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dreamauri · 1 month ago

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♪ — 𝗜𝗡𝗗𝗢𝗠𝗜𝗧𝗔𝗕𝗟𝗘 - chapter two jenson button x fem! driver! reader ( fluff / smut ) series summary . . . a mortal who dared to defy the impossible. Of grit forged in fire, and dreams that refused to yield. In a world where heroes are born, and few rise to become legends. You are a force to be reckoned with. Unshakable. Unstoppable. Indomitable. (2.7k words)

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II - MANEATER . . . ( Your second and third years in Formula One, 2013 -> 2014 content warning . . . ( contains mature sexual themes, threesomes (sebastian+yn+jenson, fernando+yn+jenson), very light mention of anal, Yn is 20 and 21 years old in this chapter )

★ ☆ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The press conference room is filled with the buzz of flashing cameras, the stifling heat of too many bodies pressed into one space, and the noise of too many voices talking at once. You’re sitting at the front, your legs crossed with the confidence of someone who knows exactly where she belongs, who knows exactly what she’s capable of. The reporters are already eyeing you, a mixture of admiration, curiosity, and something else, something they can’t quite put a name to.

Your heels click against the floor as you shift in your chair, adjusting the fit of your outfit with a small smile. The suit you’re wearing feels like armour—a sharp, tailored black number with an edge, a visual statement of who you are now: fierce, untouchable.

“You’re having a great start to your season, Yn. But the question on everyone’s mind is—did you sleep with your teammate to secure your seat?” A bold, daring journalist throws the question at you, as if expecting you to stumble, to blush, to shy away.

You tilt your head, a smirk tugging at your lips as you meet his gaze, never backing down. They want a spectacle. Let them have it.

“You really think I needed to sleep with someone to get my seat?” you ask, voice smooth and dripping with challenge. You let the words hang for a moment, and the room quiets, waiting for your response, sensing that you’ve got them exactly where you want them.

With an almost imperceptible roll of your eyes, you answer, “I got the seat first. If anyone had to sleep with the other for the second seat, it would be Jenson sleeping with me for his seat.”

The laughter that ripples through the room is stifled, but you know it’s there, thick in the air. You can feel the tension around you as the reporter’s face pales, the realization dawning on him that he’s crossed a line.

“Keep an eye on your email,” you add, lowering your microphone slowly, leaning into the moment. Your gaze doesn’t waver from the journalist’s, your eyes locked in a challenge that’s now personal. “My lawyer will be in contact with you.”

A beat of silence. And then you smile—sweet, easy, too innocent to be anything other than menacing—and you lower your mic.

That’s who you are now. The girl who doesn’t let anyone walk all over her. Not anymore. Your high heels click with power, with authority, each step an unmistakable reminder of who you are. You’re not the innocent girl from the beginning of your career anymore. You’ve turned into someone who’s unafraid to strike back when provoked.

The younger generation loves it. They see you as the new sex symbol, an icon in heels, a force they can’t look away from. When they see you on the covers of magazines, they think they know you—they think they understand you. But they don’t. Not even close.

★ ☆ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The hum of the bar surrounds you as you walk, your heels clicking against the floor in a rhythmic, almost hypnotic cadence, making men all around you turn their heads to watch as you stride past. The bartender’s smile is instant, a knowing look in his eyes as he slides your drink toward you—your usual, a martini with just the right amount of bite.

“Congrats on the win,” he says, his voice low and appreciative, nervous, you could see it in the way he stands. “It was impressive.”

You give him a nod, a flirtatious grin curling at your lips. Impressive. It was more than that. It was perfect. The rush of the race, the feel of the podium beneath your feet—it never gets old.

“Thanks,” you reply, voice smooth as silk. You tilt your head to meet his eyes, your smirk widening. “I know.”

Taking the drink, you pause just long enough to give him a teasing glance as you take your first sip before you turn, weaving your way through the crowd to where Jenson sits. He’s deep in conversation with a group of men, but you know he’ll notice you. He always does.

Jenson is sat down with a group of men, his laughter filling the space between the conversations. He notices you immediately, a glint in his eyes as you approach. You don’t give him a chance to speak yet. Instead, you hand him his drink, and he takes it with a grin that’s far too familiar.

“You’re trouble,” he murmurs, his voice low and teasing, playful.

You raise an eyebrow, a playful challenge in your gaze. “And you love it,” you reply, your tone smooth, teasing as you lean your forearm on his shoulder to use him as an armrest, taking a sip. The spark between you is there, always there, even if it’s become a little less exciting over time. You watch as he takes a sip of his drink, eyes tracking every movement of yours.

But you're not here for Jenson, not entirely anyway.

You turn your head, and just as you do, one of the men in his group, the one standing a little further from the conversation, makes his move. He steps toward you, his smile charming and smooth as he offers his hand. “I’m Allison,” he says, his voice rich with confidence. “I just wanted to congratulate you on the win. I watched the whole thing from my balcony. You were incredible out there..”

You pause for a second, assessing him. The sharp cut of his jaw, the way his confidence bleeds into the air around him—it’s clear he's used to being the centre of attention. But you’re the one people can’t take their eyes off tonight.

You don’t shake his hand. Instead, you raise your martini glass, giving him a small nod. A flick of a smile. “Thanks. A win in Monaco always is,” you reply coolly, before taking a slow sip of your drink, letting the tension between you linger. The man, Allison, hesitates for a moment, clearly thrown off by your disinterest, before pulling his hand back with an awkward little laugh.

You let the silence stretch, letting him squirm just a little. With a small wave, you turn your back on him, leaning your other hand on Jenson’s shoulder as you join the conversation, the night calling to you more than any empty pleasantries could.

You catch Jenson’s gaze once more, and this time, it’s different. There’s an understanding between you two, something unspoken, something that doesn’t need words. He watches you with that knowing grin of his, the one that always tells you he sees through the layers.

Before you know it, the world blurs around you. The conversation, the clinking of glasses, the soft hum of voices—all of it fades into the background as you find yourself being led out of the bar, your body pulled toward the warmth of Jenson’s penthouse. You’re drunk, but not too drunk to care.

Clothes hit the floor in a flurry of forgotten intentions, lips meeting messily in a frenzy of need as you unbutton Jenson jeans and help him hop out of them. The pull of his hands, the heat of his body—it’s too easy to give in. Everything else fades into the haze of pleasure, and you don’t think—don’t care about anything except the now. The bed, the heat, the way his hands travel over you, igniting every nerve. The way he fucks you into his bed with steady thrusts, his fingers gripping your hips tightly enough to leave faint bruises as he whispers your name like a prayer over and over.

It’s messy. It’s passionate. And it’s always like this between you two, this tangled mess of sex and race weekends. Jenson. You. The bed. The escape. The thrill of the moment. There’s no love in it, but it’s consuming all the same.

And as the night continues, with bodies entwined and hearts caught in the aftershocks of desire, you can’t help but wonder what it is about these fleeting moments that make them feel so real.

★ ☆ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The hotel room feels oddly quiet, despite the chaos of everything that led you here. Another win, another podium, but the thrill of victory feels different now. It's not as satisfying as it used to be, not when there’s this unexplainable craving inside of you that needs more.

You’re not sure when it started, but now, you're here, tangled between Jenson and Sebastian Vettel—an unspoken agreement between all of you. The rush of the night matches the pulse in your veins, but it’s not just victory you seek anymore. No, it’s the feeling of release, of being completely caught in the moment, and somehow, the three of you are drawn together in a way that feels inevitable.

Jenson’s voice is low as he grins at you, his fingers brushing against your skin with a mix of care and mischief. “You know YN, you’re not the only one who likes to take things fast, darling,” he says, a wink in his tone that’s both playful and dangerous.

You glance over at Sebastian, who’s already grinning in that cocky, childlike way he does, his eyes full of fire. He’s always been the one to push boundaries, never afraid to take risks, to go too fast, too hard as he holds your legs above your chest from the back of your knees. And right now, that speed is all-consuming. You’re lost in it, caught between them, each touch, each movement driving you wild.

But when it’s over, you don’t feel that emptiness. There’s no satisfaction in just the act itself; it's something else that keeps pulling you back. Something deeper. Something raw.

The second time it happens, it’s not just Jenson and Sebastian. Jenson, always the one to push the envelope, has a look in his eyes—a little too knowing—and asks, “What if I invite Fernando next?”

You don’t say no. You don’t even hesitate.

Fernando looks at you with that familiar quiet confidence of his, and you can’t ignore the way his presence feels different. He’s older, more deliberate, and there’s something in the way he looks at you that feels different. He doesn’t just see you as another conquest. There's something deeper there, but you can’t quite place it. His touch is gentler than the others, every stroke of his fingers soft, almost reverent.

When the night unfolds, it’s not about the rush. It's not about the wild abandon that Sebastian brings or the playful dominance Jenson demands. It’s about the way Fernando holds you close, his every movement thoughtful, and tender, like he’s taking care of you. His hands are gentle as they guide you to ride him, and when Jenson gets a little too rough as he takes your ass for the first ever time—too fast—it's Fernando who’s the one speaking for you when all you can let out is squeaks, whimpers and whines. His voice was low and commanding, in a way that sent shivers down your spine.

“Jenson,” he murmurs in that thick accent of his, pulling Jenson’s attention from you, “slow down. She’s not just some . . . quick ride.”

There’s something in Fernando’s eyes that stirs something deeper in you. He’s not just acting out of desire; he’s looking at you like you’re something more—something fragile, something to protect. It’s confusing, but it's comforting all the same.

Afterwards, when everything settles and the tension fades, Fernando’s voice softens again. He brushes the hair from your face, speaking in quiet Spanish, his words unintelligible to Jenson but somehow still so intimate.

“Te cuido, cariño,” he whispers, his fingers lingering on your skin. I’ll take care of you, darling.

His hands are soft as they clean you up, as if you’re something precious. It’s a stark contrast to the usual detachment, the fast-paced lust that you’ve become used to. With Fernando, it’s different. It feels like he’s there for something more than just the physical.

You wonder, briefly, if he sees you the way he sees everyone else—or if there’s something more between you two. But as he wraps you in his arms and presses a kiss to your forehead, you push the thought away. It’s not time for questions. Not now.

The thing is, you don’t know if you want to answer those questions. You don’t know if you want to know why he’s different. Maybe it’s enough that he is different. And you’re starting to realize that, somehow, you crave him the most.

Even as Jenson pulls you into another embrace which you snuggle into eagerly, his body pressed against yours, it’s Fernando's touch that lingers in your mind, his voice that echoes in your head.

And for the first time in a long time, you don’t feel like you're just another driver, just another woman. You feel like you're someone to him.

That’s something you haven’t felt in a while.

★ ☆ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The final race of the season. Brazil. The crowd is electric, the tension unbearable. But for you, there’s something else gnawing at your gut. Jenson is retiring. This is the last time you’ll race with him as a teammate, the last time you’ll share a podium with him. And it stings.

You secured the championship. You should be over the moon, ecstatic. But the pit in your stomach refuses to go away.

After the race, in the quiet aftermath of victory, you find yourself alone with Jenson. The moonlight spills into the room, soft and silvery, illuminating the chaos of limbs tangled beneath rumpled sheets. The afterglow of your championship victory still lingers in the air, as thick and intoxicating as the champagne that’s long since been consumed.

The silence is thick with the weight of all the unsaid things, all the moments you shared—the late nights, the laughter, the camaraderie. You kiss him, a soft, lingering kiss, one more before you go your separate ways.

Jenson lies beside you, his breathing slow and steady, his chest rising and falling in that comfortable rhythm that always calms you. He’s quiet for a moment, eyes staring at the ceiling, lost in thought.

"You were incredible out there today," he murmurs, breaking the silence.

You smile, but it's not a carefree grin. You’ve won the championship, but it feels different tonight—heavier. “I—. We did it.” Your voice cracks slightly, and you’re not sure if it’s from the adrenaline or something else.

Jenson shifts closer, pulling you into his side, and you let him, your head resting on his chest. The familiarity of his warmth soothes you.

"I’m so proud of you," he adds, his voice soft, laced with a tenderness that makes your heart ache in places you didn’t know existed.

You trace the contours of his chest with your fingers, the comfortable silence stretching between you. But there's a question hanging in the air, one neither of you is brave enough to voice.

“What now?” You ask it quietly, but the weight of it feels like a bomb in your chest.

Jenson shifts, the smile on his lips almost bitter. “You’ll keep winning. You always do.” His fingers trace the curve of your arm as if he’s trying to imprint your form into his memory.

And for a moment, the silence is comfortable again—until it’s not. The tension between you builds, the unsaid words filling the room.

You break the silence, rolling to face him. “You’re really leaving, huh?”

Jenson’s eyes soften, his hand finding your face, gently cupping your cheek. "You knew this day would come, Yn. I’ve always known."

His words slice through you. They’re a sharp reminder of what you’re losing, and you’re not sure how to process it. But before you can respond, his lips are on yours, silencing whatever words you had in mind. His kiss is slow, lingering, a finality in every brush of his lips against yours.

It’s a kiss that tastes like goodbye, but it’s still so sweet that you let it consume you, let it take you to that place of pure comfort and vulnerability.

This is the way this world works, isn’t it? You win, you lose, you fight, you fuck—but you never get to keep it all.

You start to wonder . . . why not?

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