⋆.𐙚 ̊. a galentine's party collab oneshot ⋆.𐙚 ̊.
prompts: “you're such a nerd” 🍒 · “i'm not done with you” 🌶️ (swap-out)
🏁 WARNINGS/TAGS: race engineer!clark x racer!reader, slight grump x flirt/ragebaiter x ragebaited <3, brief descriptions of a car crash, brief jealousy, sexual innuendos, cameos, 1 (one) star wars reference, alcohol consumption, some kind of yearning/sexual tension, SMUT 18+ MDNI (making out, fingering, oral, you and clark are both switches <3, nicknames, dirty talk, praise kink, size kink?, nipple play, pussyjob, overstimulation, dumbification, unprotected piv sex, hyperspermia, creampie)
🏆 READER WARNINGS/TAGS: afab!reader, reader has hair (described once as tumbling) and is physically able
🏎️ AUTHOR'S NOTE: ITS FINALLY HERE. ladies. start your vibrators. i mean engines. no joke i researched more for this fic than i did in school. i actually kind of understand wtf is up with f1 now lmao. i'm quite happy with what i wrote for the racing part <3 <3 <3 also the smut in this probably triggered my ovulation early :/
this fic is dedicated to @tw1sters—thank you for all the love you have for this fic even before it was born, you really motivated me to give it my best shot! and a big thank you to @flockoff-featherface for the f1 advice and for generously giving this baby a read beforehand!!! <3
p.s. you can read this fic without the smut, just skip the third part!
I. FRICTION
“Turn 4, stand by to overtake.”
“Copy.”
In an enclosed room far away from the tracks, Clark Kent could almost smell degrading rubber against asphalt. Curved screens on the wall in front of him spelled out live data from your car: a metallic blue beauty made of carbon and pure drive. Engines roared, somehow not loud enough to silence his thoughts, and right now, he was caught in a headwind spiral.
None of the active cameras showed your face, but he could see the shit-eating grin on it.
After half a race season on your team, Clark has learned to read your patterns like he did the mathematics of a running engine—something about the way you gripped the steering wheel told him you were taking this easy, as if Turn 4 wasn’t designed to bait a racer’s easily-inflatable ego.
And speaking of ego, you didn’t just possessed it. That grin he pictured may as well be printed next to the dictionary definition for the word cocky, despite being the woman you are.
Ballsy, too. Clark almost rolled his eyes at the way you straddled the apex of that tight line: perfect, but pushing the speed limit for that kind of bend.
Still, you overtook smoothly.
Dangerous on the circuit, probably even more off it. That was who you were.
Just his luck: you also happened to be the most important person in his life right now.
Clark Kent’s job as chief race engineer was to orchestrate your wins from behind the curtain, and he took pride in doing so.
To be fair, you were quite good at winning: the leaderboard showed your name in the top five along with the greats—the employ of some he’d left in the past for more challenging routes… and less challenging people. You’d started the first three GPs with extremely modest points finish, which you more than made up for in the next few.
Your position had went up dramatically after. Stats from GPs eight, nine, and ten had been nothing short of spectacular. Beautiful curves on his screen—of data, of course, not your outline in that tracksuit.
The thing with you, though? You were greedy.
Before lights out, he’d advised you to keep the pace this time. No going off-script. No surprises.
“The remaining twelve races are more than enough for you to climb,” he’d said. “Remember, you get no points for crashing.”
You’d pouted, and it almost scared him to admit that, for once, he understood.
Because it was Silverstone. All 18 turns and 52 laps of it.
You were racing in the historic circuit that birthed the sport some seventy years ago.
Of course you craved to win it, child-like pout or no. And it wasn’t your fault, not when your whole life had been geared to do exactly this: prestige racing.
Nobody got to compete at the top rung of Formula One without being groomed to survive breakneck speeds and intense lateral forces—the g-force of a simple corner alone could probably dislocate your internal organs if your seat wasn’t secured right. Training wasn’t just requirement, it was survival. That Red Bull driver leading the pack, three positions ahead of you? He raced Albert Park Circuit before getting his license for regular driving.
What got Clark on board was that plain-faced, almost naive ambition of yours.
The grin he’d internally labeled shit-eating was the very same that stoked a fire in him when you first met—a meeting meant for negotiations, except he’d made his mind up almost as soon as the words left your mouth.
“Been a long time since a woman won any Grand Prix,” you’d smiled wide: a sunny curve of your lips that had carved itself into his mind ever since, “Are you gonna help me change that, Kent?”
One deafening zip, then another; Clark snapped out of his visit down Sector Memory.
A quick glance at the screen showed two more cars ahead, overtaking yours at the late apex.
Aside from racetrack blares, the cockpit was as quiet as the control room—a grace you didn’t usually grant him, because you preferred to abuse the comms, complaining about the rear wing or asking if your second driver was that far behind.
This could only mean one thing.
You were thinking. Undoubtedly about a risky move.
Again, he could tell, even with just your helmet vizor in view.
“You’ll get them at Turn 15. Just hold for now,” he spoke preemptively, stern through the static.
“…Nah-uh.”
There it was—that sing-song way you hummed. A sane person would never sound like that, not when they’re reclined in a death machine going 200 mph.
“I see a window.”
Clark felt his temper rise.
“Hold. It’s too risky,” he hissed. The upcoming turn you talked about saw a top driver collide in a race just last season—a simple brush of wheels that ended with his car barrelling violently into a wall.
Copse Corner, it was called. One letter away from being Corpse Corner. The thought was followed by a bone chill.
“Worth a shot,” you replied. Light. Like you were branching out of your usual coffee order.
Clark dragged a hand down his bespectacled face, watching your dash cam. The response wasn’t unexpected, but good Lord, you were taking position and giving him a heart attack in the same breath.
Another warning in the shape of your name. “I’m telling you—”
You didn’t let him finish.
“High risk, high reward, baby.”
Steering wheel turned to the right just a touch. The front wing tilted slightly in response.
…Just enough to bump into Car Number 5’s rear, sparks flying from the friction.
Nothing happened.
Except physics kicked in half a second later: velocity and weight working with the impact and against you, sending your car and Number 5 out of balance. Number 5 skittered but eventually retained course, no doubt cursing your existence in the radio.
Meanwhile, your back wheels spun, skidding loudly in full-bodied circles as centrifugal force overwhelmed you, tail-spinning your car to a bumpy stop off-track before any real seconds could tick by.
Time seemed to stop. Smoke rose at the tragic ending. A convoy of cars that was once behind you flit noisily past.
Someone on comms muttered a dejected expletive. A junior engineer held his breath, eyes pinned on the screen.
Clark took off his headset.
His fingers were already pinching the bridge of his nose when laughter echoed within the room: melodious, entertained, and fully female.
Yours.
You stepped out of the boxy machine that was the simulator, rolling your shoulders front and back after taking off your helmet, hair tumbling out behind you. Why they’d make you wear one in a simulated session, who knows—maybe to get you to take it seriously, which was obviously not what happened.
The rest of the team who sat around the long table—data analysts and race engineers—rushed to consolidate timing sheets and dissect deltas. These number crunchers had grown accustomed to what came next: the death machine operator and the air traffic controller who worked to postpone her suicide attempts were going to get into an argument. Again.
This was Team Orbital’s version of reality TV. Today’s episode: Angry or Horny? Part 18.
“I told you to hold,” Clark Kent marched towards you, nearly seething. Your twinkling eyes gathered his jaw and neck as you leaned against the back of the machine—funny how he was more tense in those places than you were after laps and laps of your session.
A vein, you thought to yourself, tracing the faint shape of it on the side of his throat. Hot.
Your delightful smile was the complete opposite of his storm cloud.
“I saw an opportunity.”
“It could’ve gotten you killed,” he clipped.
“Relax, Clark, it’s just a sim,” you picked on a blunt nail, not even meeting his eyes.
“A sim designed for you to practice! Not, not—” he huffed, hands gesturing in a poor attempt to express himself, until he settled on, “you can’t keep fooling around like this.”
“You know I very well can. I’ve done this, like, almost twenty times. Got your orders down pat.”
He shot you a look that said oh really?
You launched into a spiel.
“At lap start, speed up till eighth gear flat out through Turn 1 and 2. Brake hard into 3, get back to entry point for the left in 4—”
Under different circumstances, he’d be more impressed of the ease with which you correctly rambled on, but frustration won the fight to pilot his mouth.
“And yet you still don’t listen when I tell you to hold.”
Your eyes snapped back to his and he got to witness it right then and there: the change in your face that he’d learned to read without looking. Most of the time, he watched you through cockpit cameras trained on a shaded vizor.
Maybe that was why being face-to-face with you never stopped feeling like a confrontation—as if whatever he could see was dialed up to a hundred.
For example, this look you were giving him: intense enough to be normal, but sultry in a way that invited heat to crawl up his neck.
“That’s because look really good when you’re mad,” you cooed.
That voice. Of course you had to use that voice on him. If making eye contact with you turned him into stone (Medusa would like a word), hearing you speak melted him right back.
He looked away, fixing his glasses: the one thing he could do to hope that you wouldn’t notice his blush.
You threw your head back into an earnest laugh. Not at him—or maybe it was? He wasn’t sure. He felt silly. Awkward pre-teen puberty silly. Didn’t matter that this wasn’t the first time you’d teased him.
“One more run, then you better not crash when we practice for real,” he murmured. The flight to Heathrow was less than 24 hours away, and he’d bet you hadn’t even packed.
You crossed your arms, looking like you had all the time in the world to torment him.
“You don’t trust your driver, Kent?”
“I usually do, but most of the time, they aren’t as crazy as you.” Not as beautiful, either.
“I’m not crazy,” you hummed, “I just want to win.”
And that was the truth behind all truths, written dead-center in your eyes. That was the flame that drew him in like a moth. Ambition. The one that he’d heard others describe as ‘terrifying’. And they weren’t wrong, but nobody wanted to admit how alluring it was. Clark would be the first to testify: because it was your sheer determination that convinced him to join Team Orbital until the end of this season.
That confidence—and the pretty smile that wrapped around it—was this flying man’s downfall.
It was the preferred accommodation for those participating in the GP: four stars and many floors of buzzing chaos, just days before the race. Every elevator was swarming with people wearing uniforms and checkered lanyards. The breakfast buffet saw constant streams of execs, all men, their shirts unbuttoned way past propriety. Whenever the hotel staff smiled, it was in a stiff way that told you they were bracing themselves for impact or already going through the worst mid-shift turbulence of their lives.
Smart team managers would have booked out rooms in advance. Team Orbital was one such prepared customer, with the entire twentieth floor reserved for their highest profiles.
Clark’s luck—or lack thereof—might be inversely proportional to the blessings of his superpowers, or so he’d like to believe.
Otherwise, he’d have no logical explanation as to why your room was next to his.
The weather throughout the week was a beautiful, clear blue. Pretty much miraculous by Great Britain standards. It seemed the unexpected sunshine gave everyone an extra shot of dopamine except for the metahuman that literally regenerated under it: Clark walked around like the dark beginnings of a minor twister.
His upset wasn’t because of your constant daredevilry behind the wheel.
As a matter of fact, you’d been a good driver. A great one, even. You were obedient and kept to the playbook he talked you through the headset—even the back-up ones he prepared like a paranoid Marvel scriptwriter.
Which left him with nothing to blame his gloominess on…
…other than the true reason. One he wasn’t ready to admit.
He was upset because you were flirting. With every. Man. Alive.
Exchanging too-friendly small talk with a blonde at the lobby whom he was certain you’d only met once. Smiling at suit-donning silver foxes by the circuit. Who were they, anyway? Rich people spectating, or FIA directors?
But the most displeasure Clark experienced was when you bantered with your second driver.
James Barnes. More boy than man. Just joined Team Orbital at the tail end of last season to fill up an empty seat. He was of legal drinking age despite his pretty face, with an eye color not so dissimilar to Clark’s, except they didn’t have a hard time looking directly at you.
“Don’t do anything stupid, James,” you unzipped your suit, revealing a white tank top underneath (did you have to do that in front of everyone?), “or Mr. Kent is going to be upset with us.”
James was clipping on his helmet for his turn on the track, but it didn’t hide his handsome smirk. His eyes flickered down to your lips for a very obvious second. Clark wished he didn’t catch that.
“With me, he will,” James stretched a gloved hand, “but how could he ever be mad at a pretty thing like you?”
You chuckled, undeterred by the blatant advances of a junior: “Are you flirting with me so I’d let you win?”
“I’m flirting with you because you’d make it harder.”
—for him to win the race, that was what James meant, but the wording was far too suggestive to be dismissed.
Clark hated that he could hear you from this distance between the back of the garage to trackside. No, he wasn’t tuning in like you were the radio; his range was just that far, promise. But the exchange spiked his blood pressure enough to fake a trip to the bathroom. He quietly murmured his exit to the rest of the team.
Why can’t you be as smooth on the circuit as you are with double entendres, James?! he wanted to yell, almost stomping to the stalls.
“Get a grip, Kent,” Clark said to his own reflection instead, ignoring the confused stare of some guy two steps down the sink next to him.
James’s room was all the way at the other end of the floor. God bless whoever was in charge of hotel arrangements—for putting that man far away, of course. Not necessarily for making Clark your neighbor.
Because even lingering at the outer fringes of your existence was torturous enough for the so-called Man of Steel.
Staying next to your room meant he had to endure an extra five minutes of being with you outside of what his job entailed, multiple times almost every single day: walking out the same gym, taking the same elevator, bee-lining down the same damn hallway until you stopped in front of the door next to his.
Five minutes.
Long enough for you to know he was painfully aware of you. Long enough for him to take you in.
To survey your curves the way he would a racecar’s—claiming it was for study, when really it was admiration. To assess the correlation between that last km on the treadmill with the color on your cheeks—the harder you trained, the lovelier the shade. To flag an errant bead of sweat, outlier to the common pattern—rather than evaporating into something he could inhale, it traced down your bare arm instead.
And yes, while you undoubtedly had some idea of the effect you had on him, there was no way you knew the extent of it.
No way for you to know he had your scent stored in a memory olfactory, labeled The most infuriating person in the world. Couldn’t tell he counted your heartbeat during fitness testing, just in case you pushed too hard. Clueless as to how he stared at you when you were turned away, as if waiting for your eyes to meet—only to avert his gaze when they did.
Lord and Savior, help him. He was a goner. When did he become a goner?
He remembered Night One at the Hilton. The elevator was going up, people filtering out until it’d been the two of you left. You’d been humming some pop song he’d only ever heard on the radio. Stepping out the box were two matching strides: same destination, diverging mindsets.
You’d messed with him then. You always did.
“Why, Clark. Are you following to my room?”
“Mine’s next to yours.”
“Too bad. Kinda wished you were.”
That wasn’t when he fell. He’d already been ensnared long before.
It didn’t help that, on top of your talent in driving (him insane), you were blessed with a creative mind. You never failed to come up with a new remark in the two-second window before keycards were swiped.
“I’m so sticky,” you sighed.
He swiped his first. Beep.
“Take a shower, then.”
“Join me? Save water and all.”
Halfway through the door, he muttered a ‘no, thank you’.
Clark caught your shrug in his periphery.
“Worth a shot.”
Then his door closed a little loud, mimicking the hammering of his heart. He heard you enter your room right after.
Before his treacherous brain could imagine you sauntering barefoot to the bathroom, gym clothes discarded, he raced to recalculate deviations on his laptop—as if he didn’t get them right the first time around.
·—̳͟͞͞ ☆
The straw that broke Superman’s broad back landed on the night before the race.
Clark should be asleep, but every time he closed his eyes, calculations ran paranoid behind his eyelids like The Matrix. Whenever he took one step closer towards slumber, he was dragged three steps back to his laptop.
He was in the middle of looking through the same vector for the nth time when some noise occurred outside.
Rustling. It reminded him of his childhood cat, who—aside from killing all the mice like the good girl she was—had a habit of rummaging for extra food in the pantry.
Greedy.
He opened the door to check, even if he didn’t need to. He’d recognize that heartbeat anywhere.
You were in the hallway, going through the abyss of your purse in search for what he assumed to be your keycard. High-heeled, skin generously bared until the hem of your short dress, hair tastefully mussed in a way that suggested a fun night out. The outfit and your make-up glittered in the dim light, shining like a trophy.
Had you been out drinking?
“No, I just danced,” you drawled, finally producing the keycard from your purse.
He didn’t realize he asked out loud.
But Clark being Clark, he knew better—the faint smell of alcohol wasn’t wafting off your dress.
At the stern look he gave you, you placed a hand on your hip, sighing.
“Fine. I only had one watered-down drink.”
He ran a disappointed hand down his face, caring little about leaving fingerprints on his glasses.
“You can’t be serious,” he breathed, “The race is tomorrow and we need you in top shape!”
“Tell me this isn’t top shape.” You had the gall to give him a twirl, the hem of your dress lifting slightly. To your credit, you didn’t stumble on those heels.
And you looked great. Top shape, indeed.
You smiled at him. “I’ll be fine. Race doesn’t start till after noon.”
He crossed his arms like they covered the soft spots he had for you, and boy did he have many. The upset melted away too fast to his liking.
You didn’t need to know.
“I’m gonna put you in the G-force machine first thing tomorrow,” he said, trying to sound more severe than sleep-deprived.
“We don’t have one here, silly,” you smirked, “Unless that’s a euphemism for—”
Red crawled up his cheeks. “Quit it.”
Then he caught it.
Your eyes were tracing down his body that filled up the doorway, languid and slow, just like how his eyes wished they could trace down yours. The smirk on your face broke into a grin.
You pointed at his shirt.
“You’re such a nerd.”
His Star Wars: A New Hope T-shirt stared back at you.
Clark should get an award for not falling for the ‘rage’ part of ‘ragebait’. The fact of the matter was that he was already falling in another entirely different context.
He pretended not to see you appreciating his gray sweatpants.
“You need a nerd to win the Grand Prix,” he righted his glasses. “Now, bed. Please. Tell me you actually know how to go to sleep.”
“I know how to make you not want to go to sleep,” you purred.
He sighed your name. “Get some rest.”
You gave him a mock-salute. “Roger, roger.”
Then you swiped your keycard and disappeared into your room.
Clark’s brows furrowed.
Was that a Star Wars reference you just flung at him?
II. ACCELERATION
The circuit was a living organism.
Grey asphalt sprawled under unusually blue skies, its old veins forming deadly patterns. You and 23 other drivers were its lifeblood, rushing in pulses of red-hot engines and tires that unspooled like thread. Bodies melded into four wheeled-bullets as they shot down corners in supersonic speeds. The air reeked of fuel fumes and burning rubber. Every light brush into heavy impact formed a supernova: disasters so spectacular it was impossible to look away. At the heart of the chase was a need to seize first place in one of the world’s most prestigious Grands Prix.
This was the anatomy of peak human performance.
Still, some people couldn’t help wanting to break the limit.
You were one such person. Right now. In lap 51 out of 52.
“I’m pushing.”
Your car was in second place, a steady shadow behind the irritating backside of a Red Bull. Clark figured anyone who looked at that bright crimson long enough would be inclined to start a fight (who was the Bull now?). Heck, it pissed him off, knowing a sloppy machine like that was in pole position.
To say the formation was packed was an understatement. The top five cars, yours included, looked like they were being pulled on a single invisible string: a choreography followed so precisely that the distance between rear and front seemed no more than a strand of hair.
There was no room for error. No room for anything at all.
From Clark’s point of view (views, considering he had about five up on screen) in the pit wall, you were landlocked.
Fall in line, and you’d end up on the podium—just not the spot you wanted. Move, and you’d be rewarded with broken bones—or worse.
The rock was assumed mediocrity. The hard place was death.
“Clark, I’m pushing.”
“I’m not comfortable with that suggestion,” Clark replied into the headset mic. Words that massively downplayed the wreck in his chest.
The pit wall was divided. Seven critical team personnel, no opinions shared out loud—but Clark saw the unseen statistics.
Out of all of them, half quite literally sagged: the last two laps were as critical as the first two, yet their body language screamed acceptance before you crossed the finish line. Second wasn’t bad. What was wrong about placing second when the alternative could end your career? their resigned faces seemed to say.
The other half were implosions contained beneath Team Orbital uniforms: hearts pumped in a pattern that reminded him of hostage situations, the rush of blood apparent in clenched fists and locked jaws. These were the people begging for a Hail Mary—a small chance to be written into legends. Crashing was mere occupational hazard. A respectful sacrifice for the greater reward.
Clark himself was on the fence.
Clearly, you were not.
“Come on,” you gritted, voice slightly shaky from the engine rattle, “I just need to overtake one car.”
He glanced at the live feed of data. It wasn’t where the solution lived, but seeing your car’s vitals in the green offered a glimpse of relief.
“Negative. Hold. It’s too dangerous.” His voice was steady in contrast, but behind cold articulation was real fear.
“Please,” for once, you sounded like you were actually begging, “if I don’t do this, I’m stuck here!”
“I know, but crashing earns you no points, and if you gamble right now, you just might crash,” he replied.
But between you, him, and everyone else tapped into the public line, the message was clear: this was no longer about points.
This was about you.
“Fuck,” you swore. “Come on. Plan S on Turn 9. I can do it.”
“That’s a 90-degree turn!”
You laughed, crackly through the comms. Not quite as confident as you usually were, but the sound escaped anyway, light above the shrill howl of your car.
“High risk, high reward.”
This was it, he thought.
The thing that kept you apart, yet inseparable. A taut force of nature, greater than attraction and repulsion combined: you pull him one way, he resists to the other, but the center of gravity rests in one formula that trammeled two variables together.
The friction was in his deep care for life against your absolute disregard for your own. The tide was how the two of you were prepared to die.
He’d think you were insane, risking life and limb for the game, but who was he kidding? He would do the same for a squirrel. Actually, he already did exactly that for a squirrel.
And yet there was insurmountable bravery in you: because you weren’t invulnerable like he was.
Because if you crashed, you might actually—
“One date.”
The static from the radio rang loud, temporarily halting the rest of that dark though.
“…What?” his brows knitted.
“If I win, let me take you out on a date. Just one.”
In your voice was teasing, but also a hint of sincerity—and somehow, that was enough for Clark. The circuit’s controlled chaos became his own: his breath hitched the way overworked gears did, a flush washing over him like heat-soaked tarmac.
The convoy finally passed five lights marking the line. On the commercial feed, Clark heard the announcer’s excited exclamations.
Lap 52. The last one.
Your car was hunting Red Bull’s, blue metal bodywork beginning to inch out of formation. You no longer shadowed. You stalked.
“C’mon, Kent,” you goaded. “Dinner. Drinks optional. Or is that too much for you?”
Turn 1 passed with Red Bull cognizant of your maneuver, and with an angled adjustment, the window to overtake closed. You fell back in line. The pit wall groaned collectively.
“Answer her!” the Sporting Director barked from the furthest end of the seven-seater—Perry White’s blood pressure must be unhealthily high right now, but who was Clark to talk? His heart was pumping just as fast.
“Say something,” That was Lang, Head of Track Ops seated to his right.
“Say what?”
“Anything,” she hissed, “Just banter, at least it’s good for publicity. God knows you both already do it all the time.”
The already burning track felt even warmer, but his fingertips on the console grew cold.
Sure. Publicity. Maybe that was why you were saying these things to him—for something people would talk about long after the smoke cleared and the track cooled. Something you could blame on the heat of the moment.
All in all, it was a bad hand in a worse gamble: you ruled as queen of diamonds to his jack-of-all-trades, and the chips could very well fall off the edge of an already precarious relationship. To bet on this would be a tactical failure.
Or would it? Your voice sounded different. Deliberate.
He did it anyway—a part of him wanted to try.
Better to suffer a hurt the sun couldn’t heal rather than live the rest of his life wondering what if.
“Dinner and drinks,” he finally said into your ear, “but I call the shots on what happens after.”
The pit wall team reacted physically: hands ran through hairs, fists clenched as though vindicated in the belief that Chief Race Engineer Clark Kent could rizz you back if he so wished. Meanwhile, Clark tried to forget the fact that the radio line was extremely public. Somewhere in the world, a stream devotee probably sat up straight at this exchange.
You laughed like g-force wasn’t rattling your brain. Or maybe you laughed because it was.
“Knowing you, it’s just ice cream and a kiss goodnight.”
“Were you hoping for something else?”
“Do you have any other suggestions?”
Your dash cam showed that tilt again, the knife-edge balance before the pounce—a maneuver designed to push both your car and Clark’s restraint to their limits. The announcer went wild at your obvious attempt to overtake despite the tight line forming behind the pole position. Clark’s body reacted.
Where the words came from, he didn’t know. At least that was what he’d admit: because in truth, he’d found himself saying them before.
In fantasy, and only in fantasy.
Until now.
Realistically, he’d prefer taking you out for three dates minimum before even considering that. But now was his only chance, and Turn 9 was fast approaching.
“I could teach you how to behave, for once,” he rumbled into the mic.
Someone to his right coughed.
All radio messages were recorded. Somehow, that wasn’t the worst part.
The worst part was him feeling like this could never be real.
That whatever you saw in him would fade after this, the sparks traded in with large, victorious fireworks. That after the press conferences, after the debriefs, you’d say I was joking or something even more cruel, like how you’d been building towards this all season, and how you were sorry he misunderstood.
Because you loved the game, and you loved winning it even more.
But Clark wanted to help you regardless: not because of the prestige he’d earn, but because he cared for you.
And so he’d do it. Anything. Analyze the calibrations of your car every day. Take your jabs. Watch you flirt. Flirt back at you on radio.
He just wished you knew it was real.
“Deal,” you smiled—again, he didn’t have to see your face to tell, “I’m pushing.”
“Wait, now?” he stammered out of his reverie, “You’re not in position!”
“Then position me, Kent!” you yelled back. The live speedometer told him you were leashing the car at a steady 256 kmph, sitting in Red Bull’s dirty air. “It’s your goddamn job!”
Next to him, other engineers and operators chimed in with reports like they didn’t hear anything inappropriate.
“Deltas optimal. No deviations.”
“Thermals within limit. Confirm to proceed.”
Understanding washed over him right then and there: this was the cusp of everything you’ve worked for. Winning even one race was considered a major achievement, not to mention Silverstone, where this all began. What right did he have to hold you back from this? Everything counted on this final maneuver, and he wasn’t about to tell you to jam the brakes.
He breathed, the exhale slightly shaky. So that’s settled, then.
If you crashed, he’d fly right off to you, secret identity be damned.
He’d do anything to keep you alive.
“High risk, high reward.” Your voice softened.
Are you scared? he wondered. It’s alright. I’m here.
Then came his steady reply.
“On my count.”
“Roger, roger.”
He pictured your mock-salute. The space between his ribs ached.
“Target 300 on dash, then early apex. Plan S on three.”
“Ferrari’s on her tail,” Track Ops warned. Like Clark didn’t see the prowl happening behind you.
“Let him tail! Count!”
“One.”
Eyes trained on the live telemetry of your car. The dial turned up gradually. 298, 299, 300 kmph.
“Two. Keep it tight.”
You did. Wheels nearly touched on both front and rear, he swore he heard the safety car sirens in the distance.
Clark’s fist clenched. Red Bull was in the way, stubbornly blocking your path, but the early apex should negate that.
“Wait for it.”
Just before the 90-degree corner, there it was. A sliver.
“Three. Now!”
You pushed. It wasn’t dramatic—the steering wheel tilted only a fraction of its actual angle, but the acceleration roared alive as you hit top speed on the bend, sparks and smoke flying off the tarmac as you broke free from the locked line, turning earlier. The formation behind you scattered, every driver finding different apexes in the corner.
“Come on!” Perry yelled.
Orbital Blue saddled Car Number 1 now, side by side, before the rush of clean air carried you forward in an aerodynamic push.
Now it was Red Bull who ate your fumes.
The commercial feed blasted alive with the announcer’s enthusiasm. “—Team Orbital comes out of the slipstream! She’s leading!”
The pit wall burst into cheers, but there were still nine more turns until the end. Relief was temporary, fading into baseline tension as you continued to give the other racers a hard time cutting. Clark was with you all the way, talking into the mic.
“Back to Mode 10. You did good.”
“I know,” you laughed back.
“You’re 0.9 seconds ahead,” he read off a graph, trying his best not to smile, but the curve on his lips were widening like the distance between you and the car behind.
You cleared the next turns with a tailwind boon. What came last was the final sector: easy without a Bull blocking your way.
“She’s gonna do it,” Perry hollered, anxiously standing up.
A slashing blur on the track past checkered flags waved in the air, and history was made. The other cars followed too far behind you to matter. Team Orbital’s pit wall erupted in another bout of celebratory hoots twice the volume, while Clark sagged against his chair, breathing once again. His tired eyes watched the screen as the announcer went wild.
“—Team Orbital, winner of this year’s British Grand Prix, passing Red Bull in the final lap! What a moment, ladies and gents—”
There was so much noise in and around his periphery. The crowd in the stands cheered as the last cars flit past. Your second driver James finished at P10 out of 24, earning a point. At least he wasn’t a complete embarrassment.
Just as Clark was about to take off his headset, you spoke into it, playful amidst your victory lap.
“So, about that date…”
III. GRAVITY
The moment you stepped out of your car, there was no moment of calm. It was the storm after the storm.
Cameras flashed, crowds cheered, and you were swept away from one interview to another: trackside, podium, press conference—relentless clamors and sponsored backdrops blurred into something that felt like one long fever dream. Through it all, chaos was the only constant.
The only other constant? The media teasing you about the very public way you asked Clark Kent out on a date.
Every microphone pointed at you seemed to have a spicy question on the other end. How you managed to handle them all after an activity as grueling as professional motorsport racing, you had no clue.
So where are you two going to have dinner?
“I haven’t had the time to look up places. Do you have any recommendations?”
I’m asking for the sake of your fans—are you going on a real date with Mr. Kent?
“If he’ll have me,” punctuated with a light shrug.
How long has this been happening, you and Clark?
“I’m not sure what you mean. Nothing has happened yet, but I’m hoping that tomorrow night, something will.”
The room chuckled good-naturedly, like responding to a joke at a party.
Meanwhile, your answers were all heart-crossed truths.
When you checked your phone in-between being escorted to yet another crowded room, you realized how quickly the internet had picked up the news. Headlines poked fun at your romance-fueled win, some cynically calling it out as a cheap tactic to stir sensation. Instagram was busy speculating your and Clark’s ship name. There were TikToks captioned ‘pov you just asked your chief engineer out mid-race’—that audio, clipped from public comms, was already trending.
You couldn’t blame them. Clark’s voice was smooth and deep even through radio static.
Were you hoping for something else?
I could teach you how to behave, for once.
The volume on your phone was loud enough for your PR manager to cough awkwardly as you walked down the hallway with the rest of the suits, caught off-guard. The suggestive words kept looping.
You locked your phone and bit the inside of your cheek in expectant curiosity.
Was he for real when he said that?
As much as you’d like to confirm with the man himself, the only time you’d been able to catch a glimpse of him was during the debrief. Before the flurry of interviews.
Everyone important had been there: pit wall crew, execs, Marketing, you name it. Clark had dressed down from the official tracksuit to a navy blue Team Orbital T-shirt, its logo stretched deliciously tight across his chest. You found it funny how nobody had addressed the elephant in the room. Perry was all congratulations and rousing speeches, and then Clark himself hyper-focused on data, data, data—but you hadn’t missed the Ferrari red dusting his cheeks, nor his white-knuckled grip around a poor remote control.
That same grip wrapped a cold glass of something during the afterparty, when you finally walked up to him.
To your surprise, he didn’t shy away.
“Any cravings?” you asked from behind the rim of your drink.
“You’re serious?”
He asked so earnestly, your ribcage didn’t have a choice but to ache.
“Mm-hmm.”
Deciding it was too loud, he leaned down to reply above the thrumming bass that masked your heart’s own.
“There’s this place I think you’d like,” his baritone brushed the shell of your ear.
You swallowed, nodding, but your mind pulled you back to the champagne popping earlier that day—and how the violent gush of it looked like a poorly-disguised innuendo.
“Let’s go tomorrow night,” you said back.
Then the party ripped the two of you apart with a tide.
The other drivers had found you, arms flung across your shoulders in boisterous praise while precariously-balanced drinks threatened to spill all over the club floor. Meanwhile, Clark was rushed by one Jimmy Olsen from Marketing and a whole lot of women, their siren-like eyes roaming down Clark’s body as if surprised they hadn’t noticed this man before.
You tried to ignore the rise of jealousy in you, and instead focus on James Barnes’s smirk as you downed a drink together, arms locked, men around you chanting to chug, chug, chug!
There was no time nor space to notice Clark’s gaze on you for the rest of the night.
·—̳͟͞͞ ☆
The next day rolled around, and you were surprised that Clark held up his end of the deal.
Clark Kent: Good morning. I hope you’re not too hung over. Do you need some Advil?
A gap in-between texts, sent too early for you to have been conscious—like he’d realized you were probably still asleep.
Clark Kent: I’ll come pick you up at 7 for dinner
You bit back a smile past your headache. Pick you up? The man was literally in the next room.
You: see you at 7
You: what should i wear?
A moment later:
Clark Kent: Whatever you want. I’m sure you’ll look beautiful
The way your heart leapt out of your chest was almost violent. When had you last felt so over the moon over something so simple? You chose your outfit with revenge in mind: hem just short enough to show off skin, cute heeled shoes, and an even cuter matching set hidden from view—which, if the steering wheel took you there, would be not-so-hidden at the end of the night.
There was no way for you to hear his heartbeat, but the look on his face when you opened the door at seven said enough.
“I was right,” he exhaled after looking at you from head to toe.
“I hate to say it, but you often are,” you smiled, a thin disguise for your cluttered nerves.
“You look… really good.”
Bless him for finding the strength to breathe that out, the syllables almost shaky.
Calling him handsome would be a disservice. He looked mouthwatering in that crisp shirt and slacks, the sleeves of the former rolled up revealing forearms, enough to be distracting.
You were merely a woman.
“So do you, Clark,” you managed.
·—̳͟͞͞ ☆
Here you were, four hours into one of the best nights you’ve ever had in your life.
Dinner had been spectacular. To fulfill the prophecy, you got ice cream afterwards before wandering the city, laughing because neither of you could stop making jokes out of your jobs. How could you take the words ‘cockpit’ and ‘wet conditions’ in the same sentence seriously?
And maybe it had been the starry sky or the way you’d dressed differently for the occasion, but for the first time in a long time, both you and Clark existed without arguing—an ease so rare, it should be savored to the very last second.
The season wasn’t over yet.
In two weeks, you’d loop back into the same routine: he’d tell you to stick to your marks like a disappointed parent, and you’d push his buttons in return.
Something shifted when you passed the threshold to the hotel lobby. You thought it was some kind of letdown: a normal reaction for a good time that was about to end.
But as the elevator door closed with just the two of you inside, it felt like moments before you were sealed in the cockpit of your racecar—alone with nothing but compressed air. The charge in the atmosphere made itself clear.
It was anticipation.
The same one that tainted every elevator ride you shared with him before the Silverstone race. Before any race—or even longer than that. You recognized its taste, sharper on your tongue this time, making you tingle with awareness at the gap between his hand and yours.
There was a ding and you nearly jumped under your own skin.
You drowned in the same silence. Stopped at the same floor, walked down the same hallway, ignoring the same electric buzz of bodies: except this time, its crackle reminded you of an overheated engine. One that bristled for attention after being left to run for too long.
One that swore vengeance to detonate.
And yet he pushed it to its limits—and you—by not saying anything, wordless even as you reached your door.
You looked over at him.
He was already looking at you, blue eyes polluted with a darkness you weren’t accustomed to seeing.
He looked intoxicated. You knew he was anything but.
Those eyes bored into you as if they were betting for you to break the silence. As if he was saying show your hand, or I’m not playing.
Passivity wasn’t something you’d normally tolerate in a man, but your bones were telling you he wasn’t just compliant. Something in that look clearly showed he didn’t need encouragement. No, not an inch of the six-something-feet of him needed to be encouraged—you could tell by the slight coil in his forearms, the tightness in his jaw.
What he needed was permission.
Of course, you thought. That was the kind of man Clark was.
A good one.
So you gave it to him.
“Aren’t you going to give me a kiss goodnight?” you breathed, eyes studying his face.
He moved in front of you and you almost thought he was going to. Give you a goodnight kiss, that is: the kind that was sweet as the ice cream you had, light with plenty of room for more. The kind that wouldn’t leave a mark when you flew back to HQ, after which he’d be Clark Kent, Chief Engineer again—and not the Clark Kent you went on a date with, who opened doors for you, who cared about you more than anybody in the team ever did.
But then his hand was on your waist.
Shoes brushed yours as he pressed you gently against your room door. His height cast a shadow over you.
His face leaned down, hovering over yours. You could almost taste him when lips inched closer onto your own parted ones, but nothing came.
No kiss. Just him breathing your air, the slant on his face tentative.
The blue in his eyes were nearly gone, swallowed by dilating pupils. You almost gasped.
There he was, not even an inch away, suspended like he was grappled by some unseen wire only you could release him from.
You could almost see him think. This was a good man who feared he might be doing something wrong.
Because like you, he wasn’t just thinking about a kiss.
…But unlike him, you were quite sure this was right.
“I don’t think I can stop,” he whispered, “once I—”
The words floated in the air, lost. You used yours to help him.
“I don’t want you to.”
He swallowed, the bob in his throat clear as a green light go.
“But I don’t just want you once,” the rasp scraped against your lips, desperate, “not just tonight.”
You looked into his eyes, wondering if yours appeared just as hazy. You nodded.
“Me neither.”
But then he pulled back slightly and you felt cold. He licked his lips. Looked down on the carpeted floor:
“I should probably… take you out to another dinner before we—”
Your hand flew to his jaw, bringing him back to that heady closeness, this time separated by even less of a distance. His sentence devolved into heat, breath fanning your mouth, a sigh escaping him as you slithered your hands up his chest, then neck.
“Plenty of time for that later, Clark,” you whispered sultrily, glad to play the part of a serpent to his Eden, “but for now… we’re just—doing things in a different order, ‘mkay?”
That loose justification almost worked, except he still had something to say. His voice shook slightly—from desire or embarrassment or both, you couldn’t decide—yet the hands on your waist were steady.
“You… really want to go out with me?”
You chuckled.
“I was the one who asked you out in the middle of race, silly.” Fingers snaked back down to his chest—oh, his heart was beating so fast, you could feel it. “Yes, Clark, I’d love to.”
His next words were uncertain. “I thought that you—that it might’ve been for publicity.”
You hummed, toying with the second button of his white shirt.
“Rage-baiting you in simulator sessions doesn’t do anything for publicity,” you murmured, eyes low on his broad chest, “Neither does offering to share a shower with you—and I’ve asked you so many times…”
The groan he let out rumbled underneath your hands first before you heard it. Warm palms crawled up your sides, stroking your curves until one of them cupped the side of your face, directing you to look at him.
His blue eyes on you rushed a split-second moment of emotional sobriety amid the physical intoxication. It sank in slow, like a quicksand swallowed it, powerful as the force that kept you orbiting around each other.
This was really happening.
“Kiss me already,” you breathed.
When he did, it wasn’t urgent—not yet. The tilt of his face was patient, the brush of his lips tentative. But once they pressed into yours, he leaned forward like an unyielding force. Your back was flush against cool, painted wood, making you shiver.
The slight part of your lips wasn’t enough to tempt him. His patience was otherworldly, movements unhurried.
Like he was trying to make this last.
You’d never been good at discipline. Lips kissed his: once, twice, thrice, as though trying to coax him out of his impervious temperance. It didn’t work. Not when his hand caged your jaw, subjecting your motion to stillness under his pace.
“Open the door,” he husked.
He sounded impatient then, except he didn’t stop kissing you. Your fingers blindly dug into your purse, scrambling for that thin card. A relieved sigh escaped you when you found it—the beep it emitted yielding the knob of the door when he twisted it. You nearly stumbled inside, if not for his hand on your back.
Then you were pressed against the door again, this time on the other side, and he was all over you.
Clark kissed and kissed and kissed until you were sure you couldn’t breathe. Whenever you tried to, his mouth covered yours. You were dizzy within seconds—it terrified you a little, considering how even ge-forces didn’t affect you much—but the sensation made you melt against him even more.
Hands grasped at his biceps. His chest met yours.
A palm cupped your hip and your toes left the floor.
You should be surprised at how easily he picked you up. His lips distracted you.
“Clark—”
“You drive me insane,” he mouthed into your neck, teeth light as they scraped your skin. Your breath hitched.
“It was the only way to get your attention,” you answered weakly.
He looked up at you, glasses slightly askew. If you’d been a little bit more lucid, you’d have sensed the offense hidden in his gaze—the gaze that never took itself off of you in the name of doing his job, or a secret reason you were about to discover.
“You always had it.”
His reply made you kiss him the way you wanted to—hard, eager.
A weight landed heavy on your stomach.
He wasn’t reciprocating.
In fact, he moved even slower, if that was possible.
You whined, hands pawing at the front of his shirt, wordlessly asking for more. Apparently he’d reverted back to your dear Chief Engineer, because this Clark Kent didn’t bend at your whims.
No. He stood tall, a rock wall in front of you, hand on your jaw letting him kiss you slow, the other steadying your hip despite your heeled legs already hooking on his lower back. The press of his weight kept you at bay the softest way a man could: you were left stewing in your own need.
In return, he took what he wanted, how he wanted.
When his tongue finally slipped into your mouth, you moaned.
Hands began to clutch at his shoulders. A soft mewl escaped you. He huffed, trading breaths with yours, the fingers on your face coaxing your jaw to open more than you already did.
“Always gotta be the bigger person with you,” he grunted into the kiss while big hands roamed—one to your chest, the other up the hem of your dress, “You don’t think I want you just as bad?”
“Then why won’t you—ah—” you gasped, feeling him knead, “—hurry up?”
The answer was plain. Where you thrived in the rush of blood, he was the one who pulled you back. Leashed you to commands designed for your own good. His commands. Breathe and think, he’d once said during a stressful lap.
Funny how you could do neither under his touch.
“So I can savor this…”
His answer was flint on gravel, low and rough while fingers traveled on your body with restrained want. You were left tilting your head back against the door, trembling at the words he fed directly into your ear.
“…Savor you.”
“Clark, please,” you exhaled into the air. He stole it with a kiss.
Its sweetness pained you. He parted before you could deepen it.
“No. Need to teach you a lesson.”
Cool air rushed as he pulled the zipper of your dress down. Your chest heaved, nipples pebbling as the fabric slowly came loose—not quite off, but certainly not on, either.
He stood close enough for your noses to brush.
“I told you, remember?” he said, “You need to learn how to behave.”
You did remember. How could you not? Even if you deleted it from your memory, which you wouldn’t ever want to, the words were recorded in official F1 radio history.
For one second, you wondered if this was what it meant to poke the bear. Where was the mask of clumsy stoicism he wore while he did his job; the lovely flush of his cheeks when you purred a reply loaded with double meaning? He was pink now, yes, but there was no sign of the meekness that usually came with the color.
Then he moved, and you found yourself hanging on to him.
Footsteps carried you to the ensuite. He lifted you with just one of his hands, a fact you registered when heels came loose and clattered off mid-journey. His other twisted the door knob open.
Clark didn’t let your feet touch anything until the soft sheets, laying you down on the very place you often thought of him. His body followed suit. Muscular arms bracketed your head, weight landing soft on the mattress.
He leaned down and stared straight at you.
“Tell me you’ll listen to me.”
Your lips parted.
“No back-talk,” he husked, “I know what’s good for you.”
Ice ran down your spine at his words, though to say the sensation was unpleasant would be a lie. You tried to respond.
Oh, no. Where’d your voice go?
“Say it for me, sweetie.”
That nickname did the trick. You whimpered—a true mark that he understood your reward-based motivation enough to give you just a taste. It landed like an arrow to your heart: he could apparently see the effect he had, because he was smiling at you.
Soft, gentle. As if you were a fumbling kitten and not someone consumed with want.
“Come on. Tell me you’ll be good for me.”
Your insides melted, and so did the last dregs of your cultivated independence. You snaked your arms around his neck again, a serpentine effort to appeal to the side of him you so desperately wanted to please.
“I’ll be good, I promise,” you whispered.
That handsome smile widened, eyes half-lidded.
“That’s my girl.”
Heat zapped south. Your instinct to tease him was fried into nonexistence along with your nerves.
You could say it. Could murmur already calling me your girl after one date, Clarkie? up at his towering form, but you didn’t. The risk of upsetting him was too big of a loss, however imagined.
Tonight, you wanted to be good for him.
Then cold washed over you as he slipped your dress off. It got discarded to who knows where. The chill didn’t last long.
Because he saw what you had on underneath, and his gaze burned. Jaws locked.
“Wore this for you,” you admitted.
He groaned at that, hands tracing lace, partly sheer and wholly delicate. Blue eyes darkened past a point you didn’t know possible.
“Can I take ‘em off?” he breathed, eyes still raking down to your underwear, chest heaving at the ribbon sitting innocently at its center.
You didn’t answer—not with words, anyway. Just sat up and guided his hand to your back. His mouth pressed kisses on your temple and hair as he got rid of the last things that hid you from him, pretty as they were. He sat on his haunches, studying your reclined body under the dim glow of a night light, now bare.
“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured.
His lips locked with yours again, deeper this time, as if it allowed more of him to fuse into you. But his mouth didn’t stay for long: he moved down your body in a hungry path, sucking a mark into your neck and collarbone before capturing a hardened peak with heat and greed.
You writhed under him—futile thanks to his hand on your hip, the other groping at your chest before switching his attentions. The frame of his glasses brushed goosebumps onto your skin. Fingers darted desperately for some kind of anchor; you found it combing through his hair as his tongue laved and laved until yours nearly lolled out your mouth.
He slid his arm around your waist, and latched.
You cried out. It made him worse, humming as he sucked and nipped and played with you until he was sure your breaths were broken into little sobs.
Eyes locked with yours right as two fingers brushed your core.
Your body twitched in response, as if a simple touch—one you’d imagined more times than you bothered counting—was enough to set you alight. And it was: because it was his fingers that traced up the seam of your slick, not yours. His were callused ever-so-slightly, bigger, and entirely too warm, even when all he did was collect what you were leaking onto his fingerpads, smearing it onto your clit.
His mouth was still on your tit.
“Clark, please just—nggh—!”
Before you could fully beg, he’d read your mind and sank a finger in you.
What you thought would be mercy ended up not being enough—maybe you’d so obviously clenched your want in Morse code, because a second plunged into you in response, and then you gasped, the stretch telling you this was what you wanted to be.
Full.
And to think this was only two of his fingers.
He panted, pulling back to watch you.
“So wet,” the words floated, just as lost as his eyes when they locked on the way your cunt swallowed his digits, “So tight.”
His hand rocked experimentally. Your back replied with an arch, chasing the friction.
“Ah—”
He pumped in. Out. In again, curling in a way that made your head loll to one side. Clark stared all the while, took in the way your skin began to mist with sweat the more his fingers sank into your walls, memorized your moans when he brushed a gummy spot—each one chipped at his thinning patience.
Clark licked his lips, brows knitted, almost with concern.
“Think we’re gonna have to add another, baby.”
The third sank in almost too easily. You gasped at the burn, quickly melting into the mattress underneath you at the feel of him inside—just his fingers, but still much deeper than you’d ever hope to reach by yourself, no matter how hard you’d thought of him while you did.
“Shh,” he cooed against your ear. “You’re okay, sweetie. Just need to open her up for me.”
Okay seemed like too cheap a word to describe the sensation. You squirmed into his hand and he chuckled, eyes dark.
“Alright then. One, just like this, ‘mkay?”
“Please,” you begged.
He was kind enough to oblige, thrusting three in and out of you languidly. The world was quiet approaching the midnight hour, which only served to amplify the slick, wet noises as he finally sped up, your juices already making a mess between your legs.
He hit that spot again. It was too late to stifle the sharp cry that ripped out of you. You didn’t know who stayed in the other room next to yours—you only prayed they weren’t home.
Clark Kent was either the most compassionate person on Earth, or the meanest man who ever lived: he’d bent down and sucked on your tit again, his thumb rubbing your clit.
The outpouring of earnestness with which he moved was enough to send you tumbling over the edge. But perhaps tumbling wasn’t a fair description.
He was dragging you to your peak.
“Clark,” you warned, voice hoarse as you gripped the sheets—his shoulders—the sheets again.
“Hm?” he hummed around your nipple, lighting up your nerves beyond what you thought possible. The white that blurred the edges of your consciousness nearly rendered you speechless as you struggled to form the words.
“‘M gonna—” a thrust in, and your vision blanked, “cum, ‘m gonna cum…”
He moaned at that, loud and shameless, the vibrations reverberating from his mouth to your chest, then to your spine and all the way to your cunt—your hips swayed, craving more.
“So warm,” he mouthed against your tit, “C’mon. Give me one. Want you to come for me—”
As if your body complied, you arched, twisting as your walls clenched and gushed around his fingers. Clark muffled a low sound against your skin, eyes feasting on how your limbs shook and your lips fell into a perfect ‘O’.
It wasn’t just the sight of you that opened an abyssal appetite in him—his fingers felt it, felt you, and from there came a need to taste what you’d given him.
You were laying in your own mess, skin sweat-slick when his fingers left you. Scarcely sentient from the ecstatic buzz that still frayed your nerves, your hazy eyes watched as he took all three fingers in his mouth.
“Mmgh—hh,” his face melted, gaze locked with yours as his tongue wrapped one final swipe, a salacious pop at the release. “Gosh, baby. You’re so…”
He didn’t finish the sentence. Didn’t let you watch his face as his hands flipped you onto your stomach. It should be alarming, how easily he tossed your weight around.
“Clark…? What are you—”
He pushed a pillow under your chin. Kissed the top of your head before peeling his chest from your back.
“In case you need to keep it down.”
You twisted slightly to look behind you, still confused, but then his lips trailed down your back and realization washed over a second too late.
He was already spreading your cheeks.
“Look at you,” his voice rumbled far too close to where you were still twitching. “So pretty.”
The pillow made sense then, because when his mouth was on your cunt, you buried your face in it and screamed.
For someone seemingly worried about noise complaints, Clark was entirely thoughtless about his own noise. He tugged your torso towards him, the other hand making sure you were open as though he needed space to pour murmurs into your cunt, syllable after rasped syllable.
“Taste so good. Can’t believe you’re—mmh—letting me do this.”
You weren’t sure where your first orgasm faded and the second climbed. Even more unsure how you’d ended up this way: stomach pressed on the bed, hips up, your face buried in a pillow while he dragged the flat of his tongue up your leaking pussy, slurping like you were dessert, eating like the two of you didn’t go out to dinner earlier.
“C-Clark—” your hips jerked back without warning even to you, grinding against his face.
“She’s getting wetter, baby, how’s it possible?” he parted with a pop, scarcely giving you time to breathe before diving back in.
Something slipped between your folds. Something that wasn’t his finger.
Your legs shook.
While he kept you spread, his tongue licked up your seam and into your cunt. The intrusion birthed a second heartbeat in your core. Walls clenched. He hummed in return, pursuing deeper as you were dragged back to the climb you’d barely recovered from, the onslaught teetering on the edge of too much.
His words barely made sense with his mouth against your cunt—you didn’t hear them as clearly as you felt them.
“God, sweetie, I could stay here forever.”
The frame of his glasses grazed your ass and made you buck backward.
“Take it o-oh-off,” you managed to breathe out.
“No,” he answered, licking up into you, “wanna see you. Look, she’s clenching.”
A finger dipped into you, in to the knuckle and out to your clit, before his mouth descended to replace it.
If he kept this up, you’d be throwing your toys away in the morning.
You kept your face in the pillow, a stuttered moan spilling into the plush of it as he continued to eat past your orgasm and the tremble of your thighs. While you were busy gasping for dear life, disoriented, drool escaped from the side of your lips, forming a damp spot.
He lavished praises while his hands kept you open for him to take: “Good girl, good, good, girl” muttered as his tongue greedily gathered the drip of your honey, cleaning you up in the dirtiest way possible.
The moment he loosened his deadlock around your abdomen, you sunk into the mattress, limbs limp and shaky, blissfully unaware of what was going on behind you.
Clark watched your body melt in the dim, the rise and fall of your shoulders betraying the state of your lungs—lungs that trained so hard to remember how to breathe while rounding a corner at top speed, collapsed by just his mouth. Your hair was a mess. Sweat clung onto your skin and seeped into the sheets. Even with your back facing him, he’d never seen you look so spent.
He caught the generous glisten of slick on your inner thighs and grew hungry again.
You yelped in surprise when his hands dragged your legs to the edge of the bed. They dangled right before he flipped you onto your back again. Deep blue scanned your ruin—you glimpsed at a vein in his neck, the one that often appeared when his patience was tested.
Then his knees dropped down and he knelt in the space between your thighs.
Your open mouth was about to protest, but the sound quickly melted into a whimper as he hoisted pleasure-numbed calves over his shoulders.
“‘M sorry, honey. Want one more. Just stay still for me, okay?” he said, lips kissing your sensitive cunt again.
You couldn’t move even if you wanted to.
·—̳͟͞͞ ☆
One more turned out to be a lie. Clark had made you cum a third and a fourth time: the third on his tongue, before sinking his fingers into you, all while drunkenly cooing “You can do it, baby, you said you’d be good for me, didn’t you? I know, ‘m sorry, ‘m so sorry,” against your pussy. Your body obeyed for the fourth time despite the impossibility.
Now you laid in the aftermath, useless like a worn-out tire, catching your breath while he held you in his arms. Your back rested against his clothed chest.
Fuck, you thought, he hadn’t even undressed yet.
He’d popped his fingers out of his mouth not too long ago, cleaning out your taste—and then he murmured all sorts of things. Praises, gratitude, everything in between. The slope of his nose that had bullied your clit pressed against your cheek, your temple, your crown, placing kisses to punctuate words.
“Thank you. So beautiful. God, so perfect for me. My perfect girl.”
But if the hard bulge pressing against your ass and the damp fabric concealing him were anything to go by, Clark Kent was far from done.
If you wanted to survive this, you had to gain the upper hand.
It took everything, but you turned in his arms, hips sitting on top of his. He groaned at the grind of you, and that open mouth was the perfect opportunity to slide into a kiss, hands fisting the front of his shirt. The world spun—the kiss both grounded you and made the spin worse. Tongues swept, tasting each other. His fingers traced a lazy line down the nape of your neck, your spine, until the curve of your ass, earning a shiver from you.
While he palmed your tit, your fingers slowly unbuttoned his shirt. Not all the way through; just enough for you to slip both hands underneath and study his body by touch.
He was sturdy. More than he looked. Why an engineer would be so built, you couldn’t care less—right now, you just wanted to drink him in.
So you dragged your mouth down from his jaw to his sternum. Your hands trailed a path for your lips to follow, eventually stilling at his belt.
His exhale of your name was ragged.
Belt off, pants yanked down, you let out a sigh as his boxer-briefs came to view.
Cobalt blue, a pool of wetness darkening the color at the front. If circumstances were different, you’d make fun of how his underwear matched Team Orbital, but right now there are more important things.
Thing, to be exact. It rested under soft fabric, except restless was what it was, hard and twitching even when your gaze had been the only thing to brush against it.
He was big. You didn’t need formulas to tell you that.
But just to be certain, you peeled the waistband of his boxer-briefs down.
His breath stuttered.
There were other things you confirmed aside from his size—which was about nine mouthwatering inches, thicker than even the most ridiculous thing you’d seen online. The dim of the room muddled colors, but you could tell the shade of him was pretty: pink all over, darkening at the tip. Veins ran down his length like rivers, subtle except for one that was larger than the rest.
You traced that one with a finger. His cock twitched alive—more than it already was.
He called for you again. You didn’t look at him, merely brushing featherlight strokes up and down his shaft, humming.
“G-G—od, you don’t h-have to.”
Clark was a picture of abandon: head thrown back against pillows, dark curls tousled against the pillow that once swallowed your breathy moans. It lit an urge in you: half curious, half vengeful.
A window to overtake, metaphorically speaking.
From his arms loose on your body to the pool of lust in his eyes, it looked like he had no dog in whatever fight you sought to instigate. In fact, the way he waited patiently signaled that he was the dog in question.
“Don’t have to what?” you replied with false innocence, already leaning down to breathe hot air on his tip. He writhed. Restrained. Disciplined.
“Don’t have to—ngh—”
The spit from your puckered lips dripped right on his tip. Then your fingers wrapped around his cock, spreading the slick before pumping slowly, and Clark turned speechless, mouth open with nothing but noises to offer.
Delicious noises.
“Baby,” he sighed, voice thin.
“Hm?”
Because you were impatient before anything else, your tongue lolled out to take his tip, letting its weight rest in your mouth. A violent shiver wracked his body, followed by a stuttered cry. You giggled at the sight. The vibrations made it worse for him; or was it better? His hands found your hair, fingers firm on your scalp, pulling a moan out of you even when he hadn’t moved.
“Don’t have to what, Clark?” you teased, swirling once around his already leaking head.
“Don’t have to… do this.”
Yet he moaned when you took an inch deeper.
“I already have your cock in my mouth, silly.”
Clark hoisted himself up on elbows, gaze trained on you as though he couldn’t believe that you were in fact telling the truth. But actions convinced him more than words ever could: the heat of your throat as you took all of him in sent lighting up his spine; the cavern of your mouth so hot, so real, and so fucking perfect.
You let go with a pop.
“Unless… you don’t want me to?”
He shook his head. “No, no, don’t stop, d-don’t stop.”
Despite your eagerness, you learned a thing or two from his torture. You leaned back down. Bobbed slow. Kissed the tip at the agonizing up, breathing on it before the dive, letting his blunt tip hit the back of your throat. That was where you’d hum and hollow your cheek.
As a reward, his spine curled in, weak, almost like a sunflower facing the thing that sustained it.
You let him grip your hair, smiling at how good he was: where most men would crumble and fuck your face with that kind of hold, Clark held on to control. Docile. Patient.
It made you want to ruin him even more.
“Please,” he begged, low and shaky.
Which was why you took him out of your mouth entirely, licking your lips.
He whined, a thin and reedy thing that kicked your pulse to the eighth gear.
“Why—”
The rest of his sentence didn’t make it out, because you were on top of him, a hand keeping his cock steady while you slid it between your folds.
Not in. Just between.
Twin moans tangled in the feverish air. You relished the way he crumbled: subtle, like a slippery slope that forewarned a landslide. The chassis of his infuriating tolerance finally began to wear off with each pass of friction as your slick pussy traced his ridges, ending with his tip kissing your abused clit.
You rode him like that and watched him fall apart slowly.
Lips red like stewed cherry, parted wide. Eyes hypnotized by your movements, drinking in the way his cock gathered your juices, shining the more you glided on him.
His glasses fogged up.
Your mouth twitched into a smirk.
“Want me to put it in?” you purred, a wave of hunger rising in you.
He nodded like he was drunk. There was no focus in his stare. Drool began to leak out the side of his mouth as he looked up at you like you were the only thing he understood aside from the blinding pleasure.
“Yes,” he breathed.
Leaning forward, you nipped at his bottom lip. Once. Stern.
“Then beg for it.”
His hands held your arms—they looked so small under his grip. Meanwhile, your palm snaked up to the side of his face, feigning kindness before the grasp you had on his chin turned commanding. You made him up at you.
“Please,” he whispered.
You kept pace, allowing his tip to breach just a little before pulling back out. His cock glistened with your essence and his precum, wet slides filling the air with debauched noises.
“C’mon. Use your words.”
Shclick. Shclick. Shclick.
“Fu—ghh—ah, baby, please, please put it in,” he strangled out a pitchy whine, “I—hngh—can’t—”
“Good boy,” you huffed, overcome with a strange mix of delight and frustration.
When you finally sank onto him, you pretended it was out of mercy and not your own need for more.
Four orgasms didn’t make his nine inches easier to take; there was the girth to consider, splitting you open more than his fingers did. You couldn’t hide the strain on your face as you slid down slow, lips parted at the distracting burn of the stretch.
And then all of him was inside of you.
Both your head and his lolled forward to look, as if the sensation wasn’t convincing enough.
“Hah—you okay?” he groaned, more vibration than voice.
You nodded. Bounced once.
The strength in your thighs nearly melted, but you weren’t a racer only in name. You’ve trained. Practiced. Pushed your body past further limits than this.
The expression on his face both weakened your will and solidified it: you were just as lost as he, and yet you wanted to put him through worse.
You moved up to the tip, down to the hilt. Slow only because that was what you could afford—any more and you’d find yourself ruined before he was. The grind shot ecstasy to your brain, nerves firing at each roll, relief laced with the demand for more.
Soon, you told yourself, wondering if you’d get used to being stuffed like this. You’d ride him hard and fast once you were sure you could.
But Clark had other plans.
The world spun. Your back hit the mattress, body once again underneath him. The coil of his muscles was clearer from here. So was his molten gaze.
In one thrust, Clark buried himself fully inside of you.
You gasped, feeling him in your throat, eyes wide.
“Clark—”
“Is this what you—hah—hoped would happen?”
He did it again, sinking down faster than you thought you could take. Your brain shorted.
“H-huh? Ngh!”
“In that interview,” he continued, ragged as he fucked you slow and deep, “you said you hoped something will happen. You and me. Is this what you wanted, sweetheart?”
He didn’t make sense. Not while he impaled you like that. Yet there was kindness hidden in the pace, because if he went any faster, you weren’t sure you’d remain conscious.
“I don’t know what you’re ta-ah-alking about,” you managed to pant.
Clark didn’t honor you with a direct response other than another thrust in you, groaning in your ear.
“‘If he’ll have me’?” he quoted, almost roaring, “I wanted you first, since the very, gu—hh, fucking beginning—”
It should be embarrassing how fast the knot formed itself in your lower gut. You clawed onto his bare back. His shoulders were sweaty. When had he taken off his shirt? Nothing made sense anymore. Only the throb of his shaft bullying itself into you, your hipbones kissing his at each downstroke.
He groaned your name.
You had no governance over what came out of your mouth; no power to bite back the keen “Clark, please”, no intention to hide the little mewl that slipped when he filled you.
He was the same, or worse: mouthing at your neck in a poor attempt to silence a moan when he wasn’t feeding honesty that tasted like filth straight into your ear.
“See what you do to me?” he groaned, “how—haa—hard I get around you?”
Your throat bobbed, the column of it exposed wholly to him. Hands grabbed his biceps, while his caged your hips.
“Clark, ’m gonna—”
The sound that ripped out of his throat was growly and dark at the impossible clench of you around him.
“Come? Me too, baby,” he gasped, “You feel so, so good…”
A hand slid up the back of your thigh, pressing it to your chest to sink his cock deeper than you thought possible. Colors assaulted your vision even as you closed your eyes: a heatmap of pleasure shifted behind eyelids as he leaned down for an open-mouthed kiss, trading spit and the taste of each other just as his blunt tip bullied into that spot.
The one that made you scream.
“Fuck, Clark, I’m cumming—!”
So was he, the piston of his hips relentless as he pound-pound-pounded you through the finish line. You moaned out nonsense into his mouth, babbling “please, fuck, so good” over and over until the words melted into nothing but hoarse vowels. The clench and gush of you drove him mad, showering you with sobs of “good girl, gonna c-come inside, please, can I?” like he wasn’t already set on doing so.
Your response was a broken yes, yes, yes, and he thanked you so profusely you’d think you saved his life—when in fact he nearly ended yours at the first spurt.
It was hot, bursting against what had to be your cervix as he rutted deeper into you. Your greedy pussy clenched as if drinking him in, but even when your breath finally slowed, his spend didn’t.
Clark choked out your name against your neck, white-knuckling your hips as he ground—you arched, feeling him fuck his cum to parts of your body you didn’t know existed. You panted, glancing down: fuck, it was leaking, heavy driblets of it, and yet his cock still gave you more.
He was watching, too, blue eyes glazed with fascinated disbelief. Like he wasn’t expecting so much.
And then he smiled.
“Look. She’s drooling for me, sweetheart.”
Lust catapulted up your brain, disabling thought and memory. The only thing you understood was right now: how full you were from his cock and cum. Your chest burst at him kissing your face: eyes, cheek, nose, lips—but the ulterior motive behind such sweetness lived in his hands.
Broad, warm palms tugged and twisted you, coaxing you to lie on your side. He plastered his body against your, chest on back, fingers already working your thigh open and hooking under a knee.
You felt it then—the sensation of him coming alive inside of you as your walls twitched.
On the circuit, he was always pushing for a pit stop.
In bed, he was the opposite.
“Clark,” you croaked. What it meant, you weren’t sure. You couldn’t think.
Thankfully, his next words were one syllable each, quite simple to grasp even at your dumb state. He spoke them against your ear, a low promise dripping behind his voice—like high-octane fuel, nearly making you explode.
SUMMARY: She’s always been the good one until she snapped. She dropped out, left her toxic boyfriend, and went wild in Vegas… only to wake up as Mrs. Verstappen. Now she’s caught between who she was and who she’s becoming.
PAIRING: max verstappen x reader
WARNINGS: fake dating, slow burn, emotional rollercoaster, panic attacks, mentions of past abuse and mental health struggles, soft moments between chaos, strong language and a lot of “what are we?” moments.
TW: mentions of potential SA (full consent not exactly given) - this one is also a bit darker than the others so please keep this in mind before reading
She didn’t mean to end up in his hotel suite. Not really. Not like this. But she couldn’t say no to him. She never could.
Toto Wolff was everything she wasn’t. Powerful. Composed. Dangerous. He towered over her, all broad shoulders and cold beauty, watching her with that unreadable stare he used in boardrooms and driver briefings.
And yet his voice? When it dropped low in private? It was velvet.
“You trust me?” he asked, fingers brushing her jaw, his Austrian accent curling around each word.
She nodded.
“Say it.”
“I trust you.”
“Good girl.”
She stood trembling in front of him, bare beneath her robe, nervous fingers clenching the silk at her sides. Toto reached into the drawer beside his bed and pulled out a black satin blindfold. “Lie down.”
She obeyed. He leaned over her, slow, methodical, brushing hair back from her face before slipping the fabric gently over her eyes. “Once the blindfold is on, you don’t speak unless I tell you to. Understand?”
She whispered yes.
“You’ve never done this before.”
“No.”
“Then I’ll show you what it means to surrender.”
She lay still, breathing sharp, every sense heightened. She couldn’t see, and that made everything worse. The rustle of his clothes. The soft thump of him kneeling at the end of the bed. The click of the drawer opening again.
“You asked me to take just the tip.” She nodded. “But then you begged for more.”
She swallowed. “Yes.”
Toto dragged two fingers up her thigh. “And now you’ll get more. But on my terms.”
She gasped as something cool and hard touched her clit, and began to hum. The vibrator. Her hips jerked, hands clutching the sheets.
Toto’s voice was low. “Easy. Relax. You’ll thank me.”
He circled it gently, never pressing too hard. Never letting her fall too far. Every time her breathing hitched, he’d pull back. Every time she whimpered, he’d start again, slower. She was dripping. Shaking. So close to breaking.
“Toto,” she gasped. “Shhh.” He leaned over and kissed her collarbone. “You’re not coming yet. Not until I’m inside you.”
She felt his cock press against her, thick and heavy, one strong hand guiding it between her thighs. “Deep breath,” he murmured. “I’ll go slow.”
He pushed the tip in. She cried out, the stretch was deep and tight and too much, but perfect.
He didn’t move. Let her adjust. Stroked her cheek where the blindfold ended. “You’re doing so well, mein Mädchen.” “My good girl.”
She whimpered. “Toto-”
“I’m going deeper.” And he did. Inch by inch. Stretching her open on his cock, filling her with a slow, relentless ache that made her toes curl and her mind go blank.
“Feel that?”
She nodded.
“That’s not the tip.”
She moaned.
“That’s me. Inside you. Taking what you gave me.”
He started to move. Slow. Deep. Controlled thrusts that forced her body to open wider, take more, accept all of him. “You were made for this,” he growled. “Made for me.” The vibrator pressed to her clit again, and she screamed. Her orgasm hit like fire, hard, sudden, all-consuming. She shook beneath him, sobbing out his name, her body trembling with the force of it.
And still he didn’t stop. “I’m not done with you.”
“Toto-please-”
“One more.”
“No-”
“One more. Give it to me.” He fucked her harder, rougher now, the bed creaking, her blindfold soaked with sweat. When he came, it was deep inside the condom with a low growl, his hips slamming into hers, hands gripping her wrists down into the mattress.
After, he lay beside her, chest heaving. He pulled off the blindfold. She blinked up at him, dazed. “You said just the tip.”
Toto kissed her forehead. “You asked me to teach you.” And his voice dropped to a whisper. “That was lesson one.”
While walking along the street, a discarded flyer blows past in the wind…
With ever-growing curiosity, you collect the crumpled piece of paper to examine up close, unfolding it like a scroll.
MEET THE BAND! ☆
Lead Guitarist!
GEORGE RUSSELL x Manager!reader
GEORGE RUSSELL has been known to cause drama within the group. He’s constantly riling up his bassist, and degrading his other members to uplift himself. When they nearly split over these differences, they collectively decide to hire you. George discovers you’re just what he needed to stay grounded ♡
COMING SOON…
Drummer!
LANDO NORRIS x Rival!reader
LANDO NORRIS’ soul is as competitive as they get. He’s the whole reason FAST LANE enters various music competitions to begin with. He’s confident in his skills until he meets you, an overly confident and remarkably intelligent drummer: the first to rival his talent. He wants to hate you, but you’re too damn charming.
COMING SOON…
Bassist!
MAX VERSTAPPEN x Journalist!reader
MAX VERSTAPPEN hates people that snoop. He’s a fairly private man, which is a testament to his role. When you barge in after a particularly large scandal regarding the group’s lead guitarist and bassist, he struggles to keep his secrets, which then leads to trouble.
COMING SOON…
Keyboardist!
CHARLES LECLERC x Violinist!reader
CHARLES LECLERC doesn’t like rock music. He only plays for the band because his friends begged him too. However, when a fan approaches him one day and asks about his own personal album, he realizes his potential. You help him achieve his dream, but you also cause a rift in the group.
COMING SOON…
Rhythm guitarist!
OSCAR PIASTRI x Fan!reader
OSCAR PIASTRI’s been overshadowed his whole career. People love the lead guitarist— They rarely turn a blind eye to the rhythmic one. But when a cheery fan, roughly his age, is first in line to get his autograph, he can’t help but feel somewhat attached to her.
COMING SOON…
INFO ☆
All graphics are made by me, so please do not steal!
All stories were written by me and are original plots :)
Each driver involved is intended to only have one chapter
After dating for four years, actress Y/n L/n and Formula One driver Charles Leclerc have broken up. Once labeled the “it couple” of Formula One, the Ferrari driver released a statement earlier this week, leaving fans in shock.
Statement read:
“Hi everyone. This decision was tough on our ends, but unfortunately, me and Y/n decided to part ways and remain as mutuals. We are both grateful for the time spent with each other, and I’m wishing Y/n the best on her future endeavors. Please respect our decision and privacy at this time. Thank you.”
RECENTLY UPDATED
In an interview for Vogue, L/n has stated the reason behind of the break up was due to a demanding schedule that increasingly made it difficult to see each other. Despite this, the actress adds that she will always root for the Formula One driver and his career.
PRESENT
→ TWITTER
→ INSTAGRAM
archiveleclerc
Liked by norrishead, hamiltonsmile, sainzsiren, and 8,383 others
archiveleclerc Charles in Cannes!
View all 54 comments
user1 hold up let me spell gorjus real quick
user2 doing everything but win a world champion
user3 you think he’s here for y/n?
→ user4 user3 it’s been two years, move on
user5 don’t you think it’s weird he’s in the same space as his ex-girlfriend right now for cannes?
yourusername
Liked by lorde, daisyedgarjones, charles_leclerc, and 301,281 others
yourusername THANK YOU CANNES ❤️❤️❤️
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annehathaway 😍🤍
neonrated In love 🥰🥰🥰
wildflowercases THE PEOPLE’S PRINCESS
user1 congratulations to whoever is coming home to this every night
→ ynsferrari user1 i would’ve tagged charles leclerc, but then i remembered 😭
→ leclerced ynsferrari it might seem crazy to what i’m about to say (he liked the post)
The podium (L to R): Lando Norris (GBR) McLaren, second; Oscar Piastri (AUS) McLaren, race winner; Charles Leclerc (MON) Ferrari, third. 01.06.2025. Formula 1 World Championship, Rd 9, Spanish Grand Prix, Barcelona, Spain, Race Day.
So you know- English is not my first language. I have dyslexia. Let me know what you think about it, please."
Oscar Piastri x Reader (Y/N)
Warning! Context - Post race Y/N tries to take control but fails Power shift, restraint, power play, praise
He barely spoke on the way back to the hotel.
So when you stepped into the room, you knew what he needed. Or thought you did.
“You were still brilliant,” you said softly, walking up behind him, slipping your hands under his shirt. “Doesn’t matter what the results say.”
He let you pull the shirt over his head, let you kiss his shoulder, guide him gently toward the bed. You thought he needed softness. Safety. To be looked after.
You were wrong.
When you pushed him lightly to sit on the edge of the bed, his hand snapped up—grabbing your wrist mid-motion.
The look in his eyes stopped you cold.
“Enough,” he said, voice like stone.
You blinked. “I was just trying to—”
“I know what you’re trying to do. You think I need comfort. That I need to be handled.” He stood slowly, towering over you now, still gripping your wrist. “But you’ve been in control all night. And I’m tired of pretending I like it.”
Your breath hitched.
“Oscar—”
He stepped forward. You stepped back instinctively, and your knees hit the mattress.
“You’re going to lie down,” he said. “And you’re going to keep your hands where I put them. No touching. No guiding. No comforting.”
His hand slid into your hair, tugging your head back gently but firmly.
“Tonight, I take care of you by taking you apart.”
You exhaled, shaky. “Yes, sir.”
That word flipped something behind his eyes.
What followed wasn’t angry—wasn’t messy. It was methodical.
He restrained your wrists using his belt, looping it around the bedpost. Not because he needed to—but because he wanted to take away every ounce of your power. He wanted to see you submit, fully.
“You’re going to stay right there and feel everything I decide to give you,” he said, voice low as he kissed down your stomach. “No more control. No more fixing things.”
And he kept his word.
His mouth worked you over slowly, expertly, never letting you tip over the edge. Every time your hips bucked, his hands pushed you down harder. Every whimper earned a warning glance. Every near-orgasm was denied with a whisper against your skin "Not yet.”
You were soaked. Shaking. Desperate.
“Please, Oscar—please let me—”
He finally looked up. “Now you’re asking.”
He crawled up your body, one hand tightening in your hair again as he hovered over you. “Good girl.”
Then he took you, deep and deliberate, one hand gripping your bound wrists while the other stayed pressed against your throat—not choking, just reminding you who had the power now.
You came so hard you cried.
He held you through it, lips brushing your temple as your body convulsed under him.
“I’m still in control,” he murmured, voice soft again. “Just in a different way"
pairing: oscar piastri x fem!reader
summary: in which you always had a thing for oscar in his helmet OR oscar fucks you with his helmet on...
OUT SUNDAY JUNE 1, 2025
smut below! (18+)
comment or message me for taglist!
◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤
The helmet visor catches the bedroom light, flashing your reflection back at you. Eyes half-lidded, jaw slack, body twitching from nothing but the way he’s holding you there.
“Say what?” You whisper.
“That you’re soaking the fuckin’ sheets because I’m still in this stupid fucking helmet.”
The entire mafia princess series parts on one post 🩷
Please please PLEASEEE read the warnings
This series has ended, thank you for all your support!!
Series Masterlist
Part 1
Summary— She returns to an old business partner after he put her in her place; when the club she’s sent to has hot men lingering around, she stays a bit longer than expected.
Part 2
Summary— Her abrupt exit doesn’t cut it for her ex so he calls her nonstop until she answers.
Part 3
Summary— Charles whisks her away from all she’s known for the past few years and they go back to their old ways of toxic love.
Part 4
Summary— Shes in safe arms, but her head believes otherwise.
Part 5
Summary— Dinner with the drivers is casual, right?
Part 6
Summary— A sudden call in the middle of the night provokes her to do business.
Part 7
Summary— When Charles follows her for business they run into a tiny unresolved dilemma.
Part 8
Summary— When Gasly realizes she is back in town, he shoots a call her way but this isn’t ordinary business.
Part 9
Summary— After the business deal went awry; the Leclerc boys need to talk.
Part 10
Summary— Charles returns to racing while Arthur’s stays to watch over her, but tension arises.
Part 11
Summary— Charles returns from racing and they address the elephant in the room
Part 12
Summary— Charles confirms he was working on getting her a business to run, but she has to organize it.
Part 13
Summary— She buys her first big asset for her business, but how will Charles react?
Part 14
Summary— When everything starts out good, there’s always a hiccup to her plans
Part 15
Summary— Gasly can’t resist staying away, but she already had other plans in place
Part 16
Summary— Business had been good, but when Jinx starts acting weird; her husband makes an educated guess as to why
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