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March 24, 2012 - Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia Source: Vladimir Rys Photography via Getty Images

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San Sebastiano (1474) di Sandro Botticelli

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CARLOS SAINZ 2024 Las Vegas GP

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Here they are

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good to see you, mate ☀️

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For the kink prompts you reposted, a while ago you mentioned something about this and Pecco's kinky fridays and I've been thinking about it ever since, so care to elaborate about 4 and 22 for pecco/luca?

(For this kink prompt meme) That’ll be omorashi + bathroom control and THANK you for remembering that little aside lmao. I stand by it! Same verse as this but takes place before it, timeline-wise :) Honestly for this prompt/for omo in particular you need like 10k of buildup or what's the point, but here’s a snippet of what some of that 10k would look like. i even wrote the snippet too long and so now this is a selection of a snippet of-- you get it.

A hot club near the beach in Cattolica. Luca isn’t out, but when Pecco’s sweat-smudged phone screen lights up it’s Luca texting.

Pecco abandons his beer somewhere to unlock his phone and read it, but in the end it’s nothing: Luca is asking if Pecco left his watch at the ranch, because someone found a fancy Breitling in the dorms. It could be Vale’s, but Luca doesn’t think it is so they’re asking Pecco. Unspoken: most of the VR guys cannot afford this particular Breitling, and wouldn’t buy it if they could. 

Pecco is several beers in and does not give a shit about this watch. It’s not a race weekend which means it's a practice weekend, and Pecco can look forward to all day tomorrow spent getting hammered on the dirt track by a few of the VR rookies who don’t want to fling themselves up against Vale, but are happy to do it to Pecco.

He shouts something to his guys. It’s all local friends, not VR guys, which sometimes Pecco wants, and sometimes he thinks he wants and then feels shitty and adrift in. He blinks and he’s in the club bathrooms. There’s a thin layer of sand on the floor and condensation on the walls. The music is pounding here too. He picks a stall instead of a urinal, then calls Luca.

Luca says, tv and voices in the background, “Where the hell are you calling from?”

Pecco slurs out the club name. Luca says, annoyed, “I can’t hear you, just text me.”

Something is sliding through Pecco’s hands. Something he needs. He says, “Wait, I’m in the bathrooms, it’s quieter.”

“Okay,” says Luca, unconvinced.

“I’ve had four beers. Can I—” the odd numb courage that brought him this far halts.

“Can you what?” says Luca. The sound on Luca's end suddenly cuts down.

“Nothing,” says Pecco, burning. He hangs tries to hang up but his fingers slip and he can’t tap the right button until the second try.

The throb of the bass shivers through the clammy stall door at Pecco's back. He just wants—Luca should have come out tonight. It’s one of those times it would have been better to be with the VR guys after all, even when they occasionally can’t stand each other, midseason and cooped up together weekend after weekend.

His back rests against the stall door, now sticking with sweat. Beer rests heavy in his stomach. He came in here to piss, but now he won’t, because he couldn’t even ask for it.

He cups himself through his jeans. Touch himself could be because of the little chub he has going on, believably. He slides his hand up between his hips and presses down. Harder, harder, until he feels like he’s desperate, even though he isn’t.

He flushes the toilet as he leaves, in case anyone thinks he was in there to—whatever. Just so it looks right.

Before he gets back to his buddies he orders two more lagers and drinks one at the bar, right away, like penance. His stomach feels full, but he carries the second beer away with him, sipping on it steadily, forcing himself through it. Someone slings an arm around his shoulders, and then everything is alright for a while. A little foams up and spills over the mouth of his bottle, trickles down his knuckles.

*

An hour or so later he’s back in the bathroom stall, panting, fumbling for the call button. He didn’t really need it, before. But that’s okay because he needs it now.

Luca does not sound like he’s gone to sleep. There is no more tv noise, no more background voices. Luca alone at home. He says, “Yes?” like he's not sure which Pecco he's going to get. The drunk one who needs pickups on Friday nights from beds he shouldn't be in, or the one who asks Luca for things. Pecco never knows either.

Pecco closes his eyes and pretends he can hear Luca breathing over the music. He’s got one hand flattened on the front of his jeans, trying to hold his dick. Coming into the stall itself made it ten times worse. It hurts to hold it. It makes him desperate enough to actually say it.

“I’m still—still out,” he breathes into the phone. Then, stumbling closer to the point: “I’ve gotta piss.”

Luca is silent. Now he’s waiting, like Pecco is waiting, for Pecco to say it.

“Shit!” Pecco says, knocking his head back against the stall door. The pressure mounts and mounts, sweet and hot. It hurts. “Can I piss? Come on, let me go—”

“Where are you?” Luca interrupts.

“Stall,” Pecco says, breathing hard. Now that he’s said it he can say anything. “Please, please, come on.”

“How many beers?”

“Uh, five,” Pecco says, fast, trying to get to the moment Luca says it. He realizes it's actually six, but doesn't correct himself. They’ve done it before, like this. Not while Pecco is out with his own friends, but—

“When did you last go?”

“I haven’t all night,” Pecco pleads, small, like a promise.

“Good,” Luca says, and it washes through him so big and bright that for a second he leaks. He grabs his dick hard, clenching down. The little warm wet spot in his briefs feels so good against the tip of his dick he has to grind his teeth. His eyes feel hot. His buddies probably think he's doing a line in here or something.

“Don’t fuck with me, come on, Luca—”

“Hold it.”

Pecco pants, silent, bewildered. He  says something like what? and Luca repeats, “Hold it.”

The worst part, once he gets himself under control, is zipping back up and buttoning his jeans. His cock is chubbing up more now, half-hard maybe, and he has to tuck it into the waistband, making everything tighter, squeezing.

*

He only makes it forty-five minutes. The next phone call isn’t from the bathroom stalls, which are now as full to bursting as Pecco is, but from the front steps, where he’s stumbling out into the humid night, street crowded from all the bars and cool after the dance floor. 

He whispers into the phone, “I can’t, I can’t, please—”

And Luca says, same words and tone he’s used dozens of times, “Stay there, I’ll pick you up.”

There are crowds of people coming off the bars by the beach. It’s summer, it’s Friday night. If Pecco whips it out he’s going to get photographed, and it’s not what it looks like, it’s not, but he’s fully hard, as hard as he can get like this. He leans against the wall of the club, hunched over, and people avoid him because he looks like he’s going to be sick.

He imagines, over and over, just wetting himself in his jeans. It’s dark, which would hide the stain. He imagines the relief, and then hotter on its heels, the humiliation.

Luca’s car pulls up. He doesn’t live far away. When Pecco doesn’t move, Luca casually illegally parks and gets out, elbows his way through people on the sidewalk, and takes Pecco by the arm.

Pecco leans on him, humiliated and hot.

“Hi,” Luca says quietly, Pecco’s ears a little club-deadened. “You okay?”

Pecco nods, shakes his head. Says, “I haven’t—“

Luca’s eyes go wide, his mouth slightly open. He locks it away again fast, but this is how he looks sometimes when Pecco, by accident, gets something right.

“Come on, I’ve got you,” Luca says, more patient than he is other times, prying Pecco out of unfamiliar apartments or making him stand up or throw up out on street corners. His hands are gentle.

Pecco doesn’t think he can walk without pissing himself, but he manages, bent over and holding onto Luca. He hobbles to the passenger side door, trying not to make any noise. His bladder sloshes and he bites his lip, hard. He’s too drunk. He couldn’t pull it off after all. He should have just stayed on the sidewalk until he eventually wet himself, and then walked home like that. Stupid.

Luca is quiet. He is wearing gray sweats. When they get in the car, Pecco sees that Luca is visibly, achingly hard in them.

It eases something. Pecco reaches for it. Luca lets go of the gearshift and catches his hand. “No,” he says. “If you touch me I’ll come.” A tight, tired laugh. “If you tell me it hurts I’ll come. And send us into a light pole.”

At a red light, Luca passes something over: an empty juice bottle, conscientiously cleaned out.

“If you want,” he says, eyes on the road. “You’ve done good.”

Pecco shakes his head. He’s going to make it home to Luca’s. He’s not going to fuck up more.

Luca reaches over and puts the hand not on the wheel on the back of Pecco’s neck. Pecco sighs and it’s almost a sob. “Alright,” Luca says, and leaves his hand there.

Luca knows, Pecco thinks, that Pecco probably needed the bottle: that Pecco might really not make it.

But he's just holding the back of Pecco's neck with a firm, hot palm, cock hard in his sweats, waiting patiently, driving Pecco home, as Pecco's cock wets itself in little leaking blurts, once, twice, in Pecco's feverish grip.

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He was defo still being held at gunpoint to do this lmao poor sod

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By this I mean, what is the most influential on your decision? E.g., for me it is the summary because I rarely pay attention to the title or stats, and only read the tags after I've liked the summary enough to want to give the fic a go.

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25 + 28 for vale/marc?

For this kink prompt meme! Which at least one person has asked if i'm still doing: honestly feel free to prompt from there whenever. no promises, but no time limit! 25. "Breeding" + 28. "Age gap". Average rosquez sunday. And yet, I feel like I only really winked at both of these? but i DID wink.

At some point around around Jerez Valentino realizes, with three parts bemusement and one part an odd sort of delight, that Marc is getting into the habit of making requests and then waiting to see what Valentino will do about them. They aren’t all overtly sexual. A lot of them are basically games, some of them a little Marc-bloodthirsty: avoid my little love-tap at Chemin aux Boeufs, find out who can set Jorge on Dani the fastest at the riders’ meeting; see who can come the fastest if I suck you off hot and fast and dangerous in the dark Yamaha motorhome shut for the night (the answer: Marc, with a hand down his shorts).

Marc’s latest request is, roughly, translated: fuck me raw.

What makes the way Valentino handles it worse is that Marc doesn’t even say it like that. What he actually says, with Valentino balls-deep in his ass and someone from Honda calling Marc’s sad shitty Nokia — and then, damningly, Vale’s small shitty and even more ancient Blackberry, looking for Marc, is: “I jerk off thinking about it sometimes.”

This is mumbled. Marc's face is pressed into the blankets. Valentino, thirty-five and insane and in the midst of about eight months spent delirious with the return to Yamaha and the way Marc looks when he comes around Valentino’s cock, says, “What?”

He gets something about the angle right and Marc whines and tips his hips instead of answering, chasing it. Valentino gets distracted, briefly, adjusting so Marc can’t hit what he’s trying to get, and then giving it to him only when he’s getting desperate.

Marc’s phone goes off again. Marc is, aside from being twenty-one and the kind of lay that has Valentino doing stupid things like fuck instead of nap on a race weekend, a professional. If he’s ignoring calls then he knows he can, so Valentino doesn’t even pause.

“What?” Valentino says again, getting a knee up on the bed and bending over to speak into Marc’s mouth. Marc is trying to latch his ankles behind Valentino’s back. Once he does he’ll start working with Valentino’s rhythm, and it will get blindingly good. Teasingly: “Can’t you say?”

Marc blinks his eyes open. His mouth is open, gasping. For a moment it looks like he really can’t say, which is nice for Vale’s ego, and then his face breaks open on a wide smile like he remembered something so good, and says, “Oh. You come in me bare by accident—”

Vale fucks him harder in self-protection, but he’s realized the danger too late.

Marc goes limp and lets Valentino’s sudden hard pace simply happen to him, head tipped back, mouth parted, bouncing against the blanket at the foot of Vale’s motorhome bed. They are splayed awkwardly sideways across the bed, with a stuffed porpoise Valentino once thought was cool stuffed under Marc’s hips, half the blankets already on the sticky floor. He’s still talking: “--maybe your dick—ah!-- breaks the condom?”

Valentino grits his teeth and really puts his back into it. He says, “Please tell me know—you know what STDs are.”

Marc looks up at him, wide-eyed and sweating and smile fading softly and happily from his mouth. Their phones stopped ringing what suddenly seems like it was a long time ago. It is just the two of them in this motorhome, Marc late for something like team lunch or worse, lunch with his father, who is the reason they have to fuck in Vale’s motorhome. They breathe harshly into each other's faces. Valentino has a moment of feeling like he has wildly miscalculated. They are sweating and the slap of Vale’s thighs and hips on Marc’s ass is loud. Vale’s hips are flushing red from it, and Marc’s ass too. The AC has even clicked off. His abs ache from fucking and he wants to keep going, that fast, that hard.

That’s the point, he reasons, of doing this with a twenty-one-year-old. That must be it.

Marc leans up for a kiss, which Valentino gives him before he even considers whether or not to give it to him. It’s like that.

It is just a brush of Marc’s mouth, and then Marc says, smiling, “Oh no, what do you mean? Will you knock me up?” It’s a joke; Marc is already starting to laugh by the end of the sentence, but it doesn’t matter. Some hollow part of Valentino suddenly floods. He yanks Marc’s legs from around his ribs and pushes Marc’s knees up around his ears. Instead of spreading Marc, he pushes Marc’s legs up and his knees together, as if he’s coy, as if he’s trying to preserve the decency of his asshole, which is nicely lubed and carefully if inexpertly shaved, just for Vale.

“Fuck,” Marc moans, head tossed back.

Vale holds very tight to the edge of the condom as he fucks back in, unable to dissemble, grunting, clenching his jaw through the feeling of Marc letting him in easily. He starts fucking hard and it’s horribly clear that this time it is not because he can, or to try to distract Marc. It is because his mind is one long hot line. He gets his hands on Marc’s ass and hauls him up, grinds in deep. His breath is coming too fast

“Oh god,” says Marc, high and tight, eyes shut and then open again, looking up. He is there with Vale: right there with him. It is almost jarring to realize. “Will you—”

And Vale says, “Yes, yes—” even though he won’t, and this is previously the sort of thing that only comes up sometimes in stress dreams.

“In me?” Marc breathes, and Vale is nodding like a madman. "You'll get me—"

"Yes," Vale says, horrified at himself and so close to coming that he feels it in his teeth, "Yes, yes."

Marc makes a little needy noise and catches one of Valentino’s wandering hands. He twines their fingers together and puts their hands above Marc’s head on the bed, so Vale can pin him, so Vale has someplace to hold on tight. It rips through him. And for Vale, at least, the hot heat of it is there, like Marc imagined: his own come squeezing into the condom, wet all around him.

“Oh,” Marc says, his hand frantic now on his own big cock, neglected. Valentino can’t feel his hands. “When I—when I was growing up, I didn’t think you could knock anyone up if it was just one time.”

Valentino, who had been trying to get a numb hand on Marc’s cock, feels his hips jolt forward like someone has forced them, fucking his oversensitive, softening cock against Marc’s ass like he wants back in. The condom crinkles gently.

Fortunately, right then Marc stops telling stories because he comes, hard and loud and eyes open, looking right at Vale.

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anyway Andrea Stella is from my roommate's hometown and when I visited her during Christmas break the city held some kind of celebration conference and we went and met him here's the pics lol

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just heard a weird noise outside. posting mv1 girl driver before going to check 👍

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companion piece for my charlando yuri fic ❤️

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Alex Albon after qualifying - Las Vegas, 2024 (📷 Mark Sutton)

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Lourdes' 2k celebration: option 2 + alex albon -> for @deafleppard