Your parents were traditionalists. Very much into the idea that you need a man to help you this patriarchal hell. They had let you off the hook during college, letting you focus on your studies. But now it was time to get a guy and maybe start thinking about some kids. That's how they somehow introduce a certain someone to you.
Arranged husband! Sidney Crosby, who deals with wedding planning like a champ. It doesn't matter that you two met a few weeks ago, he is going wedding cake tasting with you. Screening caterers. Curating tables like he's prepping the Met Gala. If this day was a peek into how you'd spend the rest of your lives, then it had to be perfect.
Arranged husband! Sidney Crosby, who secretly drives you out to Vegas a few days before the wedding so you can see that lots of people tie the knot without being a million percent sure about it. Your first kiss is infront of one of the neon signed chapels.
Arranged husband! Sidney Crosby, who introduces you to the WAGS and makes sure that the group of women help you out as much as they can before you are made to be one of them.
Arranged husband! Sidney Crosby, who secretly looks up wedding traditions that you know and he doesn't. He even calls your parents to ask them about how their wedding went, and if they want to try to recreate some of the pictures with you.
Arranged husband! Sidney Crosby, who writes custom vows but doesn't say them infront of everyone. Instead he saves them for you. When you watch this beautiful, older man say that he can't wait to know you and that he's sure loving you will come with, you tear up a little. Maybe your parents were right.
Arranged husband! Sidney Crosby that is so surprised that you're not as experienced as him. It doesn't matter really, but he does get off on how you get for him, needy and wet. It's like you're both virgins again with the way you're all over eachother.
Arranged husband! Sidney Crosby absolutely has to call you his wife in bed. From my gorgeous wife and my perfect wife to my needy wife or his favorite, my wrecked bride. Also refers to himself as your husband, so he'd tell you to come on your husband's cock.
Arranged husband! Sidney Crosby loves your mouth. Whether it's against his neck or his pecs. Wrapped around his cock or tongue against his hole, he needs you. Gets extra loud and whiny too when it's been a while, lets himself fuck your throat a bit as a reward.
Arranged husband! Sidney Crosby secretly likes fucking you without much foreplay before. You're still wet from the way he kisses you and your tits, but you're not getting his fingers. Just his cock. The way you stretch around him, the pleas for more when you're ready, it's everything to him.
Attending an university in Montreal was a dream come true. One that was becoming slightly too expensive. Between rent, groceries and the endless shenanigans occurring in your dorm, you were dangerously close to being in the red. That's why a free Balkan potluck catches your eye, especially the small print adding that you don't have to bring a big dish, a small portion was fine too. You thank your grandma mentally for teaching you how to make Francoska solata, which you end up prepping. The first person to try in ends up being
Frat Boy! Juraj Slafkovsky who actually was the one organizing the whole thing. He slots next to you as you arrange the salad in dollarama paper plates. Before you're done with the plating he's already pivoted from homesickness cures to hole in the wall restaurants that have bryndzové halušky. You don't realize he's asking you out until much later.
Frat Boy! Juraj Slafkovsky who keeps running into you. You swear he's taking the most random electives for his major, basically mirroring the schedule you have. Juraj is very lost in half of them, making you poach him for group projects and study sessions. Even though you claim that you're only helping him because tutoring looks good on your CV, you have a soft spot for him and his hockey scholarship.
Frat Boy! Juraj Slafkovsky of course drags you to a bar near campus to skip class. A pitcher of beer, a bunch of his teammates, their girlfriends. Jakub and Arber tease you that Slaf never brings anyone to these things.
Frat Boy! Juraj Slafkovsky is actually the opposite of a player, despite his looks and the fact that women seem to orbit him. You see how the sorority girls try to get him to organize mixers, how they flirt. When you ask him one day, delusional from your 4th consecutive Redbull you find out that poor boy has only had a long term girlfriend or two in high-school.
Frat Boy! Juraj Slafkovsky likes to keep an eye on you at every party. Makes you your drinks or grabs cans of beer always, dances with you so no other guy does. Asks to kiss you on some dingy couch in a basement when no one's there yet and tries to sneak pecks throughout the night. Even if he gets more drunk than you, he's always walking you home.
Frat Boy! Juraj Slafkovsky loves PDA. As soon as you're his girlfriend everybody knows it. Holding hands walking through campus, quick kisses before class. He takes it further, always keeping you in his lap, touching you until he's hard, fingers so close to your cunt you can practically feel them. Juraj has dragged you to a public bathroom more than once, just needing a locked door so he can watch you kneel and suck his cock.
Frat Boy! Juraj Slafkovsky who helps you explore your intox kink. He notices how you get bolder when tipsy, grinding on him in the middle of the dancefloor. You're more relaxed, not self - conscious about how you look during sex, your experience. No, you just wanna be fucked by him and you're not afraid to ask. You also get even more soaked when you're not in your head, all needy for Slaf to help you.
Frat Boy! Juraj Slafkovsky takes him time with you. Both of you have busy schedules and high libido. Despite that he can't have a quickie. Come in five minutes, no thank you. But as soon as your roommates are gone for breaks he's in your bedroom, head between your legs. He always wants to taste you first, see how sweet your pussy is. But you can only cum on his cock.
Frat Boy! Juraj Slafkovsky always has you raw. You're his steady girlfriend, his future wife of course he'll wanna fill you up. It feels good. He likes seeing it. Proves you're his. He loves telling you he's close, watching you clench for him so the cum doesn't spill out too fast.
hiii! i've read your fics and i love the street woman fighter ones! i hope you write some for mannequeen, and wolf lo, especially redlic and chocol 💛🧡
Coworkers anonymous- Redlic x reader
You were halfway through your exchange period in Korea and you were dirt broke. Not "Oh, I just need to cut back on going out and get less expensive groceries." No, more like not getting kicked out of the apartment through the sheer grace of good luck and automatic deposits on the 1st day of the month. You had already borrowed some money from friends. Asked your parents a few times. Everything was just more expensive. It was easier to indulge. The company you kept had grown up here, they were used to lavish. To glitzy and name brand. To restaurants for lunch and dinner daily. You needed a job and you needed it fast. A sex shop wasn't necessarily what you hoped you would get. Didn't really fit with your degree or your previous experience. Internships and part-time jobs didn't really prepare you to sell fisting dildos. But the pay was good, the hours were consistent and you got to practice your Korean occasionally. The area was touristy enough that locals didn't really come that often or they would prefer buying online. But on the offchance some couple came in, flushed from drinking, giggling and whispering you had your coworker takeover.
Redlic stuck out like a sore thumb here too. Her long blonde hair and pristine outfits didn't really scream "Let me teach you about lube today." With you she was shy. Voice soft and timid. More often than not she'd make you tidy up, or do inventory. Didn't really ask you questions nor did she offer any information about herself. Once when she was late, she let it slip that her practice ran late. So all you knew about her was her name and that she danced. Great.
You just assumed that she was like that with everyone. Reserved. It was a good contrast to your bubbly demeanor. You wanted to be as friendly and hands on with the customers as possible. Take away the shame of buying an adult item. You'd chat about the perks of certain toys over others, or point out details on how to get the best use of certain products. Meanwhile Redlic just rung up people and asked them whether or not they wanted a bag. Discreet. Offering feedback only after being asked to. Not an ice queen per say, but on the frosty side.
The day before Valentine's is a massacre. A fucking bloodbath. A stampede if you'd ever seen one. So you overstay. You keep on helping Redlic even though your feet are sore. You restock condom packs and keep running to get more promo vouchers. You seamlessly switch to English when the customers hesitate too long at your coworker's Korean. 2 hours after you were supposed to clock out, you finally punch in your little number and get ready to step out.
"Wait, you were supposed to go earlier. You stayed to help me? You're an angel." Redlic says, noticing that you stuck around way too close to closing time. You just smile and explain that you were happy to take some work away from her.
"Didn't wanna see you overwhelmed. Goodnight, Red."
After that shift something changes. Redlic is warmer. Chats to you in those long stretches of time where the store's empty. She calls you darling, sweetheart and honey, but the one that sticks most is angel. You get used to this new side of her, get familiar with her laugh. Quickly learn that she has no filter.
"That's why I'm so robotic with the customers. Don't want to accidentally tell someone that the dildo they're buying is the one I took from my ex during the breakup." Her eyes widen at the admission, fully processing what left her mouth. Thankfully you knew how to solve the situation. By sharing an equally embarrassing secret.
"At least you had the decency to steal them. After using mine on my previous partner I wanted to disinfect it. I tried boiling it in the kitchen and my roommate walked in to a pot full of cock." You say and she laughs uncontrollably, the sound so sweet and pure. That's another thing you've grown to like, the sound of her happiness. Yeah, it took you staying 2 extra hours on your feet and practically throwing condoms at people, but it worked.
Redlic takes a shift that starts 15 minutes after yours for the first time in ages. Usually she was there before you. But this time you're on your own, basically slumped on the counter. You pulled an all nighter and now needed the rest. You had no energy drinks left and honestly you didn't need the extra effect. Red Bull might give you wings, but it also gave you piss. Luckily you find some weird gummies in the back. They said something about energy and stamina. You guessed Waxxy had left them behind. So you snacked on them, popping one after another in your mouth. By the time your favorite coworker was back, you had made quick work of the package. You offered her some and she took it. Redlic chewed and then looked more closely at the wrapper.
"These are aphrodisiacs. Sex gummies, angel. Jesus fucking Christ."
She tosses you a box that came damaged. You can hear the rattle of a tiny vibrator in there, the ones that charge.
"Just deal with it in the bathroom. Please." She says.
"What about you? You ate them too. We're gonna what take turns getting off? Let's just do it together. Once, no strings attached. Just raw physical need. Come on red, be adventurous." For a second she processes it. Then she locks the store, flipping the sign to "back in 10 minutes."
"Just one orgasm. And I get to tell the manager that you made me close up because you clogged the bathroom." She reasons as you drag her to the employee toilet. Redlic's lips are on yours and your hands are moving down to her underwear. The small vibrator whirs to life and you press it between you two. You hump like dogs, trying to chase a pleasure that's rapidly increasing. Maybe it's the aphrodisiac. Maybe it's because Redlic is beautiful and rubbing her cunt against you. But you cum. Through your daze you move away slowly and focus on her, moving the vibe so it's more intense. Seeing her pussy clench around nothing should be classified as a tourist attraction, no an 8th wonder of the world. She shoves a bunch of toilet paper your way as you watch her clean yourself.
"Thank you angel, even though you got us in this mess in the first place." She says.
Powder blue - baseball player! Daniel Ricciardo x reader
Dedicated to my L, once again. You make me believe in anything, even the Mets keeping playoff contention
So your boss Oscar knocked up your best friend. Shouldn't be a problem, right? It was about time for the rest of the office to find out about their secret relationship. The only downside- all her clients suddenly became your responsibility.
You loved the variety of your job. Scrolling through social media to find trends your clients could copy. Going to niche events to gather data and attempt to network. You had a rapport already with the brands you worked with, knew what they liked. You got it. Well you didn't necessarily understand why they wanted to peddle their ugly overpriced apartments, but you knew how to. Same with the telecom and their endless copies about deals. Seriously, you did so many variants for their Easter giveaways you barely wanted to see a phone ever again. But B2B made your job easier. Helped you be less attached. You had figured out early on to kill your darlings, that clients always wanted something familiar. Innovative sure, but not too out of the box. Different enough from the competition, but close enough that it works. So you learned how to speak like them, think like them, kill the girl inside of you that wrote for copywriters first and the audience second. The beautiful advice you got to "Only present something that you would love to read yourself," was long pushed out by the more practical "Meet the deadline."
You vaguely remember the day Heineken chose the agency for their partner. Oscar saying something about the competitors sucking and him taking on the project. One look at the Lego F1 cars on your friend's desk told you everything you needed to know. Good riddance too, you did not get fans who enjoyed watching rich guys driving around in circles for two hours. Partially because when you tried to watch it with anyone really they just threw a lot of information your way.
Sports, according to the people you love, are the cornerstone of everything. You had never gotten it. Olympics? Do you mean watching the long opening and closing ceremonies to analyze event organization? Same with the SuperBowl. You had tried popular. Soccer was uneventful and hockey was almost too much so. The latter almost stuck, well a few playoff games you mostly slept through. Then "your team" got eliminated so you lost all interest in whoever Stanley was and his fucking cup. After all babies had pooped in that godforsaken trophy, how good could it be?
You tried more niche. Motorsport was a whole section you slowly rejected. You quickly found out that anything ending with Car was broadcast at insane hours, and not on any channels you happened to pick up. Plus the fandom was revolving around people you didn't really know anything about. At least you saw Charles Leclerc and Carlos Sainz's faces on OOH advertisements. You swear you must be sleep Googling Revolut because it and Gabriel Bortoleto's banner for it haunt you across platforms. Still Formula One doesn't grip you the way it does people around you. Nor does MotoGP. Their qualifying rules actively make you think about a bike running over you would hurt less.
What was left really, that wasn't mostly seasonal? America's pastime and the thing that would end up haunting you beautifully - baseball.
Bob Ross would call this a happy little accident. Well fuck him and his trees. There's a bobblehead of him on a desk far from here, you hope. If it were in your vicinity you'd smash it.
Oscar's still at work, but he's drastically reducing his hours now. He's informed all of you that if there's anything he needs to do related to the baby, he'll drop everything right away. That meant no new clients and no going to shoots for TV. The Aussie was digital only, strictly on social media. He'd still collaborate with the accounts department, but less with his team.
"Come on guys, I've trained you, I know you can handle it. Make me proud." He signs off.
He certainly wouldn't love the fact that focus groups showed that the Heineken audience was a bit tired of Max Verstappen. Not to the point of chosing another product or switching channels yet, but a fresh face was needed.
Maybe if you stare long enough at the Google search of "Heineken sports," it will stare back at you. That's what you say to yourself before the initial brainstorming meeting. You volunteer to take notes, hoping that the others won't ask for your input if you're too busy writing theirs. Luck is not on your side, as you have to make some excuse about your Google doc not cooperating.
"Do you have anything on paper? Or at the top of your head?" Someone questions. You stare at your desk as if anything there will help you. You spot the sketch of baseball hats sticking out of the poetry book you're reading. Someone you love insisted you have both, something about how you would just "get it."
"What about baseball?"
You might as well have said "Fire me now." Because you knew virtually nothing about the sport. Gun to your head, you could only name Babe Ruth and Shohei Ohtani and well one was dead and the other was practically already advertising everything. But then Oscar hummed in approval.
"Look into it and add it to the pitch if something shakes out. You know how they always like a few different things. Maybe it's a diamond in the rough?" He chuckles. The fact that you don't even get the joke is telling.
So the baseball field was called a diamond. That's what Oscar told you via Teams after asking if you actually knew something about the sport itself. To your "No," he gave you a glossary. The stadium was a ballpark, a field. There were 9 players per team in play usually, with the rest of the team in the dugout. Osc was a Miami Marlins man himself, for no particular reason.
"People have childhood teams. It's mostly about where you grew up or where your family's based in. There's also the tourist teams - Dodgers and Yankees. Look, that's all I'm gonna give you for now. Build it and they'll come." He elaborates. A quick search tells it's a Field of Dreams quote, a baseball movie classic. You preferred Air Bud Seventh Inning Fetch.
You have to chose a team. Watch one game and it will all make sense. That's what your friends say. Despite you asking for a Rumble Ponies one and getting a exasperated "That's not even the right league," you end up sat for a rerun of Blue Jays and Dodgers game that was apparently important. You get a tension headache by the bottom of the third. Top of the fifth and you're on your phone and by the sixth you're on LinkedIn.
"You're not gonna get fired for not knowing baseball." Your friend interjects.
"No, but if I go pitch a campaign about a sport I know nothing about and my clients ask about it, then I will." You say. Your slides are beautiful. They focus purely on the aesthetic of the game. Sports but make it art posts. Movie references in broadcasts. Some essay about fandom culture and family you're stuck analyzing. Then comes the beer. The 9-9-9 challenge (9 beers, 9 hotdogs, 9 innings). Corona sponsorships. A team called the Milwaukee Brewers. You have it in the bag. Home run as they would say in baseball. You hoped there would be no interception.
Fate smilled upon you, when they liked it. You let the accounts people iron out details, but the good news was that they aimed for the commercial to be live around the middle of summer. No need to rush, but you needed perfection. Just the right baseball player. Someone who screamed Heineken Zero and that people would love to see as a cutout in their local supermarket. The more versatile the better, because he'd be needed for socials and activations on top of just appearing in the TV ad.
The way to the diamond was apparently preceded by a pitstop. Logan Sargent must owe your boss a huge favor. Did Oscar give him a kidney? Had the Aussie somehow own a stake in Williams F1 racing team you didn't know about and was keeping the American there by cash alone? Whatever the reason was, it had earned you a few days stay in Miami, with the promise that the driver's apartment would be kept secret and spotless. You had no problem with that. You were here to watch the WBC after all, not party.
Logan spent so much time in Europe that he didn't bother with cable. Tickets for the games were sold out for months now, so your best bet was a sports bar. Say what you will about the advertising industry, but which other job would pay you to daydrink in Florida while watching a baseball game? You were gonna go with a soft drink, but it was happy hour and you had absolutely no idea what was happening on the screen. The owner claimed there was something wrong with the TV, so the game would be on mute. There was no one else around watching, so you couldn't eavesdrop on a conversation. You didn't even know who was playing. Pulling the cheap hat you got from the store over your eyes, you order another espresso martini, asking for an extra shot of everything in it.
"Jeez, I know we didn't get the wildcard spot last year in the playoffs, but look at how Soto is playing. There's hope." Says a voice and you look up at a guy standing next to the neighboring barstool. You don't have the energy to tell him that the Marlin hat was ugly and overpriced, while this blue and orange one was surprisingly affordable. You pat the seat, an invitation.
The man definitely had a face you could write home about. Tanned, the heat around you not seeming to phase him. There's a hat similar to yours on top of his curls. And God, that nose above a trimmed beard. You heard a hint of his accent and immediately place him in some sort of Australian tourism board commercial where he's surfing. Preferably shirtless. It's not necessarily only because you wanna see him half-naked. It's just that his outfit is gaudy. You're sure he'd turn heads if this place wasn't empty. He had on a powder blue baseball hat on, a Gucci shirt that was black, imitating a snakeskin pattern. It was little stars in various bright colors, actually now that you looked closer. Then some brown denim shorts that gave you a view of his tattooed thighs. Maybe it was the third espresso martini talking, but you wouldn't mind sitting on them, seeing how the ink lines feel against your
"Fucking cunt." He says, then points to a player, before you can think he's a mind reader. "You can't bat flip someone like that, don't you think hun?"
"Yeah, fuck that." You say, eyes trying to understand the replay. You knew what a bat was, but you didn’t know what would follow.
Daniel catalogues your gasp that's followed by a nearly pornographic "Jesus Christ," to a part of his brain that has nothing to do with baseball. Instead of making a comment about it he just sips his peach bellini. Lets the sweet drink flow through him, go from his tongue through his throat straight to his brain. He does some gesture to the bartender that he hopes conveys "Keep em coming, champ." Danny is understood, apparently when another cocktail appears infront of him.
"Guess you're a rookie at watching the ballgame, huh? Need me to explain, darl? Swear I had a crash course a few years ago, I'm basically a pro now." He says, fiddling with his cocktail umbrella. He lied in that one interview about the meditation, how he learned to be more still. No, he was like a shark, always moving.
That's why he does what he does. When he came out of nowhere and started to make a name for himself in the league people expected him to be a designated hitter. It was easy, well easier than the other things that he could be doing. But it turned out old habits died hard, kicking and screaming. Daniel Ricciardo threw a mean fastball. Over and over again. That's what he became known for. He tried to learn something new. Thought about the quote that resonates with him a bit too much. About the changeup and seeing yourself. How all his life, he has been the equivalent of a fastball pitcher too, despite only playing from 2024. Before that he was trying to use blazing speed and brute force to wow the people around him.
It works on you too. When he slides the chair next to you out and is in it before you can second guess your decision, it's fast. When he talks, that's fast too. God he would suck as a commentator. But there's a lot happening. He goes through the Dominican Republic team like he knows them personally or it's his job to analyze them. For South Korea he's quieter.
"They're usually good, but not really in contention for the win anymore, so not much of a point to explain." He says.
"Figured." You reply, casting a glance at the score. Seven zero didn't look promising. Then the broadcast cut to commercial break and the handsome man next to you became background noise. There's an ad about baseball, because of course there is.
"Hey, the Jays, I know them." You confess, momentarily forgetting that you're not alone.
"So them you recognize, but these guys are a mystery to you, huh?" The guy says, tapping the logo on his powder blue hat.
"Sorry. But hey, maybe it's a prophecy. Hat closing the person or whatever. Maybe I'll become the biggest fan of the." You pause, embarrassed that you don't even know the team's name. Maybe he doesn't either and this is a cross between a cosmic joke and a meet cute?
"The Mets, or New York Mets. That's why it says NY." He clarifies.
"Why is yours a different color?" You ask, making a mental note to Google the Mets extensively later.
"The powder blue? In the 80s they had this prototype for their uniforms and I just find it gorgeous. Wish they ended using it, but I think it's just in some designer's basement its whole life." He says.
"Never graduating up in size to add another." You hum awkwardly. When he follows it with "And my nightmares will have nightmares every night," you know that maybe this whole wild goose chase might lead somewhere.
"Okay, then Mr. Met. Guessing the game ends well for the Dominican Republic. What's next?" You ask.
Danny doesn't tell you that Mr. Met is a mascot and that it's also a giant baseball that's married to a female giant baseball. He just lets you call him that. Tells you about the US team and Venezuela, and of course, Italy. Mentions he's rooting for them because of his dad, and that whole side of the family. Tells you about the espresso machine and the home runs.
"You know, if they win you should do an iced espresso shoey. Could be fun and who knows, if you film it you might get some traction." You say. Too much influencer marketing and UGC content had definitely fucked up your brain. "I'll even throw in a like if you give me your Instagram."
Because what guy with no wedding ring (you checked) spends an hour explaining baseball and cracking jokes if he doesn't want to get his bat twirled or whatever the correct euphemism would be. You don't even know eachother's names, but you know you wouldn't mind letting him go to third base. He hesitates and instead scrawls his number on a napkin.
"Not much of a social media guy. I just post when I need to, don't really keep up with my messages there. But I'll check my phone a lot."
You learn that his name is Daniel Ricciardo from the WhatsApp autocomplete feature and he learns yours in the same way.
Not before smiling at how you call him "Mr. Met" in a text, while still standing next to him. He's sending you one back, some pun about rookies when you blanche at your phone.
"These fuckass people can't respect timezones, urgent my ass." You say before dashing out with a shout of "cash app me for my drinks or something."
Daniel turns to pay when the bartender interjects with a "No need. Unlike her, I know who you are. Just keep doing what you're doing with your fastball, son." Ricciardo smiles his trademark smile.
"Toss me two Redbulls." He asks and does the second best Max Verstappen signature on the can (preceded only by the Dutchman himself.) "This one's to cover the drinks. Danny then takes off his hat and signs that too, his own ever-changing DR3 scrawled on it. "Here's a tip too." He felt a bit conflicted, to be fair. He was truly fond of the powder blue.
Your per diem would not cover another day of drinks and baseball with Daniel. To be fair both of you were on Fantas and waters now. He apparently only had one cheat day per week, and you wanted a clear head incase you went to his place. It took 4 innings of an US vs DR game before he moved you two to a booth, proped his phone up and helped you get what was happening without necessarily seeing it.
"Guessing you'd wanna follow the regular season, and if you don't want 7 thousand subscriptions, there's radio and the MLB website." He explains. You scoot closer to him and try to watch. Lay your head on his shoulder. End up getting in his face accidentally every time you wanna ask a question. Watch his lips for too long, then say "I really want to kiss you, is that okay?" This is the only place where Daniel slows down. His calloused fingers lift your chin up, bringing you closer.
Presses his lips to yours, kissing you. Hands move before his tongue does, trying to find ground on the back of your neck. He leaves you wanting more, pulls away with a peck to your lips.
"Baseball, darl. We're here for that." He says. Truth be told, he would love nothing more than to take you to your place or even the bar bathroom. Be a little selfish and have you on your knees for him. In a past life, where being light mattered, he would sometimes cum right before his race. Maybe it helped, maybe it didn't. His telemetry was always a bit inconclusive. He would love to have your lips around his cock, milking him of everything he's stored up. Especially when he knew he would be playing tomorrow. Not like the guys could jerk off between practice or something. But Danny held back. You were just a pretty girl in Miami. What were you gonna do, go to New York with him just to polish his wood? To touch his base? He doubted it.
Either way he needs to focus. He had already sent you a text how he would catch the Italy game with his dad. Doesn't want to have his entire family screaming over FaceTime interrupting your date. You tell him you're rooting for him with a kissy face emoji at the end. He feels bad. He should've told you, should've mentioned it over text.
"Hey pretty girl, everything I learned about baseball was from playing it. I cheer for Italy because I'm pitching for them tonight." Then he would have to go on about how he missed the Houston game because they didn't need him, how he still has to coach karting in the off-season to make money. Danny just doesn't want to get into all of that again. He doesn't need you asking questions about why he switched. Which did he love more, this or F1? He hopes that they get a shutout before he is necessary. He knows the odds of doing that against Venezuela are miniscule, but he was too stubborn to let go. He always was.
By the quarterfinals you had hooked a not so kosher stream to Logan's TV and were sorta following what was going on. But your thoughts kept drifting to Danny. How it would feel to watch a game curled up on a couch with him. How he would get fired up at things you didn't necessarily get, then he would make a reference to a previous game or tell you a fact. Go on about RBI and ERA as if you didn't call the former Resting Bitch Index religiously. You could sneak a peck during commercial break or at least run your nails along his back. You missed him terribly and needed him embarrassingly so. Best you could do was watch his game. Baseball was his now, in your mind. A red string tying the two concepts forever, a link that remained.
The game drags on. No, the game puts the time in America's pastime. You know about the pitch clock now, but it still takes ages. The score is tied and then nothing happens. You're dozing off when there's music and a loud announcement voice. Your head must be fuzzy. Either that or Daniel Ricciardo being a more popular name in Italians than you guessed. But no, it's your Danny running to a song about cowboys and partying. The number 3 is on the back of the white and blue uniform and you want to know why. What made it special? Your jaw drops. You hold off from texting him yet, from asking him a brief, but poignant "wtf?" Then he hits a fucking home run.
He runs to the dugout. Takes off his shoe as a teammate hands him the paper cup of espresso. He wouldn't.
Oh he absolutely does. Daniel balances his baseball boot and tips the cup into it, then drinks. His face sells the whole thing. A mix of happiness, disgust and sheer confusion seemingly at himself. He took your idea. It was going to be war.
You're not sure you attended the history class where they taught you about military warfare. It certainly didn't involve whatever this was. Grinding against Daniel in a club as the dj played a techno remix of Sera perque ti amo.
"I'm still pissed at you, you know." You yell over the music. He spins you around, pressing you flush against him. His breath is against your ear as he whispers "I hit a home run that was then annuled by the time I finished that celebration and you're mad at me. Karma is real, huh? How do I make it up to you?" He grips your ass, mind stuck on one way. You had known him for less than a week, but you could already guess that he approached problems like this. As much as you needed him to fuck it better, you had another plan.
"I need you to," you pause after he rolls his hips against you, trying to distract you. It was working too well. "need you to work for me. You get a room, food and more stardom. I get a Heineken ad." You finish. Daniel leads you outside. Poor soul thought he misunderstood. You in turn explain the whole purpose of the trip, the shoot that could make or break your copywriting career.
The words "She's just a girl you kissed once and danced with at a club, say no," looped in his head. But you needed a trendy baseball player. And it didn't get more trendy than him.
"We have to wrap it before the season starts. So we have 10 days. Unless you want to shoot in New York." He says as you hug him. He's gonna be your client soon, so kissing him should be absolutely out of the question. You do it nonetheless, lips on his before you can say NDA.
"Baseball better have made you a lot of cash for the plane tickets." You remind him.
He must have some distant relative that casts spells or a very good Etsy witch. You had no other explanation for the fact that he managed to swap his ticket from the flight to New York to the seat next to you for free.
"This is some Hallmark movie logic, I swear. It's not even Christmas. Nor are we childhood friends who are secretly in love and end up together via a Buffalo football team." You say as he settles in next to you.
"Well we've both seen the Bills version of Holiday Touchdown, so it must count for something." He shoots back. Neck pillow on, eye mask halfway down his forehead Danny was ready to sleep through the majority of this flight. Question is would you let him.
"I'm literally friends with Josh Allen. We did a headphone commercial together. It has a horse in it." He adds before buckling his seat belt and absolutely disregarding your personal space.
His head on your chest feels almost comforting. He doesn't stir even when you take notes on your ebook, brain always in client mode. You wonder if he can hear your heartbeat quicken when you think you have a good one. Before you know it you're dozing off too.
The baseball player feels pity for every person who works in the advertising industry. When you get home from the airport with him in tow, the first thing you do is have him read what you wrote.
"Pretty girl, you barely stepped in. None of us have unpacked our bags. I need a proper shower, because the dingy hotel they had us in had the worst shower soap known to mankind. 5 minutes? Give me a house tour." He asks and he's right unfortunately. You lead him through your apartment, ending it in your bedroom where you put his bag on the floor. He raises an eyebrow, ready to ask if the reason you didn't put him in a hotel was that you were hoping to use him for more than brand recognition.
"The couch is uncomfortable and you're a pro athlete. Can't have you pitching with a stiff back cause of me. There's extra towels in the bathroom. Hope you like smelling like whatever product samples we had leftover in the office clean out." You say as you synch the notes you took on the way to your work computer.
Danny gets out of the shower and finds you in the same spot as he left you. He looks like sex on legs and he knows it. A tiny towel is wrapped low on his hips. His curls are slightly damp. His body, toned from decades as an athlete is there, in person for you. And you have the audacity to ask him
"Is you saying Daniel Beercardo too on the nose?"
Okay, so maybe what the two of you did in Florida stayed in Florida. No problem. Dan could deal with that. Could stomach the fact that the only clothes you had to lend him for the moment were cowboy snoopy pajamas you had gotten a larger size in. Making ramen together while potentially overloading your washing machine wasn't sexy anyways. Watching the Sandlot in bed with him as he pointed out little details passed as a platonic hangout. As the credits rolled though, in the silence he realized that he didn't want to leave things like that. Especially since you had curled up against him subconsciously, letting him wrap his strong arms around you.
"Should've fratetnized with pitchers earlier if I knew you how nice it feels." You say. He can't help it.
"I can make it feel nicer, you know."
"It's a workday tomorrow. Not only am I waltzing in the office with you in tow, but I have to pray that the clients are on board with an expedited schedule. Don't need eyebags too." You say before kissing him goodnight.
When he was a kid his mom used to take him to her office. He'd spend his days off school coloring with office markers on the desk or watching videos on her computer while she was in meetings. This feels a bit like this.
It's not like your team doesn't end up talking to him about that WBC moment or doesn't show him the Teams sticker you made of the espresso shoey. But they also have shit to do. Daniel is sitting on the desk meant for a designer next to you. He's using your WFH laptop to add notes in the margins of your documents. Asks you to let him weigh in on the part where you sell him to client. Lets you know about the guys who asked him to endorse their non-alc beer a few years ago. Handles lunch breaks and afternoon proseccos like he had worked here for months.
He had an uncanny ability for this. He charms the intern into doing speck work for Enchanté. Strikes a deal with the accounts department to have him sit in the meeting with Heineken.
It stings you a bit to let him go to Oscar. Your boss lets you know that he'll break his own rules this time, that senior rank had to be pulled eventually. You agree reluctantly. It's a logistics thing. Osc has the company car, he has the relationship with the client. He has a vision and a passion to make this.
It drags on. They are determined to put Daniel in basically everything. On a Friday night he's dropped off at your apartment with an actual standee of himself holding a beer bottle like a baseball bat.
"Souvenir for you. They had a printing error or something about the colors being in RGB and CMYK." He says as he plops Cardboardaniel next to your fridge.
"At least you have the decency to not put it in the bedroom. Don't want fake you to watch me change." You reply.
"Would be a waste when real me can help." He teases. Walks over to you, bending to kiss your neck. You can feel his beard against your skin, but he only puts his lips on you when you let him.
"Daniel, I have two rules about who I sleep with. No people from work and no sex before a proper first date. And as much as I wanna ride you while watching your career highlights or something, we can't." You say.
"So if those things you listed weren't true anymore, we could? Need you, baby. You opened your mouth in that half-empty sports bar and I knew I liked you." He tries.
"Technically I've already taken off time because your flight is criminally early in the morning on Friday. Keep your hands to yourself through the weekend and survive until Thursday. Good luck?"
Daniel books a batting cage for your date, because of course he does.
"I get to train, show off and see you in a Mets hat then a helmet. Everyone wins." He rations as you two walk hand in hand to the thing. You're wearing his Italy jersey, going incognito out of the question. You let him go first, thankful that at least the place is indoors. He is terrible against the machine, so bad that it's laughable.
"That's why I'm not a designated hitter." He says as a ball whizzes past him.
When it's your turn, he throws to you instead. You yelp when his signature fastball flies through the air, past you completely. He adjusts your stance, fingers lingering on your hips and thighs a bit longer than necessary. Leggings were the best choice for you, and torture for him. Then he tries a curveball, slower and more clunky. Adjusts to you until you hit it. You can't believe it at first, when it makes contact with the bat. You're so happy you kiss him right there. This one was different. You finally let yourself want more, truly. Not just a potential quick fuck with a handsome stranger. Instead making love to a man you had actual feelings for.
Sharing a bed after is hard. There are couch cushions jammed between you two. You have to spend the Sunday cleaning, shopping and just prepping for him to leave in a few days.
Monday's the last day he actually needs to come to the office, to film some content for the agency this time. The intern has you do some trends that you keep seeing on Tiktok with him as if he's a coworker and not a renowned baseball player.
Tuesday and Wednesday go slow like molasses without him in the office. At least you're waiting for feedback from Heineken, so you don't have to tweak anything just yet. Don't have to watch Danny ad naseum color correcting the blades of grass like your colleagues. Instead you're figuring out what would be a good name for an outlet shopping centre. Back to business.
Daniel ends up watching the ongoing baseball games in the living room, only slipping into your bed at ungodly hours. Then finally, Thursday morning rolls around. Your morning alarm is off. You're wondering if you should make breakfast or not. What do relief pitchers eat would not be a good Google search.
What was the saying again? Make plans and watch as God laughs? You would petition for it to become "Make plans and watch as a horny man laughs." Before you can get up and fashion some sort of avocado egg tuna protein fiber monstrosity Daniel pulls you against him. You feel him rub against your ass, boxers on sleep shorts. He's hard and by the groan that you hear, absolutely wrecked.
"I haven't gotten off in a month because of fucking baseball. Gonna take it out on you, darl. Is that okay? Will you let me now." He asks.
You say yes, and that's all he needs. When he gets his hands on you, you expect him to be rough. He's slow instead, cupping your tits gently. He toys with your nipples, listening to the sounds you make.
"You're a sensitive girl, aren't you? Bet you look fucking gorgeous, let me see." You turn to face him, but he has better plans. Danny pulls you on top of him. Has you straddle him nice and easy. Puts his hands on your hips and sits up to kiss your breasts.
You let out such a filthy moan when his mouth is on you, he almost comes.
He didn't think he could hate you until you slide down his body and kiss his dick through his boxers. How you keep doing that while you slide your shorts down and move your panties to the side. You rub your clit against him, wet patch already forming against the head of his cock.
Daniel hasn't came from dry humping since he was 18, but he fucking does today.
"Thought you were great at that, what the fuck did you say in that one freaky Yahoo sports article? That there's levels to it or something." You tease.
"That was about baseball and you know it. You're forgetting something, baby. You're gonna get fucked by a pro athlete." He notes.
"One that needs to think more about baseball, apparently. Here, let me get some tissues. Oh." You say as you see that he's hard for you again.
"Yeah. Let's get you ready for it. Look at yourself take my fingers. You know how much they pay me, how much these hands are worth?" He says as you look down. He traces your pussy, teasing you. Circles your clit slowly, adding just a bit of pressure. Makes sure he feels you, and it's as if he's touching every nerve. Then he moves down, the same two fingers sinking into your cunt.
"So good for me. So ready, making all the wait worth it." He says as he curls them forward.
You watch him, so focused on how pretty he looks between your legs. Like he belongs there. Like he can spend hours finding out just how many times you can cum.
He doesn't need more than a few minutes to feel you fall apart for him. He drinks it all in. The shaking legs. The whiny moans. The way you say his name like you've never before.
Daniel shoved a box of condoms in your bedside drawer when you weren't home just to be able to get to them fast. With practiced ease he opens the package and rolls it on. You're still trying to catch your breath when he thrusts in you. He needs you close. It's not just a quick fuck, it's pure, raw intimacy. His forehead above yours, how he leans down to kiss you slow when he rolls his hips against you. He holds you again, this time hands against your thighs. Pushing and pulling you in time, making some throwaway comment about a big stretch. He speeds up and just as he warns you, he's coming again.
"Let me give you one more, 3 for luck for me." He says. Must have been a thing he made up, but you agree, chasing that second orgasm. Coming on his cock would either fix you or ruin you for any other man. You were ready to find out which it would be, even though you actually knew already.
"Let's party like cowboys, Ricciardo." You say as you take the lead again. Give yourself a few seconds to get the condom on him, then you guide his dick to your opening. Both of you swear at the same. Danny feels so much better like this that you're already close by the time he has the bright idea to touch your clit again. You can't take it for long and cum for him. He fucks you through it, messy rhythm as you get even more overstimulated. He spills into the condom one last time.
All of his softness showed right after got himself wiped down.
"Come on, darl. Let's get you clean. Go to the bathroom. Let me put on clean sheets for you. Then we can shower. Sound good?" He asks.
An okay is all you can manage, slightly dickmatized. You pee, wash your hands. Dig out some electrolyte drink you had been saving for him in the fridge and pour it in glasses. You were not animals after all.
Danny's battling your fitted sheet fully nude. That's a side of him no one else will see. This Daniel Ricciardo is yours and yours alone. You set down the glasses and help him out, before watching him gulp the blue Gatorade like thing. He tells you some anecdote about pouring some on a reporter once by accident as you listen intently. He glues himself next to you, afraid that if at least one part of him isn't touching one of yours he will disappear. He washes your hair with such tenderness that you picture him in a Loreal commercial. The thought leaves your brain as fast as he throws a ball. It was just you now, no work.
That mantra continued as you hold him at night. In the taxi to the airport. Every time you watch his stupid commercial. It would never stop being true. Even when you became the Integrated Brand Marketing Coordinator at Citi Field.
It was fitting that his first words to you ended in there's hope. Because through it all Daniel never stopped being optimistic about everything. From that Miami sports bar to now his New York, you two were an unlikely pair. The baseball player and the WAG that still didn't know how his RBI was managed. The face of the team and the occasional admin who would never be on camera. Despite the perceived differences there was something you both had shared always. You two knew how to believe.
Double it and give it to the next person- Alex Albon x reader
Alex Albon was hung like a horse. He knew it, you knew it, a lot of people on the internet knew it. You wondered if you would be in the top 20 male OnlyFans creators if he wasn't. It certainly wasn't just a numbers game. Some of the other guys were average, but compensated for it with other talents. Charles was so pretty that you guessed some of the women subscribed to him weren't even in it for the porn. Plus he had the piano playing, for people that looked for a more sfw way to interact with him. George was tall, loved playing with the size difference trope. Max was aggressive, blunt, pulled no punches. There are newer guys, in their 20s that are doing their thing, but they don't intimidate you much. Like Alonso with the dilf content, it's just too different from yours. Brand parity or something like it that you were taught in school once, but promptly forgot. If your marketing teacher could see you now.
Selling out keychains with just Alex's name and room number from one of your more popular videos. Room 23 was something else. It was what got you on the map, the first time you felt famous, almost as good as a WAG. Not everyone could brag that they were on the trending page of Pornhub for 3 weeks. Millions of views on a small snippet that you cut, a few minutes of an hour long OF exclusive. It starts slow, with Alex carrying you through the door and basically tossing you on the bed. Despite how eager he is (the outline of his hard-on is visible through his shorts, intimidatingly there) he takes his time undressing you. Kisses your tits as he's taking off your bra, makes sure to savor every sigh and moan. Goes lower, fingers disappearing under the lace of your underwear. No one gets to see your pussy yet, no no no. Only the expressions on your face allowed. How your chest moves up and down, when you take in a breath too fast. The room is quiet. Normally one of you or both are mouthy. Constantly praising or begging or even teasing the other. But this time you've got your hand over your mouth, muffling any sounds you'd make. If it's silent enough everyone can hear just how wet you are, the sounds of your cunt being played with by Alex. The rustle of the bedsheets when he humps the mattress. The free version of the video ends soon. They only get to see how your legs spread for him, how your hips move to get him closer to you, deeper in. How you whisper that you're almost going to, and then he pulls out his fingers abruptly. By the little bar at the bottom you can see just how loud you whined, how desperate the moan for him to please put it in was. Alex moves your underwear to the side, pulls down his shorts. Slaps the tip of his dick against your cunt and that's when the outro plays, a crude reminder to subscribe on another website to see the full thing.
It was worth it, shelling out the extra dollars for this. Alex feeding you his cock inch by inch. You whining and thanking him when he gets impatient and just slams his hips against you. How there's a second camera, one he uses to zoom in to your pussy taking him. Your orgasm is captured in 4k and uploaded for a pretty penny online. Alex keeps going, fucks you through it, makes sure his cock is glistening with your cum from root to tip. He shows it to the viewers, proud when it slips out. Makes sure to nudge your clit with the head, or put in just the tip for scale. Acting like he's not desperate to be in you again, to cum in you.
He has to have restraint, this time. Be just a smidge less. To save the promises of how he'd breed you for another time. Alex has to sound pretty when he cums. He remembers that. Give the people something to replay as they chase their own release. So he holds his usual personality, doesn't say something so vulnerable and seeping with emotion that it ends up being memed. He learned that lesson from that one time when he insisted on filming even when he lost his voice from a weird infection. The pathetic croacks he let out every time he ordered you around haunt him to this day. Especially the oof at the end, or the fact that some people misheard him saying fucking as front wing.
"Need you, need this, coming," is what he settles on, all between softer moans. Could use some work, but he would take it. Plus what only Alex knew was that he had at least one more in him, a chance at redemption. For now he zooms in on his cock sliding out of you. Your cunt clenching around the empty space, covered in his cum. He films his fingers pushing it in you, how obscenely lewd it looks. Of course he opts to call it "fucking gorgeous" while using his strength to keep your legs apart.
"Don't get shy on me now, you're not done yet. Wanna hide then, get on your hands and knees." He prompts and you move, giving the camera a view of your ass. Alex didn't have a favorite position necessarily, sex was sex, as long as you both got off, it was good enough for him. But doggy with you was something else. How you moved, trying to get all of him in you. How you arched. How he held onto you, grip so tight it was sometimes too much.
Just seeing you like this is enough to get him hard again. He was made for this, your partner thinks as he angles his hips and thrusts in you. He hands you the camera as gracefully as he can, because if he keeps filming this he just might cum from the visuals alone. He'd much rather capture your face, the microexpressions that accompany his every move. Plus Alex knew that the viewers would rather listen to you than him. Selfishly he imagined the people on the other side of this hotel wall. Were they making one of those Tiktoks complaining about the noise. Or were they wishing they got pounded like you did. Were they touching themselves, getting off on your moans? All of that just made him want to go harder, to fold you closer to him. With the new angle, everyone could hear his skin on yours. The "Please," and "Just like that" would leave your lips on repeat, as if you forgot any other words. Alex puts big hands on your tits, and shows the camera, so you're a goner. Your orgasm stretches on, especially since he doesn't stop yet. Even when you slump your head in the pillow, murmuring that he has "Wrecked you again." He doesn't necessarily need another one from you, just the feeling of your pussy wet and needy, getting tighter for him. When you tell him you love taking him, that's when he holds you tighter and fills you up.
With the video doing insanely well, you do the thing you swore you would never. Read the comments. Most of them are gushing about Alex, his cock, how you respond to it. His orgasms seem to fascinate people, they can't get enough. Truth is, you like them too. All the discomfort of getting on birth control was worth it for the reward of a creampie. Plus, you had never had one before, popping that cherry on camera. Someone had clipped your reaction, your face in a mix of shock and bliss.
"Fuck, feels so good, need it again, please Alex." You said. Famous last words, huh?
With people so hyperfocused on how your boyfriend fucks and how he can make you cum with his cock alone, that's what most of the content ended up being about. It was easy. Enjoyable. No need to fix what's not broken, right?
Wrong! Apparently someone had noticed that your partner got by on minimal foreplay. It didn't take much to get you going, and you weren't above using lube. In fact you got a few sponsorships, product placements that paid your bills. Besides Alex knew how to fuck you with his fingers. He had it down to a T, strokes both making you wetter and opening you up for him. Made good content from every angle. Oral was tricky to capture. At least that's what you claimed, without even trying it. You hadn't wanted him to go down on you, had never asked. Alex had other partners like that, had slept with people insecure about their anatomy. But he fantasized about it sometimes, tasting you. Burying his face in your cunt like a man possessed. Teasing you by licking around your clit, but never on it. Pausing to talk about your pussy, telling you how wet you are as if you don't know already. Your partner never thought to ask. He preferred when you watched things together, drawing inspiration from that. Or when you surprised him with a new toy or position. He didn't wanna be imposing or seem like he was lacking something from you in bed. But a comment got to him. So much so that he had to yell across the room.
"Babe, they're saying I never eat you out, so you must be actually miserable."
"Well that's stupid and not true." You say as you go to him.
"Let me try it. If you don't like or have trouble coming we can scrape the footage. Please." He tries, looking at you. His brown eyes are hypnotic, begging you.
"Fine. But let the record show that no guy before you has ever gotten me there with oral." You reply and it's like you lit a fire under his ass.
"You know I love a challenge." Alex says and already pulls down your pants as you're setting up the camera. It takes a bit, but you're in focus. Panties on, with your partner kneeling on the floor before you. He starts with soft kisses to your thighs, then latches himself to your clit through your underwear. You feel more the lace rubbing against you than his tongue, but it's still hot. Then he pulls them down and presses his face against you.
It's better than anything you've ever felt before. You can't help but react. Grip Alex's hair and grind against him.
"That's it, beautiful. Use me. Take what you need. Make yourself come on my tongue." He says. You just whine and move your hips again. You like looking at him. Love how he keeps eye contact as he focuses on your clit. How he lightly touches it with the tip of his tongue then with no warning latches onto it, the noise obscene. He notices how you tremble and still, just letting yourself ride this out. So he grips your hips and moves them for you, making you feel him even more. Alex can sense that you're close, so he gets excited at the thought. Fuck, you were going to cum for him, and only him. When you do, he presses a quick kiss to your clit. Then trails lower, tongue against your opening. He takes over, and just makes you fuck his face. Uses his tongue like a cock, keeping it stiff and teasing your pussy with it. Up and down, riding him almost.
With every move he tastes you, feels how much he turns you on. Despite yourself you come again, embarrassingly quickly. The orgasm hits you before you know it. Your partner finally pulls away. His face is blissed out, chin glistening with your cum.
"One more, just one please. Don't you want to feel good? Don't you want me to cum untouched?" He asks. At this point you're curious if you would even can. Why not find out.
Alex moves you to the couch, where he spreads your legs, giving the camera a glimpse of the mess you made. He might remember it forever, just how pretty it is. This time he alternates. Wraps his lips around your clit first, then licks you tongue between your legs. Just as you squeeze against him, he moves again, kissing your most sensitive spot. At this point he's straight up making out with your pussy, tongue messy. He holds your legs apart, as you let go for him again, your moans turning into borderline sobs of joy. Alex can't help but press a few kisses to your glossy pussy, before turning to the camera.
"Take that, cunts." He says, before flipping it off and ending the video. You were letting him edit that one.
cw: unspecified age gaps, public, oral (m.receiving), dubcon/noncon, unprotected sex
dedicated to the loml, who takes my hand and guides it to write every time they look at me. L, love you to the point where everything I make is because you were there.
Michael Robinavitch shouldn't be here. He really shouldn't, it simply wasn't his scene. Firstly, his bike was the only motorcycle parked out front this bar, and from his seat he could definitely see people getting too close to it for comfort. He's nursing some stupid IPA because no way he's getting light foreign beer on tap, he would rather gasoline than a Heineken. The bartender didn't even open the bottle, leaving it to Robby and the keychain he was ashamed to have. He likes to tell a stupid story that it was a Swiss Army knife one, and all but this one rusted from time. No one really laughs at it anymore, or maybe they never did. Michael takes his blunt nails to the beer label, trying to peel it just to keep himself busy. This place is loud, but not in a good way. They're playing a Whitesnake album, a greatest hits one by the sound of it, but someone keeps queuing "Heavy Metal" on the jukebox that shouldn't even work. It's the Tom Jones bit reimagined, and no one really knows what the "It's not usual" is gonna be to the "What's new pussycat." Or maybe they were the other way around, who knows. Robby brings the bottle to his lips, tastes the foam above the dark ale. It's almost good enough to make him forget just how much he paid for it. Back in his day he could get absolutely pissed for that price, or at least get a decent whiskey. Now he's stuck sipping, almost savoring it. Then he spots someone next to his bike, lingering. He bolts immediately, because if it gets stolen he's completely and utterly fucked. His eyes see red and not only the one on your Dainese jacket. Robby can see the fox logo on the back, spots that the shoulder pads it comes with aren't on you. Reminds him of the trailer of that biker movie Whittaker suggested they see together. Pilion or something. Michael found something called a Letterbox and read through the reviews before shutting his colleague down. But even without seeing the movie he could sense what type of person you were. The faux leather pants that seemed to have seen better days, but looked almost painted on to your hips. The O'Neil shirt, stretched across your chest. The aforementioned leather jacket.
"Sorry," is the first word that comes out of your mouth. Obviously it is. You bite your red lips before trying to explain how you thought the bike was cool and that maybe you wanted a picture with it. "You're the owner, right? I don't wanna impose or anything, I'll just drop it. Not like my friends are here anyway." You say. Michael knows he shouldn't, but he offers to take the photo for you. Watches you grin from ear to ear and can't help picturing you smiling when he tells you to as he bounces you on his cock. He takes your phone, fingers way too close to the camera lense, eyes squinting to the screen. Safe to say the shots aren't great, but before you can see them, he asks
"Don't you wanna sit on it, sweetheart? Pretend to ride it a little? Come on, don't be scared, I can help you get on it." And he does, hands spreading your legs, pressing too low against your waist to position.
"Grab it properly. It won't rev, don't worry." He says as you grip the handlebars tense. You still do it, unsure why. Politeness? Penance for trusting him with your phone in the first place? Sheer obedience for authority? He takes a few more and tell you to get off, not touching you this time. Just a stray "You got it, kid, good job," that went straight to your pussy. You were ready to get out of there, when the man asked "No tip for the photographer? Come on, least you can do is get me a drink. You are old enough to get in there, aren't you?" His tone was playful, but forcibly so, an edge behind every word. As if a joke by fate you get carded by the bar, even though 21 was well not yesterday. You get yourself a fruity Radler, and a second beer for him.
"Good of you to keep a clear head. A girl like you, all alone, you never know what creeps you might come across." He says and watches your face sour. "Relax, kid, I got you." Robby adds, with a pat to your back that's again just a smidge too low.
You watch him finish his beer and chase it with a Redbull.
"Calling it a night earlier than I thought. Need a ride?" He asks and knows the answer. Michael saw just how your battery is, and how you were buried in your screen everytime he tried to ask a question. No way you could call an Uber, much less wait for one and give them the code. So he offers you a helmet. Has you hold onto him, your hands way higher than they need to be. He can see something is wrong when you two get on the road. It's your breathing, how it gets faster when he goes through a patchy piece of asphalt. How you keep shifting your hips, almost trying to close your legs. So he slows down a bit, but you're still antsy. You lean a bit more into him, and he almost swerves off the road because you just rubbed your tits against him. The only thing he could feel was the motion, through his own thick jacket. He looks around, and pulls over. You don't move from the bike yet, because if you do, he'll know. This perceptive stranger will see your jelly legs and guess that the vibrations from his motorcycle were a pleasure to not only your ears. Then he turns, hand against the zipper of his jeans.
"One of us will have to deal with this now, sweetheart. Wanna watch or wanna help?" He asks.
"Help." You say back, taking off the helmet and sinking on your knees. You know it's reckless, but you take off his jeans, palming him through his boxers. He's only half-hard, but you can fix that. You take him into your mouth, tongue licking the tip. He tastes salty already, all sweat and alcohol. You pull away, fascinated by how your spit is all over him. Robby holds your hair, guides you to a slow pace, where he tries to burry his cock as deep as he can. He's all quiet grunts and "That's good, keep going." It's touching your cheek and feeling a tear drip that gets him, because you poor thing don't get that he's a shower, not a grower. It takes a lot from him to pull away, to not keep going and shoot a load in your mouth. But he pulls you away from his cock, manhandles you up. Holds your wrists together as he gets your pants down. Notices how you struggle a little.
"What, sweetheart? You sucked my dick, means you're willing to go the whole way. It's more slutty to blow a guy than to fuck him, don't you know, takes emotional connection." He says. Michael gets your panties off, and sees you're already wet. He knows it's from the vibrations of the motorcycle and the blowjob, but pretends not to.
"See? You're even ready for me. Talked the talk, now you're gonna walk the walk, aren't you?" He continues before sliding his cock inside of you slowly. Making you feel him, how stiff he is, how he's fucking you raw. It's been years since he's had a pussy from a girl your age, might as well enjoy it to the fullest. Michael wants to see how much you like this. Needs to actually. So he puts his hand against your cunt, clumsily using too many fingers to rub against your clit. Despite yourself you squeeze against him, the stimulation overriding your fear. That's what does him in, makes him cum after a few faster, deeper thrusts. He doesn't pull away immediately, likes the sensation of you working him. Robby finally puts his dick away, just to replace it with his fingers. They're fast and consistent, fucking in the cum deeper and somehow making you orgasm. He then pulls out his phone and snaps a photo of you, slumped against his bike, covered in him, cunt looking like a masterpiece. Somehow that one looks almost professional. He then takes out wipes and cleans you as best as he can.
"There's a gas station about 5 minutes on our way, they should be open still, you can get yourself fixed up there." He says as you pull up your pants. Then, softer "How do you feel? Did you get it out of your system?"
"I didn't expect you to have all that in you, old man. Thought you'd just take me home and let me jerk you off while you're touching me. But you stayed in character. Maybe a bit too much, actually. I'm gonna be sore tomorrow, gonna put you on a sex ban or something." You reply to your boyfriend.
"Last time I checked you've got more holes I can play with." He tries, earning a faux gag from you.
"You're disgusting." You comment.
"You wouldn't have it any other way." He argues and he's right.
Sex sent me to the PTMC and all I got was this lousy hard launch
cw: medical inaccuracies, fainting, injuries, sex sent me to the ER
Cassie McKay
So Cassie liked a bargain? Sue her. Medical school wasn't cheap. Rehab, being in recovery for almost 10 years wasn't cheap. Raising a kid on her own wasn't cheap, especially with all the dumb bullshit she had to endure with her ex and his new barely legal girlfriend. McKay was used to relying on the Family Dollar and the thrift store. Had used them to survive and now was using them to treat herself. She lingered in the makeup isle a little longer than usual today.
In a past life she wouldn't leave the house with at least half of the aisle on her face. Kept track of the latest beauty trends and applied them flawlessly to herself, the perks of steady hands. Now she's older. There's a half-dry Burt's Bees chapstick so deep in her purse she forgets it's even there. At work no one really cares about visible eye bags, knowing they come with the territory. Sometimes a new intern will come in with crazy hair or eyeliner that doesn't last past their first hour in the Pitt. Cassie still remembers the accident of a stiletto gell nail tearing through a pair of gloves mid-operation. But now she stops thinking of work for one minute finally. Her eyes scan the display and grab a mascara, some matte kiss proof lipstick. It's close enough to her own lip color that she doubts you'll even notice. Then a pair of fake nails catch her eye. They're your favorite color, shimmery. She's seen the effect, how beautiful they look under the changing lights. How much they usually cost at a proper salon. These were even short enough for her to get away with at work, although she could just probably pop them off easily. How strong could the glue really be? Plus there was that superglued eyelash girl some time back in triage that Langdon worked on, so now she knew what to do.
How did the saying go again? Make plans and then watch God laugh? Cassie was never a particularly religious woman, but she would start praying and attending church regularly if it got her out of here faster. She should've known better, should've guessed that the ER would hold her longer than her shift. You had eaten countless takeaway burgers with her in drive-thrus then had a movie night on her couch. She had hoped for something different this time, better. Well circumstances be damned, she was still getting pretty for this. Hindsight was 21/20 with her this morning, so she packed her date night clothes and changed out of them as soon as her shift was truly over. She put on lipstick before she started her car and would stick on the press-ons at stoplights. The glue is horrendous, so she has to really hold the faux nails against her cuticles for a while to get them to stick. At least they looked nice.
You seemed to think so too. Your eyes immediately zeroed in to them. You held Cassie's hand more, basically taking it into yours every time she was stuck waiting for the light to change. You kissed her fingers, played with them. Called them so pretty. She usually wasn't one for recklessness. Didn't tease you outside of the bedroom, kept it PG. McKay didn't need someone seeing her smack your ass in public and then show up a week later at her job with a hairline fracture. No one wants Dr. Lesbian Pervert. Well the people that did would not be people she was comfortable being in a closed room with. So she tended to behave. But something took over Cassie. Seeing you act like she was the hottest woman alive just because she had sparkly nails did something to her.
"Bet they would look even prettier in your mouth, wouldn't they pretty girl?" She asks as you freeze. Slowly you bring them up to your lips and take them. Drooling and sucking on them. Tongue over the smooth surface of the press-ons. Your girlfriend thrusts them deeper once, to see how take them even deeper, throat relaxing for her. You had sucked her strap enough times for her to recognize the wanton look in your eyes, the need for more. Cassie takes some weird road home, food fully forgotten on the backseat. It starts with her hand resting on your thigh.
Then she moves it higher. Rests it against your panties, just getting you used to the presence there. Cassie knows that just rubbing your clit wouldn't be good foreplay. So she puts her hand on your chest, groping you, teasing your tits. What she really really wants is to kiss them, run her tongue over your hard nipples. She settles for squeezes and caresses for a bit more. Listens to you gasp and pant, your pleas for more. When McKay feels like she'll explode that's when she touches you again. Stops the car in a secluded place and moves your seat. Ghosts her fingers over your clit before sliding them lower, right against your cunt. Asks you "Can I?" When you let her she starts with two fingers, hooking them inside you. For once she doesn't say anything, just lets the car fill with your sounds. She knows you already, knows when to speed up. When to pull her fingers out almost all the way before starting again. When you're close, so she tends to keep the same rhythm. Sure enough you come for her, squeezing her fingers. When Cassie pulls them away to taste you, you can hear an "Oh shit," come out of her mouth. Still recovering you look at her and see that some of her fake nails are missing. You had seen the full set while her hands were on your chest, so there was only one explanation. The press-ons were inside of you.
Cassie drives to the ER purely on muscle memory. You have to talk her out from running a red light once or twice even. You ready to sit in chairs when she pulls you through the staff door.
"I know I'm not supposed to be here, now what's open, I need an ultrasound stat." She says as she walks with you through the hall. McKay spots a face that she is willing to explain this to. "Dr. Ellis, a minute." She calls and a woman is next to you, leading you both to a free room. "This is my girlfriend." Cassie lists your age, any meds you're taking and gets to the part that she dreads. "She has a few pres-on nails inside of her that need to be out." The look on Ellis' face is priceless, so McKay adds "50 bucks to never mention this to anyone on the day shift." They shake hands before you're instructed to put on a gown. Last thing you hear you do is advice to "wear clear gloves next time."
Dennis Whittaker
No one knew what you and Dennis got up to in the bedroom. People probably assumed it was slow, missionary and lots of foreplay before. They wouldn't necessarily be wrong, but they'd miss a key detail.
"Dennis please, can you fuck me already?" You whine, but he can't answer you. He's too busy making out with your cunt, tongue messily lapping up your juices.
"You know I have to make you cum first. Feels better when I know that some of the lube is natural. In fact, I bet I can already put in a finger. Let me try." He says, index and middle finger rubbing against your clit. He's on top of you, giving you the perfect view of his hard cock, tenting his boxers. There's probably a wet spot already forming, precum that he avoids rubbing against you. Instead he humps the bed under you, probably making a mess against the new sheets you got him. They were nice and fancy, despite them being on clearance. You stop thinking about how many laundry pods will be sacrificed to clean them and focus on how Dennis takes your slick then spreads it around the rim of your asshole. Just gently touching you, not yet pressing a finger in. You hadn't asked him, after all.
"Dennis, play with my hole, please." You say when you feel him. He grabs the lube from the nightstand and puts it on his fingers. He took a minor in theology and had an unhealthy obsession with "I didn't know I was pregnant," of course he would take the poop hole loophole. Jokes aside, that's how his first time went. Girls in Broken Bow Nebraska would only save their pussy for their husband. He knew not everyone was a fan of it. That's why a lot of sex was just hand stuff or oral. Easing into it by slowly mirroring the fingers in your pussy with fingers in your ass. Rimming. Toys with him. Toys without him, plugs stretching you out on days off while you wait for him to come home. Now Dennis can fuck you fully, makes you crave him.
He's barely opened you up, rolled on the condoms when you're rolling your hips against him. When he bottoms out, you ask him to go harder, when he goes harder, you need him faster. It's obscene, how he's fucking you against the mattress, not a care in the world. You're sure you are breaking some of the support boards under the bed, but you don't care. All you can say is "keep going, don't stop" ad nauseum as he praises you for being so good for him. The only time he slows is when he cums, deep thrusts as if he's trying to breed your ass. With a groan he pulls out, going to trash the condom and wipe himself off. When he's back you're fully dressed, a worried look on your face.
"Dennis, my ass hurts. Like a lot, think we did something wrong." Before you can blink he's called a car and you're on the way to the ED. It's still the day shift, you realize and his coworkers that didn't have the day off like your boyfriend would be there. Your gaze is stuck to the floor as you tell Trinity of all people why you're having pain today. You stay for test and monitoring and you have to plead Whittaker to leave. When one of the new nurses calls him "Dennis the Ass Man", a stupid pun on "Dennis the Menace" he packs up and walks home, constantly texting you for updates. He might have to start saving up for a ring to make you his and not worry about premarital sex. Definitely cheaper that the therapy he'll need after this.
Trinity Santos
It's Trinity's own damn fault really. Seemingly everything is. You love asking her about her job, making her approach the fucked up shit she saw in the ER with humor. There's a Penguins game in the background that no one's watching, but you sneak a peek in the intermission when there seems to be a fight between the mascots of all people. That gives you an idea.
"Trin, anyone ever get in costume. An anime convention going wrong or something?" You ask watching grown people pummel eachother with fuzzy fists.
"4th of July was Anthrocon. Got a furry girl that I think was flirting with me. Said I'd make a good dragon or something."
You let out a snort that would've mortified you if you didn't know that you loved Trinity more than anything in the world and vice versa. Said some line about being either her hoard of gold or the hopeless virgin maiden the villagers sent as a sacrifice. She quirks up an eyebrow and it's an art, then comes up to you and kisses you. Taunts about "ruining you for other people" fly before she lays on top of you on the couch, lips on yours, hockey game turned off.
The dragon comment sticks with you though. Enough for you to find those obscenely massive fantasy dildoes. You know the ones. You pick one out, tweak it a bit before adding it to your cart. Could you realistically have gotten Trinity a better gift with that money, something that she would actually want? Yes. Did you want her to absolutely ruin you with this ridiculous dragon faux cock? Also yes.
You're not sure why you expected it to come with lube when you hadn't ordered any. You just assumed and that made an ass out of you and them. But when Trinity opened the box there was just the dildo and some stickers.
"You really want me to use this one you? Didn't peg you for a nerd like that." She says, but still runs her fingers along the shaft. It's interesting. She wants to see what it would feel like, fucking you with it. What kind of sounds you would make. She doesn't wanna bother with the harness, just wants to get down on her knees and shove it in you. Be a little mean, watch you get wetter on her cock, not before taking it. Trin reaches for her nightstand but the lube there is missing.
She vaguely remembers how you were running low, but she thought it wasn't that bad. Seeing that you were half naked, panties down your knees and whining how you needed her to fuck you, and she was fully dressed, she ventured out to the shared bathroom. She had sniffed out Whittaker's hiding spots on their second day of cohabitation. Sure enough, there was a lube bottle there, albeit not the usual kind she'd grab. Lube was lube, she guessed and grabbed it, coating the toy generously. She was back between your legs, opening you up with her fingers before moving the toy against your pussy. She slides it in slowly, making sure you feel every bump and ridge on the shaft. Pulls it out a bit faster, before setting a pace. It's fast and punishing, fitting of the toy. She doesn't slow down, just watches as you take everything she gives you. Listens to your moans as if they're her favorite sound in the world. Looks at you falling apart, so easy for her, so eager. She's starting to think she might like this thing after all.
You're still asleep when she leaves for work. Usually you'd text her during the day, but you've been quiet. You're probably busy, she rations. That's when Langdon (because of course it would be Frank who has you) announces a patient with a painful rash on their genitals. Heads turn of course, and she has to ward off both Mel and Samira from taking you on. As her fellow doctor asks you questions about your sexual history, she answers them. Langdon just looks between the two of you, but doesn't leave.
"Anything unusual you tried in the bedroom before the symptoms started. And I'm asking the patient, Dr. Santos because I've had three other people come in with allergic reactions to a certain lubricant in the past week, so a fun lawsuit might be coming your way." He says, when you clumsily reach into your purse to pull out Whittaker's lube. Frank looks at it and nods.
"We'll run some tests just to be sure, but it's very likely that with a round of antihistamines this will clear up in a few days. No sexual activity until then."
He continues and both of them exit the room. They don't speak for some time before Trinity finally adds "It's Dennis', the lube I mean. Wanna bet whether he'll come in or even give someone else an allergic reaction. If he does, I win and you cannot tell anyone about this."
Michael Robinavitch
Robby just wanted one normal day in the ER. Normal was pushing it, maybe less chaotic. Semi-horrible? But his worst fear came true when out of chairs came you. He had just dropped you off at your place last night, and you were absolutely fine. Now you were here, clutching your arm while your roommate was holding a giant bathrobe over your presumably naked body. Damp haired and miserably looking you searched for him.
"Please don't worry." You managed to mouth to him before he could get to you. You were right, he had to focus on his patients. As soon as he rushed through the procedure he was by your bedside, getting filled in by Whittaker. Your age, the meds you took, all stuff he knew already.
"She took a nasty fall in the shower, and has an arm fracture. Her roommate brought her in when she heard the noise." Robby nods and asks to be left alone with you for a few, just because you might be more comfortable discussing your incident with a senior attending.
"Usually it's sweet old ladies that don't like wearing flip flops that can't seem to stand upright in the shower. What happened, darling? Did you pass out? Maybe we need a CT of your head, or an MRI?" He thinks of all the things that could be wrong with you, his brain replaying all the medical textbooks and articles he's ever read.
"Michael, calm down." You say, not caring who'll hear you refer to him so casually, not Dr. Robinavitch or Dr. Robby. "I was using my vibrator. It's too loud on its own and I can only do it in the shower without everyone around knowing I'm trying to get off. I kinda went a bit too strong and when I came, my legs felt like jello, and yeah. I fell. I'll take exactly three questions before never discussing this again, so better make them count." You continue.
"Does your arm hurt?" He starts with, obviously concerned about your well-being.
"A bit, they gave me something for the pain, should kick in fully soon." You reply. Then he follows up with
"Why did you, I mean am I not giving you something in the bedroom. And that's one question by the way, for my sake."
"No, you're perfect. I just missed you. Thought about the thing you did with your fingers last night and got myself all worked up. Needed to cum." You clarify.
"Okay, so wanna let me know the brand of your little toy so I get one for my apartment?" He says lastly with a smirk. You flip him off before telling him to look in the pockets of the robe they brought you in.
"So let me get this straight, your roommate came into your shower, found you, and just hauled ass like this and you still had the genius idea to bring the vibrator instead of chucking it into a bathroom cabinet or something?" He says, but quickly pats down the thing before pocketing it and going over to his locker to keep it safe. After all you had a broken arm, you would need all the help you can get, and he was more than willing to assist you.
Mel King
Mel absolutely didn't need this. She loved you, but fought very hard to keep her private and her work lives separate. Talking about Becca, worrying, giving her special treatment it followed her. So when she found you, no one knew. Yeah, if someone asked, she would tell them. Share a vague story from a day off about an outing with you. Nothing too deep, just some normal chit-chat things. And then as she's in the ambulance bay, you show up with a strange woman covered in tattoos and piercings. Mel is on it, filling in gaps the paramedics may have missed. Apparently you had gotten pierced and passed out immediately after. The person who brought you in was worried you might sue, or that they'd get in any legal trouble. Mel quickly gets Langdon over, as she's ordering blood tests and a head CT. She doesn't miss Frank asking what piercing you had gotten, to check whether they had been preformed correctly, for any risk of infection or sepsis.
"I can assure you everything in my studio is sanitary and up to code, doctor. But if you insist, she had nipple piercings." The piercer says and sure enough, when Mel lifts your shirt she can see the two barbell rings sitting on your tits. She has to bite her cheek to not compliment them.
After an IV drip you come to, and low and behold, Mel and Langdon comes to do their rounds. She would much rather do it alone, but continued care bullshit or whatever.
"Before the appointment, did you have any food or water, anything with proteins?" She asks, hands gripping her clipboard just a smidgen too tightly. You try to remember, and then admit that you didn't.
"Your blood sugar levels were low, which will explain why you passed out. You can be discharged as soon as they improve. As for your piercings, we can offer you a pamphlet with aftercare instructions which we have. The area can take some time to heal, so I would also warn your partner to refrain from touching your chest." She recites, absolutely trying not to give herself away.
"Oh, it's alright. She has matching ones she got before me, so she knows better. Wanted to surprise her, but I guess I won't now." You say and watch her get pinker.
"Well glad that you're in safe hands. Dr. King, shall we move on?" Frank asks and whisks your girlfriend out before any of you can say more. Once they're far enough he says "You know, earlier I checked the patient's emergency contact, wanted to call them just in case. Imagine my surprise when it started dialing you. So that's your girlfriend? And I'm the only one who knows?"
He's gonna be smug about it, Mel knows. Best to keep her mouth shut. That lasts about 5 seconds before the man that she constantly looks up to stares at her chest, muttering "matching piercings, huh?" Dr. King might have dodged her deposition, but she was close to considering manslaughter by the end of the shift.
Frank Langdon
Frank had a bunch of stress management courses in rehab. Did all the workshops, learned about meditation and grounding techniques. But of all that they taught him, nothing could compare to his personal brand of relaxing.
You can hear that his shift was stressful by the way he comes home. Aside from the fact that he's late, the emotions are in everything he does. Key turning into the lock forcibly, shoes kicked off so fast they hit more of the wall than the rack. You stir from your sleep and soon enough he appears in your bedroom, looking worse for wear. There's a way to fix this, to distract him. You just have to ask "Rough day?" followed by a "Use me to feel better?" Frank moves towards you, palming his dick, getting half-hard. He knows how much you love taking him in your mouth and feeling him grow, moaning as you're made to suck more of his cock. Langdon lets you lick up his dick, wrap your perfect lips around him. Use your hand to pump what you can't necessarily reach. He really should throat train you soon, even though he loved how tried to take more, but couldn't. Frank uses all his self- control to pull away, to put his cock against your opening. One thrust and he's in. He can feel how tight you are for him, how he's stretching out your cunt. He knows you'll get wetter soon, that in no time you'll be soaked and begging him to go harder. But you both love this part the most, the initial thrusts where he's just opening you up, fucking for his pleasure before yours.
"Take it so good, such a nice pussy for me." He says as he's pumping into you. Frank pulls your hips closer to him, so you can feel him deeper and he can already hear how wet he got you.
"Fuck that's it, tell me what you want." He says.
"Make me cum on your cock, please. Hands-free?" You beg.
Langdon grips your waist and fucks you like you might slip away if he doesn't make his cock touch your cervix. Can feel you tightening against him, but still makes you say when you're coming for him. Keeps his pace until he comes inside you, then pulls out slowly to watch your cunt clenching around nothing. Frank fucks like a degenerate, but treats you like a gentleman after. Wipes you down with a warm cloth, then praises you for doing such a good job for him. Kisses you all over and holds you until his morning alarm.
He's still in triage jail when McKay comes to consult him about a female patient with PCOS. Apparently she was diagnosed multiple times with different things, and was supposed to be on Glucophage, but had stopped taking it.
"She said it was too expensive and that for the last 10 months her cycle has been regular. Added that the abdominal cramps have been strong all morning." Cassie says as he's busy looking at you in the hospital gown. You seem absolutely miserable, but he has to ask his next question.
"Have you recently had sexual contact that was well in layman's terms more intense or rough?"
You just nod. Cassie's eyes narrow and she takes over.
"Was this with someone you know well? Consensual?"
"Yes, my partner. He just came home from a hard day at work and I guess one thing led to another." You reply, eyes everywhere but your boyfriend.
"Is this a pattern? Are you pressured into it? Because men can often exhibit abusive behavior towards their partners through unnecessary violent sex. There's a study linking porn usage to." Before she can continue, Frank cuts her off with a "Not everything has to be a case for you, Dr. McKay."
"Maybe you should leave, Dr. Langdon. This might be an uncomfortable topic for my patient." Cassie argues. He has to tell her.
"I just don't appreciate the implication that I am abusing my girlfriend when all that happened was something that we both agreed to. Newsflash, safe words exist."
"Okay, enough from you, Frank. Take a breather in the lounge. Thank you Dr. McKay, but I can assure you that while my boyfriend might be a bit hot-headed sometimes, he's nothing but perfect." You add. You just hoped you would be discharged quickly before all of the PTMC came to gawk at you.
I wanna see your pompoms, well certainly not there - Mark Webber x reader
August in Noosa was supposedly described as a winter paradise. One you thought you would never experience. Then Mark Webber and his luxury villa happened. Before you knew it, you were planning a birthday party for your boyfriend, a 50th one at that.
By all accounts you should've chosen a Grand Prix closer to you to visit. Instead you were in Melbourne, in a line for the Quadlock pop-up that seemed to stretch as long as the track itself. "Should've been a smarter person and hit up Enchanté first," you think to yourself as the queue barely moves. Whatever possessed you to be there would reward you, you hoped.
Was it kismet meeting Mark if he was contractually obligated to be there? Verdict was still to be reached on that months later. All you knew is that you managed to spot him before the crowd did. Trade some lines about how he's your favorite still, things that he's definitely heard before. You don't expect it to work, for him to do anything but acknowledge you politely. He really listens. Asks you follow-ups. Lingers. Tells you when he's gonna leave, scans the room like a hawk so no one catches you two.
Mark fucking Webber was taking you to dinner. Wine and dining you at a restaurant that you would definitely be the first and last in your generation to eat at. Maybe it's the fact that he's now divorced and kinda fired. Maybe it's the wine that flows like water, some sommelier recommendation. But by the end of the night he's in your hotel room, knees on the spare pillow from the closet, tongue worshipping your pussy. He's got you whipped with some silly comment about being glad he skipped dessert.
By Sunday he's crafted an outline of how you can be with him and still keep your job and life normal. It works. He visits a lot. Has jokes that he has extra air miles from all the races he went to last year. You can see that it takes a tow on him though. He'll never tell you, or show it. Quite the opposite really, he tends to pretend that everything is more than okay. He's cleaned your apartment top to bottom more times that you can count and done your laundry. Kept your fridge stocked. When you caught him tracking your period, you knew he needed a break. Or a reward. That's why you suggest a summer vacation in Australia. Big birthday bash with the people he loves. It's obvious that he would agree. What you don't expect is that he also trusts you to plan it.
Mark, agonizing perfectionist Mark that once went on a 57 minute tirade about Oscar's reposts was letting you take the wheel completely. Insisting on a surprise. You were utterly screwed. Especially knowing how worry prone he was underneath all his cool. How much he just noticed, pointing out anything and everything. What better way to combat that than complete and utter chaos.
The F1 movie inspired you, well partially. Not that you had seen the wretched thing. But the amount of times it was pushed to you should've been illegal. So why not have a film themed 50th? Costumes, snacks, everything. As an act of love you will let Mark phone it in. Wear an old racesuit to see what his friends come up with instead. An old re-run of Jennifer's body gives you the idea of a lifetime, namely a cheerleader costume. You go an extra mile, finding a Redbull themed one. Keeping it a secret isn't easy, so you just shove it with his birthday present and focus on the rest of the party. Coordinator mode distracts you enough that you don't think about it. Leave it to the last minute. Even on the day of the party you don't let Mark see you before you put on the uniform, behaving as superstitiously as a bride on her wedding day. It's worth it for the look he shoots you when he sees you. Mid- conversation with Oscar, his jaw practically drops open. It's like a bad joke with no punchline, a cheerleader, a racing driver and a cartoon character walk into a bar. It's cute that your boyfriend invited his protégé, thanks to you and Osc the median age range is lower than 50 at least. With his Fred from Scooby Doo outfit and stuffed Great Dane is not how you would think he'd opt to spend his winter break. Especially when you catch one or two of Mark's friends openly ogle him. You whisk the poor guy to the kitchen, under the premise of grabbing extra napkins. You hold out a pompom to him and he takes it, while Mark has a look on his face that you can't quite decipher. Jealousy? Desire? Greed? A combination of all three?
Oscar sniffs out the good champagne like a Kelpie dog. Tells you that your boyfriend promised to celebrate a championship with it and the mood turns somber. He pops the cork to break the silence and both of you press your lips to the rim of the bottle when the liquid squirts out. He's faster of course, so you end up getting your mouth almost smushed against his. There's something a bit too phacic now about all this and you pull away. You can't help but think about how you'd both look pressed on the sides of Mark's cock, the older man leaking against you both. You grab yourself a glass instead, one for Oscar too. Just as he leans in to pour for you, eyes too close to your cleavage Mark walks in. His blue eyes move look at the drops on Oscar's chin and the slight damp patch on your chest and start making very wrong assumptions. He doesn't say anything to his fellow countryman, whisks you off to a bathroom. You swear you see Piastri dart after the two of you, but that would be weird, wouldn't it? Mark stays silent for a second as he studies your body like it's a rival car.
"I know you wouldn't do something that I won't either. But I still have to teach you a lesson, you know that right?" He asks and watches you nodd. Truth was you were so focused on tonight going smoothly that you hadn't even slept with Mark in weeks. When he reaches for the condoms, you expect him to give you only his cock. Fuck you slowly and stretch you out, until you can take every inch. But he takes the pompom from your hand. Presses his fingers against the handle of it. Of course he noticed that you weren't just holding them by the sparkly strips. Either that or you hadn't been the first cheerleader he had fucked. Mark slides the condom over his fingers and the handle and moves them against your slit. It stings for a moment, feels foreign. Then he curls them properly, starts a slow rhythm. It shouldn't feel as good as it does, and yet. Your legs treaten to close, and the sounds of your wetness reverbiate off the walls.
"Welcome to Noosa, pup." He says, as he toys with you. "Be good and look down for me."
It's frankly ridiculous, the navy blue and gold pompom sticking out of your pussy. But you clench around it still, close now. It doesn't take much to bring you over the edge, and you cum with Mark's name on your lips. "Happy birthday?" You manage as he opens the door. Oscar's knocked on his ass, holding his chest. You're guessing there's gonna be a nasty bruise there soon. You have to talk to him, to address the elephant in the room. Instead you go to open presents, pompoms disgracefully tossed in a trashcan.
Shut up Stroll, just get in the car - Lance Stroll x reader
Lance Stroll used to be an extrovert before F1. While true, he got bored of seeing this fact everywhere. It made sense to be more outgoing and loud as a teen. To mellow out to a calmer persona when your every move was scrutinized publicly, on and off the track. He was ready to give the people a new quote. Lance Stroll used to be a dog person before the start of the 2026 season. He loved Chloe's dog, it reminded him of the pups they had raised in childhood. Despite his karting career, he was still a kid. One keen to have a pet. Even if it meant going out in the freezing Montreal mornings. Nothing to teach a boy discipline like a fussy canine. Then came Marilou and her pappillon. Or was it a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel? He wasn't sure, he just knew the animal liked him. It was mutual. He also kept sneaking it human food or taking it outside. His trainer would be proud of how much outdoor experience he was getting. Overall Lance was even considering getting one himself, to keep him company. Until one of the paddock pooches gave him fleas in Barcelona. He had to blame Simba, and by that logic Pierre. While fraternization wasn't necessarily encouraged, it wasn't necessarily frowned upon either. That's why he was talking to Esteban, who had in turn spoke to his fellow countryman. While the toy poodle was undeniably cute, it was also extremely prone to fleas. And the little pests had left their marks all over his arms and abdomen.
Lance researches, aka skimmed the top article on Healtline. He can't help but laugh at the notion that fleas bite in 3s, a way to get breakfast, lunch and dinner. He then looks at the clusters of red spots on himself. Definitely more. As he keeps reading he sees that he should have the markings on his legs and ankles. Also they weren't supposed to live on him. He'd definitely seen one crawl around him. A few more panic stricken Google searches and it's confirmed. Lance Stroll's hotel room has bedbugs. Pinnacle of motorsport, my ass.
Hell hath no fury like a man scorned. Lance leaves scathing reviews. Calls the hotel and treats the poor receptionist well, but absolutely loses it when they get him the manager on the line. Something about 4 stars too many and getting them shut down gets thrown around. The thing about bed bugs, he learned was that they were sturdy little motherfuckers. And if it wasn't clear by the increasing number of bites or the small bloody spots on his pristine cotton sheets, they were invading his bed. Unfortunately no amount of yelling can change that.
He's already washed everything, put it in the dryer, vacuumed. But something still feels off. Maybe it's psychosomatic. Maybe the bugs were just built for survival or more accurately holed up in some nook of his bed he couldn't reach. Lance was in the midst of setting an appointment with Luca, pest control when you texted him.
It was unexpected. Usually the two of you just ran into eachother. Been doing that for years. Accidentally show up at the same rooftop bars or fancy grocery stores. Talk. Flirt. Come up with an excuse to leave together. It started as a one-time thing, a simple hookup because well you were both hot and tipsy. All Lance had to do was get you a mocktail and you had scooted closer to him. It wasn't one thing that made you go home with him. It was how effortlessly good he looked in his white button down, how he talked to you about snowboarding. How he wanted to have his hands on you, but always asked first. Whether you had a stray piece of hair that "needed fixing" or a dress strap that refused to stay on your shoulder. Lance keeps it up. In the Uber Black, when you're in his lap, his jacket over your shoulders and his lips on your chest, he's all about communication.
"That's it, pretty. Grind on me, take what you need. So eager, huh? I must be your type." He says as you try to hold in your whines. You're not trying to give the poor guy who's driving the car a peep show. Lance better be a good tipper, you think when you go to unbutton his shirt.
He enters his building with a slight flush and a semi, while you also look equally disheveled. You make a wish for the ground to swallow you whole as the doorman makes small talk with you.
You're starting to think you bit off a chunk that you couldn't properly chew. Lance is still clingy in the elevator, his hands are on your waist, toying with the band of your underwear. Meanwhile you're wondering how you managed to get yourself on the way to a luxury penthouse.
"Are you important and I just live under a rock? Because this is a lot. Like I don't know what to do with my money a lot." You point out. He pauses, then looks you up and down. You are gorgeous, put together, funny, smart, classy. But you had no idea who he was? You had just talked to him because you wanted to, not because you imagined yourself tanning topless on Lawrence's yachts. That fantasy took over his brain for a few seconds, before he came back to earth.
"Yeah, I'm an F1 driver. Pinnacle of motorsport, all that. 20 best guys at it are on the grid and I'm one of them." He says, waiting for recognition. When you bashfully admit you don't know much about that, aside from Lewis Hamilton, he's even more curious about you.
Lance barely has to touch you and you're dripping for him. He can feel it through your cotton panties, becomes obsessed with seeing the wet spot form. You're absolutely perfect. Your tits, your ass, your face. How you say his name when you spread your legs for him. How you beg him not to tease while he takes off your underwear. How his fingers just seem to fit inside you. How you come for him and then fucking thank him. He won't use these words lightly, but he's fucking pussywhipped. He couldn't get enough of you. That night he made you come on his fingers, on his tongue, on his cock. Lance made some offhand joke about stamina from racing. Truth was, he was rock hard just at your sounds, at the way you were so wet for anything he gave you at all.
By the morning you're gone. You've slipped out before he could show you that he wants more than to just fuck you. The only reason he was in the bar in the first place was because he was newly single. That's why he lets himself indulge in you. He thinks nothing of it. Vows himself to re-focus on his schedule for after the break. To still make use of the tracks in his hometown, tires against the asphalt. To run laps in the park that gives the city it's name until he can't.
As if fate hated him, he spots you from the corner of his eye. He almost collides with the runner behind him offering apologies in Quebecois first and then English. Lance finishes the lap on autopilot. When he's looped back he looks at you. You're just enjoying the weekend, basking in the rare sun. Lance strolls over, the light sheen of sweat all over his body. He sits next to you, Hugo Boss running shorts directly against the grass.
"Well if it isn't my favorite athlete." You say as if you hadn't recently snuck out of his apartment in the early morning hours. Truth was you felt absolutely suffocated there. The fancy air purifier's whirl interrupted your sleep, you almost tripped on the marble floors in the bathroom and not to mention the sunlight from the ridiculously big windows that seemed to stretch on forever. You just didn't fit in. Hopefully all of that wasn't relevant to whether you could hook up with Lance again.
It's almost criminal how easy he is. You would think he was some average guy, and not a famous and rich driver. All you have to do is float the idea of dinner to him. And before you know it you're in the parking lot, getting into an Aston Martin that costs more than you've ever spent in your life. Lance changes out of his workout gear in front of you, cocky and shameless. First goes the shirt. He takes it off like he's putting on a show, slowly. Folds it carefully like it's his job. He stays like this as he dries off with a towel, applies deodorant and cologne. As he puts on a new shirt he notices how you're watching him from the passenger seat.
"Mind if I also get out of these?" He asks about the running shorts. You're about to argue that you're not going to a place that's fancy enough to be scandalized at calves. As if on cue the baggy sport shorts hit the floor and suddenly you know why he was so keen on taking them off. Lance was hard, painfully so. The bulge straining against his white briefs is all for you. You want to tease him a little without getting in trouble. So you place your hand on his cock, feeling it twitch under you as he gets into a pair of jeans. He craves your touch, chases it through the denim. Lance calls you a sweet thing, his dream girl. Can't help a sigh of "collis" or "tabarnak" as he ruts against nothing. At least he can kiss you at a red light, all tongue and teeth. He thinks you're made for this and he intends to claim you. He guesses it can start with dinner.
Between bites of beef tartar Lance lays out what he wants. He isn't a fan others coveting after what he wants, not all. Ironic for someone like him, isn't it? It takes one longer glance from the maître d' and Stroll's hands are on your waist, talking about future anniversaries.
He must have fucked your brains out that night in his apartment. That was the only explanation why you were agreeing to date a guy you knew for mere hours. You had a feeling it wouldn't last long and unsurprisingly you were correct.
By the time the WAG pages noticed he had deleted his Raya profile, he was ready to reactivate it again. Lance's face haunted you in the week leading up to his home Grand Prix. Posters, tattoo flashes, even a stray cardboard cutout. You had had enough when you got the dreaded "you up?" text on a random Thursday. You may not see him trackside, but you spend the F1 weekend in his thankfully redesigned apartment. It was complicated after that. Sometimes even you and Lance would disagree on your relationship status by the end of the day. That's why it didn't hurt when he got a girlfriend. Ultimately he needed someone like Marilou.
You'd love to say they work or that you have no idea how your ex is doing. Unfortunately Lance can't seem to forget you. From words like "I miss you" to full on pictures of his cock, you get reminded of him often. You should've blocked him when he sends a video of himself stroking it, your name spilling from his lips. You just pity his girlfriend.
Google Calendar betrays you on his birthday, sending you a reminder. Lance sends you some corny text about wishing for you when he blows the candles. You type back a message about how he should focus on the people he's celebrating with and actually send it this time. Seeing the news about a potential breakup on a gossip page, you expect him to reach out, and thankfully he doesn't.
Lance thought he was more likely to win the WDC and the WCC with the AMR26 than hear from you again. As if his bad luck wasn't enough, you had to have horrendous timing as well. The first thing you do is ask about the new season. He has to wonder how bad the rumors must be if you broke no contact over them. Frankly he doesn't care if it starts going backwards in Melbourne as long as he can see you one more time. Luckily for him, you waste no time and the two of you have already reserved a table in nice place he chose. Just you, Lance and his new pets the bed bugs. The bites are so bad, he has to sleep in his car, no way he was bringing this atrocity to a hotel or a friend. He still can get ready normally, even though he adds a stop to drop off clothes at the dry cleaner.
You end up talking like old friends. Still he doesn't miss how your gaze steers to his lips occasionally, hungry for more than the chef's signature dish. Lance watches you sip a cocktail and knows he isn't going to let you take a metro home. Especially in the outfit that seemed to draw him like a moth to a flame. He could behave, right? Just ignore his urges and be a gentleman. All that goes out of the window when you slide into the passenger seat and ask for a kiss.
"I just miss you, a lot. Haven't clicked with anyone, God knows I have so many first date horror stories I can sue Tinder or something." You blaber before he presses his lips against yours. Jealousy always worked in your advantage with him. Lance kisses your neck, needy. You reach across the car for him, but it's uncomfortable.
"Backseat?" You suggest. You're so gone you don't even suggest he takes you to a place with a proper bed. You just have to have him. Now. Your ex rushes like a man possessed to open your car door and move to the back. Lance takes the spot next to you and can see you take off your panties under your dress. He discreetly tries to pinch himself, an attempt to ensure that it's all real. It still barely sinks in when you take out an unopened box of condoms from your purse. Truth be told, he needed the mindless hookup as much as you did, if not more. You watch like a hawk as he puts the condom on, saying some line how you didn't want any risks while you're ovulating. Then you lay underneath him, wait for him to pull your hips up to his. His fingers trail up your thighs when you tell him to just get on with it and fuck you. Lance obeys and just thrusts into you. You moan, throwing in a swear word or two. You're not even looking at him, he thinks, haven't asked him to turn on the overhead light. He could be anyone, he thinks and that irritates him. No way he was letting that slide. Lance hits the button and now he can see you clear as day. The way your body begs for him. He lifts you slightly, needing to take one of your perfect tits in his mouth. His fingers slide to your clit, rubbing it in circles. Makes you come for him. You dress in silence, only telling him where to drop you off. There's some small talk but nothing like he actually imagined. The kiss goodbye is awkward, when you flinch away from him and let him peck your cheek instead.
He should drop it. Lance decides to go on a drive to clear his head. As he connects his phone to play some music, it starts pinging with notifications. He forgot that the car came with some sort of fancy membership app he barely uses. He clicks on it and it takes him to a video? It's the two of you, somehow in 4k. Every move, every moan, all of it saves on his phone. Oh he was going to enjoy this one.
Lance picks a few favorite screenshots from your "performance" and sends them to you. Promises he didn't know and that he'll delete the whole thing if you see him again. You sneak him in your apartment on a night where your overprotective roommates aren't around. Sprawed out on your bed he looks like the cat that got the cream. He asks you to fuck like old time's sake. Slow, loving, electric. Lance undresses you slowly, kissing and biting down your neck. Leaves hickeys on your chest, red marks that will bloom purple. Laps at your cunt. Lazily first, as if his only intent was to taste you. When you dig your nails into his scalp, pulling him flush against your clit, he actually puts a bit more pressure on it, opens you up with his fingers. The only sounds in the room are from you and your slick cunt becoming slicker. You cum for him like you used to, fast and unexpected. Lance takes off his clothes then.
"Don't wanna have any fucking latex between us. I'll pull out, I swear. Just let me fuck you, please." He asks and you're too gone to say no. You know he wouldn't even try it if he wasn't clean. So you agree, half out of want, half out of necessity. He feeds you his cock slowly, inch by inch. It's so different, feels so much better. He holds your waist as he thrusts into you, grip a bit hard. He tries to pull out. He really does. But you just feel so good that he can't. Lance spills his seed inside of you. Fucks it in with his fingers, telling you it's less of a mess like that. He just hoped it would stick, that way he could be the one taking care of you.
Slay your rivals? Oh I thought you said lay your rivals, sorry - Isack Hadjar x reader
Max Verstappen was like a holy figure to you. You were far from growing up watching him, figures like Button shaping up your childhood fascination with motorsport. But you always seemed to find yourself drawn to Redbull drivers. Webber and Vettel. Ricciardo. Now Max, who you idolized for years now, basically as long as he's been in F1. You had met him before, albeit briefly. Had your mom snap a picture together which you hoped he didn't remember. Secretly in your heart of hearts you hoped it would one day be in those compilations of teammates being destined to drive alongside eachother. Like George and Lewis or Max himself next to Daniel. Again not like people didn't run in the same circles. Nikola Tsolov himself had said it in an Instagram video, some line how he'd talked to the grid regularly. Praising Max for being helpful to rookies.
The thing about not meeting your idols, you had managed to follow it. Technically that photo opp with Max was not a meeting. In F1 academy you were not on Redbull's radar yet, far from the cutthroat competitor you grew into. Besides Verstappen was busy himself with title battles you could only dream of, or seasons so dominant you had practically memorized the opening chords of the Dutch national anthem. Yours had managed to play as you podiumed, creeping in. Announcing you were there. Hoping someone would listen.
F3 with Campos had been so ambitious you hadn't even dreamed to put it in your season predictions. You had snuck it in a vision board when you already knew, printing out the Instagram post in your local library. You end up scanning the final product and putting it as your phone screen. Kept looking at it during Barcelona testing, when the car twisted and turned under you. You think of "Changing the Oil" by Eloise Klein Healy, about the female car. Her, her, her, always the female car, it stated. Then the RB19, Rocky. You name your car Roxanne, after that song your friend hates with a burning passion. Bright and radiant. Just like your eyes when you first do your seat test, like the stray tear you shed under your balaklava. On the streets of Catalunya you are radiant.
Albert Park is a dream and you never want it to end. You breeze through your practice with the urgency of a rookie trying to prove themselves. Something isn't right though. Your feet can't find the ease needed to press the pedals automatically, you have to stop and think. You blink at the wrong points. Miss easy opportunities to overtake. You need guidance and you need it fast. And what better way to get it than getting yourself into the Redbull garage later.
Max is surprised to see you stay past their free practice and lets you pick his brain for 5 minutes. You've seen the way he was with the rookies past season, know he has a soft spot for young talent.
The first thought that crosses your mind is that it's just like the Instagram post. Your eyes drift between the navy blue cot and the flat screen tv.
The familiar sounds of Werenoi blast through the wall. Scarface is not what you want to focus on. Partially because Pyramide is a better song, thanks to Damso. Also because it's taking your mind away from the advice Max is giving you. Something about heavy breaking and turn 4 floats around your head, as your brain only focuses on the lyrics about jealousy and breaking scores or something.
You had met Isack already, shook hands with him at the gala in Uzbekistan. Snuck a few glances his way throughout the night. When his WAG rumors turned out to be just that you let your eyes linger on him a few moments longer. Maybe you were ovulating or maybe the suit was doing wonders on him. The ceremony drags on and you swear time slows. You just hope that the camera doesn't pan on you as you stiffle a yawn. You're ready to go to bed and consume an ungodly amount of MotoGP content when Isack walks by you. Whispers a cinquante deux to you and you're grateful that Dorianne had taught you basic French that one time Alpine seemed like a viable option for you. You expect a party, one of the older rookies sneaking some local booze. You don't expect Isack shirtless scrolling through Netflix. You know this is a bad idea. You've heard the horror stories. Yet your pristine gown is on the floor, probably creasing. Your thighs are on either side of his face and he's doing doing something that was described as a "Facemelter." You briefly wonder how small the motorsport community is if even your private accounts have matching algorithms. HunterxHunter is playing in the background so your moans of "Coming, coming, putaine," get lost in the French dub. Isack doesn't sleep with you, doesn't even ask to, just says some line about wishing to pack condoms. You ask him to fuck your tits, cum on the chest that he's been staring at all night. You doze off during a filler episode and by the time you're awake Isack is long gone. You're stuck at reception explaining how you found his key card on the ground, despite being on a completely different floor. The staff clearly had seen their fair share of embarrassed celebrities, so they let it slide. Months pass, and you're semi-convinced the whole thing was a figment of your imagination. Not that you're surprised Isack would ghost you. It's the fact that he did that knowing that everybody knew everything. You're glad the gossip pages on social media hadn't picked up on it, how you two had followed eachother after this. Surpingly it was the Frenchman who had tapped that button first. A trace in the digital world signifying that you had connected at that boring gala. If only the eagle eyed fangirls with ih6 in their bios knew how much.
So you and Max's teammate hadn't really gotten off on the right foot (much more preferring other body parts.) That didn't mean that a second chance couldn't fix the brewing tension.
"I'll just let him know we need some peace and quiet for a few more minutes. Who knows maybe he'll have a useful tip for me too?" You say as you move towards the door. Showing the Dutch driver that you're not afraid of facing challenges.
A rapid knock that's surprisingly on beat does the trick. But of course faith is cruel and Isack opens the door half-naked. Isack would hate to admit it, but the first thing that crossed his mind is that you had come for a much-delayed round two. The team merch that had adorned his own chest a few years ago was now on yours, the Campos kit tailor made for you. Then it comes to him, your promotion, how he watched you race earlier, under the pretense of looking for some other rookie. No one questioned camaraderie between men. He sees your lips move, makes out the words "music" and "off, please" and he's across the room, powering down the speaker that got him through the last 6 years. He can't help but suggest you go to him after you're done with Max. Says he knows what's it like in your shoes. Seduces you with a "surefire way to relax." Most surprisingly he says he's sorry for not reaching out, that he didn't wanna distract you from the season.
You buy it like it's a vintage Redbull hoodie. Those were signs of trailblazers, weren't they. Denouncing the athletes as an elite group of people, differentiating them. Signifying them as "better than." You surely didn't feel that as you had stripped down to your fireproof cullotes. Isack had a massage gun whirling slowly between your legs, the stimulation electric. Surely it wasn't meant for that and there was a high chance you could end up in the Melbourne ER, but you didn't really care. You managed to finish, all your stress leaving your body. You lazily stroke Isack's cock, in the minutes before someone goes to look for him, offering advice or reprimand. You wonder if he'll fuck your thighs to finish when.
Your fantasy gets interupted by the sound of a words being bleeped out on a radio.
"Ma cherie, you're spacing out on me again." Isack says as you appear to watch his highlights.
"Sorry, sorry. I was just thinking what it would be like racing against you. As kids or even now. Remembered that one photo of you and Dorianne, that's all." You reply, pausing the video mid-overtake. Liam's VCARB is backed in a corner and you know that the New Zealander won't back down from a fight. Isack looks at you, a curios glint in his eyes.
"Yeah? Do you see us as teammates? Sharing telemetry? Giving eachother tows?" He muses, clearly viewing you as an equal. But your imagination has other plans.
"Competition, actually. Sister teams, I need your seat and you want me to get out of your way." You share.
"You want us to hate eachother?" He's confused, not getting your fantasy.
"At first. Then we grow closer. Maybe we hook up once or twice, tease eachother before quali." You explain.
"You've been watching too much Heated Rivalry. Or is this about something else?" Isack is inquisitive. You really don't want to tell him. Have been avoiding doing so. You had no reason to hide this particular thing from him, but you were embarrassed.
"I miss having sex like before. More spontaneous. Now we fuck like a married couple. It's almost clinical. Need you like you were after the stupid gala." That part of your fantasy was real. The way Isack ate you out as if he was trying to prove something didn't change.
This time though, he doesn't let you cum on his tongue. He wants you needy for him, even a bit pissed off. You wanted enemies? You'd get them.
Fucking you like he hated you really didn't match his vibe. But his body was made for it. Isack starts with rough kisses to your chest, sharp teeth against your nipples. Then when you're wet enough he slides two fingers inside of you, curling them. His rhythm is hard and fast, frenzied. He's trying to feel you out, just waiting for the perfect moment. It doesn't take long to get you to the brink, so he pulls out. Calls you a dick- obsessed whore as he puts on a condom. Has you bent over, ass slapping against his hips. Isack uses his strength against you, wraps his biceps around your throat as you beg him for more. He changes the angle a bit, moves your legs apart to occupy the space between them. Throws around a few French words how only he can make your cunt soaking wet like this and you cum for him immediately. Even if he wanted to slow down a bit, he doesn't let himself. Isack thrusts into chasing pleasure, wanting release. He lasts a few more pumps before getting off. He barely manages to get you cleaned up before you drift off in his arms. He presses a quick kiss to your forehead. Maybe he'd bring out the angry, emotional guy they painted him into more often.
Fuck buddies for dummies, the extra stupid edition - Max Verstappen x reader
"Can you stop staring at your phone like you just used it to activate a zombie apocalypse or something?" Max asks as you flip him off from his couch. His Monaco apartment was supposed to be a distraction. A place where you wouldn't think about the thing that had been gnawing you for months, no years now. Maybe you could even try to get rid of what was bothering you. Ask your best friend to take you to one of the infamous clubs where you could spend the night dancing with Lance Stroll or even Lewis Hamilton. A single guy on the grid who'd already knew about the weird dynamic between you and Max. Who understood that the Dutchman was staring daggers his way not because he was in love with you, but because you two had practically grew up together. Until his move to Monte Carlo, you were basically inseparable. He didn't ward off boys in the "if you touch her, you die, she's like a sister to me" way. No, it was more subtle. Guys always assumed that you were dating or at least had something going on between you two. That wasn't the case, at least on his side. You had entertained a crush on Max Verstappen once or twice. Let yourself be cliche and imagined a picture perfect life with the person that knows you better than anyone else. Happens to the best of us.
You never really told him about it. Especially when he ended up dating Kelly for so long that their breakup came like a bolt of lightning from a clear sky. One night Max called you and told you all about it. How even though he had been a father figure to Penelope all these years, he wasn't ready for any kids of his own. Especially since the thing that he and his then girlfriend refused to talk about. So he left. He still tries, makes sure P has him as a steady presence in his life. No little girl should lose her dad twice.
Even with both of you single, there was another thing he didn't know about. You were a virgin at 28. You weren't ashamed. You knew people who were celibate for religious or personal reasons. It didn't matter. It didn't make you any different from people that had had sex. But guys ran from you when you told them. Kissing you, touching you, they were fine, but as soon as told any hookup that you had never been fucked, they were gone. That's what had you glaring at your cellular device. It was a dumb Reddit post about the average age that people lost their virginity by country. The survey was from 2012 and you weren't sure how legit it was. The number was there. 18 for the Netherlands. You were a decade late.
"What are you even doing? You better not be watching those stupid videos where people declutter their huge wardrobes or claw clip collections. They have to be fake, there's no way one person shops that much, and I know that because you keep commenting that and then my explore page thinks I wanna watch a girl hoard Dior." Max says,feeling particularly nosy today. That's what he always did, knowing that you wouldn't resist the opportunity to complain if it was given to you. He just had to probe in just the right way. He didn't want you to share something too personal, you two still had secrets. But as a friend he couldn't let you sulk.
"It's not that, it's just, do you ever feel like you're behind on life." You ask. He looks at you, his blue eyes curious.
"Well you know, you can't really compare me to other people. I mean, looking back I missed out on a lot of normal kid stuff because of racing. Hell aside from you, Victoria and some of the grid, I barely had any friends." Max says, but his tone doesn't necessarily convey that this was a horrible thing. You knew that he tended to downplay the negative aspects of his upbringing, but you also had learned not to press it. "There were times where I thought I should be further in racing, you know. Or just in general, when I was with Kelly. My mom was 22 when she had me, Vic has kids. Is the question about you or just a hypothetical?"
You should be able to tell him. You know better than anyone that he wouldn't judge you. Time to bite the bullet.
"I was asking because I haven't had sex. I'm a virgin." You confess. Max laughs so loud you think every F1 driver in the city can hear him. Well there goes the normal reaction. Between genuine tears he notices you seem to be serious. That sobers him up to, shuts him up.
"Hey, hey, I'm sorry. It's just that, this is the thing that's been eating you? That's why you haven't been in a good mood. Because you're not getting laid?" He asks.
"It's not just not getting laid. Guys seem to avoid me like the plague when I tell them. It's become this impossible task. I don't even believe in the one or anything like that anymore. I just wanna get it over with." You say, exasperated.
"Want me to do it?" He asks and you do a double take. There is no way Max Verstappen just proposed to have your first time with him. When you don't say anything back, he doubles down.
"What? We're friends, I haven't been laid in a while. And I've done this before. Before you ask whether I mean fuck a friend or take someone's virginity, it's both."
He does make a compelling argument. At least it would be a done deal. Casual, no strings attached. He could do this as a pall, a buddy. It could be just sex. None of the romantic expectations there.
"Okay?" You hesitantly say, curious if he actually means it. If he backs out now, you could forget it completely. Act like he never offered and you never considered it. But he takes off the pristinely white Alpha Tauri shirt off and motions for you to scooch over.
"Do you wanna strip down or should I help you? More authentic that way." He asks as you move over to him. You had seen him in different stages of undress before, this was nothing new. But there was a look in your eyes, the same one he had when he wanted to beat you at President or Catan. Sheer fucking determination. You want Max to touch you. To make this real. So you tell him to undress you himself. He lifts up your dress quickly, too fast and gets his watch tangled in it somehow. Groans as either won't budge, and just tugs harder. Your outfit rips as you watch in disbelief. Fuck him and that stupid promotional piece of garbage.
"That was my favorite." You say as he shrugs. You don't know it yet, but he plans to bring it to the best tailor tomorrow, maybe even order a custom that looks similar for your troubles. For now he just takes off that watch, wincing at how it seems to effortlessly separate from the tattered fabric. Oops. If he hadn't been so desperate to finally have you after all these years, he would've bothered to think about these things. But now he just wanted to give you an unforgettable first time.
Call him the Redbull second driver for the first time in years, because he just cursed himself. Max looks at you and you're so gorgeous. And almost bare for him. You weren't wearing a bra and your tits were fucking beautiful. Instead of saying that to you though, he goes
"Look at you, did you want me to notice you, to see you like that? You know for someone with no experience, you sure know how to act like a slut."
Your face instantly sours like you bit into a piece of his beloved drop. You start telling him how that word is misogynistic and how he shouldn't use it. You continue something about whores and Madonna when Max tries to kiss you. You dodge him like a viper. Sitting there, with your arms crossed over your chest you think this over. Despite his frankly oaf-like behavior the past hour, he was still your best friend. You know that he'll take care of you. He always has. You take a deep breath and say
"Kissing might be weird. Maybe looking at you is also tripping us up. Can we try this in doggy?"
He agrees and flips you over on your hands and knees. Your friend fondles your boobs, squeezing a bit too harshly. You can hear a quiet squelch and you're guessing he shoved his fingers in his mouth. Max finds your clit like he knows it will shave off time from his qualifying and he's in P3. Rubs it with precision, like he's done this a million times before. You let out tiny moans as he makes you wetter and wetter. Maybe he can even manage to make you cum just from this. Right as you're on the edge, pussy needing more and clenching around nothing he pulls away. Gently moves two fingers against your slit and thrusts them in. They're straight and he just moves them in and out. Not curling them, not changing his rhythm. Just repeating motion. It's a bit uncomfortable and you're this close to asking him when was the last time he clipped his nails. But you hold off. Once he's just jabbed at you for what feels like 5 minutes, you decide you can't take this anymore. Thank God you've came enough times on your own to know the pattern to an orgasm. You sigh, a quiet oh, followed by a swear or two. Max seems to buy it, so you go on. Tell him you're close, that you're gonna and let a few moans fill in that gap. You even squeeze around him for extra realism. You successfully faked an orgasm infront of your best friend.
Of course Max could tell you didn't come for real. He wanted to fix it. To kneel between your legs and lap at your clit until you soak his face. But so far this was just going terribly. Never had he ever had casual sex with a friend go so wrong. He just wanted this to be over. He knew his dick never disappointed him. Even now it was hard as a rock, ready for action.
"Be right back schatje. Gotta get a condom." Max says looking between his dick and your cunt. He dashes to the bedroom like he has DRS on. Grabs the box and some candle his mom got him for mood lighting. He's pretty sure there's matches in the living room table. When he sees you on the couch, basically frozen in the same position he can't help but let out a Godverdomme. Max rolls the condom on his lenght and slowly moves inside of you. Doesn't miss the hiss of pain you let out or the way you squeeze him. Jesus you're so tight. You must be nervous because your body keeps trying to push him out. He tries to move, thusts with his hips just the barest amount. Max forgets to ask you anything. He wants to know if it feels good, he really does. Or whether he should just stop and wait. But he's so mesmerized by how your pussy feels against him that he just doesn't. He goes a bit faster, and finally achieves something that seems good for both of you. He can feel you against him, hears your moans. You're both close, he can get you both there. He angles his hips and pumps into you once, twice, thrice and just when you're both gonna come he slips out. Max tries to put it back in, but can't get it exactly. It just doesn't feel right. After a few tries he asks you to help. As soon as your soft hands are on his dick he blows his load like a virgin.
Max is embarrassed. Makes you promises that he can get it up in no time, that he'll redo it. There's no point for you. You just wanna sleep this off and have a normal day tomorrow. One where you don't disastrously lose your virginity with your best friend. When you turn him down Max scrambles away like a kicked puppy. You go out to blow out the candle. Right before you think "God, I wish I could have normal sex with Max, with all the talking and l could cum on his cock. Then maybe he'll see how hopelessly in love with him I am." then snuff out the flame.
"Can you stop staring at your phone like you just used it to activate a zombie apocalypse or something?" Max asks as you flip him off from his couch. That's when you know something is wrong. As you find yourself replaying yesterday's conversations, you feel everything again. The annoyance at the Reddit data. How your stomach twists in knots when you tell him and how it gets worse when he laughs. This was American Pie meets Groundhog's day. You watch helplessly as he tears your favorite dress again and calls you a slut. This time instead of doggy you suggest trying reverse cowgirl. Despite seeing Ladybird, you want to try being on top. At least then gravity would work for you. Max clumsily fingers you while you're in his lap. This time you're closer, albeit because you grind your clit against his thigh. Still it's not a full orgasm, just a small one. At least better than yesterday. He goes to grab the condoms as you stay still as a statue. The pain is still as intense as yesterday. But this time you call the shots. Sink down on him at your own pace, take him slowly. It's all good until your legs cramp. The stabbing pain hits you all at once and you hobble away from Max. The moment is ruined. You two call it a night.
Apparently two wrongs do not make a right as Max still says "Can you stop staring at your phone like you just used it to activate a zombie apocalypse or something?". This time you ask him to bring over your vibrator. The toy works wonders until he moves it too fast and it drops to the floor. As much as you try to power it off, it doesn't, adding a demonic whirling as background noise. You want him to get you a new one. Max argues that he will not be caught dead buying a sex toy, in person or online.
"I can just give you the money and you can choose whatever you want. Hell I'll get you two. Just don't make me go do it." He says.
"But you broke it. It's only fair." You go on. You two fight so long about such a stupid thing. It had always been like that, the two of you like two ferocious dogs with a bone. You fall asleep overwhelmed and underfucked again.
There's the day Max ends up coming only from putting it in. And then the same day again, but this time he's too low and almost thrusts into your ass. Another same morning passes and he sees you mouth his now catchphrase about zombie apocalypse and all. Then something shifts.
"You think I'm happy saying that stupid line daily?" He snaps at you, and then you realize you're both stuck in this. Reliving a Fucked up Friday that never ends.
"Okay, let's start by removing this." You say as you put his overpriced watch on the table. He goes to grab the condoms now, to not waste time later. You can see him visibly bite his tongue when you shrug off your dress, think for a good minute and finally say "I can't believe I get to see you like this. I'm so lucky." This time you lean in, millimeters away from his lips and ask if you can kiss him. He presses his lips to yours and it's so good you get a little wet. He kisses down your neck, your tits and pauses before asking if he can eat you out. You're practically shaking with need, so you agree. Max needs no instructions, but you still talk to him. It's a mix of "right there's " and "just like thats" with the occasional "too much, slow down a little." Your orgasm creeps up on you. One second you're tugging his hair and the other your thighs are shaking, clamped against his beautiful face.
"So that's how it sounds like when you actually come. It's pretty. Maybe next time you can say my name." He comments and that earns him another hair pull.
"Stop torturing me and lie back for me." He adds and you do. Your orgasm has made you soft, pliant. You watch him enter you and it's completely different. It still hurts, but less now. He doesn't move until you ask him to. Doesn't speed up until you beg him to. Doesn't cum until you've already finished on his cock, and your legs are wrapped around his waist. Doesn't let you move as he brings a warm cloth and clean you up or as he strips the couch of the bedding he had put there for you.
"Fuck, that made all the horrible ones worth it. Thank you Max." You say as he finally lays next to you, craving your warmth.
"I'm glad you chose me. Even if it was just out of necessity. And that it finally worked out. I think all those times before I couldn't let myself think of this as more than casual, some hookup. That was never gonna be the case with you, though. I love you too much for that. Maybe if I get over myself and just tell you about it, we'll finally be free." He says.
"Let's see tomorrow, yeah. For the record, I love you too." You reply.
When Max wakes up and asks you whether you want breakfast or just coffee, it dawns on you. You had made it.
"If you offer me fucking hagelslag like you tried to last time, I'll try to trigger the time loop again." You treaten before the driver gently taps you with a pillow. Yep, everything was back to normal.
Even though you were pretty sure you had found your soulmate a few months ago, you kept falling in love with Kitzbuhel. Despite not going down the snowy slopes, unlike your boyfriend, loving the city couldn't be helped. Maybe you were a little starstruck. This place was a paradise for the rich and famous and you were just a wag. You saw purse accessories that cost more than your rent on the daily. A terrier sitting in a Birkin being fed a 30 euro burger. You didn't really care or at least tried not to. But your heart was drawn to the fashion. Your brain yearned for name brand. So you decided to look for it in the thrift store. Just the thought of secondhand shopping brought you back to the only reason why this could be possible- your boyfriend.
This was your first holiday with Yuki. You had met him on vacation, that infamous trip where he had lost his phone in lake Commo. What media outlets didn't know that a few hours earlier you had just given him your Instagram, causing him to be semi-glued to said device. And when he then ghosted you for a few days with no reason, you thought that he had been a hallucination. A doppelganger that you had dreamed up between so many tiramisus and bellinis that you genuinely got a bit tipsy. But when he remembers that you can also log in via desktop and many variations of his pet turtle's name in the password box, he's got his account back. Thank God. Yuki sends you a long dm, a cross between I'm sorry and all of this is so stupid. By the third paragraph he manages to invite you on a date. You agree to meet him at a landmark that's so close to his hotel it was verging on doxxing himself. He lets you lead him around, both of you scurried around your maps app. Instead of a restaurant or a cafe, you choose a few secondhand shops for the two of you to visit. Yuki leaves with a few paperbacks that you insist that he has to read. It was a crime to not have experienced Orwell and the good Murakami, and Nora Ephron. Although you stole the latter when he claimed that he could not be caught out with something that had orgy in the title. That earned him a laugh so loud and genuine that Yuki could already picture your second date. That one would include the good street food spots he was recommended by local fans. That's a bargain he struck with people- you could have a selfie only if you could give him a good place to eat at in exchange. The secret perks of being an F1 driver, he guessed. This and the fact that he had pretty girls like you going up to talk to him. As if intent on only taking your date to dusty places you and Yuki head to another thriftstore together. He likes to rummage through the cookbooks, pick out a recipe with a lot of familiar Italian words and tell you all about it. Watch you examine a 50 cent Ferrari toy car like it's the actual machinery that Charles drives. You end up putting it back, reasoning that you're a Redbull fan anyway. Yuki and you try to race in swivel chairs upstairs when an employee comes to politely ask you to leave. Yuki though sees the spark leave your eyes and quickly takes the F1 magazine from your hands. Finds the spread with himself, a piece about him being signed with Redbull and a sharpie.
"Now it's autographed. You can put it in the special shelf." He says and the employee reluctantly gives you 15 minutes more. You ask Yuki to kiss you right after that and he has both of you duck behind a shelf of puzzles. It's just a peck, but you still end up so smitten that you have to feign interest in a 1000 piece puzzle of Jesus for a good minute so he doesn't see you blush. Both of you get some very ugly keychains from the register as a little souvenir from the whole experience. Then your Italy trip is over, and so is his break. You keep texting, throughout the season. By the time you can even consider the August getaway he planned and whether you can join him on it, the ticket prices have skyrocketed so much you'd have to rob Yuki and pawn all his good jewelry to justify going with him. You're sad, but you make some throwaway comment how you like the winter break better anyway. Until then he sends you lots of photos and gets you trinkets and kitchy magnets. Though with every message sent your way or phonecall, he wishes he had more time to relax a bit and spend time with you.
Whatever monkey's paw had unbeknownst to him fallen into his position had worked. Despite Laurent's promises, his reassurance, Isack was "promoted" to the second seat. Reserve driver Yuki was more free, the evil shackles of Oracle Redbull Racing a bit more loose. He could ask for more. Such as a chance for you to take a trip to Austria on their dime. He didn't even have to pull the "you ruined my racing career" card. Redbull just had money and they believed he would make enough of it to pay them back. Maybe taking a different role was good, more freedom. Of course, he was still keeping up with his workouts. Spending a lot of time in the sim. But now he could have a carb more than once a month. Had time to take you golfing or to the spa a few times. The time you had together in the Alps was slowly decreasing. That's why Yuki decided to find one last fun activity before you had to leave this snowy paradise. He looked at the other resorts around and one was advertised as a "free, romantic, blissful playground for adults only." They had a lot of experiences for couples listed on their website. Yuki had no interests in tantric yoga or swinging (which he thought had something do to with music or dancing. He was wrong.) Luckily a workshop on shibari was still open. The maroon pop-up saying "only a few spots left" tantalized him. Plus, even though he had never heard of shibari it sounded promising. He was Japanese, he could recognize the roots of the word would translate to "bind together" so he assumed it would be about deeper connections, getting closer. And he desperately needed that. While you had great chemistry and communication, you two still struggled to relax in front of eachother. Having common space had been like sharing it with a roommate or a friend. You were going on this trip as a couple, but somehow both of you had completely different agendas. Most of the time you spent together was either eating or talking.
Not to be that boyfriend, but Yuki expected that you would also be fucking like rabbits. Breaking long distance and all. Plus you two had sent eachother texts and photos throughout the season, showing eachother how much you needed the other. He had gotten through some of his tougher race weekends by pumping his cock in the shower while your voice notes blasted on full volume from the counter, your moans and pleas mixed with the hum of a vibrator. Selfishly, he wished you had packed that. He wanted to fish out the box of condoms that was stashed in the secret compartment of his suitcase and use it with you. It wasn't like nothing happened on the trip either. Yuki loved falling asleep and waking up next to you. The lazy makeout sessions first thing in the morning, an alternative to snoozing his alarm til the last possible moment. He loves the little noises you make when he grinds into you, how you hide your face into the pillow when he whispers a particularly filthy string of words. But time seems to be against you once again. Mornings are hectic and nights are quiet. Too dark and cold for what you really want, the type of sex that's more than just Yuki thrusting into you hard and fast, both of you chasing your release. You needed something more. A moment of connection, a few kisses. You wanted you and your partner to be in total synch, to use sex as this communication that reassures you. To say "You and I are meant to be, you make me feel good, I trust you and want you," without any words.
While Yuki is wearing God knows how many layers and snowboarding at an alarming rate down a mountain you're literally squatting infront of a clothing rack. Your back and arms hurt, the little basket the thrift is threatening to topple over and the hangers are making the terrible scraping sound you thought you could block out. The joys of second-hand shopping. But this place was a treasure trove. You're guessing at least a few heiresses felt the strong need to give to charity. You're mostly loaded up on accessories, cashmere scarves and gold earrings, designer sunglasses and chic earmuffs. You'd gotten Yuki some rings and a thermal polo. Then you spot it. The perfect lingerie. A grail item, as the kids say. Usually you wouldn't pick up such an item, but it looked brand new, the La Perla tags hanging off of it like a hook. And you were caught. Hopefully so would be Yuki.
Your boyfriend had had the best shower of his life when you walked in the hotel room.
"Sorry I'm late, I picked up a few things at the thrift store and then got into a whole thing with the receptionist about the laundry service times. It's a washing machine, not a nuclear reactor, I did not need to be supervised by staff to get my clothes cleaned." You huff. You're tempted to show him everything you got, to spoil the surprise, but you hold off. Besides you had already managed to put on the transparent sky blue bodysuit in the hotel lobby. All you needed to do now was wait for the right moment, or create it yourself. You're just about to ask Yuki for a kiss when he gets a notification on his phone. He checks it and you can hear him go "Oh, that was today, right," followed by him asking you to get ready for a surprise. You decide to wear one of the new wool sweaters that you got and some jeans, came up with some excuse that the bathroom had better lighting for your makeup and changed there. Your boyfriend and you barely making it on time, since apparently the workshop isn't in some conference room like he assumed he would be. Instead you're infront of the hotel's yoga studio. A woman in a loose fitting robe chirps "Hello, are you two here for the shibari workshop?" You're sure that there has been some mistake. Surely Yuki hadn't signed you two up for a bondage class. She continues, stating that it's a two hour workshop, going through the basics, and that it might be filmed or photographed. You think to Yuki's PR and imagine them trying to scrub those photos from the internet. But your boyfriend doesn't seem to mind. Responds with an enthusiastic "cool and interesting." When you look at him, he doesn't seem nervous like you do. Could it be? Did he not realise what this was gonna be. Or did he know and hope to explore this with you? You didn't mind trying new things with him, you trusted him. It was just the people element now, being hogtied infront of a bunch of strangers wasn't exactly your typical Friday night. When the instructor mentioned that there would be materials you could buy at the end of the session, you mortifyingly realised that Yuki had already paid for this for you two. Knowing that this wasn't the cheapest place and the potential clientele, you didn't want to think how much.
In a few minutes the room had filled out, other couples like you talking to eachother or the instructor. She did a quick headcount.
"Okay, I think that's everyone. Just before we begin, I'd like us to get more comfortable and get into the attire we're comfortable in." She says and drops her robe, revealing a gorgeous black bodysuit.
"What the actual fuck?" Yuki whispers and there goes your confirmation that he has no idea what shibari was. At least you're glad he's not in that corner of the internet, despite you landing in it a few times. He turns to you, the words "Do you want to..." not quite rolling off his tongue, because you are stripping too. The lace work on the bodysuit is so intricate, that he can't help but touch it, sees you shiver even though he's not even caressing a sensitive spot. The rational in him still wins barely.
"Do you want to stay for this, are you comfortable?" He asks, despite the fact that you're already shimmmying off your jeans. Yuki could see that it came with matching panties, though ones that were way too revealing up close.
"Just a bit cold, but that's no reason to give up before we've tried. Yuki, I'm guessing you booked this on accident, but let's take advantage of your luck, shall we?" You ask before getting comfortable on the yoga mat bellow you. The teacher starts with some basic explanation of what shibari is and how any couple can practice it, as long as they're both consenting adults. Then she moves to demonstrations and your boyfriend is surprisingly good at this. Your hands are tied behind your head in record speed. This just became a competition. You just hope that nobody else in this room realizes that his dexterity is thanks to the fact that he's a pro athlete. Although merch with a picture of Yuki and you and the text "I attended a shibari workshop with Yuki Tsunoda and all I got was this lousy t-shirt" might make some headlines. Or at least that girl's YouTube video of weirdest F1 items.
It was unfair that Yuki was just naturally good at some things. Some dumb TikTok filer challenges that had no practical use in real life. This, because he couldn't necessarily say anything about it. He was gonna what, fix some knots of Max's yacht, asking the other man to trust him, cause he took a shibari class once and got praise? No way. So he just continued tying and undoing the knots taught to him, keeping in mind to communicate with you like he was instructed too. He kept it vague, a simple "How does that feel?" and "Is this right for you?" With 15 minutes left on the clock, it was time to attempt something a bit more intermediate. Some couples had opted out and were already choosing ropes to buy later. But Yuki Tsunoda did not back down from a challenge. So he tried to follow the instructions. Asked you to hold out your hands behind your back, so he could tie them to your feet.
"Spread your legs a bit wider." He whispers in your ear and for a second you forget you're in public. You move them apart until he stops you. You feel him guide you more now, touching you. He was comfortable, in his element. And you, you were completely smitten. Just when you're zoned out, letting him have his fun, he tells you "You look so good like this, you have no idea how much I'm struggling not to get hard right now," before tugging the rope slightly so it digs more into your skin. You wanna move, close your legs out of embarrassment, but you can't. He traces the knots with his fingers, before going to undo them. Lets you dress in stunned silence as he thanks the teacher for the enlightening experience. By the time you're back on your feet and also exchanging polite words with her, Yuki already has bought some rope for "practice at home." You would remind him that getting that through customs will get him in potential trouble, but you're willing to be questioned in a tiny room if you know that your boyfriend will use that on you again.
The walk back to your hotel is the most silent you two have been the whole trip. Too much on your minds, apparently. As soon as you get in through your hotel door, he's asking if he can kiss you, fuck you, use that rope on you, anything. You were just as turned on as he was, so you agreed. The two of you had been teasing eachother for months at this point, it was time to do something about it. You ask Yuki to keep it simple as you strip, unbuckling the bottom of the bodysuit. Taking off your underwear first, you go to strip off completely before he stops you. Asks you to keep it on, wants to see you in it. You make a mental note to start asking for Victoria's Secret gift cards for every holiday now. You lay on the bed as he poses you like a doll. Ties your feet to the no doubt vintage bedposts and then undresses himself, leaving only his boxers. Yuki barely remembers his name, but he manages to recall where he put the condoms. Takes out the pack and leaves them on the bedside table for now. You whine that you need him, that you're probably wet enough already.
"What, you think I'm just gonna stick my dick into you and call it a day. I'm a gentleman, baby. Gonna have you coming for me first, want to make you enjoy it." He says. Trails kisses up your thighs until he reaches your cunt. Flattens his tongue against you, giving you broad licks until he kisses your clit. You try to move against him, catching your ankles on the restraints at the last moment.
"Don't end up hurting yourself princess, just trust me." He reminds you. Then his face is back between your thighs, giving you everything you need. Tracing tight circles on your clit until you're coming in his mouth, hips trying to move against his face despite the restraints. He slows gradually, pulling away completely when you tell him to.
"Gonna switch positions, is that okay, my love. Just gonna flip you over, retie you a bit before, yeah?" He asks as you say yes, ready for more. You need him, need to feel him. You move a bit, settling into a comfortable state. Head against the pillow, back arched, ass basically against Yuki's face. As if he didn't see you wet enough just a moment ago, you try to shake your hips to remind him. If he could tease, so you could you. You can hear him swear, tear open the condom packet carefully and roll it on. Though he moves without a sound and you can't expect the sensation. How his cock feels when he first puts it in, feeding it to you inch by inch. Yuki then grips your inner thighs and thrusts. It's fast, calculated and just a bit desperate. He lets you feel him stretch you out. He's trying to get the angle right, some attempts too shallow or too deep. Then he pulls out almost completely and taps his head against your clit just because he can. The lube from the condom and your wetness feel so good.
"You wanna put it back in?" He asks and your hands are back on his dick in record timing. You guide him, albeit a bit slowly to how exactly you need him. Yuki copies your movement and it's just right. He lets his fingers softly trail against your ass, giving it a small squeeze.
"Fuck, am I lucky to have you?" He says and feels you squeeze against me. "You like it when I'm sappy, huh? Needed this so bad, wanted you this whole trip and you're so good for me, so perfect. Taking everything I give you. Do you think I can make you come again, like this?" He asks. Luckily you never had trouble orgasming even without manual stimulation and he was about to find out very soon. A few more thrusts and you were falling apart for him. Chasing his release, he speeds up just a bit and finishes too.
The aftercare is a bit clumsy. He's going through the motions of cleaning himself and you up, before he realizes you're still bound to the bed.
"Shit, sorry baby, I forgot. Here, let's fix it." He says, undoing the ropes. There are red marks on your skin, which might turn into bruises in a few days. You justify it as another souvenir, from Kitzbühel with love.
Between heaven on earth and a hard place - Gabriel Bortoleto x reader
Gabriel and you were perfectly capable of enjoying the winter holiday without his family. If you were a normal couple in their early 20s it would be a no-brainer. Unfortunately the F1 calendar gave your boyfriend the schedule from hell and you didn't want to take time from his parents or siblings. Better you tag along on the trip than stay at home, right? Apparently not when you're ovulating and only have one thing on your brain. Gabby is on board with trying to get eachother as turned on as you can without getting caught or arrested. All the testosterone from the grid was catching up to him, apparently. It was either that or seeing you exclusively in sundresses and bikinis. You justified it by saying you needed to pack light since you were flying economy. If Gabi wasn't so committed to Formula One, he'd just spend the whole year with you in Brazil. Work a normal auto related nine to five and have late night swims in the crystalline waters. Watch you try to chase him around after he expertly unties your top. Or the bikini bottoms that didn't cover much anyway. Local customs, he thinks and remembers the first time you visited him. How you thought Gabriel was pranking you when he showed you the "largest size" they had at the shop.
"Darling, the only thing I can do with this is use it as dental floss." You say, holding the garment like it offended you. In the end you have to borrow a pair of his swimming trunks that sort of match the top. That same day you saw at least 7 women topless, so that was a sign to relax.
Now you were a teensy-tinsy more comfortable. Not nipples out for the future in-laws yet, but at least secure enough to pack both a one piece and a more "daring" one. That white number with cherries was currently plaguing Gabi's mind as he fists his cock in the bathroom. He hadn't gotten morning wood since he was younger. Now he was embarrassingly hard over the concept of you. He spits in his palm as he rubs himself fast and frantic. He reckons that if he sneaks into your room and asks you to suck his cock until he comes, you would. Now he's remembering how perfect your mouth feels around him, how you swirl your tongue over the tip of his dick when a sharp knock against the door brings him back to reality. He stops just as fast as he hits the breaks an inch away from the wall in Singapore. He prays that it's his brother or his father, someone who will never bring up Gabi walking out still half-hard. Then he hears the magic words.
"Come on, please, you never had to pee in the morning?" It's you. He pulls you in and thanks the lord you're too stunned to speak. Turns around and even lets you run the tap while you go. As much as he loves you, you are not "pee with the door open" level yet.
"I went to look for you earlier, and you weren't there. Have you been holed up here all morning?" You ask.
"Needed something. Couldn't go back to bed hard and didn't wanna think about finding tissues or anything like that. Just had to feel good, that's all." Gabriel admits. Better have his girlfriend knowing he's horny than thinking he's constipated or doomscrolling his way into Italian brainrot again.
"Missing me, Bibi? Should've just said so, not like I didn't basically hump my pillow until it felt you were teasing me post- race." He had once asked you to sit in his lap while he was still in his fireproofs. That quickly turned into you riding his thigh, leaving your mark on the Sauber green. Thank God he was authorized to clean the suit himself.
"Not fair." He protested, as if forgetting he was also doing the same. He couldn't help but trail his fingers over his length , feeling himself twitch at the thought of you coming.
"Can still help you, you know." You expect Gabi to ask you to kneel. To let you take his cock in your mouth. Hold your face lovingly as he thrusts his hips carelessly.Something quiet and quick that won't make either of you even more frustrated. But Gabi grips your hips and pulls you close to him like you're oxygen. Kisses you and moves his body against his, making you feel his dick against yourself. He takes off your clothes despite you trying to reason with him. Both of you know that all he would need from you in order to stop was a word. A simple no, or an enough would have him back to his onanism. But as dangerous as it was, you wanted your boyfriend to fuck you in the middle of his family bathroom. Needed it. Craved the newness of having him raw. Apparently Gabi had similar thoughts because he asked you
"Can I put it in? We haven't tried it like that before. Would it be okay to?"
You nod, morning brain too foggy to care. You needed to brush up on your Brazilian anyway, so what better way than buying contraceptives? Gabi rubs you through your underwear, finding it wet already. Curls two fingers and moves them like he has no other objectives in life. You have to pull up your t-shirt and bite it, giving your boyfriend a great view of your tits. He can't help himself any longer or he would turn into a two pump chump. Gabriel makes you spread your legs and moves his hips between them. Grips your waist and thrusts, burying his cock inside of you. It's slow, and enjoyable, it's freeing, it's everything you could want and more. He moves against you and bend your back. He has to use the F1 reflexes he gained over the years to stop you from accidentally slamming your head in the wall. He did not need to star in a Brazilian remake of Sex sent me to the ER, thank you very much. Instead he repositions his arms against you and asks that you bend.
"Don't worry, I got you. Won't let you fall, promise." He reassures you. You pray to Sabrina Carpenter and bend, remembering all the gym classes. A bridge had never been your strength. But now, surpringly your body was moving. Your head was almost at the level of your ass by the time Gabi moves again. Maybe it's the fact that your blood flow is all wonky. Maybe it's how your boyfriend can support you and still drive his cock so deep inside you you're seeing stars. Either way this is the best sex you've ever had. Both of you are so invested in the act that you completely miss the footsteps down the stairs. His brother makes a uturn to the kitchen though, much too focused on a fresh cup of coffee to hear the faint moans. Gabi doesn't need much to cum, few more thrusts and he's coming into your wet pussy. The last few thrusts get you there too and by the time he's fucking his cum into you, you're squeezing him.
"Well that's one way to start a morning. Next time let's just book a mini vacation just the two of us. Then we can come here and spend some time with your parents." You suggest.
Gabi pretends to consider it as he sacrifices the towel hanging there to clean up between your legs.
"Deal. But we can still do this again, once or twice. Feels good. Way better than I expected." He says finally.
A blink of an eye, a lingering touch, a moment in time - Esteban Ocon x reader
Your guestroom was haunted. And no, before you ask, Esteban was not superstitious. Yes, there was the liquor cabinet that always scared him as a kid, and he refused to go near it. But he was a perfectly adjusted adult now and had no trouble with it anymore. But that didn't mean that the place was less creepy. The doorknob would rattle and move when he tried to close it. It was just a bit colder than the rest of the house. Some trinket that seemed like something you would have loved as a kid toppled from its place. The crash was loud, and Esteban wonders if the one legged ballerina statue managed to wake up anyone else but him. He listens, like he does at turn 1 in Monaco. Trying to figure out the strategy of his closest rival just by the throttle. Keep his mind on his own shifts on just the right moment to push his foot on the gas and go flat out. Hears your footsteps, memorized from one too many adjacent shared rooms in the past. Him and your brother once had the idea to jump out and scare you every time you left. You had screamed so loud they had to spend 4 days inside with only their summer reading as company. Esteban surely could tell you about Victor Hugo's Notre Damme de Paris symbolism to this day. You slowly open his door, with the words "I know you don't sleep naked, so I'm coming in."
"Maybe I was giving myself some self love, meeting LeBron James." He says, using some stupid French meme. Bronler, reversed LeBron, all that for a convoluted way to say jerking off.
"Este, you can keep it in your pants for 24 races a year, but as soon as you get on my grandma's vintage couch, you get possessed by a horny ghost or something?" You quip, not in the mood for his jokes. Both of you know that seeing him naked wasn't anything new for you. And he only got through some of the aforementioned 24 races by making himself come while you do the same over FaceTime. You briefly turn on the lights to see what happened and spot your favorite childhood figurine on the floor. Cursing like a sailor you pick it up, the damage seeming easily repairable. You put it back on the shelf and add superglue to the shopping list in your phone.
"I didn't do anything, I swear. It just fell, sorry I couldn't catch it in time. I'll find you a new one." He says, watching you fret over your ballerina.
"You're lucky you're pretty and I'm madly in love with you." You clarify and sneak a kiss to his cheek. He practically melts in it, how could he not. Esteban is a bit sappy when it comes to you. Acts of public affection were never something that the two of you could afford. Even though you were pretty sure those YA novels and Netflix movies were exaggerated, you still were afraid to come clean. You didn't want your boyfriend to be alienated or treated different in your brother's circle just because he was dating you. Plus the WAG life wasn't exactly what you planned for yourself. And Esteban, he was just overprotective. Did it count as precaution if he had already been through it before? He didn't love how dating him was rubbing off on Flavy. How she was automatically tied to him, and her achievements were seen as lesser than. People were more focused on whether she would get engaged to him than her upcoming graduation. Gossip pages slammed her for studying in the paddock, trying too hard. And when she was more relaxed, not trying enough. He was not going to let that happen to you. He couldn't let himself lose another friend. Este lets you pepper kisses on his face a bit more, laughs softly when you make exaggerated muah sounds after each one. You've yet to kiss his lips, as if saving that for a special occasion. Esteban takes your chin in his palm, tilts your face to his.
"Can I?" He asks. A quiet nod and he's kissing you. It always feels like the first time with him. He asked then too, a very excited "Can I kiss you?" after you had agreed to go on a date with him. It was a quick peck then, and a gentle hand pressed against your cheek. Like he was trying to keep you there, in that moment. In the present you're laying back on your grandma's couch, trying to wriggle away from the one bad spring. Esteban "helps." And by help, he means caging your hips between his legs. Doesn't take much to turn him into a man wanting some action. A quick late night escapade, a way for both of you to get some sleep faster. He ruts against you, slow and methodical. Wants you to feel as much of him through the layers. It's kinda funny how hard he is under the Spiderman pajama pants you got him, and how they match yours. He's sure he can do this for a bit more, tease you until you absolutely need him, slip a hand in your underwear and one over your lips. Say he needs your mouth, practically whine how much he missed it while he was away.
You're too exhausted, however. As much as you want to be ravaged in the middle of the night by your secret boyfriend, you know that you'd have to sneak out of his room and back to yours. Leaving his warm embrace just to go back to bed alone did not sound like fun for either of you. You'd much rather set an entirely too early for a summer day alarm and get in his arms in the morning. The rest of your family weren't particularly early risers, so you'd have a few hours with your beloved before anyone caught on. So you reluctantly tell him you're too tired. Esteban moves away from you, turns on his back and stares at the ceiling. You can't help but glance down, where his bulge is still very obvious. You burry your face in the pillow, which already smells like his fancy vanilla perfume.
"I'll come back in the morning. Give me a hug then, okay?" You ask. If you don't look at him, this is easier. He just kisses your shoulder with a quiet hmm, definitely. Doesn't protest when you leave with the pillow in tow. Este lets himself imagine you riding it to sleep. It makes his cock twitch, but he doesn't rut against anything for relief, doesn't touch himself. After all you said you wanted him to hump you tomorrow.
6.30 rolled around and your alarm went off. You knew Esteban like the back of your hand and guessed that if you were at his Monaco flat you'd already be half-awake and hearing him make coffee in the kitchen. Now you sneak through the hall and pray that no one sees you. Luck is on your side as you quickly get to the guest room where your boyfriend is.
"Morning." He says when you step in. Este's already managed to look presentable somehow, albeit shirtless.
"You trying to seduce me, Mr. Ocon?" You ask as you take him in. He just pats the space next to him. First you face him, wanting to wrap yourself around him like a koala. He lets you, initiates the slow kiss that starts it all. Morning breath be damned, he needs you like he needs to drive. Always, immediately and desperately. He runs his hands up your leg, pulls it against his hips. Feels you moan at how hard he is again. You roll your hips against him, some friction to both relieve you and frustrate you.
"Can we try something new? We have time." He asks as you pretend to think. The first time during break is always by Esteban's rules. Of course you could still say no or keep his plan for another time. But more often than not you went along with what he wanted. He knew what would get you off and what wouldn't. His lips are on your neck, below your ear as he lays out his plan.
"We both know I'm not gonna last long. Especially when I haven't been in this perfect pussy in a while." He stops to cup you through your pants, watching how you squirm and try to chase his touch. Oh, he was going to enjoy this. "So instead of just fucking you, let's make you as needy as possible before I put it in. Just full on teasing eachother stupid." He continues as you still rub yourself against the fingers on your clothed cunt.
"Okay. We have all the time in the world. Just make sure I don't fall asleep again." You joke. Esteban doesn't necessarily take that personally, but he vows to make you eat your words. Flips you around so your ass is against him. Holds it as he moves against you. He's a tease all right. He lets his hand wonder over to your tits, cupping them gently. Rolls your nipple between his fingers in tandem with his thrusts. Tells you you're "so good for him," and "such a fucking treasure," as he kisses your neck. Asks you if he makes you feel that good as you already have to muffle your moans with a pillow.
"I'm not even doing anything to you, princess. Barely touching you and you're already probably soaked. Do you wanna take these off already?" He asks, hand moving to your shorts. You plead, as he just lowers them a bit. His pajamas are still on, still too much between the two of you. At this point you're ready to fuck yourself on his cock, even if he were to last less than a minute. You're pretty sure you could come in that time still.
Esteban could fuck you now if this were a regular day. Would've grabbed a condom and slid into you already, letting you feel him. But he had figured out that the only thing that put him to sleep were men's magazines. He had different stacks of them, both physical ones he found in a dingy thrift store back at home and a digital collection. Initially he got them for the workout routines and the nutritional tips. Who knows, maybe people from 35 years ago had the secret to the perfect body for an F1 driver now. Este also liked the sports section, obviously, and relayed cringy Alonso quotes to Lance, who then used them to tease his teammate. It was a matter of time before the old man would catch on and try to force him into exceeding track limits in Vegas or something. No reputable magazine targeted at guys though missed the sex column. Esteban skipped it at first. His brain didn't need to go on Wikipedia worm holes at the middle of the night to double check these things. Surely, he wouldn't need the handy info on how to maintain an erection past 50 for some time now. But eventually he started reading them. Partially to make fun of them with you. Social media admin had caught him absolutely loosing it at his phone when you'd text him "well that's one way to get a free yeast infection," as a reaction to whipped cream in places whipped cream should never be. Safe to say that Tiktok did not get past the Haas drafts. Esteban also took note on the interesting articles. Remembering them now took a minute, but it was worth it.
He lowered his pajamas finally and his cock sprang up from his boxers. He moved your panties to the side and made sure to slowly move himself against you. Pressing the head slightly against your opening, feeling you squeeze for him, albeit around nothing. Este keeps going until he's against your clit. He can't help it and slaps his tip against you lightly. To hear his sweet girl call him a motherfucker was definitely not in his summer plans.
"Being impatient will only make it harder for you to come." He says, clearly enjoying this. If he can survive his stupid insane diet for most of the year, he can get through teasing you a bit more.
"What's making it hard to come is the fact that my boyfriend is not fucking me." You quip back. Yeah? Sure, Este could play this game. He slides his dick between your thighs and thrusts. God, you're so soft. So wonderful for him. And so so pent up. You were moving against him, trying to get him to be even in the vicinity of your pussy. When you looked down you could see the drops of precum on his shaft. The fact that he was able to get off without even being inside you in any way should flatter you. Instead it frustrates you. He might've edged you once or twice, made you work for your orgasm but never like this. Never after a dryspell. Usually he's so pussy drunk that he doesn't even let you think about touching him until you've came at least twice. He loves teasing you, drawing out climax after climax from you. One night when you were first getting together he got you there 7 times just to see if he could. Probably would've tried for one more if you hadn't asked him to stop. "Esteban, please, need something, anything. Just the tip, come on." You ask, voice absolutely wrecked. He might be mean from time to time, but he was not an asshole. So he gave in, letting you finally feel him. It was almost harder for him to just feed you an inch of his cock.
"Thank you, Este." You sigh in pleasure, absolutely wrecked. There's a moment where you expect him to move. Not necessarily to fuck deeper into you, but just do anything. But he doesn't. "Have I mentioned that you're insufferable?" You ask when he just stays like that, making you cockwarm just the head of his cock.
"You were the one who said we have all day. Just testing a theory here." He says, kissing your neck to placate you. Este remembers that time in winter break when you were basically asleep next to him as he watched his highlights. How he asked you to slide his dick in you for "better focus." How it sort of worked and then how much you teased him then. How he didn't really get off, just ended up with a dick soaked in your arousal and some strategies for the second half of the season. At least he impressed Laura, if nothing else. Now it was your turn to be left high and dry. Not that Esteban plans to leave you completely without an orgasm. He's not horrible after all. He'll just make you wait a tiny bit more. Este is downright mean to you. Asks you to tell him about your plans for the day, to explain the schedule for everything. As if he didn't know that in this sleepy village it was only full of old people. That you could either take him to the river or the woods. Maybe parade him around in the little store that only stocked basics or the "bar" in the centrum. That you would be classified by your grandma's name, by old ladies that grew up with her. This was the point, for him to go to a place where maybe 2 people would recognize him, and they'd be gone by Monday, city kids ready to brag in school how they met an F1 driver over break. He could still run, do his exercises, hell even bike like Carlos does. The fresh air will do him good. While the hearty breakfasts of watermelon and feta wouldn't be the best, there was still plenty of salads with tomatoes he just picked. Eggs freshly laid. Hell Esteban would even get the good wine over dinner outside. Hear all the family gossip on a green plastic chair. Maybe even manage to steal a kiss from you over dishes while everyone else is still wrapped up in conversation outside. As you tell him all this, you can feel his roam over your body. Even a simple brush of his fingers over your palm is enough to make you squeeze against him.
Making you come on his cock would be predictable. Plus as much as he wants to feel you clench against him, to spill his seed into your greedy pussy, to watch it drip down your thighs, it's too much of a mess, a big cleanup and explanations. Esteban plans to save the creampies for a shared shower hopefully. Now he just pulls out and shushes you when you whine. Moves between your legs with precision. Licks a stripe up your cunt, just to taste you. Keeps his lips on your clit, as he curls a finger into you then a second. Finds himself humping the couch, cock twitching and neglected. Esteban moves closer to you, practically burrying his face in your pussy. Your fingers in his hair tugging just a bit make him swirl his tongue in circles and speed up his movements. With a moan of his name deep into a pillow, you come. Watch him jerk his cock over you, finally finishing over your tits. Este watches you neatly fold your clothes in a pile, open his door and sprint towards the bathroom. He knows to bring you a towel and also get your pajamas in there quick. Good luck explaining why he barged into your shower, he thinks. He just takes a breath, and for once all year he is carefree.
You're all invited to my birthday party! As a girl who loves all things trinkets and mystery box, I wanted to give you a blast from the past with a childhood staple - chips toys. So choose a trinket/ character whose offbrand version you'd likely find in your chip toys. Let's sink our teeth into some drivers!
Feeling lucky? Head on over to my inbox and request a driver and a trinket not already paired up and you'll get the secret! Have fun and play with yourself responsibly.
Esteban Ocon unboxes a Gudetama (slow or morning sex/ orgasm denial/ dry humping/ teasing/ thigh fucking/ just the tip)
Gabriel Bortoleto unboxes a Smiski (vanilla/ unusual positions/ hold the moan/ almost getting caught)
Yuki Tsunoda unboxes a Rilakuma (sex toys/ lingerie/ bondage)
Max Verstappen unboxes a Miffy (soft/ gentle/ first time together or virginity loss/possible Dutch)
Isack Hadjar unboxes a Snoopy (playful, banter, quickie, enemies to friends to lovers, doggy)
Shoplifters will be caught and sold in bondage - Mattress Actor! Daniel Ricciardo x Mattress Actress! Reader
cw: shoplifting, dubcon and coercion, pervy! Danny, oral (m and f receiving), unrotected sex, squirting mentioned, basically Daniel is not a horrible person he just plays one on TV
The first thing you think when you hobble in the little room with the security guard is that mall cops need better taste in interior design. There's a black and white poster that just says "Work hard and be nice to people," perched on the wall that isn't covered in clothes or other trinkets. A cork board with what you can guess is previous suspects is at your feet. Inexplicably there's a Hugo Boss shirt draped over the other chair. You know the price of it and it didn't come cheap, even on the sale it was on currently. You stare at it a moment too long, which makes the security guard leave your side for a second and stuff it in a backpack. So it was his, and he either had good taste or just an affinity for the VCARB car under the lights of a night race. The second thing you noticed was that the guy was just hot. He was older than you, definitely in his 30s, maybe even already closer to 40. Beautiful defined black curls that it was obvious he'd been growing out. You wonder if he can look like this, slightly disheveled. Did it help, looking intimidating? This man with tan skin, a beard and long hair, did he scare off people from stealing. All he did for you was make you think about some creative ways to use his little handcuffs on you. Hell, you had read Haunting Adelaine, so you pictured the gun too for a second. But he didn't look cruel to you. No, not a deranged guy who got this job because he was triggered happy. More like dealing with the cards life gave him. Filling in for a friend during a busy time. Some Hallmark movie logic where he's the son of the head of mall security and he's doing this for his dad's retirement party and you're the tourist that came to Perth to celebrate the holidays in a warm climate. Caught in a misunderstanding, beginning your whirlwind love story with a pun about stealing his heart over his wallet. All of that would've been fine and dandy if you hadn't actually tried to steal something. If the pack of makeup products wasn't stuck to the inside of your skirt, some even inside your underwear. You would've probably been off the hook if you hadn't already tried to lie to him. But you tried the old trick of pretending not to understand English. Threw in words you learned from school at him until he pulled out Google translate and figured that you were describing an elaborate way to make a chicken salad. To your credit, you did say tomato 3 times before he caught on. Now you could tell he was a bit mad. You slowly made your way to the chair he told you to sit on.
"Come on, what's taking you so long?" He barks, seeming actually angry. You wince, in what he takes as pain. Then he does a full 180, a switch from bad cop to a good one.
"Are you okay, you can have a seat if you'd like." The guard says. You manage to position yourself on the thing without drawing attention to the stolen goods. Good so far. He starts with the obvious question, asking you why you were walking slowly around the store. You say some bullshit about browsing, long lines of people, how you got overwhelmed. You even make a little comment about the cashier and how you wouldn't mind walking by him a few times. While the blonde guy with blue eyes and a Redbull Christmas sweater running the checkout like it was a sports team seemed cute, he couldn't hold a candle to the security officer now nodding along to your story.
"Well, Max was the one who called me over, so I guess you caught his eye too. I've been working with this guy since he was 18. He's like a prodigy, got best employee 4 years in a row. So if he thinks something's wrong, then something is wrong. Why did you speed up when you saw me?" He asks. Doesn't laugh at your hair straightener was on joke, but cracks a smile. Asks you to just tell him. Reminds you this will be easier if you cooperate. Says all the things he has to say, but you keep to your word. No way you were getting arrested for just a bit of make-up. You could even pay for it, plus the shoplifting fee. Sure, that would put you on a diet of a single Tim Tam split 7 ways, but well. Maybe someone would give you stale Vegemite bread or something. Your sad meal planning is interrupted by the guard asking you to stand up and be pat down. You freeze, knowing this will be it. The moment you get caught. You have one last trick up your sleeve. The Karen. You try yelling at the poor guy, who doesn't seem phased. You treaten to tell his manager. He just nonchalantly spells his first and last name. Daniel you have no problem with, but Rockhardo? That has to be fake, right. He watches you write it in your phone with a question mark, before breaking out in a maniac laugh. He can't believe you fell for it. Dan doesn't tell you his actual last name, but says that it does start with R. Makes some snyde remark that his boss knows him well enough to let him do whatever he wants. Including getting a little rough to start your pat down. He grabs you by the armpits and lifts you up. He gets some gizmo you're sure is from Temu that is supposedly a metal detector. Runs it over your body. Pauses when it's under your skirt, moving it exactly against your opening. Once, twice. It's obvious, slow, deliberate. He takes out the thing and smacks it, causing it to beep. You almost laugh, but you hold it in. You're almost through. He should let you go now, right? But he continues the pat down, this time with his hands. Gravity betrays you before he can get to the stolen goods. The big set of brushes just falls to the ground. You pray that's it. But no, he asks you to spread your legs. You refuse and Daniel says " Look, you can do it yourself or I can do it for you. Your choice." You slowly move your feet apart more, pissed. You don't miss him adding how he's used to girls being eager to do this for him. You don't think he means professionally. Dan moves his big hands up your legs, and surprisingly doesn't find much more. He then just picks up the dropped make-up from the floor. Places it on his desk. Asks you what it is and how it got there. Calls your bluff of saying it's yours by pointing out it's still in the packaging. Plus who carries their whole kit in their skirt?
"Didn't want it to get stolen, people these days, you know." You try but it doesn't land.
"A pretty girl like you couldn't get a man to buy this for her, sweetheart?" Daniel asks, his words laced with lust and maybe just a bit of jealousy. You're not a fan of the suggestion that you would whore yourself out for a bit of concealer, especially one that you weren't exactly sure was even in your shade range. But you couldn't exactly argue much with the man who held your fate in his hands, so you just smile a bit.
"Not my style." You say instead.
"Good. Wouldn't wanna be a slut on top of being a thief." He replies slowly, each word a challenge. He wants you to react, to get angry, to provoke him. Poke the bear or dingo or whatever animal is native to Australia and dangerous. Honeybadger, you think for a moment, but you go back to the present and your predicament. Unfazed, you ask if you're done here. You have no desire to be spending any more time being objectified by a random man in uniform. You wonder if you're the first one, or if he has a tactic for girls like you, girls who mess up and try to get out of it. You hope the routine ends with a fine and a slap on the wrist. It unsurprisingly doesn't. Dan does what you really hoped he wouldn't do. Says he wants to do a cavity search. You whine. Literally whine, a sob-like sound escaping your mouth. You really don't wanna be embarrassed anymore. Stripped naked and poked and prodded? No thank you. He doesn't take your protests lightly.
He cuts the distance between you in seconds, like he's going 200 miles an hour. Cups your chin, a bit roughly, to a degree you're sure will hurt more later, maybe even cause small bruises to bloom on your jawbone.
"Don't do that. Did no one show you what happens when you bring this on yourself? Guess I'm gonna have to teach you that your actions have consequences today. Strip. Or I can just get my handcuffs and some scissors." You shed your clothes. Slowly, under his watchful gaze. Showing him you're not hiding anything. Then you bend over the desk like he asks to. Cough. Daniel doesn't find anything. He lets you get dressed again. Maybe he feels bad for you. Maybe he just doesn't want a woman shivering and naked in his office. You think this is it. That the humiliation is over. Then he asks you to kneel in front of him. Unbuttons his pants. Takes out his cock. It's long and hard. Pinker than you'd expect. You thought he'd have a bush, but he is surprisingly well groomed. Like he gets his cock sucked for a living or has a great rapport with the person doing his Brazilians (but apparently not his barber.)
"Come on," is all he says thrusting his hips in the air towards you. His boxers are already somewhere down his knees. He's awkwardly trying to get out of his pants, to push them down his massive hips. Works apparently because you can see his toned ass. You wonder if you can do this. You've blown guys before. And not always people who you ever saw again or even liked. At least Daniel was easy on the eyes. That was your lightbulb moment. You would approach this like a somelier. First step is letting it go through all your senses. Sight first, then taste. So you get closer to him and look. Between the heavy cock and his eyes. You let yourself trace your eyes on him. On yourself touching him, wrapping a hand around his length. Then you look up to him like he is God. Like he is your sin and your salvation all the same. Then you taste him. You start with small kisses up his thighs, his shaft. He buries a hand in the back of your hair. It's a sign that he isn't usually patient, but he'll give in this time. Then come the small licks to the tip. Teasing it like you were taught by men before. You're on your knees, entranced. Jaw already feeling stiff, back killing you, but you start taking him deeper in your mouth. Tracing your tongue along the tip. Long, slow bobs down his length. He guides you, lets you familiarize yourself with the way he likes it. Holds your hair like a gentleman as he makes you gag. You're a bit sloppy sometimes. Saliva and tears mix as he hits the back of your throat.
It's not sexy, it's raw and real and so fake at the same time. You feel like you're in a porno looking for its moneyshot. You can picture it now, Danny's dick still hard as you pump him over your face, cum in ropes covering your cheeks and chest. Him making a grunting sound, that's not too high, nothing that will take out the viewer out of the experience. Daniel sees just how wrecked you are, your hair having spit and pre-cum on it already, face flushed and focused, eyeliner somehow untouched despite you practically nesting yourself close enough to his thighs your nose is making an indent. He's not sure he wants to keep going, to end this on a blowie. So he pulls you away from him, brain memorizing the way your saliva string was connected to his dick, how you move towards him again to finish what you started.
"Let's get you cleaned up a bit, troublemaker." He says while getting a pack of tissues from the desk. He watches you snap out of whatever trance you were in and dutifully try to fix the mess. When you apologize to him for being sloppy, he has half a mind to make you take him again. To spill his cum in your mouth, feel you move until you've swallowed every last drop.
Daniel just bends you over the desk. Undresses you again, this time more gently and less like an authority figure. Can't help but make a comment on how you seem to like messy based on how wet you are. Then you feel him. All of him, against your slit. Daniel wastes no time and fucks into you with a single thrust. No foreplay, no warning. Just pure, animalistic lust. Need. For a second you think he is made for your pussy. Then he moves and you tense, the stretch feeling uncomfortable rather than pleasurable. Dan feels it and in that moment you swear you're not two strangers. Because another man wouldn't care, he'd keep bullying his cock into you until he cums, making it fit.
But not him. Danny knows that the secret to him feeling good is making you feel good. That's why he reaches for the lube (you hope it's lube). You can hear the hand pressing on a nozzle, the squirt of a liquid. He pulls away from you, and lets out a little groan. You're not sure if it's at the sight of your pussy clenching around nothing or the feeling of lube and his fist on his cock. He slides it in again and this time both of you moan. That's it, he's inside of you now, and you don't know how to feel. On the one hand, you should be sad. That's what your face is emulating, to the fact that a security guard is taking advantage of you over some makeup you didn't even steal. On the other hand, physically it feels good. His rhythm, the way he's moving against you. You're so full and he manages to thrust his hips perfectly. You truly have no other word for it. It's like he knows what your body needs from experience, like he is a lover that has spent days, no months exploring just what you like.
Daniel has his way with the ladies you guess, but what's driving you mad is that he's still focused on himself. Fucking you like you're a fleshlight he taped to the corner of his desk. He flips you around on your back. Your legs are dangling off the cold metal bureau. And then Danny touches you finally. Not with malice. Not to make you do something. He touches you because he can't help not to. His hands are on your ribs just holding you as he slides right back in. He keeps touching your body, getting close to you. His large fingers are over your cunt now. Not rubbing your clit, not trying to feel himself (although with his size, you're sure he probably could.) Just holding you for his sake. It's doing something for the both of you. He's fucking you so hard that he's making the desk creak loudly.
You're honestly worried that the whole thing will collapse like a badly built prop that was made just for your scene on it. Danny does not give one fuck and keeps going,hips pounding into you. You're wet, wetter than you've ever been, on the verge of an orgasm. Your partner doesn't mince his words as he asks if you "just squirted on him?"
What better way to find out than by trying, Dan thinks. He pulls out and situates himself between your legs. Licks a stripe up your cunt and tastes you. Okay, so maybe you hadn't squirted but you definitely tasted like heaven. Even if you acted like hell by pulling his hair to press him even closer to your clit. Oh, you were loving this spontaneous decision. Soaking his beard. Making a mess on him. Too bad that his own cock throbbed between his legs, neglected. Otherwise he would spend more time making you cum with his mouth. Spell out the entirety of the stupid pledge they make him read out to shoplifters with his tongue. Well maybe if you're nice and milk his cock with your cunt, he'll do that too. One way of cleanup, for sure. Speaking of, Daniel pulls away and spits right on your cunt before fucking into you again. Nothing better than some natural lube, baby. Then he grabs your tits and you're a goner. Your hips that were moving against him slow, your legs shake like jelly as you moan against him. He's thrusting against you, ready to cum when someone yells to cut. Daniel groans and pulls out of you slowly even though your cunt is drawing him in.
"Sorry, Dan creampie wasn't in the script for today. If we let you do it, all the rookies will start asking for it and it we'll be in a sticky mess." The producer says, handing him a towel. He thinks of Liam and Isack, who have that hungry glint in their eyes and their blonde little co-stars.
"Lauren and Hannah aren't like me, sweetheart. Can't take what I take." You reason,already dressing too. His Hugo Boss button down looks better on you, but he will never admit it.
"No one is like you. That's why this is here." Dan quips pointing out the wedding ring on your finger, the 3 engraving on it. His is in your bag, burrined underneath lipglosses, stray receipts, and a giant textbook from the library. He made fun of you relentlessly for it, how the giant heart shaped bag was too high-school for someone doing their master's degree. You in turn stole his credit card and also bought the matching pink mini version.
"Don't I know it. Come on, Mr. Ricciardo, the faster we get out of here, the faster you'll get that creampie." You say.
"Not if we take a detour like last time." He answers and barks, as you wonder what slop Laurent will put you in next with that information. You hope that at least your car scene will be Australian GP themed.
