Pleaseultraviolenceme - Lover Of Dilfs

New Year’s Day

Greg House x Reader

A/N: you know when people say something is a shot of dopamine? yeah, this is the opposite.

TW: house going through withdrawals, you taking care of him. you can figure out what that entails. fluffy ending, if you can call it that. hurt/comfort for all my fellow enthusiasts.

“Don’t read the last page.”

You’d been on a date when he called. Stupidly, foolishly. As if you didn’t know it’d never work. As if you didn’t know he’d haunt you the whole time, a nagging voice in the back of your mind reminding you the man you sat across from would never be him. Mocking you, ridiculing you as you make polite conversation in a nice dress.

You really shouldn’t be into that. Despite that truth, you don’t dwell on the fact, there’s more important things to focus on right now. Like his weak, gravelly voice sounding from the other end of the phone as you stand outside the restaurant.

“I need you.” He sounds desperate. You’d be satisfied at the sound under any other circumstance, the tone so rarely heard from him. Instead it just makes your heart clench in your chest, your face fall in a look of heartbreak you wouldn’t have thought you could muster.

“I’ll be there soon.” The words fall out of your mouth as quickly as the twitch of a muscle, the thought going into them imperceivable to even yourself. Of course you’ll show, it’s House, after all. The second his voice hit your ears you didn’t have a fighting chance of saying no. He needs you, there’s no denying him.

You rush back into the restaurant, scrambling to pull a twenty from your wallet and sliding it onto the table, giving a haphazard explanation for your sudden departure.

“No, it’s not you.”

“No, you didn’t upset me.”

Fuck’s sake, this is annoying. His voice is pathetically hopeful as he calls after you. “Call me?” He asks, his eyebrows knitted upwards, his eyes glittering with something like awe. You pin it as lust.

“Uh, yeah. Sure.” Your lie was about as convincing as a kid elbow deep in the cookie jar, but you can’t find it in yourself to care. You were never gonna do it anyway, even before House called.

You walk out of the restaurant, weaving between waiters and bidding apologies you don’t really mean to the people you bump into. Your heart is hammering in your chest harder than it should be, you know what’s going on, even if the absolute agony in his voice scared you.

He’d been particularly on edge all day, an iron grip on his leg that’s only there when the pain is especially bad. Add an ever present sheen of sweat and the painfully obvious dark bags under his eyes, it wasn’t too hard to figure out from there.

He was withdrawing. Why he decided to up and quit you don’t know, but you suppose it doesn’t really matter now. He’s trying, that’s good enough for you. Good enough to keep holding onto the ridiculous hope he can actually change.

You white knuckle it the whole drive to his apartment, praying you don’t pass by a cop as you push down on the accelerator harder and harder, zipping through side streets far faster than you should. It’s stupid, you know. It’d be better to show up a few minutes later than the next morning with a new addition to your criminal record, but you can’t help trying to get to him as fast as you can.

As you reach his apartment building you come to a skidding stop, cursing as you lurch forward in your seat, immediately knowing you’ll have a neck ache within the hour. You get out of your car quickly, a string of expletives falling from your lips as the heels you’re wearing nearly make you trip on the curb.

You rush up the stairs to his building, knocking on the door and rocking on your feet nervously as you wait for him to answer. What if he’s unconscious? He could’ve passed out from the pain, hit his head. Or maybe he overdosed, or what if he-

“Fuck…” You whisper sharply as he opens the door, looking like hell. His clothes are clinging to his body with sweat, his hair damp and the circles under his eyes prominent as ever. He looks…haggard. Weak, as he leans against the doorframe, veins running up his arm that your eyes would be glued to in any other situation.

He rolls his eyes, stepping aside and holding onto his thigh tightly as he grunts in pain at the slight movement. “Thanks.” He mutters sarcastically, his voice gravelly.

You walk in with a guilty grimace on your face. You really hadn’t meant it like that, but…well, he looks awful. You turn to him, your eyebrows knitting up in a look of concern as he stands in front of you, his chest heaving with tortured pants as he blinks rapidly, keeping the tears forming in his eyes at bay the best he can.

“What can I do?” You ask quietly, trying not to worsen the migraine that’s probably wracking his head right about now. He just sighs through his nose, rubbing his temple and limping back to his couch.

“Nothing.” He answers, and it’s true. You can’t fix it. You can’t make the pain better. The only thing that would is drugs. So, you just opt for following him, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder that he quickly shrugs off, stubborn as ever despite the misery he’s in. Once he’s seated you walk into his kitchen, slipping off your heels on the way and grabbing a rag, running it under some water and ringing it out before returning to the couch, sitting down beside him as softly as you can.

As you swipe the rag over his forehead he leans his head back against the couch, his breathing shaky as he inhales through his nose. His jaw is clenched tight, a vein popping from his forehead as he keeps his eyes tightly screwed shut.

The silence in the room is stifling, but you’re not sure what to fill it with. Telling him he’ll be okay will just tick him off, and there’s no chance you’ll say some dumb shit like “just breathe.”

You can’t really do anything. All you can do is wait. Wait for him to need something, something he’s willing to put his pride down and ask for.

Suddenly he inhales sharply, a gasp more than anything as his whole body stiffens, his hand flying down to clamp over yours, squeezing it hard enough to hurt.

You don’t say a word.

“I know, I know.” You say softly, rubbing your thumb over his knuckles as he stares at the ceiling, breathing rapidly, heavily. His grip eventually eases up, the pain subsiding the tiniest bit. You expected him to pull way immediately, but he stays put, lolling his head to look at you, his eyes bloodshot.

“You were on a date.” He says tiredly, and you roll your eyes at the observation. He’s still House, even in this state. Always picking things apart, dissecting, watching, gleaning every bit of knowledge he can use to his advantage.

Again, you really shouldn’t be into that.

You laugh a little, shaking your head. “He was boring anyway.” For a moment you consider telling him more, trying to distract him, but he’s too smart for that. A story about a relatively uneventful night won’t be stimulating enough to distract him from the pain, not nearly.

For a second you consider the option that would be.

You quickly discard the thought. Not the time. Not the night.

He just nods, but you can swear for a moment you see the slightest smirk on his face. Like he’s pleased you didn’t have any interest. Relieved, almost.

Again, you discard the thought.

It’s not quite so easy this time.

Quickly his face morphs back into an expression of agony, his brows knit together, his breaths now coming out in shallow gasps. “What do you need?” You ask softly, stroking his hand.

“Bath.” The word comes out strained and you nod. You’ve heard of physical therapy patients using hot water for pain relief, so as you slowly enter the bathroom—House trailing behind you—you turn the water as high as it can get without burning him.

You turn around, and a silent question lingers in the air. It’s not like you can just leave him…but with your history? The constant flirting, the line that’s nearly been crossed far too many times for professionalism to remain. The gray area that’s grown far too wide.

“Come here.” You say softly, and for once in his life he doesn’t argue an order, just shuffles towards you and watches as your fingers slide up his shirt, his breath hitching in his throat as you pull it over his head.

The strangest part is, it’s not sexual in the slightest. Intimate, sure. Wildly so. But not sexual, not heated or lazy or rushed. He’s never been handled with gentleness like this. Movements this slow, touches this soft.

You’d certainly had a different image in mind for the first time you took his clothes off. Teeth gnashing, lips colliding messily, layers shed sloppily, hands roving freely. Still, there’s time for that. This isn’t it.

You unbuckle his belt, pulling it out of the loops slowly, the clanking of the metal the only noise beside his breathing in the otherwise silent room. A strained whimper leaves his lips as he has to lift his leg, followed swiftly by an apology from yours.

You avert your eyes as he sheds his boxers, focusing anywhere except, well…there. He leans on you as you walk towards the tub, helping him lower himself down into the water, a groan falling from his mouth as the warmth hit his leg. For a moment you think how’d he’d sound under a different circumstance, just how similar it’d be.

God, you’re awful. He called you over here to help him, not use his suffering to fuel your fantasies.

Then again, knowing him he probably wouldn’t mind. Quite the opposite, actually.

You snap out of it as his head hits the wall with a thud, a sigh escaping him as he feels a hint of relief for the first time in hours.

Without thinking you reach out, brushing away the hair that’s started to stick to his forehead from the sweat, letting your hand slide down the side of his face to rest at his cheek for a moment. A part of you thought he’d push you away, and not for a second did you think he’d do what he did. Lean in, slightly, the action impossibly minuscule. If you hadn’t been so tuned into his every move you probably wouldn’t have noticed.

You let your thumb slide back and forth over his cheekbone, testing the waters. He’s never once been like this. Been vulnerable in the slightest.

“Why’d you call me?” Your voice comes out all exhale as you finally ask the question that’s been dancing in the back of your mind all night. Not exactly his motives, those you can guess. He didn’t trust himself not to give in, not to just take the pills. Like always, he needed someone to temper him, keep him in check.

Just…why you? There’s always Wilson. Hell, even Cuddy. Sure, the two of you flirt, obnoxiously. Some might even call you friends. You’re not sure what to label it, you just didn’t think he trusted you this much. For him, showing a shred of weakness, of humanity. He might as well have handed you a blade to his neck.

He gives you a look that you can read like a book. A perfect mix of condescension and annoyance. “Hookers are getting expensive. I was hoping you’d put out.” He answers sarcastically, earning a smirk and an eye roll from you. As much as you pretend to be annoyed, you’re relieved to hear him acting like himself for a moment. Not so overwhelmed by the pain he can’t even think of a snarky remark, let alone get the words out.

“I’m outside your price range.” You respond, easing back into your regular dynamic. He smiles lazily for a moment before grimacing again, slumping further into the water, rubbing the palm of his hand firmly against his leg. You look down for a moment before quickly remembering there’s no bubbles in the tub. Just water, very clear water. You flush, looking back to his face with widened eyes, earning a cocky snort from him.

“Like you’d make me pay.” He grumbles out, his voice even lower than usual. You laugh slightly, shaking your head as you let your hand drop to his shoulder, your thumb rubbing gentle circles in the skin there.

You hesitate before continuing, not sure if he’ll ever give you a real answer. “Seriously, why?”

He sighs, and suddenly you can’t place the look in his eyes. Can’t read what he’s thinking. It’s new, it’s…soft. “You know why.” He answers simply, honestly. And the truth is, you do. Sure, you doubt it. You wonder if he’s ever actually cared.

Then again, this is House. If he just wanted sex, he would’ve gotten it elsewhere a while ago. There has to be another factor, another reason he’s still here. Still waiting.

With the way he’s looking at you, you’re starting to get a feeling you know what it is.

You hesitate, feeling a little bolder, a little more confident in your assumption as you ask, “Are you gonna say it?” Your voice is quieter than normal when you speak, a hint to the uncertainty that’s still there.

He pauses, his eyes raking over you, studying you, searching for any clue that you’re toying with him. Any tiny hint to trigger his walls to come up.

He’ll find none.

Eventually he talks, his eyelids drooping with exhaustion, the same thing working overtime to loosen his tongue, make him more human than he’s dared to be in the a long time. “Not tonight.”

You suppose it’s the best you can hope to get out of him, and so you just smile, soaking in the honesty you’re sure will be gone by morning. Your hand slides down to his that’s sitting on the edge of the tub, holding it gently.

“I’ll wait.” You say softly, watching as he smirks slightly, his eyes fully shutting, his breathing starting to even out. “Sap.” He mutters under his breath, earning a tired, amused huff from you.

And yet he can’t help but enjoy believing you.

“But I stay.”

A/N: my niche is writing the most depressing shit on the face of the earth and then sprinkling in a tiny bit of fluff and taylor swift lyrics to make it cute.

pls reblog for sample size!

i dont remember exactly what i said but oscar + road head, hes so nonchalant but sly at the same time hed be stroking her cheek while down her throat and shed be pouting because he doesnt seem the slightest bit flustered

WOFDODOFK I HATE THAT I DIDN'T SEE IT ALDNDKDKC WHAT HAS tmblr AGAINST M... how many more asks did tumblr eat i can't 😭😭😭 dont expect anything from me... smut skills are rusty 🫣

⚠️ ⚠️

i think he'd maintain a straight face... or try to. his knuckles are white from gripping the wheel, and he's trying his hardest to contain the groans from escaping.

he'd lay one hand on the back of your head, coaxing you softly, muttering praises for how well you're taking him, voice even and not at all bothered. you're at odds with his composure, feeling second to— well, your safety; he was still manning the wheel and making sure your were on the right side of the road, and away from speeding vehicles.

you huff, pulling away to level him with an aggrieved gaze. he just coos, when he notices; "you look pretty this way baby," he smothers the glistening precum and spit on your lips, muttering under his breath, "such a pretty girl." he grazes his fingers on your reddened cheek.

you hated his patronising lilt, lower lip jutted out from his gentle ministrations. for once, you'd want to see him lose his neverending self control.

you flattened your tongue against his weeping tip, wrapping your lips around his member and breathing through your nose as you slowly, inch by agonizing inch took him in your mouth.... you were gonna make him cry.

oscar hit the breaks hastily.

Mick Schumacher's hands appreciation post?

Mick Schumacher's hands appreciation post.

i am gonna Need your thoughts on senna. because all those pics of him in the speedo have me thinking boat sex and phew

ANON U REACHED DIRECTLY INTO MY BRAIN THANK U. @diorleclerc i think this anon has read our DMs :/// also, here's the full version of my profile pic, since it is Beautifully relevant to this ask 🥰 first ayrton ask of the blog!!

afab reader, mostly gn but one fem gendered term used in portuguese

while i would personally lean towards Pool Sex as a concept, boat sex is also vvvv good, this man was on boats a LOT?

you're trying to enjoy the hot brazilian summer weather, lounging out on the yacht in the harbour, maybe reading, or just sunbathing in your bikini

ayrton's in the sea, as usual. insane water baby moments for the aries fire sign.

you smile over at him as he climbs back onto the boat - until he starts flicking the cold water off his body onto you, shaking his head right above you to shower you in the water falling from his hair

and when you squeal out "ayrton--!" amidst laughter and try to move away from the water, he manhandles you up in his arms and flicks more water onto you

afterwards, you're practically sat in his lap, a shiver crossing your body both from the cold water and the way his large hands circle your waist as he smirks at you

"are you cold, gatinha?" he murmurs, his thumbs dipping below the elastic of your bikini bottoms, chuckling when you nod back at him, breathless. "let's warm you up, hm?"

your hands holding onto his biceps, steadying yourself as he presses two fingers shallowly into your pussy before dragging the wetness to your clit and rubbing small circles

one hand playing with your clit, making you drop your head to his freckled shoulder and whine his name

the other arm circling your waist and pulling you closer, to the point you can feel his hardening cock pressing against you

patronisingly coos at you as you whimper, pleading for more, your hips beginning to rock against his hand in a steady rhythm

your sounds grow in volume as you edge closer to your orgasm, and ayrton leans down to muffle them in a devouring kiss, his teeth pulling at your bottom lip

pulls away from your clit just as you're on the edge, and you whine a protest into his mouth

though it's immediately turned into a high-pitched moan at the back of your throat as he slides two fingers inside your wet cunt, curling them upwards and finger-fucking you to the orgasm you hoped for

you're brought back to earth by the sensation of being flipped onto your back, ayrton pulling your bikini bottoms off and hooking your legs around his waist with a grin

even after the first orgasm, the stretch as he pushes his cock into you is delicious, and you know you'll leave crescent-moon indents in his arms and shoulders where you're holding onto him

the pace he sets is immediately relentless, a bruising grip on your hips to match how your nails are digging into him

occasional words and half-phrases in portuguese, amidst his grunts and moans as his damp hair falls into his face

leans in as he nears his own orgasm, and you think he's going to kiss you - no, he's placing a bite to the crux of your neck, one that you know will flower into rich purples and reds

watches his cum drip out of you, all smug. he likes marking his territory.

save a horse…

ride this cowboy

toto and you accidentally calling him daddy and being scared he won’t like it but then he’s like “say it again” and goes feral ☠️ i need to be stopped pls

- 🦕

GRGIRGJI THIS IS SOOO GOOD YES ANON. hes truly One Daddy To Rule Them All.

afab gn reader, warning for daddy kink obvs

he's got you in his lap, his back against the headboard as you ride him

his large hands are on your hips, guiding the way you rise and roll back down onto his thick cock, deep voice rumbling in praise every time you take him to the hilt once more

"that's it, i knew you could do it, always so good"

and that's when it slips out, with your head nestled in the bend between his shoulder and neck

"thank you, daddy"

he freezes, his grip on your waist tightening as you whip your head back to stare at him with rabbit-in-headlight eyes

"i-i'm so sorry, oh my g-" you begin, only for your apology to be silenced by toto's mouth on your own - a deep, hungry kiss, his teeth nipping and pulling your bottom lip

you moan into the kiss, hips subconsciously grinding against his cock once more

when he breaks the kiss, you're both panting for breath, his forehead still pressed against yours as he asks if you're sure

and when you nod in return, a small smile toying at your lips as you reply with a teasing "yes, daddy", you don't understand why the world is suddenly upside down until toto is fucking into you and you realise he's flipped you both other

he hoists your legs up around his waist, pulling your arms above your head and pinning them there with one strong hand

"say it. say it again."

he's fucking growling down at you, and you can't refuse, even if the rough thrusts of his hips are making it hard for you to form words

"d-daddy! fuck! daddy!"

he groans again, a deep, desperate sound at the base of his throat, and releases your wrists to move your legs once more, pulling them up around his shoulders, bending you nearly in half

he's so deep you feel like you can hardly breathe, let alone think

the only thing you can say is your broken litany of "daddy--!", shaped around moans and whines that edge into screams as he presses circles into your clit with his thumb

"that's right, so good for me -- cum for me, cum for daddy, yes?"

and you can't deny him, you can never deny toto, not when he coos into your ear like that and rolls his hips so deep you think he's ruined you for all other men, forever

afterwards, he cleans you up, holding you against his chest with strong arms

"so you're uh... into that?"

he grumbles something suspiciously similar to "don't push your luck", and you laugh

sebastian vettel masterlist

all blurbs are listed from oldest to newest - oldest being on the top and newest on the bottom. // it’ll be updated as I post!

header by @stuffspaddock

Keep reading

save a horse . . . // callum ilott

summary: indycar is in texas, and you know what that means. or, callum looks so delicious in that cowboy hat and his girlfriend- who grew up on a dude ranch and knows full well what the cowboy hat rule means- can't keep her hands off of him

author's note: shout out to @magnummagnussen for encouraging this dumpster fire. also, it ends kind of abruptly because i ran out of steam

it all started one thursday afternoon in the juncos hollinger motorhome

callum was on his way back from his media duties with two paper cups of tea in his hands

and when she sees him, her breath catches in her throat

because her normally babygirl looking boyfriend is taking her breath away in his juncos polo and his straw cowboy hat

and it brings an old texas saying back to the forefront of her memory and an old rule about cowboy hats

and it’s enough to get her to choke on her water

“you alright, babe?” callum asks, in his sweet innocent british voice before he kisses the top of her head

“yeah, yeah. I’m good. just peachy.”

and once they’re alone, standing on the patio and drinking their paper cups of tea (something that y/n’s texan parents would have gawked at)

she turns to him, her voice low as she says “you know what they say about horses and cowboys?”

“no?” callum shook his head, an innocent and lovable kind of stupid “should I?”

she bounces her eyes around the motorhome before hooking a finger and beckoning him closer

“save a horse, ride a cowboy, babe.”

she winks at him before grabbing the hat and placing it on her head

“and she who wears the cowboys hat must ride him later.” she whispers, voice husky in callums ear

and he could have sworn that he was half hard in his jeans already

“is that a promise?”

“more than. but, you have to go finish your media duties first, sweetheart.”

fast forward three hours and all the media things are done, and they're back in callum's drivers room

and they simply cannot keep their hands off each other

like at all

shes taking her lacy panties off, hooking them on the doorknob

his polo is gone, thrown across the room somewhere (he never did find it)

she's reaching to take off her cowboy boots, but he stops her

"keep them on, pretty girl."

"that's kinda kinky, ilott. is there something you aren't telling me?"

"just that you are so fucking hot right now."

fingers scrabbling for callum's belt, his hands pushing up her cute little denim skirt

peasant blouse pushed up so her tits are right in callum's face.

"oh, yes, baby!" she whines. "just like that callum, right there."

"doing so good for me, my pretty girl." he hums against her skin, kissing all over her chest as he thrusts his cock deeper into her

"god, i fucking love your cock." she pants, hands on his face as she kisses him, grinding down just enough to wrench a moan from callum's throat

because callum is fucking VOCAL as hell

"yeah, i know you love this cock, sweetheart. you were so needy for it today."

"what can i say- oh! the cowboy hat did things to me."

she moans loudly as she throws her head back, the hat falling to the floor as callum presses his hand to her mouth.

"ssh, baby. we don't want anybody to hear us, do we? those pretty sounds are for my ears only."

Ok I know you said time won't make them nicer to each other.

But I need her reaction to Carlos being diagnosed with appendicitis. Maybe she's the one that takes him to the hospital?!

The Uphill Battle {2} || CS55

Warnings: 18+ only, nsfw, smut, name calling, angst

WC: 2.9k

Part One

Carlos was grumpier than usual. And that was saying something since he had been in a mood since the news broke about Lewis taking his seat. You could understand that after losing seats to guys all the time before getting a spot in the Academy. Carlos, however, was not used to that feeling and it showed as he pushed himself harder at each training.

“You’re too weak,” he taunted as you wiped the sweat from your brow and started another set of reps with trembling arms. “It’s like you don’t even want to be in F1.”

You let the weight bar fall into the shelf and sat up. “Go project yourself onto someone else, you miserable shit.”

After taking second place at the feature race in Bahrain you had shown you had the drive for F1, but it didn’t seem to change his training approach. He was still firmly on the path of insult until you explode and prove him wrong. To be fair, it had worked so far.

A muscled arm, followed by a bare chest, blocked your way when you stood up, a sneer pulling at his lips. “You’re not funny.”

“I wasn’t joking. Now get out of my way, you have free practice to get ready for.”

He looked at the clock on the wall and sighed. He hadn’t meant to let time get away from him but when he found you in the gym he decided to finish his warm up routine alongside you. It had been a mistake because he couldn’t help but pester and critique you until he completely forgot what he was meant to be doing.

“Fine, but you need to stay and finish your set. That was just embarrassing to watch.”

“I’m done. With you. And with your training. Go fuck yourself, Junior.” You shoved past him, your elbow connecting with his gut, before you made your way to the stack of towels. You felt his presence follow you to the changing rooms and he closed the door to the shower cubicle.

“You’re done when I say you are done,” Carlos growled, turning you to face him before he pressed your back to the cold tile wall.

You tipped your head back and laughed darkly. “Only for the next nine months, then I’m Lewis’ problem. Or, maybe I’ll get the golden boy as my PT. Charles seems sweet and kind, I wouldn’t mind testing his patience.”

“Listen here, you little-” Whatever threat you would have ignored was lost as you flipped the handle of the cold tap and washed it gush out of the showerhead and straight into Carlos’ face.

“You were saying?”

“Brat.” The timber in his voice had the desired effect as his hand enveloped your throat and pulled you under the cold spray. His lips crashed against yours and his thigh nudged your legs apart, your hips riding the thick muscle as you kissed him back just as passionately. “I really hate you.”

You grinned, but it was more a baring of teeth ready to sink into his skin. “I don’t even hate you, that’s how little I feel about you.”

His palm glided over your ribs, touching the flesh bared by the sports bra you trained in, and slipped between the waistband of your shorts. His fingers spread your folds and curled into your core as your head fell back against the tiles.

“You feel something,” Carlos chuckled, dipping his head down to leave his mark on the swell of your breast. “Or you wouldn’t feel so fucking wet.”

“God I hate it when you open your mouth, just fuck me already.”

Carlos pulled the elastic waistband and let it snap back against your skin. The twanging pain was instant but then it was gone as he dragged the material down your legs. Another ache flared as he sunk his teeth into the soft supple skin on your thigh and you cried out at the heat that radiated from the indents he left behind.

“Fucking savage,” you growled, but you both knew how much you liked it that way.

“Sticks and stones, malcriada.”

You were needy, impatient, and well aware someone would come looking for Carlos as the countdown to free practice began. The lure of a verbal repartee would have to wait if you wanted some pleasure to balance out the pain in the arse that was Carlos. You pushed Carlos onto the bench where your dry towel had been abandoned and he lifted his hips for you to drag his shorts off.

“You gonna ride this di-“ You slapped your hand over his mouth to silence him and straddled his hips, sinking down on his cock with a moan that echoed around the changing room.

“Be a good boy and keep the commentary to yourself if you want a happy ending,” you warned as you let your hand fall to his shoulder and started to roll your hips. He heeded your words and bit his bottom lip to keep from saying something that would leave him with blue balls.

His hands gripped your waist and guided you up and down, setting rhythm that had you bouncing on his dick and an orgasm quickly building. The heat flashing across your body was the perfect contrast to the droplets of cold water collecting on your back and shivering down your spine.

“Fuck, harder,” you begged as your head fell back and he grazed his teeth over your throat. Your gasp filled the small cubicle as he nipped sharply at your skin and you raked your nails down his chest, earning a deep groan from his parted lips. The pained sound made your cunt clench and flutter before he suddenly stood up and turned you to face the wall. The emptiness within your body was quickly filled with the snap of his hips and his hand slapped over your mouth to muffle the cry at the sudden fullness.

“Shut up and take it,” he ordered quietly in your ear. “This is what you asked for.”

Carlos’ hands fell to your hips, bruising your skin with their harsh grip as he pounded into you. The slap of your bodies colliding filled the small space and your eyes rolled back into your head as your legs began to tremble. Your breathing deepened and you forgot where you were as your mind emptied and your body exploded.

“Fuck, that feels good,” Carlos moaned, your walls tightening around him with your orgasm. A wordless grunt warmed your ear before he sealed his lips over your racing pulse and left his mark while he filled your cunt.

Your forehead pressed to the cool tile as you regained your breath and Carlos pulled out, chuckling as he watched his cum leak down your still trembling thighs. “God, you’re a whore.”

“That’s more of an insult to you, desperado,” you teased. “Should I send the invoice to you or Sainz Senior?”

You forced yourself upright and stepped under the cold spray to see his smirk fade as you washed his seed away. You both jumped at the loud knock on the bathroom door and a voice called out, “Carlos, are you in there? You’re going to be late.”

“Just a sec,” Carlos shouted back before attempting to step under the now warm spray. You cast your hands out, splaying your fingers across his torso, catching the pained wince that crossed his face.

“Tsk, tsk, Daddy’s calling,” you said with a shake of your head.

He looked down at himself, the evidence of what transpired glistening on his cock. “Seriously?”

It was your turn to smirk and push him back further before waving him off. “Good luck.”

Free practice was already underway by the time you finished showering and changing into fresh Ferrari merch. No one really paid you any mind as you found a good spot on the balcony above the pit lane and watched the final 30 minutes of track time.

Despite there being better performers, your eyes kept being drawn back to your PT and the lowly 7th place he finished. You had catalogued a list of insults for him and went down to the debrief room ready to rule him up when you found him leaning against the corridor wall. Lines from his balaclava creased his cheeks and his eyes screwed shut as he clutched a hand to his stomach.

“Don’t think playing sick will let you off the hook for that performance,” you said as you crossed your arms.

There was no humour in his face, no wry amusement that usually came with your insults. Instead, he silently pushed off from the wall and made his way on towards the briefing room.

You kind of felt bad as you left the track and returned to the hotel. There had been a misstep in the turbulent dance that had been going on for months and you were left unsettled by it. Nothing on the tv could distract you enough that you finally gave up and took the elevator to Carlos’ floor. It was late but you figured he would still be awake as you knocked on his door.

“You look like shit,” you greeted, but your voice was thick with concern. “What’s wrong?”

Sweat beaded on his forehead and the sickly sheen covered his bare chest too. Reaching out, you felt his skin burning like a furnace and he swayed on his feet before leaning on the doorway.

“You don’t care, so just go,” he rasped, his voice pained and weak.

You rolled your eyes and stepped around him to see a sick bowl on the coffee table with some painkillers beside it and a rumpled blanket spread over the couch. He made to follow but he could barely hold himself up and it was only your arms that kept him collapsing. “Fuck sake, Carlos, you need a hospital.”

“Just need sleep,” he argued. His body shivered and his throat worked to swallow but you had been through enough hangovers to know what was coming. You leapt for the sick bowl and barely got it under his face before he hurled up the bright blue electrolyte drink that you spotted on the table.

“Where’s your phone and your keys?” He peeked up from the bowl pitifully and he saw the determined look on your face before pointing to the kitchen. “Can you stand on your own? Don’t look so offended, it’s a reasonable question in your state.”

“I’m fine.”

“And I’m Max Verstappen.” You let go of him for a second to see if he would crumple to the carpet but he seemed to hold himself on pure stubbornness so you dashed to the kitchen to dump the bowl in the sink and grab his belongings.

“Planning on robbing me too?” he asked as he noticed you grabbed his wallet too.

“Since I’m apparently a whore, you owe me a hefty debt,” you muttered sarcastically. “It’s for your ID, asshole.”

Carlos didn’t deign to respond as he curled one arm around your shoulders, leaning heavily into your embrace, and the other clutched his abdomen.

“You’ve been in pain since practice, haven’t you?”

“Maybe…can we just go?”

You pocketed his things and took as much weight as you could off him, using every ounce of your strength training as you guided him to the elevator. It was strange to see him so reserved in the elevator mirror as it headed down to the underground car park and it was even stranger to sit in the driver seat of his car.

“Please don’t crash it,” he murmured as you started it up and headed out into the street.

“I know you don’t believe it, but I am actually a decent driver,” you muttered. The city traffic was busy 24/7 but the satnav came in handy with the directions to the emergency room at the nearest hospital. “Should I call your dad?”

“No. It’s probably nothing but a stomach bug.”

That ‘probably nothing’ turned out to be acute appendicitis. You could have laughed at how spectacularly wrong Carlos was but you were too worried as he was wheeled away to surgery and you were left to make a phone call.

‘Do not call him Daddy Sainz,’ you reminded yourself as you entered the passcode on Carlos’ phone and hoped he wasn’t too delusional to get it right. Thankfully it unlocked and you went to his contacts. “Hello, Mr Sainz?”

“Who is this?” he asked worriedly.

“It’s Y/N, I drive for Ferrari in the Academy, uh, Carlos is my Mentor.”

“Where is my son? Why do you have his phone?”

“He’s at the hospital. They’re just taking him into surgery now to remove his appendix.”

The elder Sainz must had put you on speakerphone as you heard the noises at his end increase. “Which hospital? Why are you only calling me now?”

“King Fahad Armed Forces and you’re welcome, by the way, if it wasn’t for me your son would still be curled up on the couch in his room until it burst.”

“He said you had an attitude,” the old man muttered quietly before he resigned himself to a sigh. “Thank you. I’ll be there soon.”

You sent him the ward number that Carlos would be brought through when he was out of surgery and tried to make yourself comfortable on a vinyl chair. It must have been cozy enough as you dozed off, only waking when a nurse tapped your shoulder and smiled sweetly. “Mr Sainz is on his way up now, the operation went well.”

You rubbed your eyes and thanked her as you sat up to see almost two hours had passed. It was then you noticed a pair of brown eyes were watching curiously from across the room.

“Have you been watching me sleep?” you asked as you stretched and cracked your back.

The old man snorted a laugh and put down the almost empty styrofoam cup of black coffee. “You don’t need to wait, I can look after him from here.”

“And ruin my perfect posture for nothing? I’m fine waiting a bit longer.” You stood up and made your way to the percolator jug of black sludge and poured yourself a cup too before pacing the room. “Have you been talking with the other teams yet?”

His eyes followed you back and forth like he was trying to pick your brain apart. “About what?”

“2025. He’s too good for his F1 career to end now.”

The old man stood up too and refilled his cup. “Would you like milk and sugar?” he asked when he noticed your face scrunch at the first sip.

“Just a tiny dash of milk please, no sugar. I like my coffee like I like my men: a little dark and bitter.”

He chuckled and poured a small amount of milk into your cup before returning to his seat. “I can see why my son likes you.”

You spluttered on your mouthful and hurried to swallow the hot liquid. “You must be thinking about someone else. Carlos and I just about have a mutual understanding, and it wouldn’t be a stretch to say he borderline hates me.”

“Can’t be too many female Ferrari drivers that he mentors from the Academy, because I sincerely remember his comment about her,” the old man teased, crossing one leg over the other and staring over the rim of his cup. His eyebrow arched, daring you to correct him until he took the silence with an air of smugness.

Sounds grew along the quiet ward and soon Carlos was wheeled in on a hospital bed, parking into the empty space that had been between the two chairs. Though he looked a little sleepy, Carlos was awake and he smiled dopily from where he lay looking up at you.

“The doctors said your testicle retrieval went well.”

His smile broke with a deep laugh and he turned to look at his amused dad. “I see you met her.”

“I did.” Carlos Senior stood up and kissed his son’s forehead. “I’m glad you had her to take care of you, son. I’ll give you a few moments alone.”

You frowned as his dad left the room, waiting for the door to close quietly behind him. “What the hell were you thinking! Why didn’t you say anything? You could have died!”

Carlos shrugged and shifted carefully to get comfortable on this pillow behind his head. “We don’t exactly have the sort of relationship where we talk about things.”

You huffed and lifted his head, fluffing the pillow before shoving it back into place. “You’re a fucking idiot.”

“Back to the insults, finally.” The sick bastard smiled happily and settled into the pillow with a contented sigh. “For a moment I thought I died and went to heaven.”

“Not funny.”

“Was so, you just care about me too much to laugh. Admit it, you would’ve missed me.” He opened his hand and inched it closer to the edge of the bed.

“They must have given you the strong stuff, you’re clearly delusional,” you said with a roll of your eyes but placed your hand into his palm and he closed his fingers around them. “Your dad seems to think you like me.”

Carlos yawned and closed his eyes, but a smile played on his lips. “That’s probably the beginning of dementia. Don’t get your hopes up.”

“Trust me, I wasn’t,” you chuckled. A few moments of silence filled the room before a soft snore broke the quiet. Careful not to wake him, you kissed his cheek and whispered, “I’m glad you’re okay, Junior.”

“Knew it,” he said as he cracked one eye open and grinned.

You let go of his hand and dropped into your chair with an annoyed huff. “Asshole.”

“Brat.”