People seem to like my hands, so, here’s my first "tutorial", tackling my approach on how to draw and construct hands! I hope to do more of these, and that next one will dive into hand gestures and applying it with this structure.
There’s no Hogwarts for being a sex telepath. No one comes to your house to tell you “Hey, by the way, whenever you’re touching someone’s jizz you’ll be able to read their thoughts.” Carlos has to figure the whole thing out by himself. Obviously he can’t talk to anyone about it, because he would sound insane and gay, and he’s aiming for a seat in Formula 1. He can’t let a big tabloid reveal of his jizz clairvoyance stop that.
The internet isn’t much help. There are some discussions on Reddit, internet idiots joking around. A few grifters on the make—there’s a guy in Montana who says he can teach sex telepathy to anyone, satisfaction guaranteed—but no one’s offering what Carlos wants, which is the ability to turn the whole stupid thing off.
Well. Apparently he’s stuck with it, so he learns to live with it. Mostly that means ignoring it, which means choosing not to have much sex. It’s not the biggest sacrifice; Carlos is very career-focused. And his efforts pay off. He makes it to Formula 1. He makes it to Ferrari, even, the red car, the legacy, everything he ever wanted.
Then he ends up at Williams.
The car is shit, of course, and it’s not like the Ferrari was always a pleasure to drive, but sometimes the FW47 feels like an elaborate practical joke. Alex is a little bit of a dick about it, in a smiling way. Oh, you think this is bad? Should’ve been here in 2022, mate. Joking but not joking. He’s outscoring Carlos. Things just really aren’t great.
If the car was better, things would be better. But realistically, how much can Carlos do to improve the car?
And then suddenly, he has an idea.
He expects that it will be very difficult, seducing Oscar Piastri. They’ve not really talked much, and Oscar doesn’t seem like the most open of people. But it turns out to be simple as anything. Easiest pickup Carlos has ever made, not that he’s made a ton. “Oscar,” he says. It’s media day in Miami and the paddock is bustling, people swirling around them.
Oscar pulls his headphones slightly off one ear. “Yeah?”
“Do you want to come to my hotel room later. To discuss strategy.”
“To discuss—mate, we’re not on the same team,” Oscar says disbelievingly.
“Yes, I know,” Carlos says. He lets himself look at Oscar’s mouth. Sometimes, when Oscar is amused but doesn’t want to talk about it, his mouth quirks up at one side. But right now it’s a flat line. “We are not teammates, but there is still much to say, I think. I would like very much to…” Carlos leaves a seductive pause. Or he hopes it’s seductive, at least. “...hear your thoughts,” he finishes.
Oscar flushes pleasingly pink and mutters “Jesus,” and then, “This is so fucking stupid,” and then, “What hotel are you in, then?”
That evening Carlos kisses Oscar as soon as he gets through the doorway, only so he won’t start talking and asking inconvenient questions. Oscar makes a surprised noise against Carlos’s mouth, and then kisses him back. Carlos could get lost in it, kissing Oscar, how responsive he is, the little noises he makes, the warmth of his body through his t-shirt. But he’s not here for a good time, he’s here to do some career-saving corporate espionage. He pulls away so he can get his hand into Oscar’s jeans.
“All right, easy, mate,” Oscar says. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Carlos manages a chuckle and says, “I know this. I just—I want—”
Something flares in Oscar’s expression and he pounces on Carlos, kissing him again, walking him backwards until they’re somehow lying on the bed and Oscar is kissing Carlos’s neck, and then his hand is on Carlos’s dick and it’s been a while, for Carlos. That has to be the only reason it feels so good. That has to be the only reason Carlos is so loud, and he’s never loud like this but he can hear himself, stupid gasping groans and he doesn’t even care. He never wants Oscar’s hand on him to stop but he can’t stop himself, too soon, panting, hips twisting, spilling over Oscar’s fist.
It would be extremely embarrassing to think about the fact that he cried out “Ah, Oscar!” as he came, so he doesn’t. He simply lets himself bask in a post-orgasmic feeling of wellbeing. Gathering information about the McLaren doesn’t feel urgent right now. He just wants to float contentedly and let himself have this small moment of peace.
Oscar is less relaxed, biting his lip and staring at Carlos. Touching himself. “Fuck,” he says, “Carlos, you’re so—”
Carlos suddenly realises that if they stay in their current positions none of Oscar’s jizz is going to end up where it needs to be, on Carlos’s skin. “No, Oscar, wait,” he says. He pushes his t-shirt up, exposing himself. “On me. Please, on me.” Oscar lets out an obscene wailing sound and comes obediently all over Carlos’s chest. And there it is: with the wetness on Carlos’s skin there arrives at the edge of his mind an awareness of Oscar’s consciousness. Carlos mentally shifts himself closer to it.
Oscar’s mind feels cool and peaceful, like being in the sea on a hot day. His thoughts are of course in English. Unsurprisingly, perhaps, he’s currently mostly thinking about Carlos. He’s surprised that Carlos was so into him, although everyone’s thoughts have layers and underneath Oscar’s surprise there is perhaps a faint pleased satisfaction—a belief that maybe he always suspected, really, that no one could go around looking like that, like Carlos, without some freakishness lurking under the surface. Perhaps Oscar always knew, on some level, that Carlos would be up for it—
“Hey!” Carlos says. Then remembers he isn’t supposed to be able to hear Oscar’s thoughts, and shuts up.
Oscar blinks sleepily at him. He’s thinking that Carlos is acting strange but perhaps that’s simply how Carlos is. Maybe he’s done this to half the guys on the grid, propositioned them and then got really weird after. Maybe it’s going to be awkward every time he sees Carlos now. Oscar isn’t at all bothered by the prospect, but he thinks Carlos might be.
Carlos knows he shouldn’t, but he clears his throat and says, “Just so you know. I haven’t done this before, with a driver.”
“Wow,” Oscar asks. “You read my mind.”
He’s bantering, he hasn’t actually figured it out. Carlos just needs to stay calm. “Ha ha,” he says. “Good one. Um, maybe we can talk about cars now. What we like, about our cars this season.”
Carlos can feel Oscar mentally revising his estimation of Carlos’s inner freakishness even further upwards. To be fair, he’s not making much of an effort to hide his reaction. Carlos would probably be able to read it even without any jizz in play. “You really want to talk about cars now?” Oscar asks.
“Yes,” Carlos says firmly.
“Sure you don’t want to maybe, ah. Clean up a little first?” Oscar asks, jerking his chin at Carlos’s jizz-covered chest.
“No,” Carlos says. “I like it.”
Carlos feels Oscar’s admiration, the way he respects Carlos’s confidence in himself. Respect for straightforwardness in general lies right at the core of Oscar’s mind. He likes that Carlos feels comfortable being a full-on freak the first time he hooks up with a guy. Underneath that there’s a confusion of swirling wordless arousal and fascination and fear. Oscar dislikes being closeted, but also doesn’t particularly want strangers and fans to know anything about his personal life. It’s a lot for Carlos to sort through; he reminds himself to focus.
“You’re a dark horse, Sainz,” Oscar says. He reaches out to rub some of his jizz into the skin of Carlos’s pec, his eyes dark and interested. “You like this, yeah?”
Whether or not Carlos likes it is not the point. He needs to ask questions that will get Oscar thinking about his McLaren. “What do you think is the most important part of a car design,” he says. “If you picture the McLaren this year, for example.”
The next day Carlos goes to James. He is buzzing privately with excitement but hiding it, he thinks, pretty well. “James,” he says. “I have a source, with McLaren. They have shared with me some information about their car that may be of interest to us.” James’s habitual expression of mild concern doesn’t alter, but he manages to convey perplexity with a tilt of his head. Carlos ignores this and clears his throat. “Their brake cooling, it is more efficient.”
There is a fairly long pause. “Right,” James says. “Just to make sure I’m understanding this correctly: you have a secret McLaren source. And the secret information they’ve conveyed to you is that they’ve really cracked their brake cooling.”
“Yes,” Carlos says. For one wild moment he wishes James would jizz on him, so he could know what he’s thinking. “I cannot say more.”
James says, “Carlos,” and puts his arm around Carlos’s shoulders. Team Dad, activating comfort mode. Not really the response Carlos was looking for. “Look, your efforts to help us improve the car—I see them, all right? You’re doing well for this team, Carlos. You don’t need to feel that you should be doing anything else. Why don’t you just forget about this—this source, whoever they are. Let’s focus on getting some good races in, all right?”
Carlos obviously needs to get more information from Oscar. Better information. He sets his jaw. “Do not worry, James. I will do whatever I need to for the team.”
He has Oscar’s number because of GDPA stuff. After free practice he sends a text. 💦 again? When we are back in Monaco.
Typing bubbles appear and disappear several times. Finally Oscar sends Jesus carlos lol.
Carlos says, Is that a yes? After a few minutes Oscar sends back 💦 💦💦🤪. Obviously Carlos doesn’t have access to Oscar’s thoughts at the moment, but he’s pretty sure that’s Australian for “Yes Carlos, I would like to jerk off with you again soon.” Perfect. The plan is in motion.
The rest of Carlos’s Miami weekend is varying degrees of stupid, infuriating, and cosmically unfair. He scrapes two points in the feature race, but even that’s unsatisfying, because Alex gets ten. All through the celebration with the garage he has a pounding headache at the base of his skull, which doesn’t really abate until he’s back at his apartment in Monaco. It’s a relief when Oscar buzzes, precisely on time.
“Heya,” Oscar says. He seems wary, somehow, as if Carlos is a wild animal who might do something unpredictable and dangerous. This is annoying, because Carlos is being logical and sensible, but there is no way to explain that.
He says, “Hello, Oscar,” and Oscar nods. It’s absolutely fucking maddening, being around him and not being able to read his mind.
“I was thinking,” Oscar says.
“Yes, well done.”
“Ha ha. No, I was thinking—what if I fucked you?” Oscar’s voice is casual but his body language isn’t. For a moment Carlos is consumed by thoughts of Oscar’s body. Oscar on him, in him; Oscar surrounding him, the world as Oscar and Carlos just floating in it. He realises that Oscar is saying “Carlos?” and he needs to respond.
“I—yes,” he says. Then his brain kicks back online and he thinks it through. “Wait, no, I need—you can fuck me, but I don’t want you to use a condom.”
Oscar stares at him. Carlos stares back.
Oscar cracks first. “Okay, well, Mark will double kill me if I get an STD from a fellow driver, so—no, hey, I’m not accusing you, I just—let’s be safe, right?”
“Oh,” Carlos says. “Yes, you are right, safety is very important. Maybe we should wear Nomex, while we are fucking. Helmets also? I will speak to the Williams garage, and see if I can borrow a halo.”
Oscar rolls his eyes. “Yeah, or. What if I use a condom but pull out before I come, and jerk off over you?”
Carlos thinks this through. “It has to land on my skin,” he says, and Oscar hisses in a breath.
“You really are massively into being spunked on, aren’t you? No shame. Just, ah. Not something I would’ve guessed.”
“It is not—the Church does approve of condoms,” Carlos snaps, improvising wildly.
Oscar nods. He gets his mock-serious about-to-make-a-stupid-joke face on. It’s indistinguishable from his actual serious face, which makes the fact that Carlos can tell the difference mildly concerning. “Right,” Oscar says, “pulling out and spunking all over you it is, then. Anything to make the pope happy.”
Not a terrible stupid joke, as they go. Carlos knocks his shoulder into Oscar’s shoulder. “Whenever you are finished being unfunny, I am here waiting for you to fuck me.”
Oscar doesn’t understand, but he doesn’t need to. Carlos is going to make it back to the top of F1. And sex telepathy is going to get him there.
this originated from a chatfic with carcar professor jd. thanks also to jd for reading the draft over. i'm literally standing on the shoulders of giants here.
inspired by the nyt spelling bee of 3 dec 2025. CUMPATH wasn't a valid pangram, if you're wondering
Victor Frankenstein syndrome aka you spent nights over nights crying and bleeding over this work and now that it's finally done you're just like "nvm. it's trash" and go to bed
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