If so could you write something (2nd person) where Jenson and reader work together at SkySports and he is WHIPPED for reader? Maybe something sweet and fluffy where reader is so focused that she doesn't even realize that Jenson is flirting with her all the time?
Thank you for hearing me out, and if you don't write for JB feel free to totally ignore this!! ❤️
Thank you so much for the request! This was such a fun one to work on — I took some liberty with how much she notices or chooses to ignore his flirting, but whipped!Jenson was a delight to write regardless. I loved balancing his playful side with something a little softer (and sassy!britney I MEAN NICO ofc.)
Hope you enjoy! 💕
Tea Runs ☕︎ JB22 One-Shot
“Tea’s gone cold.”
You’ve been working as a technical commentator at Sky Sports for a while now, focused on proving you still belong in the sport after leaving Mercedes. Jenson Button, charming as ever, has been hovering around you all season — which you chalk up to pitying kindness. But when his antics get bolder and the truth comes out, you realize you’ve been oblivious to something much bigger: Jenson hasn’t been doting. He’s been flirting. Badly.
✦ starring: Jenson Button x Colleague!Reader
✦ Warnings: mild language, brief mention of mental health struggles/burnout, lots of teasing/flirting, a little pining, and a soft-but-thrilling kiss at the end.
✦ word count: ~2.K total (one shot)
✦ Tags: Jenson Button x Reader, second-person POV, coworkers-to-something-more, whipped!Jenson, oblivious!Reader, teasing, fluff with a touch of tension, post-race parking lot confession, happy ending.
✦Rules ✦ One Shots, Requests, & Smuts Masterlist✦ AO3 Work✦ Next → ✦
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Hospitality Suite – Morning of FP1
It was always like this on race weekends—controlled chaos wrapped in the hum of generators, the distant shriek of an F1 engine on an installation lap, and the constant shuffle of people who seemed to know exactly where they were going while you double-checked every note in your binder for the tenth time.
You kept your head down in the Sky hospitality suite, highlighter in one hand and tea in the other, breaking down sector deltas for the commentary segment you’d be leading later. You’d worked in Formula One for years, but this—this was different. You weren’t an engineer anymore. You were in front of cameras now. You still felt like you had something to prove every time the red light blinked on.
When you’d first joined Brawn as a junior engineer back in '09, you’d seen Jenson Button in the paddock more than once. He’d been world champion Jenson Button then—impossibly polished, charming, part of that untouchable club of drivers you could only admire from afar. You’d nursed a quiet, almost embarrassing crush in those early days, same as half the women in the garages, daydreaming about brief conversations that never happened and replaying every smile he sent in your direction. He was dazzling then, larger than life, and you had been too young and too green not to be enchanted.
But that was a lifetime ago. These days, you were older, steadier, tempered by far more serious challenges than a silly crush. You’d long since filed those girlish daydreams away as youthful foolishness. Whatever Jenson was now—colleague, occasional co-commentator, serial tea-bringer—he was certainly not someone who’d look at you like that.
You sighed for a moment, leaning back and letting your gaze drift out over the paddock from the Sky suite. Below, your old team, Mercedes, swarmed around their garage like a well-oiled machine, silver uniforms flashing in the sun as engineers and mechanics moved in a rhythm you once knew by heart. The smell of fuel and the distant whine of engines carried faintly through the glass, and for a moment the ache of missing that world tugged at you. You missed the pre-dawn strategy meetings, huddled over laptops with coffee that tasted like burnt tar; the white-hot adrenaline of a perfect call landing exactly as planned; the quiet pride of watching your work ripple out onto the track, almost invisible to the viewers at home but monumental to you.
But then you remembered why you’d left—and the thought always disappeared. Mercedes had been… a lot. The decision to leave had been yours, but it hadn’t come without whispered rumors and sympathetic looks. No one asked for details, and you hadn’t offered them. Health reasons was all anyone got. That was safer. Easier than trying to explain how the constant pressure, the travel, the endless performance reviews had hollowed you out.
Now, at Sky, people were polite to a fault. They called it kindness, but you knew what it really was: walking on eggshells. Crofty never spoke over you on-air, Brundle never challenged your opinions too sharply, and the other women on the team simpered over you like you might break at any moment. No one wanted to push you too hard, upset you, give you any reason to bolt again.
“Tea’s gone cold.”
You jumped at the voice, glancing up to see Jenson himself setting a fresh cup beside you. His shirt sleeves were pushed up to his elbows, forearms dusted with a faint tan, and his hair was slightly mussed in a way that made him look irritatingly effortless. You faintly registered the soft stubble along his jaw, a shade darker than his hair, before tearing your eyes away and back down to your notes.
“You really don’t have to keep doing that,” you said with a faint smile, already half-burying yourself back in your strategy commentart.
“Doing what?”
“Running around getting me tea. I’m not going to fall apart without it.”
He only grinned, leaning one hip against the table like he had nowhere else to be. “Maybe I like keeping you on your toes then. You look like you’d work yourself into the ground if left alone.”
You blinked up at him, more thrown by his tone than his words. He said it casually, like it wasn’t loaded, like it wasn’t one more person taking care not to push you too hard. Maybe he was always like this—Jenson Button, who’d always been charming, always throwing those easy smiles around for anyone within reach. Of course he’s like this, you thought. He acts like this with everyone. And with me? He’s only doting because he feels bad. Babying me because no one wants to be the one who tips me over the edge.
“Thanks,” you said finally, flatter than you meant to, waving him off as you refocused on your notes. “That’s… kind of you, but really unnecessary.”
Jenson paused, like he wanted to say something else, then only shrugged, pushing away from the table.
Over his shoulder, as he started to leave, he tossed out, “You’ll thank me when you’re not running on fumes later,” voice edged with a mild charm that you chose to ignore as you bent back over your binder.
Free Practice 1 – Commentator’s Box
The commentator’s box smelled faintly of coffee and electronics, humming with the low buzz of equipment as FP1 footage flickered across a wall of monitors. You’d tucked yourself into the corner of the desk with your laptop, headphones perched around your neck, reviewing split times for the upcoming broadcast. It was busy but oddly calming up there — a bird’s-eye view of the sport you used to live from the inside out.
Jenson, of course, had taken the seat right next to yours despite a row of others being empty. He angled his body toward you, knees pointed just so, like the rest of the room didn’t exist. When he leaned over to glance at your notes, the faint smell of his cologne, clean and a little woody, reached you, and you forced yourself to keep your eyes on the data instead of the way his shirt stretched across his shoulder.
“You’re working too hard again,” he said lightly, glancing from your screen to your face. “It’s practice, not the final race.”
You huffed a short laugh, still typing. “Old habits die hard.”
“Not all of them,” he said, voice lower, almost teasing, though you didn't seem to get the weight of it, chalking it up to his usual, easy-going charm.
"You two glued at the hip now?”
Nico Rosberg’s voice cut across the commentator’s box as he dropped into the seat opposite you. You felt a small, surprising flicker of relief at seeing him. You’d worked with Nico for years at Mercedes, and the familiarity was grounding. You’d always gotten on well with him, and he remained one of the few who still treated you like a normal, competent colleague rather than something fragile.
You rolled your eyes before glancing up from your laptop, making enough room for Nico to drop into the seat. “We work the same sessions,” you said, already turning back to your screen. “I could say the same about you and Danica.”
Nico scoffed softly, amused. “Right, that must be it.”
To your left, Jenson sat up straighter, shoulders squaring slightly as Nico settled in. Nico eyed him with a sly little smirk. “What’s with you? Can’t find shirts that fit anymore, or do you just wear them tight on purpose to hide the beer gut?”
Jenson threw him a look, half assumed, half flustered, before replying, “Don’t you have graphics of Lewis to review, Britney?”
The words were playful but carried a little bite, enough to make you glance between them.
You chalked it up to lingering competitiveness—two former drivers who’d once fought wheel-to-wheel, maybe still sparring in subtler ways off-track.
But you did notice Nico’s grin when he glanced at you, then back at Jenson. Nico chuckled and pulled on his headset. “Sure, sure. Don’t let me interrupt your… prep Jenson.”
You rolled your eyes and went back to your telemetry data. Men.
Qualifying — Grid Walk
The grid before quali was always a madhouse: celebrities posing for cameras, engineers making last-minute adjustments, media crews jostling for position. You’d learned to keep your elbows out and your head down since starting with SkySports, but it didn’t stop the occasional shoulder from knocking into you.
“Easy there.”
Jenson’s hand was suddenly on your waist, steadying you before you stumbled into a camera operator. He didn’t move his hand until you’d found your footing again, then subtly shifted his body to walk between you and the crowd.
“You really don’t have to babysit me,” you said, half exasperated.
“Who said I’m babysitting?” he replied lightly.
Then he was crouching slightly to adjust your headset so it sat more comfortably, his fingers brushing the side of your face as he worked. Years ago, that tiny gesture would’ve set off alarm bells in your younger, wide-eyed self—the one who used to blush just being in the same room as him. Now, you just assumed it was part of his ingrained habit of being gallant with women.
“There,” he said, giving the headset one last adjustment. “Can’t have you going live looking like the wires are strangling you.”
You gave him a flat, even frustrated look as you adjusted your shirt and glanced around at the bustling grid, suddenly embarrassed at the idea everyone thought you couldn’t handle yourself.
“You should worry about yourself for a change.”
Nico saddled up next to you with a microphone, smirking. “He does that plenty, don't worry.” he quipped, his mic lowered. “Jenson already spent an hour on his hair before we got here.”
The joke earned a tiny smile from you despite yourself. Out of the corner of your eye, you caught Jenson shoot Nico a small look before they got on air—maybe telling him to calm it down it with the ribbing. You felt his eyes on you a moment later, but you chalked it up to some ongoing feud between them you didn’t know about.
By the time the broadcast wrapped, you’d barely noticed how close Jenson had gotten to you, his arm brushing yours, until you were walking away and the space between you returned.
Post-Quali — Hospitality Suite
If Jenson wasn’t glued to your side, he was orbiting just close enough to step in whenever you needed something before you could ask. A refill on your water. A missing set of notes. Even offering his jacket when the wind picked up between segments.
Nico caught him handing you a granola bar before your live hit and shook his head with a quiet laugh, leaning against the table with the easy posture of someone who knew exactly how to get under Jenson’s skin.
“You do realize people are going to start thinking you’re her personal assistant, right?” he teased, his eyes flicking between the two of you before landing on Jenson.
You swiveled in your chair. “Don’t encourage him, Nico, or he'll follow me home next checking on my pantry stock.”
“Right,” Nico said again, still smirking over his coffee cup at Jenson in a way that made it obvious the jab wasn’t just for fun. “He'd never do that."
Jenson seemed to tense a tiny bit beside you, his jaw flexing as though biting back a retort before finally leaning back with a quippy, “Funny, I always assumed you were her footrest at Mercedes, since Lewis was too busy winning to need one.”
The comeback had a sharper edge than his usual banter, though Nico only laughed, unfazed.
“I’ll have a name tag made for you next race then,” Nico shot back smoothly, “so people don’t confuse you for a commentator.”
Jenson brushed it off with a shrug that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
By the time the post-race debrief wrapped, most of the Sky crew had filtered out. You were still there, poring over data for next week’s race, when Jenson slid into the chair beside you with two cups of tea. There was a watchfulness to the way he settled in, like he was still puzzling something out.
“You know,” he said conversationally, “most people would’ve wrapped up hours ago."
"What do you want, Jenson." Your voice came out sharper than intended, head still bent over your notes.
“You waiting on someone? I saw Nico still lingering around earlier.” He asked it casually enough, but there was a probing edge beneath the words, like he was fishing for something. His eyes flicked toward you, curious, maybe even a little too curious.
You glanced up briefly, confused, the insinuation stinging. “No. Why would I do that?” You weren’t following Nico around like some lost kid, and the implication left a sour taste in your mouth. That you were incapable of doing anything on your own.
But Jenson shifted in his seat, sprawling a little as he leaned back, one knee angled toward you in an easy spread, arm draped lazily across his chest. His smirk deepened, gaze lingering with a boldness you weren’t used to, and it made you all too aware of how close he actually was—and how strong he still looked despite being retired.
“So you really just can’t be persuaded to take a break then, can you?” he chuckled, though there was a question under the words you didn’t quite catch.
You shifted uncomfortably, tearing your eyes back to your notes. It was odd, the way he’d gone from casual to openly… something. But you brushed it off. Jenson was just being Jenson—still babying you like everyone else.
“Not if I want to keep my job.”
“Come on.” He smirked. “If anyone’s job is safe here, it’s yours.”
You rolled your eyes. “Flattery won’t work on me.”
“Who said I’m flattering you?” He leaned back in his chair, arm draped over the backrest, looking at you like he had all the time in the world. Once upon a time, you might’ve let yourself imagine what it meant for Jenson Button to look at you like that. But that was years ago, and you’d long since outgrown those kinds of fantasies.
You laughed derisively and shook your head. “You really don’t have to do this, you know. All the hovering. The tea. The food runs. Everyone already treats me like I need to be coddled. I don't need everyone to try so hard to be on my good side.”
The joking edge dropped from his face, his brows knitting. “Coddled?”
You nodded without looking at him. “It’s fine. I know why people do it. I didn't exactly build the nicest reputation at Mercedes, and the way I left the team wasn’t really ... subtle.”
Your throat tightened as you said it, the words tasting like something sour. You didn’t like talking about Mercedes, about that ugly, messy exit. because it always left you feeling small and ashamed, like you’d failed at something you loved.
“Everyone feels bad for me. It’s—whatever. I’ve learned to live with it.”
Silence. Long enough that you looked up, and found him leaning forward, closer than you’d realized, his expression soft and serious.
“That’s… not why I do any of that,” he said finally, his voice quieter now, stripped of its teasing lilt.
You blinked. “What?”
“I don’t run around after you because I pity you,” he said, holding your gaze. “I do it because I like being around you. Honestly, I always did — even back at Brawn. You do know that, right?”
Your brain stuttered. You were taken aback, heat creeping up your neck as you processed his words — ashamed that you’d so easily assumed the worst, and flustered that he remembered you from back then at all.
“Oh. I just assumed.”
Jenson gave a crooked, almost disbelieving smile, the realization flickering across his face that you truly had no idea he’d been flirting with you this whole time. “Well, you know what they say,” he teased, voice light but with a glint of hidde enjoyment, “assuming makes an ass out of you and me. Well—mostly you.”
The words landed with heat that climbed up your neck, and you blushed, acutely aware of the way his eyes lingered on your cheeks, his grin spreading just a little wider as though savoring your reaction.
It felt unnervingly like being back at Brawn, blushing under his casual hellos, and you hated how easy it still was for him to pull that from you. Jenson seemed to think so too.
“Ah,” he said with a grin that turned knowing, “now that face brings back memories.”
The teasing only deepened the color in your cheeks. You shot out of your chair like it was on fire. “I—uh—I should get back to my hotel.”
“Let me walk you out then.”
The walk to the lot was quiet but charged, every step weighed down by the things unsaid. Jenson kept the pace slow, falling just close enough that his arm brushed yours occasionally, his quips light but needling—“Still blushing? Thought you’d have cooled off by now”—designed to keep you squirming.
By the time you reached your car, your fingers felt clumsy on the keys, fumbling as you tried to unlock the door. “You always this bad with keys, or just when I’m around?” Jenson teased, his tone light but pointed.
You snapped back a flustered, “Maybe I just don’t like being watched,” still refusing to look at him, your embarrassment bubbling over.
Jenson tilted his head, the smugness softening into curiosity. Then, without a word, he pushed off the hood and closed the space between you, his movement unhurried but deliberate. Before you could react, his fingers brushed yours as he gently pried the keys from your fumbling grip, his hand lingering on yours for a beat longer than necessary.
“Look,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck, his grin faltering into something softer. “If I’ve been coming off the wrong way, I’m sorry. Maybe I pushed it too far back there. I just—” he hesitated, glancing at you with an expression that for once looked almost sheepish, “it’s the first reaction I’ve gotten out of you all season. The rubbish flirting usually works for me, so…”
It all clicked. Every single moment. Every coffee run, every teasing comment, every time his hand had lingered just a beat too long — all of it slammed into you at once. You replayed the entire season in your head in fast-forward, cringing at how completely oblivious and stupid you’d been not to see it.
You felt your face go up in flames.
“You could’ve just said something,” you blurted, horrified at your own voice.
He chuckled, the sound soft. “I kind of did. Nico caught on. Pretty sure everyone else did, too.”
“Oh my God,” you groaned, burying your face in your hands. “All those jokes—”
“All those jokes,” he echoed, stepping closer, clearly enjoying himself as his shoulder brushed yours. His grin had softened into something warmer, but his eyes flicked between your hands and your face, lingering on your flushed cheeks like he was cataloging every reaction. The teasing lilt in his voice was balanced with something intent, almost hungry for more of that flustered honesty from you.
When you finally looked up, he was watching you expectantly, leaning in just slightly, his grin soft but unrelenting.
“You should’ve been more straightforward,” you muttered, your voice smaller than you intended. “Instead of all the tea and… everything.”
His grin widened as if savoring the admission, a spark of triumph flickering in his expression. His voice stayed low, teasing but steady, and it made your pulse jump.
“Noted for next time.” As he said it, he closed the space between you slowly, deliberately, each step backing you up against your car until your shoulders met cool metal.
“Next time?”
“Dinner,” he said simply, now close enough that you could feel the faint warmth of his breath. “To make up for how hopeless I’ve been at this.”
The nearness made your head swim. Your heart hammered as your senses sharpened—the faint cologne clinging to his shirt, the warmth radiating off him, the way his gaze kept dipping to your lips. You hesitated only a beat before nodding, dizzy from the closeness and the realization of how many ways you’d always found him attractive—the curve of his jaw, the strength in his shoulders, that infuriatingly easy grin—all of it crashing into you at once.
“Okay. But on one condition.”
He tilted his head, still hovering close. “Go on.”
“You don’t tell Nico.”
That earned a delighted laugh. “Deal.”
Before you could say anything else, he leaned in, one hand braced lightly against the car beside your head as his mouth found yours. The kiss was deeper than you expected, still tender but carrying just enough playful pressure, that spark of Jenson’s familiar mischief laced with something far more deliberate. It was thrilling and dizzying all at once, the kind of kiss that left no room for doubt.
He wasn’t pushing you though, his hand lingering respectfully on your arm as if giving you the option to pull away.
