yourlocalsmutwriter

[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. 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) : 2

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.

[yourlocalsmutwriter]

The Redbull curse - minotaur! Daniel Ricciardo x reader

cw: daniel actually cursing the second seat, body transformation verging on body horror, monster fucking, primal play (chasing reader through the woods), dubcon, dark! Danny, author read greek mythology in her formative years instead of talking to boys, so now we have this

It's September in Singapore, the night after the Grand Prix, and Daniel Ricciardo can't sleep. He lost his race seat. He heard the venomous words from Helmut on Friday. But he held on. He knew he could get the tractor out to Q3, he had the ability, the experience. Just not the pace. The old engine was holding him back, and that P18 was the final nail in the coffin of his career. He still tries, might as well go out in a blaze of glory. He manages the fastest lap, soft tires sparking up against the streets. Daniel brings her home to the garage and sits. He just waits. He's like a petulant child, hiding out in a bathroom, not wanting to face the world. Not wanting to let go of the comfort of the cockpit. Not wanting to face everyone like this. But it's hot, and he's not about to be a frog boiling itself alive. He still had a job to do. He gets out and gives his interview, misty eyed, and broken. His signature smile gone. The mention of Austin doesn't help.

Everyone knows why he stays in the paddock. Lando comes by, and Danny also swears the Netflix people are still lurking in the shadows for him. They should unionize, he thinks, along with the photographer that's waiting for a last shot. Daniel gives it to him. And goes back to his hotel.

Maybe it's the heat. Maybe it's the sheer nausea from the track. The shock of an icebath after it. Maybe it's months of unprocessed feelings and the week from hell recently in the media. But no matter how hard Daniel tries, he can not sleep. So he sets out with a plan. And thankfully the expensive hotel they are staying in has a receptionist 24/7. One that laughs at his face when he asks for the best place to find a witch.

"Sir, pardon me, but this isn't the White Lotus. I'm not some plot device that will magically bring you everything you need cause you're staying with us. I can help with a faulty AC, a light bulb that doesn't go out, sure. But I can not find you a tarrot reader at 3 in the morning." They say. Daniel sighs and opens his banking app. He hates using his status and money for things. He had a nice personality and good looks he'd rather utilise. He tilts the screen and asks

"How much?" Within an hour, a taxi stops in front of the hotel, and an old woman is knocking on Daniel's hotel room door.

"You must be pretty desperate to seek me out, young man. What is so pressing that you couldn't wait any longer?" She asks, clearly skeptical of him.

"I want to place a curse. And reinforce one I made years ago." He says, dead serious. Daniel explains the infamous second seat at Redbull curse he had actually asked for. How he had the terrible, winless seasons in Renault to repent for it. The worst luck from his stint in McLaren was due to the fact he was wishing evil on Pierre and Alex. It lessened when he had no seat or when he was a reserve. After all, as long as the "energy drink team" had him, there was no need to be despising them. Now Checo was collateral damage. Whatever podiums he'd had in 2023 would be his last. Daniel felt a bit conflicted about that, he and the Mexican driver did have a good time once. He breaks it down, as cohesively as possible. Describes exactly what he knows about the woman from Etsy he hired then. The witch listens intently to what he wants now. The second VCARB seat, too. Daniel Ricciardo could be a petty motherfucker when he wanted to. And Liam Lawson was going to feel that.

"Look, I am capable of it. But it comes with a price. I see your pain, your anger, your resentment. They are built up inside of you. That reserve is not endless. So when you no longer feel them, you will have to change. Shed your old skin and give in to what you want. If you do this, you might become nothing but a raging bull. Is it worth it?" She asks.

"Yes." He says without hesitation. The world of racing wouldn't be the same without him. But he knows that he also wouldn't be the same without racing. Not without a fight, right? Well, this was his fight.

Daniel lets the woman take a lock of his hair. He covers the smoke detector in the room with a trash bag so she can light her candles. Closes his eyes when instructed to. A magician never revealed secrets, huh?

It works, Daniel thinks, watching the rest of the season. Liam fights with Alonso of all people. As if Fernando was going to let a rookie make a fool out of him. The Alpine double podium in Brazil puts the French team up in the constructors and bumps the VCARB down. Meanwhile, Daniel is thriving. Enchanté is selling like hotcakes. He's still got the wines, the Thorne ads. He's dubbed a WAG of Josh and Scotty, he's traveling. He even attends some Redbull things. God ,does he like the bikes better. Maybe he should listen to those fans and stay in motorsport but on two wheelers. He had the ass for MotoGP, that's for sure. Of course, he has to lose something, too. That's how curses work.

The media is still vicious on him. The commentators, the articles, they help feed the datkness sometimes. But honestly, he is less petty than he was years ago. Repeated loss taught him to forgive. There was no use dwelling on the past. He was focused on the present, the future. Unfortunately, that's not how curses worked. It started with the announcement. Liam was moved to Redbull. Now, it was almost solely focused on him. He carried two curses. Which meant the universe had to take double from Daniel. Equivalent exchange and all of that. There was the reel fiasco. Who knew Enchanté would invite a comedian who was also a horrible person. The digital footprint of that wasn't great. Then, the underwhelming collection, where people criticized him for having higher prices and less inclusive sizing. But, as the season started, and he got to Australia, it had stopped. Maybe it was Daniel congratulating the New Zealander for the promotion. Maybe it was the combined bad luck of hometown heroes Doohan and Piastri. Maybe it simply had an expiration date he wasn't aware of? Either way, he had sold out his new drop. What was meant to be a homecoming in Australia for the new season.

Danny reflects on Saturday evening when he gets the message that it's all sold out. He won. Then Sunday, Isack's crash on the formation lap, Liam and Yuki's performance out of the points. It was taunting him. A hat trick of bad luck was coming his way. And he was none the wiser.

Daniel was getting hairier. He'd always been blessed with good genes, his dad's Italian heritage. The thick curls, the bushy eyebrows. But now it was a lot. His beard was out of control, and no amount of shaving cream could let a razor pass through it. He could only attempt to style it, the silver clippers burning slightly, but doing the job. His happy trail was more like a scarry dark road now, not to mention his bush. Danny had to put 4 pimple patches on his ingrown hairs, wincing as he pulled out the curly strands with tweezers. It was almost like he was growing fur, the hair was forming a peach fuzz on him everywhere. It got worse as the season went on. When Max started getting penalties out of nowhere, Danny sighed. But the sound that came out was inhuman, almost like a cow's moo, that terrifying throaty sound. It spooked Heidi so much that she got mad at him for pulling a prank on her. She kept telling him that she knew he played the sound on his phone, an app of some sort. But his trusty iPhone was charging upstairs, and he was as confused as her. Danny guessed it was just something going down the wrong pipe, an accident. But it kept happening, again and again. Sighs, snores, even words turned into that horrifying sound. The Grand Prix weekend ends. Daniel turns to speak to Heidi, but he can't. It's all a demented moo. He pleads for her to listen, to help. She calls an ambulance and tells the paramedics something about a "psychotic break." or an episode of some disorder. They shove the world's thickest needle in Danny's ass. He's out like a light, and when he comes to, it's Monday night. They keep him for tests, just a few days. There's apparently nothing wrong with him. He comes back home, and there's left of Heidi is a note saying she's sorry. That's strike one.

He packs up his stuff too. There's no use. He had moved out of Monaco. He could move out of this one too. Go back to his childhood home, spend some time with his parents. He could run things from there too, couldn't he? Visit some local someliers, work on what's next. Plus the extra money from selling this place would be good. Of course he manages to wrap it up in 4 days, get an initial meeting with his realtor on Monday. Daniel knows he shouldn't tune into the GP. Suzuka is a good track, though. He rations that if the race is boring, he'll just doze off, the sound of the engines putting him to sleep. Right? He watches the whole thing, ears perked up. Yuki, in his home race, first in the Redbull team, isn't doing too hot. And Daniel feels bad for him. Maybe it's camaraderie, for the almost 2 years they had in formerly Alpha Tauri. Maybe it's guilt, because all of the bad luck was only meant for Liam. Not for everyone. But there is no malice in Daniel anymore. He can't really sleep that night, there's a splitting headache that's troubling him. He googles it all - stroke, brain tumors, aneurysms, the lot. But nothing feels like the constant pain he's having at the sides of his skill. It's almost like when he had his wisdom teeth coming in sideways. There was something trying to grow, to pierce through when it couldn't and it was driving him insane. He took advill and paracetamol or ibuprofen, something to ease it. He was skirting on the amount, almost on the verge of actually taking too much when he managed to fall asleep.

Daniel was late. Badly, horrendously late. At the last minute he stormed in the realtor's office, still in the tanktop he had slept in. Curls messy, face red from the pillow, head still throbbing. He didn't stop when the receptionist screamed (she was new, he noted, must be a fan). He sat down and saw the realtor's face turn fifty shades of red. Daniel was dragged out with a "Why you?" and a "Am I some sort of twisted joke to you." and something about hornbearing. The former athlete looks in the mirror in his car and almost thinks he's still dreaming. There are two big straight bull horns coming out of his head. Actual horns, made out of god knows what. Danny googles hornbearer and in some languages it's slang for being cheated on. He remembers his realtors messy divorce. The wife running away with the best friend, the whole affair lasting for years. The fact that Danny shares a first name with his realtor. Daniel is a hornbearer, Ricciardo wants to remind him of that. The complexity of that sentence worsens his headache. He goes to buy a ridiculous fedora. By the time he's home and trying to call someone else, the rumor that he's a horrible client spreads like a wildfire. The house doesn't sell. But right before the next free practice on Friday, the horns are gone. Which is good, because Danny can't really justify them to passport control. That's strike two.

Australian soil seems to do him well. For now. Maybe it's because he doesn't watch the race. Maybe it's the huge time difference. Maybe it's just a bit of luck. But for a few days, nothing bad happened to Daniel Ricciardo.

It's actually just a fluke. Just like the mini break between China and Suzuka, that seemed shorter to everyone. But the third strike and the bad luck from Bahrain 2025 was going to catch up to Danny. No matter how fast he ran from it.

Farm life was his thing. Before, he couldn't even get that close to the animals. They didn't know him. Didn't trust him. He was a stranger. Now he was shearing sheep and alpacas like a pro. Always knowing when the cows need to be milked. He even knew more about them than the farmlands. Daniel could tell which animal was sick. Which cow was fertile. It started to freak him out. It wasn't like he was using a farmer's almanac or something. It just came naturally. Like driving. No, like breathing. Then came the next race. Saudi Arabia. He didn't have the fondest memories of Jeddah. Didn't feel like tuning in. But his dad was somehow now invested in Doohan's performance. Something about a fellow Aussie in the sport. Daniel knew that Joseph saw younger Danny in Jack and Oscar. That hungry, scrappy 20 something battling for points, for a win. Alone, in Europe, missing home, trying to get sponsors, trying to get the people back at home to tune in. So he sits by his dad, and despite all odds, Daniel cheers for the McLarens. He should really pick a team he had no history with, like Ferrari or Aston Martin. Seeing the VCARBs scramble for points is like a punch to the gut. He can't help but wonder what he'd do in the car. Would the upgrades be kind to him? Would he be able to outperform Isack or Liam or Yuki. Could he be even close to them on the SIM, or would he be at a Sauber's pace or in the wall. Danny looks at his hand, the scar still visible. Oscar is on the podium again, being drowned in champagne like his predecessor once was. And Mark Webber before them. And Jack Brabham. Who would come after them? Where was the rookie that would take it home one day? Daniel thinks of all the kids he could visit on the karting tracks. How he's getting old now and should be thinking of making one anytime now. After all, somebody has to give baby Verstappen- Piquet a run for their money.

Dan goes to sleep in his childhood bedroom and wakes up in a barn. He can't see properly. His eyes seem so far apart, and his head feels heavy. He takes a breath and hears a loud "pff" coming out of his nostrils. That can't be right. He tries to get up, but his hair keeps getting in his eyes. The dark curls are entirely too long, almost like bangs now. He looks around, and he can't recognize any of the animals. He sees the brands, the tags, and it clicks. He's in the next property over. The one which got inherited by some distant relatives of the original owners who wanted nothing to do with it. Who turned it into an AirBnB, giving the guest an "authentic experience." And discounted prices due to the animal stench. Daniel recalls listening on the farm hands talking about the trio of friends and how they messed up, thinking they'd be able to travel to Sydney and back every day. How one of them apparently wore his team hat like a uniform, not having any idea, he lived nearby. This was bad. He had to get out of there. He couldn't afford for a fan to see him dazed and confused, post sleep walking and apparently, judging by his bare feet scrambling on the hay, naked. He tried to walk, but he collided head first with a pole. Daniel lets out a groan, and here it is that moo, from months ago. The sound that drove away Heidi was now back. And it was scarring the cattle. He was walking over to them, trying to soothe them, but to no avail. It was only getting worse.

He hears footsteps and tries to hide. But the sudden movement makes him dizzy, and before he realizes what's going on, he's on his ass. All he can do is try to hide his head between his legs, literally. But as soon as he realizes that two protruding horns are on his knees, he knows he's inevitably and irrevocably screwed.

You hate this entire trip. Your Australian friend finally goes back home, and by some miracle, you can send her off before going long distance. Then, at the airport, she gets the text that her friends are no longer welcome in her parents' home. Something about traditions and bad luck. Slight bump on the road, but that just means that you'll have to find a cheap hotel nearby. The only thing in your budget that can accommodate 3 people is hours away. With no other option, you're on a farm in Perth. And now, in the middle of the night, the animals are freaking out. The rest of your friends think that the livestock will calm down on its own. But you see it as an omen. What if there's a snake or a spider that's in the barn? Or an intruder, a drunk teenager, or something. So you go to check it out, classic horror movie trope. Lone girl in the dead of the night, only in her babydoll nightgown. Serial killers were also a possibility you reason with yourself as you use your phone flashlight. George Orwell did not prepare you for this might be one of the last things you think. At least it was iconic.

You walk in and the cacophony starts again. Of course the animals aren't happy, they don't know you. But there's something wrong. There's a statue in the middle of the barn? A perfect replica of a minotaur that wasn't there before. You go to touch it and it moves. You jerk away immediately as if you're scalded by burning water.

"Jesus, what are you? A freaky robot?" You ask and it shakes its head.

"Wait, was that a coincidence? Can you actually understand me?" The creature shakes its head again and then nods. So there was a human in there. An anatomically correct one, judging by the quick glance you make towards it, well him now. You should go. Get back to bed and blame this on whatever moonshine you drank with your friends after finding a bottle in a closet. Call it a sleep paralysis demon or something. But you can't just leave it. Because he looks as confused as you are. His dark brown bull eyes remind you of someone. You ask him if he's seen himself and he shakes his head no. You ask him if it's okay to take a picture with the flash on and show him. He nods. You almost laugh as he poses, a rock on sign next to his horns. You snap the shot and walk over to him. You try to move in such a way he sees himself, but when you're close enough, you get your eureka moment. He has tattoos, ink on his skin that's as familiar as if it was on yours. The American traditional ship on his thigh. The rose on his hand. The of love and life on his collarbone. This creature was your celebrity crush. Daniel Ricciardo was in quite of a pickle. And you'd be in one too if you let on that you knew it was him.

Because Daniel was off the grid, in more than one way. Even the Instagram and Tumblr fan pages were in a drought. Scotty's content was only throwbacks, the man was practically a ghost. Technically a minotaur, you joke in your head. You absent-mindedly hand him the phone, let him see what he looks like. You don't notice the sounds of distress. How both of his hands fly to his crotch, cupping it awkwardly. How he's shaking his head, almost wanting to throw away the bull face with sheer force. You're terrified, but you do something stupid. You start comforting him, as if he's a child. Whispering that it's okay and that he's safe. That this can be fixed. You should leave. You should give him some clothes and snacks, let him sleep in or something. But you can't help it. You touch his head, attempting to brush off the fur out of his eyes. A male highland cow, you thought, fit him better than a honeybadger. He huffs, his dark brown eyes filled with rage.

"I'm sorry, Daniel." You say, entirely to loud. He knows you know. So you do the one thing you know you shouldn't do. You turn your back on him and run.

He's an athlete. Albeit retired, he has his stamina. He can run. And you barely see in the dark. You don't know the layout, just that it looks huge. You somehow have a head start, the bunny slippers having good grip on the grass. But you can hear him behind you. Huffing, mad, a raging bull. You speed out of there, happy that your friends left the door to the wooden fence open. You're in the thick of it now. There's just a dirt road ahead of you and you take it. Twigs snap around you, you scrape your legs on bushes. You feel like Daniel is enjoying this, enjoying how you already sound out of breath. How you occasionally look back to see him dangerously close to you. How a snake darts out and you shriek, backing into him. How he takes the creature and lets it curl around him, seemingly needing the heat. Danny releases it, letting it go in the opposite direction of you. You, who's kneeling, exhausted, trying to catch your breath. Mud is caking the hem of your nightgown and you're just defeated.

Daniel should pick you up and lead you back to safety. He should trust that you won't tell anyone about this. Who would believe you anyway. If you sold the pictures, they'd think you got a little crazy with photoshop. Or that he was into some weird furry sex thing. But there's something about you, looking so vulnerable, caught by him, helpless that makes him feral. So he has to get it out of his system, the anger he just felt posses him earlier.

He kneels, tan legs familiar with the soil. He'd sit here often after a bike ride, knee pads off, just stretching or squatting. And now he was on top of you, elbows on either side of your face, cock heavy, almost brushing against your ass. He can see that you're frozen, eyes wide in fear. Your breathing is irregular and he's scared. He knows what a panic attack feels like, knows how your chest is tight already. So he does what a bull might do to a calf that's in distress. Licks.

The thick bovine tongue smells bad. The texture is almost slimy, but it also feels good? It encompasses your whole chest. He presses it against your left breast, and swirls it. He's trying to feel your heartbeat, you guess but the only thing he's successfully doing is flicking his tongue against your nipple. Again. And again. And again. You scratch at the ground bellow you, caking your nails with dirt.

"Daniel please." You say and he gets the jist. You've calmed down. He pulls away, a thick string of saliva connecting you. You're not sure what you're doing and why. Maybe it's all the adrenaline, scrambling your brain. But you get on your hands and knees and spread your legs for him. You move your panties to the side, exposing your cunt to him. It's an invitation. A peace offering, if you will. He pressed his wet nose against it and attempts a kiss. When it doesn't work, he simply licks a stripe from your clit to your entrance.

It's soaked and sloppy and clumsy, and yet it has you aching for more. You reach your hand behind you, spread your folds open, showing him exactly what you need. His tongue is as thick as regular cock, even worse. It fills you, stretching you out so good. The texture which you thought you'd hate was actually good, foreign yet intriguing. You shift your hips, trying to move, to get more, to fuck yourself on it, on him. Daniel doesn't like your squirming. It's throwing him off, what if you move the wrong way and accidentally scratch yourself on his new horns. So he grabs you around the waist and picks you up, your knees around his shoulders. He thrusts his tongue into your slick cunt as you're upside down, just moaning and catching an eyefull of his monstrous cock.

You're sure your perspective might be off because that thing did not fit with Daniel's human lower half. It was big, bigger than anything you've ever seen (aside on your curious browses of the Bad Dragons site) and definitely way more than anything you've ever taken. The minotaur above you didn't let you be distracted for long, flicking his tongue. He fully grabbed your hips and pulled you towards him, fucking you with his tongue. He's fast and unrelenting and before you know it, you're coming against his face. Danny sets you down gently, but you're still face to face with his cock. Angry, red, the tip decorated with beads of precum on it. Begging to be used, begging to shoot loads into your pussy, to fill you and breed you. Well, when in magical realism, you think. You silently ask that Australia has good gynecologists on speed dial and affordable healthcare before saying.

"Danny, will you sit for me. I think that will be the easiest way for me to try to take this. Rely on good old gravity." He lets out a puff of air from his nostrils, what you take as a chuckle. But he obeys. He holds your hips, giving your thighs a gentle squeeze. Daniel nudges the monster cock around you, trying to gather the slick from his saliva and your orgasm. He can't even get the tip in. You take a deep breath and relax, and just try to move down. It's slow, but it feels good. So, so good. Danny wants to hump you, to shove his dick inside of you, but he knows he can't. He settles for groping you instead, rough, calloused suntan hands against your tits. Squeezing, making you moan. You're so responsive to him, gone is the fear and hesitation. You're running on lust fumes, fucking made for taking his cock. You try to move, to bounce on it, to get something. But you're lucky because your partner is sensitive. Hasn't felt even his own fist around his cock, much less a perfect wet cunt. It doesn't take much for you to be feeling the telltale slowing of his hips, the throb of him inside of you.

Daniel Ricciardo kisses you as he cums. It's sloppy and gross, and you can taste yourself a tenfold of his large tongue. But it's also right. You get off him, legs jelly. You're too tired to move, and you just hope that you're actually able to flee with him. God knows what a farmhand will think if they find the two of you like that. For now you curl against Danny and try to get some sleep.

Daniel still wakes up before you, feeling lighter, like the worst is over. He turns to you and there aren't horns digging into the dirt below him. He looks around and luckily enough, he did manage to drag you far enough for no one to see. You were sleeping peacefully, his fucking cum dried in a puddle beneath you. Your clothes are intact enough, albeit filthy. He nudges you, getting ready for the most unusual morning after conversation. But when you open your eyes and practically cover his face with kisses, he changes his mind. Maybe it would be worth keeping you. Especially after you promise to get him a clean pair of clothes to change into if he points you to the way back.

Of course, his smug laughter echoes when you realize he's fully naked and mutter "that wasn't part of the weird minotaur thing, god does have favorites." He also finds it amusing that your most oversized clothes are the Hugo shirts he "modeled for", you were a bit of a crazy fangirl, huh. He liked to be liked, to be praised, to be worshiped. He dedicated his life to this sport, so why wouldn't he profit from it. Danny likes that you find a loophole in your visa and stay with him in his parents' house. You're constantly encouraging him, making him appreciate life again. Helping him draft his little LinkedIn posts. Just listening to his ideas and showing him the little Tiktoks fans make to support the Enchanté and F1 academy collaboration. Both of you cheer and drink a shit ton of the new wine when Christian Horner gets demoted. Maybe that's why in the morning you're vomiting, head almost in the toilet. The cheeseburger Danny offers as hungover food also doesn't bode well for you. There's something wrong, and you think it's stress. International moves lead to missed periods, right? Somewhere, in Singapore, an old woman is looking into a crystal ball. It's May in Australia, and Daniel Ricciardo can't sleep again.

[yourlocalsmutwriter]

So you liked to browse Reddit at night and stumbled onto a nsfw audio community. So, you also managed to zero in onto one specific creator. How could you not, he was charming, had a killer French accent, and wasn't afraid to make a more submissive audio. He's even filling out a very specific niche for you by making an F1 driver series. It's surprisingly realistic, and you gush about it in the comments. Your words touch him so much that you get a custom audio and a discord invite from

Adult Audio Creator! Isack Hadjar, who loves the alternative universes that he creates, who's always tweaking his scripts and discussing them with you. Loves loosing himself into a character and bringing them back for a sequel.

Adult Audio Creator! Isack Hadjar, who is fun and flirty with most fans, but amps it up for you. As soon as you make a comment, he's in the replies. You're always getting heart reacts in discord too. Everyone in the server can sense that there's something more between the two of you, and they're surprisingly fine with it.

Adult Audio Creator! Isack Hadjar, who loves gifts. You melt his heart when you save up and get him something off of his wishlist. Though there's nothing more satisfying than calling you and browsing your vinted/ Facebook marketplace. You keep buying him little trinkets he likes and saving them for when you meet irl.

Adult Audio Creator! Isack Hadjar, who makes good money on Patreon and commissions. But secretly, he would love to make a Quinn audio series, rack in some good cash, and break the internet. He's already got the Tiktok launch planned, and it does involve many lipsynchs.

Adult Audio Creator! Isack Hadjar, who doesn't post as much because of racing, duh. But when he has the time he pre-records a lot, trying to churn out a week's audio in a day. Even though he's got great stamina now and can last longer, he can't help but be a crying, overstimulated mess by the end of the day.

Adult Audio Creator! Isack Hadjar, who is usually super careful about his identity. No hand pics or partial face reveals like other people in his field. But of course, the first time you video call he ends up in too short shorts and flashes you. He can't help but smirk at your jaw dropping. Before you know it, you're watching him stroke his cock for you as you're touching yourself for him, following his every command.

Adult Audio Creator! Isack Hadjar, who loves looking at you once you meet. He is fully staring at your cleavage or ass, and of course, your pretty face. He can't get enough of you. That's why he also fucks you in front of the mirror, whispering his sweet nothings in your ear. He loves seeing how you blush for him, how you take him.

Adult Audio Creator! Isack Hadjar, who takes you to his home studio and shows you "how the sausage gets made." He can't help but be more vocal when you're also touching him. Soon enough, you're on your knees, in place of the fleshlight he's using. He knows that the audio track will be a bitch to edit, but you're so exited to hear him moan and fill out a script that he doesn't care. And who knows, maybe an MF4A track is in his future?

Adult Audio Creator! Isack Hadjar, who is presumably very gentle and submissive with his lovers, based in his audios. Picture long sessions with his head between your legs, begging and whimpering, edging him, making him focus on your pleasure only. Nope, complete 180. Yes, he's making you come first. By fucking you so hard and fast you're almost crying. By wrapping his biceps around your throat. By just telling you to sit there and take it as he shows you positions that Sabrina Carpenter hasn't even tried.

[yourlocalsmutwriter]

Never have I ever faked it with a footballer - Roy Kent x reader

A list of things you did just before your frontal lobe fully developed: graduated and managed to land yourself a part-time job in your favorite bookstore. A list of things you didn't manage to do just before your frontal lobe fully developed: have sex. Those were the thoughts going through your head the week before your 25th birthday. If this was a cheesy romance novel, you would meet the man of your dreams soon and you'd ride into the sunset. Maybe someone who was just as unexperienced as you? Or a very busy businessperson married to their job, whose heart you melt. Perhaps a customer? You look at the the man across from you on the till. His mustache and choice in literature are a bit clashing. But the ring on his finger tells you everything you need to know. He's married and definitely too old for you. He's probably buying the Wrinkle in time for his kid or something. You make a joke that he's bought every sports book you have in stock, and he quips back that there's still something called "Aussie Grit" and "How you build a car" on the shelves.

You agreed with him, not too keen on going into an unskippable dialog that would scare off your customer. You don't work on commission, but you for sure don't want to re-shelf all of the sports books he's about to purchase. You wish him a nice day and think nothing of it. Not like he would play a significant role in your life, anyway.

A couple of days pass, and the checkout till is quieter than usual. You can spot a few regulars in between the shelves and get their books. Then your view is blocked by an angry looking man.

"I'd like to return this." He says, holding a copy of the "wrinkle of time" like it's an offensive nude magazine.

"Sorry, we cannot make returns or exchanges without the receipt. " You reply, your customer service voice light and breezy. The guy looks less than pleased.

"Well the wanker that gifted it to me wasn't generous enough to include it. Could you just get it off my hands, please." He goes on.

"I'll put it in the bargain bin, but it has to be our little secret, okay? You're more than welcome to look through it, too. Don't want you to leave with such a bitter taste from our little establishment." You try to be diplomatic.

Somehow things quickly turn to shit. Someone makes a connection that it's Roy Kent looking through the paperbacks that don't sell. At the exact same time that a large bridal gang walk in. The women, decorated with saches and penis necklaces, must posses echolocation. That's the only explanation for them flocking immediately around you two, begging for the footballer to sign them in increasingly intimate places.

You want to move, to escape, but they have flocked from every side, trapping you. Then Roy makes it worse. He morphs into every protagonist of the cheesy romance novels you read and says

"Everyone, back off. You're gonna end up stomping my girlfriend." The women coo and awww, as if you're a puppy he rescued. You're still unsure who he is and why he warrants such a fuss. You don't figure it out even when he presses his lips to yours, telling the women that this is his new "good luck ritual for practice.". You have to keep living with the fact that amongst the lucky few you had kissed was now a celebrity. You held off from Googling him until you got home, getting sucked into a string of videos about his career and gossip rags. After stumbling on an article about his penis, you call it an evening. At least you now get the hype.

You think that it's done and dusted, that you'll never see Roy Kent again. You're about 5 minutes from closing, deep in the back arranging the shelves after someone had a buying spree (today felt like Christmas, with the amount of people walking in, trying to catch a glimpse of you and buying something to ease their guilt of simply walking in to gawk at you). Someone even showed you a reddit post, where they'd doxxed your store. You didn't look forward to the Roy fangirls that would think your relationship was real and ask you about your sex life. But you did anticipate the moment where you'd tell them that it's eerily similar to a romance book in stock and watch them flock to get it. Was it unethical to suggest that Roy Kent made you suck cotton candy off a butt plug and then used it on you? Yes. Was the price of eggs so high that it wasn't your concern? Also yes. And who knows what he was actually doing in the bedroom? He was a professional footballer since his teens, God know what or who he hasn't tried. Just about when you began to entertain that scenario in your brain, the doorbell chimed, a potential customer walking.

"Hello, sorry we're closing in five minutes, so I'll have to urge you to be quick or come back tomorrow." You say, not looking up from the Lauren Asher trilogy you're holding.

"Actually, I was hoping to get rid of some books." A husky male voice said and you practically sped-walked to see. And there he was, in all his glory, leather jacket over a black shirt, Roy fucking Kent. Holding a good chunk of a dozen of his autobiography books.

"What are you doing here?" You ask, not sure if this was real. Maybe you had slipped and hit your head on a shelf?

"Call it community service. Clear a table for these will you?" He says, and pulls out a pen out of his pocket. You know it costs as much as the entire game of thrones set, so you keep looking at him as you pile up the Tiktok books and place them by your register. He's signing his own books, and placing them on the table like a pro.

"You don't have to do this." You reason, not really sure of his modus operandi.

"Look, yesterday I really had practice after coming here. And it was the best I've played in years. So I was wondering if you'd kiss me again. Just to see if that was the cataclysm." Roy was obviously used to adoring fans, or women that were enamored with him. Either that or the disalussion of dating too many models and actresses, too many stay at home girlfriends that wanted fame or money. Which, kudos to them. But for you, fucking a footballer wasn't in your 10 year plan. So you began acting like a 10 year old. You started shouting at him, calling him names for assuming you're easy.

"Just because you're famous, very easy on the eyes and apparently have a magic dick, doesn't mean that you can walk in here and demand to kiss me. Especially after trying to bribe me with books. You're insufferable."

He backs off when you try and hurl pens and card packs at him, failing miserably. He cautiously approaches you, like you're a stray cat. A rubber bounces off his jawline and you're both leaning down to pick it up.

"I wasn't trying to get lucky. Wanted to come here, ask you out on a date. Sorry I didn't phrase it in the best way. When you're surrounded by sweaty, brutish, young men all day, you're not the best at indirect communication. As for the books, I just wanted you to get ahead, make some money off of this." He explains.

"Sorry, I assumed the worst out of you based on nothing. You were just as impacted by this whole thing as me, if not more. So it makes sense for you to wanna come back and initiate something. Truce?" You ask and extend your hand over for him to shake. His touch is firm, yet feather-like. You're like a woman possessed, leaning into him, whispering, "Is this okay?" millimeters shy of his lips. Roy kisses you, needy and desperate. You can feel his stubble on your cheek, your lips are almost tingling for more.

Was it possible for a man to dickmatize you without even showing you his cock? is what you were wondering when Roy presses his body into yours, both ot you on the floor. You're absolutely feral, asking him for more. Moaning in his ear when he kisses your neck. Begging him to touch you, wrapping your legs around him and rubbing yourself against him, both of you groaning at the contact.

"Sugar, look as much as I'd look forward to just taking you right here and now, and giving both of us the most gnarly case of carpet burn since the 80s, let's pause okay. Save it for an actual date?" Roy says, slightly panting. You made a professional footballer go out of breath.

"Okay, but just because you have to test out your hypothesis. Report to me with findings, okay Mr. Kent?" You reply, trying to mask your disappointment. Roy was doing what not one of your partners had managed before - make you so horny that it was borderline reckless. And it didn't help that he was a gentleman. One that helped you up and kissed your cheek goodbye. One that promised to be here again tomorrow.

You did your closing at a snail's pace. Seriously, every time you had a spare minute, your thoughts drifted off to a certain professional footballer and your impending date. What were you going to wear? Where would he take you? Would you kiss again? Would it feel as good? The last two thoughts turned into scenarios, which you turned into your head that night. Vibrator pressed against your clit, head buried in the pillow, saying please.

At least the orgasm ensured you had the best sleep of your life. You couldn't wait for the day to end. And after selling out the Roy biographies like hot cakes, it wasn't easy to keep your thoughts away from him.

And he doesn't make it any easier when he walks in, takeaway containers in one hand, and an expensive looking bottle of wine in the other.

"Well Enchanté to you too." You say, wondering why he's brought an impromptu picnic. As if he can read your mind, he goes

"Restaurants when you're famous can get overwhelming. Either our meal would be interrupted by fans, or I'd have to take you to a place where they sell miniscule portion for insane prices. And the latter isn't my vibe, nor is the first. So let's dig in here." Roy clears up a space like a pro, setting up everything. He's got good taste, you practically moan at the food. You get to know each other, even playing rounds of trivia against one another. He's surprisingly good at distinguishing Shakespeare from Taylor Swift and you're surprisingly hilarious at making up football terms. Deeming that VAR stands for Very Accurate Reaction. After just two glasses, the wine is abandoned. Roy tells you about the breakthroughs he's making with coach Lasso. You teasingly give him a peck so he can reap more good luck. You kiss and kiss and kiss until you think that you're going to explode. That's when you say the magic words, "Roy, take me home." And he does.

He doesn't mind visiting people, you think. His shoes are in the corridor, jacket on the hook. Lips on yours, hands trailing down.

"Can I touch your perfect fucking tits?" He asks and as soon as you say yes, his hands are on you. Grabby, but gentle. He kisses down your chest, scraping his beard against you, making it more intense. His tongue is on you and he doesn't miss how sensitive you are. How you arch for his touch, how you moan like a man hasn't made you feel this good. Maybe it's been while? That's why you're chanting his name like a prayer, rutting against him. If you're in his lap, may as well ride him, he wants to say. You're certainly feeling how you're affecting him. He respected pillow princesses, he was fine with you being a starfish, sure he'd do all the work. But now? You were just plain giving him blue balls.

He places a hand on your thigh.

"Darling, I'm all for getting what's yours, but wanna help me out here?" He asks, motioning to the tent in his jeans. Roy sees you deflate, turn red and try to scamper off him. He asks what's wrong and almost books a hearing test when you mumble something under your nose. He needs you to repeat yourself.

"I've never had sex, okay. I'm a virgin." You admit, feeling very exposed. But Roy doesn't laugh or leave or say ew. He doesn't look like he broke a precious teapot. He just asks what you want to do next. And you surprise both of you by saying, "I wanna change that tonight."

Roy kisses you again, gentler, but with urgency. Slowly peels off your clothes, not missing a chance to tell you how beautiful you look, how he can't wait to touch you. He strips of his shirt and pants, leaving you to take off his boxers. You marvel at his cock and he's ready to screw everything and have you when you say "This is my first time seeing one. Are they always so big?". He guides your hand in touching him, his fist over yours, stroking. He thrusts his hips up, just to show you you make him feel good. He swears he's died and gone up to heaven when you sink lower on the bed and ask to blow him. Your tongue is so eager, you're lapping and sucking and paying attention to the head just like he told you. For a second he regresses to his younger self and thinks "Oh, how fun will it be to train her to be a slut for me, to teach her how to make a men feel good and just ruin her for the rest."

He needs more, because if your mouth is that soft and warm, he can't imagine how nice your cunt will feel. He makes you pull away, doesn't miss how you stare at the string of drool between your lips and his cock. Saving that one to the fucking spank bank. Roy fishes out a condom from his wallet, glad he assumed the best of himself and you. He rolls it on his length, pinching the tip. Roy knows you're wet enough. He feels how soaked you are. But he wants to prep you, to feel your cunt clench around his fingers first. He rubbs your clit first, sliding one finger inside of you slowly. Then as you're still adjusting, he adds a second. He's fast, laser focused on making you cum or just about. He stops as you're nearing your peak and asks "Can I? Are you ready?" You nod, uttering a quiet yes, so he lines his cock against you. He taps it against your clit once, so you feel his sheer length. Roy nudges it between your pussy lips and slowly moves.

"You're so fucking tight. And doing so good for me. Just breathe and take me in, that's right." He slides his hand in between the two of you, playing with your clit. That distracts you from the slight discomfort and you're squeezing him even more.

"Feels good?" He asks and all you can do is nod and moan for more. He pulls out slightly and thrusts back in. When he leans down and kisses your nipples, you're done for. You're cumming against him, and it feels so good, so much more intense than an orgasm from your own fingers. When he cums, thrusts fast and precise against your overstimulated cunt, you know all the smutty romance you had ever read was not exaggerated.

Roy Kent was almost better at aftercare than he was at fucking you. He carried you to the couch, as he popped the sheets in the washing machine (on cold and with the slightest bit of Vanish sprayed on a particular spot.). He made you drink copious amounts of water and played with your hair, telling you how good you were for him.

"You know if kissing me gives you good luck in practice, I think with this, you're gonna be winning the whole league." You say, and he laughs. Long gone is the grumpy older man who was complaining about not being able to return a wrinkle of time.

[yourlocalsmutwriter]

Kutning's Dag - Max Verstappen x reader

cw: dubcon/ cnc, rapeplay, intox kink, unprotected sex, creampie, public, perv! Max, icky! Max

At this point in the season, Max Verstappen needed a miracle. He had heard it all, at the start. That the car was so fucked he dragged it first to podium, then to the points, but what happened when this was not the case. Amateur theorists- that's what he called F1 podcasters- had predicted that it would be sooner than later. And he had shut them down in Japan. Suzuka was a dream. Fourth consecutive pole there in the last seconds of quali. Fourth consecutive win there, the return of the F1 outro, as the fans dubbed it. But the Dutch anthem didn't stick around the podium for long. There were a few hiccups after, but not for the McLarens. His 1 point behind Lando was gradually increasing. He was feeling like a fish out of water, for the first time in his career. The retirement jokes he so brazenly made during previous months were now met with hushed whispers. It didn't help that the Redbulls were down in the constructors championship too. They took Liam, and with the way Yuki was driving, Max could bet one of his cats that Hadjar was getting fitted for a seat soon, whether the rookie driver wanted it or not. Verstappen's fake Instagram even liked a few Helmut Marko as the 2nd driver memes, a bunch of Daniel cursing the thing too. But it seemed to be true now.

So Max Verstappen desperately needed to win the Miami Grand Prix. After a triple header that started promising and two weekends of pure hell, something needed to be done. Whatever. Literally anything. He remembered last year how Lando's first victory in the sunny state triggered this chain of events. This championship contender narrative that was heating up between the two since. Lando then, with his little nose scar, who had been partying in the Amsterdam canals before. A metaphorical lightbuls sparked up above Max’s head. If you can't beat them, join them. He was going to celebrate King's Day for the first time in a while.

Of course, he used to honor the holiday as a teenager. Which 17 year old doesn't go across the border to the Netherlands to drink copious amounts of alcohol in the streets. He was lucky that his mom and sister brought him in at the end of the night. It was a fun time. Lots of bad beer. Crowds of loud people dressed head to toe in orange. Music that everyone knew shouted at the top of one's lungs. Then, with the years, he was too busy racing for such frivolity. But now the calendar was smiling up to him, a nice little break between Jeddah and Miami. It was a nice opportunity for him to fly back to the Netherlands, try the "Lando method," and come back. Copious amounts of gin tonics and a few kebabs never hurt anyone. Especially on King's Day. It was an incredibly stupid thing to do. Nevertheless, Max did it.

Once his plane touches down on Dutch soil, he realizes this was a mistake. He's forced to take a train and be packed like a sardine in first class. "No, I'm not him, but I get that a lot," he says, ad naseum, eyes glued to the maroon seats around him. Once he makes it to Amsterdam, he all but scours the city, going from store to store, trying to see if there's any alcohol left. He piles premixed cans of gin and tonics into his Alpha Tauri backpack. He sure is an ambassador now. But his quest isn't just a way for him to grab some booze. No, he's strategically scoping out areas where he won't be spotted. Where the crowds were just drunk and rowdy enough to ignore him, but not thay quiet and sober that he'd be bored. One would try to rationalize that most people didn't bat an eye at Lando. Who knows, Max could even accidentally spot the Britton on his way, dj skills being tested on a party boat. And people wouldn't care. We'll that was a bit harsh, there would be many overjoyed fans. But not as many as Max's. It was the fucking Netherlands, we was treated as the second coming of Christ. Or the first, depending on the province. Amsterdam was definitely not on the Bible belt, so that was that. Still, the Dutchman took some precautions. He hid out, going over to long lost friends' houses. People who he had known since karting, all drinking together, wearing orange, and treating him like a normal guy. Yes, there were some offhand comments about F1 and the Redbull performance. There's a few people trying to get him to help them with their fantasy team too.

He offers them a pass at his own ranking if they beat him at a drinking game. And those he never loses, always choosing to go for reflexes or showing feats of physical strength. After all, those hours in the gym aren't for nothing. Max is more than pleasantly buzzed by the time they have to leave. It's past 10, and people are already plastered. Of course, this was strategic. It was more plausible that people got a mass hallucination of Max Verstappen after a few dozen beers. He steps out through the crowd, shoes already sticking to the pavement. The smell of sweat and vomit and beer is in the air.

Max reflexively pulls the orange army cap over his own face, especially when they play anything by Maxx Power. He grins when they play 5 remixes in a row, the dj shouting something about a 5th WDC incoming. Max is happy that at least the fans are happy they believe in him, albeit delusionally. He relaxes, the tension sliding off of him like dirty air. He's too relaxed, almost, and now his mind is wondering how. Yes, the 6 pack of gin and tonics helped. He almost sniffs the air and gets hit with a string smell, similar to the one from the house. He reluctantly takes a hit of this green electronic thing and coughs. It's good, but weird.

"Didn't know vapes were this popular here?" He shouts to his friend, who deadpan that it's weed. Of course, Max almost smack his forehead. He's contact high, just like half the grid was in Vegas. He remembers that day, letting the flashbacks warm over him. Yep, he was fucking fucked.

Max decided that he'd fight the weirdness and tingliness of his body by people watching. What better way to be distracted by analyzing others. He blends into the crowd, only because people are packed like sardines. Mostly friends, big crowds of people dancing, drinking and shouting with each other. He doesn't miss the rowdier ones. There's couples making out and dry humping all around him.

He feels like a teenager all over again, that awkward virgin 17 year old at house parties. Hormones not as contained as he'd like to, popping a boner at other people's activities. If he listened very hard, everything was sexy. He'd hear the little moans and groans of the couple, the pleas for more. Everything made his cock stand up and throb painfully in his pants. And now, 10 years later, it's the same. Max never pegged himself as a voyeur. But now, with every sensation in his body heightened, he couldn't help it. And with his dick needing release and fast, he sets out to find someone willing to do that. His gaze searches, he's like a hawk looking for a bunny. And his eyes land on you.

You hated King's Day. It was a stupid holiday, a Saw trap thing made to torture you. You hated the gaudy orange color. The public drinking. The stupid songs you didn't know as a foreigner. You should've stayed home. But here you were, freezing in a two-piece set. You hate the flimsy fabric of the thing. You only ordered it last minute to impress an ex, who you knew you'd run into. You didn't expect to find them with their tongue down the throat of a mutual acquaintance. But you made a vow that you'd make out with someone. So far, your lips only touched the bottle. Whatever they were drinking was strong, made you feel woozy and light. At least you were doing King's Day right, getting very intoxicated. You didn't even flinch when you felt a pair of hands glide dangerously close to your ass. The whole night, it kept happening, accidentally, sometimes not. It was the crowds, you reasoned, because you were practically sandwiched between many backs and elbows. Then someone did really feel you up from behind. God, his fingers were deliberate. Groping, touching, all short of clawing. Needing you, needing this, and it was gross. The man apologized, a faint sorry from under the rim of an orange hat. You had mentally prepped a joke about redbull giving him more than wings or an aggressive overtake. And then he does it again, this time his hands loop against your hips, seemingly trying to move you out of his way. His fingers hook against the straps of your orange thong and snap them. You want to scream, yell, to tell him to stop. But it's as if you've swallowed cotton. And the warmth of someone's touch against you was clouding your judgment. The stranger lets his fingers move up your bare stomach until your tits. He flicks at your already hard nipples, a little hum of appreciation. He comments that you're practically asking for it by not wearing a bra.

The voice is familiar, even though you can't exactly place it. Didn't all Dutch men all kinda sound the same. This one's hands were kneading your breasts roughly, more for him than for you. He was whispering absolute filth in your ears, the brim of the hat he won't take off digging into your shoulder. He smells like a gin brewery that was next to a coffeeshop.

"Look at you, just letting me touch you. Aren't you ashamed that a total stranger's groping your tits. Right in the middle of Amsterdam, mind you, with thousands of people around you. I think you like it. I think you're a little whore. Because if you wanted to, you could have asked for help. Look there, bimbo," he says as he grabs your chin and tilts your head towards the police at the edge of the crowd. "You want me to stop? Let's walk over there, and I'll let you report me. Hell, I'd even turn myself in. Yeah? Go tell the nice cop about me, I'm right behind you."

You try to move, and he follows. The stranger even lets his hands fall from your chest. But with every step you take, you end up going 3 steps back. It's a Sysyphean challenge. You stop suddenly, and the guy stops with you. You two are surrounded and pressed against each other. You're not sure who makes the first move again. You just know that you're rubbing your ass against his hard cock like an animal in heat.

He rolls his hips against yours, lifting your skirt with every movement. He can't help but knead your ass, feeling your skin prickle under his touch. When the stranger hears a low wolf whistle, you're dragged, literally through the crowd. He's taken his cap off and he's barking orders in Dutch and English, parting the people like they're the Red Sea. He ducks with you in an alley and you swear your drink was laced.

"Max Verstappen? What the fuck are you doing here?" You say, still unsure of what was happening. He shuts you up with a kiss, a bit sloppy and needy. You kiss him back, but then it all starts to be too much. He was a renowned athlete, a role model. Not someone who got a bit too handsy. That dawns on both of you at the same exact time.

"You could ruin my life. You could actually go to anybody about this, and they'll strip me of everything. It'll be Mazepin again, but this time with consequences." He says, and instead of stepping away, he begins unbuttoning his jeans. Sliding his boxers away and taking out his cock. Sizing it up against you. You plead with him.

He pretends to think as his hands go in your panties. He tells you how he's in deep shit as his fingers rub your clit. He goes on about how you should report him, how despite his celebrity status and the inebriated state you're both in, he's going down. You try to mention police injustice, how the odds are against you, even bring up Christian Horner. Your body betrays you as you talk. Your hips snap to match his movements.

"They'll come up with some bullshit excuse. That I was too wet or something. No signs of struggle, no bruises on you or something of the sort." You chastise, as he slides his fingers inside of you. One, then a second, in a hooking motion. He moves them with precision and you blush. In the small alley the sounds of your wetness echo. Max knows exactly how to press his fingers inside of someone to make them fall apart. You cum against him, despite yourself. You press yourself close to him, shut your eyes and let the orgasm wash over you. You're limp, letting him tap the head of his cock against your clit. Allowing him to thrust inside of you, burrying himself to the hilt. Telling you that "if he's gonna go down for this, at least he's gonna make it worth his while."

He tells you how good your cunt feels, how well you take his cock. He holds you down, muscles pressing into you, keeping you in place. He goes on this tangent about coming inside of you, leaving you something to remember him by. You don't have the heart to tell him he's the first and only man to fuck you raw. That his blue eyes and all of today will haunt your dreams. You can't express that what he's doing to you terrifies you, yet thrills you. That you just might be sick in the head for not hating this. Your warm wet cunt was drawing him in. Wanting him. Needing him. You bite your lips bloody. Yet he still catches your whisper of "please, come for me." His thrusts become faster, and he spills inside of you. If this were real life, he'd leave after that, blend into the crowd, and accept his fate. He'd wait for the other shoe to drop and get what was coming to him for being a disgusting pervert who touches women.

But it wasn't real life. Max was in a stupidly expensive Monaco sex club. Their new marketing ploy - get you in the door for a free visit and impress you so much you come back. He had to hand it to them, they followed up with him like a champ. Getting extras to play the drunk and disorderly dutchies. Even the set of the alley was good. Max casts a glance at you, his throughly fucked out girlfriend. You're sleeping with a grin on your face. He remembers the day you told him about your unusual kink. How the two of you would dabble in it, occasionally. He'd pretend to break into your shared apartment and rape you. You had been so loud and rowdy that night that your neighbors called the cops on you. But just before the sirens, you had come on Max's cock so hard, he swore he could marry you right then. After he was done politely explaining the misunderstanding to the policemen, he started googling. And a couple months later, here you two were. Completely immersive experience. And no sheets to wash. Max feels bad for the person who has to clean the floor after you squirt on it. In his defense, you didn't even know you could do that. He lets himself be photographed leaving the club with you in tow. Shoots off a few messages to his friends and the other drivers on the grid to also try it out. If he creates enough buzz, they'll give him a discount. And it's not as if his hefty paycheck doesn't allow him to visit sooner. Especially after he wins Miami. Because he has several bets going on - one with Christian, one with GP and one with Lando. He gets them all, collects the cash and says he'll invest it. He puts it on another night with you. Because the true key to Max Verstappen's winning strategy was a well fucked girlfriend.

[yourlocalsmutwriter]

You were finally doing it. After years of putting it off, you were going to get your driver's license. Your days of relying on spotty public transport were over. Finally you could take a road trip with your friends or just cruise around the streets at night with the radio blaring. You studied for your theory exam and despite the anxiety, you passed it. Now it was time for practice. You just prayed that the instructor wouldn't be some weird old guy or a car nerd. But of course the universe presented you with

Driving Instructor! Fernando Alonso who had his own school, where even some F1 drivers like Gabriel Bortoleto and Nikola Tsolov got their licenses

Driving Instructor! Fernando Alonso, that starts off super friendly. You even film some content for socials with him, recreating the iconic PRNDL scene from Zach and Cody.

Driving Instructor! Fernando Alonso, who legitimately starts praying for his life during your first time starting the car. How are you so bad at breaking? He hangs a rosary off the mirror next time and swears he'll add more when you flip him off.

Driving Instructor! Fernando Alonso who is still trying his best to be calm and collected, but every so often, he starts cursing out everything around you in Spanish.

Driving Instructor! Fernando Alonso, who is desperate to have you pass because his school is the best around there was never a student he couldn't teach. So he keeps pushing back your exam until you're perfect. He's gonna make you pass. Even if it includes some uncouth methods.

Driving Instructor! Fernando Alonso, that uses your praise kink against you. One "you're getting the hang of this, cariño." and suddenly, you're squirming in the driver's seat, but at least better at checking the side mirrors?

Driving Instructor! Fernando Alonso, that shows off his luxury cars, supervising you to drive them at night. Of course, they feel nicer than the tractor you drive during the day. Let's get some pictures of you with them. And if some of the snapshots feature you sprayed out on the hood, with no panties, oh well. More for his personal collection.

Driving Instructor! Fernando Alonso, that gets stopped by the cops, with you behind the wheel. Despite your initial freakout, you flash the officers your best smile, make sure your tits peek out just a bit more, and explain how Fernando is just your daddy teaching you to drive. It takes everything in him not to grope your ass as you get out of the car. Of course, as soon as you're out of trouble, you're going to spend the drive home with your head between his legs. For safety purposes, of course.

Driving Instructor! Fernando Alonso that makes you ride the gear shift once, as a joke, but then it improves your ability, so now every time you complain about shifting gears too much he teases you that you had no trouble doing that with your pussy.

Want a driving lesson? Race over to my inbox, lovely. Let's arrange one?