sowee

[soweeposts]

Red [Charles Leclerc x reader]

a/n: hello! sorry for the wait. i tried to cook with this one hehe. Please, be mindful of the fact english is not my first language. I hope you like this! WARNING: smut, cheating, This is a fanfic and should be treated as such!

- “Just because your mind works like that, it doesn’t mean I function the same way, Alex!" you say, putting your hand over your eyes, shocked by the words (which were better left unsaid) from your brunette friend.

Alex grins at your reaction which—at least in her opinion—makes you seem a bit too naïve to think about the naughty things that would make an old lady cross herself and say: “God, save this generation!”

“And you’re thinking the same thing, admit it! You like men’s attention, don’t you?” “You’re being naughty again, bébé?” her boyfriend, Charles, appears, smiling.“Take her with you and drop her off at the Vatican, so they can perform an exorcism,” you say, defeated and a bit tired of your friend’s cheeky jokes. “Drama queen…” Charles mutters, rolling his eyes.

The truth is, deep inside, you’ve always felt a love for the grotesque, for shock and tragedy, but you don’t want to mutilate your life by feeding those thoughts.

Sure, sometimes the images in your mind look like scenes from a forgotten play—whispers, every piece of skin marked up, broken mirrors etc. You’ve never confessed it, not even to Alex, but you’ve always found a strange kind of beauty in the things people choose to look away from. The damaged. The chaotic. The tragic.

The grotesque calls to you like a half-remembered melody, promising honesty where the world paints everything in pastels and polite lies. In your private thoughts, tragedy has teeth, and perfection looks like a plastic smile pressed onto a porcelain mask.

You shake your head lightly, forcing yourself back into the living room where the lights are warm, the jokes are loud, and Charles’ arm now rests comfortably around your shoulders. His presence is the anchor you need, softening the sharp edges of your imagination.

“Don’t let her corrupt you,” Charles whispers jokingly in your ear, his chin brushing your temple.Too late, you think. The corruption isn’t hers—it’s mine.

You smile, and no one questions why.

“We’re thinking of going as a group to a cabin after the season.” “In a group?” “Yes, the three of us, McLaren, Williams, and probably Mercedes will come too. I’ve told you how much I miss Carmen, right? I hope she’s coming, and if she’s not, then George can stay in Monaco,” Alex says quickly, barely breathing, not even trying to make eye contact with either you or her boyfriend. Not that it would help because Alexandra is always planning the world like it’s her personal chessboard.

Charles looks at you, widening his smile in a playful way.“Well—” “Charles, do you know something?” “No, bébé…” “Then I’ll call her,” Alexandra says, rising from the armchair, the sound of her heels echoing in the room.

And for a moment, silence.Silence has been here ever since the season ended… you tell yourself.

Charles and Alexandra have come back to Monaco and with that, they’ve started going out again, together, the way they always do when they’re not flying across the world. And you… you let yourself fall into the quiet of the apartment: books left half open, late breakfasts, the city shimmering like a secret.

Charles moves his hand from your shoulder to your wrist, almost absent-mindedly, but the contact sends a tension through you that you pretend not to notice. His thumb brushes your skin once and slow, like he’s thinking of something he won’t say out loud.

“You’re quiet today,” he murmurs, not looking at you, just staring ahead at the window where Monaco’s lights blur into the night.

“I’m thinking,” you sighed. “About what?” You hesitate. The truth feels too sharp to speak. “Are really that bored that you want to know what I think?” you joke instead.

He huffs a soft laugh, but his hand stays on your wrist, warm and grounding.

Charles studies the window like the night has something to confess. His hand stays on your wrist, warm, steady, too aware. You pretend it’s casual, but your pulse betrays you. He feels it. You know he does, because his thumb pauses, then presses lightly in a way that says: I know you’re lying.

A part of you wants to pull away. Not because you don’t want him, but because wanting him feels really dirty.

“I’m tired,” you answer instead. It’s true, but not the truth.

“You’re not.” he murmurs.

Charles leans back into the couch, still holding your wrist, like he knows if he lets go you’ll drift somewhere he can’t follow. His eyes soften, not pity, never pity, just understanding. The kind that feels invasive, even when it’s gentle.

“You’re somewhere else,” he adds quietly.

His words linger like dust in sunlight.

You blink once and you’re back. The apartment is too bright, too warm. Charles’ presence makes reality almost unbearable in how clean it is.

“You ever feel,” you begin, surprising yourself, "like the world is pretending? Like everything is painted the wrong color?” You say after you sigh, letting a huge breath, like it was a burden in your chest.

Charles turns to you fully. You rarely start conversations like this.

“What color should it be?” he asks.

Your lips part, then close again.The real answer is too strange, too raw:

Red.

“Not pastel,” you settle on.

He smiles a little sadly, like he’s recognizing a truth he’s known but waited for you to speak first. His thumb brushes your skin again. A slow gesture. Careful, careful like you’re something fragile that pretends to be strong.

“I don’t need you to be perfect,” he says. The words land heavy in a way it feels dangerous and shameful. Your breath catches. Because that’s the thing: he sees it. The sharp edges under your silence.

"I’m not,” you say.

“I know,” he answers.

A simple response—yet it shakes something loose in you. You expected denial, comforting lies. Not acceptance so calm it feels like an invitation.

Before you speak again, the sharp staccato of heels echoes through the apartment—Alex’s return slicing the tension clean. The world snaps back into place like a broken bone forced into alignment.

“I talked to Carmen!” Alex shouts from the hallway. “And she said yes, so you can all thank me later!”

Charles lets your wrist go. A polite exit from a moment too real.

You stare at your hand. You swear you can still feel his pulse under your skin, like the echo of distant applause after a scene ends. Alex crashes back into the room with her usual hurricane energy, filling the silence with plans and laughter. The safe kind. The pastel kind.

-

The cabin felt alive, warm and comforting, filled with the hum of conversation. The girls paced back and forth, laughing over the new year trends. Your right hand resting lightly under your chin as you listened to Lily Zneimer describe her upcoming vacation in Norway with her family and Oscar.

Charles was right beside you, and Alexandra leaned next to him, speaking about her new collaboration. Yet your attention kept drifting to him. Your eyes met, and his gaze was cunning, magnetic, waiting, calculating, yet not for you. His hand inched closer to your leg, brushing against it just enough to remind you that he existed, here and now, pulling you into the same reality he inhabited

"Pasta is ready!" Lando announced, setting the enormous bowl on the table.

Everyone grabbed their plates and began serving themselves, the aroma of pasta filling the air. Charles reached for the parmesan, and Alexandra’s warm smile followed him, clearly proud of how attentive her boyfriend was to every culinary detail.

And then, as if the universe had a wicked sense of humor, the parmesan bowl slid toward you instead, answering your gastronomic prayers.

Count number one. Suspicion, but no evidence, just kindness from her boyfriend.

"Y/N, did you miss us?" Lando asks, sly as a snake.

"Um... well—"

"Uh, oh, um..." Carlos mocks you.

"Fuck off, Carlos," you say, laughing. The table lights up with joy at your sharp answer.

Charles slides his hand under the table to rest on your leg, his touch gentle but deliberate, as if saying, this is how I want you. You feel a rush of anxiety, a mix of excitement and unease.

"Tomorrow we should go sledding," Oscar said, eyes sparkling at the sight of snow piling up outside.

"How old are you, ten?" George teased, a laugh escaping him.

"Hey!" Carmen slapped his arm gently, her expression soft but firm, like a mother trying to calm a mischievous child.

"Okay! Okay! We'll go sledding tomorrow!" George conceded, mock-defeated.

The room erupted in applause and laughter. Amid the joy, Charles’s hand found its way back to your leg. This time, it crept higher, deliberately, dangerously. You felt a jolt run through you, a mix of anticipation and unease. His gaze met yours, sharp and knowing, while the laughter around you faded into the background.

-

Shouts of joy echoed across the remote mountain area where the cabin you were staying in was nestled.

"Alex, smile for the picture!" you called.

She posed and smiled, but just then a snowball hit her square in the face. Charles burst into laughter and tackled her to the ground. Both of them grinned while you stood there, feeling a mix of shame and disbelief. Oh, what a cruel world. But it was your own fault for thinking he would do that to you. No, he would only do that to his girlfriend.

You snapped a picture of them, shoved your phone into your jacket, and walked a few feet away.

"I'm so full of snow now!" she exclaimed, shaking the flakes from her hair and clothes. She stood up. "I need to change my jacket before I catch a cold. Je t’aime!" she added, planting a kiss on him.

He smiled, looking down at her with quiet affection. Alex felt weird, again.

Count number two. Suspicion. But she might be a little extreme.

"Y/N, wait. Let’s go sledding!" Charles said, excitement in his voice.

"There are so many people here," you replied.

"Come on," he insisted.

Thoughtful, you scanned the area and spotted the farthest hill—the one that looked the most fun, the perfect slope for sledding. He caught your wrist and gently pulled you toward that direction, understanding immediately where your gaze had been fixed.

When you reached the hill and sat on the sled, pure joy lit up your face as you realized Charles would be the one to go down with you. Your delighted screams made his heart flutter, because he loved being the reason you were happy.

You went again, and again, sledding over the hill like a child, and Charles happily went along with it.

The final run brought you to the base of the hill. Both of you knew it was time to return to the group at the cabin, hearts still racing, cheeks flushed, and laughter lingering in the cold mountain air.

"Let's go back." you say, smiling.

The snow thickens, falling faster now, blurring the edges of the trees and the path ahead. Each flake seems to hang in the air longer, drifting lazily before settling on the ground, creating a soft, muffled world around you.

“I think we should go back,” you repeat, more insistently this time, your voice almost lost to the wind. You sigh again, letting your breath fog in the cold air, a soft rhythm that feels both nervous and deliberate.

Charles watches you closely, the blue of his eyes startling against the whiteness around him. Snowflakes cling to his lashes, melting slowly from the warmth of his skin, making his gaze even more hypnotic. “You sigh too much,” he says again, but there’s a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth now, a tease in his tone that makes your chest tighten.

“What?” you ask, a little sharper than intended.

“You’re restless. Always sighing. Are you upset because of me?”

“You? Never.” you answer, though your voice falters just slightly under his scrutiny.

He steps closer, and the snow crunches softly beneath his boots. The cold air presses around you both, but somehow, the space between you is warm, charged, electric. “I’m glad. I wouldn’t want to be the cause of your unease,” he murmurs, his words brushing against you like a feather caught in the wind.

You notice how the snow rests on his shoulders, melting where it touches him, and your gaze keeps returning to his eyes. Every blink is deliberate, every glance a pull, as if he’s drawing you closer without touching. The storm rages around you, isolating you in this frozen cathedral of trees, where only the two of you exist, the world beyond the forest disappearing in a blur of white.

A flake lands on your cheek. You reach up to brush it away, and his hand moves almost instinctively, hovering near yours, close enough that you feel the heat of him without even noticing. The wind gusts, pressing the snow harder against your cheeks and hair, but inside, the quiet tension between you grows, thick and unspoken, more intimate than any words could convey.

“You’re thinking too much,” he says softly, leaning closer, the sound of his voice competing with the storm.

“Maybe,” you whisper. “Or maybe I’m just noticing things.”

“And what are you noticing?” he asks, his voice low, teasing, dangerous in its calmness.

“You,” you say, barely audible. The word carries through the storm like a secret between you.

His smile is slow, sly. Snow continues to fall, softening the world, but the air between you crackles with a warmth the winter cannot touch. For a moment, the forest, the storm, even the snow itself, fades into the background, leaving only you and him—two figures frozen in time, in the white wilderness, where tension and desire mingle like fire and ice.

He steps closer, the sound of his boots muffled by the snow, every step deliberate, measured, a rhythm that pulls you in without a word. His eyes catch yours, blue like frozen glass, impossibly clear, holding you hostage in the swirling white.

“I can feel your breath,” he murmurs, soft, teasing, but there’s something serious beneath it.

You shiver not from the cold, though it’s sharp, but from the way his gaze seems to reach inside you, seeing what you’ve never let anyone touch. “I—” you start, and your voice falters, swallowed by the wind.

He raises a hand, almost brushing your cheek. The movement is slow, deliberate, almost torturous in its restraint. Your pulse spikes; every nerve in your body seems to hum. The air between you thickens, charged, as if the storm itself is holding its breath.

“You’re trembling,” he says softly, leaning slightly closer, his words brushing against your lips. “Is it the cold… or me?”

You don’t answer. You can’t. Your hands tighten on your coat, then drop, then find themselves hovering near his. The snowflakes land on your hair and lashes, melting in the warmth of your skin, making every glance, every subtle movement electric.

Finally, his hand rests lightly against yours. Not holding, not gripping, just touching. The contact is minimal, yet the tension ignites like lightning in your veins. You inch closer without realizing it, drawn in by gravity you never asked for.

Charles leans his forehead against yours. The wind tears at your hair and clothes, but inside this storm, it’s silent, intimate.

“I don’t want to move away,” he whispers. “Do you?”

Your heart races, your lips part. The answer is obvious, though unspoken. You tilt your head slightly. Just an inch. Just enough.

He mirrors you. Breath mingles with breath. Snow drifts onto his eyelashes, glistening like tiny stars in the pale light. For a moment, nothing exists but the space between your lips, the storm raging around you, and the unbearable closeness that has been building since the moment you left the cabin.

The air is electric, taut, fragile. The almost-kiss lingers long enough that it feels like time has slowed. You can feel every heartbeat, every tiny tremor of movement, every fraction of distance that separates you.

Your lips crash against his, fierce and demanding, every movement urgent, insatiable. His right hand tangles in your hair, gripping tightly, pulling you impossibly close to him as if he could fuse your bodies together. The snowstorm, the forest, the world beyond all of it disappears under the weight of this hunger.

He devours the kiss with an intensity that makes your knees weaken, as if he is tasting something he has craved for a lifetime. Each press of his lips, each growl in his throat, drives the need deeper, and your own hands claw at him, desperate, needing to anchor yourself while giving in.

Nothing else exists. Not the wind, not the cold, not the trees swaying under the storm. Only the fire between you, raw and unrelenting.

His mouth moves with possession, claiming, testing, searching, and you answer with equal ferocity. Breaths are ragged, mingling in the freezing air, melting together in the heat of your closeness.

Every inch of distance disappears. Every thought vanishes. Hunger that has been held in check for too long finds release in every kiss, every bite of his lips, every desperate tug of his hands through your hair.

The kiss is endless, a storm itself, and yet intimate, consuming, leaving nothing but the pure, unfiltered desire that has built between you both.

When he finally breaks the kiss for a fraction of a second, it is only to stare, blue eyes wild and unrelenting, as if asking silently, is this enough?

"You can’t stay away,” he murmurs, voice low, hoarse, almost a growl. “Not from me.”

“I… I don’t want to,” you whisper, breathless. The words are barely audible, but he hears them.

Then he kisses you again, and it is not gentle. It is hungry, feral, an echo of the storm compressed into the space between your lips. His mouth claims yours with urgency, teeth grazing, lips pressing, tongue tasting. Every kiss, every bite, every press of his body against yours is insatiable, like he has been starving for this moment for years.

Your hands move over him, grasping, clinging, pulling him closer as if letting him go would erase the intensity that has built between you.

He tilts your head back slightly, one hand still gripping your hair, the other tracing the curve of your back, holding you flush against him. You feel the sharp edge of desire in every touch, every movement, the way his body reacts to yours, mirroring the fire that has ignited in your chest.

For a moment, neither of you breathe, only moving together in the rhythm of urgent, desperate need. The kiss is endless, a storm contained within the forest, raw and untamed, consuming and intimate all at once.

"Charles... stop! This... this doesn't feel right..."

"No-one has to know... It's just us here..."

"I don’t want to kiss you hidden from the world, where no eyes can witness us."

“Tell me to walk away,” he says quietly, “and I will. But if there’s even a piece of you that feels what I feel… then stay with me."

"Charles... please..."

“Let me feel you,” he says, caressing your cheek.

He shakes his head slowly, his forehead pressing over your forehead. “Don’t run from this,” he murmurs. “Whatever happens tomorrow, whatever people say… I don't care right now. I just want you."

He kisses you deeply, pressing you on the tree behind you. His kiss doesn’t fulfill you; it only consumes you in a vicious way. His hands starts to touch you tits, and then to carries them. He pulls them down, to your butt. A growl escapes and you feel like his pray. A lamb in the wolf’s fangs. His jacked unzips and your hand plams his dick that are covered by his pants.

"Do you want this?"

"Yes."

You don't think about the consequences. You don't think about those brown eyes you swore you'll never want to see cry. You only think about the pleasure.

He pulls you down and places his hand under your chin. He guides your face towards him. You open you lips and start tasting everything you wanted: him. Your moans create a vibration on his dick that make him loose his mind.

"That's... that's it." he says loud, not carrying about the surroundings because after all, you're all alone in the woods.

He starts fucking your throat in a animalistic way that makes you feel inferior. But behind the grotesque, you like it. You like to feel like this. Down, inferior, like your purpose is to serve his cravings. His whore. And what a whore you feel like in that moment. 

"I need to be inside you. Now." he declares.

Charles guides you to sit on the thick snow. You feel like a puppet in his hands. Light as a feather.

He pulls his fingers into you and starts pulling in and out in a animalistic way because frankly you are already wet.

"That's it, accept everything, mon trésor." he moans at the sight of you falling apart only because of him.

Just as you were about to cum on his fingers, he presses his dick inside your warm parts. Adrenaline rushes over both of you and you don't feel a bit of the cold outside, just the pleasure. He starts kissing your necks without biting, then kisses your cheeks and goes for your mouth, moaning. Because he loves all of the pleasure, the gaze of your eyes, the brush of your lips, and even the guilt itself.

-

“Goodbye, darling. It was lovely to see you,” Carmen says, and you smile brightly in response.

You hug her and give a small wave to George and Lando, who return the gesture with sly, knowing smiles.

Charles approaches the car after loading the luggage into the trunk. He doesn’t smile. He simply looks at you, his gaze lingering, and opens your door. For a moment, you both freeze, eyes locking not in lust, but in a silent understanding, a desire to be close, to sit in the front passenger seat by his side. That seat is taken, though.

You both slide into the car, and he starts the radio, the music is a feeble attempt to dissolve the tension hanging between you. The atmosphere is rough, taunting.

The first stretch of the road is heavy with unspoken thoughts. You wonder if this will be the only time. You try to convince yourself it is, but a quiet, stubborn part of you hopes it won’t be the last

As your eyes met the rearview mirror, his did too. Both of you froze, staring into the same reflection, and your heart skipped, caught in a rhythm you couldn’t control. What if…Then Alexandra reached the mirror to look at you. Her eyes landed on the reflection and everything clicked. Both of you looking at each other at the exact same moment, a truth so electric it seemed to charge the air between you. Her breath caugh and your eyes widen when you catch her eyes.

Count 3. Guilty.

[soweeposts]

Spank! [Max Verstappen x reader]

hello! this is my first fanfic. English is not my first language so excuse me for any grammar error or spelling error. have a nice reading!!

smut// warning: 18+ spanking, dirty talking, misogyny, unprotected sex (don't to that irl!), J*s Verstappen

_

"She might be a little difficult or so her former colleagues told me, but she’s definitely going to be an advantage to our team,” Christian Horner said, rubbing his palms together. Just like a fly, Max thought with mild disgust.

He knew exactly what a new teammate meant: another person doomed to be swallowed by the second-seat curse. A few years in, maybe less, and she’d be gone, replaced by another hopeful face. And so the cycle would continue, over and over, until the day he retired. That’s just how things worked.

“I still don’t understand what’s in it for you… or for her,” Max said.

Christian let out a short laugh, the kind that never reached his eyes.“Oh, come on, Max. You make it sound like I’m running a charity. She’s talented, she’s quick, and more importantly, she knows how to handle the media. You’ll see... she’s going to bring a lot of attention to the team. The right kind of attention.”

Max tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing. “Media attention doesn’t win championships,” he said flatly.

“True,” Horner replied, clasping his hands behind his back as he began pacing slowly across the garage floor. “But it keeps the sponsors happy. And it keeps the pressure off you for a while, at least.”

Max frowned. “Pressure off me?”

Christian stopped and met his gaze, his smile fading. “You’ve dominated for years, Max. People are getting... bored. They want something new. A rivalry, even.”

Max cringed. Christian always had that talent. More like an ability to make his skin crawl with just a few words.

The door opened. “Hi! Nice to meet you, darling! I’m Christian, and this is Max, your teammate.”

“Hello! I’m happy to meet you both,” she said warmly. Her accent was thicker than his, her voice smooth but steady. She looked young. Her face was calm, almost unreadable, yet her eyebrows were furrowed ever so slightly, as if she were already bracing herself for what was to come. She had that thing that made Verstappen think this might be something truly new. A new era, he thought.

He watched her. Every time.

Her first win in Jeddah. The crowd screaming, her team in tears, the cameras catching every shining second of her triumph. He’d stood back, expressionless, as champagne flew through the air. She wasn't crying of happiness. She was just smiling, composed, but that composure made people really like her.

Classy, a news outlet wrote about her after her first win.

Well mannered, was another thing people thought about her.

Young and refreshing to see on track!

Max felt, for the first time ever, old next to her.

She didn’t move much, and yet the entire room seemed to bend around her. Quiet, magnetic, impossibly composed. Her eyes lingered just long enough to make him aware of every second that passed. There was no invitation in her expression, but there was something worse: a calm curiosity that stripped him of balance. She looked at him as though she already knew what he would do, and that knowledge unsettled him more than any words could have. He noticed the way light caught the edge of her hair, the way her breath seemed in sync with the slow rhythm of the moment. The air between them was thin, almost trembling, alive with the weight of everything unspoken.

He told himself to look away. He didn’t.

He watched her during her first DNF when the garage was silent, when everyone else had gone, and she sat alone beside the car, helmet still on, shoulders shaking. When their eyes met, she looked like a deer caught in headlights. She was fragile, raw, human. Of course, Max didn’t interfere. He didn’t say a comforting word. He didn’t even nod. He just walked past her. And that, somehow, made her feel small, hell even inferior. She hated that.

Then came Miami.

She was fuming, standing in front of him in the paddock, her P2 trophy clutched like it was an insult instead of an award. “You fucked me over! You and your fucking strategy made me lose P1!”

Max didn’t want to agree, but deep down, he knew she wasn’t wrong.

The plan had always been for him to take the win. To reinforce the legend, the dynasty, the unstoppable career of Max Verstappen, as Christian Horner reminded Max just after the trace when confusion was at its highest peak.

“Fuck off!” he snapped, tearing off his cap and throwing it onto the table. The sound of it hitting the surface echoed through the room. Sharp, final, and far too loud for what it was.

She didn’t flinch. She stared at him for a long moment, jaw tight, eyes flashing with anger and something else he couldn’t quite place — determination, maybe defiance. Then, finally, she spoke.

“You think throwing a tantrum makes you untouchable?” Her voice was low, controlled, but every word carried fire. “You didn’t win because you’re better than me today. You won because you had a team protecting you. And don’t pretend it wasn’t planned.”

God, it was infuriating for him, knowing that her sharp attitude, her little digs and challenging glances, were only for him. To everyone else, the Ferrari guys, even Lewis fucking Hamilton, his rival since forever, she was warm, charming, the kind of person everyone adored. She made people laugh at her jokes. People smiled when she walked by. Her kindness and sweetness were almost unbearable to Max.

“Maybe she needs to be spanked. ” His father, Jos, told him one night when he was visiting his own son.

“What? ”

“If she wants to be such a cunt and take your place, remind her. Remind her you’re Verstappen, the World Champion. Not a fucking whore that slept to get her seat. ” He answeard nonchalantly.

Ah, yes, the wisest of the Verstappen spoke again, Max said in his mind sarcastically.

But later, alone in his house, with only silence and a glass of whiskey, he imagined just her sitting by his feet, looking up at him, with her pout on her face and her watery eyes fixed on him, just like in Miami. Her eyes were wide, pleading, shimmering with something he could not name. Her hair brushed softly against his shin, and the faint warmth of her breath tickled his skin as she leaned closer.

Her fingers rested lightly on his shoes, trembling just enough to make him aware of every pulse in his body. She sought balance, not just for her own body but for him, and the thought of it made something coil tight and electric inside him. He did not want her to find it, yet he wanted to feel her searching, reaching, needing.

Her nose tilted toward him, almost grazing his knee. The faint scent of her lingered in the air, sweet, intimate, unavoidable. Max could almost feel the weight of her gaze, the subtle tremor in her hands, the tiny shiver that ran through her as she leaned in. Every second stretched, charged with a tension he could neither claim nor resist, a quiet fire that roared silently behind his ribs. He let himself linger there, suspended between desire and control, imagining her reaching, imagining her needing, imagining the tension stretched taut between them like a wire that could snap at any second. And in that suspended silence, Max felt the raw intensity of what it meant to be seen and to see, to crave and to resist, all at once.

In Monaco, he picked her up from her house. He hadn’t expected her to agree, yet she insisted, claiming it would help their team dynamic. Fans online were already speculating, leaving comments on every video they appeared in: He hates her!/ Somebody bring Checo back with Max, ASAP! /He makes more eye contact with a tree than with her./ Omfg, is he fr?/ What a fuckin’ virgin.

That morning, she had dressed with deliberate care. Her black leather skirt clung to her body, her leopard-print kitten heels gave her an extra edge. Her makeup was flawless, highlighting every line of her face, and her hair fell perfect, even better than on her graduation photos.

“Hi, grumpy man,” she said, leaning over the chair to place her bag in the back seat. Her body brushed against his shoulder just enough to make him aware of it, and the scent of her perfume enveloped him.

Max felt a pull in his chest, a tension he could neither name nor release. Mijn kleine hoer… he thought, the words echoing in his mind as his gaze followed the curve of her neck, the movement of her hands, the subtle sway of her body as she settled into the car. Every detail pressed in on him, the sound of her voice, the warmth of her presence, the faint tremor in the air between them. How much he would love to bite her neck to make sure even those fuckers online knew he had her. How much he would kill to kiss her chest and the rest of the body until she begged for more.

He wanted to keep his composure, to remain the grumpy, untouchable Max. Yet every instinct in him screamed to lean closer, to feel her reach for him, to taste the tension coiled tight between them. The car felt smaller - and so his pants - the world outside irrelevant, as the silent pull of attraction crackled quietly, dangerously, in the space they shared.

“I’ll try not to ruin your concentration today, old man. Wouldn’t want the world champion distracted, would we?” she teased, her voice dripping with mockery, clearly enjoying every second of it.

​After the Monaco Grand Prix, where Red Bull got P1 for her and P2 for Max, they celebrated with champagne. The laughter of the others filled the air, blending with the sound of champagne bottles opening and cameras flashing, easily covering his frustration. Still, the tension was written all over his face, the tightness in his jaw and the way his shoulders refused to relax. The cap he wore cast a shadow over his eyes, hiding the storm beneath them from everyone else. Everyone but her. She watched him closely, quietly, noticing every small movement, every flicker of emotion he tried to suppress, as if she could read the thoughts he was fighting to keep hidden. As she started to unzip her racing suit, the door swung open suddenly. Max stood there, his face still tense from the unspoken argument that had been brewing all day.

“You really think you can just walk in and take my place?” he said, his voice low but cutting.

She turned toward him, her eyes burning. “Who do you think you are to talk to me like that? You can’t handle the fact that a woman’s matching your pace, and now you’re trying to make me the problem?” she snapped, her words quick and sharp as she faced him head-on.

The silence that followed was thick, pulsing with everything neither of them dared to say as rivalry, pride, and something else neither wanted to name started to fill the room.

His hand caught her arm suddenly, and before she could react, her body spun a full 180 degrees. The motion was swift, almost disorienting, and she found her belly pressed against the nearest table. Every small movement of his body, every flicker of his expression, held meaning she couldn’t ignore.

“So you think you’re going to take my place, kleine hoer?’’

“What the fuck are you saying, Max?” she asked as she tried to step back, but the movement only brought her closer, her body pressing against his, the tension between them crackling in the air.

And fuck, he was hard. Having her pressed down like this, her hair everywhere, on her back, on the table. Her little moans and her legs that where around his body now. She could feel her pulse in her pussy and the only thing she had in her mind was if he could feel her desire for more.

“You’re pathetic! Look at you, pressing up against me like this. Ass in the air like a fucking slut. You like this, don’t you?”

She gasped and moaned softly as his hands moved closer, exploring her reactions.

“Fuck you, Max…” she muttered, her voice a mix of frustration and need.

Fury starts to settle in his mind and his hand grab a hand full of her ass-cheek making her try to pull away from the pain.

His right hand pulled back, but the movement was replaced by a quick, sharp spank that made her flinch. She felt a sting of surprise and frustration, and her eyes began to glisten with unshed tears. She wanted to protest, to tell him to stop, but her voice had deserted her, leaving only the helplessness of the moment.

“You want to be a brat? This is what I’ll do to you from now on. You think you can replace me?” SPANK “Erase my name?” SPANK “You’re nothing ” SPANK

She moans desperatly as her legs are wide open.

“No, I don’t want... that. I don’t want to replace you, sir.”

Fuuuck, his dick screams.

He almost ripped off her suit and as it was discarded at her feet, his fore arm pressed into her throat, her body exposed to him.

“Be a good girl for me.”

“Anything for you”, she answers.

Her lingerie was the only thing that was covering her body. And Max, of course. His hands were touching every part of her body and his tongue was licking every bite his teeth made on her neck. His dick rubbed on her pussy like they were two teenagers that just found adult sites. Max felt every wet part of her pussy as he kept rubbing and rubbing all over her private parts. As his left hand was pulling her hair like a leash, his right hand was rubbing her clitoris. Her panties were a full wet mess from just rubbing and as she was trying to take a deep breath, he felt his cock slipped inside her, filling every part of her body.

“Look at how good you take me, bunny. You like having me inside you, huh?”

“Ye-yes...” she moaned just like a porn star.

The rubbing was replaced with the sound of their bodies slapping against one another.

“C’mon, pretty, talk to me, please...” his hand cupped her face. As Max saw her he almost nutted in her: tongue out, eyes rolled back, sweat on her forehead and cheeks red.

“Harder, please!” she screams again in pleasure.

Max cups her nape as he starts going faster, his mind filled with lust over her. Just as he felt himself leak into her, her body starts to pulsate and her moans got even louder.

“My good girl...” He said as he pulled out of her body and cummed all over her hair, back, ass, even spilled some of his seed on her legs. “You did amazing, angel...” He kissed her shoulder after a few seconds.