retireddaddyric

[retireddaddyric]

PAINT STAINS AND ALL

(Painting Palette pt IV)

Synopsis: (last past of 4) Daniel and fem reader give each other longing stares until they’re alone again. Then he becomes the muse of her paintings again and.. it gets cutely messy.

Warnings: 18+ minors DNI, smut, fluff, flashbacks, unprotected sex.

Notes: this is the ending, not english native speaker, this is all fiction. Feel free to reach out, even in private if you’re shy to comment! I love it!

For two days, we’re perfect actors. I say “morning” with a smile I don’t mean. Daniel pours me coffee without a word. Mick watches us from the kitchen table like he’s trying to solve an equation. We don’t touch, we don’t fight. We don’t speak unless Mick’s in the room.

But god, the silences. Every brush of air between us feels like it could ignite. Every accidental glance is a dare. Every shared breath tastes like the thing we didn’t finish.

I’m painting again, my back is bent over canvas in the living room, headphones in, tank top riding up my spine and then I feel it. That look. I glance up and Daniel’s on the couch across the room, pretending to read. As if he reads. But he isn’t flipping pages.

He’s watching me like he’s starving.

He doesn’t even flinch when I meet his eyes.

He just smirks. Then shifts slightly in his seat, legs spreading lazily, like he knows I’m looking now too.

I roll my eyes. He raises an eyebrow.

Then I dip my brush in red and very deliberately paint a curved line that is, unmistakably, the dip of a collarbone.

His collarbone.

That night, when Mick’s asleep, I find Daniel in the kitchen in just sweatpants and nothing else, eating a slice of cold pizza by the fridge light.

We don’t say anything.

I just walk past him slowly, open the cabinet, and reach for a glass knowing full well he’s watching my ass the whole time.

“Wanna finish what you started the other morning?” he murmurs.

I turn, lean against the counter, and sip water like I’m bored. “Maybe. If you’re good.”

He steps closer. One hand on the fridge door, the other on the counter behind me. His body cages mine in.

“What makes you think I’ve ever been good?”

His voice is low, wicked and his mouth is too close so my breath stops.

But then footsteps creak down the hallway. Mick’s cough from his bedroom.

Daniel swears under his breath and steps back and I smile around the rim of my glass. “Guess you’ll have to wait.”

And I walk away, hips swaying.

Mick leaves on Friday afternoon with an overnight bag and his usual warnings. “Don’t kill each other,” he calls over his shoulder.

“We’ll try,” I say, deadpan.

Daniel just lifts two fingers in a lazy salute.

The second the door closes, the apartment goes quiet. Too quiet.

We spend the first few hours pretending nothing’s changed: he’s on the couch, legs up, flipping through some dumb car documentary. I’m at my easel, trying to sketch with hands that won’t stop trembling. My pencil skids over the paper. Nothing sticks. Every line looks wrong.

He glances at me over his shoulder. “You’re pacing with your hands again.”

“I’m drawing.”

“You’re sulking.”

I sigh and toss the pencil down. “I can’t focus.”

He hums like he already knows why. “You wanna paint me?” He asks.

I blink. “Excuse me?”

He shrugs. “You used to. I figured you might want the real thing this time.”

My mouth opens. Closes. My heart thuds once, low and deep.

“Right now?”

He stands slowly, stretching. “Why not?”

There’s a flicker of something in his eyes, a challenge maybe. Or maybe it’s surrender.

“I’ve got nothing better to do,” he adds, voice soft.

I swallow hard. “Fine,” I say. “Strip.”

His brows lift but he doesn’t hesitate. He peels off his shirt first, tossing it onto the couch. Then his sweats, leaving just black briefs that do nothing to hide how very ready he is for this. I try not to stare but fail.

“Don’t be shy now,” he says, smirking.

“You’re lucky I don’t blindfold you,” I mutter, grabbing a fresh canvas.

He settles onto the stool in front of me, one leg stretched out, arms relaxed at his sides. His body is shameless: golden tan skin, lean muscle, a little almost invisible scar under one rib I never noticed before.

I start to paint. At first, it’s safe.. shoulders, lines of his throat, the shape of his sternum. But the longer I look, the more I lose the thread of what I’m doing. My hand slows. My breathing doesn’t.

“You’re not painting anymore,” he murmurs.

“No,” I whisper. “I’m not.”

He stands and walks toward me, I don’t move. When he’s close enough, he dips two fingers into my palette, crimson, and drags them gently across my collarbone. Paint streaks my skin like war paint. Like a warning. Or a promise.

“You said you’d make it indecent..” he murmurs.

I drop the brush.

And then we’re kissing hard, filthy, urgent. Nothing gentle this time. Nothing patient. His hands are on my waist, lifting me. I wrap my legs around him instinctively, and we crash into the wall, smearing paint between our bodies. I feel it on my thighs, my ribs, his chest.

We’re a mess. We don’t care. He pulls my tank top over my head, smearing blue across my shoulder in the process. My breasts are already flushed, nipples tight, and he groans when he sees me.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he rasps. “You always were.”

I grab his face, drag him into another kiss, deeper this time, more desperate. My hands tug down his briefs and he kicks them off. His cock presses against my stomach, hot and hard and slick at the tip.

“I need—” I gasp.

He lifts me again, carries me across the room, and lays me down right on the drop cloth I’d been using under the easel. Paint streaks across the fabric, and our skin with it.

I reach down and guide him to me and when he slides in, it’s a shock to the system.

We both gasp, I arch my back so much.

“Jesus,” he groans. “You’re—fuck—tight.”

“Don’t stop,” I pant. “Please—don’t you dare stop.” My breath is cut out.

And he doesn’t. He thrusts into me with purpose, messy, rhythmic, real. Our bodies slap together, paint slicking us, drying on our skin and smearing into new colors. He pushes one leg higher, angle deeper, and I cry out, fingers clutching his back, nails raking down to his hips.

“Say it,” he pants against my neck.

“Say what?”

“That you want me.”

“I always wanted you.”

He curses, losing rhythm for a second, hips stuttering. He kisses me again,open-mouthed, ravenous and I’m right there, spiraling.

And when I finally come, it’s like something shatters. Years of pretending, of silence, of fear.. they break all at once.

He follows with a groan so deep it shakes me. He stays inside me, forehead pressed to mine, our bodies a canvas of proof.

We don’t speak for a minute.

Just heavy breathing and the tick of the radiator.

Then, quietly, he says:

“You destroyed me, you know that?”

And I whisper, “Good.”

Mick walks through the door late Sunday afternoon, carrying his overnight bag and the faint scent of his girlfriend’s perfume. He looks relaxed, maybe even happy. For about two seconds. Then he stops cold in the living room. “What the fuck is that?”

Daniel and I are sitting on opposite ends of the couch, very not-touching. I’ve got a mug of tea in my hands like it’s a weapon. Daniel’s flipping through the TV guide like it’s 2006.

But Mick’s staring at the rug. At the giant, irregular, very obvious red paint stain near the corner of the drop cloth.

Right where Daniel had me two nights ago. My stomach drops, Daniel stiffens slightly but keeps his eyes on the screen.

Mick turns slowly, gaze ping-ponging between the stain and the two of us.

“You didn’t use the cloth?” he asks. His voice is deceptively casual.

I open my mouth. Nothing comes out. Daniel clears his throat.

“I mean, technically we started on it,” he mutters.

Mick squints. “Started what?”

I shoot Daniel a look that could kill. He shrugs one shoulder like might as well.

Mick’s eyes narrow. Then widen. Then narrow again.

“Oh my god.” He looks at me. Then at Daniel. Then back at me. “You two—”

“We didn’t plan it,” I say quickly.

“And we definitely tried to hide it,” Daniel adds, not helping.

“Unbelievable,” Mick mutters, throwing his hands in the air. “Is nothing sacred?”

I wince. “It’s not like we were gonna tell you over breakfast!”

“And when were you gonna tell me? After you accidentally conceived a child in my living room?”

Daniel coughs behind his fist. I bury my face in my mug.

Mick runs a hand through his hair, pacing once. Then he stops, facing us again.

“So. You’ve been… what? Hooking up? Behind my back?”

I lift my chin. “Not behind your back. Just… quietly. Around corners.”

Daniel finally looks up, eyes steady. “We didn’t mean to lie to you.”

Mick just stares at him.

“And we’re not planning to stop,” Daniel adds, voice low.

My heart skips. I glance at him. He’s dead serious.

Mick sighs like it physically pains him. “Jesus. Just.. please don’t have sex near my laundry again.”

Daniel grins. “Deal.”

Mick groans and storms off toward his room, muttering about bleach and siblings and betrayal.The door slams.

And Daniel looks at me with a sly smile. “That went better than I expected.”

I laugh, actual, breathless laughter. The kind that bubbles out when the truth is finally out and the world doesn’t burn down.

“I guess we’re official now,” I say.

He leans closer, still smiling. “Then I guess I can do this—”

—and kisses me, right there on the couch, tasting like coffee and freedom.

Paint stain and all.

He kisses me like it’s easy now as if there’s nothing to hide.

But as my eyes flutter shut, I see something else behind them, a flicker of then:

A summer from years ago.

We’re sitting under the tree in my parents’ backyard. I’m sixteen. He’s twenty-two. I’ve stolen one of Mick’s graphic tees, knees scraped from falling off my bike, sketchpad in my lap. Daniel’s stretched out in the grass beside me, one arm behind his curls, sunglasses hidden in that bush of his head. The sun catches the honey color in his hair.

“You’re gonna be trouble someday,” he says casually, watching me doodle.

I smirk, not looking at him. “Someday?”

He laughs, easy and bright. “Shut up.”

I don’t realize I’m in love with him yet.

But he’s already looking at me like it’s dangerous.

I blink back to the present, his mouth still on mine, hands warm on my hips, the air still humming with tension and relief.

And I wonder if he remembers that day too.

If he always knew it would come to this.

Paint stains and all.

The End

( I hope you guys liked it!)

[retireddaddyric]

Currenlty working on a private message request and fucking loving writing it!

Here are hiiints.

[retireddaddyric]

TOO LATE

(Painting Palette part III)

Synopsis: (PART 3) reader gets drunk to forget about what happened but when she comes back home Daniel is there. Fashbacks hit.

Warnings: 18+ minors DNI. Alchol, reckless behavior, intoxicated state, slighty dirty talking, heartbreak.

Notes: English is not my first language. Thanks for the comments and requests, keep them coming.

I don’t go out often, at least not since I came back. But tonight, I let Mia drag me to some bar in SoHo, one of those crowded, overpriced places where the drinks are pink and the boys are louder than the music. I let her feed me tequila and stupid compliments.

I let a stranger’s hands sit too low on my hips. I let myself laugh when nothing is funny. Then I let him kiss me: he tasted like lime and cologne and absolutely nothing.

And I let it happen.

By the time I stumble through the door, I’m soaked in rain, heels in hand, makeup smeared. The hallway spins slightly. My mouth tastes like lipstick and regret.

“Mick?” I call, slurring a little.

No answer.

The apartment is quiet, except for the soft hum of the TV in the living room.

I turn the corner and there he is, Daniel. He is barefoot, wearing a hoodie. Sitting on the couch with a half-empty glass of wine, eyes locked on me like I’ve just walked in holding a lit match.

“Your brother’s out,” he says flatly.

“Good,” I whisper.

He stands slowly. His eyes rake over me, the damp shirt clinging to my body, the wobbly way I lean against the doorframe, the wild in my eyes.

“You look like hell.” He says.

“Thanks,” I snap. “You look like someone I want to hit.”

He doesn’t flinch. “What the fuck are you doing?”

I toss my shoes onto the floor with a loud thunk. “Having fun. Being normal. Is that allowed, Daniel?”

“Normal?” he says, voice rising. “You’re drunk. And you kissed some asshole in a bar two hours ago—”

“Oh,” I say, stepping closer. “So you are keeping tabs on me.”

“I was there. Across the room. Watching you act like none of this means anything.”

“It doesn’t,” I lie. My throat burns.

He takes a slow step forward. “Really?”

“You canceled your date with your ex and still couldn’t bother to tell me,” I snap. “So no, Daniel, I’m not really in the mood to be handled by you.”

“You think I didn’t tell you because I didn’t care?” he hisses.

I blink, lips trembling. “Did you?”

Silence.

That damn silence again.

I laugh, bitter and broken, and it turns into a hiccup, then a sob.

“You don’t get to show up in my life again and ruin me,” I cry. “I barely put myself back together.”

“Then why are all your paintings still about me?”

That stuns me. The silence is deafening. I can’t speak. Can’t move. I just sway on my feet, drunk and exhausted and unraveling in front of him.

Daniel curses under his breath and crosses the room. “Come on,” he mutters, gentler now. “You’re gonna fall.”

“I hate you,” I sob, pushing weakly against his chest. “I hate that you get to live in my head. I hate that you were always him—”

“I know,” he breathes, wrapping an arm around my waist. “I know.”

He pulls me against him. He is warm and solid and I go limp.

He holds me like I’m breakable. Like he knows he’s already broken me. And even through the tears and the ache and the whiskey, I let him guide me toward my bedroom.

I want to yell, to scream.. But instead, I just cry into his shirt while he helps me sit on the edge of the bed, kneels down to untie the laces of my ruined boots, and whispers nothing at all.

I can’t really say when or how I fall asleep I just now I re-live a flashback from years ago, half-dreamed and painfully vivid.

It starts with the sound of laughter.

Mine. His.

Louder, younger. Before anything had weight.

I’m nineteen again, barefoot on the back patio of our old house. It’s summer. I’m wearing cutoffs and a tank top, skin sticky from sweat and lemonade, and Daniel is sitting on the railing, throwing grapes into his mouth like an idiot.

Mick is inside somewhere, probably grabbing another beer. It’s just us. It always ended up just us.

I remember the way the light hit his profile: dusk painting him in honey, the sharp lines of his jaw softening as he smiled at me like I was funny even when I wasn’t.

“Still doing that weird figure drawing thing?” he asked, legs swinging lazily.

“It’s called studying anatomy,” I said, tossing a grape at him. It missed. “But thank you for belittling my entire degree.”

Daniel caught the next one in his mouth, grinning. “You draw dicks for school, babe.”

“I draw bodies, pervert.”

“You practice on real ones?” He smiled with brakets.

I rolled my eyes, but I could feel the heat creep up my neck.

He leaned forward a little, elbows on his knees, looking at me with that ridiculous glint in his eyes, the one that made it hard to breathe. “You could sketch mine,” he said, voice teasing but low.

I remember freezing. My heart stuttered like it didn’t know how to keep going.

I wanted to laugh. I wanted to joke back.

But I just stood there, swallowing the lump in my throat, pretending I didn’t hear it the way he meant it.

When I finally looked up at him, he was already looking away, like maybe he’d gone too far. Like he didn’t mean to say it out loud.

Then Mick came back out with drinks and the spell broke.

But I knew. I knew then, in my chest, in my gut, in the part of me that stores memories I don’t admit out loud, that I was in trouble. That I was falling.

I murmur something in my sleep and turn onto my side. Back in the present, my fingers twitch slightly on the bedsheet.

Daniel is still outside the room. Maybe still waiting.

Maybe still thinking about the first time I almost drew him.

I wake up with my mouth dry and my head splitting right behind my eyes.

The bedsheets are tangled around my legs. My nightshirt is twisted and halfway up my thigh. I groan into the pillow, mascara smudged on the fabric, and wish I could melt through the mattress and disappear.

Memories from last night flicker behind my eyes.

Rain.

Daniel.

Kissing someone who didn’t matter.

Screaming at someone who did.

The feel of strong arms pulling me off my feet while I sobbed into his chest.

I don’t remember crawling into bed but I know who put me there.

The door creaks open before I can even sit up. I flinch. “Oh my god, can you knock—?”

“It’s just coffee,” Daniel says, stepping inside.

He’s holding a mug and he’s looking at me like I might bolt if he breathes too loudly.

He sets it on the nightstand, eyes scanning my face, then the room, then briefly my legs under the covers. It’s fast. Barely a flick of his gaze. But I see it.

And so does he.

He clears his throat and steps back.

“You looked like you might need this,” he mutters.

I sit up slowly, head pounding, fingers curling around the warm mug. “Thanks.”

We’re quiet for a beat. Then another.

Daniel leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, and watches me drink like I’m holding something sacred. Or maybe like he wishes it was him. “You okay?” he asks after a moment.

I nod, then shake my head. “I don’t know.”

He looks away. Exhales through his nose. “You scared the shit out of me last night.”

“I scared myself.”

Silence.

I stare into the coffee. He watches me like he’s remembering something he hasn’t decided whether to say.

“You remember the race in Melbourne? That year Mick crashed in Q2 and we got stuck in the hotel for two days because of the storm?”

I blink. “Yeah. Why?”

“You fell asleep on the couch with your sketchpad on your chest,” he says. “Pencil still in your hand. I thought you were gonna stab yourself.”

I smile faintly. “You stole it off me.”

“And flipped through it,” he admits. “There were three pages of me.”

My cheeks flush.

“I told myself you were just bored. But you’d drawn my mouth like… like you knew it.”

I glance up at him, heart tight. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I don’t know,” he says, voice rough. “Because I wanted to. Which meant I shouldn’t.” His eyes drop to the line of my collarbone where the blanket slips slightly. He lingers. Then back to my face, serious again. “I’ve always wanted to.”

The air thickens.

My mouth goes dry for a different reason.

“You’re staring,” I whisper.

“I know.”

Another beat. Then he pushes off the doorframe, takes two slow steps toward the bed.

“Can I sit?” he asks, quietly.

I nod.

He sinks onto the mattress beside me, still keeping a safe inch between us. But I can feel him: he’s all heat, pressure, unsaid things. And I wonder how long we’ll pretend it isn’t already happening.

Because he is sitting close now. Not touching, but near enough that the air between us is louder than words.

I sip the coffee again, buying time.

“So,” I say, eyes still on the mug, “you looked through my sketchbook.”

“I looked through all your sketchbooks,” he replies.

I glance up and he’s already watching me. Like he never really stopped. His voice is quiet when he adds, “That’s how I knew.”

“Knew what?”

“That you felt something too.”

I blink. “Daniel…”

“You never drew people the way you drew me,” he says. “Even back then, before you knew what you were doing with a pencil. You drew me like you were studying me. Memorizing me.”

My throat tightens.

“You know why I never said anything?” he asks. “Why I never did anything?”

I nod once. “Because of Mick.”

“Yes. And because I was scared.”

“Of what?”

“Of falling for someone who’d see right through me,” he says, gaze flicking between my eyes. “You’ve always seen through me. Even when I was smiling, even when I was pretending to have it all together.”

“And now?” I ask, breath shaky.

“Now?” He leans in slightly. “Now it’s worse.”

“Why?”

“Because I still want you. And I don’t know how to stop.”

The confession steals the oxygen from the room.

I don’t answer. I can’t. Instead, I put the mug down with a soft clink and I lean in. His lips meet mine like we’ve been doing this in dreams for years.

It starts slow. Careful. Like testing a memory. But the second I sigh into his mouth, everything shifts: his hand cups my jaw, thumb brushing my cheek. I crawl into his lap without thinking, without breathing. My nightshirt rides up, his hoodie bunches under my fingers. He kisses like he means it, like he’s drowning in it, like we’ve wasted too much time already.

“God, you’re…” he mutters between kisses, “everything I said I wouldn’t touch.”

“And you’re late,” I whisper against his neck, “years late.”

He groans low and needy, like he wants to argue, but can’t. His hands slide under my thighs, pulling me closer. His mouth moves down my jaw, then to my collarbone. My head falls back.

“You still want to sketch me?” he breathes.

I nod. “Only if I can make it indecent.”

He laughs against my skin.

I tug his hoodie over his head, fingers grazing warm muscle. He’s solid beneath it, much older, stronger, broader than he used to be. He pushes the thin strap of my nightshirt down my shoulder, leans in like he’s going to kiss every inch of skin I offer.

The front door opens.

Keys. The jingle. The very loud voice of Mick calling: “Yo! I’m grabbing leftover pizza—anyone home?”

We freeze. Daniel’s hands are on my hips. My lips are swollen. His shirt is gone. I’m straddling him in a sheer nightgown.

And panic slices through me.

I launch off his lap like I’ve touched fire, stumbling across the room and grabbing the edge of the blanket. I wrap it around myself just as Mick’s footsteps hit the hallway.

Daniel swears under his breath and scrambles for his hoodie.

The bedroom door’s still cracked open.

I sit on the edge of the bed, flushed, heart hammering.

He looks at me. We both start breathing again.

Too late.

(Last and 4th part here!)

[retireddaddyric]

RUINED CANVAS

(PAINTING PALETTE part II)

Synopsis: (part 2 of 4) Fem reader discovers a heartbreaking truth about Daniel and she grows cold. Reader’s brother starts suspecting, the breaking point hits.

Warnings: overhearing, cold behavior, rage, heartbreak, pain, pride.

Notes: this is all fiction. english is not my first language, there will be more parts, share thoughts and comments, even in private if you’re shy!

The second the front door clicks open, my heart drops.

Not metaphorically, like, I feel it. Like gravity just remembered it owed me something and came back to collect.

Daniel’s still tangled to me.

We’re still in my brother’s sheets.

And I can hear the keys hit the ceramic bowl by the door like this is just a regular night.

It isn’t.

“Shit,” I whisper, breath catching in my throat. “Daniel—get off—”

“I know, I know—fuck—” He get out of bed fast, too fast, and I almost whimper from the loss. He looks around wildly, grabs his boxers from the floor. “Where’s my—your sweater—god, where the fuck—”

I don’t answer. I’m already crawling out from under him, legs wobbling. I spot my underwear halfway across the room, curse under my breath, and settle for grabbing Mick’s hoodie from the chair instead. It swallows me whole.

We look at each other, half-dressed, breathless, like idiots caught doing something we never should’ve started.

Then we hear him.

“Dan man? That you?”

Of course it is.

Daniel’s the first out of the bedroom. He walks into the hallway trying to look casual, voice thick but calm. “Yeah, man. Just me.”

“Oh shit,” Mick calls from the kitchen. “Didn’t know you were still here. I thought you went out.”

I stand in the hallway like a ghost. Not sure if I should follow or disappear through the drywall. My thighs are still sticky. My heart’s still racing. I can smell Daniel on my skin.

“Didn’t end up going,” Daniel says. “Got a little sidetracked.”

He looks over at me briefly, just once, and I know exactly what he’s remembering.

I pull the hoodie tighter around my body and walk into the kitchen like I didn’t just have the best sex of my life with my brother’s best friend in my brother’s bed.

“Hey,” I say, voice tight.

Mick looks up from the fridge and frowns slightly. “Didn’t know you were here.”

“Yeah. I—uh. Crashed. Got in late.” I clear my throat. “Hope that’s okay.”

He shrugs. “Yeah, sure. We’ve got enough space.”

There’s a beat of silence. Daniel opens the cabinet too hard and pretends to be interested in the tea selection.

“Actually,” Mick says, “I was gonna grab ramen with Lisa tonight, but she bailed, so I’m just gonna crash here. You cool with that?”

Crash here.

He means his apartment.

With both of us.

At the same time.

“Totally,” I lie. “I’ve got some work to finish anyway.”

I feel Daniel’s eyes on me. I don’t look back.

It’s awkward. Of course it is.

We all sit on the couch, way too sober, with a random movie playing in the background that none of us are actually watching. Mick is halfway through some shitty noodle cup and Daniel is trying not to look like he wants to touch me again. I want him to. I want to pretend it’s just us again. But that window closed the moment the door opened.

The next morning, I’m alone in the kitchen when Mick walks in, rubbing sleep from his eyes, yawning like it’s any normal day. He grabs the coffee pot, pours, and leans on the counter next to me. “You and Daniel catch up last night?”

My hand tightens around the mug. “Yeah. A bit.”

“Haven’t seen him this chill in a while,” he says. “Kinda surprised he’s even around. Last time we talked, he said he was flying in to maybe meet up with Emilia.”

The name hits me like a slap. I blink. “Emilia?”

He nods, completely unaware of the way my chest cracks wide open. “His ex. They’ve been talking again, I think. Old flame or whatever.”

I nod slowly. Swallow. “Oh,” I say, like it means nothing.

Like I didn’t let him inside me just hours ago.

Like I didn’t think, even for a second, that this might’ve meant something more.

“Guess he’s still figuring things out,” Mick adds with a shrug. “You know how he is.”

I do. God, I do.

But what I don’t know, what I suddenly can’t breathe around, is why he touched me like that if someone else is still in his head.

If maybe I was just a warm body, a comfort, a one-night detour before the real thing he came for.

I stare into my coffee until it goes cold.

And for the first time in a long time, I wish I’d kept the door closed last night.

And so I out on my steel armor: the key is to act unbothered. Unbothered girls don’t flinch when they hear footsteps behind them.They don’t turn when deep voices say their name like it means something.

They definitely don’t think about the fact that he was supposed to meet someone else.

I sip my coffee and dip the brush in ochre.

“Morning,” I say, without looking up.

I know exactly how I look right now.

Long shirt, technically a nightgown, if anyone cares about labels. Sheer. Loose. Bare underneath.One strap falling off my shoulder like an accident I didn’t fix.

I don’t care if it’s obvious. I’m not playing subtle anymore. I’m painting in the living room, legs folded on the floor, tits barely covered, and acting like it’s a normal Tuesday.

Because pretending is easier than asking questions I don’t want answers to.

After a bit Daniel stands in the doorway.

I can feel it. That silence that weighs more than words.

Like he’s trying to decide if he should say something or just go back to bed.

“Didn’t think you were up,” he finally says.

I drag the brush across the canvas. Slow. Fluid. Not looking at him.

“Didn’t think you’d still be here.”

He doesn’t reply. Good.

The painting isn’t even that good.

But I make it look effortless. Colors bleeding into skin tones, curves implied, the sweep of a spine against sunlight.

It’s nothing, but it’s honest. Which is more than I can say for whatever the hell last night was.

He walks past me to the kitchen. Doesn’t touch me, doesn’t ask.

I keep painting. Mick comes in a few minutes later, shirtless and still drying his hair. He stops when he sees me, eyes flicking down. Then he glances at Daniel.

“Didn’t realize we were doing naked painting mornings now,” he says dryly.

I smile. “Just needed some light. The bedroom’s too dark.”

Mick narrows his eyes slightly.

Not angry, just… thoughtful, like he’s starting to see something he shouldn’t.

Daniel keeps his back to us, pretending to read the cereal box like it holds national secrets.

No one talks. No one breathes.

Later that afternoon, I hear them talking in the kitchen.

I’m not trying to eavesdrop, not really, but I catch it anyway.

A low voice. Daniel’s. “…not seeing her. I canceled.”

My breath hitches.

“You sure?” Mick asks, careful. “Thought you were flying in for that.”

“I thought so too. Changed my mind.”

A beat.

“She here?”

He doesn’t answer right away. I close my sketchbook before I hear the rest.

That night, Daniel knocks on my door. Quiet. Barely there. I don’t answer. I’m not ready to be looked at like that again, like I’m everything and nothing all at once. So I crawl under Mick’s hoodie, turn off the light, and pretend I’m asleep.

And let him wonder.

The apartment shrinks with each day that passes. We don’t talk about that night.

We don’t talk at all.

Daniel goes out most evenings now. Never says where. Never asks if I’m coming.

He leaves behind cologne and silence, and I pretend I don’t watch the door after it closes.

I paint in the living room when he’s gone. Nothing full. Just pieces. A curve of a shoulder. A hand without a body. A neck turned away.

I don’t name them. I don’t have to.

Sometimes I find him watching me, when he thinks I don’t see. His eyes linger on my brush strokes, on my bare thighs folded under oversized shirts, on the pink smudge of paint on my jaw. But he never says anything, never comes closer. Just tension. Like lightning that never strikes.

Mick notices, of course he does.

One morning he pushes a cup of coffee toward me without looking up from his phone and says, too casually:

“So… you and Daniel. Did something happen?”

I lift the mug. “What?”

He shrugs. “You’re weird. He’s weird. The air feels like a bad group chat no one wants to leave.”

I snort. “We just haven’t seen each other in years.”

“Yeah,” he says slowly. “But people don’t just get quiet like that unless they’re trying not to feel something.”

I take a long sip and change the subject.

I don’t know how to answer.

Or maybe I do, and I just don’t want to say it out loud.

By day four, the silence is unbearable.

By day six, I want to scream.

But I don’t.

Not yet.

I’ve started leaving my paintings around the apartment.

Not for show. Not for anyone.

It’s just… I don’t finish them lately.

They hang half-dry on chairs and windowsills, edges curling, shadows waiting for color that never comes.

There’s one leaning against the bookshelf: a close-up of someone’s jaw, the sweep of a beard I pretended wasn’t inspired by him.

Another one on the table: hands gripping fabric, knuckles white.

I think Daniel knows they’re about him.

I think Mick is starting to suspect it too.

It happens over something stupid.

Mick’s trying to cook. Daniel’s teasing him about the way he cuts onions. I’m rinsing brushes in the sink, already tense from the way Daniel looked at one of the drying canvases that morning, long, lingering, and unreadable.

“You know, not every brush in this place needs to be in the sink,” Daniel says suddenly, glancing over at me. “There’s, like… no water pressure left.”

I don’t look up. “Didn’t know you were the brush police now.”

Mick snorts. “Oh no. Please don’t start.”

“I’m just saying,” Daniel presses, a little too hard. “If you’re gonna paint half-naked in every room, maybe don’t leave turpentine in the damn coffee mugs.”

I freeze.

That lands wrong.

It lands like judgment. Like bitterness.

I turn to him, voice clipped. “Sorry. Didn’t realize the artist lifestyle offended your delicate sensibilities.”

Mick looks between us, eyes narrowing.

“It doesn’t offend me,” Daniel says, arms crossing. “It’s just… chaotic.”

“Oh, I’m sorry I’m not tidy enough for you. Or maybe you’d prefer if I cleaned up and kept quiet, like I used to.”

Daniel’s mouth tightens. “Don’t do that.”

“What, talk?” I spit. “Or remind you that you only care when no one else is watching?”

Mick stops stirring. The room goes dead quiet.

Daniel steps forward. Just slightly. But the tension pulls like wire between us.

“This isn’t about brushes,” Mick says slowly.

“No shit,” I mutter, turning back to the sink.

Daniel exhales sharply, jaw clenched. “You always do this—”

“Do what?” I snap. “Speak?”

“No, deflect. You act like you don’t care and then throw a fit when someone tries to say something real.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, is real what you were doing last night before your date with Emilia?”

Mick says my name. Quiet, warning. But I don’t stop.

“Or is this just your thing? You flirt, you fuck, and then you pretend it didn’t mean anything when someone else calls?”

Daniel’s face hardens. “I canceled that. You think I would’ve.. after you—”

“After me what?” I challenge. “Tell me, Daniel. What am I to you?”

Mick drops the spoon in the pot with a loud clang. “Okay,” he mutters. “That’s enough.”

But neither of us look at him. Daniel’s eyes are burning into me, and for once, I don’t look away. Daniel looks at me, jaw tight, mouth open like he wants to say something, but doesn’t. Or can’t. And that’s worse.

That silence. That hesitation.

That’s the answer I didn’t want.

I feel the rage before I feel the hurt.

It starts in my chest, then floods my limbs, hot and wild and impossible to cage.

I look around the apartment and all I can see is him.

His stubble in a half-drawn profile.

His fingers, painted in shadow and blue oil.

His mouth, unfinished on a canvas that never dried.

They’re all him. Every last one of them.

I grab the closest one, the one with his hands tangled in sheets, and slam it face-down on the floor. The frame cracks.

Daniel flinches. “Don’t—”

But I’m already reaching for another. A half-finished portrait of just his back, shoulders bare, light hitting the curve of his spine like I memorized it. Rip. Paint splits like skin.

Mick steps forward. “Hey—hey. What are you—”

But I’m not listening. I can’t. I grab one off the windowsill, toss it into the sink, smear it with my palm, water and turpentine ruining every careful stroke.

The one with his lips — I punch straight through the middle of the canvas.

The one with his eyes — I don’t even look at.

I tear them. I gut them.

If I could burn them with my bare hands, I would.

Because they were stupid.

Because I was stupid.

Because loving him, seeing him, putting him into every line — it didn’t make him stay.

It never would.

When it’s done, I’m breathing like I ran a marathon. My hands are covered in paint. My face is wet — I don’t remember crying.

Daniel is frozen in place. Eyes wide. Pain everywhere on his face.

Mick doesn’t say a word. Just looks between us like something finally clicked.

I walk to the door, pull it open.

“I’m done,” I say, voice hollow. “Don’t follow me.”

And I leave.

(Part three here)

[retireddaddyric]

PAINTING PALETTE

Synopsis: Years after you last saw him, fate throws you and Daniel back into your brother’s apartment in New York. He’s no longer the golden boy of the paddock, and you’re no longer just Mick’s shy little sister.

Warnings: THE BEARD, 18+ minors DNI, brother’s best friend dynamic, smut, longing, unprotected, emotional tension, age gap, daniel hasn’t got laid in a while.

Notes: THERE WILL BE 4 PARTS. This is all fiction, written by a non native english speaker so sorry for eventual errors. Yeah, I was inspired from latest pics.

I never meant to end up in New York.

I was supposed to do a semester here, maybe two, take some classes, drink overpriced coffee, sketch strangers on the subway. But somehow, one month bled into another, and now I’m a year in, halfway through a grad program I didn’t tell most of my family about until I was already enrolled.

Mick included.

It’s not that he wouldn’t be supportive, he would. He always has. But being Mick’s sister means people have opinions about what you’re supposed to do because he’s a famous bike rider. And especially he is best friend with Daniel f**king Ricciardo.

And me? I was the quiet one. The “artsy” one. The kid sister with the oversized sketchbooks and the oversized sweaters. A footnote at the edge of every summer barbecue or garage meet-up, lingering on the outskirts while the world watched them win.

I wasn’t supposed to matter.

But he noticed me anyway.

Daniel.

I think I was fifteen the first time I realized I liked the way he laughed.

Eighteen the first time I realized he looked at me a little too long.

And twenty when I decided it could never happen. Because he was Daniel. And I was Mick’s little sister. And he had the whole world ahead of him, while I was too scared to even apply to art school.

So I stayed quiet, watched him come and go. Read the headlines. Watched the way he looked at everyone but me.

And now, years later, I’m back in Mick’s apartment with a borrowed key and a bag full of sketchbooks and absolutely no plans to run into anyone from the past. Especially not the man I spent half my life trying not to fall in love with.

But fate, apparently, doesn’t give a shit about timing.

I wasn’t expecting him, I wasn’t expecting anyone, to be honest, just the comfort of Mick’s stupidly large couch, a leftover bottle of wine from God knows when, and maybe a slice of pizza if he hadn’t eaten the last one.

Instead, I open the door and walk straight into someone I don’t recognize. At least, not at first.

He’s taller than I remember. Beard thick, curlier. Chest firm as a rock. Shirt a little too tight on the arms. And those eyes, dark and impossibly familiar, rake over me like I’m a memory he forgot he missed.

“Sorry..uh, this is Mick’s place, right?” I ask, stopping in the middle of the hallway, half-expecting him to say he’s some new roommate or Tinder mistake.

He blinks once. Then he smiles.

No, grins. That grin.

It hits me like summer in Australia.

Daniel.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I mutter, heat creeping up my neck.

“You’re Mick’s sister?” he says, voice slow and disbelieving, his accent even thicker than I remember. “No f*ing way, painting palette!?”

I blush hard. “Nobody calls me that now.”

We stare at each other for a beat too long. Long enough for my eyes to fall to his mouth. Long enough for his to trace the curve of my hips like they’re not supposed to.

I turn first. Drop my bag on the kitchen island like it’s suddenly too heavy.

“I thought you lived in Monaco or… some tropical beach with a dog and a beer in each hand.”

He shrugs, stepping in, that easy swagger still annoyingly charming. “Needed a break. Mick said I could crash here for a while.. and I don’t like dogs.”

It’s awkward in a way that feels almost dangerous. Familiar, yet stretched tight with everything unsaid.

He’s still Daniel. Still reckless and magnetic. Still the guy who taught me how to ride a bike at thirteen and promised not to tell Mick when I fell and cried. Still the one I crushed on for years and avoided like the plague the moment I figured out he might’ve crushed back.

Because it was safer that way, because he was always leaving to kart in Europe. And I was always scared of staying behind.

“You’ve changed,” he says eventually, settling into the couch beside me like he owns it. Like he owns the air between us, too.

“So have you,” I reply, eyes flicking to the shadow of his jawline. “Beard suits you.”

“You say that like you were checking me out.”

I snort. “Please. Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Too late,” he says with a wink, and it’s so effortlessly him I feel my stomach clench. Not just with nerves, but want.

Damn it

It’s hours before either of us moves. We talk. Joke. Drink the wine. Avoid the subject of Mick like it’s sacred.

He tells me he’s happy. That retirement’s weird but freeing. I tell him I’m in grad school, studying art, finally doing something just for myself.

He looks at me like I’m a masterpiece.

Somewhere around midnight, he stands behind me while I stare out the window, New York glittering below like a painting I haven’t figured out how to finish. I feel the warmth of him before I feel his breath.

“You know,” he says softly, “I always wondered what would’ve happened if I kissed you back then.”

I don’t breathe, I think I’m dreaming the words.

“I was scared,” I admit. “Of what it might mean. Of you leaving. Of me… not being enough.”

He steps closer. I feel him, every inch of him, without him touching me.

The tension is unbearable. And we don’t kiss. Not yet.

He just lingers. His hand brushing mine. His mouth close enough I can taste the wine on his breath. The pull between us like gravity, slow and inescapable. His knuckles graze mine even if just barely. And still, it feels like too much to me.

I don’t look at him. I can’t. The second I do, I know what’s going to happen.

But the silence is louder than anything, and I feel the air shift. “I should go,” I whisper, voice a little trembling.

“Yeah.”

He doesn’t move.

I finally look up and I see it: that same look from years ago, only rawer. Less boyish, more man.More need.

His voice drops, rough around the edges. “You were always off-limits.”

“I’m not anymore.”

Maybe it’s the wine, maybe because Mick’s not here.

That’s when he takes the step. Just one.

Close enough that my back brushes the windowpane. My heart pounds so loud I wonder if he can hear it.

He lifts a hand slowly, almost unsure and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. The gesture is soft. Reverent. His fingers linger at my jaw. I close my eyes and throw my head back a little.

“Can I touch you?” he asks, low, like he’s asking for something sacred.

I open my eyes and nod.

His lips are on me in a second.

It’s not rushed, not yet in the beginning.

It’s the kind of kiss that asks questions, that learns every new angle of me like it’s a map he hasn’t read in years. Like he’s trying to relearn every part of me.

His hands stay at my waist at first, careful, maybe too careful for my liking.

Until I grab his shirt and pull him closer because I need to, and that’s when it shifts.

That’s when the kiss deepens, turns hungry.

His tongue parts my lips and I feel it: the restraint breaking. The way he groans low in his throat when I suck gently on his bottom lip: it’s pure, unfiltered need. The kind that comes from imagining something too long, too often, and never touching it.

I can feel how hard he is against me already. And it hits me: maybe he’s been waiting, too.

Clothes come off like they’re in the way, but not ripped. They get peeled, explored.

His hands glide under my sweater, slow, palms warm as they rise over my ribs, and when he sees me in nothing but lace, he stops. Like, actually stops.

“Fuckk,” he breathes. “Look at you.”

I’ve never felt more bare.

Not because I’m undressed but because of the way he’s looking at me, like I’m his undoing.

We make it to the bedroom half-dressed and out of breath. He lays me back like he’s been dreaming of it, big hands splayed across my thighs like he’s grounding himself.

When he pulls my underwear down, he kisses the inside of my leg first. Then the other. Slow, hot, and deliberate. His beard scrapes just enough to make me shiver.

“You’re shaking,” he murmurs, voice thick. “You cold?”

I shake my head. “No.”

He grins. “Good.”

Because he’s not planning to go slow anymore.

He tastes me like he’s starved, likre he hasn’t had sex in weeks, maybe longer. Every lick is deep, deliberate, slow at first and then relentless.

I arch under him, grip his curls, grind helplessly against his face and he just moans into me, like it turns him on more than anything that I’m falling apart for him. His beard is thick, I can feel it brush against my core.

When I finally come gasping his name, thighs trembling, he looks up, mouth glistening, pupils blown wide.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this.” He says thickly.

He pushes me gently to the middle of the bed, but the moment his body covers mine, skin to skin,everything changes. The tension that had built over years collapses into now.

I feel the weight of him. The hard length of him pressing at my entrance. And when he sinks in, slowly, inch by inch, I lose my breath.

He fills me like he was made for it. Like he belongs there. Like I’ve been waiting for this and him and us, longer than I ever admitted.

Daniel presses his forehead to mine.

“You okay?”

“Yes,” I whisper. “Please,move.”

And he does, starting slow again. Rocking, steady, deep. His thrusts smooth and intimate, like he wants to feel every part of me, memorize how I sound when I moan under him.

But that slow build doesn’t last long. It can’t.

Not with how he groans my name.

Not with the way he grips my hips tighter.

Not with how his pace starts to snap, deeper, rougher. Like he’s losing control. Like the years we lost don’t matter anymore, only now does.

“God, you feel so good,” he gasps, mouth hot at my neck. “You’re so f*ing perfect.”

I whimper under him, nails dragging down his back. “Don’t stop.”

He doesn’t.

He fucks me like it’s the only thing keeping him alive. Like this is the one thing he knows he wants, needs, has to have. His body pounds into mine, rhythm desperate now, hot and messy and real.

It’s not just sex.

It’s years.

Years of wanting. Of waiting. Of wondering.

We come almost at the same time, his hand on my clit, my body pulsing around him and he buries his face in my neck, groaning like he’s breaking apart.

Later, we’re tangled in Mick’s sheets. (He’s going to kill us.) Daniel’s fingers are softly caressing my under boobs. Bare chest pressed against my side, skin warm.

“Was it worth the wait?” I ask softly.

He looks at me. Really looks. And smiles. “God, yes.”

And, fuck, we hear the front door open.

(Part 2 of 4 here))

[retireddaddyric]

Okay I am one of those who appreciate THE beard, here, said it, guilty.

And yes, I am writing about it.

[retireddaddyric]

Secretly Dating

(Requested)

Synopsis: Daniel and (reader) are in a still hidden but established relationship. She’s a streamer and during a live she tells her public who her favorite driver is. And then he comes back to.. celebrate.

Warnings: (REQUESTED) 18+ smut, secret relationship, teasing, age gap (reader is mid-20s, Daniel is mid-30s), dom!Daniel vibes, mild degradation (playful), praise kink, fingering, explicit language, aftercare.

Note: this is all fiction. English is not my first language, so I apologize in advance if there are any errors.

I lean back in my gaming chair, stretching my arms over my head with a lazy grin. I cross my bare legs underneath the desk, skin so smooth after yesterday’s waxing session.

The stream’s been live for almost three hours, and the chat’s still flying questions, the usual chaos.

“Okay, okay, last question before I log off,” I laugh, scrolling through the messages. One in particular catches my eye: “You’ve mentioned how much you love F1, who’s your favorite driver?”

A slow smile curls at my lips. I know they don’t know. Not a single soul watching has any idea that while I’m here in a hoodie answering silly chat questions, Daniel Ricciardo might walk through the front door any second. And that this hoodie is his.

I tilt my head, playing it up just a little.

“Oh, that’s easy,” I say sweetly, glancing at the camera. “I really like Daniel Ricciardo. He’s really good. And very handsome too, I’ll say it!”

The chat explodes.

“OMG SAME.”

“DANNY RIC HOT AF.”

“You got taste, girl 👀”

And then another one that makes me laugh: “Girl he’s so old for you, don’t you have daddy issues?”

I laugh but I don’t read it out loud. I just say “Oh come on he’s in his thirties I think, shouldn’t be baaad!”

I grin, bite back the urge to smirk too hard, and end stream with a cheeky wave.

Later, I’m curled up on the couch, scrolling through clips on my phone when the front door opens. I’m still in his hoodie, wearing nothing underneath.

“Baby?” Daniel’s voice is casual, too casual.

I glance over my shoulder. He’s leaning against the doorway, still in jeans and that faded black tee that clings just right to his arms. His hair’s a bit messy. Smirking.

Shit, he definitely heard it.

“You looked good on stream today,” he drawls, strolling in like he owns the place (he kinda does). “That little shoutout to your ‘favorite driver’… very subtle.”

I feel my cheeks heat up. “Oh, that? I was just being honest.”

He steps in front of me, thumb brushing under my chin to tilt my head back so I’m looking up at him. That cocky smile doesn’t waver.

“Very honest, huh?” His voice drops. “Calling me handsome in front of ten thousand people like you don’t moan my name every night?”

“Daniel—” I laugh, but it catches in my throat when he leans in close.

“Tell them how ‘old’ this body is.” He smirks. I laugh but my stomach twists and butterfiels hit everywhere.

“Say it again.” He whispers, his grip at my jaw a little firmer.

“What?”

“Say what you said on stream.” His hand slides into my hair, tugging gently. “C’mon. Just for me this time.”

I swallow hard. “I said… I really like Daniel Ricciardo. He’s really good… and very handsome too.”

He groans low in his throat, lips brushing my ear. “You’ve got no idea what that did to me.”

Suddenly, he’s pulling me to my feet, mouth crashing against mine as he walks me backwards until I’m pressed against the wall. His hands are gripping my waist, sliding under my shirt, pushing it up until it’s gone.

My pulse stutters. He’s never just “a little turned on.” Not when it comes to me. He’s either in control… or devouring.And right now? His eyes are dark.

“What are you gonna do about it?” I ask, my voice breathless.

That’s all it takes. His mouth is on mine in the next second, all tongue and teeth and need. His hands push under the hoodie, fingers finding bare skin, his favorite discovery. He growls.

“You really didn’t wear anything under this?”

I shake my head, smiling against his lips. “Wasn’t planning to.”

“Live on stream?”

“I wasn’t going to stand up!”

“Fuck me.” He grips my hips, lifts me like I weigh nothing, and carries me straight to the kitchen counter. My thighs spread on instinct as he stands between them, hands traveling everywhere: my ass, my waist, the inside of my thigh.

And then “Oh, baby,” he breathes. “You’re soaked.”

His fingers slide between my folds, slow and sure, middle and ring finger stroking up and down before he sinks one inside. I gasp, clutching his biceps as he begins to pump.

“You get this wet talking about me on stream?” he whispers. “Or was this for the idea of me punishing you later?”

“Both,” I admit, moaning when he adds a second finger. He curls them just right, dragging along my walls.

“You’re such a good girl f’me,” he growls. “And such a lil’ tease.”

His thumb finds my clit, circling lazily while his fingers fuck deeper, faster. I arch, mouth falling open. “Danny—fuck—”

“Yeah.. louder baby. Let the neighbors know who your favorite driver really is.”

My whole body clenches. That rough edge in his voice always does it for me. I grind into his hand, hips bucking against his palm.

“There you go,” he praises. “That’s it. Make a mess for me, baby.” He says slapping my clit and pushing back his fingers inside.

It hits hard, sudden and hot. I cry out, gripping his arms, thighs trembling as I come all over his fingers. He keeps going through it, coaxing every last wave out of me.

Before I can even catch my breath, he pulls back, licks his fingers clean with a groan. “You taste like you missed me,” he smiles. “Get on the floor.”

My knees hit tile as I sink in front of him, hands reaching for his belt. He lets me fumble with the buckle, pop the button, drag his jeans and boxers down just enough to free his cock already thick and hard, leaking at the tip.

I stroke him once, twice, and then take him into my mouth slowly, eyes on his the whole time.

“Fuck, that mouth,” he groans, hand tangling in my hair. “Look at my girl..”

I bob my head, take him deeper, tongue swirling along the underside. He twitches on my tongue, moaning as his hips stutter forward.

I gag a bit and he smiles proudly.

“I’d give anything to let them hear how you like this ‘old’ dick.”

He hits my throat a couple more times.

“Shit..” he says breathlessly. Then shakes his head “..gonna fuck that pretty little pussy now,” he says, pulling me off with a wet pop. “C’mere.”

He lifts me again, like I weight nothing, and lays me flat on the kitchen counter. He pulls the hoodie up to my ribs. His cock slides through my folds, teasing, smearing us both with slick.

“Still wet for me?” he murmurs.

“Always,” I pant.

He pushes in with one smooth, perfect thrust. We both moan.

The stretch is deep. Delicious. Familiar in the best way.

“Sh, sh.” He says softly making circular massages on my hips with his thumbs.

He starts to move, slow at first, deep and steady, each thrust punctuated with a soft grunt, his hands gripping my hips tight. He’s always so caring with me, like he could break me. At least in the beginning.

“You think they’d still call me their favorite,” he pants, “if they saw how I fuck you like this?”

I whimper, back arching. “Fuck, Danny—”

“Bet you want them to know. Bet you’d love to be bent over your gaming chair with the mic still hot.”

I cry out, nails digging into his shoulders.

“Say my name,” he growls, fucking me harder now, relentless. “Louder.”

“Daniel—fuck—Danny—please—”

His thumb finds my clit again and rubs just right. I’m clenching around him, right on the edge again. He uses his other hand to spread my thigh more.

“Come for me,” he demands. “That’s it, baby. Show me who owns this pussy.”

The orgasm rips through me like fire. My whole body tenses and breaks, crying out his name again and again as he fucks me through it.

A few more thrusts and he’s coming too, with a deep groan into my neck. Hot and thick, filling me up as he presses deep and stills. We stay like that for a moment. Just breathing. His forehead rests against mine. One hand strokes my hair back.

“You really are too damn much,” he murmurs. “Say shit like that on stream and then wear nothing under my hoodie?”

I grin, smug and wrecked. “Worked, didn’t it?”

He kisses me again, slower this time. Sweeter.

“Next time,” he murmurs, “I’m putting a mic on you.”

We both laugh.

[retireddaddyric]

The last article about him

(“You’re nobody” part VII)

Synopsis: part 7 (which is the last). The ‘hater’ journalist with whom Daniel had an affair texts him again after listening him talk about her in his interview. And a new article drops.

Warnings: 18+, minors do not interact please. Sweet love making, funny insults, fluff, Daniel Ricciardo memories (this is a real warning.)

Note: this is all fiction. English is not my first language, so I apologize in advance if there are any errors. This is the end of them.

It’s been three weeks, not that you’ve counted.

Not that you’ve checked his profile at night with your screen dimmed low.

Not that your heart still clenches every time you pass something Red Bull blue.

You’ve written four pieces since but none about him: execpt every single one was about him in its own silence.

And today, like a slow knife between the ribs, you hear his name again.

You’re in your apartment, half-listening to an F1 post-race interview on the TV until you hear it, not his name, yours. From someone else’s mouth.

“I mean, you’ve seen the way she used to write about you. Ruthless. Some would say downright unfair.”

Your stomach knots.

You know exactly what they’re doing: They’re talking to him about you on live broadcast.

And you should shut it off, you know for your mental health you really should.

But you don’t.

You freeze halfway to the kitchen, a coffee gone cold in your hand.

When he speaks, he is calm and collected.

“Yeah, she was hard on me,” he says. “But she was usually right.”

Silence from the host.

“I deserved most of it,” he continues. “Back then, I was cocky. Reckless. She didn’t let me off easy, and I respect that. Honestly, we need more people like her in the sport. She tells the truth, even when it makes people uncomfortable.”

The host clears his throat, trying to keep the tone light. “You don’t think she had some… personal agenda?”

A pause.

You hold your breath.

“She saw me clearer than I saw myself,” he says.

Your coffee slips from your hand, hits the floor. You don’t even flinch because he’s still talking. “And when she called me out, it pushed me. She made me better. You can say what you want about her tone or her words but her mind is sharp, and she doesn’t flinch. That’s rare.”

There’s a stunned silence on the panel. You imagine the blinking faces, the cameras the awkward host trying to pivot.

You don’t hear the rest because you don’t need to.

You sink to the floor.

Because he defended you. Not just tolerated you. Not just brushed off the question. But defended you. Softly. Firmly. Like you mattered.

Like he wasn’t ashamed anymore.

And suddenly the last night you saw him, that kiss, those trembling hands, the way he said your name like it hurt, rushes back so hard your lungs twist.

You sit there, heart hammering against your ribs, lips parted, staring at nothing.

You don’t cry but something inside you shifts.

Because you get how you had it all wrong.

You thought he left because he didn’t want more.

Bu maybe, just maybe, he was afraid of how much he did.

You grab your phone and start typing a text into his chat.

You don’t send it immediately. You draft it,delete it, draft it again.

Just a few words, that’s all, just something simple, distant, neutral.

You don’t want him to think too much.

You don’t want to think too much.

But it’s been hours since the interview aired, and the words he said, the way he said them.. still echo in your head.

“She saw me clearer than I saw myself.”

It was too soft. Too real.

So finally, in the dark of your living room, you tap the screen. Fingers still trembling, goddamn it.

[You]

Thanks for what you said today I didn’t expect it

You stare at it.

Then add, after a breath:

[You]

it meant something

Then you send it.

No emoji. No punctuation. No armor.

Just that.

You lock your phone and toss it onto the couch like it might burn your hand.

Then, five minutes later, it buzzes.

You don’t check it immediately but you feel the weight of the message like it’s sitting beside you.

When you finally open it, his reply is short. Direct. It doesn’t play games.

[Daniel]

can we talk?

about us.

Your stomach twists.

You blink at the screen.

Then another text follows.

[Daniel]

not sex

not pretending

just us. for real this time.

You stare at the words so long the screen dims.

And this time, for once, you don’t run.

You pick a quiet place, you both pretend it’s casual : it’s tucked-away café with tiny tables and too much ivy, somewhere in the hills, far from the center of the city.

Still, a camera finds you, you catch the glint of a lens just before sitting down. He notices too but neither of you mention it.

He’s already there when you arrive. Simple shirt, sleeves pushed up, backwards cap, sunglasses discarded uselessly on the table like he forgot who he is. He stands when you approach.

You raise a brow. “You’ve got manners now?”

He smiles, slow and tired. “Trying to impress the critic.”

You both sit but you don’t touch. Your knees brush under the table and neither of you pull away.

You talk about nothing at first: the weather, the ridiculous new team principal drama, who’s actually going to take the seat next year.

You sip your drink like it’s a shield while he pretends not to watch your mouth when you do.

It’s not enough.

He leans in after a beat and his voice lowers. “I meant what I said. On the interview.”

You nod. “I know.”

Silence lingers. He fidgets with the edge of his glass.

Then you say the thing that’s been bruising your throat for weeks.

“I didn’t mean half the shit I wrote.”

His head lifts.

You force yourself to keep looking at him. “I mean… I wrote it. But it wasn’t really about you. Not all of it. Not the important stuff.”

He stays quiet, eyes locked on yours, like he knows you’re not done.

You exhale.

“You weren’t just a mask. You were—are—good. Even when I hated you, I knew that.” You pause. “I just didn’t want you to be that good.” Your voice trembles slightly when you add “Because then I’d have to believe in you.”

His expression shifts, there is no smugness, no victory. Just a kind of aching relief.

He reaches across the table and takes your hand. No games this time.

You let him.

And that’s when the photographer clicks again and you both glance toward the distamt flash. He squeezes your fingers once and doesn’t let go.

“Let them take the picture,” he says quietly. “Let them know.”

Your breath catches.

And that’s how you know you’re fucked.

You leave the café together. No ducking, no hiding. His hand in yours, openly, as you walk to his car. He opens the passenger door like a gentleman, and you roll your eyes like you’re not melting.

The ride to his place is silent, but not awkward. Just heavy with something tender.

The front door closes with a soft click. You both stand there for a moment still, breathing the same air.

He looks at you like he’s searching for the part of you he’s missed every single day since you left.

Your fingers reach for his. You slide them between his knuckles without a word.

And when you look up at him, your voice is barely a whisper.

“Don’t go slow unless you mean it.”

His jaw tenses, but his thumb grazes yours.

“I mean every second of this.”

The moment he kisses you, it’s not hurried. It’s not desperate.

It’s deliberate.

His lips part over yours slowly, like he’s learning you again, or maybe memorizing you for the first time. You melt into it, hands in his hair, breath shallow. The taste of him makes your knees weak.

He walks you backward to his bedroom, lips never leaving yours, only pausing to look at you. Just look.

“You’re real,” he murmurs. “You’re here.”

The way he undresses you feels almost reverent. He peels your clothes off piece by piece, eyes never straying from your face.

When your shirt drops to the floor, he exhales like it’s a relief to see you bare again.

“God, I missed you.”

His hands skim your waist, palms splayed wide.

“Tell me you missed me too.”

You nod, your voice caught in your throat. “Every night.”

He lets out a sigh and closes his eyes.

He kisses your shoulder. Your collarbone. The space between your breasts.

When his mouth brushes your ribs, you gasp softly and he murmurs something you almost don’t catch:

“I dreamed of this. Of you.”

You reach for him, your fingers trembling as you take his cap off, undo his shirt, push it off his shoulders, run your palms across the solid warmth of his chest. He shivers.

When you’re both bare, he doesn’t touch you at first. He just looks at you. Long. Deep. Like he’s memorizing every inch.

Then he leans in and whispers against your collarbone, “You’re even more beautiful when you let yourself be soft.”

That’s when you close your eyes. Because his words hit deeper than any thrust ever could.

He picks you up and lays you gently on the bed setting himself between your legs.

His hands glide over your hips. Your thighs. He kisses down your sternum, your ribs, your stomach everywhere but where you’re desperate for him. Not because he wants to tease but because he wants all of you.

When he finally comes back up and lines himself against you, he pauses, nose brushing yours, foreheads almost touching.

“Are you sure?” he asks.

You nod. Breathless. “I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

And when he pushes inside you, slow and deep, your breath hitches and your whole body arches to meet him.

It’s different this time. No rough grabs. No slamming hips. No trying to break each other open.

Just him fitting into you like he belongs there, like he’s always belonged there.

He moves slowly. Steady. Every roll of his hips is a promise. Every moan against your throat is a confession.

You wrap your arms around his shoulders, pull him closer, until there’s no space left between your bodies, until you feel every tremble in him like it’s your own.

Your legs wrap around his waist and your fingers lace with his tight, grounding, real. Neither of you lets go this time. He pushes them slowly above your head, your hands in his hands on the pillow.

He looks at you while he’s inside you. Eyes open, locked to yours.

And you look back.

Neither of you blink.

It’s not about power anymore, or control.

It’s about finally having what you both wanted all along.

LI don’t want anyone else to touch you like this,” he breathes.

Your chest cracks open. “They won’t.”

He thrusts deeper, slower, and you cry out his name into the crook of his neck. He whispers yours like it’s a vow.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he says.

You don’t realize you’re crying until he kisses your cheek and tastes the salt. He doesn’t ask. He just keeps moving inside you, holding you like he’ll never let go.

And when you come, it’s quiet not a scream, not a gasp, but a soft, trembling exhale as you cling to him, fingers curling, thighs trembling, overwhelmed with how full you feel, not just your body, but your heart.

He follows seconds later, groaning against your shoulder, pressing so deep you swear you feel him in your chest. His body shudders and stills, and you hold him through it, whispering it’s okay, I’ve got you, even though he was the one holding you first.

After, he stays on top of you, just resting there. Skin to skin. Heart to heart.

And then he lifts his head, eyes glassy, lips parted.

You kiss him again. Soft. Sweet. Slow.

Neither of you says it.

But you both know.

You’re not pretending anymore.

You’re in love.

And this time, you’re going to stay.

Half an hour later, quietly, into the soft dark of his room he says: “So… are we a scandal now?”

You smile against his skin. “No,” you whisper. “We’re a headline.”

He laughs , soft and full, and you close your eyes, fingers still entwined, heart wide open.

This time, you know what to do next.

And you do it.

Your article about him goes live three days later.

——————————————-

The man behind the laps

by (Y/N)

For most of my career, I’ve written about speed.

About mistakes. About pressure and glory and the millions of eyes watching from behind the safety of a screen. I’ve written about men who win and men who crumble. I’ve written about egos. Masks. The illusions we all wear when the world demands performance.

And for years, one of my most consistent subjects was a man I thought I understood completely.

Fast. Flamboyant. Frustratingly charming. Always a smile, always a joke, always something maddeningly unserious behind the wheel.

I’ll admit this now: I thought that smile was armor.

I thought he was all show and no depth.

And I wrote like that.

Again and again.

But the thing about hindsight, the thing about actually knowing someone, is that it humbles you.

Daniel Ricciardo (yes, I’m naming him now) is not a mask.

He never was.

He is grit under pressure. He is grace in failure. He is the teammate everyone wanted beside them in war, the last-lap miracle-maker, the one who reminded the sport — and all of us — that joy is not weakness.

He made people believe again. Not just in racing. But in him. In what it looks like to lose with your chin up, and win with your arms wide open.

He didn’t leave the sport bitter. He left it better.

And while his time on the grid has passed, his presence hasn’t.

Not for the fans.

Not for the people who worked alongside him.

And not for those of us who now know him… differently.

I could list every podium. Every impossible overtake. Every champagne-fueled shoey.

But what I remember most clearly is a quiet moment: him watching a junior driver’s interview, nodding with pride, eyes soft.

That’s the man who ran lap after lap with the weight of public opinion on his back, and never let it make him cruel.

That’s the man we underestimated.

That’s the man I’ll be standing beside, wherever the road takes him next.

Because behind every driver’s helmet is a person.

And behind his, there was someone worth seeing clearly.

I only wish I had seen it sooner.

——————————————————

Daniel is halfway through his second coffee when he sees his name. Bold at the top of the page.

And right beneath it: your name.

He freezes, cup at his lips. It always hurt knowing you were about to hit him with words.

The morning sun filters in through the kitchen window. you’re still in his bed, hair a mess, your legs tangled in his sheets like you own the place now which, let’s be honest, you do.

He scrolla slowly.

At first he thinks it’s a trap. Another one of your sharp essays dressed in elegance.

But then—

“He didn’t leave the sport bitter. He left it better.”

His throat goes tight and reads it twice. Then three times.

By the time you wander in yawning, wearing his t-shirt and absolutely zero shame he’s read the whole thing.

You sees the screen in his hand and stop in your tracks. “Oh,” you say, blinking. “You read that.”

He arches a brow. “I did.”

You fold your arms, pretending to brace for a punch. “Well?”

He sets the phone down slowly, deliberately, like it’s sacred.

Then he lean back in your chair and say, deadpan:

“Bit sentimental for someone who used to call me an overrated clown.”

You smirk. “You were an overrated clown.”

“Ah. So we’re doing this.”

“Just because I love you now doesn’t mean you weren’t unbearable.”

His heart skips.

You freeze.

You both look at each other.

Silence.

He stands, slow, crossing to where you’re standing barefoot in his kitchen like you’re not shaking a little.

He stops in front of you and rests his hands on your hips. “Say it again.”

You look up at him, breath caught. “What?”

He lowers his voice: “The part where you said you love me.”

You try to play it off with a scoff. “I don’t remember saying that.”

He smirks. “Well, I heard it. And I’ve got an article now to back it up.”

You narrow your eyes. “Don’t make this worse.”

He leans in, whispering against your lips, “Make what worse?”

And just before you can threaten to knee you, he kisses you. Soft. Certain. The kind of kiss that anchors.

He pulls back barely an inch, breathing you in.

“I love you too,” he murmurs. “Even when you write mean things. Even when you steal my shirts. Even when you act like you don’t.”

You melt. Literally melt.

And then, just because you can’t help yourself, you mumble into your chest: "You’re still a clown.”

He laughs. And you can see it written on his forehead ‘God, you love this woman.’

He wraps his arms around you tighter, lifting you just enough for you to squeal.

“Yeah,” he says, kissing your neck, grinning, “but I’m your clown now.”

And for once, you don’t argue.

The End

(For all those who got here, I love you all, thanks for the love for these two, I will miss them! Feel free to reach out in the comments or in private! Muah!)

[retireddaddyric]

The beginning of the end

(“You’re nobody” Part VI)

Synopsis: part 6. The ‘hater’ journalist with whom Daniel has an affair texts him again. They end up having almost a date and that.. ruins it all.

Warnings: 18+, minors do not interact please. Toxic behavior, smut, sex without protection, fluff, oral sex, fights, heartbreak.

Note: this is all fiction. English is not my first language, so I apologize in advance if there are any errors. Don’t know if I will stop this lol.

Your phone vibrates on the table. You hesitate, thumb hovering over his name.

Maybe you shouldn’t. But the ache in your chest wins.

You press “call.”

Seconds later, his voice: it’s calm, steady, casual. “Hey.”

You hear him breathe. Long, slow. You imagine him leaning back, hands behind his head, trying to play it cool.

“Hey,” you say, voice tighter than you want.

There’s a pause.

“I was starting to think you weren’t gonna call,” he says, voice low. “Thought you were pretending to be better.”

You swallow, “I wasn’t.”

“Good.” There’s something beneath the words..hunger, desperation, something almost like relief.

“I want to see you.” You whisper.

His laugh is soft, like he’s been waiting to hear that all day. “Yeah? I’m guessing this isn’t about a friendly chat.”

“Definitely not.” You chuckle quietly.

“Okay. Come over.”

You hang up before he can say more, heart pounding.

You don’t even knock. You just open his door like you’ve done it a hundred times before. You’re not sure what you expect, but the moment you step in, he’s already there standing shirtless by the kitchen counter, holding a glass of water, like he was waiting.

“Two minutes early,” he says, setting the glass down. “You really must’ve needed it.”

You drop your bag by the door, without a smile. No words.

He crosses the space in three strides and slams your back against the wall. His mouth finds yours in a brutal kiss. No greeting, no teasing, just teeth, tongue, hunger.

“Fuck,” he breathes against your lips, “you taste stressed.”

You yank his sweats down. He’s wearing mo boxers and he’s already hard. Big. Pulsing. Like he’s been like this since your name lit up his phone.

Your fingers wrap around him and he groans into your mouth. “You came here to use me again?”

“Yes.” You breathe on his mouth while you stroke him slowly. “Unless you’ve gone soft.”

His mouth splits into a wicked grin. “Not a chance.”

He spins you, hands gripping your hips, dragging your jeans and panties down in one hard pull. You step out of them, chest heaving, already soaking.

“Look at this pussy,” he mutters, running a finger through your wetness. “You’re dripping. You’ve been thinking about me all day, haven’t you?”

“Shut up and fuck me.”

“Oh, baby,” he laughs darkly, lining up behind you, “you don’t get to make demands when you’re this fucking needy.

He slides in slow, thick and hot and stretching you until you’re gasping, forehead pressed to the wall.

“Oh my—Daniel—”

“That’s right,” he growls in your ear, slamming into you harder, deeper. “Say it.”

“Daniel.” You whine.

He fucks you relentlessly, one hand gripping your throat, the other fisting your hair, pulling your head back so he can whisper filth into your ear. “This pussy’s so good, so fucking tight. Like it was made to take me.”

You cry out with every thrust, your body slamming back into his.

He spanks you hard, twice. You moan, legs trembling.

“You like that?” He says husky, his palm squeezing your ass.

“Yes. Fuck. More.” You moan out.

He bends you lower and drives into you so deep your knees almost give out. You scream into the air, eyes rolling back.

Then he pulls out. “Get on your knees.” He commands.

You drop, mouth open before he even asks. He shoves his cock between your lips and fucks your mouth like he owns it, hand in your hair, hips moving fast.

“Look at you,” he grunts, fucking your throat. “So fucking perfect like this. Filthy little thing.”

Tears stream down your face, spit everywhere, but you don’t stop. You love it. He sees it. You moan around him and he twitches on your tongue. He pulls out fast, jerking you up.

“Bedroom. Now.”

You don’t walk. You run.

He follows throwing you onto the bed, flipping you onto your back, spreading your legs wide.

“No more talking,” you whisper, voice hoarse. “Just fuck me like you need to.”

“Oh, I do need to,” he says crawling between your thighs. “I think about this cunt every fucking night.”

He slams into you again, both hands gripping your thighs holding them wide as he fucks you hard. It’s brutal, deep, skin slapping, sweat dripping.

You claw at his back and bite his shoulder.

“Faster.” You beg.

He does. He drills into you like he’s trying to ruin you for anyone else (and he is). That’s exactly what he wants.

“You’ll never let anyone else inside you again,” he growls, fucking you harder. “No one else gets to make you come.”

“Yours,” you gasp. “It’s yours. Just fucking—don’t stop—”

And you come. Hard. Body spasming, screaming his name, legs wrapped around his waist, nails digging bloody into his skin.

He follows seconds later, roaring your name like it’s a prayer, collapsing over you as he spills inside, his cock twitching deep inside your pulsing cunt.

The room goes quiet. You’re both panting, tangled in sweat and slick and each other.

Then he slowly leans down and kisses you softly. Once. Twice. The kind of kiss you don’t expect after something that savage.

You kiss him back without thinking.

Then you speak against his mouth, your voice is barely a whisper: “…can I call you again.. and again?” You try dissipating the weight of the kiss.

His eyes meet yours. He nods once, brushing your hair back.

“I want you to.”

You rest your forehead to his, breath still uneven.

This wasn’t just release.

And you both fucking know it.

He rolls off of you, one arm flung across his face, chest still rising and falling. You’re both drenched: from sex, sweat, exhaustion. The room smells like him and you and everything you’re not supposed to feel. You reach for your clothes lazily, trying to sit up, legs shaky. He notices and asks without looking “You okay?”

“Fine,” you mutter. You’re already reaching for your bra.

He turns his head toward you slowly, propped up on one elbow. “You don’t have to rush off.”

“I’ve got work.” You say fast.

He raises a brow, that easy smirk tugging at his lips. “You always have work.”

“That’s how jobs work.” You explain.

“Tragic.” He stretches out, arms behind his head, shamelessly naked. “I was gonna make food.”

You look at him suspiciously. “Since when do you cook?”

“I don’t.” He shrugs. “But I’ve got frozen pizza. Good wine. Might even let you put on one of your favorite films.”

You stare at him but he doesn’t meet your gaze. He stretches again, too casual, like this is nothing. Like he hasn’t just wrecked you and whispered your name like it hurt to say it.

“I don’t need pity-invites,” you say flatly.

“Jesus,” he groans, rolling his eyes. “It’s not pity. You think I ask anyone to hang around after I come inside them and ruin their life?”

You raise a brow.

He grins. “Exactly.”

You pause, the hem of your shirt bunched in your hands. He sits up, runs a hand through his messy curls, trying to look unaffected.

“Just stay for an hour. Eat garbage food. Watch something depressing. You don’t even have to talk.”

You hesitate. You don’t look at him. Your throat tightens. “Why?”

He shrugs. “I just.. don’t want to eat alone tonight.”

The silence stretches.

You pull off your shirt and take his one from the chair. You wear it.

He smiles wide and heads toward the kitchen.

As he passes, he throws a line over his shoulder:

“Don’t get comfortable though. Still hate you.”

You scoff. “Yeah, well, your frozen pizza better be good.”

He laughs. “You’re not here for the pizza, babe.”

And neither of you says what you’re really thinking: that you just want each other to stay even if it’s only until the crust burns.

You sit on his kitchen counter, legs dangling, wearing only your underwear and his old t-shirt, soft cotton, worn thin, smelling like him. He pretends not to notice that you’re not dressed. Pretends he’s cool. But you catch his eyes every time they flick down your legs, then quickly away.

He moves around the kitchen like he’s done this a thousand times . But you get the feeling it’s different this time. That he’s performing a little for you.

You watch him open the freezer, grab the pizza box with a dramatic flourish.

“You know,” you say, “this is very sexy. Your idea of cooking.”

He shoots you a grin. “It’s gourmet. Thin crust. Three cheeses. Classy as fuck.”

You roll your eyes. “Truly Michelin star material.” You never liked frozen pizza but you don’t tell him.

He slides it into the oven and turns around, leaning against the counter, arms folded. Bare chest still flushed from earlier. He’s not trying to hide the way he’s watching you now.

“What?” you ask, voice lower.

He shrugs. “Nothing. Just… you look good here.”

You go quiet. That was almost a real thing to say. “Don’t get romantic,” you mutter, hopping down from the counter.

He catches your wrist as you pass him. Not hard, just enough to stop you.

“I’m not.” His voice is steady. “I just like looking at you. That’s all.”

You don’t pull away.

He lets your wrist go, but your fingers graze his as you walk past, a touch that lingers too long for people who supposedly hate each other.

Later you sit on the couch, legs curled under you, watching him pour wine like it’s not a loaded act.

He hands you a glass, his fingers brushing yours again. Still subtle. Still soft. You sip.

“God, this is actually decent.” You smirle.

He raises a brow. “Shocking. The washed-up ex-driver has taste.”

You smirk. “Somewhere deep, deep down, I guess.”

You let the silence stretch as he drops next to you, the pizza between you on the coffee table, a movie already starting. Something dark. Pretentious. He let you pick it. You noticed.

Thirty minutes in, your feet are in his lap. He didn’t ask. You didn’t ask. He just… let them rest there. One of his hands moves idly over your ankle, tracing absent circles on your skin. Neither of you says anything about it. You shift, leaning slightly closer and he notices, because of course he does, but doesn’t say anything. His arm moves behind you on the couch. You lean into it, just barely.

You feel him breathe.

He presses his lips to your temple. Soft. Too soft for someone who’s supposed to be a fuck-buddy. You freeze for half a second.

“Don’t,” you whisper, not quite sure what you’re asking him not to do.

He doesn’t move.

“Don’t what?” He whispers against your temple.

You don’t answer.

He kisses you again, same spot. No tongue. No teeth. Just warmth.

You close your eyes.

This isn’t sex.

This is worse.

It’s almost gentle.

And you don’t pull away.

The movie ends. The credits roll. You’re curled against him now, barely breathing, barely touching, but the heat between you is impossible to ignore.

His fingers are still brushing your thigh. Just softly. Like he can’t help it.

Your head tips back against the couch as you exhale slowly, eyes half-lidded.

Then he turns. Slowly. Looks at you like you’re something he shouldn’t want, but does anyway. He leans in, just a little and you meet him halfway.

The kiss is so soft it almost doesn’t happen. Bare lips, warm breath. Just the edge of a sigh between you.

Your hand finds his jaw. He cups your cheek and you kiss again, this time deeper, slower. You melt into it and he pulls you gently into his lap like he’s afraid to break the spell.

When his hands slide under your shirt, there’s no urgency, just exploration. Reverence. Like he’s never touched you before.

Your shirt slips over your head. He kisses your collarbone, then your chest. He doesn’t rush, you feel his mouth lingers everywhere.

You reach for him, fingers trembling. Your hands go under his shirt, feel the heat of his skin, the steady rhythm of his heart.

You tug it off him, slowly. He lets you.

Then he lays you back gently on the couch, covering your body with his own like he’s shielding you from something.

“Fuck,” he breathes, forehead resting against yours. “I—this feels different.”

You nod once. Barely.

He kisses you again, slower this time. Your legs wrap around his waist.

He slides inside you like it’s not about sex anymore. Like he’s coming home.

Your fingers find his and you lace them together, palms pressed, his weight heavy over you, buried deep.

You both moan softly, they’re helpless sounds into each other’s mouths.

He rocks into you with a tenderness that makes you ache. Each thrust is slow, full, deliberate.

You hold onto him tighter. Fingertips pressing into his shoulders like you’re scared to let go.

He says your name, not like he’s teasing, but like it’s a prayer.

And you kiss him again open-mouthed, you let yourself be bare. Vulnerable.

Then something shifts.

He freezes for a second. You feel it. That panic.. like he’s realizing how close this is to something real.

He pulls back suddenly, breath ragged.

You look up at him. “What?” you whisper.

He doesn’t answer. He pulls out roughly.

Then flips you onto your stomach.

“Turn over.” His voice is tight.

You obey without thinking. He enters you again from behind, fucking you harder now, faster, almost violently, like he’s trying to erase what just happened.

But it’s not the same. The rhythm’s wrong. The breath’s wrong. The feeling is wrong.

You clutch the back of the couch, lips parted, face twisting not from pleasure, but confusion.

It hurts now, not your body, your chest.

He grabs your hips harder.

You snap.: “Stop.”

He stills. You twist around, eyes wild. “What the fuck are we doing?”

He blinks. “You started this.”

“You kissed me.”

“So? It was a kiss.”

“No,” you breathe. “It wasn’t. You felt that.”

He’s already pulling away, grabbing for his jeans. “Don’t start this shit.”

“Oh, right. Because feelings make you weak, huh? Can’t let the slutty journalist in your lap matter more than your ego.”

He zips his pants roughly. “It was a mistake.”

You stare at him like he just punched you.

“You’re a coward.”

“And you’re a fucking mess.”

Silence.

You don’t cry. You grab your things, yank your jeans on, and head for the door.

He doesn’t stop you.

You don’t look back.

(Last part here, part 7)

[retireddaddyric]

“Can I use you?”

(“You’re nobody” part V)

Synopsis: part 5. In which (y/n) aka (former) hater journalist texts Daniel horny asking him to come over.. and things change.

Warnings: 18+, minors do not interact please. Toxic behavior, alchol, sex without protection, smut, fluff a bit more than normal.

Note: this is all fiction. English is not my first language, so I apologize in advance if there are any errors. Don’t know if I will stop this lol.

Two nights later you swallow the rest of your wine from the flute and grab your phone.

[You]:

Don’t fucking read into this.

But I need to come. Properly. Not half-assed by some idiot with a jawline and no rhythm.

[You]: (1 min later):

You’re the only one who gets it right. Physically. That’s all this is.

You around?

A pause.

Then his name flashes on your screen.

[Daniel]:

Miss me?

You groan out loud.

[You]:

Don’t start. Just say yes or no.

[Daniel]:

I’ve been waiting for you to crawl back.

But alright. I’ll pretend you’re not.

[You]:

Shut up and come over. I’m not wearing panties.

[Daniel]:

On my way.

[Daniel]: (10 seconds later):

Still a mouth on you.

[You]:

And you still haven’t figured out how to shut it.

[Daniel]:

Oh, I will.

He knocks once.

You open the door without a word.

You’re wearing a thin tank top. His eyes lower to be sure you really have nothing underneath. He sees that immediately, his jaw tightens, but he doesn’t say anything yet. His silence pisses you off. “You gonna stand there looking smug, or are you gonna make me regret this?”

Daniel steps inside without waiting for an invitation, brushing past you like he owns the place. He doesn’t but maybe he will, soon enough.

“Didn’t realize begging was your thing now,” he says taking in the place, the low lights, the wine glass finished on the table. “Cute.”

“It’s not begging. It’s a need.” You close the door behind him. “My vibrator broke.”

“You could’ve replaced it.” he smirks.

“Why? I wanted something that moans when I make it come.”

He smiles, sharp and slow, but says nothing.

“Take your fucking clothes off, Ricciardo.”

There’s a second where his eyes flash: he likes it when you’re bossy. He likes it even more when you pretend you’re not desperate. But he obeys, peeling off the jacket, then the black t-shirt underneath.

That chest. That deep V-cut down his abdomen. That smug look like he already knows how this ends: you screaming his name, legs shaking, your pride in pieces on the floor.

“You been thinking about me, sweetheart?” he asks, voice low as he unbuttons his jeans.

You sit back on the couch, legs spread slightly. Everything, your attitude included, on display.

“Not even a little,” you lie.

He raises an eyebrow. “Then why are you dripping?”

You roll your eyes. “You’re like nicotine. Gross habit. Hard to quit.”

“You say the meanest shit when you’re this wet.”

He’s shirtless now, pants riding low on his hips, bulge obvious and growing. You bite your lip and stand up, walking toward him, slow, predatory.

You push him back onto the couch. He falls into it with a grunt, legs open.

“You think I came here just to fuck you, huh?” he mutters.

You straddle him without answering. Your wet heat presses against the denim of his jeans, and his hands go straight to your ass, fingers digging in.

“Didn’t even come here for something actually, Daniel,” you whisper against his ear. “You came so I can use you.”

“Oh, baby,” he growls, grinding up against you, “you always do.”

You reach down, unzip him, pull his cock out. Hard. Hot. Fucking perfect.

He goes to touch you but you slap his hand away.

“I’ll ride you. I didn’t say you get to touch me.”

His breath hitches.

You line him up and slide down in one slow, slick motion, taking every inch until your thighs are flush with his. His eyes flutter shut, jaw clenched tight.

“Jesus—”

“No talking,” you cut him off. “Just let me get myself off.”

You roll your hips slowly, grinding against him, teasing yourself on the stretch. His hands grip the cushions, knuckles white, every muscle in his body pulled tight like a wire.

You lean in and put your mouth against his neck, breathing hotly hot:”This is all you’re good for,” you whisper. “A cock. Just a fucking cock.”

He groans, tries to thrust, but you pin his chest down with your palm. “Don’t move.”

“You’re such a goddamn brat,” he breathes.

“And you’re fucking lucky I called you.” You ride him hard now, fast, sharp movements. You’re chasing it, using him like a fucking toy. He lets you because.. he fucking loves it. he warches you with fire in his eyes and his lip between his teeth like he might come from just the sight of you.

“That’s it,” he growls. “You look so fucking good like this. Desperate little thing.”

“I’m not desperate,” you pant even as your fingers dig into his chest. “I’m just smart. Why waste time with anyone else?”

He grabs your face, finally, kissing you like it’s violence. Tongue fucking into your mouth like he’s trying to ruin you from the inside out. “You can pretend all you want,” he growls against your lips. “But you missed me.”

You slow down, hips grinding deeper, fuller.

His voice drops. “Tell me.”

You shake your head.

He thrusts up into you once, hard, making you cry out. “Fucking tell me.”

And it breaks. Your body trembles as the orgasm builds, your voice cracking: “I missed you,” you whisper, barely audible.

He grips your hips, eyes wide. “Say it again.”

“I fucking missed you.” You close your eyes. “No one-“ you shake “no one else makes me feel like this.”

He thrusts into you again, matching your rhythm now. Fast. Brutal. Perfect.

Your nails scratch down his chest.

“Only you,” you gasp. “Fuck— Daniel— only you make me come like this—”

You shatter into a full-body orgasm. Legs shaking, vision blurred, your body clutching him so tight it’s like your pussy is begging him to stay.

He groans, deep and desperate, and finishes seconds later, buried inside you, arms wrapped tight around your waist like if he lets go, you’ll disappear.

You collapse onto his chest, both of you gasping, sticky with sweat and come and unspoken things.

There’s silence. Then his voice is barely a whisper when he says “I missed you too.”

You close your eyes. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Your breathing finally slows, chest pressed to his, your skin hot and flushed, still pulsing where he’s inside you. You both haven’t moved.

And then, quietly, almost like he doesn’t mean for you to notice, his hand comes up and brushes a strand of hair away from your face. You don’t flinch, you immediately lift your head and look at him. His pupils are still blown out, his lips a little swollen from the way you kissed him earlier, hard, punishing. Now, everything feels slower. Quieter. He tilts his head up, eyes searching yours.

You lean in and kiss him, slowly, for the first time.

You’re both barely moving your mouths, just pressing together. It’s soft, warm, full of everything you’ve both spent weeks pretending not to feel.

He kisses you back like he’s afraid it’ll be the last time. Or the first time. You can’t tell which.

You rest your forehead against his, lips brushing but not speaking. Neither of you says anything.

And for the first time since he walked through your door, since the last time you walked away, you both fall completely silent.

Letting the truth hang there, thick between your chests: this.. this wasn’t just sex.

Actually, it never was.

You’re still quiet when you pull back slightly, lips brushing his once more before you settle your weight more comfortably in his lap. He’s still inside you, but neither of you moves. It’s like you’re both pretending the moment didn’t shift into something dangerous.

Then, softly, like almost casually you ask:

“Can I call you again? For… this?”

His eyes lift to meet yours. He doesn’t answer right away.

You clear your throat, “Just.. if it gets bad again. If I need to feel like this.” You’re looking past his shoulder when you say it, like that makes it safer. Like you’re not already wrapped around him, heartbeat still tangled up in his.

His fingers trace along your thigh slowly, thoughtful.

“You mean if you get horny and emotionally unstable at the same time?” he teases, voice low.

You roll your eyes, try to shove his shoulder, but you don’t really move. “Don’t be a dick.”

He catches your wrist, holds it there between you. Not tight, just there.

“I’m not saying no,” he murmurs.

You glance at him.

He’s serious. And smiling even if only barely. “But if you call me again,” he says, voice almost too soft to hear, “don’t pretend it’s just about the sex.”

You open your mouth.

Close it again.

Then you nod, just once. Almost imperceptibly.

And neither of you says anything else.

(Part 6 here)

[retireddaddyric]

Legacy VS Opinions

(“You’re nobody” pt 4)

Synopsis: Daniel Ricciardo and the fem journalists who hated him and with whom he had a sex affair start a public war only they can understand. ( PART FOUR of a short fic, but can be read as a one shot)

Warnings: 18+, minors do not interact please. Insults, hidden jabs, oral sex, smut, aggressivity, unprotected sex, kind of fluff.

Note: this is all fiction. English is not my first language, so I apologize in advance if there are any errors.

A month of silence.

No messages. No texts. No passive-aggressive memes. Nothing.

You keep telling yourself this is good. That the silence means it’s over. That he’s out of your system.

But the truth is louder than your brain.

And then, one day, he speaks. Not to you directly but during a podcast interview, live, public, dressed up as harmless banter:

“I’ve met people who make their living with words,” he says with that laugh that always comes just before a hit. “They can twist anything. Sound smart, sharp, impressive. But when it comes down to it… that’s all they are. Words. Hollow as fuck.”You stop breathing. The room spins for a moment. Noy because the world heard it, but because you did. No one else would catch it but you know what that tone means. You can hear the anger laced beneath the laughter. The betrayal he still won’t name. He’s still carrying it and blaming you for it.

You don’t tweet about it that night. Two days later, you drop an interview with a respected sports outlet. It’s thoughtful, sharp, buried halfway through, in a paragraph about ego in motorsports, you say: “Some drivers think being liked is the same thing as being respected. And when they stop winning, they can’t tell the difference anymore. So they start trying to make noise instead. But not all noise means you’re still relevant.”

The quote goes viral. People think it’s about a general trend in racing. They start naming random drivers. No one suspects or if they do, they know you never liked Daniel.

But you know who read it.

A week later, he’s on another podcast.

“You ever been in a conversation with someone who’s convinced they’re the smartest person in the room?” He snorts. “They say a lot, sure. And maybe they’ve got a degree or two, I don’t know. But at some point you realize: all that intelligence is just armor. They’re not thinking, they’re hiding.”

That last word hits like a knife. Hiding? You?

The media doesn’t see it but the pattern is forming: coded language, paper-thin disguises. It’s war.

Quiet, precise, vindictive.

And every quote is meaner than the last.

You post a story later that day, not even an article, just a casual piece: “There’s a difference between those who won races and those who won championships, you can see the crack in the first ones, their hidden insecurity that slips out at the wrong moment .” You don’t name him. But you feel the swing land. And so does he.

The real deal comes when you attend a motorsport panel.

You don’t know he’s on the panel too until you’re already mic’d up. Until you’re walking toward the stage, heels echoing down the hallway, and you see him, dark green suit, no tie, thick neck on display with necklaces. As if it’s not a weapon. That familiar smirk stretched over something tighter in his jaw. He sees you and doesn’t flinch. Just lifts a brow. Like the silence, the spite, the sex, none of it touched him.

“Daniel,” you say trying to sound cold.

“Didn’t know you’d be here,” he lies smoothly.

“Likewise.”

You both sit, next to eacj other. There’s a moderator. A conversation about media and legacy in modern motorsport. How convenient.

For half a second, you consider turning back down the hallway. Faking illness.

His knee almost brushes yours but he doesn’t apologize.

The moderator welcomes everyone and launches into an over-rehearsed intro about “how narrative and legacy shape modern motorsport.”

You can’t stop glancing at him from the side of your eye.

He can’t stop letting you.

And then it begins.

Moderator: “Let’s talk about media framing. Drivers, you’ve seen the headlines, the stories. How much control do you think you ever really had?”

Daniel’s smile tightens. “Control’s a myth. You either get loved or eaten alive. Sometimes both. Depends on who’s writing.”He doesn’t look at you when he says it. Not directly. But the heat of it lands on your skin like a slap.

You lean into your mic, smiling sweetly. “I don’t think drivers like to admit that the media usually gets it right.Maybe not always kindly, but we tend to land close.”Daniel’s brow lifts, “Sure. If the truth is whatever version fits your headline.”

“I’d argue the same for race strategy.” You say.

Nervous laughter rises from the audience.

He tilts his head, that sharp grin crawling across his mouth. He knows exactly what he’s doing. “Difference is when I crash, I don’t write an essay about it.”

Your smile doesn’t falter. “No, in fact you just smile in post-race interviews and pretend it wasn’t your fault.”

The other panelists glance between you two like they’re watching a tennis match. You know the audience thinks this is entertainment. Chemistry.

You wonder what they’d think if they knew his tongue had been in your mouth. Or inside you.

The moderator laughs nervously and clears his voice: “Okay, okay, spicy. Let’s pivot a bit.. when we talk about legacy, especially post-career… how do you want to be remembered?”

Daniel’s expression shifts. The playfulness doesn’t vanish, but there’s something deeper beneath it. “I don’t know. I used to care about that more. Now I think… I’d rather be remembered by people who actually saw me. Not just the highlight reels. Not just the opinions.”

You feel the weight of it. You know that “opininions” means your articles.

You tap your pen against your notepad once. “Legacies aren’t always accurate. Sometimes they’re just loud. That’s why we need people who aren’t afraid to look closer. Even if what they see isn’t pretty.”

There’s a beat of silence. The moderator looks at the crowd , then leans forward, smiling. “I feel like there’s history here. Am I wrong?”

Daniel doesn’t miss a beat. “Something like that.” He declares. He says it without even looking at you. Which is worse, somehow. More intimate. More dangerous.

You glare at him. ‘Something like what?’ You wanna ask him.

Them you decide you have to stop the hossip before it spreads, explaining he meant your back and forth between his interviews and your articles about him.

“We’ve always had different definitions of truth.” You say smiling.

“And of closure.” Daniel adds.

That word hits like a low blow.

You clear your throat and sit back, crossing your legs. You feel his gaze dropping for a fraction of a second.

The panel moves on, questions come and go but the energy never settles.

You can feel it in the way his fingers tap the armrest, his voice lowers every time he speaks near you. Your body won’t fucking relax, not with him sitting there, not with the memory of his mouth between your thighs replaying like a reel you never pressed play on.

By the time they wrap the panel, your hands are shaking. You don’t wait to say goodbye. You leave the stage first, your heels click on the floor at a fast pace. You don’t expect to hear his footsteps behind you.

You slam the door behind you, adrenaline still pumping from the spotlight. Your hands are a fury from excitement, anger, arousal.

You don’t even get to breathe before the door opens again and slams shut.

He’s there, no knock, no permission.

“You’ve lost your mind,” you shout turning around. “Get the fuck out.”

He doesn’t move. Just watches you from across the room like you’re prey and he’s been starving for weeks.

“Didn’t think I’d miss that voice,” he murmurs, low. “But I do.”

You laugh, sharp and bitter. “You don’t miss shit. You made that very clear.” You shake your head.

A pause.

He sighs. “Yeah? Then why the fuck can’t I stop thinking about you?”

Your throat tightens. Your legs want to betray you. Your mouth opens and before anything comes out, he’s there, crossing the room in two strides.

You don’t move one bit, you don’t even exhale. And when his fingers graze your jaw, slow and warm, your knees nearly buckle.

“You’re still pissed,” he whispers.

You nod, swallowing, trting to look away.

“And wet,” he adds, even lower.

You meet his eyes.

That’s when you’re about to slap him but he catches your wrist.

And then you kiss him. No, devour him.

Your mouths crash like a fucking car wreck. His tongue pushes past your lips, claiming, greedy. His hands are already under your blazer, pulling at your blouse like it offends him.

You grip his shoulders, grind into his thigh, feel how hard he is already through the fabric of his slacks. He grabs your ass with both hands, lifts you onto the dressing table. Things fall to the floor; lipsticks, brushes, a bottle of water. But neither of you cares.

He pushes your skirt up, rips your panties hooking his finger at the base.

“I shouldn’t,” you breathe.

“But you want it,” he growls, sliding two fingers into you, knuckle-deep. You gasp, your whole body arching forward.

“Say it,” he whispers against your neck, biting it just enough to leave a mark. “Say you missed me.”

You dig your nails into his back. “Fuck you.”

He smiles against your skin. “That’s the plan.”

His fingers curl inside you, fucking you slow, deep, until your hips are moving with him, chasing it, needing more. He drops to his knees without a word.

And when his tongue touches you, everything burns. He’s at it again after a month, like the month never came.

He eats you like he’s punishing you. Like you’ve wronged him, and this is how he wins. Your head falls back against the mirror, thighs trembling as he holds them open, relentless.

You moan his name, more than once. Shame mixes with need, but you don’t stop him. You literally can’t.

When you come, it’s with a sound you don’t recognize: half sob, half surrender.

You try to speak but he stands and undoes his pants. You don’t protest, instead you look at him in the face.

He doesn’t tease.

He slides into you in one deep, unforgiving thrust, both of you gasping. Your legs wrap around him instantly. He buries his face in your shoulder, growling curses against your skin.

“This is another mistake,” you whisper closing your eyes.

He fucks you harder. “Then tell me to stop.”

You don’t.

Because you can’t again.

Because the sound of his breath, the way he fills you, the heat of his hands on your hips, is the only thing that’s felt real in weeks.

You cling to each other like lifelines. You come again before he does, your body trembling in his arms. He follows moments later, burying himself deep, groaning your name against your neck like a confession he doesn’t want to make.

After, there’s silence. Heavy. Unforgiving.

He’s still inside you. He doesn’t move. Just looks at you.

And you know if either of you speaks now, something will crack.

So you look away.

He pulls out, breathless, tucks himself back in, and says, “Just sex, right?”

You meet his eyes and nod. “Right.”

You both lie.

And neither of you is brave enough to call it what it really is.

But this is enough for now.

(Part five here)

[retireddaddyric]

Very Unprofessional

(“You’re nobody” pt III)

Synopsis: Daniel Ricciardo texts the fem journalist who hates him (with whom he had sex with) to give her some interesting material on her next article (THIRD PART of a short fic, but can be read as a one shot)

Warnings: 18+, minors do not interact please. Insults, oral sex, smut, coldness, kind of heartbreak.

Note: this is all fiction. English is not my first language, so I apologize in advance if there are any errors.

Your phone vibrates on your table.

[Unknown Number]

Saw your piece on Alonso. Not bad. You almost sounded like a real journalist.

You don’t need to check who it is. Your stomach already knows.

[You]

Don’t you have a vineyard to fail at or a podcast to be unfunny on?

[Unknown Number]

Cute. You miss me.

[You]

I’ve had sore throats I missed more.

[Unknown Number]

Charming as ever.

Look, I’ve got a contact from the ‘18 team. Found some footage you might want for your “remember when F1 was still good” articles.

Come by. Or don’t. Up to you.

[You]

Right. You want to talk about footage. Sounds professional. Totally not a trap.

[Unknown Number]

Only if you bring that mouth with you.

You tell yourself not to go and dress like you’re not going. You go out pretending you’re not walking around his building.

And then, of course, you’re at his door.

He opens it like it’s normal, old Lahers shirt, barefoot, that same smug smile stretched across his face like he already won something. “I thought journalists were supposed to be smart.”

“I thought ex-drivers were supposed to disappear.”

His laugh is low and sharp, and you hate how it lands between your ribs. He walks ahead of you without saying more, and you follow. Because that’s the game.

There’s no laptop on the table. No footage. No article.

You sigh and look at him. He smirks.

“So?” You say, crossing your arms. “Where’s this big scoop I came for?”

He leans against the kitchen island, arms crossed over his firm chest, tattoos all over his tanned skin. He looks like he knows exactly how much you want to touch him and enjoys withholding the offer.

“The scoop,” he says slowly, “is that you’re still pretending you don’t think about me every time your fingers go anywhere near your thighs.”

You hate how fast your pulse jumps. “You’re so in love with yourself, it’s almost impressive.”

“And yet here you are. Again.”

He closes the distance between you in three slow steps. Your breath shortens, but you don’t move.

“Tell me you don’t want me to get on my knees right now,” he says. “I dare you.”

You smirk. “You are better on your knees than behind a wheel.”

“Then shut up and let me prove it.”

You don’t stop him when he sinks to the floor.

You don’t stop him when he drags your skirt up, big hands sliding against your thighs like he owns them, and you know he does. His lips are parted, his eyes in awe while he pulls your panties down your legs.

You just lean back against the counter and close your eyes as his mouth finds your pussy: he kisses the clit like he’s kissing the head of a baby.

He starts with a tease. Tongue barely there, just enough pressure to make you squirm, but not enough to satisfy.

“You gonna make me beg?” You say, voice low, breathy.

“You’re not that lucky.”He grabs your thighs and pulls you closer until you’re almost on his face.

And then he devours you.

There’s nothing gentle about it. He eats you like he’s angry, like this is a fight he plans to win. His tongue moves in tight, practiced circles; then flatter, broader strokes, wet and brutal. He sucks on your clit hard enough to make you cry out, then backs off just enough to punish you for it.

You’re panting, grinding against his mouth now, too far gone to care about pretending.

“Fuck, you—” you gasp. “You think this proves something?” You say with a needy voice you can’t hide.

“I know it does,” he mutters against you, lips soaked. “You taste like you missed me.”

“I taste like someone who regrets this already.”

“Liar.” One hand slips behind your thigh, holding it wide open while he tongue-fucks you with obscene precision. Your legs start to shake. You feel it building in your spine, in your chest, in the way your jaw clenches to keep his name from spilling out.

You come on his tongue with a sharp cry, your fingers digging into his curls, nails scratching his scalp. He keeps going until you twitch, until you pull away because your pussy is too sensitive, too raw.

Your legs tremble so much you almost fall but he grabs your hips stilling you, laughing low, amused.

He licks his lips, slow, like he’s savoring a win. Then smiles up at you. The bastard.

“Still think I was overrated?”

“Still think this was about you?” You’re still breathless.

You fix your skirt. He watches you from the floor like he might drag you back down, sat on his heels.

But you’re already stepping away, grabbing your bag.

“Anytime,” he says. “You know where to find me when your vibrator starts to feel like a lie.”

“You know where to shove your ego.”

“Usually between your thighs.”

“Usually?”

He winks standing up.

“You’re not that good.” You say without looking back, slammimg the door before he can see the way your fingers are shaking.

And yet as you walk away, you hate that your mouth still tastes like his name.

You hate that you want to go back.

And you hate that he knows it.

Five minutes after you slam his door your phone pings.

[Unknown Number]

By the way, there’s no fucking footage. I just wanted to see if you’d show up again. Don’t get all investigative on me.

You stare at the screen in the elevator, your jaw tightening. Typical.

No apology. Just that smug little confession hidden under sarcasm. He’s laughing at you.

Another ping.

[Unknown Number]

Also: who leaves someone hard like that?

Rude. Very unprofessional.

You don’t answer. You tell yourself to put the phone away. You don’t.

[Unknown Number]

Read your piece on Bahrain ’16. Didn’t suck. Shocking, really. Almost like you know what you’re doing. Still think your conclusions were lazy though. And dramatic. But whatever. Style, I guess.

Is that an admission?

He read it. Remembered it. Probably read it more than once. Enough to remember your conclusions, your tone. The subtext.

And now he’s trying to insult it, just to feel like he’s still in control.

Because that means he’s been paying attention. And Daniel Ricciardo only pays attention at what he likes.

You let the elevator doors close. You’re not even sure which floor you hit. Your fingers type before your brain catches up.

[You]

Still using fake interviews to get women into your apartment? What’s next, a prank channel?

[Unknown Number]

Please. I’d never fake an interview. Just the interest in motorsport journalism.You walked in like you wanted it as much as I did. Don’t play innocent. You came. I didn’t. Fair’s fair.

[You]

Poor baby. Maybe next time lead with your feelings instead of your dick.

[Unknown Number]

I tried. You bolted.

Didn’t even stay for a drink. Hurt my ego.

Wait, no. That’s still fully intact. Never mind.

You bite the inside of your cheek.

He’s right. You did bolt. Not because you didn’t want to stay. But because it felt too much like the start of something, and you’ve made a career out of shutting that shit down.

You hesitate before typing again.

[You]

I didn’t come for small talk. I came for closure. Got it.

There’s a longer pause this time. Longer than usual. The three dots start fast and disappear.

[Unknown Number]

Closure? That’s what it was?

[You]

Yup.

You expect another dig.

Another joke.

Instead, what you get is colder.

[Unknown Number]

Okay, if that’s what you want. We’re done.

Just like that. No bitterness. No drama.

Just the sound of the door closing from the other side, only this time he’s the one turning the lock.

You stare at the screen for too long. Read it twice. Three times.

It’s what you said you wanted.

It’s what you meant.

It should feel clean.

But instead, it burns.

Because maybe you wanted him to argue, to fight you on it.

To call you out, to say ‘You didn’t mean that. Stay.’

But Daniel Ricciardo has always been more stubborn than sentimental. And now, so are you.

You put your phone away. And this time, you don’t look back.

(Part FOUR)

[retireddaddyric]

Sorry for not doing your requests yet guys, I love your inputs and comments but I need more time to let my mind work in the direction someone else wants it to go.

But I promise I will do it!

In the meantime I’m still writing about Daniel Ricciardo and the hater journalist, I am too inspired to stop it yet, might become a short fic at this point lol.

(Sorry not sorry)

[retireddaddyric]

“You still hate me?”

(“You’re nobody” pt II)

Synopsis: (y/n) is again the journalist who always talked shit about Daniel Ricciardo but after having had sex with him she can’t get over it. And destiny brings them together once again at the Redbull Anniversary ceremony.

Warnings: 18+, minors do not interact please. Toxic relationship, enemies to lovers vibes, fingering, unprotected sex, public place sex.

Note: this is all fiction. English is not my first language, so I apologize in advance if there are any errors.

Hotel Hermitage Montecarlo.

Redbull racing f1 team anniversary ceremony. Big chandeliers, smoking suits, sea view, heels, oysters, champagne.

The last place you expected to see him again was here, surrounded by polished carbon fiber, faux nostalgia and too many people pretending not to miss him.

You’re walking on your heels and pulling the hem of the dress down to cover your thighs since the clothes Gucci gifted you are too revealing.

He’s laughing when you see him.Of course he is.

Standing beside a race winning car from a decade ago, champagne flute in hand, dark suit jacket tossed casually over his shoulder like he’s still the face of the grid.

The spotlight doesn’t know how to forget certain people. And he knows it.

He is smiling at the flashing cameras, photographers shouting his name like the whole paddock used to do when he walked around.

You freeze. Not visibly, hopefully. But something shifts in your chest like a gear grinding at the wrong speed.

Fuck. You said you wouldn’t care if you saw him again. You said he meant nothing.

But he looks better than he should. Maybe it’s the tailored cut of his shirt or the way the stubble’s grown in just enough to look like he doesn’t give a shit, when you know for a fact he cares about everything. Especially control. And for a split second, his eyes flick toward you.

He sees you. Of course he fucking does.

And then he smirks. Not a full smile—just that infuriating tilt of the lips that says ‘I remember everything you said… and everything you didn’t.’

You hate him all over again. And above all you hate the way your thighs clench just standing there, remembering.

Because he was unforgettable. A whole month and you still feel him giving you backshots and talking dirty into yout ear.

Two hours later, you’re trying to leave. You’re done with champagne and fake laughs and the way every conversation keeps circling around legacy, records, “what could’ve been.”

He was always the ghost at the edge of these things.

Now he’s the main event.

You open the door to the back hallway near the place where the buffet was held an hour ago, half-expecting it to be empty.

He’s there.

Of course.

Leaning against the wall with his hands in his pockets like this is a fucking coincidence.

“Looking for something?” he asks, voice low, rough.

“A place to breathe,” you shoot back. “Didn’t realize you were haunting bathrooms now.” You say pointing at the toilet sign next to him.

He chuckles. “Come on. You knew I’d be here.”

“I didn’t know you’d be waiting, I saw you leave ten minutes ago.”

“And you’re counting seconds.”

“You should count yours.”

“You pictured me like a dead man in that interview already.”

He takes a step forward, and your back straightens before you can stop it. That same goddamn gravity he had in his house. The same he has everywhere. With the others he is sweet and polite. With you he’s different. Arrogant, magnetic, dangerous.

“Didn’t think you’d still be writing fluff pieces about men you hate.”

He says taking your hand and pulling you inside the restroom.

“Didn’t think you’d still be desperate for relevance,” you snap.

He tilts his head. That smile again, slower this time, quieter.

“You think that night meant nothing, don’t you?”

“I think you’re very good at making everything feel important… until you disappear.”

He’s in front of you now. Close enough that you can smell his cologne, something fresh, expensive, familiar. Your stomach turns, sharp and tight.

“Tell me you haven’t thought about it,” he says.

“I haven’t.”

“Liar.”

His hand moves to your waist, and you don’t stop him. You should. You want to. You wish you wanted to. But all you do is exhale sharply, like your lungs remembered him before the rest of you did.

“You don’t get to just touch me like that.” You whisper.

“Funny. You didn’t say that last time.”

You slap him. It’s not hard, but it’s real. It’s all the frustration you feel towards your needs.

And it makes his jaw clench, the smile vanish for half a second.

But then he gets it, you wanted to slap tourself, not him.

His mouth crashes into yours. You’re kissing like enemies, all teeth, tongue, bruises forming with every pull. His hands are already under your dress, rough and sure.

“Still wet for me,” he growls against your lips as he soakes his fingers in your arousal, your thong pulled to the side.

“Maybe I just needed to get off.” You moan low.

“Then let me help.” He whispers sexy in your ear, his lips touching tour earlobe.

He lifts you up like you weigh nothing and sets you on the marble counter. The cold shocks your thighs but you barely notice. You’re already unbuttoning his pants like you’ve been waiting for this. And maybe you have.

“Make it fast,” you mutter, breathless. “Before someone hears us.”

“You like being heard.” You can hear the smirk in his voice.

“Not when I-“

And then he’s inside you, fast, deep, ruthless.

You gasp, biting his shoulder through his shirt. He grunts, fingers digging into your hips like he wants to leave a mark, like he needs to. It’s not soft. It’s not careful. It’s you two, two people who never figured out how to want each other gently.

He looks at himself in the mirrorbehind you as he ravishes you and you cling to him.

“You still hate me?” he whispers against your neck.

“Yes,” you lie.

“Good.” He thrusts harder. The sound of skin on skin fills the space between breaths. You’re already close. Too close. You hate that he knows exactly how to touch you, how to fuck you like he’s unraveling something he doesn’t want to look at directly.

He rolls his eyes in the back of his head when your walls start to flutter around him.

He doesn’t look into your eyes, he just watches your back in the mirror.

This time you come with a silent scream, your nails clawing at his back through his shirt. He follows seconds later, breathing hard, forehead pressed against your shoulder.

Neither of you speaks.

Not for a long moment.

Then: “You gonna write about this too?” he mutters.

“You’re not that interesting anymore.” You say looking away.

“Bullshit.”

“Yeah,” you admit. “Bullshit.”

He helps you down. Straightens your dress like he has any right to be gentle.

He tries to look at you, to really look at your eyes but you walk past him.

As you open the door to leave, you don’t look back.

But you hear him behind you while he buckles his belt. “Not over,” he says. “You know that, right?”

You don’t answer. But your heart beats like it already has.

(Part three here!)

[retireddaddyric]

“You’re nobody.”

Synopsis: (y/n) is a journalist who always throws shit at Daniel Ricciardo but she gets to interview him after he retires and things get steamy!

Warnings: 18+, insults, swearing, degrading, bad words, spanking, sex acts, unprotected sex.

Note: this is all fiction. English is not my first language, so I apologize in if there are any errors.

You never liked him. That’s why every written piece of yours about him had titles like “The devil behind the God of the paddock”, “Daniel Ricciardo: the driver who never really made it”, “The clown of a fake circus”, “All honey, no badger”.

His ego was big, his fans crazy, everyone loved him, even those who claimed they didn’t. He laughed everytime and everywhere, you asked yourself for years if he laughed in bed too or if at least there he would take things seriously.

In fact, when people used to show him your articles in his paddock days he just laughed confidently at cameras and left with witty answers. He didn’t like people who questioned his skills and you did, always, stabbing him exactly where it hurt.

You didn’t hate him, but you thought he was a mask. That his behavior was built behind cameras, that he was good on track but he was more interested in being a Netflix star. And now that he was retired he had all the time in his life to start his acting career.

“The end of a lame career, the start of a stellar one in Netflix”, said your last article about him which was published the day Redbull sent him home.

During his racing days you would even come cross each other in the paddock, looking at each other from distance with a challenging stare but none of you ever spoke to the other. You wrote shit about him, he would bring it up during interviews throwing strays at you but never saying your name out loud, never giving you the satisfaction of being recognized.

And you didn’t care. You liked being the controversial voice in his hero-like story.

What you didn’t understand though was why of all people who asked to interview him after retirement he refused them all.

Except you.

And you met him in his Monaco apartment, four months after seeing him leave the paddock in Singapore with emotional eyes. That day he smiled too, but his eyes were sad.

You’re sitting at an armchair in his trophies’ room, they look at you like a punch in your face. Your legs crossed, your notebook on your lap and the pen in your hand looking up at him while he stands before a desk, leaning against it, his arms crossed.

You didn’t introduce yourself when you entered his house, he didn’t exactly welcome you in.

He just nodded and asked you to follow him here. No smiles, no shake of hands.

“I thought you were taller, since you always seem like to speak from above everyone.”He smirks.

“And i thought you were more humble, not even being sent home reduced your ego as big as the whole paddock.” You say fast. “Actually I’d never thought you’d face me.”

He smiles. “I’d never thought you’d ask for an interview face to face. I thought you were scared!”

“Scared of you?” You laugh sarcastically, your eyes dropping to his big nose, that squared jaw.

He smiles looking down at you, finding you extremely hot for not having fallen to his feet once for all there years. “Admit it.”

This back and forth goes on in between your real questions.

“You were a promising future f1 champion once, what happened in the in-between?”

“Sometimes the track decides for you. The checkered flag can’t always be yours.”

He smiles and looks at how you uncross and cross your creamy legs.

“Some say you lost your confidence and that lead the teams to drop you off.”

“Pression isn’t really something you can escape in this sport and I’ve had a lot, if you’ve really followed the sport.”

“Do you miss it?” You say making him look back into your eyes.

“There are other ways to feel your heart beat fast.” He scrolls his shoulders, smiling.

“Would you change anything if you could go back?” You look at him in the eyes with a piercing stare.

“I’d rather lose everything again than lose myself.” He says proudly.

“Isn’t it ironic? Going from being one of the most feared on the track to being the most liked on social media? Is really the helmet what you like better?” You smile venomously.

“Likes on instagram don’t give me the adrenaline rush.”

“But your career ended without glory. Do you think people still follow you for your talent or because you became a shining toy for sponsors and magazines?”

“Oh you tell me since you’re here to get a piece of me.”

“I think it’s easier to become a celebrity than to admit your reflexes got less sharp.” You try to hit the nerve.

“If you think being a formula one driver means just being fast you’re even more naive than what you look. But I forgive you, not everyone can keep the pace.” He crosses his ankles looking at you with a bastard smirk.

“With all these fast answers one would think you’re just a character and not a man. Is there still something real underneath?”

He smirks. “You like to provoke people. I could like you if you didn’t feel the need to throw shit at me every time.” He says looking at the recorder on the armrest of the armchair.

“I don’t throw shit, I just want to see if you can hide behind the helmet once more.”

“You wanna challenge me?”

“I just wanna see for myself if all those good things they say about you are rooted on a real soil.”

You look at each other for a long moment.

“Drop that pen before I start answering with my hands.” He says low.

“You’re scared words might bare you more than how hands could.” You provoke him.

“I’ve got no problem of baring myself, not even at being looked at while I do so.” He smirks. “You, on the other hand, are still keeping that pen in your hand, you need it to feel in control?”

“No I need it to make you keep talking.” You say rising your eyebrows and tapping your chin with the pen.

“I’d rather show facts than talk. Because you provoke people but then you slam your foot on the brakes.”

You hit the recorder button, the red light turns off.

“I never hit a brake in my life.” You say dropping your pen on your notebook.

He walks towards you looking down at your lips.

“Then hold on tight.” He says grabbing the notebook and making it fly above his shoulder.

His hands grab you by the hips and he picks you up effortlessly sitting you on the desk.

His hand grabs your face forcing you to look up at him. The other one is at your thigh on your jeans.

“You wanna know if you like me too?” He whispers huskily.

“I don’t like you.” You bite your bottom lip. “I’m convinced of this.”

He smirks. “Keep telling yourself that.”

“Try harder, cham-“

His mouth is on yours, kissing you like a starved man, leaving your insult in mid air.

You feel your insides burn, you kiss him back with the same hate, the same violence. He pushes himself between your legs pulling you closer to his body by your ass.

“All that mouth and look where you are. In my hands.”

“Are you even capable of keeping me in your hands or is it all scene?”

“You wanna play hard, (y/n)?” This was the first time he used your name, it rolled surprisingly good out of his soft lips.

His hands tear your shirt open, he squeezes your tits in his callous hands. You moan throwing your head back as he pulls your bra down in a sharp move and sucks on your nipple, hard.

He pushes you on the table by your throat and uses the other hand to cup your sex from your jeans.

“I bet you’re already dripping.” He whispers darkly touching you.

“You have to work harder, champion.” You breathe heavy, saying the word ‘champion’ in a sarcastic tone.

And before you could finish the sentence he flips you on the table so you’re bent forward on it. He grabs your wrists and keeps them on your back with his left hand. The other one pulls your jeans down fast, violently.

He slaps your ass hard, you moan arching your back.

“You like to play tough but look at the way you spread your legs.” He says pulling your lacy thong to the side and sliding two fingers in, fucking you with them, then three, without mercy.

You moan, your pussy is soaking wet, your hips shake in pleasure. His fingers are expert.

“There you go, you’re pretty wet for someone who doesn’t like me.. is this why you wanted to interview me right?”

“I’m a professional.” You say breathlessly. He laughs sarcastically “Are you now?”

Then he turns his fingers inside, curling them.

“Warm and tight, like it’s made just for a big dick, yeah?” He asks before pulling his hand out and slapping your ass cheeks again, wetting it with his soaked fingers.

“All those articles, all those names and you’re trembling underneath my hands..” he laughs devilishly.

You close your eyes when you feel him unzip his jeans. Then he fists your hair pulling your head backwards towards his mouth. You feel his big dick between your asscheeks, sliding, making you needy.

You squeeze your eyelids waiting for him to thrust inside but he doesn’t. He keeps you still with his hands while he teases you.

“Always late.” You whine while you try to sound in control.

“Say you want it.” He dares you.

You swallow “I do.” You say a little ashamed.

“Louder.”

“I need it.” You shout.

“Words!” He gnarls.

“Fuck me Daniel! I need you cock!” You breathe out of your throat.

He laughs shaking his head “Our elite’s journalist begging to be stuffed.” He smacks your ass and licks your ear. “Dirty whore, it’s humiliating isn’t it, needing the same person you said you never liked, begging him to satisfy your inner slut.”

And with that he thrusts his cock inside you, balls deep. He roars putting a hand on your nape and the other on your round ass, keeping it spread open. Your hips shake, your eyes roll back in your head, you moan loud.

“Fuck..” he mutters, his chest heavy. He looks down at his cock hidden inside your cunt. It’s too god to be a normal fuck. And then he starts moving, deep, hard. A punishing pace.

“You’ll miss my cock more than your fucking pride after this.” He whispers. You whine in pleasure grabbing the end of the desk with both hands. His hand falls on your ass again, smacking the red skin. You jump but moan loud. “Yes!” You shout.

He smiles. “You take me like you don’t wanna let go.”

“Asshole.” You say choking oir.

He keeps thrusting, faster now. His voice is breathy when he says “It’s because you would have been no one without my name. Your articles about me are the reason you are still a journalist.”

“I am a journalist because I am good at my job.” You’re panting, your eyes crossed, your lips parted. It feels too fucking good.

“You’re only good at being a viper.” He hits your cervix with a particular very hard thrust. “And at taking my cock.”

He grabs you by the hair again pulling you towards him and speaking in your ear, his lips brushing against it, the hard stubble scratching your cheek. “Or maybe you did all that because deep down all you wanted was to be taken like this.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” You pant, your legs shake, your inner walls squeeze his cock tight from within.

“You never did, still you talked.” And then he pushes your head back on the desk and starts fucking you like an animal, like a possessed. Your blurred eyes from ecstasy look towards the window, out at the blue sea. You never felt this good, nobody ever made you feel this kind of pleasure.

You squeeze your eyes shut and he smirks when he sees you jumping back towards him, taking him even harder.

“Fuck yes, you can’t even fake hating on me now. Isn’t this the failed driver’s cock?” He says husky, his t-shirt clinging to his sweaty chest, his hips hitting so hard you are bruising yourself against the desk.

He grabs your slim waist and with forceful thrusts he makes you come so hard. You moan loud, shaking, your lips biting so hard on your arm you can taste your blood in your own mouth.

You hear him laugh low, breathing heavy. “Who’s ‘finished’ now, uh? Who’s ‘desperate’?” He said reminding you all the words you had called him in your articles all over the last year.

Then he puts both hands on your ass and after some very hard thrusts his cock pulses inside you and he fills you up, squeezing your ass in his strong hands. He groans loud, throwing his head back, his adam apple jumping.

Then he pulls out, you’re laying there looking at the blue outside, panting.

He watches his cum slide down your inner thigh.

“A wasted seat. That’s what you called me after the Bahrain grand prix last year. A broken ghost of a driver.” He whispers, zipping his jeans. “Who’s the broken one now, (y/n)?”

You stand up and pull your thong and jeans up. You adjust your bra and closing your shirt you whisper.

“This isn’t finished Ricciardo.” You threaten him.

“Oh you wish.” He smirks.

(part two anyone?)

[retireddaddyric]

BUONGIORNO

Synopsis: (y/n) is Daniel’s PR and they’ve always tried to keep things professional, with (y/n) always taking a step back before the inevitable could happen. But, it’s inevitable, and Daniel’s VERY sex starved.

Warnings: 18+, minors do not interact please. Sub/dom play, smut, sex, female and male orgasm, blindfolding.

Note: this is all fiction. English is not my first language, so I apologize in advance. Send comments or requests even in private, I love it!

“Buongiorno.” Daniel says too loud entering the breakfast room of the Silverstone hotel.

People from other teams turns their heads towards him and salute him back smiling.

They all love my clown. I don’t, not in the morning. But he’s still my clown.

I sip my cappuccino, hidden behind my sunglasses. It’s too early in the morning and by any means I am remotely ready to listen to him yap. He smiles and jokes with everyone, shakes hands and throws his head back laughing. The black Enchante hoodie falls behind him and he adjusts his hair.

He arrives at our table and doesn’t even say hi while he drops the phone, his key and a bag. I narrow my eyes watching him walk back to the coffee lady asking for an oat latte. She politely smiles at him and after saying goodmorning she tells him she will bring his latte to his table.

I watch him come back and after taking his phone he walks to the croissants area.

Is he ignoring me?

When he comes back with a plate of croissants his latte is already at his place. He sits and starts pouring a little sugar in his latte.

I clear my voice and he looks at me.

“Good morning.” I say sarcastically.

He keeps looking at me swirling the little spoon in his latte, a cold stare.

“Cat got your tongue?” I ask and sip my cappuccino.

He bites his croissant watching me.

“I thought you said you hated having to talk to me in the morning.” He says, mouth full.

“A good morning is enough.”

“You can go ask Lewis Hamilton for a good morning because I’ll never give you one again.”

I keep eye contact and he does the same, none of us breaking it first. I hold it, he holds it longer. I feel warmth spread under my belly but I keep my cool.

“And yet you insist for me to be your PR lady.”

“Because you’re good at your job. Only.”

I gasp wide eyed and take my sunglasses off.

“Put them back on, you’re so ugly in the morning.” He smirks and sips his latte looking me in the eyes with a challenging stare.

I grit my teeth and look at him sternly deciding to not answer.

“Cat got your tongue?” He whispers before biting his croissant once again.

I stand and collect my things. “I forgot my laptop in my room. I’ll see you later.”

He just nods. I walk past him, headed to my room.

As soon as I am in my room i nervously try to collect myself. Why does it bother me that he can avoid me or even say I look ugly in the morning? He’s just a smart mouth and a good body.

I take a deep breath and drink some water.

A knock at my door. I open it and there he is, handing me the bag he brought to breakfast with him.

I take it looking at him skeptically and look inside the bag.

“You knew I had it, why would you tell me you were coming to your room to grab it?”

My eyes go wide when I rememeber I leant it to him to upload his pictures from the camera since his laptop was having problems.

“Were you inviting me over?” He asks low.

“I wasn’t.” I say fast.

“I swear I can shut up. If you let me in.” He promises.

“You can?”

He smirks and pretend to zip his mouth. His shoulder hits mine while he enters the bedroom.

“If you talk you’re out.” I tell him.

I close the door and put the laptop on the desk. He looks around and wants to say something but he doesn’t. I suppress a laugh.

“Have you ever shutten up for more than ten seconds or this is a first?”

He smirks looking at me and sits at the armchair next the floor to ceiling window. The Silverstone sky so grey and cloudy and foggy you can barely see the track.

“Oh so you can shut up for real.” I say amused.

He puts his big hands on the arms of the seat and looks at me.

“What?” I ask walking to him. “You’ll lose, you know that.”

He shakes his head slowly, a smirk on his lips.

“You will.” I say laughing. I turn and open a drawer. I take out a black bikini bottom and laughing devilishly I whisper “hands behind your back Danny.”

He immediately complies smiling, already understanding. He puts his wrists together at his back and leans his upper body forward to give me access. I tie his hands.

He leans back smiling and looking up at me.

“You look cute as a submissive little boy.” I tease him.

He smirks but gives me a daring look. He doesn’t like to be called a little boy and I do it often. Just to piss him off.

“Or what? You wanna talk?” I say taking my shirt off. “You talk, you’re out, remember.”

He smiles and spreads his thighs while sitting, getting more comfortable, his eyes eating my lacy black bra. He briefly closes his eyes and then opens them again. He opens his mouth to talk and then closes it again.

I laugh. “Almost got you.”

He shakes his head smiling.

I take off my shoes and slide my panties down from under my skirt.

He licks his lips while i make my lacy thong spin around my finger walking toward him. I straddle his hips and smiling i hang my panties at his ear. I laugh.

“Like the clown you are.” I tease.

He laughs and leans to kiss me but I pull away. “Uh uh. You don’t make rules here.” I whisper admonishing him.

I put my hands at my back, on his knees and start grinding my bare pussy to the front of his jeans. I can feel him already getting hard.

“You keep dreaming about this, yeah?” I breath hotly looking at him.

His eyes zero on my tits and then back at my face, a low groan coming out from his lungs. He nods.

I nod. “I know. You wanna stick that in but I never let you.” I grind my hips more, he buckles his hips up searching more friction.

I put a hand on his chest “No, little boy. I do the work here.”

He looks at me exasperated and narrows his eyes. “Shhh. You’ll love where this is going.”

He leans back at the armchair and looks at me while I stand and start undoing his jeans. I pull them down with his boxers, his thick hard cock bouncing on his lower abdomen.

I smirk and look at him in the eyes. He smirks back and wiggles his eyebrows.

“Do you have a condom?” I whisper.

His eyes go wide. He didn’t think. It’s written all over his face he wasn’t preparared, that he thought I’d tell him no so he left it in his room god knows in what zip of his suitcase.

He opens his mouth and then closes it again squeezing his eyes shut. Pain all over his face. I laugh.

“Never mind. I have one.” I smirk. I grab it from the drawer and tear the packet spitting the little piece at his face.

His face is priceless, a smile as broad as the brooklin bridge, his breath accelerated. It’s christimas in his brain.

I kneel between his legs.

I roll the condom on his hard veiny cock while looking at him with sexy eyes. He looks at me like I am the best thing he’s ever seen his entire life.

I stand up and whisper “you want me Daniel?”

He nods eagerly.

I take my panties from his ear and straddle him. “Pity you find me *ugly in the morning*.”

He shakes his head opening his mouth looking at me apologetically.

“Because it’s only 9 am love.” I say looking at the clock. “Still morning, still ugly.” Then I smile at him devilishly and blindfold him with my panties.

He furrows his eyebrows and I slowly sink on the head of his cock, my pussy lips stretching around it.

He lets out a moan and says in panic “No, fucking take this bandage off me!”

“No.” I moan grabbing his shoulders and taking him balls deep. “Shut up.”

“Fuck, (y/n)! Don’t do this to me, i wanna see!” He breathes desperately, his cock twitching. “I waited for so long I thought this was never gonna happen come on, let me look.”

I smirk and roll my hips. “You said you wou-“

“No! You won! Okay you won! Please!” He moans leaning blindly towards my face.

I smirk and cup his face kissing him slowly, moving my hips up and down in a slow pace. “Ssh. Be a good little boy.”

“Fuck! You’re never ugly for fuck’s sake, I was just teasing!”

“Next time think twice before talking.” I whisper into his ear.

“You’re paying for this.” He groans and slowly moves his hips. “Fucking hell this is heaven and hell at the same time.” He says husky and breathy.

“The right place for little boys like you.” I smirk and when he thrusts up harder i throw my head back. His mouth licks my throat and nibs it. “Minx. I’m sending you to Hamilton after this.” He groans.

I laugh. “So I can ri-“

In an instant i am up in the air, an arm of his around my waist and I squeal. His free hand takes my panties off his eyes and he gives me a glare while he walks us to the bed “You’re not riding any other cock.” He finishes my sentence and lowers me at the edge of the bed. He grabs my hips and looks down at where his cock disappears inside my pussy.

“Ohhh.” He says dreamy. “You almost took this away from me.” He whispers breathlessly pulling out until just the tips stays in before slamming back him.

I arch my back and moan grabbing the bedsheets.

“Holy mac and cheese balls.” He mutters.

He starts fucking me with purpose, every hard thrusts he looks between my face and our joined bodies. “Gosh I don’t wanna even race anymore.” He moans. He takes his hoodie off with his t shirt and his chest is on fire. “I want to start a porn agency with just you and me in it.”

“You’re all red.” I whisper laughing a little breathless.

He leans down to kiss me, his tongue stroking mine in my mouth.

“You’re making my blood boil.” He whispers back using a hand to circle my throat. He stands again and starts saueezing my throat while he fucks my pussy so hard and deep. I moan, loud. His other hand shut my mouth while he looks at me in the eyes.

My eyes roll back and i bend my knees, closing them in reflex to my orgasm. I come hard, all around him. He keeps thrusting in, his pace relentless. Then his hands grab my knees and spreads them. He pulls out and throws the condom away, coming on my belly and spasming pussy. He moans watching in a trance as his thick white cum drops in messy lines on my pale skin. He then sits on the carpet at the foot of the bed catching his breath. I laugh sitting up and looking down at him.

“What?” I hask breathlessly smiling.

He looks up at me, speechless.

I smirk and wink.

“Cat got your tongue, little boy?”

He smirks up at me. “I think i forgot to say something this morning.”

“Did you?”

He smirks. Then jumps on me in a fraction of a second shouting “BUONGIORNO!”

[retireddaddyric]

OnlyFans girl.

Synopsis: REQUESTED! (y/n) is in an arranged marriage with Daniel Ricciardo but she is falling for him.

Warnings: 18+, minors do not interact please. Arranged marriage, oral sex, age gap, smut, fluff.

Note: this is all fiction. English is not my first language. Not normally my cup of tea but I enjoyed writing it! Hope you do too!

Your heels click quickly on the floor as you follow your husband to the car. He’s in a dark suit, you’re still putting your earrings on.

Your tight white dress makes it hard to keep his pace.

“Shit, I forgot my purse!” You mutter.

He turns towards you rolling his eyes sighing loudly . “You’ll forget your head one day.”

But still he hands you the car keys and walks back into the house to grab your purse.

You sit in the passenger seat of his sport McLaren and look at him walk towards it with your purse in his hand.

He’s gorgeous. And he is fake.

He’s your husband but you didn’t choose each other, or better, you had no say in it.

“Your father will stress me out about us being late to the ceremony.” He says after handing you the purse and starting the car.

“It’s already enough you convinced me to come and see that asshole.”

“(Y/n).”

“Daniel.”

Yes, your dad is the reason you married Daniel.

Your father is an entrepreneur, and between all the things he owns, he owns half F1.

Daniel retired and wanted to expand his business.

Dad knows you’d throw it all away to travel the world and buy books to read if anything happened to him since you are just 20 years old. So he wanted you to be linked to a person he knows will keep his property and double it. And your dad had always loved Daniel like his own son, he was one of his drivers for years.

Daniel, on the other side, has reached his 35 years old and he believes love is just a phase that goes away after a couple of years so he agreed with expanding his business.

You are basically his business.

You obviously told your dad you didn’t want to get married yet but being rich has perks and he told you you could always get divorced at some point. The man himself has had four different weddings. You didn’t really understood what would happen to the F1 property at that point but he knows what he’s doing. You don’t.

They settled the whole prenup, you only signed it.

At the beginning it was so damn hard for you to pretend you were in love with him in front of cameras. Paparazzis were everywhere, he hugged you, you ended up scarlet red in the face on every gossip page.

But he is hot and it wasn’t hard at all to like him or get used to him.

Because above all he is fun and genuine. And kind.

“Your father is not an asshole, we already established this. He just cares about all the sweat and tears and blood he threw away during his life so he had to put you into this.”

“He cares about his property but not about his daughter.”

“I care about his daughter.” He laughs.

“You don’t.” You laugh too.

“Oh I do, she’s a pain in the ass and she can really piss me off but she is my wife and she’s sexy as hell in her white dress today.”

You roll your eyes but you’re having fun. Because that’s what you two always do, tease each other, even when you’re chilling on the couch watching Netflix, you always find a way to bother the other.

The gala is held in this big ass English mansion with large gardens and white painted columns. All the famous and rich people your father knows are drinking champagne and chatting under the sun in their best dresses and suits.

You walk with Daniel towards the crowd.

Your father sees you and immediately leaves his guests to come towards you.

“That dress is too tight you look like an OnlyFans girl instead of the heir of F1.” He says narrowing his eyes.

You cross your arms at your chest and whisper “I’m 20 not 40, I won’t dress like a prude for your guests.”

“Daniel tell her something, is she even wearing panties underneath it?”

Daniel nods looking at your ass for a moment then looks at your father.

“She is.”

You almost laugh.

“But yes you’re right about the OnlyFans because it’s one of the sponsors coming to F1 and we’re kinda starting a partnership..” he explains.

“Oh I didn’t know..” your father says surprised.

“Yeah, that’s why I told her to wear this dress.” He admits.

What? He didn’t even know what you would wear. His request was one and one only but let’s go ahead.

Your father nods and pats daniel on the shoulder a couple of times.

“Keep her in line.”

“Yes sir.”

When your dad leaves you look up at him and he winks.

After saying hi to people you both know you leave him talking to some blonde hot journalist and you go fill your glass of champagne. While you’re in line you see her getting closer to him and you get it: she’s flirting. He smiles at her, puts his arm at the wall near him and answers to her smirking.

You look at the scene: no matter how many times you have him between your legs in your bed, this is what you wish you had. Something real.

The spark, the flame.. the love.

The waiter gives you the glass and you see Daniel typing on her phone: did he give her his number? Is he.. fucking around?

You sip your wine and shake your head. Despite the little turmoil you feel inside your guts you know you two never settled boundaries. You had decided to have sex together because you’re both freaks and find each other good looking but you never draw a line that said ‘us only’.

You were fake.

A familiar face says hi approaching, an old friend of your step sister, you force a smile and walk away drinking. You hate all this, you would have never come if it wasn’t for Daniel. He insists on respecting your father, you just feel disappointment.

You walk inside the old mansion and look around: there are old paintings, beautiful large windows, tables fulls of porcelains, old arms hanging on walls.

The rooms are big, they smell of vintage and couch velvet.

You lean against a door frame and look at the great library that holds thousands of books.

“In your natural environment.” Daniel’s whispers behind you making you jump for a moment.

“You scared me!” You tell him taking a step back. “Are you done flirting?”

He smirks “You want a divorce?”

“Do you?”

His arms circle your waist and his hand squeezes your ass. “Not yet.” He says hotly in your ear brushing his lips to your skin.

He kisses your neck and you breathe a little harder.

“She was hot tho.” You tell him

“Yeah..”

“You like blondes?”

“Mh..” he kisses your shoulder blade.

“Is that a yes?”

“Mh.” He bites your shoulder lightly.

“I wanna devour you.”

You roll your eyes. “Daniel I am asking you questions.” He shakes his head and picks you up sitting you up on a table.

His hands lift your dress up your thighs and he smirks.

“My OnlyFans wife knows I don’t like blondes or brunettes I just love her sweet tight pussy.” He smirks and kisses you while he cups your bare pussy.

He smirks “your father was right you’re not wearing panties.”

He kneels while you laugh and say “Because my husband asked me not to.”

“You’re too good for your husband.”

And he hides his face between your legs, the soft mop of his curls peeking from under your silk white dress. You moan softly feeling his tongue swirling all around your folds and lapping inside. “In fact he just gave his number to a hot journalist.” You say breathlessly.

He looks up at you smiling with his eyes while he sucks your clit.

“Is my wife jealous?” He whispers against your sensitive skin.

“No she has no right to be.” You say rolling your eyes.

“She has every right if the thinks I gave her my number.” He licks your clit.

“You didn’t?” You ask hopeful, your legs shaking.

“You think I did?”

“I think you did!”

He grabs your thighs and puts them over his shoulders opening you up to him wide. He sinks his whole face in your wet pussy, you moan. His nose stimulates your clit while his tongue strokes you inside. He looks up at you and when you are about to come he pulls away.

“Daniel!” You scold him squeezing your legs together, your orgasm hitting just when nothing’s inside to help you calm your spasms. You put a hand on your mouth and throw your head back bending your shaking knees and rising them to your chest.

He looks down at you and rests his hands at the sides of the table.

“Next time think twice before saying bullshit.” He says serious.

You furrow your eyebrows propping yourself on your elbows and look at him still panting.

“Are you angry?”

“I am disappointed.”

“I should be the one disappointed, my fake husband is flirting around the gala.”

He sighs and pulls away from the table. He takes his phone out of his jacket and when the screen lights up you see his face still wet. You blush and sit up.

He taps something and then shows you his phone.

It’s a booked travel.

“Mr and Mrs Ricciardo: Grand tour of Malaysia for 2 from February 14th to March 1st.”

You gasp and look at him.

“I was showing her I have something going on on Valentine’s day already.” He says pulling his phone back into his jacket. “You said you wanted to go somewhere with a beach for a couple of days and I wanted to go with you.”

He adjusts your dress then cups your face and kisses you softly. “And I am not your fake husband. You’re tied to me for real.”

He looks into your eyes, his brown ones big. “Are you planning on divorcing?” He asks.

You hug him at his neck and whisper on his lips “Not yet.”

He smiles and picks you up in his arms.

Not yet. And, you don’t know it yet, but not ever.

Because on the 1st of March, after dropping on one knee on a beach in the Indian Ocean, Daniel will ask you to marry him again.

And you will happily say yes.