Never Ever Letting This Article Rest.

10 + botapinto 😁

brargentina yaoi served fresh.

Franco is only ever available when he’s bored. 

A 2am ‘u up?’ text and a quizzical emoji, sometimes a kissy face, sometimes a devil. Gabriel considers ghosting him, but Franco sends a pic, shirtless in a bathroom with droplet stains all across the mirror. The waistband of his shorts dips below his adonis belt, a trail of hair getting lost in the nether. And Gabi is only a man…

wanna come over

The question should get a no for an answer. It’s tiring being the casual hook up, the one night stand for the boring weekends. But Gabi stares at the picture again, thinking of the warmth of his mouth, the hunger of his body. His cock twitches in sympathy and he texts ‘only if you pay the uber’. One e-transfer later and he’s pressing the little call up button to let Franco know he’s downstairs, a buzz, a door opening and then two flights of stairs. 

“What took you so long?” Franco asks as he opens the door, naked save for flimsy boxers and white ankle high socks. 

Gabi doesn’t have time to answer, the door closes behind him and Franco’s mouth is on him, a desperate chase of lips and tongue, a hand cradling his neck, another reaching for his ass. 

The zipper of his jeans falls and so do his pants with them, his underwear is already strained, and Franco makes him take off his shirt with nails that feel like knives at his back. 

“God you are so hot,” Franco says before he’s leaning in, dragging teeth down his chest, kissing, licking, biting every inch of skin he can find. Franco’s painfully hard, his erection rubbing against Gabi’s thigh. He’s so fucking desperate, it’d be sort of pathetic if Gabi wasn’t so fucking turned on by it. 

“Let me fuck your mouth,” he blurts out, breathless by the sight of Franco’s flushed chest. 

“Another day,” Franco winks, taking Gabriel’s hand “I already prepped, come on.” 

The bedroom smells of vanilla air freshener and axe deodorant. Franco pushes Gabi to the bed, shrugs off his underwear like it’s on fire and climbs over him.  

“Are you even clean?” Gabi asks. 

Franco looks at him with a frown, deeply offended. “I’m not a prostitute, mate,” mate… you are trying to ride my dick and you are calling me mate, alright. “I’m clean as a fucking plate, you could eat off my ass.”

Gabi grimaces. “I’d rather not.”

He rolls his eyes, fumbling diva catching his breath before a performance. “Shut the fuck up.” Franco places Gabriel’s hands on his waist before he settles in, hand reaching for Gabriel’s cock, guiding it into the heat of his puckered hole bit by bit. 

Every time they do this, Gabi wakes up feeling like the world's stupidest clown, honking nose and all. But this is all he ever wants, this warmth, Franco crying out his name as he bounces on his cock, desperate, wanton moans as precums leaks out of him. Gabi kisses his neck, the column of his throat, the scar across his collarbone, takes into his mouth the silver cross he always wears and sucks as he tries to jerk him off while Franco loses track of himself, mumbling and cursing and shouting. 

Gabi wonders how soundproof the walls are, how likely they are to get an angry neighbour pounding on their door, how likely someone is to be jealous, to want what he has now. He’ll regret it in the morning, but for now his lips part and his teeth sink into the junction where shoulder meets neck and Franco shouts, leaking all over Gabriel’s stomach. 

The bite was deep enough to draw blood. Gabi comes from the sight of it alone.

mv33 and 24

why'd you only call me when you're high?

feat. max verstappen

lyrics preview you get high, call max, spend the night with him: that’s what you both agreed to—nothing more. unless...

maddie reader is the toxic one in this??? what happened to sweet old yn???

1435 words

The violent screen light cut through the darkness of the street when you unlocked your phone, the numbers 03:08 burning bright behind your eyelids as you squinted at them like they’d personally offended you.

You knew it was late. Or early, depending on the point of view.

But you also knew it wouldn’t take him long to reply, so you searched for his contact and started the call with no regrets whatsoever.

It rang once, twice–

“Schat?”

Just as you thought.

“Hi Maxie,” you giggled, the slurred nickname rolling off your tongue with ease. “I missed you.”

You left the words hanging heavy in the air, waiting for him to take the bait like a lioness ambushing her prey.

He sighed, and you could almost picture him running a hand over his face, tired—not because of the ungodly hour, but because of you.

You and your little game of cat and mouse, a game he knew he couldn’t win, but he just kept playing regardless because he enjoyed losing to you way too much.

“You’re high.”

It wasn’t a question. Why ask if he knew perfectly well you only called him when you were?

“A little,” you shrugged like it was no big deal, tripping over your own feet a second later. “I’m coming over.”

Again, not a question. You didn’t need his permission: that’s not how things worked between the two of you.

“I don’t think–”

“You don’t have to, baby,” you cut him off sweetly. “Just leave the door open for me, ’kay?”

He did. Of course he did.

When you finally stumbled in the hallway in front of his apartment, floor and ceiling dancing furiously before your eyes, all you had to do was push, and the handle immediately gave in under your dead weight.

You kicked off your heels in the entrance like you owned the place, walking straight up to the living room with a lot more confidence than someone who looked like she’d just went to hell and back should’ve had.

Max was there, pacing the room like a caged animal—loose pants low on his hips, no shirt.

Perfect.

He stopped in his tracks as soon as he heard the velvety pad of your thigh highs skimming across the pavement, turning around just in time for you to throw your arms around his neck and pull him down into a kiss so intense it made your head spin even more.

The warmth of his lips against yours was intoxicating—a different kind of drug from the one that clouded your senses and helped you get rid of your thoughts one puff of smoke after the other. It was grounding, the only thing that anchored you to this world when everything else kept slipping from your grasp.

Only this time—he did, too.

The loss of contact was so brutal that you almost toppled forward when he moved back, your mouth desperately chasing his as if you needed it to breathe.

“Max, come on,” you whined, hands already making their way back to his chest, “don’t be difficult. I want you.” You didn’t care about how pathetic that might sound because it was also embarrassingly true.

“No.”

He didn’t touch you, putting some distance between you instead, but that single word left a stinging sensation so vivid on your skin that you could’ve sworn he’d hit you.

“No?” You laughed in disbelief. “What the fuck does that mean?”

“It means we’re not doing anything tonight.”

“Yeah, sure,” you scoffed, sneering, though you could feel the weight of something ugly slowly starting to settle in your chest.

“I’m serious. You’re too high for this.”

There it was.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize that was a problem the last fifty times I was,” you raised your voice, the weed in your system dangerously amplifying your growing anger.

“It was a problem,” he groaned, “I just–”

“What, you developed a conscience overnight? You don’t want to fuck me anymore because I’m stoned and you suddenly feel sorry for me?”

He took a deep breath and pinched the bridge of his nose like he was trying—and failing—to get rid of a piercing headache.

You didn’t like that.

“Can you not… talk like this?”

The condescending tone of his question sounded awfully close to the one someone would use to deal with a spoiled child.

You didn’t like that either.

“Please, I thought you were used to people treating you like shit,” you rolled your eyes at him, swaying a dismissive hand in his direction.

He caught it.

“You’re the one treating yourself like shit, and I need you to stop it.”

“Gee, Max, what’s gotten into you?” you forced out a laugh as you averted your gaze, the intensity of his far more unsettling than the lustful, almost predatory look you were used to. “You’re acting like you’re in love with me or something.”

It was supposed to be a joke.

It was supposed to be funny.

Max Verstappen caring about someone like you?

Hilarious.

So why didn’t he laugh?

Why was he staring at you like–

“No,” you spit out the way he had a few minutes before, reading in his eyes what his mouth had been too slow to tell you.

“Yes.”

Three letters. That’s all it took for the house of cards you’d built around yourself to crumble.

“You don’t love me, Max.” Your tone was firm, pitiful even, as if you hoped that hearing you say those words out loud would help him realize just how absurd they sounded.

Or at least trick him into thinking they did.

“Yes, I d–”

“That’s bullshit. You love feeling needed, you love all the attention I give you and how easy I am for you, you love having me in your bed every night—you don’t love me.”

“No, this is what you convinced yourself to believe. And you want to know why? Because you’re scared.”

“I’m not scared, Max, I’m pissed. We agreed to no strings attached sex, and now you’re busting out a fucking love confession like it wasn’t the first thing I told you I didn’t need.”

Your voice cracked toward the end of the sentence, and you hated yourself for it.

But what you hated even more was how you couldn’t stop the tears already clouding your vision to start streaming down your cheeks, the dam behind your eyelids suddenly breaking.

You wanted to wipe them away, remove all evidence of their existence, but Max’s fingers were still wrapped tightly around one of your wrists—or was it your throat?

“Let me go,” you said, voice stern but shaky as you tugged back your hand.

“Why? So you can run away and keep pretending like this means nothing to you?”

“It doesn’t! God, Max, what’s so hard to understand? It doesn’t mean anything to me!” You emphasized the word by hitting him square in the chest with your free palm, part trying to push him away, part just because you wanted to hurt him.

“This,” you added, showing off the half smoked joint you still had in the pocket of your hoodie, “is what your love is made of. The version of me that wants you doesn’t exist—it’s all in here,” you laughed, bitter and cruel, throwing it at him.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t yell. Just raised the hand he wasn’t holding you with and moved a lock of hair out of your face.

Your reaction was immediate.

“Don’t touch me,” you jumped, slapping his fingers away like they’d burned you.

Which was weird because you’d gone all the way there and begged him to do just that.

“You ruined everything,” you sobbed, your fist landing against his bare skin over and over again as he pulled you even closer—too close. “It was so simple, and you fucked it all up.”

You cried, fought, screamed, your curses muffled in the crook of his neck as you blamed him for something he couldn’t control.

And he let you.

He held you through every second of it, his arms caging you in like you were both a frail creature to protect and a wild animal to lock up.

“I hate you,” you breathed out at last, completely drained from the drug, your outburst—him.

Max didn’t say anything at first, and for one insane, wishful moment you thought he would finally give up.

But then he whispered, “You don’t hate me, schat. You hate not being able to love yourself the way I do.”

And that broke you a little more.

© 2025 l4ndoflove. all rights reserved.

carlos: my kind of people, love for free. i'm a free lover.

The people's (Alex's) princess

PRINCESS GEORGE IN THE DIANA REVENGE DRESS

Alain still got these dreams, from time to time, about the past, about him...

bgm: 李琦 - 金玉良缘 & The Dø - Dust it off

If we had to do it all again, I think I'd say to Ayrton, 'Listen, we're the best, we can screw all the others!' With a lot of intelligence, it could have been such a good dream.

—— Alain Prost (in 1998)

I fear I wasn't awake for the first 49 laps but Ferrari DRS train?? Right in front of Carlos Sainz??

tagged by @testarossa @crudeoildistillation @magnificentbirb (last week kekekeke) and @seaplease for wip wednesday!

“Uh,” Carlos says, in a poor attempt to stall for time. “Could you let me keep my identification, at least? And one credit card? It’s my turn to pay for dinner.”

Teto’s always told him to get Apple Pay set up. Teto’s going to have the time of his life when he finds out.

His assailant sticks out a hand, crooking his fingers in the universal gesture for, Hand it over.

“Fine,” Carlos says sullenly.

He’ll have to cancel his cards, which is annoying. He’ll have to report his stolen driver’s license, which is even more annoying. Damn this place. And damn Oscar, for even suggesting they get out for some dinner. Carlos should have known better than to listen to him—ever.

“Not my phone,” Carlos says, dismayed. “I’ve already given you what you asked. Por favor, there’s close to five hundred dollars in my wallet.”

Some yelling, some posturing with the baseball bat, the tip of which gets very close to Carlos’s nose. He almost grows cross-eyed trying to track its wayward path. The Gigi in his mind is yelling at him, don’t negotiate, don’t attempt it, give the guy what he wants. Just give it to him! But adrenaline builds up, coursing down from the top of his head to the rest of his body. There’s, well. There’re texts in his phone. There’re pictures. Not just of himself.

Decision made in a second. The burst of charge exits out his feet like lightning, and Carlos stops thinking to pivot and run. More yelling, followed by the metallic clank of the baseball bat narrowly missing him and finding a permanent mark in the alley wall. Fucking hell, have they never heard of a streetlamp in Melbourne? Where the hell is he going? Left first, then right. Huff, huff, breathe deep, breathe even. There’s absolutely no way some random guy trying to rob him can outstrip Carlos in a competition of speed. No way. Never mind that it’s been happening in a different context entirely. There’re no machines involved here. Just the strength of his legs, and a body which hasn’t abandoned him yet. The phone he holds in a death grip in his right hand. Head down, arms swing, go, go, go—

Fuck, ow. Ow. Fuck.

Apparently, there’re curbs and things which serve to trip people when they’re running through the street. Down he goes in a mess of limbs. He scrapes his elbow, forearms, then palms in quick succession. Skin rolled up on the surface like crumpled paper, he’ll start bleeding in a minute. Breath knocked out of him, Carlos barely has time to toss himself around, and raise an arm up to defend against the baseball bat swinging its merry way down.

A shocked gasp, a wounded sound, made by someone other than him. Carlos forces his scrunched eyes open. There’s a patch of dark in front of him, or above him rather, darker than the surrounding night. Half of the dark patch has a face. A mouth grimacing, lips caught in between teeth. Huh. Cute teeth.  

Carlos doesn’t know much about Melbourne’s vigilante, only that he makes appearances in the night and dresses in stylish Kevlar. No amount of padding is going to stop a baseball bat from hurting though.

“Get up,” Carlos whispers to him.

Those lips wobble, and then flatten as if in annoyance, and Masked Man shifts his weight off of Carlos. Like he’s affronted. It appears as though Carlos can do no right, tonight.

The baseball bat makes its move again, though the sound of impact is weaker this time, panicked. Masked Man growls, pissed off. Carlos swallows down a squeak. Another attempt at a swing is caught in a gloved palm, and Masked Man jerks the bat out of the assailant’s hands with enough force for the guy to stumble back, wind in his sails all gone. The fight’s pretty much over, which is slightly anti-climatic. Guy Who Used to Have Baseball Bat is already hightailing it out of here.

“Ay,” Carlos says, when it becomes abundantly clear Masked Man isn’t going to say anything. “Dating, am I right? Dangerous scene.”

Masked Man flings himself around, presumably to chastise Carlos for gallivanting in the dark, but any form of lecture dissolves into a hiss of pain. A very small, very unguarded sound. Only now does Carlos notice Masked Man is devoid of Kevlar, apart from the cowl and the gloves. He’s donned in a black, soft turtleneck, and nice, slim-fitting jeans.

“You patrol without armour?” Unbelievable, prioritising fashion over functionality. “What kind of vigilante are you?”

The mouth moves into a scowl. Carlos is no lip-reader, but it isn’t hard when Masked Man’s teeth form around the word Idiot so clearly.

“Yes, yes.” Carlos rolls his eyes. “I shouldn’t have been out, yes?”

Masked Man glares, gesturing indignantly at Carlos’s phone, still somehow nestled in his right hand.

“Hey,” Carlos says weakly. He clutches the phone to his chest. “I have important things in here.”

Masked Man glares even more, batting away Carlos’s attempts to reach out. Guilt niggles at the base of Carlos’s spine, worms its way into his chest. Masked Man had stepped in between Carlos and a baseball bat with no form of protection, whatsoever. Nothing but his bare back, which should be turning black-and-blue right about now. Carlos doesn’t point out that Masked Man should probably seek medical attention, knowing very well it wouldn’t be appreciated.

“Ice first,” Carlos blurts out, before Masked Man can whisk himself away in smoke, or however cool, edgy way superheroes like to disappear. “Ice to reduce swelling. Heat for later to encourage healing.”

The cowl blends seamlessly into the night with how dark it is. Vantablack, Carlos’s brain supplies, somewhat impressed. It only serves to highlight the whites in Masked Man’s eyes, shocked and round, like he can’t believe Carlos would say something even remotely helpful. 

“I get bruises all the time,” Carlos insists, somehow wanting to prove his expertise. Masked Man straightens up agitatedly, and Carlos waves it off. “From seatbelts. It’s a long story. Listen. Ice first, then heat, okay?”

A half shrug.

Carlos nods, satisfied. He turns around, allowing Masked Man the privacy to disappear in a suitably cool way. Takes less than a few seconds, and Masked Man is gone.

It takes Carlos a few more seconds to realize he’s forty-five minutes past when he was supposed to meet Oscar, and also hopelessly lost. He retraces his steps like a baby foal while texting Caco, completely unaware of his surroundings in a way that Masked Man would surely disapprove.

hey could you cancel my cards

What why.

Carlos why

Carlos?

never mind, i am all good. Wonders of wonders, his wallet is safely tucked into his back pocket, as if it had never left. Carlos grins. Masked Man is very sneaky! He has saved Carlos having to make a police report, which makes him ace in Carlos’s book. Carlos should get on the hero forums on Reddit and rate him. He should do that now, before he forgets.

melbourne’s masked man: five stars!

fought off a baseball bat with just gloves and returned my wallet. he should try to wear padding of some sort. cool mask.

Carlos hesitates. Adds: cute teeth. it was all i could see of his face

By the time he makes it to the restaurant, Carlos is so late he’d be surprised if Oscar didn’t throw a glass of water at him. It’s a little sadder to discover Oscar isn’t even there. In fairness, Carlos would be pretty annoyed if his dinner partner were to show up as if he came from a different time zone. All the same, it would have been nice if Oscar at least texted before he left. Even to say, Where the hell are you?

Carlos sulks at his phone. Someone liked his review on Reddit. His stomach growls petulantly. Well, fuck it. Oscar did say the BBQ here was good.

--

He will never go as far as to say he’s “good” at media, but with this many fan stages under his belt, the questions are no longer as tricky to navigate. How are you feeling about your chances this weekend? Anything you want to say to the fans? When will you go on a golf date with Alex? Carlos smiles and answers in half-truths, all the while tracing the chicanes of the Shanghai track in his head. The first two bends lead immediately into turn three and four. One and two are more difficult, requiring lift on entry, but a good exit is necessary on four. Yes, I gave some good advice to the rookies. Keep pushing always.

It takes Carlos a surprising long time to notice. Surprising because he’s been priding himself on noticing, lately. Whether the swoop of hair on Oscar’s forehead falls to the left or the right, how many freckles he’s accumulating as the weeks go by. On stage, Oscar’s gone ahead and dissociated so hard he isn’t even on the same planet. Staring out at some spot between the crowd and the ground, mouth soft in its slackness. Carlos recognizes the look. He can only hope he’s never been this obvious.

“Oscar,” he says, voice hovering between teasing and tentative. “You haven’t talked.”

Oscar’s scowl disappears so quickly no one else would’ve caught it. But, well. Carlos has been noticing.

“I was quite happy just standing here,” Oscar says, almost resigned, but then media personality kicks in and he launches into a suitable answer.

Oops, Carlos thinks, and certainly enough, backstage, Oscar yanks him away into a corner.

“Mate,” he says, looking this close to stomping his foot. Carlos might go so far as to say he’s whining. Imagine that, Oscar whining. “You, like, shift into a separate dimension all the time during interviews and I’m nice enough not to point it out in front of hundreds of people.”

Carlos juts his jaw out, catches Oscar’s eyes following the movement. He’s trying to stall for time. In truth he could’ve left Oscar to his own devices. Why didn’t he? Saying he wanted to hear Oscar talk was going to scrape a little too close to his ribs for his liking.

“You stood me up,” he blurts out. It’s possible he’s panicking a little. “I didn’t know what to order! They gave me the giant barbeque platter. Do you know how sad that made me look? Eating all the chicken wings by myself?”

Oscar’s face makes some ridiculous shape, eyebrows shooting up, eyes growing wide, mouth forming around outrage.

“You—that’s why you called me out on stage?” Oscar says. He’s being so incredulous and Carlos probably shouldn’t laugh. “You’re. You’re the worst!”

“Aw,” Carlos says, somewhat unaffected, but now growing equally incredulous. “So why did you?”

Oscar flushes, all the way down from his hairline. It’s not not cute. “I was—I mean, there was. An incident. And I. Couldn’t get to you in time.”

“Oh-kay,” Carlos says, shrugging as nonchalantly as he can. It’s not as if Oscar was the one getting mugged. “Don’t tell me then. You’re lucky I’m very forgiving.”

He claps Oscar on the back vigorously to show how forgiving he is. What he doesn’t expect is the way Oscar stiffens, so hard it looks painful. The planes of his face shift, and colour leeches out of his skin quicker than litmus paper in acid. From pink to pallor. In a failed attempt to stop any noise escaping, Oscar catches his bottom lip with his two front teeth, so hard he might draw blood.

Huh. His teeth.

If. If Carlos had. Retired last year. He doesn’t like thinking about that, how close it felt to coming true. But if it had happened. It’s possible he could’ve transitioned to another role in the garage. He might have struggled with algebra, according to his old math teacher, but he’s good with statistics, data. He knows how to put pieces of a puzzle together. And he knows when they fit just right.

Carlos takes Oscar’s trembling elbow, very gently. “Gigi keeps some painkillers in the motorhome, c’mon.”

There’s a moment in which Carlos thinks Oscar will try to refuse him, and he’d have to sling Oscar over his shoulder somehow to force his compliance. But then Oscar clenches his jaw, and obediently allows himself to be led away.

“I shouldn’t have,” Oscar says, midway through Carlos cramming a pill down Oscar’s throat like he would an uncooperative cat, “been out late last night. That’s, uh. That’s why I’m in. Such rough shape.”

“Oh yes. Partying with Lando usually results in aches and pain and tears the next day. You know what else results in aches and pain and tears?”

Oscar stares at him, stiffening.

“Getting a baseball bat to the back,” Carlos says wisely. “And then underdosing on painkillers so you can appear lucid on stage.”

“Not that lucid,” Oscar mumbles. “You caught me.”

Carlos wants Oscar to un-porcupine himself. Wants some softness for his poor, bruised back. “I have nothing against doing the, vigi--vigilante?”

“Vigilantism.”

“Thank you. Nothing against that. Just against illogical, unpadded, nonsense armour.”

“I know.” Oscar rolls his eyes. “I read your review. Someone saves your life and the first thing you do is to complain online. Typical.”

“Typical Carlos,” Carlos says, smiling.

“Yeah,” Oscar says, though his shoulders are less hunched now, and he’s smiling right back. “Typical Carlos.”

https://x.com/pwettydolluwu/status/1928443782241890469?s=46 speaking of markoscar… this edit😭😭😭😩 it really does take a unique set of abilities to be a good manager/mentor so huge kudos to mark. I also like how reasonable mark is about Oscar, he doesn’t overhype him tbh and pulls back certain comparisons, yet is his staunch supporter when ppl do say stuff slightly out of line (i am always thinking about him going back to Laura and being like “so what were you saying about Oscar’s tire management 🤨🤨” after oscar did well).

LET'S ALL KILL OURSELVES! sorry. beauuutiful edit. and agreed with everything else you've said! he supports oscar and although we don't know how much of this is mark's influence, i think it's safe to say he isn't overblowing anything since oscar always seems to have a very grounded mindset. even recently after winning in spain obv he was pleased with his victory but mentioned he didn't have the perfect restart (smiling and saying he was wheelspinning in 6th gear or something). he's happy with what he's done well and doesn't beat himself up for what he didn't do as well because he recognises it was good enough to get him the win, BUT he shows an awareness that there's always things he can improve... great stuff

My weird observation lately was that how is it usually Oscar grabbing other’s thumb when doing handshake, but with Carlos, the handshake is firm and like, locked it.