joeyfromthetrack

[joeyfromthetrack]

The Breakup Pact - OB⁸⁷

Oliver Bearman x bestfriend!reader

Summary: Ollie and his best friend made a pact to not date anyone for at least 6 months after some terrible relationship fails but Ollie's PR desperately needs fixing. The solution? Fake dating.

Contains: fluff, some social media

Oliver Bearman was the king of the overtake and the king of bad decisions—off-track, at least.

His best friend stared at her phone, snorting at the headline: “Ollie Bearman: Fast Cars, Faster Breakups?”

"Honestly, do they think I’m collecting heartbreaks like podium trophies?" Ollie said, sliding into the seat across from her at their favorite London café. His baseball cap was low over his eyes, trying and failing to hide the fact that he was one of the most recognizable faces in Formula 1.

“I mean,” she said, handing over her phone with a wicked grin, “statistically, you’ve had more breakups than wins this season.”

“That hurts.”

She sipped her latte. “Truth often does.”

They’d made The Breakup Pact three months ago. Over tequila and takeout, sitting in sweatpants on her couch after she came home from what may have been the worst date she had ever been on and he had been dumped 2 days prior.

​​So they swore off dating. Six months, no exceptions.

No rebounds. No late-night texting flings. No feelings. Just friendship. Glorious, uncomplicated, platonic friendship.

And it worked.

Mostly.

Until Ollie started getting dragged by the press, and his PR team begged for a reputation fix.

Until she walked into the café that day in a sundress that made him forget what breathing was.

Until he slid his phone across the table and said, “Want to break the internet?”

Phase One: The Soft Launch

It started with a single Instagram post.

A blurry photo, posted on his Story. She was next to him on his boat on the lake, enjoying strawberries and chocolates. Her face wasn't visible, it was a perfect way to begin a soft launch.

Olliebearman posted a story

Caption: Not pictured: her 4-hour playlist of sad girl anthems.

Immediately, the F1 fandom lit up.

“WHO is she???”

“Y’all this feels personal.”

They said nothing.

Two days later, she posted a mirror selfie of the hotel room they were sharing for a Grand Prix weekend.

yourusername posted a story:

Caption: Slightly clingy xx

The comments came fast:

“Soft launch confirmed.” “Is this actually her?"

Phase Two: The Public Appearance

“You sure about this?” she whispered, looping her arm through his as they enter the paddock at Jeddah

"Yeah absolutely." He gives her a reassuring smile, his eyes shining when he looked at her.

The cameras went insane. Ollie Bearman with her on his arm.

People noticed. Social media really noticed.

And so, like all rational, emotionally mature adults... they leaned into it.

He was staring at her. Really staring.

And then he blinked, cleared his throat, and turned to face the cameras.

They smiled. They posed. They laughed like people madly in love. And somewhere, somehow, a line started to blur.

yourusername posted:

Caption: He made me match, 0/10 boyfriend

Olliebearman posted:

Caption: She called me bossy, 10/10 real girlfriend.

Over the next few weeks, “fake dating” became more real than either of them admitted.

It was subtle at first.

He started texting her “good morning” and “get home safe” like it was muscle memory. She began sitting through entire F1 practice sessions just to watch his onboards, making inside jokes about his cornering style.

During a race weekend in Austria, she found a note tucked into her hotel pillow. It was scribbled on the back of a tire compound chart, in his handwriting:

“If I crash, tell the world it’s because I was thinking about your smile. —OB”

She rolled her eyes. And yet she kept the note. Folded it neatly and slipped it into her wallet.

Phase Three: The Blur

It started as fake.

She knew that. He knew that.

But he still made her coffee every morning exactly the way she liked it.

She still memorized his qualifying times and texted him “your car deserves you” every race day.

He let her fall asleep on him during flights. She stole his hoodies. He never asked for them back.

And then there was the night in Barcelona.

He’d crashed out in Q2. A dumb mistake. His fist had slammed into the garage wall, and the media had been brutal. The words washed up and distracted were trending.

She found him hours later on the rooftop of his hotel.

"You okay?" she asked, sitting beside him on a pool chair under the stars.

“Fine,” he muttered, and then, softer, “I was supposed to be better by now.”

She took his hand. "You're still you. That’s always been enough."

He looked at her like she’d said something sacred. And then he kissed her knuckles, like she was breakable. Like he wanted to be careful.

And just for a moment, she forgot it was fake.

Phase Four: The Realization

It happened in Tokyo.

It wasn’t a big race weekend. No podiums. No press frenzy. Just a mid-season break and a getaway they booked “for the aesthetic,” according to Ollie—sushi, neon lights, cozy bookstores, and zero pressure.

It was supposed to be downtime. A break from pretending.

And that was the problem.

Because without the cameras, without the posts and the performance, there was still something between them. Quiet. Constant. And impossible to ignore.

They were walking through Shinjuku at night when it hit her. He was wearing a hoodie she'd "borrowed" months ago, hands shoved into his pockets, shoulders hunched against the breeze. She had just finished telling him a ridiculous story from her uni days, and he was laughing so hard he actually tripped on the curb.

And then—just like that—he looked at her.

And it wasn’t teasing. Or calculated. Or staged.

It was soft. So unbearably soft she nearly forgot to breathe.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” she asked, heart thudding stupidly.

Ollie slowed, eyes crinkling. “Like what?”

“Like…” She gestured vaguely. “Like you’re not faking it anymore.”

He didn’t answer.

And maybe that was the answer.

Back at the hotel, everything felt heavier.

He’d booked them a suite—two bedrooms, of course. They always kept up the illusion of separation, even when the walls between them felt thinner than ever.

She sat cross-legged on the floor, flipping through photos on her phone. Most of them were blurry. Candid. One showed him mid-laugh with his head thrown back, sunlight catching in his hair.

She stared at it longer than she meant to.

He came out of the bathroom a few minutes later, towel slung over his shoulder, damp curls sticking to his forehead.

“You’ve been quiet,” he said, drying his hands on his shirt.

She didn’t look up. “I’m thinking.”

“Dangerous.”

“Shut up.”

A pause.

“Want to tell me what about?”

She hesitated. Then: “This is starting to feel real.”

Ollie didn’t respond right away. He dropped down beside her, close but not touching, their knees barely brushing.

“I know,” he said quietly. “It does.”

Another beat.

She tilted her head. “So… what do we do?”

He exhaled a shaky breath. “I don’t know.”

They sat in the quiet for a moment. Long enough for the buzz of city traffic outside to hum between them. Long enough for her to feel the gravity of his presence, the warmth of him beside her, the way his pinky finger kept twitching like it wanted to find hers.

“I don’t know when it happened,” she said finally. “I just looked up one day and realized you weren’t a bit anymore. You were the best part of my day.”

His eyes closed. “God.”

“And the stupid part?” She laughed, but it cracked halfway. “I wasn’t supposed to catch feelings for someone pretending to love me.”

Ollie turned to her, really turned this time. His voice was raw when he said, “I wasn’t pretending.”

Her breath hitched.

“I thought I was,” he said, softer now. “But then you started noticing the small things. Like how I tap the wheel when I’m anxious. How I can’t sleep before qualifying unless someone’s talking to me. How I eat gummy bears by color even though I swear I don’t.”

“I noticed,” she whispered.

“I know.” He gave a small, crooked smile. “That’s when I knew it was real. Because you weren’t looking at the driver. You were just… looking at me.”

She swallowed hard, her hands curling into the hem of her oversized shirt. “So what now?”

He reached for her hand, finally, intertwining their fingers with a kind of certainty that made her chest ache.

“I don’t want to fake anything anymore,” he said. “Not the hand-holding. Not the late-night calls. Not the way I look at you and forget there’s a world outside of you.”

Tears threatened, but she blinked them away.

“Me neither.”

They sat like that for a while—just holding hands, forehead against forehead, wrapped in something they didn’t need to perform.

It didn’t matter how it had started.

It only mattered that somehow, in the middle of all the pretending, they’d fallen into something real.

And neither of them wanted to get back up.

Olliebearman & yourusername posted:

Caption: The Breakup Pact failed. Gloriously

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

Word Count: 1.5k

[joeyfromthetrack]

Lover Boy -KA¹²

Kimi Antonelli x girlfriend!reader

Summary: Kimi being completely in love with his girlfriend Contains: fluff

Kimi stared at his phone, screen still glowing. His hand dropped slowly to his side. He didn’t speak.

She sat up from the couch. “Well?”

He looked at her. Eyes wide. Breath caught. And then—“I’m in.”

Her face split into the brightest, most heart-squeezing smile. “You’re—Kimi!”

Before he could finish breathing, she was in his arms. He wrapped her up, lifting her off the floor in a blur of laughing, breathless joy. She buried her face in his neck. He spun once, not even aware he was crying until her thumbs brushed his cheeks.

“You’re in Formula 1,” she whispered, grinning through her own tears. “You did it.”

“I only wanted to tell you,” he whispered back. “You’re the first person I thought of.”

“You’re the only one I’ll ever cheer for,” she said.

And in that tiny apartment, with his future finally unlocked, Kimi held the girl who had believed in him long before the world ever would—and realized this was what dreams really felt like.

It didn’t matter where Kimi was, on the starting grid under a sweltering sun or curled up on his couch with the lights off—his mind, without fail, found its way back to her.

Sometimes it was an involuntary reflex. A word, a smell, the way someone tied their hair or laughed too hard at a bad joke. Other times it was more deliberate, like now, in the paddock, where she walked three steps behind him, pretending like they weren’t about to melt into each other the second the cameras were gone.

He could hear her sandals slap against the concrete. Somehow, even her footsteps made him smile.

“Your zipper’s crooked,” she whispered, close enough that the back of his neck prickled.

Kimi paused mid-stride, grinning as he turned slightly. “Is it? Come fix it, then.”

She rolled her eyes but stepped forward without hesitation, fingers brushing his back as she tugged at the fireproof suit.

"Better?"

“Not really,” he said, teasing. “But you touching me helps.”

Her laugh was like a guitar string plucked inside his chest—sharp, warm, and unforgettable.

That night, back in the hotel room they shared, she sat cross-legged on the bed, wearing one of his oversized team shirts, face glowing from the post-shower warmth. She was watching something dumb on TV—some dating show with absurd challenges—but Kimi couldn’t focus on anything except the way she bit her thumb when she was trying not to laugh.

He sprawled beside her, head in her lap, pretending to be interested in the screen.

“Do you ever think about how this is it?” he asked softly, fingers drawing lazy circles on her thigh.

“This?” she tilted her head.

“You. Me. I mean this version of life. Like, I’m eighteen and driving in Formula 1, and I’ve got this, this perfect thing in my life.”

She leaned down to kiss his forehead, her hair falling over his face like a curtain.

“You’re being cheesy.”

“I’m being honest,” he murmured, nuzzling into her stomach.

She ran her fingers through his curls. “Well, I like your cheesy honesty. Even if you still snore.”

“I do not.”

“You do. Like a small, overworked tractor.”

Kimi groaned, but he smiled into her skin. Everything felt more real when it was her saying it, even insults sounded like lullabies.

Some mornings when they stayed together, Kimi would wake up before her just to watch her sleep. Her hair tangled on the pillow, face turned toward him, mouth slightly open. She drooled sometimes, but he thought it was the cutest thing in the world. He’d kiss her nose lightly and whisper things like “I love you” and “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” just in case dreams could hear.

One morning, she caught him.

“Are you watching me sleep again?”

“I’m admiring,” he defended, smirking.

She stretched like a cat, pulling the blanket tighter around her. “That’s creepy.”

“You say that,” he said, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek, “but you’re blushing.”

“I’m not.”

He leaned down, kissed her pink cheeks. “You so are.

After a particularly grueling race in Singapore, Kimi stumbled off the podium half-drenched in champagne and sweat, body aching, eyes stinging. It wasn’t even about the win—he’d placed third—but he needed her.

They barely made it to the motorhome before he collapsed onto the couch, and she was already beside him, pulling his boots off with a little wince.

“You’re too quiet,” she said gently. “Are you okay?”

He looked at her, eyes tired but so full of love it almost hurt to hold it all.

“I just wanted you.”

“You have me.”

“No, I mean—on that last lap, everything was so loud, I couldn’t even hear my engineer, but I kept thinking… If I mess up, I don’t see her tonight. I don’t get this.”

She climbed into his lap like she’d done it a hundred times—because she had—and wrapped her arms around him.

“You’d see me no matter what,” she whispered. “Even if you crashed, even if you came in last, I’d still be here.”

Kimi buried his face in her shoulder. “Don’t say crash.”

“Fine. Slow pit stop. Mechanical failure. Rain delay.”

“That’s better.”

The night before his home Grand Prix, Kimi stood at the balcony with her by his side, watching the city lights flicker like camera flashes.

“Do you get nervous?” she asked quietly.

“Yeah,” he said. “But not about racing. I get nervous about how lucky I am. That I get to do this—and then come home to you.”

She leaned into him, and he wrapped his arms around her, forehead resting on her temple.

“Promise me something?” he murmured.

“Anything.”

“When we’re eighty and grumpy, and I’ve retired with like twenty world titles—”

“Oh please.”

“—promise me we’ll still do this. Just… stand together and look at the lights.”

“Only if you promise to always let me wear your shirts.”

“Deal.”

He tried not to let it show in the paddock, but everyone saw it. Every mechanic, every engineer, every journalist.

They knew Kimi’s gaze always scanned the garage until it found her. Sometimes she wore sunglasses to avoid being too conspicuous, but Kimi could spot her from anywhere—like a lighthouse in the fog. He smiled wider when she was around. He was sharper in meetings, more focused on track. Someone once joked that she was his good luck charm.

“No,” Kimi had said, without a trace of humour. “She’s just my everything.”

Back in private, they had these quiet moments of electricity—those pauses between brushing teeth and turning off the lights, or while folding laundry on the rare Sunday afternoon they had off. Kimi would reach for her hand mid-conversation, or kiss her shoulder while passing behind her.

Sometimes they slow-danced in the kitchen. No music. Just the rhythm of dishwater dripping and the hum of the refrigerator.

“Why are we dancing?” she whispered once, arms around his neck.

“Because you’re in my arms, and there’s nothing else I’d rather do.”

“You’re such a sap.”

“But I’m your sap.”

She kissed his collarbone and laughed into his shirt. “Forever?”

“Forever.”

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

Word count: 1.2k

[joeyfromthetrack]

Whipped - OP⁸¹

Oscar Piastri x Reader

Summary: Oscar being so hopelessly in love with his girlfriend on so many occasions. Contains: so much fluff, time jumps, minor mention of Hungary '24, established relationship

Oscar had just finished qualifying. P1, not perfect, but damn near it. He stepped out of the media pen, peeling off his cap, hair damp underneath. His race engineer handed him a bottle of water and nodded him toward the scheduled interview with Sky Sports. Just another four-minute carousel of answers he’d given a hundred times before.

The interviewer greeted him with a practiced smile. “Oscar Piastri, in the championship fight and putting it on pole. You looked sharp in sector one and two, little wobble but great recovery in sector three. Talk us through the lap.”

He responded with the usual diplomacy. “Yeah, I felt strong in the first half. The wind shifted a little toward the end, and I overcommitted on the last chicane. Still, car’s feeling good. We’ve got a good chance tomorrow being on pole.”

Another question about tire strategy. Another about the standings.

Then, just as the interviewer was winding down: “You’ve been bringing your special someone into the paddock a little more recently. Fans are curious. Is she your lucky charm?”

Oscar smiled, not the showbiz grin, but something smaller, real. He could feel the answer rising before he even thought about it.

“Yeah,” he said quietly, eyes flicking away for just a second. “I mean, she’s not here for luck. I just” He paused. “I think... everything just feels better when she’s around. I don’t know how else to put it.”

The interviewer chuckled, clearly not expecting something so soft from a man known for his sharp focus. “That’s the most romantic thing we’ve heard from a driver all year.”

Oscar shrugged, not trying to play it down. “I think if someone makes you feel like yourself when everything else gets noisy... that’s worth holding onto.”

Later, she would see the clip online. She wouldn’t text him about it. She wouldn’t need to.

At Suzuka, just before race start, the sky was moody, crowd roaring behind fences, and Oscar stood in his grid slot, helmet in hand. She kissed his cheek, lingering longer than usual.

“You always do this,” he said, smiling.

“What?”

“Kiss me like it’s the last time.”

“Because I never know.”

He sobered. “Hey. Don’t say that.”

“I have to think about it. One of us has to.”

He pulled her into him, briefly, like the world would stop if they didn’t connect in that moment. “Then think about this. Every time I brake at 300, I’m thinking about coming back to you.”

“You better.”

“Always.”

The door shut behind him with a quiet click. He was still damp from the podium, shirt half untucked, champagne drying against his skin. It had taken forever to leave the circuit, media, debriefs, a hundred hands to shake. But this, this was what he’d wanted the entire time.

She was sitting on the bed, knees drawn up, one of his hoodies swallowing her frame. She looked at him like he was both ridiculous and beautiful, the way someone does when they’ve watched you chase something impossible and actually catch it.

He dropped his bag on the floor and crossed to her without saying a word.

Their hug wasn’t dramatic. No sweeping gestures or declarations. Just arms tightening around each other until it was hard to tell where one ended and the other began. She pressed her face into the crook of his neck. He closed his eyes.

“You did it,” she whispered eventually, her voice muffled.

“Yeah.” His voice cracked a little, surprising even himself. “I did.”

“You okay?”

“I don’t know yet.”

They lay back slowly, limbs tangled, the room dim around them. He exhaled, one hand resting on her hip, thumb moving in small circles like he needed to keep touching her to remember it was real.

“It didn’t hit me until I saw you in the crowd,” he said after a while.

“What didn’t?”

“That I’d actually won.”

She smiled against his chest. “So I’m the confirmation of reality?”

“You always are.”

They didn’t talk much after that. He buried his face in her hair, still smelling like sweat and podium champagne. She hummed softly, some melody he couldn’t name, and their legs twisted together under the sheets, warm and quiet and full.

Later, when she was nearly asleep, she murmured, “You looked calm up there.”

“I wasn’t.”

“I know.”

“But I am now.”

She didn’t answer. She didn’t need to.

He stayed like that for a long time, holding her like the trophy was just a formality, and this was the only victory that really mattered.

Between races, in the sleek quiet of their apartment in Monaco, he didn’t need to speak in laps or strategy. Here, he was stripped of the helmet, the overalls, the persona. Just Oscar.

She was curled on the sofa, reading a paperback, one of those tragic love stories she claimed she didn’t like but always read twice. Oscar was supposed to be reviewing data. The iPad lay forgotten on the table, his head resting in her lap instead. She absentmindedly ran her fingers through his curls, and each touch slowed his heartbeat until he felt like he could drift into sleep just to the rhythm of her breathing.

“You’re supposed to be working,” she said, not looking away from the book.

“I am. I'm working on not losing my mind over you.”

“That’s terrible,” she laughed, flicking his ear gently.

“I know. I'm better on track.”

“Debatable.”

He opened one eye, grinning up at her. “If I win next week in Baku, it’ll be because of this exact moment.”

“What, my lap therapy?”

“Exactly. You’re the secret weapon.”

After crossing the line first in Baku, she met him behind the hospitality unit, arms crossed like she hadn’t predicted it already.

“I told you,” he said, pressing a hand against the small of her back to draw her closer. “Therapy.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

But he already had. He was used to the way she made his pre-race nerves vanish with a simple touch. Used to how she wore his team hoodie like it was stitched from a part of him. Used to waking up beside her on Sunday mornings and pretending that the day’s risk didn’t weigh heavy in the air, just so she wouldn’t worry.

He was used to loving her so hard it made his chest ache.

────⋆˙⟡♡⋆˙⟡ ────

Word count: 1.1k

[joeyfromthetrack]

Masterlist!

Welcome to my blog, I'm Jocelyn (or Joey)

My requests are open!

All my fics can be found here:

Lando Norris:

Sneaky Kisses

Oscar Piastri:

Midnight in Algarve (18+)

Whipped

Kimi Antonelli:

Half a Step

Jet Lag & Pancakes

Lover Boy

Max Verstappen:

Sweet Release (18+)

Ollie Bearman:

The Breakup Pact

[joeyfromthetrack]

Sweet Release - MV³³

Max Verstappen x driver!reader

Summary - After another victory, Max pays a visit to his rival to let off some steam.

Contains - smut (18+ only), semi established relationship (they frequent fuck buddies), dominant Max

The sun dipped low over the Bahrain International Circuit, casting a golden hue over the sprawling paddock. The air was thick with the scent of burnt rubber and the lingering adrenaline of the day’s race. Max Verstappen stood at the edge of the track, his helmet tucked under his arm. The weight of victory still clung to him, a familiar yet intoxicating feeling. He’d dominated the race, as he often did, but today felt different. The stress of the season, the pressure to maintain his title, had built up inside him like a coiled spring. He needed release. And he knew exactly where to find it.

With purposeful strides, Max made his way through the bustling paddock, his strong frame cutting through the crowd with ease. His eyes were fixed on the Mercedes motorhome, a sleek silver and blue beacon in the sea of trailers. Inside she would be there, his rival, and the woman who knew exactly how to unravel him, especially after she tried a few risky moves to overtake him

The motorhome’s door slid open with a soft hiss, and Max stepped inside, the cool air conditioning a welcome contrast to the desert heat. She was sitting on the couch, her racing suit unzipped halfway, revealing a hint of her toned midriff. Her hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail, and her eyes sparkled with a mix of exhaustion and anticipation. She looked up as he entered, her lips curling into a mischievous smile.

“Max Verstappen,” she purred, her voice dripping with faux sweetness. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Max set his helmet down on the table, his gaze never leaving hers. “You know why I’m here.” His voice was low, commanding. “You’ve been getting bolder schat, bratty even”

Her smile widened, and she pushed herself off the couch, her movements deliberate and provocative. “Oh, I’ve been bratty, have I? And what are you going to do about it, Max?”

He closed the distance between them in two long strides, his hand wrapping around her wrist and pulling her closer. “You know what I’m going to do,” he growled, his breath hot against her ear. “You’ve been pushing me. Now it’s time to remind you who’s in control.”

Her eyes darkened with desire, her body leaning into his. “Prove it,” she challenged, her voice barely above a whisper.

Max didn’t need to be told twice. He spun her around, pressing her against the wall, his body flush against hers. His lips attached themselves to her neck, his hand snaked down under her racing suit and to her thigh before finding their way to her core momentarily. She gasped as his fingers brushed against her bare skin, her head falling back.

“You’re wet,” he murmured, his lips brushing against her neck. “Already. For me.”

“Always for you,” she admitted, her voice trembling.

Max growled in response, his hand tightening on her thigh. He dipped his head, nipping at her earlobe before trailing kisses down her neck. She shivered, her hands gripping his shoulders as he worked his way lower, his mouth leaving a trail of fire in its wake.

“Kneel,” he ordered, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Her cheeks flushed, but she dropped to her knees without a word, her eyes locked on his. Max watched her, his chest rising and falling with restrained desire. He unzipped his race suit before pushing off his fireproofs and letting them fall to the floor. His erection sprang free, thick and throbbing, and her gaze flicked down, her lips parting in a silent gasp.

“Take it,” he commanded, stepping closer.

She didn’t hesitate. Her hands wrapped around his shaft, her touch firm but reverent. Max hissed as she began to move, her mouth opening to take him in. She was slow and deliberate, her tongue swirling around the head before she took him deeper, her lips stretching around his girth.

“Fuck,” he groaned, his hands tangling in her hair. “That’s it. Take it all.”

She hummed in response, her throat working as she swallowed him down, her hands gripping his hips to steady herself. Max watched, his control slipping as she bobbed her head, her mouth hot and wet. He wanted to thrust, to fuck her mouth hard, but he held back, savouring the way she surrendered to him.

Enough,” he finally growled, pulling her off him with a wet pop. “On the bed. Now.”

She scrambled to her feet, her cheeks flushed and her lips swollen. She moved to the bed, lying back on it with a smirk.

Max joined her, his eyes dark with desire. Pushing her to lay flat on her back. "Relax schatje." He said, voice low with desire.

With that, he pulled the rest of her racing suit off followed by her underwear, then instantly attaching his mouth to her clit, sucking and licking rhythmically.

Her back arched off of the bed at the intense feeling of pleasure, his tongue making her fall apart beautifully. He held her down my her hips as his actions intensified. Her noises growing from soft whimpers to loud moans of absolute pleasure.

As his tongue dipped down to her entrance, his nose brushed against her clit in the most beautiful way. "Max." She moaned his name, squirming under his grip. "Max, I'm close." She told his, her fingers threading through his hair.

He kept his intensity as her orgasm washed over her, then bringing her down slowly. She began to whine and squirm in overstimulation, that's when he pulled away. Standing up to tower over her one more.

“I’m going to fuck you until you can’t remember your own name.”

He didn’t waste any more time. His hands gripped her hips, pulling her to the edge of the bed as he positioned himself between her thighs. She spread her legs willingly, her hands reaching for him as he teased her entrance with the tip of his cock.

“Please,” she whispered, her voice desperate.

Max smirked, his eyes locking with hers. “Beg,” he demanded.

“Fuck me, Max,” she pleaded, her voice breaking. “I need you so bad.”

That was all he needed. He thrust into her in one smooth motion, burying himself to the hilt. She cried out, her nails digging into his shoulders as he filled her completely. Max groaned, his head falling back as he savoured the tightness of her body around him.

“So fucking good,” he muttered, his hips beginning to move.

He set a relentless pace, his thrusts deep and deliberate. She met him with equal fervor, her body arching off the bed as she wrapped her legs around his waist. Her moans filled the room, raw and unfiltered, as Max pounded into her, his control slipping further with every stroke.

“You’re mine, schat” he growled, his hands gripping her hips hard enough to leave bruises. “Say it.”

“Yours,” she gasped, her voice hoarse. “Always yours.”

Max’s thrusts became more urgent, his body tightening as he felt his release building. “Cum for me,” he commanded, his voice rough. “Now.”

Her eyes rolled back as she obeyed, her body shaking as her orgasm ripped through her. Her walls clenched around him, milking him, and Max followed quickly, his hips stuttering as he spilled himself deep inside her.

For a moment, they stayed like that, their bodies still and breathless. Then Max pulled out, collapsing beside her on the bed. He reached out, brushing a strand of hair from her face, his touch gentle now that the storm had passed.

"You are so beautiful." He murmurs only just loud enough for her to hear. "You okay?” he asked, his voice soft.

She turned to him, a lazy smile on her lips. “Better than okay,” she murmured, snuggling into his side.

Max wrapped an arm around her, pulling her close. He pressed a kiss to her forehead, his heart still racing. “Good,” he said, his voice thick with satisfaction. “Because you’re stuck with me, schatje Whether you like it or not.”

She laughed, a soft, contented sound. “Wouldn’t have it any other way, Champion.”

・・・・・✴・・・・・✴・・・・・

Word count: 1.4k

[joeyfromthetrack]

Jet Lag & Pancakes - KA¹²

Kimi Antonelli x Reader

Summary: After Miami, Kimi returns home early to surprise his girlfriend before as wakes up.

Contains: Established relationship, fluff, use of Y/n (sometimes)

The smell hit her before consciousness did.

Sweet, warm, unmistakable—vanilla, cinnamon, something sizzling on the stovetop. Y/n blinked slowly, her cheek still pressed into Kimi’s pillow, crumpled on the left side of the bed. The morning light streamed through the linen curtains of their Bologna apartment, soft and golden, diffused just enough to make the room feel like a dream.

Andrea wasn’t supposed to be home yet.

Her brain, still hazy with sleep, struggled to remember the race schedule. He’d been in Miami—it wasn't the worst track but the timezone differences definitely ruined it for him. He was due back tonight. She’d triple-checked his texts. His flight was scheduled to land at 8:45 p.m. 

So why did their little kitchen smell like pancakes?

She sat up slowly, brushing her hair out of her eyes. A creak of the floorboards outside their bedroom confirmed she wasn’t hallucinating. Someone was out there. But there were no signs of panic in her chest. No creeping dread. Only a bloom of curiosity.

She swung her legs off the bed, her bare feet finding the cool wood floor. She grabbed one of Kimi’s sweatshirts—gray, oversized, still faintly smelling of his cologne—and pulled it over her head before padding out toward the kitchen.

He was there.

Kimi Antonelli stood at the stove in grey joggers and a black tee shirt, his back to her, his dark curls still damp from a shower. He was humming something under his breath. There were pancakes in the pan, a plate already stacked high beside him. A half-cut banana rested on the counter next to Nutella and a small jar of Y/n’s favorite strawberry jam.

She stopped in the doorway, the breath catching in her throat.

“You’re home,” she whispered.

Kimi turned at the sound of her voice, his whole face lighting up the moment he saw her. “Ciao, amore.”

It wasn’t dramatic. It never was with him. Not after the long years they’d spent figuring each other out, with time zones and circuits and days full of noise. What made Andrea special was this: the way he could make a simple thing feel like everything. Like standing barefoot in the kitchen, holding a spatula and smiling like she was the win he was proudest of.

“I thought your flight—”

“Changed it,” he said, flipping the last pancake with a little flourish. “Didn’t tell you. Wanted to surprise you.”

“You did.” Her voice was still sleepy, soft with disbelief and something that felt like awe. “God, I missed you.”

Kimi crossed the room in three steps, wrapping his arms around her. She tucked her face into his neck and breathed him in—soap, coffee, something faintly citrusy. Her hands curled into the soft fabric of his shirt.

“I was counting the hours,” he murmured against her temple. “Miami was hell.”

“You finished P6.”

“And I hated every second.” He leaned back enough to look at her, brushing his fingers over the curve of her cheek. “You weren’t there.”

“You know I wanted to be—”

“I know,” he cut in gently, thumb stroking over her skin. “It’s not about that. Just… nothing feels real without you.”

Her throat tightened. He said things like that casually, not to impress her, not to make her swoon. He just meant them.

She reached up to kiss him, soft and slow, and he leaned into it with a sigh like he’d been holding his breath since he left. The kiss deepened, then broke, and he smiled.

“Pancakes,” he said, stepping back. “Before they get cold.”

They ate at the little kitchen table by the window, where the plants she loved had grown wild and green. Kimi poured syrup like he always did—too much—and Y/n tried to pretend she didn’t find it endearing. He told her about the race, about a near miss with Turn 11, about how Max had nearly clipped Lando, and how no one on his team could figure out what Miami was doing with the tire strategy.

“And the hotel room had a leak,” he added with a grimace. “I woke up at 3 a.m. to dripping water. Thought it was a dream. Nope. Just Florida.”

She laughed, and he beamed like he’d just taken pole.

“What about here?” he asked between bites. “Did the plants survive?”

“Barely,” she said. 

“I knew it.”

They lingered over breakfast, letting the morning stretch out slow. Kimi eventually leaned back in his chair, full and content, watching her like he couldn’t quite believe she was real.

"I'm so proud of you Drea." She told him softly, before adding, "My champion."

He looked at her then, really looked, and something shifted in his expression. All that subtle restraint he carried with him, the careful balance between focus and modesty, slipped.

“You really think so?” he asked quietly.

“Of course I do.” She stood up, rounded the table, and slid into his lap, wrapping her arms around his neck. “Do you have any idea how hard I cheered when I saw your name at the top of the timing sheet? I almost threw my phone.”

Kimi laughed, breath warm against her cheek. “Now I really wish I could’ve seen that.”

She pulled back enough to look at him. “I don’t want you to downplay this. You’ve come so far. I remember when you were finishing P14 and still calling it ‘a good learning weekend.’ Look at you now.”

His hands found her waist, holding her steady like he wasn’t quite sure she was real. “I think I just needed to hear it from you.”

“Then I’ll keep saying it.” She kissed his jaw, then his cheek, then finally his lips. “I’m proud of you, Andrea. More than you’ll ever know.”

He kissed her back, and this time it wasn’t soft. It was full, deep, a little desperate—like the kind of kiss that came when someone finally let themselves believe they were worthy of being celebrated. She clung to him, hands tangling in his curls, and he held her like he didn’t ever want to let go.

When they finally pulled apart, their foreheads touched.

“God, I missed this,” he whispered.

“You’re here now,” she said, her voice barely audible. “And I’m not letting you go for at least two days.”

Andrea grinned. “Fine by me. But I might need a nap first.”

“I warmed the bed for you,” she said, sliding off his lap and tugging his hand. “Come on, pole sitter. Let’s make jet lag your co-pilot.”

Back in their room, they curled up together like muscle memory. Kimi tucked himself behind her, arms locked around her waist, their breathing syncing in quiet rhythm

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word count: 1.1k

[joeyfromthetrack]

Midnight in Algarve - OP⁸¹

Oscar Piastri x Norris!Reader

Summary: The younger sister of Lando Norris, has spent three years quietly crushing on his teammate, Oscar Piastri. During a birthday getaway in Portugal, with their rooms side by side and the pressure of the paddock behind them, years of unspoken tension come to a head as Oscar and Y/n finally admit their feelings and cross the line from longing to something real.

Contains: smut (18th+ only), fluff, mentions of alcohol, (some) use of Y/n

Word count: 2.4k

Y/n Norris had always been good at pretending.

Pretending she was fine when strangers at paddocks asked if she was dating one of the drivers. Pretending not to notice when journalists used her as a footnote in Lando’s rising stardom. And especially pretending not to look too long at Oscar Piastri.

Three years ago, she’d first met him at her brother’s post-race dinner in Barcelona. She was 20, fresh off exams, wide-eyed and exhausted, sipping wine like it was a survival tactic. Oscar had been seated across from her —grinning, tan, leaning back in his chair comfortably, not cockily like her brother does, he had the shy and polite factor about him.

“So, you’re the famous Y/n,” he’d said, offering his hand. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Her heart had betrayed her with a skip even then.

She remembered how he made her laugh so hard she nearly choked on her drink. Remembered the flicker in his eyes when she touched his arm as she leaned in to whisper something. His eyes - they were so gorgeous, so soft, so inviting, she just wanted to stare into them forever.

But the night had ended, as they always did, with a hug, a casual “see you around,” and the unspoken understanding that she was off-limits. She was Lando’s little sister. That was the boundary—silent but impossible to ignore.

And yet, he kept showing up in small ways.

He always greeted her first when they crossed paths at races. Remembered the coffee she ordered at the team hospitality every race, he started having one already made for her for when she arrived shortly after him at races.

Every interaction lingered longer than it should have. Every accidental brush of shoulders or locked glance stirred something electric under her skin. And always—always—they both looked away too quickly, both of their faces flushing what they were both sure was a bright red.

Now, in Portugal, almost three years of pining, proximity, and polite distance were burning in the summer heat.

The holiday house Lando had booked for his 26th birthday was sprawling and sunlit, filled with noise and movement. She had volunteered to help organise everything: the playlist, the food, the rooms. She’d found out she’d be staying in the room next to Oscar before he did.

That knowledge had haunted her for the days leading up to the trip.

The first night, she came out for water and found him barefoot, shirtless, sleepy-eyed. Her mouth had gone dry.

“Midnight hydration club?” he’d teased.

She’d nodded, unable to form words at first.

It was like that, always: the flutter in her chest, the need to act normal. It was exhausting.

There was no interaction after that, she sat in silence on the cool stone of the countertop, sipping from her water bottle and Oscar left the room a minute later, looking back at her momentarily.

Oscar was no better.

From the moment he met her, she had settled under his skin in a way no one else had. She was sharp-witted, sweet and terrifyingly smart (unlike her brother). He remembered her laugh in Barcelona. The one where her whole face lit up. He’d heard it only a few times since—each one burned into memory.

He told himself it was just a crush. That it would pass.

It didn’t.

He kept it all quiet. Because of Lando. Because of timing.

But it didn’t stop the wanting.

Now, in Portugal, the walls between them felt thinner than ever—literally and metaphorically. He caught glimpses of her on the terrace, at breakfast, air drying her hair on the balcony. Every time she laughed, he looked up like he’d been summoned.

That night, when the party was in full swing, he found himself drifting upstairs before midnight, needing air. Or space. Or just the faint hope that he might bump into her.

She found him instead, sitting outside his room with a beer in hand.

“You’re hiding,” she said, sinking down beside him.

“You first.”

She smiled. “I love my brother to pieces, but this isn't my scene.”

He hummed in agreement. She looked tired, but still luminous—bare shoulders, flushed cheeks, hair curling slightly from the sea air.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said.

“Dangerous,” she teased.

He smirked, but then turned serious. “About you.”

She stilled.

“I think about you more than I should,” he said softly. “Always have.”

She turned to face him fully, heart thudding. "You've been drinking Osc." She told him softly.

He held up the beer in his hand, unopened. "Haven't had any actually." She stays silent, unsure of how to react. He let out a quiet breath. “Three years.”

“Three years,” she echoed, she could hear her own heartbeat at blood pulses in her ears.

“Do you know how hard it’s been not to look at you too long? Not to sit next to you at dinner or ask for your number when Lando’s not around?”

She smiled, crooked. “You could’ve.”

“I was scared.”

She looked at him then—not just glanced, but really looked. Saw the flicker of nerves, the earnestness underneath the easy charm. “I’m scared too,” she admitted.

A silence settled over them. The air buzzed with everything unsaid.

“I want to kiss you,” he said, voice low, reverent. Her breath caught.“But only if you want me to,” he added.

She leaned in, so close he could smell the citrus in her shampoo. “I’ve been waiting three years for you to say that.”

And then, finally, they kissed.

It wasn’t fireworks. It was relief. It was three years of what-ifs melting into what was. Her fingers in his hair. His hands gentle at her waist. They moved like they’d done this before, in dreams or imagined moments.

The pull apart momentarily, looking into the depths of each others before leaning back in, lips locking again in a soft but passionate kiss.

The kiss deepened, and she felt herself drowning in him. His lips were firm yet gentle, his hands on her waist, holding her as if she were the most precious thing in the world. She wrapped her arms around his neck, her fingers tangling in his hair, and for a moment, the world around them ceased to exist.

Suddenly they were standing, he tapped her thigh, motioning for her to jump. So she did, wrapping her legs around his waist, his hand moving to ass to support her, lips still locked, breathing heavy between the both of them. She knew what was going to happen, her heart was pounding but she was going to let it happen, it's all she's wanted for three years.

He led her into his room, kicking the door shut behind them and he placed her down on the edge of the bed, he bends over, hands either side of her body so his face is level with hers.

They shared a soft moment both of them understanding each other's feelings just through their eyes, both in agreeance with what was about to happen.

“You’re so beautiful,” Oscar murmured, his breath warm against her skin as he pulled her shirt off, revealing the lace bra beneath. His eyes darkened with desire, and Y/n felt a flush spread across her chest.

“Oscar,” she whispered, her voice trembling as his lips trailed down her neck, sending shivers down her spine. His touch was confident yet respectful, as if he knew exactly how much she needed to be cherished.

He paused, his hands resting on her hips as he looked up at her. "Baby, are you sure you wanna do this?" he said, his voice rough with need.

“I'm so sure,” she whispered, her voice barely audible, a string of words only for their ears.

Oscar’s expression softened, and he leaned in, his lips brushing hers once more. “Then let me show you how much I’ve wanted this,” he murmured, his hands moving to her bra, unhooking it with practiced ease.

She closed her eyes as he slid the straps down her arms, her breasts exposed to his gaze. She felt a mix of fear and excitement, her heart racing as his hands cupped her, his thumbs brushing her nipples. A soft moan escaped her lips, and she tilted her head back, surrendering to the sensations flooding her body.

“You’re perfect,” Oscar whispered, his lips trailing down her chest, his tongue teasing her nipple until she arched into his touch. His hands moved to her skirt, his fingers deftly unzipping it as he kissed his way down her stomach.

She gasped as her skirt fell to the floor, leaving her in nothing but her panties. She felt exposed, vulnerable, but Oscar’s gaze was so full of adoration that she couldn’t feel anything but desired.

He knelt before her, his hands resting on her thighs as he looked up at her. He said her name, his voice thick with emotion. “Are you sure?”

She nodded, her breath coming in short gasps. “Yes,” she whispered, her voice steady despite the storm of emotions raging inside her.

Oscar’s hands moved to her panties, his fingers hooking into the waistband as he slid them down her legs. She shivered as they fell to the floor, leaving her completely bare. She felt his gaze on her, warm and hungry, and she couldn’t help but squirm under his attention.

“You’re so beautiful,” he repeated, his voice a whisper as he leaned in, his lips brushing her inner thigh. She gasped, her hands tangling in his hair as he kissed his way closer to her core. "Such a pretty girl." He said against the skin of her thigh.

“Oscar,” she breathed, her voice a plea as his lips hovered just above her core, his breath teasing her.

He looked up at her, his eyes dark with desire. “Tell me what you want,” he murmured, his voice commanding yet gentle.

She swallowed hard, her cheeks flushing as she met his gaze. “I want you,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “I want you to make me feel… everything.”

Oscar’s expression softened, and he leaned in, his lips finally pressing against her, his tongue teasing her clit in a way that made her cry out. His touch was skilled, his mouth moving with a rhythm that had her squirming, her body arching off the bed.

“Oscar,” she moaned, her hands gripping his hair as he sucked gently, his tongue flicking in a way that sent waves of pleasure through her.

Her moans and whimpers were like music to his ears, only encouraging his actions in pleasuring her. She felt herself spiraling, her body tightening as she neared the edge.

“Come for me,” he whispered, his voice hoarse as he continued his ministrations. “Let go, honey.”

His words were her undoing. She cried out, her body shaking as she climaxed, her release overwhelming in its intensity. Oscar held her through it, his hands gentle on her thighs as she rode out the waves of pleasure.

When she finally came down, She was breathless, her body limp as she leaned back against the bed. Oscar sat up, his eyes filled with a tenderness that made her heart ache.

“Are you okay?” he asked, his voice soft as he brushed a strand of hair from her face.

She nodded, her voice too weak to form words. She reached out, her hand resting on his cheek as she pulled him in for another kiss. It was softer this time, a tender exchange that spoke of everything they couldn’t say.

“Oscar,” she pants. “Please…”

He lifted his head, his eyes dark with desire. “Please what, honey?” he murmured, his voice a low rumble that sent shivers down her spine. “Tell me what you want.”

She bit her lip, her cheeks flushing with a mixture of embarrassment and arousal. “I want you to take me,” she confessed, her voice barely above a whisper. “All of me.”

Oscar’s eyes flared with a primal intensity, he stood to take his shirt and shorts along with his boxers off and he kissed her deeply, his hands moving to her thighs, spreading them wide. Her breath hitched as he positioned himself between her legs, his erection pressing against her core. Her eyes wide as she took in his naked form.

“Ready for me?” he asked, his voice a husky command.

She nodded, her eyes locked on his. “Yes,” she whispered. “I’m yours, Oscar. All of me.”

He thrust into her in one smooth motion, filling her completely. She gasped, her head tipping back as he began to move, his hips snapping with a rhythm that was both urgent and deliberate. The sensation was overwhelming, every nerve in her body singing with pleasure as he claimed her with a ferocity that left no doubt of his devotion.

“You feel so good,” he groaned, his forehead pressing against hers. “So fucking perfect.”

She wrapped her legs around his waist, her heels digging into his back as she met his thrusts with equal fervor. The room was filled with the sounds of their passion—the slick rhythm of their bodies, their ragged breaths, and the occasional soft curse that escaped Oscar’s lips.

“Harder,” she pleaded, her voice desperate. “Please, Oscar, harder.”

He obliged, his movements becoming more forceful, his hands gripping her hips as he pounded into her with a primal intensity. She cried out, her body trembling on the edge of release, every thrust pushing her closer to the edge.

“Come for me, honey,” Oscar commanded, his voice hoarse with need. “Let go.”

His words were her undoing. Her orgasm crashed over her like a wave, her body convulsing around him as she cried out his name. Oscar followed moments later, his hips stuttering as he filled her with his release, his deep groans of pleasure echoing in the room.

For a long moment, they remained locked together, their hearts pounding in unison, their breaths slowly returning to normal. Oscar withdrew gently, his hand brushing a stray curl from her forehead as he looked down at her with a tenderness that made her heart ache.

He kissed her softly, a promise sealed in the tender press of their lips. As they lay entwined in the aftermath of their passion.

When they broke apart, she laughed—a small, breathless sound.

“We’re screwed,” she said.

“Completely,” he agreed, grinning.

“But happy?”

“Very.”

Outside, the sea kept whispering against the cliffs, but inside, a different kind of tide had turned.

✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦ ✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦

[joeyfromthetrack]

Half a Step - KA¹²

Kimi Antonelli x Wolff!reader

Summary - Kimi and the daughter of Toto Wolff find themselves enamoured with each other from across the garage.

Contains - pure fluff, awkward teenage love

The sun hung low over the paddock, casting everything in golden light. Race day was winding down, and the buzz of engines had given way to the softer sounds of crew laughter and debriefs. The clamour of the crowd was gone, replaced by something more intimate, the quiet hum of a team catching its breath.

Y/n Wolff leaned against the railing outside the Mercedes hospitality suite, sipping on a melting strawberry smoothie and watching the bustle below. She’d grown up around these tracks, the daughter of Team Principal Toto Wolff, but it never got old, the energy, the thrill of it all.

And lately, it had gotten even harder to ignore one particular part of the scenery.

Kimi Antonelli

Mercedes’ newest young driver. Barely 18, full of raw talent and the sweetest smile the Wolff girl has ever seen. Kimi had joined the Mercedes academy years ago but his presence in the garage became more prominent in 2024 as he prepared to step up to formula one.

Y/n had to pretend her heart didn't stutter every single time he entered the garage, she had to pretend that him simply walking past and giving her a friendly wave didn't make her cheeks flush and head spin. And now with the boy being in the garage full time, she was finding it harder and harder not to fall hopelessly in love with the boy.

And she had no idea that, across the garage, Kimi Antonelli was doing exactly the same thing.

Kimi sat perched on one of the low pit wall barriers, boots dangling, helmet resting beside him. His hands twisted the strap of his gloves absentmindedly as he tried — and failed — to focus on the technical debrief happening a few metres away.

His eyes kept drifting.

To her.

Y/n was a vision in the fading light, her hair catching the last strands of sunshine, her laugh — even when faint and tucked into a private conversation with one of the mechanics — sending an ache straight through his chest.

He knew he shouldn't stare. She was Toto’s daughter, practically paddock royalty, and Kimi was just the kid. The rookie trying to prove himself worthy of the same seat greats had sat in.

But it was hopeless.

Every time she was near, it was like the whole garage shifted, the world blurring at the edges until there was only her.

She was sunshine. And he was a boy who wanted to be worthy of standing in it.

From her spot by the railing, Y/n felt it — the weight of his gaze.

It had been happening more and more lately. Little glances from across the garage. Half-smiles traded over laptops and telemetry sheets. A kind of silent conversation neither of them was brave enough to voice.

Her father wasn't strict, but she knew he watched everything. And if Toto had noticed the soft way Kimi’s eyes lingered on her, or the way her laugh brightened whenever Kimi was around, he hadn’t said anything yet.

At least, not out loud.

Because Toto had noticed.

He'd caught the way Kimi looked at his daughter once — when she wasn’t watching — a gaze so open, so careful, it had stopped him mid-sentence. And he'd seen it in Y/n, too — the way her face lit up the moment Kimi entered a room, the nervous twirling of her fingers when Kimi was nearby.

Toto had seen it in both of them, separately, quietly.

And while a part of him was protective — would always be protective — another part of him, the part that understood how rare it was to find something real in the high-speed, high-stakes world they lived in, was quietly, secretly rooting for them.

The garage lights buzzed on overhead, casting a cooler glow over everything now that the sun was sinking fast.

Kimi slid off the barrier and tugged at his race suit sleeves. He should go. The engineers would be waiting for him. There was data to review, meetings to attend, future races to prepare for.

But instead, he found himself walking toward the hospitality suite.

Toward her.

Y/n spotted him immediately, her stomach flipping in that stupid way she couldn’t control.

He slowed when he reached her side, a little breathless — maybe from the walk, maybe from the nerves that always prickled under his skin around her.

"Hey," he said, voice softer than the background chatter of the packing crew.

"Hey," she answered, setting her smoothie down and turning fully toward him.

For a moment, neither spoke. They just stood there, a few feet apart, the world busy around them but somehow silent between them.

"You were amazing today," she said finally, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

Kimi flushed — not from the compliment itself, but from the way she said it. Like she really meant it. Like he wasn’t just some rookie. Like he was hers to be proud of.

"Thanks," he mumbled, a little shy. "I... uh... I saw you watching."

Y/n laughed under her breath, biting her lip. "Busted."

He shifted his weight from foot to foot, gloves still twisting in his hands. "I always... I mean, I always look for you. After."

Her heart stuttered.

"Oh" she whispered, not sure what to say as a pink blush spreads across her cheeks.

The air between them stretched and tightened, sweet and terrifying all at once.

Kimi took a half-step closer, so close now she could see the faint freckles dusted across his nose, the nervous flutter of his lashes.

"I don't really know what I'm doing," he admitted, voice barely above the breeze. "But I... I like being around you. I always have."

Y/n smiled, slow and wide and aching.

"I like being around you, too."

A long, full moment passed — the kind of moment that feels like the edge of something big, the kind you only get once if you’re lucky.

From a distance, tucked into the doorway of the hospitality suite, Toto watched them.

He saw the look on Kimi’s face — the one he’d caught before — and the way Y/n smiled back at him, unguarded and full of something too bright to be anything but real.

He shook his head with a quiet smile, already resigned.

Maybe he couldn’t protect her from everything. Maybe he didn’t even need to.

Maybe sometimes, you just had to let good things happen.

Kimi swallowed hard. "Maybe we could, um... hang out sometime? Outside the garage?"

Y/n’s heart swelled, almost painfully.

"I’d like that," she said. "A lot."

He smiled, a real one, bright and a little crooked, and more beautiful than any trophy.

Their awkward smiling and blushing moment was interrupted as Kimi was approached by Bono for a debrief. They stood staring at each other unsure of what to do but as Bono called for Kimi again he gave her a wave and a smile, backing away still looking at her until he hit a wall.

She giggled softly at his clumsiness and his blush only grew, he had to reluctantly turned around following Bono into one of the meeting rooms, leaving Y/n planted in her spot.

Her trance was broken by the sound of someone's voice clearing, that someone being her father as he passed her by on his way to the meeting room following after Kimi and Bono. He looked at her with a knowing smirk and a wink before he disappeared into the meeting room.

Y/n's eyes widened and her cheeks grew impossibly redder.

Oh shit.

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Word count: 1.3k

[joeyfromthetrack]

Sneaky Kisses 💋ྀིྀི

Lando Norris x driver!reader

Summary - They promised to keep things professional. But just before qualifying, when tensions are high and adrenaline’s peaking, Lando Norris finds himself sneaking around with his teammate.

Contains - sexual innuendos, allusions to sex, kinda fluffy

The paddock always buzzed on qualifying day. Tight schedules. Tighter nerves. The team staff zipping around their garages making sure everything is perfect.

But within the chaos and tensions of hot laps and tyre strategies, Lando Norris and his teammate found themselves facing the tensions of not being caught. Not by staff, not by fellow drivers, not by family or friends.

Y/n slipped in through the side, her race suit half-zipped and her helmet under one arm. She didn’t even glance his way. She didn’t have to. He felt her, like a shift in gravity. Lando leaned against the back wall of the garage, pretending to study telemetry on his tablet.

In reality, he was tracking every step she took, every flick of her fingers as she passed the car he knew better than his own reflection. He could still feel her legs around his waist from earlier that morning, the imprint of her lips on his jaw, the whisper against his neck:

“Last time. We can’t keep doing this.”

Yeah, okay.

That promise lasted about as long as his lead from pole last weekend, less than 5 seconds.

She passed him casually, like they hadn’t spent the early morning tangled together in the hotel room three blocks from the circuit. Like he hadn’t kissed her goodbye with her legs wrapped around his waist, whispering “we’re gonna get caught one of these days” against his lips.

Like they hadn't spent the previous race weekends sneaking from their own hotel room to the others, staying up until the early hours of the morning, bodies moulded together, releasing all the tension and anger from the races on each other.

“Nice of you to show up,” he murmured without looking at her.

“Had a late breakfast,” she said, her voice low, a smirk playing at the corner of her mouth. “Bit of cardio, too.”

He fought a smile, biting the inside of his cheek. He didn’t respond. He couldn’t—not with the way that memory lit up every nerve in his body. Her nails on his back, the way she laughed breathlessly against his chest afterward, already knowing they were going to pretend it didn’t happen once the garage doors opened.

Around them, the team moved like clockwork. Mechanics swarmed the cars. Engineers barked numbers. Journalists peered in from the periphery. No one noticed the two drivers exchanging quiet smirks and veiled glances like teenagers pulling off the world’s most high-stakes prank.

“Eyes up, Norris,” she teased, brushing past him just a little too close. “You’ll give us away.”

He followed her movement like a magnet.

“I think your lipstick is still on my neck,” he shot back.

Everyone thought they hated each other.

And they let them.

Y/n stopped by her car, turning her attention to her race engineer. But Lando watched as her fingers lingered on her zipper just a moment too long, like she knew he was still staring. Like she wanted him to.

God, she was dangerous. More dangerous than a wet track on hard tires.

He waited until no one was looking. Until the cameras panned away, and the mechanics were elbow-deep in tire blankets and software updates. Then he moved, just a few steps across the garage, enough to stand beside her.

“Wearing my hoodie when you left the hotel was bold,” he murmured, keeping his eyes straight ahead.

“I left before sunrise. It was cold.”

“You could’ve taken yours.”

“I like yours better.”

A pause.

He smiled.

“You know one of the PR interns saw you. She didn’t say anything, but she knows.”

“She better keep quiet if she wants a job next season.”

“God, you’re terrifying.”

Y/n turned her face slightly, just enough that he could see the sharp curve of her cheekbone.

“Still keep crawling back, though.”

He leaned in, not touching, just close enough to feel the heat between them.

“Because I’m an idiot.”

“That, or insanely obsessed with me. I would be too if I was you.” She shrugged cooly. His scoff was soft but loud enough for her to hear.

“Don’t worry,” she added, voice dropping, “I won’t ask you to say it. Not today.”

The pit lane loudspeaker crackled to life. Two minutes to qualifying. Drivers to cars.

Everything around them sped up—radio chatter, boot-up sequences, the steady rhythm of race prep reaching a crescendo.

Still, neither of them moved.

Lando glanced around. Everyone was looking the other way.

“I need it,” he said quietly.

She arched a brow at her teammate. “Need what?”

He met her eyes, finally.

“You know what.”

And without waiting, without thinking—because thinking would ruin it—he bent down and kissed her.

Not frantic. Not hungry. Just sure. Quiet and slow, like the kind of kiss you steal in the calm before a storm. One hand brushing the small of her back. Her fingers curling into the front of his suit. Lips warm. Familiar. Forbidden.

They pulled apart at the sound of footsteps coming down the hallway.

Lando backed off like nothing had happened. Just another driver talking to his teammate.

Y/n blinked once. Then zipped her race suit all the way up, slipped on her gloves, and climbed into the cockpit of her car with the same smooth grace she used to dismantle his self-control every single time.

Lando climbed into his own car, heart pounding against his ribcage harder than it should’ve been.

His engineer’s voice came through the radio.

“Alright, Norris. Give me a clean out-lap.”

He smirked, eyes narrowing behind the visor. The conversation between Y/n and her engineer going the same. Both of their eyes squinting with focus and determination, their heart rates still high from their secret kisses.

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Word count: 955