Work Text:
The 2024 season is coming to a close outside the garage doors. The mechanics are already drunk, the drivers are partying under the fireworks, and Carlos is sitting in front of his SF-24.
He can hear the crowds cheering, the heavy bass thrumming through the track speakers, the roving groups of drunks. He would be out there with them soon, though he has nothing to celebrate. It’s the end of an era, he survived Ferrari, even if it doesn’t feel like it now. Here, in front of his SF-24, her deep red body the personification of all his hopes and dreams. She shines under the few lights, enticing him. He can feel the day he signed the contract in his red blood. So much has changed since then, and even if this year isn’t what he wanted, it is still hard to say goodbye.
He takes a few steps forward, racing boots barely making a sound on the slick R-tile. He lays a hand on her wheel cover, thick canvass catching at callouses on his palm. As he takes a few more steps, he brushes his fingertips on the smooth halo, tracing up and over the fast lines of her. She had been a good car. Not a great car, but she was fast enough and red and a Ferrari, his Ferrari.
She had given her body to him on the race weekends, dancing on the tips of his fingers like he asked of her mostly, and she looked perfect while doing it. She was every driver’s dream. His dream. And now, she’d be used for post-season testing once, and then scrapped for parts. She came into his life, drove as fast as his dreams, and now she’s leaving. He is leaving. He’s leaving the garage, the mechanics, the race engineers, the coffee machines, the red, the SF-24.
As he thinks back on his memories of the car, he runs his hands over her carbon fiber curves. The hush of his rough palms over her smooth skin is barely audible over the partying outside, but Carlos hears it. He takes the sound into him, ingrains it into his senses.
By the time he gets to the rear wing, running his hands over each flap, past her gorgeous dipping side pods, he’s closed his eyes. He’s running purely on feel, the way she runs. It’s sensual in a way he didn’t expect, but he can’t stop. He’s half hard in his race suit as a finger dips inside her still warm exhaust pipe.
He jolts upright as a throat clears by the door. “Damn,” Piastri murmurs. “I’ve never said goodbye to anyone like that.”
Carlos runs his finger over the rim of her exhaust again, reveling in her warmth as Piastri drains the room of it. “I’m busy.” Is all he has to say.
He hopes it’s enough to get him to leave, but from the sounds of bootied feet scuffing the R-tile, he’s wrong. Carlos looks up and expects Oscar to be smirking, mocking, or perhaps skeptical, but he’s bent over with a hand splayed over her front wing. Oscar looks… contemplative.
“Y’know, they called this the pussy car, and I’m starting to see it.” Oscar hums, and Carlos sees red before he takes a breath.
“They’re all jealous because she’s sexy.” Carlos mumbles, extracting his fingers from her tailpipe to rub a thin layer of soot on the engine cover. It’s dirty, but it’s the last chance he has to do it. The soot smears over her carbon fiber and it sends a shiver down his spine.
“Yeah, right, jealous of this shitbox?” Oscar says dryly, chocolatey eyes searing up at him under heavy lids and thick eyelashes. There’s a quirk to his freckled mouth that Carlos hates in the moment.
Instead of letting his heated blood get the best of him, he runs his fingers around the rim of her tailpipe again. The thin sheen of soot on his fingers, he drags them up to smudge on her carbon fiber again. It feels like he’s teasing her like that, turning her gray black with her soot, and it makes his heart pound a little harder. “You haven’t felt her. Don’t call her a shitbox until you’ve felt the power behind your back.” He murmurs, watching his fingers dirty up her hind end.
Oscar scoffs. “Yeah, what d’ya want me to do, let her fuck me?” He hears the challenge in it, and the way he’s looking at her…
It’s not a bad thought. It might be the most erotic one of the night, really. Oscar taking it from his girl after fucking them over the whole season. He smiles at it. When he steps around his SF-24 to Oscar, the Aussie is kneeling down to brush the pads of his fingers over the front wing. On his knees for her. He licks his lips before standing up to face Carlos, bright orange and ridiculous. His hair is mussed from the race and he smells like Champaign from the podium.
They’re eye to eye, and there's a unique tension between them. They aren’t enemies per se, despite a fair few dramatic radios and post race interviews over the season. They aren’t friends either, despite Lando’s best attempts. They’re something like rivals, if the word held more contempt. Oscar is sizing him up, and Carlos is returning the favor as the air sizzles between them.
Oscar breaks the tension by reaching out slowly and grabbing his fireproofs with sticky fingers, drawing him closer. Carlos has a heady thought, then, of Oscar in his cockpit fucking himself on the steering column where the wheel slots in. He feels hotter when he thinks about it, something about the SF-24 fucking a McLaren twink a little like a wet dream for him now. “What, you scared?” He rumbles the question, voice low with their faces inches apart.
“Never.” is all the response he gets, half breathless and smelling like drunken podium celebrations.
“Take off your suit.” He commands, and under his hot breath, the Aussie moves to do it. He doesn’t expect Oscar to bend so easy, but he’s also challenged him.
When Piastri stands in front of him in just his fireproofs, Carlos can tell easily that the other man is just as worked up as he is. “Get in the cockpit, on your knees, facing backwards.” He instructs. He steps around Carlos to the midsection of his car, and Carlos turns to watch him. His firm ass is supple and round, he’s minorly mesmerized by the way the fireproofs hug his curves.
Oscar spreads a steadying hand on the SF-24’s halo before stepping a long leg over and in. He glides into the cockpit quick and practiced, but pauses on his knees staring right into her large dark airbox.
“Let me work you open for her,” Carlos hums, grabbing the tub of Mobil 220 grease the engineers keep handy. He pops it open easily, the grayish substance going from a cream to a Liquid as it melts under the heat of his hand. He turns to face Oscar, about to tell him to undress more, but he sees Oscar has already done it.
He huffs out a laugh, “greedy, huh?”
“Have you seen the MCL38? Not fuckable.” Piastri quips, spreading his knees as far as they can go in the tiny space. His elbows rest on the halo around him and he arches his back so perfectly.
Carlos leans over, His flat stomach resting against the halo and knees on the SF-24’s beautiful curving water slides. as he slots the fingers of his non-greased hand between Oscar’s curls, he brushes his greased fingers just between Oscar’s cheeks. there’s a gentle exhale as he grazes the younger man’s rim, but he doesn’t want to rush it. He places his slick fingers at his entrance and rubs against it slowly, almost shy. “Not fuckable like her, yes?” He prods.
”No,” Oscar gasps as the fingers in his hair tighten. “Sexiest car on the grid.” Finally, something they agree on.
Carlos smiles and pushes a finger in to the knuckle, feeling him flutter. He won’t have a hard time taking her cock, her steering column isn’t too thick or too long, modest in the way the rest of her isn’t. Certainly not like her wide-open tailpipe. He thinks about the soot he smeared over her, resting in Oscar’s hair now. He’s going to smell like the podium and the Ferrari garage on his way out, ravaged.
He pushes his finger a little further in and Oscar groans. When he is a little more open, constantly arching and pushing back onto Carlos’s fingers, he slips out. Piastri moans at the loss, but Carlos is quick to reassure him. “Just repositioning so i can see you take her better,” he growls, the thought of watching Piastri fuck himself back onto his car’s perfect cock sparking hot in his veins.
He steps over her nose to straddle the front of her halo, his hard cock begging to be freed from his own race suit to grind against her perfect matte crimson finish. Oscar is open in front of him, red and blotchy and freckled in his cockpit. He leans over to take another handful of lube and begins working the steering column with both hands, her plastic and carbon fiber length smooth and perfect. He whines as he works her, hard and ready.
He uses both hands to spread Oscar’s ass cheeks wide, digging his now slick fingers into his hips as his palms flat him open. He pulls Oscar back until he’s mostly lined up with her steering column and the anticipation is burning through his chest. “Ready to take her?” He asks.
“Ready to see if she’s the reason for so much gravel or if it’s driver error.” Oscar makes the strike sound like a moan, but it bites the same.
Carlos is less forgiving when he hooks his thumb into Oscar’s hole to work him onto SF-24’s perfect shaft. He’s rewarded with a long curse as Oscar slides down her cock, feeling her smooth length filling him up as he pushes back, back, back. He muffles a whine when she bottoms out. Oscar’s tight white fireproofs bunch where they’re pushed up above his middle, exposing the dimples just above his ass, accentuating the way his shoulders move as he breathes hard into the SF-24’s airbox. Carlos can’t see how tight he’s holding on to her halo, but he sees the way his traps and the backs of his biceps tighten as he works himself up and down her cock.
Carlos’s bootied feet tuck up and under his girl’s nose as he rocks his hips forward, body needing some kind of friction as he watches Oscar take and take and take. There’s grease dripping down the insides of Oscars thighs, and Carlos reaches through the halo to swipe up some of it in his hands. The bonus effect is the way Oscar shudders at the touch, and instead of using the lube on himself as he intended, he instead reaches back between Oscar's legs to smear the wetness over his tight balls. He chuckles when he rubs them between slick fingers, hearing the way Oscar likes it.
“You speak of gravel,” Carlos murmurs. “Maybe you need more of it, you shave your balls?” He huffs, taking his hand back when Oscar complains.
“You shave your arms,” he spits, but it’s half-hearted through the lust. The sounds of his ass slapping back into the steering column with Carlos’s hand out of the way is obscene. It’s too all-encompassing for Carlos to think of the quip, he has to get inside her.
He slides back and steps off her, scooping another handful of grease and making his way around her til he’s behind. He kicks his suit and fireproofs down, muscled thighs hairy and more man than Oscar knows how to take.
He takes his handful of Mobil 220 grease and works it inside of her tailpipe, fist in in and out of her until she’s full and slippery. He’s on his knees when he pushes in, not thick enough to fill her fully, but he keeps his hand inside her too. His cock in her still-warm hole, the sounds of Oscar fucking himself on her, he moans when he pushes in to the hilt. She’s so warm, so loose and slick around him, he fists his hand in further.
Oscar’s head is resting on the side of her airbox, and he’s looking at him with his hair mussed and half-lidded chocolate eyes. His mouth is open just a little, small moans working out as he shakes and shivers, his body movin back and forth around his girl’s perfect column.
He keeps eye contact when he starts thrusting into her in earnest. His balls bounce off the little metal rim and slap against the underside of the pipe as he works his dick and hand in unison. He feels the release build low inside him, accelerated by the wet moans of Oscar.
His girl is always so good to him, so ready to please, even if she is a brat sometimes. The hand not inside her strokes her matte crimson skin, smooth under his callouses. Her side-pods roll and dip and curve in front of him, and though he’s going to miss her… he’s sure he’ll be seeing her sisters from this angle not infrequently in the year to come.
“Fuck,” Oscar gasps, the hand he could see aroun the halo gone, and Carlos can only assume that the Aussie is stroking himself as he takes her deep.
“She making you cum already?” Carlos goads, half breathless himself, grease dripping down his balls and splashing onto his thighs.
“She’s— god,” He puffs, clearly on the edge. “She does drive nice,” he grunts, hiding his face in the nook between her airbox and halo. The cold carbon fiber must feel good, because he sees Oscar’s other hand smoothing out around the hump of her roll hoop.
“That’s right, baby.” Carlos growls, thrusting more frantically. “Such a nice drive.”
The way he feels inside her, around her, his hand and his cock and her curves — he bites the flap of her back wing as he begins cumming. His teeth scrape into her, his cock throbbing at the mix of sensations and textures. The first hot rope oozes through his fingers, mingling with the excess of grease inside her as he continues trusting.
He thinks of all the times he had inside her, with her, on her. He remembers flying when he’s with her, and he feels like flying now with his cock so deep and warm.
He’s going to miss her a lot, he thinks, watching his cum drip out of her tailpipe and onto the cool R-tile. He’ll miss getting in Oscar’s way, too, but maybe he can feign innocence better in a Williams. Maybe that pretty blue Williams will take his cock just as good.
“Want to see if the FW48 is just as good next year?” Carlos asks, watching as Oscar pulls himself off of SF-24’s carbon fiber and plastic cock. There’s a painting of cum under him, over Carlos’s seat. There’s a pool of grease by Oscar’s knees.
“Why wait?” Oscar murmurs, eyes still just as fiery. “I want to see if you drive just as nice.”
They barely make it to the hotel room.