#f1 x driver!reader

Lando gasped, a dramatic, wounded look instantly taking over his face. "That was a wind gust! A massive one! And wait, whose notebook is that? Are you spying?"

"Goodbye, Lando," you laughed, finally spotting the engineer near the racks, handing it over, and quickly making your exit before anyone could accuse you of anything.

Fifteen minutes later, the green light illuminated for the first qualifying session of the season.

By the time Q3 wrapped up, Lando had put his car on the front row, splitting the otherwise dominant Red Bulls. When you saw the timing screens from your own garage, you shook your head, genuinely happy for him.

It was a great lap. You didn't think about it again.

The second time happened in Silverstone, and it was driven entirely by starvation.

Your FP2 session had been a complete disaster. Your team had suffered an electrical issue that kept you stranded in your garage for forty out of sixty minutes, and Luca had dragged you through a brutal, exhausting debrief.

By 5 PM, you were completely drained, completely miserable, and completely starved.

Mercedes's hospitality unit had run out of those specific protein bars you liked, so you decided to raid a rival. McLaren was closer, and more importantly, their catering staff was usually too distracted by celebrity guests to notice a driver from another team slipping past.

You snuck into the back of their hospitality kitchen, successfully took three bars, and made a clean getaway through the back door.

"Stop right there."

You froze, a bar halfway to your mouth. Lando was sitting on a tire stack outside, a water bottle in hand, watching you with narrowed eyes.

"I'm starving, Lando," you mumbled around a bite.

His eyes went from the bar in your hand to your face, a strange expression crossing his features. "You walked through the back door."

"Yes. Because it was the shortest route away from your terrifying manager."

"Right," Lando murmured, nodding to himself. "Okay."

"Are you... okay?" you asked. "You're being weird."

"Just remember this moment," he said, pointing a finger at you.

Sure enough, amid a chaotic, wet-to-dry race that featured two safety cars and crumbling grid, Lando drove an absolute masterclass. When the checkered flag waved, he crossed the line in first place.

While you were walking through the media pen after finishing a quiet, respectable P4, Lando caught your eye from across the barrier.

He was drenched in champagne, his hair plastered to his forehead, holding his trophy. He didn't wave. He just pointed at you, then pointed at the trophy, and gave you a big smile.

You raised an eyebrow, entirely confused, and kept walking.

By the fifth time, it had become an actual problem.

In Miami, the paddock was incredibly long, hot, and humid. You had just finished a grueling engineering meeting and needed to get back to your team's media unit for an interview.

Looking at the crowded walkway, you realized that taking a direct cut through the middle of the McLaren garage was the fastest, coldest route back to the paddock.

You ducked under the barrier, gave a quick, apologetic nod to a mechanic who looked up, and walked briskly down the central lane. Lando was standing by the data screens, his race suit tied around his waist.

The moment he saw you, his head snapped up.

"Ah!" he shouted, pointing a finger so dramatically that multiple mechanics dropped their tools. "I knew it! You're here!"

"I'm just walking through, Lan. I'm late for an interview—"

"No, no, no!" Don't leave yet!" He literally scrambled across the floor, grabbing you by the sleeve of your team shirt. "Stand right there. Just for ten seconds. Stand by the front wing."

"Lando, let go of me, you look insane," you laughed, trying to pull your arm away as a couple of photographers turned their lenses toward the commotion. "Everyone thinks you've lost your mind."

Oscar walked past, saw what was happening, and immediately did a 180. "I'm not getting involved," he muttered, walking straight back out.

"See that?" you pointed at Oscar's retreating figure. "Even he thinks you're nuts."

Lando ignored him entirely, looking at you with completely sincere, desperate eyes. "Please. Just... touch the wing. Or the nose. Just a little tap."

"I am not touching your car. I could get disqualified because of you." You broke his grip, shaking your head in pure exasperation. "You're an actual child."

You jogged out of the garage, throwing your hands up. Two hours later, the graphics on the televisions screen updated.

LANDO NORRIS SECURES FASTEST IN MIAMI!

You stared at the monitor in your driver room for a full minute. Then, you buried your face in your hands and groaned.

You knew, with absolute certainty, that you were nevery going to hear the end of this.

The next morning, you stepped out of your driver room into the crisp morning air of the paddock, holding a steaming cup of coffee. You stopped dead.

Lando was leaning against the railing of your team's hospitality building. He was fully dressed in his race kit, arms crossed, staring directly at your doorway.

You pinched the bridge of your nose, taking a long, slow sip of your coffee. "Hello to you too."

"You haven't been in the garage yet," Lando said. His tone was flat, completely stripped of its usual humor.

"You realize I don't work for McLaren, right?"

"I know."

"Then why are you standing here?"

"Because it's qualifying," he said, as if explaining the alphabet to a toddler. "And we have a system now. A routine."

"We do not have a routine! You had a good lap because you're a good driver and a good car!"

"No," Lando countered, stepping forward and poking a finger at you. "The data doesn't lie. Bahrain, your stolen notebook, I got front row. Silverstone, your snack heist, podium. Miami, shortcut through ours, I scored fastest."

"It's just a coincidence. Did you skip school?"

"Just walk through the garage, c'mon."

"Lando."

"Please."

"Lando."

"Please. Just one walk. A quick one. You don't even have to look at anyone. Just breathe the air in there."

You looked around. At least twenty people were watching you now, including Toto, your own team principal, who was leaning over the balcony above you with a highly amused smirk on his face.

"Fine!" you snapped, throwing your hands up in defeat. "Fine. But you're buying my dinner for the rest of the races."

"Consider it done," Lando beamed, his face lighting up with a radiant, satisfied grin.

Twenty minutes later, you found yourself being formally escorted through the McLaren garage by a very smug Lando.

"Morning, lucky charm," one of the men called out.

You covered your face with your hands, letting out a long, suffering groan. "I hate you so much," you muttered to Lando.

He just nodded cheerfully. "Maybe. But if I get pole today?"

And pole he got indeed.

Lando had converted his pole position into a stunning race win, fighting off a relentless charge from the Red Bulls in the final five laps. You had managed a brilliant recovery drive yourself, clawing your way up from a messy midfield start to take P2.

Because of the joint podium, you were seated right next to each other on the stage, facing a sea of journalists, blinking lights, and snapping cameras.

"Question for our winner," the journalist said, leaning forward. "Lando, your form over the last few weekend has been incredibly consistent. There's a rumor circulating through the team units that you've adopted a superstition or lucky charm before you get into the car. Can you tell us anything about that?"

You instantly froze, your water bottle pasuing halfway to your mouth. Your eyes widened as you stared ahead at the back wall of the media room.

Please don't say it, you prayed silently, your soul leaving your body. Please, for the love of God, do not say it.

Lando, however, let out a massive, delighted grin.

"Oh, it's 100% real," Lando said. He slowly turned his head to look directly at you. "Every single time I've qualified front row or won a race recently, it's because a certain driver from a certain team walked through my garage."

"Lando, shut up," you muttered, keeping a tight, fake smile plastered on your face.

"She thinks I'm crazy," Lando continued. "But the data doesn't lie."

The journalist looked highly amused. "So, are you saying she's officially on the McLaren payroll now?"

"I mean, if she wants to," Lando nodded. "Though Toto might complain about stealing her. We might have to trade a few people for her services."

You leaned forward, pulling your own microphone closer.

"I would just like to state for the record that I am a professional athlete, not a lucky pot of gold," you announced, voice dripping with sarcasm.

"And if Lando doesn't stop telling every I control his race pace," you continued, "I am going to start walking through the Ferrari garage instead."

The entire room erupted into loud laughter. Lando gasped, clutching his chest with both hands as if he had been physically shot across the stage.

"You wouldn't dare."

"Try me," you shot back, finally breaking into a real, genuine laugh as you shook your head. "I'll wear red next week."

The headlines the next morning didn't even mention tire degradation, pit stop strategies, or track temperatures. Every single sports page across the globe featured a photo of the two of you on the FIA stage, with the bold, sweeping caption: MCLAREN'S LANDO NORRIS' LUCKY CHARM.

COMMENTS

FP1 starts like normal.

The usual warm-up laps. The usual radio chatter. The usual commentators half-paying attention.

Until you reach Turn 9.

A fast corner. High commitment. No margin for error.

You turn in.

And then—

The car steps out.

Just slightly.

The rear rotates.

The nose points where physics says it shouldn’t.

For half a second, the entire paddock holds its breath—

And then you catch it.

Not sloppily. Not desperately.

You drift it.

Clean. Controlled. Effortless.

Throttle feathered. Steering countered. Exit perfect.

The timing screens light up.

Purple sector.

Silence.

Absolute, stunned silence.

Then—

“WHAT—WHAT DID SHE JUST DO?”

The commentators are yelling.

Engineers are standing up.

Christian Horner drops his pen.

Toto blinks like he missed something illegal.

Lando’s jaw is on the floor.

“Nah. Nah. No way.”

Charles whispers:

“She meant to do that.”

Max doesn’t say a word.

He just smiles.

✦ THE RADIO MESSAGE

Your engineer’s voice is shaking.

“Y/N… was that… intentional?”

You respond calmly.

Like you didn’t just break motorsport Twitter.

“Yeah. Rear felt light. Faster rotation.”

Pause.

“…Should I not?”

The garage loses its mind.

✦ THE INTERNET EXPLODES

Clips are everywhere within seconds.

Slow motion. Side-by-side telemetry. Angles from fans, drones, onboard.

Twitter/X:

“SHE DRIFTED A FORMULA ONE CAR.”

“IS THAT EVEN LEGAL?”

“THIS KID IS 16????”

“MAX VERSTAPPEN WHAT HAVE YOU STARTED.”

FIA officials pretend they are not panicking.

They are panicking.

✦ QUALIFYING — SHE DOES IT AGAIN

By qualifying, everyone is watching you.

The cameras don’t cut away.

The commentators are practically begging.

“If she does it again—”

You do.

Turn 9.

Turn 13.

Controlled rotation. Perfect exit. Lap time that shouldn’t exist.

You qualify P4.

At sixteen.

George just stares.

“I was doing homework at sixteen.”

Oscar mutters:

“I was scared of public speaking.”

Max finally walks over.

Looks at you.

“You remind me of me.”

You shrug.

“I watched your old clips.”

He laughs.

“Good.”

✦ RACE DAY — HISTORY DOESN’T CARE ABOUT AGE

The race starts clean.

You’re calm.

Too calm.

You pick off cars one by one—not aggressively, not desperately—just inevitably.

Lap 32.

Same corner.

Same conditions.

This time?

You’re fighting for P3.

The car ahead defends.

You commit anyway.

The rear steps out.

The crowd gasps.

And then—

You drift past them.

Sideways.

On race pace.

The overtake of the season.

The commentary booth loses all professionalism.

“SHE’S DRIFTING—SHE’S DRIFTING IN A RACE—”

You cross the line P3.

Podium.

At sixteen.

✦ PODIUM SCENE

You climb out of the car slowly.

The crowd is screaming your name.

Drivers clap.

Some laugh in disbelief.

Some look… inspired.

Max nods at you from parc fermé.

“Welcome to Formula One.”

The champagne is awkward.

You’re still not used to the height.

You smile shyly.

The youngest podium finisher in history.

✦ AFTERMATH

Suddenly:

Kids want to kart again

Engineers rethink driving styles

Commentators stop calling age a disadvantage

The grid realizes talent doesn’t wait for permission

Someone asks you in interviews:

“Do you know how special this is?”

You think for a moment.

Then say:

“I just drive.”

And somehow?

That makes it worse.

End.

You slam the door to Toto’s office so hard the flimsy motorhome wall vibrates behind you.

Max is right behind you. Naturally.

Because apparently the universe looked at your race weekend and decided you had not suffered enough.

“You pushed me wide,” you snap, spinning around.

Max laughs once, sharp and humorless. “I gave you space.”

“You gave me a postcard-sized emotional suggestion of space.”

“You braked too late.”

“You moved under braking.”

“I was defending.”

“You were being a dick.”

His eyes flash. “And you were being reckless.”

You step toward him. “Say that again.”

He steps toward you too, because of course he does. Max Verstappen has never seen danger and decided to respect it. He sees danger and gets closer to check if it bites.

Behind his desk, Toto stands completely still.

That is the worrying part.

There is no shouting, no dramatic hand gestures from him. Just Toto, sleeves rolled up, jaw tight, watching both his drivers turn a double podium chance into a private war in his office.

The race had been a disaster.

Not a DNF. Worse, maybe.

A race you should have won.

A race Max could have won.

A race Mercedes should have controlled.

Instead: bad strategy call, aggressive defence, one nearly catastrophic wheel-to-wheel fight between teammates, radio messages that probably made PR age ten years, and a final result that tasted like ash.

P4 for Max.

P5 for you.

No podium. No champagne. No happy team photo.

Just two furious drivers and one very tired team principal.

“You both finished. Now.” Toto says finally, voice low.

You and Max turn toward him.

Toto’s eyes move between you. “That is the only reason I am not breaking something.”

Max mutters something in Dutch under his breath.

You fold your arms. “He started it.”

Max points at you. “You called me a selfish dick on the radio.”

“You were being one.”

“You said it in front of Bono and basically half the planet,” Max grumbles.

“Good. Bono and half the planet deserved context,” you fire back.

Toto closes his eyes for one second. One.

Then opens them.

“Enough.”

The word cuts through the room.

You both shut up.

Not because you want to. Because Toto’s voice has gone very calm, and that is always more dangerous than when he raises it.

He walks around the desk slowly and controlled. Angry in that precise way of his that feels like a locked door with fire behind it.

“You two have spent the last two hours blaming each other,” he says. “On the radio. In the garage. In front of engineers. In front of the cameras.”

You look away. Max’s jaw clenches.

Toto stops in front of you both.

“And now you are in my office, still full of adrenaline, still furious, still looking at each other like the only thing stopping you from fighting is the furniture.”

You glare at Max. Max glares back.

Toto’s gaze sharpens.

“Or maybe...” he says slowly, “not stopping you.”

The air changes.

You feel it before you understand it. The silence gets heavier.

Max’s eyes flick to you again, but this time there is something else under the anger.

Heat.

You hate that you notice. You hate more that your body notices too.

Toto sees it. His mouth curves, barely.

“Oh,” he says softly.

You swallow. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Use that tone.”

Max looks between you and Toto. “What tone?”

You snap, “The tone that means he thinks he has solved something.”

Toto steps closer. “Maybe I have.”

Max laughs once, disbelieving. “You solved the race disaster?”

“No.” Toto’s eyes move over you. “But I may have solved your attitude problem.”

Your pulse jumps. “That sounds like HR should be present.”

“HR would resign.”

Max smirks.

You point at him. “Do not look amused. You are the problem.”

“I thought I was the selfish dick”

“You can multitask.”

Then, unexpectedly, Toto’s hand lands at your waist. Firm and possessive.

Your breath catches. You look down, startled, at his hand resting so confidently on your waist.

“What the fuck?” you breathe.

Max notices. His expression shifts instantly.

Toto’s thumb presses lightly into your side.

“Both of you need to stop talking.”

You look up at him, furious and already feeling the pull of his hand through your entire body.

“And do what?”

Toto’s eyes drop to your mouth. “Use your imagination.”

Max’s laugh is lower this time. “Oh... that kind of debrief, huh?”

Toto looks at him. “Only if she wants it.”

The attention turns to you.

Both of them.

Max, still flushed with race anger, hair damp from the shower, jaw set, eyes bright with challenge.

Toto, controlled and severe, one hand still on your waist, waiting.

The question is not spoken. It does not need to be.

Your mouth goes dry.

Because yes. You have thought about this.

Of course you have.

Late at night. After races. After too much adrenaline and too little sleep. You have imagined Max and Toto in the same room, imagined that sharp mouth of Max’s and Toto’s calm, controlled one, imagined both of them turning all that anger and power on you until you forget every clever insult you have ever learned.

You have imagined hands. Mouths. Their bodies crowding yours.

Toto’s control and Max’s hunger.

Both of them watching you like they already know exactly how ruined you would be between them.

And, God help you, you have imagined their cocks too. Both of them in you at the same time, fucking you together, stretching you, filling you, ruining every last sensible thought in your head.

Your thighs press together before you can stop them.

Toto feels it under his hand. Max sees it on your face.

So there is no point lying now.

“Yes,” you say.

Toto’s grip tightens. Max’s eyes darken.

Toto leans closer, his voice low at your ear. “Say it clearly.”

You shiver. His voice at your ear and his hand on your waist are already enough to make you wet, your body betraying you before either of them has properly touched you.

“Yes,” you repeat. “I want it.”

Max exhales slowly. “Fuck.”

Toto smiles faintly. “There. First productive thing you have said all evening.”

You would insult him.

You really would.

You even open your mouth to do it.

But Toto kisses you. And every clever thought leaves your head.

His mouth is hard, controlled, demanding. He kisses like he is still angry too, like he has spent the entire race watching you and Max try to destroy each other and now he has decided to redirect the energy himself.

Your knees almost give out.

Toto feels it immediately. His arm slides tighter around your waist, catching you before you can even pretend you are steady. His hand spreads over your side, firm and possessive, holding you against him while his mouth takes yours with ruthless focus.

You grip his shirt.

You grab at him like he is the only solid thing in the room, fingers twisting in black fabric while his tongue pushes past your lips and makes your body go soft in places your pride would rather not discuss.

Then Max steps closer behind you.

You feel him before he touches you. That heat at your back. That challenge. That restless, furious energy that still clings to him from the race.

Your breath catches against Toto’s mouth when Max’s hand slides to your hip, opposite Toto’s.

Now there are two of them.

Toto in front of you, kissing you hard enough to make your head spin.

Max behind you, his body close, his hand settling on you like he has every intention of making the fight worse in the filthiest way possible.

Your body reacts instantly. Heat pools between your thighs, your cunt clenching around nothing as you feel them both holding you there — Toto controlled and possessive, Max rougher, hotter, still angry enough to make your skin burn.

“You’re still mad at me?” Max asks, voice rough.

You break the kiss just enough to look over your shoulder.

Your lips are swollen. Your breathing is uneven.

Toto’s hand is still locked around your waist, and Max’s fingers press into your hip like he wants to leave proof.

“Yes.” you breathe, the word coming out shaky as you try to catch your breath.

His smile turns sharp. “Good.”

Then he kisses your neck.

You gasp.

Your head tips back before you can stop it, giving him more space, and Max takes it instantly. His mouth moves over the side of your throat, hot and hungry, teeth grazing just enough to make your pulse jump under his lips.

Toto’s hand moves to your jaw. Possessive. Immediate.

He turns your face back to him.

“Eyes here,” he says, voice low and absolute. “On me.”

Your body nearly folds under the sound of it.

Max’s mouth is still on your neck. Toto’s fingers hold your jaw.

Both of them touch you at once, and something inside you gives way completely.

The anger is still there. The race is still there. The disaster, the shouting, the blame, the ruined podium chance.

All of it burns under your skin.

But now Toto is in front of you, Max is behind you, and your body has decided surrender is apparently an excellent strategy.

You look at Toto. Because he told you to. Because his hand is on your jaw. Because Max’s mouth is making you weak and Toto’s eyes are making it worse.

Toto’s gaze drops to your mouth. Then lower.

He sees everything. Your flushed face. Your shaking legs. The way your hips press back slightly into Max’s hand while your fingers cling to Toto’s shirt.

His mouth curves.

“There... that’s better. Stay exactly like that,” he murmurs. “Pressed against me, pushing back into him, pretending you are still angry.”

His thumb drags slowly over your lower lip.

“Good girl. Your mouth can lie, but your body knows exactly who is in charge.”

Your stomach flips.

Max laughs against your skin. “Bossy.”

Toto’s gaze flicks past you to him.

“You like it.”

Max says nothing. Interesting.

Toto’s mouth curves.

You almost laugh, but Max bites gently at the side of your throat and Toto swallows the sound with another kiss.

It becomes messy fast. Hands. Mouths. Anger turning into heat so quickly it almost scares you.

Toto presses into you harder, crowding you back with his whole body, and Max steps aside just enough to watch him steer you toward the desk like you already belong spread across it.

Toto reaches the desk behind you and clears it with one sweep of his arm. Max groans when a folder hits the floor.

“There goes the strategy review.”

You laugh breathlessly. “It was terrible anyway.”

Toto lifts you onto the desk effortlessly, like you weigh nothing.

“Do not remind me.” he says, lowering you onto the desk and spreading you out with calm, infuriating confidence, leaving just enough room for Max to step in between your thighs.

Max takes the invitation immediately.

He moves between your knees, one hand landing on the desk beside your hip, the other gripping your thigh as he kisses you hard, competitive even in this, like he wants to prove something with his mouth.

His kiss is different from Toto’s. Less possessive. Less controlled. Much angrier.

Max kisses like he is still arguing with you, like every press of his mouth says you pushed too far, you braked too late, you made me want this. It is rougher at the edges, impatient, full of that race-day fury he has nowhere else to put.

You kiss him back just as fiercely, fingers digging into his shoulders, pulling him closer between your thighs.

He tastes like mint and anger and bad decisions.

And God help you, it works.

Your body reacts to him with the same stupid honesty it reacted to Toto, only differently. Toto makes you feel claimed. Max makes you feel challenged.

You want to bite him. You want to pull him closer.

You do both.

Toto stands behind him for a moment, watching. Quiet. Too quiet.

He watches Max between your legs, watches your fingers tighten on Max’s shoulders, watches the way you drag him closer like you are still furious but your body has already changed sides.

Max’s hands slide to your thighs. Too fast. Too hungry.

Like he saw Toto kiss you, saw the way your body softened under Toto’s control, and now he wants to pull the same reaction from you by force of will alone.

Then Toto’s hand slides into Max’s hair and pulls him back.

Max’s eyes flash.

Toto’s voice is quiet. “Do not rush her.”

Max’s breathing is already uneven. “I wasn’t.”

“You were.”

Max’s jaw tightens, his mouth still wet from yours.

For one second, they just stare at each other. Max angry because Toto stopped him. Toto calm because he knows Max stopped.

And you sit there between them, legs spread on Toto’s desk, lips swollen, pulse racing, watching two impossible men argue over how you should be touched.

Your stomach twists hard. Because this should annoy you. It does.

It also makes you wetter.

Max’s gaze flicks back to you, and you can see it there — he knows. He knows you liked Toto’s command. He knows you liked being held in place. And now he hates that he wants to hear that voice again too.

Toto’s mouth curves slightly, like he reads the same thing.

Bastard.

You look between them, heat pooling low in your stomach.

“Oh,” you breathe, half laughing, half doomed. “This is going to be fun.”

Toto’s eyes return to you.

“You,” he says, “are in no position to be smug.”

“You sure?”

Max drops to his knees between your thighs.

Your breath stops.

Toto smiles. “Quite sure.”

Max pushes your pants down your legs with impatient hands, followed by your underwear. He looks up at you, still angry, still flushed, but the moment he sees how wet you are, his expression turns dark with satisfaction.

“You were fighting with me while this wet?”

You glare down at him. “You are so annoying.”

He grins. Then his mouth is on you.

Your head falls back with a sharp moan.

Toto steps behind you immediately, one hand bracing the back of your neck while the other slides over your chest. He unzips your hoodie fully and pulls it off your shoulders, stripping away the last layer of your fake composure with terrifying ease.

Your bra goes next.

One quick motion of his fingers at your back, and then you are lying completely bare on his desk. Naked. Open. Spread out beneath both of them like this is exactly where Toto planned to put you the second you slammed his office door.

Max groans against your pussy when he sees you like that.

Toto’s hand moves to your breast, warm and possessive, fingers closing around the soft flesh before his thumb finds your nipple. He teases it slowly at first, then firmer when your body arches into the touch.

Max is still between your thighs, licking you with rough, hungry strokes, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to keep you pinned open on the desk.

Toto’s mouth lowers to your neck. Then to the sensitive place behind your ear.

His lips drag over your skin while his fingers work your nipple, rolling it, tugging it lightly, making every lick of Max’s tongue feel sharper.

“Fuck,” you gasp, hips jerking when Max starts sucking harder on your clit.

Max’s hands tighten on your hips, holding you down as his mouth gets messier, more determined.

Toto’s mouth brushes your ear. His tongue traces the shell of it slowly, filthy and warm, while his hand squeezes your breast again.

“Still angry?” he murmurs.

“Yes,” you answer, voice shaking.

Max hums against your clit.

The vibration shoots through you, hot and brutal, and your whole body jolts.

Toto laughs softly. “Liar.”

His fingers tighten around your nipple just enough to make your back arch off the desk, the sensation hitting straight between your thighs, adding to the heat Max is dragging out of you with his mouth.

You grip the edge of the desk, breathing hard, body already chasing more from both of them.

“I hate both of you,” you moan, even as pleasure rolls through you in a thick, dizzy wave.

Max laughs against your pussy.

Toto kisses your neck, smug and warm. “No, you don’t,” he says. “You are dripping all over my desk.”

Max pulls back just enough, his eyes flick up to yours, dark and shameless. “You can lie with your mouth all you want. Your pussy is much more honest.”

You kick lightly at his shoulder.

He catches your thigh and sucks your clit into his mouth.

Your moan breaks.

Toto’s hand tightens in your hair.

“There she is,” he murmurs. “That’s better.”

Max works you hard, no patience, no mercy. His tongue is firm, his mouth relentless, and then he adds his fingers, pushing them inside you while his lips stay locked around your clit.

Your whole body jerks.

Every time you try to move away from the intensity, Toto holds you in place with one hand at your chest and the other at your jaw, keeping you exactly where they want you.

“You can take it,” Toto says.

Then he kisses you, deep and hungry, swallowing your broken little sound while his hand moves back to your breast. His fingers tease your nipple, rolling it slowly, cruelly.

You whimper into Toto’s mouth.

Max groans against you, his fingers pushing deeper, curling inside you as his tongue works your clit.

The vibration nearly sends you over the edge.

Toto feels your body tightening.

He breaks the kiss just enough to look at you, his mouth still brushing yours, his eyes locked on your face like he wants to watch the exact moment you lose control.

“Already?”

You glare weakly. “Shut up.”

Max laughs against your pussy.

You almost scream.

Toto leans closer, his mouth brushing your ear, voice dropping low and filthy.

“Come on his mouth.”

That does it.

Your first orgasm hits fast and violent, your body arching off the desk, thighs shaking around Max’s head as he keeps licking you through it. Your cunt clenches hard around his fingers, pulsing again and again while he refuses to stop.

Toto holds you steady, lips at your temple now, his hand still warm and possessive on your breast.

“Good girl,” he murmurs. “Let it out. Very good.”

You collapse back on the desk, breathing hard, small aftershocks still rolling through you. Your body feels heavy in that sweet, ruined way, limbs loose, thighs trembling, cunt still pulsing around nothing after Max’s fingers.

For a second, you can only stare at the ceiling of Toto’s office and try to remember why you were angry.

Something about Turn Four. Probably.

Max rises slowly between your thighs, mouth wet, eyes bright with victory.

You point at him weakly, still breathing hard, still embarrassingly satisfied.

“Do not look smug.”

“I made you come in under five minutes.”

“I was stressed.”

“Sure.”

Before you can insult him properly, Toto leans down and kisses your temple. Soft. Almost tender enough to be unfair.

“Good girl,” he murmurs against your skin. “But we are not finished.”

Your stomach flips.

Then his hand leaves your breast.

His warmth disappears from your side. The loss hits you immediately.

You are still lying spread open on his desk, naked, flushed, thighs parted, Max’s mouth still shining with you, and Toto simply steps away from you like he knows exactly how much you will feel the absence.

Your eyes follow him.

Toto moves toward Max with that calm, dangerous focus that makes the room feel smaller.

Max notices. His smile fades slightly. Not from fear. From anticipation.

Toto grips Max’s jaw and turns his face toward him.

Then kisses him. Hard. Controlled. So calm it makes your pulse trip over itself.

A low sound leaves Toto, almost a satisfied hum against Max’s mouth, like he can still taste you there — the mess of your orgasm, the proof of what Max has just done to you.

Your breath catches.

You are still spread out on Toto’s desk, still wet, still shaking and now you have to watch Toto take that same mouth for himself. The mouth that was between your thighs seconds ago.

Max freezes for half a heartbeat.

Then he kisses back with all that sharp, furious energy still burning under his skin. He kisses Toto like he argues, like he races, like he refuses to give ground even when someone stronger has already decided exactly where the line is.

And you just stare. Completely caught.

Your body reacts before your mind catches up.

Heat rolls through you again, low and sudden, your thighs pressing together on the desk, you are still half-wrecked from Max’s mouth, as you watch Toto hold Max by the jaw and take control of his mouth. There is something filthy about it. Something too dangerous. Max, who never shuts up, Max, who snaps and pushes and fights every centimeter, going still for Toto’s hand and mouth.

Then Toto’s other hand drops.

Right to the front of Max’s trousers.

Max inhales sharply into the kiss.

Your stomach flips.

Oh.

Oh, that does something to you too.

The sound is small, rough, almost swallowed by Toto’s mouth, but you hear it. You feel it somewhere deep in your own body.

Toto does not rush.

His palm presses there slowly, just enough to make Max’s fingers tighten in his shirt. His thumb moves once, deliberate and maddening, and Max lets out a low, broken sound straight into Toto’s mouth.

Your lips part.

The heat between your thighs turns unbearable.

You should look away.

You absolutely do not.

Toto keeps kissing him while his hand works over him through the fabric, slow and controlled, like he is proving a point with every touch.

Max tries to push closer.

Toto tightens his grip on his jaw.

Max groans again. This time louder. This time impossible to miss.

Your whole body clenches.

Toto pulls back just enough to look at him.

“There,” he murmurs. “You can be quiet.”

Max’s eyes flash, dark and furious and turned on enough to make your skin burn.

“Fuck you,” he breathes.

Toto’s mouth curves. “Maybe later.”

Your breath breaks.

Max looks at you then.

His mouth is swollen. His breathing is uneven.

And Toto’s hand is still at the front of his trousers.

You feel your face heat, but there is no hiding it now, no pretending. No clever comment sharp enough to cover the way your body has gone soft and needy again from watching them.

Toto sees everything. Your parted lips. Your flushed cheeks. Your thighs pressed tightly together.

And it is not only the aftershock of your orgasm.

It is the sight of them. Toto’s mouth on Max’s. Max groaning into him. Toto’s hand on his cock through his trousers, rubbing him just enough to make the shape of him obvious beneath the fabric.

Heat gathers between your thighs all over again.

“Oh,” he says softly, still holding Max. “You like this.”

You swallow. “No.”

Max laughs under his breath, but it turns into another rough sound when Toto’s palm moves again.

“Liar,” Max mutters.

Toto leans closer to Max’s mouth, eyes still on you.

“She is not the only one.”

For one filthy second, nobody moves.

Then Toto kisses Max again. Shorter this time, rougher. Like punctuation.

Max gives in for one breath, groaning into him as Toto’s hand presses once more, slow and possessive.

Then Toto releases him.

Max stands there breathing hard, jaw tight, mouth wet, looking like he wants to fight, fuck, or both.

You are not doing much better.

Toto turns back to you with calm, devastating satisfaction.

“Now,” he says, “where were we?”

His expression is far too calm for the heat burning through the room.

“On your knees.”

The command falls from Toto’s mouth, calm and absolute.

Your pulse jumps.

You slide off the desk, still shaky, and kneel between them on the carpet. Toto steps closer in front of you, Max behind you, both of them opening belts, undoing trousers, the room filling with the sounds of zippers and heavy breathing.

Toto’s hand cups your cheek.

With the other, he frees his cock from his trousers, already hard, heavy in his hand. He strokes himself once, slowly, like he knows exactly what the sight does to you.

And unfortunately, he does.

Your mouth goes dry.

Toto notices. His eyebrow lifts, and that faint, unbearable half-smile touches his mouth.

“You know what to do.”

Your pulse jumps again.

You look up at him through your lashes, still kneeling, mouth already watering, thighs pressed together because somehow even this is enough to make heat gather low in your body all over again.

“Yes.”

He guides his cock to your lips.

He is big, already slightly wet at the tip, and the first brush of him against your mouth sends another sharp pull of arousal between your thighs.

Toto’s thumb strokes your cheek. “Open.”

You do.

You take him slowly, tongue sliding over the head first, tasting him, teasing that sensitive place until his breath catches. Then you draw him deeper into your mouth, centimeter by centimeter, while his hand slides into your hair. Guiding. Holding. Careful in a way that only makes it hotter.

“Mein Gott,” he murmurs, voice roughening. “That mouth.”

Behind you, Max kneels close, his hand sliding between your thighs, fingers pushing into you from behind.

Your ass arches back toward him instinctively.

Max notices. His other hand lands on your ass, gripping hard, squeezing the flesh before delivering a light slap that makes your whole body jolt.

You moan around Toto.

Your hands fly to Toto’s thighs, fingers digging in so you have something solid to hold onto while Max works you open from behind and Toto fills your mouth.

Toto’s jaw tightens. He feels the way your mouth reacts around him, the way your throat moves with every broken sound Max pulls out of you.

Max laughs softly. “She likes that.”

Toto looks down at you.

“She likes being useful,” he says, voice rough, and strokes your cheek with almost cruel tenderness while his cock moves slowly between your lips.

Your whole body clenches around Max’s fingers.

Toto smiles. “Yes. Exactly.”

You take Toto deeper, your lips stretching around him, your eyes locked on his while Max keeps pushing his fingers into you from behind. His touch is rougher than Toto’s, impatient, matching the rhythm of your mouth on Toto’s cock.

“Fuck,” Max mutters. “She’s dripping again.”

Toto strokes your cheek with his thumb.

“Of course she is.”

You moan again, looking up at him from your knees as you take him deeper into your mouth. Your lips stretch around him, your hands tightening on his thighs while the heat between your own only grows worse.

Toto’s eyes darken.

His fingers slide into your hair and tug gently, just enough to make your scalp prickle and your body clench around Max’s fingers again.

“Look at you...” Toto murmurs, his breathing getting heavier as he starts moving faster, fucking your mouth with slow, controlled thrusts that are becoming less patient by the second. “So eager.”

The words go straight through you.

Then Max pulls his fingers out. The loss makes you whimper around Toto’s cock.

Behind you, you hear Max spit into his palm, then feel his hand return between your thighs. His fingers spread the wetness over your already sensitive cunt, rubbing slow, filthy circles over your clit before the blunt head of his cock presses against your entrance from behind.

Your breath stutters.

Toto watches your face closely while he fucks your mouth, one hand still cupping your cheek, the other buried in your hair.

He holds you there, guiding you with firm, careful control, his rhythm slowing just enough to make you feel every centimeter of him against your tongue.

His breathing is rough now.

His thumb strokes your cheek.

“Do you want him?”

Your stomach twists hard, arousal building low and sharp in your belly.

You pull back just enough to breathe.

“Yes.”

Max’s hand grips your hip.

Toto’s thumb brushes over your lower lip.

“Ask properly.”

Your cheeks burn.

Max groans behind you. “Fuck, Toto. Don’t drag it out.”

But Toto does not look away from you. Of course he does not. He waits. Calm and cruel. Perfectly aware of what it does to you.

You swallow, lips still wet from him.

“Please,” you whisper. “I want Max to fuck me.”

Toto smiles. “Good girl.”

Max does not wait after that.

You feel the head of his cock drag once through your wetness, rubbing over your swollen clit before pressing back to your entrance. Then he pushes into you from behind, slow enough to make you feel the stretch, hard enough to make your hands grip Toto’s thighs even tighter.

Your moan breaks as Max fills you.

“Fuck,” Max breathes, both hands locking on your hips. “She’s so wet.”

Toto’s hand tightens in your hair.

He guides his cock back to your mouth.

You open for him instantly, taking him again while Max starts moving behind you, each thrust rocking your body forward onto Toto. Your eyes water slightly from the fullness, from the rhythm, from being caught between them like this.

Toto exhales roughly above you.

“There,” he murmurs. “Take him. Take us both.”

And you do.

You take Toto deeper into your mouth while Max fucks you from behind, your body moving between them, your head spinning with the heat of it, the anger, the praise, the filthy perfection of finally being exactly where all three of you have been pretending you did not want to be.

The office disappears. The race disappears.

Everything becomes Toto in your mouth and Max inside you, the two of them moving in brutal, perfect rhythm until you can barely think.

Max’s hands grip your hips tighter.

Toto’s hand stays in your hair.

“Look at me,” Toto says.

You do.

Your eyes stay on his while Max fucks you harder from behind, every thrust driving a muffled moan around Toto’s cock.

“That’s it,” Toto says, voice rough now. “Let him use that attitude properly.”

Max groans. “She feels insane.”

“She looks better when she is not shouting,” Toto says.

You glare up at him. Or try.

It probably loses power with his cock in your mouth.

He smiles. “There. Still angry.”

Max thrusts deeper.

Your body jerks.

Toto inhales sharply. “But not for long.”

Max’s hand slides around your hip to find your clit, rubbing fast, rough circles while he keeps fucking you from behind. The pleasure builds again, sharp and mean, your body still sensitive from the first orgasm.

You whimper around Toto.

He pulls out just enough to let you breathe.

“Are you close?”

You gasp. “Yes.”

Max’s fingers move faster.

“Come on my cock,” Max says, voice strained. “Come on it, then.”

Toto’s hand tightens gently in your hair.

“Do it.”

Your second orgasm crashes through you on your knees, your body clenching hard around Max while you cry out, forehead pressing against Toto’s thigh. Max curses loudly, hips stuttering as you tighten around him.

“Fuck— she’s squeezing me—”

Toto’s voice turns darker.

“Don’t come yet.”

Max groans, but he slows, his cock still hard inside you, buried deep enough that your whole body trembles around him.

“You’re joking.” Max says.

“I am not,” Toto says, serious and calm in that terrifying way of his.

You laugh weakly, ruined and shaking, forehead pressed against Toto’s thigh while Max’s hands stay locked on your hips.

Toto pulls you up from the floor before your legs can properly remember how to work. His arms close around you immediately, strong and steady, holding your trembling body against his chest as if he already knows you would collapse without him.

Then he kisses you. Deep. Filthy. Tasting himself on your mouth.

You melt into him, fingers clutching his shirt, body still pulsing from Max, still too sensitive, still caught between both of them.

Behind you, Max pulls out slowly, breathing hard.

The loss makes you gasp into Toto’s mouth.

Max curses under his breath, one hand still wrapped around his hard cock, looking like he might actually murder Toto now.

“You are evil,” Max says, voice rough.

Toto smiles against your mouth.

“Efficient.”

Then he looks toward the sofa, still holding you tightly because he can feel how badly you are shaking.

Your stomach flips.

“Oh no.”

“Oh yes,” Max says immediately, because apparently he has recovered enough to be annoying again.

Toto lifts you with terrifying ease and carries you to the leather sofa. He sits first, pulling you down onto his lap before your shaky legs can object.

Then he strips off his shirt in one quick movement.

Your back meets his bare chest. Warm skin. Hard muscle. That solid, familiar strength beneath you.

Your body melts into him instantly, sinking back against him with a helpless little sound when you feel his cock still hard against your ass.

Toto’s mouth brushes your ear. “Comfortable?”

You swallow. “You are asking that now?”

His hands slide over your hips, then your ass, then up your stomach with slow, possessive care.

“Yes.”

Max pulls his shirt off too, throwing it somewhere behind him before kneeling between your legs, completely naked now, eyes dark as he looks at you spread open on Toto’s lap.

You look from one to the other. “What now?”

Toto’s hands keep moving, gentle and maddening, stroking your ass, your hips, your stomach, then higher until his palms close around your breasts. His thumbs brush over your already sensitive nipples, and your breath catches.

His mouth touches the shell of your ear.

“Now we stop wasting the office.”

Max grins. “Finally.”

Then Toto reaches calmly into the drawer beside the sofa and pulls out lubricant.

You blink. “You keep that in your office?”

He looks entirely unbothered. “I keep many things in my office.”

Max laughs. “Respect.”

You would make a joke, but Toto’s hand slides between your legs, fingers spreading you open slowly, then moving lower, between your buttocks with careful, deliberate pressure.

Your whole body tenses against him.

Toto kisses your temple. “Breathe.”

You do.

Or you try to.

Max lowers his mouth to you again, but not where you expect him first. He kisses your neck, then your collarbone, then lower, dragging his mouth over your chest while Toto holds you open and steady from behind.

When Max reaches your breasts, your head falls back against Toto’s shoulder.

His tongue circles one nipple slowly. Then he sucks. Gentle at first. Then firmer when your body arches against Toto’s.

Toto’s chest rises beneath your back, solid and warm, his skin pressed fully to yours, his breath steady at your ear while his fingers continue their slow, careful work between your thighs and lower.

You feel surrounded. Toto behind you. Max between your legs.

Skin against skin. Hands everywhere. Max's mouth on your breast. Toto’s cock hard against your ass.

Your breathing turns deeper, shakier, every inhale dragging the scent and heat of Toto into your lungs while Max’s mouth keeps teasing your nipple like he has finally learned patience and decided to use it against you.

“Oh no— fuck—” a soft moan slips from you.

“Oh yes,” Toto murmurs, one arm wrapping around your waist. “You wanted to fight both of us. Now take both of us.”

Max’s mouth leaves your nipple with a wet sound, and you almost complain.

Then he starts moving lower. Slowly. Kissing down your chest, your ribs, your stomach, dragging his mouth over every centimeter of skin like he suddenly has all the patience in the world and intends to make it your problem.

Your head falls back against Toto’s shoulder.

His hand spreads over your stomach, holding you firmly against him, keeping you steady while his other hand continues working carefully between your thighs and lower, slick with lube, slow enough to make your body tense and soften at the same time.

Max finally reaches your pussy.

He looks up once. Dark eyes. Mouth slightly swollen from your breasts.

Then his tongue drags through the mess of you. Slow now. Less angry.

Your whole body jerks.

Toto kisses your cheek. “Breathe.”

You do.

His voice stays low and steady at your ear.

“Good girl.”

Max’s tongue circles your clit slowly, almost carefully now, like he knows how sensitive you already are. That makes it worse. The gentleness, the precision, the way he watches your body react while Toto keeps you pinned safely against his chest.

Then Toto presses one finger inside you slowly.

Your fingers dig into his thigh.

“There,” he murmurs, kissing your hair. “That’s it.”

His arm tightens over your stomach, holding you close while your body trembles between both of them.

Max watches from between your thighs, eyes dark.

“She looks good like that.”

“She does,” Toto says. “She looks beautiful when she lets go.”

The praise makes you tremble harder.

Toto works you open carefully, one finger, then more, patient despite the heat burning through the room. Max keeps his mouth on you, tongue slow over your clit, lips teasing, making it impossible to focus on anything except sensation.

Toto behind you. Max below you. The sofa beneath you. The room blurring at the edges.

By the time Toto shifts beneath you, your body is trembling, open, desperate.

He lifts your hips slightly.

You feel him then. Hard against your ass. Heavy. Hot.

Your breath breaks.

Toto’s mouth brushes your ear again.

“Slowly,” he says.

Then he guides you down onto his cock, entering you from behind, filling your ass centimeter by centimeter.

Your mouth falls open.

It is intense. Full. Almost too much.

Toto’s hands hold you steady.

“Breathe,” he murmurs. “You’re doing so well.”

You shudder.

Max watches you like he wants to devour the expression on your face.

“Fuck,” he says softly. “You look incredible.”

Toto bottoms out and stills, buried deep inside you, his arms wrapped around you, chest solid at your back.

You are panting. Overwhelmed. Full of him in a way that makes your brain flicker.

Toto kisses your temple. “Still with us?”

You nod.

“Words.”

“Yes,” you whisper. “Yes, I’m with you.”

Max positions himself between your thighs.

Your heart kicks hard.

Toto’s voice drops. “Do you want him too?”

You look at Max.

He is hard, flushed, eyes fixed on you with that same reckless hunger from the track, except now it has nowhere to go except into you.

“Yes,” you say.

Max’s mouth curves. “Good.”

He pushes into your pussy slowly while Toto stays buried in your ass.

Your whole body locks. The stretch is overwhelming.

Your hands fly to Toto’s arms around you.

“Oh my God—”

Toto kisses your cheek, voice rough but gentle. “Breathe. Take him slowly.”

Max groans as he sinks deeper.

“Fuck, she’s so fucking tight now.”

Toto’s grip tightens around your waist.

“Careful.”

“I am.” Max says.

“You better be.”

Even now, even like this, they still sound one second away from arguing.

You laugh breathlessly, but it turns into a moan when Max pushes fully inside.

There is no room left for thought.

Toto behind you. Max in front of you.

Both of them inside you.

Your body stretched, filled, held between them.

You lift your knees higher, legs tightening around Max’s back, pulling him closer before you can even think about pretending you are still in control.

Max pushes deeper.

Your whole body shudders. The fullness turns sharper, hotter, almost too much, Toto buried behind you and Max sinking deeper into you from the front, both of them stretching you until every thought in your head breaks apart.

“Fuck,” Max breathes, voice rough. “That’s—”

“Yes...” Toto says, voice strained.

Because he feels it too. The way your body tightens around both of them. The way you clench from the overwhelming pressure, from being so completely full, from having both their cocks inside you at once.

His arm locks more firmly around your waist.

“I know,” Toto murmurs, his voice softer now, before pressing a gentle kiss to your sweat-damp forehead.

Then they start slowly.

Max moves first, drawing back and pushing in while Toto holds still beneath you. Then Toto shifts his hips up just slightly, and the double sensation makes your head fall back with a broken cry.

“There she is,” Toto murmurs. “That’s my girl.”

Max’s hand slides to your throat, gentle but firm enough to tilt your face toward him.

“Look at me.”

You do.

His eyes are wild.

“You were so angry with me,” he says, thrusting into you slowly. “Still angry now?”

You try to answer. Nothing comes out.

Max grins.

Toto’s hand slides down to your clit.

Your entire body jerks.

“Oh— fuck—”

“Apparently not,” Toto murmurs, his mouth brushing your shoulder in a soft kiss that makes your whole body tighten around them.

Then they find a rhythm.

Toto lifting into you from behind. Max thrusting into you from the front.

Not too fast at first, but deep, heavy, devastating. Every movement fills you completely, every stroke grinding pleasure through your body until your fingers clutch at both of them.

Max kisses you hard.

Toto’s mouth is at your neck.

Their hands are everywhere: your waist, your breasts, your thighs, your throat, your clit. You cannot tell where one touch ends and the other begins. You only know you are full, stretched, adored, overwhelmed.

“You take us so well,” Toto says, voice wrecked now. “So fucking well.”

Max groans. “She’s perfect.”

Your cunt clenches around Max.

Your ass tightens around Toto.

Both men curse at once.

You would laugh if you had any air.

Max’s forehead drops to yours. “Do that again.”

Toto’s hand moves faster on your clit.

You do not do it on purpose. Your body does it for you.

They both groan.

Toto’s voice turns darker, rough with control slipping.

“You like being full of us. You like being between us like this.”

“Yes,” you gasp. “Yes— fuck— yes—”

Max’s hips snap harder.

Toto follows, and the rhythm turns rougher, less careful now that your body has adjusted, now that every sound you make tells them you want more.

The sofa creaks.

Your thighs shake.

Your third orgasm builds fast and brutal, fed by the double fullness, Toto’s fingers on your clit, Max’s mouth on yours, both of them praising you like they are trying to ruin you permanently.

“Good girl,” Toto groans.

“So fucking good,” Max adds.

“Taking both of us.”

“Look at you.”

“Perfect.”

You break. Hard.

Your orgasm rips through you, body locking around both of them, pleasure so intense you almost sob. Max swears loudly, hips stuttering as your pussy clenches around him. Toto’s arms tighten around you, holding you through it while he keeps moving just enough to drag every aftershock out.

“That’s it,” Toto says against your ear. “Come for us. Good girl.”

Max’s jaw is tight. “I’m close.”

Toto’s voice cuts through the haze.

“Not yet.”

Max makes a strangled sound. “Fuck off.”

You actually laugh, broken and breathless, which turns into another moan when Toto thrusts up into you.

Toto’s mouth brushes your ear.

“Where do you want him?”

Your brain is useless. Your body is not.

“Inside,” you gasp. “Both of you. Inside.”

Max groans like the words nearly finish him.

Toto’s grip tightens.

“Oh yes— fuck— ” Max mutters, voice rough, almost laughing.

You try to glare at him.

It fails.

Toto’s hand slides to your jaw, turning your face toward him.

“You want that?” he murmurs. “Want both of us to fill you?”

Your whole body clenches again.

“Yes.”

Toto’s eyes darken. “Then take it.”

Max loses it first.

He drives into you hard, groaning against your mouth as he comes deep inside you, his body shaking, hands gripping your hips like he might fall apart otherwise.

You feel it. The hot rush of him filling you. The hard pulse of his cock buried in your pussy, spilling into you in deep, uneven waves while his mouth stays open against yours.

The feeling sends you spiraling again. Not a full orgasm this time, but a sharp, broken wave of pleasure that makes you cry out and clamp down around him.

Max curses into your mouth.

Toto follows seconds later.

His thrusts turn rough and uneven beneath you, his mouth at your neck, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to keep you pressed down against him. He drives up into you one last time, deep and firm, his cock buried in your ass as his body tenses beneath yours.

Then he comes.

A low groan breaks from him, rough against your skin, and you feel him fill you from behind while Max is still pulsing inside your pussy.

The fullness is obscene. Overwhelming. Perfect.

You collapse back against Toto, shaking, your body trapped between them in the best possible way. Max leans forward against you, breathing hard, his cock still inside you. Toto stays buried behind you too, his arms locked around your waist, holding you tight against his bare chest like he has no intention of letting you slip away.

Your thighs tremble around Max.

Your hands clutch weakly at Toto’s arms.

All three of you are tangled and ruined on the office sofa, still joined, still breathless, still surrounded by heat, sweat, and the filthy proof of what just happened.

For a moment, nobody moves.

Nobody can.

Toto’s mouth presses to your damp temple. Soft, possessive and grounding.

“My good girl,” he murmurs, voice rough and low. “Breathe. I’ve got you.”

You close your eyes, still feeling both of them inside you.

Toto’s arms are locked tightly around your waist, holding you pressed back against his bare chest. Your body lies heavy against his, boneless and trembling, while his mouth drifts softly over your temple again and again.

His hand moves to your stomach, stroking slow, grounding circles over your skin.

You breathe because he tells you to. Because he is warm beneath you. Because his voice still sits low in your ear like something you would follow anywhere.

Max is above you, still buried deep, his breathing rough against your neck. One of his hands smooths over your hip, no longer rough now, just careful, while his mouth brushes the side of your throat in small, heated touches.

For once, neither of them fights for control.

They just hold you there. Full. Shaking. Ruined between them.

For a long moment, nobody says anything.

Then Max lifts his head slightly. “I think we fixed the tension.”

You laugh weakly.

Toto exhales against your shoulder. “You two are still not allowed to crash into each other next weekend.”

Max groans. “Team debrief ruined.”

You manage, “Worth it.”

Toto kisses your temple. “Are you okay?”

There it is. His voice soft now. Grounded. Back to you.

You nod, still trembling. “Yes.” you whisper. “I’m okay.”

Max’s hand strokes your thigh, gentler now. “Too much?”

You shake your head. “No. Just… no brain.”

Max grins. “That was the goal.”

Toto gives him a look over your shoulder. “Do not be smug.”

“You’re smug.”

“I am allowed.”

“You always think that.”

You lift one weak hand. “Please do not start another argument while both of you are still inside me.”

They both go quiet.

Then Toto laughs. Low and warm. Actually amused.

Max follows, his forehead dropping to your shoulder.

“Fair.”

Aftercare is awkward for exactly six seconds because no one wants to move.

Then Toto takes control. He eases out first, slowly, one hand steady on your waist when you shiver. Max follows, pressing a quick kiss to your knee when you make a soft sound.

The emptiness hits you immediately.

After being so full of both of them, the sudden loss makes your body tremble all over again. You feel their cum start to slip out of you, warm and messy, mixing between your thighs, and instead of embarrassment, another sharp pulse of arousal goes through you.

Your breath catches.

Toto sees it. So does Max.

For a second, all three of you look down, and the room goes quiet in a way that is filthy, satisfied, and far too pleased with itself.

Max’s mouth curves first. Toto’s hand tightens gently on your waist.

“Still greedy,” Max murmurs.

You should deny it.

You absolutely do not have the strength.

Toto leans in and kisses your temple, slow and warm.

Max follows a heartbeat later, pressing his mouth to your other temple, softer now, almost tender.

The two of them stay there for a second, surrounding you again, smug and warm and entirely too proud of what they have done to you.

Toto reaches for tissues, then warm wipes from the private bathroom, practical and careful while Max grabs your discarded Mercedes hoodie from the floor and drapes it over you like a blanket.

“Your idea of aftercare is terrible,” you mumble.

Max looks offended. “It’s a Mercedes hoodie. It’s expensive.”

“It smells like sex and rage.”

“That is basically our brand.”

Toto’s mouth twitches.

He cleans you carefully, murmuring soft praise when your thighs twitch from overstimulation. Max sits beside you, rubbing lazy circles over your calf, oddly quiet now that the heat has faded into something softer.

“You really okay?” he asks.

You look at him.

His face is open in a way it rarely is. There is no challenge, no bite. Just concern.

“Yes,” you say. “I’m okay.”

He nods. “Good.”

Toto wraps you in his jacket next, because apparently hoodies are not acceptable blankets in his office. He pulls you against his chest on the sofa, and Max settles on your other side, close enough that your legs touch.

You are warm, sore, boneless. And absurdly satisfied.

Toto’s hand strokes your hair. Max’s thumb moves over your knee.

For a while, the office is quiet.

Then you murmur, “We still need to talk about Turn Four.”

Max groans. “Are you serious?”

“You pushed me wide.”

“You were late on the brakes.”

Toto’s hand tightens in your hair. “Do not make me solve this problem again.”

You and Max both go quiet.

Then Max mutters, “I mean…”

You laugh into Toto’s chest.

Toto sighs like a man who has won eight championships and still cannot control his drivers.

“Unbelievable,” he says.

But his arms tighten around you. And nobody moves.

✨taglist: @soleilgrec @wolff-fixation @luckysept @honeytii @stanswifties @myescapefromthislife @f1girliespop @heartsformarie @kermittaxevasion @tremog2405 @lanpastry @rash36 @dessashippr

She just passed the gates to the paddock, readying herself mentally for today's Friday and its practice session, when red bull's own social media team approaches her. "Hi (Y/N), how are we feeling ahead of the weekend? Excited to be back in the car after three weeks off?" The guy holding the phone slows his walking speed, being just a step ahead of her, while filming.

The young driver adjusts the straps to the backpack she's carrying, thinking about her answer. "I can't wait to finally be in the car again. The engineers are working very hard right now to put the new upgrades on. I'm itching to see how the new rear wing works with the downforce of this track. I've seen the simulations and I am always so amazed with everyone back at the factory and their commitment to the project." She smiles at the camera and the social media personnel, shielding her eyes from the sun that just started to beat down. Today will be a sweaty day for sure.

Satisfied with her answer, the filming crew leaves her alone. She resumes her walk to the garage to meet with her engineers to discuss the plans for the practice sessions. On the way, Max joins her strut. "If you continue being this nice, they will never stop asking for your opinions", he informs her. (Y/N) rolls her eyes playfully. "You know that I can't be mean in English."

After entering the garage, he turns into her direction before splitting towards different briefing rooms. "You gotta learn. I don't understand how you can have such a potty mouth in German, but don't curse once in English. It's just a different language, you aren't a new person." Max is technically right, but his younger teammate isn't open to giving him a point. That has to do with the healthy competitive nature they keep between themselves to keep it clean on track.

Some playful teasing feeds towards a non-toxic friendly bond. (Y/N) learned this from her blond, German mentor. The divorced one. Not the farmer.

"It is a different vibe. German is meant to be used to curse. That's the beauty of the language. You can wedge love on Goethe's and Schiller's poetry—who totally had something homosexual going on between them—and then cuss someone and their whole bloodline in the most brutal way out. English is a different vibe. It's posh, cleansed. You know?" To be honest, this have been an ongoing discussion between those two.

Max doesn't understand her aversion to cussing in English, (Y/N) doesn't understand how he can keep his brutally honest personality through all the different languages he can speak. Together, they make up one average speaker.

Soon after, first practice is underway. Today, several non-f1 rookie drivers from lower classes participate in the session, looking forward to collect experiences and points for their super-licenses.

"Okay boss, you want me to come in to do a quali simulation after the long run?" (Y/N) asks her race engineer over the radio. He confirms, "Yes, please. You'll get new shoes." "I hope they have red bottoms." She quips back.

As (Y/N) steers towards the pit entry, one of the rookies in a Mclaren zap past her dangerously close. "Oh, that was not nice", she says on the radio. After closing the channel, she mutters to herself "Junge, was ein Arschloch Move. Also wirklich, wir fahren Formel 1 und nicht Auto Scooter aufm Jahrmarkt in irgendeinem Kack-Dorf am Arsch der Heide." (Man, was an asshole move. Be for real, we are driving in F1 and not bumper cars at a carnival in a small shit village in the middle of ass no where)

Her race engineer confirms that this will be taken to the stewards while her car gets wheeled in to prepare for a qualifying simulation. With new softs, she taxies the car back on track and takes a warm up lap before turning up the speed.

"Check the balance", she tells her engineer, "especially in turn-" Her sentence is cut off as her car gets t-boned into the barrier.

The world is askew for several seconds. It's eerily quiet. (Y/N) shakes her head, trying to find her bravado again.

Suddenly, all the noises come back at once. Like a second slam, she is back in her body, feeling the pains from the impact. (Y/N) lifts her head, spotting the papaya colored car from earlier. "Das ist jetzt nicht sein scheiß Ernst." She growls. "Das kann nicht wahr sein! Zuerst fahren als hätte man den Führerschein auf der Rückseite einer Cornflakes Packung gefunden und dann auch noch andere mit ins verschissene Verderben reißen. Junge, wenn ich den in die ,Finger kriege, dann hoffe ich, dass er eine weitere Unterhose dabei hat, ey. Der wird sich so einscheißen vor Angst, das wird der ganze Paddock riechen. Weiß der Idiot überhaupt, was die Mechaniker heute leisten müssen, nur weil er meint, wie ein Arschloch fahren zu müssen? Kann der froh sein, dass ich nicht auf Mutter gehe!" She punches her steering wheel in frustration.

"Are you okay?" The voice of her race engineer cuts through the brief silence she leaves after her freak out. "Yeah, I'm okay. I am so sorry to the mechanics. Coffee and lunch will be on me." Her voice is quiet, breathy but calm. What (Y/N) didn't know is that she actually never closed her radio channel between the shunt and the check in from her engineer. While two medical cars come by to collect her and the Mclaren rookies as well, Nico Rosberg sits in a very uncomfortable position in the commentary box for Sky Sports England.

His seat itself isn't what makes it so bad. The high prices for subscriptions pay for actually very good desk chairs with amazing lumbar support. What really brings him between a rock and a hard place is Martin Brundle turning towards him, asking for translation of the biggest on radio crashout of the season so far. Since it happened in German, to him it only sounded sharp and angry.

"You know, Martin", he awkwardly adjusts his already perfectly good laying collar. "This, I mean. I can sum it up, it's just the adrenaline speaking really." Nico himself doesn't know if he does it to protect the young woman or himself when he tries to dance around the literal translation. But it seems like there is a consensus on wanting him to retell what (Y/N) said verbatim between the other commentators.

He clears his throat, despite having had no previous problems with it today. "Okay. (Y/N) said something along the lines of, and I am quoting here. Those aren't my actual words, it's all hers. He can't be serious—sprinkled with some curses like shit—At first driving as if you got your drivers license from the back site of a cereal box and then pulling others with you into the shitty ruins. Man, when I see him, I hope he packed extra underwear. He- Do we really need the rest? I think we got the gist- okay okay." The blond lifts his hands up in surrender upon getting glares from his colleagues. "He is going to shit himself so badly out of fear, the whole paddock will be able to smell it. Does the idiot even know what the mechanics need to do now, just because he thinks he needs to drive like an asshole. He should be thankful that I'm not coming for his mom."

There is an awkward silence following Nico's translation. He tries to bring some light to the situation. "I mean, she's not wrong. Both garages, Red Bull and Mclaren, will have their hands full until the second session. I hope the cars are salvageable for the teams."

(Y/N)'s outbursts is making the rounds on social media and the paddock while she's getting checked out in the medical center. It's just a precaution due to the g-forces she sustained during the shunt, but so far she hasn't complained about anything gravely. Except for some stiffness of course.

Meanwhile, Nico Hülkenberg stands in the media pen, weathering the questions of the press. Someone has played him the audio of the radio. His grin widens with every word, looking like a proud dad as he tries to tame his sweaty helmet hair. "Nico, can you give us a comment about what (Y/N) said?" The journalist asks the driver.

"I need to ask her if she kisses her mother with that mouth. But you know, I'm just happy that the rest of the world now finally knows how much of a potty mouth she is." He grins. He has been waiting for everyone else to realize that her good girl persona is not actually as good as the illusion hints at. After all, Nico has been subjected to her true form countless of times. He knows how (Y/N) actually articulates herself.

About exactly that, the same reporter asks the young driver later, after she returns to the paddock with clearance from the doctor that she will be sore, but ready to still drive. As her radio gets played back to her, she gets hot in the face. "I, I must be honest. I'm not able to cuss in English. It feels wrong to me. But, if someone cuts my way on the high way, I call them an SOB. In German. There are studies that saying the actual curse words is giving you actual relief over the watered down version. I promise, I'll continue to keeping my interviews as clean as possible."

(Y/N) scratches her neck. "Though, I will apologize to Britney. I heard that he blushed harder than a teenage girl when Martin pressed him to translate what I said. If this happens again—which I never hope will, because a shunt like this one sucks for everyone—I'll make sure to repeat everything in English right after. To spare him the embarrassment."

Max catches up to her during the interview, asking if she is alright. He knows that the crash wasn't gravely dangerous from the looks of the recordings, but in a sport like this one, you can't never be too sure.

The interviewer also asks for a comment from him. Being able to get an instant reaction from the Dutchman to a topic like this must be the same to a lottery win in the journalism world.

He grins proudly to, similar to Nico earlier. "I just hope that (Y/N) is able to drag that energy into English too. God knows she needs to bring her actual personality into it. Our little fire cracker." He wrestles her into a headlock, using his knuckles to destroy her hairdo. The cameras are still filming.

"Fuck off, Verstappen. Bruder, ich schwöre, ich gebe dir 'nen Roundhouse kick in die Nüsse." She grunts while trying to get out his grip. "Halfway there, kid. Halfway there."

Y/n got another podium in Shanghai with a P3 then in Suzuka she was P5. Clearly some work needs doing to deal with rain, but they're back in the dry desert in Bahrain.

Familiar territory for y/n since testing was done here and before she came int the season she tested here with the team. She's feeling good.

Yet to finish outside the top 5 is a good record to hold, especially when she's proving to be the teammate pulling in the points after Kimi crashed in Shanghai.

Bahrain has really been a weekend y/n has dominated, she lead all the practices, she got pole and she's been leading every lap. She's got the fastest lap.

"Y/n took pole, she is being hunted down by Charles Leclerc, she is doing everything right. It is her last lap, if she can keep Charles behind her then she-she's gone off y/n is-Charles is leading the race." Crofty exclaims as they watch y/n make the error, getting over steer and ending up in gravel that she comes back out of but Charles has past her and she's lost her lead with no chance of getting past him before the line comes up on them and when she does cross the line.

Her radio is silent because they know to leave her alone.

"Well sometimes certain things don't need pointed out. Y/n is a podium sitter but never a race winner and I think that may be the story of her life."

Mercedes gets to the barriers as y/n pulls up, wanting to sit in the car or get out and march away but the type of repercussions that could have, would just not be worth it even if she dared to.

She can't even face the team as she immediately moves to get weighed with her helmet remaining on her head lifting the visor just enough to wipe the stray tears she can't contain.

Eventually she moves to the team who try to assure her that these things happen. It's happened to Charles even and he won the race today.

Charles is celebrating but the podium is painful and y/n is gone before anyone has a chance to pick up the champagne bottles to spray. Oscar being the other driver on there and while he's not exactly shown much support to y/n but he can read a room.

"You were amazing out there." Dakota states as she leans on the physio bed, head dropped down but she turns with a rage behind her eyes that lets the trainer know that it was not the right thing to say or the right time to even try to convince her that she's a good driver.

"I lost, Dakota. What about that was amazing? Humiliating myself? Do I look like I'm enjoying the degradation I get every time I fuck up for the world to see? Don't praise me when I don't deserve it because I'm not fucking asking for anyone to feed me lies to boost my ego and that includes you." Y/n spits letting her anger get the better of her.

Dakota knows it's not really her that's the problem, so she just gives Y/n the space she clearly needs.

She's the last one out into the media pen nearly missing it since usually they'd pack up by now but they waited to speak to her. It's too juicy not to after such an embarrassing end to the race.

"Hey, y/n. Not really the way to end such a strong weekend."

"No. It wasn't but what do you want me to say? I apologise to the team, they deserved this win. They've worked their asses off and I screwed it up on the last lap. And you guys are going to rip into me like you always do because you never learned how to respect woman and quite frankly I'd like to speak to your parents about how disgusting you can be. Same for quite a few drivers, I could have a word with them about how much disrespect their sons have. But I'm just a woman with a pretty face who can't win a race so what the fuck does my opinion matter, right?"

The media girl next to y/n eyes widen in horror at the PR nightmare that has just be set a light while the reporters are speechless.

"Thanks for your time." Y/n nods before leaving with the girl following as she moves to the press conference which is nearly completely done. She'll get a fine for being late but at this point she's beyond caring.

She gives one word answers to every question even when they attempt open-ended questions to force her to say no, but to them she only shrugs.

She's being an asshole, she knows it. But she can't hurt feelings anymore than hers have been hurt.

They deserve everything she gives them after the way they've treated her.

-

"Nico, you like to defend and underdog a lot and you are a father of girls. What are your thoughts on y/n's comments to the media about not just the media but other drivers." Simon states as the Sky reports stand together for the Thursday pre-weekend run-up show.

"I truly think she said what needed to be said and actually I think a lot of the media and the drivers should heed her words. Maybe she should speak to their parents because that might get them to realise just how badly they've treated her compared to other drivers. Kimi and Lewis have defended her but beyond that we haven't really seen anyone actually speak positively of her and Max, Charles and Lando all made fairly sexist comments about her being in the sport." Nico explains with his usual no bullshit attitude.

"How do you think she's going to cope going into Jeddah?"

"Well we already saw that she's nearly on a complete shut down for the media. One word answers, no smiling. It might be instructions from the PR team with a bit of a if you have nothing nice to say, say nothing at all rule after she gave the media her raw thoughts."

They do move through the weekend, spending a lot of air time focusing on y/n who isn't shown the strength in practices that she showed in Bahrain which of course only supports the media's narratives of y/n being good as a one off.

More comments from Lando, Charles, Liam, Max, Carlos and Fernando joking and commenting about how she failed to get the win last weekend which just shows how much improvement is needed.

Dakota got an apology from y/n directly after she finished with media and the team debrief from the race. Though it wasn't long because Toto seemed to acknowledge there was nothing good to come from dwelling on her mistake.

Y/n gets a P3 for the starting grid and sitting in her grid slot heading into the race, y/n honestly feels like her heart is in her mouth.

Her confidence took a big hit last weekend, she's still sore and bruised emotionally from the loss and despite best efforts to stop her from seeing it she's seen the headlines and comments about her.

"They're taking their time lining up. But I just want to say, that you don't need to worry about a think, win or lose. We are a team and we do it together." Dez states trying to settle her nerves but his words don't exactly provoke anything but almost making her sick, because they lost with her last week.

"I'll win." Y/n promises simply.

She might not feel as mentally strong as she did before last week, but that's not to be mistaken as weakness or as a means of her not having the motivation to win.

When the lights go out, y/n actually jumps ahead of Lando and speed to chase Oscar since the McLaren's got a 1-2 for the starting grid.

Jeddah isn't necessarily the easiest track on the planet to pass and it takes up till lap 10 but y/n takes a dive and passes the McLaren actually making it look a little too easy, but she shoots off now in the clean air.

And this time she keeps it, keeping the lead after pitstops and taking it home over the line with a 15 second margin and having lapped the back runners.

"Y/n! You won! You are a race winner!" Dez practically screams through the radio while y/n laughs then cheering into the radio.

"We won. We fucking won. We are race winners, you and me-the whole team. I'm so happy-where's Kimi?"

"P3. We got a 1-3 podium." Toto answers then congratulating her further. "You didn't need to win to prove yourself, but you earned this. No one came close to you today and you didn't need a pole or to lead every practice to win."

"Thank you, Toto. For everything."

"We never had any doubts in taking you as a driver."

Y/n does rush her in lap a little, only wanting to celebrate with her team and when she gets out she is running to the team who lift her up chanting her name while she feels them do everything to pat and congratulate her.

Eventually she's set down and finds Kimi waiting for her, taking him into her arms as they exchange an impossibly tight hug before she moves to let him celebrate with the team as she gets weighed.

As she steps off she's pulled back into a hug by Lewis who is actually the P2 between the drivers of his old team.

"You showed them." Lewis states as she turns and hugs the older man. "You owned that race."

Y/n smiles before she pulls off her helmet and begins to gulp down some water since Jeddah is a wearing race.

Eventually she steps up for her post-race interview which is with none of than Nico Rosberg, a man she's been silently thanking for defending her and he also gets a hug before she steps onto the marker ready to talk.

"Y/n that was a dominant performance, you passed the McLarens, maintained lead. You had nothing you needed to prove but you really put yourself in P1 and you didn't waver for a second. How does it feel being a race winner?"

"It's incredible. I really cannot explain how this feels, it's the best. As a driver this is exactly what we're here to do, we're here to win, to get the most points and to do everything we can to give the team the results they deserve because they're the ones putting the work into these cars, they're working with me to help me drive the car to the best the car can perform. We're going to be celebrating tonight, that's for certain." Y/n nods not being able to wipe the smile off of her face.

"Well as a former driver, as a former Mercedes driver, I have to say that you have amazed me. I'm sure your team could not be happier with you than they are right now in this moment."

"Yeah, now I just have to keep it up. It's a tight fight with the people at the top." Y/n states before thanking Nico as they broadcast cuts for her to leave for the cool down room. But she doesn't leave without an extra comment. "I also just want to thank you for the comments defending me. It was really something I needed to hear."

"I'll never let them speak down about a good driver. And you shouldn't take it."

Y/n gets to the cool down room which is a much better vibe than any other cool down room, she feels relaxed and she's talking with both the men in there with her.

There's something special for a lot of the young girls who are aspiring to be in y/n's position one day. Standing there above two men; one man a legend of the sport specifically a legend in the team she now sort of leads and the other man predicted to be a threat to the grid but being outshone by his female teammate.

She's a race winner and she's about to make everyone recognise it whether they're willing to admit it was won on merit or not.

-

Y/n still wants to troll the media a bit so she makes them wait as she showers and takes her fine ass time putting on an outfit to put everyone to shame. Because what's the fun in having a pretty face and winning a race if she can't make sure they're getting her in her best form?

"Y/n, you always keep us waiting."

"I don't keep important people waiting and that's all that really matters." Y/n smiles as she sits down for the press conference after giving the media pen polite but degrading answers for their questions.

They'll paint her as a monster with an ego that needs knocking down and an image problem. But she has to redeem herself a little after last weekend, especially since they may have allowed her the Sunday to go unpunished but she did get a call from Toto on the monday informing her that she can't talk to or about people the way she did. Though he only did it because he had to, really he would let her continue if she wanted to. It just has to be on record that he spoke to her about it being inappropriate.

"Anyway, I had to make sure I'm dressed for the occasion and winners always have to be the best dressed in the room...which by the looks of things. I can see that's exactly what I've achieved." Y/n smiles then patting Lewis' knee while he just smiles proudly at her shrugging off the indirect dig that even hit him as a presence in the room. "Though it's usually hard to compete with a man in red, I think I've managed it just fine."