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x1asirene · 9 days ago

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f1 analyst anon back again lol wanted to hear what driver you would pair with each driver at the constructors you assigned them to~

hello, love !! sorry for the delay in replying to your ask! past two days got a bit hectic, but i really appreciate your patience. ♡

✧ caleb — red bull [ paired with max verstappen ]

on track : they’re both solo warriors, not team players. caleb’s obsession to be the best would immediately threaten max’s empire at red bull. verstappen is used to being the unquestioned #1, but caleb doesn't recognize hierarchy—he’d come to win, not to support. expect wheel-to-wheel battles, ignored team orders, and outright refusal to yield to one another. neither would ever want to be the first to brake. they’d be so focused on beating each other that the team might suffer—until one is clearly superior. that said, red bull loves a good villain arc, and this would be it. caleb and max are two apex predators in a power struggle—one playing chess, and the other playing blood sport.

off track : no public fights, no screaming matches. instead: icy silences, backhanded praise in interviews, calculated glances across the garage. max has always operated as the top dog at red bull, but caleb doesn’t defer—he disrupts. caleb’s presence alone is a statement: the pretty poster boy with fangs, media-friendly until he isn’t. he knows exactly how to weaponize charm and fan frenzy, and he’s not afraid to use it to tilt the scales in his favor. they’ll walk past each other in the paddock without so much as a nod, yet each is acutely aware of the other’s every move. during debriefs, neither will admit fault, neither will compromise on strategy. PR is in hell, especially when clips go viral of caleb smirking as max storms past, or max deliberately standing between caleb and the camera. they might sit side by side in the post-qualifying press conference, both on the front row, and not exchange a single word—and yet there’s a mutual fixation. they watch each other’s onboard footage, dissect tire degradation charts just to see who pushed harder. caleb wants max to acknowledge him as equal. max needs to prove caleb is not. they’d never admit it, but neither has driven this brutally since the other arrived.

✧ sylus — ferrari [ paired with charles leclerc ]

on track : they’re like a symphony—aggressive when needed, but never at the cost of each other. if sylus is leading, charles won’t divebomb unless he knows it’ll stick. if charles is vulnerable, sylus will cover him from behind without being asked. they communicate via radio in clipped, professional tones—no dramatics, just data and timing updates. yet, when the race is done, there’s a knowing glance exchanged over the fence, a subtle acknowledgment of the battle fought and respect earned. they don’t race each other—they understand each other. even in battle, they’re artists, not warriors.

off track : neither seeks the spotlight off-track, but their connection runs deeper than most notice. they often find themselves drawn together in the early mornings or late evenings, when the paddock is empty and the weight of expectations presses heaviest. sylus rarely speaks, but charles knows how to read the subtle shifts in his expression. their conversations are sparse but meaningful, often about the ghosts they race against just as much as the competition in front of them. charles might break the silence with a soft joke or a shared memory from karting days, but mostly they listen—an unspoken pact to hold space for the other’s quiet struggles. they don’t do flashy gestures or social media antics. instead, their bond is found in small acts: sharing updates, covering each other in press rooms. when one falters, the other is there—not with words, but as solidarity for their shared loyalty in ferrari.

✧ rafayel — mclaren [ paired with lando norris ]

on track : their racing style is a perfect blend of recklessness and playfulness. when they’re on track together, the race almost feels like a high-stakes game of tag— aggressive but never careless. they push each other to the limit: rafayel’s impulsiveness sometimes forces lando into quick reflexes, while lando’s smooth precision challenges rafayel to refine his raw speed. neither is content playing second fiddle; their battles are fierce but rarely hostile. pit walls have to stay alert to prevent the friendly rivalry from spilling into costly contact.

off track : this is a chaotic besties pairing if there ever was one. rafayel and lando are a constant source of energy and entertainment—the paddock’s favorite pranksters and meme lords. they thrive on banter, shared twitch streams, and goofy challenges that break the tension of the race weekend. despite the jokes, they’re deeply loyal. when one struggles—be it from pre-race pressure or personal issues — the other steps in without hesitation. whether it’s dragging each other out for late-night karaoke, swapping playlists, or a simple message to check in, they’ve built a brotherhood stronger than most in the paddock.

✧ xavier — mercedes [ paired with kimi antonelli ]

on track : when they’re racing together, they rarely engage in aggressive duels; instead, they try to ensure both cars finish strong and maximize points for the team. if one driver encounters trouble, the other adjusts their pace to protect team strategy without sacrificing rhythm. while they don’t often exchange wheel-to-wheel battles, the few times they do it’s a clean, respectful dance—no drama, just cold, professional racing. the team relies on their mutual understanding and discipline, knowing both drivers put the championship and the team’s success above personal glory.

off track : xavier and kimi share a low-key friendship based on mutual respect and a quiet understanding of the immense pressure they face. neither seeks the spotlight, and their interactions are often understated but deeply genuine. they share a mutual appreciation for discipline and routine, whether it’s a strict training schedule, pre-race preparations, or the way they unwind after a long weekend. they often find solace in quiet moments: reviewing race data together, sharing a coffee away from the noise, or simply sitting in silence before the storm of a race weekend.

✧ zayne — aston martin [ paired with fernando alonso ]

on track : as the veteran, fernando often mentors zayne through tricky race situations, guiding him when to conserve and when to strike. zayne, meanwhile, pushes alonso to stay sharp and to embrace a slightly more daring approach at times. their wheel-to-wheel moments are tense and thrilling, but always underpinned by mutual respect. they share a fierce competitive streak but know that their real strength lies in working together to maximize aston martin’s points haul. they can switch seamlessly between opponents and allies, sometimes locking wheels with rival teams one lap, then covering each other the next.

off track : zayne admires alonso’s resilience and occasionally cheeky humor, while alonso appreciates zayne’s fresh perspective and dedication to carve his own legacy. they often spend downtime training together, exchanging stories from their different racing journeys, and sharing a dry joke or two. while alonso can be blunt and fiery, he’s quietly protective of zayne, seeing him as the future of the team and willing to shield him from unnecessary pressure. their bond is built on trust, respect, and the shared goal of restoring aston's former glory.

#｡𖦹°‧ | dear anon !#f1!lads analysis #love and deepspace

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x1asirene · 11 days ago

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absolutely in love with f1!caleb, i know you’ve got a fic w him and raf together in the works but was wondering if you’d be doing more solo caleb f1 stuff? or just caleb writings in general you rule <3

you absolute angel 😭 thank you!! and YES caleb is my main so don’t even worry, i’ve got plenty of both f1!au and general caleb stuff coming (he lives rent free in my brain tbh). got some ideas for angst n darker fics too 👀 also if there’s a dynamic or literally anything you wanna see for the LIs, my inbox is always open 🫶 thank you sm for asking!! means the world <3

#｡𖦹°‧ | dear anon !#love and deepspace

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x1asirene · 11 days ago

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hi, lovelies !! just dropping something a little fun-wanted to know what you'd like to see next from me so here's a little poll to guide what's next ^^

second option will be the continuation of my previous caleb fic "push n' fracture !"—yes, rafayel's involved now. and yes, it gets even messier (with a lil bit of exhibitionism) ;p !!

this space means so much to me, and getting to share my stories (and all the feelings that come with them) with you makes it even more special. thank you for being here, for reading, for caring, for screaming in the tags with me lol

take a second to vote if you can—i can't wait to bring the next piece to life for you. you guys are the best, always. ♡

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x1asirene · 12 days ago

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push n' fracture ! — caleb 夏 (f1 rider! au)

— ! lexical count : 5.7k words

— ! affinity : caleb (xia yizhou) x fem!reader

— ! essence : caleb doesn’t do rivals. especially not when they’re plastered across your skin. jealousy twists into something sharp and dangerous as possession takes over, and the line between love and obsession blurs. tangled, messy, and burning with tension—this is about claiming what’s his, no matter the cost.

— ! precautionary : fem!reader, use of ‘y/n’ and feminine pronouns, f1 rider!caleb, sexual content, jealousy, possessiveness, intense physicality, car crash (non-fatal), semi-public setting, slight degradation, overstimulation, roughness, dom!caleb, rivalry-based tension, angry sex

— ! writer’s foreword : just crash-landed home from, brain leaking out my ears, and what did i do? rest? recover? touch grass? no. i opened my laptop and immediately started writing this unholy, feral filthfest. if this fic makes no sense or feels like a fever dream, blame the caffeine overdose and my sleep deprivation. also, send help (and snacks). preferably both.

— ! soundtrack in play : ohmami by chase atlantic

this is my only account. any similarities between this work and others—published or unpublished—are entirely coincidental. i pour a great deal of time, care, and emotion into what i create. it is against both my principles and my moral compass to plagiarize or steal from the work of others. i hold deep respect for the creators who came before me, and i would never knowingly compromise the integrity of their work or mine. furthermore, i do not condone the use of AI in the creation or replication of fanworks. everything here is original and made with clean intentions.

minors dni. this work contains dark, mature themes and is intended for adult audiences only. accounts that do not clearly indicate age in their bio or blog will be blocked without warning. this is for my safety and yours—respect boundaries, respect creators.

you weren’t even wearing his team hoodie.

no red bull colors. no little sticker of his number on your cheek like you wore in monaco. no subtle sign that you were his—not even a glance in his direction. instead, your shirt clung to your skin in the dry desert heat, speckled with sun and cropped enough to bare your ribs when the desert wind blew. that tight mclaren crop tee clung to your skin, the bright tarocco tone screaming his rival’s colors as you stood too close—way too close—to rafayel.

it all started with a laugh. just a laugh. nothing more.

you’d meant nothing by it—just a shared joke with rafayel in the hospitality lounge before qualifying. rafayel leaned toward you with that signature half-grin, elbow on the counter of the lounge, head tilted just enough to make it intimate. charming. relaxed. fucking smug. his hand had brushed your arm when you’d thrown your head back, the soft trill of your giggle carried into the desert air. head tipped back, fingers brushing his arm as you caught his eye and giggled at something he said. a soft, unconscious motion. a friendly exchange. nothing malicious, nothing overt.

you should’ve known. you should’ve seen it in the way caleb’s jaw locked during the driver briefing—helmet held by its chin bar, fzipped up to his collarbone, gloves hooked around two fingers—and for the first time in his career, he wasn’t thinking about tire temps or DRS zones. his jaw flexed tight enough to cramp as he watched rafayel lean in closer, and watched you—his girl, the girl who should never let anyone that close—giggle and tuck your hair behind your ear like it wasn’t a fucking dagger straight through his sternum.

“caleb,” his engineer’s voice crackled through the headset. “you alright, mate? you seem out of it—everythin’ okay?”

he didn’t answer right away. swallowed hard, blinked once. his grip clenched tighter around his helmet, the carbon fiber started to dent. “…peachy.”

he didn’t look at rafayel again. didn’t need to.

he’d already decided.

i’ll deal with you later.

P2 on the grid.

of course it was P2.

rafayel sat in his mclaren like he already had the win wrapped around his fingers, one gloved hand drumming rhythmically on the top of his wheel, the other giving a little mock salute to the crowd through the visor cam. caleb didn’t look at him. his gloves were already tugged tight, helmet sealed, eyes locked forward—but all he saw behind the visor was the orange shirt stuck to your back in the heat with the stupid bold mclaren settled on the fabric right over your heart. his number and name nowhere in sight.

“radio check,” his engineer called.

he didn’t respond.

“caleb? radio check, mate?”

his voice finally came through, taut and venomous. “loud and fucking clear.”

there was a beat of silence. a pause on the line, “you good, man?”

he forced a breath through his nose. “let’s just get this over with,” over the loud hum of the engine, all he could hear was the echoes of your laugh with that shithead rafayel.

“five lights on,” the race director counted. “and it’s lights out and away we go—!” rafayel’s launch was clean—but caleb was rabid. the red bull fired forward like a predator loosed from the leash, barely missing P3 as he launched straight into turn 1 side-by-side with the mclaren. rafayel closed him off with a hard brake, forcing caleb out wide on the dirty part of the track, but caleb didn’t lift — not even when his front wing came within centimeters of rafayel’s rear.

“he’s driving like he wants to fuckin’ kill me,” rafayel spat over comms, his voice crackling. caleb didn’t respond on his own. he was too busy chasing. he spent the first dozen laps locked inside DRS range, not even trying to overtake clean—no, every move was calculated pressure. he drove like he wanted rafayel to feel him breathing down his neck. every brake was late. every corner exit was close enough to make the mclaren engineer panic.

“back off, caleb!” his own team barked at one point. “you’re risking a collision!” but caleb didn’t care. he wanted him to feel cornered. to know that he was prey. because he was. you don’t put your hands on her, he thought darkly as he tailgated out of turn 10, and walk away unscathed.

you were on the pit wall by then—wearing orange, still—and caleb saw you glance up at the timing tower. every time his number lit up right behind rafayel’s, you tensed. he saw it.

good, he thought. watch me. watch what i do to the man who touches what’s mine.

it built slowly—tire wear creeping in, temps rising, his rear losing grip in sector 3. still he stayed out, defying every team call to box. lap 26, rafayel’s tires began to fail. the tires wore down. rear traction faded. lap times dropped. still, he didn’t box. ignored every pit call.

“caleb, come in, we’re losing compound.”

“negative.” his voice came back hoarse. “i’ve got him.”

lap 28, rafayel’s grip was breaking—caleb could see it in the rear twitch. turn fourteen, he closed in so tight the slipstream pulled bits of rubber into his halo. he could’ve tapped the diffuser with his nose cone if he wanted. could’ve unstitched the seams of that mclaren.

“final lap,” came the call. “no funny shit, caleb.” but it was too late for that. he already knew where he’d do it. turn 13. fast. blind. unforgiving. he waited for the right moment, nudged inside, and turned in early.

the contact was immediate.

carbon fiber shredded. both cars locked up in a scream of tire smoke and screeching brakes. rafayel’s mclaren spun violently off the racing line, back end slammed against the barriers, dust pluming into the air. caleb’s red bull skidded into the gravel with a thunderous jolt.

yellow flags. double waved.

red flag. the race was over.

rafayel was out. caleb’s engine stalled in the gravel. static choked the radio. “what the fuck was that?!” screamed race control. he didn’t answer. not until he saw the red flag and the dust settle. not until he saw your face on the edge of the pit wall go white.

he didn’t attend the press conference. didn’t even unbuckle until a marshal banged on his cockpit. his PR rep trailed after him with panicked eyes and a clipboard full of damage control bullet points, but caleb walked right past him, suit still half-zipped, jaw clenched hard enough he could swear his teeth would crush with the pressure. they tried to stop him. camera caught his shoulder. reporters called his name—he didn’t even turn his head.

no interviews. no apologies. no explanations.

let them speculate. let them talk.

he didn’t give a single damn.

because rafayel wouldn’t touch you again.

not after this.

you didn’t speak the entire drive back.

he’d refused the medical tent. ignored the swarm of reporters like they weren’t even there, brushed past the PR team screaming his name with a pace so brutal you’d had to jog to keep up. he didn’t speak. didn’t even look at you. just reached back once—wrist tight, fingers wrapping around yours—and yanked you with him through the mess of the paddock and straight into the red bull private lot.

the silence was suffocating. not tense in the way people usually meant it—not awkward, not uncomfortable. it was a pressure chamber. the kind that made your ears ring and your chest hurt. you could hear every turn signal click, every swipe of the wiper across the windshield, even the way caleb’s grip on the wheel creaked under his gloves. he hadn’t taken them off. still in his fireproofs, zipper low on his chest, collarbone glistening with sweat and dust, jaw locked so tight it looked like it might snap.

the door slammed shut behind you with a vicious bang!—a sound that echoed like a gunshot off the walls—and it made your shoulders jerk involuntarily. he didn’t say a word. didn’t glance back. just stalked across the living room like the adrenaline was still burning through his blood, ripping open the fridge like something in it might anchor him, steady the fury in his bones. but even from where you stood, you could see the tremor in his hand. the way his fingers gripped the handle too hard. the tension still coiled in his shoulders like a spring wound to the point of rupture.

he wasn’t calming down. not even close.

the silence throbbed around you, thick and charged. you shifted on your feet, breath shallow, heart hammering like it wanted to crawl out of your throat.

“caleb—” you started, voice small.

“take it off.” his voice was low, sliced through the air like a whip.

you froze. your mouth parted, a breath catching in your throat. “w-what?”

he closed the fridge slowly. deliberately. then turned.

his eyes were black beneath the heavy shadow of his brow, dark and molten like they hadn’t cooled since the second his front wing clipped rafayel’s tire in that brutal turn. he took a step toward you, slow and controlled, like a predator choosing exactly how to pounce. “the fucking shirt,” he said, voice low and thick with venom. another step. “take it off before i rip it off ‘ya.”

your stomach dropped. you looked down instinctively. that stupid, traitorous mclaren tee still clung to your sweat-damp skin, streaked with grime and faint splashes of champagne from a podium that wasn’t his. that bright orange logo burned against your chest like a brand, and suddenly it felt radioactive.

you didn’t move. you hesitated.

and that was all it took.

two strides, and he was on you.

your back hit the wall so fast the impact knocked the breath from your lungs. the world narrowed—your heartbeat screamed in your ears, adrenaline flared under your skin, and caleb was there, crowding you in, body a furnace, heat rolling off him in waves. his fingers hooked the hem and yanked—not teasing, not even urgent. violent. the fabric caught against your arms, dragged over your skin so fast it left a burn, your hair tangled and pulled, nipples tightening into stiff peaks in the sudden rush of cold air.

caleb tossed the shirt onto the floor like it disgusted him.

“you wanna wear his colors?” he muttered, voice low and curling with fury. his breath hit your collarbone, his words too close, too hot. “wanna sit there in his fucking garage and giggle at his jokes while he stares at your tits through my windshield?”

tone wasn’t raised. he didn’t have to shout. it was the quietness that made it worse—quiet like a threat wrapped in velvet. quiet like a knife at your ribs.

you breath stuttered, your voice coming out weaker than you wanted it to. “c-caleb, i wasn’t—he didn’t—”

“shut it,” he snarled it, close enough for your lips to brush, and the force of it made your breath stutter. his hands came up—hard—gripping your waist, rough fingers digging into your hips like he meant to leave marks, like he wanted to brand you into him, carve out any memory of someone else’s eyes on your skin. caleb dragged you forward, chest to chest, his heart thudding against yours like war drums.

“i don’t want your pathetic excuses,” he ground out. “you don’t wear his name. you don’t smile at him.”

the silence after was suffocating.

his fingers curled tighter around your sides. his mouth hovered near your jaw, breath ragged and warm, chest heaving with every inhale like he couldn’t catch it. rage coiled off him in waves, not loud anymore—just molten, buried deep, a kind of fury that didn’t explode. it consumed. slow. controlled. and it was deadly.

and it was all aimed at the thought of him touching you.

of you letting him.

caleb’s thumb ghosted over your ribs, rough and possessive, tracing the bare skin now exposed in the absence of that damned shirt.

his mouth crushed against yours before you could speak—hot, brutal, punishing. all teeth and fury, like he wanted to bite the silence from your tongue, like tasting you was the only thing anchoring him to the present. he didn’t kiss you so much as devour you, lips bruising, jaw tense with barely-contained rage, breathing you in like you were air after drowning.

his hands were everywhere—frantic, careless. they slid down the arch of your spine, fingers pressing into every vertebra like he meant to memorize the shape of you, then sank lower, palms gripping your ass with bruising force. he hauled you against him so hard your breath fled, pelvis grinding to his through the fireproofs still clinging to his hips. he was already half-hard. already throbbing through the thin barrier between you. the press of it against your lower stomach made your knees tremble.

and then his gaze dropped.

his eyes caught on the denim. the sound that tore from his throat was less a breath and more a mocking scoff.

the low-rise shorts clung to your hips like sin, skin peeking out from under the frayed hem, teasing with that reckless kind of innocence that only made his fury burn hotter. they sat just high enough to hint at modesty but dipped scandalously low, hugging the softness of your waist like a taunt.

slowly, he reached down—deliberate, fingers flexing—and let his hand splay flat over your stomach. his palm was hot against your skin. the heel of it rested against the waistband, and then—without breaking eye contact—he slipped his thumb beneath it. just the barest intrusion. a single brush of rough skin over the delicate swell of your mound, not enough to touch you properly, but enough to make your whole body jerk with a whimper.

“these,” he sneered. “you wore these to the paddock? while he was watching?” his voice dropped into a guttural rasp. you opened your mouth to protest, but his voice cut you off—deeper now, dipped into something feral.

“he was probably fucking imagining what you looked like bent over the pit wall in ‘em,” caleb rasped, and the way he said it—like it sickened him, like it possessed him—made your stomach twist.

his eyes darkened—and in one swift, brutal motion, he popped the button on the shorts with a flick of his thumb. the metallic click echoed in the room like a shot. then his fingers gripped the zipper and yanked it down so roughly you gasped, fabric jerking against your hips before it slid down to your thighs, pooling at your feet in a useless, tangled heap.

he didn’t stop. his hand moved fast, unforgiving—already pulling your panties to the side before you had time to react. the elastic scraped the crease of your thigh, baring you to the chill of the room and the heat of him, and still, he didn’t look away. didn’t blink. just stared down at your cunt like it had betrayed him, like it belonged to him and had wandered somewhere it shouldn’t have.

“c-caleb,” you stammered, your voice catching, high and desperate, “you’re being—,” but the words dissolved on your tongue.

because his fingers were there, already brushing against slick heat, already groaning under his breath like it physically hurt him that you were wet for this—wet for him, even now, even after everything.

you could hardly breathe.

your head lolled against the wall as his fingers fucked you open—deep, firm, unrelenting. You were soaked, the wet sounds of it obscene in the charged silence, broken only by the staggered hitch of your breath and the rough rasp of his. your thighs were trembling, barely holding you upright, and caleb didn’t let up. he wouldn’t let up.

his voice curled against your ear, low and smug and absolutely feral. “you’re not even trying to stop me.” your mouth opened but nothing came out—just a soft, cracked moan. “yeah,” he hissed. “that’s what i thought.”

he drove his fingers in deeper, curling them just right—pulling a strangled sound from your throat. your hips jerked helplessly, and he groaned as your pussy clenched, dripping all over his knuckles.

“f-fuck,” you gasped, arms scrambling for purchase across his chest, clutching at the fabric of his fireproofs like he was your anchor. “c-caleb, i—nnh, please—”

you whimpered, broken and breathless, voice catching on each gasp. “i-i didn’t mean—nnh ahhh—d-didn’t mean to—”

“you wore that fucking shirt. wore his team, his number, his name. you meant it.” his teeth dragged over your neck, biting down hard enough to make your legs quake. “don’t act like you don’t like this. like you don’t love being fucked dumb right after i almost took him off the track.”

you sobbed out a noise that barely resembled his name—“p-please, i—oh, god—”

his fingers hit that spot again, and your body jolted, hips rocking into his palm like you couldn’t help it. the muscles in your stomach tensed, fluttering around the edge of your climax. he felt it, saw it, and laughed—low and delighted.

“oh, baby… gonna cum, aren’t ya’?” he mocked, breath hot against your jaw, eyes glittering. “you’re so easy. just a couple fingers and you’re already soaking me. dripping like a goddamn whore.”

“p-please—ah—please, i can’t—” your words broke apart, swallowed by the sounds of your own whimpers as your orgasm built sharp and unbearable. “i-i c-can’t hold it, caleb, i—fuck—”

“then don’t.” his hand gripped your jaw, forcing your eyes to his. “let me hear how mine you are.” and you shattered. a sobbing, shaking mess.y our body locked up, thighs clenching around his wrist as you came with a choked cry—wet and slick and pulsing so hard around his fingers you felt your knees threaten to give out. caleb held you upright through it, murmuring dark praise between your panting breaths.

“that’s it. that’s my girl.” he pressed a kiss to your temple—mockingly tender, wicked and warm. “so good when you’re ruined.” his fingers slipped free with a wet noise, glistening in the low light. he brought them to your lips, eyes still sharp and burning. “suck f’ me, will ya’?”

you blinked, dazed, mind swimming in the haze of pleasure and want. slowly, obediently, you parted your lips, tongue flicking out to wet them just before his fingers slid into your mouth. the taste was warm, messy—you, tangled with him—and the sound that escaped you was soft, shameless, utterly desperate.

caleb’s groan rumbled low in his throat, eyes darkening as he watched every motion, every subtle shift of your tongue curling around his fingers. “god, you look so pretty like this,” he rasped, dragging those soaked fingers out with a sharp pop that echoed in the quiet room. “dumb little mouth wrapped around what’s mine.”

you whimpered, the sound raw and fragile, knees trembling as they brushed his in the cramped space. your body sagged into his, burning and unsteady, craving his touch like air. then that smirk—slow, sharp, slicing through the tension like a knife dragged through silk. his voice dropped even lower, slow and deliberate, thick with dark amusement. “think we’re done?”

your breath hitched, caught in your throat as his eyes bore into yours, unblinking and heavy with promise. the room seemed to pulse around you, heat swelling in your skin, every nerve ending screaming alive. you tried to shake your head, but your voice was barely a whisper, broken and trembling: “n-no—please…”

his fingers curled in a slow, possessive grip against your jaw, tilting your face up so your lips hovered just inches from his. “behave,” he murmured, voice rough like gravel. “because i’m nowhere near finished with you.”

his mouth claimed yours again, teeth grazing your lower lip as his hands gripped your hips, holding you so tightly it was almost painful—but you didn’t care. you were already melting into him, breath shallow and fast, heart hammering against your ribs like a warning bell.

without hesitation, he ripped open his fireproofs, pulling out his thick, heavy cock, already leaking thick beads of precum, flushed red from holding back for too long. he shifted, pressing the full length of himself inside you, inch by agonizing inch, his body a hot, solid weight that filled every space. your breath hitched sharply, a stuttered moan slipping free as your walls stretched and clenched around him, tight and trembling.

your body jolted—smack!—as he bottomed out in one punishing motion. he didn’t stop to let you adjust. he just started fucking you. hard.

“is this what you needed?” he snarled, teeth at your throat again, biting down—hard. “some real fucking? not the attention of some weak little paddock rat.”

you sobbed, arms flying to his shoulders, clawing for purchase. he drove into you over and over, hips snapping up—wet noises echoing through the room. your slick ran down your thighs, onto his, then pooling onto the floor.

“fuck, you’re mine,” he growled into your hair, voice thick with need and possession. His hips slammed harder, faster, each thrust pushing you closer to the edge. “say it. say it or i’ll fill you up and walk out without another word.”

“i—i’m yours!” you sobbed, legs trembling. “caleb, please—i’m yours, i’m yours! a-always yours!” another slap to your ass—sharp, loud. then his hand gripped your hair, yanked your head back, and his teeth sank into your shoulder—deep, a bite so hard it made stars dance behind your eyes.

“you wear my number. my colors. my fucking name on your back. not that mclaren shit or anything else. never fucking again.” caleb’s hips slammed harder, faster, each thrust a brutal claim that sent your body shuddering beneath him. his teeth grazed your collarbone, sinking in deeply with a savage bite that left a bruised crescent burning hot against your skin. You gasped, head thrown back, breath shattering into sharp sobs that mixed pain and pleasure so fiercely your whole body trembled uncontrollably.

“fucking feel that, yeah?” he growled against your skin, voice thick with venomous hunger. your hands ripped down his sides, nails clawing cruel lines along his ribs as caleb dragged his teeth lower—trail of sharp bites blooming bruises along the curve of your tits, marking you with brutal possessiveness. “you think that idiot could ever fuck you like this? make you cry out, beg, lose your goddamn mind? no chance.”

you whimpered, caught between sobs and desperate moans, hips jerking instinctively with every ruthless stroke. “n-no—! only you, caleb! please—fuck, please mmm—!” your voice broke, breath hitching in a ragged stutter as your muscles clenched around him tighter, convulsing in waves of scorching overstimulation that stole your ability to think straight.

“bark f’me, sweet girl,” his teeth sank deep into your hip, biting down hard enough to draw a gasp, pleasure twisting with pain in a raw knot of sensation that made you cry out and claw at his back. “say you’re mine. my filthy little wreck, mine.”

“’m yours! yours, caleb!” you sobbed, body trembling, tears stinging your eyes as relentless orgasms crashed over you, folding you in a violent, layered tangle of ecstasy. your voice came out breathless and shattered, “please, don’t stop! i—i’m gonna—f-fuck, i’m gonna—please, i’m c-cummin’!”

“tell me,” he snarled against your neck, voice low, dark, teeth grazing skin like a threat, “tell me who you’re cummin’ for. me or that pretty little fucker?”

his hips snapped up cruelly, deep and fast, dragging a sob from your lips. his hand stayed locked tight around your throat—not enough to hurt, just enough to remind you who owned every gasp, every tremble.

“you!” you cried out, voice cracking on the edge of desperation. your nails dug into the fireproofs still half-wrapped around his waist. “you, sir—only you, ah, fuckkk—!”

he grinned, vicious and possessive, like your surrender was his prize. “yeah?” he hissed, slamming into you again. “say it louder. make sure even that bastard hears it next race.” caleb didn’t slow. if anything, he fucked you harder, rough and relentless, like he was trying to erase any trace of rafayel from your body—if there’d ever been any. one hand gripped your hip bruisingly tight, the other still curved under your jaw, forcing your teary eyes to hold his.

“damn right,” he growled, sweat-slick and flushed, but no less in control. “say my name. not ‘sir.’ not ‘please.’ mine.”

your whole body jerked with each thrust, barely able to keep upright, tears streaking your cheeks. “caleb—! caleb, i’m—i’m yours, i swear—”

“louder,” he barked, voice edged in a snarl. “c’mon, sweetheart. want you hoarse for me. want that voice ruined so you can’t say shit to anyone else.”

you shattered then—crying his name, choking on your moan as your body seized, shaking, breaking apart in his hands like it always did. and he didn’t let up. not when you came, not when your body tried to squirm away from the overstimulation.

“too much?” he murmured mockingly, breath hot against your temple. “too bad. i haven’t had enough yet. not till i’m sure he knows you walk funny tomorrow ‘cause of me.”

he crushed his mouth to yours, swallowing your desperate sounds with a hungry roar, his fingers digging deep into your hips as he drove you harder over the edge. your walls fluttered around him, clenching and pulsing uncontrollably as you teetered on the brink—then tipped.

your body convulsed violently, a flood of sensation so fierce it wracked every nerve ending. you cried out, a broken, trembling sound filled with pure, overwhelming need. his thrusts became more savage, relentless, “mine,” he rasped between clenched teeth, voice thick and harsh as he chased his own climax, “only mine. gonna fill you up so fucking deep you’ll be leaking my cum for days.”

the force of him stole your breath again as another orgasm ripped through you, your body arching wildly. you trembled, clinging to him, sobbing his name like a prayer. he chased you over the edge, one hand tangled possessively in your hair, the other bruising your waist as he came with a shuddering, broken groan—low, guttural, right against your skin—his teeth sinking into your neck as he spilled hot and thick inside you, every pulse of him a claim you’d never shake.

he stayed still a moment, breathing hard, chest rising and falling, panting like he’d survived a battle. then—slowly—he pulled out. you whimpered at the sudden empty ache, your slick and his own, trailing down your inner thighs.

your body was still quaking when caleb carried you, trembling and ruined, to the couch—his grip bruising, but reverent. his jaw was tight, his breath still shallow from the exertion, and the whole room still reeked of sex and heat and rage. your thighs stuck to his fireproofs, slick and smeared, and your chest rose in ragged, shallow pants as he laid you down like you were something precious—but barely.

"look at you," he muttered, his voice hoarse with raw satisfaction. "still shakin’. you don't even know your own name, do you?"

your only answer was a weak, broken sound—something between a whimper and a plea. he chucked, low and dangerous, fingers brushing your jaw as his other hand gripped your thigh, spreading you open again just to look. but then—he stilled.

his thumb stopped where it had been tracing, reverent in its own brutal way. his gaze, once burning with hunger, flickered—hesitating. you blinked through the haze clouding your vision, and there he was again: caleb, not the fire-eyed predator but the boy who used to hold your hand under the covers during thunderstorms, the boy who always laced your shoelaces when your fingers were too cold to do it yourself.

“…fuck,” he murmured, and something in his tone cracked open. he exhaled hard and let your thigh fall gently against the couch cushion, his body sinking beside yours, no longer looming—folding. a different kind of tension took its place, quieter, older. his hand cupped your cheek again, softer now, trembling faintly.

"you okay?" he asked, and his voice was lower. wrought with guilt, with fear, with love. "talk to me, love. tell me you’re okay."

you nodded, just barely, then leaned into his palm with a broken little sound. “o-okay…’m okay,” you breathed, voice ragged but true.

he closed his eyes.

for a moment, caleb didn’t say anything. just let his forehead press to yours. his thumb traced the line of your cheekbone like you might vanish if he didn’t keep anchoring you to him. then, with careful arms, he pulled you into his lap—blanketing you in the throw he’d once haphazardly tossed on the couch. your legs curled over his, trembling.

“you’re shaking,” caleb murmured again, his voice low and rough, like gravel coated in velvet. the heat radiating from his body pressed against your back was a fierce, solid warmth that somehow grounded you, but you could still feel the tremors racing through your limbs—shaky, fragile, like you were made of glass. his arms tightened around you, not crushing, but possessive, protective—as if he wanted to keep you from breaking apart entirely.

his lips brushed your skin like a feather in slow, feather-light kisses. first your bare shoulder, where the soft warmth of his mouth left a trail that sent a delicious shiver down your spine. then along the hollow of your collarbone, his breath hot and steady, carrying the faint scent of smoke and sweat from the race—intoxicating and unmistakably him. when his mouth ghosted to the corner of your lips, he paused, lingering like he was memorizing your shape, tasting the faint salt of your skin, the quickening pulse beneath.

“you scare the shit out of me sometimes,” he breathed, voice husky and trembling with emotion, the raw vulnerability undercut by the fire of his obsession. “the way i feel about you... it’s not normal. maybe it’s because… i love you more than you realize.”

his hands roamed slowly now, tracing the lines of your body with a possessive tenderness that set your nerves alight. one palm slid down the curve of your side, fingers pressing into your hip bone, grounding you in the heat between you. the other curled in your hair, thumb brushing your temple softly, coaxing the tension out of your clenched muscles.

“you don’t have to say anything,” he whispered, voice rough but gentle. “just be here with me.”

your eyelids fluttered open, meeting his gaze—dark, intense, burning with a hunger that softened only when it landed on you. the sight made your heart squeeze painfully, a sweet ache that spread through your limbs like wildfire.

your fingers twined tightly in the thick fabric of his fireproof suit, heart hammering against your ribs like it was trying to break free. you curled into him, the solid beat of his heart against your palm a grounding anchor amid the storm of emotion crashing through you. no words came—only the soft press of your lips against his jaw, the whisper of a kiss that said everything you couldn’t say aloud.

caleb’s breath hitched sharply, eyes darkening with a fierce tenderness as he pulled back just enough to meet your gaze. his thumb brushed away a tear that had slipped silently down your cheek, his touch so gentle it made your breath catch. his smile was fragile, barely there—but real. like he was offering you a piece of his soul wrapped in vulnerability.

“you’re everything to me,” he confessed, voice thick and laden with something bittersweet, a promise and a curse intertwined. “every lap, every breath, every fucking heartbeat. you ruined me, and i don’t ever want to be put back together.”

his arms squeezed you tighter, possessive and fierce, a silent vow to keep you safe and claim you utterly. the heat from his body seeped deep into your bones, steady and relentless, chasing away the shadows that lingered inside you.

your hand rose to cup his cheek, fingertips tracing the sharp angles of his jaw, memorizing the rough scrape of stubble beneath your touch. “l-love you..i’m yours,” you whispered, voice trembling but resolute. a soft, possessive smile curved his lips. “yeah,” he said, voice low and thick with pride, “only mine.”

when he kissed you this time, it was different—slow and tender, a deep press of lips that spoke of ownership and devotion, not just need. his mouth was warm and soft, roughened by days on the track and sleepless nights, and the taste of him—smoky, faintly metallic, and utterly intoxicating—settled deep inside your senses. his hands cradled your waist, fingers digging in just enough to remind you that you were his, that you belonged here, to him, in this moment.

“sleep,” he murmured against your lips, voice husky but gentle, a soothing promise that wrapped around you like a blanket. “i’ll be here when you wake up.”

your eyelids fluttered closed, sinking fully into the fierce, steady warmth of his arms. his heartbeat thrummed against your back, a wild, unyielding fire that burned only for you—and you let yourself be consumed by it.

caleb didn’t sleep. not for a second.

he stood bare-chested in front of the fire, the room thick with heat and shadows that flickered like ghosts on the walls. the dry crackle of the flames filled the silence, but inside him, a storm still raged—cold, sharp, relentless—but not for you, no, never.

his knuckles bore the faintest traces of dried blood where he'd gripped the wall to steady you, but the ache there was nothing compared to the sharp edge of his hatred for rafayel. the mclaren tee lay crumpled at his feet—a stubborn reminder that wouldn’t fade.

he bent down and picked it up slowly, fingers tightening around the fabric, a silent vow burning hotter than the fire before him. with slow, deliberate movements, his fingers curled around the fabric, pulling it close. he traced the soft cotton absently, the smell faint but familiar, and it stabbed at him like a fresh wound. the color—too bright, too loud—reminded him of everything he hated to admit. he fed the shirt to the flames, watching the orange cotton curl, blacken, and twist in on itself. the smell of scorched cloth filled the room, but it couldn’t burn away the rancor that still coiled tight inside.

he didn’t blink until the last ember faded to ash, eyes cold and unyielding, mind still racing with bitter thoughts.

rafayel had crossed a line.

and caleb’s fire wasn’t ready to die down—not yet, not ever.

# do not repost, translate, or upload my work to any other platforms. tumblr reblogs are welcome and appreciated, but reposting outside of this blog is not permitted !

#f1!caleb #f1!lads #caleb x reader #caleb smut #l&ds caleb #lnds caleb #lads caleb #love and deepspace caleb #caleb x you #love and deepspace #lnds imagines #caleb x y/n

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x1asirene · 13 days ago

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bless, i'm here again bc i love lads & f1 so much and drawing parallels between drivers & the constructors in relation to the LIs has given me new life. hear me out, sylus is giving kimi raikkonen walking to his yacht in the middle of the monaco gp in 2006 & for raf's first win w mclaren the tattoo that zak brown gets would be whatever gp he won but in a raf stylized way

first of all—absolutely YES sylus absolutely would just vanish post race and reappear 15 minutes later shirtless on a boat with an aperol spritz like nothing happened 😭 media asking him about his DNF and he just goes “yk what it never was? that serious” and RAF that man would show up to the tattoo parlor with a team camera crew and zero hesitation 😔

#｡𖦹°‧ | dear anon !#f1!lads analysis #f1!sylus #f1!rafayel #lnds headcanons

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x1asirene · 13 days ago

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zayne williams or aston nonie back again and i appreciate your analysis/reasoning for aston!zayne i just pray that man has better luck than fernando (oh my god, he IS fernando bc driving w aston is like fighting w astra themselves) also, as a sylus girlie i pray to god that ferrari!sylus is nowhere close to how charles is feeling rn 🥲

aston!zayne is like “i’m not fighting for position, i’m fighting for my life” 💔 that man is one divine inconvenience away from combusting mid race LOL

sylus would be the most unserious ferrari driver in history, he could crash out of a race and still walk through the paddock like its fashion week or smth. that man wouldn’t care if he got overtaken on the last lap, he’d just think “he prolly needed it more than i did” ferrari could be burning to the ground rn and he’d be like “damn that’s crazy” 😭

#｡𖦹°‧ | dear anon !#f1!lads analysis #f1!zayne #f1!sylus

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x1asirene · 14 days ago

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if caleb’s a panty sniffer then i’m in his laundry basket kicking my legs in the air sniffing his shirts like they’re lines of coke. his sweat prolly smells like god’s tears i’d hotbox his sweat like it’s sage and bottle that scent n gas my room with it like it’s holy water in aerosol form. i’d wear it like perfume, spray it on my pillow and dream in 4K. febreze could never.

i want his gym towels wrung out over my head. put caleb’s used shirt within a 10ft radius and i’m foaming at the mouth like a rabid dog. throw me his gym socks and i’m rolling on the floor like it’s laced with catnip. i don’t want a hug, i want to crawl inside his dirty hoodie like a parasite. i want to live in his scent like it’s rent-free housing. i’d sniff his armpit and see god.

deodorant? i want the raw ancestral scent of battle-worn armpits that could resurrect extinct urges in my caveman instincts. gym sweat? i want the raw pheromonal punch of olympian-grade pit sweat brewed under pressure like wine. let me marinate in his dirty clothes like i’m sous-viding myself. i’m not okay and the fabric softener can’t save me

#´ཀ` :: xia’s thirsts #i am no better than a dog #i want him #lads caleb #love and deepspace caleb

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x1asirene · 14 days ago

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motogp racer!caleb as your bf headcanons

✧ motogp racer!caleb’s switch to yamaha was the kind of career move that made headlines for weeks. after dominating on a honda and earning himself a rep as the most aggressive, ego-fueled rider on the grid, people thought he was crazy to leave a championship-winning seat. but caleb doesn’t do comfort—he does legacy. he saw yamaha as a sleeping giant, and he wanted to be the one to wake it up. fans are obsessed, haters are louder, and all caleb ever says is: “if god wanted you to beat me, he would have made you faster.”

✧ motogp racer!caleb rides like he’s got something to prove to god and the devil both. he leans into every turn with elbows out and throttle wide open, the kind of rider who takes late brakes not because he’s reckless, but because he trusts his instincts and skill beyond reason. to his rivals, he’s a storm on wheels: unpredictable, relentless, and utterly terrifying. you know he’s dangerous, but that’s what makes him so exciting—and why you can’t look away. caleb doesn’t care about being loved. on track, caleb’s reputation is ironclad—he’s the aggressive force rivals fear, the rider who never backs down. he cares about being feared on track—and loved by you. and as long as he’s got both? he’ll keep pushing the limit.

✧ motogp racer!caleb doesn’t just want the win—he wants the highlight reel. he’ll divebomb into gaps no one else would dare, snatch p1 on the last second just to make a statement, and leave tire marks on your rival’s ego. and caleb loves winning, but more than that, he loves winning while you’re watching. you’re always in his paddock box, and every time he overtakes someone on the inside like it’s child’s play, the first thing he does post-race is walk up to you, pull off his helmet, smirk, and say: “ya proud of me, pipsqueak?,” that look in his eyes says it all—he craves your approval above all. it’s his way of sharing the victory, turning every daring move into a love letter meant only for you.

✧ motogp racer!caleb has kissed you while still in his race suit, helmet half-on, grease on his cheek and all. once did it during parc fermé just to piss off a rival. “tell him i’m busy,” he muttered before yanking you in by the waist. cameras caught it live—twitter exploded. but for caleb, it was never about the show. it was a raw declaration: "i'm here, and you're mine. no one else gets to touch this."

✧ motogp racer!caleb has a small locket necklace, looped around the handlebar of his bike. inside is a photo of you, edges worn from how often he opens it. right before every race, while the rest of the grid gets into formation, caleb leans down and presses a kiss to the locket. it looks like part of his routine—checking something on the bike—but really, it’s a silent prayer. ”keep me safe, sweet girl. let me come home to you.” he doesn’t believe in much, but he believes in you. he won’t admit it, but if he crashes or something goes wrong mid-race, the first thing he checks—before even his own injuries—is if the locket’s still there. his mechanics have caught him holding it during cooldown laps, whispering your name under his breath like it’s the thing that keeps his heart beating steady. to him, that tiny piece of you tethered to his bike is his lifeline in the chaos.

✧ motogp racer!caleb’s race radio is usually a mess—half tactical, half pure chaos. he’s swearing at rivals, calling out blocks like a street fighter, and trash-talking anyone who so much as looks at his line wrong. but the second he hears you’re tuned in? silence. calm. professional. like he didn’t just call another rider “a blind donkey on two wheels” thirty seconds ago. his crew teases him mercilessly for it—“oh, now you’ve got manners?”—but he just shrugs and mutes himself mid-eye-roll.

✧ motogp racer!caleb has a ritual after every win—and it’s not champagne or showboating, it’s you. the second he rolls into parc fermé, helmet still on, engine still cooling, he’s searching the crowd for you with laser focus. doesn’t even take his visor off until you’re there. then he hands you a sharpie, holds his helmet steady like it’s a relic, and says, “go on, make it official.” every win means a fresh signature from you scrawled right across the edge of his visor.

✧ motogp racer!caleb is insufferable post-win. he’s sweaty, smug, and clingy. helmet still in hand, trophy under his arm, and he’s already wrapping both arms around your waist whispering, “say it. say i’m the best. say it or i’ll crash next weekend.” and god forbid you miss a race. he’ll sulk in the team garage like a kicked dog. dramatic texts like, “you abandoned me. i nearly died on lap 12 and you weren’t even watching,” followed by a selfie with your initials scrawled on his forearm in sharpie: “in mourning. come back.”

✧ motogp racer!caleb who’s constantly neck and neck with sylus on the track — no one knows why, and neither do they. sometimes it looks like a fierce rivalry, other times like a secret competition to see who can push the other crazier. fans love the unpredictable drama they create, with caleb’s aggressive style clashing perfectly against sylus’s reckless daredevil moves, making every race between them must-watch chaos. but you know, deep down, caleb respects sylus because they both share that wild hunger—the kind that only true racers understand.

✧ motogp racer!caleb insists you wear a bold red lipstick on race days, because “if i’m going down, i’m going down with a kiss.” he grins every time he leans down to steal a kiss before pulling on his helmet, making sure your signature kiss is the last thing he feels before the race starts. one time, you forgot. he made the entire team wait while you reapplied it. “we’re not starting this race until i get my war paint,” he said, already leaning in. that lipstick is more than color—it’s his battle cry, his reminder that no matter what happens on track, he’s got you waiting on the other side.

✧ motogp racer!caleb insists on stitching your favorite color into every racing suit he owns. not just for the aesthetics, and definitely not because the brand told him to. it’s personal. a streak of your favorite color runs somewhere on every race suit—sometimes a bold stripe down the side of his leg, sometimes hidden in the inner lining of his gloves, and other times just a thin seam over his heart.

when fans first noticed, they thought it was a new team color experiment. journalists speculated about brand deals or helmet designers getting playful. but it was never about any of that. caleb doesn’t explain it in interviews. just smirks and says, “looks good, doesn’t it?” but when you’re around, and he’s getting suited up before a race, he always tugs at the collar of his suit to show you the colored thread stitched just below his neck and says softly, “told ya i'd take you with me.”

he started doing it after a rough season—bad crashes, poor qualifying, press breathing down his neck. you had been wearing that color in the paddock one sunday, and he swore it was the first time he’d felt calm in weeks. after that, he quietly asked his suit designers if they could add a custom lining—just for him. you once joked about switching your favorite color just to see what he’d do. he didn’t laugh. just leaned in, kissed your forehead, and muttered, “then i guess i’ll start over. i’ll repaint the damn bike if i have to.” because for caleb, the color isn’t just a detail. it’s you. and if he’s going to push 360 km/h down a straight with everything on the line, he wants you on his skin.

✧ motogp racer!caleb has a custom decal on the side of his yamaha—just below the fuel tank, where his glove brushes every time he leans into a corner. it's small, barely noticeable on tv unless the camera catches it at just the right angle, but unmistakable once you know it's there: your initials, in your handwriting, wrapped in a soft red heart. he asked you to write them on a scrap of paper one night—no explanation, just handed you a pen and said, “write it how you always sign your notes to me.” a few weeks later, it showed up on his bike. glossed over, sealed under protective film, but always in his line of sight when he climbs on.

he doesn’t talk about it in interviews. doesn’t flaunt it. but everyone in the paddock knows what it means. his mechanics smile when they clean the fairing and double-check the decal. one of his rivals once tried to mock it, and caleb just looked up, deadpan, and said, “that’s the only thing on this bike i wouldn’t trade for a win.”

it’s not for attention. it’s for him. for the quiet moment before the lights go out, when he presses two fingers to your initials and whispers under his breath, “still with me, yeah?” because in all the chaos, speed, and noise—you're his anchor.

# do not repost, translate, or upload my work to any other platforms. tumblr reblogs are welcome and appreciated, but reposting outside of this blog is not permitted !

#caleb x reader #lnds caleb #lnds headcanons #love and deepspace #lads caleb #caleb x you #caleb x y/n #lnds imagines #caleb x mc

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