yourlocalsmutwriter

[yourlocalsmutwriter]

Exploring parts known - Max Verstappen x reader

cw: dubcon/ cnc, rapeplay, unprotected sex, gloryholes, semi -public, perv! Max, icky! Max

taglist: @lelevs, @mangotaitai, @burningalienlamppanda-blog

You wanted to be inspirational. To portray a certain lifestyle. To show off a little, get an experience of a lifestyle. So you chose Monaco for your summer vacation. August, sun, beautiful water. But you were far from shaking ass on a yacht in Monte Carlo. You decided to immerse yourself in the culture. Go to a museum. Coins and stamps were certainly not something you wanted to spend at least an hour on. So you researched. And somewhere on the 7th page of Google, you found it. Something that was practically free. You weren't sure why Monaco had a Sex Museum and what you'd see there, but beggars couldn't be chosers. So you ended up going. Of course, it's in a sketchy alleyway, tucked in bellow a massage parlor. You swear the guy walking out past you looks familiar. There's something about his green eyes and brown hair, face like an angel. He refers to his girlfriend as "cherie" and a girl in the most beautiful flower printed dress dress moves as well. They're probably some monegasque locals curious on a random Friday, you reason. Then you walk in. You don't expect a reception like ticket booth. Maybe something more digital and autonomous. Not a guy in a Mercedes baseball cap with the name plate "Franz Herman." His eyes linger on you for a moment, a deep blue that manages to feel you exposed and bare. He's apraising you almost, trying to memorize every detail about you in seconds. It's working because you let him. You barely notice him asking about "How many tickets will you need?" You're certain that just the one will do.

"You know, I'm also the owner, and I can give you a guided tour. This museum is my pride and joy, and I would love it if more people could experience it in the way I intend to. Shall we?" He asks, already getting up from his seat and moving next to you. You think this is a ploy to get a good Google review. A nice post on social media even. You bit the lure, why not? You wait for someone to replace him, and as soon as a nice-looking Japanese guy shows up and gets some brief memos in hushed tones, you are led by Frank. His touch isn't immediately alarming. It becomes such slowly. One moment, he's gesturing towards the entrance, describing how it's also a geographical thing. How he had traveled the word and gotten himself some things as "souvenirs." It's a haphazardous collection at best. Figurines, dice, cards, books, magazines, old school tapes. There was even a small room where porn played, which he opened and closed at the speed of light. This was when his arm grazed along the small of your back. Somewhere between beckoning you in there and trying to shut you out. You realize how awkward it would be for him to stand there and watch you watch porn.

"So, have you ever been to an erotic museum before?" He asks, trying to gauge what attracted you to this place. He's a little like a marketing survey, you think. Maybe next he'll ask how did you find out about this place. You had an inkling he wasn't the best at SEO and weren't about to rub salt in that wound. So you settled for diverting from any further questions by praising his museum. Flatter the ego.

"I've been in the one in Amsterdam. It's a bit too big for me, slightly disappointing. Plus, there was a machine that told me I was bad at sex, so that's that." You say. You have no idea why you're telling a complete stranger that. Yet it slips out. You expect him not to mention the last part. To have the decency to ignore it. Yet, he only replies, "Must have been faulty that thing. We have an interactive part too, you know."

It should make you curious, not terrify you. But you quiet the alarm bells in your head. He probably has a vibrator race set up or some standee you could take pictures with. Max a chair with shackles or something. That's what you expect. Franz leads you to a gloryhole. Well, a reverse gloryhole, maybe. It's not a small thing where a dick is struck through a hole. No, it's a whole setup for someone to get in, the lower half of their body being left out to be used. You can't help but wonder if it hurts. What would it feel like. Does the sensation of being trapped heighten the whole experience. If you can't see or move, really, does it become too much? You take a step towards it. Go to examine it when you feel a push. When they were inventing the word manhandle, they must have meant that guy. Because that's exactly what Franz was doing to you. Using his strength to shove you in there. To bend you and twist you until you're stuck.

You wanna try and scream, but it's futile. It's not soundproof per se, but close enough. There's nothing you can do. Not kick. If you just stay very still, maybe he'll say it was all a joke. A little exercise to raise your adrenaline. Some quip about levels of oxytocin and fear and arousal. You beg, and you pray mentally. Yet you feel it. A pair of strong hands on your body. They move slowly, as if trying to memorize it all, to make themselves familiar. His fingertips are delicate. Calloused. Precise. You wonder if he's done this before or if he was in tune with your body. Because it was mortifying, humiliating, nerve-wracking. But it also made you wet. You justified it with a lack of action. Your body had been deprived of sight and movement before. And it had been thrilling. But it was discussed before, ironed out, safe words in place. You wondered if Franz would quit if you said "No" or "Stop."

You had seen enough SVU to know what happens next. You thought that, and the Twitter porn links that turn a bit dodgy in the middle of it would be something of a guideline on what would happen next. That he'd pry open your legs, stand between them imposingly, and take. Slide his dick in you and thrust, bruise, shallow and fast and desperate. The whole spiel of how you brought this on yourself, how your skirt was short enough already to show off your panties. How he knew you liked it rough, how it was written on your face. He defies expectations. He's almost gentle but hasty. He drags your panties down to your knees and then trails his fingers back up your legs. Franz feels your ankles. He can see how you're shivering for him. Doesn't miss the chance to drag his nails over your ass, over where the hands of previous partners had left bruises. What he does is spit. Even that is perfectly calculated, landing just where he needs it to. Franz knows saliva is bad, they could get him by that, DNA testing and all. So he has to convince you to keep quiet. To like this. Because he's not like the other creeps out there. He's seen them, and one tried to buy Spanish fly in order to roofie girls. Franz had to pull some lie out of his ass that he only sells that if a couple comes together to buy it and the weirdo leaves (tanking down the museum's rating with him.) Franz was just a professional. Researching how to make this more immersive. Could he make money from this? The original plan was to spook you a little and get you going. Explain the correlation between fear and arousal, making you pay extra for a vibrator from the giftshop. But things got a little out of hand. And now he's smearing his spit on your pussy, not that you need it, honestly. One brush past your clit and he can feel it. Nonetheless Franz moves lower, fingers just shy of your hole. Yep, there it is, you're so fucking wet.

"Look at that, you'll just let me touch you a little bit, won't you, sweetheart. Just play with you a little, get what I want, what I need. After all, I'm a man, it's only natural for me to do this after being stuck here all the time. Constantly surrounded by filth. And then you come in, all interested in my sex collection. How can I resist." He punctuates every sentence with a grope. A squeeze of flesh. Your thighs, your ass, exposing you even more. Finally, he crosses the threshold and touches you properly. No more teasing, just two fingers against your pussy. Testing. Teasing. Probing. Searching for entry or resistance. And then your cunt takes him. Despite the muffled no, the squirming around you let him put his fingers inside of you. Hooked up, past the knuckles, searching. Needing to find that spot that makes you cum. After all, that would make things after easier, right. He doesn't want you to be too tight on his cock, needs you just right. Yet you're not there yet, not by a mile.

"Still a bit scared, aren't you? I'm sorry. I just have to do this, you'd understand if you were a man. God if only you could feel just how perfect your pussy is. Practically made for me, fucking all mine now. You'll see soon, you'll feel it when I'm properly inside of you. Before you know it you'll be begging for my cock." Franz says and doesn't miss how you squeeze against him. How there's a whimper or a poorly concealed moan in between your pleas to be let go. Signs.

He knows he shouldn't rush. That's not the way this gets done. Yet he can't help it. He speeds up his movements to distract you, your slick sounds not letting you hear his zipper going down. Using his left hand he angles his cock against you and it's in. It takes him a few thrusts to get the rhythm right. First, it's too fast, ramming into you like he's got a race to win. And then it's too slow, like he's trying to savor something that doesn't belong to him. A bite from a stolen stroopwaffel, the weight of a nicked golden ring on his finger. Then he stops thinking and just fucks. He didn't learn from porn. Franz had to do it the old fashioned way, by being attentive to everything his partner was doing. And now he was doing exactly that. Few fast, shallow thrusts to tease you, to dangle the carrot in front of you. The the slow, deep ones, the ones where you felt every millimeter of him against yourself, the proverbial stick. They weren't necessarily a punishment, more of a reminder. That he could own you. That you paid 10 euros to look at his collection of gooning material and now you were getting fucked. Feeling him where others couldn't reach.

It's the sense of more danger that makes you come. The telltale slowing of his hips. How he barely pulls out anymore, just pushes in and in and chases something.

"How do you feel about creampies?" He asks, and you're done. It's not like you have a choice either way, mind you. You both know that. He doesn't stop,he just hooks his hands around your hips, trying to bring you closer. As one, entangled like puzzle pieces. With his tip right against your cervix, he falls apart, emptying his balls inside of you.

"We should've done this before Sardinia, I mean, you didn't even see my tan lines." You complain to Max as he helps you out of the thing. With the end of summer break nearing and well the season so far, a repeat trip to the Monaco sex club was much needed. After visiting basically every museum in Sardinia to secretly meet with Toto or Kimi, this fantasy was born.

"I'll see them on the yacht. Now, let's get out of here before Lewis comes moping around. I'm not trying to feed those allegations, either."

[yourlocalsmutwriter]

Dolcetto.com - Yuki Tsunoda x reader

Summary: Your cooking journey just began, and in true Gen Z fashion, you have to document it. But along the way, you meet this agitating, aggravating, anonymous commenter on the cooking website you're using. How will this kitchen nightmare end?

yukitsunoda0511

yukitsunoda0511: Miami, homemade mealami, and more Miami

username: I'm sorry he made that in a hotel kitchen?

username: a full pumpkin risotto on a race weekend?

username: I've seen enough, let him open the restaurant

hereafterthebear: mushrooms were right there king, but still looks tasty

hereafterthebear

hereafterthebear: the scariest thing about Halloween is how much money I spent on the cakes for the potluck. Your girl cannot cook, but after hours of drooling over ebon moss bachrach, i decided to make my first meal. Pumpkin with beans, leeks, and raisins est servi

username: not choosing carmy as the best character and eye candy is criminal

username: this when Sydney is there is diabolical, actually

username: hear me out, fak

username : is the last slide something your parents made all the time, you know a family heirloom food

hereafterthebear: nope. made up the recipe after seeing what was on clearance in the store.

username: oh. creative. maybe go on Tiktok next time?

hereafterthebear: actually video recipes are hard for me to follow.

username: just go on dolcetto, you'll find something

Dolcetto.com, your number 1 source for easy recipes

Comments:

chefyuki22: admin, can we veto our suggestions better? Why is the thing with leeks and beans and raisins above my recipe?

richiejapologist: someone's not too happy that people aren't commenting on the risotto. Would you like some engagement tips?

chefyuki22: I'm sure making slop that looks like something I wouldn't even feed my pet turtle would get me engagement, but I'm not interested

richiejapologist : it's still more popular

chefyuki22: [Comment was removed by moderator, due to foul language and profanity]

hereafterthebear

hereafterthebear: My favorite time of the year, also an excuse to try out baking for the first time.

username: hey, so let's do Chinese this Christmas, yeah

hereafterthebear: Oh, I'm craving the fried ice-cream

Dolcetto.com, your number 1 source for easy recipes

Recipe: Christmas chocolate cake with soy sauce

Comments:

chefyuki22: my great grandmother is rolling in her grave

richiejapologist: okay, guess my Christmas cake isn't the only salty thing around

chefyuki22: baked goods are in the sweets section. Now what does that tell you about how they should taste

richiejapologist: that your Philadelphia cream muffins recipe should be taken down?

chefyuki22: I'll do that if you can replicate it and post a pic in the comments

hereafterthebear

hereafterthebear: No cooking grease, but eating in Greece. Still managed to make a little smoothie with avocado, parsley, and leeks. What do they put in the vegetables here, I need it to go through customs, preferably

username: vegetables, sure. I saw you eat gyros for 3 meals a day

hereafterthebear: I had to make sure I was getting the best deal for my money

username: you threw up in a trashcan near the beach twice

hereafterthebear: amusement for the local seagulls?

username: wait, your wifi is back, oh my god, you're gonna post another recipe, can't wait

hereafterthebear: aw, thank you for the support. yep, new one being proofread as we speak

Dolcetto.com, your number 1 source for easy recipes

Recipe: Avocado, parsley, and leeks smoothie

Comments:

chefyuki22: You know what, it's my own fault for not having the gene that makes parsley taste like soap. Otherwise, I wouldn't be finding this abomination

richiejapologist: You're just mad because I have a free spirit and a pure soul (wait, parsley isn't supposed to taste like soap?)

chefyuki22: How haven't they restricted your access to a kitchen?

richiejapologist: I pay rent, and my roommates mind their business.

chefyuki22: Didn't know they charged money to stay in a clinic for people recovering for losing their sense of taste, but it makes sense.

richiejapologist: [Comment was removed by moderator, due to foul language and profanity]

hereafterthebear

hereafterthebear: turned 24 and baked my own birthday cake

username: it was after the hangover, wasn't it, the baking?

hereafterthebear: spinach is healthy for the liver

username: why do you always attach screenshots of the food instead of yk, the end product

hereafterthebear: I write the recipes. posting them on here gets me traffic from my friends without me having to send a link like 20 separate times every time I make something

username: wait, you're richiejapologist? dude, love your work

yukitsunoda0511

yukitsunoda0511: Cooked up something interesting with chef Gordon. watch us talk fast cars, slow cookers and rivalries on and off the track

redbullracing: Yuki, the assignment was tea cakes, not spilling the tea

username: love how Yuki had screenshots of the feud he's having with a random stranger on the Internet

username: he said I have recipes and receipts

username: I want what they have and it's just Yuki and Dolcetto.com user richiejapologist

username: the fact that it started in November? that's it's been only 3 posts

username: Yuki said he had to physically stop himself on commenting on a spinach strawberry cake they posted, otherwise he'd get banned

Redbull Social Media Admins Slack channel

Are we seeing the traffic on the new Yuki and Gordon Ramsey video

Yes, it's insane. They're talking about the mystery person he's been beefing with all over the place.

It totally spread, it's in the comments of the og video, his new post, even our socials.

There's more, they're making UGC. We have to get on this. We need to find that Dolcetto user.

I tried googling the username, but no duplicates on anything. Should we trace their IP address?

Or you know, reverse image search the recipes they make and see if we have a hit.

That could work too, disregard the previous suggestion. Let's get them a paddock pass and go viral, people.

hereafterthebear

hereafterthebear: media day when i found out that the stranger roasting my cooking was my favorite driver, FP Friday and Quali

username: not Redbull fully gaslighting Yuki that you're just a local food influencer

username: the amount of beeps they added after you logged into your Dolcetto account and he saw your username

username: his apology, he really said sorry I made fun of your skills, but some of that stuff was vile

username: the way he really listened to the story about not really learning to cook from your parents and your friends living too far to teach you

username: you missed the best part, he offered to teach you how to cook

hereafterthebear: to all of you swooning, I got my lunchbox out and he started sprinting the other way

redbullracing: we have the video

kymillman

kymillman: WOMEN OF THE HUNGARURING PADDOCK

Here's 20 shots of women around the paddock, including Redbull's special guest for the weekend who seemed to bring luck to one Yuki Tsunoda. the driver seems to continue the tradition of first wins in Hungary.

hereafterthebear: Maiden P1, after meeting me, is crazy. A bet is a bet @yukitsunoda0511, you have to eat my cooking now

yukitsunoda0511: great, now I have to go to the hospital before Zandvoort

hereafterthebear: slander, I never gave anyone food poisoning

yukitsunoda0511: because no one dared to try it

username: get her, Jade

username: brocedes this, rosquez that, gax, no this is my enemies to lovers

hereafterthebear : the only man I like with an affinity for swearing is richie jerimovich

redbullracing: we'll see about that. gentle reminder that Yuki isn't a fictional character

hereafterthebear: Admin, wdym?

redbullracing : just saying, tsunoda22apologist has a better ring to it

yukitsunoda0511

yukitsunoda0511 : if a man's love goes through his stomach why is trying to kill me with every dish? winter breaks sunny days are always better with gelatto, and with @hereafterhungary25

username: she changed her username after his win, I'm going to be sick

username: oh to be a third in that kitchen (and bedrom) who said that

hereafterhungary25: you literally called me perfect parfait after this, don't act brand new

yukitsunoda0511: we're sharing dinner conversation, huh? should I tell people what you said about me and the ice-cream?

hereafterhungary25: please don't, my dad's on here. also this is supposed to be a romantic post

hereafterhungary25

hereafterhungary25: don't you hate it when 6 months ago red bull racing implied you'd date your enemy and then they're about to take him for pre-season testing before you can make it to your reservation for pizza in Amsterdam? Anyway, thanks for being the Ivan to my Jasmine, Yuki.

yukitsunoda0511: if only you devoured cook books like you devoured that romance book

hereafterhungary25: when the truffles and the carbonara kiss after 500 pages of tension, you call me, okay pretty boy

hereafterhungary25

hereafterhungary25: Told Yuki the best strategy for his home race was to blue shell other teams and watched him comment "wtf did we need the cocoa for" on my latest cookie recipe

yukitsunoda0511: God forbid a man has hobbies.

hereafterhungary25: with that attitude I'm not coming to the race to be your lucky charm again

yukitsunoda0511: and I'm changing my mind about how much matcha you can stuff in my suitcase

hereafterhungary25: okay, okay, now help me choose an outfit for the paddock

[yourlocalsmutwriter]

Amour a trois - Drivers x WAGs x reader

or how often your poly relationship engages in threesomes

Alex, Lily, and you - almost always, I mean, have you seen them. It would be a crime to be with those two and not feel a little spark. There's something in the way Alex looks at you two, in the manner that Lily touches her lovers, it just makes you so comfortable. There were times when you couldn't join them, and they didn't even get off properly. So now you all have sex only as a throuple, even in the most flimsy, creaky single hotel beds.

You like oral, oral, and more oral. The two of you sucking Alex off. Two people eating out the third. Alex is eating out Lilly, her eating you out, and you sucking him off.

⊹ ࣪ ˖⊹ ࣪ ˖⊹ ࣪ ˖⊹ ࣪ ˖⊹ ࣪ ˖⊹ ࣪ ˖⊹ ࣪ ˖⊹ ࣪ ˖⊹ ࣪ ˖⊹ ࣪ ˖⊹ ࣪ ˖⊹ ࣪ ˖⊹ ࣪ ˖⊹ ࣪ ˖⊹ ࣪ ˖⊹ ࣪ ˖⊹

Of course, it was only a matter of time before Lily and you got into the smutty book side of Tiktok. Truly, you just wanted a book recommendation, and then you and your girlfriend ended up being sucked into the Fourth Wing books. The Tiktok of her reading Iron Flame to Alex? Comedic gold. Now you were reading from the same copy of Onyx Storm, all cuddled up, a tangle of limbs on your boyfriend's sofa. The chemistry between Xaden and Violet is so good that you blush a little when it turns into a sex scene. You're reading slower now, and so is Lily, this unspoken agreement to enjoy this and savor it. And then Alex walks in, post shower and he can sense it in the air.

"Are you two fucking edging with this thing, Jesus Christ?" He asks as he takes in Lily's dialeted pupils, her nipples visible through the tanktop.

"I bet you're already wet, my sensitive girl. Let me see?" He says to her, half a plea, half a demand. Lily spreads her legs, obediently, and Alex groans. You're beckoned to the floor too, the rug burning your knees as you look at your girlfriend.

"Clit and tits for me, while you get to taste her, thighs and ass?" You propose, not wanting to move from your spot on the comfy couch.

"No fair, you can tease her more, and you'll hump a pillow. Meanwhile my knees are already fucked from driving the Williams every weekend." Alex protests, even though he's already pulling down Lily's underwear past her knees.

"When she comes, I'll let you switch places, so you can finish next?" You counter, and he's sold. "Keep reading, baby, let's not keep our loverboy on his knees for too long." You say as you press a little kiss against her clit.

Carlos, Rebecca, and you - very rare, usually it's just a couple having sex. Carlos and Rebe themselves had to find their footing in the bedroom at first. And then, when you became a factor, they had to start that all over again. On special occasions, it's very fun to tag team poor you or poor Rebecca with toys. Carlos just likes to see his girls take cock, and cum on it. Doesn't matter if it's his or a plastic one, it's all about overstimulating to the max. But he still has to be in control, in charge of who gets off when. So the most he will let you girls touch each other is a bit of tit sucking.

⊹ ࣪ ˖⊹ ࣪ ˖⊹ ࣪ ˖⊹ ࣪ ˖⊹ ࣪ ˖⊹ ࣪ ˖⊹ ࣪ ˖⊹ ࣪ ˖⊹ ࣪ ˖⊹ ࣪ ˖⊹ ࣪ ˖⊹ ࣪ ˖⊹ ࣪ ˖⊹ ࣪ ˖⊹ ࣪ ˖⊹ ࣪ ˖⊹

Carlos and Rebecca had to anticipate something like would happen

Who brings a friend to a romantic vacation in the mountains, going above and beyond to book neighboring rooms? In a chalet that was built before the concept of sound isolation. You can hear everything. Rebecca begging for Carlos' cock. His hips meeting her ass, the headboard against the wall. Even the moans. And worst of all, it's all turning you on. Making you crave. Before you know it your hand is between your legs, rubbing at your clit. Fast, needy, desperate, chasing. At least you're wet enough to do that. You think you'll cum silently, at the same time as them, but your body betrays you. With a fucking moan you break. You're too blissed out to care until the next day's breakfast. Rebe only spreads your legs under the table as Carlos' hands travel up. A voice reminds you that all you need to do is say stop, and it would be like none of this happened.

"Do you know why we're doing this to you?" Rebe asks.

"Yes. I got myself off to your sounds, and you caught me." You say.

"That's right. And since you wanna be a little voyeur, why don't you just join us instead?"

Charles, Alexandra, and you - anytime you and Alex wanna have a toy in the equasion, since Charles is basically a strap on with a pulse. One of you is getting fucked by him and the other's grinding on his abs, literally moving him around. Even though he's great with his hands and his mouth, you girls need his cock. On certain special occasions, you and your girlfriend team up and just milk him dry, as a reward for keeping up.

⊹ ࣪ ˖⊹ ࣪ ˖⊹ ࣪ ˖⊹ ࣪ ˖⊹ ࣪ ˖⊹ ࣪ ˖⊹ ࣪ ˖⊹ ࣪ ˖⊹ ࣪ ˖⊹ ࣪ ˖⊹ ࣪ ˖⊹ ࣪ ˖⊹ ࣪ ˖⊹ ࣪ ˖⊹ ࣪ ˖⊹ ࣪ ˖⊹

Charles Leclerc is a patient man. But the only thing he cannot wait for is your pussy on summer break. He looks at you and Alexandra, in pretty swimsuits, splashing around in the water. He needs to cross his legs again, to leave his cheap paperback on his lap. At least you're not here to yell at him about water damage. Charles isn't usually in charge. But he occasionally gets a very good idea. It started as a "Oh, I'm taller, I can help you two with washing your hair." And now he was holding a shower head against your cunt as he was steadily fucking it. Alexandra's holiday manicure is against his waist, pushing him, keeping him at a good pace. Her doe eyes look at you and you're asking your boyfriend to turn you over. Only with her lips on yours, do you let yourself enjoy this. Soft mews against her mouth, hands all over her body. Even though it's Charles teasing you, fucking you, you're only falling apart for her.

Esteban, Flavy, and you - from almost never to quite frequently now. Esteban kinda gets into these moods where it's only oral or only fingering for a month straight, and it frustrates the shit out of you, so now you have to take matters into your own hands. Also Este is such a tease, he just loves to deny you an orgasm. He can just sit there, hard as a rock, just talking to you as you whine and thrash. Your favorite is when Flavy eats you out while Esteban fucks you.

⊹ ࣪ ˖⊹ ࣪ ˖⊹ ࣪ ˖⊹ ࣪ ˖⊹ ࣪ ˖⊹ ࣪ ˖⊹ ࣪ ˖⊹ ࣪ ˖⊹ ࣪ ˖⊹ ࣪ ˖⊹ ࣪ ˖⊹ ࣪ ˖⊹ ࣪ ˖⊹ ࣪ ˖⊹ ࣪ ˖⊹ ࣪ ˖⊹

"Aren't we supposed to be relaxing? Taking Esteban's mind off racing? Not whatever this is." You ask as you take in the scene in front of you. Your boyfriend was watching his best race of the season back, volume deafeningly high, cock buried to the hilt in your girlfriend. Flavy looked less than charmed, giving you the look of "don't even ask."

"Poor girl, our Este has just been using your pussy as a fleshlight. Bet he didn't even let you move. Don't worry, I'll make you cum and we can switch places." You coo and drop to your knees, lips against her clit. Flavy has to bite a pillow to keep quiet, to keep her sounds to herself. When she's too loud, Esteban looses it, snapping his hips against her, so she can finish faster.

Lando Norris, Magui, and you - all the time, surprising he hasn't asked for a foursome yet, biggest fucking freak. Loves both of his girls on their backs, one being fucked while he eats the other out. Lays both of you on top of each other and puts his cock in you, pulls out, puts it in her. Makes you scissor.

⊹ ࣪ ˖⊹ ࣪ ˖⊹ ࣪ ˖⊹ ࣪ ˖⊹ ࣪ ˖⊹ ࣪ ˖⊹ ࣪ ˖⊹ ࣪ ˖⊹ ࣪ ˖⊹ ࣪ ˖⊹ ࣪ ˖⊹ ࣪ ˖⊹ ࣪ ˖⊹ ࣪ ˖⊹ ࣪ ˖⊹ ࣪ ˖⊹

"Seriously, Lando, no one actually does this, I think." Magui says as she grinds herself against your tits. Your nipples against her clit feel good, sure. But it's all just a show, for the man pumping his cock in the corner. Lando doesn't like pushback. He wants both of you absolutely dripping, feral for his cock. That's why he doesn't let you touch him, now you two are riding his thighs. M on the left, you on the right. Just sitting pretty and humping him. Doing it like that's what you were made for, like that's all you're good at.

Pierre, Kika, and you - depend on what you consider a threesome. He's a bit of a traditionalist, one of you gets head, the other gets cock. Maybe you can kiss/ fondle each other. He likes being watched and watching, will either make you narrate it while you touch yourself or tell you how to touch your girl.

⊹ ࣪ ˖⊹ ࣪ ˖⊹ ࣪ ˖⊹ ࣪ ˖⊹ ࣪ ˖⊹ ࣪ ˖⊹ ࣪ ˖⊹ ࣪ ˖⊹ ࣪ ˖⊹ ࣪ ˖⊹ ࣪ ˖⊹ ࣪ ˖⊹ ࣪ ˖⊹ ࣪ ˖⊹ ࣪ ˖⊹ ࣪ ˖⊹

"Okay, Kiks, deep breaths and relax, my love." You say as you guide Pierre's dick inside of her. The three of you were too busy to grab any lube or condoms tonight and Paris was surprisingly sparse in overnight pharmacies. That's why you were helping your girlfriend take your boyfriend's cock raw. It slides, inch by inch. Pierre can only wait so long before moving and Kika absolutely gets overwhelmed by the size. You're pretty sure you can see a bulge against her flat stomach and it turns you on so much. Pierre's nose gets a little snail trail as you ride his face. You don't think you'd be cumming from Kika asking to be ruined, but stranger things have happened. As soon as you ride your orgasm out, you're holding her legs apart, breath against her clit, watching Pierre thrust in and out.

[yourlocalsmutwriter]

Oh? - Lance Stroll x reader

cw: piss kink/omorashi/ watersports, squirting, dubcon elements, overstimulation? , I was on the fence about writing this, but it's been plaguing my mind for months, so enjoy

Like Ferrari had added, "It must be the water" to their words of wisdom you were sure that "Let's spend winter break in Montreal" would be added to yours with Lance. It was gorgeous. The snow covering the city. The places your boyfriend took you to, each filled with stories of childhood, youth, recklessness, peace. You two were making memories too, Lance loving the fact that you were going through his "routine" as a first time. Your glee at going to Dollarama. Actually, trying the maple syrup in ice, your face all scrunched up. How your eyes would soften when he spoke French and how you teased him about the accent he had.

"Honesty, I'm flabbergasted at how Esteban keeps up with you." You say as he slips in some Frenglish nonsense to you.

"As if he and Hadjar don't use verlan back to spite me. Or quote that weird medical show from the 90s. The first time, they told me to ejaculate the room immediately. I thought I went insane." He replies, not wanting to get into this again. Did he love calling it PFK? No, but it was the law, literally.

The one thing you couldn't get used to was the cold. It was biting, freezing, unlike anything you've felt before. Outside, it wasn't so bad. You had your coat, hat, gloves, a scarf, and layers. But inside, it was just unbearable. You had cranked up the heat as much as possible. Got out the thickest blankets from out of the closet, weaved by Lance's own grandmother with actual wool. But it wasn't enough. Your boyfriend was boiling next to you, a human furnace. Despite the fact that he'd stripped down to his boxers, he was warmer than you.

"Come on, sweetheart, I just wanna sleep. You can't be that cold, let's just turn down the thermostat a bit, and you'll be out before you feel it. And I won't have to live in a sauna." He argues. It has to be psychosomatic, your shivering. Either that or a cold. But he was careful. Going to nice restaurants, making sure you got healthy, delicious, nutritious meals. Making you take multivitamins in the morning. Your immune system was generally pretty okay, so it made no sense. Lance had to snap you out of it. And he had an idea of how to. You just needed to stop being so stubborn.

"No." You prompted.

"Even if I'm the one going to adjust it and you don't have to move at all." He asked, hoping for some leeway. Unfortunately for him, you provided none. You stayed wrapped up in your cocoon for hours. He could see you squirming and started doing mental math. You had dinner with him, both of you treating yourselves to the "good wine" since it was off-season. Then, you chased down the red with water, insisting that it was "necessary since alcohol dehydrated people" and "a sure way to avoid a hangover tomorrow." And you hadn't gone to the bathroom since.

"Are you seriously too scared to step out of this thing that you won't even go to pee. It's not that cold, I'm sweating." He reasons, because he is. You insist that he gets under the blankets with you, claiming that it wasn't warm enough without his body heat. You shake your head, but squirm, thighs clamping down on your hands. You liked to shove your palms between your legs, for warmth, it was a habit that you'd kept since childhood. That warm plush spot provided comfort, right under the lace of your panties. You refused to admit to your boyfriend that you needed to go, that a quick run to the bathroom wouldn't hurt. You were too stubborn, and Lance refused to let you be like that. He was doing this for your own good. That's what he told himself as he trailed an arm down your pajama pants. Slowly, tantalizingly. He was warm, spreading the heat he had along your body. His fingers skim along the material of your underwear, and the runs two of them along it. From your clit, down, to your opening, all the way to your ass. And back up again. He can feel you shiver for him, your own hands moved aside for him. Lance doesn't try to remove your panties. He just hooks a finger under them, and rubs it along your clit. Just the one, in slow deliberate circles. He knows this song and dance well. He knows that soon enough you'll be so wet that you'll soak his entire palm. Thumb and middle finger drenched as he plays with your clit for at least an hour. Sometimes more. It's his favorite, because that's how you touch yourself when he's not there. He knows. He's seen it. He's made you reenact it for him. He knows that the only difference is that his fingers are bigger, longer. Lance knows that you love it when he shoves them inside of you. How he curls them up and makes you listen to your own sounds. How he drags them slowly at first, then faster, a rhythm that ends with you pleading for more. But tonight you're not getting any of that. Just slow and steady until you let up. Until you admit he's right. Lance sometimes stops. Not to be cruel, no no no. It's not even when you're close. He does it to pull away and then feel your wetness all over again. Get closer to your sloppy pussy. To your leaking cunt. It takes him around 15 minutes of the same circular movement against your clit, barely brushing it with the pad of his finger to stop and start again. But when he does you're so much wetter than usual. He feels you clench and then the slightest wetness against him. And then a clench again, as if you were trying to suppress it. It feels different, than usual. Then just a little bit again. You're whining, and you sound embarrassed. The thing is, you're not close yet. You shouldn't be too overwhelmed by him. He's not doing anything yet that would put you in subspace. He uses more of his finger to press against you, and you're not any different. Lance knows just how wet you're still to get, how your clit will be just begging for his touch. But not yet. So there was only one answer. And the fact that you were trying to close your legs on him was telling him everything.

You had peed. Just a little. Probably an accident you hadn't realized. With your body so on edge, wanting a release. It felt the same, the same as getting more turned on. But you could feel it now, how the piss clung to the bottom of your underwear in the way your arousal didn't. And the faint smell. You needed Lance off of you to go pee and handwash your dirty underwear. Yet, you didn't want him to stop. Not now. You reasoned with yourself that he'd get tired. A wrist cramp. He'd wanna deal with the boner that you could clearly see throbbing. It would be all good and you wouldn't even cum. Because you knew that if you got there, you would definitely pee yourself.

It's not like Lance was into watersports. He shouldn't have known the name for the kink, really. But he wanted to find an old reel with Fernando to show to the admin, the one where they're talking about jet skis and such in Miami. Lance Stroll x Fernando Alonso watersports was not very good for SEO he quickly learned. And maybe Ao3 needed to be added to the blocked websites in the paddock. But he loved watching you fall apart. You truly got so wet, and his finger was just hitting your right spot over and over. Lance made sure your legs were spread wide open. His palm was so close to you thanks to all the layers between you two. Pressing against your clit. You were letting out little moans, pants. Saying please. But never being too greedy, you just laid and took what he was giving you. You knew you couldn't ask for more, hadn't earned it, hadn't deserved it.

You were close. You had to make him pause twice, just for a minute to get your bearings. But never stop. Even though you were embarrassed. Even though you whispered, "I'm gonna pee, I don't know if I can even come before that or if it's just gonna be piss." Lance speeds up just a bit. You wince. It's hot, the sensation you're feeling. You can sense pain in your lower back, a phantom burn in your kidneys. The sounds are something else. It's just so wet, and Lance just smears it around, and it is so vile. Nasty. Obscene. It shouldn't be turning you on. You shouldn't be moving in a way where you can feel your boyfriend's finger even more, but you do. It's been almost an hour, and you can feel yourself on the brink of bending and breaking and shattering.

"Talk to me and I'll let you cum. Tell me exactly how you feel and I won't stop until you're just fucking on another plane of existence." He says and brings you back to the fact that you still have to ask. To earn it. To have him give you the permission to let go. You go for candid honesty, because what's the point if you don't.

"I've never been this wet with anyone else. It hurts, but in a good way. It's too much, but I can't stop, please don't stop." Lance knows he could do anything to you right now, and you'd still end up coming. He wants nothing but to shove three fingers in your pussy, watch you be stretched out. He wants to fuck you, to shove his dick in you and fuck you through your orgasm, overstimulating you towards his. After all you open to him so well after you cum. And you'd look so good in a puddle of your own mess and his cum, sobbing in the pillow. But he doesn't do any of this. He knows that you need to come like this. Around nothing, pussy clenching on itself. So he keeps going and just watches you. He can feel it, how your entire body tightens and releases. Lance doesn't need to look at your pussy to see that it's drenched, he can feel it. He just looks at your eyes. It's something, not quite them rolling back, more akin to a twitch. It drives him feral. After you blink, then he's a bit of an ass. Pressing against your stomach, watching you trash against him as a bit more piss comes out. You're red, embarrassed, trying to cross your legs. Trying to flee from the mattress that's already wet with your fluids. Lance can see a tear about to roll down your cheek and lets you leave, sees you wobble, pajama pants already soaked with a dark patch.

The vanish smell against the new bed linens is bad enough that you take your covers and move to the floor. You're too exhausted to notice that the room is a bit colder. That Lance's fancy hand soap in the bathroom did nothing to take away the smell of piss from your panties. That as soon as you're sleeping, Lance is wrapping them against his cock, thrusting against them in his hand. Truth is after that initial Google search blunder he went on a bit of a rabbit hole. Call it morbid curiosity, but he kept clicking on playlist of watersports porn. Most did nothing for him. But some tickled that part in his brain that loved to see you loose control. To cum so hard for him you couldn't keep track of what was going on. To forget about shame and just let go. Lance Stroll didn't have a piss kink. He just had a "making his girlfriend cum sloppily" kink.

[yourlocalsmutwriter]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[yourlocalsmutwriter]

inbox request (:

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

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

[yourlocalsmutwriter]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[yourlocalsmutwriter]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[yourlocalsmutwriter]

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

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

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

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

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

[yourlocalsmutwriter]

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

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

[yourlocalsmutwriter]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[yourlocalsmutwriter]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[yourlocalsmutwriter]

as promised, bottas angst, angel of montgomery babbyyyy 🦇

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[yourlocalsmutwriter]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[yourlocalsmutwriter]

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

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

The honeymoon suite incident - Fernando Alonso x reader

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[yourlocalsmutwriter]

F1 Masterlist, ☆ marks the smut

Drivers

Carlos Sainz ☆ 1 ☆

Daniel Ricciardo ☆ 1 ☆

Fernando Alonso ☆ 1 ☆ ☆ 2 ☆ ☆ 3 ☆

Jenson Button ☆ 1 ☆

Isack Hadjar ☆ 1 ☆

Lance Stroll ☆ 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 and wags have a menagé a trois ☆ 1 ☆

The grid gets jealous ♡ 1 ☆

The grid has something embarrassing happen during sex ♡ 1 ☆

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

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

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

Fans in the grandstands (emoji anons) : 🦇

[yourlocalsmutwriter]

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

Sildenafil(lling you) - Fernando Alonso x reader

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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