[ BRAND AMBASSADOR ] â Sure, it had been a fun little joke, âPay me in a LaFerrari or Iâm not doing this shoot," but you never expected Lando to actually follow through.
series :
LIONHEART
[ 1 ] â He blinked, his aquamarine eyes wide with disbelief, before breaking into a grin so wide it couldâve lit up the whole room. âIâm going to be a dad?â
[ 2 ] â It had to be some kind of cosmic joke, you thought to yourself, the more you watched your son grow up. Nine months of carrying him, swollen feet, back pain, cravings, and sleepless nights, only for him to come out as an exact replica of his father.
[ 3 ] â âHappy Motherâs Day, Mama!â he shouted in his sweetest little voice, his face lighting up with pride as he approached the bed. He climbed up, his movements a bit clumsy as he tried to balance the flowers.
! CS55
[ ARMS ] â you wake up with your boyfriend's arm around your head
[ EAT ] â carlos eats you out
[ TEENAGE DIRTBAG ] â carlos' gf likes his old nose ring a little too much
[ DON'T BE A STRANGER ] â charles' younger sister accidentally stumbles inside the changing room of sainz, ferrariâs masked driver.
[ BUTCHERED TONGUE ] â carlos is going to teach you spanish whether you like it or not
[ WRITTEN IN THE SAND ] â He was too old for this. For you. For the way you looked at him like he wasnât already years past the reckless abandon that seemed to define everyone else in this house. He shouldnât have noticed the way your laughter sounded like sunlight, or how your smile seemed to tug at something deep in his chest.
series :
ILLICIT AFFAIRS
[ 1 ] â âBossy, isnât he?â The voice is smooth, warm, and laced with amusement. You glance to your left andâof courseâitâs Carlos Sainz. You freeze, your brotherâs voice echoing in your head like a siren: Run. RUN.
[ 2 ] â You tap on his profile again, almost like youâre double-checking to make sure this isnât some kind of glitch. But no. Apparently, itâs real. You thought it was just a one-night stand. Maybe it still is. But who the hell follows their one-night standâs Instagram?
[ 3 ] â You shouldnât have said anything. You really shouldnât have. But itâs too late now. âHe sent me a dildo shaped like his cock,â you mutter under your breath, so fast you almost hope she didnât hear you.
[ 4 ] â coming soonâŠ
! MV33
[ honey, you're familiar ] â For a second, he thinks about turning around. Walking out. Pretending he never saw you, because whatâs the point? Itâs not like he can just waltz up to you and say, âHey, sorry I ghosted you for no reason other than Iâm emotionally constipated. Want to get a drink?â
iâve missed seeing you in my notifs i hope youâre well!
thanks so much love!! unfortunately my f1 well is kind of dry at the moment :(( im more active on a separate blog that focuses more on video game characters/marvel/dc and have been posting there during my absence here
HI NONNIE!! I actually don't read DC as often anymore which is a shame, i miss my robin boys (i need all of them no i will not settle) I'm so sorry đđ
an. I did NOT expect this to blow up lol. It was literally just me posting some thoughts I had đđ but anywaysâŠ.put a nsfw warning on this and a read more
thinking about the way they fuck youâŠ
Curlyâs got those slow, deliberate strokes that have your orgasm building up brick by brick. Heâs all about eye contact and kisses your temple while whispering praise to you. Heâs such a groaaaaner too, right into your ear because he wants you to hear what you do to him. Heâs so deliberate and knows all the tips and tricks. Totally presses against your pelvis or puts a pillow under you so youâre seeing stars with every thrust. Heâs confessing his love for you every time his orgasm builds up and right when he cums. He canât help it. Very romantic.
Jimmyâs rougher, he pounds into you like heâs got something to prove. But as time goes on he has to slow down (partially because he canât keep up that pace and partially bc heâs gonna cum too fast). Heâll get slower. Rough growls and fingernails digging into your skin as he chases his own high. His balls smack against your ass and the sound can basically be felt. He also nips at your skin too. Like, not biting (unless you want) but heâs holding onto you with his teeth. When heâs close to cumming (and yall are in a established relationship) he moans your name when he cums.
Anyaâs a lot more classic. She likes missionary for the intimacy, and she rides you slowly at first, before grinding against you and rubbing her clit on you until sheâs drenching the in between of your thighs. But alsoâŠcowgirl. She likes when you let her be in control. And she isnât nice about it either. Sheâll tease you through your underwear, dry humping you until you cum in your pants, then tease you for how sensitive you are. (as if she isnât a thrust away from cumming lmfao). Anya liiiives for foreplay and just wants to be aching and desperate, both of you just eager to cum, before getting to the main event. She will stifle her noises at first, but if you move her palm and tell her you wanna hear her sheâll practically sing your name.
Daisukeâs so desperate. Like, each time you fuck heâs legit trembling from the sensations. Doesnât matter if youâre on top or if he is but heâs always gonna be whining and muttering praise between bouts of âplease, please, *please*â. (see Josh Hutcherson in that one movie for ref. LikeâŠheâs a beggar and a moaner.). Heâs touchy and loves cupping your chest and sucking your nipples. His pace just canât be slow, he totally fucks like a rabbit and will bust like one too, so he spends a lot of time on foreplay to get you where you need to be before he fucks you. (He gets a wet spot in his boxers thatâs so prominent youâd think he has a pussy). Heâs watched so much porn he does the classic throws his head back and rolls back his eyes when he enters you btw.
Swansea. Heâs fucking using you like a fleshlight. This man knows what the fuck heâs doing. He doesnât go fast, but he doesnât need to. His cock does a lot of work because itâs so girthy and stretches you out enough you can feel him in your tummy. He prefers having you bent over something so all he has to do is thrust his hips into yours. He also like, angles down so his stomach isnât too in the way and you can feel him fully, his pubes tickling between your thighs. Heâs a grunter. Groaner. Throwing out curses between grit teeth while youâre practicing sobbing on the desk. Heâll say cocky little lines too like âright there? That feel good?â And chuckles when you cum all over him. Oh and he never forgets about stroking you too. Swansea always has his fingers circling your clit/reaching around and stroking you off at all times. And he keeps going while you cum until youâre twitching and pushing his hand away from you.
Oh my god I havenât been able to get grief aside out of my head since I came across it you write so beautifullyđđđ
TYSSSMMMM NONNIIEEEE I'm so glad you liked it!!! I've been a bit inactive lately but I'm working on pt3 I swear mwah mwah all my love (noah kahans version) đ€đ€đđ„ș
ur writing is so so good!!! i love illicit affairs omg<3 im going to request some gut wrenching angst from you though...could be fun and tbh it could be any f1 driver lol i just want some angstttt
summary : "You promised," he choked out. "You promised you wouldnât break rule two."
warning/s : sickness, vomiting, hurt/no comfort, death
an : yall have been begging for angst so đ€·đœ hereâs pt 1 of my dead wives series
Carlos Sainz loves you. It is inevitable. It is woven into the fabric of who he is. Just as the earth revolves around the sun, just as a fire burns.
Some things in this world are simply destined to be, and his love for you is one of them.
He remembers the first time he saw you like it happened yesterday.
College had been a blur of stress and sleepless nights for him, drowning in a relentless tide of engineering coursework, circuits, and mechanics that left no room for anything else.
Then you walked into his life, unannounced, unassuming, and shattered the monotony with a force he couldnât comprehend.
You had been a medical student, your schedule just as demanding, yet you carried yourself with a lightness that seemed impossible.
He remembers watching you in the library, bent over your notes, your lips moving slightly as you memorized terms he couldnât begin to pronounce.
He hadnât meant to stare. But then youâd looked up, catching his eye, and smiled. It was the kind of smile that stuck with him, that sank its claws into his mind and refused to let go.
The first time you laughed at one of his jokes, something about thermodynamics, of all things, he had stared at you, stunned, like the world had stopped spinning for just a moment.
And when youâd matched his nerdy humor with a quip of your own, so quick and sharp that he was left speechless, he had known.
That night, he went home and called his sister, still dazed, still unable to believe what had happened.
"I've met the love of my life," heâd told her, voice shaking with an excitement that bubbled over uncontrollably.
"Youâre being ridiculous," sheâd replied, unimpressed, as always. "You donât even know her."
But he had known.
â
It had started as a joke.
One of those silly, late-night conversations in the library, where exhaustion made everything funnier than it really was.
The campus was dead silent that night, save for the faint hum of fluorescent lights and the occasional rustle of pages being turned. It was nearly 2 a.m., the kind of hour where the world felt unreal, where time stretched and blurred, where reality felt softer at the edges.
Carlos had been sitting across from you, his laptop open to a problem set he wasnât even pretending to understand anymore.
His fingers drummed against the table as he watched you work, hunched over your thick textbook, scribbling furiously.
You looked up, catching his stare. âWhat?â
Carlos smirked. âNothing. Just thinking how much easier my life would be if I had your brain.â
You snorted, rolling your eyes. âAnd I was just thinking how much better mine would be if I had your charm. You could probably flirt your way into a free degree.â
âOr at least free snacks from the vending machine,â he added, grinning.
You laughed, the sound soft but rich, the kind that still echoed in his mind years later.
Then, suddenly, his expression shifted. Something thoughtful creeping into his gaze. âWe should make a pact.â
You raised an eyebrow. âA pact?â
âYeah.â He leaned forward. âRules for life. So we donât screw things up.â
Intrigued, you set your pen down. âOkay. Rule number one?â
âNo betraying each other.â
You smiled, nodding. âAgreed. No betrayal.â You tapped a finger against your chin. âWhatâs rule number two?â
Carlos hesitated, then, with mock seriousness, leaned in like he was about to tell you the secret to the universe. âNo one dies.â
You barked out a laugh, the librarian across the room shooting you a glare. âThatâs your rule?â
âAbsolutely,â he said. âItâs non-negotiable.â
Shaking your head, you held out your hand. âFine. No betraying each other. No one dies. Deal?â
âDeal,â he said, gripping your hand firmly.
At the time, it had been a joke. Just another of a thousand little moments between the two of you.
Carlos had no idea then how much those words would mean to him.
â
The first time you got sick, really sick, Carlos didnât take it seriously.
It was a cough at first. A rough, hacking thing that made you wince but still had you waving him off with a half-smile.
"Relax, cariño," youâd said, voice scratchy but amused. "Itâs just a cold."
Carlos narrowed his eyes at you, unconvinced. âYou have a fever.â
"Itâs a dramatic fever," you shot back, tugging the blanket up over your shoulders. "Iâm merely suffering for the aesthetic."
He snorted, shaking his head. âDramatic is right.â
He had kissed your forehead that night, tucking you into his side, his lips warm against your too-hot skin. And you had sighed, sinking into him like you always did, like you belonged there.
It had been easy then.
A flu, heâd told himself. Something temporary.
Nothing permanent. Nothing real.
â
But the cough never really went away.
Neither did the fevers, or the way your limbs felt heavier with each passing day.
You stopped stealing fries off his plate. Stopped nudging him awake in the mornings, rolling your eyes at how deeply he slept. Stopped teasing him about the way he could fall asleep anywhere.
On a plane, in a car, once even in the middle of a club when the music was loud enough to shake the walls.
One afternoon, when you had been too tired to get out of bed, he had finally said it out loud.
"Maybe we should see a doctor."
You had smiled at him, but it was too soft, too thin. "Itâs nothing, Carlos. I just need rest."
He had believed you.
God help him, he had wanted to believe you.
â
The hospital came later.
By then, it wasnât something you could wave away with a joke, wasnât something you could cover up with sheer willpower.
By then, you were struggling to catch your breath after walking across the room.
By then, Carlos had started waking up in the middle of the night to find you curled in on yourself, your whole body trembling, your hands clenched into fists beneath the sheets.
By then, even you had stopped pretending.
"Okay," you had whispered, one night, your fingers gripping his. "Maybe itâs not just a cold."
Carlos had swallowed hard, his throat tight. But he had smiled anyway, because that was what he did. He stayed steady, he stayed strong, even when the ground was crumbling beneath his feet.
"No pasa nada," he had murmured, pressing a kiss to your temple. "Weâll figure it out."
And for a while, just a little while, you both still believed that was true.
â
The early hospital visits werenât so bad.
You made them an adventure, the way you did with everything.
"We should start a ranking system," you had said one day, swinging your legs over the side of the exam table. Best hospital coffee. Best waiting room magazines. Best nurses who let me steal extra blankets."
Carlos grinned, leaning against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. "That depends. Is this going to be a five-star system, or are we working on a ten-point scale?"
"Oh, five stars, obviously," you said, deadly serious. âWe have to account for dramatic flair.â
"And yet you still insist youâre not dramatic."
"I contain multitudes, Carlos."
And God, you were still you then.
A little tired, a little pale, but still full of light. Still brimming with something sharp and teasing and warm.
Carlos had let himself believe it would last.
That the doctors would find the problem and fix it. That this was a detour, not a dead end.
That you were too strong for this.
That he would not have to watch you disappear, piece by piece, until there was nothing left of the girl who had once laughed in the middle of a silent library, who had once stood beside him and made a promise that neither of you ever really thought would matter.
â
Some nights were better than others.
There were nights when you were yourself again. When you teased him about the dark circles beneath his eyes, your voice carrying that familiar warmth, something alive and teasing and so you that he could almost convince himself this was temporary.
That this, this hospital bed, these wires, these endless nights of waiting, was just a phase, something the two of you would look back on one day and laugh about.
"You look like hell," youâd whisper, your voice hoarse but still edged with amusement.
Carlos would scoff, pressing a damp cloth to your forehead. "And you look stunning, obviously."
You'd grin, even as exhaustion weighed down your eyelids. "I try."
Nights like those, he let himself believe.
But then there were nights like this.
Nights when you couldn't stop shaking from the pain, your body curling in on itself as he held you, whispering reassurances you were too far gone to hear. Nights when you sobbed into his chest, when your breath came in ragged, broken gasps, when you whispered, "I can't do this anymore, Carlos. I can't."
And Carlos, who had spent his entire life fixing things, who had built his world on the certainty that every problem had a solution, could do nothing.
So he held you. Ran his fingers through your hair. Pressed desperate kisses to your temple.
And when sleep finally dragged you under, he would slip into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him before collapsing to the floor.
He would grip the sink so hard his fingers went numb, bow his head until his forehead pressed against the cold tile.
His body would shake with the weight of it, with the sheer unfairness of it all, with the grief that felt too large to be contained within his chest.
Carlos Sainz was not a religious man.
But on nights like these, he prayed.
Begged.
For a miracle. For a cure. For just a little more time.
â
One night, when your breathing was too shallow, too slow, something in him snapped.
The moment he noticed it, the unnatural stillness, the faintest hitch in the beeping of the monitors, he was out of his chair, panic sharp and immediate in his chest.
His hands trembled as he pressed the call button.
"Nurse," he barked, his voice hoarse. "Something's wrong."
The nurses rushed in, their voices a blur, their hands moving quickly as they adjusted your oxygen, checked your vitals. Carlos stood frozen, helpless, as they worked.
And then, as quickly as the panic had come, the moment passed. Your breathing steadied. The machines quieted.
And Carlos, who had spent the last several minutes standing motionless, fists clenched, lungs burning, finally let himself collapse into the chair beside your bed.
His elbows rested on his knees, his head dropping into his hands. He tried to steady his own breathing, tried to remind himself that you were still here.
You were still here
You were still here.
A moment later, he felt the faintest touch on his arm.
Carlos lifted his head so fast it made him dizzy.
Your fingers barely managed to curl around his wrist, your touch so weak he could barely feel it. But your eyes were open, heavy-lidded and exhausted, searching for him.
"Hey," he whispered. His voice felt raw, scraped down to nothing.
Your lips parted, but no words came.
Carlos exhaled shakily, reaching out to press a hand against your cheek. Your skin was too warm, feverish, but you leaned into his touch anyway.
"You scared me," he admitted, his voice thick.
You tried to smile. It didn't reach your eyes.
Carlos swallowed, his throat burning. He forced himself to hold your gaze, even as the words clawed their way out of his chest, raw and desperate and entirely true.
"You promised," he choked out. "You promised you wouldnât break rule number two."
A flicker of something passed through your expression. Regret, sadness, something heavier than the both of you combined.
"Carlos," you whispered.
"No," he said, shaking his head. "No. You donât get to break this one. You donât."
Your eyes shimmered with unshed tears. He could see it, the truth you were too kind to say out loud. The truth he refused to accept.
Carlos bent down, pressing his forehead to your knuckles. His grip on your hand was too tight, but he couldn't make himself let go.
"Please," he whispered. "Please donât leave me."
You didnât answer.
And somehow, that silence was worse than anything else.
â
Days passed. Then weeks.
Carlos barely left your side. He learned the names of every nurse on the floor. Memorized the dosages of your medications. Knew the precise moment when your painkillers would wear off, when you'd need him to press the call button before you were in too much agony to speak.
And still, he held on.
Because Carlos Sainz loves you.
It is inevitable. It is constant. It is everything.
And even as your breaths grew shallower, even as your hands trembled when you reached for him, even as the hope he had clung to for so long withered beneath the weight of reality-
He stayed.
â
One night, when exhaustion was too heavy for you to fight, you whispered, âYou should go home, Carlos. You need rest.â
Carlos exhaled sharply. Shook his head. "I am home."
You tried to argue, but he silenced you with a kiss to your temple, lingering there for a moment longer than necessary. He could feel your pulse beneath his lips, slow and unsteady.
"Iâm not going anywhere."
You sighed, a soft exhale against his shoulder, and for a moment, for a moment, he let himself pretend everything was okay.
â
He lost count of the days.
There was no clear marker for when hope turned into grief. No defining moment where he realized you werenât going to make it.
It just happened.
Like a tide pulling out to sea.
Like the quiet between heartbeats.
A promise broken, too softly to hear.
And when you were finally gone, when the world felt too quiet, too empty, too wrong, Carlos sat in the chair beside your bed, your hand still in his.
