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yourlocalsmutwriter · 26 days ago

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There are twice as many stars as usual - 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.

#f1 x reader #f1 x you #f1 imagine #f1 smut #dark f1 #daniel ricciardo x you #daniel ricciardo smut #daniel ricciardo drabble #daniel ricciardo imagine #monster fucker #terato #minotaur boyfriend #dark daniel ricciardo

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boxboxblog · 5 months ago

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Rivals: Senna v Prost

(Senna left, Prost right)

While I have dived a bit into Senna and Prost in my general history, posts I thought it would be interesting to go more depth specifically on their rivalry. Next to Hamilton and Rosberg, this to me is the most interesting one by far, a strange combination of hero worship, competitiveness, friendship, and tragedy. This will be a long one, so buckle up.

So, to understand their relationship you must first understand where they came from. Starting with Prost, the older of the two, this Frenchman was already an established figure by the time Senna came into F1. 1980 was the first year for Prost, immediately signing with McLaren. He would switch to Renault from 1981-83, but by the time Senna was there Prost was back with McLaren, the team having improved their car to be front runners again.

(Prost in his 1980 McLaren)

Senna, on the other hand, was this newbie from Brazil, a F3 champion and obvious talent, but fresh faced and young. He came in on a lower level team, Toleman, and his talent very quickly outshone his team. He would eventually be signed to Lotus, but that is moving to far ahead. Let's focus on 1984.

1984 saw Prost as a frontrunner for the title (which he eventually lost to Lauda) and Senna as a midfielder at best. This did not stop the two drivers from having their moments on track though. They were almost polar opposites when it came to most things. Senna was passion, Prost was calculation. Senna was raw speed, Prost was perfection. Senna was instinct, Prost was logic. Their nicknames showed this. Magic Senna, versus The Professor. More than that they portrayed themselves very differently. Senna had the gravitas, the intensity, and was the type who did not believe friendship could be found with other drivers. Prost, while not the opposite, was a much calmer figure, mature and not so personable.

In 1984, while not on track rivals, they had a very famous race. Monaco, in the pouring rain, saw many drivers retire. But not Senna nor Prost. The Frenchman was in the lead, and Senna, with rain being the great equalizer, was chasing him down. The Brazilian had the speed to catch Prost, and would have, had the race not gotten called off a few laps before the end (many say due to Prost's request). This essentially took away Senna's first victory. This was their first real moment, as Senna declared the win his and stated that Prost benefitted from a biased decision maker.

(1994 Monaco Race, Senna going by Niki Lauda)

But again, Senna was a backmarker and Prost was a championship contender.

In 1985 this changed. Senna was signed to Lotus, a front of the field team, and almost immediately became a race winner, taking his first victory in the second GP of the season. Prost won the championship that year, and in 1986 as well. For the next two year, even if Prost was not winning the title, things remained basically the same. Senna was a top fielder but not a winner, and Prost was usually second in the battle.

(Senna when he was with Lotus)

During this time they had a friendly relationship, not close and certainly competitive, but respectful. Prost saw Senna for what he was, and recognized his talents even when he was with Toleman. Senna, who has grown up admiring Prost, saw him as the target, the person to beat. But regardless, a cordial relationship.

(1988)

That is, until 1988. Lotus had been dropping off in speed for a while at that point, unable to fight up there with McLaren, Brabham, and Williams. So Senna, ever the supreme talent, left them for McLaren, and in the process became Prost's teammate. This would be the real start to the rivalry, and dipped between a deep understanding and a deeper antagonism, cumulating in a championship battle that saw Senna take his first world title by only three points over Prost. During this year Prost called Senna's much more aggressive style 'dangerous', notably about a rather risky move made by the Brazilian at the Portuguese GP, where he said "If that's how [Senna] wants to win the championship, I'm not interested. I don't want any part of it."

(unsure of date)

But they were still something more respectful during this time. This would change in 1989. While tensions were high, as in most rivalries, they came to a head at the San Marino GP were Senna overtook on his teammate, ignoring McLaren team order. Things would slowly bubble from there, on track meetings and and the back in forth of points only making it worse. It reached its peak at Suzuka, the title deciding race.

(1989)

Prost was ahead of Senna in the points, but a collision between the two drivers made it so he was unable to finish the race, a crash many people still say was intentional on Prost's part today. Senna rejoined after getting his car restarted, and went on to win the race. This would mean he now has the championship, but he was disqualified from the race shortly after the end for not rejoining the track correctly. Taking away his win, this move also made it so Prost would win the championship that year, an extremely controversial decision by race direction. Almost poetically, it mirrors Senna's first almost win in Monaco all those years ago. A decision by race direction ripped victory from his hands once more, benefitting Prost.

(The Marshals attempting to help Senna back on track, Japan 1989)

More than on track tension, during this season there was team tension. Accusations of favoring were thrown around, with Prost claiming that Honda (the engine supplier for McLaren) was giving the other man a faster engine, or that the team was helping him more, and many other such things. Senna, for his part, declared that the FISA president, a Frenchman, was favoring Prost with his calls throughout the season (especially his last call in Suzuka, where the president threatened to ban Senna for life if he did not take back his critical remarks on the decision). There was also some press play, notably Prost sharing one of their private disagreements with a reporter, humiliating Senna in the process. No matter the team dynamics though, Prost would announce before the Italian GP in 1989 that he was leaving McLaren for Ferrari in 1990, and insulting them in the process. A move that had Senna, ever the opportunist, asking McLaren to get rid of Prost before the season ended. They didn't, Prost won, and then they were no longer teammates.

(Prost dropping his 1989 Italian GP trophy to the Tifosi, while still with McLaren)

The next year saw them battle for the title again, this time on different teams (teams that also had a rather storied rivalry). This too would end controversially in Suzuka, with Senna (the championship leader) crashing into Prost on turn one and taking them both out of the race, clinching himself the title. Prost insisted this was purposeful, many agreed with him, but Senna denied the accusation until the French FISA president was replaced by a new man, who had much more favorable views on Senna years later. Many people say that this purposeful crash in 1990 was a direct answer to the 1989 crash caused by Prost which had won him the title. Vengeance is a thing that Ayrton Senna seemed to hold close to his chest, especially with his rivals.

(Japan 1990 crash)

That was the last year Senna and Prost would battle for the title. 1991 saw Prost in a slower car, although they had enough moments to get sat down by the FISA and told to get along. Neither of them were up for title contention in 1992, as McLaren did not have the speed of Williams and Prost took a sabbatical.

(1993)

1993 saw even more interesting things happen. Prost would go to Williams that year, set to pair with rookie Damon Hill for that season and Nigel Mansell for 1994. This saw him winning the championship, his last, and Senna nowhere near the fight. However what happened on track was not the most incredible part, but rather behind the scenes. Because Senna, whether out of his wish to be in a fast car or an incomprehensible need to follow Prost, begged to join Williams for 1994, even stating he would do it with no salary. Williams used this offer to attempt to strong arm Mansell into a worse deal, but the British driver wanted none of it and promptly left F1. This would mean that Senna and Prost would be teammates again. That is until Prost took one look at it all, and declared he would rather retire than be Senna's teammate again (an actual stipulation in his contract). And so he did.

(Senna pulling Prost onto the podium at his last race)

But things do not end there. You might take a look at this and think Senna would be thrilled his closest rival had run away. But actually it was the opposite, Senna was deeply upset about Prost's retirement, begging the Frenchman to return. At Prost's last race he pulled his old rival up on the podium, embracing him. They called regularly after this, discussing F1 related things, often marked with Senna asking Prost to return, declaring that it was pointless now. During this time they became something close to friends again, though not quite there.

1994 Senna was with Williams while Prost was a pundit. The morning of the Imola GP it was Prost who Senna had his breakfast with, something the Frenchman said years later he is selfishly glad for. Over the radio before the race, Senna famously said "A special hello to my...to our dear friend, Alain. We all miss you Alain." This was his first and last acknowledgment of Prost as a friend.

Imola is where Senna would crash with his Williams, smashing into the wall. He would die on impact, a death that rocked the motorsport world then, and still has a massive impact today. Alain Prost would attend his funeral, serve as a pallbearer, and stated that when Senna died "a part of himself had died also". He refused to ever drive an F1 car again.

(Senna's funeral)

Today, this intense rivalry is remembered with fascination and no small amount of reverence. Senna is a legend, and and Prost's name is put up next to him forever. When one mentions Prost, they must mention Senna. When one mentions Senna, they must mention Prost. The Frenchman looks back on their time together with no small amount of regret, stating that they could have perhaps been closer with time. He wrote an article in 2014, ending the poignant story on this note:

I look back on those days now and think to myself, "Why did we put ourselves through all that? Why did it have to get so venomous?" If we had to do it all again, I'd say to Ayrton, "Listen, we're the best. Between us, we can screw all the others!"

This to me is one of the most fascinating and heart wrenching rivalries in F1, and one I think no other duo has come close to matching. They are a massive part of F1 history, and their names will be tied to each other forever.

I hope you enjoyed.

Cheers,

-B

#f1 #formula 1 #f1 rivalries #alain prost #ayrton senna

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