Blehhh ive been kinda sickly the last few days and prepping for a trip so ik this is rushed but it helps me get some ideas out and into the world so I can come back to use them later lol
*MDNI, NSFW BELOW THE CUT*
Normally idgaf abt post captions but this is ABSOLUTELY something he would both say and do. Condescending dom Oscar is my hill to die on.
Ik hes a dom and all but hes also a yearner and a desperate one at that so ya some "if I dont get further inside you im going to die" thrusts on the couch fit him well
Post race reminder he can still be soft sometimes and body worship is an addiction
Breeding kink haver Piastri who feels like his job ain't done unless you get folded into a mating press
Yeah. He would.
Making him late as FUCK to a drivers meeting cause hes too deaf to hear the 10000 phone calls and texts he got over the sound of your pretty moans
The ballroom shimmered in gold and silver, chandeliers dripping crystals onto the crowd like stardust. Laughter echoed, champagne flutes clinked, and cameras flashed as though the night was its own kind of battlefield, image over truth, appearances over reality, a charade she had to endure as part of Real Madrid's women team, Y/N couldn't be more disgusted with it.
Her shoulders stayed taut, jaw clenching rather tight, even as she stood surrounded by familiar faces she saw more than once, but nights like this felt like a performance she had never signed up for, as they paled in comparsion to the rush she got from playing on the pitch.
And of course, he was here.
Sergio Ramos.
The name alone was enough to sour the champagne bubbles on her tongue. Across the room, he was magnetic, dressed in a midnight suit cut to perfection, surrounded by club officials and former teammates. He looked every bit the legend Madrid wanted him to be, effortlessly charming, as though the years of blood and grit on the pitch had only polished his edges sharper.
His laugh carried across the ballroom, low and self-assured. And she loathed the fact that she recognized it instantly.
Misa nudged her again, this time whispering, “He hasn’t even looked your way yet.”
Y/N’s lips curved into a humorless smile. “He’s waiting. That’s what he does. Always waits until the last possible moment to strike.”
It wasn’t paranoia. It was history. He had perfected the art of cornering her with sly remarks just when she thought she could escape a shared event unscathed.
And tonight, they had to walk onto that stage together. Side by side. Smile for the cameras, hand over the award, act as though the history between them wasn’t a battlefield littered with grudges and unspoken words.
Her palms itched at the thought.
The crowd shifted, and suddenly his gaze found hers across the room. It was quick, sharp, deliberate, like the clash of steel against steel. His lips curved into that infuriating half-smile, the one that wasn’t quite friendly but wasn’t cruel either. The kind that said, I see you, and I know exactly what you’re thinking.
Her chest tightened.
Misa muttered, “He’s coming over.”
Y/N didn’t even turn to confirm it, but she felt it, the ripple in the air as his presence cut through the crowd. People parted for him like he commanded the space without trying. Typical Sergio.
And then he was there.
“Ladies.” His voice was smooth, dipped in confidence, and when his eyes finally settled on Y/N, there was that glint she despised, challenge wrapped in warmth, as though the two were one and the same. “Y/N.”
She lifted her chin, masking the sudden rush in her chest with ice. “Ramos.”
The corner of his mouth ticked upward, almost imperceptible. “Looking forward to sharing the stage tonight?”
“About as much as I look forward to root canal surgery,” she shot back, her tone sharp but steady.
Misa choked on a laugh behind her. Rocío didn’t even bother hiding her smirk.
Sergio’s eyes flickered with something dangerous, amused. “Careful,” he said quietly, just for her. “The cameras love a good spark between rivals.”
Y/N felt her skin prickle, the weight of his words coiling tight in her stomach. It wasn’t a threat. It wasn’t quite a tease. It was something heavier, something she refused to name.
Her pulse drummed in her ears.
This was the problem with Sergio. He wasn’t just an enemy. He was a storm, loud, inescapable, and impossible to ignore. And for all her years of hating him, she had never once figured out how to walk away without feeling his gravity pull her back in.
“Then let’s give them a show,” she said finally, matching his stare, refusing to be the first to look away.
And for the briefest moment, his smile faltered, like she had just thrown him off balance.
For a heartbeat, something flickered in his expression, surprise, maybe, or respect, but it vanished as quickly as it came.
“Careful what you wish for,” he murmured, voice low enough that only she could hear. He stepped aside with infuriating grace, gesturing toward the crowd as though he’d been the gentleman all along.
Her spine stiffened. He thought he could unsettle her. That smug confidence, that effortless charm, he wielded them like weapons, and she wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction of landing a hit.
So she smiled, cold, professional. “Don’t worry, Ramos. I’ll make sure not to outshine you too badly.”
He chuckled, the sound vibrating between them, warm and taunting. “You’ve been trying for years.”
The words landed like a challenge. Not cruel, they were pointed. And in the way his eyes glinted, she could tell he wanted a reaction.
But Y/N knew better. She turned on her heel, leaving him standing there, and joined Rocío and Misa near the edge of the ballroom again.
“You’re playing with fire,” Rocío muttered, watching him retreat to the opposite end of the room.
Y/N’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Good. Let him burn.”
The minutes slipped by too quickly, and before long, an usher appeared at her elbow. “Señorita Y/L/N, Señor Ramos, you’re needed backstage.”
Her stomach tightened.
The air behind the stage felt heavier, quieter, similar to the calm before a storm. The applause of the audience rolled in muffled waves from the other side of the curtain, but all she could focus on was the man standing a few feet away, adjusting his cufflinks as though he didn’t have a care in the world.
Of course he looked composed, untouchable even.
“Try not to trip on your way out,” he said casually, eyes still on his sleeve.
She inhaled sharply through her nose. “Funny. I was about to tell you the same thing. Wouldn’t want the mighty Sergio Ramos to stumble in front of his adoring crowd.”
His gaze finally cut to hers, sharp as the edge of a blade. “You think too much about me, Y/N.”
Her throat went dry, but she refused to flinch. “I don’t think about you at all.”
His smirk was infuriating. “Then why do you look like you’re about to sprint onto the pitch instead of a stage?”
Her heartbeat betrayed her. Fast. Too fast. She folded her arms, masking it with bravado. “Because unlike you, Ramos, I actually care about doing this right.”
The stage manager poked their head in, signaling for them to get ready.
And just like that, it was time.
They fell into step side by side, the narrow hallway funneling them toward the blinding lights beyond the curtain. His shoulder brushed hers once, an accident, maybe, maybe not, but it was enough to send a jolt down her arm.
When the announcer’s voice rang out, “Please welcome Sergio Ramos and Y/N Y/L/N to present the Legend Award” the curtain lifted.
They stepped onto the stage together.
Side by side. Rivals. Co-conspirators. A storm waiting to break.
The applause swelled as the two of them emerged, bathed in the spotlight’s glow.
Sergio’s stride was confident, steady, like he had walked this stage a hundred times before. Y/N matched his pace, refusing to let her nerves show, though her stomach twisted at the sight of the sea of flashing cameras.
They stopped at the podium, their names echoing in the announcer’s introduction. For the crowd, it was a perfect picture, Real Madrid’s legend and one of its brightest defenders, united for a night of celebration.
But beneath that glittering illusion, the storm between them roared.
Sergio leaned just slightly closer, his lips still shaped in that award-winning smile. “Try not to look too miserable. People will think I forced you up here.”
Her own smile didn’t falter. “Trust me, Ramos, no one would ever believe you could force me into anything.”
His eyes gleamed with mischief, even as he kept his gaze on the audience. “You’d be surprised what people believe.”
Her fingers tightened subtly around the cue cards, nails pressing into the glossy paper. She kept her head high, voice smooth as she addressed the crowd. “Tonight, we honor a name that has defined an era for this club ... ”
Her words were steady, practiced, but in the corner of her vision she saw him watching her, studying her, as though every syllable out of her mouth was some kind of duel.
When it was his turn, Sergio took the mic, his deep voice resonating with the ease of someone who had been on this stage too many times to count. The crowd adored him. They always had.
And yet, as he spoke, he angled the paper ever so slightly toward her, as if daring her to lean in, to share the same space.
She did. Because to back down would be worse than the burn of proximity. His cologne was maddeningly sharp, his voice steady, and though she hated it, hated him, her chest betrayed her with the uneven rhythm of her heartbeat.
The applause returned as the recipient was called to the stage. Cameras flashed. The spotlight seemed hotter, brighter.
Their hands brushed as they both reached for the award. A spark, sharp, undeniable, shot up her arm.
She flinched almost imperceptibly, but his smile deepened, and his eyes caught hers for the briefest second.
“You felt that too,” he whispered, so low that only she could hear.
She tilted her head, still smiling for the cameras, still perfectly composed. “In your dreams, Ramos.”
And just like that, they handed the award off, the crowd oblivious, the applause thundering around them.
But beneath the lights, beneath the smiles, something had shifted.
And Y/N knew, this war between them was far from over.
The roar of the audience faded the second they slipped behind the curtain. Out there, the world saw perfection, polished smiles, seamless speeches, two professionals honoring a legend.
Back here, it was quieter. Tighter. The kind of silence that pressed against skin like a bruise waiting to form.
Y/N handed the empty cue cards to the stage manager with a polite nod before pivoting away, desperate for air. But of course, he was already there. Sergio Ramos had a talent for being exactly where she didn’t want him.
“You did well,” he said, his voice maddeningly calm.
She spun to face him, arms folding defensively. “Don’t sound so surprised.”
His mouth twitched like he was holding back a laugh. “I’m not. You’ve always thrived under pressure. Even when you hated every second of it.”
The words landed heavier than she expected. They weren’t an insult, they were… observant. Personal.
Her jaw tightened. “You think you know me, Ramos?”
“I don’t think,” he said simply, taking a step closer, his eyes never leaving hers. “I know.”
She hated how steady his voice was. Hated how the heat from the stage lights still clung to her skin, making her pulse race. Most of all, she hated that he looked at her the way no one else did, not as a teammate, not as a rival, but as someone worth studying.
“Then you know I can’t stand you,” she snapped, though her voice came out softer than she meant it to.
He tilted his head, and that damned smirk crept back onto his lips. “Funny. You don’t look at me like you hate me.”
Her chest constricted.
“Careful,” she warned, low and sharp. “You’re starting to sound delusional.”
“Am I?” His tone was maddeningly casual, but his eyes were locked on hers, burning with a quiet intensity that made it hard to breathe.
The space between them felt charged, like the seconds before a whistle blows, like the split moment before boot meets ball. Something was about to happen. Something she couldn’t name.
Then Rocío’s voice cut through the tension like a blade.
“There you two are!” She swept into the backstage area, Misa in tow, both of them oblivious to the storm they’d just interrupted. “You missed the champagne toast.”
Y/N blinked, the spell breaking. She stepped back quickly, her composure snapping back into place like armor.
“Good,” she muttered, brushing past them. “I need something stronger than champagne after this.”
But even as she walked away, heart hammering in her chest, she felt his eyes on her, steady, relentless, daring her to turn around.
She didn’t.
Not yet.
The ballroom had shifted since the ceremony.
What once was a polished awards presentation had unraveled into something looser, music pulsing through the speakers, glasses clinking, the low hum of laughter and chatter filling every corner. Players past and present mingled with executives, journalists, and guests, while waiters floated between them with silver trays stacked high with champagne.
Y/N lingered near the edge of the room again, nursing a glass of something stronger than champagne just as she’d promised. Rocío and Misa were at her side, deep in conversation with a group of younger players, but Y/N’s eyes had a habit of wandering, traitorous, restless.
And every time, they found him.
Sergio Ramos stood across the room, surrounded by a crowd of old teammates, his laughter carrying easily even above the music. He looked completely at ease, the life of the party without even trying. Cameras flashed every now and then as fans and guests tried to snag a photo with him.
But she noticed something else.
Every so often, his gaze drifted back to her.
Not long, not obvious, but enough to make her skin prickle every time their eyes met before he looked away again.
“Stop staring,” Misa whispered under her breath, leaning close enough that only Y/N could hear.
“I’m not staring,” Y/N shot back, eyes snapping to her glass.
Misa smirked knowingly. “Sure you’re not.”
Before Y/N could defend herself further, Rocío appeared with a wicked grin, dragging her toward the dance floor. “Come on. You’ve sulked enough for one night. Live a little.”
She protested, but Rocío didn’t listen, and soon Y/N was swallowed by the music and crowd, forced to loosen her grip on the glass in her hand.
She was halfway through rolling her eyes when she felt it—the shift in the air.
He was there.
Sergio moved through the crowd like it parted just for him, his gaze locked on her. Not her friends. Not anyone else. Just her.
“Looks like you survived the stage,” he said, close enough now that she could hear him over the beat of the music. His tone was light, but his eyes held that same sharpness they always did—like every word between them was more than just small talk.
“I told you I would,” she replied coolly, even as her pulse betrayed her, hammering against her ribs.
“True.” He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice so only she could hear. “But you didn’t tell me you’d look that good doing it.”
Her breath caught, but she masked it quickly with a scoff. “You’ve been drinking.”
He smiled, infuriatingly calm. “Not enough to imagine that.”
She wanted to step back, to put space between them, but Rocío’s sudden smirk from over her shoulder kept her rooted in place. Her teammates were watching, enjoying this far too much.
So she stayed. She lifted her chin, letting her words cut sharper than her heartbeat felt. “You’ll need a stronger line than that, Ramos.”
His grin widened, like she’d just handed him a challenge. “Good. I like a defender who doesn’t make things easy.”
And just like that, the music swelled, the lights spun across the room, and the storm between them only grew louder.
Sergio's eyes never left Y/N's as the music pulsed around them, the heat of his gaze burning into her skin. She could feel the weight of it, the way he seemed to see right through her, past the cool exterior she tried to project. It was unnerving, and yet, she couldn't look away.
"I've noticed you staring at me all night," he said, his voice low and smooth, like velvet. "You must have something to say."
Y/N felt her cheeks flush at his words, and she took a sip of her drink to buy herself some time. "I'm not sure what you mean," she replied, trying to sound nonchalant. But her heart was racing, and she could feel the heat radiating off his body, even though they weren't touching.
Sergio took a step closer, invading her personal space. "Come on, Y/N. We both know there's something between us. You can't hide it forever."
Y/N's breath caught in her throat as he spoke her name, and she could feel the electricity crackling in the air between them. She knew she should push him away, tell him to back off. But she couldn't seem to move, paralyzed by the intensity of his gaze.
"I...I don't know what you're talking about," she stammered, but even to her own ears, she sounded unconvincing.
Sergio reached out and brushed a strand of hair away from her face, his fingertips grazing her cheek. It was a simple gesture, but it sent shivers down Y/N's spine. "Don't play coy with me," he murmured. "I know you want me as much as I want you."
Y/N's heart was pounding now, and she could feel the heat pooling in her core. She knew she shouldn't give in, that she should keep up the charade of indifference. But the temptation was too strong, the pull between them too powerful to resist.
Without thinking, she leaned into his touch, her eyes fluttering closed for a moment. "I...I don't know what to say," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the thumping beat of the music.
Sergio smiled, slow and seductive. "Say yes," he breathed, his lips hovering just inches from hers. "Say you want me as much as I want you."
Y/N's heart was racing now, and she could feel the heat building between her thighs. She knew she should say no, that this was a terrible idea. But the temptation was too strong, the pull between them too powerful to resist.
"Fuck it," she breathed, before closing the distance between them and pressing her lips to his in a searing kiss.
Sergio deepened the kiss, his tongue delving into Y/N's mouth to taste her fully. She moaned softly against him, her hands coming up to clutch at his shoulders as he pulled her flush against his body. He could feel her nipples hardening through the thin fabric of her dress, and it took every ounce of his self-control not to reach down and palm them right there on the dance floor.
"Come with me," he growled against her lips, his voice rough with desire. "We can't do this here."
Y/N nodded, panting softly as she pulled back from the kiss. "Okay. Let's go."
Sergio took her hand and led her out of the ballroom, ignoring the curious looks and whispers that followed them. He didn't care what anyone else thought. All that mattered was getting Y/N alone, getting his hands on her soft skin and curves.
They made it back to his house in record time, their hands roaming and groping in the back of the taxi. The moment they were inside, Sergio backed Y/N up against the door, his lips finding hers in a bruising kiss.
"You have no idea how long I've wanted this," he panted against her mouth. "Wanted you."
Y/N gasped as he nipped at her bottom lip, arching her back to press her breasts against his chest. "Then take me," she breathed, her hands sliding down to palm the thick bulge in his pants. "Take me now."
With a low growl, Sergio hoisted Y/N up, wrapping her legs around his waist as he carried her to the bedroom. He laid her out on the bed, drinking in the sight of her splayed out beneath him like a feast.
"Fuck, you're gorgeous," he breathed, trailing his fingers down her sides, over the swell of her breasts. "I'm going to worship every inch of you."
Y/N shivered at his touch, her skin tingling with anticipation. She watched as he slowly peeled off his clothes, revealing his toned, muscular body inch by inch. Her mouth watered at the sight of him, all hard planes and sinewy strength.
When he finally crawled onto the bed, covering her body with his own, she couldn't hold back the moan that escaped her lips. He felt so good, so warm and solid and real.
"Please," she whimpered, arching up into him. "I need you."
Sergio grinned down at her, his eyes dark with desire. "Patience, love," he purred, trailing his lips down her neck, over her collarbone. "I'm going to take my time with you."
He continued his slow descent, pressing open-mouthed kisses to the swell of her breasts, the soft skin of her stomach. When he reached the hem of her dress, he hooked his fingers under the fabric and slowly, torturously, tugged it up and off.
Y/N lay naked beneath him now, her skin flushed and glistening with sweat. Sergio took a moment to drink in the sight of her, from her full, round breasts to the thatch of hair at the apex of her thighs.
"Perfection," he breathed, before ducking his head and trailing his tongue along her slit.
Y/N cried out at the contact, her hips bucking up into his face. Sergio grinned against her flesh, before diving in with renewed fervor. He licked and sucked and teased, his fingers joining in to stroke her inner walls.
It didn't take long before Y/N was writhing beneath him, her thighs clamping around his head as she rode his face. He could feel her getting closer and closer to the edge, her cries growing louder and more desperate.
"Sergio!" she wailed, as he curled his fingers just right. "Oh fuck, Sergio!"
With a final flick of his tongue against her clit, Y/N came undone, her body shaking and spasming beneath him as she rode out the waves of her orgasm.
Sergio gave her a moment to catch her breath before crawling back up her body, capturing her lips in a searing kiss. She could taste herself on his tongue, and it only served to reignite the fire burning in her veins.
"I need you inside me," she panted against his mouth. "Please, Sergio."
He didn't need to be told twice. With one smooth thrust, he buried himself to the hilt in Y/N's warm walls, groaning at the exquisite feel of her surrounding him.
They moved together like they'd been doing this forever, their bodies finding a rhythm as old as time. Y/N wrapped her legs around Sergio's waist, urging him deeper, harder.
"Fuck," he grunted, his hips snapping forward with increasing force. "You feel so good, Y/N. So fucking perfect."
She could only moan in response, lost in the sensation of him moving inside her, stretching and filling her so completely. She could feel another orgasm building, coiling tighter and tighter in her core.
"Come for me," Sergio growled, angling his hips just right to hit that spot inside her that made stars explode behind her eyelids. "Let me feel you come around my cock."
Y/N did as he commanded, screaming his name as she came apart beneath him, her inner walls clamping down around him like a vice.
With a final thrust, Sergio followed her over the edge, spilling himself deep inside her with a guttural groan.
They collapsed together onto the bed, chests heaving and sweat-soaked skin pressed close. Y/N nestled into the crook of Sergio's arm, feeling sated and content in a way she hadn't in a long time.
"Wow," she murmured, pressing a kiss to his chest. "That was..."
"Amazing," Sergio finished for her, running his fingers through her hair. "You're amazing."
Y/N smiled up at him, her heart feeling full in a way she didn't want to examine too closely. For now, she just wanted to bask in the afterglow, in the feel of Sergio's strong arms around her.
The rest could wait. For now, she was exactly where she wanted to be.
the air in the bedroom was humid and filled with the wet sounds and- “o-oh god,” you moan, muffling your cries into the bed as he pounds into you, hips snapping into you.
“slow down-- mmph fuck…” gripping the sheets with a iron grip as droplets of sweat glide down your forehead and back
your husband leans down and tightens a arm around your neck “ f-fuck shut up and take it” pulling you back against his chest, using his other hand to run down your body and rub your tiny bud-
“take it, take it, fucking take it.” he pants into your ear,kissing down your neck
“wan-- fuck, ‘baby… w-want you to fill me up,” you babble through whines and pornographic moans .
grabbing your hair and tilting your head back “ y-yeah - you like that? ” He whispers in your ear
Warnings: smut, heavy smuttt, language, use of sex toys, piv sex, unprotected sex (use contraceptives, kids!!), fingering, oral (f receiving), use of restraints as sex toys, handcuffing, MUNCH LEWIS HELL YEA. Comment if I missed something. Pictures from pinterest.
Words: 3.9k
A/N: Guess who's horny—WHO SAID THAT? I have no explanation for this one, I just think he'd be into this, but that's my opinion. 😣
Hehe after posting two fluff fics imma hit you with a smut cuz im a good person like that 🤭
#IWroteThisInsteadOfSleeping
Come request something if you want :)
— requests are open!
episode one
lewis hamilton
— handcuffs
"Are you sure?"
Lewis's voice drops to that register—the one that vibrates somewhere low in your sternum, warm and careful, like he's handling something precious and fragile even though you're both fully clothed, standing in the middle of your bedroom with afternoon light slanting through the blinds in dusty gold bars. He's asked you months ago, maybe even a year ago now, floating the idea over takeout containers and bad television, and you'd shaken your head then, feeling the heat crawl up your neck, muttering something about not being ready, about needing time.
He'd simply kissed your temple, gathered the empty boxes, said, "There's no rush, baby. We only do what we're both comfortable with." Like it was nothing. Like your boundaries were a gift he was happy to receive rather than a barrier he was eager to tear down.
But now—now something has shifted. Maybe it was the way he looked at you this morning over coffee, eyes soft and knowing. Maybe it was the weight of the week pressing down on you, the desperate need to let go, to be held, to trust someone enough to render you completely helpless. Whatever it was, you found yourself standing in front of him with your heart hammering against your ribs like a bird trying to escape.
You nod. Your throat feels tight, cotton-dry.
"Baby," he says, stepping closer. His hands find your waist, thumbs tracing the curve of your hip bones through your t-shirt. "You gotta use words, okay? I need you to say it properly."
The request hangs in the air between you, charged and humming. You swallow, feel the click in your throat, the rush of blood in your ears. "Yes," you finally manage, and the word comes out breathless, trembling, embarrassingly eager. "I wanna try it. Please."
Something dark and pleased flickers across his face—there and gone, replaced by that devastating tenderness he reserves only for you. "Okay," he murmurs, leaning in to press a kiss to your forehead, your eyelids, the tip of your nose. "Okay, my love."
You expect him to guide you toward the bed immediately, to cuff your wrists to the headboard in that cliché, movie-way you've seen a hundred times. Instead, he steps back, disappears into the closet for a moment, and returns with something glinting in his palm. Two somethings.
Two handcuffs.
You frown, confusion momentarily piercing the haze of arousal that's been building since you first broached the subject. Two? The math doesn't immediately compute in your lust-fogged brain—two wrists, yes, but two complete sets? But then he's moving toward you with that predatory grace he sometimes gets, the one that makes your knees weak, and rational thought evaporates like steam.
"Trust me?" he asks, already reaching for your left hand.
"Always," you whisper, and you mean it.
He takes your wrist—his fingers warm and steady, feeling your pulse hammering there against his thumb—and snaps the first cuff around it. The metal is cool, heavier than you expected, sending a shiver up your arm that has nothing to do with temperature. Then, instead of raising your arm, he bends, guides your hand down, down, until your fingertips brush your own ankle. The second cuff closes around it with a decisive click that echoes in the quiet room.
Oh.
Oh.
The realization blooms slowly and hot in your chest as he moves to your right side, repeating the process with methodical care—wrist to ankle, wrist to ankle—until you're standing there, naked now (when did that happen? Did he undress you or did you undress yourself? you can't remember, can't think), completely exposed and folded open in a way that makes your face burn. Your arms are stretched down along your body, restrained at four points, leaving you spread and vulnerable and unable to close yourself off even if you wanted to.
The position forces your shoulders back, your chest forward, every part of you on display.
"Comfortable?" Lewis asks, and his voice has gone rough, but his eyes are checking you—scanning your face for any sign of distress, any hesitation. "You okay?"
You test the restraints, feeling the unforgiving metal against your skin, the slight give of the chain links, the way the position limits your movement to small, helpless shifts. "Yes," you say, and then, because he deserves the truth, "Yes and yes."
Your breathing has gone heavy, slow and deliberate, each inhale pushing your chest out further, each exhale trembling through your parted lips. You lick them, suddenly conscious of how dry your mouth has become, how every nerve ending feels electrified, hyper-aware.
"Safe word is red," he reminds you, cupping your face in his hands, thumbs stroking your cheekbones. His eyes search yours with fierce intensity. "You say red, everything stops. No questions asked. No disappointment. Just stop, and we cuddle, and we talk. Okay, baby?"
You nod, then remember he needs words. "Okay," you say, and your voice sounds foreign to you—thinner, higher, wrapped in anticipation. "Red. I understand."
And you do. You think about all those scenes in books, in movies, where the safe word seemed almost theatrical, a performance of danger rather than a genuine tool for care. You'd thought it might feel silly, embarrassing, breaking the spell with clinical precision. But now, suspended in this moment with him, you understand with sudden clarity: this is love made visible. This is someone caring enough to build you a door before locking you in the room.
Lewis doesn't rush. He stands there, studying you like you're art, like you're something holy, and the weight of his gaze is almost physical, raising goosebumps across your bare skin. He leans in, finally, and kisses you—and it's different from their usual kisses, hungrier, messier, like he's been starving for this specific taste of you and only just received permission to feast.
His mouth opens over yours, hot and demanding, and you feel the wetness at the corner of your lips—his or yours, you can't tell, don't care—saliva and desire mixing into something primal. When he pulls back, just an inch, you chase him instinctively, leaning forward, but he presses a hand gently against your sternum and pushes you back.
The restraint hits you then, fully, for the first time. You can't reach him. Your hands are trapped at your ankles, useless, and the frustration of it—the sheer helplessness—sends a bolt of arousal so sharp through your core that you gasp aloud. You want to touch him, to grab his hair, to pull him back to you, and the fact that you can't, that you're completely at his mercy, makes you wetter than you've ever been.
"Pathetic," you mutter, but you're smiling, and he laughs—that warm, rich sound that fills the room.
"Impatient," he corrects, and drops to his knees.
Your breath catches as he presses his mouth to your sternum, your ribs, the soft curve of your belly. His lips are soft, reverent, tracing patterns over your skin like he's writing prayers there. He nips at your hip bone, soothes the spot with his tongue, and you feel yourself growing impossibly wetter, impossibly needier, your body responding to his touch with embarrassing enthusiasm.
"So pretty," he murmurs against your inner thigh, his breath hot and damp. "So good for me."
You whine, high and desperate, when he bypasses where you need him most, kissing instead the crease of your thigh, the sensitive skin just out of reach. "Lewis, please—"
"Patience," he says again, but there's a tremor in his voice now, betraying his own restraint. "Let me enjoy you, baby. I've been thinking about this for months."
His mouth finally finds your center, and your head falls back with a cry that you don't bother trying to muffle. He licks a long, slow stripe through your folds, groaning against you like you're the best thing he's ever tasted, like he's been dying of thirst and you've finally offered him water. The sound vibrates through you, adding another layer of sensation to the already overwhelming mix.
He settles in, finding a rhythm that makes your vision blur at the edges—broad, flat strokes of his tongue interspersed with pointed, teasing flicks against your clit. When he pushes his tongue inside you, fucking you with it in slow, deliberate thrusts, your knees buckle, and only the restraints keep you upright. You would have collapsed without them, you realize dimly, floating in the haze of pleasure.
Then his fingers join the dance—one first, sliding in easily, curling to find that spot that makes stars burst behind your eyelids. Then two, stretching you, filling you, pumping in time with his tongue. The dual sensation is maddening, too much and not enough, building you toward a precipice you can see but can't quite reach.
"Fuck," you gasp, your hips trying to buck against the restraints, limited to small, frustrated rolls. "Fuck, Lewis—I'm gonna come. Please, baby, please—"
He pulls back just enough to look up at you, his chin shiny with your arousal, his eyes blown wide and dark. "I know," he says, his voice gravel-rough. "Come on, baby. Don't be shy. I want to feel it. I want to taste it."
He seals his mouth back over you, fingers curling, pressing, and you're gone—shattering apart with a cry that sounds like his name and a prayer and a curse all mixed together. Your orgasm crashes through you in waves, starting where his mouth works you and radiating outward until even your fingertips are buzzing with it. Your pussy clenches around his fingers, pulsing with aftershocks that make you twitch and gasp, your whole body singing with the electricity of release. He gentles his touch, lapping at you with soft, soothing strokes, drawing out every last tremor until you're whimpering from oversensitivity, your hips trying to squirm away even as your heart begs him to stay.
"Beautiful," he murmurs against your thigh, pressing kisses there, his breath hot and heavy. "So fucking beautiful when you let go like that."
You blink up at the ceiling, chest heaving, feeling like you've been unmade and rebuilt from the inside out. The metal cuffs clink softly as you shift, a reminder of your position—open, vulnerable, his—and another shiver runs through you, not from cold but from the lingering power of your submission.
Lewis rises slowly, his hands tracing up your legs, your hips, your waist, relearning your topography with reverent palms. He stops when he reaches your face, cupping your jaw, his thumb brushing over your kiss-swollen lower lip. You can smell yourself on him—earthy and intimate—and it sends a fresh spike of desire through your spent body.
"Need to be inside you," he says, and the raw need in his voice makes your toes curl. "Can you take more, baby? Or do you need a minute?"
"Please," you whisper, because it's the only word your brain can form, the only prayer you know. "Please, Lewis… let me touch you."
He smiles, that devastating, crooked smile that first made you fall in love with him in a coffee shop three years ago, when he spilled his latte trying to compliment your book choice. "No can do," he says, but his voice is gentle, almost apologetic. "Not yet. You look too good like this—ruined and waiting just for me."
He steps back, and the loss of his heat makes you whimper, but then he's pulling his shirt over his head (when had he kept that on? you wonder deliriously), revealing the lean muscles of his chest, the constellation of tattoos across his shoulders that you love to map with your tongue. He unbuttons his jeans with quick, efficient movements, shoving them down along with his boxers, and you watch, hungry, as he kicks them aside, standing before you in nothing but the afternoon light.
He's hard, you notice with a pulse of satisfaction—achingly hard, his cock flushed dark and curving toward his belly, a bead of moisture already gathering at the tip. For you. Because of you. The thought sends a fresh wave of arousal pooling low in your abdomen, despite the orgasm he's already wrung from you.
He moves back into your space, crowding you with his warmth, his height. He leans in to kiss you, and this kiss is different—messier, more desperate, flavored with your own arousal and his mounting need. His tongue sweeps through your mouth, claiming, tasting, while his hands roam your body with increasing urgency.
While you're still dizzy from the kiss, lost in the slide of his mouth against yours, he reaches between your legs, aligns himself with your entrance, and pushes inside in one smooth, relentless thrust.
The stretch burns so perfectly you see stars. You cry out against his mouth, your body arching as much as the restraints allow, feeling every inch of him filling you, completing you. He doesn't start slow—he can't, you realize, feeling the tremor in his arms, the ragged edge of his control—and instead sets a hard, driving rhythm that makes the bed frame creak in protest.
The air in the room shifts, becomes thick and humid, scented with sweat and sex and the particular musk of skin against skin. The sound of him filling you, the wet slap of his hips meeting your thighs, the broken, breathless noises he's making in your ear—it all combines into a symphony of filthy intimacy that makes your head spin.
"Fuck," he grunts against your neck, his teeth grazing your pulse point. "You feel—fuck, baby, you're so tight, so wet. Taking me so well."
You try to close your legs, an instinctive response to the overwhelming sensation building again in your core, but the cuffs prevent it, holding you open for his relentless pace. He notices your attempt, notices the way you strain against the metal, and he pulls back just enough to look down at where you're joined, watching himself disappear inside you with a gaze so intense it feels like a physical touch.
"Don't hide," he commands softly, his hands moving to your knees, pressing them wider. "Let me see you. Let me feel you."
"'M gonna come again," you murmur against his neck, your voice breaking on a moan as he hits that perfect spot inside you, the one that makes your vision white out. "Shit, baby, I'm gonna—"
"Hold it," he says, his voice strained, his hips stuttering just slightly. "Wait for me, baby. Just a little longer. Can you do that? Can you be good for me?"
You swear you could cry. The pressure is exquisite torture, building and building, your body wound tight as a spring. You want to touch him, want to dig your nails into his back and anchor yourself to something solid, but your hands are still trapped, still useless, and the frustration mixes with the pleasure until you're trembling, teetering on the edge of something cataclysmic.
And then—then you feel his fingers at your left wrist, fumbling with the cuff. The metal releases with a click, and then your right wrist is free too, and he's still moving inside you, hasn't stopped thrusting for a second, but now your arms are loose and your hands are flying to his shoulders, his back, clutching at him with desperate strength.
"Touch me," he groans, his rhythm faltering, becoming erratic, chasing his own release. "Scratch me, baby. Mark me. I want to feel you for days."
You don't need to be told twice. Your nails rake down his back, hard enough to leave red trails, hard enough to make him shout and thrust deeper, harder. You wrap your legs around his waist—the cuffs at your ankles falling away with another two quick clicks, when did he grab those?—and you pull him into you, meeting him stroke for stroke.
"That's it," he gasps, his forehead dropping to yours, his eyes squeezed shut in concentration. "Come with me, baby. Come now—"
You shatter.
Your second orgasm hits like a freight train, rolling through you in endless waves, your pussy clamping down on him in rhythmic pulses that milk him desperately. You cry out his name, bury your face in his neck, bite down on his shoulder as you ride it out, your whole body convulsing with the force of it.
He follows you over the edge with a shout that sounds like your name torn in half, his hips snapping forward once, twice, three more times as he spills inside you, hot and thick and claiming. You feel every twitch, every pulse, holding him through it with your arms and legs wrapped tight around him, keeping him close, keeping him yours.
When you both finally still, the room is filled with nothing but the sound of ragged breathing, of two hearts hammering against each other. He stays inside you for a long moment, his face buried in your hair, his hands stroking up and down your sides with trembling gentleness.
"That was—" you start, but your voice cracks, ruined.
He pulls out slowly, carefully, and you whimper at the sudden emptiness, at the loss of him. He guides you down onto the bed, following you, gathering you into his arms with a tenderness that makes your chest ache. You curl into him, your face pressed against his sternum, listening to his heartbeat slow from its frantic gallop to a steady, satisfied thump.
"That was fun," you say finally, your voice muffled against his skin. You giggle, suddenly giddy, drunk on endorphins and intimacy. "That was really, really fun."
He laughs, the sound vibrating through his chest and into yours. "Yeah?" He tilts your chin up, looks at you with those eyes that see everything, that hold your whole world. "You okay? Really okay?"
You nod, pressing a kiss to his jaw, his cheek, the corner of his mouth. "Mhm. Better than okay." You pause, then add, testing, "Might have to do it again sometime."
His eyes light up, that wicked glint returning, mixing with something softer, something that looks a lot like forever. "Oh, sweetheart," he murmurs, his hand tracing lazy circles on your hip. "You don't even know what's coming for you. I've got ideas. So many ideas."
You raise an eyebrow, intrigued despite your exhaustion. "Ideas?"
"But only when you're ready. Only ever when you're ready."
You smile against his mouth, feeling safe, feeling seen, feeling loved in every molecule of your being. "Guess we'll see," you whisper.
And as you drift off to sleep in his arms, marked by him in ways that will last for days, you think that maybe—just maybe—you're ready for whatever beautiful, boundless thing comes next.
"Yeah," he agrees, pulling you closer, tangling your legs together. "We will."
ˋ°•*⁀➷ a kimi antonelli x childhood bestfriend!reader imagine
warnings & tags- silverstone 2026 (thats a warning itself) , a little sad, cursing, female/afab reader, loss of virginity, p in v, oral (f receiving) , kinda vanilla but also 4 pages of smut, condom usage, sad vocal kimi, man crying yum, goes from 0 to 100 real quick, they both last like 2 minutes, definitely other stuff, read at your own risk, angst + comfort + fluff + smut!
based on this & this request
[a/n]- sorry for long wait! love ya babies! hope yall are well fed
3.8k words
“I didn’t do it on purpose,” Kimi’s words echoed softly on the many TVs located in the hospitality suite. “Like… the car was broken,” his voice crackled on the intercom, heavy with a watery swallow that was easily recognizable as a bitten-back sob.
All you could do was sit and watch with a frown as the air seemingly left your lungs. Your heart throbbed dully with the ache of hearing him so broken, his strained words ringing in your ears. It was agonizing, knowing he was in pain so close to the paddock where you sat, yet completely out of reach.
As sponsors and family chattered around you, your mind drifted back to where it all began. You had been friends since preschool, back when his hair was long and blonde and straight, though his attitude was the same. Back then, he was more soft-spoken, choosing to quietly play with his Hot Wheels while others screamed and cried. And when you sat next to him for the first time during school, he shyly shared his crayons, and you offered the Fonzies from your lunch kit.
From then on, the two of you grew up together. The planned playdates turned to elementary school sleepovers, which turned to awkward middle school dances, and eventually to high school study sessions.
Even back then, Kimi was one of the hardest workers you had ever seen. It had been evident since you were kids, when he began to insist on karting rather than playground hangouts. He wanted to be one of the greats, and he wanted you right by his side, cheering him on.
Eventually, he had pursued his passion in racing, going to F1 at just 18, while you graduated and went to college. Life pulled you apart naturally, but neither of you would let that happen. You Facetimed whenever possible, often during late hours of the night. Sometimes the calls were quiet, just doing natural tasks together, glad to have each other's presence. Often, his little sister Maggie would come and interrupt to talk to you, or his mom stopped in to see how you were doing.
Because of that distance, he invited you to every single race, but you could rarely go with all of your schoolwork. And so when you finally agreed to fly out to Britain for Silverstone, he knew he had to make it special.
God, he wanted to win for you so bad. The weekend had started so good, winning the sprint and earning the right to start ahead of everyone else on the grid. Until the actual race day, when his car decided to fail him, and all of his hard work had come undone. Yet, the part that stung him the most was not losing the race, but it was the painful knowledge that you were out there in the audience, watching one of the worst days of his career unfold. The beautiful fantasy he had built up in his head, where he won the race, dedicated the victory to you, and you fell head over heels for him in a grand romantic gesture, had all come crashing down.
So when the race was finally over, he kept his helmet glued on tight, walking to his drivers room for ten minutes of peace before he had to deal with interviews. He locked the door behind him, his helmet not slipping as he crashed onto the couch.
A faint knock filled the empty room within thirty seconds of his arrival. He didn’t make an effort to move. He was not in the mood to deal with anyone right now.
“Kimi? It’s me.”
Well, unless it was you.
His hands quickly slid to the door, unlocking it with a hushed click. It took a moment, but you slowly pushed in, your eyes meeting a defeated and exhausted Kimi. Your heart sunk at the sight, noticing the way his head slung low, helmet still on. He never kept his helmet on. Always said it was too restricting.
“Hey,” you murmured, sinking down next to him, hands immediately reaching for the head protection. Kimi just watched through the tinted visor, letting you take off his only defences. He would never push you away.
His cheeks were red and puffy, part from exhaustion, and part from crying. His eyes were glossed over, darting around to avoid meeting yours. You had known Kimi long enough to realize he didn’t want some bullshit speech or whispers of sweet nothings, so instead, you wrapped your arms around his coiled up form.
Instinctively, he surrendered to the embrace, his damp curls tickling your neck as he nestled his head in the crook. Your hands roamed along his back, eager to soothe his sobs by providing some sense of comfort through familiarity. His chest hitched and shuddered, drained of all strength under your touch.
“I am so proud of you, Ant,” you whispered shakily.
Kimi’s trembling hands grasped desperately at the back of your head, spread palms digging into your hair as he pulled you closer. The unshared nickname you had given long ago sent a surge of sentimentality down his spine.
“I wanted to win for you.”
His words were muffled, but they still stabbed straight at your heart. Your head shook softly as the vibrations tickled your skin.
“You already won in my eyes,” you started, pulling back to look at him so your words really stuck. “You are literally the most impressive nineteen year old I’ve ever met, Kimi. You race professionally for Mercedes. But–” your voice froze for a second, poorly attempting to block out tears before you continued. “But most importantly, you are so compassionate and kind and full of love, and trust me, not everyone can say the same. You make me feel like a winner for getting to be your friend. You will always be a winner in my eyes, because of who you are when the helmet comes off.”
The silence grew thick as Kimi stared at you with wide eyes, searching your face with an expression you didn’t quite recognize.
Until he lurched forward, his lips meeting yours in a passionate, borderline needy kiss.
It took a moment before you leaned into it, the shock morphing into realization, before quickly changing into devotion. Years of built-up yearning spilled into the messy kiss, emotions overtaking any restraint. Memories of Kimi flashed through your brain, from him holding you through long nights to making you laugh so hard you fell to the floor, and it only made you pull him closer. One of his hands slid to cup your jaw, fingers trailing desperately across your delicate skin.
When you finally pulled apart, his lips were slightly-parted and glossy, and his pupils-blown out as he scanned your face. His hands stayed glued to you, not ready to let go of your warmth completely.
“I don’t want to be just friends,” he confided, his Italian accent thick in a way that filled you with wistfulness. The confession wasn’t the long, grand speech that he had prepared in his mind, but somehow the lack of words was substantially more intimate.
“Neither do I.”
A tender smile graced his face, his expression melting into a lovesick gaze. You let out a breathy laugh in response. Words didn’t feel important enough to fill the quiet space, so neither of you dared to utter another sentence.
Unfortunately, a loud knock at the door echoed throughout the room to break that moment of peace for you.
“Kimi! Interview in 5!” A woman’s voice rang out. It was probably some PR lady, based on the way her heels clicked and lanyard jingled as she walked away.
“After your interviews and dinner and stuff… you want to go get gelato? It won’t be as good as our spot in Italy, but it’ll be something,” you asked, slowly drifting away from his touch so you could leave before he got in trouble.
He dropped his hands, which suddenly felt dull and cold, your words still processing. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll call you when I’m done.”
He nodded as you two parted, sneaking one last kiss before you slipped out of the door. God, he couldn’t wait until tonight.
You had no idea how it had progressed this quickly.
One moment you were friends, crying in each other's arms, and the next, you were making out in the silky sheets of his hotel bed.
The taste of pistachio gelato that lingered in your mouth swirled with his stracciatella-flavored spit as your tongues clashed eagerly. Kimi’s hands drifted everywhere, from your ass, to your back, to your hair, as you straddled him, desperately trying (and failing) to ground himself. Everything was so new, so unfamiliar in a way that only urged the two of you to keep exploring.
His hips involuntarily grinded upwards in such a smooth motion that it made you squeeze your thighs around his. Your teeth bumped together a few times accidentally, a small inconvenience born from the consequences of your messy fervor. Cautiously, his large hands slipped under your shirt, navigating a territory unknown to him. You didn’t flinch.
The lace of your bra tickled his fingertips as he cradled your boobs, eliciting a whiny moan from his puffy lips. The gentle hum bleeded into your kiss, and you couldn’t help yourself anymore. Running along his clothed chest, your hands pawed at his belt, eager to unbuckle it without parting from his mouth.
“Wait, wait,” Kimi stuttered breathlessly, pulling apart just slightly so he could talk. The moonlight leaked in through the partially-closed curtains, casting a silver glow on your face. For a moment, the words vanished from his mind, your flushed cheeks and loving gaze rendering him speechless.
He swallowed nervously, the sensation bringing him back to consciousness as he remembered why he stopped. “I’ve never done this before.”
“Neither have I,” you whispered, your eyes darting rapidly across his face, searching for a slight twitch of the lip, or scrunch of the eye, anything to hint at what he was feeling. Insecurity sprouted in your head and doubt seeped into your bones. Maybe you were moving too fast, doing too much. On instinct, you shifted away from him. “Do you still want to?”
Noticing the change immediately, his arm reached to pull you closer, if you were willing. He nodded rapidly, his voice a desperate cry. “SÌ, please, yes.”
You smiled into the kiss, hands going back to fumbling with the metal clasp of his belt. Kimi quickly got the memo, frantically pulling the edge of your shirt up. Helping him out, you disentangled your lips, only to pull the shirt off, before immediately going back to the warmth of his mouth. He scrabbled with your bra clasp, his attention mainly devoted to feeling around with his tongue. His hands shook in anticipation as he finally got it undone.
You shrugged the delicate fabric off and to the sheets as Kimi gently flipped you over. He peeled his shirt off hastily, watching as you shamelessly paused to marvel at the sight looming over you. Smugly and with a newfound confidence, he grasped at your hand and brought it to feel his chest, before lowering it down slowly across his abs. If you were thinking straight, you would roll your eyes at his cockiness, but your mind was too clouded with lust to care. Even as he took away his hand to shift your skirt off, yours remained on his torso, feeling and exploring the muscles like you always dreamed of.
Meanwhile, your skirt settled to the floor, and Kimi’s breath hitched at the sight of your matching lace panties. He paused to admire the dainty pink fabric, hands trailing carefully over the scalloped edges.
“You like ‘em?” You smirked, watching his eyes drift back up to your face as he was brought back down to earth. Doubtful his mouth could let out anything but an embarrassing whine, he shakily nodded, fingers still aflutter as they triflied around your thighs.
Your hands strayed down, leaving the crevices of his abs and grabbing at his loose belt.
He stopped you yet again.
With all the courage he could muster, he spoke again, voice laced with anticipation and a hint of longing. “I want to make you feel good first. Can I?”
His eyes were misty along the rims, a pleading glare cast upon his facade. It was overwhelming, going from hopelessly pining over his best friend to having her bare beneath him.
This time, it was you who was too starstruck to reply. You agreed fondly, eyes never leaving him as he dipped down beneath your legs.
A flush pink creeped up your neck as his hands slid your panties down, leaving you fully exposed and vulnerable. You didn’t shy away like most would. You trusted Kimi, whole heartedly.
His lips graced the plush of your inner thighs, peppering kisses gingerly across your slick skin. The warmth sent shivers up your spine, a stark contrast to the cool air spewing in through the vents and tainting your arms with goosebumps. On instinct, your fingers flew to his curls, gripping on for dear life at the gentle touches. You needed something to stabilize your body, shaking with anticipation.
His eyes shifted up, lashes fluttering as he studied your expression with the evaluating stare of a strategist. Carefully, and without shifting his gaze, his tongue darted out to give a long, slow lick up your wet folds. Watching your eyebrows furrow in pleasure, he licked again, this time pausing to suck on your clit and coating the spot in spit. A breathy moan escaped your lips as you shifted to lean on your elbows for support.
Every whine went straight to his ego, his confidence increasing as he moved again hastily. This time, his tongue poked at your entrance, silently asking for permission to taste you deeper. Dripping with saliva and wetness, it was easy for Kimi to slide in your tight hole. Your legs spasmed momentarily around his head, while a sweet, musky taste flooded his mouth, one so inebriating that he could only compare it to fine wine. He lapped profoundly, hooked on the new taste of your salty flesh.
Quivering, you silenced your moans by biting your bottom lip, turning it cherry red. Kimi’s tongue explored your warm flesh, noting every spot that made your muscles twitch. He was so eager to make you feel good, to force the dreamy whimpers from your throat, to please you in a way no one had before. It was intoxicating to dangerous levels, an addiction forming quietly in the back of his mind.
One of his hands released from clutching your waist, gravitating down to where you needed him the most. Moving his tongue back to suck on your clit, a finger delicately replaced the emptiness inside you. Kimi went slow, his heavy eyes looming the whole time to make sure you felt comfortable. When you nodded desperately, he pushed farther.
It was only one finger, and yet it had you clenching and twitching and moaning his name in pure ecstasy. The sight was unbelievably lewd, your nipples peaking in the moonlight, hands grasping and releasing in his curls, all while wet sloshes filled the air. His moves were deliberate, calculated almost, as if he were lovingly assessing data for race. He studied your every move, determining if you could handle another finger or it would be too much for your pretty pussy. He grinded messily against the edge of the mattress, his dick straining against his jeans at the sight of you, all disheveled for him. No one else had been able to experience heaven like he had. The thought had him throbbing harder.
A second finger twirled around your entrance, gathering slick to make the stretch less painful. You hadn’t spoken in minutes, only breathless (and slightly pathetic) sounds escaping your mouth. His skin was so warm, palms dewy with sweat as his free hand groped around needily. The smell of sandalwood from his cologne floated faintly in the air, lingering and mixing with the smell of pure lust-filled adrenaline.
“Is it okay if I–”
You interrupted him immediately. He could do anything he asked.
“Yes, please, god, Kimi, yes.”
He smiled, love, and boldness, adorning his features as he probed another finger toward your tight hole. Your eyes snapped shut, swimming with tears as Kimi’s considerable fingers stretched you beyond familiarity. And just as you caught your breath, he curled them ever-so-slightly, moving against your walls until he found the spot.
A string of croaky curse words left your achy throat as he assaulted the area with a special kind of compassion. Everything was too much. His sweet taste loitered on your tongue, his hands worked with intense delicacy, his lips suckled against your clit, all working together and forcing you undone. Sopping plaps filled the hotel room, the sound so risqué you were sure the hotel had heard and blacklisted the both of you by now.
“Oh, oh fuck, I’m gonna–”
Kimi cut you off before you could finish your sentence. Not with words, but by fucking you harder, moving his fingers faster and with more purpose, licking everywhere he knew would get a reaction out of you. You weren’t lying when you said Kimi was the hardest worker you knew. When he set his mind to a new goal, he wouldn’t stop until it was complete. And right now, that goal was you.
Waves of unexplored pleasure came crashing down in an instant, your legs quivering so hard it was foreign. Everything shook with staggering bliss, even your toes clenching to try and soothe the ecstasy. Kimi lapped your juices up fervently, devouring every drop until you physically wrenched him away by the hair.
Your liquids leaked down his chin as he grinned dopily, so clearly proud of himself. You pulled him back up to you with a smile, wanting to feel his balmy skin against yours as your breath evened out. A few moments later, and you were reaching at his jeans for the third time, thankfully, with no push back.
He slid off his denim pants, the heavy fabric and metal belt clasp making a thud as they hit the ground. You gulped nervously at the outline of his hefty bulge, his grey boxer briefs already stained with precum. Kimi noticed your hesitation (he had gotten quite good about noticing shifts in your mood), and instantly went to cup your jaw, a silent gesture that spoke more than words ever could.
His touch was so comforting, and he was so patient and selfless, it only turned you on farther. You reached out, one hand sliding his boxers down carefully while the other wrapped around his length.
Pearly drops of precum beaded and leaked from the pink tip, dripping down and spilling onto your skin. It was bigger than you expected, the girth making only enlarging it to a degree that was both delicious and nerve-racking. You couldn’t help but give it a small, drawn out lick.
A frantic, low groan grumbled from the back of Kimi’s throat, the noise so lewd it made you soak slightly. His head tilted back, revealing his pronounced Adam's apple that bobbed as he swallowed.
“I’m not gonna last if you do that,” he whimpered, hands pawing at your head to gain some control. You smirked coyly, staring up at him with a sneaky stare.
Against his desires, he pulled apart slightly, reaching for his abandoned wallet on the nightstand and pulling out a silver foil packet. You snatched it, ripping the package with your teeth before slowly rolling it against his length. You wanted to tease a little, but you were too desperate yourself to prolong it.
Laying you back softly against the white sheets again, Kimi pressed a passionate kiss to your lips, the taste of you still present on his tongue. He only broke it so he could look down, aligning the tip of his wrapped cock with your hole. His thumbs traced the side of your face, soothing you for the mixture of pain and pleasure that was to come. Wetness from earlier still soaked your thighs, making it easier for him to glide the tip in.
It burned at first, the initial movement stretching you past any previous limits. He shook as he slowly pushed deeper, pathetic groans echoing off the walls.
“You’re doin’ so– fuck ! So good- f’me,” he moaned out, coaching you through it while also trying not to bust before even getting started.
You let out a cry of gratification, the pain gradually morphing into something much more satisfying. Kimi finally bottomed out, leaving you full and needy. He had to pause and focus on soothing his erratic breathing, the feeling of your fleshy walls clenching around him making his head ring. His eyes tensed shut for a moment as he adjusted to the unknown feeling.
When his heart finally slowed to a pace that wasn’t borderline dangerous, he glanced up through hooded lids to check on you. Nodding frantically, your nails scratched at his back, urging him to move, do something.
With a soft tug, he pulled back out, lips meeting yours again. The loss of your warmth made him involuntarily plow hard back into you, hitting that special spot that lay deep inside you. Both of you let a groan into the kiss, not daring to break it just yet.
His pace increased rapidly, drilling into you uncontrollably like a dog in heat. It was messy, and frantic, and so full of love, your mind buzzed and muted out all other senses. He wished he could speak, say anything, help you through it somehow, but his voice failed him. All his focus went into making sure he didn’t come too soon. And judging based on how his balls were clenching and his moans getting louder, it didn’t seem likely that would last long.
You had pulled away from his lips to look into his eyes. His pupils were dilated and his lashes waved, and for the first time, you fully grasped the situation. You were sharing one of the most vulnerable moments of your life with Kimi, your Kimi. Your heart suddenly felt full at the thought.
And then he looked at you, really looked, and came to the same realization in his mind. The girl he had always dreamed of, in his arms, looking more beautiful than ever, even with flushed cheeks and matted hair. God, he couldn’t wait to spend his life with you.
“Fuck, fuck! M’so sorry, I’m sorry,” he uttered, his thrusts slowing down and hitting deeper as his climax hit. It was short. Too short. Fuck, he was embarrased. The warm cum filled the silicone as he stilled inside of you, though he silently wished the border wasn’t there.
You both let out a sound of breathless laughter, post-nut clarity easing the mood a little.
“It’s okay, we’ve got all night. And then the rest of our lives.”
smoked a bowl of straight kief before writing this lmaooooo
"she's so pretty when she cries," liam drawls as he thrusts his cock into your throat. his fingers fisted into your hair to keep you within his control. tears streamed down your face- fat and hot- from the way you choked around his girth. he couldn't help but let out a chuckle at the sight of you so ruined- so pathetic- because of him and his teammate. "don't ya think, 'vid?"
arvid, who was taking you from behind, could only agree with a long groan. his grip around the fatty flesh of your hips was sure to leave bruises, but he was too lost in the tightness of your pussy to care. the smacking sounds of his pelvis bouncing against your ass echoed around the walls of liam's bedroom. as the tip of his cock stroked that special spot inside of you, you felt yourself getting ready to cum for the third time in eleven minutes.
being with lawblad is absolute heaven to you. there's liam who's so passionate that it's rough and arvid who's so eager to make you feel good! as you come undone again it only takes seconds for the two to chase their own highs. they lean forward to kiss- grunting into each other's mouths as they release into you. it's hot and messy and everything all three of you could ever want.
afterwards, they're sooooo sweet to you! liam cleans up the mess they made while arvid covers your face, shoulders, and neck with sweet kisses. aftershocks still strike in all three of your bodies- constant reminders of how they (lovingly) destroyed you<3
꒰ঌ࿐𝓫𝓵𝓾𝓻𝓫 Logan catches you watching his biceps during his late night workout
꒰ঌ࿐𝓼𝓶𝓾𝓽 ✓
꒰ঌ࿐𝔀𝓬 1,4k
The first thing Logan said when he caught you staring was not even a word.
It was a laugh.
Low. Breathless. Almost mean.
He was on the floor by the foot of the bed, shirt off, sweat running down the centre of his chest, fists planted against the hardwood because apparently regular push-ups were too gentle for whatever stupid hockey-boy conditioning routine he’d decided to put himself through at eleven at night.
Knuckle push-ups.
Because of course.
Because John Logan couldn’t just be hot in a normal, manageable way. No, he had to drop low with his back flexing, shoulders wide, forearms corded, biceps tightening every time he lowered himself until his nose nearly brushed the floor. He had to breathe through it, slow and controlled, jaw set like it didn’t cost him anything.
And you, idiot that you were, had forgotten to pretend you were reading.
Your book was open in your lap. Upside down because nuance and subtlety were flung out the window around the time when his shirt also was tugged off.
Logan noticed on rep thirty-two.
His eyes flicked up first, then his mouth curved, “really?”
You blinked, “what?”
He pushed up again, arms locking, knuckles white against the floor, “book’s upside down.”
You looked down, “shit.”
He laughed, dropped once more, then held himself there, body hovering inches above the floor, biceps full and tense and completely unfair, “You staring at me?”
“No.”
He pushed back up, his breath barely affected- only slightly deeper, more controlled in sharp puffs. His smirk when he returned to his starting position could only be described as horribly cocky, “liar.”
“I was thinking.”
“About my arms?”
You shut the book.
Logan’s grin got worse.
That was twenty minutes ago.
Now your back was on the mattress, your thighs over his shoulders, and Logan’s arms were locked around your legs like he was proving a point with his entire body, “You wanted to stare?” he murmured against your inner thigh, “Stare.”
You could not. That was the problem. Your head was tipped back, one hand twisted in the sheets, the other locked in his hair while his mouth moved over you like he had all night and no intention of letting you survive it. His biceps pressed hard against the backs of your thighs, flexing every time you squirmed, every time his grip tightened to drag you back down to him.
“Logan,” you breathed.
He hummed. The vibration hit your clit and made your hips jerk.
His hand slid up, palm flattening low on your stomach, “stay.”
“Can’t.”
“Mhm,” another slow lick, “you can.”
Your thighs shook around his head.
He loved it. You could tell he loved it by the way he smiled against you, by the way his fingers dug into your skin, by the way he kept making these low, pleased sounds that blurred into you more than words, “Mmm. There?” he asked, mouth still wet against you.
You nodded too fast.
His hand smacked lightly against your hip, “words.”
“Yes.”
He kissed your clit, soft enough to be cruel, “yes, what?”
You tried to glare down at him, but his mouth opened over you again before you could form anything coherent, tongue dragging slow and flat, and the glare dissolved somewhere pathetic, “yes, there.”
His eyes flicked up, “Good girl.”
Your whole body clenched.
He felt it, “yeah?” his voice was rough now, a little wrecked around the edges, "you like that?”
“Shut up.”
He laughed against you.
You nearly came from that alone.
“Mean,” he murmured, “for someone who was looking at my arms like she wanted to bite me.”
“I did not.”
“You did,” He shifted one arm higher, bicep bunching beside your thigh as he pressed you open with his shoulder, “you were sitting there all quiet, squeezing your legs together.”
Your face went hot, “logan.”
“What?” He kissed you again, messy and open-mouthed, “you think I don’t notice?”
Your fingers tightened in his hair, “please.”
That did something to him.
His mouth stopped teasing. The next lick was firmer, slower, right where you needed him, and your breath broke into a soft, useless sound.
“There she is,” he said.
“Lo.”
“Mhm?”
“More.”
He groaned like the word hurt him. Then his arm shifted from your thigh, hand dragging down, two fingers pressing against you, slicking through the mess his mouth had made. He circled once, twice, watching your face the entire time.
“You’re soaked.”
You whimpered. His fingers pressed in slow, your back arched.
“Fuck.”
He smiled, but it was not smug anymore. It was hungry. Blown out. Like he had started this to tease you and ended up ruining himself with it too.
“That’s it,” he murmured, “take ’em.”
Your hand flew from his hair to his bicep, nails digging into the hard muscle there as his fingers curled inside you, “oh-”
He made another sound, almost a growl, and buried his mouth against you again.
It was filthy.
Wet.
Loud.
His tongue worked your clit while his fingers fucked into you, steady and deep, and you clung to his arm like it was the only thing keeping you anchored. The muscle flexed under your hand with every movement, hot and solid and so absurdly strong that your brain, already useless, managed only one thought.
Bite.
You did, mouth against the thick curve of his bicep, teeth sinking in lightly because you could not help yourself.
Logan froze.
For half a second, everything stopped. Then he pulled back just enough to look at you.
His mouth was wet. Chin shiny. Eyes dark enough to be dangerous, “did you just bite me?”
You released him slowly, “maybe.”
He stared. Then he laughed, low and disbelieving, and the sound made your stomach drop, “you’re fucking unbelievable.”
“You said I wanted to.”
“I was joking.”
“I wasn’t.”
Something snapped in his face.
Pure, awful heat.
His fingers curled harder inside you, and your mouth fell open, “you wanna bite?” he said, voice low, “fine. Bite.”
“Logan-”
He pushed his arm closer to your mouth and lowered his head again, “go on.”
Your thighs trembled around his shoulders.
His mouth touched you, “bite me while I make you come.”
The sound that left you was embarrassing. He hummed like he liked it and went back down, you bit him again when he did, harder this time.
His groan vibrated straight through your clit.
“Oh my God.”
“Mm?” he hummed, still working you open on his fingers, “that good?”
“Yes.”
“Yeah?”
“Yes, yes, f- Logan.”
Your hand locked around his arm, mouth pressed to his skin, teeth scraping every time his fingers hit that place inside you that made the room tilt. He kept his pace brutal and perfect, tongue circling, sucking, flicking, then flattening again when your hips started to buck.
You were babbling now.
Not words, not properly.
Just little sounds and broken pieces.
“Lo- yes- there, there, please-”
He pulled his mouth away for one breath, “for me?”
You nodded frantically.
His fingers stopped.
You nearly sobbed.
“Say it.”
Your eyes opened, wet and furious, “for you.”
His face softened for one second.
Just one.
Then his mouth was back on you, and he curled his fingers again, and you were gone.
Your orgasm hit hard, messy, thighs clamping around his head, teeth pressing into his bicep as you came with a muffled cry against his skin. Logan held you through it, arm flexed under your mouth, fingers still moving in slow, dragging strokes while his tongue worked you until you were shaking too hard to keep biting.
“Lo,” you gasped,” too much.”
He stopped instantly. Pulled back.
Pressed one last kiss to your inner thigh, then another, softer, right beside the first.
Your chest heaved. He crawled up your body like he had all the time in the world, mouth wet, hair wrecked from your fingers, a faint red mark blooming on his bicep where your teeth had been.
You stared at it.
He caught you, “seriously?” he said, breathless.
You reached for his arm again.
He caught your wrist and pinned it gently to the pillow beside your head, “no.”
You blinked up at him, “no?”
“You’re cut off.”
“But-”
“You bit me while I was eating you out.”
“You told me to.”
“I know,” His mouth brushed yours, and you tasted yourself on him, “that’s why I’m hard enough to die.”
Your gaze dropped.
He laughed into your mouth, “yeah,” he muttered, “now you notice.”
You lifted your hips against him, and his laugh broke into a groan.
“Baby.”
“Mhm?”
“Don’t start unless you want me to finish.”
You smiled, still dazed, still clinging to his wrist. Then you turned your face and kissed the inside of his bicep.
Logan closed his eyes, “fuck me,” he breathed.
You grinned against his skin, “thought you’d never ask.”
Summary: From enemies to lovers, your story unfolds through the positions you somehow always ended up in behind closed doors.
Classification: Smut +18 | enemies to lovers, various Kamasutra positions (with linked visuals), rough raw hate-sex, dirty talk, praise, biting, nipple play/groping, manhandling, mild anal fingering, creampies, fingering, ass smacking and love confessions during sex
Word count: 4,5k
Divider by me ;)
When Dean hated wanting you, the sex was pure fire and punishment. Every encounter was a battlefield where he fucked out his frustration by using his strength and cocky dominance to remind you exactly who was in control…
The standing carry or column (Alternate pick: Victory): Dean chose this because it let him pin you completely, using his hockey-built strength to hold you up like you weighed nothing, forcing you to rely on him while he controlled every brutal thrust. It was intimate in the worst way for enemies, your faces were inches apart so he could watch your reluctant pleasure and sneer at it and your back often scraped the wall as he fucked out his frustration. It showcased his power and your vulnerability, turning sex into a battle he always won.
The locker room after practice was empty except for the two of you, tension crackling like ozone before a storm. Dean’s eyes burned with loathing as he shoved you against the cold tiled wall, his massive hands gripping your ass and hoisting you up effortlessly. Your legs locked around his waist out of pure instinct, dress shoved up and panties ripped aside.
“Still mouthing off?” he growled, voice venomous as his thick cock already nudged your soaked entrance as he slammed home in one vicious stroke, burying himself to the hilt while your back arched against the unforgiving surface. The stretch was brutal, perfect, his hips snapping up with punishing force that made your tits bounce and your nails dig into his broad, sweat-slick shoulders.
Every deep, grinding thrust lifted you higher, his pubic bone grinding against your clit and his breath hot on your neck as he bit down hard enough to mark. “Take it, you fucking tease. This is what you get for driving me insane.”
Your walls clenched around his relentless length, juices dripping down his balls as he fucked you harder while the muscles in his arms and thighs flexed like steel cables, holding you suspended and impaled while your moans echoed off the tiles. He didn’t let you look away, forcing eye contact as he chased his release, pounding until you shattered around him with a scream, his own growl following as he flooded you, still hating every second he wanted more.
The pretzel dip: This position let him stay close enough to glare and taunt you while hitting angles that made you hate how good it felt. It was controlled dominance without full surrender of position, perfect for hate sex where he wanted to watch your face twist in unwanted ecstasy and whisper filthy insults.
You were tangled on his couch after another screaming match, clothes half-torn off. Dean flipped you onto your side, slotting behind you but facing you and yanking one of your legs high over his hip so he could sink into your dripping pussy in a single shuddering thrust.
“Look at you,” he snarled, gaze locked on yours and chiseled face mere inches away as he rolled his hips in deep, grinding circles.
The angle let him drag against your front wall with devastating precision, his thick cock stretching you wide while his hand gripped your thigh hard enough to bruise. Sweat slicked your bodies as he fucked you with slow, powerful strokes that built unbearable pressure.
He bit your lower lip, tugging it between his teeth. “Hate how wet you get for me, don’t you? This pussy doesn’t lie.” Your fingers clawed at his sides, pulling him closer despite yourself as the friction on your clit from his grinding pelvis drove you wild. He kept the pace torturous, until you were sobbing his name and coming hard, pulsing around him.
Only then did he let go, slamming deep and filling you with rope after rope of cum, still glaring like he wished he could hate you more.
Spread eagle (Alternates: Deck chair and eagle): It was a pure power move. Dean loved manhandling you, folding your body to expose you completely and fuck you like he owned your pleasure, punishing you with overwhelming sensation.
In the dim light of his bedroom, Dean lifted you like a ragdoll after you’d pushed every button.
He knelt on the bed, hooking your legs over his shoulders and folding you nearly in half, your ankles by your ears as he drove his massive cock into your aching pussy.
The position left you helpless and completely open, every inch of his thick length slamming home with force that made stars burst behind your eyes.
“This what you wanted, princess? Me ruining this greedy little hole?” His voice was rough with contempt and lust, hips pistoning relentlessly, balls slapping wetly against your ass.
Your juices coated his shaft, dripping everywhere as he hit spots so deep you swore you felt him in your throat. His hands pinned your thighs, muscles bulging and sweat dripping from his golden hair onto your heaving breasts.
He watched your face the whole time, drinking in your broken moans and the way your eyes rolled back, using the leverage to fuck you harder, faster, until your orgasm ripped through you like lightning, walls milking him desperately. He followed with a guttural groan, pumping you full until cum leaked out around his still-thrusting cock.
The wheelbarrow: Dean picked this in the height of his hatred because it was deeply humiliating and physically demanding, forcing you into a vulnerable, exposed position where your ass was up, pussy on full display and your arms trembling from holding yourself up. It showcased his athletic strength as he could manhandle you effortlessly while denying easy emotional connection through eye contact.
Every thrust felt like a conquest, your body completely at his mercy, turning the encounter into a power play that fed his frustration and dominance. He loved watching your legs shake, your back arch and your juices drip down your thighs while he mocked how much you craved the man you claimed to despise.
The argument had spilled from the kitchen into his bedroom, words turning to shoves before turning to clothes being yanked off in furious need. Dean’s eyes blazed with pure contempt as he spun you around and bent you forward over the edge of his king-sized bed, your palms slamming down onto the mattress for balance.
He grabbed your thighs just above the knees, hoisting your legs up high and wide so your feet left the ground entirely, your body forming a sharp downward angle with your upper half braced on trembling arms.
Your dripping pussy was completely exposed and elevated for him, ass presented like an offering.
“Fuck, look at this greedy cunt,” he growled, voice dripping with sarcasm and heat, his thick, veined cock slapping against your slick folds teasingly. “Hate me so much but you’re soaked for my dick every goddamn time.”
Without warning, he yanked your legs back toward him and drove forward, spearing every thick inch into your tight pussy in one brutal stroke. The position let him hit impossibly deep, his cock dragging along your front wall with devastating precision as he started pounding.
Your tits swung heavily beneath you, nipples hard and aching, while your arms burned from holding position. Dean’s hips snapped forward with athletic thrusts, his balls slapping wetly against your clit, the wet squelching sounds turning obscene in the room.
He kept your legs spread unfairly wide, muscles in his arms and shoulders flexing as he used your body like a toy, pulling you back onto his cock with every forward drive as sweat dripped from his golden-blond hair onto your back.
“That’s it…take every inch, you filthy little liar,” he taunted between grunts, one hand sliding down to smack your ass sharply. Your walls fluttered and clenched around his relentless girth, pleasure-pain shooting through you as the angle ground his cockhead right against that spongy spot inside.
Your moans turned into broken cries, juices gushing down your thighs and onto the sheets or floor.
Dean’s pace grew feral, slamming into you harder, grip bruising on your thighs as he watched your body jolt and quake. Your orgasm crashed over you suddenly, pussy spasming wildly around him, vision whiting out as you screamed. He followed with raspy moans, yanking you back one final time and burying himself to the hilt, flooding your convulsing cunt with thick, hot spurts of cum that overflowed and dripped down your folds.
He held you there suspended for long moments afterward, breathing hard, before dropping your legs and stepping back with a mocking smirk, leaving you collapsed and leaking his release.
The bulldog (Alternate pick: the praying mantis): It was one of his favorite ways to put you in your place because it combined deep penetration with the humiliation of being bent over and exposed, while still letting him stay mostly upright and in total command. He loved the way it let him dominate your body completely, especially when his hatred mixed with dark curiosity and he pushed boundaries.
The fight had barely cooled when Dean shoved you toward the couch in the living room. He bent you over the seat, forcing your hands down onto the cushions so your ass was raised high and your upper body angled downward.
In one rough motion he kicked your legs wider apart and stepped between them, lining up his thick cock with your dripping pussy.
“This is what you get for pushing me,” he growled, slamming into you hard. This position gave him the perfect leverage by standing tall, hips snapping forward with brutal force while your upper body trembled. Every thrust drove deep, his heavy balls slapping against your clit as he fucked you like he was trying to punish the desire out of both of you.
Your loud and broken moans echoed through the room as he railed you mercilessly. At one point he slowed, still buried inside your pulsing cunt and pressed a thumb against your tight asshole, circling teasingly.
“Bet you’d let me take this too, wouldn’t you?” he taunted, voice dark and mocking, pushing just the tip of his thumb inside while he continued slow, deep strokes in your pussy. The dual sensation made your legs shake while he laughed low when you clenched hard around him, then pulled his thumb out and went back to pounding your soaked pussy with renewed aggression.
The angle let him hit that perfect spot relentlessly until your orgasm ripped through you, violent and overwhelming, walls spasming around his cock as you cried out loudly. Dean didn’t slow down, he kept fucking you through it, grip bruising on your back, until he finally buried himself to the hilt with a groan and came hard, flooding your clenching pussy with thick ropes of cum.
He stayed inside you for a long moment afterward, breathing heavily, one hand possessively stroking over the curve of your ass where his thumb had been.
“Next time I might not stop at just a hint,” he muttered, voice still rough with leftover hatred and lust.
When the hatred began turning tender and leaving space for reluctance, Dean’s touch started to betray him. The raw aggression that once defined every encounter slowly gave way to something deeper and moments where his hands softened, his thrusts grew more intentional and the fierce eye contact lingered. These three positions marked that change, the confusing middle ground where he was still fighting his feelings but could no longer hide them from you...
The London bridge: Dean found himself drawn to positions that forced a new kind of intimacy even as he tried to resist it. The London bridge became one of his conflicted favorites, an incredibly exposing position that demanded strength and trust from you while giving him the power, depth and breathtaking view he craved. He hated how vulnerable it made both of you, how it stripped away his ability to hide the softening in his touch or the way his eyes kept drifting to your face with something far more hot than lust.
The air in the bedroom felt heavier that night, thick with everything neither of you was ready to say. Dean guided you onto your back and slowly coaxed your body into position, his hands firm but careful as he helped lift your hips until you formed a high, trembling bridge, palms and soles planted on the mattress, back deeply arched, core tight and thighs spread wide for him.
He knelt between your legs, gripping your hips to steady your shaking frame, then dragged the thick head of his cock through your slick folds before pushing inside you in one long stroke. The stretch was intense, the angle letting him sink impossibly deep, pelvis pressing firmly against you with every thrust.
Your arms and legs burned from holding the elevated position, muscles quivering under the strain as Dean began to move. He fucked you with slow downward strokes, each one dragging his thick length along your front wall and grinding against your swollen clit as sweat beaded across your arched stomach and rolled down your ribs.
Dean’s hands explored your elevated body with growing reverence, one hand gripping your hip to control the rhythm and the other sliding up your torso to palm your breast, rolling your nipple between his fingers while his eyes never left your face for long, drinking in every parted-lip gasp and fluttering eyelid.
He hated how right it felt. The sight of your body arched so beautifully for him, completely open and trusting despite everything, chipped away at the last of his defenses. He leaned forward slightly, changing the angle even more and pressed hot, open-mouthed kisses along your collarbone and neck.
“This wasn’t supposed to happen,” he whispered roughly against your skin between thrusts, voice thick with reluctance and need. “I wasn’t supposed to need you like this.”
Your orgasm built in deep, rolling waves, the relentless pressure and perfect angle pushing you higher until you finally shattered. Your walls clenched hard around his cock, body shaking violently in the bridge position as you came with a broken cry of his name.
Dean groaned deeply, hips stuttering as he followed right behind you, burying himself to the hilt and flooding your pulsing cunt with long, thick pulses of cum. He held your arched body close through every aftershock, arms wrapped securely around your waist, forehead pressed to yours as your trembling limbs finally gave out and he gently lowered you back to the bed.
Even then, he stayed hovering over you, breathing you in, fingers tracing lazy patterns on your skin like he couldn’t bear to break the connection.
Scissor: This builds slow, simmering pleasure that lets emotions bubble up naturally. The intertwined legs create closeness without full face-to-face dominance, allowing Dean to hide some vulnerability at first while the grinding rhythm draws out tender touches and reluctant affection. It’s perfect for the transition phase where hate is fading into complicated longing.
The room was quiet except for shared breathing as Dean pulled you down onto the bed beside him. You faced each other on your sides, legs scissored together so one of yours draped over his hip while his slid between yours. He moved closer, aligning his hard cock with your entrance and pushing in slowly, the position allowing a tight, intimate fit.
“Come here,” he murmured, voice lower and rougher than usual, one arm wrapping around your waist to pull your bodies flush. The grinding started slowly, rocking hips that dragged his thick length in and out in shallow-to-deep slides, your clit rubbing against the base of his shaft with every movement.
With your legs intertwined tightly, you could feel the flex of his thigh muscles against yours. His free hand roamed your body, tracing your curves with surprising gentleness, thumb brushing over your nipple before cupping your breast. Sweat beaded between your pressed bodies as the pace gradually intensified and the wet glide of his cock inside you built delicious friction.
Dean leaned in to capture your lips in a deep, hungry kiss, tongue stroking yours in time with the roll of his hips. “You feel too good…too right,” he breathed against your mouth between kisses.
The slow burn turned molten as your orgasm rolled through you in long pulses, pussy clenching rhythmically around him as pleasure dragged a moan from your throat. He followed right after, groaning into your neck as he spilled deep inside you, arms tightening possessively while the feelings he’d been fighting settled deeper into his chest.
The counterblow: It was an intensely intimate position that left very little room for emotional distance. The way your bodies locked together, the constant eye contact and the slow, grinding rhythm made it almost impossible for him to maintain the cold walls he had once hidden behind. He hated how vulnerable it made him feel, how easily his hands softened on your skin and how his usual cocky smirk kept slipping away.
The soft lamplight cast long shadows across the room as Dean guided you to the sturdy armchair in the corner. He sat you down on the edge of the seat, encouraging you to lean back and grip the sides of the chair for support. You spread your legs wide, feet dangling, as he stepped between your thighs.
He planted his palms firmly on the chair’s edges right beside your hands, caging you in with his arms as his legs spread wide so the seat was completely between them. You hooked your shins over his firm ass, pulling him closer.
Dean’s thick cock nudged against your soaked entrance and with a slow, controlled thrust he sank deep inside you, stretching your walls until he was buried to the hilt. The angle was exquisite, deep, intimate and perfectly aligned for intense pleasure, your faces close enough to share a breath.
Dean’s eyes locked onto yours with burning intensity as he began to move, rolling his hips in grinding strokes. Each thrust pushed deep into your core, the position allowing him to hit that sensitive spot inside you with every motion while his pelvis rubbed firmly against your clit. His strong arms flexed on either side of you, muscles taut from holding himself in position.
One of his hands occasionally left the chair to caress your thigh or brush across your breast, thumb circling your nipple with surprising gentleness.
The pleasure built steadily as he kept the rhythm deep and rhythmic, grinding into you rather than rushing. You could feel every inch of him, the way your bodies connected so completely in this chair-bound embrace.
“Look at me,” he whispered hoarsely, refusing to break eye contact even as his breathing grew ragged. You watched the cocky mask slip away, replaced by raw emotion and reluctant vulnerability. He shouldn’t crave you that fucking much yet his body told a different story, his thrusts remained powerful but tender, each grind measured as if he was savoring every second of your shared pleasure. He leaned down to kiss you deeply, tongue stroking yours while he continued those devastating rolls of his hips.
Your orgasm built in long spasms. The constant deep pressure, the friction on your clit and the intense eye contact pushed you higher and higher until you finally shattered. Your walls clamped down hard around his thick cock, pulsing rhythmically as pleasure tore through you. You cried out his name, thighs tightening around his waist, body trembling in the chair while he groaned deeply, burying himself as far as possible.
His hips stuttered as thick, hot spurts of cum flooded your clenching heat and he stayed inside you long after, arms braced on the chair, forehead pressed to yours while breathing you in. His hand gently stroked your thigh as the aftershocks faded, eyes still locked on yours with a softness he could no longer deny. In that moment, wrapped in the Counterblow’s intimate hold, the last barriers around his heart cracked even further.
After you started dating, your encounters no longer carried the frustration you'd once taken out on each other, nor the irritation born from constantly denying what was right in front of you. Those feelings were suspended between what had once been, what no longer was and the uncertainty of everything that still lay ahead…
Reverse cowgirl (Variation with Dean seated or reclined): Once you were officially together, Dean thrived in this position because it let him be fully in control while indulging his playful, cocky side. He could watch your body move, grip your hips possessively, deliver affectionate smacks or caresses and pull you back for kisses or whispered dirty praise.
The apartment was filled with laughter and lingering kisses as you both tumbled into bed after a night out. Dean, still buzzing with that post-win confidence from his hockey game, pulled you on top of him as he reclined against the headboard.
“C’mere, baby,” he said with a wicked, charming grin, eyes sparkling with affection and heat. He helped position you in reverse, your back to his chest, straddling his lap so his thick, hard cock nestled against your soaked folds. With strong hands on your hips, he guided you down, sinking you onto every impressive inch in one smooth, controlled glide.
A low groan rumbled from his chest. “Fuck, that’s my girl…taking me so perfectly.”
You started to move, rolling your hips and bouncing but Dean quickly took over with playful dominance, his fingers digging into your waist as he lifted and pulled you back onto him with each thrust from below.
The position let him hit deep, his cock dragging along your g-spot with every upward snap while your clit ground against him. One of his hands or sometimes both, slid up your spine, then around to cup and knead your breasts, pinching your nipples just right as he chuckled breathlessly.
“Look at you riding me like you own it…” His voice was teasing yet warm, full of pride.
He planted open-mouthed kisses along your shoulder and the back of your neck, occasionally tugging you backward so he could capture your lips in a messy, affectionate kiss over your shoulder.
Sweat glistened on both your bodies as the pace built, his thighs and core driving up into you with confident, rhythmic strokes that made your tits bounce and your moans fill the room.
He often smacked your ass playfully, then soothed the sting with a gentle rub, whispering filthy praise, “So fucking beautiful… my perfect girl, so wet and tight for me.”
The pleasure coiled tighter, your walls fluttering around his thick length as you rocked harder and Dean’s hand slipped between your legs, fingers circling your clit with expert precision while he kept thrusting deep.
“Come for me, baby…let me feel you,” he urged, voice husky with love and lust.
Your orgasm hit hard, pulsing around him as you cried out, body shaking in his lap. With a deep, satisfied groan, Dean followed, wrapping both arms around your waist to hold you down fully as he came, pumping you full of hot cum while murmuring against your skin, “I’ve got you…all mine.” He kept you there afterward, still buried inside, pressing lazy kisses along your spine and whispering playful endearments, completely at ease in the possessive, affectionate afterglow.
This final position was the one that led to his love confession. It had been building for months, waiting for something to tip the scales and force the truth past the walls he'd spent so long keeping up. It wasn't the moment he would've chosen, nor the way he'd rehearsed it a hundred times in his head, but there was never any predicting what would finally make the façade crumble…
The prone bone: This was the position where everything finally broke open. Prone bone allowed Dean to surround you completely with his chest to your back, arms caging you in, his body blanketing yours in a way that felt incredibly vulnerable yet deeply trusting. It was raw, emotional and left no room for hiding emotionally. As the pleasure built, so did the overwhelming love he could no longer contain.
The room was quiet, lit only by the soft glow of a bedside lamp. Dean had been kissing you for what felt like hours, before he gently turned you onto your stomach. You stretched out flat on the bed, heart racing as he settled over you, covering your body with his own, his muscular chest pressed flush against your back, strong arms braced on either side of you.
His golden hair brushed your shoulder as he kissed the nape of your neck and you felt the thick head of his cock nudge against your entrance and with one slow push, he sank deep inside you.
The stretch was intense, the angle allowing him to fill you completely as a soft moan escaped your lips once he bottomed out, his hips flush against your ass.
Dean stayed buried inside you for a long moment, simply breathing with you, then he began to move in slow and deep rolling thrusts that dragged his thick cock along every sensitive inch inside you.
His body blanketed yours completely, warm skin against warm skin, sweat slowly building between you and one of his hands slid under your chest to cup your breast, while the other intertwined with your fingers on the sheets. Every thrust was measured yet loving, grinding deep while pressing you harder into the mattress in the most trusting, intimate way.
“You feel so perfect and warm,” he whispered against your ear, voice thick with emotion. His lips brushed the side of your neck, then your shoulder, placing open-mouthed kisses wherever he could reach.
You could feel his heartbeat against your back as tears pricked at the corners of your eyes from the sheer intensity of the connection. Dean’s breathing grew heavier but he kept the pace unhurried, savoring every second.
“I’ve never trusted anyone the way I trust you,” he murmured, voice cracking slightly. “Never loved anyone like this.”
The pleasure built in deep, powerful waves as every slow grind of his hips, every kiss against your skin and whispered words pushed you closer to the edge. When your orgasm finally hit, it washed over you like a long, intense and all-consuming tide.
Your walls clenched tightly around his cock as you moaned into the pillow, body trembling beneath his. Dean groaned deeply, burying his face in the crook of your neck as his thrusts became slightly deeper and more urgent, until he finally stilled and pressed as deep inside you as possible.
“I love you,” he whispered hoarsely, voice breaking with raw emotion as he came. “God, I love you so much.” Thick, hot pulses of cum filled you while he held you tightly, his entire body covering and protecting yours. He kept repeating the words softly against your skin, “I love you…I love you,” as the orgasms rolled through both of you, refusing to let go.
Some people measured the evolution of their relationship through photographs. You measured yours through the positions you'd found yourselves in, each one carrying a memory no camera could have captured and if one somehow had, it remained buried where no one else would ever find it…except for Dean whenever he needed a clearer visual to get the job done.
a/n: Comments, likes and reblogs really do mean the world and help more than you know! More stories will be added to the archive soon, so stay tuned for new content. Thank you so much for reading! 🤍
c/w ❀.ೃ࿔ angst, silent treatment, he logs into reader’s IG, hurt/comfort, miscommunication, #male tears, groveling, one-sided voicemails, make-up sex, oral (fem receiving), unprotected p in v, praise, jersey stays on, creampie, spanking, pet names (baby, babydoll, sweetheart, honey, pretty + no y/n) + dean climbs onto reader’s roof ❀⊰ *
By the seventh day, Dean had officially decided something was wrong with your phone.
Not because you never got mad at him—you absolutely did—but because this wasn’t how you fought. You’d tell him exactly what he did wrong. You expected him to listen. You expected the two of you to work through it together. But seven straight days without a single word? That wasn’t you.
He’d texted enough times that your conversation sat permanently pinned to the top of his messages. Half of them had gone unanswered. The other half were just him talking to himself because apparently he couldn’t stop.
Links to TikTok edits that reminded him of the two of you. A screenshot of some guy getting absolutely leveled during practice because he knew you’d laugh. A question about how much sugar he needs for those cookies he loves.
Then the inevitable spiral. You okay? Baby? You still mad? Can you at least tell me if you’re still alive? Nothing.
His foot bounced impatiently against the hardwood while he stared at his phone for what had to be the fiftieth time that afternoon. One more text couldn’t make it any worse than it already was.
. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚗: 𝙱𝚊𝚋𝚢?
He watched the little “Delivered” appear underneath it. Still nothing.
Dean dragged a hand over his face before opening Instagram instead. He was running out of places to check.
Maybe you’d posted something. Maybe you’d liked somebody’s story. Hell, maybe you’d accidentally give him some tiny sign you weren’t planning on pretending he didn’t exist forever.
Your profile loaded. Then it disappeared. He frowned, searching for your username again. Not found.
He closed the app and opened it again.
Nothing.
His eyebrows pulled together as he leaned back against the kitchen counter, thumb tapping impatiently against the side of his phone. He muttered to himself, shaking his head.
You, meanwhile, had just finished throwing a load of towels into the dryer when your own phone buzzed across the kitchen island.
Hadn’t you blocked him? You distinctly remembered pressing the button. You’d even smiled a little afterward because you knew it’d drive him insane. You opened his profile. Sure enough. Following.
You scowled, blocked him again, tossed your phone back onto the counter, and went back to the towels.
This time you stopped folding altogether. “…Absolutely not.”
You opened your settings again. Your blocked list was empty.
You stared at the screen for a long second before another thought crossed your mind.
Slowly, you reached for your laptop instead.
Two minutes later you were staring at your account activity, and there it was. One active login. MacBook.
Your eyes narrowed. “Fucking asshole.”
You didn’t even hesitate this time, changing your password completely, logging out of all devices, adding two-factor authentication as a giant fuck you.
Your phone started ringing before you could even set it back down. ˗ˏˋ ☏ ˎˊ˗ 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚗 𝙳𝚒 𝙻𝚊𝚞𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚜
You watched it buzz until it stopped. Then it started again. And again. By the fifth call your curiosity finally got the better of you. You answered without saying a word, lifting the phone to your ear while you folded another towel.
“Baby? Holy shit. Hi—Hey,” his voice cracked nervously, fumbling over his words. You stayed silent, folding your laundry, listening to his heavy breathing on the other end of the phone. “Sweetheart?”
You let the washer lid fall with a clap, giving him the only sign of life he deserved for the moment.
“Uh… did you…” He cleared his throat. “Did you change your Instagram password or somethin’?” he asked casually, like that’s a normal thing.
You smoothed the towel across the counter, stacked it neatly with the others, and reached for another. Dean let out a long breath through his nose, his frustration building on the other end.
“Babydoll?”
Silence.
“Honey?”
Still nothing.
“Are you for real?” he asked, his voice tightening with frustration. “I know I pissed you off. I deserve some of this, alright? But all of it? Why are you shuttin’ me out?” He lets out another breath. “Please, baby.”
You stopped for half a second before reaching for another towel.
“Yell at me… Tell me to fuck off. At least tell me to stop calling. Just talk to me—” You heard a commotion on the other end of the phone—Garrett and Tucker walking through the kitchen, talking about something he couldn’t even make out, Logan yelling about his blue tie and where the fuck it was.
Dean clears his throat, forcing some of the softness out of his voice before Garrett or Tucker can hear it. Even though this weeklong silent treatment had lasted six days and twenty-three hours too long, he still knew you’d be at his game.
You always come.
So he keeps grabbing onto that instead.
You’ll yell at him after if you want. Hell, maybe you’ll wait until they’re back at the house and tear him apart in private. He can live with that.
Silence leaves too much room to think, and every time he lets himself, he ends up somewhere worse than before.
“I love you, baby. I’ll see you tonight, alright? Left you some tickets at will-call like always. Just—wish me luck. Something?” Click.
You hang up before you can give him what he wants, already picturing the look on his face.
The ride to the arena feels longer than usual because pretending he isn’t worried in front of the boys is harder than he thought it’d be.
The locker room is loud, music echoing off the concrete walls while sticks clatter against the lockers, equipment bags unzipping and dropping to the floor, the conversations he should be paying attention to like static.
He sits at his stall, staring at his phone one last time before dropping it into his bag. Nothing. No texts. No missed calls. No miracle message telling him to quit overthinking it. You’ll be there after the game.
His fingers fumble his helmet strap twice before it finally clicks into place. He mutters under his breath, frustrated by a task that should’ve been simple. Garrett finally nudges him. Dean ignores it, so the second one comes a little harder.
“You good?” Garrett asks through a weak laugh, searching for Dean’s eyes.
“Yeah,” he hums.
“Everything alright?”
“Great.”
Garrett snorts out a laugh, leaning into a locker, arms crossing over his chest. “…Everything good with your girl?” he asks. “Feels like I haven’t seen her around.”
The words hit harder than Dean expects, and for half a second, he nearly tells him—says he hasn’t heard your voice in almost a week. No texts. Nothing but one-sided voicemails and desperate pleas for anything. That you blocked him. That he got himself kicked out of your Instagram twice before you changed your password.
That he’s one missed hockey game away from driving to your place and refusing to leave until you look at him.
“‘Course it is. She’s just…” Dean shrugs without looking up. “She’s got a bunch of shit goin’ on with school. Just busy.”
“Yeah?” Garrett tears a fresh piece of hockey tape between his teeth, glancing over. “Doesn’t seem like her.”
No, it doesn’t.
Dean can’t even come up with something in reply.
“We’ll catch up with you guys after the game. We just got into it a little bit. Stupid shit. Nothin’ serious.”
Garrett nods, the answer believable enough to let it go for the moment.
The team skates onto the ice to the roar of the crowd, lights flashing around the arena while the student section pounds against the glass.
Dean skates his usual lap, eyes drifting toward the section where you always sit. The girls you usually come with are already there.
Your seat is empty.
His stomach sinks and by the time they line up for the national anthem, Dean catches himself looking over a third time before forcing his eyes back toward center ice.
The puck drops, and from the first shift he knows he’s in trouble.
Every decision feels a stride behind. His reads come just a little too late. By the second period he’s taken an interference penalty trying to recover from another mistake, left sitting in the box staring at the far end of the rink while the game carried on without him.
The scoreboard keeps getting uglier. Four goals against, then five. Every time he hops over the boards he tells himself to wake the fuck up, and every shift somehow ends worse than the one before it.
The final horn sounds sixty miserable minutes later, leaving Briar with a six-to-one loss. He barely remembers lining up to tap gloves with his teammates before they drift toward the tunnel. Barely remembers skating off the ice.
Dean drags both hands over his face, standing in front of his stall as the room empties around him like he’d forgotten what he was supposed to do next. He’s exhausted, pissed off, embarrassed as fuck, and somehow still thinking about you instead of the scoreboard.
He wants to be mad at you. He really does. It would be so much easier. Instead, all he can think about is the fact that if he’d acted right in the first place, none of this would’ve happened. Whatever the hell he did, it was bad enough to make you do things you normally wouldn’t. Hell, Graham said it best. “This isn’t like you.”
His phone is already in his hand before he’s even halfway down the hallway, thumb hitting your contact out of muscle memory more than anything else. The call doesn’t even get a chance to ring.
Straight to voicemail.
His jaw flexes, nostrils flaring as his grip tightens around the strap of his hockey bag. Water wicks off his hair, not even bothering to fully towel off before running out the door.
Another call. Another voicemail.
The doors slide open and cold night air hits his soaked skin as he steps into the parking lot. The other team filters toward their bus, still laughing about the game as Dean fishes his keys from his bag without slowing down.
“Rough one tonight, Di Laurentis,” an enforcer from the other team hollers lazily, tossing his bag into the side of the bus.
Dean ignores it—ignores the snickering that follows from the opposing team. Garrett yells something back in Dean’s defense, but he barely hears it over the pounding in his head.
“Guess somebody forgot how to play defense.”
“Fuck you,” Dean barks and Garrett grabs him by the shirt, holding him where he is with a heavy hand.
“Let it go, alright?” he says calmly. “You got shit you wanna do, yeah?”
The chuckles die down, but his blood is still simmering. Garrett nods Tucker and Logan toward his Jeep. Something ugly climbs up the back of his throat before he can swallow it down.
He presses your contact again as he sinks into his car. This time, he can’t hold it in. When the beep comes, the frustration that’s been building for a week finally boils over.
“So that’s it, huh? You’re seriously gonna keep doin’ this? Blocking me, changing your password, ignoring my texts—what, now you can’t even pick up the fucking phone?” His voice comes out sharper than he intends, the words practically tripping over each other.
He turns over the engine, letting out a humorless laugh. “Grow up. If you’re pissed, use your fucking words. Tell me you never wanna see me again. But quit pullin’ this silent treatment bullshit because it’s driving me fuckin’ insane.”
His foot slams on the gas, his car screaming toward the exit as he peels out of the lot, breathing so heavily he can hear it in the receiver of his phone.
“You don’t get to disappear when you’re angry. That’s not how this works.” Beep.
The silence afterward is deafening, weighing heavy on his shoulders. It barely has time to settle before his stomach turns and the guilt washes over him like a wave.
The second the adrenaline starts bleeding off, he knows none of that was what he wanted to say. Not a single fucking word.
You hadn’t screamed at him. You hadn’t called him names. You hadn’t done anything except refuse to answer him.
And he’d just repaid that by leaving the kind of voicemail he’d hate hearing from anyone he loved.
His eyes sting with unfallen tears, his chest aching as his speed creeps higher than it should while the phone rings and rings.
“…Hey,” he breathes, emotion clinging to his words. “So… That last voicemail…” He rubs the heel of his hand across his forehead, dragging away the sweat as he turns into the gas station a block away from your place.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, stepping out of the car. “I shouldn’t have talked to you like that.”
He drags the sleeve of his sweatshirt across his eyes, turning his hat to the front—lower than before, head down as he grabs a bouquet of flowers.
“And I know I said you disappear when you’re angry. That’s not fuckin’ true. You don’t do that. I know that—you know that. This—this isn’t like you, and I still talked to you like it was.”
He walks up to the register, pinning the phone between his shoulder and cheek as he fumbles for his wallet, hand trembling as he flips past the picture he has of you tucked inside, grabbing his card, jogging out as soon as “approved” flashes across the screen.
“That game, baby. That was the worst game I’ve played since I’ve been at Briar. Got yelled at by Coach for a half hour. Got chirped by those pricks from the other team on the way out,” he mutters as he pulls out onto your street. “I took it out on you. I’m pissed off. I’m embarrassed. None of that’s your fault and I made it your problem.”
The phone stays pressed against his ear, capturing the silence. The wordlessness was never the problem. The two of you had always been good at that. But now every time he glances toward the passenger seat, it’s dark and empty. That little smile that’s always waiting for him when he looks over is gone.
And he still doesn’t have an answer.
He’s gone looking for it more than once this week.
He knows where you study and where you stop for coffee between classes. He knows which parking lot you leave your car in during the afternoons.
And somehow all of that only makes it worse. It’s painfully obvious you’re avoiding him.
He’s driven past your house enough times this week to notice you finally fixed the little porch light that used to flicker above the front door.
Every time he gets close, he talks himself out of it. The texts and phone calls already feel like they’re pushing the line. Showing up uninvited means admitting this isn’t just another argument.
It means admitting he might actually be losing you.
If you wanted him there, you’d open the door.
His throat tightens and his hands curl around the steering wheel. “Don’t…” The words scrape past his lips into the phone, so soft and broken you probably won’t even catch them when you play the voicemail back—if you play it back. “Don’t fucking cry.”
His head falls back against the headrest, his arms going rigid as he stares through the windshield. His mind circles the last few weeks again, picking through every conversation, every plan, every promise he’s made.
And still, nothing.
What the fuck did I do, baby?
His thumbs tap nervously against the steering wheel as he pulls up to your house.
For the first time all week, your bedroom window is glowing in the dark.
“I’m here. I’m gonna figure out what’s wrong. I’m gonna apologize. And, I’m gonna make it right, alright? I’m a fucking mess without you.” Beep.
He kills the engine, grabs the flowers, and climbs out into the cool night air. Gravel crunches beneath his shoes as he makes his way up the sidewalk, every step giving him another opportunity to rehearse what he’s going to say.
By the time he reaches the porch, his heart is pounding hard enough to feel it in his throat. He shifts the bouquet into one hand and knocks twice against the front door, the sound echoing through the quiet neighborhood before everything falls still again.
Dean waits, listening hard—nothing. No footsteps. No doors. No muffled voice telling him to give you a second. Just silence.
His stomach twists as the realization settles in. You heard the knock. You heard the bell. And, even though you know exactly who’s standing on your front porch, and you’re choosing not to answer.
Maybe it was the voicemail sitting in your phone. Or, maybe that was just a new addition to the laundry list of bullshit that got him to this point.
He lets out a long breath through his nose before stepping off the porch, backing into the yard so he can see your window a little better.
“Baby!” His voice carries through the stillness of the neighborhood before fading away.
Nothing.
He bends down, picking up a rock, rolling it once between his fingers, before he tosses it. Pop. The little stone kisses the glass with a soft tap before bouncing harmlessly away, clicking against the siding and falling back to the pavement below.
His eyes stay fixed on the window.
The flowers hang forgotten at his side while he waits. “C’mon, baby. Please,” he mumbles under his breath.
What the hell happens after this? Sleep in his car? Sit on your porch until sunrise? One more try.
His fingers close around the smooth stone, drawing back, but something catches his eye. The window—cracked open just enough that he barely notices it.
You can ignore his calls. You can ignore the doorbell. You can ignore the knocks and rocks, but he isn’t going home knowing you’re twenty feet away with your bedroom window open. Absolutely not.
The thought of leaving after the week he’d had, the voicemail he wishes he could take back, and the worst game of his career makes his chest tighten all over again.
He looks up, your bedroom turning glassy behind the tears gathering in his eyes.
He pinches his tear ducts between his big fingers, blowing out a breath. His eyes drift toward the side of the house, to the old wooden lattice that climbs to the roof—thick vines and bright flowers—something he’s seen a hundred times over but never seriously considered climbing it.
Because he’d always assumed he’d be welcome through the front door—climbing to your bedroom was never supposed to be the easier option.
He walks toward the lattice, staring down at the flowers for a second, before he lifts the cellophane-wrapped stems to his lips, biting down before he starts to climb.
The wood protests, letting out a long creak that sounds like a warning. A sharp snap echoing through the breezeway when he doesn’t listen, then a sharp crack that has him looking down at just how far he made it.
By the time he finally hauls himself to the roof, he’s sweating and panting, letting the flowers tumble from his mouth into his limp hand. He lifts his hand, tugging his hat from the front to the back, mentally preparing for whatever happens next.
Dean steadies himself against the old shingles before carefully making his way across the shallow slope of the roof—shoes scraping against the weathered surface while his hand trails along the siding for balance.
His hand finds the window frame before his eyes do.
You’re curled up in bed, laptop glowing softly, lighting up the space around you. You’re facing away from the window entirely, watching some old movie on the network he knows airs right after his game.
You snuggle a little more into your blanket, Dean’s away jersey draped over your frame, just a pair of little black panties peeking out the bottom. He exhales through his nose, taking in the rest of your room, following the little trail that got you there—your discarded jeans, sneakers, your jacket, and at the very end of the line your keys.
You were supposed to be at the game.
You made it right to the point of cracking before talking yourself out of it because you were still too angry to watch him play.
His stomach twists. He’d spent the last seven days missing you, but somehow knowing you almost came hurts even worse than if you’d never considered it at all.
Dean doesn’t think. He reaches forward and wraps both hands around the edge of the window, the old frame sliding upward with a rough scrape.
“…Don’t you fucking dare, Dean.” Your voice cuts through the silence, making him flinch, his feet stumbling a little on the roof.
He lets out a short, disbelieving laugh, shaking his head once as though maybe he’d misheard you.
“Just leave.”
“Well…” He gestures helplessly toward the open window, still trying to smile through the knot twisting tighter in his stomach. “You’re talking to me now… so?” His shoulders lift in a helpless shrug. “Why would I leave?”
Your eyes don’t leave his as you slam your laptop shut and step off the bed. “Yeah?” you ask quietly, the softness in your voice somehow making him more uneasy than if you’d screamed. “And why the hell would you listen to me?”
Dean’s eyebrows pinch together, his heart ramping up at your words. Without another word, Dean lets go of the window frame completely.
Even though he doesn’t fully understand what he did, he knows whatever it was, he’s still doing it.
He lowers himself until he’s sitting on the roof beneath your window, his back settling against the old siding with a dull thud.
He stretches his long legs out in front of him, setting the bouquet beside him, dragging his clammy hands down his thighs.
Dean finally clears his throat, his voice coming out rough enough that it barely carries through the open window. “Please.” He swallows hard, fingers knotting together between his knees. “Please just talk to me, baby.”
The silence stretches in the space he’d hoped you’d fill.
“I miss you,” he whispers. “I need you. I...” He rubs a hand over the back of his neck before tipping his head against the siding, finally finding the nerve to look back through the window. “I don’t know what else to do to make it better, but I will.”
He watches your face for any sign at all that you’re softening, finding none. The uncertainty in his chest only grows heavier before he speaks.
“You’re killin’ me.”
Dean blinks at you through the window as you look back at him like you’re trying to decide whether this conversation is even worth having.
“Baby—”
“Don’t ‘baby’ me,” you mumble, grabbing the frame to shut it, but he rests his fist down, not letting it fall.
“Can’t,” the word breaks past his lips. “I know I fucked up. I know I don’t get to tell you when to forgive me. But I can’t do another night of this. I’m not gonna climb through your window. It’s clear you don’t want me in there. I’m not forcing anything. I’m just sitting here begging you to talk to me.”
“Fucking finally, Dean.”
“What am I missing, baby? Holy shit,” his voice breaks.
“Stop calling me baby right now. I’m not—I’m your baby when it’s convenient for you.”
“What?” he asks, the crease between his brows deepening. “What does that even mean?”
“Why do you suddenly care?”
“I've always cared about you—”
“Always?” you ask with a breathless laugh.
“Yes, always. When haven’t I?”
“Making reservations because my boyfriend couldn’t be bothered to call the restaurant when you told me you’d handle it—”
“I—”
“You forgot. So I made them.”
“Okay,” he answers, shifting on his forearms, desperate to get closer, but the glass stays between you. “I just… I didn’t. I don’t know. I'm sorry—”
“I'm not done.”
His eyes widen on yours, taken aback, his big frame seeming to shrink a little. “Of course,” he assures you quickly.
“I waited all week for you to do it yourself. When I finally called, they told me you never did. So I did. I did my hair. I put on that dress you said you liked. I sat there waiting for your text after the game.”
Dean’s stomach twists because he already knows where this is going. Before he’d texted you, he’d already assured the boys you wouldn’t mind—speaking for you. Without you.
“You texted me let’s do Malone’s.”
“Okay,” he whispers, careful not to cut you short this time.
“And then you said we'd swing through there on our way out.”
“I remember,” he breathes.
“Do you think an Italian restaurant is open after bar close?”
He looks down at your hands braced on the window, his heart breaking even more seeing how much you don’t want him inside.
“No. I think they’d be closed, honey. I’m sorry.”
“Of course they would be. You know what I ate for dinner that night?” you ask, and he purses his lips because honestly he doesn’t know.
“What did you eat?” he asks softly.
“Dry cereal after you passed out when you were done fucking me. Alone in your fucking kitchen after I was done playing captain’s girlfriend all damn night.”
His stomach sinks and the blood drains from his face. “Woah—hey, sweetheart. C'mon," he panics. “That’s not what this is—”
“I kept telling myself it wasn’t a big deal. Hockey season. Captain stuff. Team bonding.”
“You know I wasn’t trying to—”
“I’ve done every single thing you’ve wanted to do because I wanted to spend time with you. I asked for one dinner. One.”
He swallows hard, lashes fluttering as he nods, because for the moment that’s all he can manage without breaking completely before he speaks.
“I want to spend time with you too. That’s why I ask you to come with me. I didn’t know that’s how you were feeling.”
“I keep telling you what I want, and you keep telling me how it’s going to work. You don’t listen to what I want.”
“I’m sorry, sweetheart.”
“So I stopped…” you whisper, voice tight as you see his eyes shimmer with tears. “I stopped asking. I stopped texting. I stopped calling.”
Dean lifts the sleeve of his sweatshirt, wiping the wet away after it tumbles down his cheeks.
“It took me disappearing for you to finally care.”
He can’t even defend himself anymore because every single thing you’ve said is true—cancelled plans, “let’s do this instead,” “after practice,” “just one beer.”
Every promise turned into another night surrounded by hockey while you quietly lowered your expectations.
“And look,” you sigh, your voice fraying at the edges. “Look how much time you have when you think you’re gonna lose something you love.”
“I didn’t know what to do. I just wanted to get your attention. I didn’t know how to handle this, okay? I didn’t know what I did. I was just—”
“How’s it feel?” you ask, cutting off his rambling, nodding at the bouquet.
“What?” he asks.
“Desperately fighting for someone’s attention?” you whisper, your eyes lingering on the little white tag still hanging from the plastic wrap before you look back at him. “I wouldn’t even say you’re there yet. Tag’s still on them, Dean. $2.99? Really?”
He opens his mouth to apologize again, but you don’t let him.
“This probably wasn’t even a part of your gameplan. You didn’t plan anything because you didn’t think you had to.”
Your voice stays level, but every word lands with more weight than the last.
“You thought I’d be in my seat like I always am. You thought I’d meet you after the game like I always do. You thought you’d say you’re sorry, I’d forgive you because I always have, and we’d move on.” You give a small shake of your head. “You didn’t plan for me not to show up.”
He looks away, unable to face you for the moment, gathering the courage to look back at you, drawing in a shaky breath.
“That’s why you’re here, Dean,” you say softly. “Not because you had some grand gesture planned. Because the bare minimum stopped working.”
“Sweetheart…” he starts carefully, his voice softer than it’s been all night. “We’re halfway through the season. It’s been a lot. I know that.” He nods to himself like he’s finally found the answer. “But it’s not forever. Think about this summer.”
A tired smile tries to find its way onto his face. “We practically lived together. We stayed up ’til three in the morning watching shitty movies. We took road trips because we could. Dates all the time. We were good.” His eyes lock onto yours. “We get through this season and everything goes right back to normal.”
A laugh escapes you before you can stop it, and Dean knows it’s the wrong answer.
You shake your head slowly, looking down at your hands before meeting his eyes again. “I’m not waiting for an entire hockey season to get my boyfriend back. I’m not gonna do this—”
“No. No, hey. I thought you were just giving me the silent treatment,” he blurts, voice shattering around the admission. “Please don’t…” He shakes his head, whatever composure he’d been clinging to finally slipping away. “Don’t break up with me. Please.”
“We’re still together.”
He swallows hard, nodding as his head hangs between his shoulders, tears slipping off his cheeks onto the shingles. “Thank you.”
“You asked me to put our relationship on hold until hockey’s over, and you don’t even realize that’s what you said.”
“I know,” he whispers.
“I don’t want the version of you that’s available when the season ends. I want the one who’s supposed to be my boyfriend while it’s happening—and before you even get it into your head that I’m asking for too much… I’m not. And, it wasn’t just this. It was a bunch of little moments exactly like this.”
He nods in agreement, waiting for more.
“I’m asking for a date once in a while, Dean.”
“Of course, honey.”
“I’m asking for a night where I don’t have to split my boyfriend with twenty hockey players. And, I’m asking that you stick to that plan. Three things. That’s it. If you can’t manage that…” you say quietly, “…then that’s okay.”
“What?” he asks, moving closer like he heard you wrong because nothing about this situation is okay.
“Really. It is. Just means you can’t handle being in a relationship right now. Maybe that’s where you’re at, and I’d respect you a hell of a lot more if you just admitted it.” The words land squarely between the two of you. “Because I’m not spending the few months letting you decide everything we do before summer starts.”
“Of course.”
“And if you can’t give me that, then you can’t handle me.”
Dean bites his cheek, nodding as he takes in every word.
“This summer was amazing… you’re right. Why do you think I’m still here?”
“‘Cause you love me?” he asks pathetically.
“Obviously.”
“I know. I love you too,” he mumbles.
“I know who you are, Dean. That’s why this hurts so much.” You gesture between the two of you. “Because I know you’re capable of loving me better than this.”
His eyes fall to the shitty bouquet by his side, the ones he bought in a panic, his brain on autopilot. The sale sticker covering the barcode only adding insult to injury—the fact that it’s your least favorite color landing like the final nail in his coffin. He pulls the little price tag off the plastic wrap, crumples it into his fist.
“I hate that these still got the fuckin’ tag on ’em,” he says weakly. “Not… Not because you called me out for it. I need that… Just proves exactly what you’ve been trying to tell me all night.”
He nods, rolling everything over just like he has all week, finally seeing what he’d been missing.
His eyes shut softly, thinking about the last weekend, the sound of your voice when you called him between classes, letting him know you made the reservation and the—subtle sound of your disappointment when he yelled over the locker room noise that you should go to Malone’s instead.
His mind lingers on the look on your face at the bar as you smiled for the boys, picking through the bar peanuts as they broke down the game to exhaustion. The way you fucked him just like he liked and then kissed him goodnight. How you were gone when he woke up to piss and he didn’t think twice about it. Just thought maybe you had gone downstairs to get water.
And now, he knows you were all alone.
And this was just a moment, in a collection of moments just like this for you.
His lips tremble, wishing he could rewrite what’s happened but he can’t. And even though you’d said you’re not breaking up, he feels like you have every right to end it—and he can’t risk not telling you everything he wants to say.
“I stopped on the way here because I panicked. I didn’t stop because I planned something. I didn’t stop because I thought about what would actually make you happy.” He pinches his eyes shut—letting the tears fall freely—his pride long gone by now. “I stopped because I realized I was about to lose you.”
He lifts a finger, tapping it against the glass like he’s trying to close a little of the distance between you.
“You’re right about everything… I was counting on you coming.”
He shakes his head, hating what’s going to leave his lips next. “You asked me earlier how it feels. It feels fucking awful.” He laughs but there’s nothing funny about it, he’s just hysterical at this point, leaving it coming out hollow. “I’ve been losing my goddamn mind.”
Your lips draw to the side as you fold your arms across your chest. He doesn’t take this time. His fist slips away from the glass, leaving the space between you completely open—and the next move entirely up to you.
“I got too fucking comfortable.” The words come out, without hesitation. “Not because I loved you less. You just—you’re the one thing I never worried about losing. I treated you like you’d always be there.” His eyes fall for a second, picking at a wilted petal nervously. “That wasn’t me loving you the way I should’ve.” He shakes his head. “That was me taking you for granted.”
You take a step forward, fingers wrapping around the window’s edge, lifting it higher, dropping down to the windowsill yourself.
He takes a breath, blowing it out through his nose. Every instinct tells him to reach for you, but he holds himself back, settling for leaning a little closer instead.
“You asked me if I can handle you.” His eyebrows pull together. “And, baby—Sorry…” He stops himself after the name leaves his lips, shaking his head with a weak laugh. “Just… habit. I’m sorry.”
“Dean—”
“Please,” he stops you cautiously. “Can I… I’m—I’ve got a little more to say. Just…” the word cracks and he lets out a breath, watching as you rest your hand on the roof, so close he can feel his hand tingle.
“Go ahead,” you whisper.
“I don’t want someone easier. I don’t want somebody who expects less from me. I don’t want any girl. I want you. I can handle you.” He nods with absolute certainty. “I should’ve been handling this relationship with the same care I’ve been giving everything else.”
His voice trembles. “I can’t undo this hockey season with one apology.” He reaches a little, palm open, asking for yours. “But I swear…” His eyes shine under the street lights. “If you give me the chance to prove that I heard every single word you said tonight… we’ll never have to have this conversation again. I promise.”
You rest your hand in his and he closes his around you quick like you might change your mind. His eyes cut away for a moment, the contact alone threatening another wave of tears. He takes a deep breath, his shoulders falling.
“You fucking hate this color. I’m sorry,” he mutters, tossing them out toward the driveway, the discount bouquet hitting the hood of his car with a thump. “Shit’s so fucking embarrassing, dear god.”
He hangs his head for a moment, his thumb rubbing absently against your knuckles.
“Tonight is shot,” he says quietly. “Tomorrow, right? Just… Please go out with me tomorrow. Let me make up for a little bit of anything you deserve.” He looks back at you, head resting heavy against the side of your house. “Good flowers, pretty dress, dinner, dessert—I know exactly where you wanna go. Just, please. I’m begging you. And, I know I’m telling you what to do. I’m sorry if you already have plans—”
“I don’t,” you answer with a soft smile. “Seven?”
“I’m tailgating in your front yard. I’m so serious. I’m fucking miserable,” he answers breathlessly, leaning in as you lean in too, your lips meeting with a desperate kiss.
He grabs you, hauling you closer, pulling you into his lap as your fingers slip into the hair at the nape of his neck.
“Tell me you still want me here,” he mumbles between kisses, his voice rough enough that you almost don’t hear it, your thumbs brushing the tears off his cheeks.
“I want you here.”
“Let me in? Please,” he whispers against the corner of your mouth.
“You can ask me sweeter than that, Dean Di Laurentis.”
“Please, baby… Let me come in,” he mumbles, his lips brushing softly against yours. “I’ll be so fuckin’ good for you. I missed you so much.”
“Yes,” you whisper.
Dean’s feet hit the floor a heartbeat later, every bit of tension he’d been carrying for the last seven days finally unraveling. He buries his face against your neck, breathing you in like he’d almost forgotten what it felt like before finally looking back at you.
“Promise me something,” he says as he carries you toward the bed.
You pull his hat free, tossing it somewhere behind you before your fingers disappear into his hair. His eyes close for a second, a tired smile finding its way across his face the moment you scratch lightly at the back of his head.
“Okay,” you breathe.
“Tell me next time. Anything. Right away. Don’t let me keep getting it wrong again.”
“Promise,” you whisper.
“One more promise,” he asks, his voice softer than before.
“Depends,” you whisper teasingly, feeling his trembling lips curl into a little smile.
“Unblock me.”
“Right now?” you whisper through a breathy laugh.
“No—We’re busy. So, so fucking busy,” he hums, holding you a little closer. “Just whenever you get a chance.”
“I promise,” you whisper.
“Thank you, baby.”
“I’m glad you came.”
“Should’ve come earlier,” he says before you can answer. “But I want you to know. I hear you,” he says quietly. “I heard every word you said out there.”
He shakes his head once before speaking again.
“I don’t wanna be the guy that only listens after he fucks up.” His thumb brushes across your cheek. “I don’t want you to play captain’s girlfriend. I want you to feel like you’re mine. You deserve to know how important you are to me. I can tell you—words don’t mean shit. I don’t want you to have to worry about making plans for us ‘cause you’re afraid I won’t.”
“Thank you,” you whisper.
“I’m gonna listen when it’s inconvenient. When hockey’s good. When hockey sucks. When I’m tired. When I’m stressed. When I’m bein’ an idiot…” A weak smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Which apparently is more often than I thought.”
“I love you,” you murmur.
His eyes close as he sits with those words for a second. “Jesus…” he breathes, shaking his head. “Love you so much.”
He sets you on the bed, one hand gripping the jersey on your body as the other cradles the back of your neck.
“Stay?” you ask as he tilts closer, your fingers popping open the button of his pants. “Sleep here.”
He chuckles deeply against your lips before stripping off his hoodie and tugging off his shirt. Your hands rest on his strong chest, feeling his heart bang beneath your palms.
“Yeah?” he asks, his hands finding you again, moving up your arms, over your shoulders, to the sides of your neck, cradling your face like he can’t get close enough. “If that’s what you want.”
“Is that what you want?” you chuckle.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he mumbles as his breath mingles with yours. “Thought I lost you.”
“You didn’t lose me,” you whisper, tracing along the top of his jeans lightly with your nails, feeling him shiver.
You lower his zipper slowly and he tugs down his pants, the buckle landing with a thump to the floor, waiting for you to decide what you want from him.
He sucks in a breath as you cup his thick cock through his boxers, a smile spreading a moment later when you squeeze just enough to make him groan for you.
You pinch the cotton between your fingers, tugging his boxers down, teasing inch by stiff inch until you catch his tip on the waistband. His cock springs out—long and hard, blood pumping through him as you hold his length in your hand.
You stroke slowly, watching precum bead at the tip as your thumb drags through it, teasing both of you.
“Fuck me,” he breathes, his head tipping back to the ceiling, his big hands rubbing over his eyes as he laughs breathlessly.
He lifts you easily, your legs curling around his waist. He smiles against your mouth as he eases you back onto the sheets.
You reach for him, drawing him back down, kissing him harder, fingers twisting into his hair. His chest rises and falls against yours, breath ragged.
“Keep this on for me,” he whispers as he lifts the front of the jersey over your chest, dipping down to kiss higher and higher. “Please,” he mutters, voice rough against your skin when you whimper.
Your breath catches and a moan spills from your lips when his weight presses you into the mattress, voice husky as he mumbles praise into your skin, gripping your thighs, making your pussy throb.
“Been so lonely,” he whispers, mouth moving across your chest, catching your nipple between his lips. “Dreaming about this—I swear to god.”
“Yeah,” you whisper as his big hand slides up your side, squeezing your breast as he sucks your bottom lip slow enough to make you tremble.
“Yes,” he hums. You gasp as his hand slides down between you, cupping your pussy, making you moan for him. He chuckles deeply, fingers dragging up the wet fabric between your thighs.
“I need you,” you whisper, lips grazing his.
“I’m gonna take care of you. I promise.” He circles his fingers over your clit—your hands squeezing around his big biceps, feeling them swell and soften with each movement. “I’d eat it through your panties if that’s all you’d give me… gladly.”
“Don’t tease me,” you whisper.
“I hear you, baby,” he sighs, tugging your panties to the side, rough fingers tracing around your entrance.
Dean’s breath catches as you reach between you, your hand wrapping around the base of his cock, drawing a low groan from deep in his chest.
You stroke your hand up, gliding to his fat tip, watching precum glisten and leak out of his slit onto your body.
You grab his neck, pulling him down to your lips, bringing him in closer as he plunges two fingers into your soaked core, making you throw your head deep into the pillow.
Dean kisses your chest as he starts to fuck his fingers into you, wrapping his lips around your nipple, sucking harshly, making your back arch off the mattress.
His long fingers curl deep inside you, coaxing out breathless moans with nothing but the movement of his hand. He watches you for a moment—your chest rising, lips parted, his name half-caught in your throat—and then he lowers himself between your thighs.
Dean trails slow kisses down your body, your heart racing wildly the lower he goes. When your thighs start to tense, he looks up at you, his cool chain dragging unintentionally up your slit, making your breath hitch.
He presses your thighs down, spreading you open with a firm grip as his eyes fall to your soaked pussy, lowering himself between your legs without taking his eyes off you. His tongue flicks against you with a soft, deliberate taste.
“Yes, baby,” you gasp, with a half-laugh, half-moan—right before he wraps his biceps around your legs, forcing you to his mouth with purpose.
He kisses your clit, then seals his lips around it, sucking gently as you thread your fingers through his hair, yanking him closer. One hand drops from your thigh, sliding between your legs again, and you gasp as his fingers push back into you—working in perfect rhythm with his mouth.
Your body arches off the mattress. Everything blurs except the heat of his tongue, the stretch of his fingers, and the relentless pace of it all.
“I’m gonna cum,” you whisper, already trembling.
He groans into your pussy, the vibration pushing you over the edge instantly. You come hard, clenching around his fingers, stars bursting behind your eyes.
He doesn’t let up—his mouth seals tighter, his fingers working you faster, deeper, until your whole body twitches with overstimulation and your eyes sting with tears.
“That was so fuckin’ pretty,” he murmurs against your dripping center, planting lazy kisses on your clit that make you jolt with every touch.
“Dean…” you breathe out, glancing down at him, reaching for him as your breath shakes. “I need you inside me.”
Dean’s eyes roll back at your words, your taste lingering on his tongue. His hands settle on your hips, turning you to your hands and knees, lifting your ass into the air.
He spanks you, the loud crack of his palm against your supple flesh filling the room. You arch your back, making him release a desperate groan as his eyes drop to your slick, watching your wetness leak down your inner thighs.
Dean wraps a hand around himself, slapping his dick against you, running his velvety head up your thighs, sopping up the mess.
Your breath catches as he presses his tip in, feeling him stretch you out already.
Dean pushes in, inch by inch, making your mouth fall open as your body stretches around him.
“You feel so perfect around me, baby,” he mumbles as he presses his body flush with your ass when you’ve finally taken all of him.
You circle your hips, adjusting to his size, feeling his thick dick hit all the right spots. “Feels so damn good—”
“Yeah? Takin’ me so good, babydoll?” he groans. “This body’s mine.” He pulls his hips back, drawing out nice and slow, letting you feel every ridge and vein as his hands work up your back, pushing the jersey all the way up until Di Laurentis is all that’s left, stitched between your shoulders. “All of it.”
“Yes.”
“Made for me, weren’t you?”
“Yes, fuck!” you whine as he snaps his hips forward, the two of you moaning in unison as your pussy sucks him in.
Dean moves inside you, listening to every sound that falls from your lips. He works you just like you like, until your body melts into the mattress.
“Right there, baby,” you whisper and Dean picks up the pace, hitting your sweet spot again and again.
“Yeah, sweetheart? Right there?” he asks through a smirk. “What else does my girl want, huh?”
“Harder,” you whimper.
“Shit, baby,” he laughs breathlessly as he rolls his hips.
Your fingers claw at the sheets as you feel yourself just seconds away from your climax.
“Play with your pussy for me,” he whispers, the way you squeezed around him feeling like he might fall apart himself if he doesn’t get you there fast.
Your fingers press against your clit and your thighs quake, his cock stretching you and filling you as your fingers work in tight little circles.
“Dean—” you gasp, fluttering around his dick as you fall apart.
“Fucking hell,” he moans, dragging out the words as his cock shines creamy white with your release, each push of his hips making it gather in a ring around the base of his hard skin.
Dean pulls out fast, making you gasp as he tosses you to your back, thrusting himself back in before you can even come down from your high.
“I fucking missed you,” he whispers against your lips and you gasp as his fingers press against your clit, too, rubbing messily as he strokes, your nails digging into his muscular back as he pounds your wet cunt.
“Shit,” you squeal, letting out a choked sound as he grabs your knees, pulling and pressing them up to your chest, making him stroke impossibly deep.
“One more time,” he whispers. “Want you to cum with your lips on mine.”
Your eyes roll back as you climax, Dean moaning your name, his muscles strained when he cums deep inside, swallowing each sound that leaves your lips.
Dean moves inside you slow, covering you with the warmth of his big body, his hot skin pressed flush to yours as he lowers your thighs slowly.
You trace the edge of his jaw, feeling him smile under your touch, his nose brushing against yours, and you know there’s no way he’s going to give you an ounce of room tonight—but after a week without this man, that’s the last thing you want.
For the first time in a long time, it feels like you got your Dean back. Relief settles over you, heat building behind your eyes as you hold back happy tears. He sees it.
“Yeah?” he asks, seeing how much you needed this too.
You bite your cheek and nod. He can’t help but bury his face into your neck, pressing a kiss against your skin before whispering, soft and sure, “I love you, baby.”
𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: with arthur learning the truth, you don't expect to be hurled another problem in the form of a four-legged pup. lucky for you, you have someone to pick up the pieces of today's heartbreak. or in which you should seriously consider never ever going to a lunch again.
𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: fluff, angst, jealousy, arthur being a menace, poor humour, insecurities, smut (18+ minors DNI), unprotected sex (stay safe plsss), ice play, eating out, bondage, rules, sadism, tears, blood play, orgasm denial, degradation - name calling, brattiness, teasing, overstimulation (f.), fingering, clitoral stimulation, possessiveness, faint dom-sub dynamics, domestic fluff
𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: max verstappen x fem!reader, charles leclerc x fem!reader
𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 5.1k+
tag list (lmk if you wanna be added): @ggaslyp1 @lovesick-sylus @charlesgirl16 @adelinegirlsstuff @freyathehuntress @kenkozkmg @angelluv16 @hott1es @samriddhisingh @theonlyonesora @killjoynotes @bluewxrld07 @dreamauri @fuckingsimp4azriel @fightclubendingscene @dontsupressthejess @emmapotato88 @wertyuizxcvbnm @gigivel28 @stereading @loverofhover @babybluelrh98 @leclercdream @baechugff @sunny44 @simplementemeencantafutbol @lilypat @gigigreens @unatempesta-dipensieri @silentreader128 @urmomsgirlfriend1 @a-beaverhausen @ongak @miaaaxxz @moonih @strawberrylov-er @dollstappen @hothsgff @emluvsbunnies @sierrablack
🏎️ 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 | ⚽️ 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 | 𝐑𝐄𝐕𝐎𝐋𝐕𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐃𝐎𝐎𝐑 🫐
𝐀/𝐍: let me just say... enjoy the smut for now in this series... and the happiness ._. // extra warning for the blood stuff - ik some of you may not be really into it so!
“Arthur!”
Fuck.
You swallowed thickly, blinking rapidly. “W-What are you going here?” You queried, watching him walk towards.
“Please for the love of God, tell me I didn’t just see Max walk out of your room,” Arthur huffed, eyes wide with disbelief, looking back and forth between you and the lift.
Your lips parted, mind scrambling to find an answer. What on earth were you going to say? How were you supposed to explain this? “I... w-who said he was coming from my room? There’s a whole corridor of rooms here,” you retorted, hand coming to your hip in defence.
Arthur ignored your words, eyes glazed with another thought. “He's in a whole different hotel. And that’s why he asked Alex where you were staying before dinner...” he snapped his head to you, startling the living daylights to you. “Oh my – fuck, are you sleeping with him?”
Before you knew it, you were pulling Arthur into your hotel room, door slammed shut, your back resting on it while your chest heaved and alarm poured into your flushed face. You breathed slowly, chewing your lip as you contemplated what to say to the statue in front of you.
“Whatever you have to say, don’t,” Arthur started, wrinkling his nose as he looked around. “I can smell your answer. Besides the fact you two must’ve been the animals back in France–oh my God, is that why he was at my race?! To rail you?”
Your face burned. “Arthur!” You whined, sliding down the door with pure embarrassment flooding your skin.
Arthur stared at you, corners of his lips turning upwards. “You know what... I’ll have to give it to you. I didn’t think you’d actually do it. So fair play,” he mumbled with amusement, walking to open a window and taking a seat in the armchair in the corner of the room.
You looked blankly at him from the floor, holding your knees close to your chest. You rested your head on the door, sighing as the cold night air began to cool you down. “It’s just a deal. Happened after I found out about Charles and Alex. When we both need it. No strings attached.”
“Huh,” Arthur hummed, nodding slowly as he scrutinised you. He had finally found out what that ‘something’ else was other than his brother. And it turned out it was Max. “No strings attached,” he repeated, resting his hands on his legs. “And how’s that going for you?”
You narrowed your gaze making him chuckle and raise his hands in his defence. “___, in the nicest way possible, you are the most emotional person I know. You’re either attached by the hip or you dismiss someone’s entire being. There’s no in between.”
You grumbled some incoherent words that sounded awfully a lot like some bad French words Arthur knew.
“It’s Max,” you shrugged. “There’s no reason to be attached. I hate him. He hates me. There’s nothing more to it.”
Arthur leaned back into the chair, running his tongue over his teeth. “I feel like ‘hate’ is a strong word.”
“Arthur,” you said pointedly, brow raised.
“Okay, okay,” he muttered, letting a pocket of silence envelop the both of you as you digested what had been going on. Eventually he looked back you. “Listen. I’m happy for you. If it’s helping with all... this, then I’m happy for you. Just be careful, okay?”
You smiled gently at his caring tone and those soft eyes – just like his mother’s. “I will,” you murmured before sighing. “You don’t think this is stupid?”
Arthur scoffed, tilting his head. “Max Verstappen is fucking you. Don’t let yourself think it’s the other way ‘round. He’s lucky to have even an inch of you.”
You snorted, eyes falling to the floor. “This is why everyone back home thinks we’re dating,” you clicked your tongue, shaking your head in disappointment.
Arthur curled his lip in disgust, pretending to throw up. “I’d rather jump off a cliff,” he said, offended.
You gave him a miffed look despite a smile threatening to crawl onto your face. “Jeez, tell a girl how you really feel, Arthur.”
━━━━━━━━━━━
Another lunch. Another goddamn lunch.
You sat between Arthur and Lando, Carlos and Rebecca next to him, and Max diagonal to you as you all waited for Charles and Alexandra to show up. The conversation was small and light. You didn’t know all the drivers well despite seeing them for years now. However, Lando was one you had become accustomed to. A dork. An idiot. Similar to Arthur.
“So,” Lando started, smiling at you with a cheeky look you weren’t quite fond of. “How’s life going, ___? Dating anyone?”
You blinked, while Arthur froze and Rebecca leaned in with interest. “Oh my God, yes! Are you seeing anyone yet? You are way too pretty to be single,” she chirped, sending you a wink.
You laughed awkwardly, oblivious to the cautious blue eyes watching you from across the table. “Uh, no. No... I, um, haven’t done anything like that recently,” you chewed your lip unconsciously.
Max coughed, taking a sip of water as Lando groaned at your answer. “Seriously?” He queried. “Listen. I can introduce you to someone. You know Mick just came out of a relationship a couple months back. And you’ve always liked him.”
You blinked as Max furrowed his brows slightly at Lando’s suggestion. One of his lifelong friends? He turned to the British male. “Mick?” He queried, laying down a finger in your direction, “You’re going to make Mick suffer with her?”
Your eyes fell flat; brow pointed at the implication. “Excuse me?” You retorted, folding your arms. “Please. He’d be equally as lucky to have me.”
Arthur nodded, nudging your shoulder. “Plus, he’s really sweet. He’s Corinna’s child after all,” he pointed out, leaving the rest of the table except you and a certain Dutchman nodding.
You snapped your eyes to Arthur, glaring and questioning him at the same time. He only grinned with his eyes, making you mend your brows in confusion. What the hell was he playing at?
Max rolled his eyes, sitting back in his chair. He was sure Arthur was having loads of fun after finding out about you and him. When you had said the guy on the elevator yesterday was him... Max found it hard to believe. He couldn’t see an inch of that Monégasque face in that attire. But he could tell you were happy about it. Happy to tell someone you trusted. And that made him happy too.
Max tilted his head, eyes falling to you. “You’d make the poor guy’s ears bleed,” he quipped back.
You squinted at the Dutch man, unbothered to even respond back. If you remembered correctly, someone really enjoyed their ears bleeding. You pouted to yourself, unaware of your best friend’s curious gaze.
You always said something back to Max. Even if it didn’t make sense. You had to in order to quell the annoyance in your blood. But what relationship did you have now? Where after a few tugs on a rope, you let it go to him?
Your attention grabbed when Charles came sauntering in, greeting some of the staff that were fans of him.
“Sorry we’re late. Alex is just coming,” he started, greeting Carlos with a small pat on the back before pulling out his seat across you. He smiled at the rest of the table, folding his arms. “So, what were you guys talking about?”
Lando gave you a look before reverting back to Charles. “Getting ___ to date Mick.”
Charles’ lips parted, blue eyes flickering over to you for a brief second. He was silent as he nodded. “Interesting,” he said, but his voice said anything but.
Carlos took a sip of water. “We were saying Mick’s a nice guy. I think they’d really get along, don’t you?” He queried his former teammate.
“Uh, sure,” Charles nodded once again, the movement idle and tame. “Mick... he’s a great guy, yeah.”
“Oh my God!” Rebecca gasped, making all your eyes fall to her. “Is Alex holding a puppy?”
You watched Alexandra walk towards the table. She looked beautiful. She always did. Straight brown hair flowing in the wind as the sun shone on her and the small golden Dachshund in her arms.
Charles smiled gently, arm stretching out to receive and kiss Alex as she sat down.“Everybody,” he started with a wide grin. “Meet the newest member of our family. Leo Leclerc.”
You face fell. You could feel Arthur’s horrified eyes fall to you as everyone gushed over the small puppy.
“He’s adorable,” Lando agreed.
Alexandra smiled, patting Leo gently before looking up at you. “You’re the one who named him, right? When you guys were kids?”
You blinked at her soft gaze, forcing a smile to sprawl onto your face. You nodded tightly, feeling Arthur grab your hand underneath the table, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “Yeah,” you murmured.
Charles looked over to you, casually and ever so unaware. “I hope you don’t mind.”
I hope you don’t mind me naming the dog you always wanted with the one I got with my girlfriend instead.
“Of course not,” you smiled tightly, breathing slowly in and out like your chest wasn’t closing and your brain wasn’t malfunctioning. This was it. The confirmation. They were together. But a dog... seriously? They had been together for what? A month?
The words reverberated through your head. Leo Leclerc. Her heart is kind. Every breath sounds like magic.
It was stupid the way your eyes were beginning to heat. So fucking stupid.
You breathed in, hand tightening around Arthur’s, who’s apologetic stare bore into the side of your head. Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry.
Max sighed under his breath, picking up your glassy eyes instantly from across the table. His jaw clenched, moving his eyes to Charles. Prick.
━━━━━━━━━━━
You didn’t think you’d ever see Max’s penthouse again. The last time you were here, you were absolutely off your rockets. Drunk and desperate.
But now, you were here because Max had pulled you aside after that lunch where you pretended everything was fine. He stared at your reddened eyes and felt your burning skin through the tips of his fingers. He swallowed thickly and simply said, “Let me make it all better.”
You stood in his bedroom, undressing yourself as he did the same. You hadn’t said a word to him. It didn’t feel like you needed to. But as you sat on the edge of his bed, you looked up at him. “Can I ask you something?”
Max paused, letting his shirt drop on the floor. He nodded, waiting for your answer.
“Don’t go easy on me,” you breathed out.
Max stared at you briefly, blue eyes swarming with thoughts you could see from just inches away. How could he make you feel better? He parted his lips. “How do you feel about ice?”
You raised a brow curiously. “Ice?”
He shrugged. “It’s hot today,” he simply said.
You mulled over his offer. But the tingle in your body had already answered for you. “Okay.”
Max left the room momentarily, grabbing a bowl of ice cubes and some cord as you shifted yourself up his bed. You raised a brow as he walked back in. “Did you take a trip to the hardware store on the way out?” You teased.
Max rolled his eyes, placing the bowl down on his nightstand. He straightened his fingers over the smooth cord, looking at you with a small peek over it. “If you be a good girl, hopefully I won’t have to use this.”
He smiled at your mended brows, crawling onto the mattress, letting it dip around you as his hot breath fawned over your leg before he hovered over you, arms on either side of your body, caging you in. His hand stretched out, grabbing an ice cube, letting it melt around his fingers a little bit. “Today, I have rules,” he murmured, watching you gasp at he tested out a small bit of ice on your neck.
Max hummed internally at your reaction. “You don’t touch me,” he started, moving the ice down your neck and past your collarbone, leaving goosebumps to litter your body. “You don’t cum until I say so. All you have to do,” he whispered, bringing the cold cube to your nipple, making your back arch off the mattress. “is sit there like my good girl, okay? Easy.”
You swallowed the saliva in your mouth, nodding. It was a strange sensation. You felt like you were on fire. Blazed... aflame. Yet you were shivering like you had just put your bare body into a pile of snow. “Okay,” you breathed out.
“Good,” he murmured, pushing the ice down the valley of your breasts and to your stomach, leaving it to pool for a moment as he parted your legs, grinning at the wet slick glistening back at him.
Your body twitched as Max’s thumb gathered your arousal, ensuring each fold was covered before he circled your clit, blue eyes falling to you. He smiled at the way your lips parted, almost silent gasps coming from your throat. “So sweet already,” he mocked, chuckling when your hips ground up against his touch, cold water trickling down the sides of your stomach.
His hand laid flat, pushing your hips down. “Another rule. No moving. Just sit there,” he mumbled, pressing even firmer onto your clit.
You strained against his grip. Christ, you wanted to move so bad. You wanted more. More friction. More of his touch. But you couldn’t. You could only listen to the sound of your arousal fill the air and mix with your soft pants.
Max smiled after a couple minutes, clearly able to tell how restless you were by the way you were biting your lip. His head bent down, hot breath fawning over your stomach as he pursed his mouth against your skin, gathering the ice with his lips and tucking it under his tongue.
You breathed heavily, watching him slowly go down between your thighs, his eyes holding yours. The lips you had been biting fell open as his tongue, both cold and warm, travelled to your folds, taking one long stripe up.
“Putain,” you swore, body shuddering at the new sensation, fingers fisting his bedsheets tightly because the smirk on his face told you that this was only the beginning.
Max moaned at the taste on his tongue, sweet and so goddamn warm against the coldness of his mouth. Lapping up all your slick, plunging into every crevice of your cunt... it’s like you had turned him into a madman.
Your head fell back into his mattress, eyes shutting at the vibrations of his satisfied hums shooting up your core. You squirmed against his hand pushing your hips down. You wanted more. So much more.
And he could tell.
So, he let the ice fall from under his tongue, letting the cold cube graze over your clit as he lapped at you.
Instantly, you gasped, body arching, hands flying to his hair, pushing his head further into you, hips intensely fighting his grip. “Oh my God,” you moaned out, internal walls shivering at the cold waves rippling through your cunt.
Max groaned at the feel of your hands sharply tugging his hair, but he had to remind himself... you broke the rules.
His head tilted up, mouth pulling away from your pussy, leaving you whining, legs pressed together for any inch of friction. He laughed, amused as he sat straight, grabbing your arms and pushing them upwards. “What did I tell you? Huh?” He queried, reaching out to the small bundle of cord on the nightstand.
You couldn’t say anything. Not when Max hovered over you, mouth shining with your slick. Not when that ice cube was still on between your folds, melting away from the heat of your core, cold water trickling over your folds – teasing you.
Max grabbed your chin, fingers bruising your skin. “I asked you a question.”
You jutted out your bottom lip, eyelashes batting at him. “Max, please.”
Max swallowed at the sight, breathing slowly. He narrowed his eyes. “Now you want to play nice?” He huffed, shaking his head as he tsked with disappointment. “Bit too late for that, pretty girl. Now answer the question.”
You stared at him for a moment – calculative and patient. He wasn’t fibbing. You clenched your jaw, feeling his fingers tighten. “All I have to do is sit here like a good girl,” you mumbled, breath shaky.
Max shook his head, unravelling the cord loop, not missing this way your eyes fixated on his hands as he did. “Not quite. You’re missing something,” he teased, leaning over you and putting your hands straight above your head.
You took in a sharp intake of air, eyes shutting for a moment as you felt him wrap the cord around your wrists. Christ... “All I have to do,” you started slowly, swallowing, “is sit here like your good girl.”
Max smiled, fastening a secure knot to his creation before leaning back. “See? Was that so difficult?” He queried, lips almost pouting, mocking you.
Your chest heaved as you watched him travel back down your body, head stopping over your parted thighs. Your cheeks burned at his satisfaction, hands twisting at the cord, goosebumps littering your bare skin yet again. Your ears perked at his low voice.
“Now let’s try that again,” he said, hot breath wavering over your thighs, arm reaching out to grab a new cube of ice because you had entirely melted the last one. “Remember. You don’t come until I tell you.”
Your nod was curt, jaw tight. You didn’t want to appease him. But it seemed that the only way you were getting anywhere was by doing so. You exhaled slowly as the frozen water was brought to your breasts, smoothing over the ample flesh, pooling in-between, leaving its cold remnants behind. His fingers pressed the cube back up, letting it glide over your pebbled nipple. Your back arched at the cool sensation, lips parting instantly while the remainder of Max’s mouth on your cunt ached and pulsed – desperate to be touched again.
Max’s head lifted back up, capturing your gaze as he took the ice cube, slightly dragging it down the expanse of your stomach before pressing it against your wet folds.
You wriggled against his restraints, breathing fastening all of a sudden. You gasped as he trailed it down and pushed into your hole, leaving a bit of it out before his mouth reattached itself to your needy cunt.
Your hands throbbed while the cord etched into your skin, reminding you exactly what trouble you had gotten yourself into. Your fingers desperately wanted to grasp at the way his nose knocked at your clit, tongue prodding into your hole, taking some of that cool temperature and bringing it to the rest of your wet folds.
Your head fell back into his bed again, hips lifting naturally, fighting his harsh grip around your thighs. God, it felt so good. Your eyes fluttered shut, breathing uneven while your chest rose and fell and pleasure took its course.
Max’s eyes flickered up from his artwork, tongue still lapping away, pupils widening at the sight of you. Because God, what a sight it was.
Your eyes shut, teeth biting into your swollen lips, knuckles white, face bright red, your scent and sweat infused into the surface of your skin, nipples hard from the cold air and ice... fucking hell. He should’ve done this a long time ago.
Your hips that rutted against Max’s face were pressed down, his tongue only prodding harder before his lips moved back to your clit, suctioning the bundle of nerves while stars began to invade your vision. “M-Max...” you breathed out.
Max grunted, swallowing the taste of you like he had been parched. “Not yet.”
You shook your head. “Max, I can’t.”
“Hold it.”
You whined in protest as he eased the pressure on your clit, removing his lips and grabbing another piece of ice. He put the small cube into his mouth, body leaning up, hand still on your thigh as he pressed his lips to yours.
It’s odd – the cube around his tongue as he kissed you. But as it quickly ebbed away, Max pushed it against your tongue, wet, slippery, and hot. Your response to the new icy burn against your swollen lips was grateful, taking in the ice cube into your mouth, moaning when you felt his fingers push into your pussy.
Your hands, still thrashing against the cord, blazed, copping some form of a bruise or burn. Yet you welcomed his groans to vibrate throughout your body. Your warm walls clenched around his fingers almost immediately, playing with the intermittent temperatures he had introduced. The ice cube was a little more than halfway melted while he thrusted his fingers in and out of you at an increased pace.
“Please,” you rasped, hips undulating all on their own as the coil in your stomach tightened, threatening to unravel. Your skin burned. Your eyes felt hot. Like if you wouldn’t come now, you might just burst into tears.
“Don’t you dare,” Max sneered, taking a gasp for air, blue eyes locked onto yours, watching your every reaction as he fucked you with his fingers. “Cum and I’ll call him. And I’ll have you the way I had you in France. Over and over again so he can hear all of it.”
Your blood almost froze. You didn’t need to know who he was talking about. It was clear.
This was more humiliating than anything you had done with Max before. Everything here was out of your control. You couldn’t touch him. You couldn’t help yourself. him. Your own personal nightmare. Yet your cunt only clenched around him further, making him chuckle.
Your teeth finally tore into the surface layer of your lip, faint trickles of blood seeping out as you tried your best not to fall victim to the alluring pleasure. Tears pooled in the corner of your eyes.
Max slowed his fingers in awe, ignoring your cries, free hand reaching out, thumb wiping the small line of red liquid on your lip. Call him a sadist. Or whatever you wanted. Maybe it was sick. But making you bleed like this... he loved it.
He leaned in, eyes flickering from your lip to your eyes. You could see it. Read him. It was like he was asking.
You swallowed thickly, sweat shining on your body, hair dishevelled while your hips painfully ground against his fingers. You were no longer burning. You were positively searing… scorching. You were in pain from how much release you needed. The line between embarrassment and arousal thin and almost invisible.
“T-There’s no going back,” you choked out, panting as he curled his fingers in your cunt, hitting that perfect spot. “Oh fuck,” you quietly spat out.
Max stared at you, silent. Contemplating. Deciding.
The words fell from his lips, soft and firm.
“I know.”
And just like that, his lips were on yours again, tasting your very being on his tongue. It was metallic, almost salty. But that’s not what Max cared about. No. He cared that this was what he had done to you. These were the limits he brought out. No one else.
You moaned desperately against his lips, feeling his fingers speed up. The soft muffled pants from your mouth were spilling faster than you could even breathe. Max’s teeth tugged at your lips as he flicked his thumb on your clit. Your body writhed against the cord. You couldn’t hold this any longer.
“Max.”
He nodded against you, swollen lips parted, breathing heavy, blue eyes falling to your face, taking in the tears that had unconsciously fallen, your blood-stained lips, and your flushed skin.
“You can cum.”
You couldn't help but cry louder as the tight barriers came down. Your sore thighs clenched around Max’s hand, body trembling. Your vision had turned white, your head heavy and unable to carry its own weight as your orgasm hit you.
“Oh shit,” Max moaned in disbelief, fingers rushing, still thrusting in and out of you. “One more. Give me one more, my pretty girl.”
The build-up was quick the way he opened a shaken champagne bottle on the podium. Your body was sore and burnt, hands tired against the cord. But here you were, convulsing for him all over again, the salt of your tears seeping into the corners of your mouth. “Shitshitshit,” you cried out.
Max breathed out slowly, giving you a minute before he removed his fingers, careful in the way you winced. You fell flat against his mattress, exhausted, eyes closed. You could feel him undo the cord around your hands.
Max pursed his lips; eyes fixated on the lines of red embedded into the skin of your wrist. His fingers tentatively rubbed over them, attention snapping to your small hiss of pain. “Sorry,” he mumbled, gently putting your hands down.
You shook your head, still trying to catch your breath. “I said not to go easy. You did good,” you yawned.
Max clenched his jaw, remembering how the both of you had gotten here in the first place.
You swallowed, leaning up and looking down at his obviously pained cock. “I... um, do you want me to...”
Max blinked, following your words and eyes. Right. He looked back at you, grazing over your hands and torn lip. All this and the reminder of Charles had put him off. He shook his head. “It's okay. It’ll sort itself out.”
“A-Are you sure? I don’t–”
“I’m sure,” Max interrupted, nodding. “Not the end of the world,” he mumbled.
“Okay,” you replied, eyes flickering around his room awkwardly. The silence, though short, was becoming heavy. “I’ll leave in a couple of–”
“Stay.”
Your eyes widened, brows raised in disbelief. Had you come so hard that you had been transcended into a parallel universe? Were you being pranked? “Huh?”
Max grabbed his shirt, shrugging it on. “You’re tired. Just stay.”
You nodded slowly, eyes narrowing on him as he put on his pants. “You are Max, right? Not some alien-replica?”
Max rolled his eyes. “Glad to know you think so highly of me,” he retorted.
━━━━━━━━━━━
Max wasn’t sure when he fell asleep. It must’ve been when you had gone to take a shower. The sky wasn’t light anymore. The traditional Monaco summer evening presented its tinge of darkness, making him frown. God, what time was it?
He winced at his blurry vision, blinking away the sleep as he reached out for his phone. He read the numbers carefully. 7:23 pm.
Huh...
Max looked around his room, spotting your clothes hung on the towel rack through the open door of his bathroom. The more he took a few glances around, he couldn’t see you anywhere. Had you gone home?
He mended his brows as his ears perked at the sudden clanging sound from his living room. Fuck. Was he getting robbed? He pushed himself off his bed, quietly walking on the carpet, cautiously cracking his bedroom door open. His initial search of his open-plan penthouse gave him nothing. Everything was still in order. His trophies and helmets still in place. His mother’s expensive vase was still on the coffee table.
But upon opening the door a bit further, the truth had come to light.
Max wasn’t getting robbed. In fact... it was quite the opposite.
You were still here. In his kitchen. Underneath the dim warm lights. Wearing his shirt and nothing else. Towel wrapped around your head. Trashy pop music blaring through your phone as you danced in tune with his three cats peering curiously at you while you cooked... you were fucking cooking in his penthouse.
Max wasn’t sure when he had fully come out of his bedroom. All he knew was that he was just standing in his house and watching you with all the freedom in the world. His lips parted in disbelief as you turned around to grab the spatula, body jolting at his sudden presence.
“Fuck!” You yelped, hand over your heart. “Max, you can’t be creeping up on a girl like that. Especially not when she’s in the zone,” you muttered, a scarlet flush creeping onto your face.
Max walked forward, nodding slowly. “Sorry,” he apologised, blue eyes flickering over the plates set on his dining table and the multiple pots on his counter. “Uh... what are you doing?”
You blinked, holding the spatula to you. “Dinner,” you said like it was obvious. You could hear Sassy meow in agreement. “I'm hungry. It's even thirty. I figured you hadn't eaten anything yet since you fell asleep," you shrugged, resuming to stir the pot on the stove.
“Right,” he said, still trying to digest this. Whatever this was. It was... you all over. Your touch and your smell planted in every corner of his house. Your clothes in his bathroom. Your scent in his bedroom. His clothes on your body.
You raised a brow at his focused gaze before you realised what he was staring at. Your eyes fell to ‘your’ clothes. “I... it felt awkward changing back into my clothes. Um... I hope you don’t mind. I can totally go change if you look over the stov–”
“No,” Max interrupted almost immediately, making you blink in surprise. “Uh, it’s okay. It’s whatever…” he mumbled, rubbing his neck awkwardly.
You narrowed your eyes, leaning in unconsciously, head tilting at the scatter of red on his face. “Are you okay? You look sick.”
Max swallowed, taking a step back. “Fine. Um... how long until you’ll be done?”
You pouted in thought, staring at the stove. “Fifteen minutes?” You said, looking back at him.
Max nodded. “I’ll be in the sim room. Just give me a shout. Unless you want any help,” he murmured, internally wincing at his wording.
You raised your brows in acknowledgment, shaking your head and turning back to the stove. “It’s okay. I’ll call you.”
Max stared at the back of your figure, then to his dining table, and then to his grey couch where you had fallen asleep last time. He pursed his lips, taking another step back before turning on his foot and walking to his room with only one word ringing in his head.
𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: jealousy doesn't suit everyone. and max is no stranger to it either. or in which max's usual torments may have actually crossed a line.
𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: some fluff, lots of angst and anger, jealousy, asshole!max outside the bedroom, mommy issues, smut (18+ minors DNI), unprotected sex (stay safe plsss), degradation - name calling, brattiness, teasing, p in v, blood, pantie stuffing, overstimulation (f.), max gets SLAPPED, fingering, mutual orgasms, sadism, clitoral stimulation, spanking, possessiveness, faint dom-sub dynamics
𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: max verstappen x fem!reader, charles leclerc x fem!reader
𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 5.6k+
tag list (lmk if you wanna be added): @ggaslyp1 @lovesick-sylus @charlesgirl16 @adelinegirlsstuff @freyathehuntress @kenkozkmg @angelluv16 @hott1es @samriddhisingh @theonlyonesora @killjoynotes @bluewxrld07 @dreamauri @fuckingsimp4azriel @fightclubendingscene @dontsupressthejess @emmapotato88 @wertyuizxcvbnm @gigivel28 @stereading @loverofhover @babybluelrh98 @leclercdream @baechugff @sunny44 @simplementemeencantafutbol @lilypat @gigigreens @unatempesta-dipensieri @silentreader128 @urmomsgirlfriend1 @a-beaverhausen @ongak @miaaaxxz @moonih @strawberrylov-er @dollstappen @hothsgff @emluvsbunnies
🏎️ 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 | ⚽️ 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 | 𝐑𝐄𝐕𝐎𝐋𝐕𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐃𝐎𝐎𝐑 🫐
𝐀/𝐍: here it is... what everyone's been begging me for since the very start. enjoy my lovelies <3
It was official. You were ignoring two men in your lives. Charles was the obvious number one. Max was the second. Not that he knew about it just yet. You had just spent this morning, twenty minutes before his morning media debriefing, in his driver’s room. And now, you were walking around the paddock with his cum dripping out of your cunt.
You didn’t mean to avoid him.
You hadn’t even really thought about it until he had rushed out of the driver’s room, cursing with the claim that you were making him late as he haphazardly pulled his pants back up. You, on the other hand, were pretty sure he just horny as hell and wouldn’t admit it.
But your previous meeting had left you... God, you didn’t even know. Embarrassed? You couldn’t explain it. The night was just so intense. You had both pushed yourselves to the limit. It felt like you had exposed every part of yourself to him. But truth was, you barely even knew him. Because that’s what Max was at the end of the day. A stranger.
Wasn’t he?
“Dude, what is wrong with you?!” Arthur huffed from across the table, throwing a grape at you to capture your attention.
You blinked, furrowing your brows and swallowing. “Uh, sorry. What were you saying?”
Arthur stared at you for a few seconds as the sound of free practice day at the Saudi Arabian Grand Prix chattered around the both of you in the paddock. He leaned in, shaking his head slightly. “You’ve been distracted ever since my race. Not even distracted. Like you’ve been disturbed.”
You clicked your tongue, giving him a tight smile. “I know, I know. I’m sorry. Things... they’ve been a bit rough. But nothing I can’t handle.”
Arthur frowned at your words. “It’s not your mother, is it? Because I swear to God if she–”
You snorted at the mention of your mother. She was... well, many things. One of them being your mother. And the other being the most terrible person you had ever met. She was sweet before your death of your father. But after it... you couldn’t say she was the same person that tended to you, Charles, and Arthur. You couldn’t blame her either. She loved him. But that wasn’t an excuse. Not when you still needed her and she left you in the hands of Pascale.
Nowadays, you weren’t sure what words described her perfectly. Gold-digger. Player. Narcissist. A mother who always came back to you when you were at your best and she was at her lowest.
You shook your head. “Definitely not,” you breathed out with a small laugh.
He furrowed his brows, tired of turning every leaf for the past few weeks. “Then what? Charles?”
“No. Why would it be Charles?” You furrowed your brows in confusion, leaning in.
Arthur’s lips parted, at a loss for words. “I... well...”
You stared at him blankly, heart looming in your throat as you recognised those micro-expressions anywhere. The nervous lips, the darting eyes, the way he rubbed his hands together, the quickened breathing...
“You know?”
He sighed, shoulders slumping, hands running through his hair in agitation. “How could I not? I’m your best friend,” he exasperated.
“W-Were you pretending to not? Why wouldn’t you tell me you knew?” You retorted; face contorted with utter confusion. From what you could remember, any time you thought Arthur knew about your liking towards Charles, the idea would disappear immediately when he paused and abruptly moved on. Just like he had been doing recently.
He clenched his jaw, not angry – never angry but sad. “Because you didn’t trust me enough to tell me.”
You blinked, taken aback. What? Is that what he thought? “Arthur, I– that’s not– I never told you because, well,” you sighed, rubbing your temples, “I was scared you’d think I was stupid.”
It was true. It’s not like Arthur had warned you to not fall in love with Charles or anything. But God it was such a cliche. You didn’t want to be part of it but you and your heart were helpless. And as his younger brother, how many girls had he seen come and go?
“Stupid?” He looked at you incredulously. “Chérie, who do you think found out first? Even maman doesn’t know! I would never judge you for something like that. Especially your first love. Even if it’s him.”
You sat back in your chair, folding your arms and chewing your lips. Him. You both couldn’t even say it. You drew in a sharp breath. “Well... it doesn’t matter anymore, does it?”
Arthur swallowed slowly. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” you muttered, looking around the paddock, chest easing with an odd relief. You were glad someone knew despite spending years of not wanting anyone to know. Someone other than Max. And it was your best friend. Maybe this was the closure you needed. Maybe things were finally going to get better, and you wouldn’t be running after Charles. Maybe Arthur could keep you in check.
Arthur looked at you while you fell into your trance. You still weren’t telling him something. It’s like he had discovered the tip of the iceberg but there a whole another part he was yet to find out about. Because even if this was about Charles... some part of it, somewhere, somehow, had transcended into something else entirely. And he was going to find out sooner or later.
━━━━━━━━━━━
Max didn’t understand it. You seemed to be avoiding him. ‘Seemed’ because he truly had no idea.
But something about you had changed since your meeting with him this morning. You had spent the entire day next to Charles. Which was strange considering, if Max recalled correctly, you had called the air around him “suffocating.” Even the weight on your shoulders seemed different. You moved lighter, as if you were floating and at ease.
Even now. You were right in front of him while he was talking to Lewis and all he could think about was how his cum was running down your legs underneath that pretty dress. His cum. Yet you were smiling at Charles.
Max tongued the inside of his cheek, taking a discreet step closer to you. “You know... I didn’t peg you for a homewrecker,” he muttered in your ear, blue eyes still greeting all those around him as he stood next to you, leaving only a couple inches between the both of you.
You ground your teeth together, folding your arms. “I’m not.”
Max looked down at you, the memory of you sweetly smiling at Charles still replaying in his head. He huffed with amusement. “Are you sure? I’ve heard the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”
You snapped your head to him, eyes wide with disbelief at the insinuation as the silence spoke louder than words and, in its retreat, left a chasm between the both of you. A comparison to your mother... it’s like he had taken everything from the bedroom and put it out on display for you to see.
“I’m giving you a chance to take that back,” you muttered, breathing out slowly to calm yourself down.
Max shook his head, mind still blinded with sheer annoyance. He couldn’t believe it. Every part of you was covered in him. His marks on your neck. His touch that bruised your hips. His cum down your legs. Legs that were still recovering from what he had done to you. But you were acting like he hadn’t done any of that. As if Charles hadn’t broken your heart.
He didn’t know why he had said it. But nothing was preventing him from doing more damage. “No,” he said, eyes raking over your face.
You narrowed your gaze on him, jaw clenching as your tongue swiped over your bottom lip, capturing his undivided attention. “You really are a prick.”
“You love it,” he simple retorted, voice dazed like he was in a trance, eyes fixated on your lips.
You sucked in a sharp breath, mind stuttering and yet your mouth opened, about to spew out anything in retaliation when Charles called your name. His hand was to his ear, phone in his grip as Arthur pointed at it, mouthing, “Maman.”
You blinked, taking a step back from Max, not sparing him a second glance before you walked over to Charles. You raised a brow as Charles handed you the phone, your jaw clenching at the brush of your fingers. You cleared your throat, smile sprawling onto your face as you greeted Pascale. “How’s my favourite mother?” You greeted with a small cheek to your tone, making Arthur snort.
You could hear her laugh on the other side of the call. “I’m your only favourite mother,” she retorted, not mean but factual. Your own mother was a mess now and Pascale was left picking up the pieces. She was a strong woman. You admired her.
“I miss you, honey,” Pascale breathed out with a small sigh.
“You just saw me last week,” you chuckled, nudging Arthur who was pestering you by trying to grab the phone. “Stop,” you quietly hissed back, mending your brows with annoyance.
“I know, I know,” she laughed, very clearly picking up your misery dealing with Arthur.
You had visited her, helping her with her plants, not that you were any good in that avenue either. It was only after lunch, where you rested on her lap and you talked for hours about life, Arthur, Lorenzo... and Charles. “It’s not the same when you’re all gone,” she mumbled sadly.
You frowned at her words, still fighting off Arthur as your hand flailed about, hitting his arm. “Hey, I’ll be back soon, okay? We can bake those lemon slices you like so much,” you suggested, rolling your eyes at the dramatic yelp he made.
“I am also joining!” Arthur yelled back, finally grabbing the phone off you before he fell into his own conversation.
“Arthur!” You swore, hands instantly reaching out to get it back before you were interrupted by the loud chuckle falling from Charles’ lips. You blinked at the sound. You loved that laugh. It was warm and nostalgic. Bringing you right back to the days where it was just you and Charles as kids playing around Monaco. But of course, nothing was the same anymore.
Charles shook his head, sighing as he inched towards you, hands shoved in the pockets of his pants like they always were. “Such a menace,” he said, narrowing his eyes playfully at his younger brother who was talking incessantly to his mother.
“You can say that again,” you mumbled, folding your arms, glaring at Arthur.
Charles hummed with a small smile, reverting his eyes back to you when his gaze fell to your neck and the browned purple marks on your neck. He stared at them hard before blinking. “I hope you’re using protection.”
You furrowed your brows in confusion, skin instantly burning at his words. “What?”
“The hickeys,” he commented roughly, peeling his eyes back to your face as your hand shot up to your neck, cautiously covering the marks. “You should ask Alex for some concealer recommendations.”
You could feel the bile crawl up your throat, hand falling back to your side. “I... I don’t think I need to hear anymore,” you croaked back, swallowing thickly as the nausea hit you in small waves. “Besides... I’m on the pill. It’s fine.”
Charles avoided your eyes. Only nodding curtly. Again... you couldn’t read him again. All the tell tales signs you once knew gone in the matter of a few weeks. On the other hand, this was good... right? This was a form of closure. Moving on with a different guy. Even if that was one of his co-workers that had just morally pissed you off.
━━━━━━━━━━━
Jos looked at his son from the other side of the garage, watching him sigh for the umpteenth time today. He wasn’t sure what the hell was wrong with him. For a guy who was starting P1 on the grid in that shitbox of a car... Max sure as heck didn’t look happy about it. In fact, now that he thought about it, his kid had probably only smiled once or twice after qualifying yesterday.
Of course, what Jos didn’t know was Max had been in a bad mood since media day. His conversation with you had left a bad taste in his mouth. He regretted saying what he did. He wanted to apologise. But every time he wanted to, you were still with Charles, not even batting an eyelash towards him. It was even worse than before. At least when you hated him, you’d still look his way.
Even worse... you had spent the entire weekend attached to Charles’ hip, joking with Arthur, and now you had walked into the paddock this race morning dressed in red. Dressed in the same red for a man that was P-fucking-4.
So of course he was pissed off.
But it still didn’t explain anything. Why he was so moody. Why you seemed to make him lose every single rational thought. His sister, Victoria, had given him an absolutely outrageous explanation when he very vaguely told her about his situation: he was jealous.
To which he laughed. And snorted. And furrowed his brows. Because why on earth would he be jealous? He couldn’t be jealous. And even if he was, which he wasn’t, he shouldn’t be. There was nothing about this situation that he could even be jealous about. You had both mutually made a deal to fuck this all out. Jealousy wasn’t even in the equation.
To make matters disastrous, he had lost P1. He had fucking lost it and been given a five second time penalty. And now he stood on the podium, holding a trophy for second best, while Oscar won, and Charles had managed to cling to third place.
And if Max wasn't angry before, he was absolutely seething at the sight of you in the crowd amongst the Ferrari staff, still dressed in that goddamn tight red long sleeve and those ass-hugging jeans, cheering for Charles, refusing to even breathe his way.
━━━━━━━━━━━
This weekend had been exhausting to say the least. But Charles had gotten a podium, and you were proud of it. Things hadn’t been easy for him. Ferrari’s methods were still lacklustre. And somehow, his car this year had gotten worse. So, he had his arms open for a bloody P3.
Everyone was going to dinner, something to do with contractual obligations. You thought about it. Perhaps it would’ve been nice to celebrate something after so long. But you couldn’t bring yourself to when you had seen Charles and Alex whispering to each other and laughing in the paddock after his podium, leaving his publicist practically frothing at the mouth.
Moving on was easier said than done.
Arthur had offered to stay behind but you said it was fine. The both of you missing, while not unusual, would only make it more obvious.
So here you were. In your hotel room with a pint of your favourite ice cream watching some of the trashiest TV you could find on Netflix because you couldn’t find a drop of liquor even if you searched the entire country.
You were in midst of probably the worst acting you had ever seen in your entire life when a knock reverberated through your room. You frowned, looking at the time on your phone. It was gearing up towards midnight. Who the hell was knocking on your door now?
Begrudgingly, you got up from your bed and paused your show. Perhaps you should’ve looked through the peephole, so you weren’t as baffled when you opened the door and found today’s second-best driver outside your hotel room.
You stared at him blankly. Not greeting him like you had every other time you opened the door for him. The silence was heavy, tension so thick a knife wouldn’t cut it. You should’ve closed the door on him. But you didn’t. You couldn’t. Some part of you was curious and patient. Waiting to see what Max would do next if you kept your mouth shut for the first time.
“I lost P1,” Max finally said after a heavy breath.
You nodded slowly, lips parting. “I saw.”
Max stared at you, blue eyes intense as ever. He pursed his lips. "You were down there,” he said, referring to the podium.
“I know.”
His jaw clenched at your short answers. He wanted you to say something – anything. Just a few words more. Where had that bratty mouth gone? Why weren’t you weaponising how insane you drove him?
Max sighed, frustrated. He took a step closer to you, all that was needed to leave barely inches between you. You could feel his hot breath fawn over you as he spoke, “You stood in front of me, my cum dripping out of your legs and you were ignoring me...”
Not question. Nor a statement, really. Just... a burning recollection.
You swallowed thickly, trying to push down those blooming embers of heat in your stomach. “Why?” You queried, tilting your head to the side, looking up at him through your lashes. “Jealous?”
There it was again. That word.
Jealous.
He hated it.
“I don’t get jealous,” he murmured, blue eyes raking over your face carefully. “Just like how you aren’t jealous about Charles and Alex.”
A hit in the bullseye. He had gotten you there. Trapped.
You nodded slowly, willing to ignore the meaning of his words. “So, what then? You had a bad weekend and it’s time to cash in on our arrangement?”
Max’s chest eased at the larger number of syllables falling from your lips, even if they itched him the wrong way. He nodded, small, tight smile on his face. “Exactly.”
You stayed quiet for a second, contemplating. Were you really going to let him in? Again? But this was the point, wasn’t it? The whole basis of your deal. No strings attached meant ignoring everything else. This was just sex. That’s all this was.
It was tentative. Your move that is. From what you could recall, you had never been the one to kiss him. Ever. It was always Max. But you leaned forward, slightly still on the tips of your toes, hand shooting out to his jaw as you pressed your lips onto his.
You couldn’t miss the shudder that rippled down his body even if you wanted to. His hands instantly fell to your waist, keeping you pressed against him like he was preventing you from running away from him.
Max welcomed the heat of you in, tasting the sweetness of your ice cream on your tongue and it has him craving for more as if he was addicted. His hands slid under your red long sleeve, still dressed from the events of today and fuck he could’ve thanked God you were still wearing it.
You gasped into his mouth, the contact of his cold fingers on your skin eliciting a needy moan from your throat reverberated against his lips, leaving your knees weak.
He could feel your skin jump at his touch, like he commanded every breath and movement of your biology. He surged forward, edging you towards the inside of your hotel room, closing the door with hurried hand moving away from you, returning to your waist like it belonged there. Any definition he knew of personal space was gone. All he could feel was the weight of your body against his as he kissed you, stealing the air from your lungs once again.
The edge of the bed hit the back of your knees, making you halt as you gasped for air. Max’s hands pulled up your long sleeve, the material tight against your skin. It was on the floor the next second and your pants followed soon after.
“Hate those fucking clothes,” Max mumbled against your lips, hand travelling the valley of your breasts, running over the ridge of your bra before smoothing over your bare stomach. “Stood down there like I wouldn’t have fucked you right then and there.”
You shivered at his words, feeling the arousal between your thighs only pool further as he hooked his two fingers on your panties. A dark chuckle fell from his lips, hands travelling further down, fingers gathering the slick between your folds as your head fell to his chest. “Is that what you want? Does my pretty slut want to get fucked in front of everyone, hmm? Let me show everyone what’s mine?”
You moaned, head lifting up from his chest. “Don’t tease. Just fuck me and get it over with,” you mumbled, fighting your eyes from shutting as he rubbed your wet folds, circling your clit with ease.
Max’s jaw clenched, fingers pausing. His eyes fell to you, unfazed, almost fooling you if it weren’t for the way his other hand reached for your chin, fingers pushing tightly against your skin. He hated the way you said those words. Like him fucking you was even less than sex. His chest heaved, breath hot as he slowly inserted two fingers into your cunt, making you whimper, the sound muffled because of his grip on you.
“Over with?” He laughed, sinister and angry. “In such a rush but you take my fingers so well. I mean, just look at you. Hips already grinding up against me. I guess I should’ve thought about it,” he hummed, head tilting while he looked at you. “You stand next to Charles like the pathetic slut you really are. So needy... so... desperate. Just waiting for him to even look your way.”
Your teeth sunk into your lips, body shuddering at the way he curled his fingers in your walls while his words burned into your skin, humiliation boiling in your veins. “F-Fuck you,” you spat back at him, embarrassingly close already and you could tell he knew by that stupid smirk on his face.
“Oh, I plan to,” Max grinned, picking up the pace. “I just wonder how Arthur would react, hmm? His best friend being such a needy whore that you walked around him with my cum dripping out of your cunt. And now look at you – already going to come just from my fingers. I haven’t even got you to bed, schat.”
Your eyes began to roll as he finally let go of your chin, his demeaning chuckle echoing in the air and you couldn't even argue while your body betrayed you, clinging to him with a pulsing desperation.
His lips fell to your ear, whisper harsh and firm as each punishing thrust into your walls. “Don’t think that you’re better than me. Talking on your high horse but I’m the only one who can get you like this. We’re the same, you and I.”
You squirmed against his fingers, hips chasing the sweet pleasure building at the base of your core, tightening with every seamless stroke finding that perfect spot in you. Once. Twice. And again. Your nails dug into his shirt, sinking into his skin like it was your lifeline. Your body locked against his as your orgasm hit you. Your moan was interrupted and strangled, thighs shaking as your release tore through you.
Max smirked, head leaning back to take a good look at you. His eyes grinned, shining in the low light of your hotel room as he removed his fingers. “Was that quick enough for you?”
Your jaw clenched.
He had heard it before he felt it. The sharp whack of the air. The burn on his cheek almost sizzling, a pretty red flush embedded into his pale skin from where you had slapped him.
Your chest heaved up and down in annoyance while his hot gaze pierced through what felt like your damn soul. “Fuck you. Seriously,” you huffed, pushing him away from you.
Only your heavy, laboured breathing accompanied the eerie silence in the room while you stood in front of each other, his blue eyes not moving off you.
Max had underestimated you. He knew you were a brat. Before all of this. From the moment he first met you, you were a goddamn fucking nuisance. But he never thought you’d slap him.
You swallowed thickly as Max grinned. You mended your brows. It was proud, rather than angry. Amused. And satisfied.
Before you knew it, your hands were flat on the mattress, bare ass up on the air, panties stuffed into your mouth and Max was stark naked, shoes to the side, standing behind you with his cock tall and hard.
His hand brushed over your ass. It was pretty little thing, really. In need of some heat. His hand came slamming down onto your ass, the action making your skin jiggle as the sound reverberated through the air.
Max chuckled contently, watching the red hue begin to build up as he repeatedly slapped your ass, hard and sore – reminding you of what you had just done. He sneered at your muffled sob, watching you fist the sheets of the mattress. “What? Does that hurt? I can see your cunt dripping from here, you absolute fucking slut.”
You moaned, teeth sinking into your lip as you felt his hand again, heat tingling and burning through your skin while the whites of your knuckles shone at you. Fuck, it hurt so much. But God, it felt so good. “Shit!” You breathed out, your gasp for air stifled through your panties as he groped your ass, squeezing your pained flesh with satisfaction.
“Gonna teach you,” Max grunted, lining his cock with your pussy, one hand on your hip and the other wrapped around your lower stomach. “Gonna treat you like the whore you are,” he said.
Without a warning, his cock that had been teasing your gaping hole finally pushed into your cunt. You cried out at the feeling of him stretching your folds, the sound subdued as Max’s broken moan echoed in the air.
"Fuck," Max thought to himself, pulling you close to him. You felt so fucking good. Too good. Walls tightly hugging him, gripping him like a vice and bringing him even deeper into you. He groaned, beginning to snap his hips at his command. It wasn’t kind. Not that it ever was. But Christ, this was angry. Every feeling he had felt since that media day poured into every thrust. It almost burned. Pain still simmering on your ass.
“Take me so well, my pretty little slut,” he sighed out, humming at the way your ass shifted against him, making his cock snug into your pussy. God, help him.
You sobbed against your own panties in your mouth as he slapped your ass again, body shuddering. Max’s grunts only came closer as he pulled you up from the mattress, bringing your back flushed against his chest. His hand travelled down your stomach, finding your clit with ease.
The tears began to well in your eyes. It was all so much. You had barely come down from your last orgasm. But here you were, close... again. Max chuckled in your ear, rubbing in fast, firm circles while he pounded into you, revelling in the way you took him.
“I should take a picture, schat,” Max moaned, eyes slightly rolling. “Bet Charles would love to see you like this. Wet panties stuffed in your mouth. My cock filling you up just the way you like it. Bruised ass. Old hickeys still proving what’s mine. Pretty glassy eyes. Tears just for me.”
Your body clenched at his words, teeth biting down into your panties as drool seeped from the corners of your mouth, voice turning silent while your vision wavered with stars as your orgasm rolled over you.
“That’s it. My slut,” Max groaned, only rubbing your clit faster while the last few embers of your orgasm shot through you and another one began to build.
You shook your head, tilting your chin to look at him, tears finally rolling down your cheek. Your eyes begged him, body seizing with pleasure and pain at the same time.
Max smirked at the sight of your panties-stuffed mouth. “You have to take what you dish out, schat,” he murmured in a mocking tone, tongue darting out to take a long stripe of your cheek, relishing the saltiness in his mouth. Just perfect.
Your eyes fluttered at the sight. He tasted your tears. Your fucking tears! You should be mortified. Yet you were positively wetter than before. Your body writhed against him, trembling at the waves of pleasure blooming through your stomach. Sweat covered every inch of your body, air humid and sticky with your sex
“It hurts, I know it does,” Max mumbled with a smile, groaning at the way your nails found a way to dug themselves into his forearms as he fucked you. His voice dropped an octave, low against your ear. “But next time, you’ll think about testing me again.”
And just like that, you were cumming again, hard. White decorated your vision in an instant. The taste of your mouth was metallic, teeth drawing blood from your tongue while your breath caught and your body locked up. “FUCK!” You screamed with a muted voice, his fingers on your clit sending you straight into oblivion.
Max cursed at the way you clenched around him. Your scent invaded his nose, sweet and full of his touch. Your hair stuck to your skin, chin dripping with your goddamn drool and tears while you convulsed around him. This is what he had done to you. You who was ignoring him. You who had him by the balls and seething on the podium. Christ, he couldn’t hold it any longer.
He finally removed his hand from your pussy and returned to your stomach, pulling you as close to him as he could. His hips began to snap up faster and harder, each thrust leaving an attempt of discipline and a display of authority in your walls. His brows mended, coil in his stomach tightening as his abdomen became taut. “Oh, fuckfuckfuck.”
His body froze hard and fast, hips twitching, voice broken in a long whiny drawl as ropes of him cum spilling out into your walls, keeping you full and warm to the brim.
Max breathed heavily, taking a moment to let the both of you come down while your head fell back to his shoulder, chest heaving as your eyes fell to the ceiling before looking down at his hand on your stomach. You swallowed at the sight.
You cleared your throat, pushing his hand away, capturing Max’s attention. He blinked, sucking in a sharp breath as he pulled his softening cock out of you, lips tightening at your sore hiss. He stood in front of you, still centimetres away from you. His hand reached out to hold your face, making your heart stutter.
Your lips parted as he pried out your panties from your mouth, wiping away the drool on your chin. He almost winced at the faint sight of red on the fabric. “Are you okay?” He asked, slightly concerned while his eyes raked over you.
You nodded slowly, forcing yourself to look away. “Fine,” you murmured, taking a step back to gather your shirt and your pants.
Max watched you quietly, not rushing to leave while you slipped back on your jeans. He did the same, lips pursed. “I’m sorry.”
Your heart almost fell out of your chest. You paused at you buttoned your jeans, looking at him with a raised brow. “For what. For the blood? It’s no big what? For the blood? It’s no big deal.”
Max shook his head. “For what I said – the apple thing. I shouldn’t have said that. That was rude of me,” he affirmed, jaw clenched.
You resumed buttoning your jeans, pulling your long sleeve over your head. You nodded after some time. “You aren’t wrong about her. But yeah. That wasn’t right. Thank you for apologising.”
Max nodded, finally buckling his pants as silence filled the air once again. But once thing was still making your head itch. You furrowed your brows, looking back at him. “Why did you say it?”
Max blinked. He didn’t have an answer for that. Nor did he want one. “Because you’re right. I’m a prick,” he shrugged with a tight smile, shrugging on his shirt. He tilted his head, blue eyes examining you. “Still hate me?”
You snorted, untucking your hair out of your shirt. “Naturally.”
A soft smile quavered on his face. “Good.”
Your hands sunk into the back pockets of your jeans as Max edged towards the door of your hotel room, leaving you following him. He opened the door after putting on his shoes, turning towards you before he left. “I’ll see you around.”
You nodded awkwardly, small smile on your face. “See you.”
Max stared at you for a moment, silent. Like he was trying to understand something. You weren’t sure what it was. But a few seconds later, he was walking down your corridor and towards the lift. You wondered if he could tell you were still watching him wait. He probably could. If he did though, he didn’t say anything. Not even giving you another glance.
The doors of the lift opened. Max stepped forward casually, like he hadn’t just fucked the absolute shit out of you. And another figure stepped out, hooded in a black jacket while the doors closed again. The figure seemed to inch towards you, making you blink, fingers tightening around your door frame. What the hell?
The air seemed to evaporate from your lungs as the stranger’s hood fell from their head, leaving the hotel light simmering over them at one o’something in the morning. Your eyes widened, jaw slack.
𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: max had you in his bed but not in the way he ever imagined. and now... he can't get you out of his head. or in which your touch has left max with a private jet and a dream.
𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: some fluff, poor humour, smut (18+ minors DNI), unprotected sex (stay safe pls), masturbation (m.), degradation - name calling, brattiness, teasing, p in v, serious overstimulation (f.), pleasurable pain, fingering, squirting, mirror sex, mutual orgasms, sadism (m.) via reader's tears, clitoral stimulation, bondage, reader lwk goes into a subspace, possessiveness, faint dom-sub dynamics, one instance of google translated dutch
𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: max verstappen x fem!reader, charles leclerc x fem!reader
𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 5.5k+
tag list (lmk if you wanna be added): @ggaslyp1 @lovesick-sylus @charlesgirl16 @adelinegirlsstuff @freyathehuntress @kenkozkmg @angelluv16 @hott1es @samriddhisingh @theonlyonesora @killjoynotes @bluewxrld07 @dreamauri @fuckingsimp4azriel @fightclubendingscene @dontsupressthejess @emmapotato88 @wertyuizxcvbnm @gigivel28 @stereading @loverofhover @babybluelrh98 @leclercdream @baechugff @sunny44 @simplementemeencantafutbol @lilypat @gigigreens @unatempesta-dipensieri @silentreader128 @urmomsgirlfriend1 @a-beaverhausen @ongak @miaaaxxz @moonih @strawberrylov-er
🏎️ 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 | ⚽️ 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 | 𝐑𝐄𝐕𝐎𝐋𝐕𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐃𝐎𝐎𝐑 🫐
𝐀/𝐍: one of my favourite smuts of this series... ngl. dw guys... this plot is slowly plotting... hehe
It was ten at night. Max had dropped you home hours and hours ago, echoes of your ‘walk of shame’ still reverberating in his head after you complained about sangrias. He had attended some meetings. Talked to whoever needed talking to. Trained. Even when on the simulator.
He should be tired. Exhausted. But he couldn’t sleep.
Max sat on his bed, legs straight, back rested on the pillow, and eyes wide open. He couldn’t stop thinking. You had left ages ago yet your smell was embedded into his mattress and his blankets. Your smell... and it wasn’t because he fucked you so hard that you left traces of yourself.
No. It was because last night Max watched you fall asleep on his couch soon after you called him an asshat. He waited for a couple of minutes before deciding it was a bit weird to just sit there. He felt like a creep. So, he went to bed and pretended to sleep for twenty minutes as all the fibres in his body came alive, leaving him restless. And at eleven forty-four, he had gone to his living room and gently carried you back to his bedroom.
Max had tucked you in as he told himself that this was because his mother would simply kill him for leaving an intoxicated girl sleeping uncomfortably on his couch.
He could still imagine it. You cocooned in his own blankets, legs curled up, head softly laying on his own pillow. Christ... you had slept in his own bed before he could even touch you there.
“Fuck,” Max mumbled into the darkness of his room.
He swallowed down all the saliva that had accumulated at the thought of you. His eyes flickered to the large bulge in his boxers – he couldn’t see it in this pitch black but the feel of it had left his hands itching to touch it.
He really shouldn't feel like this over you merely sleeping in his bed. But as the smell of you wrapped around him, his fingers merely brushed the bulge and the shudder that had ripped through him sent him into an obscene high. He was doomed with a lusting haze hanging over. He pushed down his boxers he had chosen to sleep in a clumsy manner, letting his hard cock slap against his own stomach and breathe freely.
Max brought his hand up to his mouth, letting his spit fall into his palm. The warm liquid trickled down his length from the tip while he glided his hand down. Max bit down his lip, rubbing the fluid up and down the base of his cock.
The first grunt that flew from his lips was at the thought of you in his bed, lips parted, chest slowly heaving at your soft breaths. Hair flying in so many different directions that he had to stop himself from pushing your tresses aside.
Speckles of pink and red rose to the surface of Max’s cheeks, though it didn’t matter in the darkness, hand gripping around his cock as he wondered with curiosity. He wondered whether you sat at home like you did in the hotel that night. Legs wide open on your mattress, one hand on your breast, the other on your wet folds. Obscene squelches filling the silent air in your apartment as you fucked yourself on your fingers. Or did you use a toy like the greedy slut you were?
Heat tickled throughout his lower stomach as his pre-cum and spit merged as one lube, he coated his cock with. Max let out a quiet moan, pumping himself at a faster pace. His head began to fall back on his pillow, occasionally twisting to side-to-side while he squeezed himself, drowning in pleasure.
Another image of you flickered into his head. The one where you were perched on his thigh almost a week ago. The way you had soaked his jeans. The hazed look on your face as you lost yourself just fucking your pussy against his thigh.
Max’s hips began to buck into his hand, rutting at an increased speed. His other hand was brought up to his mouth, teeth biting down into his skin to prevent his louder moans escaping into the air. As if he couldn’t agree with the reality: he was jacking off all because you had innocently slept in his head because you were wrecked. And he was enjoying it like the sick bastard he was.
A muffled "Fuck" fell from his lips and into his palm. His eyes clenched shut, completely throwing a sheet of darkness in the light. And in the dark abyss, all he could see was you.
Your eyes catching his gaze when he caught you after qualifying in Suzuka; your scent wrapping around him, making him dizzy; your moans like honey, a serenade; those lips... painted in the prettiest kissable shade, parted at his touch. What he wouldn't give to have them wrapped around his cock: sucking, tongue teasing his slit again.
Max let out a stifled high-pitched moan while his hips stuttered, feeling hot ropes of his white cum spill into his hand and down his shaft. A sigh fell from his lips as he removed his hand from his mouth, finding his teeth marked into his skin.
His eyes met his reflection in the darkness as his head fell back to his pillow. Fuck.
He really needed to stop jerking off to you.
━━━━━━━━━━━
You hadn’t gone to the Bahrain Grand Prix. After the shithole you had been left in during Suzuka, you figured it would be better to stay away from Charles and from Alex. Instead, you had taken a small trip to the Circuit Paul Ricard in Le Castellet with Arthur. He was starting the GT World Challenge Europe Endurance Cup. You were proud of him. He had come 1st in the Italian GT Championship last year. Things were looking good for him.
It was always hard. The balance between him and Charles. You and Lorenzo, more often than not, struggled to get it right. But you both tried.
Now, however, you wondered if you had been doing it at all. Whether you had been impartial. You hoped not. But by the sheer excitement Arthur expressed upon hearing you’d join him, it seemed you had been.
You blinked, watching Arthur unpack from across you. You should give him the time you had selfishly taken away from him. How many months or years had you been head over heels for Charles and pushed away your best friend? He didn’t even know anything for crying out loud!
Arthur paused, resting his clothes in his suitcase as he caught your dazed look. “What’s wrong with you?”
“Hmm?” You hummed at the sudden question, leaning up from the couch in the corner of his room.
He shrugged, resuming to take his clothes out of his luggage. “I don’t know. You’ve been weird ever since you came back from Suzuka. Not weird, but... something’s changed. And I don’t know if it’s a good thing or not. Did something happen?”
You pursed your lips, restraining yourself from frowning. How Arthur always spotted these things and no other things... you had no idea. You shook your head. “Nothing happened. Just tired these days,” you mumbled, looking out the window.
Arthur stared at you, trying to figure you out as he usually did. But as his brain came up with nothing, his shoulders slumped in defeat. “I wish you would just tell me. You know I’d help you with anything right?”
You smiled softly, patting the fabric of your pants gently. “I know,” you said with an earnest gaze.
But this wasn’t something Arthur could help with. This wasn’t even something you could help yourself with. Whether there was a remedy or cure to your problems... you weren’t sure. All you knew was if you could’ve gone back in time, you would’ve taken whatever magical potion that got rid of anything you felt for Charles.
“So would you help with murder?” You joked quietly, trying to bring the mood back up
Arthur snorted, giving you a pointed look as he shook his head lightly. “Just give me a name.”
━━━━━━━━━━━
The first round of the challenge wasn’t particularly going Arthur’s way. Free practice was, well, as entertaining as it got for the teams who wanted to know how their car was on track. The qualifying sessions, however, Arthur’s team had fallen slightly short. It wasn’t awful to say the least. Fifteenth position out of fifty-nine after combining all the sessions. Max still haunting you with his new team only three positions ahead. Arthur was feeling positive, especially after seeing you afterwards, holding some ice cream excitedly while you waved him down.
The race, however, was a long six hours with five yellow periods and yet had no safety car intervention, leaving you, Lorenzo, and Charlotte, your toes. Nevertheless, Arthur’s team had lost a position, ending up in sixteenth, leaving him slightly dejected when he came up to you with a frustrated sigh.
“Hey, don’t sweat it. It was only the first race and a hard one at that,” you mumbled, watching him only grunt and flail down, resting his head on your lap while he stared at the ceiling. You patted his head gently. “It’ll be better next time.”
Arthur said nothing, only breathing quietly while you rested your head on the wall, watching the paddock become busy once again, staff scrambling to pack everything up. Lorenzo and Charlotte had also taken their turn consoling the child in your lap while the ping of your phone had caught your attention.
You furrowed your brows at the screen. It was an unknown number. And the message:
+59 8304893
where are you?
You blinked blankly. Who in the world was this? You sighed, reverting back to the ever-moping Arthur. “Stop grumbling,” you muttered, hitting his shoulder lightly. “Your head is making my legs go numb.”
Arthur widened his mouth, gasping dramatically as he looked up at you. “Are you shaming my head?”
“Yes,” you nodded emphatically with a grin. “Yes, I am. I can feel a cell die with every passing second,” you retorted, hearing the laugh of Lorenzo and Charlotte mix into the air.
“All these of years of friendship,” Arthur cried out in feigned disbelief, remaining where he was.
Ping! Another message.
+59 8304893
why the fuck is this place always like a goddamn maze?
You scrunched your brows. Seriously? You tried to rummage through your brain for even a small hint of who this could be, but your brain wasn’t feeling that kind to you. You groaned, shaking your legs under Arthur’s head. “Arthur,” you hissed.
“Can’t a guy be sad in peace?” Arthur quipped back, folding his arms.
You narrowed your eyes at him. “I swear to God, I will push you onto the floor.”
“You wouldn’t dare,” Arthur raised a brow.
You were about to prove him wrong, hands readily on his arm when a few gasps broke into the air.
“Is that?”
“It is?”
“Verstappen!”
A yelp fell from Arthur’s lips as he came clambering to the floor – all to his own accord when he heard the famous name.
Your eyes widened, falling to your best friend. Your hands frantically reached out for him. “Shit, Arthur! Are you okay?”
Arthur winced, rubbing his arm as you helped him up. He furrowed his brows, blinking rapidly. He looked over at you confused. “D-Did I just hear Max’s name? Or am I hallucinating?”
You swallowed, meekly looking over at the familiar figure greeting some of the paddock staff. “I think this is reality.”
Lorenzo stepped closer to you. “I thought he was in Bahrain still?” He queried.
You shrugged, body stilling when his eyes fell to you. You forced yourself to look away, shuddering from the odd magnetic pull. You hadn’t seen him since he dropped you off. Nor had you talked to him. You had literally nothing in common with each other except for Charles.
“Hey guys,” Max greeted everybody, walking over to all of you.
Arthur smiled, hand reaching out to greet him. “Hey, man. What are you doing here? Didn’t you just finish Bahrain like a couple hours ago?”
Max nodded while your eyes widened slightly, brain trying to do the maths for this one. Bahrain was an hour ahead of France. The Bahrain race started at six and ended around eight. Arthur’s race started at six in France and ended twelve... Christ, he must’ve used his jet to get here.
“Yeah, not a good race,” Max mumbled, frustrated. He had come P6 after he started P7 and lost a position on the opening lap. The car was just awful. Nothing was working. And he hated it.
“Join the club.” Arthur smiled in return. “But hey, new team in the top ten. Congrats!”
Max chuckled, nodding. “Thanks.”
Arthur was about to open his mouth when someone from his team had pulled him away for some more interviews. Lorenzo and Charlotte decided they were going to go get some sleep after a long day, leaving you standing alone with Max.
You pursed your lips, silent. You weren’t sure what to say. It wasn’t like it was awkward. You just generally had nothing to say to him. You didn’t want to bring up your drunken antics for both of your sakes. So, keeping quiet was the best way to go.
“Do you have something against text messages or...” Max started.
You furrowed your brows. “What are you...” you trailed off, brain finally linking the spontaneous texts on your phone. “Oh! That was you. I was wondering why some rando was texting me,” you huffed with amusement.
Max blinked at you. “You don’t have my number saved on your phone?”
You snorted, bringing your jacket closer to you as the night air nipped away at you. “Obviously not. Why would I?”
Never in your life had you ever wanted to ring Max Verstappen. There was no need for a text. Why would you want to ring the man who infuriated you beyond reason? Let alone save him into your phone?
He tilted his head, confusion pouring into his face as he raked his eyes over you. “How did you think our arrangement was going to work? I literally texted you the first time.”
You chewed your lip, registering his words while you stared at your busy surroundings. “Hmm,” you hummed like you had just thought of it. “I guess you’re right.”
You hadn’t seen the history of the number. The idea had entirely skipped your mind.
You watched Max rub his temples in disbelief while you raised a brow after some time. You folded your arms. “Is that why you texted? Need some help after a bad race?”
Max stared at you silently like he too hadn’t considered that thought. His jaw clenched at tone of your voice. You said it like it was supposed to be said – like a transaction. But it couldn’t help but itch the annoyance beginning to churn through his brain. He slowly tipped his head in agreement. “Are you sharing a room?” He asked, flickering his eyes to the dark sky.
You shook your head, taking the keys to the car you had been given by Arthur’s team out of your pocket. “Five rooms down from those three. Now come on.”
━━━━━━━━━━━
You sat on the hotel bed, legs crossed, hands in your lap, silence evident as Max stood in front of you, not doing anything but staring at you. “So...” you murmured, chewing your lip. “What do you want to do?”
Max inched towards you, still saying nothing as he came face-to-face with you, body leaning so close that you were now lying flat on the mattress, chest slight heaving from your picked up breaths.
“These lips...” Max breathed out, thumb trailing over the freshly reddened skin. “I hate how you bite them so casually. Like you don’t know what they’re doing to me.”
You blinked, swallowing. You weren’t sure what to make of his words. Nor did you acknowledge them entirely. All you said was, “Then do something about them.”
An invitation. That’s what it was. But Max didn’t need it.
His mouth was on your lips once again. It hadn’t been that long since you last touched them but God it felt like you had been left to starve without them. You would’ve never realised the empty void they had left if it wasn’t for the way Max consumed you.
His kisses were signature – firm, rough, and harsh. Teeth tugging at the red flushes that had been driving him crazy for too long. His hand gripping your jaw with no gentle pressure, reminding you of where you were and who you belonged to.
His breaths were similar. Hungry and shameless. Fawning waves of heat over your skin as one arm travelled down your waist, tracing every curve and crevice, and finally creeping underneath the long sleeve you had worn as the circuit became colder. You shuddered at his cold touch meeting your bare skin, peeling off your sweatshirt.
“Fucking hell,” you cussed against his lips, words muffled. “What are you? Jack Frost?”
Max couldn’t help but let the edges of his lips quirk upwards as he moved down your jaw, eyes falling to the column of your throat. It was pretty. Blank. Unmarked. Untouched. Barren of his name. But not for much longer. His kisses were much softer at first. Sloppy while he trailed over your neck – like the calm before the storm. And then you felt it. The deeper bruising of his touch, sucking your skin like he needed to taste it.
“Max,” you moaned out, eyes fluttering, hand flying to the back of his neck. Torn between making him stop and wanting more. “You gonna leave marks,” you whined despite your neck greedily stretching out.
“Not my problem,” Max huffed, finally removing his lips, admiring the first stages of his artwork. “Absoluut prachtig,” he breathed out. Absolutely beautiful
Your jaw clenched, heart thudding. You didn’t understand Dutch. Nor did you need to. Because the look in his eyes told you everything you needed to know. It was darkness in the blue but all you could see was the satisfaction. You swallowed thickly, clearing your throat. “Are you going keep staring or are you going to fuck me?”
Max blinked, flickering his eyes back to your face. He chuckled, the sound reverent and almost sinister. “When are you going to learn to stop being a brat?" He sighed, his finger trailing your bare stomach, teasing by inching lower and lower but never past the waistband of your pants.
“Maybe you should try fuck it out of me,” you retorted back, breath uneven, voice frustrated.
Max paused, looking at you. He smiled. “You should be careful of what you wish for. Say it enough and I might just give it to you,” he clicked his tongue, waiting like a predator did for its prey.
Your brows furrowed slightly as you picked up on what he meant. He wanted to you to beg. “No,” you huffed with a small laugh, shaking your head, “Uh uh, no way.”
His hand that still lingered on your midriff slowly made its way down, traversing past your jean and panties, making your chest rise out of anticipation. “I was lenient last time, schat” he murmured, blue eyes firmly only you. “This time I won’t be so kind.”
You chewed your lip, stopping when you saw the raise of his brow. You sucked in a sharp breath. “Then don’t be.”
You weren’t sure how it had happened. Or when. They were frenzied movements. The sound of the buttons of your jeans popping as he yanked them down your legs, harsh enough to leave a light burn on your skin. You only gasped when he pressed his fingers into your clothed pussy, feeling how wet you truly were. Max chuckled, drawling out a sigh before hooking his fingers onto your waistband and pulling them down with the same level of aggressiveness.
A yelp fell from your mouth as the cold air rushed over your almost naked body, bra still on while Max’s arms pulled you over him, his body turning to face the full-length mirror in your hotel room. You pressed your lips together, watching his reflection in the mirror as he unbuckled his pants, letting his cock spring free.
You would dare say you missed it. You had dreamt about it once or twice since the first time you fucked. Haunting you. Yet no number of fingers or toys seem to placate you the way his cock did.
His lips grazed over your bare shoulder, his gaze still on your face, amused at the way you were so fixated on his cock it made him twitch. His breath whispered over your skin he spoke, “Today you’ll watch. Watch yourself beg. And then next time, you’ll ask me yourself, like my good obedient slut, hmm?”
You said nothing, hair on your body standing from his words alone. You watched quietly as he brought his belt to your hands, wrapping the leather around them tightly, leaving you bounded behind your back. You shuddered at the satisfactory hum falling from his lips, the sound from the depths of Tartarus itself.
His hand moved to part your legs, the other keeping you propped up on his leg. He sighed, eyes falling to your cunt. “Look at you. Look at how wet you are,” Max quietly moaned, two fingers gathering all the arousal dripping out of you, sending jolts up your body. He teased, rubbing over your clit in slow and torturous circles. He grinned as your teeth sunk into your lip. “I’ll be generous. Last chance, doll. You can still be a good girl and ask.”
You clenched your jaw, lips tightly shut. Max only smirked, giving no warning as he plunged his fingers into your cunt, hand tightening on your hip when you lurched, mouth wide open. He wasn’t slow anymore. The small thrusts were fast and intentional, curling already to bring you to the edge.
“You don’t take long, do you?” Max chuckled, cock twitching as he watched his fingers pump in and out of you. “You’re so greedy. Pretending like you don’t want this. But when I touch you, your body tells me a whole different story, showing me the slut, you really are.”
Your hand struggled against his belt wrapped around, fingers inching to reach outto his thigh and grab the ample flesh tightly. Your skin was burning. Breath heavy. The heat in your lower stomach boiling. Your body was defying you. And you couldn’t do anything because fuck, it felt so good.
“You going to come already?” Max teased, increasing the speed of his fingers as the sounds of your wetness only became louder. His lips grazed past your ear. “Then do it. And we’ll do it again. And again and again. Until you beg me to stop.”
Your body tensed, cunt pulsing uncontrollably around his fingers, wrists rubbing against one another, squirming in a burning friction against the leather. You were so fucking wet, it was ridiculous. It was seeping past your thighs and down your cunt. You were feeling it in places you probably shouldn’t be. But you couldn’t help it, grinding down his fingers like it was your job.
Only the broken cries you tried to stifle escape your mouth as you squealed at the curl of his fingers. “Max, I’m going to come!” Your voice shook, legs trembling over his lap.
“Yeah? Is my pretty little girl going to come like the whore she is?” Max cooed, tongue flattening as he licked a stripe of your neck.
Your hips ground down one last time, practically helpless, chasing that final curl of his fingers as your orgasm hit you. You cried out, body shaking above him, pussy convulsing around his fingers. Your head fell back to his shoulder as you gasped for air, for some time recover.
But Max wasn’t done. No. He had made a promise. And he intended to keep it.
You weren’t sure how much time had passed. Or how many times you had come. Four, you think. Twice more on his fingers and twice on his cock. You were losing count. The two of your bodies were slick and tangled, Max drawing out pleasure like it would never end. The sight of you in the mirror was sickening.
If you were wet before, you were completely flooded. Your arousal was all over Max. His jeans had come off at some point and now his thighs were shining with you. Your folds were puffy and red, clenching naturally by now. Your skin was flushed, sticking to his body with your sweat. Your hands burned from his belt. Between everything, his cock was in your pussy again for what felt like the hundredth time.
You could’ve sworn you were delirious. As though you were floating in the air.
You didn’t know how Max was doing it. His cock was still hard and leaking. Like he couldn’t stop even though he had come almost as many times as you had.
Max was pushing into you, still somehow stretching your walls despite everything – despite how soaked you are. Your moans were mingled together as he started to move, hips snapping into you and the slaps of your skin echoing throughout your hotel room.
“Ahh, fuck, Max!” You sobbed out, fingers practically begging to claw at his skin as the rhythm in your core started to build again.
“Still not going to stop me?” Max groaned, huffing as both of his hands found your hips, legs spread far part, aligning your body on him, driving his cock deeper and rougher into you. Finding every single spot to angle his hips just right until you’re wheezing for air, tears rolling down your cheek.
Fuck, you think you love this position.
“Just be honest with me, schat,” Max panted in your ear, voice rumbling with a fazed need. “Hmph!– does this look like the face of someone who won’t beg? Just look at how pretty you look.”
He forced your jaw to look down at the mirror. And through your blurry vision, you could see it. The crazed look on your face, the tears stained on your cheek, the thick white ring of cream around his cock slamming into your cunt. Hair clinging to the sweat on your body. Skin flushed and marked almost everywhere.
You were clenching around him so hard, you could feel every ridge, every twitch of his cock. The orgasm hit you, your breath catching, head lolling back to his shoulder as the heat flooded you from the inside out. You cursed. "Fuck!"
Max didn’t stop this time. He kept going through it, thrusting through your high, denying it’s end. Your hips pushed back against him as if it were a survival instinct, eyes rolling back, jaw slack and every nerve and fibre of your body crackling with pleasure.
“F-Fuckkkk,” Max choked out, sending a sharp slap to the side of your ass that made your entire body jolt. He watched your skin ripple in the mirror, and he could only groan, snapping his hips up into you again and again. Letting every thrust take the breath out of your lungs, body finally giving out above him.
You fell back into his body, head nuzzled into his shoulder, drool slowly slipping from the corner of your mouth, your body shaking. You were completely, utterly fucked out.
You could feel Max’s arms slide back to you, one curling tightly around your thigh, the other kneading your breast in slow, circular motions. He was still fucking thrusting, albeit slower, but no less intense than before. You could feel every inch, every undulation of his hips, his thick cock dragging against your overstimulated walls as he grunted against your ear.
“Max, please,” you sighed out, spent. Unable to even protest the leather bounding your hands.
“Tell me to stop,” Max groaned, looking at you through the mirror. He was still hellbent on that promise. Even if he was almost losing it, had come three fucking times, and was still hard as a rock because of your goddamn body.
The pleasure was too much now. Tangled with a pain and pressure you couldn’t even describe until know. You weren’t sure if your body even knew the difference. You were a mess. Trembling and whimpering. Body weak from all that Max had taken from you.
And yet, you couldn’t tell him to stop. You wanted more.
You had to blame the stamina of an athlete. You had no idea how he was still holding you against his body in his lap, legs still strong enough to prop you up against him as he sunk into you again without any warning.
Max rasped, balls-deep, moans loud and shameless, watching you so carefully through the mirror, drinking in every gasp, every roll of your eyes, every twitch, every bite of your lip, like he had been parched. His hips started to pound into you again, the pace relentless as before, greeting your soaked cunt with a wet, brutal introduction.
Your jaw slacked, lips parted, eyes half-lidded. You could barely speak let alone see.
“My pretty girl,” Max murmured, one hand slipping between your legs, thumb pressing to your clit before he rubbed in tight, fast circles. “Doing so good for me,” he praised.
Your body twitched violently beneath him, chest heaving tiredly because it hadn’t stopped heaving since he had touched you. Christ, you were barely holding it together.
Your consciousness was slipping in and out, dizzied and crazed with exhaustion and pleasure. But you felt it. The same stupid heat blooming lowly in your stomach. Your legs burned despite being held up by his body. Your lungs begged for some sort of air – something... anything.
“M-Max!” You sobbed, the words on the tip of your tongue, voice sore and cracked as his thrusts only became harder, thumb on its own ruthless journey.
“Say it. Tell me or be my good little slut,” Max sneered, his own cheeks flushed with read as he stared you down.
You didn’t say it. You only screamed.
“FUCK!”
Your body shook as the umpteenth orgasm hit you. Your walls contracted violently while you shrieked, back arching against him, your vision entirely white now. You could feel a gush of hot liquid pulsing out from your dripping cunt, drenching him, the mattress, the floor – everything.
Max’s mouth fell open at the sight. But he still didn’t stop. His hips kept moving up into you, rubbing every crevice in your walls, still thumbing your clit while you shook under him. You squirmed in his grasp, skin sticking each other, your body’s attempt at retreat failing as he kept you firmly to him.
“Max! Please!” You voice cracked.
“O-One more, schat,” Max moaned, lips brushing against your air, unable to forget the sight of all that liquid coming out of you.
You’re screaming again, soaked walls quivering around each drag of his cock. You could’ve sworn his own body was trembling underneath you as you squeezed him so tight, he almost frozen, blue eyes no longer looking at the mirror but rolling back, mouth dropping open.
You’re both too far gone. His hand around your thigh was bruising as he slammed up into you, again and again. Obscene squelches and slaps of your skin against one another filling the air. “Fuckfuckfuck!” Max mewled.
You screamed again, hands finally pressing harder enough against his belt to let your fingers barely escape. Your nails dug into his thigh so tightly you might’ve even seen a faint trail of blood as your body exploded for the last time. The same hot gush forcefully rippling out from your soaked cunt, splashing the both of you. Max was so into it; the sounds falling from his lips making him like the animal he was when your walls clamped so hard around him that it knocked his orgasm right out of him.
He came inside you, finally trembling in a way you can confirm it. His voice was broken while he spilled into you, deep and wild, over and over again as he emptied himself into you.
By the end of it, you’re shaking. The room is humid and musky, sharp if anything, the smell of sex embedded into everything, and the odd spots damp with both your slick and release.
For the first time, Max was careful as he pulled out, the action both making you moan quietly because God, you were way past oversensitive.
You fell to the mattress, parts of it still wet while you breathed heavily, trying to regain... something. If you had any dignity left before, you sure as hell didn’t now.
You're exhausted and tired. You don’t hear Max stand up after ten minutes, half-asleep. Nor did you hear him pull a fresh blanket from the cupboard and lay it over you gently. Nor did you feel him briefly trace over those fresh hickeys on your neck before he sighed and left as though he had never been there to begin with.
𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: your dance with the devil has left a lingering taste in your mouth. you can't tell if you want more. but what could possibly be the harm in a little indulgence? or in which a different routine is established between you and max, one that involves the same amount of anger and a little more touching.
𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: some fluff, some angst, poor humour, smut (18+ minors DNI), making out, degradation - name calling, brattiness, teasing, spanking, thigh riding, mutual orgasms, masturbation (m.), ego and pride, possessiveness, faint dom-sub dynamics
𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: max verstappen x fem!reader, charles leclerc x fem!reader
𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 4.4k+
tag list (lmk if you wanna be added): @ggaslyp1 @lovesick-sylus @charlesgirl16 @adelinegirlsstuff @freyathehuntress @kenkozkmg @angelluv16 @hott1es @samriddhisingh @theonlyonesora @killjoynotes @bluewxrld07 @dreamauri @fuckingsimp4azriel @fightclubendingscene @dontsupressthejess @emmapotato88 @wertyuizxcvbnm @gigivel28 @stereading @loverofhover @babybluelrh98 @leclercdream @baechugff @sunny44 @simplementemeencantafutbol @lilypat @gigigreens @unatempesta-dipensieri @silentreader128 @urmomsgirlfriend1 @a-beaverhausen @janeh22
🏎️ 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 | ⚽️ 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 | 𝐑𝐄𝐕𝐎𝐋𝐕𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐃𝐎𝐎𝐑 🫐
𝐀/𝐍: listen imma be honest... is this a filler chapter.. idk man. all i know is that i want max's thighs but that might just be me! but i promise it's getting only better from here. tried to add a bit more degrading stuff but we're not at that point in the series... yet 🫣
Max was true to his word. Gone within minutes. He didn’t stay. Not that it mattered. It was what you had agreed on.
“We finish and we leave.”
You presumed he had gone to some sort of debriefing, not hearing him enter his hotel room. You stared at the ceiling in disbelief, wrapped in a robe after taking a shower. Reality was beginning to hit you. You had just fucked Max Verstappen. Your sworn enemy. The only person in the entire world who seemed to enjoy getting under your skin. And he had made you beg.
“Fuck,” you groaned, shoving your face into your pillow. It’s not like you regretted it. It was more like... why on earth had you done it in the first place?
Your ears perked at the buzz from your phone in your purse near the door. You lifted yourself up off the bed but instantly faltered back down, facepalming into the soft duvets. All that dicking down... it seems it had finally hit you. Your cheeks burned. You were never going to live this down.
You sucked in a sharp breath, lifting yourself up again, pressing your lips at the way your legs felt like jelly as you walked over to your purse, fingers picking out your phone. You squinted at the screen, reading the words.
Charles
Missed call
You blinked. Right. That’s why.
You could still see his hand intertwined with Alexandra’s like it was right in front you. You sighed, rubbing your eyes tiredly. Your phone vibrated in your hand again; the same name planted across the screen. You stared at the caller ID for a beat, hoping he would end it before you picked up. You let it ring... once... twice... and a third – you swiped.
“Yes, Arthur. What do you want now? My soul?” You queried, the feigned amused pretence instantly in the tip of your tongue.
He cleared his throat on the other end of the line. “It’s Charles.”
You stayed silent for a second as if you had realised it too. “Oh,” you pursed your lips. “Hey Charles. Désolé. Arthur’s been pestering me,” you apologised, lie easily slipping out of your mouth.
“It’s okay,” Charles said before sucking in a sharp breath. “Uh... I was just wondering if I could get your help?”
You rubbed your arm, walking around your hotel room. You chewed your lip. Christ... you really didn’t want to. But when had you ever been able to say no? “Sure. What’s up?”
“I need you to decide what outfit I should wear tonight.”
You furrowed your brows. “What’s tonight?”
“I’m taking Alex to dinner. It’s a fancy place. I want to look good,” Charles murmured, seemingly shuffling some things in what you assumed to be the garage.
You paused. Of course. Is that what you were now? His brother’s best friend. There to help him with all his girl troubles. You rubbed your temple lightly. “Charles... you always dress yourself,” you replied, confusion apparent.
“I know,” he simply said.
Neither of you said anything for a minute. The silence was loud in your ears. Ringing and painful.
He wanted you to dress him for the girl he cherished.
You sighed quietly, gripping the phone tighter. “Just wear white polo shirt and those black trousers. You always look good in those,” you mumbled quietly, starring hard at the white wall in front of you.
Charles said nothing, letting the hushed weight of your words roll over the both of you. “Okay,” he finally said. “Thank you.”
You nodded even though he couldn’t see you, jaw tightly clenched. “You’re welcome.”
━━━━━━━━━━━
You hadn’t caught a wink of sleep last night. You had spent the entire night tossing and turning and for no good reason. At nine thirty, you wondered how the date was going. Whether Charles had taken your advice or not. How pretty Alexandra looked. Whether they sat at a table and smile like they were in love while you laid in bed, unable to get the echoes of their laughter out of your head.
Fuck... were you as pathetic as Max had made you out to be?
You had avoided Charles all day, steering clear of that blaring red garage. Instead, you had opted to sit in the paddock, watching with everybody as qualifying started under the warm sun of Suzuka. It was always nerve-wrecking for you. Even after ten years of racing in different championships, every qualifying made your heart thrum – unsettled and agitated. You normally didn’t breathe until Charles had passed the checkered flag.
Today was no different. Even if your cheeks burned as Alexandra came onto the screen, smiling so gracefully at the camera that everyone around you whispered in awe. You chewed your lip cautiously, eyes glimmering over the seconds ebbing away from Charles, improving but it wasn’t enough.
A minute twenty-seven. Good for fourth. Pushed from third by Lando who had gone to the top of the times provisionally. You could already feel the annoyance seeping from Ferrari’s garage.
Haphazardly, your eyes flickered to Max’s name across the screen. Greens and purples lighting up his data. Everyone’s breath seemed to seize along with yours, slowly edging to stand on your feet as the RedBull creeped past the checkered flag.
The voice is loud and clear, echoing throughout the paddock, through every speaker.
“Verstappen takes pole with a blistering final sector! He’s been on pole for the last three years here and somehow Verstappen in that RedBull has put his car on pole! Here comes Piastri – and he stays third! And from absolutely nowhere, Max Verstappen has shown why he is a four-time World Champion to take pole here at Suzuka for the fourth consecutive year!”
You blinked, heart slamming in your chest as you took a deep breath. You shifted on your feet before returning to your seat, the loud murmurs and cheers rumbling through the air. Unknowingly or knowingly, you smiled to yourself but not without an amused huff.
You clicked your tongue, shaking your head. “Not bad. Not bad at all,” you mumbled.
━━━━━━━━━━━
The congratulations had come pouring in. Almost deafening to Max’s ears. He didn’t let it distract him. It never did. With every interview, he was already thinking about the race. The strategy. The urge to win.
But then he saw you. At the end of the day. Sun slowly setting at Suzuka, paddock now only buzzing with some of the staff and officials preparing and doing their final checks. You were slowly walking on your phone, scrolling or writing – he couldn’t tell. He could tell, however, by your small limp, what exactly he had done to you. That was enough to make his heart soar with a smugness unlike any other.
Before he knew it, Max had his hand around your wrist, dragging you to the nearest corner. He watched your eyes widen slightly before they glazed over with that idiotic pride that always burned his skin. He only grinned, one hand on the wall behind you, the other still clasped around your wrist, leaving only a couple inches between you.
“Not going to congratulate me?” Max queried, blue eyes raking over you not sensually but curiously. Curious at the light bags under your eyes. Ones he didn’t give you.
You raised a brow, giving him a pointed look. “And what? Feed into your ego even more? No thanks,” you quipped back, eyes rolling with indifference as you pulled your hand out of his grasp.
Max chuckled softly, watching your eyes travel to the evening sky. He blinked at the odd shade around your pupil glimmering under the sunset and took a step back. He breathed in quietly, folding his arms and resting his back on a nearby wall. “Charles happy with fourth?”
You pressed your lips together, eyes reverting to Max. You shrugged. “No idea... probably not,” you commented idly.
Max stayed quiet for a beat, looking at you. Calculating your detachment. “You weren’t in the garage today.”
You blinked in surprise. You didn’t expect him to notice. Only Arthur hounded you, spamming you with texts. You nodded after some time. “It’s suffocating,” you mumbled, more to yourself than him.
You peered at him, waiting for him to respond. But it seemed like he had gone soft. One fuck hadn’t changed him... had it?
Max leaned off the wall, eyes narrowing, amusement swirling within them. “You should try use that bratty mouth of yours and talk yourself out of everything,” he huffed. “Pathetic, really.”
There he was.
You snorted. “You say that like you haven’t been looking at my lips for the past five minutes,” you retorted, tilting your head. You had seen it. The very common flicker and linger on your mouth between every sentence. “Why? Miss them already?” You cooed.
The corner of his mouth tugged upwards. His hand reached out, skimming past your waist, eliciting a gasp from your lips as he pulled you close to him. “Oh, I’ll kiss them again,” he promised, barely a centimetre away from you, hot breath fawning over your face. “But when I kiss them, I’ll be a winner.”
━━━━━━━━━━━
The words unsaid were louder. When I kiss them, I’ll be a winner. Because Charles wouldn’t be. A promise. An oath. Max’s words of honour.
And he was true to them.
Max had won.
Suzuka roared, his fans howled in the stands as he stood on the podium for the fourth year in a row, proud. You didn’t dare show up anywhere near him. You couldn’t bear to see that smug smirk on his face.
But the problem was you were already avoiding another pair of blue eyes. Leaving you sandwiched between Alexandra and Arthur as Charles stood a person over, all of you about to leave the paddock as the evening debriefing had finished.
“I think I should be the one who reverses out,” Arthur said cautiously, flickering his eyes to his brother and then to Charles’ Ferrari that had been parked way over the line.
Charles gave his younger brother a blank look, shoulders slumping. “Seriously? It’s not that bad.”
You and Arthur both raised a brow, exchanging concerned glances as Alexandra pressed her lips together, strained smile washing over her face. She put a hand on his shoulder. “I think you might need to give this one up,” she murmured, soft laughing not falling far behind.
You looked away from the action, hearing him reluctantly agree while you found interest in the pavement. You felt like a child. You hated the burning feeling running through your chest. And yet it still wasn’t jealousy. It was an ache of heartbreak. The only reason you were even in the vicinity of this monstrosity was because this pain would be better than the one you would have if Charles’ ever found out how you felt – a move that would be evident if you started straight up ignoring up.
“Christ, now that is what I call bad parking,” a familiar voice erupted into the air, immediately causing the hairs on your body to stand. The four of you slowly turned to the recent winner. You blinked, instantly finding something else–anything else to stare at.
Max clicked his tongue, tilting his head at Charles. “How do you even drive around Monaco?”
Arthur snorted, folding his arms as he stood next to you. “Please. He’s lucky enough Monaco would even rebuild the roads for him.”
Max hummed in agreement, blue eyes taunting you briefly as Charles rolled his eyes, taking a step forward. His arm darted out, hand patting Max’s shoulder firmly. “Congrats again, man. Four times in a row,” he whistled with a small shake of his head. “That’s half of all my race wins.”
You and Arthur both physically winced at the pained laugh falling from Charles’ lips. “Well, that is just a crazy thing to say,” your best friend mumbled under his breath, just letting you capture his voice.
You nodded in agreement, nudging your head to him. “How far do you think he is from crashing out?” You whispered.
Arthur pursed his lips, raking his eyes over his brother with scrutiny. “I think he has been since he signed the damn contract,” he said back, rubbing his neck.
You raised your brows at his words. “Well, that’s a fair assumption,” you sighed, foot tapping on the pavement anxiously, giving a small smile of acknowledgement to Rupert, Max’s trainer.
Arthur tongued his cheek, leaning down again. “I can’t tell if Max wants to kill you or fuck you.”
“Arthur!” You hissed quietly, whipping your head to him as if to say: “This again?”
“What?” Arthur shrugged, amused at the way your cheeks flushed, and your eyes trembled with shock. “I’m just saying. I still you think you two need to fuck it out. Maybe the hatred is just sexual tension.”
You said nothing, only grumbling some incoherent, moving your eyes from him and locking them with Max’s goading gaze. It said everything – a promise kept and a promise he'll keep.
His words rung in your head again. Louder. Like an echo.
When I kiss them, I’ll be a winner.
Said with conviction.
When I kiss them, I’ll be a winner.
The vow in those blue eyes.
When I kiss them, I’ll be a winner.
You blinked, slightly shuddering, hands covering your arms. And by the small smirk on Max’s face as he returned talking to Charles, you could tell he knew what you were thinking.
━━━━━━━━━━━
You didn’t think much when you had opened your hotel room, assuming it was Arthur asking for your help to pack seeing it was your last night in Japan, and you had a semi-early flight back to Monaco in the morning.
But there he stood in all his glory. The same stupid smirk painted on his face. But overshadowed by the darkness in his eyes.
“Max,” you simply greeted with a small swallow. You didn’t know why. But every time he stood in front of you after you two fucked, he seemed to make the nerves in your body truly come alive. Your breathing a bit erratic. Perhaps it was the flashbacks in your head as he did.
His humiliating words. His rough grip. His demeaning tone.
Christ. You pressed your thighs together as discreetly as you could. “What?” You mumbled annoyed, still not hearing a response from him.
Max had nothing really to say. Not when you stood in front of him in that tight white singlet dotted with red hearts, matching with those small shorts clinging to your body like it was holding on for dear life.
“You always wear those to bed?” He finally asked, begrudgingly moving his eyes to meet yours. His voice was reverent and low – contained and restricted as if he was trying to fight himself.
Your mouth dried, blinking rapidly. “I... well, it’s hot,” you retorted like it was obvious.
“It sure is.”
He stared you, silent for a beat. Taking a step forward, starting a game of tug of war with you as you took one back into your hotel room. Max only grinned in amusement, raking over you once again, inches away from you, hot breath wavering over your body before walking past you, leaving you to lock the door behind you.
You turned, watching him take a seat on the armchair in the corner of the room, jean-cladded thighs spreading, his elbow propping his chin to rest in his hand, index finger rubbing his lips while those blue eyes kept themselves on you. His other hand moved slowly – wordlessly. Patting his right thigh only twice. “Come here.”
Max waited. Not falling for your egotistical bullshit this time. The silence was thin and long, stretching into what felt like forever. His gaze wasn’t challenging. Nor was it patient. It was forbearing and composed. As though he had everything under control.
“Make me.”
He didn’t. Have control, that is.
Max kissed his teeth with his tongue, eyes narrowing on the way you stood in front of him in those thin clothes, hand on your hip, brow raised in the name of challenge. Christ, you were so annoying.
“Don’t threaten me with a good time,” Max sighed, not moving just yet – still sulking in his patience.
“Why?” You chuckled, ending with a sneer. “What are you going to do? There’s nothing you can do that’ll embarrass me enough.”
Max narrowed his eyes, staring at you. They were up again. Your walls. Resisting the urge to push past those barriers and cave in. Barriers that were fuelled by your ego and hid the memories of your pleas from the other night.
He slowly stood from the armchair, inching back to you, not willing to break eye contact with you even for a second.
Your breath hitched when his hand came to your waist, cold against your burning skin. He pulled you close to him – rough and tight. In seconds you were back to the armchair, and he was sitting again. Except this time, you were bent over his knees, chest leaning on the armrest, ass laying firmly in his vicinity.
You swallowed at the feel of his hand skimming over your ass, his touch leaving a trail of goosebumps on your skin. You could hear him breath in, the sound tempered and calculated as he groped the ample flesh. His face, although you couldn’t see it, was unreadable. Calm, if anything. But his grip said something else entirely.
“Why do you have to make everything so difficult, schat?” He asked with a disappointed click of his tongue.
You didn’t have the opportunity to respond. Not when the air bent and morphed, allocating the sharpest sting that made your knees wobble when Max’s hand came slamming down onto your ass.
A yelp escaped your lips while Max only laughed, breathless and wicked as he always was. “Did that hurt, my pretty girl?” He queried, eyeing the lingering flushed print on your cheek. He smiled. “Good.”
He gave another. The sound resounding in the air of the hotel room. Max couldn’t lie. It was captivating to watch your ass jiggle from his hand alone. To watch your skin redden with pain.
“Ask for it,” Max breathed out, sending another harsh whack to your ass. “Ask me nicely if I’ll let you come today. By the looks of it... I think you really want to,” he whispered with a loud smirk.
You pressed your lips together, saying nothing. You couldn’t. Not when your cunt was already pooling with arousal, staining the front of your shorts, showing Max exactly how you felt. Each slap to your ass was shooting a wave of pleasure through your core, making you unconsciously grind your cunt into nothing, leaving you desperate for something.
Max chuckled darkly at your silence, harshly groping your ass, gripping your red skin with little care and a lot of admiration. “Such a whore for this,” he sighed with amusement, sending another whack to you. “What would Charles think of this?” He taunted.
His words vibrated in your head. Charles... not again. You didn’t want that name anywhere near you right now. Not when you were grinding your hips into nothing just from a few slaps to the ass.
“Fine,” you breathed out, choking on your words as his hand grazed your sore, burning skin. “Will you let me come today?”
Max only hummed.
You rolled your eyes, grumbling under your breath. “Please,” you huffed, your face flushing. “Will you let me come today... please?” You begrudgingly asked.
Max smiled with content, hands moving to your hips to turn your body. “Now was that so hard, schat?”
You narrowed your eyes. “You better fuck good.”
Max chuckled while he slotted you over his thigh and you sat and stared at him. Curiosity swarmed through your eyes. Like you were trying to predict his next move.
His fingers moved to brush up your arm and your collarbone, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its path. His thumb pressed against your jugular lightly before holding your jaw like he always seemed to – like he owned it.
He’s close to you. Enough you could feel his breath again. Feel the heat radiating off his face. He sneered, “Who said anything about fucking you?”
Your lips parted open in disbelief. What on earth was he talking about? You didn’t have a second more to contemplate it.
His mouth crashed into yours like he was fucking starved for it. It was not slow or careful. It was never slow or careful with Max as you had recently found out. It was everything he promised a day ago. Hot, flammable, and all consuming.
This kiss of a winner.
You gasped into his mouth. And Max groaned at the sound. His hands finally flying to your hips, his thigh tensed underneath you. Your hands travelled to his face, pulling him closer if it was possible, feeling the traces of his bare stubble prick your fingers.
You didn’t know when it happened or how. But Max was pressing himself into you, his grip on your hips pushing you down onto his thigh, letting the hardness of his jean rub against you while he devoured you.
You pushed your lips away, head tilted up, grappling with your lungs for fresh air while his mouth trailed down your neck. “Did you taste that?” He murmured against your skin, returning his gaze back to you as you looked back at him, chest heaving. He smirked with an ease that only came to him. “That was the taste of victory.”
You rolled your eyes. Yet you couldn’t help but press down into his thigh. By the way he tensed underneath you, you knew he could tell too.
“Look at you,” Max clicked his tongue, one hand swiping down your midriff, pressing firmly down to reveal that damp underside of your shorts, the hearts dark and white sticky. “So wet already. Haven’t even done anything to you yet,” he mumbled.
Your cheeks burned at his words. Yet. Like he was about to make you fall apart all over again.
“Grind up against me,” he ordered, voice wrapped in velvet while he moved his hand back to your hip.
You stared at him, blank and almost confused. He tilted his head, smiling at you so gently, one would’ve thought he was being kind to you. “I said I’d let you come. I didn’t say I’d fuck you to it. Now go on. Roll those hips.”
Your cheeks burned at his words. Humiliation pouring into every single pore of your skin.
You rolled your hips tentatively and slowly like you were testing it out rather than obeying him. You shuddered at the feel of his jeans pressing against your cunt, breath immediately caught. Your hand flew to his shoulder to steady yourself as you shifted on his thigh. The friction was instant, sending a shockwave through you.
“Again.”
Your eyes flew to Max and then to his other hand that had unbuckled his belt and brought out his cock. When he did all that... you didn’t know. You swallowed, unable to peel your eyes away as flashbacks of your night together hit you.
The tense of his thigh underneath you brought you back to reality. His eyebrow raised as if to say, “I’m waiting.”
His hand guided your hip, dragging out the movement, letting you feel every inch of him beneath you. The roughness of his jeans rubbed against your clothed cunt, the hard friction enough to press the fabric of your shorts against your wet folds, grazing your clit. It was so simple. So tame. Yet it was unlike anything you’ve felt before.
Max watched you, blue eyes dark and hungry as your pants filled the room, each one more ragged than the other as he pumped his cock, his own chest rising and falling. His teeth sunk into his lips, purposely flexing his thigh. He knew what he was doing. It was like he was attuned to you.
“That’s it,” he coaxed, lips brushing against your ear, “grind on my thigh like the needy slut you are.”
You moaned in response. You couldn’t form a single coherent sentence to fight back. The heat between your legs was building. Every drag, every shift over the firm muscle of Max’s thigh made your cunt pulse, simply dripping with pleasure.
Max only grinned, pushing your hip to guide you even faster. “I knew it, he chuckled, the sound dark and reverent. “I told you then. You can pretend all you want. Walk around like your Charles’ innocent angel. But really, you’re just my bitch in heat. Turned on because of my fucking thigh,” he hissed.
Your nails sunk into his shoulder, an odd mix of shame and ecstasy hitting you like a slap in the face. Your moans turned louder, head quickly falling to his shoulder as the pleasure built. You were shaking, you swear. The intensity of each wave of pleasure was making you tremble.
Through your glazed eyes, you could see him, still fisting his cock, his own hips jerking and grinding against his own hand like he was also getting close. You would’ve said something. Some snarky comment. But you couldn’t find the words. Only the pleasure controlled by Max’s grip on your hip.
For a moment it loosened. Teasing you by ripping away pleasure for a second as he held your jaw again. Bastard. “What? Going to come? Is my pretty girl going to come all over my thigh like a needy little whore?”
You could hear it. The strain in his voice. Like he was battling his inner demons, set on ruining you first.
You groaned, eyes fluttering. “Fuck,” you gasped out, rutting against his thigh even faster as his hand fell back to your hip.
You couldn’t help it. The coil in your body snapped. Your cries were soft yet sharp while your hips bucked against his thigh, rolling waves of pleasure hitting you one after the other. Max’s grip never faltered, holding you steady against him, grounding you to him.
And all while your breathless, chest heaving, body slumping slightly, you could feel Max shoot his arm out to your jaw, bringing your lips harshly against him. His own hips jerked, snapping against his hand as he kissed you like a bruise, silencing his grunts to reverberate down your throat while his body stilled, white taking over his vision, ropes of his cum spilling over his hands, onto his jeans, and against your thigh. The crime scene was delectable. Your arousal seeped into his jeans, his cum painting over the canvas like it belonged there.
𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: after getting your heartbroken by your long-time one-sided love for charles, the most irritating and vexing person in your life, max verstappen, suggests only one thing to remedy it: fucking it out. and after some brief scepticism, you agree. what could possibly go wrong?
𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: enemies with benefits, angst, smut (18+ please for the love of god minors DNI), best friend's older brother vibes, bad french and dutch, poor humour, mental health, insecurities, jealousy
𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: max verstappen x fem!reader, charles leclerc x fem!reader
EP 1 | AN OPEN DOOR
EP 2 | MEDDLE ABOUT
EP 3 | BABYDOLL
EP 4 | PACIFY HER
EP 5 | PLAY WITH ME
EP 6 | HOUSE OF BALLOONS
EP 7 | JEALOUS TYPE
EP 8 | DADDY ISSUES
EP 9 | SHE'S ALL I WANNA BE
EP 10 | DO I WANNA KNOW?
EP 11 | BACK TO FRIENDS
EP 12 | THE CUT THAT ALWAYS BLEEDS
EP 13 | A CLOSED DOOR
total word count: 76.1k
EP 13.1 | dancing with our hands tied s|f|a
EP 13.2 | their first podium f|a
EP 13.3 | happy birthday max f|a
EP 13.4 | revolving door universe headcanons f|s
EP 13.5 | max vs superman f|s
EP 13.6 | horror night at the leclercs f
EP 13.7 | hand-painted trophies f|a
EP 13.8 | cat whisperer + cat parents f
Ep 13.9 | positive reinforcement f|s
EP 13.10 | casual lore drop f|a
EP 13.11 | the simulator f|s
EP 13.12 | the winner takes it all f|a
EP 13.13 | i think you'd look best in all white f|a
EP 13.14 | yes to forever f|a
EP 13.15 | honeymoon avenue f|s
EP 13.16 | a forever family f|a
total word count: 54.6k
PLAYLIST
𝐀/𝐍: yes this is not a drill! i'm writing another series! however, this idea is credited to this lovely anon who i dearly thank for requesting this! i hope you like it as much as summer sunshine although, as you can see, the tone is a bit different. and this one doesn't have entirely pre-written chapters so i'm taking my time to explore the plot here!
𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: now that you've decided to dance with the devil, he's left waiting for the next moment you meet behind closed doors. or in which max learns the game of patience.
𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: fluff, angst, poor humour, smut (18+ minors DNI), making out, unprotected sex (let's be safe pls), p in v, degradation - lots of name calling, brattiness, teasing, blowjob, tears, light choking, orgasm denial, fingering, eating out, cumming inside, mutual orgasms, overstimulation, an immense amount of ego and pride, possessiveness, faint dom-sub dynamics
𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: max verstappen x fem!reader, charles leclerc x fem!reader
𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 6.6k+
tag list (lmk if you wanna be added): @ggaslyp1 @lovesick-sylus @charlesgirl16 @adelinegirlsstuff @freyathehuntress @kenkozkmg @angelluv16 @hott1es @samriddhisingh @theonlyonesora @killjoynotes @bluewxrld07 @dreamauri @fuckingsimp4azriel @fightclubendingscene @dontsupressthejess @emmapotato88 @wertyuizxcvbnm @gigivel28 @stereading @loverofhover @babybluelrh98 @leclercdream @baechugff @sunny44 @simplementemeencantafutbol @lilypat @gigigreens @unatempesta-dipensieri
🏎️ 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 | ⚽️ 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 | 𝐑𝐄𝐕𝐎𝐋𝐕𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐃𝐎𝐎𝐑 🫐
𝐀/𝐍: second chapter!!! the one you have all been waiting for perhaps. full disclosure, i've never been good at writing the whole degradation thing so it's a bit out of my line of work but here's to trying! see you next week and enjoy 😉
You didn’t think too much before placing your lips on his own, his hand immediately darting from your jaw to the back of your neck. You welcomed the heat of Max’s mouth with open arms, feeling his other hand grasp your hip, pushing your body into his. You could smell him. The suede, smoky, and patchouli notes so strong you could almost taste it on your tongue.
Max could barely let himself think when you toyed with the hem of his shirt, fingers crawling underneath and grazing his skin. He groaned with satisfaction upon the feel of your hand against his bare abdomen, the sound travelling from his throat and reverberating through your mouth.
It wasn’t gentle. Nothing about this was gentle.
Perhaps it was desperate, full of years and years of pent-up annoyance and frustration that you served one another. Max’s mouth was open and greedy. Almost like he had thought about this before. Devouring you that is.
You could only gasp into it, breath catching in your throat while his fingers tightened around your hip – grounding, firm, possessive. You could feel every part of him, his grip bringing you so close to him like he was a predator ensuring his prey didn’t escape.
Your other hand had flown into that light brown hair, tugging sharply enough from him to grunt into your mouth. His lips nudged your own to part, tongue grazing yours with an unhurried leisure, like he wanted to taste all of you to his own accord.
Maybe it was because you were heartbroken. Or maybe it was because you had finally gone crazy. But you kissed him like you had been starved and deprived – because you were. You had denied yourself everything in the hope that one day Charles would feel the same. But Christ, this was what you had missed out on?
Max’s thumb only further dug into your hip, clawing into the chain slung around your waist, a strained moan swirling at the base of his throat when he felt you press up on his growing length. God, you were perfect. The way you slotted against him like you were made for each other.
Your kiss still wasn’t slow. It was like a flickering flame. Fast and burning over and over again. Never quite wanting to go out.
You grasped his shirt in your fingers tightly, breath stuttering when you pulled back just a smidge, swollen lips still brushing against his while your forehead touched. You could hear his breath the way you saw his chest heave: fast and dizzy. You couldn’t help but give a small grin. “We’re not fucking in a bathroom,” you whispered.
You looked back up at Max, breath catching at his darkened eyes and blown pupils. You could’ve sworn he loosened his grip on your hip. “Why not? Too dirty for a princess like you?” He taunted, eyes still focused on your warm lips and flushed cheeks.
You rolled your eyes, pulling away from him begrudgingly, instantly losing all the heat he had brought you while you gathered your things. “You’re in the Circuit hotel, right?” You paused for a second, waiting for his nod. “Room 331. I'll see you after free practice. Good luck dealing with that,” you winked.
Max tongued his cheek, watching you leave before he looked down at the large bulge in his pants. He sighed, shoulders slumping while he rubbed his face. He could tell from the smirk in your face. You knew what he’d be doing for the next ten minutes.
━━━━━━━━━━━
Returning to Charles and Alex, you only gave them a tight smile, failing to ignore the way your heart clenched at the sight of his arm around her waist. You all had hopped into the service car provided, the chauffeur driving you to the hotel before Charles got ready to head to the circuit.
As the scenery of Japan passed by you, you found yourself looking out the window, staring into oblivion, trying to blank out the laughs of the couple next to you. You recalled the past few hours of your life. You couldn’t believe you were seated next to Charles and Alex, minutes after kissing Max, the only man who seemed enjoy your suffering.
Could you even call that kissing?
You were seemingly haunted, still feeling his lips on yours. The pace... his urgency to devour you. As if he couldn’t get enough of your taste.
You blinked, swallowing slowly as Alex called your name out. You turned to her with a small smile and a raised brow. “Are you okay? You didn’t seem that great on the plane. Even Max ran after you,” she asked, tone embedded with disbelief over the Dutch driver.
Charles nodded next to her, mirroring the concern in his eyes. The action still made your heart flutter. The only difference now was that it was reserved. Reserved for his younger brother’s best friend.
Your smile turned tight as you nodded. “I’m fine. Just an upset stomach or something. Max was only there to piss me off as per usual,” you muttered out the believable lie.
Alex nodded in understanding, covering the loud silence from her boyfriend. Your eyes flickered to the building outside your window while the car came to a stop. The Suzuka Circuit Hotel was a pretty little thing, close to the track. The building was mostly glass, lush green grass amongst the paths leading to the entrance. Most of the teams had booked out the place since it was so close to the circuit.
You thanked the chauffeur for opening the car door, your hand only on your purse, carry-on in the back while you exited. You took a sharp inhale of the air, contently humming to yourself. You always loved the smell of Suzuka. Fresh and mixed with a sandalwood and sea smell no matter where you were in Japan. It was still a bit cold despite the sun being out, enough for you to wrap your arms around yourself before taking a step towards the hotel.
“Ma chérie!” A familiar voice yelled.
Your ears perked up, eyes drifting to the figure stationed outside the hotel door. A quick grin sprawled onto your face, feet moving so fast that before you even knew it, your arms were hung around his neck, body swirling in the air. “Arthur!” You laughed, feeling the world spin.
Arthur grinned, putting you down gently. You nudged him with a small pout and narrowed eyes. “I didn’t think you’d be here.”
Arthur had been a busy guy, testing cars here and there, providing simulator data, and then racing and practicing. He was everywhere but in Monaco, next to you when you needed him the most.
“Of course I would be,” he rolled his eyes, pressing a light kiss to the side of your head. He pursed his lips. “I missed you, you idiot.”
You gave him a pointed look, smile still on your face. “I might have too,” you shrugged casually, shifting on your feet with amusement.
Arthur squinted at you before hooking his arms around your neck and head, your back cowering at his grip. “Might have? Outrageous!” He gasped, only lightly putting you into a headlock.
“Oh, let the poor girl go,” Alex’s voice chided, hand looped through Charles’, who looked at the both of you silently.
It was odd. Suddenly you couldn’t read him. It was usually easy. Every dip of his brow, the degree of how much dimple he showed, the tips of his ears when he lied... all signs you learned by heart. But it was a lot more difficult now.
You blinked as Arthur released you, instantly reminded of who was around you. You pressed your lips, composing yourself with a small exhale as your best friend raised a brow at the new couple. He nudged you with mended brows, head dipping down to whisper. “Did you know about this?”
Your lips parted, light-tipped smile gracing your face. “Only found out a few hours ago,” you mumbled, concealing the way your voice almost faltered.
Arthur shook his head. “Why are we always the last to find out?”
You only gave half a laugh, looking at the floor before turning to the hotel door. You took a step in that direction. “Well, I don’t know about anyone else but I’m going to go unpack.”
Arthur darted his hand out, holding your wrist to prevent you from leaving. “We are getting ice cream, right?” He queried; pleading look on his face. A tradition you had for a few years now. Ice cream in Japan while you talked about whatever and whoever.
You sighed dramatically, unaware of the peering eyes. “I’ll be out in ten.”
━━━━━━━━━━━
You sat in an ice cream shop warmed by dim lights, flowers, and a light blue theme. A place where every year Arthur claimed it wasn't true to Italian gelato but would still order a scoop extra for himself.
“So,” Arthur started, feeding himself some pistachio gelato. “What’s been going on?”
You shrugged, swallowing scoop the gianduja flavoured you always picked out. “Nothing much. Still doing all the boring stuff.”
Arthur gave you a blank look, pointing his spoon at you. “You can’t call travelling for a living and writing about it boring. It’s like saying Charles doesn’t get paid enough to attend those boring galas.”
That’s right. While others assumed you hung around the Leclercs and that’s why you travelled with them, most of your days were spent behind a screen, trying to dish out all beautiful and the ugly of every country or city under a fake name. You loved it though. It was a small blog with accompanied social medias and a cult following that grew every day. It was everything and more than you could ask for.
Your lips curled at Charles’ name. In disgust or fondness – you couldn’t tell. You sighed, nodding slowly, eyes moving around the store, people watching. “You’re right,” you agreed. “What’s up with you?”
Arthur raised a brow, leaning back into his seat. “How do you mean?”
“You and Jade. Off and on? Like a light switch,” you mumbled, narrowing your eyes at him.
Your best friend returned a flat look. Like a light switch was crazy. “I don’t know,” he groaned in defeat. “We keep fighting. And then the next day we’re happy and kissing the shit out of each other. A bit like you and Max.”
Your cheeks flushed at his words. You couldn’t help the events of the morning flood back to your brain. You swallowed, lips parting. “We're nothing like that... w-we're nothing.”
Arthur eyed you slowly. You were acting weird. But since he couldn’t entirely put his finger on why, he decided to let it pass. “Well, yeah. Just except the happy and kissing part. You two are like Tom and Jerry. Always at each other’s throats. Sometimes I think you two need to just fuck it out.”
You choked on your ice cream, hand immediately coming to your chest to soothe the dull ache while Arthur hurriedly pushed a glass of water towards you. You gulped down the liquid, clearing your throat before you glared at him, feeling the stares of some of the other customers around you. “Dude,” you hissed, giving everyone a small apologetic look.
Arthur shrugged, hands raised in his defence. “I’m just saying. I can’t even remember the last time you were in a relationship. When’s the last time you got laid, for crying out loud? I’ve seen footballers in your DMs. Footballers,” he dramatically exasperated, looking at you in awe.
You sighed, looking over at your watch. “I’m leaving in five if you keep talking about this.”
Arthur groaned, begrudgingly pressing his lips together. “I’m just trying to be a good friend,” he mumbled before shoving a spoon of gelato in his mouth.
You gave him a sarcastic smile. “Well, you can always try less.”
Arthur stayed quiet, narrowing his eyes at you. “I hate you.”
“Please. You adore me.”
━━━━━━━━━━━
Max had always taken pride in his racing. He loved it. No matter how many people told him how he felt about it or what type of racer he was, he knew what he believed in. He loved being in the car. He loved that he could try and become one with gravity at every corner or chicane. He loved it so much he raced during his break. He even loved free practice.
But for the first time in his life, Max had been dying to come out of his car. For the first time, he drove around a circuit in the most uncomfortable pain because all he could think about was you, your lips, and your body pressed against him. He couldn’t even begin to explain the torture of having his cock strain against his briefs while he experienced 5 fucking Gs on his body.
Max had actually fought the urge to knock on your door last night. Maybe his cock was controlling him to walk to your door, but it was his pride that had him walking back to him room after what he could hear through the wall. Instead, he had laid in his bed, pants haphazardly shoved down, hand fisting his cock while he quietly rasped your name and came for the second time that day.
The entirety of Red Bull was left speechless when free practice came to an end and Max spent all but one second in the car before scampering out of the garage and back to the hotel. He ignored the call for lunch as well. What else would he want to eat when he could taste you?
Max had seen you earlier in the paddock, talking to Charles’ trainer, Andrea. He was sure you could feel his eyes burning through your skull, trying to get even a glimpse of your attention, trying to let you see how smug he was. But you paid him none. Only your lips quirking in delight while you talked, dressed in that stupid cream halter top, held together by a shiny gold brooch, and falling thin and sheer across your stomach. He could see it. That waist chain hanging on your hips, the one he felt while he grabbed you and pressed you against him.
Such a fucking tease.
Max waited outside your door after knocking three times and sending you a text when you hadn’t responded. Maybe you had forgotten. Maybe you were backing out. He sighed, resting the back of his head on the door. God, he hoped you weren’t.
“Three texts? I mean would it be wrong to call you... desperate?” Your amused voice chorused through the empty corridor, your phone in one hand, purse on the other.
Okay, fine. Maybe he had sent you more than one text. God, was that a crime?
Max whipped his head to you, silently watching you walk over to him, hand fishing through your purse for your keycard. He inched closer to you, barely centimetres away from you as his hands covered yours to stop you from moving. You stilled, eyes flickering to the way his jaw flexed while his fingers purposely skimmed past your waist, skin heating underneath the thin fabric as he did, before he grabbed the keycard, his eyes focused on your face.
You chewed the inside of your cheek, ears perking at the beeps echoing from your door. You watched cautiously as he walked into your hotel room. He was so quiet. You could barely hear him breathe. Like an animal circling his surroundings. You followed him, closing the door behind you.
He was still in uniform, the RedBull logo glaring at you, still covered in the sweat of today while he turned towards you.
Max did nothing while he stood in front of you, blue eyes planted on you, noticing your every move, following the way you took off your heels that had been killing you all day, the way you put your phone down on the nearby drawer, and lastly, the way you placed your purse next to it – slow and steady because you knew, even if you didn’t really, deep down, in your thudding heart, you knew what was coming.
“Come here,” Max finally spoke, fingers gesturing for you to head towards him.
You stood still for a second, fighting the urge to move. It’s like your body wanted to but your pride wouldn’t let you. Max tilted his head, eyebrows slightly raised as though he was asking if you were really going to challenge him.
No. If he wanted this that badly, he could come to you.
A half laugh fell from his lips, the sound miffed and frustrated after the hours of misery he had been in since he kissed you yesterday. He nodded slowly to himself. “Fine. You can be a brat about it,” he agreed, taking a step closer to you. “Just like how you’ve been teasing me all day.” Another step. “Could’ve made it easier for you.” Another step. Now just inches away, hot breath fawning over you while he stood tall. The corner of his lip quirked when you clenched your thighs. “But I guess you’ll have to learn the hard way.”
You gasped the instant Max’s hands flew to your waist, pulling you right against him while his lips found yours. You couldn’t help but moan at the feel of his warm hands under your loose top, pressing the beads of your waist chain against you.
This wasn’t desperate like you had joked. It was still like it was before. Possessive, firm, and hard. But you could feel it. The aggression as he nipped at your lips, harshly tugging them open so his tongue could claim yours. The groans from his throat, vibrating all the way down your body and touching the heat between your legs.
He didn’t want to just taste you. He didn’t want to feel you. He wanted you to feel him. To memorise how he felt in your mouth. Imprint his very being on your tastebuds so the next time you came to him, you remembered who you belonged to.
His lips were sloppy, capturing the odd edges of your lips. “Arms up,” he commanded, biting down your lip. His chest hummed at the way you followed so easily. Max pulled back, fingers grasping the thin material of that stupid fucking top, riding it up your torso, and off your head. He huffed, laughing to himself quietly when he saw your breasts bounce back. He should’ve known when he saw you in the paddock – too busy trying to get your attention instead. Braless.
“Do you enjoy it?” Max queried, hand grabbing your jaw to look at him like he did in the bathroom yesterday. “Enjoy being a whore in front of everyone? Walking around with everyone’s eyes on your tits?” He almost sung the words, thumb tugging your bitten lip harshly as he pulled down your pants.
You swallowed at his words, thighs clenching together at the feel of your arousal beginning to spill out of your folds. And he saw it. You liked the way he talked.
“You didn’t notice. Too busy trying to look at my eyes,” you quipped back with a dry chuckle. You fluttered your lashes with a few blinks. “Aren’t they so pretty, Max? Is that what you imagined today? In the car? Eyes all wide, looking up at you while I suck your dick?”
Fuck. You almost had his eyes rolling back. He totally had. But you didn’t need to know that.
His jaw tensed, muscle twitching underneath. His fingers tightened around your jaw, a darker laugh falling from his lips. “So cocky for someone who was fingering themselves last night.”
Your body stilled. How the fuck...
Max smirked, the stupid thing permanently etched into his face. “That’s right,” he hummed, fingers trailing down your jaw and to your neck, pushing your hair to the side. “I heard you. Moaning my name while you fucked yourself. You should be more considerate of your neighbours, schat.”
Your skin burned, about to combust into flames while his fingers grazed your chest, a trace of goosebumps left behind. Three times. You came three times last night. Why? You both knew why. Because your fingers alone couldn’t replace Max’s touch.
Your mouth fell open when he pinched your nipple between his fingers, daring to bring you even closer to him. “I should’ve known. Upset over Charles, last night... today in the paddock. You’re just a pathetic pretty little slut, aren’t you?”
Your eyes fluttered shut at his words, thighs hurting from how hard they were pressing against one another. His hand trailed back up, thumb lightly pressing down on your throat, letting only slivers of air pass through while you opened your eyes again. “Use your words,” he coaxed, “Answer my question.”
“Y-Yes,” you replied, breath caught and voice strained. You were stuck. You felt hot all over. Yet the cool air of your room rippled past your body, turning your nipples hard and making your hair stand.
Max smiled at your response, releasing your throat. “Good. Now was that so hard? Always pretending like you hate me but you came to my name three times,” he clicked his tongue, grinning while he shook his head. He took a step back, using one hand to remove his shirt, making you suck in a sharp breath at his taut muscles gleaming at you. You chewed your lip, watching him unbuckle the belt of his jeans, pushing down the material with his boxers.
Your lips naturally parted at the sight of his cock springing free as though it was a meal to devour. You had felt it yesterday against you, growing. But you didn’t imagine it to be so... thick. It was hard and flushed and heavy, thick veins decorating the shaft. Your walls clenched around nothing. Fuck, he was going to split you in half with that.
Max swallowed thickly, processing the look in your eyes immediately. He breathed slowly, trying to compose himself while his cock twitched with disobedience. “My pretty slut,” he rasped. “You’ve been teasing me all day. Always so mouthy. I think I need to teach that dirty mouth a little lesson.”
You weren’t sure when it had happened or how, but you were on your knees, crawling over to him, oblivious to the little restraint you had left Max with as you did so. You leaned on your knees, numb to the small burns of the carpet embedding your skin. You looked up at him like you had told him, eyes wide and doe-like. His cock slapped against your lips while he ordered, “Open up.”
So you did.
Max’s head fell back in the air as your hot breath washed over his cock, instantly making him twitch. Your mouth, fuck, it was so warm. Just like how he had imagined it. His hands had fallen to your loose hair, unbothered if he was gripping the mound of strands too tightly. His lower stomach muscles tensed and shivered at the way your tongue wrapped around the underside of his cock, memorising the feel of his vein in your mouth.
“That’s it,” Max grunted, bobbing your head up and down his shaft. His eyes flickered over you as if he was a critic. Evaluating your performance with the most careful of gazes. “You feel that?” He breathed, hips snapping forward, “Feel how this mouth is made for me? Always using it to piss me off but here you are, taking my cock like you were born to.”
You couldn’t say anything even if you wanted to. He was right. Even as his shaft pressed further down, letting your throat hug every vein, even as your eyes welled with hot tears, you didn’t refuse him. You couldn’t. Because the stretch of your lips around this intrusion was instinctive.
Max’s grip on your hair only tightened as the walls of your throat took him in deeper. He exhaled harshly through his nose while heat curled low in his stomach. The grunts spilled from his lips – unfiltered and raw. You felt unreal around him. The tease of your teeth against his skin. The muffled gags sitting at the base of your chest. Those pretty tears just threatening to come out. God, you were driving him crazy.
It was only getting worse. You weren’t just taking him in like a little slut. No. Your mouth was slowly sucking him, sending small waves of pleasure up and down his cock. He could feel the way you were making him lose himself.
Max had to force himself to push your mouth away, chest heaving as he did. “Don’t get too greedy now,” he breathed out, jaw tensed, skin flushed. His thumb hung around your swollen lips, teasing your tongue. “Should've been a good girl and maybe I would’ve let you swallow my cum,” he chuckled lightly, wet thumb now trailing down the column of your throat, pressing only slightly down – firm. His cock twitched at your whine while his eyes looked down at you. “Too bad you wanted to be a whore instead.”
Your body shuddered at his words. Perhaps it was humiliating. To be on your knees, naked, while he berated you. But the blood in your veins only roared. The pool between your legs only worsened. Heart slamming against your chest.
Max tilted his head, scrutinising the look on your face. He smiled almost innocently. He grabbed your chin, holding you steady. “You wanna be touched?” He cooed, smile easing into a smirk. “Yeah? Does my pretty girl wanna be touched?”
You only breathed, dignity slowly ebbing away. You were this close to nodding. His words alone were making you delirious. But you couldn’t. Somewhere, in the back of your head, a part of you wouldn’t entirely submit. Because while that face was bringing you pleasure, this was the same face that fuelled your hatred. The same one that laughed when you were on the verge of tears.
Max sighed. Amused. He could see it. The fibres of your ego still intact. Not to worry. He didn’t think it’d be that easy. You were never that easy to figure out as kids anyways. “On the bed now,” he ordered, tapping the side of your chin.
You slowly stood back up; knees embedded with a light burn from the carpet – overridden by your desire. You could hear the rumple of his shirt coming off while you inched towards the bed. His pants now fully off, shoes haphazardly shoved to the side of the room.
You laid on your back, letting the softness of the duvet conform to you, eyes intently watching and waiting for Max’s next move.
Max watched you as he stood against the bed. Unintentionally swallowing at the sight of you sprawled out in front of him. He licked his lips in a way that had you shivering. “Beautiful,” he murmured out loud, more to himself than you while he raked over every curve and crevice. That stupid waist chain was doing him in. Laying there so pretty across your bare skin.
Max sucked in a sharp breath, flashing his eyes back to your face. “Open your legs,” he demanded, leaning down to hover over you. His eyes fell to your parting thighs. A huff escaped his lips. He clicked his tongue, grinning. “Look at you,” he drawled, “Dripping all over these sheets. This wet and you’ve only sucked my cock, schat.”
Your jaw tightened, breath slightly shallower. Even while you shivered from the inside out, you couldn’t help but quip back, “I’d be this wet for anyone. Don’t flatter yourself, Max.”
That was a lie. You both knew it.
“Still so mouthy,” he sighed, hands reaching out to skim surface your thighs as he situated on the bed, your legs on either side of his body, open, vulnerable. “Let’s see how much you talk when my fingers are inside you.”
He slid a finger across your heat, barely taking a second to gather some of your slick before he pushed two fingers in. You walls slightly stretched, accommodating the light burn while your breath caught, mouth wide open. You were wetter than you thought was possible. Your body proving all your lies while your pride was on the edge. You were already squirming.
“So tight,” Max grunted, slowly thrusting his fingers in and out, his own body shuddering at the way your walls clenched round him. He looked back at you, finding your eyes shut, dizzy with pleasure. “Open your eyes,” he snapped, his other hand holding your jaw straight. “Watch me make you fall apart.”
Just like that, his fingers sped up, rubbing in smooth circles in that right spot. The wet squelch reverberating throughout your hotel room spoke volumes. You weren’t just dripping. You were drenched.
You listened to his words, eyes open, hazed while they looked at him. Breath trembling, pants stuttering. Your hips grinded up against his hand, making him chuckle. “Greedy slut, aren’t you?”
You whined. You were close now. Your thighs twitched and burned from the tension. The ache curling in your core. A gasp fell from your lips when this thumb pressed against your clit, moving in slow, firm circles.
“F-Fuck,” you breathed out, hands writhing, grasping for anything to hold on to.
“You going to come? Is my pretty girl going to come?” Max sung, blue eyes fixated on the way you looked on the verge of your climax. Teeth sunken into your bottom lip, your eyes struggling to keep open, hips jerking and shaking, craving more and more.
“Max, fuck,” you panted as the coil in your stomach began to unravel.
“Too bad.”
You gasped in shock as his fingers pulled away, leaving your clit throbbing and your cunt clenching around nothing, embers of your approaching orgasm fading away, settling to burn in your core instead.
Max’s cock twitched at the torn look on your face, the way you were positively glistening for him. “Should’ve been a good girl,” he whispered against your thigh, pressing a bruising kiss on the inside, eyes still on you.
You breathed heavily, sweat sticking to your skin. Goddamn it. Shit. You were going to kill him. Your mouth opened, about to promise the threat when all you could do was whimper as his mouth latched onto your clit, sucking in smooth strides, tongue going around in circles.
“Oh my God,” you groaned out, hands falling to his hair, gripping those light brown tresses.
“Not God,” Max grunted, savouring the taste of your cunt, “Say my name.”
You tasted so good. Sweet on his tongue. Addictive. One taste and he’d never let go, he’d swear.
“Max,” you panted out, hips jerking against him, orgasm already coming close after being denied.
He hummed at the sound of his name, tongue sliding past your folds and prodding into where his fingers had just been. He could feel your thighs quiver around him, his fingers sinking into your flesh. You were so close.
The loss of his touch attacked you once again. His warm mouth disappearing from your folds.
“No, no, no,” you cried out, eyes almost welling with tears as you looked at him – angry and desperate. “Please,” you whined, the grip on your pride slowly loosening.
Max’s swollen lips shined with your slick as he smirked. He smiled at the small tears pooling in the corner of your eyes. How pretty. “Not so mouthy anymore, are you? Just a desperate whore for my touch,” he taunted, fingers teasing your wet folds.
Your body burned at his words. This was humiliating. Because he was right. You were clenching around nothing for him. Only getting wetter by the second. Your body screamed for his touch, and he knew it.
“Come here,” he sighed out, moving his body so he faced you head on. His fingers darted out to your eyes, gently wiping the hot tears down your bridge of your nose. You were actually crying. And all it did was make his cock throb.
You shivered at the feel of his length against your thigh, twitching. Max grinned. “You want my cock?”
You nodded numbly.
“Then beg for it,” Max sneered, grinding his cock against your puffy folds, tip nudging your sensitive clit. “Beg for it like you’re my whore.”
He was testing you. You could tell. But your body was defying you. No amount of protest or refusal your brain made had fallen from your mouth. The slow rock of his hips against your hypersensitive cunt had your eyes fluttering. The light press of his hand against your throat seizing your breath.
“Please!” You gasped, body squirming underneath his. “Please, please, Max,” you cried out, tears rolling down your cheeks. You weren’t really speaking anymore. They were babbles of sounds, muffled by all the tears and saliva building up. “Let me come–hmph! Fuck, you’re right. I am your whore. Let me be your cumslut.”
Max shuddered at your words. They were more than he had bargained for. Degrading yourself for him. That’s how desperate you were.
Cumslut... oh Christ.
“Now that wasn’t so hard, was it, schat?” Max grunted, his fingers dug into your hips, holding you steady as he shifted forward. Without any warning, he began pressing his tip in. This stretch was nothing like his fingers. His jaw clenched tightly, while your mouth fell open, fingers shooting out to his shoulder blades, nails digging into his skin.
Max groaned, the sound wavering over your body, his lips pressed up against the side of your neck. “That’s it. Feel me. Feel how I split you open.”
The words wouldn’t come out of your throat. There was nothing going through your head. You could only feel his cock drag against you, filling every crevice of you out.
His breath felt hot against your cheek as he groaned. “It’s like you were made for me. Perfect cunt made for me. Feel so fucking good.”
You back arched on the hotel bed. Max’s hips pressed deeper, and deeper, until there was nothing left between the both of you but the slow, obscene drag of his cock inside your pulsing cunt.
The rhythm of his thrusts was quickly found. You weren’t sure how he did it. It was like he had been plotting it in his head for a while now. Months, perhaps. Longer than the twenty-four hours that had occurred between your first kiss. Potentially too long for the length of your acquaintance.
Each one of his thrusts served a brutal and deliberate purpose. Like he was trying to engrave his very being into you. He was. You could feel it. Like he was praying over and over again in your body as if he had found faith. A religion and it was you.
“Always getting under my skin,” Max rasped, lips haphazardly sliding against your throat. “Now look at you. Under me. Getting fucked open. Taking me like the filthy bitch you are.”
His words were cruel. Enough for your body to flinch and get your brain rerouting once again. You glared at him. “Fuck you,” you half spat out, unable to hide the moans humming at the back of your throat.
Max’s hand returned to your chin, keeping you steady while he forced you to look at him. “I am,” he breathed before chuckling at the way you clenched around his cock again. It’s low and taunting. His hips rolled slow and deep. “You can pretend all you want, my pretty girl. Hate me. But this pretty cunt is telling me everything I need to know.”
Max was right. Your body, your pussy... it all sang to him. Like this was his calling. Like this was what he was born to do. Not race. But fuck this pretty pussy and make you come again and again.
The confusion was beginning to swirl as the heat curled in your core once again. You felt so good. But fuck, you hated him. It wasn’t just hate. He vexed you. Irked you. But you wanted more. More of him. More of his cock.
The pants fell from your lips quickly. His hips snapped hard into you, leaving your thighs trembling. Your orgasm built up again, aching and sore from all the denial – on its last thread.
Max flashed his eyes to you again, moving away from the way you creamed his cock. You were clenching around him – tight and firm. The way your hand moved from his shoulder and to his bicep, like it was keeping you grounded to the earth while mewls repeatedly fell from your lips. You were going to come. Hard.
“Hold it,” Max ordered. “Be a good girl and hold it.”
You writhed under him, glaring at him when his cock slowed, dragging his length in your walls like he was unhurried. The deep thrusts leave your mouth wide open, gasping for air. It was hurting. So fucking much. It was only when you clawed at him, fingernails scraping his shoulder blades and teeth biting down so hard on your lip that it was one tear away from drawing blood, that he heard the plea fall from your lips.
“Please. Max. Please, please, please.”
The tears were rolling down your cheeks once again. Loose hair sticking on your skin. Fuck, how much were going to undo him? “Come,” he rasped, reverent and unsteady. “Come for me. Let me hear how good I make you feel.”
Your body spasmed underneath his while he thrusted into you mercilessly, not letting you even breathe when you fell apart. You gasped, tightening your grip on his shoulders while the salt of your tears mixed into your mouth. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”
Max couldn’t help himself. The dazed look on your face, your blown pupils... The corner of his lip tugged upwards as if he was hungry. Then he moved you – hands flying to your hips, pulling you over his lap, shifting the angle.
His pace is rougher now. Faster. No longer did he want you to feel every inch him. He was a crazed man. If your body was bruised with his touch, it was welcoming, meeting every snap of his hips like the greedy slut Max thought you were. It almost hurt. Overwhelming your overstimulated cunt. But you couldn’t get him to stop. You didn’t want him to. You wanted him to ruin you.
“Want to be my cumslut? Yeah?” He breathed heavily. “Then take it. Take all of me.”
His lips found yours. His kiss was injuring – hard. Max slammed your body against his cock, swallowing your contented hums, grunting at the feel of your hands travelling through his hair, tugging harshly. His grip on your hips was damaging – vicious. He could taste you. Your arousal. Your sex. Your tears. God, it was driving him crazy.
“Fuuuck. Just like that. Milk me,” he rasped. Max’s body stilled hard and fast, hips twitching, voice stuttering out a string of obscenities. Ropes of him cum spilling out into your walls, keeping you warm to your very core.
Max stayed there for a moment. Fingers softening around your hips as he pulled out of you. Quietly breathing out your name as you both came back to reality. He moved away from you briefly, eyes falling over your face as you laid on the bed. Christ, you looked– fucked out. Eyes glassy, skin flushed, chest still heaving like you were trying to catch up as him cum dripped out of you. You were ruining him.
His jaw tightened, eyes flickering down to those soften, swollen, and bitten lips of yours. He sucked in a sharp breath. His voice was rough. “Okay?”
You blinked, breathing slowly. You nodded. “Okay.”
sex with an angry max sounds so delicious to meeee. YES he would bite me! YES he would nearly bruise my cervix!! YES he would call me humiliating names!!! YES I WOULD CUM HARDER THAN EVER!!!!!!!! he'd 100% be a slapper. ass, clit, face- it doesn't matter. my skin is a canvas and his palm is a paintbrush:3
theartofmadeline
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titsay
blakekathryn
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