redlinespeedster

[redlinespeedster]

Got any smut ideas for a Charlos x reader or Lestappen x reader fic? Drop them right here—I’m all ears. 💭

[redlinespeedster]

A FAMILIAR TOUCH !! ☆

lando norris 𝒙 best friend fem!reader

[summary] You like taking risks, you crave danger, yet he is your everyday routine… and somehow, that excites you too. You’d been friends for so long that his touch on your skin feels like a familiar whisper: his hands steady on your shoulders, his fingers slowly tracing your hips. You can recognize the warmth of his body from a distance. But when he finally slips between your legs for the first time, all that familiarity shatters into a rush of new sensations — an intense, addictive pleasure you never expected to feel with him.

[warnings] Smut !! car sex, oral sex & fingering (fem receiving), dirty talk. Spanish is my first language, and I usually write all my fics in Spanish first, then translate them myself with a lot of effort. Sorry if anything sounds off or if there are mistakes. (2.5k)

[notes] Just writing this ‘cause I know deep down Lando would be the kind of friend like “you’re my best friend… but I’d totally wreck you if I got the chance” 🙃

He wasn’t in love with you, or anything like that.

Or maybe he was? He wasn’t entirely sure. All he knew was that he’d wanted you pretty much since the day you met in school. Even back when his preteen brain couldn’t fully grasp what desire or attraction even meant.

He didn’t know if it was your personality, how kind you were to everyone, the sun-kissed blush on your cheeks, or just how pretty you were—but he wanted to be close to you. And maybe that alone was enough to make you inseparable. Best friends. Almost like siblings? No, that was something your mom said once, and it made Lando’s stomach turn with disgust.

What truly mattered was that it wasn’t until his desire began to awaken that he realized what he actually felt for you. Intense fantasies and lust-filled dreams ambushed him at all hours, and you were in every single one of them—whether you were riding him in desperation or lying beneath his body, utterly surrendered. The position or place didn’t matter; what drove him mad was having you there, so vivid in his mind, pushing him to the edge even in the moments he tried hardest to stay composed… especially when you walked around in that summer pajama that barely covered the essentials.

You didn’t even try to make it easier for him. You’d sit on his lap, brushing up against him without realizing it, as if he weren’t a man, as if he couldn’t feel every one of your movements or sense what they were stirring inside him. For years, you never understood why he had to distance himself from you—you thought maybe you were crossing a line, taking advantage of his trust. But as you got older, you remembered it clearly and finally understood.

Still, you never spoke of it again.

It had never crossed your mind that he might be attracted to you—not even after everything that had happened. Sure, you’d noticed that constant need he had to hug you, to cuddle you, to run his fingers through your hair. You also remembered the times he’d move you off his lap because he was getting hard and his pants were too tight—but you figured it was just a natural physical reaction. Maybe his body just responded to the slightest touch, because in adolescence it’s common to get aroused from something as simple as a bit of contact. You were a complete idiot for not realizing what was really going on.

Because as you grow older, things become clearer—and the sexual tension between you becomes unbearable. To the point where neither of you really knows what you’re feeling… or how to define it.

Lando can’t stop imagining himself inside you, losing himself between your legs. And you’ve started to crave his touch—the one that used to be just warm and friendly—hoping he lingers longer, hoping his hands start to explore you with more intent and desire.

But despite it all, the two of you keep pretending in front of the world that you’re just best friends, both convinced that you’ll never be anything more than that.

That discomfort resurfaces every time you’re alone with him again. Even now—coming back from a party you didn’t want to go to and he didn’t want to leave, but did anyway, just because you asked him to. His hands grip the steering wheel so tightly you can tell even without looking at him, because your eyes are lost in the car window.

He looks at you like he’s undressing you with his eyes, shamelessly, staring especially at the part of your thighs you left exposed. You feel that gaze—heavy, filthy—and a chill runs down your spine. Because you know he thinks you don’t notice. Like you’re naive. And that’s what pisses you off the most: that he’s such a coward. That he doesn’t have the guts to look you in the eye and admit he’s dying to fuck you.

You squeeze your thighs together just because you know he notices. You do it slowly, deliberately, like a silent challenge. What used to be an awkward tension between teenagers is now a game you play to perfection. You can almost hear him clench his jaw, feel his whole body tighten. And the best—or the worst—part is, he knows you’re doing it on purpose. To provoke him. To drive him insane.

His eyes don’t leave the road, determined not to get distracted—though the temptation you represent is nearly unbearable. He tries to convince himself that the sexual thoughts consuming him now are just a consequence of the alcohol he had earlier at the party. But he knows that’s not true. Those burning, forbidden desires have always been there, every time he’s with you. And not even alcohol can justify all these years of obsessive fantasies, of the deep urge to hold you in his arms.

“Aren’t you gonna say something?”

But Lando pretends not to understand. He thinks you’re talking about the party you just left, or about the fact that he’s driving at a snail’s pace after a few too many drinks.

But it’s clear that’s not what you mean.

“What d’you want me to say?” he asks. The car stops across the street, and he lets go of the wheel to focus all his attention on you.

The tension between you is almost unbearable.

You stare at him intently, and he notices a different sparkle in your eyes, something he had never seen before, almost as if it were new. He doesn’t know how to describe it because he was never used to you looking at him that way. It’s a gaze full of desire, intense and almost tangible, as if you longed to have him so close that you wanted to move until you were sitting on his lap, in the driver’s seat, invading his space and his skin.

His pupils dilate. Only he can decide when to kiss you, how to do it, and how much he’s going to leave you trembling afterward. Maybe that’s why his hand grips the back of your neck tightly, forcing you to lean in until his lips crash against yours with fierce need. The kiss is anything but gentle: it’s intense, clumsy, desperate. He bites you, licks you, invades your mouth as if it were his own. As if he had been holding back for years, when in reality it was only half a lifetime.

No one had kissed you like that before. No one had made you feel that a kiss could leave you breathless, without pride, without control. He kisses you as if he wanted to mark you, break you, tear your soul out with his tongue. As if with that kiss he could devour you alive and still be hungry.

You want to move toward his seat, but he’s the one who lunges at you, pinning you against the closed car window. His body presses against yours urgently, and your hands clutch his jacket, squeezing it hard to pull him even closer. He kisses you hungrily, as if what’s making him drunk isn’t the drinks he had but the taste of your mouth, your tongue, your hot saliva mixing with his.

His hands roam over your clothes with a slow touch that gives you goosebumps, as if he wants to memorize every curve through the feeling. He kisses you with desire while his fingers explore the sequins on your dress, stopping intentionally at your neckline. There, he strokes firmly and precisely, and for a moment, you feel your breath catch, as if his touch could ignite you from within.

Your heart pounds hard, almost painfully fast. Every brush of his hands against your skin sends a shiver down your spine, and the heat pooling low in your belly becomes an urgent need. You’re so wet you can feel it clearly, soaking through the fabric between your thighs. Lando notices—he drinks in the sight with his eyes. Without hesitation, he pushes your dress up to your waist, leaving you exposed to him. A desire-filled smile spreads across his face as his fingers trace the edge of your underwear slowly, as if he’s trying to memorize every detail before taking it off.

“Look at you…” he murmurs, voice rough. “So fucking wet for me.”

And then he lowers his head, dead set on tasting you.

His lips press against your pussy, still covered by your clothes, licking and kissing with an intensity that seeps through the fabric. His hands grip your thighs firmly, forcing you to open up for him, exposing you, wanting you vulnerable beneath his mouth. You feel him move right where you need him the most, his tongue tracing slow, teasing circles, but everything is still filtered by the fabric, and it’s driving you insane. You want him with nothing in between—raw, skin to skin—but he just smiles against you, savoring the power of making you beg without a single word.

“Why are you so fucking desperate, baby?” he whispers. “You want my tongue to ruin you? Drive you insane?” He lifts his head slightly, and his eyes burn with a lust that mirrors your own, igniting the fire between you.

You nod desperately, and Lando leans back down until his warm breath grazes your underwear again. The fabric slides to the side with a single movement of his fingers—not taking it off, just shifting it enough. Your legs tremble on either side of his head, open, exposed. Then his tongue begins to slowly glide over your pussy, tracing soft, deliberate lines—so slow it feels like sweet torture. Each stroke pulls a muffled moan from your lips, while he clings to your thighs like he has no intention of letting you go.

And then, when he hears you moan with a broken voice, writhing beneath his tongue and begging for more, he sinks between your legs with an almost feral devotion. He sucks you, licks you, devours you like the world ends there—like your body is the only drug capable of making him lose control. His tongue moves with precise rhythm, soaking in you, savoring every part of your sex, stopping to suck your clit until you’re trembling. He doesn’t let up: he spreads you open with his fingers, explores you, takes you to the edge again and again. Your back arches uncontrollably, your moans fill the car, your legs shake and your fingers tangle in his hair while your hips move on their own—seeking more, demanding more. You’re completely his, undone with pleasure, lost between his mouth and your gasps.

“Lando… fuck,” you whimper through sobs, voice trembling and your body utterly given to him. You’re so on edge that every touch, every thrust of his fingers, pulls you closer to the brink. You feel them pushing in and out of you with a steady, deep rhythm, then curling inside, rubbing that spot with a precision that makes your back arch and his name fall from your lips like a prayer. The heat between your legs is unbearable, and every move he makes leaves you wetter, more desperate, more his.

He hadn’t realized just how long he’d craved having you like this—completely surrendered. It didn’t matter if it was in the car, his place, or your bedroom. He had only dreamed of seeing you like this: breathless with every lick, moaning with pleasure while his eyes glazed over with desire—never stopping, tracing every inch of you with his tongue until you were trembling, soaked, and drained of all strength.

He could spend hours between your legs, but he knows you won’t last much longer. Not like this—not with his tongue plunging deep inside you, exploring every spot with shameless hunger. There’s no resisting it. He feels the way you shudder and twist beneath him, right on the edge, seconds away from coming all over his face. His grip tightens around your thighs, ready to take the heat of your complete surrender.

“Bet you fuckin’ love my tongue inside you, huh? Didn’t even stop to think this shit might be wrong—that maybe we shouldn’t be doing this.”

You feel his eyes locked on you, unblinking, as his fingers drive into you without mercy, going deep until you can’t take anymore—until the pleasure overwhelms you and you have no choice but to give in.

His smile is wicked, not a trace of guilt in sight, fully enjoying the mess you’ve become under him. He loves how you let go, how you lose your mind with every touch, whether it’s his fingers or his tongue in control.

“You’re a fuckin’ mess—all wrecked and humiliated, you know that? Yeah, you fuckin’ know it. And you love every second of it.”

His fingers thrust into you with a steady, deep rhythm, until pleasure overwhelms you and your vision goes blurry. You gasp, breath ragged, back arched against the seat, heart pounding. It’s too much. More than you thought you could take. More than anyone had ever made you feel.

You can’t understand how something so spontaneous —fifteen minutes in a car, half-drunk, on an empty road— could make you lose control like that. It’s beyond any previous experience, beyond anything you ever expected sex to be.

And it’s with Lando. Your best friend.

Even thinking about it feels unreal… but the heat between your thighs and the trembling in your body are far too real to ignore.

“Hey, you good?” It’s the first thing he asks.

But you can’t even speak clearly; your body is still trembling from the orgasm, from the shiver that ran through you and hasn’t completely faded. It felt fucking amazing… and at the same time, something inside you twists, because you both know exactly what just happened, even if you didn’t technically have sex. It was just foreplay, sure—but it felt like something more.

His fingers—the same ones that were buried deep inside you just minutes ago—still glisten with the wet trace of your pleasure. His mouth, the one that devoured you like he was addicted to your taste, is still marked with your desire. Your legs are shaking uncontrollably, like your body has completely surrendered, and you’re not sure you’ll be able to stand up anytime soon.

You’re satisfied. Not completely full… but deliciously sated. Though you know you’d need much more from him—more of his body, more of his strength—to feel truly complete.

You nod with a faint smile, and barely manage to whisper, “Yeah.”

Lando tries to put his clothes back in place with slow, almost distracted movements, because his eyes never stop watching you. His hands keep roaming over you, but no longer with the urgency from before. Now he caresses you calmly, with a softness that feels almost reverent. And in that touch, you recognize something familiar, something your body hasn’t forgotten. Because he has touched you like this before, and the way he does it still lingers on your skin like a living memory.

“I don’t want this to end,” you whisper, your voice barely audible as he lets his fingers gently sink into your sweat-damp hair. “I want you to keep touching me like you did today…”

He doesn’t answer with words, only nods with a slight smile, heavy with desire.

And you know he will. That he will touch you again with that same devotion every time you let him, until your body belongs to him by memory.

[redlinespeedster]

Oh my gosh i don’t know if a lot to ask but can you do some in spanish? you mention that it’s your first language and i would love to read them

Of course! ❤️‍🩹 Sadly, for those of us who don’t speak English as our first language, it’s hard to feel confident writing in our native tongue—especially since it usually gets way less support. But hey, if you’re into it, I’m totally open to taking requests in Spanish too :)

[redlinespeedster]

take him, take him - cl16

pairing: charles leclerc x fem!reader summary: in which you're dating carlos but find yourself fantasizing over the wrong teammate OR you and charles find yourselves in a toxic, messy situationship while still dating other people. warnings: this will be MESSY. toxic toxic toxic. possessive charles. not romantic (maybe some??), mostly about power. smut, angst, super messy. cheating!!!! word count: 6.7k author's note: hiiii sorry this is a few days late!!! tried my best. there was so much more I could've added but didn't want it to get too long....I hope y'all like it!!! xoxoxo

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It starts so slow that you don’t even realize what’s happening.

Not until its already buried deep beneath your skin. Quiet. Sharp. You don’t remember when the glances stopped being harmless. When the silence between words stopped being empty. All you know is that by the time you feel it, it’s already too late.

You’re sitting on the balcony at Carlos’s place. Sunken into the patio chair cushion, legs draped over his lap and a glass of wine in your hand. His arm rests possessively across your thighs, like he has a thousand times before. You’re his. And he loves you.

Alexandra is lounged across from you, next to where Charles normally sits. Her laugh light as she flicks through photos on her phone to show Lando and Lily.

You laugh softly at something Lando says, music low and warm. Air thick with summer heat and comfort.

Until the sliding glass door opens. Which you don’t even hear opening.

But you feel him.

Before you even look up, you feel the way your chest tightens. The way your spine stiffens just a little bit more.

And then his voice.

“Sorry I’m late.”

It’s low. Collected.

And you don’t look at him right away. Pretend to sip your drink. Pretend to listen as Carlos cracks some jokes. You even smile. Because you’re good at this.

But Charles is better.

You glance up.

Charles walks in like he’s walking into a room that belongs to him. White tee snug around his chest, sleeves short enough to show the sharp slope of his muscle and forearm. His hair is a little messy, pushed back in that lazy but practiced way. Sunglasses hanging from his collar. A bottle in one hand, phone in the other.

And then, as if summoned, his eyes flick to you.

Just a passing glance. Nothing more.

But you feel it.

The weight of it on your throat. The slow drag of his gaze from your mouth down to the way your body is folded against Carlos’s. He doesn’t smile. Just stares at you for a second maybe too long. Like a finger curling beneath your chin.

Like he knows. Like he knows he’s already inside your brain. Inside the thoughts you’re trying not to have.

“Hey baby,” Alex says. Standing up to kiss his cheek. “Thought you weren’t coming.”

Charles doesn’t take his eyes off you for a bit. But then smoothly, turns his head. Smiles against Alex’s mouth. “Told you I’d try.”

Your stomach twists.

Carlos squeezes your thigh softly, leaning into you more. “Y’want another glass, cariño?”

You blink. “What?”

He laughs under his breath. “Your wine.”

You nod too fast. “Oh. Sure. Yes.”

Carlos is then disappearing towards the kitchen.

And then Charles is taking his seat. Right across from you. An arm slung along the back of the couch, his knees spread lazily wide, body leaning slightly toward you. And he’s talking to Pierre now. Laughing at something stupid. Making Alex laugh too.

But his eyes drift. Right on you. 

On your thighs. Past the hem of your skirt. Up your arms. Your throat. Your eyes.

His mouth ticks. Not quite a smile. 

“Y’look bored,” He says quietly.

“M’not.”

He hums. “Could’ve fooled me.”

You blink. “What is that supposed to mean?”

And he tilts his head, eyes wandering. To where Carlos’s voice is still drifting in the other room.

Then back to you.

“Nothing,” He says. Looks at Alex as she’s deep in conversation with the other’s. Leans closer toward you. “Just…if I had you sitting in my lap like that, I’d at least try to keep you entertained.”

Your breath hitches.

“M’not bored.” You say. More for yourself.

“You keep telling yourself that.”

And he doesn’t wait for a reply. Just leans back. Relaxed. Like he didn’t just crawl beneath your skin in less than a minute.

Pulls Alexandra into him, whispers into her ear. 

And Carlos returns, drops back into the cushion beside you. Kisses your forehead. Hands you your drink. 

And you pretend nothing’s changed.

-

It doesn’t all happen at once.

There was never a single moment where your knees buckle or your heart flips.

And you tell yourself that its nothing. That your brain invented some game. Out of boredom. 

It starts with his voice.

Low. Measured. Always a little too calm. Never rushed. And never raised unless he was beyond pissed. But you start noticing that you remember the way he says your name. Flat. Direct. Like he’s stating a fact.

And then its his eyes.

You’ve seen Charles smile. Laugh. The fondness he directs at his girlfriend that you’ll never question.

But when he looks at you, there’s none of that warmth.

Only a cold, heavy awareness.

Not affection but….possession.

And the fucked up part of it all?

You start craving it.

You wait for the glance. The comment. The silence that feels like a threat. You start letting Carlos touch you in front of him just to see if he reacts.

Sometimes he doesn’t.

And you find yourself hating those days.

But sometimes he does react.

And those are the worst days too.

Because Charles doesn’t do anything obvious. Never snaps or stares at you too long in a way that people would notice. He’s smarter than that. Sicker.

He’ll just glance once. Maybe twice. Slow. And your body will feel like it’s been cracked open.

Like he knows that you’re wet under the table. That you’d open your legs for him in the hallway if he crooked his finger at you the right way. That you’re so wound up from being good, from pretending that you don’t want it. That you’d thank him for the ruin.

And you shouldn’t want it.

But you do.

You want it like an infection. Like a fucking punishment.

And you tell yourself that its just curiosity. But its also a lie you stopped believing a few weeks ago when you made yourself come to the thought of his voice. Not even his hands. Not even his lips.

Just the low, quiet way he says your name. Like he’s laying claim.

You were wearing one of Carlos’s hoodies at the time. That was the worst part.

His scent around you. Name on your lock screen. Toothbrush on the sink.

And all you could think about how Charles would fuck you if he got the chance.

Hard. Silent. Unforgiving.

One hand wound in your hair. Other pressed against your throat. Mouth at your ear telling you you’re so much better like this.

You’d try to hide your face, but he wouldn’t let you. He’d make you show it. Just to see how guilty you’d look with his cock shoved in your throat.

And he’d smile.

Because he’d know. That its not about love or affection. 

It’s about control. Power.

-

It happens in a stairwell.

Dark. Empty. The kind of place people don’t stop in. And you shouldn’t have stopped either. But he was already behind you. And when he said your name. Low and quiet. Commanding. You stopped.

You turn, slowly. Like you’re convinced there’s some line still drawn between you two. Like you’re not already tip-toeing over it.

And he’s looking at you like he knows exactly where this is going.

“You look pretty tonight,” Charles says. Voice low.

You swallow. “We were at dinner.”

“So?” His eyes trail down your body. “You wore that little dress anyway.”

You hesitate. Trying to be good. “Carlos liked it.”

“Of course he did,” he says. “So did I.”

He takes a step forward. You don’t move. Just lean further back against the wall, your breath in your throat.

He looks at you like you’ve already fucked. Like he’s seen every inch of your skin. “Bet you wore it wondering if I’d look.”

You blink.

“And you want me to look, don’t you?”

You stay silent.

He grins. Slow. Smug. Cruel. “Want me to imagine how warm you’d be if I shoved my hand under it. Bet you’re wearing no panties, yeah?”

Your stomach clenches.

“You don’t even like soft.” He goes on. “Bet you lay next to him and think about me. How rough I’d be. How fuckin mean I’d get.”

Your breath shutters. Skin burning.

“I wouldn’t fuck you sweet.” Charles says, hand braced on the wall next to your head. “No…I’d bend you over the nearest surface and fuck your pathetic pussy like its mine.”

Your knees go weak. And he sees it.

“Bet you’d cry.” His voice is low. “Would make you look at me while I fuckin ruin you.”

Your lips part, but nothing comes out.

And he leans in. Just enough for his lips to graze your jaw. “Want that, don’t you?”

And then he steps back. Leaves you there.

Because he’s not in love with you.

He just wants to see how long it’ll take before you finally let him win.

-

The table is alive with conversation. Laughter, flickering candles, all wrapped inside of an expensive restaurant. 

And somehow. Somehow. You’re seated between Carlos and Charles, body angled toward Carlos, but nerves magnetically drawn to Charles.

And Carlos is throwing his arm around as he tells a story, about how he thought his brakes were failing. His other arm rests comfortably on your back of your chair. Thumb brushing small circles against the skin of your shoulder every once in a while. Like always.

His voice is warm in your ear every now and then. A joke. A shared glance. He’s present. He’s good.

And you’re doing your best to be good too.

And then there’s Charles.

Seated beside you. Closer than he needs to be. Closer than anyone else notices.

His thigh hasn’t touched yours….yet.

But he’s angled his chair slightly toward you. Just enough to make sure his voice hits you first when he speaks. Just enough that you feel the heat of him.

Charles hasn’t said much. And he hasn’t touched you. 

Not unless you count the slight brush of his hand when you both reached for the bottle earlier. Or the way his breath hit your neck when he leaned past you to grab some of the bread. 

Or the moment his knee slightly knocked yours under the table and didn’t pull away.

And now his voice hits your ear. Low. Quiet. Only meant for you.

“You’re trying too hard.”

You don’t bother glancing at him. But your fingers tighten around your wine glass.

“Trying what?”

His voice is smooth. “To act like you’re not soaking wet.”

Your chest burns. Flushing red.

And your eyes flash to Carlos, mid conversation with Lando and Pierre, not even noticing the way you’ve gone tense.

Charles just sips his drink. Slow. A slight twitch in his lips.

“Y’think I can’t feel it?” He mutters. “The way your leg jerks every time I lean closer?”

“M’not…”

“Sure.” His tone mocks you now. “That’s why you haven’t moved away.”

You swallow thickly. A slight shift in your seat. Trying to ease the ache burning between your thighs. 

And he hums. Pleased.

“See?”

You grit your teeth. “You’re disgusting.”

“Mmm…maybe.” He tilts his head a little closer to you. Smiling like nothing’s happening. “But you’re the one clenching your thighs like a whore right now. Not me.”

And your cheeks burn. His smirk deepens.

“Carlos would be so disappointed,” He adds. Eyes wandering to the man seated beside you. “He thinks you’re such a good girl.”

You shoot him a warning look. Narrowing your eyes. Panic clawing at your throat.

And he just smiles.

“Y’dont like when I talk about him, don’t you?” He whispers. “You only want me to talk about you? About how fuckin’ tight you’d be if I just…”

You tip your wine glass back. Draining it. Hands trembling just a bit.

“Relax,” he says. “M’not gonna do anything.”

A pause.

“Not yet.”

And he leans back in his chair, knee still pressed into the side of your leg. Warm. A reminder.

Carlos turns to you, brushing a thumb across your cheek. “All good, mi amor? A bit red, yeah?”

You force a smile. “Yeah. Just…uh, warm in here.”

And Charles makes a small entertained hum that makes you want to scream, punch him, and fuck yourself on him all at the same time.

-

It starts to consume you.

And there’s nothing gentle about it. He doesn’t coax. He just takes.

And you let him. 

You hate yourself for how badly you want it. You try your best to be good. Sit close to Carlos, smile when he cups your cheek and calls you mi vida. Kiss him with soft lips and soft eyes. Like you don’t spend half the night choking on the weight of Charles in your thoughts.

Because that’s what it’s become.

Need. 

Dark. Invasive.

It got worse when he started texting.

You were in Carlos’s hotel bed, freshly showered. Phone face down on the nightstand. And he’s asleep beside you. Trusting.

And you shouldn’t pick up your phone. You know that. But you do it anyways. Tell yourself it’s just to check the time to ease your thoughts.

But when you flip it over, there’s a message from Charles waiting.

You looked pathetic today. Sitting on his lap like it actually means something.

Your stomach twists. Thighs clench.

He doesn’t follow up. Because you’re already wet. Just from that simple text.

From the idea that he saw you earlier. With Carlos’s hand on your waist, lips brushing against your cheek. And instead of looking away, Charles watched. Gotten off on how desperate you looked pretending to be loved.

Your fingers hover over the keyboard.

You’re a fucking asshole. You erase it. Go fuck yourself. Erase that too.

You send a photo instead.

Just your bare legs pulled toward your chest. Nothing but the hem of Carlos’s t-shirt barely covering anything. Fingers spreading yourself open just enough.

No caption.

And he replies instantly.

That’s better. Dripping and shameful.

Bet you’re already thinking about my cock, yeah?

You don’t respond. You’re too busy grinding against the heel of your palm. Twitching at the thought of him fucking you.

But then the next message comes in.

Touch yourself. Two fingers. Now. 

Want you sloppy by the time I call.

You hesitate. Listen to Carlos’s soft snores. His back to you as he lays on his side.

Your phone buzzes. An incoming call. And you answer it.

He doesn’t even bother with niceties. Doesn’t say hello.

“You better be doing what I fuckin’ said.”

Your voice is shaky. “I….I am.” You whisper.

Charles lets out a low breath. Amused. “Good girl. Keep going. Want to hear how messy you are.”

Your fingers are soaked. And you move faster.

He listens. And you can tell by the slick sounds in your ear, that he’s stroking himself too. Breath sharp and uneven through the phone.

“Y’like this, hm?” He grunts. “Fucking yourself in his bed to my voice?”

You moan softly. Bite your lip hard. Trying your best not to wake Carlos up.

“Such a filthy fuckin’ whore.” He whispers. “Does he fuck you like this? No. You get soft kisses and boring fingers. I’d fuckin’ ruin you.”

You whimper. And then he laughs. Cruel.

“Keep you on your knees for hours.” He grunts. “Slap your fuckin’ face until you’re out of tears. Make you beg.”

And you’re close. Too close. Pressing the pillow over your mouth to drown out the soft moans.

But he knows.

“Come for me,” He mutters. “Make a mess. Pretend its mine.”

And you do. 

Hard. Eyes squeezes shut with guilt and need.

Your thighs shake. Hand is a fucking wreck between your legs.

And then you hear his movements quicken, the groaning, a few fuck fuck fuck’s muttered. 

And then the line goes dead.

No goodbye. No softness.

-

You don’t sleep that night.

You lay there for hours. Half numb. Half aching. Legs sticky. Carlos shifts beside you at one point in the night, blindly reaching for you. Tugging you into him. And you let him.

Let him pull you into his chest. Kiss the top of your head.

And you try. Try to convince yourself that its just a phone call. Just a fantasy. That its out of your system and over.

But it’s not.

Because in the morning, there’s a package waiting at your door for you.

Small. Unmarked. Carlos still in the shower.

And you open it with shaky fingers.

And inside…wrapped in silk. A toy. Long. Thick. Curved in a way that’s too precise to be random.

A note tucked beneath it. No name.

Use this. I want proof you know how to take it.

And your stomach twists. In disgust. In guilt. In heat. In need.

Because he didn’t even ask. 

He just knew you would.

-

You manage to hold out for a few days. 

Carlos is busy with commercials, brand shoots, and some PR dinner that you’re supposed to attend but decline. Tell him you have a headache. Meanwhile its the guilt that’s gnawing at your brain.

He kisses you soft. Tells you to rest and that he’ll be home late.

And you promise yourself to be good.

And you mean it.

At first.

You even clean the apartment. Scrub it until your muscles ache. Light a few candles. Fold his laundry and tuck it away into the drawers.

You try everything to stay distracted. Laundry. Dishes. Put on a movie.

But it doesn’t.

Your phone buzzes once. And your stomach twists.

Bet you’ve been thinking about it.

And it feels like a hand wrapped around your throat. You leave it on read. Go back to the movie. Distract yourself.

But a minute later, another buzz from your phone.

Don’t be shy…Pull it out. Sit on it.

I know your cunt’s been throbbing since you first opened it.

You walk into the kitchen and pour a glass of water. Pace around. Tingling. Aching. 

Think of Carlos. Think of how great he is. How sweet he is.

And you don’t even realize you’re pulling out the box until your fingers are brushing against the silk.

Don’t remember crawling onto the bed. Just know that the guilt didn’t stand a fucking chance.

And you barely remember tapping the FaceTime icon on his contact.

You’re already soaked when he answers. Laying back on the mattress with one leg stretched out, the other bent. The toy still untouched, resting on your stomach. And you feel the lack of restraint you have when trying to convince yourself not to pick it up.

You expect him to take his time. Let it ring for a while. But he answers instantly.

And he’s propped up in bed. Dark. Shirless. Hair messy and eyes hooded.

“About fucking time.”

You swallow. Lips parted.

“I wasn’t going to…”

“Don’t lie.”

Your thighs twitch.

“I hate you,” You whisper softly. Sickened with yourself.

He lets out a small laugh. “No. You hate that I know what you need.”

You flinch. But don’t bother arguing. Because your cunt clenches just from hearing his voice.

“Should make you say it,” His voice is rough. “Make you tell me what you were thinking.”

“I wasn’t…”

“You were,” He snaps. Voice sharp. “Bet you couldn’t stop thinking about me spreading you open. Fingers shoved in your mouth. Voice in your ear.”

He shifts the phone slightly. Just enough that you can see his hand moving beneath the thin sheet.

“Put it in,” He demands. “Slow.”

And your fingers tremble as the wrap around the toy. Lifting it. Angling it.

“You’re sick,” You whisper. Frustrated. “Fucking sick.”

“And you’re dripping for me,” He shoots back. “Now be the good girl that you are and fuck yourself like I told you to.”

The stretch makes your head fall back against the pillows instantly. A broken sob.

“Look at me,” Charles grunts. “Eyes not he fucking screen. Want to see your face.”

You do as he says. Shame swirling inside of you. Face flushed.

“That’s it,” He coos. “That’s what I want to see.”

And you thrust the toy deeper, whimpering. Biting your lip to stay quiet. But the sound of the toy covered in your slick betrays you.

“Faster,” He demands. “Wanna hear how desperate you are.”

Your other hand fists the sheets. The tip of the toy brushing that spot deep in you that makes your vision blur a little bit.

“Charles..” You groan out. “I…fuck…I…”

He groans loudly, fisting himself.

“Crying already?” He laughs. “Don’t even need me to fuck you, just need my voice? Is that it?”

You nod.

“Pathetic.”

You moan.

“Fucking disgusting.” He spits. “I should record this. Send it to him and let him fuckin’ hear how you sound while you’re fucking yourself on something I sent you.”

Your back arches off the mattress.

“I hate you.”

He smirks. Fisting himself faster. “Yeah? That why you’re about to come all over the toy with my name? 

You whimper. Shaking. Burning. Aching.

“Then do it.” He hisses.

And you shatter. Your entire body seizing as your mouth falls slack. Toy rocking into you as your walls clench around it again and again. 

And then entire time, Charles is watching. Eyes burning into the screen.

“Don’t stop,” He pants. “Let me see the mess…don’t fucking stop.”

And you don’t. You listen. Riding the dildo until it almost hurts. Until tears are falling out the corners of your eyes. Until you hear him groan. A string of curses slipping from his mouth as he comes with you.

And then silence.

You lay there silently. Shaking.

And Charles doesn’t hang up.

No, he just stares.

Satisfied.

Because he know’s he has you now.

-

You don’t expect him to act different. Like anything happened.

But you don’t expect this.

It’s Saturday. You’re at the track later than usual, sunglasses hiding the exhaustion beneath your eyes. Carlos is done with his media rounds. Pulling you into him when he sees you. Like there’s nothing in the world that could make him happier than seeing you.

Kisses you. Tells you he missed you.

And you smile.

And that’s exactly what makes this so much worse. Because he’s good. So fucking good.

Because just twenty four hours ago, you were on your knees in your bedroom, whispering Charles name as you fucked yourself. Now you’re in the garage pretending like you’re not bathed in shame.

Charles walks in with his head down. Race suit half-zipped, sunglasses hiding his eyes. Headphones around his neck.

He doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t even flinch when he walks past. Carlos claps his shoulder when he walks by in passing.

And then he’s gone. Folding into his seat in the corner like you don’t even exist.

And it makes you feel sick. Not because you want affection. That was never the game.

But it still burns.

Carlos is scrolling through the rest of his schedule for the weekend, explaining to you when he’ll be busy. But your brain’s somewhere else.

And Charles is watching. Just for a mere second. A flick of his gaze. Down to where Carlos’s fingers rest on your lower back. Blank. Expressionless.

And then he looks away.

And you hate the way it makes you ache. Hate the way that he has you fighting with your rings. Hate that you can still hear his voice in your head, filthily telling you to spread your legs wider for him.

Carlos leans into you, fingers splaying slightly. Eyes lingering on you brightly, thumb tracing circles.

“Was thinking,” He says. Voice low. “After this weekend…maybe we could drive down the coast, yeah? Just us. I found this place with a private beach and no press. You’d love it.”

And you feel your chest crack.

Because he means it. Because he doesn’t deserve any oft his.

“I’d love that,” You say. “Sounds so perfect.”

He grins. Leans in and kisses you. “Good. I’ll make the plans.”

You nod. Bite the inside of your cheek. Try to hold the image of him, the sun, just you two.

But then the meeting breaks up. Chairs scrape. You rise to your feet. Carlos brushes past you to head to the other side of the room.

And that’s when Charles passes behind you.

No pause. No glance.

But his voice brushes against the shell of your ear. Cold. Cruel.

“Next time, don’t come so easy.”

And you don’t turn. Don’t follow his movements with your eyes. But your body is burning. With the shame. Guilt. The thrill.

And by the time you finally look in his direction, he’s already outside. Slipping his arm around Alexandra’s waist like he was never even around you.

-

It begins like most bad habits do.

Small. Sporadic enough that you can pretend that it’s not actually happening. Just mistakes.

The first time you sent him an unwarranted photo you told yourself it was a dare. Just to see what Charles would say. 

You didn’t expect him to respond within seconds.

That’s it. Spread em’ wider.

And you know that you shouldn’t have liked it. Shouldn’t have kept reading it over and over.

And now he never let a single day pass without sending something.

Think of me when you soak your sheets tonight.

Sometimes its a voicemail. Voice low and thick. Commanding.

You know what you are? He’d say into the phone. A fuckin’ liar. Just a pathetic fuckin’ liar smiling like you’re in love with him. Like you’re cunt isn’t aching for me every second.

A FaceTime came late. Your phone buzzing. A text coming through as it rang.

Answer it.

You stare at the screen. Knowing you shouldn’t. Knowing what it would mean. What it would lead to.

But your fingers move before you could stop them.

And the call connects. Charles, lying in bed. Hair messy like his fingers ran through it a dozen times. Phone resting against his chest so you could see his collarbones and the veins in his neck. 

“You’re late,” He said. As if this was planned. Scheduled.

You didn’t speak. Just bent one leg, the other falling open. Toy already waiting beside you.

His voice was hard.

“Pick it up. Sit on it.”

You hesitate. “I…”

“Don’t make me repeat myself.” He cuts you off.

And you do it. Cheeks burning. Bracing the phone against your pillow. Lowering yourself onto the toy. Slow.

And he watches. Lips parted. “That’s it…” His voice is lazy. “Carlos could never make you this wet.”

You moan. Couldn’t hide how hot he made your body.

“Bet you think about this every night.” His voice is low. “Poor little fuckin’ slut.”

You whimper. Rolling your hips. Grinding down harder. Picturing that it’s Charles your fucking yourself onto. 

And you shift on the bed. Hands trembling. Moaning. Unable to stop. Struggling to breathe properly.

“That’s it, baby.” Charles breathes. “Ruin yourself. Cry if you need to.”

And your eyes go glassy.

“Tell me what you’re thinking.” He demands. Not even touching himself. And that somehow makes it worse. Because he’s just watching. Making you do it all.

“I….” You breathe. “I can’t..I..”

“Try.”

You sob out. “I want it to be you.”

He grins. Dark. “Want what to be me?”

“Your cock. I want it to be your cock.”

And he groans. “Yeah? Bet the toy’s not thick enough for you. Not mean enough either.”

You’re shaking. Fingers slipping.

“Charles…” You whimper.

“I should be there.” He grunts. “Have you gagging for it. Slap your fuckin’ face when you even think about denying me.”

And your vision blurs.

“Come for me,” He hisses.

And you do. Like it’s programmed in your body to listen to him.

-

You weren’t planning on actually seeing him.

You’d told Carlos the truth. Partially.

That you’d join him in Spain in a few days. That your work had piled up and you were exhausted. You kissed him softly in the terminal. 

And you’d meant it.

But the silence in your apartment bothered you. Bed was too cold. Guilt gnawed at your bones. And the ache. It never went away.

Not when you showered. Not when you turned your phone off.

You hadn’t spoken to Charles in a few days. Not since the last FaceTime call. You’d blocked his number after that. Told yourself that you were done.

But then you unblocked it this morning. Like the pathetic person Charles told you that you were.

And you’re still in your oversized t-shirt and a pair of sleep shorts when the knock comes. Sharp. Twice. 

You freeze in the kitchen. 

You check the peephole.

Charles. With his arms crossed. Jaw tight.

And your fingers tremble on the lock.

You shouldn’t open the door, but you do.

His eyes skim over you immediately. Bare legs. No bra. And he leans against the frame like he’s got all the time in the world.

“Carlos asked me to check on you,” His voice low. “Said you weren’t answering.”

Your mouth opens. Closes. 

“You blocked me.” He says it flatly. Not hurt. But…amused. Like he thinks its funny that you think blocking him will stop whatever this is.

“Didn’t ask you to come.” You cross your arms.

“No,” He shrugs. “But he did.”

His gaze drags down again. Shamelessly.

“You look like shit.”

“Thanks.”

He pushes off the frame. Lets himself inside the apartment.

Door shutting behind him as he takes in your dim apartment. Noticing the framed photos of you and Carlos.

You hover in the hallway. “I’m fine.” Your voice is stiff. “You can go now.”

But he doesn’t.

No. He steps closer instead.

“You look exhausted,” He mutters.

“Charles…”

“You’re wearing his shirt.” He lifts the hem of it before you can even protest. Fingers brushing against the bare skin of your stomach. Mouth ticking. “Bet you’re cunt’s wet for me though, yeah?”

You flinch.

And he laughs. “You thought blocking me would fix it?”

“I don’t want you here.”

“You called me every night for weeks.”

“I was delusional.”

“Still are.” And then his voice deepens. “Let me fix it.”

You shake your head, step back to put some space between you two. But he follows. 

“I hate you.”

He smirks. “No, you don’t.”

You hit the wall. And his hand plants beside your head. His other hand hovering over your thigh.

“Carlos asked me to check on you,” He says again. Mocking.

And then his mouth finds your jaw. Your throat.

“Y’want me to lie to him? Tell him you’re doing fine?” 

You don’t answer. He dips his fingers into the boxers, grazing your underwear.

“Or should I tell him you’re soaked before I even touched you?”

You don’t even get the words out. Because his fingers are already pressing against you. And you’re not even fighting it.

You’re just breathing louder.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

He pulls your panties to the side, slips two fingers in between your folds like he’s done it a hundred times before. Like your body has always belonged to him.

“Still so fuckin’ wet for me,” He mutters into your ear. “Even with his fuckin picture on the wall right there.”

You gasp, head falling back into the wall behind you.

“Pathetic.” He says. Dragging his lips along your jaw. And then he slips his fingers inside. Deep. Curling them.

And your knees almost give.

“Shhh…” He whispers. “Don’t make a sound.”

Your fingers dig into the fabric of his shirt. Nails biting into his skin beneath it as he pumps his fingers slowly. 

Curling them as he watches your mouth fall slack. 

“Y’know what I think about?” He whispers. “I think about you on your knees. Crying around my cock. Tears spilling down that sweet face while you beg me not to come in your mouth…”

“Charles…” You choke out.

But he cuts you off with spread of his fingers. And it has your body jerking.

“You’d take it though, yeah?” He grunts. “Cause you like being ruined. Love it actually. Like knowing the power I have over you.”

Your thighs are clenching now. Eyes fluttering shut.

“M’gonna fuck you.” He whispers. “And you’re not gonna say a word about it. You’re gonna go right back to being his sweet doting girlfriend.”

And then he’s pulling his fingers out. Bringing them to your lips.

“Open.”

You do.

And he shoves them in. Watching you suck them clean. Eyes dark.

And then he’s taking a step back.

“Y’want this here or the bed?” He asks. “I don’t care where I fuck you. Just pick one before I lose my patience.”

You don’t even answer.

Because your body is already moving. Mechanical like. Like you’re in a dream you can’t wake up from. And you don’t look back at him, but you hear him following. 

Reaching the bedroom. The room is dim and the curtains are still drawn. The bed is unmade, one of Carlos’s hoodies still draped over the chair in the corner. Sheets still warm from when you attempted to nap earlier.

But it doesn’t even matter.

Because as soon as Charles steps behind you, everything disappears. The guilt. The past two years of being good.

And then his hand is snaking around your waist, pulling you back into his chest. While the other tangles into your hair, tilting your head against his shoulder.

And his mouth grazes your throat.

“Y’think you can run from this,” He mutters. “But you can’t.”

Your hands grip his wrists. “I didn’t…”

“Didn’t what?” He whispers, nipping at your skin. “Didn’t want this?”

His hand slips beneath your boxers. Rougher. Palm pressing against the curve of your cunt, rubbing once.

“Then why are you fucking soaked?”

A small whimper pushes past your lips.

“I hate you,” You repeat. Voice shaking.

And he smiles against your beck. “No. You hate that I get to do this.” His hand pushes deeper, coating his fingers in you. “You hate that I say the things he never would. Hate the way you ache to be used.”

“Stop mention…”

“No.”

He bites your shoulder. Enough to make your body jolt a bit. Enough to make you moan. Loudly.

And he groans, pleased. “There she is,” he whispers. “My dirty fucking girl.”

Your body burns. Everything aching. And pulsing.

Your eyes flutter. From the stretch of his fingers. From the scent of him wrapped around you. 

He pulls his fingers out slow, stepping back just a bit.

And you should run. Should shove him. Slam the door.

But instead you whisper, “Charles.”

And he cocks his head to the side. Like he wants you to beg.

So you do.

“Please,” you breathe.

And that’s all he needs.

His hands are back on you instantly. Turning you, forcing you to fall onto the bed. The room blurs. He strips his clothes off.

And then he’s on top of you. Knees sinking into the bed on either side of your hips, one hand fisting the front of your shirt while the other pushes your thighs apart.

You try to sit up. To reach for him. But he just shoves you back down with a single hand locked on your chest.

“No.” Flat. Unforgiving. Mean.

And then he’s reaching down to grab the waistband of your shorts, yanking them down. Pulling the panties with them.

“Take your shirt off,” He says. Sharp.

You don’t hesitate. Fingers shaking as you pull Carlos’s shirt over your head, leaving you bare.

He just looks.

Groans.

“Fuck…look at you.”

His hand curls around your throat. Lining himself up at your entrance. Kissing the corner of your mouth.

And then he’s pushing inside. 

All of him. Thick. Hard. And you cry out. Nails digging into the sheets.

“Fucking tight.” He hisses. “Knew you’d feel this good.”

And then he starts moving. Brutal. Hips slamming forward, unforgivingly. Fucking into you with punishing thrusts. The kind that make the bed creak and your thighs shake.

You cry out louder when he thrusts deep. The tip of his cock hitting that oh so unbearable spot inside of you that makes your cunt clamp down on him hard. And he hisses at the tightness, but slams in harder. 

“Thought about this every night since,” Charles grunts. “Thought about how sloppy you’d sound once I finally split you open.”

You’re soaking the sheets. Twitching.

“Bet you fuck him soft,” He spits. “Sweet kisses and slow thrusts. Bet he doesn’t even know how fucking filthy you are.”

“Stop…” You pant.

“No,” He grins. “Y’like when I talk like this. You need it.”

And then he’s grabbing your throat, tight enough to make your breath hitch. “Y’need someone to treat you like the whore you are.” He grunts.

And he doesn’t stop. 

“That’s it,” He breathes. Watching your face twist as your orgasm approaches. “Go on. Come for me.”

And you scream. Fisting the sheets, the other dragging down his back.

And he just keeps thrusting. Fucking you through it. Chasing his own release.

“Gonna stretch this cunt til you’re leaking.”

You moan. Eyes glassy.

And with one final, deep thrust, he buries himself deep into you. Grinding into you as he spills in you.

And he stays there. Holding it. Smirking.

“Better than him, isn’t it?”

-

It happens again the next night. And the next. And then again.

You told Carlos you needed a few more days. That work was too much. But you haven’t even opened your laptop once.

Because every time Charles knocks, you answer.

And every time he fucks you…it gets worse.

One night, he didn’t even let you undress. Just flips your sleep shorts to the side, bends you over the arm of the couch.

“Lazy little thing,” He groans. Cock slamming in deep. “Didn’t even bother putting on panties.”

“I didn’t know you were coming,” You moan.

“Yeah?” He leans down over you. Nipping your shoulder. Sucking your neck. “Your cunt did.”

Another night, you’re in bed, lights still on. Half-asleep.

And Charles climbs on top of you. No greeting.

Just his hand around your throat, cock pressing against you.

“You know what to do,” He says.

And you spread your legs like its a fucking reflex.

And then the kitchen.

When you’re trying to make coffee. Hair tied up, half-asleep. And he just walks in like he lives there.

Grabs you by the hips, yanking your shorts down.

“Don’t even flinch anymore,” He half-laughs, dragging his cock through your folds.

“I hate you,” you whisper.

“Yeah, m’sure you do.” He responds. “Now bend.”

And then fucks you over the counter with his hand pressed into your back.

The worst is when Carlos calls you while you’re in the bath tub. Charles cock buried in you. His chest pressed to your back, palm clamped over your mouth to muffle your moans.

Charles forces you to answer it.

And you shake your head. Trembling. Shaking.

“I said answer.”

You fumble for it. Put it on speaker.

“Hey,” you gasp.

“Hola, cariño.” Carlos says. Warm. Happy. “Y’sound tired.”

Charles fucks into you once. Hard.

Fingers circling your clit that has your eyes rolling back. Charles mouth pressed to your neck. The water sloshing in the tub.

-

You told yourself it would stop.

That one day, you’d wake up and feel clean. That if you blocked his number and let Carlos hold your hand, you’d forget.

But you don’t.

No matter how hard you try. Because it wasn’t a one-time mistake. It was months of mistakes. Once, he had you bent over the bathroom counter while Carlos had just texted he was parking the car.

And Charles didn’t care.

He was already fucking you from behind, watching you in the mirror. Gripping you so tight it would leave bruise marks.

Another time it was Carlos’s car. 

You had a fight that night. Not even about Charles. Just stress. And you stormed out of the party, heels in hand.

Charles was already waiting outside like he knew. Opened the back door.

Shoved your dress up and pushed inside you in the same seat Carlos was kissing you in hours earlier.

It was rough. Fast. And you came with your forehead against the window. Fogging it with every gasp.

And afterward, he left without looking at you.

You’ve never hated yourself more than in that moment.

Yet somehow you still want more.

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[redlinespeedster]

I’m off this week ’cause of some health stuff, so I’ve got time… and I kinda feel like writing something real filthy about Charles. 🤭

[redlinespeedster]

I’m so freaking bored… I’ve got no clue what to write anymore 😩

[redlinespeedster]

how about charlos x driver!reader

I am a slut for both 🫠

OVERTAKE !! ☆

carlos sainz 𝒙 fem!driver reader 𝒙 charles leclerc

[summary] The world of motorsport is shaken by the shocking news: Carlos Sainz has been fired from Ferrari under circumstances many consider unfair. And to make matters worse, his replacement is you—a rising talent, sure, but still a rookie. The news couldn’t hit the Spaniard harder. Suddenly, a newcomer he barely knows is taking everything from him: his seat, his friends, his recognition… and worst of all Charles. Carlos isn’t about to just sit back and watch it happen. (7k)

[warnings] Smut !! threesome, toxic & jealous behavior, dom!carlos, switch!charles, sub!reader, m/m action, rough sex, dirty talk, p in v, unprotected sex, creampie, oral sex (fem receiving), hand job, this is filthy as fuck. Spanish is my first language, and I usually write all my fics in Spanish first, then translate them myself with a lot of effort. Sorry if anything sounds off or if there are mistakes.

[notes] At first, I was like “just a simple one shot,” but then I thought—why not turn it into my 100 followers celebration? You already know this account lives and breathes Charlos, so sit back and enjoy. ❤️

The news that Carlos Sainz will leave Ferrari in the 2025 season completely shook the world of motorsport. It was an unexpected blow. Sainz himself admitted to feeling betrayed: he was ready to renew for another year with the Scuderia, and suddenly, he was out. As if he were worth nothing.

But it didn’t take long before it was announced that you would be the one to replace the Spaniard. It almost felt ironic to him: a rookie, also considered a rising star in motorsport, was now joining the biggest team in Formula 1. Although, when you really think about it, it’s not that surprising — something very similar happened with Charles. The Italian team now sees the possibility of winning the Constructors’ Championship over McLaren closer than ever.

But not even then was when Carlos started to resent you. Well, yes — aside from all that, you were egocentric, you thought you could conquer the world, and you carried that same attitude onto the track. You spoke with a confidence meant to project a superiority that didn’t really exist. But not even that bothered him so much about you. In fact, he even found you attractive.

But he couldn’t help the way hatred began to grow inside him when he noticed that Leclerc also seemed attracted to you. It was true that the Monegasque had always been naturally flirty with everyone —something that had already sparked more than one fight in their relationship, fights that almost always ended up being settled in bed. But ever since he left Ferrari, everything changed. No more quick hookups in the drivers’ room, no more wet kisses stolen when no one was looking. Now he was just following you around like a dog… chasing after you —and your pussy. He couldn’t stand it. He felt like changing teams had practically made him cease to exist.

Charles had always had a weakness for pretty, feminine women. Being a woman in a male-dominated sport didn’t mean you couldn’t be as elegant and flirtatious as you wanted. And damn, you really were. Just watching you walk by was enough to leave more than one driver —and even the occasional engineer— sighing. Fuck, you could be so damn annoying.

Carlos would’ve preferred not to know that you and Charles were sleeping together. But it was almost obvious—the way you looked at each other, how he’d rest his hand on the small of your back, or how you laughed at every stupid thing he said. There was no need to even ask. He didn’t have to catch you in a compromising situation to understand what was going on.

Because it had been exactly the same with him.

Those green eyes, shamelessly flirty, were a trap he’d fallen into over and over again. He couldn’t forget the way Charles spoke to him in that soft voice, laced with double meanings, dropping sexual innuendos every other sentence just because he wanted to be pushed against a wall and fucked without hesitation. The way he’d hold his face in those nearly perfect hands, just to kiss him breathless. How he’d sit on his lap while signing a few caps, shamelessly grinding his ass against his erection, knowing exactly what he was doing. And now he wanted to pretend none of that had meant anything?

Carlos had been replaced in every way—at work, in the spotlight… and between Charles’s legs. Now it was you who rode him, who had him inside, who made him moan like he’d never been with anyone else. He couldn’t help but wonder just how tight your pussy had to be to turn him so fucking stupid for you. And the more he thought about it, the stronger the burning curiosity grew inside him to know what it felt like to be squeezed by you like that.

Maybe his anger comes out on track. His hands on the steering wheel don’t just drive — they force him to overthink everything that shouldn’t be in his head. Qualifying was a disaster, and the race was even worse. He just wanted to be faster… or for this damn nightmare to finally end.

He watches you from afar, driving that red single-seater that, in theory, should’ve been his this season. You’re fighting for third place while Carlos is dragging himself around the back of the field. At first, you notice how he won’t let you through. And that resistance costs you time. Too much time.

“Sainz is a fucking child,” you growl over the radio, fed up with the Spanish driver’s immature attitude — one that’s more like a spoiled, overly competitive kid.

But a single mistake behind the wheel can ruin an entire race, taking out multiple drivers. Carlos’s car collides with yours, sending you both spinning off track. There’s not much to be done: you both have to retire.

You’re frustrated. You’re fighting for a championship — you’re not here for decoration like he is. You knew that collision was intentional, that there was no sign it had been an accident, but the FIA didn’t see it that way.

“Fucking selfish idiot! What the hell is he doing?!” you scream furiously over the radio.

Unfortunately, that outburst earns you a penalty.

A dull anger starts to grow inside you after that incident and after spending hours locked up in the hospital. Over and over you kept repeating that you were fine, that it wasn’t a big deal, that it had just been a minor accident. But the nurse, visibly annoyed, had to remind you that you had crashed into a fence at 200 kilometers per hour.

Charles had been luckier than you. The Monegasque got another podium that season, this time behind the McLarens. And when he told you about it with that silly grin while you were alone, you were about to kill him out of rage. Because just because you slept together didn’t mean you were no longer rivals.

“Your boyfriend hit me,” you growl irritably, gritting your teeth. He barely smiles, with that cocky attitude that drives you crazy. “I’m pretty sure he did it on purpose.”

Your legs rested softly on his thighs while he placed a cold ice pack on your forehead. Although the pain wasn’t very intense, the strong impact had caused the skin around it to start swelling slightly.

“He’s not my boyfriend, but yeah, he probably did it on purpose,” he said, trying to downplay the severity of the Spanish guy’s toxic behavior, which was getting more and more obsessive. “He’s super dominant with me. And yeah, he’s jealous of you.”

“Thanks for telling me,” you say with a hint of sarcasm. “I noticed after he sent me to the hospital by crashing me into a fence at two hundred kilometers per hour.”

Charles laughs, moves the ice off your forehead, and pulls you toward him until you’re sitting on his lap. He gives you a slow kiss on the shoulder, over the fabric of your fireproof suit, and slides his hands down your waist cheekily. “It’s not such a big deal. Actually, I think you turn him on a little. But he won’t admit it… he’s stubborn as fuck.”

You open your eyes in surprise; deep down, you still couldn’t quite believe it. “Feels like he hates me right now,” you say honestly, smiling as you feel him planting wet kisses along your neck’s skin. You tilt your head a little, giving him more access.

Charles laughs against your neck, his warm breath brushing your skin as he leaves hickeys shamelessly, marking you as if you were his. You know you’ll have to cover each of those marks with makeup later because they’ll turn purple… but you love the idea of wearing them, of remembering how he devoured you with his mouth. “Maybe he hates you,” he murmurs with a dirty smile, licking right where it makes you shiver the most. “But that doesn’t mean he’s not dying to get between your legs.”

That sentence lingers in your mind for days. Even when you’re alone at home, already in Monaco, and then again in the paddock, with Charles on top of you as always. His hands grip your neck while he fucks you hard until you’re breathless. He doesn’t even know that in your mind it’s Carlos you’re thinking about, imagining what it would be like if he were in Charles’s place. Would he be rougher? Without a doubt. He would bury his cock with such force that you wouldn’t be able to speak or breathe, only feel how he completely dominates you.

Charles notices that you’re distracted, as if your body, feeling so much pleasure, is in the room with him, but your mind is somewhere else. “What’re you thinking about, mon cœur?” he asks you, slowing the intense rhythm with which he was fucking you.

Your cheeks blush with embarrassment; the image of the Spaniard appears again in your mind and Charles notices because you squeeze him harder than usual. “About Carlos.”

The pace that was slow before now stops completely. He’s not upset or annoyed, but rather curious. Of all the things he expected you might be thinking, that was the last. Because if you were thinking about his ex-lover while the two of you were having sex, it definitely couldn’t be anything sweet or innocent.

“About Carlos, huh?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. Now he definitely has a lot of questions. “So, why were you thinking about him, amour?” So many days had passed that Charles had completely forgotten he told you he might be attracted to you.

He pulls back inside you so he can talk. Both of you remain aroused: he stays fully erect and you completely soaked. That doesn’t stop curiosity from being stronger, and him having to wait before continuing the action.

“I was thinkin’ about what you told me the other day, that maybe he’s into me. And I just can’t stop thinkin’ about it,” you confess slowly, not caring what he might think because he was open, at least in that regard. Charles, of course, understands the feeling, since he’s experienced it more times than he’d like to admit, and still can’t control his knees trembling every time Carlos breathes near him.

He always missed how good it felt when Carlos slid inside him, how everything fit perfectly, how his back arched, and how his tip touched all the right spots. Those were the memories that usually came back before sleeping, along with the ones he had with you.

“I never got why you two stopped seeing each other all those months,” you say, looking him in the eyes, while he slightly turns toward you to hold your gaze.

He’s silent for a moment, as if searching for the exact words, though he himself doesn’t seem fully sure.

“I guess… not being on the same team kinda pushed us apart. He stopped lookin’ for me, I stopped lookin’ for him. And then… you showed up.”

Your eyes shine, and the heat on your cheeks betrays more than you want. You wanted to think he wasn’t with you just because you were his teammate, though honestly, it wouldn’t be that strange. You were together all the time. If not recording some game for YouTube, you were reviewing strategies for the next race, sharing interviews, press conferences… any excuse was valid to keep you two close. And sometimes, very close. Alone.

Maybe that’s why you ended up tangled. It was inevitable.

You remember the first time was in China, after a race that had been an absolute disaster for both of you. The frustration burned inside and you needed to release it somehow. It was quick, impulsive. Hungry bodies searching for an escape route. And it worked so well that you repeated it. Over and over. Until it became a habit: a weekly need, whether at home or in some hotel room lost somewhere in the world.

Because you loved how he touched you. How he read your body without saying a word. The chemistry between you wasn’t casual, it was fire. And you, addicted to every spark.

You slowly slide until you’re curled up in Charles’s arms. He doesn’t hesitate to wrap you firmly, gently pushing you against his chest, as if he needed to feel you close, as if your warmth could calm something inside him. He holds you silently, his lips brushing your hair, breathing deeply.

You want to speak. The words burn in your throat. You’ve never been one to keep your feelings inside, and this time won’t be an exception.

“I think he’s in love with you,” you whisper, not looking at him, your voice barely audible but loaded with meaning.

You can feel how his body reacts. He inhales deeply, his chest rising against your back. The silence that follows stretches, heavy, as Charles closes his eyes. He’s processing it, but doesn’t seem surprised. Deep down… he already knew.

“I know,” he admits calmly. “And I’m in love with you too.”

You sit up slowly, turning to look at him with eyes wide in surprise. But he doesn’t flinch; instead, he takes advantage of your closeness to run his fingers through your hair, caressing you with a tenderness that completely disarms you. As if that confession had been the most natural thing in the world.

You kiss him softly, your lips barely brushing his, as if inviting him to lose himself in you. He responds immediately, deepening the kiss with a slowness that sends shivers across your skin, taking his time to explore your mouth, to taste you, to touch you with every glide until you’re both intoxicated by one another. As if the world had stopped, even though in a few hours you’d have to be back on track for free practice.

And yet, even in the middle of that perfect moment, the memory of Carlos slips into Charles’s mind like a whisper from the past. As you close your eyes and settle against his chest, seeking a few minutes of rest, he can’t help but wonder what it would be like if Carlos were there too. Not to take your place—but to share it. The three of you, tangled in a bed, wrapped in desire… or simply together, anywhere in the world. He lets himself drift into that fantasy for a few seconds more, until reality calls him back: the roar of the engines, the flash of cameras, the show waiting for you.

Carlos longed for things to go back to how they were. You were looking for something new. Charles wanted both the old and the new. And maybe that was a sign that all your pieces fit perfectly together.

The following weeks were a true display of dominance by McLaren over the rest of the teams and drivers. It’s fair to say that while everyone else was racing, they were simply flying. Only Max Verstappen still held onto a glimmer of hope of turning the situation around, although even for him it was becoming difficult to face the tyranny imposed by the British team.

And as if that weren’t enough, now in Monaco, Ferrari was starting to get back on its feet after several races plagued by disastrous results with their new car… which looked more like a coffee machine than a race car. Even you were getting frustrated that it wasn’t performing as expected.

You never talked about Carlos again between you, but that didn’t mean you stopped thinking about each other. No one could ignore the stolen glances in the paddock: you, looking for him; Charles, noticing how he looked at your hips when you walked by; and how Charles stared at his arms—and Carlos noticed.

Those almost adolescent behaviors had you all teetering on the edge of unbearable sexual tension. You didn’t speak—not you two and him—but that didn’t stop the looks from saying everything the words kept silent.

But Charles couldn’t hold out much longer. Months had passed without a single word exchanged, even though, in reality, nothing truly serious had happened between them. Maybe that’s why he made a decision that could be considered reckless… but sometimes, just sometimes, he missed even just talking to him. Before anything else, they had been friends. Or at least something like it.

“Rough weekend, huh?” he said, and his face immediately flushed, realizing how stupid the comment sounded. Of course it had been a tough weekend—Carlos had qualified near the back for his home race.

The Spaniard looked at him with mild disdain, and for a moment, Charles’ heart cracked a little. They were alone; he had no idea how Charles had ended up there. But now… were they supposed to coexist? After so many months of silence?

Charles seemed to be searching for something, as always. Because in the end, he always came crawling back to him, tail between his legs.

“What the hell are you doing?” Carlos asked the Monegasque firmly, leaning in just enough to invade his personal space. “Already bored of your new toy, or is that why you’re suddenly all nice and chatty?”

Charles flushed instantly, trying to ignore the phrase he had just used. He tried to regain control of the conversation, as if that could hide the heat creeping up his body.

“I just… I dunno, wanted to see how you were doing. We’ve been way too distant,” he murmured, not very convincingly.

Carlos let out a dry laugh and stepped closer, completely cornering him. His hands pressed against the wall on either side of Charles’ head. They were so close that Carlos’ breath brushed against his lips. Charles closed his eyes for a second, anticipating the inevitable, his body reacting before his mind; he remembered exactly what it felt like to have him like this—so close, so his.

“Whose damn fault is that?” Carlos murmured, raising an eyebrow with a slow smile, as if savoring the question.

He didn’t answer. His mind tangled in excuses and silences: was it the team, was it him? He didn’t know. And Carlos knew that. He watched him unravel before his eyes—and he loved it.

“That’s it, right?” Carlos leaned in a little more, his voice brushing against him like a whisper laced with sweet poison. “She’s got you so fucking gone you can’t even think straight anymore. Got you so fucking hard you can’t even see what’s right in front of you. You’re way too easy to mess with like this…”

Charles felt a wave of heat rush through his chest, rising forcefully until it lodged in his throat. Breathing became difficult; a slight dizziness washed over him, mingling with something dangerously close to arousal. Carlos’ gaze was fixed on his lips—intense, almost devouring—and Charles fought to ignore how shaky his hands had become, how sudden the shiver running down his body was.

“Not even blaming you, man…” Carlos murmured into his ear, wearing a grin that bordered on obscene as he watched goosebumps rise on Charles’ skin from his breath. “I mean, even I wanna know what it’s like to spread her open, sink in slow and feel her clench around me.”

Charles’ eyes opened, a slow smile forming on his lips. That look returned—the one that always appeared when he already had something in mind… or someone.

“Oh no… that face’s got trouble written all over it,” Carlos whispered, brushing his thumb slowly, deliberately across Charles’ lips. “Let me guess… that pretty little brain of yours just cooked up some idea, didn’t it?”

He nodded, parting his lips slightly, a soft breath escaping as he shivered under the touch.

“Maybe…” he murmured, voice deep and playful. Carlos looked at him like he already knew exactly what he was thinking.

It doesn’t even take you a day to uncover the Monegasque’s twisted plan. All it takes is seeing him grinning from ear to ear every time you go somewhere together—the truth gives itself away. He’s not exactly a master at hiding what goes on in that head of his, and you can tell by the way Carlos keeps throwing glances his way in the media pen, while both of them continue giving interviews after the race.

They weren’t even trying to hide it.

Suddenly, you pinch his arm, pulling him out of his bubble of fantasies and forcing all his attention on you. “Ow! What the hell’s your problem…?”

You don’t let him finish; you just flash him a mischievous smile, raising your brows in amusement. “My problem? No, babe, what’s yours? You’re looking at him like a total idiot. Spill it—what happened?”

“Nothing…” he replies, but he quickly gives up. It’s impossible to lie to you when you’re looking at him like that, with eyes that clearly don’t believe a word he says. “Okay, fine… yeah. But I can’t tell you here.”

Now you’re even more confused. You don’t get the secrecy. Was it really that hard to just say “we fucked”? Because that’s exactly what you were starting to suspect happened. And the worst part? The thought gave you a sharp pang of jealousy. Though you weren’t sure if it was because of Carlos… or Charles.

But it’s the Spaniard who approaches you, leaving you nearly breathless with how calmly and deliberately he moves. To anyone else, it just looks like a casual conversation between three people. Who would suspect something else was brewing in the middle of that seemingly innocent gathering?

“Didn’t your boyfriend tell you already?” he asks, shamelessly slinging an arm around your shoulders. Your cheeks instantly flush red with embarrassment. You’re about to blurt out, “he’s not my boyfriend, for fuck’s sake,” but you hold your tongue, deciding to let him talk. “You didn’t tell her, babe?”

“I was gonna!” Charles replies, rolling his eyes with a crooked little smirk, clearly amused by your confusion. “Carlos and I were thinking—”

“No, just you. You were the one thinking with that dirty brain of yours,” Carlos cuts in, arms crossed—though the gleam in his eyes betrays the fact that he’s not nearly as annoyed as he pretends to be.

It was maddening. Not only did you have no clue what they were talking about, but they seemed to enjoy the game—keeping you out, speaking in half sentences. Like you weren’t even there. Like they found it amusing to see you lost.

“Oh my god, let me talk, will you?” Charles snaps, clearly impatient, though his tone stays more playful than serious. He shoots Carlos a quick glance, then looks back at you. “Carlos and I wanted to…”

But he doesn’t finish the sentence.

It’s Carlos who breaks the silence, his voice firm and almost indifferent. He looks you straight in the eyes, without a hint of nerves or regret, as if it were no big deal.

“We wanted to have a threesome.”

“Oh…” The air gets stuck in your lungs. For a moment, you’re not sure you heard right. Your mind tries to process it, but Carlos’ dry, straightforward tone leaves no room for doubt. He meant it. And the worst part? Neither of them looks the slightest bit sorry.

“‘Oh’? That’s your answer, amor? C’mon—yes or no, spit it out,” he murmurs with a teasing tone that sends shivers down your spine and sparks a flicker of desire inside you.

Your cheeks burn a deep red as you answer, voice firm yet shaky,

“Yeah…”

Carlos smirks wickedly and, with fingers both gentle and deliberate, lifts your chin to lock eyes with you, gaze blazing.

“Buena chica.”

Then he steps away like nothing happened—like he didn’t just leave you with trembling legs, a racing heart, and heat pooling between your thighs, imagining every detail of what had just happened… and what could come next.

They were you and him, as always, in that hotel room somewhere. This time, in Canada. For the last thirty minutes, he had been fingering you without stopping. His words were harsh, full of desire and provocation. He had you on the bed, legs spread, his fingers buried deep inside your pussy, making every touch burn you from within. And you only thought about how long it would take Carlos to arrive to give you the second part of this warm-up that had you on the edge.

“You two can’t even go ten minutes without touching each other, right?” The voice interrupts the moment. You. Because Charles doesn’t even flinch. You open your eyes and see him standing there in front of you, arms crossed, with a look that’s part amused, part annoyed. “Relax, he gave me a card to get in.”

Charles smiles like it’s nothing, not stopping his rhythm. The most disconcerting thing is that he keeps fingering you with the same calmness he uses to speak. He has three fingers inside you, completely soaked, sliding with a precision that makes you arch your back. He moves them with total control: pushing in, twisting, pulling out, then pushing deeper again, hitting exactly where he knows it unravels you.

“How inconvenient,” he murmurs with that deep voice that heats your body. “You should’ve arrived more than half an hour ago. We couldn’t keep waiting…”

Your breathing goes wild; orgasm is dangerously close. Waves of pleasure flow through you nonstop, making you arch your back while broken moans escape your lips. You don’t even care anymore about being half-naked in front of Carlos. And clearly, he doesn’t either.

He watches you calmly, as if he has all the time in the world to admire you. Your legs open, your clothes a mess, your breasts barely covered. You are pure chaos, and yet, you look perfect like that: soaked, trembling, exposed.

“If you want her to cum… touch her clit,” Carlos says as he sits next to Charles on the bed, shamelessly watching his fingers firmly entering and exiting you. “It’ll be easier. She’s probably so swollen she barely needs a touch.”

It feels strange how they talk about you out loud, like you’re a thing. Not invisible… but not quite human either. Like you’re just there to be used, admired, pushed to the limit.

“I know,” Charles replies, not taking his eyes off your face. Then he pulls his three fingers out all at once, slow as they come out, wet, shining from how soaked you are. The emptiness shakes you immediately; you feel your body instinctively contract, searching for what’s no longer there. “I just wanted her to last a little longer.”

Carlos firmly grabs Charles’s wrist and guides his fingers to his mouth, without asking, without hesitation. He opens his lips and wraps them around each finger with his tongue, licking slowly, savoring every wet trace they carry from you. He sucks shamelessly, wanting to extract every last drop of your taste, and when he releases them, he licks his lips with closed eyes and a clearly hungry expression.

You climb onto the bed on your knees, moving closer to them, completely surrendered. Charles reaches out urgently, stripping every piece of clothing still hanging from your body with a mix of anxiety and desire. Carlos doesn’t even help; he’s too focused on staring at your breasts. Your nipples, hard from excitement, hypnotize him. He didn’t need to check to know you were wet… but he would anyway. He wanted to dive into that heat, taste every drop, hear you moan with parted lips and trembling body.

He also wanted Charles to do it.

It’s Carlos’s hands that calmly slide down his clothes, removing them with the same familiarity he’s done so many times. His eyes are fixed on him as he undresses him, and his lips glide to his shoulders, leaving slow, almost possessive kisses.

Charles lets it happen, smiling with that disarming confidence, and meanwhile, he pulls your shirt off over your head, as if everything were perfectly synchronized.

You moan softly when his thumbs brush your nipples, teasing them until they harden. You stay sitting on the bed, legs spread, while they watch you from the edge, standing, devouring you with their eyes.

Carlos doesn’t take his eyes off you. They’re lit up, full of desire, although his lips still get lost on Charles’s neck. Until he kneels in front of you without saying a word, holding your hips and pushing you a little more toward the center of the bed. His face buries without hesitation between your thighs, kissing, licking, breathing you in, as if he needed to taste you to survive.

Charles moves behind you, his gaze just as fiery as Carlos’s. He sits on the bed and pulls you onto his lap, settling you against him. His hands grip your thighs and spread them wider, leaving you completely exposed. He holds you there—open for Carlos—offering him the view of everything he’s about to devour.

“Fuck… you’ve got such a pretty pussy,” the Spaniard mutters, his tongue dragging slowly along the sides of your swollen folds, not slipping between them just yet. The way his breath hits you—hot and close—and the teasing swipe of his tongue has you moaning, already desperate for more.

Charles lowers his hand slowly, like he’s really enjoying every second. His fingers trace your soaked folds until you’re completely open. With two fingers shaped like a “V,” he gently parts your lips, showing your clit completely. “So pretty… and so damn wet,” he murmurs, rubbing it with his fingertip in slow circles, knowing exactly how to mess you up.

You’re a mess of moans. Your legs keep shaking as Carlos finally runs his tongue all over your pussy, from top to bottom, tasting you eagerly. He starts slow, enjoying every drop, every reaction from you. Then he circles your clit with his tongue, playing with it so perfectly it takes your breath away—right as Charles carefully pulls back the hood, exposing it even more with his fingertips.

You arch your back involuntarily, gasping, your head resting on Charles’s shoulder. Your moans spiral out of control, and that only seems to turn Carlos on even more. He’s completely hard, his cock pressing taut against the fabric of his pants as he strokes himself with one hand. With the other, he holds your thighs open, pushing his tongue deeper, seeking every sensitive spot inside you until you scream, unable to hold back.

The Monegasque catches you with a wild kiss, his tongue forcefully entering your mouth, as if he wants to possess you from there too, muffling your moans while the other devours you mercilessly, with his wet, hot tongue, desperate to make you tremble again.

Whether you come or not, tears are running down your cheeks from pure pleasure. They’re taking you so far that you don’t even know if you’re crying from how good it feels, from too much, or from something you can’t even put into words.

“Fuck… you’re so damn sensitive, mon amour,” Charles teases in your ear, his voice low and dripping with desire. Carlos looks up from between your legs, and you can see the satisfied shine in his eyes. He’s loving every single second.

“You and I both know you go crazy having a mouth between your legs,” he whispers from behind, brushing a strand of hair off your face with fake tenderness, as your head falls back, giving in on his shoulder. “And you know damn well how much we love eating you out for hours… until you break.”

His fingers close firmly around your nipples, twisting them, making you moan uncontrollably. Carlos doesn’t stop: his tongue moves mercilessly between your swollen folds, licking, sucking, pushing with the tip exactly where you need it most. He sends shivers through you with every movement, while Charles plays with your breasts, nibbling your neck, whispering dirty things in your ear.

The combination is brutal. Your body arches between them, trembling, moans escaping without restraint. You’re so close you can hardly think. The only thing that exists are their mouths, their hands, and that burning desire consuming you from within.

But before you could react, Carlos stopped completely. He left you hanging on the edge, burning, moans caught in your throat and your body trembling with unsatisfied desire. You fell against Charles’s chest, surrendered, sobbing, completely wrapped in the frustration of pleasure that never came.

They both laughed at you, mercilessly, enjoying seeing you like this: vulnerable, needy, desperate.

“Desperate slut,” Carlos murmured with a dirty smile before grabbing you firmly by the waist and spinning you around, placing you on your knees and hands, completely ready.

Your face was barely inches from Charles’ cock, so hard it throbbed in front of you, and so wet that a drop of pre-cum brushed your chin.

‘Fuck…’ he moaned, tracing the tip along your lips, marking them with his wetness, leaving a shiny trail on your chin. ‘I’ve been wanting to see you like this all week… on your knees, exactly where you belong.’

“I’ve been imagining how your pussy’s gonna feel for three months,” he growls, watching you shiver under his touch. “And if you squeeze like that with just your fingers… damn, I can’t wait to feel you all over.”

The younger of the two sinks all the way down your throat, making you choke out a moan. Your tongue moves desperately, licking every corner, while saliva gathers and drips down his cock, wet and shining. His hands tangle in your hair, gripping tightly to set the pace and take your mouth mercilessly. Your eyes fill with tears as you struggle to take it all in.

Behind you, the older one pushes his way between your soaked folds. He goes deep, and your walls wrap around him tightly, warm and narrow, swallowing every inch. You moan with ragged breath, but can barely make a sound with your mouth so full.

The image is so delicious that the Monegasque in front of you completely loses himself, entranced, and fucks your mouth with more hunger—faster, deeper.

“Guess she sucks it better than you, huh?” Carlos throws with a teasing grin, looking at Charles just to provoke him.

And as the words leave his mouth, he drives into you with savage force — so deep he slams right into that perfect, aching spot inside you with every thrust. The rhythm is relentless, merciless; you’re gasping for air, legs shaking uncontrollably, your whole body burning with heat. Moans catch in your throat, strangled and desperate, while flashes of white explode behind your eyelids.

Charles is just as far gone. His eyes stay locked on yours as his cock plunges into your mouth — wet, hungry, hot — fucking your mouth like he needs to consume you. He groans, shameless and rough, his sweat dripping from his forehead, veins bulging along his forearms as he holds you in place. His lips are parted, panting, completely at the mercy of your mouth.

And still, he laughs — low, breathless, like he’s got all the time in the world to ruin you.

“And guess what… you don’t fuck her like I do, mon amour.”

His tone is full of challenge, and it only makes everything burn hotter. Carlos thrusts harder, deeper, determined to prove the other wrong. He wants to show you that you’re no one else’s but his. And your body doesn’t fight it—clenching tight, trembling around him until it drains him completely.

You’re a mess. You cry, mouth full, as the orgasm shakes you so hard you feel like it’s breaking you from the inside. You can barely breathe, and amid that overwhelming pleasure, you feel Carlos coming inside you too, filling you up until his heat spills over your thighs.

Your cum mixes with Carlos’s inside you, filling you to the limit, so much that you start dripping uncontrollably. When Charles cum in your mouth as well, you do your best to swallow it all, though keeping your composure is hard. You’re completely wrecked, feeling used, surrendered, and consumed by both. You fall onto the mattress, your body trembling like a leaf, exhausted and vulnerable.

“What a beautiful mess,” Carlos says with a defiant smile. “So dirty and full.”

Carlos grabs Charles by the arm and pulls him firmly against his body. You turn around, lying on your back and still weak, while watching. Carlos lunges at Charles with a ravenous kiss, a tangle of tongues fighting for control, though it’s Carlos who dominates. His hands grip the Monegasque’s nape tightly, forcing him to surrender without protest.

The younger one pulls away, gasping with heavy breaths, but the other doesn’t let go of the back of his neck and pushes him hard between your legs, giving a clear order: to clean you up with his tongue.

He doesn’t stop. His tongue traces every inch of your open pussy, licking hungrily, seeking to erase every trace of cum, devouring you as if nothing else existed.

You’re so sensitive that tears spring to your eyes immediately, but that doesn’t stop him. His eyes, intense and beautiful, burn against your skin as they lock onto you with a mix of desire and fascination. His tongue cleans you up eagerly, exploring you and trying to soak up every corner. Carlos’s hand doesn’t leave his head, holding it gently while pressing it to sink even deeper.

The other hand slowly slid down to caress him, grazing his cock with a calculated slowness that made him feel tortured, unable to resist that sensation. “Keep going like that, baby…” he insisted in a firm voice, while a mix of desire and vulnerability made them feel on the verge of breaking, as if any movement could unleash everything.

“Carlos…” he moaned, his voice broken and heavy with desire, barely lifting his head while his mouth trembled, wet and eager. The slow pace was consuming him, like a torture that tore at his skin and set every nerve in his body on fire. His body screamed for intensity, for urgency, for a passion that slipped away with every passing second. “I can’t… keep like this… I need more…”

His hand quickens its movements, though only slightly. The scene amuses him: seeing him so desperate while you burn with need, longing to feel him between your thighs again. “You stop, I stop,” he warns in a firm voice, releasing him for just a second. “And you know I will.”

After that cruel threat, he buries his head against you with twice the force, driven by the certainty that his effort will be richly rewarded if he does it right. He feels you writhe beneath his weight, while your hand rests on Carlos’s; both press firmly, driving his head deeper and deeper against your pussy.

As he gives himself with force, Carlos responds with his hand, his movements faster and longer, tracing every inch. You feel the vibrations of Charles’s moans escaping between his lips, resonating against your skin, shaking you from within. That deep, low sound full of desire takes you straight to the edge, consuming you in an uncontrollable fire.

“That’s it, fuck. You take it so damn well… buen chico,” Carlos growls, his voice thick with desire as he watches his hand glide fast and firm along all of Charles’s cock. The heat under his palm, now soaked with precum, pulls a sly grin from him. He’s so close he can feel Charles’s shaky breath, the slight tremble in his thighs, and the wet, steady sound of his movements just turns him on even more.

He’s not the only one, because you can clearly feel your orgasm about to erupt on his tongue. Though focused on his own pleasure, he doesn’t lose rhythm or intensity; he licks you with ravenous precision, without pause, until you’re left completely dry and trembling.

And finally, you give in under his lips, surrendering completely. Your orgasm bursts against your stomach for the third time with an almost unfamiliar intensity — a wave that crashes through you and drags you under, leaving you completely wrecked, spent, and breathless, lying on the mattress that seems to hold every last sigh you let out.

With exhaustion still pulsing through your skin, you watch with sleepy eyes as the same thing happens to the Monegasque. He reaches his limit too, spilling into Carlos’s hand until he’s completely spent. Normally, his drive would push him to keep going, to stretch the moment a little longer, but this time fatigue wins. Carlos feels it right away, senses the subtle shift in his breathing, the looseness in his body. He gently turns, lying on his side to wrap his arms around him, pulling his vulnerable body close to his chest like he’s offering shelter and comfort.

He holds him with tenderness, whispering words of encouragement, telling him how well he did, his voice calm and full of admiration. That deep, quiet connection they shared seemed to form a world of its own — one that, for a moment, you felt you didn’t quite belong in.

Charles rests his head against Carlos’s chest, eyes closed, his face showing relief and comfort. The older one runs his fingers slowly through his hair, soft and careful, like he’s putting every piece of him back together. It was their silent after care ritual — a gesture full of care that spoke louder than a thousand words.

You, however, feel a wave of shyness and embarrassment rise in you, your cheeks flushing deep red. Being there, caught in the middle of something so intimate, makes you feel like an intruder — a misplaced detail in an otherwise perfect picture.

But then Carlos turns his gaze to you, and in his eyes you see something different — a warm, gentle smile that wraps around you without demand. He reaches out a hand and murmurs in a low, almost secretive voice, “Come here, cariño.” That simple invitation turns your blush into something softer — sweet and filled with emotion.

Without thinking twice, you let his free arm pull you in, resting your head on the open space of his chest, right beside Charles. The steady beat of his heart surrounds you with calm and safety, like a warm haven washing away any lingering fear or doubt. That mix of peace, tenderness, and connection settles into you — perfect and unrepeatable.

It was simply perfect.

[redlinespeedster]

Just hit 100 followers and I’m freaking out 🥹 I’m working on a Charlos x reader one shot that’s around 6k words and it’s dropping today. Expect lots of smut… and a solid plot too.

Thank you all so much for the love! If you’ve got any requests or ideas, my inbox is wide open. I’ll be home all week writing like crazy (I’m actually running out of prompts, so hit me up).

[redlinespeedster]

I’m super close to hitting 100 followers!! 🥹 I’m definitely gonna do something to celebrate.

[redlinespeedster]

pretty please oscar piastri degradation im feral over his post-spain photos

CRAVING THE NEW !! ☆

oscar piastri 𝒙 fem!reader

[summary] Oscar was the perfect boyfriend—sweet, thoughtful, chivalrous to the extreme. You were used to his soft whispers, those breathy I-love-yous even in the middle of moans. But that night, right after he took the win at the Spanish Grand Prix, you looked at him with this different kind of spark in your eyes and dropped a request that knocked the air out of him: you wanted him to degrade you, no holding back. And there was no way he could say no. (1.7k)

[warnings] smut !! rough sex, degrading dirty talk, p in v, unprotected sex, creampie, fingering, Oscar is mean. Spanish is my first language, and I usually write all my fics in Spanish first, then translate them myself with a lot of effort. Sorry if anything sounds off or if there are mistakes.

[notes] I’ve been drooling over those pics for like three days. Damn, he looks so freaking good. Wish I were Lily, seriously. 😫

Your whole life, you had always liked the good guys—the ones with sweet words, the ones who brought you flowers on dates and opened the car door or any door wherever you went together. You always thought good guys were simply better. And Oscar proved it every single time.

He blushed every time he talked about you. He loved showing you off, and his words always carried that sweet tone—even when he had you tangled in his sheets. Oscar was talented at many things beyond motorsport, but his greatest gift was knowing exactly how to make you feel desired, cherished… one of a kind.

But over time, your darker desires began to awaken inside you. They were fantasies you’d been suppressing for years, but now they became frequent—impossible to ignore. It wasn’t about wanting someone else or being unsatisfied with the way you and him made love—not at all. There was simply a smoldering hunger within you, a need to explore something new… with him.

At first, you felt afraid. Afraid that Oscar might get offended, that he’d take your request as a criticism or a warning that your sex life wasn’t working. A lot of people don’t even have a mind open enough to understand that wanting to try new things doesn’t mean what came before was bad; sometimes, it’s simply about the curiosity for the unexpected.

You waited all race weekend to tell him officially. You wanted to do it when you were both home, alone, with no one who could interrupt the conversation by knocking on the door.

Oscar was genuinely happy—you could see it on his face, mostly in the way his cheeks lifted when he smiled. You, on the other hand, were anxious, anticipating how things might go, and unfortunately, he noticed.

“Baby… is everything okay? You’ve seemed kinda off since we got off the plane,” he asks, placing a hand on your knee in a gentle, understanding gesture.

Your eyes fill with tears from the anxiety. You didn’t mean to cry, but the idea of telling Oscar what’s going on makes you uncomfortable. You knew you could trust him with anything; what you didn’t know was how he’d react.

“Something’s going on with me. It’s not that I don’t love you or that I don’t like the way we have sex, but…” You stop when you see Oscar looking at you, confused and worried, so you decide to just be direct. “I want you to degrade me.”

The weirdest part? He doesn’t even seem surprised. There’s no trace of disappointment on his face either—none of that dramatic “you want this because you don’t love me anymore” stuff. Nothing like that. On the contrary, he grabs you by the hips and pulls you into that perfect space between his legs. His warm breath brushes against your ear—soft, steady—as his fingers slowly slide through your hair.

“You really want that? How come you never told me?” he asks. You turn your head to look him in the eyes, and there’s something about the way your pupils dilate that sparks an odd tenderness in him.

“It’s just… I didn’t know how you’d take it” you admit. Your body shivers when he lets out a low laugh, dry and almost amused.

There’s a sexual tension in the room that practically scorches you, stealing your breath. You feel his hands rest on your shoulders, then slowly slide down. He traces your collarbone with the tip of his fingers in a way that makes you shiver, and starts unbuttoning your tiny shirt. Your cheeks flush instantly, intimidated by how his gaze stays locked on you.

“Embarrassed, huh?” he asks, but you’re not really sure what to say—you just stay quiet. His hands move over your chest on top of your shirt, and your heart starts racing. “Why though, babe? It’s not like you’ve ever had a dirty mind or anything.”

His thumbs start teasing your nipples through the thin fabric of your white shirt. He immediately notices you’re not wearing a bra and smirks. Not a big smile—more like a cocky one, like he’s lowkey amused by how easy it is to get you like this.

“I bet you’re soaked. You always get like this. Acting like a bitch in heat.”

A slight jolt of arousal runs through your body. His voice, deeper than usual, and his words catch you off guard. You’re still not completely used to hearing him talk like that, but you don’t mind… if anything, you want more.

He's not wrong, your pussy is dripping.

He notices the second his hand moves down and his fingers slide over the denim fabric of your shorts. Your nose brushes against his; he’s calm, eyes half-lidded, with an almost taunting stillness. You, on the other hand, are a mess—you can barely breathe.

“You’re not even trying to hide it. I spent the whole damn weekend focused on my race, stressing about losing, and all you could think about was riding me like the filthy little slut you are. Am I wrong, babe?

His hand unbuttoned your pants until they dropped and bunched up around your ankles. He can see the wet stain on your panties—sticky and damp. You’d soaked through the fabric. He presses his fingers gently over it, and as a result, they get wet too. But what really gets to you is the moan that slips out, caused by how sensitive you are.

He doesn’t even bother taking your panties off; he just lazily pushes the fabric aside, leaving you completely exposed. Eager anticipation made your clit throb.

Oscar used to touch you slowly, taking his time to gently slide his fingers through your wet folds and then sweetly rub your clit. But this time, it’s different. He quickly slips two fingers into your hole, curling them into a hook to hit that exact spot inside you. Then, once you’ve gotten used to it, he starts moving them in and out with steady force, pulling deep moans from your throat that fill the room.

“Fuck, Osc!” you moan out loud, and you feel him pull his fingers out just to slap your pussy gently—a move that sends an instant jolt through your body and makes you squirm.

“Shut up, slut.” he orders, and you feel his fingers curl back inside you, pounding your poor hole with a near-brutal rhythm, thrusting in and out without mercy. The way he timed each thrust to hit that perfect spot inside you before pulling back was just unreal.

His hand grips your hips, trying to pull you even closer, making your ass rub against his hardness. You can feel his erection—still clothed—pressing firmly against your skin. His hands move down with urgency to get rid of the fabric in the way, unbuckling his belt without wasting a second.

His damp hands grip your hips tightly before he throws you onto the bed without a second thought, making you bounce against the mattress with a muffled moan. He grabs you by the ankles and drags you toward him, settling between your legs as his body drops over yours, trapping you with no room to escape.

“I can only imagine the agony,” he murmurs, eyes locked on yours while his hands grip your bare thighs. Then he lifts them firmly, spreading them and pushing them toward your body until your knees are nearly pressed against your stomach. “You spent the whole week watching me race, dying for me to wreck you. You don’t like it when I talk sweet, do you? When I tell you how good you look or how amazing you feel. What really turns you on is when I treat you like my throwaway toy.”

You feel him drip slowly onto the lower part of your stomach—warm and wet—leaving a sticky sensation clinging to your skin. Then his cock slides gently through your folds, not entering, just teasing; he only wants to watch you lose control.

“Oscar… please.” you sob between moans, clinging tightly to his back like letting go would mean losing your mind. “I can’t take it… I can’t.”

He shifts, kneeling in front of your pussy—completely exposed, utterly wrecked. The tip of his cock slides in slowly until it disappears inside you, filling you up completely. He pauses for a second to let you adjust, and in the next, he’s thrusting hard, the sound of your bodies slapping echoing through every corner of your house.

Oscar moans too. He moans because you’re squeezing him just right—hot, wet, and perfect—driving him insane. His hands dig into your thighs, pushing your legs toward your chest to spread you open wider, so he can bury himself as deep as possible and fuck you without mercy.

“Fuck…” he groans, voice rough as his face twists in pure pleasure. The look on his face—that mix of ecstasy and desperation—sets you off instantly. Your walls tighten around him, like your body’s trying to keep him there till the very end. You’re right on the edge, seconds away from turning the moment into a glorious mess. “You want me to fill you up? I will. I’ll stuff you so full my cum’ll be dripping out of that pathetic pussy for days.”

You can feel how tightly you’re clenching around him, until you finally make him come inside you, milking him for every last drop. Your pussy takes it all in, savoring every bit until you’re left a creamy mess, mixed with your own orgasm that bursts inside you too. The pleasure hits so hard it leaves you dazed, gasping, your body trembling and your legs on the verge of giving out.

He looks at you tenderly, finally letting go of that dominant side once he sees you’re satisfied with what he gave you. He smiles softly and leans in again to kiss your forehead. Your cheeks, inevitably, flush all over again.

“I like this…” he murmurs quietly, his hand gently caressing your cheek. You raise an eyebrow, curious, not really getting what he means. “Fucking you till you can’t breathe and then watching you blush like a virgin. That’s just something I’ll never get tired of, huh baby?”

[redlinespeedster]

Some people on Tumblr don’t wanna get requests and I’m like… dude that’s the fun part 🥹 I love seeing the crazy stuff people come up with, it honestly gives us writers so much inspo.

[redlinespeedster]

how about teammate reader 👀

Like taking out frustration on the teammate!reader after today's race

DOWNFORCE !!

mad max 𝒙 teammate!fem reader ⡡

[summary] the spanish grand prix couldn’t have gone any worse—at least not for Max. After losing his podium and receiving a well-deserved penalty, an uncontrollable rage begins to build inside him. But there’s one outlet for all that anger: his teammate.

[warnings] smut !! rough sex, degrading dirty talk, unprotected sex, p in v, choking, spitting, hair pulling, oral sex (male receiving) & face fucking, max is mean. Just a heads up, this fic might have some language mistakes. Spanish is my first language, and I usually write all my fics in Spanish first, then translate them myself with a lot of effort. Sorry if anything sounds off or if there are mistakes.

[notes] I’ll admit it, Mad Max is my not-so-guilty pleasure. 🤭 The angrier he gets, the more I just want him to fuck me senseless. By the way, I’m a huge fan of Max x teammate reader!! How about we turn it into an au? Drop your naughty ideas for the next parts.

It had been a tough race week for Red Bull… Well, for everyone—except you.

You spent all sixty-six laps fighting for the lead, going wheel-to-wheel with Oscar Piastri, who never stopped challenging for first place. The cars overtook each other several times until the safety car was deployed. From that moment on, your job was to hold position, right behind Oscar.

Throughout the entire weekend, you did everything perfectly. Flawless qualifying, flawless overtakes. You even took home a nice little trophy for pole position, adding another one to your growing collection. Winning was inevitable; you were the favorite to fight for the race, and by the final laps, you had already been voted Driver of the Day. The race was going well—truly great, actually… at least, until the very end.

The drama began as soon as the green flag was waved again in the final laps. Max, your teammate who was running in third place, was forced to make a risky move that allowed Charles Leclerc to overtake him. As if that wasn’t enough, Max unfairly took the position from George Russell, which led the team to pressure him into giving it back. Amid protests and frustration, the Dutchman intentionally caused a minor collision with the Mercedes driver, effectively ruining his race. He received a ten-second penalty that dropped him to the last spot within the points.

Max couldn’t have been angrier. A large part of his fury stemmed from the unbearable envy that rose from deep within him as he watched his teammate get far luckier than he had.

You didn’t even see him storm out of his car—you were too busy celebrating a back-to-back victory that bumped you up in the standings, now nearly tied with Max in points.

He would never be happy for you. Never. His only desire is to defeat you, no matter the cost. He can’t stand having to compete with you. He knows he’s better than you, and he makes sure you know it every time you’re alone — even when you’re disoriented — because his hands between your legs silence any attempt at protest.

And that’s how it’s been since you joined the team, unfortunately. For him, it was easy to throw hurtful words at you, wait for your protest, and then break you down for reacting “rudely.” You had to settle for anything less than what he had—because otherwise, he’d use you until you couldn’t even stand. You’d be lying if you said you haven’t stolen positions from him on purpose at least once, just to piss him off. His irritating side scared you, but at the same time, it attracted you in a strange way.

You’d lie with shameless ease if you said you weren’t fascinated by him.

He stormed into the team’s motorhome with indescribable rage. Deep down, you expected it. You were sipping from your bottle when the door slammed shut with force, leaving you stunned… just like so many other times. You wished you could say you’d never seen him like this, but this scene had played out more times than you’d like to admit.

But before you could complain or tell him to calm down, he grabbed your arm with a grip that burned against your skin. In one swift movement, he pushed you against the wall, his body practically pinning yours. With his height, build, and weight, he looked imposing… even intimidating, especially to your eyes that shone like those of a cornered puppy.

“Don’t you got anything to say to me?” he asked, and your mind filled with questions. Did you have to say something? Offer your condolences, maybe? But it hadn’t even been your fault. You were just faster, and that’s why you ended up in first place.

“What do you want me to say?” you asked, your face serious, almost like you were spitting it out. “That you screwed up your own race ’cause of your fucking selfish ass? That now you’ve got the noose around your neck ’cause you’re just one point away from getting banned and not being able to race?”

And you almost let out a moan when he tangled a hand in your hair and pulled it with little delicacy, tearing a whimper of pain from you. Max had many flaws, and one of the most obvious was that he couldn’t stand being told things as they were.

Another of his problems — and no less serious — was his inability to control how irritable he could get. He was like a harmless matchstick until it fell on four gasoline tanks. Because when he got angry, he exploded in ways you had never witnessed before. It was almost as if he completely lost control, as if something inside him was unleashed without restraint.

“What did we say about being cheeky?” he says seriously, barely opening his eyes, a spark of annoyance burning in his gaze. His other hand slowly descends, tracing your torso over the fireproof suit. The tips of his fingers barely brush your navel, and just the thought that he might keep going down makes you shiver uncontrollably.

With the same hand that just caressed you moments ago, he roughly squeezes your cheeks, enough to make your face ache.

“I’m gettin’ tired of havin’ to shut that little bitchy mouth of yours,” he spits out, and you could swear you hear his teeth grinding as he speaks.

He watches your face, how your pupils dilate, and for a moment, his anger fades away. But it’s just that: a moment. Then it returns, dragging him like a relentless wave, and it seems like he can only unleash it on you.

Suddenly, he’s kissing you. He does it with intensity, with force, even with an almost rough, dirty edge. There’s no trace of tenderness on his lips, only unrestrained desire as they move over yours. As always, you try to keep up with his pace. Your breath catches, your heart pounds violently against your chest, and a pleasurable sensation spreads through your whole body as he melts his mouth with yours.

According to him, it was the best way to let off steam. Every time a race didn’t go as he expected, he came back to you: to your lips, the way your body fit perfectly against his, and how well you welcomed him. You were almost like a drug, an addiction he always ended up relapsing into.

His tongue invades your mouth with an almost arrogant confidence, moving with a rhythm that leaves you breathless. You barely manage to keep up, softly gasping against his lips as he dominates you with every touch. If his tongue is already hard to bear, you don’t know how you’ll handle something much bigger pushing inside you. The thought makes you tremble, just as his tongue curls around yours—wet, firm, caressing it as if already rehearsing for something much deeper.

You feel your pussy throbbing. Well… actually, it wasn’t unexpected at all. The way he kissed you, how he grabbed your hair roughly and let slip degrading comments, without a doubt, triggered an immediate reaction between your legs. Your skin burned. You unconsciously squeeze your thighs as you hyperventilate, and yet you keep kissing him, even when it’s already hard to breathe.

Suddenly, he breaks the kiss that had you completely dazed and grabs your hair firmly again, while strands of saliva still hang from your lips. It was no longer just pain you felt: now it was rough, almost cruel. You softly moan, squinting your eyes from the discomfort.

“Get on your knees, liefje.” He orders, with an almost annihilating look, one of those that don’t need words to warn: do what I say or face the consequences.

And who were you to contradict one of his orders?

You can feel how hard he is beneath his clothes. He knew you would always be there to satisfy his desires, and he wasn’t wrong. Because you always were. Your hands slowly trace the edge of his fireproof pants, as if you were drawing a map you already knew by heart. His cock drips pre-cum, clearly visible through the thin fabric of his clothing.

However, his impatience betrays him, and he hates to see you make him wait, especially when he is consumed by desperation. As soon as his cock is free, you choke as you feel him push it all the way down your throat. For a moment, a gag reflex threatens to escape, but you manage to control it.

Max pants softly. He feels overwhelmed with pleasure from the simple touch of your lips wrapping around him. But it’s not enough, not even when he sees you choke, your eyes full of tears from not being able to take it. He shamelessly mocks you while guiding your movements with his hands, practically fucking your mouth. Your tongue precisely reaches every sensitive spot it traces on his cock, igniting every nerve along the way.

You could feel the pre-cum sliding and dripping over your tongue. Its taste was strange, but not unpleasant to you. His grip on your hair grows firmer as your head moves in a constant sway. He can feel your tongue in every corner, a wet mess of saliva and desire, but he melts when he notices your gaze fixed on his. Then, he pulls away from you for a moment.

He doesn't want to cum until he's inside you. That’s something he never says out loud, but you know it. He likes it—especially when there’s time to spare.

Your racing suit is almost on the floor now, sliding down around your ankles. Your cheeks flush; you’re not sure if it’s from the heat or if shyness suddenly crept in. He, however, only seems to care just enough to tease you about it.

"Really, you get shy after sucking my cock like a complete slut?" He says it with a dry laugh as he lifts you up and sits you on the table. His hand runs along the inside of your thighs until he spreads your legs, making you feel exposed. “Oh, look at that little pussy. Hard to believe I’ve filled it more times than you can count on your fingers.”

His fingers gently trace the line of your folds, and you are so sensitive that the wet, sticky sound of his fingers touching you makes you shiver. You’re already worked up just thinking he might bring his mouth closer; eyes locked on his, you’re practically begging for it.

But it was all just a cruel tease. After getting you all riled up, close enough to make you believe he was finally gonna devour you—he doesn’t. Instead, he spits on you. No warning. Just lets his saliva drip onto your throbbing clit… and that alone pulls a broken, desperate moan from your lips—messy and completely involuntary.

“Max, fuck…” you arch your back, unable to hold in the sound that escapes you. “That’s so unfair…” But before you can complain again, his hand wraps firmly around your neck—dominant, unforgiving—cutting your breath just enough to make you shiver. And the heat between your legs only gets worse, burning under the weight of his dark, hungry gaze.

“Life ain’t fair, mijn kleine hoer.” He says it with a smug little grin, tightening his grip around your neck. His body’s already damn near on top of yours, pinning you to the table. For a second, you actually thought he might stay like that, enjoying having all the power…

But then—rough, almost wild—he flips you over and slams you down against the cold wood, your cheek pressed flat to the surface as the air rushes out of your lungs.

He’s got a perfect view of your half-naked body now, all exposed for him. He doesn’t even bother looking at your face—he’s still mad. Seeing you won’t calm him down. But maybe, just maybe, being deep inside you will take the edge off that rage burning in him.

“You’re dripping, liefje. Missed me that bad, huh?” With his fingers, he spreads open your ass cheeks, so that your wetness is staining your thighs. "Wanna fuck you?”

You nod desperately, again and again, while your whole body trembles with need; you had been waiting for this the last half hour, and the anticipation was devouring you from the inside, like fire under your skin. But since not a single word escapes your mouth, he punishes you mercilessly: the blow echoes against the skin of your ass, leaving it burning, red. Then you can’t hold back anymore, and you moan loudly: “Yes, fuck!”

He gently slides his cock through your wet folds, almost effortlessly driving you wild. His tip slams against your clit, causing you to arch your back and moan, begging for more. Your legs tremble; he has to hold you up so you don’t fall sitting to the floor.

"I’m gonna fuck your fucking pussy until you’re so obsessed you can’t even focus on racing ‘cause you’re thinking about my cock.” He murmurs aggressively. Your hole tightens around nothing just from hearing him speak like that.

He slides inside you without the courtesy of warning. The force of his thrusts borders on brutal, striking with precision that sensitive spot inside you that makes you see stars.

Your hands grasp the edge of the table, trying to find something to hold onto. His large, firm hand grips your head, pressing your cheek against the surface. You’re overflowing with pleasure, not even bothering to hold back your moans. The sound of your bodies colliding echoes inside the small room.

“Fuck… you’re so damn tight, schat,” he groans, head falling back as he keeps pounding into you, each thrust deeper than the last. The way you’re gripping him is driving him absolutely crazy—nothing else feels like this. You’re addictive. Hypnotic. “You take me so fucking good.”

By squeezing it harder than necessary, your hole manages to squeeze out every last drop of his thick, sticky cum. The semen drips out of your pussy in sticky strands, creating a complete mess all over.

You have an orgasm just seconds later. The sensation crashes over you mercilessly, tearing through everything in its path. It hits you in the stomach with such force that the pleasure consumes you from the inside out. You want to moan, scream his name, give in completely… but you can’t. He presses his hand over your mouth, muffling your sounds. Only a few desperate whimpers manage to escape through his fingers, laced with lust and surrender.

Max withdraws from inside you, fully satisfied. But you remain there, collapsed over that wooden table, while a wave of intense pleasure slowly drains every last drop of your energy. Exhaustion wraps around you completely.

He laughs at you with that dry, mocking chuckle he always uses to ridicule you. This time? He’s amused, as always, by how shattered you look when he’s done using you. His hand tangles in your hair again, pulling until your torso arches and your back is pressed against his chest. You’re still so shaken from what just happened that when he scatters kisses and bites along your neck, you can barely breathe.

“You’re so good, mijn sletje. Doesn’t matter if I win or lose—only thing I ever think about is how I’m gonna ruin you the second I get off that podium.”

[redlinespeedster]

My girl just dropped a one shot and it’s actually insane. Go check it out <3

pairing: max verstappen x fem!reader

summary: you had a party and you came home very late knowing that Max was going to punish you.

warnings: smut, lots of smut, dirty talk, vulgar language, hot swearing, oral sex, punishments, flirting, spanking, breast massage, rough kissing, tongue kissing, neck kissing, doggy style, p inside v, blowjob, spanking, hair grabbing, lick clitoris, jealousy, couple and more.

words: 1.8k

You'd just gotten home from the party, kicking off your heels so you wouldn't make too much noise when you walked in, knowing you'd never told Max you were leaving at midnight.

He wasn't the toxic type, but sometimes he'd have his jealous rages, asking where the fuck you were, even prostrating you on the pillow to lick your wet pussy and make you realize you were his.

As you closed the front door as gently and slowly as possible, you noticed out of the corner of your eye that the kitchen light was on: that's when you knew you were in serious trouble.

With nothing else to do, you walked to the kitchen, nerves rattling every part of your body. You felt Max's pure, overpowering presence, and when you reached the corner, you saw him sipping a glass of wine, leaning against the marble countertop with his back almost hunched over.

"What a sexy man," you thought to yourself.

Max looked up at you with a stern expression that screamed from the rooftops: i'm going to fuck you up and keep you from walking for a whole week, you fucking bitch.

"I can explain," was the first thing you said after the long silence.

"Oh, yeah? What the fuck are you going to explain, huh?" He asked in an angry tone, a little loud, but he sounded frustrated, as if you had slipped through his fingers for hours.

"Max..." You whispered, trying to calm him down.

"Shut your mouth! You're not supposed to go out to parties unless you ask my permission," he said, setting his glass aside to stand up straight, moving from his perch on the counter and demonstrating authority.

"You're not my fucking father to be asking your permission," you said, placing your heels on the kitchen floor and crossing. "I just went out to have fun with my friends! I came back at two in the morning, so it's not like anyone's death."

"I almost died when i didn't see you home," he emphasizes.

"Don't be so exaggerated."

"Exaggerated? Don't call me something i'm not," Max points at you. "Why the hell didn't you ask my permission, huh?" You didn't want me to find out you were fucking someone else, did you?"

You couldn't believe what Max was telling you right now. He's calling you a whore looking for another cock to sit on, and you know better, because there's no other cock that can beat your man's big one.

Having a 5.9-inch cock satisfying your hormonally charged moments is something you've always enjoyed. During the four years of your relationship, you never turned down a moment of good sex, knowing that Max gave you a lot of sex, mornings, afternoons, and/or nights.

"You're not answering now, are you?" He asked, placing his hands on the edge of the counter in front of him, pointing out the small veins on his forearms.

"I'm not what you think, Max," you replied, almost indignant. "I spend my time enjoying your damn cock, and you call me a whore? What the fuck is wrong with you?"

"So why the fuck didn't you ask my permission?" Max asks, his tone somewhere between calm and serious, making you want him to fuck you against the damn marble countertop. "Answer the question or i swear to god..."

"Or what? What are you going to swear to, huh?" You challenged him with those words. Maybe you were going to finish the shit and ask for more, but right now you were too horny to think twice. "Are you going to punish me, Verstappen?"

"You want that? "Punish you for being a disobedient, rebellious little bitch?" Max asked in a tone that, god, sounded too sexy to be true. "Mmm, tell me, liefje."

"I don't know. Maybe you want to, or maybe i'm bored in bed, like always." You provoked him, wanting to pressure him to find his breaking point.

You reached for the wine glass, but he didn't let you. He grabbed it faster than you, and all he did was throw the contents of the alcohol in your face. He pulled you towards him by the neck while he kissed you roughly on the lips, devouring you and using his tongue to part your lips, opening your mouth a little wider and showing you that right now, he was always the one in charge of the relationship.

You gasped, unable to resist the urge to caress the bulge in his pajama pants. Unfortunately—actually, good luck for you—he decided to kneel down and pull your hair towards you.

He wanted you to look at him, so he felt powerful having you at his mercy, his control possessing every inch of your mouth and body.

"Now be a good girl and suck my damn cock, liefje," Max murmured, gently patting your cheek.

You didn't hesitate at all; you used your hands to pull down his pajama pants and make his 5.9 inch cock bounce a little. The best part was that Max always got hard; in less than a minute, he could already feel his damn cock exploding between his legs.

You looked at your man and stuck out your tongue to lick from the base to the tip in a torturously slow manner. You decided to use your skills, licking the tip of his cock in circles, listening as he let out several short, raspy moans.

Feeling your hair being squeezed means many things: Max wants you to take it all, no matter if you cry or anything. He wanted to see if you passed the test of being the little whore he loves so much.

You didn't even look at him as you took his entire cock into your mouth, feeling the soft, silky skin on the walls of your mouth. You threw your head back and forth, causing a few spasms in Max, who had his head thrown back, his eyes closed, and his hand buried in your already messy hair.

"Bottom, bottom, bottom," Max whispers, lowering his head to look at you and watching you roll your eyes, feeling a bit of the tip against your uvula. "That's it, look what a good girl you are, it's hard to tell you're a fucking whore."

For seven minutes, Max dedicated himself to fucking your mouth with his member, making you let out a couple of gurgles and squeeze his thigh for air.

He made you breathe a few times, then stood up and turned you around as he placed the front of your body on the cold marble countertop. You gasped at Max's abrupt and ardent gesture.

One thing you also didn't hesitate to do was to buck your hips, wanting him to fuck you right now, but you know Max, you know him so well, that he'll do anything to make you beg and give you what you like, what you crave for life.

"How do i ask?" Max asked, slowly hiking up your shiny black dress.

The worst part was, you weren't wearing your damn panties... And that was going to unleash the best damn rough sex of your entire existence, because you could hear Max's grunt when he realized that his bitch of a girlfriend wasn't just a whore, she was a whore who didn't wear anything between her legs.

"What the fuck does that mean?" He asked, gripping your hips tightly. "You didn't wear any underwear? What's that supposed to mean?"

And as always, you were going to set all the loose firewood on fire.

"I admit it, i've fucked someone else."

"Fucking hell, liefje," Max whispered against your ear, pressing his chest against your back, covered by the fabric of your dress. "I'm going to have to fuck your little pussy to know that whores like you get punished, you understand?"

"No," you answered without thinking and felt a hard spank on your left buttock.

It burned like hell, but you loved being spanked by him. You loved that Max made you his, knowing your blatant lie. You wanted him, you wanted him so much that you couldn't help being a rebellious little girl right now, feeling your ass burning from the rough, hard spanking he gave you. You could sense that each cheek was redder than when you blushed over something stupid.

But that wasn't the least of it. You heard your dress being ripped and Max grabbing your neck to press you against his chest, leaving you both straight. He pulled off your torn dress, leaving you completely naked while he massaged your breasts with a perversity and deep obscenity that you loved. You loved that he was just the way you liked him.

Max lowered one of his hands to begin masturbating your clitoris. He didn't do it hard, but he did it at the exact spot that generated an adrenaline-filled ecstasy of pleasure. You arch your whole body from those sexy, gentle movements in your core, feeling yourself getting wet, feeling yourself starting to soak your man's fingers a little, as he enjoys having you like this.

"Did you have fun with him?" Max asked.

"Why do you ask?" This time you answered with a breathless question.

Your moans were filled with deep, pure passion; you looked like a screamer, a screamer who wanted to be fucked right now.

"I'm asking because i don't think that idiot knew how to touch you the way i'm touching you, my little slut," Max murmured, moving his fingers a little faster, making you moan even more and squeeze his arm tightly, digging your nails into him. "I've touched you in less than thirty seconds and you're already wet."

"Because you make me wet like... Like that, Max," you said, panting like a dog looking for a bone. "Oh god, Max, don't stop."

"Oh, don't think i won't stop," he says, pushing you against the counter, putting you on all fours again, and now you feel the cold marble pressed against your damn breasts. "I'm going to fuck you all the way down and remind you not to pretend to be a rebellious little girl when you can't even lie properly."

"Max..."

"What? You thought i didn't notice? You're a fucking liar, liefje," Max declared, giving you one last spank to remind you that the best part of the action is yet to come. "And this time, i'm going to fuck you with a condom, because it doesn't satisfy me to finish inside you like every other time."

Now you feel like you're literally in heaven with the Sex God, because, despite what you thought he was going to fuck you right now, it was a lie: he's on his knees, eating your pussy while you're reading on the counter, on all fours, and Max is using his tongue on you. On your wet pussy, what the fuck... I was doing so well.

And the best part always comes in the second batch.

Okay, this is my second os/fic and i love it. I had a sequel, but i didn't like it that much, so i don't know whether to upload it or not. ୨ৎ

[redlinespeedster]

Already working on all the Mad Max requests—might drop the first one today. 👀 Also, if you’ve got smut ideas with other drivers, send them my way! Always helps with inspo (and I’ll love you forever). Drop them here: ♡

[redlinespeedster]

Thinking about writing a Mad Max fic 👀 I say yes. No clue where to start, but I want it to be seriously filthy. Open to suggestions, drop ’em here! ♡

[redlinespeedster]

NSFW (+18) ୨ ꙳

. ˚ ౿ warnings: smut smut smut ! maybe some english mistakes, english is my second language.

charlos!bffs would be those two best friends you were always in love with, but they had been together for a long time. Meanwhile, you felt like a complete outsider, wishing they would reciprocate your feelings.

charlos!bffs who had no problem with their gorgeous best friend sitting on either of their laps — even when she was wearing one of her skirts. after all, they trusted each other. and most of all, they trusted you. and you’d blush when carlos absentmindedly stroked your knee, or when charles played with the hem of your skirt like it meant nothing.

charlos!bffs talking about how beautiful you are, and how much they want to take things a step further with you. they talk about kissing you without caring where you are, about letting their hands wander over your clothes — feeling the dampness through your cotton panties. carlos swears they were almost see-through the last time you sat on charles’ lap.

charlos!bffs who love kissing — whether it’s soft and subtle or slow and messy — right in front of you, just to see the way your big, beautiful eyes follow them, shimmering with want. they love each other, yes, but they love you too. and sometimes, they kiss a little deeper, touch a little longer — just to see that ache in your eyes, that quiet longing to be between them.

charlos!bffs inviting you to a sleepover at Charles’ place and, upon seeing you in a long shirt and thigh-high socks, they can’t help but imagine all the ways they’d love to fuck you. They exchange glances, silently fighting over who will be the first to spread you open and slip between your legs.

charlos!bffs finally manage to pull you into their lap on the couch, not caring about the damp spot blooming on charles’ jeans. as he struggles to keep your legs parted, charles litters your neck with kisses and soft marks — while carlos, the winner, takes his time eating you out like it’s a secret. a shame you weren’t quite as quiet.

charlos!bffs who thank you for being such a good girl, each in their own language and way. charles, for example, whispering, “that’s it, ma belle. let us make a mess of you.” while carlos murmurs, “you taste amazing. eso es, eso es. mi buena chica.”

[redlinespeedster]

NSFW (+18) ୨ ꙳

. ˚ ౿ warnings: smut smut smut ! maybe some english mistakes, english is my second language.

Charles Leclerc and Carlos Sainz would be the perfect boyfriends anyone could ever dream of. And you have them both… in secret. But that only makes it even more exciting.

You loved having them over at your place during the holidays, where the three of you enjoyed privacy in the beautiful apartment they had offered to buy you, but that you ultimately secured through your own effort and hard work. Your days were filled with Carlos’ pancakes, romantic movie marathons, and, inevitably, heated sessions on the couch whenever a scene sparked the flame.

You ignored the sound of the television as you settled into Carlos’s lap, his large hands spreading your legs and squeezing your thighs, keeping you fully exposed. In front of you, kneeling, Charles devoured you eagerly, savoring every drop of your arousal without letting anything go to waste.

His skilled tongue danced around your swollen, burning clit, which throbbed with a soft rhythm beneath his lips. His eyes lifted to watch you as he sucked slowly, drawing a shaky moan from you. Your back arched instinctively, forcing Carlos to hold you in place to keep you from writhing too much.

"Come on, cariño. I know how good he is with his tongue, but try to stay still." Carlos coos softly in your ear as he trails a series of slow, delicate kisses along the exposed skin of your neck.

Charles was drunk. His tongue moved as his fingers sank inside you at a precise angle, curling like a hook. Your body reacted instinctively, tightening around them in a desperate grip, as if trying to keep them there. He found that sweet spot within you—the one that made every fiber of your being ignite with a surge of pleasure.

"What a mischievous princess." Charles murmurs something barely audible before pressing his lips against your core once more, making your eyes roll back and turn white with pleasure. "That's it, ma belle. Quelle belle pute."