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The atmosphere in the garage was charged with an electricity that had nothing to do with the flickering Las Vegas lights illuminating the paddock, nor with the general happiness of Max securing his fourth world title just hours ago. Charles stepped into his motorhome, tossing his Ferrari-branded backpack into a corner with enough force to make the zipper burst open, scattering some of its contents onto the floor. Inside, he was boiling, adrenaline still coursing through him after a day that should have been memorable—and it was, but for all the wrong reasons.
Carlos was there. Sitting on the beige leather sofa, arms crossed, his gaze fixed on some point on the floor. He still wore his slightly wrinkled Ferrari shirt, the special paddock access badge hanging loosely around his neck. It seemed like he had been waiting all this time for Charles, but he said nothing when he walked in.
The silence was deafening.
"Do you want to say something?" Charles's voice cut through the air, hard and laden with resentment. He wasn’t in the mood for beating around the bush. Carlos slowly lifted his eyes, his expression a mix of exhaustion and something else Charles couldn’t quite place.
"I just wanted to talk," Carlos replied, his voice hoarse and a few octaves lower. "About... what happened."
Charles scoffed, brusquely kicking off his shoes before turning to face Carlos directly. "Talk? After what you did on the track? You closed the door, forced me off like I was nobody. And now you want to talk? You should’ve thought about that before, Carlos."
Carlos ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. "Do you think it was intentional? I was trying to defend my position because I had better pace, Charles. It’s not like I planned to block you from passing; I was thinking about our championship and followed team orders."
"You always have an excuse." Charles shot back, his voice dripping with sarcasm. He stepped closer to the sofa, narrowing the distance between them. "There’s always a perfect justification, but the truth is you don’t know how to work as a team. They told you to not overtake me, and look at what you did."
Carlos resisted the urge to stand up, tilting his head to meet Charles’s gaze. In that moment, Charles seemed larger, intense, and overpowering, the sharp light reflecting off his green eyes making Carlos want to see them clouded and unfocused—not with anger, but with something infinitely better.
"And do you know how to work with anyone besides yourself, Charles?" Carlos shot back, his voice rising as it filled the room. "You’re not exactly a saint, you know. I didn’t do anything different from what you’d do in my place."
The air in the motorhome felt heavier, colder, and sharper than it did outside. The words between them were hurled like blows. But there was something more, a tension that went beyond words, beyond anger.
Charles stepped even closer, his eyes locked onto Carlos’s as if neither could look away, his chest heaving with heavy breaths. "You think you know me so well just because we warm each other’s bed sometimes, Carlos?"
Carlos didn’t respond immediately, and Charles raised an eyebrow, a slightly arrogant smile curling his lips.
"Maybe it’s time you learned who I really am," he said, his voice low, dangerous, almost a challenge.
Carlos remained still, but every fiber of his being seemed ready to react. He knew Charles wasn’t just talking about the race. There was something there, something that had been building between them over months, maybe years. It didn’t matter how many affectionate glances they exchanged in the paddock, how many words were spoken over the radio, or every moment shared when they were alone. None of it mattered when resentment had been planted by a situation beyond their control. None of it mattered when they had reached this point, driven by the self-sabotaging nature of bitterness.
"Learn what, Charles?" Carlos finally asked, his voice steadier now, though his guaraná-colored eyes burned like wildfire. "That you’re an egomaniac who always needs to be in control? Or that maybe you’re not as perfect as you like to pretend?"
Charles laughed, a low, bitter sound that made Carlos narrow his brown eyes. "Perfect? You really think that about me? You have no idea, Carlos. You have no idea of the weight I carry every day. And you… you just sit there, always so confident, so carefree, thinking everything will work out because you’re Ferrari’s real ‘strategist.’"
The Monegasque stepped forward, pressing one knee between Carlos’s legs while his hands gripped either side of the sofa’s backrest, trapping the Spaniard. The proximity was suffocating, but Carlos refused to look away; his pride wouldn’t allow it, even as he felt the weight of Charles pressing against his groin, sending faint waves of pleasure that slowly awakened his sleeping member.
"You always try to challenge me." Charles continued, his voice now lower, more controlled, yet still brimming with emotion. "On the track, off it. Always trying to prove something to me. And you know what? I’m tired."
"Tired of what?" Carlos whispered, his voice hoarse.
"Of you thinking you’re on the same level as me," Charles said without hesitation. "Of you believing you can challenge me without consequences."
Carlos blinked, surprised. "Is that it? You want me to stay quiet? To just stop, bow my head, and accept everything you do without question? Just because we have something?"
"No," Charles replied, leaning even closer. Their faces were mere inches apart now, the tension palpable. "Whether we have something or not doesn’t matter. I want you to understand who’s in control here."
Carlos opened his mouth to respond, but the words died in his throat when he felt Charles’s hands on his shoulders, sliding down to unzip his pants, revealing Carlos’s hardness, concealed only by the thin fabric of his underwear. He knew he could’ve pulled away, pushed Charles, grabbed his hands to stop him, or even flipped their positions to make him beg for forgiveness for trying so hard to push him over the edge. But he simply didn’t. He chose to see how far Charles would go with all that anger and sense of injustice simmering inside him. Did Charles think he could make him break? Was he naïve enough to believe he could melt him into submission with just words?
"You want to challenge me, Carlos?" Charles whispered into his ear as he pulled the Spaniard’s red shirt off, tossing it into the corner of the room, his voice laced with challenge. "Then show me. Prove you can handle me while I fuck myself into you, chasing the podium pleasure you stole from me today."
Carlos’s heart raced, and for a moment, all he could hear was the sound of his own breathing. He swallowed, yearning for Charles’s next move.
"Charles..." he began, the name rolling off his tongue, but before he could finish, Charles pressed a finger to Carlos’s lips, silencing him.
"No more words. Just actions."
Carlos closed his eyes for a moment, smiling against Charles’ finger, but when he opened them, all he saw was the Monegasque leaning back and undressing.
Charles slid the suit off his shoulders and then his torso until the fabric slipped from his hips and fell to the floor, leaving him in nothing but his fireproof undergarments—tight-fitting and enough to send Carlos' thoughts spiraling into chaos.
When he finished, Charles moved closer, his steps calculated as he straightened himself on Carlos' lap, as if he knew exactly the effect he had on the Spaniard. He stopped just inches away from the bearded face, his eyes glinting with a mixture of defiance and something darker—lustful.
Carlos couldn’t look away. Charles was so close that he could feel the heat radiating off his skin, the faint scent mixed with the sweat of an exhausting day. The Spaniard took a deep breath, trying to control the avalanche of emotions threatening to overwhelm him.
Charles smiled—a crooked smile that seemed to carry all the unspoken provocations—and leaned in even closer, his warm breath brushing against Carlos’ neck as he began to work, sucking and biting the sensitive skin.
“Come on, Carlos, where’s the fire you showed during today’s race, keeping me from overtaking you, hm? Or is it all just a bluff, a lie, and you’ve got no initiative left?” he murmured, his voice low, almost a whisper.
Carlos narrowed his eyes, the provocation finally awakening something inside him—something he had been trying to ignore ever since that inexplicable tension began between them. He raised his hands, large enough to wrap perfectly around Charles’ waist, pulling him closer until their bodies were fully pressed together. Their clothed cocks brushed against one another. He felt the muscles in Charles’ body tense under his fingers, but the Monegasque didn’t back down; instead, he leaned in even further, intensifying the contact.
Charles let out a low chuckle, a rough, teasing sound that sent a shiver down Carlos’ spine. He pulled back slightly, just enough to bring one of his hands to his lips, running the tip of his tongue slowly over two fingers—a deliberate gesture that captured Carlos’ full attention.
“Be a good boy, yes?” Charles murmured, his eyes half-lidded and full of expectation. “Suck.” He raised his hand, bringing the moist fingers to the Spaniard’s mouth.
Carlos met Charles’ gaze, defiant as always, and slowly parted his lips, letting the Monegasque’s fingers brush against his tongue, sliding into his mouth. The salty, slightly bitter taste made him close his eyes for a moment as he ran his tongue over the offered fingers, exploring every curve with an almost reverent attention.
Charles watched every movement with a satisfied smile, leaning in slightly, his eyes never leaving Carlos’. “Good boy,” he teased, his voice low and full of intent.
Carlos continued to feel that he should react—push him away and fuck Charles mercilessly. After all, Carlos had been the one most affected by the situation. Charles was just being a spoiled brat who thought he had control over everything. Yet, something inside him wanted to see how far Charles would take this dominance, whether he could draw out Carlos’ pleasure while securing his own. He gripped Charles’ wrist firmly, pushing the fingers even deeper into his mouth, as if accepting the challenge on his own terms.
Charles raised an eyebrow, surprised but clearly pleased with the unexpected response. He tilted his head, bringing his lips close to Carlos’ ear, lightly biting the lobe while his free hand traced a slow path down the Spaniard’s chest. “You’re being so well-behaved now. It seems like you’re a good boy when you know there’s something to gain, hm?” he whispered.
When Carlos finally released Charles’ fingers from his mouth, he held the Monegasque’s gaze, a defiant smile forming on his lips. Charles bit down on that smile with a fierce, heated kiss—brief but intense. The delay sent waves through Carlos’ body, tempting him with every small movement of Charles, tempting him to take, conquer, devour Charles like a sweet reward, a prize for his podium.
Charles ran his now-wet fingers along Carlos’ jaw, tracing a provocative line down to his chin and then toward his underwear. He pulled it off, his hard cock twitching in the cold motorhome air and dripping pre-cum onto Carlos’ lap. Charles wasted no time and made his way with his wet fingers to his own entrance.
The first finger slid in easily, as if this wasn’t the first time he had done this—because it wasn’t, and his body was already accustomed to being stretched like that. The only difference was that the person stretching him this time was beneath him, with observant, hungry eyes, like a wolf ready to pounce on its prey at the first opportunity. Charles gasped softly, both from the effort and the pleasure he was giving himself, and when he felt sufficiently prepared, he added a second finger.
Charles didn’t rush; his movements were calculated as he inserted the third and fourth fingers together, precise in his preparation. He twisted his fingers slowly, spreading the heat and pressure evenly in his lower half, watching every reaction Carlos had when he let out a sigh or gasp. Charles thought Carlos was so obedient for him that he didn’t even try to touch himself or Charles; he just watched, waited, almost like a dog awaiting a command. His hardened cock suffered from the minimal friction Charles created as he masturbated on the Spaniard’s lap.
“Enjoying the view, aren’t you?” Charles murmured, his voice laced with teasing as he tilted his head to observe Carlos more closely. “I can feel how much you’re holding back. Go ahead, Carlos, show me what you can do.”
Those words were like a spark for Carlos. He moved with a speed that surprised Charles, gripping the Monegasque's hips firmly and flipping their positions in one fluid motion. Now it was Carlos — to Charles' dismay, or satisfaction — who was in control, and the smug smile that formed on his lips said it all.
“You talk too much, Charles,” he whispered, his voice husky as his eyes roamed over the slender body beneath him. “Now it’s my turn to teach you a lesson.”
Charles opened his mouth to reply, but whatever words he had planned were cut off by Carlos’ fierce kiss, his lips crashing onto Charles’ with an intensity that made the Monegasque moan in surprise. Carlos wasted no time, his large hands exploring Charles’ body with a precision that made him arch his back, fingers gripping the arm of the sofa as if his life depended on it.
Carlos wasn’t gentle in moments like this — he never was, and now wasn’t going to be any different. He wanted Charles to feel every touch, every movement, like a claim. Leaning forward, his lips traveled to Charles’ neck, leaving a trail of wet kisses and light bites while his free hand slid to the base of Charles’ member.
“Tenías tanta confianza que hacerme verte actuar como una puta me rompería, pero mira…” You were so confident that making me see you act like a slut would break me, but look… Carlos said, his voice a mix of amusement and desire as he began working on Charles, his hand moving at a slow, almost torturous pace. “Estás temblando, Charles. ¿Es esto miedo o expectativa?” You’re trembling, Charles. Is that fear or anticipation?
Charles let out a low moan, his hips moving involuntarily against Carlos’ hand. He didn’t understand a word of what the Spaniard had said, but he still felt heat rising within him just from hearing the heavy accent. “You… won’t break me, Carlos,” he managed to say with a look of defiance, his voice faltering at the end of the sentence.
Carlos only smiled, a predatory glint in his eyes as he leaned closer, his warm breath brushing against Charles’ ear:
“No quiero romperte, quiero mostrarte quién está realmente a cargo aquí.” I don’t want to break you. I want to show you who's really in charge here.
He didn’t waste time after saying that. His hands moved skillfully along Charles’ length, gripping the Monegasque’s hips firmly, making it clear that he had — and always had — complete control of the situation. Charles, still gasping, tried to maintain some semblance of resistance, but it was impossible. The heat consuming him, Carlos’ firm and adept touch, everything was pushing him closer to the edge.
Carlos slid a hand across Charles’ body, sneaking under the fireproof suit and gripping one of his cheeks, which must have been as red as Ferrari’s base color, while the other hand continued working the pulsating member with relentless determination. Charles arched his back, his head falling back against the couch, moaning loudly without shame. Every move Carlos made seemed designed to extract the maximum pleasure from Charles, and he was so close he could barely form words.
“This is what you needed, isn’t it?” Carlos murmured, his voice deep and full of desire. “Someone to show you your place so you’ll stop with all this insolence from the past months.”
Charles tried to respond, but all that came out was an incoherent sound. He was on the brink, his entire body trembling, eyes shut tight as every fiber of his being focused on the pleasure Carlos was providing.
“Carlos…” he managed to whisper, his voice broken by the overwhelming sensations.
And then he came. Charles arched his body once more, a loud moan escaping his lips as his orgasm hit him hard. He spilled into Carlos’ hand, his body contracting and relaxing in endless waves of pleasure. Carlos watched it all, his eyes shining with a mix of triumph and unwavering desire.
Charles barely had time to catch his breath before feeling Carlos moving again. The Spaniard wasn’t even close to being done. He briefly got up, retrieving a condom from a nearby drawer and sliding it down the base of his erection. When he returned, he positioned himself between Charles’ legs, which were still open, muscles relaxed from the recent climax.
“Espero que tengas disfrutado de todo esto, porque ahora te daré lo que un perro como tú realmente mereces.” I hope you enjoyed all that because now I’ll give you what a dog like you truly deserves. Carlos said, his voice laden with a promise that made Charles’ body shiver.
Without further delay, he placed one of Charles’ legs over his shoulder and aligned himself, beginning to enter him slowly and firmly, as if claiming what was rightfully his. Charles let out a deep moan, his eyes rolling back as he felt Carlos move inside him, filling him completely. He hardened quickly, his cock ready for a second round of pleasure.
Carlos leaned over him, capturing Charles’ lips in a possessive kiss, his hands gripping the Monegasque’s hips firmly to keep him exactly where he wanted. Every thrust was firm, deep, eliciting moans and gasps from Charles that only seemed to fuel Carlos’ desire even more.
“Look at me, Charles,” Carlos ordered, his voice firm and commanding. Charles opened his tear-filled eyes, finding nothing but pure determination and lust in the Spaniard’s gaze. “Beg for me like you begged for that position, and I’ll consider letting you come again.”
Charles couldn’t respond, but the way he looked at Carlos, completely surrendered, said it all — he was silently begging. He had no resistance left; it had disappeared long ago, with the first orgasm. All he could do was hold on, his nails scratching Carlos’ back as the Spaniard took him, the rhythm intensifying until they were both lost in a whirlwind of pleasure and desire, finally climaxing together.
Carlos let out a heavy sigh, still trying to catch his breath as he slowly pulled away. The room was filled with silence, broken only by the sound of their ragged breathing. Charles was utterly exhausted, his body relaxed and abandoned on the couch. His green eyes could barely stay open, and he seemed lost in the whirlwind of sensations he had just experienced.
Carlos watched him for a moment, a soft smile replacing the lustful expression that had dominated his face moments earlier. He knew he had pushed Charles to his limit, and now it was time to take care of him. With careful movements, Carlos removed the condom, discarding it quickly before getting up.
"Hey, are you still with me?" Carlos asked gently, kneeling by the sofa to be at Charles' eye level.
The Monegasque mumbled something incoherent, his head turning to the side to look at Carlos. There was a trace of vulnerability in his eyes, something Carlos rarely saw—especially now, with everything between them so tense due to Ferrari's disastrous management—and it only encouraged him to be even more attentive.
"You were amazing," Carlos said, his voice low and soothing as he brushed through Charles' messy hair. "But I think I might have gone a little overboard with you." This wasn’t just about the sex; it was about everything on track as well. Of course, the bitterness sometimes gnawed at Carlos—especially when he remembered what had happened during his home race and all the times Charles acted like a whining child—but he was naturally a calm guy. He shouldn’t take it all out on Charles, especially in moments like these, when they should both feel good about what they were doing.
Charles let out a weak laugh, shaking his head slightly. "It was... good," he replied, his voice sluggish with exhaustion. "I'm sorry for being so hard on you during the race. I know it was the team's fault, but I couldn’t take it out on them."
“Shh… It’s okay, cariño.” Carlos leaned in to press a gentle kiss on Charles' forehead before standing up again. "I’ll get something to clean you up, okay? Don’t move." He disappeared through the door and returned minutes later with a damp cloth and a bottle of water.
Carefully, Carlos cleaned Charles’ body, taking care not to press too hard on the sensitive areas. He worked in silence, focused, while Charles watched him with a lazy, content gaze. Once he was done, Carlos grabbed a blanket folded in the corner of the room and draped it over Charles, ensuring he was warm. He then sat down next to him, wrapping an arm around his waist and pulling him close.
"You need to drink some water," he insisted, holding the bottle in front of Charles.
"You’re so bossy," Charles teased, but he took a few sips anyway. He sighed as he leaned back against Carlos' chest again, closing his eyes as he felt the Spaniard’s fingers tracing gentle patterns on his back.
"You know you need to regain your strength after that," Carlos replied softly, just as exhausted as the Monegasque.
The two stayed like that, free from the tension that had electrified them throughout the Las Vegas Grand Prix. And if, later, Silvia walked into the unlocked motorhome, ready to lecture Charles on fixing things with Carlos in the next PR videos, only to find the two of them there, naked and embraced—she wouldn’t leave the room surprised or shocked. Instead, she would feel relieved because, once again, the Ferrari boys had resolved things in their own way.