Jocelyn F1

[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

Take a Picture of Me

Oscar Piastri:

Midnight in Algarve (18+)

Whipped

Soft Spot

Kimi Antonelli:

Half a Step

Jet Lag & Pancakes

Lover Boy

Max Verstappen:

Sweet Release (18+)

Interviews and Secrets

Little Love

Ollie Bearman:

The Breakup Pact

[joeyfromthetrack]

Please don’t use ai it’s very obvious

I'm only answering this because it irked me so much. I do not use AI when writing my stories and I do believe that AI has no place in these creative spaces. I do, however, occasionally use translation apps because English is not my first language

So no, I do not use AI, my fics come straight from my head. Hope this helps xx

[joeyfromthetrack]

Little Love - MV³³

Summary: Small moments of Max loving his pregnant wife, from the day they find out she’s expecting to the moment he holds his daughter for the first time.

Contains: dad max, pregnancy, fluff

The test sat on the bathroom counter, its two faint lines brighter to her than anything else in the room. She stared at it with her hands clasped tightly together, pulse racing in her throat. A laugh bubbled inside her, edged with nerves, but it died before it reached her lips.

She heard the door creak behind her. “Love?”

Max’s voice was gentle, curious, the usual calm that always steadied her. She turned to him slowly, her eyes wide. He followed her gaze to the counter, then froze.

For a moment, the silence stretched. His chest rose and fell once, sharply, and then his lips curved. Not a grin, not his usual teasing smile, but something softer, shakier. He stepped forward until he was close enough to cup her face in both hands.

“You’re pregnant,” he whispered, the words tumbling out of him in awe.

Her throat tightened and she nodded, barely. That was all he needed. His laugh came next, broken by tears he hadn’t realized were slipping down his cheeks. He pressed his forehead to hers and let out a shaky breath, his voice trembling as he said, “We’re really doing this. We’re going to be parents.”

Her tears spilled then, too, and when he kissed her, it wasn’t hurried or desperate. It was reverent. He held her against him as if anchoring himself in this new reality. She could feel his heart racing against her chest, the both of them clinging to the moment.

The bump was barely visible, but Max didn’t care. One quiet evening, he stretched out on the couch beside her, head pillowed against her belly like it was the most natural place in the world. His hand rested lightly on her side, fingertips tracing small patterns across the fabric of her shirt.

She laughed, threading her fingers through his curls. “You know you won’t hear anything yet, right?”

He lifted one finger to his lips dramatically. “Shhh. Don’t ruin it.” His ear pressed more firmly against her stomach, his brows knit together as if listening to the most important conversation of his life.

Her teasing softened into something warmer as she watched him. He looked so serious, so intent.

Then he spoke, voice low and full of wonder. “You’re in there, little one. It’s Dad. I’ll wait for you.”

Her hand stilled in his hair. Something inside her shifted, something tender and fragile. The sight of him, already so devoted, brought tears she didn’t try to hide. He didn’t look up. He just stayed there, murmuring to a baby who couldn’t yet answer, as if patience and love could somehow carry his words through.

Pregnancy cravings came at the strangest times. Sometimes in the middle of the day, sometimes in the dead of night. And always, Max rose to the occasion like a soldier on duty.

One evening, long after midnight, she poked him awake. “Max,” she whispered guiltily. “I need frozen yogurt.”

His eyes opened immediately. “What flavor?”

Within minutes, he was tugging on his hoodie, hair sticking up in all directions as he laced his shoes. She laughed softly at the sight, but he only shrugged. “It’s important,” he said, kissing her forehead before slipping out the door.

Another afternoon, she announced dramatically from the kitchen, “Pickles. But not just any pickles. They have to be the crunchy ones in the glass jar.”

He returned an hour later, sweaty from the heat, holding three jars. “I didn’t know which were the crunchy ones, so I bought all of them.”

But the moment that stood out most was when she stood at the counter with a spoonful of ice cream in one hand and a pickle spear in the other. Max leaned against the opposite counter, arms folded, watching her with undisguised amusement.

“Don’t judge me,” she warned.

“Judge you?” His eyes twinkled. “I’ve never seen anyone look more beautiful eating pickles and ice cream.”

She laughed, shaking her head. “I’m swollen, Max. I don’t glow. I waddle.”

He pushed away from the counter and came to stand in front of her, brushing a curl back from her face. “You’re perfect. Always.”

And she believed him, because he said it like a truth carved in stone.

When her belly had rounded, Max finally convinced her to come to the paddock with him. She had hesitated, nervous about the chaos and the eyes that would surely follow them, but he had insisted. “You belong there with me. Both of you.”

From the moment they stepped through the gates, Max kept close. His hand hovered at the small of her back, guiding her through the throngs of mechanics and engineers rushing past. Every so often he looked down at her, checking in. “You’re okay? Not too tired?”

She laughed at his concern. “I’m fine, Max. You don’t have to treat me like glass.”

“I do,” he said simply, squeezing her hand.

As they entered the garage, a few teammates greeted them with warm smiles. Their eyes flicked to her belly before back to Max, who immediately stood a little taller, pride radiating from him. When someone joked that the baby was already a paddock regular, Max grinned and pulled her into his side.

“She’s going to have the best seat in the house,” he said. “But only when it’s safe.”

On the way to hospitality, he crouched suddenly, ignoring the curious looks around them. He pressed his lips gently to her stomach and whispered, “Hear that, little one? This is where Daddy works. Don’t worry, you’ll never be far from us.”

She touched his hair lightly, her cheeks flushed. “Max, people are staring.”

He looked up, unabashed. “Good. Let them see how lucky I am.”

The words stayed with her all day.

The ultrasound room was dim and quiet except for the steady hum of the machine. She lay on the exam table, her shirt lifted slightly, Max sitting right beside her with his hand wrapped around hers. His thumb moved in nervous circles across her skin, though his eyes were glued to the screen.

When the grainy image appeared, Max’s breath caught. He leaned forward, his whole body taut with anticipation. The doctor smiled knowingly at their eagerness.

“Would you like to know the gender today?”

Max glanced at her immediately. “Do you?”

She nodded, her own heart racing. “Yes. I want to know.”

The doctor adjusted the probe, tapping at the screen. Then she said warmly, “Congratulations. You’re having a little girl.”

The words settled into the air like sunlight breaking through clouds. For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then Max let out a sharp exhale that turned into a laugh, his free hand covering his mouth as tears spilled over.

“A girl,” he whispered, turning to her with wide, tearful eyes. “We’re having a daughter.”

She nodded through her own tears, and Max immediately leaned over to kiss her forehead, her cheeks, her lips. “She’s ours,” he said, his voice cracking. “Our baby girl.”

On the way home, he couldn’t stop saying it. In the car, while stopped at a light, he suddenly laughed again, squeezing her knee. “Can you believe it? A little girl who’s going to think I hung the moon.”

She teased him gently. “What if she’s a daddy’s girl?”

Max grinned, tears still dried into the corners of his eyes. “Then I’m doomed. Completely, happily doomed.”

That night, he crouched beside her belly and whispered for the first time, “Hi, sweetheart. It’s Daddy. I can’t wait to meet you, little princess.”

They were curled on the couch, reading in companionable silence, when she gasped. Her hand flew to her belly, eyes wide.

Max was on his feet instantly. “What is it? Are you alright?”

She grabbed his hand, pressing it against her stomach, her voice shaking with excitement. “She kicked.”

He froze, staring at her. “Was that… really?”

“Yes!” She laughed, tears already welling. “That was her.”

A beat of stunned silence, and then Max dropped to his knees. Both of his hands pressed to her belly, his forehead nearly resting against her. “Hi,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “Hi there, baby girl. It’s Dad.”

She wiped at her cheeks, laughing through tears as she watched him. He was radiant, undone, completely lost in the miracle of a tiny kick.

“That’s my girl,” he said, eyes wet, waiting like the world depended on it. “Kick again for me, sweetheart.”

From that night on, it became routine. Max spoke to her belly constantly. Some evenings, he pulled out children’s books and read them in the silliest voices he could muster, making her laugh so hard she had to beg him to stop. Other nights he hummed little tunes, forehead pressed gently against her.

Even in the smallest moments, he included their daughter. “We’re making pasta tonight, little one. You’ll love it when you’re big enough.” Or, “This movie’s a classic. Your mum and I will show you all the good ones.”

Sometimes, when he thought she was asleep, his voice grew softer, more vulnerable. “You’re so wanted. I promise I’ll protect you. You’ll never go a day not knowing how loved you are.”

She never interrupted, never told him she heard. She just let herself drift to sleep with his promises wrapping around them like a blanket.

When labor came, everything blurred into chaos. Nurses rushing, monitors beeping, sharp voices giving instructions she could barely process. The pain came in waves so fierce she cried out, squeezing Max’s hand so tightly her nails left crescents in his skin.

But Max never flinched. He stayed beside her, gripping her hand just as fiercely, kissing her damp hairline, pressing his forehead to hers. “You’re strong. You’re doing so well. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

She wept into his shoulder between contractions, terrified and exhausted, but every time she faltered, his voice pulled her back. “One more push, love. You’ve got this. Look at me. Just look at me.”

And she did. She clung to him like he was the only steady thing in the storm.

Then, suddenly, silence. A beat, and then the sharp cry of their baby split the air.

Max’s chest heaved. Tears blurred his vision before he even saw her. The nurse placed the small, wriggling bundle into his arms, and his world stopped.

She was impossibly tiny, her fists clenched tight, her face scrunched red. Max stared down, his mouth trembling, his breath uneven.

“Hi,” he whispered, choked with awe. His finger brushed against her miniature hand, and she grasped it immediately with surprising strength. The sob that broke from his chest was quiet but unstoppable. “I’m your dad. And you… you’ve made me the happiest man alive.”

He bent his head, kissing her forehead with a reverence he had never felt before.

When he finally looked up, his wife lay exhausted but radiant, tears streaking her face as she watched them.

Max moved closer so she could see. “We did it,” he said softly, voice thick with wonder. “She’s here, our little love.”

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

[joeyfromthetrack]

Soft Spot- OP⁸¹

Oscar Piastri x reader

Summary: Oscar and his girlfriend both find themselves experiencing some intense baby fever.

Contains: long time established relationship, intense baby fever, fluff

The moment she cradled her newborn niece in her arms, Oscar knew he was in trouble.

He watched from the other end of the sofa, arm stretched out lazily across the backrest, pretending to scroll through his phone while his eyes stayed locked on her. The way she smiled, that slow, warm one that only came out when she was truly full of joy , it lit something up in him. Something soft. Something that ached in the nicest way.

“You want to hold her?” she whispered, rocking the tiny bundle gently.

Oscar sat up. “She looks cozy right where she is.”

She laughed, and his heart thudded. “That’s code for ‘I’m scared I’ll drop her.’”

He gave a half-smile. “A little. She’s so small. Like, impossibly small.”

“Babies tend to be.”

She returned her attention to the sleepy infant, carefully brushing a wisp of hair from her forehead. Oscar leaned in just slightly, resting his chin on his hand as he watched. He didn’t say anything, but the look in his eyes said everything.

The baby fever hit them like a freight train, though neither dared to bring it up.

A week later, at the Dutch Grand Prix, it got worse.

Oscar had qualified second, right behind Lando, and the energy in the paddock buzzed with anticipation. She’d flown in that morning coming from a trip with her friends, and he lit up the second he spotted her by his driver room, hood up, travel-worn but glowing.

"Look who made it," he grinned, wrapping his arms around her waist.

"Just in time to see you on the podium," she replied, eyes gleaming.

"Manifesting?"

"Manifesting."

They didn’t have long together before he had to focus again, but she stayed close, slipping through the crowd with the ease of someone who'd been in the paddock a hundred times before. She stopped by to see Lando too, who introduced her to his brother and his baby boy, not more than a few months old.

And just like that, the freight train rolled through again.

Lando's brother handed the baby off with practiced ease, and there she was again, arms full of softness, cooing in that gentle voice Oscar had heard before, the one that made him feel like the whole world was slowing down. The baby fussed a little, then melted into her chest like she was the safest place on Earth.

Oscar, in full race suit and holding his helmet under one arm, watched from the background. His face said nothing. His eyes said everything.

Later that afternoon, Oscar passed by on his way back from briefing and saw her. There it was again, that look on her face, all softness and instinct. She rocked the baby with a natural rhythm, one hand behind his little head, her mouth moving gently as she said something only he could hear.

Oscar slowed.

She glanced up and saw him. Her eyes lit up, but she didn’t say anything. Just smiled.

He offered a crooked grin and a small wave, then disappeared into the garage, his heart tapping at the walls of his ribs like it wanted out.

After the race, he finished third, not his best but that's okay. They all gathered in the paddock lounge. She was there again, baby in her arms, legs tucked beneath her on the outdoor couch. She looked like she belonged that way.

Oscar walked over, pulling off his cap, sweat-slick hair sticking to his forehead. “You and him again?”

She looked up, amused. “We’re bonded now.” She grinned up at him. “You say that like you don’t want a turn.”

“I didn’t say that.”

She raised her eyebrows. “So you do want a turn?”

Oscar hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck like he was calculating the risks of being emotionally compromised in public.

“I mean... if he’s in a good mood…”

Lando’s brother looked up from where he sat with his wife and gave a knowing smile. “He’s in a great mood. Just fed, just burped. It’s prime baby time.”

Her hands were already outstretched. “Here. Support under the arms. He likes to lean into your chest.”

Oscar looked at his girlfriend like is this happening? and then carefully stepped forward.

She passed the baby over with practiced confidence, and Oscar took him with the same caution he brought into Eau Rouge. The baby settled in quickly, face smooshed gently against Oscar’s chest, one tiny fist resting on the black fireproof material.

He looked stunned.

“Oh,” he said softly. “Wow. He’s so… warm.”

She let out a quiet laugh beside him. “That’s the first thing you notice?”

“Well, yeah. He’s just... alive, you know?”

She smiled and moved closer, watching Oscar instinctively rock side to side like she had earlier. His hands were gentle but steady, one tucked beneath the baby’s back, the other resting protectively near his head.

“I think he likes you,” she murmured.

Oscar looked down at the baby again. The little guy blinked up sleepily, then promptly closed his eyes, clearly at peace.

“I think I like him too,” Oscar said. His voice was quieter now. Almost reverent.

She watched him, heart caught somewhere between awe and ache. He looked different like this. Not in a dramatic way, still Oscar, still hers, but... softer. A little stunned by what he was holding, by how natural it felt. His fingers traced small, careful patterns along the edge of the baby’s onesie. He didn’t even seem to notice.

“You’re really good with him,” she said.

He looked up. “You think?”

“I know.”

He smiled, slow and unguarded.

Then Lando returned with a smirk. “Alright, alright, give my nephew back before you imprint on him.”

Oscar snorted but didn’t move right away. “Can’t I keep him for one more minute?”

"No mate, I want my nephew back." Oscar reluctantly handed the baby back over, his girlfriend beside him with a little pout on her face.

Later that night back in their hotel room, laying in bed together he asks: “Do you want kids?” he asked, too quiet for anyone else to hear.

She blinked, then looked over at him. “Wow. You’re really going in.”

He gave a soft laugh. “You don’t have to answer. I just—”

“No,” she said gently, “I do.” She shifted so she was facing him more fully. “Yeah. I think I do.”

Oscar’s expression flickered, relief? Gratitude? Something like wonder.

“I always figured I did,” she went on, “but lately... watching my sister's baby. Holding your friend’s nephew. Watching you today...”

He raised an eyebrow. “Me?”

“Baby, your face when you were holding that baby. You looked like you were already thinking about building a crib in your garage.”

Oscar laughed, flushing slightly. “I wasn’t that obvious.”

She tilted her head, smiling. “You kind of were.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “I’ve been thinking about it more lately too. Not just today. Or last week. Just… in general.”

They sat in the quiet for a moment, the weight of honesty comfortable between them.

“I liked seeing you with them,” he said finally. “You looked so natural. It made something in me go… yeah, I want that.”

She nudged her knee against his. “You would be a really good dad, you know.”

His smile faltered for a second, but only because it was softening. “You really think so?”

“I do.”

Oscar leaned back, letting out a breath like he hadn’t realized he was holding it. “We don’t have to rush into anything.”

“No,” she agreed, “but it’s good to know we’re… somewhere on the same page.”

He nodded slowly. “Yeah. Same page sounds good.”

There was another pause. Not awkward. Just full.

Then she reached over, took his hand, and threaded her fingers through his.

“You should probably practice diaper changes first,” she teased.

He groaned dramatically. “Deal breaker. I’m out.”

She squeezed his hand. “Too late.”

He glanced sideways at her, eyes warm. “Yeah. It is.”

They didn’t map out timelines. They didn’t start throwing around baby names or imagining nurseries or texting their families. But there was something solid now, something certain. A quiet kind of knowing.

And that night, as they curled into each other in their hotel room, no race buzz, no baby nearby, just the sound of city traffic humming faintly outside. Oscar wrapped an arm around her waist, pulled her close, and said into the dark:

“I’d like that someday. With you. You'd be the best mum baby.”

She kissed the corner of his mouth and whispered, “I love you.”

That was enough.

For now.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･

[joeyfromthetrack]

Take a Picture of Me - LN⁴

Lando Norris x model!reader

Summary: Lando being his girlfriend's self dubbed personal photographer

Contains: SMAU, little fluffy bits, Lando being down bad, short but cute

inspiration was drawn upon seeing the middle photo 😌

It started as a joke between them.

"You take more pictures of me than my PR team."

Lando looked up from the camera, lips quirking. "That’s because your PR team doesn't get to see you like this."

"Like what?"

He didn’t answer. Just raised the lens again. Click.

Liked by yourusername, oscarpiastri, carlossainz55 and others

landonorris: oh hey there

@/user576: the way she’s literally glowing?? he’s in LOVE your honor

@/girlfriendsofthegrid: no because he said "I study her like a Renaissance painting" with his whole chest

@/carlossainz55: that's not me?! 😟😒 >> @/landonorris: sorry baby 😉

@/user832: This is not photography. This is devotion.

@/user022: Just say “I’m obsessed with her” and go, Lando 😭😭

@/lnfans: this is not soft launching anymore. this is full poetic boyfriend era

Lando Norris had trophies. Entire cities that screamed his name.

But nothing compared to the quiet moments with her. No roar of the crowd could match the sound of her laugh when she thought he wasn’t listening.

He liked to capture those.

She’d catch him staring sometimes, half-embarrassed. “What?”

“You’re just really... you. And I don’t want to miss any of it.”

Liked by yourusername, keeganpalmer, maxfewtrell and others

landonorris: Every version of her is my favorite one

@/user429 he’s so IN LOVE it’s actually kind of rude

@/lanfanclub: the way he makes everyday moments look like cinematic masterpieces 🥲

@/user387: imagine being beautiful AND adored like this???

@/yourusername: not him posting me not even paying attention >>@/landonorris: it’s literally my lockscreen. deal with it. >>>@/user982: you're disgusting, keep doing it.

He called her his favorite subject.

Not just in front of the camera. But always. She could be talking about grocery lists and he’d look at her like she was reciting Shakespeare.

"Why do you look at me like that?"

"Like what?"

"Like you’re composing a sonnet in your head."

"...That’s because I am."

He had a whole album labeled “Her, Just Being.”

That included:

Her squinting at parking meters

Her eating fruit out of a hotel mini fridge

Her brushing his hair out of his eyes without realizing

Everyday things. Mundane things. The kind of moments you miss if you blink.

He never wanted to blink.

Liked by yourusername, maxfewtrell, georgerussel63 and others

landonorris: This is my entire camera roll. And I wouldn’t change a thing.

@/yourusername: you forgot the pic where i accidentally elbowed you mid-dance >>@/landonorris: that one’s in the vault. it’s too iconic to waste

@/user983: this isn’t a love story this is THE love story

@/user103: he loves her like she’s magic and breath at the same time

@/user675: every photo feels like a little thank-you to the universe for giving her to him 😭

Sometimes he posted her just because she asked.

"Take a picture of me," she'd say, even when she knew he already was.

One time, she said it while sitting on their living room floor at 9:42 PM, messy hair, one sock on, holding a slice of pizza and a half drunk glass of wine.

He took five photos.

@/landonorris posted a story:

Caption: "Take a picture of me."

It wasn’t about the perfect composition.

It wasn’t about being a model or a race car driver or having followers who watched their every move.

It was about how she made even the quiet parts of life feel loud.

How he wanted to hold on to it all.

Frame it.

Freeze it.

─── ⋆⋅📸⋅⋆ ───

[joeyfromthetrack]

Hi hi, just wanted to let you know that some of the links in your masterlist arent working!

Thank you so much for letting me know All links should now be working!

[joeyfromthetrack]

Interviews and Secrets - MV³³

Max Verstappen x Russell!Reader

Summary: Max Verstappen and George Russell have been fighting publicly, little does George know, Max is secretly dating George's little sister.

Contains: sibling arguments, rivalry, fluffy ending, Qatar 2024

The feud everyone talked about had started not on track but on live television.

Three months earlier, George Russell had stood with Sky Sports following the Qatar GP. George had gone from qualifying second to placing fourth and was furious, not only with him self but with Max Verstappen.

George didn’t hesitate. “Whenever anything doesn't go his way, he lashes with unnecessary anger and borderline violence.”

The clip went viral before they’d cut to the commercial break. Headlines screamed RUSSELL CALLS VERSTAPPEN VIOLENT. Sponsors issued nervous statements about “sportsmanship.” Schools of amateur analysts slowed down every corner‑to‑corner replay to hunt for proof of Max’s alleged aggression. A rivalry that had always simmered suddenly boiled over, and the media spooned up every angry bubble.

What no one knew was that Max and George's younger sister had been secretly dating for months.

The first time had been accidental—almost, come to think of it, not really. George joined the grid in 2019 and with him came his precious little sister who was the literal definition of sunshine. Her and Max would be considered to be complete opposites, but opposites attract.

She intrigued Max in the best way, from the way her hair shone in the sun to how her eyes creased when she smiled.

Whilst on a solo getaway from university, she ended up at Jimmy'z during a break in the season. Their schedules aligned perfectly and the two found themselves in the same room outside of the racing world.

Jimmy’z was buzzing, loud with bass and thick with cigarette smoke, the air perfumed by money. The lights pulsed off the crystal-strewn ceiling, reflecting in a thousand fractured shards across the dark, glamorous crowd.

He wasn’t planning to stay long. He hadn’t even told anyone he was going out. But when he spotted her from across the room, all plans vanished.

She looked different tonight. Looser. Unbothered. And he was tired of pretending he didn’t want to know her.

Max drained the last of his drink and headed her way. As he approached, she glanced up—not startled, not flustered—just quietly assessing.

“You’re a long way from the grid,” she said before he could speak.

He smirked. “You recognize me?”

“You’re kind of hard to miss Mr three time world champion."

He gave a short laugh. "So what brings you to Monaco?"

“Solo getaway,” she said. “Needed to get out of Cambridge before I lost my mind.”

“Didn’t peg you for the clubbing type.”

“I’m not.” She sipped her drink. “But tonight felt like the right kind of wrong.”

He liked that. Liked the way her eyes held his, unafraid. There was no flirtation in her voice; at least not the kind he was used to.

“Mind if I sit?” he asked.

She tilted her head toward the empty stool. “Be my guest.”

He ordered them another round and tried not to look too eager. She didn’t make it easy. Everything about her was magnetic in a quiet way; like gravity that snuck up on you. She talked about school, about trying to survive term papers and roommates. He told her a story about nearly getting stuck in Tokyo during a typhoon. They both mocked the overpriced cocktails.

At one point, she leaned in just a little, and Max caught the subtle scent of vanilla and something warmer, like amber. Not expensive. Just… her. He’d spent nights with women who wore perfume that screamed for attention. She didn’t have to.

As they drank and laughed, they inched closer to each others, unintentionally and subconsciously. They realised there close proximity at the same time, it wasn't awkward, she laughed warmly and he leant in, she accepted his movement and their lips locked into a kiss.

Her hand went up to his neck and his to her waist, it wasn't rough or urgent, it was full of passion and want.

When the kiss broke, she looked at him like something had shifted.

“That was… bold,” she said.

“I’ve always been better at driving than waiting; and I waited a long time for that.”

She laughed, low and warm.

He stepped back, giving her the space to make the next move. “This doesn’t have to be anything,” he said. “But it could be. If you want.”

She studied him again with those calculating, deliberate eyes.

And then she smiled.

“I’m on a solo trip,” she said. “But I didn’t say I had to stay solo the whole time.”

Two days later, she flew back to school. They didn’t promise anything, but neither stopped calling.

By the time the season opened in Bahrain, they were deep into something they refused to name.

They were good at hiding it—at first.

She’d visit during breaks in her semester, ducking into team garages under excuses. Max would meet her in tucked-away corners behind grandstands or inside the hushed corridors of VIP suites. It was adrenaline and privacy, stolen hours in cities across the globe.

Only a few close calls.

In Melbourne, they slipped out of a hotel bar just before George arrived. In Jeddah, they were nearly caught leaving the same suite—Max five minutes behind her. The staff raised eyebrows. But nobody said anything.

Yet.

Then following the second to last race of the season came The Interview.

She called ten minutes later.

“I’m so sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize for him,” Max said tightly.

She hesitated. “He doesn’t know who you’ve become.”

“He doesn’t know us.”

She spoke again. "Does this affect us Max?"

“Absolutely not.”

They finished out the season in Abu Dhabi with high tensions between George and Max, Max was now a four time world champion.

Off the grid, She and Max stayed careful. Private entrances. Secret trips to see each other in both Cambridge and Monaco.

But in Monaco, they slipped.

After a late-night tdinner, they ducked through the old stone alleys, her heels clicking on cobblestone. They found a quiet garden terrace, kissed in the glow of string lights, just for a second.

The two shared yet another night together, unaware of what was happening in the hell that is social media.

The photo hit social media. By sunrise, it was front-page news.

MAX VERSTAPPEN & GEORGE RUSSELL’S SISTER'S SECRET ROMANCE EXPOSED!

Paddock chaos erupted. Max’s PR team panicked. Her phone buzzed with a dozen missed calls from George. Fans took sides. That was what they woke up to instead of the Monaco sun hitting the window just right.

“He knows,” she said.

Max nodded. “Yeah.”

George didn’t text. He came in person.

He shoved the door open, face flushed red. “You’ve been lying to me.”

She stood in front of Max, arms folded.

“Let me explain,” she said.

George’s eyes burned. “You’ve been sneaking around with him? While he’s been treating me like a punching bag on track?”

“He’s not trying to hurt you!” she shouted.

Max stepped forward. “We didn’t lie to you. We just didn’t think you’d ever—”

“Approve?” George’s voice cracked. “You’re right. I don’t.”

“Why?” she demanded. “Because it’s Max or because you hate the idea I made a choice without your permission?”

George turned his fury on her. “He’s volatile. He’s dangerous. He only thinks about himself.”

“No,” she said, quietly. “You just don’t know the side of him that I do.”

“You’ve got some fucking nerve,” he spat.

“I didn’t come to fight,” Max said.

“No? You’re good at that. On track. Off track. You don’t know how to back down.”

Max’s jaw flexed. “I know how to back off when it’s about someone I care about.”

“Oh, spare me. This isn’t about her. This is about winning. About getting under my skin—”

“It’s not,” Max cut in. “Not everything is about you, George.”

“She’s my sister.”

“She’s not a trophy,” Max snapped. “She’s not part of the rivalry. She’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me. And I tried—we tried—not to ruin that.”

“I don’t trust you,” George said.

“You don’t have to,” She said. “I do.”

The silence that followed was painful.

Max stepped forward. “I didn’t plan for this. I didn’t go looking for her because of you. I stayed away for as long as I could because of you. But I love her.”

She blinked. George didn’t.

Max turned to her. “I do.”

That finally broke through the storm.

George didn’t say anything for a long moment. He looked at her, then at Max, then back again. And when he finally spoke, his voice had lost its heat.

“If you hurt her…”

“I won’t,” Max said.

“I’ll break your goddamn legs.”

“I’d expect nothing less.”

George exhaled, rubbed a hand over his face, and left without another word.

They didn’t plan it. Which, in hindsight, felt fitting.

It wasn’t a high-profile red carpet or a flashy paddock walk. There were no paparazzi waiting at the door. Just a Sunday afternoon, a sleepy little café in Notting Hill, and the kind of chill that hinted summer was packing its bags.

Max had been in London for a few days, staying low-key. She’d just submitted a major paper and wanted to celebrate. Nothing big. Just pastries, hot coffee, and his hoodie wrapped around her like a security blanket.

The café had outdoor seating, string lights still flickering from the night before. They sat at a table on the far end of the terrace. She had her legs folded beneath her in the chair. Max had his cap pulled low, sunglasses on the table beside his croissant.

And they weren’t thinking about who might be watching. For once, they didn’t care.

He reached across the table to wipe a smudge of powdered sugar from the corner of her mouth. She smiled, leaned into his touch. He didn’t pull back. He let his hand linger.

It wasn’t until the couple sitting near the café window did a double take—phones discreetly angled toward them—that Max noticed.

He looked at her. She looked back.

“I don’t want to duck behind corners anymore,” she said quietly.

He nodded. “Me neither.”

She reached out and laced their fingers together on the table, where everyone could see.

Max let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding for months.

Later, they lay together in her flat, legs tangled, the windows open to let the late afternoon light pour in.

“I still can’t believe it’s real,” she murmured, her head tucked beneath his chin.

He ran his fingers along her spine, slow and steady. “You, me, or the fact your brother didn’t punch me again?”

She laughed. “All of the above.”

He tilted her chin up with his knuckles, kissed her forehead, then her nose, then finally her lips—soft, unhurried.

“I want this,” he said. “All of it. The real thing. Not just stolen moments in hotel rooms and five-minute calls between races.”

Her smile bloomed slowly, beautifully. “You already have it.”

He kissed her again, deeper this time, like gratitude.

She buried her face in his chest. “So what now?”

Max stared at the ceiling, holding her close. “Now... we do boring things. Walks in daylight. Grocery shopping without hats and sunglasses. I get to hold your hand when we cross the street.”

“That sounds perfect,” she said, lips curving against his shirt.

He pulled the blanket tighter around them. “You’re perfect.”

She rolled her eyes. “I’m moody. I overthink everything. And you chew your gum like an actual menace.”

He laughed into her hair. “Okay, we’re both disasters. But I still think you’re perfect.”

They didn’t say I love you again. They didn’t need to. It hung between them in the silence, in the golden light on the walls, in the easy way they held each other like they’d done it a thousand times already.

-ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-

Word count: 2k

[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]

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

═══════๑♡⁠๑═══════

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