Lando and the way he always seems to make you blush and smile, even with his cheesy pick up lines.

Over the course of the race weekend, Lando continues his campaign of corny pick up lines and flirtatious banter. Between FP3 and qualifying, he sidles up next to you in the garage.

“You know what you would look really beautiful in?” He asks.

You glance over at him. “Hmm?”

“My arms,” Lando says with a cheeky wink.

You bite your lip, feeling your cheeks flush. “Lando, I’m trying to work here.”

“Sorry, sorry,” Lando says, though he’s clearly not sorry at all based on his impish grin.

Following qualifying, Lando scrambles out of his car after setting the fastest lap. He makes a beeline over to you through the celebrating crowd of papaya.

“Do you have a Band-Aid?” He asks urgently.

You frown, instantly concerned. “Are you bleeding? What happened?”

“No no, I’m fine,” Lando assures you. “I just scraped my knee falling for you,” he says with a roguish smile.

You cover your face with your hands to hide your blush. “Oh my god, Lando, that was terrible!” You try to look disapproving, but end up laughing.

“Worth it to see you smile,” Lando says warmly before darting off again.

On race day, you’re feeling anxious. As you pace around the paddock, you literally run into Lando.

“Whoa there!” Lando says, catching you by the shoulders. Concern flickers across his face. “You okay?”

You nod, acutely aware of his hands still resting on your shoulders. “Yeah, just nervous I guess.”

Lando rubs your arms reassuringly. “We’re gonna do great. And you know what else is great?”

You raise an eyebrow. “Hmm?”

“The view,” Lando says, gaze locked on you. “Pretty spectacular from where I’m standing.”

You duck your head, heart pounding. When you look back up, Lando is watching you closely. He seems to be debating saying something else. After a moment, he just squeezes your shoulder gently. “We’ve got this,” he says sincerely, before heading off to get ready for the race.

You take a deep breath, feeling bolstered by Lando’s encouragement and flirtatious comment.

The race gets underway and immediately descends into chaos. Multiple collisions on the first lap bring out the safety car. You watch anxiously from the garage as the pack circulates behind the safety car for several laps while the debris is cleared.

Finally the message comes across the radio - the race is going green again on the next lap. You glance at the screens and see Lando lining up in P3 for the restart. You cross your fingers and silently will him to have a clean restart.

The pack accelerates for the restart and manages to get through the first few corners without incident. Over the next 20 laps, Lando battles fiercely to maintain his podium position. Other drivers try to challenge him but he holds strong in P3.

With 10 laps to go, you’re on the edge of your seat watching Lando defend P3 with everything he’s got. Suddenly over the radio you hear Lando’s frustrated voice. “Something’s wrong with the car, it’s down on power.”

Your heart sinks as you listen to Lando’s increasingly concerned radio calls about the lack of power. He’s slowly losing positions as the laps tick down. By the last lap, he’s fallen from 3rd to 7th from the sudden power loss.

As Lando’s car limps across the finish line, you hurry down to meet him. He pulls off his helmet and balaclava, looking weary and disappointed.

“Lando, are you okay? What happened out there?” You ask worriedly.

“I’m fine. The car is just a bit banged up,” Lando says with a tired smile. “Not sure what happened with the engine yet though.”

You hesitate, then wrap Lando in a tight hug. “I’m glad you’re okay,” you murmur.

Lando seems surprised but hugs you back firmly. For a long moment, you stand there just holding each other, the sounds of the paddock fading away.

Finally you step back, smiling shyly up at Lando. “So, P7. Could’ve been worse I guess, considering the issues you had.”

Lando nods, scrubbing a hand through his wild curls. “Yeah, could’ve been much worse. I’ll take the points.” He smiles ruefully. “Not quite the podium I was hoping for to impress you though.”

You bite your lip. “Lando ...”

Lando rushes to fill the silence. “You know what’s on the podium of my heart?”

You sigh, though you feel your pulse quicken. “What?”

“You,” Lando says softly, gazing at you with open affection.

You stare at him, heart thumping wildly. Before you can overthink it, you grab his race suit and pull him in for a kiss. Lando makes a surprised sound before wrapping his arms around you and kissing you deeply. For a blissful moment, everything else fades away and it’s just the two of you.

When you finally break apart, you’re both slightly breathless. Lando has a dazed, elated look on his face. “Wow … so does this mean all my cheesy pick up lines finally worked?”

You laugh and smack his chest playfully. “I don’t know if I’d say they worked … but they did make it very clear someone has a crush on me.”

You smile up at Lando, enjoying the faint blush on his cheeks.

Lando grins. “Maybe just a small one,” he teases. His expression turns more serious. “I really care about you, Y/N. And I’d love to take you on a proper date, if you’d like?”

Your heart swells and you nod. “I’d really like that.”

Lando’s answering smile is bright enough to outshine the sun. He squeezes you in another quick hug. “I better go debrief about the race. But I’ll come find you after?”

You nod, giddy butterflies taking flight in your stomach. “It’s a date,” you say with a smile.

Lando heads off looking like he just won the championship, with a spring in his step and grin on his face. You brush your fingers over your still-tingling lips, scarcely able to believe that really just happened.

After Lando finishes his lengthy post-race debrief, he finds you packing up for the day in the paddock. “You ready?” He asks, bouncing excitedly on the balls of his feet.

You can’t help but smile at his enthusiasm. “Ready!”

You head out of the paddock hand-in-hand, both still riding the high of finally admitting your feelings for each other.

“Sooo, what exactly did you have in mind for this date?” You ask Lando curiously.

Lando grins. “Well first, how do you feel about Ferris wheels?”

You smile slowly. “I think Ferris wheels have potential to be very romantic.”

“That’s what I was thinking,” Lando says with a wink.

You spend the evening strolling around the nearby funfair, enjoying the lights and sounds. Lando wins you an oversized stuffed teddy bear playing carnival games. You share candy floss and corndogs while taking in the sights.

Finally, you hop in line for the Ferris wheel. When it’s your turn, you settle into the seat across from Lando. As the wheel lifts you into the night sky, you take in the sprawling city views.

Lando slides closer and slips his hand into yours. “Have I mentioned how beautiful you look tonight?”

You smile, loving how he still seems nervous even after kissing you earlier. “Smooth line, but I’ll allow it,” you tease gently.

Your Ferris wheel carriage reaches the top and pauses, giving you a panoramic view of the city at night. The lights twinkle like stars around you.

It’s magical.

Lando’s arm wraps around your shoulder, pulling you closer. Your heart races as you turn towards him. His eyes reflect the dazzling lights as he gazes at you. He brushes a loose strand of hair from your face, his touch igniting sparks along your skin.

As he leans in, you let your eyes flutter shut. His lips meet yours and the rest of the world fades away. Up here above the world, wrapped in Lando’s arms, you feel like you’re flying.

By the end of the night, your cheeks hurt from smiling so much. Lando walks you to your hotel room, fingers intertwined, reluctance slowing your steps.

Outside your door, you turn to face Lando. “Thank you for tonight, it was perfect.”

Lando smiles, tracing patterns on your palm with his thumb. “So I did alright for a first date then?”

You laugh. “You far exceeded expectations.” Your smile softens. “I’m really happy.”

“Me too,” Lando says, eyes shining. He takes a deep breath, looking uncharacteristically nervous again. “So, I was wondering … and feel free to say no obviously! But, um, I have two tickets to the Arctic Monkeys concert next weekend and was hoping maybe you’d want to ...” he trails off, biting his lip anxiously.

Your smile widens and you squeeze his hand. “I’d love to be your date to the concert.”

The answering grin that lights up Lando’s face is breathtaking. He punches the air, looking adorably excited. “Yes! This is going to be epic.”

You giggle at his antics. “Well this was a really fun first date. I can’t wait to see what other surprises you have planned.”

You lean in and kiss Lando softly. As you pull back, Lando clears his throat.

“Y/N, can I tell you something without you getting mad?”

You raise an eyebrow curiously. “Umm sure, I guess?”

Lando winces slightly. “I was wondering if you could give me directions ...”

You look confused. “Directions? To where?”

“To your heart,” Lando shoots you a cheesy grin.

You stare at him for a beat, then burst into laughter. “Oh my god, Lando, that was so corny!”

Lando just smiles unrepentantly. “Maybe, but did it work?”

You continue giggling and shake your head. “I don’t know why I find your cheesy lines so charming, but I do.”

You lean in and give him one more quick kiss. “Goodnight, Lando. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Lando’s eyes shine happily. “Sweet dreams, Y/N,” he says, squeezing your hand before slowly backing away towards the elevator.

You watch him walk down the hallway, giddy butterflies still fluttering away in your chest.

You have a feeling this is the start of something special. A lifetime of cheesy pick up lines sounds pretty damn perfect.

[pucksandpower]

“When I was making the set up changes I was like it can’t get any worse, surely and *giggles* it did.”

From fiagirly on X

[pucksandpower]

I hope this is coming off as unbiased as I mean for it to … but I would be very surprised if Red Bull Racing ends up signing Carlos for 2025.

Not because Carlos isn’t a great driver (he is) or because he doesn’t deserve a seat on a competitive team (he does), but because Red Bull is a team that performs best with an obvious first driver and second driver … and I don’t think Carlos will be content with that.

The incident (insert inchident joke here) between Carlos and Charles during the sprint cost Ferrari precious points and all but gave Checo the podium. That’s not something I see Red Bull or Max being particularly drawn to as they look to continue their domination next season.

I think Checo has come to understand his role as second driver on the team, which allows Red Bull and each of their drivers to maximize both individual as well as team performances. I would be very surprised if they decide to jeopardize that.

[pucksandpower]

Same energy

[pucksandpower]

This is my official petition to put Max Verstappen in one of these for races so the rest of the grid at least has a chance.

[pucksandpower]

Starting a GoFundMe to permanently keep Nico Rosberg on the Sky Sports F1 broadcast.

[pucksandpower]

hi!!! I have a request OwO ! Could you write something about Mattia Binotto? 𝚂𝚎𝚡𝚒𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝙵𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚊𝚛𝚒 𝚕𝚎𝚝 𝚐𝚘.

[pucksandpower]

Newsflash

Charles Leclerc x reporter!Reader

Summary: after two years as a paddock correspondent, you’re convinced that Charles Leclerc hates your guts for no apparent reason … but maybe everything is not what it seems

“Wake up, Y/N. It’s race day!”

Your colleague, Natalie, bursts into your hotel room without knocking, as usual. You groan and pull the covers over your head, not ready to face the chaos that is sure to ensue in the paddock.

“Come on, sleepyhead! We have to be at the track by seven this morning for pre-race meetings,” Natalie says, yanking the duvet off you.

“Alright, alright, I’m up!” You grumble, slowly swinging your legs over the side of the bed. “What time is it anyway?”

“5:30. Which reminds me, I need coffee,” Natalie says, already headed for the door. “Meet me in the lobby in 20!”

You spend the next 19 minutes hastily getting ready — putting on minimal makeup, throwing on your favorite jumpsuit, and frantically gathering up notes and gear for the day. You take one last glance in the mirror, trying to smooth down your bedhead, before resigning to just throw a cap on over the mess.

Hustling down to the lobby, there’s a rush of personnel all around — mechanics, engineers, PR reps, and media darting about with coffees and laptops and headsets already in place. You spot Natalie nursing a large black coffee and beeline over.

“Ready to do this?” She asks with a grin.

“As I’ll ever be,” you reply with a shrug. The truth is, the nerves are already bubbling up in your stomach. You love your job as an F1 reporter for Sky Sports, but the pressure and scrutiny is immense.

The two of you pile into a car with the rest of the broadcast crew and head to the track. On the ride, you glance over your meticulous notes on the teams and drivers one more time, paying special attention to Ferrari.

Ever since you started covering F1 two years ago, one driver has basically refused to give you the time of day — Charles Leclerc.

For some reason, whenever you are around, he bolts in the opposite direction. When you have attempted interviews, he literally turns and speedwalks away without a word. Other drivers will chat with you, joke around, and give thoughtful answers to questions.

But Charles? Nothing. Nada. Zilch.

You can’t figure out why he hates you so much. You’ve scoured your past comments and coverage looking for anything that could have offended him, but come up empty.

Is it something personal against you? Were you mean to him in a past life or something? It hurts, to be honest. You try to stay professional, but his obvious disdain for you still stings.

Sighing, you put your notes away as the car pulls into the paddock. It’s going to be a long day.

After hair, makeup, mic checks, and a final meeting, it’s nearly time for the broadcast to go live as cars start lining up on the grid. Nerves buzzing, you watch Charles warm up with his performance coach across the pit lane, headphones in and clearly in the zone. As always, he walks right past you without a flicker of acknowledgment.

Your heart twinges, but you swiftly push the hurt aside. It’s showtime.

The next few hours are a blur of rushed interviews, sound bites, stats flashing across screens, and organized chaos. After the race finally ends, there are more interviews, podium ceremonies, and press conferences to wade through before you can take a breath.

“Man, that was brutal!” Natalie huffs as the two of you finally plop down in chairs in the media room later that afternoon. She cracks open a Red Bull and takes a long drink. “You hanging in there?”

“Yeah, I’m alright,” you reply half-heartedly. The truth is, you’re drained — physically and mentally. And of course, the interaction with Charles, or lack thereof, is weighing heavy.

“Why do you let that pompous twerp get under your skin so much?” Natalie says with a frown, seeming to read your mind. “He’s a rude, stuck up jerk who isn’t worth the energy. Forget about him.”

You shake your head with a sigh. “You’re right, you’re right. I just … I don’t know, I never did anything to the guy, and it still stings.”

Just then, the door to the media room swings open, and Charles himself strides in. You inadvertently tense up as he approaches the couch, looking calm and confident in his usual Ferrari polo, and folds himself down between Max Verstappen and Lewis Hamilton, who rounded out the rest of the podium.

Here we go again, you think with an internal eye roll. Just gotta get this over with.

“Hello,” Charles says with an easy grin as he settles into his seat, “What have you got for us today?” Various reporters immediately start firing off questions, undoubtedly looking to get a headline from the race winner.

You gather your courage, take a breath, and call out “Charles, Y/N with Sky Sports here. Can you walk me through your thought process behind that daring pass on Lando in Turn 12?”

To your shock, the second Charles hears your voice, his whole demeanor shifts. He seems to freeze, shoulders hunching slightly, grin dropping from his face as his cheeks instantly flush deep red. He looks panicked almost, eyes darting around the room, before landing briefly on you.

“Uhh … b-bathroom. Need to go. Bye.”

And with that, he leaps up from the couch and practically sprints out of the room.

A stunned silence falls over the space as everyone stares, stunned, at the empty space he left. You feel your stomach drop through the floor, tears of embarrassment and humiliation prickling at your eyes.

What did you do wrong? Now he’s made a total spectacle, running away from you in front of your peers. Mortified, you shakily stand up, chair clanging backwards, and rush from the room as well. Needing air, you bolt outside until you find a secluded spot out back of the paddock, leaning against a wall as the tears flow freely.

“Hey, hey … what’s going on? Are you okay?”

The soft, concerned male voice startles you, and you gasp looking up. There stands Charles, looking alarmed and guilty.

“I-I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to freak out like that. Please don’t cry!” He moves closer, though still keeps his distance.

You blink rapidly, beyond confused. “What … what are you doing out here? I’m clearly the last person you want to be around.”

He sighs heavily, rubbing the back of his neck. “This is really hard for me to admit but … I like you. As in, I have the biggest crush on you. That’s why I get so flustered and basically black out anytime you talk to me. It’s pathetic, I know.”

Your jaw actually drops open in disbelief. “You … what? You like me? Is this a joke?”

“No! No, I swear, it’s the truth,” he says, face turning red again. “I know I come across like a total jerk, I just freeze up around you because honestly? You’re just so stunning and brilliant, and I get unbelievably shy and nervous. The words won’t come out. It’s like an out of body experience! I chicken out and run away like an idiot every time.”

You stare at him, trying to process this. All this time, all the hurt and embarrassment … it was just because he developed a crush?

“I’m so sorry for how I’ve treated you. I know it must seem like I despise you. The truth is, you make me feel like a stuttering teenager with my first crush again,” Charles continues, looking at you beseechingly. “I understand if you think I’m a total tool, and I have a lot of work to do to make this up to you. But I swear, I really do like you, Y/N.”

At this, his face splits into a sheepish grin, eyes twinkling with mirth. You feel a laugh bubble up in your chest as relief washes over you.

He doesn’t hate you. In fact, it’s quite the opposite! You appraise him, really looking at him for the first time. From his twinkling green eyes to his adorable dimples to the lock of chestnut hair falling across his forehead, he’s unbelievably charming.

You shake your head, smile growing. “So this whole time, you’ve just been acting like an awkward schoolboy instead of giving me any indication of your true feelings?”

Charles laughs self-consciously. “Embarrassing, I know. Look, I promise I’ll do better-”

“Yeah, you’ve got a lot to make up for,” you say, crossing your arms and giving Charles a playful but pointed look. “All the grief and heartache you’ve put me through the last two years? This calls for serious groveling, mister.”

Charles immediately drops to one knee dramatically. “Y/N Y/L/N, light of my life, apple of my eye. I am but a humble driver, unworthy of your affection. But if you would do me the extraordinary honor of allowing me to court you properly, I vow to spend every day showing you how enchanted I am by your wit, your beauty, and your strength.”

You can’t help but giggle at his over-the-top chivalrous display. “Oh get up, you goofball!” You grab his hand and pull him back to his feet. “I’m just teasing. Well, partially teasing. I do expect you to apologize to me properly. Take me to dinner or something.”

Charles visibly brightens. “Dinner? Really? Yes, absolutely! In fact, let me take you right now. We’ll go to that little trattoria down the road. You deserve to be wined and dined for putting up with me.”

You consider this for a moment, taking in his eager, handsome face. The truth is, despite his past behavior, you find yourself captivated by Charles now that you understand what was really going on. His confidence, talent, and intensity are wildly attractive. And the way he’s looking at you now, with softness and admiration in his eyes .... it sends tingles down your spine.

“Alright, lead the way, hot shot,” you say with a wink.

Charles’ grin stretches even wider, if possible. “After you,” he gestures forward with a flourish, then falls into step beside you as you head towards the exit.

“I really am sorry for being such an idiot around you,” Charles says quietly after a moment of walking in comfortable silence. “The way I’ve acted was totally unacceptable. You deserve so much better.”

You glance over at his earnest expression and feel a little pang in your chest. “It’s okay, really. I get it now. Just think how close we could have been this whole time though if you’d just … I don’t know, talked to me like a normal human being!”

Charles chuckles ruefully. “Oof, so true. Honestly, I’m impressed you didn’t write me off ages ago as a complete lost cause. Clearly you’re far more patient and forgiving than I deserve.”

“Yes, I really am,” you agree teasingly, giving his arm a playful shove. You both laugh as you reach the paddock exit and emerge out onto the bustling street, taking in the energy of the crowd.

You jokingly elbow Charles’ side. “Still though, as dashingly handsome as you may be, don’t think you’re completely off the hook! I expect to be wooed and romanced properly going forward. No more running off scared like you’ve seen a ghost!”

“It’s a deal,” Charles says easily, looking thrilled. “Romance and wooing, coming right up.”

Reaching the charming little restaurant, Charles opens the door for you with a sweeping bow. You grin and step inside. Somehow, you have the feeling this is going to be the start of a wonderful evening.

No more misunderstandings. Just the two of you, getting to know each other properly over a delicious meal with the slight chill of the evening settling in around you.

And you can’t wait.

***

The next few race weekends are a whirlwind as Charles seems to do a complete 180 in his behavior towards you.

Gone is the shy, nervous wreck who could barely look you in the eye. Instead, he goes full-steam in the opposite direction, seeking you out constantly and showering you with attention.

It starts the following week after Friday practice. You’re standing in the paddock scribbling notes when you sense someone approaching. Looking up, you see Charles striding over, helmet in hand, usual calm confidence exuding from him.

“Ah, Y/N, just the reporter I was looking for,” he says with a warm grin, sidling up beside you. “Walk with me?”

Flustered by his forwardness but flattered, you quickly nod. “Uh, sure!”

Charles immediately links his arm casually through yours and starts leading you away down the paddock, journalists and crew members glancing over with raised eyebrows. You catch Natalie’s eye and she mouths “WTF?” at you with a stunned look. You just give a tiny shrug, feeling your face heat up.

“So tell me, what did you think of my lap times today?” Charles asks once you’re a few paces away from the crowd.

You blink, surprised he’s looking for actual feedback. You decide to give an honest assessment. “Well, I think you were sliding the rear end quite a bit too much through Sector 2 and losing time. The car didn’t look fully settled-”

“Brilliant analysis as always, Y/N. I knew I could count on you to give it to me straight,” Charles interrupts with a respectful nod. You feel yourself preen slightly at his praise. “Some changes to differential settings should sort that out, I think.”

He then launches into a surprisingly technical explanation of his plans to adjust the setup. You find yourself nodding along, captivated, as he outlines the various weight transfer issues and how he aims to mitigate them.

He’s speaking to you like a true engineer, not just a reporter. You realize with a jolt that he’s never gone into this level of detail with you before in any interviews.

“Sorry, I’m rambling a bit here, aren’t I?” Charles says sheepishly when he pauses. “I don’t want to bore you with too much technical detail. But you just have such a good eye and ask such insightful questions, I find myself wanting to really dive into this side of racing with you.”

He gives your arm a soft squeeze. “Anyway, let me know if you have any other observations or advice. I trust your analysis completely.”

Before you can properly respond, the two of you round a corner only to nearly walk directly into Sergio Perez, who’s heading the opposite direction. He does a comical double take at seeing the two of you arm-in-arm together.

“Ah, hello Checo!” Charles says breezily, not releasing you or missing a beat. Sergio looks hilariously confused.

“Uh … hello?” is all he manages before Charles is steering you onwards.

“See you around, mate,” he tosses over his shoulder with a wink.

You glance back to see Sergio frozen in place, staring after you both looking utterly bewildered.

The weekend continues in this vein, with Charles constantly pulling you aside to chat at length about setups, strategies, even asking your opinion on development directions for next year’s car.

He treats you with the utmost seriousness and respect, like you’re one of his most trusted advisors. It’s shocking and flattering after the cold-shoulder treatment for so long.

Whenever the broadcast crew has a break, Charles inevitably finds you and whisks you off to look at telemetry data together (which sends a poor PR officer chasing after the two of you with an NDA after the first time Charles decides to pull you into the garage) or watch video, going into painstaking detail to get your thoughts.

By Sunday, it’s become a bit of a running joke among the team, with people exchanging amused glances whenever Charles appears to disappear with you once again.

“There goes Loverboy Sharl, dragging poor Y/N off yet again to pore over spreadsheets and onboard footage,” Natalie jokes with an eye roll during a break, making the crew laugh. “How does that man ever find time to, you know, actually race?”

You shoot her a heatless glare, though you have to admit — as sweet as it is having Charles’ undivided attention, as a reporter the over-accessibility is becoming a touch much.

When the race concludes later that afternoon, Charles immediately finds you amid the chaos of the media scrum.

“Y/N!” He beams down at you, still sweaty and in his racing suit with the top half unzipped. “Come take a look at the race data with me? I want to walk through my lap times and tire deg, see if we can spot any areas to improve ...”

“Actually, I’m sort of totally swamped right now,” you gesture at the sea of people around you. “But maybe later?”

His face falls slightly. “Oh. Well I suppose I did already monopolize a lot of your time this weekend. No rest for the media?”

He gives you a lopsided smile but there’s a flicker of disappointment in his eyes. You feel a little stab of guilt.

“Tell you what though,” he continues, brightening again. “Come find me later before we fly out. I’ll have a surprise waiting for you.”

“A surprise?” You ask with a raised brow. “What does that mean?”

“Ah ah ah, no hints!” Charles laughs, wagging a finger. “Just trust me. Don’t leave without seeing me first, okay?”

With that, he leans in and unexpectedly gives you a swift peck on the cheek. You freeze, eyes going wide, feeling your face flame. Pulling back, Charles winks cheekily at you before turning and sauntering off.

Dazed, you lift a hand to touch the spot he kissed, feeling the heat radiating from your cheek. Did he really just … right out in the open like that … with the cameras recording live?

Glancing around, you see Natalie and a few other crew members staring with mouths agape. Toto Wolff is even giving you an amused look as he walks past, one eyebrow arched knowingly. Utterly mortified, you duck your head down and hurry off to find a quiet corner to collect yourself.

The next race sees the flirting and PDA ramp up even higher. Charles can’t seem to resist finding any excuse to drape an arm around your waist, stroke your arm, or playfully tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. Every interaction has an undercurrent of flirtation and innuendo. And the cheek kisses become almost routine, pressed on you in front of other drivers, team bosses, cameramen, you name it.

“I can’t take you anywhere, can I?” You finally say in flustered exasperation after he ambushes you with a very public, lingering kiss on the cheek in the paddock one day. You struggle to sound annoyed, but a pleased grin tugs at the corners of your mouth as you say it.

“Sorry, ma chérie, I just can’t seem to resist around you,” Charles replies, absolutely zero shame in his voice or demeanor. “You’re lucky I have more self-control than to start making out right here in front of everyone!”

You gasp and slap his arm, scandalized, as he just throws his head back and laughs heartily.

Meanwhile, the double-takes and stunned looks from everyone around just keep coming. Even the normally straight-faced Fred Vasseur can’t seem to hold back smug grins whenever he sees the two of you getting cozy.

“Go on and get a room already, you two!” He finally chuckles one day as Charles passes by in the paddock with his usual arm draped around your waist.

“Don’t tempt me!” Charles quips back without missing a beat, giving you a roguish wink.

Soon, literally everyone in the paddock and broadcast team is aware of and commenting on the developing romance between you and Charles.

He makes no attempt to hide it whatsoever.

“Honestly, I think they’re the most nauseatingly adorable couple I’ve ever seen,” Jenson Button jokes to the rest of the broadcast team one evening as they all watch Charles throw his arm around you yet again and plant a smacking kiss on your temple.

“The honeymoon phase never ends with those two,” Natalie agrees in a wry tone, rolling her eyes. “It’s like they’re a pair of horny teenagers making out behind the bleachers.”

You just shake your head with a bashful smile and accept the good-natured ribbing. The truth is, despite Charles’ very public displays of affection causing some embarrassment and teasing from your colleagues, you find it hard to truly mind.

There’s an earnestness and joy in his demeanor whenever he’s with you that makes your heart swell. You’ve never seen him so openly happy and carefree as these past few weeks. Gone is the tightly wound, intense competitor. In his place is a warm, playful soul who can’t help but let his delight in your company shine through.

And you’d be lying if you said you didn’t find his romantic attentions flattering and thrilling. The way his gaze smolders when his eyes meet yours, the tingle of electricity you feel whenever his hand brushes yours, the butterflies that erupt in your stomach when his lips graze your cheek — it all makes you deliriously giddy, like a lovesick teenager yourself.

So you endure the good-natured eye rolls from Natalie and jokes from the broadcast crew with an easy smile. Because the truth is, you’ve realized how deeply you’ve fallen for Charles in return.

“You’ve got me utterly love drunk, you charming fool,” you murmur against his chest one evening.

The two of you are tucked away in a quiet corner, Charles’ back against the wall with his arms wrapped around you as you stand embraced, soaking in a few stolen moments of intimacy together.

“The feeling is mutual,” Charles replies easily, resting his chin on your head. “I’m not sure I’ll ever recover from this madness.” He pauses, absentmindedly stroking your back. “Honestly, I half expected you to get sick of me hanging around all the time by now.”

You pull back to meet his warm green eyes. “Are you kidding? I love having you around. I still have to pinch myself that you actually want to be with me after the way you treated me for so long!”

A flicker of regret passes across Charles’ features. “I truly am sorry for being such an ass before, Y/N. I hope with time you can forgive me.”

“Already forgiven,” you assure him softly. “We’re here now. That’s what matters.”

Relief blossoms on his face and he leans in to nuzzle his nose against yours. “Thank you, ma belle. For being the most patient and kind woman on earth.”

You grin, eyes fluttering closed as his breath tickles your skin. “Mmm, I wouldn’t go that far. But I guess I do possess some super-human tolerance for broody and aloof superstar drivers with commitment issues.”

Charles chuckles at that and you can feel the rumble of it against your body. “Lucky for me then, or I would still be utterly lost.”

His mouth finds yours then, soft and intoxicating. You melt into the kiss, savoring his warmth, his scent, the gentle stroke of his fingertips along your jaw. All semblance of poise escapes you when you’re pressed against Charles like this. He never fails to make your head spin and body thrum with want.

A polite cough from nearby causes you to break apart abruptly. You blink, dazed, to see Natalie standing with an eyebrow arched sky high.

“Hey lovebirds,” she says in a wry tone. “Sorry to disturb the sunset groping, but they’re calling for final broadcast checks in 10.”

Face flaming, you duck your head and extract yourself from Charles’ embrace. He just shoots Natalie a cheeky grin, entirely unabashed.

“Better get going then,” Charles says cheerfully, giving you a quick peck on the cheek. “Wouldn’t want you to be late because of me … again.” He winks.

Natalie rolls her eyes hard. “Oh I’m sure that would be a first. See you in 10, Y/N.”

With that, she turns on her heel and heads back towards the pits. You glance up at Charles shyly.

“I should … uh ...” You gesture vaguely.

“Yes, yes of course,” Charles says, squeezing your hands affectionately. “Work calls. Don’t worry, I’ll be waiting around the next corner to steal more kisses as soon as you’re free.”

You laugh and give him a playful shove. “Go on then, you impossible man! I’ll see you in a bit.”

Heart fluttering, you watch him saunter off before heading for the pits yourself, still feeling delightfully dazed.

This is really your life now. Surrounded by racing, the thrill of competition, the roar of engines … and consumed by budding love every time Charles Leclerc is near.

As far as dream jobs go, you think with a lovestruck smile, you’ve really hit the jackpot.

[pucksandpower]

So … the grass on the side of the track decided to spontaneously combust which is fun

[pucksandpower]

MILF

Toto Wolff x wife!Reader

Summary: Toto knows his wife is a MILF … but this doesn’t mean he is okay with his son’s friends calling you that

Warnings: teenage boys doing teenage boy things

Based on this request

“Pass the schnitzel, darling,” you say to your husband as the three of you sit down for dinner. Your teenage son has just gotten home from school, and you can’t wait to hear about his day.

Toto smiles at you as he passes the platter of breaded veal. “How was school?” He asks.

Lukas shrugs as he takes a bite. “It was okay,” he mumbles through a mouthful of food.

You give him a look. “Don’t talk with your mouth full, sweetie,” you gently chide. Even though he’s almost an adult now, you still see your little boy in him.

Lukas swallows and straightens up. “Sorry, Mum.”

“So tell us about your day,” you prompt. “Learn anything new and interesting?”

Your son fidgets in his seat. “Well … some of the guys were talking about you today.”

You raise your eyebrows in surprise. “Me? What about me?”

Lukas glances uncomfortably at his father. “Just … stuff they saw online. Paparazzi photos from when we were on the yacht last month.”

Toto sets his fork down, his expression darkening. He’s no stranger to being in the public eye, but he’s always been protective of you and Lukas. “What exactly were they saying?” He asks in a carefully neutral tone.

“They, uh …” Lukas rubs the back of his neck. “They called Mom a MILF.”

“A what?” Toto sputters, while you have to suppress a laugh. You’re familiar with the crude term, given your substantially younger age compared to your husband.

“It’s not funny!” Toto says indignantly. “I won’t have people objectifying my wife like that.”

You reach over and pat his arm. “It’s okay, dear. I’m not bothered by it.” You turn back to Lukas with an amused smile. “I’m flattered those boys think your old mom’s still got it.”

“You’re not old!” Lukas protests loyally. “It’s just, you know, you’re a lot younger than Vati, and you’re really pretty, so the guys notice.”

Toto scowls, but you grin and blow your son a kiss. “Thanks, sweetie.” Your playful reaction seems to visibly relax him.

“This is unacceptable,” Toto shakes his head. “I should call the school. Get those little punks suspended for sexual harassment.”

“Oh Toto, don’t be silly,” you wave dismissively. “They’re just teenage boys. I’m sure they didn’t mean any harm.”

“It doesn’t matter!” He insists. “Your dignity and privacy should be respected, not exploited. People think because we’re in the spotlight that they can say whatever vulgar nonsense they want.”

You reach over again and lace your fingers through his, giving his hand a gentle squeeze. “I know it bothers you, darling. But I married you knowing full well how public our lives would be. A little crude gossip comes with the territory.”

Toto opens his mouth to retort, then pauses, some of the indignation leaving his eyes. “I just don’t want anyone disrespecting you,” he says finally.

You smile softly. Even after all these years of marriage, your heart still flutters at his protectiveness. “I know. It’s one of the many things I love about you.”

Lukas makes a face. “Ugh, gross. Can you guys not be all mushy right now?”

You laugh and blow him another kiss. “Sorry Lukas. I can’t help it — your father’s the love of my life.”

Toto smiles back at you, the anger fading from his face. “And you’re mine, schatzi.”

Your son pretends to gag. “Seriously, stop. I’m trying to eat here.”

You chuckle and spear another bite of schnitzel. “Alright, we’ll behave. Now, tell me more about the rest of your day ...”

The conversation moves on to lighter topics as you finish up dinner. You listen attentively while Lukas fills you in on the drama with his friend group and his struggles in history class.

After clearing the dishes, the three of you move to the living room. You curl up next to Toto on the couch while Lukas sprawls out on the carpet to play video games.

You close your eyes contentedly and rest your head on your husband’s shoulder. Despite the lifestyle that being married to Toto provides you with, this right here is your happy place — your little family, spending a quiet evening at home.

Toto wraps an arm around you and presses a soft kiss to your temple. “Have I told you lately how lucky I am?” He murmurs.

You smile up at him. “Even after all these years, you still give me butterflies.”

“Good,” he says firmly. “I’ll tell you every day if I have to, until you’re sick of hearing it.”

Lukas groans loudly from the floor. “Could you guys be any more embarrassing?”

You and Toto both laugh. “What? I can’t tell my beautiful wife how much I love her?” He calls out in protest.

“Not when I’m right here!” Lukas complains. “Get a room or something.”

You grin mischievously. “That’s not a bad idea ...” you say, running a hand up your husband’s chest.

Toto’s eyes darken. “Minx,” he murmurs.

Lukas scrambles to his feet. “Okay, I’m out of here.” He gives you both a look of exaggerated disgust as he heads upstairs.

You and Toto chuckle as you listen to his bedroom door slam shut.

“Now, where were we?” Toto says in a low voice, pulling you closer. You bite your lip coyly as he presses his mouth to yours. No matter how many years go by, the chemistry between you is still electric.

You shift against him eagerly as the kiss deepens. His hands slide down to grip your hips, and you make a soft noise of pleasure. After nearly two decades of marriage, he knows exactly how to touch you.

“Tell me again,” you whisper when you finally break apart, slightly breathless.

Toto gazes into your eyes. “I love you,” he says sincerely. “I will always love you. Meeting you was the best thing that ever happened to me.”

You kiss him again, tenderly this time. “I love you too, Toto. Forever.”

No matter what people say or how famous you become, your relationship has always been grounded in this — the unwavering love between you. The rest of the world falls away when you’re together.

You rest your head contentedly on his shoulder again, his arms wrapped around you. This right here, next to the man who still looks at you like you hung the moon, is home.

***

The next day after school, Lukas comes home with a few of his friends in tow. You’re just finishing up putting away the groceries when you hear the chatter of teenage voices approaching.

“Hey Mum, we’re gonna hang out downstairs,” Lukas calls out as the group of boys raids the kitchen fridge for snacks.

You smile and give them a little wave. “Hi boys. There’s more drinks in the pantry if you need it.”

The teenagers rumble acknowledgements through mouthfuls of food before thundering downstairs to your home theater room. You chuckle and shake your head. Teenage appetites are truly a phenomenon.

You’re straightening up the living room when you hear the front door open again, signaling Toto’s return from work.

“Hello, liebling,” he greets you warmly, sweeping you into an embrace.

You kiss him in welcome. “How was work today?”

“The usual madness,” he sighs. “But coming home to you makes it all worthwhile.”

You smile up at him adoringly. Even after all these years, your heart still flutters at his smooth compliments.

“Oh, Lukas has some friends over,” you mention. “They’re downstairs watching movies or playing video games.”

Toto frowns a little. “Those wouldn’t happen to be the same friends who were objectifying you?”

You pat his chest placatingly. “Now dear, we talked about this. Don’t make a fuss.”

“Hmph.” He still looks slightly disgruntled. “Well, I should at least go down and say hello.”

You follow him downstairs, where the group of teenage boys are sprawled out on the sofas engrossed in some action movie. Explosions boom from the surround sound system as CGI buildings crumble onscreen.

They look up when you and Toto enter. “Oh hey Mr. Wolff,” one of them says.

“Vati, you remember my friends right?” Lukas introduces. “Jason, Andrew, Ryan, and David.”

“Ah yes, nice to see you boys again,” Toto says smoothly.

Too smoothly.

You can sense the storm brewing beneath his polite façade.

Sure enough, as the teens’ attention returns to the movie, Toto clears his throat. “So I heard you boys were discussing my wife the other day.”

The room goes silent, save for the cinematic explosions still blaring through the speakers. The boys glance around uneasily.

“Um, we didn’t mean anything bad by it,” David finally offers timidly.

Toto raises an eyebrow. “Oh? So objectifying and sexualizing a married woman is not meant to be disrespectful?”

The teens squirm under his icy stare. You put a warning hand on your husband’s arm, but he continues.

“Let me tell you something about my wife,” he says, an edge creeping into his tone. “She is an elegant, successful, and highly intelligent woman. Not some piece of meat for you ogling schoolboys to drool over.”

The chastised boys all mumble apologies and stare fixedly at the floor.

Toto points a stern finger at them. “I trust there will be no further vulgar comments, or you won’t be welcome in this house again.”

“Yes sir,” they mutter. Lukas looks like he wants the leather couch to swallow him whole. You have to stifle a smile at your husband’s overprotective papa bear routine.

“Good. I’m glad we understand each other.” Toto straightens his suit jacket. “Now you boys enjoy your … movie.”

He turns and heads back upstairs, with you following after an apologetic smile to the shell-shocked teens.

Once you’re out of earshot, you swat his shoulder reproachfully. “Toto! Did you really need to traumatize the poor kids?”

“I didn’t traumatize them,” he huffs. “I just … explained a few things.” At your skeptical look, he amends “ … Firmly.”

You shake your head in exasperation. “You’re impossible. I thought I asked you not to make a fuss.”

He takes your hands earnestly. “I’m sorry, schatzi. I just can’t stand anyone disrespecting you. You deserve to be treated like a queen.”

You soften at the sincerity in his eyes. “Oh Toto. You’re too good to me.” You wrap your arms around him in a conciliatory hug.

He holds you close. “Nonsense. I’ll spend every day proving you’re the most important thing in the world to me.”

You snuggle against his chest, reminded yet again how lucky you are. Even when he overreacts, you know it comes from a place of devotion.

“Just promise me you’ll go easy on the boys,” you say wryly as you pull back. “I think you scared them straight for life.”

Toto smiles ruefully. “I suppose I did get a bit … intense. But the message won’t do any harm.”

You laugh and kiss his cheek. “My noble protector.”

He grins. “Proudly.”

Later, as the boys are getting ready to leave, Toto stops them at the front door.

“Before you go, I have one more thing to say,” he announces. The teens glance at each other nervously.

Toto looks each of them in the eye. “If I ever hear of you disrespecting my wife again, I won’t be so kind. You see, she’s actually a MIDF … Mother I Do Fuck.” He enunciates the words pointedly.

The teens’ eyes widen in horror, and Lukas turns bright red. “Vati!” He hisses in embarrassment.

Toto ignores him. “So I would appreciate it if you kept your crude comments to yourselves next time.” He gives them a tight smile. “Are we clear?”

The boys nod rapidly. “Yes sir. Crystal clear, Mr. Wolff,” one mumbles.

“Good.” Toto claps his hands together. “Then get home safely.”

After the front door shuts behind the fleeing teens, Lukas rounds on his father. “Oh my god, Vati! Why would you say that?”

He shrugs unapologetically. “I wanted to make sure they got the message loud and clear this time.”

Lukas just shakes his head in mortification before stomping upstairs.

You slide your arms around your unrepentant husband. “You just couldn’t resist, could you?”

“They left with a healthy dose of fear and respect,” Toto says smugly. “I think my work here is done.”

[pucksandpower]

happy birthday, i hope you have a wonderful day!!! your fic “that’s not my name” is absolutely incredible, and now all i can think is how toto would react if the kids (as pre-teen) come home saying that someone in school called their mom a milf, it would be hilarious. ps: sorry any mistake, i dont speak english

Thank you so much for this request, my love! I decided to make it a standalone fic separate from That’s Not My Name but I still tried to capture that same spirit. You can read it here 🫶

[pucksandpower]

The babygirlification of Fernando Alonso has made people forget what an absolute menace he was and I won’t stand for that.

This is the same man who once said “I knew he would hit the brakes because he has a wife and two kids waiting for him at home” after overtaking Michael Schumacher.

Fernando deserves to be thought of as the evil mastermind he always has and continues to be.

[pucksandpower]

Fashionably Challenged

Max Verstappen x Reader

Summary: you and Max may not exactly be the paddock’s most stylish couple, but you wouldn’t want it any other way

You wake up to the sound of Max rummaging through the closet of your shared hotel suite. Rolling over, you see him laying out two matching outfits — the Red Bull Racing team polos, skinny jeans, and sneakers you’ve grown accustomed to over the years.

One set for him, one set for you.

“Morning, liefje,” he says, catching your gaze. “I have our outfits for the day ready to go.”

You smile sleepily. “Thanks, babe. You know me too well.”

Max grins as he walks over and climbs back into bed, throwing an arm around you. “Of course I do. Can’t have my girlfriend showing up to races looking anything less than perfect.”

You laugh and playfully shove him. “Oh shut up. You know I’d show up in a potato sack if I could.”

“Don’t even joke about that,” he says with mock seriousness. “I would never let you embarrass me like that.”

“Embarrass you?” You scoff. “Please, like you even notice what I’m wearing half the time. You’re just as bad as me when it comes to fashion.”

Max opens his mouth to protest but then shuts it, shrugging in admission. “Okay, fair point. But that’s why I always get you the same thing I’m wearing. So there’s no way we can mess it up.”

You consider this for a moment. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. We make a pretty fashionably challenged couple.”

“The most fashionably challenged,” he agrees with a laugh. He pauses, gaze growing serious. “But I like it that way. I like that we match.”

Warmth blooms in your chest. “Me too.”

The morning passes quickly as you get ready for the race. True to form, you both pull on the matching outfits without a second thought. As you’re walking out to the car, Max stops you.

“Wait,” he says, taking your hand and turning you to face him. He looks you up and down appraisingly. “You look perfect, just like always.”

You can’t help but beam at the compliment. “Have I told you lately how much I love you?”

He grins. “Not nearly enough.”

“Well I do,” you say, leaning in to kiss him. “I love you so much.”

“I love you too, schatje,” Max murmurs against your lips. “Now let’s go kick some ass today.”

The race goes well, Max taking the checkered flag to the roar of the crowds. As you’re waiting to congratulate him, a podcaster approaches you with a microphone.

“Hi there,” she says brightly. “I’m Lottie from The Racing Line. I was wondering if I could ask you a couple quick questions?”

“Oh, um, sure,” you’re a bit caught off guard.

“Great! So first off, you and Max always seem to be wearing matching outfits to the races. Is that something you two purposely coordinate as a cute couple thing?”

You feel your cheeks flush slightly. “Oh no, not at all actually. The truth is neither of us have much fashion sense at all. So Max just gets me the female version of whatever he’s wearing to make it easy.”

The podcaster looks disappointed. “Oh, I see. So it’s not some adorable couple tradition then?”

“Well, I mean, I guess in a way it kind of is?” You say quickly, feeling guilty. “Neither of us are really into fashion, so we end up matching by default anyway. I think it’s sweet that we always end up coordinating without even trying because we’re just so in sync.”

She perks up at that. “Aww, okay, I can see that! So even though it’s not on purpose, you’ve made your own cute little tradition out of it just by being so aligned. That’s really romantic.”

You nod, smiling softly. “Yeah, I guess you could say that.”

“Well thank you so much for your time,” she shakes your hand. “And congratulations to Max on another win!”

“Thank you,” you reply as she walks away.

A few minutes later Max emerges, helmet under his arm and face lit up in that way you love. You throw your arms around him, pulling him into a tight hug.

“Congratulations baby, you were amazing out there as always.”

“Thank you, schatje,” he says, squeezing you close. He pauses, smile turning teasing. “Did you enjoy chatting with that podcaster earlier?”

You pull back, eyes narrowing. “You saw that, did you?”

He chuckles. “Of course I did. I always notice you.”

“Well then you also saw me have to completely backtrack and come up with some sappy story for why we match when she thought it was a cutesy couple thing,” you say dryly.

Max shrugs. “It kind of is though, isn’t it? Maybe not on purpose, but it’s become our thing.”

“I guess you’re right,” you admit. “I told her it was romantic how in sync we are, always coordinating outfits without even trying.”

“Hmm, I like that,” he says, grinning. “We really are pretty in sync, aren’t we? Two fashionably hopeless peas in a pod.”

You laugh. “That we are.” You look at him fondly. “But I love our way better than being one of those obnoxiously coordinated couples.”

“Me too,” he agrees. “Though I will admit ...” His gaze grows more serious. “Part of the reason I like matching is because it makes me happy to walk around wearing the same thing as you. Like we’re a unit, you know?”

Your heart skips a beat at the soft vulnerability in his voice. “Max Verstappen, you big old romantic,” you tease gently.

He shrugs but you can see the pleased look in his eyes. Sudden understanding washes over you.

“Wait a minute … is that why you got me the same outfit the first time? Not just because you thought it would be easier, but because you wanted us to match?”

Max stays silent for a moment before breaking into a sheepish grin. “You caught me.”

“Oh my god!” You shove his shoulder playfully. “You big sap!”

“What can I say? I like having my girl on my arm looking like the power couple we are,” Max says, pulling you close again. “Fashionably challenged or not.”

“If only everyone out there making you out to be the villain could see the cuddly teddy bear you really are. I absolutely love it,” you murmur, stretching up to kiss him. You can feel him smile against your lips.

As you break apart, Max squeezes your hand. “Come on, let’s go celebrate. In new matching outfits, of course.”

You pretend to roll your eyes exaggeratingly but allow him to lead you towards the exit, your hands intertwined. You truly wouldn’t have it any other way.

***

You and Max are curled up on the couch in your hotel room, his arm draped around you as you lean into his side. It’s a rare quiet moment between races and you’re savoring the feeling of Max’s fingers gently carding through your hair.

“Hey Max?” You say after a few minutes of comfortable silence.

“Hmm?” He hums in response, not looking away from the football match on the TV.

“I got an interesting offer today.”

That piques his interest and he turns his head to look at you. “Oh yeah? What kind of offer?”

You take a deep breath before answering. “A sponsorship deal, actually. From Oscar de la Renta.”

Max raises his eyebrows in surprise. “Wow, that’s … really great, liefje. I’m so happy for you.”

But something in his tone makes you frown slightly. “Are you though? You don’t sound that excited.”

He gives you a half smile. “No, no, I am! That’s a huge opportunity for your career and image. Having that kind of sponsorship deal is amazing.”

“But?” You prod knowingly.

Max lets out a breath, smile fading. “But I guess part of me is a little disappointed and maybe … worried?”

“About what?”

“Well,” he shifts uncomfortably. “I like being the one who picks out your outfits for the races. Our little unintentional matching tradition has kind of become my thing, you know? I’m worried if you get sponsored by some big designer brand you won’t wear the outfits I pick out anymore. That we won’t match.”

His tone is carefully casual but you can hear the undercurrent of vulnerability. Your heart clenches in your chest.

“Oh Max ...” you murmur, reaching up to cup his cheek. “You really like our matching outfits that much?”

He averts his eyes but nods. “Yeah. I know it sounds silly, but I just … I like how in sync we are. How happy it makes me feel when we show up to the races looking like a real team. Like we’re truly partners in everything. I don’t want to lose that.”

The softness in his voice breaks your heart a little. You take his hand and give it a squeeze.

“You have no idea how happy I am to hear you say that,” you tell him gently. “Because I never would have accepted that offer anyway.”

Max blinks in surprise. “You wouldn’t?”

You shake your head. “Not a chance. First of all, they were pressuring me to only wear very high-end stuff, none of which really feels like my personal style. But more importantly ...” You lean in closer, maintaining eye contact. “They don’t have a men’s collection. So they couldn’t sponsor you too.”

Realization lights up his gaze. “Oh ...” he says softly.

You nod. “Exactly. I told them thanks but no thanks. Because no designer wardrobe is worth giving up what we have.”

Max looks stunned. “You … you turned them down? Just to keep matching with me?”

“Of course I did,” you say affectionately, poking his chest. “I would never give that up. How could I say yes to some fancy sponsorship that meant not having my fashionably challenged other half by my side, both looking like total goofballs in the one outfit the world thinks makes up the entirety of our closet?”

A slow smile spreads across his face and he pulls you into his arms, hugging you tightly. “God, I love you,” he murmurs into your hair. “So much.”

You relax into his embrace, overwhelmed by the rush of affection. “I love you too,” you whisper. You pull back slightly to look at him. “Did you really think I’d give up matching with you over that?”

“I don’t know,” he admits, looking a little sheepish. “I guess a small part of me was worried maybe you’d be tempted by the glamor and exposure of being a designer brand ambassador.”

“You know me better than that,” you affirm. “Our matching looks are too special to me. I adore everything about our little tradition — the fact that it started because neither of us cares about fashion, to you always picking out my outfits, and how happy it makes both of us to show up to races coordinating with each other.”

You take Max’s hand, intertwining your fingers. “Don’t you see, my love? It’s not really about the clothes at all, it’s about us. About how perfectly aligned we are in this little part of our lives. And I wouldn’t change that for the world.”

Max’s eyes have gone suspiciously bright, his free hand reaching up to cradle your face. “But liefje … you could have had any designer clothing you wanted.” His voice is thick with emotion. “You turned that down … for me?”

Unable to find the words, you just nod, blinking back your own tears.

“I can’t believe it,” Max breathes out shakily. “You never cease to amaze me.”

You offer him a watery smile. “Well believe it, my love. Because there’s nothing in the world more precious to me than you and our bond. I wouldn’t sacrifice that for anything.”

A single tear escapes to trail down Max’s cheek and you quickly brush it away with your thumb. Seeming at a loss for words, he pulls you into a fierce hug, tucking your head under his chin as you settle into his embrace.

“I love you,” he finally whispers into your hair. “So damn much.”

“I love you too.” You pepper kisses along his neck and jaw until you reach his lips, capturing them in a deep, slow kiss that tries to convey every unspoken word of devotion and adoration.

When you finally break apart, Max gazes at you with an intensity that makes your breath catch.

“God, you really are perfect,” he murmurs, running a hand reverently through your hair. “I’m the luckiest man in the world.”

“No,” you shake your head with a soft smile. “I’m the lucky one. To have someone who loves me so fiercely, someone I love just as much in return.”

Max lets out a watery chuckle. “I think we’re both the lucky ones then.”

You settle back against his chest as he wraps his arms securely around you. For a while neither of you speaks, lost in your own thoughts as you simply bask in each other’s presence. You let your eyes drift shut as Max’s fingers resume their gentle motions through your hair.

Eventually you break the silence.

“You know we’re going to have to get even cuter matching outfits now to make up for it,” you murmur teasingly.

Max’s chest rumbles with laughter against your cheek. “Deal. Anything you want, schatje. I’ll make sure we’re the most adorable fashionably challenged couple at every single race from now on.”

You smile at the warmth and conviction in his voice. “No one could ever call us uncoordinated.”

“Never,” Max affirms, dropping a soft kiss to the top of your head. “We’re perfectly matched in every way that matters.”

You sigh contentedly as you snuggle further into his embrace. In that moment, you know he’s absolutely right. You couldn’t imagine a better match than your Max.

[pucksandpower]

A live look at me writing while trying to ignore that most drivers are shorter and skinnier than me