For You, I'll Be
Sergio Pérez/Carlos Sainz Jr: Nipple play, Fuck or something bad happens, 2026 season, Titty fucking, Checo has tits, that's it, that's the fic Rating: Explicit Length: ~9.8k ao3 link
Sergio Pérez was relieved to wake up back where he belonged.
Same alarm. Same soft hum of the hotel’s climate control. Same few seconds of disorientation before his brain supplied Melbourne and Friday and FP1. He lay there staring at the ceiling, mentally queuing his morning shower, stretch, and coffee, before rolling onto his side.
He reached up absently, scratching at the center of his chest. His hand stopped.
Checo frowned, still foggy with sleep, and dragged his fingers down again, slower this time. The resistance wasn’t imagined. It wasn’t fabric. It wasn’t the angle. It was flesh.
He sucked in a sharp breath and pushed himself upright, heart already accelerating, hand flattening against his chest like maybe pressure would fix it.
It did not.
There was no delicate discovery here. No ambiguity. No maybe I’m still dreaming.
There were breasts on his body.
Not exaggerated. Not cartoonish. Real enough to have weight, to shift when he moved, to make his stomach drop through the mattress as every system in his body came immediately, violently online.
“No,” he whispered, hoarse.
He swung his legs out of bed too fast, dizziness crashing over him, and staggered to the mirror. The overhead light was brutal and unforgiving. From the window the Australian morning flooded the room, spotlighting his horror.
The man staring back at him had his face, his dark eyes, the same familiar tension in the jaw. And unmistakably, undeniably, a chest that did not belong to him.
Checo pressed both palms there now, breathing shallow and fast, cataloguing sensation the way he did in the car when something failed at speed.
Okay. Okay.
He was awake. He was conscious. This was not a dream.
He had heard about this. Or at least, stuff like this. The kind of stories shared in confidence, late at night, laughed off afterward because what else could be done? The paddock was a strange community. Things happened to them that didn’t happen to other people. Things they learned not to question too loudly.
He’d heard stories where drivers had accidentally drunk laced drinks and come back totally unrecognizable—so horny they’d fuck their rival—or worse, their teammate. Or drivers who had become linked through each others’ dreams. Or one particular horror story where a pair of teammates swapped genitals for a month.
All inexplicably solved by the same stupid solution.
His phone was in his hand before he could think about it, pulse loud in his ears, the hotel room still grey and unfamiliar in that way all hotel rooms were at dawn.
He didn’t let himself spiral yet. He went straight to logistics, the way he always did when the world tilted. The drivers’ group chat blinked awake under his thumbs.
checo pérezwho is staying in the vivian hotel?
Three dots appeared. Then answers, one after the other. Alex first, reliably on his phone.
Albono williams
pierre gasly us to :)
gabi here as well 👍
Isackk rbs @ concord
ollie were not 😭sorry checo
Checo stared at the screen. Williams. Alpine. Audi.
That was it. If Red Bull weren’t here, Ferrari likely weren’t either. God only knew where Aston Martin were staying, and he had a better chance of summoning a helicopter directly to his room than contacting Fernando on a Friday morning.
Perfect timing, his brain supplied unhelpfully.
His chest tightened painfully as the obvious absences filled the silence. No Max, steady and blunt and impossible to fluster. No Lewis, who had seen everything and survived it all with grace.
He dropped his phone onto the bed and scrubbed his hands over his face.
He was not twelve. He was not helpless. He was a grown man with a decade and a half of Formula One under his belt. Things had changed since he had left, too. And the teams identified left him with one option previously unavailable. He picked his phone back up and opened a personal thread.
checo pérezoye, ocupo tu ayuda. (Hey, I need your help)es urgente. de verdad (Really, it’s urgent)
His phone rang a few moments later and Checo startled so hard he nearly dropped it. For a split second, he closed his eyes, relief sharp enough to sting, then he answered.
“Carlos,” he said, voice rough around the edges.
“Checo,” Carlos replied immediately, voice pleasantly chipper in the morning. “¿Qué pasó?” (What’s up)
Checo swallowed hard. “De verdad… mejor ven a verlo tú.” (Seriously, you’d better come see for yourself)
A small, humorless breath left him.
“No sé cómo explicarlo por teléfono,” he added. “No así.” (I don’t know how to explain it over the phone, not like this)
“¿Dónde estás?” Carlos asked.
Checo hesitated, then committed. “Habitación quinientos catorce.” (Room 514)
“Ahí voy,” (I’m coming) Carlos said simply.
Checo closed his eyes, relief crashing through him hard enough to make his knees weak. “Gracias,” he murmured.
“Para eso estamos,” (That’s what we’re here for) Carlos replied, already leaving from wherever he’d been.
The line went dead.
Checo stood there in the quiet, hand pressed to his chest, counting breaths until help arrived.
The knock came sooner than he expected, three sharp raps. He crossed the room in socks, heart in his throat, and yanked the door open.
Carlos stood there in full Williams kit, credentials already around his neck, backwards cap low on his forehead, sunglasses hooked casually into his collar like this was any other Friday morning.
Blue. So much blue. The thought hit Checo sideways and absurdly hard. It was wrong in the way seeing the ocean another color would be wrong.
“Pasa,” (Get in here) Checo said immediately, grabbing Carlos by the forearm and hauling him inside with more urgency than grace.
Carlos barely had time to step over the threshold before Checo shut the door behind him, locking it like he was hiding a state secret. Only then did he turn back around.
Carlos had already stopped moving. He just… stared. Eyes wide. Mouth open. Entirely, profoundly unprepared.
Checo shifted his weight, arms folding reflexively across his chest, which only made the situation worse. “¿Ves?” (See) he said, voice thin but dry. “Te dije que no sabía cómo explicarlo.” (I told you I didn’t know how to explain it)
Carlos blinked. Then his jaw dropped fully slack.
“—Madre de Dios,” he breathed.
Checo let out a short, hysterical laugh.
Carlos dragged a hand down his face, pacing a single step forward, then stopping himself like he wasn’t sure what the rules were. His gaze flicked up to meet Checo’s eyes, then snapped right back down again.
“Checo,” he said slowly, carefully, like talking to someone in shock. “¿Estás… bien?” (You good)
“No,” Checo replied honestly. “Pero tampoco estoy muerto, así que vamos progresando.” (But I’m not dead either, so we’re making progress)
Carlos huffed a disbelieving sound, still staring. “Esto—” He stopped, shook his head, tried again. “Esto sí es nuevo.” (This is something new)
Checo snorted despite himself. “¿Ves por qué te llamé?” (Do you see why I called you)
Carlos finally looked back up at him fully, expression settling.
“Okay,” he said. “Okay. Si esto le pasa a alguien…” His mouth twitched, helpless. “Claro que tenía que ser a ti.” (If this happens to someone… Of course it had to be you)
Checo closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Gracias por venir,” (Thank you for coming) he said quietly.
Carlos nodded. “Siempre,” he replied. “Ahora—sit down. Tell me what happened. From the beginning.”
Checo told him everything, fast and disjointed. That he’d gone to sleep normal and woken up like this, that there’d been no warning, no pain, no sense of transition at all, just a before and an after. He admitted, reluctantly, that he’d heard stories like this before passed around the paddock like superstition, like something they weren’t supposed to ever acknowledge.
Carlos listened without interrupting, nodding slowly, because yes, he’d heard them too. Everyone had, if they’d been around long enough. It happened sometimes, rarely, to people who didn’t deserve it any more or less than anyone else. Carlos said he’d never had a brush with it, not even close, and Checo laughed weakly at that, because of course he hadn’t, of course this would be his luck instead.
Carlos exhaled slowly, standing, rubbing his palms together once like he was bracing himself. “Okay,” he said, matter-of-fact. “This is simple. We know how to fix this.”
Checo shot him a look. “No.”
Carlos tilted his head. “Checo.”
“No,” Checo repeated, already blanching. He scrubbed a hand over his face and looked away. “Ni lo digas.” (Don’t even say it)
Carlos did, anyway. “Los dos sabemos cómo va esto,” (We both know how this goes) he said quietly.
Checo groaned, long and miserable, leaning back against the desk. “No puedo pedirte eso. Ni de broma.” (I can’t ask that of you. Not a chance)
Carlos huffed a soft laugh. “You aren’t asking me. I am offering.” He stepped closer, voice steady. “It’s your first day back in the paddock. I don’t think you have much of a choice.”
Checo squeezed his eyes shut.
“Do you really think no one is going to notice?” Carlos continued. “Your team, the media, they will be watching you under a microscope.”
Checo sighed, exasperated. Of course he was right.
“And like this—” Carlos gestured vaguely. “—you don’t exactly blend in.”
“Chingada madre,” (For fuck’s sake) Checo muttered. He looked down at himself, horrified anew. “It will fuck up my weigh-in.”
His voice cracked just slightly. “I trained for months for this drive.”
Carlos’s expression softened immediately. “Lo sé,” (I know) he said gently. “And I know it’s not what you want.”
He paused, then added firmly, “But I also know you want to drive today more than anything.”
Checo let out a weak, broken laugh. “No seas cabrón.” (Don’t do this to me)
Carlos met his eyes. “And I know,” he said, voice low now, “if it were the other way around,” he paused, planing a hand on Checo’s shoulder.
“…you would do it for me.”
“Claro que sí,” (Of course I would) Checo said quietly. He sagged, defeated, hands covering his face. “Me choca que tengas razón.” (I hate that you’re right)
Carlos smiled faintly, all warmth, no triumph. “Déjame ayudarte.” (Let me help you) he said softly.
Checo dragged his hands down slowly and looked up at him, eyes tired but trusting. “…Bueno,” (Okay) he said at last, because he was going to be on track for FP1 if it killed him.
They stood there for a second too long, the air between them thick with well, here we are.
Checo shifted his weight, arms folded awkwardly across himself. Carlos watched him with that crooked smile that had always meant I’m here, you’re not alone, even when everything else was a mess.
“Ven,” (Come here) Carlos said softly. He lifted a hand, giving Checo time to pull away if he wanted to. Checo didn’t.
Carlos’s fingers tipped his chin up gently, thumb warm against his jaw. Their eyes met, Checo’s uncertain, searching; Carlos’s steady, kind.
“Is this okay?” Carlos asked quietly.
Checo swallowed, then nodded once.
Carlos leaned in and kissed him carefully, as if to reassure him that this wouldn’t be unpleasant. When he pulled back, he stayed close enough that Checo could still feel his breath.
“Okay,” Carlos murmured, like they were agreeing on the weather.
He stepped back then, deliberately giving Checo space, and reached up to pull off his cap, setting it aside. Then his shirt followed, folded over the back of a chair. Shoes kicked off last, like this was just another room, another morning.
Checo watched him, shoulders loosening despite himself.
Carlos caught his eye and smiled again, softer now. “No rush,” he said.
Checo huffed out a breath, something between a laugh and a groan. “No me lo estás poniendo fácil.” (You’re not making this easy)
Carlos’s smile widened just a little. “Nunca fue la idea.” (That was never the idea)
Checo tried very hard not to stare and failed almost immediately. He hadn’t seen Carlos like this in a while. Not up close. Not in the quiet of a hotel room with no paddock noise to soften the impact. It started as a professional assessment, as appreciation as a fellow athlete. Carlos had a strong core. Unreal shoulders. He had put on muscle without losing flexibility. Checo felt awe, the way he respected anyone who treated their body like a machine and a home at the same time. He'd had always been built, obviously. That was a given. But this was… refined. More muscle cut cleanly now, shoulders broader, lines sharper. Skin darkened by sun and travel and a life lived mostly outdoors. A body that looked like it knew exactly what it was capable of.
His eyes caught on the faint scar low on Carlos’s abdomen, pale against his skin, as he remembered a different Melbourne, two years prior.
When his eyes drifted lower, Checo had the very unhelpful, very human thought that Carlos was beautiful.
Carlos caught him looking and grinned, utterly unsurprised. “What?” he asked, smiling.
As if he didn’t know.
Checo cleared his throat, heat creeping up his neck. “Nothing,” he said, an obvious lie.
Carlos laughed softly and shook his head, like he’d seen this coming. “Si me miras así, no me quejo.” (If you look at me like that, I’m not complaining)
Checo huffed, embarrassed to be so caught out. “Estás… muy cabrón, güey.” (You look insanely good, man)
Carlos gestured vaguely at Checo’s chest, grin unapologetic.
“Mírate,” he said. “Hoy tú eres el reclamo.” (Look at you. Today, you’re the main attraction)
Checo let out a disbelieving groan, face burning. “No mames.” (You’re kidding me) he muttered, rolling his eyes. “Esto es una pesadilla.” (This is a nightmare)
Carlos laughed quietly, warm and fond. “Una pesadilla muy exclusiva.” (A very exclusive nightmare)
That finally pulled a real laugh out of Checo. “Eres un pendejo.” (You’re an asshole)
“Un pendejo solidario,” (A helpful asshole) Carlos corrected, smiling.
He stepped back into Checo’s space then and tipped Checo’s face up again. Carlos kissed him again, firmer. His hands settled on Checo’s waist, curving around his back.
Checo registered the solid reassurance of his grip, the warmth of his hands, the way Carlos kissed with confidence, like all of this would be a funny memory soon. He tasted faintly of toothpaste, minty and clean, and the normalcy almost made Checo laugh into his mouth. He exhaled, tension bleeding out of him in a way he hadn’t realized was possible, and kissed him back properly this time. Tentative at first, then more sure, muscle memory pushing out panic. Soon, he forgot. Forgot the mirror. Forgot the clock. Forgot how wrong his own body had felt when he woke up.
Carlos made a quiet sound against his mouth, as if he were surprised by the heat of it, his hand tightening at Checo's waist, drawing him closer without thinking. The kiss deepened on instinct alone, less careful. Checo hadn't expected to enjoy it this much. Hadn't expected the way his own restraint would unravel so quickly.
He also hadn't expected the way Carlos's hands would slide into his hair, still messy from bed, his hands slightly clumsy, slightly desperate. Checo had let it grow out during his season away, with a teammate like Valtteri, he hardly had the more interesting hair of the team. Carlos ran his fingers through the longer section at the nape of his neck, making Checo shiver into his hold, pressing up against the Spaniard.
At some point between bumping awkwardly into the edge of the desk and half-tripping toward the bed, it stopped feeling like a professional favor, and started feeling like hunger. Their path was messy as they both refused to pull away, hands gripping at Carlos's shoulders, Checo's knees bumping the mattress. Carlos didn't guide him down so much as tumble with him.
They collided with the mattress, momentum carrying them forward. Carlos twisted at the last second to avoid crushing him, bracing on one arm in a graceless heap of limbs and rumpled sheets. They landed hard enough to bounce, and for a split second they just lay there, chests heaving, faces inches apart.
“Sorry,” Carlos grinned, not sorry in the slightest. It no longer resembled the heavy morning Checo had awakened to.
The sight of Carlos stole the breath straight out of his lungs. His eyes were darker than before, heavy-lidded and focused entirely on him. His lips were pinked and slightly swollen from kissing, raw from Checo's stubble. There was color high on his cheeks, a flushed warmth that made him look younger and softer and completely undone. He looked thrilled.
Checo blinked, stunned by how affected he looked. By the realization that this eager, messy excitement, was because of him. Carlos, the young, fit, effortlessly charming guy everyone in the paddock knew could have anyone he wanted, looked like this because he wanted Checo.
It was more surprising than the fall to the mattress.
Checo felt dizzy with it. A reckless, daring desire to affect Carlos flared in his chest. It startled him as much as it thrilled him. He’d spent years assuming he was past the age of being anyone’s weakness, being older, established, familiar. He reached up without thinking, thumb brushing Carlos’s cheek, caught somewhere between admiration and disbelief. He didn't even realize he'd gone still.
But Carlos did. His grin softened just a touch, but the eagerness didn't fade. If anything, it sharpened. He leaned down again without hesitation, chasing Checo's mouth like he couldn't quite stand the space between them.
One of his hands slid along Checo's thigh, tugging him closer; Checo felt his leg get drawn up, instinctively wrapping around Carlos's waist to keep him there. Carlos inhaled him, one hand on his jaw, sliding back into his hair, the other on his hip, keeping his thigh in place.
Carlos’s hips slotted between his, want surging through him, making him feel hot all over. Checo could feel the Spaniard’s hard length pressed into his hip, distracting and arousing at the same time. Carlos’s full lips chased hot down his cheek, across his jaw, drinking in every bit of exposed skin down his throat. His hands slipped beneath Checo's shirt, palms warm against his skin, stroking across his stomach, up his sides.
Checo could hardly catch his breath between kisses, one hand tangling in Carlos's beautiful hair, smoothing the other up his lower back. It was overwhelming in the best way, like Carlos wasn't allowing any nerves to interfere, any self consciousness to take his mind out of it.
Carlos didn’t hesitate. His hands were already sliding higher, fingers warm and impatient where they brushed against skin. Checo leaned into it without thinking, breath catching as the fabric lifted. Carlos tugged his shirt higher, mouth never leaving his, and Checo’s hands came up instinctively to help before something inside him jolted.
“No–” Checo broke the kiss abruptly, grabbing Carlos’s wrist.
They both froze.
Carlos blinked at him, confusion flashing across his face, startled. “Hey,” he said softly, soothing. “It’s fine. Don’t worry.”
The bewilderment faded as quickly as it had appeared. He didn’t pull away, didn’t push forward either. He waited as Checo’s heart raced for a completely different reason.
Checo’s breath hitched, sharp and uneven. He squeezed his eyes shut for a second, focusing on the feel of Carlos’s hands, the warmth of him. He trusted him. He opened his eyes and nodded, then forced the word past his throat. “Yeah.”
Carlos’s expression shifted into something gentler. “Okay,” he said simply.
This time, when his fingers slipped back under the fabric, he gave Checo room to change his mind. Instead, Checo lifted his arms.
The shirt disappeared somewhere over his head, and before Checo could overthink it again, Carlos was right back on him, mouth at his jaw, his neck, hands warm and firm at his waist. Carlos’s hands wandered lower, brushing just above the unfamiliar flesh on his chest. Checo gasped against his mouth before moaning softly into the touch. He hadn’t expected to be so sensitive.
Checo let his head fall back into the pillows, breath breaking into something unsteady and surprised at how good it felt, how natural it felt to be touched like this. To be wanted like this.
Without the layer of fabric, he noticed the absence of something familiar. There was only smooth skin, warm and strangely sensitive, like he had been waxed overnight.
He couldn’t help gasping when his newly sensitive nipples brushed against the smooth plane of Carlos’s chest, immediately pressing his lips shut to hide any other embarrassing outbursts.
Carlos pulled back just enough to look at him. Heat crawled up Checo’s neck. He made a reflexive move to cover himself, hands twitching—
Carlos caught them gently, fingers closing around Checo’s wrists and holding them down against the bed. “Eh,” he murmured.
Checo swallowed hard, pulse loud in his ears. Being looked at openly like this made something in him curl inward, mortified. He squeezed his eyes shut for a second, then opened them again when Carlos didn’t let go.
Carlos’s expression wasn’t hungry in a sharp way. It was warm. Like he was allowing himself to really take Checo in. Only then did he look back up, eyes dark and soft.
“Eres precioso,” (You’re beautiful) he said quietly.
Checo’s breath stuttered. He laughed weakly, like the words had knocked the wind out of him. He finally managed to look down.
It made him feel newly exposed in a way that had nothing to do with Carlos’s eyes on him. His nipples were the same rosy brown as before, but larger, more pronounced. His chest was smooth, free of the hair he was so accustomed to seeing. He was surprised by how heavy each mound of flesh felt against his chest, how they swayed more to his sides while he was on his back. The curves were so pronounced, greater than a handful, definitely too noticeable to get away with in the paddock.
He shuddered, embarrassed and overwhelmed all at once.
Carlos’s grip on his wrists softened, thumbs stroking over his fluttering pulse. He couldn’t seem to look away, drawn to their inexplicable presence as much as Checo wanted to repel them.
He kissed Checo’s sternum, lips warm and soft. His lips trailed below one breast, kissing the underside of his flesh reverently, like he was fragile, precious.
The nervous edge softened into something heavier, something that curled low and warm in his stomach and spread outward. Carlos’s mouth grew more confident, kissing across his breast open-mouthed and hot. Checo heard himself breathing harder, arching into Carlos’s mouth, fists clenching in his grasp. Without warning, he moaned, the sound abrupt and obvious between them.
A smile spread across the Spaniard’s mouth, not teasing exactly, but knowing. There was mischief in his eyes now, dark and bright at the same time, like he’d just discovered something delightful and was trying very hard not to pounce on it.
“Ah,” Carlos murmured, almost to himself.
Heat flooded Checo’s face. He hated being this transparent. It was mortifying. He huffed, rolling his eyes even as his face stayed warm.
“No cantes victoria,” (Don’t declare victory) he shot back. “Que tú tampoco estás muy tranquilo que digamos.” (You’re not exactly holding it together yourself)
Carlos’s grin widened instantly, mischief deepening in his eyes. “¿Ah, no?” he said lightly.
Checo snorted, smugly flicking his eyes down to the obvious tent in Carlos’s briefs. “Se te nota.” (It shows)
Carlos burst out laughing, the sound bright and delighted. His eyes lit up, not defensive in the slightest. If anything, he looked pleased to be called out. He leaned in just a little, close enough to feel dangerous, amusement dancing in his eyes.
“Pero…” (But) he added lightly, dragging the word out. “…creo que ahora mismo estás en clara desventaja.” (I think you’re at a pretty clear disadvantage right now)
Carlos released Checo’s hands to gently trailed a fingertip around his breast, barely touching before gently thumbing over his nipple until it hardened traitorously under his hand.
Checo’s eyes rolled back, moaning helplessly at the Spaniard’s ministrations.
Carlos leaned down, mouth brushing Checo’s neck, just below his jaw. He cupped both mounds, one in each hand, pressing them together lightly, gently rolling his thumbs over his nipples. He kissed once, twice, letting the heat linger, flicking his thumbs at the same time, not bothering to pretend he wasn’t enjoying every second of it.
Checo shivered despite himself, breath catching. He tilted his head back a fraction, giving him space, then huffed out a laugh that sounded more helpless than he liked.
“Pues sí,” (Well, yeah) he muttered, voice rough. “Estás aprovechando bastante mi miseria.” (You’re really making the most of my misery)
Carlos bit at his neck, sucking the bitten area between his full lips before kissing lower, kneading one breast with a rough palm. His lips just barely brushed over his nipple and he could feel how hardened the nub had become under Carlos’s attention.
Checo couldn’t help the small “Ahh—” that slipped out. Carlos’s hand fit him perfectly, his lips curving around him teasingly.
When Carlos spoke again, his voice had dropped, a little rough around the edges, like he hadn’t quite meant to say anything at all. “¿Ah, sí?” he murmured into Checo’s skin. “¿Tan miserable estás?” (Are you really that miserable)
Carlos’s tongue gently flicked over his nipple and he couldn’t help the breathy moan that escaped him, his brow creasing. Holy fuck, it felt good.
Checo shook his head, smiling to himself as his fingers drifted back into Carlos’s hair. “¿Tú qué crees?” (What do you think)
Without looking up, Carlos’s voice rumbled against his tit, intimate and unfairly confident. “Creo que no quieres que pare.” (I think you don’t want me to stop)
Checo groaned before he felt hot lips latch around his breast, sucking his nipple into a wet mouth, his hand tightening in Carlos’s hair. He gasped as gentle tongue turned stronger, flicking over his nub with firmer strokes, sending waves of pleasure through him.
He was so hard at this point it hurt, wanting to grind shamelessly against Carlos like an animal in heat. He clutched at the head ravaging his sensitive new flesh, desperate for relief.
Carlos’s eyes were half closed, unfocused, unseeing. His hand continued kneading Checo’s other breast, thumb brushing over his nipple at the same interval as his tongue, sending new sparks up his spine. Checo shifted slightly, pushing his thigh between Carlos’s legs, only for them both to freeze when a whimper vibrated around his breast in response.
Carlos looked up at him. Checo had expected focus, maybe smugness. What he got instead were dark, hazy eyes, slightly unfocused, like Carlos had forgotten for a second what he’d been about to do next. His lips were flushed, parted just enough to pull in a steadying breath.
Then he sucked again, dark eyes rolling back in his head.
A small sound slipped out of him this time, a low, involuntary noise that vibrated against Checo’s skin.
Checo’s breath stuttered. The clever remarks were gone, replaced by heat and instinct and the way his hands tightened slightly at Checo’s chest like someone might take him away.
Checo felt the shift in control. The heat burned lower now, sharper, pooling and spreading in a way that made his thoughts feel pleasantly slow. He swallowed, watching Carlos through half-lidded eyes, watching how undone he looked. How affected. Carlos looked melted.
He exhaled slowly, fingers tugging in the Spaniard’s hair. Carlos made another small sound at that, softer this time, and Checo felt it burn through him all over again. He certainly hadn’t expected to like the way Carlos looked up at him as if he’d already surrendered.
Checo pushed his thigh harder between Carlos’s legs, enjoying the whimpers and the feel of his obvious length digging into his thigh. He rocked their hips slowly, keeping a tighter grip in his hair to hold Carlos’s mouth to his chest while Carlos breathed harder through his nose around his full mouth.
The man on top of him started humping his thigh as he sucked, mindless and dumb with it. The only sounds coming from him were intermittent whimpers, seemingly overwhelmed by the sensation of having a breast in his mouth, or at least something to suck on.
It hit him suddenly that Carlos would come like this if Checo didn’t stop him.
Checo’s fingers tightened in Carlos’s hair, firm enough to stop him, to pull him back up. Carlos made a startled sound as he was dislodged, lifting his head abruptly, blinking up at him in confusion.
For a second he looked almost dazed. His eyes were still dark, still hazy, like they hadn’t quite caught up with the movement. His lips were flushed and slightly swollen from sucking, a little raw at the edges. His cheeks were burning red, breath coming uneven as he tried to reorient himself.
“What—” he started. He looked bewildered instead, like he couldn’t figure out why he’d been stopped
Checo smiled down at the Spaniard, breathless now, eyes warm. “Eh,” he murmured, amused.
“Primero comes, luego el postre.” (First you eat, then dessert) He held Carlos’s gaze as he calmed his breathing. “Hazle caso a tu padre.” (Listen to your father) he said, teasing.
Carlos blinked, still dazed. Then he laughed, the sound bright between them. His smile curved slow and dangerous, eyes darkening in a way that made Checo’s stomach flip.
“Madre,” (Mother) Carlos corrected, voice low, eyes flicking to Checo’s chest and back up.
Checo couldn’t help the flush blooming up his neck in response.
Carlos shifted his weight, one knee pressing into the mattress as he guided Checo’s hips back just enough to slide his pajama pants down his legs.
He straightened, fingers already hooking into the waistband of his own shorts, pushing them down and stepping out of them. He hesitated, then glanced back at Checo, checking his face.
“Do you… have anything?” he asked gently.
Checo chewed his lip. “Lube. No condoms.”
Then, because honesty felt easier than embarrassment, “No estaba planeando hacer nada este fin de semana.” (I wasn’t planning on doing anything this weekend)
Carlos smiled, sympathetic. “Normal.” (Fair) He nodded toward the bathroom. “Déjame mirar.” (Let me check)
He disappeared into the bathroom, leaving Checo alone with the ceiling fan and the sound of a city waking up below. Checo closed his eyes, trying not to overthink the absurdity of how his morning had gone so completely off the rails.
Carlos came back a moment later with the small bottle from Checo’s own toiletry bag.
“Well,” he said, apologetic but amused, “at least we have this.”
Checo laughed despite himself, the sound loose and helpless. “Great.”
Carlos hesitated just a second, then spoke quietly, like he didn’t want to break the fragile calm they’d found. “Hey,” he said. “I know this is not… ideal.”
He searched Checo’s face, careful. “I had all my tests at my physical, in the preseason.” He tapped the bottle against his palm, unsure. “Just a couple of weeks ago. I’m clean.”
Checo blinked, then nodded immediately. “Yeah, me too.”
Carlos nodded. “I trust you.” His face stayed serious with that edge of unsure. “And if we didn’t… use anything, I wouldn’t mind.”
Checo stared at him, a little stunned by the honesty. His chest tightened with something heavy and warm. He let out a small, helpless breath. “I just…”
“…quiero manejar hoy.” (I want to drive today)
Carlos’s mouth curved into the faintest smile, full of understanding. He leaned down, crowding him back into the pillows, resting his forehead briefly against Checo’s.
“Entonces vamos a asegurarnos de que llegues,” (Then let’s make sure you do) he murmured.
He pressed his hands into Checo’s shoulders, thumbs warm where they kneaded lightly into muscle, and kissed him like there was nowhere else he needed to be.
Checo made a quiet sound in his throat and kissed him back, grateful that Carlos answered his panicked call that morning.
“Eso,” (That’s it) Carlos murmured against his lips softly.
Carlos hooked his fingers into the waistband of Checo’s briefs and eased them down slowly, past his embarrassingly obvious arousal. The fabric slid away and Carlos chucked them across the room before settling between his legs, pushing them open with his knees.
Carlos kissed the tender flesh across his collarbone as he explored Checo with eager hands, stroking his aching dick, fondling his balls, exploring lower and making Checo gasp. Checo heard the click of the cap before he felt fingers, warm and wet, massaging between his cheeks.
Checo sucked in a sharp breath and laughed weakly, one hand grasping Carlos’s shoulder to steady himself.
“Ah, chingada,” (Fuck) he murmured.
Carlos teased his rim with one finger, swirling it around the ring of muscle that hadn’t been breached in God only knew how long. “No quiero ir demasiado rápido,” (I don’t want to go too fast) he said softly.
Checo’s heart almost swelled with the care in the words before Carlos spoke up again, this time with an audible smile in his words. “Que ya no eres ningún chaval.” (You’re not exactly a kid anymore)
Checo scoffed, breathless, rolling his eyes. “Ah, chinga tu madre.” (Fuck off)
Carlos snickered. “Ah, vale…” (Okay) He plunged his finger in quickly, much further, much faster than Checo was expecting.
“¡Ah, chingada!” he gasped into the sudden feeling of something where previously he had felt nothing.
Carlos’s voice came out low, almost purring. “¿Folle mi madre, no?” (Fuck my mother, right?)
His fingers dug into the meat of Carlos’s shoulder, his core tensing with the unfamiliar intrusion. He groaned around the sensation, Carlos’s name still on his lips, his voice rough.
Carlos thrust deeply, stretching him, not allowing modesty to shame him from making obscene noises between Checo’s legs.
Checo sighed, his eyes fluttering shut. “Me estás matando.” (You’re killing me)
Carlos kept up a steady rhythm, pushing his finger deeper until his hand pressed into the soft flesh of Checo’s pelvis. He muttered so quietly, Checo almost missed it. “No, tío… me estás matando tú.” (No, man, you’re killing me)
Checo felt a rush of heat at his words, at the idea that Carlos was just as affected as he was.
Carlos twisted his finger, pulling and curling deeply until Checo felt electric zip straight through his legs, forcing a breathy gasp out of his chest.
Checo felt another finger press up to his entrance, sliding in with the first. He exhaled deeply, testing the stretch, the tension of muscles he hadn’t worried about in too long. Soon Carlos was finger-fucking him with two, trying for a third, pushing Checo’s leg back onto his chest.
“So… how do you want to do this?” Carlos murmured, working three fingers into Checo’s ass like they were discussing the weather.
Checo hesitated. It had been a long time. Long enough that he wasn’t sure what he liked anymore, or what he was supposed to want. He didn’t want to ask for anything else. Didn’t want to take more than Carlos was already giving him.
He swallowed, breath catching just a little, and shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know.” He glanced up at Carlos, searching his face, then added, deferential, “Whatever you want.”
Carlos drew back just enough to look thoughtful, dramatically so. His brows knit together. He tapped his chin with one finger, lips pursed in exaggerated concentration.
“Hm.”
He tilted his head to one side, squinting at Checo like he was analyzing telemetry.
“Maybe…” he murmured slowly. Another tap to his chin. A little hum in the back of his throat.
Checo stared at him. Carlos’s mouth twitched.
“I think the solution,” he began gravely, eyes sliding lower with suspicious intent, “must be for me to fuck you here.”
Before Checo could protest, Carlos leaned down again, grin breaking across his face as he pressed his face between Checo’s breasts and kissed the sensitive flesh immediately beside his bud.
Checo inhaled sharply, back arching just a fraction before he could stop himself, hand flying to the back of Carlos’s head. The warmth of his mouth, the deliberate confidence of it sent a rush of heat straight through him, hot and immediate.
“Carlos—” he tried, but it came out wrecked, more breath than name.
Carlos only hummed in satisfaction against him, clearly pleased with both the reaction and his own brilliance.
Checo let it happen for another second, dizzy and burning and entirely too aware of how easily Carlos could unravel him. Then he pushed lightly at his shoulder, laughing.
“No seas ridículo,” (Don’t be ridiculous) he breathed, smiling despite himself.
Carlos didn’t look ridiculous. The grin faded, not completely, but the playfulness sharpened into something focused. His eyes were darker now, not teasing so much as hungry. He hovered, hands still braced on either side of him, breath uneven.
“Checo…” he said, and it sounded thinner than before. He swallowed, like he was trying to compose himself and failing.
“Déjame, por favor.” (Let me, please) He sounded almost embarrassed. His thumb pressed slightly into Checo’s hip, holding on.
“Te juro que voy a ser bueno.” (I swear I’ll be good) The words came out lower, a little wrecked. He leaned closer without quite kissing him yet, forehead nearly touching Checo’s.
Checo stared at him like he’d lost his mind.
“¿En serio?” (Seriously) he asked, incredulous.
Carlos didn’t hesitate. His jaw tightened just slightly, eyes dark and steady on him. “Me muero de ganas.” (I’m dying to)
He shook his head once, disbelieving, a smile creeping in despite himself. “Bueno,” he murmured softly. “Pero si puedes otra vez.” (But only if you can again)
Carlos blinked before laughing under his breath, something fierce lighting back up in his expression. “De eso no te preocupes.” (Don’t worry about that) he said, far too smug.
Carlos smiled and shimmied out of his own briefs, pushing them off the bed. He walked on his knees over Checo’s stomach, working himself slowly. Checo let his eyes wander over Carlos’s bronzed physique, the stark tan lines from cycling shorts, the hand stroking over his thick cock, flushed and shining at the head.
Checo propped himself up on his elbows, looking up at the Spaniard with daring eyes as he pushed his tits together in what he imagined to be an enticing fashion.
“¿Esto es lo que quieres?” (Is this what you want) he murmured, teasing.
Carlos’s breath stuttered, his eyes locked on the presented offering. He fumbled for the small bottle of lube, pouring some in his hand before slicking himself up slowly, hissing with the effort of not stroking as fast as he wanted.
Checo watched eagerly as Carlos bent over his chest, lining up his flushed cock, dripping lube between his tits. He looked up the Spaniard’s taut stomach as Carlos pushed between his soft mounds of flesh, sighing as if sinking into an ice bath after Singapore.
Carlos straddled his stomach, settling his weight forward as he thrust slowly, lube spilling out from between Checo’s tits with each push of his hips. It looked obscene, the head of his cock poking through, almost as if reaching towards his mouth.
The glide made everything slippery between the pressure of Checo’s hands, Carlos pressing over them with his own, his breath punching out in shallow little gasps. It felt nice, almost massaging Checo’s chest, but seeing Carlos come undone was vastly more enjoyable.
Checo tried locking his fingers together over his nipples, pressing his tits as close together as he physically could. Carlos moaned loudly before falling forward, catching himself on the headboard, his hips stuttering into fucking much faster, his hands free to brace himself above Checo’s head.
The thin sheen of sweat on Carlos’s body only highlighted his rippling physique as he rolled his hips faster, fucking between Checo’s breasts with a desperation that had Checo’s own dick stiff and heavy on his stomach, neglected.
Ah, fuck it.
Checo leaned his head down just enough and stretched his tongue out, licking just the head of Carlos’s pistoning cock. Carlos faltered, muttering a curse above him in surprise.
Checo looked up at him, tongue still out, teasing. Carlos looked wrecked but no less determined as his gasps turned into groans, pulsing precome onto his tongue in as much of a warning as Checo was going to get.
“Ay, Checo—me corro, ah, ahh—” (I’m going to come)
Checo flinched as suddenly come spurted hot and thick over his mouth, Carlos thrusting shallowly between his lips. A few drops landed on his cheek, his chin, drooling between his tits. He slid his chest down once more to milk the last out of the Spaniard, wrapping his lips more firmly around Carlos’s cock head, sucking the last of his come off and relishing in the whimper punched out of him as he softened from oversensitivity.
He swallowed before really considering how intimate that would seem, and Carlos looked at him, mouth going slack, eyes dazed and glimmering as if he’d hung the moon.
Checo swallowed again, voice ragged. “Seriously,” he added, laughing nervously under his breath. “The way you’re looking at me…”
He trailed off, helpless, too affected to finish the thought. Carlos just smiled and kept looking at him, eyes dark and unapologetic. He tilted his head, amused. “I don’t want to look anywhere else.”
Checo’s blush deepened instantly. “You only say that because of these… things.”
“No.” Carlos shook his head, still grinning. “I am not looking at them.” He leaned in just enough to make Checo hold his breath. “I’m looking at you.”
His voice sounded rough, like the truth had slipped out before he could soften it. “Y eres tú el que me está volviendo loco.” (And you’re the one who’s driving me crazy)
Checo laughed under his breath, still flushed, trying to play it off. “Yo no quiero volverte loco,” (I don’t want to drive you crazy) he said, exasperated. “I just want you to fuck me.”
Carlos’s eyes darkened instantly. “I can do that,” he said, shifting his weight, swinging his leg over to settle with his back against the headboard beside Checo like it had just occurred to him, shoulders relaxed, posture open, legs stretched out. Too deliberate to be accidental. Too easy to be anything but intentional.
Checo wiped at the come on his face, the lube on his chest, the sweat on his stomach, in an attempt to feel normal again. None of it touched the heat growing stronger low in his belly. None of it lightened the weight on his chest, or the need he felt between his legs.
Carlos glanced at him, that crooked, almost bashful smile pulling at his mouth. His eyes were darker now, hopeful in a way that made Checo’s stomach flip.
“If you want,” he shrugged, gesturing to his own lap like he was trying not to make a thing of it. “Maybe like this?”
Checo stared at him. Carlos wanted Checo to ride him?
The knowledge made him dizzy. He swallowed, pulse loud in his ears. For someone who’d woken up feeling entirely wrong in his own skin, the idea that Carlos wanted to look at him like that, wanted him close, felt almost unreal.
He smiled despite himself, breath still uneven. “Sure,” he said softly.
Checo braced a hand on the bed, then the other, and eased himself forward until his knees bumped Carlos’s thighs. For a split second he hesitated, fighting that old instinct to stop, to ask, to make sure.
Carlos’s hands came up instead, warm and steady at his waist. Checo exhaled and let himself go with it, crawling the rest of the way in and settling into Carlos’s lap.
Carlos made a quiet sound in his throat, his hand tightening just a little, thumb pressing in as he poured more lube onto his cock, sighing softly as he worked the slick down his length.
Checo pressed his hips forward, standing on his knees, positioning himself above the Spaniard’s cock.
Carlos looked up at him with nothing but reverence in his dark eyes. “Ready?”
Checo felt the last of his nerves flutter and settle. He drew in a slow breath, then nodded. “Yeah,” he said quietly.
Carlos’s smile was immediate and unmistakably relieved. He leaned in, wrapping an arm around his back, guiding his hips as he pressed the tip of his cock to Checo’s entrance, hot and slick. They both sucked in breath as Carlos breached him, both slightly overwhelmed by the pressure.
Carlos supported his hips, Checo’s thighs trembling above the Spaniard, biting his lip, fighting to keep from moaning outright.
“Joder… how long did you say it has been?” Carlos muttered, voice rough, forehead tipping briefly against his chest.
Checo’s breath stuttered. He swallowed, chest rising too fast, words catching on the way out. “Oye…” he managed, shaky. “…not easy for me either.”
Carlos’s hips seemed to take on an agenda of their own, fucking up in short, impatient thrusts. His hands tightened around Checo’s hips, his brow creasing with the effort of containing his obvious desire. “Ahh,” he gasped.
Carlos didn’t look smug anymore. The mischief had burned down into something needier, more exposed. His hair was a mess from Checo’s hands, dark eyes blown wide and heavy-lidded, fixed on him like he was afraid to blink and lose this. Checo could feel the want bleeding off him in waves, the hunger to take, to control, to consume.
Carlos’s mouth was pink and a little swollen from kissing, lips parted as he breathed shakily, completely undone. “Por favor,” he rasped. “Te prometo que voy a hacerlo bien.” (I promise I’ll make it good)
Jesus, he looked good like this. Checo couldn’t help the heat surging in his core, throbbing in his thighs, his stomach, his cock.
He relaxed his weight into Carlos’s hands bit by bit, letting him take control of the pace. Carlos squeezed his hips with a bruising pressure, easing him down slowly, his thick cock stuffing Checo so full he thought he might burst.
Once fully seated, Checo couldn’t move. He couldn’t twist, he couldn’t slide, he couldn’t breathe. All he wanted was to whimper at the feeling of being split open.
Carlos wasn’t doing much better. His eyes were screwed shut now, lashes dark against his cheeks, jaw clenched like he was bracing himself. Every muscle in him looked coiled, held back by sheer will. Checo shifted just a little, testing their union.
Carlos inhaled sharply, a sound torn straight from his chest, and his hands tightened around Checo’s hips, fingers digging in, grip firm and unmistakably desperate. Checo froze too, heart hammering.
Carlos opened his eyes then, dark and blown wide, breath ragged now despite his best efforts. He looked wrecked, not out of control, but right on the edge of it, holding himself together because Checo had asked him to.
Checo clenched around the dick cleaving him in two. It punched a groan out of Carlos, who only squeezed him tighter, but it also sent waves of pleasure shooting up his own legs.
“Mmm, ¿tan rápido?” (That fast?) he teased, wondering how quickly he could make Carlos come again. He shifted his weight slightly and started to move up and down, rolling his hips as they moaned together.
He watched Carlos strain through heavy-lidded eyes, the Spaniard grabbing at the base of his own cock to keep from coming.
“Checo,” he whispered like a warning. “Es que así se siente demasiado bien.” (It just feels too good like this)
Checo slowed, working himself open on Carlos’s thick arousal. Eventually Carlos was no longer at risk of imminently coming, canting his hips to fuck into him with shallow thrusts.
Carlos wrapped his arms around Checo’s back, holding him close as Checo’s thighs slapped against the Spaniard’s, burying his face in the proffered breasts.
Carlos’s thrusts turned deeper, grinding their hips together and dragging his cock over Checo’s prostate and making him moan loudly. Checo felt the man’s breath grow ragged, his grip on Checo’s hips vice-like.
Checo nipped at his neck to bring him back to the surface and suddenly Carlos was hammering cock into him. The speed made his tits bounce uncomfortably, and he automatically pressed a hand to one to keep them from smacking so vigorously.
Carlos leaned forward enough to pull his hand away. “Eh,” he chastised. Checo saw mischief flash in his eyes.
“Si te crees que estoy aquí solo por esto…” (If you think I’m here just for this) Carlos said, voice low, letting his dark eyes rake over Checo’s chest slowly, drinking him in. “Entonces déjame ver.” (Then let me see)
Checo heard the challenge in it immediately. He leaned forward, feeling the growing warmth low in his gut. A slow grin spread across his face, a little wicked.
“Se te fueron los ojos, ¿eh?” (Your eyes are getting ahead of you, huh?)
Carlos studied Checo’s face with a focus that felt almost analytical, eyes flicking between his mouth and his chest, taking in the grin, the confidence, the dare threaded through it.
And before Checo could anticipate, Carlos latched onto his breast. Checo sucked in a sharp breath, the sound breaking embarrassingly loud in the room.
Carlos’s full lips wrapped around his nipple and sucked, pulling Checo’s sensitive flesh into his hot mouth. Checo moaned helplessly, fisting Carlos’s hair as the Spaniard’s hips pistoned in and out of him faster, almost erratic.
Checo could feel the light rasp of stubble against the side of his breast—fuck, he was so sensitive—before Carlos whimpered, his brow creasing, his thrusts stuttering under Checo’s hips.
Checo wrapped his hand around the back of Carlos’s head, holding him more firmly to his chest, pushing into Carlos’s mouth. “Eso,” (That’s it) he encouraged roughly.
Carlos’s tongue flicked over his tightening bud, and Checo had no choice but to throw his head back and moan, clutching Carlos’s mouth to his chest. “Ahh, sí… así—” (Ah, yes, like that)
The feeling low in his gut was undeniably close, and if Carlos could just stay—if he would just suck right there, licking just like that—
Checo’s breath came ragged and desperate, his dick aching between their bodies as he rode Carlos. “Pórtate bien y hazme venir por ti,” (Be good and make me come for you) he rasped, pulling at one of Carlos’s corded forearms.
Carlos immediately wrapped his hand around Checo’s weeping length, stroking with a similar cadence to the feverish pace of his hips. Every groan vibrated around Checo’s nipple like a bespoke sex toy, every lashing of his tongue compounding his pleasure. It felt like he was getting sucked off while Carlos was stroking him, somehow. It felt insane.
“Por favor… no pares, no pares.” (Please, don’t stop, don’t stop) Checo groaned, his head tipping forward against Carlos’s, eyes locking with the Spaniard’s, who looked needy and desperate suckling at him in a way Checo couldn’t have ever imagined.
Carlos took one hand off his hip to tangle his fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling hard enough to make him arch into the Spaniard’s mouth without hesitation.
Checo gasped as he felt just the barest graze of teeth over his nipple, pushing him over the edge. “Ahh, Carlos, espera—” (Wait)
He pulsed in Carlos’s hand, spurting hot and thick over both of their stomachs. His moaning quieted, and his fingers slowly untangled from the back of Carlos’s hair to release him.
To his surprise—or maybe not surprising at all—Carlos didn’t let him go. He merely swapped breasts, laving his tongue obscenely over the other, neglected nipple before sucking it into his hot mouth.
Checo whimpered at the overstimulation, pulling at Carlos’s hair weakly, but Carlos only fucked him harder, his eyes heavy lidded and dark with lust.
Well, if affecting him was getting Carlos off, then—
“Chingada,” he said softly, sliding a hand along the side of the Spaniard’s face. “Me vas a venir?” (Are you going to come for me)
Carlos moaned, his hips stuttering, his breathing heavy and around the warm flesh sucked tight into his mouth. His eyes looked hungry, as if he needed to suck Checo dry before he could come.
Fuck.
“Ándale, Carlos,” Checo urged. “Ven por tu mami.” (Come on, Carlos, come for your mommy)
The sound of their bodies coming together was surely unmistakable to anyone in the hall, the rooms next door, the rooms above or below. And to anyone else in the hotel who hadn’t yet been informed of their activities, Carlos’s moan in response to Checo’s instruction was announcement plenty.
And though Carlos’s fingers dug into the meat of Checo’s lower back as he fucked hard and fast, Checo wasn’t done with him yet. A sly mischief burned bright in his eyes, looking through his long eyelashes, tilting his head slightly.
His gaze dropped almost absently to his own stomach, watching Carlos piston into him feverishly.
“No mames— ¿crees que me pueda quedar embarazada?” (Oh shit, do you think I can get pregnant?)
Carlos’s eyes rolled back in his head, whining, whimpering, absolutely undone at the suggestion.
“¿Eso es lo que quieres?” (Is that what you want) Checo continued, grinding his hips in a circle. “¿Quieres follar con tu mami?” (Do you want to fuck your mommy?)
Carlos didn’t even have time to react before he was coming, shuddering, spilling deep into Checo, fucking his come inside like he could somehow keep it from dripping out.
Carlos moaned into his chest, high-pitched and shocked, and Checo watched his helplessness to slow the reaction with utter delight.
Carlos’s breath slowed, grip weakening finally before his mouth unlatched. He panted raggedly, his mouth swollen pink and wet. He looked totally fucked out as he lay back against the headboard, his eyes drooping heavily, a sleepy grin playing across his face.
“No tienes vergüenza,” (You have no shame) Carlos said, voice wrecked. “Qué cabrón.” (You bastard)
Checo grinned. “Un cabrón tetón,” (A busty bastard) he corrected helpfully.
Carlos laughed, low and wrecked, the sound shaking the bed gently.
Checo shifted carefully, easing himself out of Carlos’s lap and onto the mattress beside him. He winced, grabbing tissues from the bedside table to staunch the flow of come that immediately started down his thighs.
Carlos followed without thinking, an arm hooking around Checo’s waist and tugging him closer until Checo was tucked against his chest. He went willingly, fitting there with a quiet exhale, cheek settling over Carlos’s heart.
For a moment, they just breathed. Then Checo smiled to himself. He tipped his head back just enough to look up at Carlos, eyes bright with the satisfaction of enjoying his own joke.
Without much warning, his eyelids soon felt impossibly heavy, like his body had decided unilaterally that it had had enough for one morning.
Carlos hummed something unintelligible, already half gone. His arm tightened around Checo in a lazy, protective reflex, pulling him close.
The sound of his heartbeat was soothing. The warmth even more so. Checo let his eyes close.
~~~
He woke with a small, startled breath, disoriented for half a second by how dark it still felt, until he registered the light through the curtains, the clock on the bedside table, the familiar weight of Carlos’s arm. They’d only been out ten minutes.
Checo blinked, then frowned. Something felt… different.
Carefully, quietly, he shifted, glancing down at himself. His breath caught—not with panic this time, but sheer disbelief.
Normal. Completely, totally normal.
“No puede ser,” (No way) he whispered.
He pressed a hand to his chest, then laughed softly, incredulous, relief washing through him so hard it almost made him dizzy. All that stress, all that fear, and they were just… gone.
Carlos blinked into the light like he wasn’t quite sure where he was. He shifted, then stilled, registering Checo beside him, the quiet, the normalcy of it all.
“Hey,” he murmured.
Checo turned his head, eyes already bright with disbelief. He smiled and let out a breath that felt like it had been trapped in him all morning.
“Hey.”
He sat up, pressing a hand to his chest like he needed proof. “Estoy bien,” (I’m okay) he said, shaking his head. “Estoy… normal.” (I’m fine)
Carlos’s shoulders sagged with relief. “Joder,” he breathed, smiling. “Thank God.”
Checo’s face turned serious. “Gracias,” he said. “No sé qué habría hecho sin ti, güey.” (Thank you. I don’t know what I would’ve done without you, man)
Carlos ducked his head, suddenly shy. “Eh,” he said, embarrassed, waving it off as he swung his legs off the bed. “Para eso estamos.” (That’s what we’re here for)
He stood, stretching, and started pulling his Williams kit back on, rejoining his place in the world to which they both belonged. He glanced over his shoulder once, smiling.
“I’m really glad,” he added more softly. “Have a good first day.”
Checo nodded, throat tight. “Gracias, Carlos.”
Carlos grabbed his cap, hesitated at the door, then turned back with that familiar, infuriating grin. “And hey, if it ever happens again…” He winked. “Mommy.”
Checo laughed. “Vete a la chingada.” (Fuck off) he said fondly.
Carlos only laughed harder, slipping out into the hall and pulling the door shut behind him.
Checo stood there for a moment, hands braced on the edge of the bed, then straightened and caught his reflection in the mirror. He looked like himself. Tired, a little rumpled, smiling like a man who’d just dodged something absurd and come out the other side laughing. He shook his head, a soft huff of disbelief escaping him.
“Qué mañana,” (What a morning) he murmured.
Whatever the universe had tried to throw at him, it hadn’t worked. Not this time. Not today. There was a car fit just to him, a garage with his name on it, a paddock he’d fought to come back to.
And absolutely nothing was going to keep Sergio Pérez off of that track.
His phone buzzed, and he hurried to check it, likely his team wondering where the hell he was for their morning meeting. Instead, he had a text from Franco.
Weird.
He opened the thread.
francooooo(: CHECOOO 😭estás despierto?? amigo pasó algo MUY raro y estoy oficialmente entrando en pánico, necesito hablar con vos YA por favor decime que estás ahí 🙏
(Are you awake? Dude, something really weird happened and I'm officially panicking. I need to talk to you now, please tell me you're there)
Checo stared at the screen for a long second, then groaned and slapped a hand over his face.
“Madre mia,” he muttered.
