chiyoszn

[chiyoszn]

Seasoned Just Right

☆Summary: You’re the team chef for Visa Cash App RB. Yuki never misses a meal—or a chance to tease you. But somewhere between the kitchen banter and taste tests, something more starts simmering.

☆Pairing: Yuki Tsunoda x Fem!Chef!Reader

☆•°.☆°.•☆.•°☆°•.☆•.°☆.•°☆°•.☆•.°☆.•°☆.°•☆°•.☆.°•

You should’ve known Yuki would be your biggest problem.

Not because he was rude. Or difficult. Or picky.

No—he was your problem because he kept showing up just when you were thinking about him.

“Let me guess,” you muttered, not even turning around. “You’re not here to help chop onions, are you?”

Behind you, Yuki’s voice was bright and smug. “Why would I ruin perfection by helping?”

You glanced over your shoulder with a raised eyebrow. “Perfection? The dish, or me?”

He leaned lazily against the prep counter, arms crossed. “I meant the dish. But now that you mention it…”

You rolled your eyes, but your lips twitched before you could stop them. Damn him.

Ever since the start of the season, Yuki had made your kitchen tent his second home. It started with early breakfasts. Then mid-morning snacks. Then “accidental” visits during your breaks. Every day without fail.

“I’m not doing taste tests right now,” you warned, shoving trays into the warmer. “Come back in an hour.”

“I didn’t come for taste tests,” he said.

You turned. “Really?”

Yuki tilted his head, grin crooked. “Well, maybe just one.”

You sighed and handed him a spoonful of rice topped with tamagoyaki. He tasted it. Chewed. Closed his eyes.

“Mmm,” he said dramatically, tapping his fingers against his lips. “It’s missing something.”

You stared at him in disbelief. “Missing something?”

“Yeah,” he said, opening one eye and smirking. “A dinner invite.”

You threw a dish towel at him. “Out.”

☆•°.☆°.•☆.•°☆°•.☆•.°☆.•°☆°•.☆•.°☆.•°☆.°•☆°•.☆.°•

The truth was, you didn’t mind when he came around.

Not really.

You’d been traveling with the team for a year and a half, and while the crew was amazing, no one lingered the way Yuki did. No one made your work feel… seen. Not like him.

He knew the difference between your focused frown and your overwhelmed one. He knew when to tease and when to quietly keep you company, eating rice straight out of a paper bowl beside you. He noticed when you added sesame oil because he said he liked it. He noticed everything.

And yeah, okay—you noticed him too.

The way his voice went soft when he said your name. The way he always finished his food. The way his hoodie sleeves were always too long and his eyelashes way too unfairly pretty.

Ugh.

☆•°.☆°.•☆.•°☆°•.☆•.°☆.•°☆°•.☆•.°☆.•°☆.°•☆°•.☆.°•

One night, after a chaotic double race weekend, you were cleaning up the kitchen late. Most of the team had gone back to the hotel. Your headphones were in, sleeves rolled up, music low.

You didn’t notice him at first.

But then a familiar scent hit your nose—instant noodles.

You turned.

Yuki stood by the counter, two cups in hand. He held one out to you like peace offering.

“Thought you’d be hungry,” he said. “You fed the whole team. Who fed you?”

You stared at him, your throat tightening unexpectedly.

“I’m okay,” you said, wiping your hands on your apron. “Just finishing up.”

He stepped closer, brows furrowed. “You haven’t eaten, have you?”

You hesitated.

Yuki reached forward and gently placed the cup in your hand. “Sit. Just for five minutes.”

You obeyed. Maybe it was the exhaustion. Maybe it was him.

He pulled up a crate and sat beside you, legs stretched out, silence settling soft between you.

“Do you like it?” he asked after a minute, nudging your arm.

“The noodles?”

He smiled. “The job.”

You looked around the now-empty tent. The leftover steam. The quiet.

“I do,” you said softly. “It’s hard sometimes. But it’s worth it.”

He nodded. “You make it feel like home.”

Your eyes snapped to his.

His voice was quieter now. “All the traveling. The chaos. The pressure. It gets a lot. But when I come here and you’re just… here. With food. With that look on your face when you’re in the zone. It helps.”

You didn’t know what to say. So you stared at him instead. Your heart thudding like a spoon against a metal pot.

“You’re always hungry,” you teased weakly.

He grinned. “I’m not just hungry for food, you know.”

“…Yuki.”

He reached forward, brushing a bit of flour from your cheek.

His fingers lingered.

“You cook for everyone,” he said. “But I think I’m the only one who gets your secret dishes.”

You swallowed. “Maybe.”

He leaned a little closer. “So maybe… I’m your favorite.”

You didn’t deny it.

And he didn’t kiss you. Not yet. But he didn’t have to.

Because the way he looked at you right then—like you were something warm, and comforting, and his—was more than enough.

☆•°.☆°.•☆.•°☆°•.☆•.°☆.•°☆°•.☆•.°☆.•°☆.°•☆°•.☆.°•

Later that night, you found a note tucked into one of your prep containers.

I don’t need dessert.

You’re already the sweetest thing in the paddock.

– Y

[chiyoszn]

This dream isn't feeling sweet

☆Pairing: Kimi Antonelli x Bestfriend!Reader

You’d known Kimi since before you even knew how to spell his name.

First steps, first scraped knees, first heartbreaks — you shared them all, sprawled across living room floors, biking through summer streets, falling asleep during movie marathons. He was your constant, even when the world changed around you.

But now? Now the world feels like it’s shifting faster than you can hold onto it.

The party is loud. Too many people crammed into someone’s backyard, music shaking the floorboards, laughter sharp and careless. It’s one of those last-minute “we’re all leaving soon, let’s not forget each other” summer parties before everything changes. Before some go to university, some move countries, some grow up too fast.

You don't usually do this. You don't usually feel this detached. But tonight, it feels like something is slipping through your fingers — something you didn’t realize you were clinging to until now.

You escape the crowd, stepping into the dim quiet of the porch, and you find him.

Kimi. Sitting on the wooden step like he’s been waiting for you.

He glances up. “You looked like you were going to combust in there,” he says, soft grin on his lips.

You huff a breath and drop beside him. “I might’ve.”

Silence settles between you, comfortable and heavy. You can still hear the music faintly — Lorde’s “Ribs” echoing through the open window. That melancholy beat. That aching feeling of not wanting to grow up but knowing you are.

“She’s right,” you murmur. “The drink feels like a hug.”

Kimi chuckles under his breath. “It’s disgusting.”

You smile faintly. “Yeah. But kind of warm, too.”

You look at him.

Really look.

He’s changed — not just the taller frame, the sharper jawline, the deeper voice. It’s in his eyes. In the way he watches you now, like he’s carrying something he hasn’t said out loud yet. Like maybe he’s been trying to say it for years.

You don’t know when it started — the way your stomach flips when he brushes against you, the way you memorize his laugh without meaning to. Maybe it’s always been there. Just quiet. Just waiting.

“I hate this,” you whisper, surprising even yourself.

Kimi tilts his head. “Hate what?”

“This. Growing up. Losing things before you realize you even had them.”

He’s quiet for a moment. Then:

“You won’t lose me.”

You blink. Turn toward him.

“You promise?” you ask, like you’re five years old again, pinky held out.

He doesn’t take it.

Instead, Kimi reaches up, gentle fingers brushing your cheek, tucking your hair behind your ear. And then — soft, unsure, but steady — he says, “I’m in love with you.”

The words float in the warm summer air. Raw. Unpolished. Real.

You feel the world stop spinning.

“Kimi…”

“You don’t have to say anything,” he says quickly. “I just— I couldn’t pretend anymore. Not tonight. Not when it feels like we’re all about to fall into separate lives.”

You shake your head, heart in your throat.

“I was afraid,” you whisper. “If I said it, maybe everything would change. Maybe we wouldn’t be us anymore.”

He leans closer.

“What if we’re still us?” he murmurs. “Just… finally honest.”

You don’t answer. You just kiss him.

It’s tentative, like testing deep water with your toes. Then it grows — steadier, surer. The kind of kiss you only give someone you’ve known forever.

When you pull back, your forehead rests against his, both of you breathing the same fragile air.

Inside, the song keeps playing.

“It feels so scary getting old.”

But here, under the stars and childhood memories, you think — maybe growing up won’t be so scary.

Not if you’ve got Kimi beside you.

[chiyoszn]

A Little Help

☆Synopsis: Nikola Tsolov has a crush—and a serious case of awkwardness—whenever he's around you. Enter Ollie Bearman: best friend, chaos agent, and self-proclaimed matchmaking expert. With a bit of meddling and a well-timed coffee invite, Ollie gives Nikola push he needs to finally talk to you. What follows is a sweet, slightly embarrassing, but ultimately heartwarming start to something more—proving that even the shyest drivers just need a good wingman.

☆Pairing: Nikola Tsolov x Reader, Oliver Bearman (platonic) x Reader

☆Warnings: None

Nikola Tsolov was not good with words.

Especially not when those words were directed at you.

Which was mildly inconvenient, considering he was, by all definitions, completely and utterly smitten.

He’d been introduced to you a few weeks ago at a karting event by mutual friends. You were someone in the motorsport scene — social media famous, casually charismatic, and, worst of all for Nikola, entirely unaware of how flustered you made him.

Every time you smiled in his direction, he forgot basic sentence structure. Every time you said his name, he turned redder than a Ferrari.

Ollie Bearman, of course, noticed immediately.

"Mate," Ollie said one day, cornering Nikola at the Prema tent like he was planning an intervention. "You're hopeless. She said hi and you nodded like a broken bobblehead."

Nikola scowled. "I’m just... being polite."

"Polite?" Ollie snorted. "Nik, I could feel the secondhand awkwardness radiating off you. You need help."

"I don’t need help."

"You desperately need help," Ollie said, pulling out his phone with a dramatic flair. "Lucky for you, I am a certified matchmaking genius."

Nikola groaned. "Please don’t."

Too late.

☆•°.☆°.•☆.•°☆°•.☆•.°☆.•°☆°•.☆•.°☆.•°☆.°•☆°•.☆.°•

The next day, Ollie invited you both to grab coffee "totally casually" after a simulator session.

You showed up — all bright-eyed and comfortable, wearing a hoodie and that easy smile that made Nikola want to melt into the floor.

Nikola, on the other hand, looked like he’d just been shoved into a surprise job interview.

"Hi, Nikola," you greeted, your voice warm.

He opened his mouth. Nothing came out.

You tilted your head. "You okay?"

Ollie clapped a hand on Nikola’s back. "He’s just overwhelmed by how good your hair looks today."

Nikola nearly choked on air.

You blinked in surprise, then laughed. "Thanks, I think?"

Nikola stared at Ollie in betrayal. Ollie just grinned.

"So, Y/N," Ollie continued smoothly, "Nik was telling me yesterday how much he likes—"

"Stop talking," Nikola interrupted, voice pitched high.

"...coffee," Ollie finished, undeterred. "He said he loves caramel lattes, which is crazy because that’s your order, right?"

Your eyes lit up. "It is. How do you know that?"

Nikola, internally: I am going to physically combust.

Ollie, externally: "I pay attention. Anyway, I’ll let you two bond over your mutual love of overpriced sugar milk. I’m gonna grab a table."

And then he was gone, leaving you and Nikola standing awkwardly in line.

You glanced at him, a smile tugging at your lips. "He’s a menace, huh?"

Nikola let out a breathy laugh, finally relaxing a little. "Yeah. That’s one word for him."

A pause. Then—

"You know," you said casually, "you could’ve just asked me to coffee yourself."

Nikola blinked. "I— I didn’t think you’d want to."

You tilted your head again. "Why wouldn’t I?"

He flushed. "You’re just... cool. And I’m... not that good with words."

You stepped forward, nudging his shoulder with yours. "Well, I think you’re doing just fine."

Nikola smiled. It was small and shy and a little crooked — but it was real.

And when you both sat down with your matching drinks (Ollie across the café, winking obnoxiously behind his cup), Nikola realized that maybe being a little awkward wasn’t the end of the world.

Especially not when you leaned in and said, "We should do this again sometime."

☆Bonus:

[chiyoszn]

The Gap Between Us

☆Synopsis: You and Oscar have been dancing around your feelings for months — sharing glances, late-night talks, and everything but the truth. Lando, your childhood best friend, is tired of watching two emotionally constipated people pine in silence. With chaotic matchmaking attempts and zero chill, he’s determined to make one of you crack.

All it takes is a little rain, a lot of tension, and one moment too close to ignore.

☆Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Reader, Lando Norris (Platonic) x Reader

☆Warnings: None

You never meant to fall for Oscar Piastri.

He was too quiet, too careful. Your world was chaotic, loud, filled with cameras and PR disasters waiting to happen — and Oscar, somehow, always stayed just out of the way.

But that’s what made him dangerous.

Because he saw things. Remembered things. Asked how you were and actually listened to the answer. He didn’t flirt. He noticed.

And that was worse.

You could handle charm. You weren’t prepared for kind.

☆•°.☆°.•☆.•°☆°•.☆•.°☆.•°☆°•.☆•.°☆.•°☆.°•☆°•.☆.°•

You had Lando Norris to thank — or blame — for all of it.

He introduced you to Oscar in the McLaren garage during a preseason shoot.

“This is Y/N,” Lando had said, tugging you toward Oscar like a labrador with a stolen sock. “Best friend, part-time babysitter, full-time pain in my ass.”

Oscar had looked at you, eyes calm and curious. “Nice to meet you.”

And then he held out his hand — no cocky grin, no racing ego — and said your name back to you like he meant it.

You were doomed from that moment.

☆•°.☆°.•☆.•°☆°•.☆•.°☆.•°☆°•.☆•.°☆.•°☆.°•☆°•.☆.°•

Lando figured it out after Australia.

You’d flown in to surprise him. But the first person you’d hugged after the race wasn’t Lando.

It was Oscar.

And Lando saw the way Oscar’s whole face changed when you smiled at him.

Later that night, on the rooftop of the hotel, Lando cornered you with two beers and zero tact.

“Be honest,” he said, “how long have you been into Oscar?”

You choked. “I’m not.”

He raised a brow. “Y/N.”

You looked away. “It’s not like that.”

Lando laughed. “It’s exactly like that.”

☆•°.☆°.•☆.•°☆°•.☆•.°☆.•°☆°•.☆•.°☆.•°☆.°•☆°•.☆.°•

From there, he made it his personal mission to get you two together before summer break.

His tactics were... questionable.

Suddenly, Oscar was always wherever you were.

“Oh, you’re going to the simulator? Oscar’s there.”

“You need a ride to the track? Oscar offered.”

“You’re grabbing lunch? Oscar’s already at the café!”

You confronted Lando after he sent Oscar to pick you up from the airport — in Budapest.

“You’re not slick,” you told him.

“I’m desperate,” he said. “Watching you two is like watching a romantic comedy where both leads are allergic to feelings.”

☆•°.☆°.•☆.•°☆°•.☆•.°☆.•°☆°•.☆•.°☆.•°☆.°•☆°•.☆.°•

But feelings were there.

You just buried them under shared coffees and glances held too long. Inside jokes from media days. The way Oscar always waited for you to laugh before he did, like your reaction mattered more than the punchline.

You were falling. Fast.

And Oscar... well. You couldn’t tell.

He didn’t flirt. He didn’t text hearts or tease. But when you were around, he softened. And when you weren’t — he looked for you.

Still, nothing happened.

Because you were scared.

And he was careful.

And both of you were stupid.

☆•°.☆°.•☆.•°☆°•.☆•.°☆.•°☆°•.☆•.°☆.•°☆.°•☆°•.☆.°•

Until Monaco.

Oscar crashed in FP3 — nothing major, just a bump into the wall. But when you saw it live on screen, your heart stopped.

You bolted to the garage, pushing through media and mechanics until you found him sitting on a stool, helmet off, eyes down.

You crouched in front of him, breathless. “Are you okay?”

Oscar blinked up at you, startled.

“Y/N—yeah. I’m okay.”

But your hand was on his knee and your eyes were wide and Lando was in the corner mouthing KISS HIM like an idiot.

Oscar looked at you.

You looked at him.

The silence stretched.

And then—

“Sorry,” you whispered, pulling back. “I just... I freaked out.”

He caught your wrist before you could stand.

“It’s okay,” he said quietly. “I would’ve done the same.”

You didn’t ask what he meant.

But you felt it.

☆•°.☆°.•☆.•°☆°•.☆•.°☆.•°☆°•.☆•.°☆.•°☆.°•☆°•.☆.°•

The next week, everything changed.

You stopped pretending.

You sat next to him at team dinners. You shared headphones in the hospitality lounge. He started texting you good luck before your meetings and “sweet dreams” before bed.

Still — neither of you said anything.

Until Spa.

☆•°.☆°.•☆.•°☆°•.☆•.°☆.•°☆°•.☆•.°☆.•°☆.°•☆°•.☆.°•

It was pouring.

You were soaked to the bone, stranded outside the paddock hospitality with Oscar, huddled under the world’s smallest awning.

“Lando’s gonna pay for this,” you muttered.

Oscar gave you a look. “You think he locked us out on purpose?”

You turned. “He’s Lando. Of course he did.”

He smiled, teeth showing. “He’s not exactly subtle.”

“No,” you said. “But he’s not wrong either.”

Oscar tilted his head. “About what?”

You hesitated.

Then, quietly: “You and me.”

The air shifted.

Rain pounded the awning. Oscar looked at you like he was trying to solve a puzzle.

“You think there’s a ‘you and me’?”

You swallowed. “Don’t you?”

A long pause.

Then he exhaled, like he’d been holding it in for months.

“I’ve been trying not to,” he said. “Because if I start, I don’t think I’ll be able to stop.”

You stared at him.

Then you took a step closer.

“Start,” you whispered.

And he did.

☆•°.☆°.•☆.•°☆°•.☆•.°☆.•°☆°•.☆•.°☆.•°☆.°•☆°•.☆.°•

☆Bonus:

Lando walked into the garage the next morning, saw you in Oscar’s hoodie, and groaned.

“FINALLY.”

You and Oscar didn’t even pretend to deny it.

You were too busy holding hands.

And smiling like idiots

[chiyoszn]

[chiyoszn]

All Fired up

☆Summary:

Oliver Bearman swears he can’t stand you—but it’s really just one-sided beef covering a major crush. When tension turns to banter and ice starts to melt, it’s only a matter of time before enemies become something much more.

☆Pairing: Oliver Bearman x Media!Reader

☆Warnings: One sided beef with ollie, enemies to lovers (kind of?)

Oliver Bearman couldn’t quite explain why he didn’t like you. Not to anyone else — and not even to himself, if he was being honest.

You were good at your job. Too good, maybe. Ever since you joined the media team for Ferrari’s young driver program, you were everywhere — camera in hand, sharp with questions, and somehow always catching him in his least flattering moments.

The first time you met, you’d accidentally stepped on his race boot backstage at a press event.

“Oh no, did I crush your million-dollar foot?” you asked with a half-grin, completely unfazed by the icy glare he gave you.

He hadn’t liked you since.

You, on the other hand, didn’t even realize there was a problem. You thought Oliver was just shy. A little standoffish, maybe. But not unfriendly.

Until he started avoiding interviews with you. Rolling his eyes every time you asked a question. Rewriting your media scripts. That was when you realized: Oliver Bearman might have beef with you.

But that only made you want to push more.

“You have to get over whatever your deal is with her,” Fred, the team’s comms manager, said as Ollie sat on a bench outside the paddock, pulling at the strap of his gloves.

“I don’t have a deal,” he muttered.

“You act like she personally insulted your nan.”

He didn’t answer. Because honestly? He had no idea where the grudge came from. Maybe it was the way you made him feel like he was being watched, judged — like you saw straight through him.

That kind of attention made him nervous. And Oliver Bearman didn’t do nervous.

The next media day, you approached him with a grin and a camera slung over your shoulder. “Ready to charm the internet, Bearcub?”

He clenched his jaw. “Do you ever call anyone by their actual name?”

“Only if they’re nice to me.”

A beat passed. You raised an eyebrow.

He looked away.

“Right,” you said quietly, then added with a fake-cheerful voice, “Interview in ten. Don’t be late.”

And for the first time, you walked away before he could.

And for the first time, he kind of hated that.

The next few race weekends were...tense.

You started keeping your distance. Not petty, just professional. If Ollie wanted to act like you were a nuisance, fine. You’d film him from afar, hand over the itinerary with a smile, and move on.

But it ate at him.

He saw you laughing with other drivers. Saw the way you high-fived Arthur or joked with Carlos. He heard it when you didn’t banter with him anymore — that silence felt louder than any of your teasing ever did.

At Imola, during a rainy qualifying day, Ollie spun out. Nothing major, just a rookie miscalculation — but the frustration was instant. He climbed out of the car, soaked and fuming, helmet in hand.

And you were there. Quietly holding out an umbrella without saying anything.

“You don’t have to do that,” he muttered.

“I know,” you replied, still holding it up so it covered him more than you. “But someone has to keep your curls from frizzing.”

A laugh escaped him — unguarded, unexpected. And something shifted.

“Why are you always nice to me?” he asked suddenly.

You blinked. “Why are you always not nice to me?”

He opened his mouth. Closed it again.

You tilted your head. “That’s what I thought.”

And then you walked away.

But this time, he watched you leave.

Later that evening, you found a folded note on your desk.

> I owe you an apology. Also, thanks for the umbrella. You can call me Bearcub again if you want — just not in front of Charles.

— OB

You smiled for the first time in weeks.

The final race weekend of the season was in Abu Dhabi. Tensions were high, the heat was relentless, and the paddock buzzed with press, pressure, and potential goodbyes.

You and Ollie had been...better. Not besties, not flirty. But there was something there now. A softness. An understanding.

After a strong finish, he walked straight up to you — still in his race suit, cheeks flushed, eyes bright — and said:

“I think I started off on the wrong foot with you.”

You blinked. “You mean the one I stepped on?”

He laughed, rolling his eyes. “Yeah. That one.”

There was a pause. You didn’t look away. Neither did he.

“I gave you a hard time,” Ollie said, suddenly serious. “Because I didn’t know how else to deal with the fact that you...get under my skin.”

“Oh?” you asked, raising a brow. “Because I make fun of your race starts?”

“Because you make me feel like I have something to prove,” he admitted. “And I don’t hate that.”

You didn’t speak for a second. Just smiled.

“Well. For what it’s worth…” you stepped a little closer, “I only tease the drivers I like.”

He grinned, the corners of his mouth pulling up in that annoyingly handsome way.

“So you do like me.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t deny it.”

He leaned in, just close enough for his voice to drop.

“Say it,” Ollie murmured.

You rolled your eyes, smiling despite yourself. “Fine. I like you.”

He smirked. “Took you long enough.”

And then, finally, he kissed you — with all the heat, tension, and unresolved chaos that had been simmering between you since day one.

It was fireworks. It was messy. It was you and Ollie — all fired up, and finally in sync.

[chiyoszn]

The amount of OC’s in x reader tags is astounding. TAG YOUR WORK PROPERLY AND LEAVE THE X READER TAG ALONE.

[chiyoszn]

Margin Of Error

☆Pairing

Kimi Antonelli x Engineer!Reader

☆Warnings

None

The car was wrong again.

Not by much—just a tenth off here, a snap of understeer there. But in motorsport, tiny things mattered. Tiny things could decide entire weekends.

And Andrea Kimi Antonelli hated tiny things.

You leaned against the pit wall, headset still clamped to your ears, listening to the last few radio checks as the team packed up after qualifying in Barcelona. P7. Not awful, but not what you’d expected either.

Kimi emerged from the garage still in his suit, gloves off, hair tousled like he’d run his hands through it too many times. His expression was unreadable.

You braced for it.

He walked past the others, straight to you.

“We should’ve nailed Sector 2,” he said, voice low.

“I know,” you replied. “We’ll go through the data tonight.”

He nodded once. But his jaw was still clenched. Tension radiated from him like heat off the tarmac. You recognized it by now—frustration, not just with the car, but with himself.

“I need to be better,” he muttered. “I’m losing time in places I shouldn’t be.”

You crossed your arms. “You need to stop carrying the whole team on your back.”

He blinked, caught off-guard.

“It’s not all on you, Kimi,” you added, softer now. “We’re a team. Let us fix what’s wrong with the car. You focus on driving.”

For a second, he just stared at you. Then, slowly, his shoulders lowered. The fire in his eyes dimmed just enough to let something else through—something quiet. Something vulnerable.

“You always know what to say,” he said. “It’s annoying.”

You smiled. “You’re welcome.”

That wasn’t the first time he’d leaned on you. But it was the first time he noticed it.

Over the next few races, things got more subtle. He’d wait for you after debriefs instead of heading to the sim right away. He started asking how you were doing, even when he’d just come off a rough session. You caught him glancing at you in the paddock more often. Not in a distracted, flirty way—but like he was trying to figure something out and you were the puzzle.

Then came the Austria weekend.

He crashed in FP1.

It wasn’t major, but the car was damaged. The rest of the session was lost. He was furious. Not at anyone—just himself.

The garage was tense. He didn’t speak during the initial review. But as the others left, he stayed behind, sitting in the corner of the truck, helmet beside him.

You sat down next to him. Not close. Not far.

“It wasn’t your fault,” you said.

He didn’t look at you. “Maybe not. Still felt like it.”

“Kimi.”

That got him. His head tilted toward you, eyes dark and tired.

“I’m here because I believe in you. All of us are. But you’ve gotta start believing in yourself too. Not just when you’re on the podium.”

For a moment, all he did was watch you.

Then: “You always say the right thing.”

“You keep saying that like it’s a bad thing.”

“It’s just… dangerous.”

Your breath caught. “Why?”

He leaned back against the wall. “Because I’m starting to care too much about what you think. About how you look at me after a session. About whether you’re in my corner.”

You said nothing. Your heart said everything.

“I know we’re not supposed to go there,” he added quickly. “And I wouldn’t say it if I wasn’t sure. But I feel it. I know you do too.”

Your fingers curled against your knee. “It’s not about rules.”

He looked over. “Then what?”

“It’s about what happens if we let this matter more than the job.”

He paused. “And what happens if we don’t?”

You didn’t answer him that night.

But something changed after that conversation.

In the paddock, nothing looked different. No one suspected a thing. But your radio check-ins had a new warmth. His glances lingered longer. You found excuses to stand closer during briefings. Neither of you said anything more—but it hung between you. Real. Constant. Unspoken.

Until Monza.

He won.

It was a hard-fought race, with tire degradation and pressure from behind in the final laps. But he held them off. Crossed the line screaming into the radio.

He found you after the podium. Not in the media pen. Not at the hospitality tent.

Behind the team trucks, still in his suit, champagne on his collar, eyes wide with something he couldn’t hide anymore.

“You never answered me,” he said.

Your heart pounded.

He stepped closer.

“What happens if we let this matter?”

You stared at him, barely able to breathe.

“Then we figure it out,” you whispered.

His smile was slow. Grateful. And a little bit reckless.

“Good,” he said. “Because I think I’m in love with you.”

And this time, you didn’t run.

[chiyoszn]

Home, with you

☆Pairing

Charles Leclerc x Reader

☆Warnings

None

The sound of rain tapping against the windows filled Charles’ Monte Carlo apartment. The kind of soft, steady drizzle that made the city feel like it had hit pause. You were curled up on the couch in one of his crew jackets, sleeves too long, legs tangled in a blanket.

Charles wandered in from the kitchen, two mugs in hand — coffee for him, hot chocolate for you. He didn’t even ask anymore. He just knew.

“Merci,” you murmured as he handed you the mug and sat beside you. Not beside, exactly — against. His thigh pressed to yours, his arm draped behind you, pulling you into his side like you were a part of him.

He stared out the window for a while, sipping slowly, letting the silence stretch.

“You’re quiet,” you said softly.

He smiled a little. “I like this.”

“This?”

“This... normal,” he said, voice low. “No cameras. No engineers. No pressure. Just… you.”

You turned to look at him, but he was already watching you — that soft, sleepy look in his eyes that he only seemed to wear when you were alone.

“Do you ever wish it was always like this?” you asked.

He didn’t answer right away. He reached for your hand instead, fingers brushing over your knuckles like they were made of glass.

“I love racing,” he said eventually. “But sometimes I think I’d give it all up just to have more mornings like this. More evenings. More you.”

You felt your breath catch in your throat.

“That’s dangerous talk, Leclerc.”

He leaned in, brushing his lips against your temple.

“Maybe,” he whispered. “But if home has a face… it’s yours.”

You rested your head on his shoulder, your heart so full it ached a little.

And as the rain kept falling and the world spun quietly on, the two of you stayed wrapped in a moment that neither fame nor time could touch.

[chiyoszn]

Under The Radar

☆Pairing

Oliver Bearman x Antonelli!Reader

☆Warnings

None

You’d always told yourself you wouldn’t fall for a driver.

You knew what came with it — the pressure, the cameras, the constant travel. But no one warned you about Oliver Bearman’s stupid smile, or the way he’d look at you like you were the only person in the room, even when surrounded by a dozen engineers.

Kimi had told the entire paddock that his sister was off-limits. “I don’t care how many trophies you’ve got,” he’d said to the group of drivers once, glaring. “Touch her and you’re dead.”

Oliver had been there. And he’d laughed.

Too loud.

Too suspicious.

Too obvious.

Which was fair, considering he’d kissed you behind the media pen just twenty minutes before that conversation.

So now, everything had to be under the radar.

Secret glances.

Late-night walks when everyone was asleep.

Shared headphones and playlists that said more than words ever could.

You hated hiding it. Hated pretending you weren’t falling for him — hard, fast, and with no seatbelt.

One night in Baku, after qualifying, you found Oliver waiting by the back exit of the paddock. Hoodie up. Head down. Classic “I swear I’m not meeting my secret girlfriend” posture.

“Smooth,” you teased, approaching him.

He grinned. “You love the drama.”

You both slipped into the alley behind the garages, the city lights casting a soft glow over the pavement. He reached out, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear.

“I wish I didn’t have to sneak around just to be with you,” he murmured.

“I know,” you said. “But Kimi would actually implode.”

Oliver chuckled. “He’ll come around eventually. I mean, I’m irresistible.”

You snorted. “Keep telling yourself that, Bearman.”

He pulled you closer by the waist, eyes soft. “Seriously though… I’m tired of hiding. I don’t care if Kimi hates me. You’re worth it.”

Your heart stuttered. Then, slowly, you leaned in and kissed him — deep and lingering, as if trying to steal just a little more time before the world caught on.

Neither of you noticed the footsteps.

“ARE YOU—BEARMAN?!”

You froze mid-kiss.

Kimi stood at the alley entrance, eyes wide, jaw dropped.

Oliver paled. “Oh no.”

Kimi pointed at the two of you like he’d just caught a live crime scene. “You’re kissing my sister?!”

You stepped in quickly. “Kimi—let me explain—”

But Oliver beat you to it.

“Yes, I like her. A lot. I’ve liked her for a long time. I’m not playing games, I swear. She’s—she’s everything to me.”

Kimi blinked. The rage simmered. Then, quietly, he muttered:

“...You better beat my lap time tomorrow, or I’m telling Mum.”

And just like that, he walked away.

You turned to Oliver.

He exhaled. “That could’ve been worse.”

You grinned. “You just got threatened and challenged. By my twin.”

Oliver grabbed your hand. “Totally worth it.”

[chiyoszn]

Always Almost

☆ Pairing

Oscar Piastri x Reader

☆ Warnings

Slight angst

You hated race weekends.

Not because you weren’t proud of Oscar—God, you were. You’d watched him chase this dream since you were both kids tearing through your neighborhood on bicycles, pretending they were race cars.

But lately, the circuits seemed like a reminder of everything you weren’t to him.

He was off in Monaco or Melbourne or Montreal—always somewhere else, while you stayed grounded in the life you built far away from the glamour and roar of the track.

You stayed friends, of course. You always would. But something between you had changed.

He’d call less. You’d reply slower. When you did talk, it was careful, like you were walking on glass.

Because you were both pretending there wasn’t a knife of unspoken feelings hanging between you.

It all came to a breaking point the night he showed up at your door, fresh off a flight, tired, and still wearing his team jacket.

“I needed to see you,” he said breathlessly.

You blinked. “Oscar, what—”

“I missed you,” he cut in. “Not just in the ‘I miss my friend’ way. I missed you. The way you laugh. The way you always say the right thing when I don’t even know what I need. I’m losing my mind, pretending it doesn’t kill me to be away from you.”

You stared at him, heart hammering. “Then why didn’t you say anything before?”

He looked down, jaw clenched. “Because I didn’t want to risk ruining the only constant I’ve ever had.”

You swallowed. “You already did. By saying nothing.”

His head snapped up. There it was—that familiar, pained look.

You stepped back slightly. “I waited, Oscar. Through every win, every photo, every time you smiled for cameras but not for me. I waited for you to realize what I’ve known for years.”

Silence.

Tears threatened your voice, but you held it together. “And if you walked away right now, I’d still wish you well. But you don’t get to come back and spill your heart like I haven’t spent nights wondering why I wasn’t enough.”

He closed the distance between you, eyes glassy. “You’ve always been enough. That’s the problem. I was just too much of a coward to choose you over everything else.”

You looked at him, unsure—tired from years of almosts.

But then he whispered, “Let me choose you now.”

And for once, it didn’t feel like almost.

It felt like the start of finally.

[chiyoszn]

Race Day Butterflies

☆ Pairing

Kimi Antonelli x Bestfriend!Reader

---

You had always thought the paddock would be loudest during a race—but it wasn’t the engines that made your heart race. It was the way Andrea Kimi Antonelli looked at you like you were the only thing standing between him and the stars.

It started small. A shared laugh by the team garage. A brush of fingers when he passed you a water bottle. But today felt different. It was the final race of the season, and Kimi was in contention for the championship.

You’d known him since karting days, back when his voice cracked during interviews and yours shook when talking to him. Now, years later, he stood taller, sharper, more focused. But his smile hadn’t changed—it still made your stomach flip.

“Hey,” he said, tugging off his gloves as he walked over. “You’re here early.”

You shrugged, trying to play it cool. “Wanted to wish you luck. Not that you’ll need it.”

He chuckled, eyes flicking to yours with a softness you weren’t ready for. “I always need it when you’re not around. You’re my lucky charm, remember?”

You blinked. Was he teasing again?

“I’m serious,” Kimi added, his voice quieter now. “When you’re in the crowd, I drive better. I feel… steadier.”

You smiled, heart thudding. “Then I guess I’ll stay for every race from now on.”

He hesitated, eyes locked with yours. Then, with a breath, he stepped closer. The paddock noise faded behind you, and all that remained was him and the charged silence between you.

“If I win today,” he murmured, “can I take you out? Like, a real date this time.”

Your breath caught. “And if you don’t?”

His grin widened. “I’ll still try.”

---

He won.

And that night, under the Monaco stars, the boy who chased speed took a chance on love—with you.