yourlocalsmutwriter

[yourlocalsmutwriter]

hey mara! i’m the sildenafil(lling you) anon and just came by to tell you i adored the whole piece! what a deliver!!! just as awesome as your other works and i loved it very much. thanks 🫶🏼

Anon, you're so kind, love to see you in my inbox repeatedly (even though I let this one just chill there for more than a month, but you'll see why soon). Anyway, don't be afraid to come back, claim an emoji, and have fun. Here's a little something for your patronage.

Ring him, I barely even know him - Fernando Alonso x reader

Who knew that the answer to your problems was a simple PO box? Of course this was better for you and Fernando. For one, you didn't accidentally give him Viagra anymore (nor did he need it on purpose, it seemed). Despite his 43 years, he did have the libido of a 23 year old. And surprisingly, the bedroom habits of one. Fernando did believe in foreplay, but it was rarely something else. He was a busy man, who didn't really have the time to press your back to his chest and dip his fingers between your legs, teasing and touching and giving you orgasm after orgasm. He didn't spend his free hours between your legs, tongue against your cunt. He prepped you, with impressive speed, making you cum for him and immediately he was getting a condom on and fucking you. His pace was horrendous. Fast, chasing, needing. He knew the roughness was often enough to get you off. He saw your eyes glaze over when he used you for his pleasure. Once he called you "his pretty little cocksleeve" and you moaned so raw, he sped up his pace. So sex with Fernando was usually a quick needy romp. A stress relief, an itch that needed to be scratched. And you liked that, you really did, but sometimes you just wanted a little more. To relax in front of the TV, his cock buried inside of you. To ride him, without him gripping your hips and setting his own rhythm. To use a toy on him, see how he falls apart for some plastic vibrating gadget. And that's how number inversion saved your life.

The delivery guy was new. Didn't know he had to double-check the boxes. Preferred to rely on his audio memory. Instead of 41, he assumed he needed to cram it in at 14. Fernando's. So that's what he did. You didn't question the notification on your phone for a new package. It was summer break, Nando was home, and you somehow were there too. You had told him it was to be a tourist, but secretly, you were very curious to see where he'd grown up, all the people that admired him. So you had no problem going to the PO box and getting whatever he had ordered. The package was not inconspicuous. It literally had sex toys illustrated on it, and the name "hotsexytoys.es" emblazoned on it. Terrible for SEO, you think, when you wriggle out the small box. You know it's gonna fit in your purse. But you don't even wanna look at it, so you rip the cardboard right there, not even looking at the name. You're left with a small black drawstring bag. You're curious, but you don't open it. You waltz in and just say, "This came in for you," to Fernando, watching him eye the thing suspiciously. He opens it and pulls out a cockring, but he's poking and proding at it as if he doesn't know what it is. It dawns on you that he really has no idea and you facepalm at the odds. How could this happen twice? In the span of a few months. "I'll just go ahead and throw it away." You sigh, not wanting to get into it more. But your boss? Boyfriend? Weird situationship doesn't seem to want that.

"Let's not be too hasty. Let's see, it might be fun." Fernando expects it to do something like vibrate. Make him feel good and all. But the eagerness you have to slip it on him is unsettling at best. It's actually silicone and twisty, looking like those hair ties with the coils. When you slip it past him, past the base, and you cup his balls, he knows he's in trouble. The painful hardness almost brings him deja vu. He ruts against your body, still fully clothed against his naked one. Oh, how the turntables.

You don't even bother trying to prep in the traditional way. You just smear lube on him, liking how he's twitching for more. Then you sink down, slowly. It's so intense. The eye contact Fernando holds with you, eyes between brown and hazel. Your hands against his neck, where the tattoo is now more visible. His mustache, and its rough scratch against your neck. You don't even more for a bit, just getting used to him. Fernando does his thing, thrusting up into you again and again, yet he isn't feeling it. That little spark of nearing something. Meanwhile, you're on top of the word. When you go slow, you can feel all of him. Every vein, every centimeter, you swear you can feel the blood circulating through him. You wonder if you can cum just like this, and you probably can. But you're keen on giving him a taste of his own medicine. Of the hard and fast fuck, as if you were running out of time.

You know you can't last long in the position you're gonna try. You know you'll need to let up fast, to watch his cock pop out of you, that both of you will let out the same frustrated grunt when that happens. But it doesn't matter. You'll feel him deeper. So you lift up and place the soles of your feet flat against the mattress. You squat on him for a lack of a better word, and you try to bounce. It's not perfect, but it will do. You're close, and you move from resting your arms against the wall to the headboard, folding yourself against Fernando. You're whining against his ear, telling him how good he feels inside of you, how much you need him. You're reassuring him that you know how he feels, how you'll let him have his soon enough.

Sweaty from the summer heat, you fall apart on top of him, still and silent as you squeeze against him. In your post-orgasm haze, you pity him. You reach down and take off the cock ring. You let Fernando flip you over, utter a "Please fuck me again," to ruin you. And he does.

[yourlocalsmutwriter]

inbox request (:

If I had a nickel for every time I wrote a completely new and unhinged au for you instead of finishing my wips, I'd have 4 nickels, my sweet 🦇. Anyway, this is an incentive for you to watch yellowjackets.

There was no crying in college football. Even when your plane crashed in the middle of the wilderness. But let's not get ahead of ourselves shall we. Why are we blowing the whistle for halftime when the proverbial coin toss hasn't happened yet. College football (or soccer if you're American) wasn’t necessary your dream. You had grown up with other extra circulars. Surrounded by softness, girlishness, class. Not chasing a ball like a pack of feral dogs. Not rolling around on the grass, staining your meticulously white Lazy Oaf socks. You hated them anyway, so you didn't mind a bit of dirt on the embroided eyes. But your obsession started suddenly, one night. You'd fall asleep after watching your little crime shows on mute. And at 3.33 you woke up, at least that's what your barbie led clock said. After going to the bathroom you look at the TV still on, the college football game somehow being broadcast on the TV. It's not a player that catches your eye. Not a pretty sports kit. It's the coach. The man looks to be in his 30s, his eyes a blue- green, gray mix (when you saw him in person, more than a decade later, they're even more striking and your TV quality is deemed into question mentally). It's everything, his long brown hair, the whisps of facial hair, how he was lean, but still a little soft and round. You looked the team up the next morning, and the coach. Wondered how a man named Fenriz was coaching a football team in California. Normal people would discount it as a little childhood crush. Who hadn't fallen for a teacher or an older family friend? But this was different. You wanted to impress this man. To show him what you've got. To prove your grit. It was kill or be killed, hunt or be the hunted. And you would become a butcher and prey all the same. Your first conversation is about missing snow. And now it's crushing under your foot as you attempt a mad dash to escape him and the hunger that takes over you both.

[yourlocalsmutwriter]

Dieter Bravo was 3 things. A former karting kid, before all the acting expenses came piling up. He was fast, sure, but most of all, he was smart. He could feel what was wrong with the car immediately. Dieter stopped racing, but he was always around the garage, being a mechanic and engineer for the kids younger than him. Second, not yet a team principle, but he played one on the silver screen. The F1 movie made him remember all the thrills of going racing. And spending so much time on the grid made him learn a lot and got him some connections. And third of all, filthy rich thanks to a liability lawsuit for Cliff Beasts 6 and some "original paintings" he sold. So he buys some stocks in the Cadillac F1 Team, and by the time you're a rookie gone through the lower Formulas, you have

Team Principal! Dieter Bravo, who poached you from being a Haas reserve driver, impressed with some of your free practice sessions

Team Principal! Dieter Bravo, who tries to get you the sponsors that matter to you, the ones that make sense. He always has pitch decks for you for the new ones, making you laugh with his dramatic flare

Team Principal! Dieter Bravo, who shows you off to ultra rich movie directors, ad executives, everyone who he knows and had money.

Team Principal! Dieter Bravo, who gets into fights with the other principles over podiums and penalties. He's not one to back down, especially with your word and the data behind it. Not to mention the media vultures, D always shuts them down for you.

Team Principal! Dieter Bravo, who makes Drive to Survive hot again. So many of his fans also become your fans, and you've gone viral for talking about how supportive he is and how he's helping your career.

Team Principal! Dieter Bravo, who didn't mean to get attracted to you, he really didn't. He doesn't do anything about it all season, but after your rookie year is over, you seek him out. So on a fucking leap year, on February 29th, you're begging Dieter to ride him before you begin pre-season testing and your back starts hurting.

Team Principal! Dieter Bravo, who eats you out for hours after every podium. He swears he can taste the champagne on your skin under the fireproofs, even though that's impossible

Team Principal! Dieter Bravo, who loves it when you thank him on the radio after a win. He makes you repeat it, ad naseum when he's fucking you, thank you Mr. Bravo bouncing off the hotel walls

Team Principal! Dieter Bravo, who always gets a laugh at the posts that claim he views you as a daughter and emphasize on the age gap. Make daddy proud out there and he might make you cum tonight is what he's taken to say to you in the drivers room just before you start your quali laps

[yourlocalsmutwriter]

Your friend decided to go for a more adventurous bachelor's thesis. They decided to analyze parasocial relationship between subscribers and OF creators. But they were getting overwhelmed by the sheer amount of information and well the incels. So you go to help them out, taking on their interview with

OnlyFans model! Zhou Guanyu, who is very excited to talk about his job, to clear up some misconception with this research. He gets so smiley talking about building up his brand and getting subscribers that you forget exactly what he does

OnlyFans model! Zhou Guanyu, who tells you how freeing this is, the faceless content, none of the pressure and the slander of the world of motorsport

OnlyFans model! Zhou Guanyu, who always poses and talks with such elegance you can tell why people are drawn to him. He's funny, but measured, never overstepping. You secretly play the transcript of your interviews a few more times

OnlyFans model! Zhou Guanyu loves to send you his free sfw videos. He's gaming? You're watching that. Ranking music and making playlists? You're tuned in, using it as background noise

OnlyFans model! Zhou Guanyu talks to you a lot, it's been so long since no one judged him for doing what he does. So it's only natural that he asks you out

OnlyFans model! Zhou Guanyu, who has the biggest praise kink. Needs you to tell him that he's doing good, that he's your pretty boy, that he ruins you when you fuck

OnlyFans model! Zhou Guanyu likes to spoil you rotten. He works hard for his money, is accustomed to fine things. So you get princess treatment all the time

OnlyFans model! Zhou Guanyu loves to learn new things from his viewers. A new position that apparently makes you squirt? Time to try it. Aphrodisiac chocolates that actually work? In the cart already

OnlyFans model! Zhou Guanyu gets encouraged by you to dress up and "play" different characters. You love the nerdy, easily flustered gamer boy persona (even when he stroked his cock with the paw glove thing), but your favorite is the mechanic. Greasy Zhou with his hair slicked back did something to you and you had to beg for him to not change out of the suit while you ride him

[yourlocalsmutwriter]

bring back old man from purgatory hes had enough vacation time in there

🦇 anon, I have 6 percent battery left, and it's being used on this, also **** **** **** ** ****** ******** * ****** **** ******* ** ****, anyway

So, no one told you about the black ice on the hiking trail. You figured it would be no biggie, you've been in colder places that Koboltn. You had enough water, protein bars. Pretty pink leggings with thermal isolation you thrifted. Which were currently soaked in blood. So it wasn't "bone sticking out, cartoonishly bad" kind of broken leg. But it was definitely "Oh, I'm fucked, I can't walk and I didn't bother to check if the local hospital takes my health insurance" bad. And then he came out, like a knight in shining armor, Fenriz. You didn't question why the old man could fashion a belt into a tourniquet at record speed. You just brace yourself for the pain as he helps lift you, manicured nails digging into his leather jacket. If you weren't busy cursing out everything in the vicinity, you would've noticed how one of his hands was way lower than it should be, resting against your pantyline. You also would've seen that he wasn't going up, he seemed to appear out of nowhere, even though you didn't see any footsteps earlier.

Fenriz can support you to his house. He says he can't drive you to the hospital. Had been drinking too much and actually was on a "getting sober" walk. But he's got something that'll fix you right up. The good painkillers, from before you were born, when you could bypass FDA regulations easier. He places the tablet on your tongue and grips a thermos with one hand, motioning for you to drink. He's holding it obscenely, thick bottle between his legs, nozzle for you to suck on. You have no choice, and you wrap your lips around it, gulping it down and swallowing thickly. Better entertain him, you guess. He's just a little buzzed, everyone gets a bit like this under the influence.

Your eyelids get heavy, and you slur that you hope you're not gonna throw up from the meds. Fenriz assures you that it will be fine, helping you hobble into bed. You can hazily make out the tv and the opening credits for Stephen King's "Misery" before you realize you're completely and utterly fucked.

[yourlocalsmutwriter]

Thx you so much for ken!isack 🫶🫶 you wrote him so good!!

Oh my god, thank you so much, I'm so glad you like it. It means so much 💖

[yourlocalsmutwriter]

Mr. Beerastri and the bad shoot day - Creative director! Oscar Piastri x reader

cw: semi- public, road head, object insertion, more specifically creative use of a beer bottle, jealous! Oscar

The words "Satchi and Satchi can suck it" would come back to bite Oscar Jack Piastri in the ass sooner than he imagined. The Heineken 0 percent beer commercial with Max Verstappen was coveted. It was a sure win for an agency. And he got it. Oscar knew that Formula 1 fans were big consumers. He'd seen the Tiktoks, run the numbers. Hell, he even had a throwaway just to look at the competition and support McLaren on the grid. Hopefully, Lando Norris appreciated the extra like from user123456789. But Oscar also knew you had to impress the fandom. Give them something new. Different. Clever. Something they'd relate to.

Another thing Oscar knew was how excited you were about the thing. Honestly, he'd never hear you scream so loud, well bar that one time you were doing copy for Leelo, and they had graciously sent over a box of toys for the office. No one noticed how the vibrator you were most impressed by swiftly disappeared by the end of the work day. No one questioned Oscar, saying he'd drop you off at the bus stop with his car, after all he gave almost everyone the occasional lift here. None of Oscar's neighbors filed noise complaints miraculously. Even when he made you cum as many times as you had caption variants for him to check. When you looked at the billboards you still remembered the buzz of the toy against your clit as your creative director was eating you out, telling you how you've got one more in you, how Mr. Piastri hasn't even fucked you properly yet, won't you be a nice intern and let your boss slide his dick inside your perfect pussy. Safe to say that story did not make it to the debrief or the little Instagram post announcing the campaign. Oscar liked to joke that the things you said should be left as reviews, and you nearly chucked the thing at his head, still buzzing.

This was nothing like that time. Mr. Piastri could sense it in the air. Sure, he had taken the celebration blowjob. You were all over him, naturally. He swears you would ride him on the desk if you could, making him move the Flexispot to just where your hips meet. But you behave until you're out of sight, until you've already left his car, went home and texted him. And suddenly, Oscar's conveniently parked up behind your place. Road head doesn't really lose his novelty when if you do it every other week. There's something about the thrill. The fact that Oscar's windows are just tinted enough to not get him into legal trouble. That it's hot enough for him to open the windows, that you have to still every time his overpriced radio jams when there's no signal. Oscar hasn't even peeled out of his parking spot when you undo his zipper. He's aware that he looks like a lunatic, talking to you about the pitch, as you're tracing the veins on his cock with your tongue.

"And they liked your idea too, Max laughed at the mock TikTok we had to film." He says, as you take him deeper.

"We're still gonna have to iron out some little bits and bobs about the script." Your hand is wrapped against the rest of his length, gripping him just right.

"I'm having the senior editor look at it first, but you can definitely help them out." Up you go, tongue teasing his tip, fist following the movements of your mouth. God, you even researched how to give blowjobs. He remembers the first time you tried it, you were nervous and inexperienced, probably just a few annoying college dudes under your belt. Well, you were under their belt, more accurately. And look at you now, sucking him off and enjoying yourself.

He thanks the worst rush hour traffic of his life for allowing you to just be there. Lapping at him. He saves the good news for last. Rambles on about the meeting as a whole, what it means. Yadda yadda, timeline stuff. Potential awards. Then he "lets it slip" that he's taking you to set on shoot day. Educational purposes and all. Oscar doesn't remember teaching you how to deep throat him, how to take all of his cock and be a choking, drooling mess on it. He wonders if you practiced on the dildo you have and hide from him. He can picture you, late at night, while he can't be with you, in front of a mirror. Did you learn from an article or a video just for him. The way you look at him is what drives him over the edge. That one is all you, not "borrowed knowledge." It's the same look you give him while he's explaining something in front of everyone. Sheer admiration. And this time it gets you a mouthful of jizz. Oscar gives you a breather. He's kind, as if he wasn't just fucking the last bits of his cum down your throat. Telling you how good you were. Stroking your hair, your jaw. Promising you your favorite takeout as a "pallette cleanser." It all fits, with the domestic bliss you get sucked in when you enter his apartment. There's your stuff here, a toothbrush, some clothes, a replica of an expensive perfume that he secretly swapped with the real thing. Here, you can curl up around him, hold hands, kiss, whisper all the filthy thoughts that you had about each other during the day. He wishes it was like this forever.

The cruel reality of a workday reminds him it can't be. They tick on and on. Mundane, the same. It's so busy in the summer, all the clients waking up from hibernation, it seems. Your deadline is looming closer, and none of you say anything about it. He knows he's got the junior salary in the budget for you, he drafted a contract right after your first major project. He can't rush yet.

The couple of weeks "apart" are annoying. Oscar makes everyone, but you late for work one day because you sent him an audio of you getting off in the middle of the night. He has to listen to it over and over again in the morning as he lazily tugs on his cock. The calls from work slow him down, but don't stop him. Hair still damp from the shower, and late to every pick-up point, he bribes them with a shorter workday. Thank fuck his McLaren is flashy enough for people to know that he is someone and to let him through. To be fair, he was famous in the advertising industry. Any resemblance to other celebrities was purely fictional.

Even when he did karting non-stop as a kid, Oscar didn't really wanna be an F1 driver. It was impractical. Far away from his calm nature. But now, on set, he craved nothing more. Just so he could put Max Verstappen in the wall with his car. The Dutchman was polite. Brief. Professional. He valued his time. But as soon as you stepped in, he was James Hunt. Sebastian Vettel with journalists. Fernando Alonso, in that one picture with the blonde girl. You know the one. Oscar knows what Max is thinking. That you're a nice little intern, easily impressed. It was your eyes, how you watched starstruck next to Oscar. While the creative director was rapidly making notes in his head, he could hear you say a very quiet wow. They do so many takes of the same swig of beer, refilling the bottle with water between takes that it's undrinkable, the driver complains. He asks you to get a new one, and instead of holding your ground and telling him that's not your job, you do. Max watches your legs as you practically run. Touches your fingers just too long when he takes it. Adds a "schatje" at the end of his thank you. Oscar imagines his production chair as a cuckchair. He wants to wrap up. No, he needs to take you over his lap and spank you until you're red and begging for his cock. He just settles on being what the 3rd party agreement from your uni describes him as a company coach. So he pushes down the jealousy and instead goes in Oscarexplain mode. Telling you about the importance of visualization and reverse engineering and all that. Reminding you to note even the smallest things from this for the future. Keeping your eyes on him and not the 4 time world champion.

You would think the last take would be the end of this. But Max takes down your Instagram, for bts on the agency or some bullshit. Oscar can't watch this. He goes to the fridge and pulls out a beer. 0 percent, a nul punt nulletje as the Dutchman called it. Whatever the fuck that is. He pats his pockets for his keys and remembers how you got him a bottle opener keychain. You loved gifting the little trinkets to him so much that there was no space anymore. That's why the anvill bottle opener was on his car keys. Oscar still drove you here, to the lot super far from anything else. Including public transport that didn't even run. You're still fawning over Max when he has to step in. Your boss reminds you about the commute back, how he still has to drop you off, how it's a shame you live so far from him too. You smile one last time at Max, and you're following Oscar back to the car.

Oscar drums against the ice cold bottle. He knows that it's safe to drive if he drinks it. That's the whole point of the campaign. But his brain isn't letting him. So he just sets it aside as you get in and offers it to you. You take it with no qualms, wrapping your lips around it. His mind thinks of you doing the same to Verstappen's dick and the car swerves. Not very "passed my license from the first try" of him. Oscar looks at you first, but you're okay, just a bit of the beer spilled on your chest. He does the math in his head, how you're still so far off from anything but industrial zones and film crews.

"Let's get you cleaned up, shall we?" He asks as he parks, and you expect him to pull out a tissue box from somewhere. But he just unbuckles his seat belt and moves towards you, lips attaching themselves to your chest, catching the sticky drops. First alcohol free beer that he tasted and liked, he thinks. The straps of your dress are down, and you're dangerously close being completely topless, exposed.

"Finish your beer and get in the backseat." He commands, like he tells you that you have a typo in your copy. Oscar gets a glimpse of college you, the you he could've met if he didn't start school early and complete the ridiculous fast track programs for reduced room and board. If he didn't chase every scholarship, he would have seen you at a party. Head back, eyes closed, throat moving as you chug. You place the bottle at your feet and get out, pretending not to look at Oscar as he grabs it, as he opens the little thing in the car and gets out a pack of condoms.

Oscar gets in and neatly sets them next to you. He trails a hand up your thigh and says, "Spread," and you do. He's between your legs, nose against your clit, and just about who you think he's gonna taste you, he just moves your underwear to the side and he spits.

"Not a good lubricant, and you know it." You quip from above. That earns your pussy a smack and a thought that they don't pay you enough for what the bill will be when you soak the McLaren seats. Oscar watches you, as he opens a condom and rolls it on the beer bottle, the whole thing looking obscene and laughable. Safe driving indeed, he thinks and in his mind there's a whole campaign forming already, Magnum and Heineken colabs flying off the shelf.

"Do you know why I'm doing this." He asks as he slowly presses the neck of the bottle against your opening. He has to wonder if there's enough lube on the condom for this to not hurt, to feel good instead. Usually he'd make you cum first, have you wet and needy for him, before any penetration. It felt good for you, it felt good for him, and not to brag, bit it also didn't take long. And now, this.

"I don't, please tell me, Mr. Piastri." You say as he notches the bottle inside you. It's a slight sting, unfamiliar, but you take it.

"What were you doing with Verstappen earlier." He asks as he searches for a rhythm. It's harder when he can't feel you, doesn't know whether you're squeezing or not.

"Talking." You say, breath labored. Oscar's doing something different at every thrust. Making you wetter, now it's easier to take the whole thing. He takes it out, tracing the rim of it against your clit, up and down. Your leg shakes, the barest twitch, but it's enough to tell him everything.

"No, you were flirting. When you know that I couldn't do anything about it. When you know you're only mine." He says, sliding the bottle back inside of you, this time with more ease. Of course he even figured that out, how to fuck you with an inanimate object. And fuck you well, judging by the sounds you were making.

"That's not true, I never wanted him. I need you, I belong to you." You groan out.

"It's not enough to tell me, sweetheart. You gotta show me. Gotta take anything I give you, okay." He clarifies. You nod and it's enough for him. Last time he made you "use your words" you reminded him that more than 90 percent of communication is nonverbal. He stopped fucking you every time you moaned that night, edging you until you had a completely silent orgasm. Oscar might not have looked it, but he did like punishments. That's why he pushes the bottle from the bottom, palm against it as he rubs your clit. It's too much, makes you too sensitive, but he doesn't stop, doesn't slow down. Your cunt sings to him, the plap plap plap of your wetness against the glass. Soon enough you're cumming, and Oscar doesn't let up just yet. He fucks you through it.

Oscar keeps the bottle. It's not exactly a souvenir, he's way too experienced to be sentimental. But as something, a reminder for you. Because every time you look at his desk, it's there. Showing you just who you belong to.

[yourlocalsmutwriter]

She's everything, lui c'est juste Ken - Ken! Isack Hadjar x reader

a.n: Ken! Isack is an idea that @mylittleteddybear had, you can check out their blog for more headcanons and send in asks. I'm just taking Ken! Isack out for a spin because sending in my thoughts to their inbox wasn't enough.

You didn't think anyone past the age of 18 babysat professionally. Most of your colleagues were younger than you, needing pocket money or keeping up with their savings. They'd certainly need it because college life added up. You knew from experience. The food, especially the guilty pleasure kebabs with extra sauce Algerienne. The inevitable decoration item to make your space new. When you added in your F1 TV subscription to the mix, you were one broken washing machine from going into bankruptcy. So you had to find a job that suited your somewhat chaotic schedule. That's how you ended up babysitting the sweetest boy. On his parents' date nights, on weekends, you were getting paid. Not having to deal with snarky customers or the hassle of cleaning trays in a busy restaurant was bliss. You genuinely enjoyed it - from playing to learning to even the nonsense conversations. Who was Tung Tung Suhoor, and what was a chicken jockey? Even with not getting some things, you had it under control. Inside, outside, you were a pro. You even managed to rope in the kid into your love for motorsports. He loved the sound of the engines, and the races seemed to occupy him for hours. So, on weekends, you had a newly discovered supply of relaxing time and a buddy to watch F1 with. Plus, it was fun to have to regulate your language, too. The ammont of "sugar" and "fudge" being said could rival a Carlos Sainz cooking video. It's sweet, really, seeing the kid enjoy it. Last time, he even showed you a toy he got from his parents, a driver Ken. He dashes off to his room to play with it, not letting you touch the doll yet. He slowly introduces it to you, as if it's a kitten and you're the geriatric Labrador. Right now, you're at the stage where you watch him play with it, turning his living room floor into a personal Monaco.

Since 9 is bedtime, at 9.01, you're already on the couch, phone in hand, calling your best friend. You leave it on the table, grateful for the good mic on your wireless headphones. You're picking up toys and sorting them, from where they lay discarded on the floor, mid conversation. You get a bit distracted with the new driver doll. The craftsmanship is so good. You wonder if they did this with the Barbies of your time. Well, the Ken's, actually. You can see they tried to go for curls, brown eyes, taned skin, and even moles. His race suit was a shocking magenta pink, the number 6 decorating the back of it. Once, you almost went into a 2 hour rant about Brocedes on the kid because he asked about the number. You're guessing it's a pure coincidence, and the Ken isn't inspired by Nico Rosberg. You go back to your conversation, absent-mindedly still carrying the doll. Emotional support? More accurately, you didn't know where to put it since the car part of it was in the kid's room. But you'd worry about later. Right now, in this grown-up conversation, the topic was your love life and lack thereof.

You can't help it, really. Most of your friends have long-term partners. Or some prospects on the apps. You're lost. Still a bit reeling from your last breakup, an ill advised decision. At least you'd given up on that person. Yet still, on the phone, you said, "It's not like I actually miss him, you know. But a zgeg is a zgeg." Slipping into Frenglish isn't easy, but it's a need. You don't want a little boy to sneak up on you as you're in the middle of asking to be dicked down. Or his parents, for that matter. So you stuck to your French, albeit sometimes producing strange sentences. But an actual fluent person would get the gist, wouldn't they.

One certainly did. In Barbieland, Isack Hadjar's head was buzzing. It was strange, almost as if he was in the cockpit, with his engineer in his ear. That's how clearly he could hear whatever this is. But it was late at night on a weekday. And the voice was talking about men. How you wanted one to take you out, buy you flowers. Celebrate Valentine's Day with you. Make you feel special. Isack was immediately imagining doing these things with a person, how nice it would feel. He was giddy, besides himself. Is that what the other driver Kens felt when they were with their model Barbies? He didn't mind it, the bit of distraction. This wasn't necessarily the "butterflies in your stomach" feeling he was expecting. But it was good. And then came the filth. In French, nonetheless, the words sounded much more sexual to him. The voice said she needed to suck a cock, that she missed the feeling. That her pussy was always wet from the smallest thing, how her fingers barely did the job anymore. How she has to be stuffed by a cock soon, and cry and beg to cum. Isack flushes all over. He's hot and red and for some reason, his niplles are hard. He knows he can't give the voice what it wants. He doesn't even have a dick, none of them do. Still, he ruts against a pillow, the soft fabric feeling good against the smooth area. And for a moment he swears he can feel a phantom cock there, thick and heavy, ready to be in your wet cunt. In about an hour, the voice is gone. And while Isack doesn't feel everything so intensely anymore, it's still there. And it's fucking distracting.

For a few days, it's all driving. At night, there's quiet, so Isack goes to bed early and rises early too. Then, in between the driving, there's a sudden stop. He hears his engineer yell out a name and then the voice is back, clear and airy. You apologize for not being around, something about exams. Then his engineer says "I'm sick of just racing with Isack, can we play house with him?"

The driver is confused. The voice is, too. There is no Barbie around. Then the engineer suggests you're the doll, and you have no choice but to agree. You slip your huge hand against his, and somehow, he can feel it. You call him your husband, and he groans. You kiss his cheek, real lips against the plastic. You even leave a bit of lip gloss behind, which you then meticulously try to scrub off. It's almost a success, but a bit remains, permanently staining Isack's cheek pink. Then you mention that you might have kids with him, and he goes feral. Some of the other Kens, those that have been around longer, whispered stories about how babies are made. And some of it sounded really similar to what the voice was talking about some time ago. There was that feeling again, the lust he couldn't satiate.

Babysitting turns into house sitting for a week, in the middle of summer. You get it, kindergardens are closed, you're off from uni, it's a perfect match. You don't mind watering some plans and keeping up the illusion that someone is living in the house, lights flipped on in the evening, and all that. Their holiday starts on a Friday, so you're already settled on the couch, watching the free practice session in Austria. For some reason, the driver Ken doll was left behind. The car part was bulky, you reason a very well-made replica of an F1 car. You decide to place them both next to the TV, for ambiance. It kinda gives the whole thing an aesthetic, you suppose. The free practice session is eventful. Weather delays, red flags. Even with the timer going, it feels longer than it actually is. After it's done, you channel surf, looking for something to watch. Nothing is compelling. You don't feel like reading too, so you just make up your mind to sleep. But it won't come. You toss and turn on the couch, fluffing up your pillow, alternating between covers or no covers. You have to resort to your usual cure for insomnia. And you really don't want to. But you have no choice. You Chromecast the nsfw video on the TV, volume barely distinguishable. And you slide your hand between your legs.

Isack is asleep. It's Friday night, there's qualifying tomorrow. And then a moan echoes through his mind, clear as day. It's you, the voice, whatever. He knows it, the little swears you mumble under your breath, give it away. "Putain, oui." You say, as you circle your clit. You're breathy, rushing, but you can't finish yet. Isack has to listen to you pant, gasp, beg for more. Please, you say into the void, asking anyone to let you come. But the only one there is you. You're teasing yourself, unintentionally. Stopping to change the video. Groaning in frustration when you can't find what you want. Isack can hear how wet you are, how you get even wetter when you keep rubbing yourself. He's feeling it again, the faux hardness. And it doesn't go away. It's too much. You finally settle on something. Your moans are breathier, quicker, more desperate. You plead again to no one and you're coming, fingers and underwear slick with release. And then the wifi goes off.

You curse, wanting to get the lewd video off the TV. You feel around blindly, with your dominant hand. The one that's still covered in your own cum. You brush past the doll, sticky fingers touching its face. You think nothing of it as you get the modem and restart it. Crisis averted.

Isack can particularly taste you. He can feel it, can feel you on his face. And it drives him insane.

It fucks up his qualifying. He can't focus. He manages to hold on to his streak of never being out in Q1. But the other Kens are just faster. Better. Less distracted. So Isack has to fix this. Immediately. He's starting in P12. He has less than 24 hours to find you, and what exactly he doesn't know yet.

Isack knows the way to the real world. He remembers the time when Stereotypical Ken went there and returned, things got weird. He did like the fur coat, though, and some aspects of the Mojo Dojo Casa House. The car is his F1 car, and it's fast. So is the boat, bike. He's got the balance as a driver to ride the rocket, even the rollerskates. He makes it just in a few hours, and it's still light out, the summer heat weighing on his race suit. People stop him trying to take pictures.

No one really knows how he finds you. He just does and rings the doorbell. You're none the wiser, guessing it's a delivery person. You recognize him, even without having to see the 6 on the back. It's the driver doll, somehow coming to life. You remember the news reports about the chaos in LA with the women who believed she was Barbie, some conspiracy theories about Mattel employees and all. So you invite him in, half - convinced someone is playing a cruel prank on you. Isack sits. Explains. Watches you squirm and blush when he recounts the orgasm you had in front of him on the very couch you're sitting at.

"So, how can I help?" You ask, not wanting for the doll to hate you and haunt you. You've seen Annabelle, you know what happens.

"Fix it. Get it out of my system. It's so uncomfortable, please." He says, slightly thrusting his hips forward, making you look at his crotch. Oh. He had a boner, and you thought he wasn't supposed to be anatomically correct. You cup his cheek gently, leaning in to kiss him. He doesn't move, just stands there, eyes closed, lips puckered. Guess you have to teach him about that. You trace his bottom lip with your finger, parting it. You kiss him again, this time with tongue. Isack groans, pure need in his voice. You move against him, hips on either side of his legs, straddling his waist. You can feel him hard against you. Normally, you wouldn't move so fast. But this was nothing like normal. So you reach for the zipper on his racing suit, and he's shirtless underneath. You continue dragging it down, and he's fully naked. His cock is thick and throbbing, untouched. Isack himself reaches for it, seemingly on pure instinct. He wraps a fist around it and tugs, whimpering. You wanna watch him experience this for the first time. But you also want to be the first person who brings him an orgasm. You drop to your knees and guide his cock into your mouth, keeping a fist against his base. Isack's eager, practically humping the air, wanting to feel more of you. Your mouth feels so good. And you're making little sounds, like the ones he made earlier. Were you feeling good? Was this making you as turned on as he was kissing you earlier? He wants this to go on forever, screw the race, screw the podiums, the championship.

You need Isack inside of you. You decide to give him a little treat before you pull away. You relax your jaw and throat, try that little trick from Pinterest to suppress your gag reflex. It works, and you can take him deeper into your mouth. He holds you like that for a second, hand against the back of your head. You pull away with a pop, and he whines, like you thought he would. But when he sees you taking off your panties and spreading your legs for him, he quiets. Never did you think that "putain, zebi" was something you'd hear in bed and that it would make you wetter. He just steps closer and lets you do the work. You do want to go all the way, you really do. But there's the issue of the lack of condoms, the couch, not to mention Isack's cum. Could he get you pregnant? Would it be human or a doll? A wereBarbie that turns from one to the other on full moons? Isack snaps you out of it, by calling you a doll and just looking at you. His deep brown puppy dog eyes say it all. He needs you. You reach for him and nudge the tip inside of you, just the head stretching you out slightly. It's not enough, not at all, for either of you, but it will do. One hand rubs at your clit, so he can feel you squeeze against him over and over. The other is stroking him. Isack just stands, too stunned to move, just enjoying this. It doesn't take much for you to cum. He's behind you, just amazed at everything happening. At your whine when you move, so he pulls out. At how you look at him, still cock hungry and you take him in your mouth. How you swallow when he cums, not wasting a single drop.

Franco was right. About the sex thing, feeling lighter in the car. Isack may not get points in Austria, but he knows he'll be back by Silverstone.

[yourlocalsmutwriter]

as promised, bottas angst, angel of montgomery babbyyyy 🦇

🦇 anon, ily, I wanna kiss you on the mouth and *** *** *** while I **** **** **** *****, anyway, here's your treat :)

Fuck around and Fin(d) out - Valtteri Bottas x reader

Your fingers are constantly pruned, you think to yourself. Is this reason enough to start the divorce lawsuit that's been on the backburner for years, you wonder. You feel old, much older than you are. You feel like your grandma, who had been complaining about aches and pains, the arthritis in her hands plaguing her. You rub your sore wrists as you kneel on the kitchen floor. The sink is still full, and the plates are stacked like a Jenga tower. Your hands are still soapy as you clasp them together in a player position. Your wrists ache, tender as you beg for someone to take you away from this place. Just as you call upon your angel from Montgomery, a voice cuts through your apartment.

"It's almost dinner time, isn't it? Everything okay?" Your husband calls, not even bothering to make his way to the kitchen. You glance between the oven timer, the pile of dishes, and quickly scrub down 2 plates. The towel on the fridge has seen better days, you think, but your eyes linger on the magnet stuck there. The 2018 Russian GP memories come flooding in.

Ending up in Sochi wasn't planned. Your friend's mom had bought 3 tickets, a futile attempt at a family bonding activity. But then it all went predictably to shit. And now you were in the middle seat between your friend, who's telling you that she knows nothing about Formula 1, and her mom, who's so mad at her husband for dropping the trip last minute. Great company to be in for a GP weekend.

It's not like you're an F1 superfan yourself, but with the use of Internet Archive and a few Wikipedia deep dives you feel confident. Plus, who would turn down a free trip?

General entry means that you're not in it, in it properly. There's no grandstand or big screens, just cars passing through. Qualifying was incredibly loud. The cars were a blur, you wouldn't even see who was driving, the number on the nose undecipherable. The helmets, too, were just blobs to you. You saw simply red Ferraris, blue Redbulls, and Mercedes cars. No one around you was necessarily rooting for someone. Though you did sneak a peek at your friend filling out a quiz on who to cheer on, silent mouth "who the fuck is Daniel Ricciardo?"

Valtteri Bottas ends up in pole position with his Mercedes teammate right behind him. You're intrigued by the Finn, there's something about his blue eyes, how his blonde hair looks matted after he takes off his helmet in the media pen. There's a subtle fire in those eyes, you determine. You see it because it's there in yours too. That desire to be the best. To be seen, perceived, acknowledged. To be there.

Everyone says the races are a visual spectacle. You're supposed to watch all of it, eyes almost as unblinking as those of the drivers. But you don't care. You're laser focused on one thing, the sleek Mercedes of their number 2 driver. Starting from pole position, tires warming up against the gravel. It's cinematic really, watching just one car, not caring about the action happening with Vettel or Hamilton, the Fight for Five so far away from you. And then it's lap 26, and the cars just swap. No racing, no overtakes, Valtteri just moves aside, and Lewis goes through.

You can't help but groan loudly, distinctive enough to have a few people in 44 hats openly glare at you. Oops? You don't care, really, but you try to tune into some of the people around you who have portable radios strapped to their hips. Something about Mercedes team orders and whether the car swap was fair. And then it clicks in your head. The championship contention, Lewis, needs every point he can get. You watch until the end of the race still, but now, like a normal person. You're no longer hyperfocused on Valtteri, even when you note that he has two/thirds of a hat trick. You rush with the crowd to watch the podium celebration. It's magnetic, the pull of the people. Valtteri looks like an angel, the white Mercedes suit drenched in champagne, his blonde hair peeking through the black Pirelli hat. You're reminded of the Bonnie Raitt song, and you softly hum it under your breath.

Music bounces through the walls of the discotheque you're at. The club is bumping, the men look good, the alcohol is flowing. There is much pain in the world, but not in this room. On a Sunday in Sochi, this place is packed. The ruble is on the low, so even though it's pricy for the locals, tourists like it. And with the GP, it's bound to be hectic. But no one expected the pole sitter and a points finisher of the race to be in attendance.

Your vodka soda was actually bleach, and you had died and gone to heaven. That was the only explanation to why Valtteri Bottas was talking to you right now. You were far from a household name like he was at the time. Hell, he still is, just in more particular houses. But you indulge him. Your friend went to the bathroom and then disappeared somewhere. Maybe it's the moomin bag charm that does it. Maybe it's the way you suggest that he grows a mullet that spirals into you softly, running your fingers through his hair. Maybe it's the dry gin that you can taste on his mouth, but you're starting to enjoy racing. Hours later, when you find your friend with a Daniel Ricciardo autograph done in lip liner on her chest and a hickey, you think she might enjoy it too.

And that's it for you. Just another notch in a pro sportsperson's belt. You're selfish, frantically googling Valtteri when you can. Of course, he was married when he kissed you. They all are, aren't they? So, for your next partner, you find someone who's the complete opposite of Bottas. And you marry them.

If dreams were thunder and lightnin' was desire, this old house would've burnt down at a long time ago. Wasn't that the saying? The property doesn't go up in flames, but you dissappear like smoke. With your passport and a one-way ticket to Austin.

It doesn't take much effort for someone to notice you. You're dressed like a rodeo clown, a sexy cowgirl at her first rodeo. But instead of denim or animal print, it's all jersey. Stake F1 team ones, which you managed to buy and wrangle into a garment. Say, one worthy of a TikTok.

It takes Valtteri a hot second to recognize you. You're older now, no more babyface. But there's still years between you. There always was, wasn't there?

Logistically, you shouldn't be in Vegas. You can't even afford it. Yet, somehow, the cards allign once again. The clichés don't stop when you get married. Maybe it's the weed in the air. Maybe it's the fact that you're both divorced? It's certainly the social media intern behind the phone, aiming for an Effie. You just ask them to find a legal loophole for using Angel from Montgomery in the video. This time, it will be different.

Your fingers are constantly pruned, you think to yourself. Is this reason enough to start the divorce lawsuit that's been on the backburner, you wonder.

[yourlocalsmutwriter]

Please I am obsessed with your loaded roommate max post, hear me about what about loaded boss!Mac and his assistant reader who has to come up with all sorts of convincing ways to get him to do PR??

Anon, I'm obsessed with THIS. Did a little combo of the two, hope you like it

Bring your ?????? to work - Max Verstappen x reader

Whoever said that you shouldn't mix business and pleasure hadn't met or worked with Max Verstappen. You didn't mean to, really. You already lived with him, the two of you having some weird psychosexual back and forth due to the forced proximity. But now the Monaco Grand Prix was nearing, and the Redbull social media team was missing some members, something about Imola airport and strikes. Max was overjoyed on Monday when they told him, visualizing a week without filming stupid TikToks. But you pounced on the opportunity to help out. Taking over would do wonders for your online presence, your freelance portfolio, and your wallet. Everyone would give an arm and a leg to "cook in Redbull's kitchen." Step one was to make a nice presentation of the things you needed to film, scripts, storyboards, and shot lists. You pulled an all-nighter, fueled by manic determination and energy drinks. When you're satisfied, you move on to the next one - getting it somewhere. Max is sloppy with closing his door, still sleeping. You neatly move the covers and grin at the morning wood. You pinch his thigh, hard, and he jolts a Dutch word beginning with K on the tip of his tongue.

"Can I?" You ask, motioning to his hard cock. Max is honestly happy to be alive right now. He needs a peaceful start to the morning. Usually, he'd settle for a coffee, but your mouth would do, he supposed. You want something. He can tell, by your slow kisses to his shaft, the way you're teasing his tip. Max can feel your eyes burning into his shut eyelids. When he looks at you, you moan for him, letting the sound please him. You fucking cup his balls and he's gone. Not coming yet, but on full autopilot. He doesn't seem to be careful anymore, he wants to cum into your mouth. Wants to watch you take him to the base, no matter how. It fucking ruins him to see you gag just a little. He slows down, but you're gripping his thighs, desperate for more. Truth be told, you're enjoying this more than you thought you would. His strong hands holding your hair in a ponytail. His gorgeous blue eyes looking at you in awe. His fucking taste, somehow so fucking good. Whatever his nutritionist is doing, they deserve a gold medal. Of course your thoughts are quickly pulled back to Max when he notices you're spacing out.

"Don't get distracted, darling. Be good and finish what you started." He says, voice still scratchy. You intend to, so you hollow your cheeks and let him move his hips again. Max cums and watches you swallow it. He's barely out to door to clean himself when you ask him about the presentation. Post-nut clarity works in your favor.

Max marks his email as urgent, wetransfer link intact, and not even an hour later, you get the notification that it's opened.You're nervous and you've got half a mind to keep sucking off Max until there is any notification back. Franco might have been onto something with that one out of pocket interview about the sex right before the race. If you simply blew your roommate until he was shooting blanks, that would help him, surely? But before you can test that out, you get a reply back. You're in. They like your ideas, and you're gonna start filming on Thursday with Yuki and the VCARB boys, too. Max would be saved for as little socials as possible. But that simply wouldn't do. You needed him. You knew that people would stop scrolling for Max. The silly audios you've prepped wouldn't pack as much as a punch without him. So you had to resort to some more unconventional methods of convincing him. So be it.

Max didn't plan on being on his yacht 2 days before the Free Practice session. He didn't need the attention, especially now when the fans were crawling around Monaco like cockroaches. But you insisted on it for "training purposes." He didn't want Yuki to complain about "the new admin losing her lunch" in the crystalline waters of the harbor.

"Can't believe you've lived here for months, and this is about to be your first time on a boat." Max says. You hum, busy taking it all in.

You weren't a materialist, but Unleash the Lion was impressive. You want to make a biting comment about the cost of the yacht, and how he still insists that you split grocery bills. But you need to be on your best behavior for your plan to work. "You know, you're partially my landlord, on Thursday and the weekend you'll be my boss and here you're the captain. I sure do have a knack for a good power imbalance, don't I?" You say, teasing him.

"If you're about to reveal a weird kink you have, don't bother. I think I'm already very familiar with what you like." He quips back, already aware of your more submissive nature. "Not all of it. There's the exhibitionism." You reply, with the subtlety of a bull in a china shop. Maybe innuendos weren't your strong suit. But getting Max's attention certainly was. "And it's time to steer this fast enough to a place where we can dock this." He says, making the boat go as fast as the 2023 Redbull car. You try to enjoy the ride, and all but you're also thinking of the ride that you wanna give Max. You strip down to the tiny, barely there bikini that you picked just for this "cruise". Slip the box of condoms around the strings, ask the driver to spread sunscreen on your back. The whole shebang.

As soon as the yacht docks, Max is on you, fingertips hovering above your bikini strings. A "Please, I need you" is all it takes for him to melt for you. He makes you suck his fingers in your mouth, before he slides them down your bikini bottoms against your clit. You rut against him, desperate for him to be inside you already, to give you everything you need. Max enjoys the scenery instead. The sun, the sea, the soft moans you're letting out. If he could, he'd stay here forever savoring life. But time's arrow marches only forward, and with your ass rubbing against him, he has no choice but to get on with it. So he gets out of your jeans, takes off your bottoms and takes out the condom, tearing open the package with surgical precision. He lines up behind you, pausing to grip and knead your ass. Sex standing up was clearly new for you. You're a bit awkward, not knowing where exactly to put your hands. That's why Max leads you to the railing, making you grip it. He wraps his hand against your waist and pulls you towards him. He's deep inside of you, the angle doing wonders for you both. Max mutters something about the motion of the ocean as he fucks you. He wants to remember this, how you're christening the yacht, no need for champagne bottles smashed. He'd much rather have the visuals of you squirming against him, ass bouncing. He's a fucking nerd, scolding you about "scaring the fishes" with your sounds, to which you roll your eyes. He thrusts faster, making your legs shake as you come. He fucks you through it, chasing his own orgasm. Under the Monaco sun, he gets it. When you've cleaned yourselves up, as good as you could with the wet wipes you brought, you sit half-dressed. You break down what you'll need to him filming wise, and he groans.

"I want you to remember what we just did the entire time we're shooting. When I'm playing at creative director, only you and I will know that I was moaning your name like I'll call it." You ask and hope that it will be enough. Of course, you know you'll sweeten the deal . You'll brush up against him when no one is watching. You'll make innuendos in Dutch, and of course, promises of what's to come when the cameras are off. After all, you hadn't told him about the other 2 Tiktoks in the planning.

[yourlocalsmutwriter]

Hey, can I request a fanfic? I was thinking about Fernando Alonso, he's on his honeymoon with his wife and someone from the hotel knock at their hotel room because they were making too much noise and other guests were complianing. The wife is so ashamed, Fernando is determined to make even more noise

Oh my God, anon your mind. This was such a good idea, loved writing it. Without further ado, here it is

The honeymoon suite incident - Fernando Alonso x reader

Adrian Niewy got Fernando Alonso to do the impossible - settle down and retire. Not only did he get the former racer his 33rd win, but he got him his 3rd WDC. You wondered how to thank the FIA in your wedding speech for the 2026 regulations. Whatever coke was put in the old front wing of the McLarens was not working anymore. Max had grown soft with age and fatherhood. So Fernando won again and again.

Technically, he proposed to you in Spain, the home soil bringing him courage. If tickets hadn't been sold out for months, the viral clips of him on one knee after the pole position, trophy in the other hand would have helped to make the grandstands full. The Aston Martin Tiktok admin got a promotion for getting it all on camera. A wedding in the breaks was nothing unusual. But why would he settle down for that when he could have a double celebration later on.

Besides, the place where your honeymoon was going to be was best right after Abu Dhabi. So he was waiting, a patient man once again. The races won themselves practically, nothing more than days on the calendar. Getting closer and closer to marrying you. Just before the American races, you and Fernando have a small ceremony, just friends and family gathered in an elegant venue. No one clocks it, there is no buzz at all. The press only picks up on your new ring, and that's all.

Right after Fernando wins the WDC in Abu Dhabi, you're covered in champagne from head to toe. Dragged to all the Aston Martin parties against your will. You toast with Lance, the both of you a bit more on the introverted side. He asks you about the honeymoon and watches you glint as much as the trophy does somewhere in the room.

It's a dream and a complete surprise. Fernando does all the booking, lets you just relax. And now you have to just pack and enjoy the rest. The first day is chaotic. It's all flights and mad dashes from the airport to the hotel. Nano spoils you, letting you choose a nice restaurant for dinner. Then finally you're back in the hotel. It's like someone flips a switch. All the holding back during the races. Now it's time to give in. Fernando kisses you like a starved man. He needs you, more than ever. You're his wife now and now he's gonna prove it. Claim you as his. You're laying on the impossibly fluffy sheets, thinking about thread count for a second. Then your husband kisses your neck, making you forget about everything. Fernando is undressing you, palming your chest, rolling your nipples between his fingers. You're moaning, needy and ready for more, all of it.

"Tell me what you want, sweetheart. Don't be shy on me now." He says, all on your body, knowing what makes you tick. You're letting out little groans, still savoring this. The foreplay, the teasing, the slow build up that leaves you feeling electric like a live wire. Fernando shimmies your pants down, whispering sweet nothings about owning your pussy now. When his fingers brush against your clit, you can't hold back and moan. It's loud and embarrassing, a noise that was so raw. He keeps touching you, as if you're a steering wheel he needs to tune. You're getting louder, feeling more and more. Nando slides a finger inside of you, and you let out a string of curses. You're close, ready to come when a knock on the door interrupts you. You scramble away from him and also your orgasm. He groans, quickly sucking his fingers of your slick. Then he gets up, not caring about the obvious boner straining the front of his jeans. You can hear bits and pieces of the conversation, something about "noise complaints". The other guests could apparently hear you loud and clear. Moaning for Fernando like a whore. You're too embarrassed to ask him to apologize on your behalf. In fact you mentally cringe at his response of "Well, this the honeymoon suite, we're newlyweds. You get it, don't you?"

Fernando takes the "do not disturb" sign from the hanger and puts it on the doorknob. With a smug grin, he shuts the door in the guy's face, not a care in the world.

"Hear that, gorgeous? Let me make you feel good again." You move away, still embarrassed.

"I don't wanna be loud again. What will people think?" You say, not wanting to get dirty looks tomorrow. Or another complaint.

"They will think that you're a perfect little wife that loves her husband very much. That's what you are, isn't it? My sweet girl, that just wants to feel good. Come on, let me take you there. Wanna feel you cum for me." Fernando cajoles you, not yet touching you. Waiting for you to let him. To grant him the permission to wreck you.

And you do. You can't help it, it's like you have an itch you can't scratch. You tell him exactly what you need, to be fucked, to celebrate his championship properly, to show everyone you're married. Fernando palms his dick and traces it against your opening, slowly and patiently. He puts it in and here it is. That gasp he gets every time, the little breathy want for more. He moves slowly, filling you. Once he's inside of you, everything else is forgotten.

"You make me feel so good, please give it to me." You say. He thrusts again and you're moaning again, quick, steady "ughs" and "yeses" leaving your lips. When he kisses your neck it gets worse, the teeth marking you getting you more feral. There's pleas for "just like that" and "keep making me feel so good". Fernando shifts a bit, changing the angle and it's all "fucks" and "Jesus fucking Christs" to which he wraps his hand around your throat, the cross tattoo laying between your breasts.

It wasn't just one thing that got you close. It was the look in his eyes, proud and possessive. The wedding ring glistened as his hand was next to your head. The occasional kiss pressed to your lips. The "Please, I'm gonna cum, Fernando" is what gets him. He speeds up, urging you to wrap your legs around him, to take him deeper.

Some people quieted down just as they came. You got louder. Your moans bounced off the walls, but Fernando didn't stop. He knew to fuck you through it. Knew that if he lasted long enough, you might be sensitive enough to give him a second one. Your sounds are like music to his ears. Them, the headboard slamming against the wall, the bed springs creaking. It was a cacophony, a symphony of good sex. Fernando wasn't usually a show off. But earlier at the reception when he showed his ID, they requested an additional check. He vaguely thought of that scene in Gossip Girl and was tempted to grab a copy of GQ where his face was on the cover. But as soon as you were out of ear shot, the receptionist whispered "Sir, there's a pharmacy 50 meters from here, they sell viagra. I'll cover for you, say we had a system issue. With such a wife, in such a place I'd stock up." Fernando snatched his ID and the key card, before he heard any more ludicrous suggestions. He was gonna show that receptionist. Hell hath no furry like an aging man scorned over a limp dick assumption.

[yourlocalsmutwriter]

F1 Masterlist, ☆ marks the smut

Drivers

Carlos Sainz ☆ 1 ☆

Daniel Ricciardo ☆ 1 ☆

Fernando Alonso ☆ 1 ☆ ☆ 2 ☆ ☆ 3 ☆

Jenson Button ☆ 1 ☆

Isack Hadjar ☆ 1 ☆

Lewis Hamilton ☆ 1 ☆

Mark Webber ☆ 1 ☆

Max Verstappen ☆ 1 ☆

SMAUs/ Text Fics

Accidentally flashing the grid ♡ 1 ☆

Daniel Ricciardo x actress! reader ♡ 1 ♡

Mark Webber x booktuber! reader ♡ 1 ♡

The grid has something embarrassing happen during sex ♡ 1 ☆

The grid gets jealous ♡ 1 ☆

Cars in the pit lane (posts quequed for GP weekend) : 1

Called to box box (requests in my inbox) : 1

In the SocMed content calendar (SMAUS I wanna work on): 5

Fans in the grandstands (emoji anons) : 🦇

[yourlocalsmutwriter]

hi hi mara, i just read your wip ‘sildenafil(lling you)’ 🥵🥵 are you planning on perhaps continuing and posting it? i definitely do not mean to pressure you, i’d just really wish to read this story as i like the plot very much 😬 love your works!!!

Sildenafil(lling you) - Fernando Alonso x reader

So you lied when you put "good under stressful situations" in your CV? Didn't everyone. To be clear, this wasn't a "Oh no, we messed up a customer's order, and they were angry." It was "I gave my boss the wrong pills and now he's taking his cock out in front of me," which they didn't necessarily prep you in for at school. So much for a calm start.

You don't know exactly how you found yourself in the running for being Fernando Alonso's personal assistant. Stars aligning or some shit. You gave it your all, telling the interviewer all about your love for motorsport. How people don't really expect you to be an Aston Martin fan, rooting for Alonso. You make the same jokes as the rookies do about age. They miraculously like you. You don't ask about the nature of the job, not really. You expect a lot of booking flights and restaurants, picking up expensive garments from the dry cleaning, keeping track of his public appearances.

And that was the gist of it. But you still had some more unusual requirements. Queuing for his favorite fast food place when it was cheat day. Sifting through the Instagram comments together and deciding which ones to like. Filming Tiktoks for him and explaining the trends. "No, Fernando I see how the slutty macarena is going to be great for engagement but is it the target audience we want to be having for you and Aston Martin?" Was a sentence that shouldn't exist in the English lexicon, yet you used it thrice this week. Your boss was stubborn, but this wasn't even your biggest issue.

Fernando's undoing was that he couldn't keep track of the pills he was taking. Before anyone could make an age joke, you'd tell them about his insane workouts, as if the neck pictures didn't prove it. You'd recount that time he took you for a joyride in the Valiant at night and did donuts. Truly, you're not sure how neither of you got in trouble for that. But with the amount of vitamins from sponsors and nutritional supplements from his trainer, it was hard to think of them all. So that's when you came in. You'd pick up his meds from a pharmacy and make sure he would take them. Keeping a spreadsheet of what's there and what's missing. Placing the orders in advance. Thankfully, because it was already time for Monaco, your job would be easy peasy. Considering that most of the stuff from Imola wasn't running out, you simply needed one thing. And you went to get it, using the fake name of the week. For safety reasons, you couldn't just stroll in a pharmacy and get a package for Fernando Alonso. So you'd had aliases. You'd been Henk Amarillo. Now you were Franz Herrman, the Max joke amusing you. But what you didn't notice is them giving you a package for Frank Herman. And what you were going to find out is that Frank Herman needed a little extra help in the bedroom.

Fernando didn't even look at the pills when taking them. He trusted you to look after him. That's what you were being paid to do, after all. And he could swear there was something more there. Maybe you enjoyed his company. Or maybe Monaco was too expensive for you to walk around. But you stuck around after being done for the day. You were making schedules for him, preparing verbiage, just going back and forth. Fernando was trying to focus on what you were saying about the charity match on the 21st, but everything was going to his cock. He was seeing your mouth move, but could not hear a single thing. Instead he was picturing your sweet lips wrapped around his dick, taking him. His hand was practically making an indent in his expensive leather couch when you sat next to him.

"Are you okay, Mr. Alonso? You seem a little pale. Should I get you something?" You ask, reaching out to touch his forehead. It was warm. He seemed to tense up even more when you did so, and you were mentally panicking. Would he be fine for the match? For the practices, for the race? What had happened out of nowhere? Would you have to go with him to the doctors? You absolutely hated hospitals.

"I'll go make a quick call, okay." You assure him and go to check what meds you had gotten, starting with the most recent. Googling the name of it, you're confused. Viagra? You had gotten Viagra for your boss. You continued searching and found nothing on it enhancing sports performance. You go to double-check the package, and you see that it wasn't even meant for you.

The whole thing is fucked. Coming clean is the only thing you can do at this point. Better to admit your mistake and brainstorm together, right? You weasel your way back to the living room where Fernando looks worse for wear. You can't help but notice that his sweatpants are pulled a little lower on his hips. You can almost see the band of his Boss boxers and you can guess what's going on under them. Him being hard and confused as to why must be gross. The fact that he's trying to hide it from you is expected, but still heartwarming. All his sympathy is gone when you start your sentence with "Fernando, I fucked up."

He knows he shouldn't ask you what he's about to. That it's a lawsuit waiting to happen at worst, huge HR violation at best. Yet he can't help himself. It hurts, it's throbbing and painful and not at all good. He feels like an animal, like he has one instinct and it's to fuck. Yet, he sees how you look at him. How you haven't taken your eyes off his crotch, curious about the bulge there. So he goes for it.

"Wanna fix your mistake for me, then? Show me what a good assistant you are?" He says as he toys with the string of the sweatpants. He expects a polite no or a sorry. Not a please.

Not booking Fernando for an underwear commercial was a crime you were going to right, you think as his sweatpants hit the floor. It's the Viagra, sure but there is something more. He's not just hard, he's big and hard, and ready for you. You don't know what you wanna do first. Luckily, he seems to have it figured it out.

"Get on your knees." He tells you with the same tone he tells you to book an appointment or reach out to a fan. But there's also a tinge of need in there. Just a tiny bit of desperation. And you can't blame him, his cock needs it, needs you. You kneel infront of him, and lick a stripe up his dick.

You want to be soft, to savour this once in a lifetime opportunity. But Fernando was having none of that. He thrusts his hips forward. Makes you take him deeper. Tells you to relax, cariño and take it. He doesn't mean to pull your hair. Making your nose meet his pubes really isn't his style. But he's not Fernando the F1 driver right now. He's Nano the porn star. And he wants to see his heavy tip slap against the tip of your tongue, the most perfect bead of precum rolling off. He wants to see you look up to him, as if he's a God. You're an eager little thing, aiming to excell even in this. You wrapping your hands around his thighs and using them as leverage is his undoing. He thrusts one more time and there's the telltale salty taste of cum. You swallow and dash off for a wipe. You can't help but rummage in the drawers you don't stock and eureka. You grab the whole box of condoms, a bit of wishful thinking.

Your intuition is correct when you find him, fist around his cock, complaining that "it won't go down". You wordlessly drop your panties and pants, the pair hitting the floor of the expensive Monaco hotel. He can see the slick against your thighs. There's two fingers right against you as he toys with the condom, all teeth and dexterity. He breathes in and out, humping you slowly as he thrusts his digits in and out. Fernando's drunk on your moans, on your pleas for more. One minute man? Please. It takes him mere seconds to finish inside of you. It would be embarrassing if he'd stopped. But he just kept going, his cock not even becoming soft. It was harder and now it was just hard. Fernando drills into you, precise and calculated. His hips meet your ass, and one hand is around your waist, bringing you closer, making you two fit together perfectly. He moves his fingers lower, brushing them against your clit and that's what brings you over the edge. Fernando pulls out barely, not missing how you squeeze for him, but he slides his cock out of the condom and cums all over your back. At his heart, he's a sappy man. He brings you a towel and cleans you both up. Asks if you'd like some clothes or some space. When you say no to both, he lays next to you, and faces you. It's sweet almost, how you're like koalas, tangled up and kissing. But between you two there's his cock, thick and heavy again, straight against your pussy. "Let's make sure I don't have to call your doctor about an election lasting more than 4 hours, shall we. You know I have phone anxiety." You say as playfully inches up your thigh to his hip. The box of condoms is tossed to the side somewhere, next to the Viagra. Since you were responsible for the little blue pills, he'd be responsible for your birth control tomorrow.

P. S. - ugh, anon, thank you so much for this ask, the support, and the trust. Will continue to bring the Alonso fics. Might have a little surprise for you soon.

[yourlocalsmutwriter]

Inking of you - Anora x reader

If I wanted to be a glorified cleaner, I would've stuck around at McDonald's with the hot manager echoes around in your head. The noise of your mop hitting the cheap plastic bucket is drowned out by the buzz of tattoo machines. You should be behind one, placing stencils and discussing future pieces with clients. Yet you were mentally tracking your tasks of the day. Restock the waiting area with reading materials and snacks? Check. Help set up stations and be ready to tear them down. Check. Clean and sanitize? Checking. You know you could do more. But everything's being delayed. Your suggestions for social media content? In limbo. The fruit you practiced on because the fake skin was taking its time to arrive? Mocking you from a basket in the rest area. Your flashes, which you spent so much time designing. Not even online, tucked into some obscure corner of the shop. You knew this would take time, like all good things would. Yet, you were so close to giving yourself a few more tattoos, just to prove that you got it. You glance at your legs, trying to find a gap between the ink, most of it yours. So you almost miss her, your angel, your saving grace. Anora.

Ani wasn't enamored with the studio. But that's where all the other girls went. It was close to the club. The guys were only mildly inappropriate. And she could get a discount by trying the oldest trick in the book. And then came you. You and your little stupid designs that spoke to her. They were girly and cutesy but still had sex appeal. The tramp stamps that said princess or babydoll in bubbly, sparkly letters. The swans, the pocket mirrors, the castle dollhouse she was enamored with. She asked for you to design her butterfly, her bows. Ani was a professional. She sniffed you out as soon as you gave her a crooked stencil by mistake. It wasn't because you were inexperienced. She watched you perfectly apply a heart stencil to a guy's hard dick (while he was simultaneously popping viagra and trying to flirt with both of you). But Anora's thighs and just the tiniest sliver of her ass cheeks, and you were gone. Even your wiping was sloppy and frantic, as if you didn't wanna linger too much on her skin. So she came prepared. Ani was rich, mentally wrecked, and heartbroken. Officially done with men. No Ivans or Igors for her. But maybe you? Of course, though, first she had to play with her food.

The basement room was your least favorite. It was meant for just an artist and a client for those more intimate sessions. You remember that fiasco with the scheduling where you left Ani in the middle of her consultation to go deal with a asshole who claimed that he "didn't care that you weren't as experienced, only you could put the stencil on his cock or he was leaving multiple one star reviews." How you didn't want to seem uncooperative to anyone. How Anora came in just as you were starting to set up your machine. How you got yelled at for not locking the door and the pervy guy walked out without tipping or posing for your portfolio. Not only that, but you knew the rumors. It was the sex room, where most guys would exchange a small tattoo for getting off. No amount of bleach and disinfect could get the faint smell of cum out of there. At least you knew that the chair was safe, no bodily fluids stuck to the wrapping ever. And that's exactly where Anora ended up wanting to go with you.

Ani could bet you had never even touched tits before. And what a better way to start than groping hers? So she had to lie a little. She immediately went for your tablet, asking you to show her some flash. Looked through your "wanna do" and found it, the thing that would be your undoing. A dragon, from some animated thing, all slinky and complicated. She acted like she was in love with it. Like it was everything she had ever dreamed of and more. And like she needed it now. The problem? All chairs upstairs were booked solid, for the day. Ani made it clear she wasn't leaving, even raising her voice at you slightly. Turning heads was her speciality. So you had no choice but to go downstairs with her. To listen to her phone as she's watching tiktoks as you prep everything. The printed out stencil sheet already intimidating you, the sheer size of the tattoo on top of it being unsupervised. Maybe you could just wait it out with her before starting? Try to reason against it. You're done and you expect Ani to set aside her things and turn to the side, shirt off. But she just moves towards you, intent on "showing you a fun Tiktok idea." You watch as a tattoo artist gropes a female client consensually to film a funny trend. You laugh at it, because it's obvious the women in the video are friends. Ani asks you to try it with her to calm her down.

"Please, you know how needles freak me out. It's like holding my hand right before you do that thing with the first line. The client's always right, isn't that the saying?" You almost wipe your gloved hands on your knees.

You take a deep breath and snap the elastic against your bare skin. Anora would never ask you such a thing if she didn't plan ahead 5 more steps. So you're guessing she figured it out. Your giant lesbian crush on her. The way you went stupid when she looked at you with her soft brown eyes. How she would attempt to talk to you through the slight winces while you were tattooing her. How she followed your Instagram and didn't miss liking and commenting on your work. Ani was loveable. And she was asking you to touch her for free. What every man this side of the city dreamed of. So you reach for her, inexperienced fingers ready. You'd been a bit too rough and grabby, almost like a man who watched too much kinky stuff. She winced.

"How would you like to be touched? Try that. And maybe if you're still nervous, use your mouth?"

Your hands were shaking before you tried again. You lift up her shirt to look at her properly. Her tits are so pretty, nipples perfect. All you want to do is worship them. You press a kiss to the valley between her breasts, slowly and patiently. You bite and tongue her, waiting and watching for a reaction. If she moaned, you did it again. More, better, faster, slower. You did what she wanted.

You could have spent the entire day just on her chest. You desperately wanted to bite her to mark her up with hickeys. But you knew that everyone who had her wanted to possess her forever. So you pulled away, ready to go back to professionalism. Applying the stencil and all that, giving her that tattoo. This lapse of judgment was just something that happened more often than people liked to admit. Then Anora whined

"Wait. I only pretended to like the design because I wanted to come down here with you. Please don't put the giant dragon on me, I don't even know if it's from something. I can't walk around with it for the rest of my life."

You're beyond shocked. Ani was almost your only recurring customer, a friend even. And now she was coming to you with this. Earlier, you thought she had gotten into the same hazy state as you did. Ovulation or something. But the fact that she planned this whole thing was pissing you off. Anora could've just asked you out on a date. She could've just said that she found you cute and initiated a kiss, a touch. But lying to you? You wondered why.

You should've just left. Gone upstairs and cooled down. Tried to reason. Talked to Anni and brainstormed a tattoo for her, maybe a freehand design or another flash? But your brain was furious. You wanted revenge. You wanted her to fall apart, to be begging for an orgasm, for you to give her more, for you to make her cum with your fingers. She wanted sex? She was gonna get just that. You were intent on giving you both an experience you wouldn't forget for a while.

"So what now, huh? You want me to touch you? Want me to make you feel good, then what? Just walk away? I'm not a toy you pull out when you wanna bust a nut. Beg me nicely and I might consider it." Anora looks at you and her eyes are enough to make you bend. Her words help, the please and need it, motivating you. She's asking you to use her. And you should say no. But you can't help it. So you slide your fingers up her bare things, grateful that she wore a skirt today. You move her panties to the side and swear. She's soaking wet, just for you. You get in your knees, supporting Ani so she slide down. Her legs are around your shoulders, her flexibility coming in handy. Your tongue is on her, pointed tip against her clit. Again and again, then flat against her core. You look up at her, and you wrap your hands against her hips, prompting her to move, to grind herself on your face. You're gripping her, until she comes. She's like jello on the chair, absolutely fucked out. You should let her catch her breath. But you're not finished with her. You need one more, at least. So you slot your hand between her thighs, thumb on her clit, two fingers rubbing at her entrance. You curl them inside of her, and she lets out a loud moan. You kiss her, half to shush her, half out of pure need. It's what undoes you, seeing how good she was with her tongue. Before you know it, you're rutting against her thigh, humping her leg like a desperate pet. She comes for you, and her face makes this whole mess worth it. It's angelic.

"Ani, Jesus fuck, what was this? What do we now?" You ask, when you stop yourself. Today was not the day for you to get proper work done, or an orgasm apparently.

"Well, I'll go to work and send as many girls I can your way as an apology. Then if you're willing to get past me, and my little crisis then, I'd wanna take you out sometimes." Anora replies.

"Wait, you were bisexual this whole time?" You ask, weirdly fixating on that part of everything.

"Baby, I'm a dancer. You think I didn't take the job because I also get to look at half-naked girls, please?"

[yourlocalsmutwriter]

So you moved to Monaco for a partner that turned out to be an asshole who also kept the rental. Classic tale as old as time, right? As much as you wanted to pack up and leave the country, you had a job and some stability. So, off to find a room you were. Luckily, someone replied to you right away and it was

Loaded Roommate! Max Verstappen, that explains that he owns the place and needs someone to keep it in shape and take care of the pets since he's single now.

Loaded Roommate! Max Verstappen is happy when you take his deal. He helps you out in a car that costs more than all your possessions. He draws a small crowd just by lifting the boxes, making his arms flex in his tight fitting t-shirt.

Loaded Roommate! Max Verstappen makes sure you two actually get along by taking you to his favorite places in the neighborhood. He always treats you, and you repay him by bringing him the juiciest kebabs on cheat day.

Loaded Roommate! Max Verstappen surprisingly doesn't have hired help, so it's always refreshing for him to see you did the shopping or that you've tidied up and bought him welcome back home flowers.

Loaded Roomate! Max Verstappen, that likes to walk around the house in boxers or a towel. And if he happens to walk past you for coffee while you're making breakfast, morning wood prominent and intimidating, he chalks it up to force of habit.

Loaded Roommate! Max Verstappen isn't the greatest at closing doors all the way, too. Through the crack, you've caught him, fist around his cock, noise canceling headphones on, more than once. Your walls aren't exactly soundproof either, so sometimes after he's done, he'll hear the buzz of your vibrator and know you caught him.

Loaded Roommate! Max Verstappen, that orders things with using your name for the package for privacy reasons. Thing is you're not at home much, so you wait for a few to pile up in the collection point. When they do, nobody remembers what they ordered from where, so it's like Christmas in the living room. Just less snowy and with unboxing an ungodly amount of sex toys.

Loaded Roommate! Max Verstappen has been hearing you use said toys for at least an hour at 3 in the morning. He has to step in and use his fingers on you to make you cum and shut up. At least you fall asleep right away though

Loaded Roommate! Max Verstappen who snaps when you acuse him of acting like he owns the place. He fucks you in every room of the apartment- bent over the kitchen sink, riding him on the living room couch, shower head between your legs in the bathroom.

[yourlocalsmutwriter]

Ever since you were a kid, your parents relied on your older brother to help you socialize. Even on the playground, he managed to leave with a new friend every time. That trait continued to adulthood, and you were always pushed to go out with him and his friend group. Usually, you'd prefer not to, but then you finally meet

Brother's Best Friend! Esteban Ocon, who always makes the lamest jokes around you because they never fail to make you laugh

Brother's Best Friend! Esteban Ocon, who has insane screen time because of you. While in real life, he tries to be at a respectable distance, no one questions it when you're both on your phones across the room, fervently discussing everything or debating over silly stuff

Brother's Best Friend! Esteban Ocon that has become an automatic plus one at family events and vice versa. His mom loves you, dubbing you as the perfect daughter she never had. She's none the wiser that Esteban one day plans to make you her daughter in law

Brother's Best Friend! Esteban Ocon, who skipped all the "Oh, will this ruin our friendship" thoughts and confessed to you as soon as he realized he liked you. But you two still manage to hide it from others, one might say you enjoy sneaking around

Brother's Best Friend! Esteban Ocon, who chaperones your drunk nights out for safety (ironically your brother hit on way too many of your friends to be invited out and your parents insist that a man is good for protection.) He's perfect, doesn't drink and dances with you and your girls. Esteban takes you outside for some fresh air, as you cling to him, cold and needy. You're riding his thigh, complaining how he's been sneakily touching you all night and now you were going to get what you wanted from him

Brother's Best Friend! Esteban Ocon, who is possessive and jealous, but just because he can't worship you properly in public. He can watch you be oblivious to someone flirting with you at a club, but he'd find a way to get you home. Esteban asking "whose pussy is this" and "who's the only one that make you feel good" as he slowly pounds into you

Brother's Best Friend! Esteban Ocon, whose breeding kink goes crazy. Wants to fill you up, to fuck it back into you with his fingers. Maybe if he gives your brother a nephew, the former wouldn't be against your relationship

Brother's Best Friend! Esteban Ocon, who can't cum without you. Usually he's fine with memories and nudes, but after breaks when he spends time with you, he's especially needy. So he FaceTimes you and gives you a show. You could be dirty talking and topless, you could be fully clothed and talking about your day, he's still cumming to your pretty face and voice

Brother's Best Friend! Esteban Ocon, who is pretty adventurous in bed. As long as you're both into it, he'll try anything under the sun. Secretly, he enjoys that for some things, he'll be the first and only one doing them with you

[yourlocalsmutwriter]

inbox request

You ask, and you shall receive, my beautiful anon.

He may have been busy with his full-time job and a girlfriend in the church burning years, but now, widowed and retired Fenriz could finally pick up his old hobby. Killing beautiful women for sport. And on the top of his roster were you, a potential victim for

Serial Killer! Fenriz, that's just a sweet old man on the surface that needs a hiking buddy, those trails aren't as easy as they used to be. Maybe you could help him reconnect with nature

Serial Killer! Fenriz who likes an old school and hands-on approach. Knives and firearms are so impersonal. There's nothing like a strong pair of hands around your neck

Serial Killer! Fenriz, that loves taking your photo, nicking a tape, or a darkthrone t-shirt you wore. Anything can be a souvenir if you're meticulous enough

Serial Killer! Fenriz, that can't help but warn you to be safe, always. He doesn't like it if you're out late, he even started a neighborhood watch. He knows there's bad men out there to get you, he own a mirror

Serial Killer! Fenriz, that likes slasher flics. The gorrier, the better. He likes to watch them with you, testing what you squirm at. He's oddly fascinated at how you keep bringing him "the last house on the left"

Serial Killer! Fenriz also puts on little crime shows for you on Netflix, indulges in your true crime podcasts requests when you screencast YouTube on the TV

Serial Killer! Fenriz, who isn't a holy man, but starts getting strange dreams coming up to the day of his attack on you. You're still alive and well, with him, acting like he's your lord and savior for sparing you

Serial Killer! Fenriz, that doesn't wanna take you to the woods, where all the others are, because the snow isn't as thick as usual. So he has to keep you in his basement first, tying you up to keep you quiet

Serial Killer! Fenriz, that changes your clothes, showers you, and only lets you have privacy in order to go to the bathroom. He can't help but notice your body and how nice it is. You think that fucking the old man will get you out of this. He knows your days are numbered.