You can call me J- I'm 25, she/her, Southeast Asian.
In case you followed my old blog (same username), here's why I am rebuilding lmao.
If you followed me on my old blog or if you like/d my fics, please signal boost me, I ask shamelessly.
This is a sideblog, which is mainly going to be for everything Formula 1 related. I follow back from @golden-flora !
J's Fave Drivers: OP81, MV1, CL16, LN4, CS55
Aside from F1, I'm a bit of a girly girl- I like makeup and jewelry. I'm also v into music and books. Other things about me that you might find useful; I can sometimes be absolute ass at replying sometimes, my social battery is shit on some days. I will do my best to whenever I can though!!
I write a bit too, behold my driver write list below:
Oscar Piastri
Max Verstappen
Charles Leclerc
Carlos Sainz Jr.
Lando Norris
Pierre Gasly
The driver list isn't a hard limit though- shoot your shot, I'm willing to explore maybe.
Fic Masterlist
This is an NSFW blog (because I write things that will probably land me in hell), so minors DNI (or at the very least, proceed with caution).
Don't Cry About It. @67-angelofthelordme-67 @mvk1ma @woozarts
Trick or Treat. @koalalafications
Didn't ask to be on my taglist but I will tag anyway. @leclerced @scuderiahoney @daddyricsdoll @norrisleclercf1 @norrizzandpia @curiousthyme @norizz-nation @edensxgarden @lightsoutletsgo
You don't have to, but if you like my work and have a few spare bucks, I'd love it if you left me a tip on ko-fi / subscribed to my Patreon
Dividers from the amazing @saradika-graphics and @cafekitsune depending on the specific post 💕
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
So I haven’t written anything in a while… Guess I’m… back…?
Anyway so I had this random thought about how Ilya would be an F1 fan because dude loves fast cars and he probably grew up around it coz like, European? Like I’m guessing that at some point Ilya and the Russian Grand Prix overlapped for a few years idk that is a guess I could be wrong
But okay fic spoilers, I had this thought that Ilya would be so fond of Oscar because Oscar has a lot of similarities to Shane- they’re both so deadpan, and unintentionally funny, and also unintentionally hot LMAO
Anyway maybe give it a read? Not sure how shit my writing has gotten since I haven’t written in ages but fuck it we ball
I have resurrected from author death with this attempt at writing after a hiatus that lasted god knows how many months
Not a strictly F1 fic, but I think if anyone here is in the overlap between F1 and Heated Rivalry fandoms, this would be something you’d enjoy so… maybe? 🥹
Anyway I’ve been working up to writing more again-I do want to continue some F1 fics I’ve kinda left unfinished heh but for now if anyone missed my writing and stuff well yeah
I won’t tag this as F1 fic because it is more of Heated Rivalry but yakno
storytime: so i've been dead to the fic space for a while because of writer's block and some personal things, but i've been drafting some stuff that i can never seem to finish or be happy enough with to post
i've also been seeing a lot of posts about people using AI for writing, and i'm very heavily against AI in creative spaces (let artists artist ok). but, and i'm probably going to get cancelled for this, but i did find myself a bit curious as to why some writers seem to like it so much
again, i'm staunchly against AI as a replacement for artists (whether that's like, visual art or writing or whatever you can think of) in principle, but i guess i just wanted to see why people even keep using AI for writing in the first place
so i had a lil plot bunny pop up in my head while i was at the gym, and when i got home, i tried a lil experiment, wherein i gave claude (which i see people claim as the best AI) an excerpt of the draft i've been working on
holy fucking shit.
it pissed me off so badly.
ok so claude did give me feedback that was technically correct, but as a "writing partner" idk or a "thought partner" (which i know a lot of people use AI as) it was so fucking flat
i'm somewhat of a perfectionist, i like my fics written a certain way, but i found myself preferring the shitty version of my draft to making the edits that claude was suggesting. how do people even enjoy writing with AI.. idk if i'm just a bit emotional about my writing (which i have the right to be!!!) but like, it was so annoying
i also found out that a few fics i've read have been heavily, if not wholly, AI created, and well. it was kinda obvious. whatever feelings i have about AI and artists aside, AI writing is just so... soulless. there's no writer personality, like no weird quirks that make the piece human? i mean, yes, when i write a character, it's the character, but i feel like the way that i write still has me in it
the plot bunny in my brain was violently axed by AI, guess i won't be posting any f1 fic in the near future, sigh (does anyone miss me tho LOL)
all in all, i stand by let artists art, and this was a waste of water, i regret this experiment. in the words of hudson williams, fuck AI!!!
i have been working on a heated rivalry fic tho, i'm also not happy with it just yet, so that's a shameless self-promotion in case there's anyone following me who sits in the common space of the f1 and heated rivalry fandoms
additional thoughts: i'm not as good as telling AI art apart from AI writing, transparently, but there are so many talented artists who make better output than AI and it makes me sad when i see people feeding someone's art style into an AI and asking the AI to replicate it
like can we just not
i'd be so fucking pissed if anyone fed my fics into an AI.. kinda reminds me of that time someone copied my fics off tumblr and posted them on wattpad under their own account lol ugh
storytime: so i've been dead to the fic space for a while because of writer's block and some personal things, but i've been drafting some stuff that i can never seem to finish or be happy enough with to post
i've also been seeing a lot of posts about people using AI for writing, and i'm very heavily against AI in creative spaces (let artists artist ok). but, and i'm probably going to get cancelled for this, but i did find myself a bit curious as to why some writers seem to like it so much
again, i'm staunchly against AI as a replacement for artists (whether that's like, visual art or writing or whatever you can think of) in principle, but i guess i just wanted to see why people even keep using AI for writing in the first place
so i had a lil plot bunny pop up in my head while i was at the gym, and when i got home, i tried a lil experiment, wherein i gave claude (which i see people claim as the best AI) an excerpt of the draft i've been working on
holy fucking shit.
it pissed me off so badly.
ok so claude did give me feedback that was technically correct, but as a "writing partner" idk or a "thought partner" (which i know a lot of people use AI as) it was so fucking flat
i'm somewhat of a perfectionist, i like my fics written a certain way, but i found myself preferring the shitty version of my draft to making the edits that claude was suggesting. how do people even enjoy writing with AI.. idk if i'm just a bit emotional about my writing (which i have the right to be!!!) but like, it was so annoying
i also found out that a few fics i've read have been heavily, if not wholly, AI created, and well. it was kinda obvious. whatever feelings i have about AI and artists aside, AI writing is just so... soulless. there's no writer personality, like no weird quirks that make the piece human? i mean, yes, when i write a character, it's the character, but i feel like the way that i write still has me in it
the plot bunny in my brain was violently axed by AI, guess i won't be posting any f1 fic in the near future, sigh (does anyone miss me tho LOL)
all in all, i stand by let artists art, and this was a waste of water, i regret this experiment. in the words of hudson williams, fuck AI!!!
i have been working on a heated rivalry fic tho, i'm also not happy with it just yet, so that's a shameless self-promotion in case there's anyone following me who sits in the common space of the f1 and heated rivalry fandoms
like i’m genuinely flabbergasted yes charles did all that (liking tweets bashing his teammate) and he did worse (calling his teammate mid live in front of sky sports cameras) but that happened WHEN SAINZ WAS HIS TEAMMATE. SAINZ. 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭
reyes aka sainz’s mother was liking tweets calling him a little whore with no honour and he was retaliating liking tweets about chirlies saying he had honour while sainz didn’t ajwnekwkekdkwkekdlf i can’t believe some people don’t know about the great charles sainz war ferrari subplot . we had lapo elkann bashing santander publicly and santander doing their nasty “winners win” comment on ig after sainz won because they sacrificed charles 😭😭😭 you WERENT HERE don’t speak on things you DONT KNOW
You appreciated your friends trying to set you up for Valentine's day. Unfortunately, a certain masked individual had killed all of your potential dates. It wasn't like you were particularly fond of any of them- but that still meant you were spending Valentine's day alone.
Ghostface decides to make sure you aren't lonely.
Ghostface!Oscar Piastri x Ghostface!Reader
For Valentine's Day 2024, I'm back with more Ghostface!Oscar (and Ghostface!Reader). I was thinking of doing a whole Valentine's mini-event, but let me see what my brain juices can create in the next few days. Either way, I give you guys this.
The full, unabridged, smutty version will be available as a Patreon exclusive on February 13th, 11PM SGT February 14th!
Warnings: Smut (minors DNI), descriptions of violence/murder/death, a bit of knifeplay (???), hints of dom/sub dynamics, mentions of blood
Request Guidelines | Requests | J’s Navigation
“Well, well, well,” the masked intruder says to you almost mockingly as he strides across the room. “What are you doing all alone tonight, pretty girl?”
Unperturbed, you shoot the robe-clad figure a dry look. “Well somebody keeps stabbing the potential candidates. You shouldn’t be surprised.”
You weren’t someone who was particularly invested in Valentine’s day, but this year your friends all had dates, and therefore had taken it upon themselves to find you one. None of the guys had particularly clicked, but it had become almost normal to you to see the men you had been out with the previous night on the news the next day.
It wasn’t something that particularly fazed you- you had donned the Scream mask yourself quite frequently at some point to commit similar crimes. You also hadn’t been fond of any of them anyway. You just found the other person who donned the mask interesting.
“Honestly, I should be more upset, but that last guy, Jack, was a doozy anyway.” Your words are accompanied with a shrug. “I’d be more upset if you stabbed my roommate. He’s the two things I seem to dig the most though, hot and uninterested in me.”
Your mind generates an image of your roommate, Oscar. He’s not the typical definition of a hunk, with his fluffy hoodies and pale skin, but there’s something about his Australian accent and piercing brown eyes that draws you in, much like a moth to a flame. The one time you had walked in on him changing, and caught a glimpse of his toned stomach hadn’t hurt either.
“Your roommate, huh?” Ghostface, or Ghostie, as you’d nicknamed him in your head, mused.
You give a short nod. “Don’t kill Oscar though,” you say casually, as if you’re talking about the weather. “It’s hard to find a good roommate, and I do need to split rent.”
The relaxed demeanor with which you speak seems to catch the masked man off guard. Most times, when he shows up in someone’s room, they’re screaming or trying to fight back before he stabs them. You’re an outlier, it seems.
“Seems like I need to be jealous, then.” Ghostface’s tone takes on a lighter, more joking tone, as if he’s restraining a laugh underneath the voice changer. “I’ve been out here killing all these men that you weren’t interested in anyway- seems like I should’ve gone for your roommate.”
You shoot a dry glare directly at the eyes of his mask. “No, Ghostie. I like my roommate. He knows how to use a dishwasher.”
“Perhaps I should’ve been looking at places to rent instead of committing serial killings,” Ghostface muses, his tone thoughtful.
“Probably,” you respond, tilting your head. “But then I would never have met Oscar.”
“I’m starting to get jealous.” The man behind the mask states flatly.
Your eyes narrow, and you pull a knife out from under your pillow, waving it in the direction of the lurking figure. “The whole masked, dark robes, mass murder vibe is hot, but if you lay a hand on Oscar I will end you.”
“I’m not even in a robe,” he comments, gesturing to the black t-shirt he’s wearing, leaving his delicious biceps on display for your eyes to feast on. “So you like him more than me, is that it? Maybe I should kill him.”
Before you know it, you’ve sprung into motion, pushing the man clad in black into the wall. Your knife is poised at his throat. A smug smirk spreads across your lips when he lets out a choked sound.
“Not a chance,” you tell the man you have pinned against your bedroom wall. “I don’t want to pay rent by myself.”
“How romantic,” your intruder quips, though his breath is short- probably from the knife pressed into his neck, just short of breaking skin. “See, I came here for you.”
You can’t keep the pretense of disinterest any longer. Try as you may, and as much as you’re crushing on your roommate, you aren't immune to the allure of a tall, dark, mysterious figure. Especially when jealousy seems to get him bloodthirsty. That just adds to the attraction.
You pull the knife away from his throat, trailing the sharp tip up his jaw and hooking it underneath his mask. He stays completely still underneath your touch, save for a single, sharp breath.
“Who’s the romantic now?” You say slyly, pausing your movements. “You came to comfort silly little me, after you murdered all of my potential dates. I’d call that the pinnacle of romance.”
“Don’t.”
“Don’t what?” You ask innocently, fluttering your lashes up at him. “Don’t take off the mask? I deserve a Valentine’s gift after all. You didn’t even bring me flowers.”
“If you take it off, I’d have to kill you.” The low voice is gravely serious for the first time since he’s entered your room. “It would be such a waste, after I came all this way for you. I even rented out a room just to be close to you.”
Now that you’re this close to the mask, you’re able to zone in on more details. You spy a scratch on the left cheek, and you feel a tingle of recognition in the back of your mind. Your own Ghostface mask had the exact same scratch from your first kill. It even has that little slant that yours has.
The scratch. The flirting. The renting.
“I don’t think you will.” You say with a sudden burst of confidence, lifting the mask off ever so slightly with the tip of the knife. “Don’t move. If my hunch is correct, then I don’t want to damage your pretty face, Piastri.”
All you get in response is silence.
Your sureness in your hunch slowly fades away from the lack of response. Maybe it had been stupid to assume that the hard body you had pressed against the wall, who had committed dozens of killings, was actually your sweet, awkward roommate with a cutting sense of humor.
When your hold on the knife falters for just a second, the man you have pinned jumps into action, grabbing your wrist and jerking it so you let go of the knife. It clatters to the ground beside the pair of you. Your wrists are now both pinned above your head by one of his hands- hands that you’d stared at during your previous encounters with the masked killer.
“Really, talking about another man on Valentine’s day?” Ghostface teases, leering at you behind the mask.
You can’t lie to yourself. The sudden power shift had your thighs tensing. You weren’t a delicate flower by any definition- your kill tally was way higher than his. Whether or not he was Oscar, he was your successor to the Ghostface mask. You were the original. You shouldn’t be so easily overpowered- and the fact that this man was so easily able to do so took your breath away.
“I don’t think I am,” you say softly, a small smile creeping up your cheeks. You’re sure you look positively deranged, but you can’t bring yourself to care. “Take off the mask? It is Valentine’s day after all. Also, that’s mine. You’re stealing.”
“We’ve both committed murders in the double digits, and you’re concerned about stealing?”
Your first response is a laugh- he does have a point. After the dozens of killings you had committed, theft should be the least of your concerns. Your next response is to grin even wider when you realize that the voice modulator had been turned off, revealing the Australian accent you had come to know and love.
After what seems like ages, a pale, veiny hand pulls the mask off.
“Jealous of yourself, really?” Your words come out breathy, your pupils dilating as Oscar’s brown eyes are revealed. His face is so close to yours that you can feel his breath on your face. There’s an unsettling gleam in his eyes that only serves to draw you in further. “You could’ve just asked me out, you know.”
“What can I say?” Oscar says, tightening his grip on your wrists, still pinned above your head. “I like to delve into womens’ interests. It just so happened that yours was murder.”
Warmth blooms in your chest.
“I’ve never had a man take interest in my hobbies,” you say softly, sincerely touched. “That’s the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me.”
“I only planned on doing it once,” Oscar admits with a short laugh, a lock of brown hair falling into his eyes. “When your stupid ex-boyfriend cheated on you. I didn’t even bother to buy a mask- I just borrowed yours. I didn’t expect to love it.”
Something about Oscar’s words catches your attention.
“He was your first kill?” You ask him, your eyes widening. You start to squirm in his grasp, feeling a familiar heat starting to build between your thighs. Your cheeks start to tingle, and you’re sure that your face is tinged pink.
Oscar nods, his jaw tightening.
Your eyes track the movement, another wave of arousal washing over your body.
“That’s fucking sexy.” You admit, your voice taking on a sultry tone. You shift your legs, trying to get some friction where you need it most.
Your roommate isn’t blind to your motions, and he shakes his head. “Tsk, you’re a greedy one. Let me take care of that.”
Then Oscar’s lips are on yours.
He kisses like he kills, precise with his movements, every little motion calculated to draw out the most sounds from you, his hand releasing your wrists to cup your face, his other hand grasping onto your waist. There’s a desperation in the way he holds you, as if you’re sand that might slip through his fingers if he’s not careful.
You had always admired the way your successor had executed his kills- always either through a clean cut of the throat, or a perfectly aimed stab to the heart. Never more than one. As you reciprocate Oscar’s kiss fervently, winding your hands in his hair, he bites your lower lip, causing you to let out a needy moan as his tongue dances with yours.
You could lose yourself in kissing Oscar, much like he’s lost himself in his obsession for you, doing the most fucked up things in the name of love.
He can’t seem to get enough of you. He ravages your mouth with a passion, as if possessing you through your liplock.
“Jump,” Oscar says into your mouth, his voice taking on something akin to a growl. His hand drifts down from your waist to your ass, and you comply with his demand, wrapping your legs around his waist, easily supporting your weight.
Oscar’s other hand moves from your face to your back, pulling you even closer to him. Your hold on his hair tightens, and he lets out a filthy groan.
You don’t notice that he’s moving the pair of you away from the wall- until he settles the pair of you on the bed, him on top of you, kissing down your jawline gently.
“Fuck, that feels good.”
Your words are met with a sly smile from Oscar.
Unabridged version goes live on Patreon on 13 February, 11PM SGT.
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The yacht is absolutely perfect. Of course it is—Max doesn't do anything halfway. It's sleek and modern, with floor-to-ceiling windows that offer a panoramic view of the Mediterranean Sea stretching endlessly in all directions. There's no one else around for miles, nothing but water and sky and the two of you.
"Come here," Max says, and there's a command in his voice that makes your pulse quicken. He's standing at the helm, one hand on the wheel, looking every bit the confident, commanding man he is. His shirt is already unbuttoned, revealing the hard lines of his chest and abs.
You walk toward him, and he reaches out to grab your hand, pulling you against him. The boat sways gently beneath your feet, and you grip his shoulders for balance.
"You look beautiful," he murmurs, his eyes dark with desire as he takes in your appearance. You're wearing a simple white sundress, nothing underneath, because you both knew from the moment you stepped onto this yacht that clothes were going to be coming off. "But you'd look even better without this."
He doesn't wait for a response before his hands find the hem of your dress and pull it up and over your head in one smooth motion. The sea breeze hits your skin, and you shiver—though whether it's from the cool air or from the intensity of Max's gaze, you're not entirely sure.
"Perfect," he says, and his hands start to roam over your body—your breasts, your waist, your hips. "All mine. And out here, where anyone could see."
The idea of being exposed like this, of potentially being seen by another boat or yacht passing by, should make you nervous. But instead, it only turns you on more. There's something thrilling about the risk, about the openness of it all.
Max pulls you closer and kisses you deeply, his tongue sliding into your mouth as his hands grip your hips. You can feel his hard cock pressing against your lower belly through his shorts, and you reach down to stroke him through the fabric.
"Not yet," he says, breaking the kiss. "I want to take my time with you."
He guides you toward one of the loungers on the deck, and he helps you settle onto it before positioning himself between your legs. The sun is warm on your skin, and the sea breeze is cool, and the combination is absolutely intoxicating.
Max lowers his head and kisses your inner thigh, working his way upward with deliberate slowness. Each kiss is a promise, a preview of what's to come. When his mouth finally reaches your core, you gasp, your hands immediately finding his hair.
"Oh God," you breathe. "Max..."
"Shh," he says, and you can hear the smile in his voice. "Just relax. Let me enjoy you."
He eats you out with clear devotion, his tongue working you expertly, and you can't help but arch your hips toward him, seeking more contact. The vulnerability of being completely naked on the open deck, with nothing but the ocean around you, makes everything feel more intense.
You're building toward your first orgasm when Max suddenly pulls back and stands up, his breathing heavy. For a moment, you think he's going to make you wait, but instead he's quickly removing his shorts, his hard cock springing free.
"I can't wait anymore," he says, and there's an edge of desperation in his voice. "I need to be inside you. Now."
He positions himself between your legs and pushes into you slowly, and you cry out at the sensation of him filling you. He's large, and even though you're ready for him, it still takes your breath away every single time.
"Fuck," he groans, and he stays still for a moment, clearly savoring the feeling of being inside you. "You always feel so good. So perfect."
He starts to move, his thrusts slow and deep, and you wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper. The lounger rocks slightly with his movements, and you can hear the water lapping against the hull of the yacht beneath the sounds of your combined breathing.
"I love this," you gasp. "I love being out here with you. I love that anyone could see us."
"That's what I love about you," Max says, and his thrusts become a bit more forceful. "You're not afraid. You're willing to take risks. Willing to be seen."
His pace increases, and you can feel the tension building in both of you. The sun is beating down on your skin, and you're covered in a light sheen of sweat, and it's absolutely perfect.
"Come for me," he demands, and his hand moves between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit. "I want to feel you come around my cock."
His touch is enough to push you over the edge, and you come hard, your inner muscles clenching around him as waves of pleasure crash over you. He follows moments later, his body tensing as he fills you, his face buried against your neck as he groans his release.
When it's over, you're both breathing heavily, and Max carefully withdraws and lies beside you on the lounger, pulling you into his arms.
"That was incredible," he murmurs, pressing kisses to your forehead and cheeks and lips. "But I'm not done with you yet."
---
You're still catching your breath when Max stands up and guides you to your feet. He's already hard again—you're amazed by his stamina, his constant need for you—and he leads you toward the railing at the edge of the deck.
"What are you doing?" you ask, though you have a feeling you know exactly what he's planning.
"I want to fuck you against the railing," he says bluntly. "I want you to be able to look out at the ocean while I'm inside you. I want you to feel completely open, completely exposed."
He positions you facing the railing, your hands gripping the cold metal, and he stands behind you. The position leaves you completely vulnerable, completely open to him, and when he enters you from behind, the angle is incredible.
"Oh God," you moan. "Max, that's so deep."
"I know," he says, and he's already setting a punishing pace, his hips slamming into yours with intensity. "I want you to feel all of me. Want you to know exactly who you belong to."
His hands grip your hips hard enough to leave marks, and you don't care. You want the marks. You want the evidence of what you're doing out here, in the open, where anyone could see.
The rocking of the boat combined with his thrusts is pushing you toward another orgasm already, and you can hear the desperation in your own voice as you cry out his name.
"That's it," he says. "Scream for me. Let anyone within earshot know that you're mine."
"Yes," you gasp. "Yes, I'm yours. All yours."
He reaches around and plays with your clit while he continues to thrust into you, and it's too much. Your orgasm crashes over you, and you're gripping the railing so hard your knuckles turn white. Your inner muscles clench around him, and he groans against your shoulder as he comes again, filling you completely.
This time when he pulls out, he helps you turn around and lifts you up, your legs wrapping around his waist as he carries you inside the yacht. The sudden change from the bright sun and open air to the cool, air-conditioned interior is jarring, but not unwelcome.
He carries you toward the master bedroom and tosses you onto the large bed with surprising gentleness given his obvious need. The bed is incredibly soft, and you sink into it as Max hovers over you, his dark eyes intense.
"I want to try something," he says. "Are you okay with that?"
"What do you have in mind?" you ask, intrigued by the mysterious glint in his eyes.
He doesn't answer with words. Instead, he grabs a silk scarf from the dresser—clearly something he's thought about before—and holds it up for your inspection.
"I want to tie your hands," he says. "I want you completely at my mercy. Can you do that for me?"
Your heart rate picks up at the suggestion. You've talked about this before, about the idea of giving him complete control, but you've never actually done it. But looking into his eyes, seeing the careful consideration there alongside the desire, you nod.
"Okay," you say. "But if I want you to stop, I'll say our safe word."
"Of course," he says, and he ties the scarf around your wrists, securing them to the headboard. He tests the restraint, making sure it's not too tight, that he can still slide a finger underneath. "Okay?"
"Okay," you confirm, and you feel a thrill run through you at the vulnerability of the position.
Max steps back to admire his handiwork, and you can see his cock is already hard again. He's insatiable, and you love it.
He climbs back onto the bed and positions himself between your legs, and when he enters you, the sensation is completely different from before. Without the use of your hands, you're completely at his mercy, completely dependent on him for your pleasure.
His thrusts are slow and deliberate, and he watches your face carefully as he moves inside you, clearly attuned to your every reaction.
"How does this feel?" he asks.
"Amazing," you breathe. "I love it. I love being tied up for you."
A satisfied smile crosses his face, and he increases his pace slightly. His hands roam over your body—your breasts, your stomach, your thighs—and everywhere he touches, you feel like you're on fire.
"You're so beautiful like this," he says. "So vulnerable. So completely mine."
He leans down and kisses you deeply, his tongue sliding into your mouth as he continues to move inside you. His hand moves between your bodies and finds your clit, and he starts to rub in firm circles.
You're building toward another orgasm, and with your hands tied, all you can do is meet his thrusts by rolling your hips, completely dependent on him for your pleasure. It's exhilarating and terrifying and absolutely incredible all at the same time.
"I'm close," he says against your lips. "Come for me. Come while you're tied to my bed, completely at my mercy."
His words push you over the edge, and you come hard, your body convulsing beneath him. He follows moments later, his entire body tensing as he fills you once again.
When he finally stills, he carefully unties your wrists and checks them for any signs of irritation. Finding none, he pulls you into his arms and holds you close.
"That was amazing," you whisper.
"You were amazing," he corrects. "You're always amazing."
---
You're not sure how much time passes as you lie there in his arms, dozing lightly and enjoying the comfort of being close to him. But eventually, you feel Max stirring, and you know what that means.
When you open your eyes, he's propped up on one elbow, looking down at you with that intense gaze that never fails to make your pulse quicken.
"Again?" you ask, amused.
"Always," he says simply. "I can never get enough of you."
He kisses you softly at first, but the kiss quickly becomes more passionate, more demanding. His hands start to roam over your body again, and you can feel his cock hardening against your hip.
This time, he positions you differently—on your side, your back against his chest, one of your legs hooked over his, giving him access from behind. The position is intimate in a different way, less about performance and more about connection.
"I love you," he whispers against your ear as he enters you slowly. "I hope you know that. This isn't just about sex for me. You mean everything to me."
"I love you too," you respond, and you mean it completely. "You mean everything to me."
He moves inside you with care and tenderness, his hand coming to rest on your heart as if he can feel it beating for him. His thrusts are slower this time, less frantic, more about the connection between you than the physical pleasure alone.
But don't be fooled by the tenderness—it's no less intense. If anything, it's more so, because it's coming from a place of deep love and devotion.
You can feel yourself building toward another orgasm, and you reach back to grip his hair, pulling him closer. He responds by increasing his pace slightly, his hand moving down to your clit to help bring you over the edge.
When you come this time, it's different from before—deeper, more emotional, more connected. And when he comes moments later, burying himself deep inside you as he groans your name, it feels like the most intimate thing you've ever experienced.
Afterward, you lie there in silence for a long time, just breathing together, your bodies intertwined. The sun is starting to set outside the window, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink and purple.
"Thank you," Max says finally.
"For what?" you ask.
"For this. For being here with me. For letting me have you like this. For being you."
You turn in his arms so you're facing him, and you kiss him deeply.
"Thank you for making me feel so loved," you say. "So desired. So seen."
---
As evening falls, Max insists on taking you back up on deck to watch the sunset. He wraps you in one of his shirts—which is far too large and absolutely adorable on you—and pulls you close as you watch the sky change colors.
"I want to make love to you one more time tonight," he says softly. "Out here. Under the stars. Is that okay?"
"More than okay," you say.
But first, he brings you food and water, insisting that you eat and hydrate. There's something endearing about how he takes care of you, how he balances the intensity of dominating you in bed with genuine concern for your wellbeing.
By the time you've finished eating, the sun has set and the stars are beginning to appear in the darkening sky. The yacht is anchored, rocking gently with the waves, and it feels like you're the only two people in the world.
Max guides you to one of the larger loungers on the deck, and he helps you out of his shirt. Then he lies back and pulls you on top of him, your body straddling his, his hard cock pressing against your core.
"I want you to be in control this time," he says. "I want you to take what you need from me."
You position yourself above him and slowly sink down, taking him inside you at your own pace. The angle is perfect, and you can feel him hitting all the right spots inside you.
You start to move, setting your own pace, and Max's hands grip your hips, but loosely, allowing you to control the rhythm. His eyes never leave your face, watching every expression that crosses your features.
"You're so beautiful," he murmurs. "Especially like this. Riding me under the stars, completely confident in who you are."
You lean down and kiss him as you continue to move above him, and he wraps his arms around you, holding you close. The intimacy of it—of being able to control your own pleasure while remaining completely connected to him—is incredible.
"I'm close," you say after several minutes.
"Then come," he says simply. "Come for me, and I'll follow."
You increase your pace, chasing your orgasm, and when it hits, it washes over you in waves. Max holds you close as your body convulses above him, and moments later, he's coming too, his entire body tensing beneath you.
When it's finally over, you collapse against his chest, completely spent and utterly satisfied. His arms wrap around you, and you lie there together, listening to the sound of the water against the hull and the gentle creaking of the yacht.
"I never want this to end," he whispers.
"It doesn't have to," you respond. "We could stay out here forever."
"I'd like that," he says, and he presses a kiss to the top of your head. "As long as you're with me, I'd like that."
You fall asleep in his arms on the deck under the stars, completely content and absolutely loved, already looking forward to the next time he takes you out on the yacht. Because now that you've experienced this—the freedom, the openness, the raw intensity of your desire in the open water—you know you'll never be able to resist when he asks again.
Summary - I have no idea what to put for a summary other than the fact that Charles is a desperate man for his hot coworker
Warnings - smut, manhandling, reader being folded in half Charles the desperate slut (p in v) unprotected sex
Word count 1672
A/n god | love when Pinterest gives me the perfect aesthetic picture
A/n TUMBLR IM NOT A CHILD IM A GROWN WOMAN GET YOUR SHIT TOGETHER
A/n my sister graduated high school yesterday so this is a queued fic
18+ | minors do not interact | warnings are marked, please mind the tags!
Tagging @sinofwriting and @checkeredflagggs
The tension between you had been building for weeks. Not just flirting or lingering touches under restaurant tables, something heavier than that. Something dangerous.
Ever since the rumors started. Charles had brushed them off publicly. Of course he had. He was used to headlines, speculation, cameras following him everywhere. But this one got under his skin because it involved another driver’s ex-girlfriend and suddenly your name was everywhere too.
Photos of you leaving the paddock. TikToks analyzing the way Charles looked at you during interviews. Fans dissecting every interaction like it meant ownership. And the worst part? You hadn’t even defined what this was yet.
Not officially which was exactly why the dinner tonight had felt unbearable. Because across that stupid candlelit table in Monaco, while everyone else laughed and drank and celebrated the race weekend, Charles had spent the entire night looking at you like he wanted to drag you out of there.
Not because he was possessive. Because he was jealous. The realization hit you the second another driver touched your lower back while talking to you at the party afterward. It was innocent and friendly.
But Charles went completely still across the room. Most people wouldn’t have noticed the shift. They wouldn’t have caught the way his jaw tightened around the rim of his champagne glass or how his eyes darkened instantly.
But you did and suddenly all the tension from the past few weeks snapped tight between you. Which was how you ended up here now. The room was dark except for the muted gold light bleeding in through the curtains.
Monaco glittered outside somewhere beyond the balcony doors, but neither of you cared enough to look. Charles barely made it through the door before he was on you. Not rough, never rough with you but desperate in a way that stole the air from your lungs.
His hands found your waist instantly, backing you into the wall with a breathless laugh that died the second your fingers tangled in his curls.
“Fuck,” he whispered against your mouth.
The word sounded ruined and desperate.
You kissed him harder in response, and Charles made this low sound in his throat that almost made your knees give out right there. The adrenaline from the race weekend still clung to him. Sweat. Expensive cologne. The sharp edge of champagne from the afterparty he’d abandoned early because he “couldn’t stop thinking about you.”
You’d teased him for it but now you understood. Because the second his mouth found your neck, your brain stopped functioning completely.
“Charles”
“I know, baby,” he murmured, lips dragging lower. “I know.”
His body pressed impossibly close, warm skin against skin as he pushed your shirt up your stomach impatiently. His hands were everywhere at once your ribs, your hips, your thigh hooked around his waist.
Like he needed proof you were real.
The kiss turned messy quickly.
Open mouths. Heavy breathing. The soft sound of the headboard hitting the wall after Charles walked you backward toward the bed without breaking contact once. You landed against the mattress with a startled laugh, but it vanished when he climbed over you.
God.
The sight alone nearly killed you His curls were messy from your hands tugging at them all night, cheeks flushed pink, lips swollen and wet. His gold chain rested against tan skin, dipping lower across his chest as he braced himself above you and the way he looked at you like he was starving.
“Why are you staring?” you whispered.
Charles leaned down slowly, nose brushing yours.
“Because you look so pretty under me.”
Your stomach flipped violently.
“You say things like that on purpose.”
“Mm.” His mouth curved against yours. “And it works every time.”
You rolled your eyes weakly before pulling him back down into another kiss. This one was slower and hotter. The kind that made time melt.
Charles kissed like he drove intense, consuming, completely focused. One hand slid into yours against the sheets while the other gripped your thigh tightly enough to leave fingerprints.
Every touch felt deliberate. Every breath was stolen.
“You have no idea,” he muttered between kisses, “how difficult dinner was.”
You laughed softly. “You seemed fine.”
“I was imagining this the entire time.”
“Charles—”
“I’m serious.” His forehead dropped against yours. “You kept looking at me like that across the table and I almost lost my mind.”
Heat rushed to your face instantly he noticed of course he noticed. Charles always noticed everything about you. His thumb brushed your cheek gently now, a sharp contrast to the tension in his body.
“You’re blushing.”
“Shut up.”
He grinned that stupid, devastating grin before kissing you again, slower this time, like he wanted to memorize it.
But then he stopped.
Actually stopped.
His forehead rested against yours as his breathing slowly steadied, one hand still cradling the side of your neck. And for the first time all night, neither of you moved.
“What?” you whispered softly.
Charles swallowed hard.
“I hated that tonight.”
Your brows pulled together. “What?”
“Hearing people talk about you like…” He exhaled quietly. “Like they knew you. Like they had any right to speculate about us when I haven’t even gotten to call you mine yet.”
The confession knocked the air from your lungs far more effectively than the kissing had. Charles laughed once under his breath, almost embarrassed by his own honesty.
“Pathetic, huh?”
“No,” you said immediately.
His eyes lifted to yours then, vulnerable in a way you didn’t see often. Not the Ferrari driver. Not the public version of him. Just Charles.
“I don’t want to hide this anymore.”
Your heartbeat stuttered.
“Charles…”
“I’m serious.” His fingers tightened slightly against your waist. “I know this life is insane and people are always going to talk, but I’m tired of acting like you’re just someone I casually see between races.”
Emotion climbed into your throat too quickly to speak around. Because underneath all the heat and tension and desperate touching, that had been the real problem all along.
You were both terrified to ask for more. Charles brushed his nose gently against yours again, softer now.
“Tell me if I’m alone in this.”
You stared at him for half a second before pulling him back down into a kiss so intense it answered for you. And Charles smiled against your mouth immediately. Like he’d been waiting for that answer forever.
The tenderness of the moment snapped as Charles’s hand slid from your thigh, diving under the fabric of your underwear to find you already soaking. He let out a sharp, jagged breath when his fingers brushed against your clit, finding you slick and ready for him.
"You're so wet for me," he groaned, his voice dropping an octave, vibrating against your skin.
He didn't wait for an answer. He stripped his clothes off with a frantic energy, tossing his shirt blindly across the room until he was stark naked, his hard cock pulsing and straining toward you. He looked like a god in the dim gold light, muscles lean and defined, his skin radiating a heat that seemed to pull you toward him.
Charles didn't just enter you; he claimed you. He gripped your hips, lifting your legs high and pinning them back toward your shoulders to open you up completely. He lined the head of his cock against your drenched opening, pausing for one heartbeat of agonizing tension before he thrust forward, burying himself deep inside you in one heavy, seamless motion.
"Ah... fuck," he gasped, his head snapping back, eyes fluttering shut as your tight walls clamped around him. He stayed there for a moment, shaking, filling you completely, his chest heaving as he fought for air. "You feel... so fucking good."
He began to move every thrust was deep and deliberate, the sound of his skin slapping against yours echoing through the quiet room. He wasn't just fucking you; he was trying to merge with you. His hands gripped your waist so hard his knuckles turned white, pulling you up to meet every plunge of his cock.
You arched your back, your nails digging into the muscles of his arms as the friction built into a searing heat. Charles leaned down, his mouth crashing against yours, swallowing your moans as he picked up the speed. The bedframe groaned under the rhythm, the headboard thudding rhythmically against the wall.
"Look at me," he commanded, pulling back just enough to stare into your eyes. His gaze was dark, blown wide with lust. "I want to see you when I make you come."
He shifted his angle, hitting your g-spot with every heavy drive. You let out a strangled cry, your internal muscles pulsing around him, which only made him drive harder. He was relentless, his breath coming in ragged hitches, his sweat dripping onto your chest.
"That's it, baby... right there," he hissed, his voice a ruined wreck.
As the tension peaked, Charles reached down, his thumb finding your clit and rubbing it in a fast, blurring circle while he continued to pound into you. The double stimulation was too much. Your vision blurred, and you screamed his name as your orgasm ripped through you in violent, crashing waves.
The feeling of you squeezing him tight sent Charles over the edge. He let out a guttural growl, his body stiffening as he delivered three more powerful, deep thrusts, burying himself as far as he could go. He groaned loudly, his forehead pressing into yours as he came, filling you with hot, thick spurts of cum that seemed to go on forever.
He collapsed on top of you, his weight a comforting pressure, his heart hammering like a drum against your ribs. For several minutes, neither of you spoke, the only sound being the synchronized gasps for air in the golden silence of the Monaco night.
Charles shifted slightly, kissing your temple with a lingering, exhausted sweetness. "I told you," he whispered, a smug, breathless smile touching his lips, "I couldn't stop thinking about this."
"It would be nice to think that I wasn't just, you know, a driver in a time of success for the team. I'd like to think I was a driver that helped the success of the team. Even if I don't become a world champion, or none of that happens, then I think just being known as someone who went out racing as hard as they could, did everything they could to try and be the best, but also in the right way, that's an important thing for me as well. So... yeah, I think just being a true racer, a hard racer, but someone that was very committed to the team and tried to make McLaren a better team.'' - Oscar Piastri
