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misswynters · 7 months ago

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Desperately seeking something more with you

a short drabble

featuring. Silco x brothel worker!reader

requested. by anon

Silco sat in the booth, his presence commanding, as always. One hand lazily cradled a cigarette, the ember glowing faintly as he took a drag, the smoke curling from his lips like a seductive whisper in the quiet. The other hand was resting casually against the edge of the table, his fingers tapping lightly on the worn wood. His mismatched eyes glinted in the low light, constantly surveying his surroundings but it always came back to you.

You were seated next to him, close enough that the heat of his body seemed to radiate toward you, but not so close that you couldn’t feel the space between you, the challenge hanging in the air. The dress you wore was a small thing, little more than fabric that barely covered you. But it wasn’t just the revealing nature of the dress that made you feel the tension. Maybe it was the way you could feel his eyes on you, watching every movement with that unsettlingly calm intensity.

Taking a sip of your drink, you leaned back slightly, letting the alcohol burn its way down your throat. You knew his gaze never left you. He liked watching you. More than he probably wanted to admit. And you enjoyed it just as much, teasing him with every little movement. Slowly, you traced your fingers up his arm, the touch light, lingering, until your fingertips brushed his skin just above the cuff of his sleeve. The movement was deliberate, almost like a challenge, and you could feel the faintest tension building in him, though he didn’t move. He didn’t need to.

“You’re awfully quiet tonight,” you remarked, your voice soft but playful. You set your glass down, your fingers lingering just a moment longer on the edge of the table. “Not the usual Silco I’m used to.”

He took another slow drag from his cigarette, exhaling a plume of smoke that curled toward your face. You leaned into it, savoring the sensation of the smoke swirling around you. It was strange and ntoxicating like everything about him.

“I’d prefer to listen,” Silco replied, his voice low, almost a growl. It was a voice meant for the shadows, a voice that demanded attention without needing to raise itself.

“To what?” you asked, curiosity making your voice teasing. You leaned in just a little, letting your breath tickle his ear as you did.

His lips curled upward, the smallest of smirks forming. “To see how far you’ll go,” he said, his words calculated, laced with an undertone that was almost… dangerous. But you were never one to shy away from danger.

You smirked back, your fingers tracing along the edge of the table until you reached his cigarette. Without breaking eye contact, you reached for it, stealing it from his fingers with a practiced grace. Bringing it to your lips, you took a slow drag, the smoke filling your lungs, adding a heady weight to the already thick air between you. The sharp taste of it filled your senses, heightened the unspoken sensations. You could see the slight shift in his expression as he watched you, the faint glimmer of approval mixed with something darker.

You exhaled, a cloud of smoke rising between you as you leaned in, close enough that your lips almost brushed against his ear. “I can go as far as you like me too,” you whispered, the words barely a breath.

There was a flicker in his mismatched eyes, a challenge of his own. Without another word, he shifted, his hand finding your waist with the precision of someone used to taking control. But there was no force in the movement, just the weight of his hand as he gently guided you to straddle his lap. You felt the shift in the air, the change in his posture as he settled beneath you, his body tensing beneath yours. His hands were firm on your hips, guiding you in a way that made your pulse quicken.

You could feel him. All of him. His body pressed against yours, hard and unmistakable, one that simmered beneath the surface. It made your heart race and your skin flush.

His hand slid slowly from your waist to your back, pulling you closer as you shifted on his lap, feeling the bulge beneath you. He didn’t try to hide it, didn’t seem to care. Instead, he simply watched you with those dark eyes of his, amusement flashing across his face as you continued to tease.

And then you did something unexpected. Without warning, you lifted yourself off him slightly, still straddling him but giving just enough space to make the tension thicker, heavier. Your legs stayed on either side of his hips, your hands sliding up his neck to tangle in his hair. He inhaled sharply, the breath caught in his throat.

“Bold,” he said, his voice rougher now, laced with something darker. “I like that.”

And you smirked, the taste of smoke still lingering on your tongue. “Don’t act surprised now,” you replied, leaning down just enough that your lips brushed against his jaw, teasing the skin there.

He growled low in his throat, the sound sending a shiver through you. His hands gripped your hips tighter, his fingers digging into the soft fabric of your dress, but you could feel the way his entire body reacted to the proximity. His breath came a little faster, his pulse quickening. But he didn’t let go of the control he had towards himself.

“You’re a lot of things, but you’re never predictable,” he murmured, his lips brushing against your skin, sending a ripple of electricity through you.

“I sure am full of surprises,” you said, your lips hovering just a fraction away from his, teasing him with the promise of something more. You could feel his breath on your skin, the warmth of his body pressing against you, but neither of you made a move just yet. The space between you was filled with desire, each moment stretched thin, vibrating with anticipation. And then you leaned in, brushing your lips lightly against his, a kiss that was sweet but far too brief.

His hands slid to the back of your neck, pulling you closer, and the kiss deepened. His lips were insistent, hungry even, as he tugged you against him. His touch was bruising, but it was exactly what you wanted, exactly what you have been craving for.

note. any mistakes let me know and i’ll fix it! thanks 🙏

banner. @anitalenia

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jo-com · 2 months ago

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. ݁₊ ⊹ 🥐. ݁˖ ➛ Five More Minutes

Kimi Antonelli x Fem!Reader

୨ৎ Summary: A pre-race makeout to set the pace.

୨ৎ Genre: Short drabble/oneshot slightly suggestive, Heavy making out, MDNI!

୨ৎ Note: First time writing stuffs like this again, kinda nervous but hope you still liked it! Also if you guys are uncomfortable please don’t read this

ARCHIVES ⭑.ᐟ

Your breathing hitched with every teasing brush of his lips, each ghosting touch sending shivers down your spine. A soft, needy whine slipped past your lips before you could stop it. Kimi gazed at you, eyes dark and glittering with affection, his lips kiss-swollen and curved in that smug little smirk he wore so well—like he knew exactly what he was doing to you.

"You look so pretty like this amore" he whispered to your ears, his breath hot and heavy.

You breathlessly chuckled—caressing his side and snaking your arms around his neck. "You made me like this."

His head dipped low to your shoulder, lips parting as he resumed trailing slow, open-mouthed kisses along your skin. Each one lingered, warm and wanting, like he was trying to memorize the taste of you.

A low whine rolled of your mouth so naturally as if you guys were starved with one another.

You seized both sides of his face, dragging him closer until your lips crashed into his—rough, hungry, and full of fire. The kiss was all passion and no patience, a desperate tangle of breath and want that left you both reeling.

He kissed back as eager. His hand grips your waist; pulling you in closer to feel him. All of him.

The kiss left you both breathless, your chest heaving up and down. You looked at him, but he was already staring back down at you— a smile on his face and a swollen lips.

Before you could comment on his state, one of the staffs knocked. "The race is starting at 15."

Kimi groaned, his head lowered while he brush his upper head, "Yeah, five more minutes."

The staff quickly answered with a small response. Kimi then stared back at you— you were already smiling, a slight pout formed.

"One more quick, kiss before I go?"

You playfully rolled your eyes, but didn’t waste a second—grabbing him and pulling him in until your lips crashed into his. The kiss was sudden and electric, all heat and impulse. You could feel his breath hitch, his body pressing closer like he couldn’t get enough.

Kimi pulled away, the smile on his face never leaving. "God you drive me crazy."

You smirked, eyes flicking downward. “Hmm, do I? Because it looks like someone’s having a little... situation.” A mischievous giggle slipped out as your gaze lingered on his obvious arousal.

He let out a low, frustrated groan. “This is entirely your fault, you know that, right?”

Leaning in, you pressed a teasing kiss to his cheek and turned to leave. “Good luck, my love,” you purred, tossing him one last flirty wink over your shoulder.

Kimi sighed happily— smiling to himself as he saw you leave. Leaving him questioning himself on what he'll do with his hard on.

#imagine #fanfic #oneshot #formula 1 #formula 1 fanfic #f1 imagine #f1 x reader #formula 1 imagine #formula 1 x reader #formula 1 x you #kimi antonelli #kimi antonelli x reader #kimi antonelli x you #kimi antonelli fluff #kimi antonelli imagine #kimi antonelli fic

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akaaiholic · 11 days ago

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Little Gift

Ushijima Wakatoshi x Fem!Reader | Drabble-Ish?

Ushijima, your husband who was now a father of two, gave out his left index finger out with a smile in hopes of his second two-month old to reach out and hold his father’s finger with his entire hand.

To his surprise, the baby grabs it on with his left hand, fingers wrapped around with a slight grip. Ushijima’s eyes widened, surely it was coincidence that his finger was grabbed by his son’s left hand. His heart softened, cooing quietly at his son with a smile,

“Will you have my gift too one day?”

As your eldest daughter was teaching your three year old son how to hold a crayon since he’s been interested in his older sister’s hobby, she became confused as to why her brother’s dominant hand wasn’t his right hand.

Her eyebrows furrows as she tries to introduce a purple crayon to him after convincing him to switch colors with her by laying it in front of him after both his hands were empty. He picks it up once more with his left hand, dragging the stick swiftly across the paper.

As papers continue to scatter across the table full of color, the door unlocks and Ushijima comes home, both of them racing to greet him.

“Hello, my princess and prince. What have you been up to today? Where’s your mother?”

“Mama.. nap time…”

Ushijima chuckled a little, oh how your sweet husband is excited to wake you up with a kiss again after your long day.

His daughter guides his hand to the table, covered with all the artwork they’ve made within the past two hours. Ushijima skims through the scribbles and stick portraits made by the two kids,

“My little artists have been busy today, hm? Let me take a look after i’ve cleaned up..”

Your daughter jumps into his train of thought,

“And! He holds the crayons with his left hand, not his right like I do!”

Ushijima beamed with a smile, kissing his son’s crown.

“He’s just like your dada, he has a little gift.”

akaai’s notes: happy father’s day to Ushijima Wakatoshi!! and all the dads out there too ig… i wrote this instead of going to bed too (it’s 3 am..) hhhhh goodnight world !! twt @/akaaiholic

#akaaiholic #1sipof—akaaihol #ushijima x reader #ushijima x you #ushijima x y/n #ushijima wakatoshi #haikyuu x you #haikyuu x y/n #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu ushijima #ushiwaka #haikyuu #hq #haikyuu fic

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emriiis · 3 days ago

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Saja boys x reader drabble

One job. Five idols. Endless desire.

Landing a job as the manager of a mysterious new K-pop group felt like your big break. Beautiful, talented, and impossibly magnetic—these boys seemed too perfect to be real. But something about them never felt quite… human.

Beneath the glitter and perfect smiles lie ancient, soul-hungry demons—each cursed and powerful. You weren’t supposed to matter. But the moment they laid eyes on you, everything changed.

You’re backed into the wall of the backstage hallway, breath caught in your throat.

One leans over you, lips brushing your ear. “We tried to be patient. We really did.” His hand slides to your throat, not to harm—just to feel your pulse race under his palm. “But good girls like you were made to be owned.”

Another demon grabs your waist from behind, dragging you flush to his chest. “You don’t get it, sweetheart,” he growls, breath warm against your neck. “You’ve already been claimed. You wear our touches like a second skin.”

The quiet one kisses your shoulder softly, reverently. “You’re the only light left in us,” he whispers. “We’d burn the world if it meant watching you smile.”

And when you finally—finally—look up at them, trembling, lips parted with a breathless “okay”, they lose it.

One pulls you close, lips ghosting over yours as he murmurs “Good girl.”

Another presses your hand to his chest. “Feel that? That’s yours now baby. ”

A third grips your jaw with fire in his eyes. “You’ll say it again. You’ll say it louder. You’ll say it while we’re kissing every inch of you. Until the only word you remember is ours.”

Then all five surround you. Hands everywhere. Words like prayers.

“Ours.”

“Our girl.”

One lifts your chin, holding your gaze steady as he says it again, darker now—more possessive “Say it.”

You whisper it, flushed and trembling

“I’m yours.”

And that’s when everything changes.

“That’s it,” one breathes, lips brushing your throat. “Good girl. Say it again.”

“Our good girl,” another echoes.

“Ours forever.”

You’re theirs now. All of you. And they never, ever share… unless it’s with each other.

Because once a demon loves.

They never let go.

Hey guys, this is my first time writing a fic. Let me know if you want a longer fic for this!

#the saja boys #kpop demon hunters #kpop demon hunters x reader #saja boys #saja boys x reader

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norrisradio · 4 months ago

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REDLINE

⚡︎ PAIRING: lando norris x drag racer! reader ⚡︎ WC: 5K ⚡︎ RECOMMENDED LISTENING: sports car, tate mcrae • fast lane, bad meets evil • earned it, the weeknd • the hills, the weeknd • partition, beyonce • swim, chase atlantic • into you, ariana grande • all mine, brent faiyaz • come thru, summer walker & usher • kiss it better, rihanna ⚡︎ INCOMING RADIO: mannnn this was supposed to be a 1K drabble | also max fewtrell makes an appearance | thank you thank you @haologram for crossing fandom lines to beta this for me lol

⚡︎ SUMMARY: "You drive like you’ve got something to prove.” // "And you look like you’ve got something to lose."

Lando already knows he’s going to hate this.

The underground racing scene isn’t his thing. He’s spent his whole career perfecting precision, shaving milliseconds off his lap times, pushing his car to the absolute limit within the rules.

This? This is chaos. The air smells like burnt rubber and cheap gasoline, headlights casting sharp shadows across the cracked pavement. Too much noise, too many people trying way too hard to look cool, and Max is grinning like an idiot because he loves this shit.

“Tell me this isn’t sick,” Max says, practically bouncing on his feet as he takes in the scene.

Lando scoffs, shifting his weight against some random car, arms crossed. “This is something, alright.”

Max elbows him. “C’mon, mate. Live a little.”

“I do live. I just prefer my races with less cigarette smoke and, y’know, rules.” Lando gestures vaguely to the chaos around them. Some guy in a hoodie is revving his engine like it’ll make his car faster. Someone else is already getting into a screaming match over a bet. It’s all so—

Then he hears it.

Not the shouting, not the music blasting from someone’s half-broken speaker—this cuts through all of it. A low, aggressive growl of an engine, shifting into a sharp screech as tires fight for grip against the pavement.

The kind of entrance that makes everyone turn their heads.

Lando feels it in his chest before he sees it.

The car whips into the lot like it owns the place, sliding to a stop in one perfect, controlled motion. The scent of burned rubber lingers in the air as the headlights cut through the crowd, casting sharp, fleeting silhouettes before they shut off.

And then the driver steps out.

You move like you belong here, like the entire night revolves around you. Fireproof gloves tugged off finger by finger, jacket unzipped just enough to reveal the glint of a chain at your throat. There’s a confidence in the way you walk—calculated, effortless, like you already know you’re the fastest person here.

Lando straightens up before he even realizes he’s doing it.

Max catches it immediately. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost, mate.”

Lando swallows. No—he’s seen something much more dangerous.

The night feels different now. The air still hums with conversation, music thumping in the background, but Lando barely hears any of it. His world narrows to the sound of your boots against the pavement, the faint scent of fuel and heat trailing behind you as you pass.

Max is saying something, probably chirping at him for looking interested for once, but Lando ignores him.

You toss your gloves through the open window of your car, barely sparing the gawking crowd a glance. Someone claps you on the back in greeting, another shoves a wad of cash into your hands—winnings, no doubt. You take it all in stride, movements smooth, practiced.

Lando has seen confidence before. It’s in the way Lewis carries himself in a press conference, in the set of Max Verstappen’s jaw before a race. But this—this is different. It’s not posturing, not bravado for the sake of a camera.

It’s knowing, certainty.

Then, just as easily as you arrived, your attention shifts. Your eyes flick across the lot, landing on him like you had already known he was there.

Lando doesn’t look away.

Your mouth curls, amusement flickering across your face. You don’t say anything—don’t need to. There’s a challenge in your gaze, a silent, well?

Max nudges him. “You’re staring.”

Lando exhales through his nose. He pushes off the car, tilting his head slightly, meeting your challenge head-on. “Yeah?” he mutters, just loud enough for Max to hear.

“Yeah,” Max confirms, grinning. “And I think she just clocked you as a rich boy who doesn’t belong here.”

Lando rolls his eyes but keeps his gaze locked on you.

You smirk, like you heard every word. Then, without a second glance, you turn away, walking toward a cluster of racers by the starting line. Someone hands you a drink, another shouts something about a rematch, and just like that, you’re gone.

Lando feels something settle low in his stomach. Not quite annoyance, not quite intrigue—something in between.

Max claps him on the back. “Told you this was sick.”

Lando doesn’t answer. He’s already moving, drawn in before he can stop himself.

The crowd swallows you up, but Lando doesn’t lose sight of you. You move with purpose, cutting through clusters of people with ease, exchanging nods and half-smirks like you own the place. Someone tries to throw an arm around your shoulders—some guy in a too-tight jacket, riding the high of a recent win—but you sidestep him smoothly, barely sparing him a glance.

Max is still talking beside Lando, but it’s just noise now.

The engine of your car still ticks with heat, the scent of burned rubber sharp in the cool night air. Up close, the machine is a beast—low-slung, built for speed, every inch of it tuned for performance. Lando recognizes the modifications immediately. Whoever built this knew what they were doing.

Another race is forming, drivers lining up, engines roaring to life. Someone leans into your space, gesturing toward the starting line, voice eager—challenging. You tilt your head, considering, and Lando catches the quick flick of your fingers against the side of your car—absent, instinctive, like checking the pulse of a living thing.

Then, just as you look up, your eyes catch his again.

This time, you don’t just smirk. You look at him.

Lando lifts his chin slightly, closing the space between you with a few easy steps. He’s aware of the weight of eyes on him, the way a few people glance between you like they’re already anticipating something. He’s the outsider here—money, privilege, rules.

But speed is speed. And if there’s one thing Lando Norris knows, it’s how to race.

"You drive like you’ve got something to prove," he says, voice just loud enough to carry over the rumble of engines.

Your smirk deepens, slow and sharp. "And you look like you’ve got something to lose."

A flicker of something hot sparks in his chest. "Wanna find out?"

It’s reckless. Stupid. He doesn’t even have a car here—his McLaren is miles away from this cracked asphalt, from these makeshift start lines. But none of that seems to matter when you step in closer, tilting your head just enough for the streetlights to catch in your eyes.

"You any good?" you ask, low, almost teasing.

Lando huffs a quiet laugh. "I guess you’ll have to find out."

Max’s car is a piece of shit.

Lando realizes this the second he slides behind the wheel, adjusting to the low-slung seat, the stiff clutch, the god-awful steering. It’s not that it’s bad—Max has clearly thrown a stupid amount of money into tuning it—but it’s nothing like what Lando is used to. The weight distribution is off, the gearbox isn’t nearly as tight as it should be, and the brakes? Terrible.

He flexes his fingers against the wheel, rolling his shoulders. It’ll have to do.

Across the lot, you lean against your car, arms crossed, watching him with an expression that says you’re already picturing his loss.

Lando sets his jaw.

Someone shouts, "Bets in! You know the drill!"

Money changes hands fast. There’s no doubt where the majority of the bets are going—you, the undefeated, the local legend. Max, the bastard, doesn’t even hesitate before handing over a few bills against Lando.

"You’re actually the worst, you dick," Lando mutters.

Max grins, slapping the roof of the car. "Love you, mate. Don’t die."

Lando exhales hard, focusing on the street ahead. The makeshift track is barely marked—just a stretch of cracked pavement, a sharp corner past the old warehouse, and a long straight where the finish line is drawn in neon chalk. Simple.

Someone stands between the two cars, arms raised.

Lando grips the wheel tighter.

You rev your engine once. A sharp, cocky sound.

Lando’s pulse kicks up. He should win this. He’s an F1 driver. Speed is in his blood, his muscles, his bones. He can read a car better than anyone here—feel the road, sense the grip, anticipate every slide before it happens.

The starter’s arms drop.

Lando slams the gas.

The tires screech, struggling for grip. For half a second, the car stutters before it launches forward, and Lando immediately feels the difference. It’s not the precise, weightless acceleration of a single-seater. It’s rougher, heavier—less forgiving.

But he adjusts fast.

First gear. Second. He watches the revs, the way the car shudders slightly at the shift. Max’s tuning is decent, but Lando has to fight it, keeping the car straight as he pushes through the first stretch.

Then he glances to his left—and you’re gone.

No, not gone. Ahead.

His stomach twists.

You’re already taking the first turn, and fuck, you’re fast. Not just in speed, but in reaction—the way you throw the car into the curve without hesitation, without a hint of fear. Lando should be gaining, but your car barely loses momentum as you swing around the corner, back tires skimming the edge of the line.

Lando grits his teeth and follows.

The back end of Max’s car wobbles slightly as he pushes it harder, forcing the tires to grip through the turn. It’s recoverable, but it costs him time. Precious milliseconds.

You don’t make mistakes.

Halfway through the lap, Lando knows he’s losing.

He’s not slow—he’s never slow—but he’s playing catch-up, watching the way you control the car like it’s a living thing. Every movement is effortless, a perfect balance between aggression and calculation. You brake just enough, accelerate at the exact right moment. There’s no wasted motion, no second-guessing.

Lando has never lost a race like this before.

On the final straight, he pushes harder, shifts faster, coaxes every ounce of speed out of the car. The finish line rushes closer, and for a brief, wild second, he thinks maybe—

But you’re already there.

You cross first, smooth and decisive, engine growling in victory as you ease off the throttle.

Lando slams the brakes harder than necessary. The car skids slightly before stopping. His pulse is roaring.

The crowd erupts. Cheers, laughter, money exchanging hands. Someone claps him on the back, but he barely feels it, still gripping the wheel too tightly.

Then you step out of your car, pulling your gloves off finger by finger. You don’t even look winded.

Lando exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair before climbing out. The night air is cool against his skin, but he still feels overheated, heart hammering against his ribs.

You approach slowly, amusement flickering in your eyes.

"Not bad, rich boy," you murmur, just loud enough for him to hear. "Maybe next time you’ll actually keep up."

Lando scoffs, shaking his head. He should be annoyed, frustrated, pissed, but instead—

He grins. "Next time," he echoes. "You better watch your back."

You tilt your head, considering. Then, with a smirk, you toss something toward him.

He catches it without thinking.

Your gloves.

His fingers tighten around the worn leather as you turn away, disappearing back into the crowd.

Max appears beside him, whistling low. "Well, that was humbling."

Lando lets out a breath, still staring at the spot where you stood.

Yeah.

And he’s definitely coming back.

The following month, Max barely gets a word out before Lando’s already moving.

"—the race," Max starts, grinning like he already knows the answer.

Lando doesn’t hesitate - grabbing his keys, shrugging into a jacket, barely listening to whatever chirpy remark Max throws his way.

"This time," he says, twisting the McLaren fob between his fingers, "we’re taking my car."

Max hoots, half-laughing as they step out into the night. "That’s what I like to hear! Rich boy’s got a grudge."

Lando doesn’t respond. He just flicks open the door, slides into the driver’s seat, and starts the engine.

This time, he’s coming to win.

Max barely has time to park before Lando’s door swings open. The hum of the engine hasn’t even settled when he steps out, shoulders loose, expression unreadable—but there’s an edge to him tonight. Something sharper.

The underground lot is exactly the same. Same flashing lights, same heavy bass thumping through cheap speakers, same mix of cigarette smoke and burnt rubber lingering in the air. But Lando feels different.

Last time, he was just an outsider, an F1 driver slumming it for a night. This time, he’s here for you.

The moment he steps out of the McLaren, people notice. Conversations dip, eyes flick his way, nudging and murmuring. They remember. The rich boy who lost. The one who had no business stepping into your world and thought he could keep up.

Lando doesn’t care. He doesn’t belong here, not really, but he walks like he does, like he’s already claimed his place.

He scans the crowd, searching—

He spots you before you see him.

You’re leaning against your car, arms draped over the open window, deep in conversation with someone. The streetlights cast a glow over your skin, catching on the curve of your jaw, the glint in your eyes as you laugh at something said just under the roar of an engine revving in the distance.

Your gaze slides over, meeting his like you expected him. And there it is again—that flicker of recognition, the slow curl of your mouth as your gaze drags over him, lingering just a second too long.

Lando smirks.

Your attention shifts downward, toward the car he brought this time.

It’s sleek. Aggressive. Built for this.

When your eyes flick back to his, he catches something new in your expression. Intrigue.

He takes a step closer, watching as you push off the car, unfolding yourself from your stance with the kind of ease that says you already know how this is going to end.

"Didn’t think you’d come back," you say, voice lilting, teasing.

"Didn’t think you’d lose," he counters smoothly.

Your brow lifts, amused. "Lose?"

Lando tilts his head slightly, nodding toward your car. "We both know I wasn’t racing at full capacity last time."

You hum, considering. "So this time," you say, voice lower now, "you’re actually planning on giving me a challenge?"

Lando exhales a quiet laugh. He takes another step forward, close enough to catch the faint scent of fuel and adrenaline clinging to your clothes. "This time," he murmurs, "you’re gonna have to work for it."

A slow smirk tugs at your lips, something almost dangerous flickering in your gaze.

"You in?" he asks.

You lean in, just slightly. "Always."

The way you circle his car is almost predatory.

Lando watches, arms crossed over his chest, as you trail a slow, deliberate path around the McLaren, fingertips grazing the hood, barely-there touches that send something electric down his spine. You’re not just looking—you’re assessing.

"720S," you murmur, half to yourself. "4.0L twin-turbo V8. 710 horsepower. 0 to 60 in 2.8 seconds. Top speed of… what, 212?"

Lando huffs a quiet laugh. "Done your homework, have you?"

You glance up, and that’s when he feels it. The shift.

The streetlights catch the glint in your eyes, something unreadable, something sharp enough to cut.

"No," you say simply.

His breath catches for half a second.

It’s not arrogance. It’s not bluffing. It’s something worse.

You don’t need research. You don’t need specs. You don’t even need to think about it. You just know.

And fuck, if that isn’t the most terrifying and arousing thing he’s ever seen.

"That’s cute, though," you add, stepping back to admire the car from another angle. "Bringing something that might actually stand a chance this time."

Lando exhales, rolling his shoulders back, forcing himself to shake off whatever the hell that was. "I’d be worried about you keeping up, but we both know that won’t be a problem."

Your smirk deepens. "Guess we’ll see, won’t we?"

The crowd thickens as people catch on to what’s happening. The air shifts, charged with something electric, something inevitable.

The last time, Lando didn’t stand a chance.

This time, though—

He flexes his fingers once before sliding into the driver’s seat, pulse steady, jaw set.

This time, it’s different.

Lando's fingers tighten around the wheel, his eyes narrowing as the starter counts down. The engine purrs beneath him, responsive, eager. The McLaren hums with potential—his car. His edge.

He’s done his homework this time. He knows every curve of the track, every bump in the road, how the tires will react. This is his race to win.

Max’s voice still echoes in his head, teasing. "Don’t embarrass me, mate. Seriously."

Lando doesn’t need the reminder. He’s already way past that.

The second the starter’s arms drop, Lando slams the gas.

The engine roars to life, and for a fleeting moment, he feels invincible. This time, he’s ready. The 720S surges forward, an animal on the prowl, the weight of the car shifting smoothly under his control. He’s quicker, tighter around the turns, feeding it power where he’s sure the road will grip. The crowd’s energy pulses like a drumbeat, the sharp hum of your engine just behind him.

But then—

You’re there.

Lando doesn’t hear you. He feels you.

The growl of your car is like a whisper in the wind at first, and then—then, it’s a presence. It’s too close, too precise. You slip through the corners like water—no hesitation, no doubt. You’re there when he shifts too late, when he lets a tire drift too wide. There’s no room for error with you.

He feels it, that knot in his gut, that constant pressure at the edge of his focus. You’re pushing him, making him work. He’s sweating, feeling the limits of his car, pushing it to the edge, just like he knows you are. The finish line looms.

A fraction of a second.

His pulse thunders in his ears. He punches the gas. The McLaren leaps forward, tire squealing as he tries to find the last of its power, but it’s too little, too late.

The line.

You’ve crossed it.

Lando watches as your car passes, just a breath ahead of his. The roar of the crowd crashes over him, the cheers fading into a dull buzz as his eyes snap to the space where you’ve already slid into a slow roll. You’re casually pulling off the track like you’ve just taken a stroll through the park.

He doesn’t even get the chance to stop fully before you’re there.

You lean down, leaning in close, close enough that Lando can feel the heat of your breath brushing his skin, warm and steady. You meet his gaze, eyes glimmering with a quiet triumph, and the edge of your mouth curves up.

"Nice try, pretty boy," you whisper, voice low and playful, but there’s something in the way you say it that makes his heart skip a beat.

Then, just as fast as you appeared, you’re gone. Turning on your heel, slipping through the crowd like a shadow, the sound of your laughter hanging in the air like smoke.

Lando stays in his car for a long second, fingers tight around the wheel, pulse racing. Pretty boy.

Fuck.

The air smells like burning rubber and gasoline, thick with heat. Lando should leave—he knows that. But he doesn’t.

Instead, he lingers.

Leaning against the hood of his car, he watches you go again. Three more races. Three more wins. Each one more effortless than the last. It’s surgical, the way you move, how the car bends to your will, how you make even the most aggressive drivers look like amateurs. There’s no mercy in the way you drive—just raw, controlled chaos.

He swallows. Fuck, that’s attractive.

Lando’s eyes track every move you make, and Max is none the fool. He notices the way Lando doesn’t even blink when you leave your latest challenger choking on the tailpipe of your car. He notices how, with every second that ticks by, Lando’s grip on reality slips a little further, watching you move.

"You know," Max says, voice laced with teasing, "if you stare at her like that any longer, you might actually catch flies."

Lando doesn’t respond, just shifts his weight, a half-hearted attempt to hide the fact he’s still watching you as you walk toward the starting line again. Max grins, unbothered, leaning on the hood of the car.

“Pick your jaw up off the floor, mate,” Max drawls beside him, nudging him with an elbow. “You look like you’re about to start drooling.”

Lando shoves him off the hood, ignoring the sharp bark of laughter that follows. His attention is already back on you. The race starts, but it’s like the world slows, distorting as he watches you go, your movements fluid and effortless, the hum of the engine a symphony beneath you. His fingers itch to feel the wheel, to push something that will give him the same kind of power, the same kind of presence you carry so effortlessly.

Then, as if on cue, you finish, once again besting your opponent with ease. The cheers of the crowd are distant, drowned out by the beat of his pulse. But when he glances back, you’re already looking at him.

And then you’re walking toward him.

It’s deliberate—the sway of your hips, the way the dim glow of streetlights glints off the sweat at your collarbone. You reach out, the condensation on the glass cold against his fingers as you press a bottle of beer into his hand.

“Enjoying the show, rich boy?” you ask, smirking as you crack your own bottle open.

Lando lifts a brow, fighting the way his stomach tightens at the sight of your lips wrapped around the mouth of the bottle as you take a slow sip. He swears you do it on purpose.

You lean in, close enough that the heat from your skin warms his. The air between you crackles with tension.

"You know," you murmur, teasing, "you really do look out of place here. Rich, pretty boy F1 driver, surrounded by all these… real drivers."

Lando’s lips twitch, amusement flickering in his chest. "Careful now," he says, his voice dropping, "that’s the second time you’ve called me pretty. I’ll think you’re flirting with me."

You cock an eyebrow, the hint of a challenge in your gaze. Slowly, you lean in, fingers brushing his chain, the cool metal cold against your warm skin as you trace it with an almost deliberate slowness.

"And if I am?" you ask, the question soft, but the implication sharp.

Lando swallows, his pulse quickening despite himself. He should have an answer to that. Something cocky, something that will let him walk away from this with at least some semblance of control. But he’s coming up empty.

So he doesn’t say anything at all.

Instead, you settle next to him, the beer bottle cold between your palms as the two of you watch the next set of races. This time, Lando isn’t just watching from the sidelines. He’s with you, standing close enough that the heat of your body feels like a magnet, pulling him in without effort. You’re right there beside him, close enough that every time someone messes up—a late brake, a slip on the curve—your eyes flick to him, and the unspoken agreement hangs in the air.

At some point, Max disappears—not that Lando notices. Not when you’re murmuring under your breath about a driver’s lazy cornering, not when you hum in agreement at his observations, a quiet acknowledgment that shouldn’t make his chest feel as tight as it does.

For a second, Lando feels like he’s on the same level as you, and the rush of that—of being in sync with you—is more thrilling than anything else in the night. His breath catches as he leans in slightly, lowering his voice. "Watch the way he enters the final turn—if he doesn’t fix that, he’s gonna lose that spot."

You don’t even glance at him, but he sees the small twitch in your fingers as you tap your bottle lightly against your lips, clearly holding back a smile. That hum again. It’s a low sound, the kind that stirs something restless in his chest.

The game continues.

Your eyes never leave his when you take a sip from the bottle you share, your fingers brushing his as you pass it back. A drop of beer spills onto the back of your hand, and before he can even register it, you’re licking it clean, slow and deliberate.

Lando swears under his breath.

The bass from a nearby car suddenly pounds heavier, reverberating through the asphalt. You push off the hood, stretching your arms above your head, body moving like liquid as you cock a finger at him in invitation.

He should hesitate.

But he doesn’t.

His feet move before his brain catches up, like you’ve got some invisible tether wrapped around his ribs.

You dance like you drive—effortlessly. Like you know exactly where to be, how to shift, how to move. Lando tries to keep up, tries to match your rhythm, but you make it impossible. The way your body brushes against his is teasing, the heat of you just out of reach, and it’s fucking maddening.

Then, he gets too close.

His fingers graze the stripe of bare skin at your waist, a feather-light touch, but he feels the way your breath catches, the slight arch of your body pressing into him before pulling away just as quick.

You laugh, low and intoxicating.

“You wanna kiss me, pretty boy?”

Lando nods before he can think better of it.

He doesn’t trust his mouth not to say something stupid. So instead, he leans in, closing the space between you, heartbeat hammering—

Only for you to pull away.

His breath stutters.

Your lips brush the shell of his ear, voice all sugar and sin.

“Then earn it.”

Lando has always been the good guy. The golden boy. The one who follows the rules, the one who does what he’s told—strict diets, early nights, training regimens that dictate every inch of his life.

But you?

You’re the kind of chaos that should come with a warning label.

Every glance, every smirk, every casual drag of your fingers along his chain only coils that tension inside him tighter, until common sense isn’t just slipping away—it’s fucking disintegrating.

His hands find your hips, grip just shy of bruising as you move together, bodies pressing and pulling like a tide he can’t escape. The bass thumps in his chest, or maybe it’s his own heartbeat, the sound of it nearly deafening.

"I think I've earned it already," he murmurs, voice rough, head tipping down until his lips nearly brush yours.

You grin, teeth flashing, eyes dark and dangerous. "Is that so, pretty boy?"

His breath hitches, pulse spiking at the way you tug his chain just enough to make him stumble forward, make him feel the heat rolling off your skin.

"Flirting again, are we?"

You hum, tilting your head, considering. And then—

The sharp nip of teeth against his earlobe sends a full-body shudder through him.

"Did you earn it?"

Lando's never understood the phrase weak in the knees before, but suddenly, it's painfully clear. His legs feel like jelly, his stomach like free-falling through Eau Rouge in the rain. Your breath, warm against his skin, sends heat lashing through his veins, makes his fingers tighten their hold on you, makes the last thread of his restraint snap clean in half.

"Fuck earning it," he groans, hands sliding up your back, tilting your chin up as he crashes his mouth to yours.

It’s reckless. It’s unhinged. It’s like taking Eau Rouge at full throttle without knowing if the car will stick to the track—but fuck, it’s heaven.

You taste like beer and danger, and when you press even closer, molding yourself against him like you were meant to be there, he swears he could die like this, and it would be worth it.

Your laugh—low, indulgent—vibrates against his lips, and it damn near ruins him. You kiss like you drive, all confidence and sharp edges, fingers tangled in his curls like you already own him. And maybe you do.

Lando’s hands trace the dip of your spine, pulling you closer, needing you closer. The crowd, the pounding bass, the scent of burning rubber in the air—it all fades. There’s only you, the press of your body against his, the way your lips part just enough to let him taste you, to let him sink deeper into whatever madness this is.

Then, just as quickly as you gave it, you take it away.

You break the kiss, but you don’t go far. Your lips hover, teasing, a breath away. Lando’s chest heaves, fingers flexing at your waist, fighting the urge to pull you back in. You grin against his skin, breath ghosting over the corner of his mouth as you murmur, “Not bad, pretty boy.”

Lando swears under his breath. His pulse is a wild thing in his throat, his grip tightening. “Not bad?” His voice comes out rougher than he expects, something raw under the teasing edge.

You tip your head, eyes flicking over his face, searching for something—maybe an opening, maybe just amusement. Whatever it is, you must find it, because your grin turns lazy, all feline satisfaction as you drag a single finger down his chest.

“Could use some work,” you say. “But I suppose you’ve got potential.”

Lando exhales sharply, half a laugh, half something that aches. “Unbelievable,” he mutters, shaking his head.

You smirk, stepping back just enough to give him air but not enough to let him breathe easy. “Come find me when you think you can do better.”

And just like that, you’re gone, disappearing into the crowd, hips swaying, leaving him standing there, heart hammering, tasting the ghost of you on his lips.

Max reappears at his side, looking far too smug for Lando’s liking. “So,” he drawls, “we’re coming back again next time, huh?”

Lando runs a hand through his curls, still reeling, still burning.

“…Yeah.”

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sexynetra · 1 year ago

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I MISSED THEM SO BAD

#they’re so cute ughhhhhhh #reunited and it feels so good #drag race #rpdr #RuPaul’s drag race #drag race uk vs the world #drukvtw #ukvtw2 #uk vs the world #La grande dame #tia kofi #grandekofi #tall wives #reminds me I need to work on their Drabbles

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angelsforthenight · 4 months ago

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hunter!vi x vampire!reader drabble

cw: dark fic! blood, degrading, toxic, sub!vi

“you’re the most perverted of them all.” you whisper in the hunter’s ear, before dragging your tongue behind it. poor thing’s already whimpering and twitching, her hot, quick little pants resembling her of a dog.

“you know what’s going to happen to you, yet you insist on staying! wretched, wretched girl.” you continue to scold, even as your lips are beginning to press searing open-mouthed kisses on her neck. vi can barely register what you’re saying, not when her hips are starting to unconsciously buck against yours, sitting on her lap as you are. a complacent grin finds itself on your lips, and you bare your fangs. you hear vi’s pulse race harder and faster as a result.

“you should be ashamed…” you mock being upset, as your mouth nears her fluttering neck once more. vi’s breathing has accelerated so much that it’s audible, her eyes fluttering shut. though you relish in her fear, you do not fail to notice the way she’s squeezing her thighs, perverted as she is, trying to alleviate her obvious arousal. getting off on a vampire about to bite you… tut tut!

it all happens slowly. you’re not trying to rush this after all, and most of all: you’re not trying to kill her either. your fingers stir up her hair, gently stroking the back of them as you simultaneously sink your teeth in. as if to provide comfort in the midst of a ghastly scene. vi grunts, quick to melt into high keened-moans. her fingers grip your shoulders for support. you take all that you can get, adorned with the utmost self control, even with vi being the one you’ve wanted the most in a long time. even if her blood tastes just as you imagined, better than the glories of heaven itself.

the ‘tough’ hunter vi usually portrays herself as has completely melted away, and now replaced with this hopeless whining woman: twitching against you, gripping you tighter. with the sounds that are leaving her kiss-swollen lips, you would’ve assumed she’d be lamenting over a dead dog, or having the most mind-blowing orgasm of her life.

you have to wrench yourself away, throwing your head back and letting out a breath as if you’ve just been plunged underwater for ages. vi’s blood is smeared all over your mouth, dripping down to your chin. you gaze at her, eyes wild and glowing, only to be met with glazed, foggy eyes back. eyebrows furrowed together, lips quivering. she’s a sight.

“kiss me.” vi dares whisper. you blink. to what lengths must this woman go to? “i wanna know what you’re so crazy about.”

there is no value in protesting, so you comply: cupping her face and crashing your lips together. what a gruesome pair of lips and teeth, gloopy in blood, and vi has the nerve to taste herself. she’s ravaging your lips as if she never wants you to leave. fuck, you would devour her if you could.

and then you feel something cold and hard press against your stomach. ah. there it is, vi’s trusty little dagger, threatening to split your stomach open. you and vi make eye contact.

“intentions, right?” vi huffs, you gaze at her blankly - used to this silly little game.

“do it. do it since you detest me so much.” you whisper it like a prayer in vi’s lips, before kissing her yet again. vi doesn’t do so much as pull away.

a/n: a little vi drabble to keep you on your feet whilst i continue to work on the camgirl fic ദ്ദി •⩊• ) sorry guys pt 3 make take a liiiiiitle bit longer cuz of school uueeeehhhh 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭 anyways HERE! HAVE THIS!!!!!!!

#vi x reader #arcane #lesbian #wlw fanfic #vi arcane #lesbian smut #wlw #vi x fem!reader #vi x y/n #vi x reader smut #vi fanfic #smut #vi x you #vi smut #arcane x you #arcane fanfic #arcane smut #arcane x reader

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theorphicangel · 6 months ago

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bf!sukuna x reader christmas drabble

fyi: i kept sukuna twins with yuji's dad because it made more sense to me lol... i still don't get the epilogue...whoops

claims he does not give a single fuck about christmas and states this each and every time that you bring it up around him.

at the end of your rant about what presents you'll get for your friends and family he looks at you with a disinterested expression

you try to get him in the mood for christmas many, many, many times but you fail to succeed.

at one point you had to decoration your shared apartment all by yourself, lugging around boxes filled with christmas decorations.

you thought you had it all covered until it came to the star on the christmas tree, the final touch to christmas.

slyly you approach Sukuna with a grin.

'help me put the star on?'

'no.'

'but I can't reach.'

'tough, use a chair shorty.'

'pleaseeeeee' you give your best puppy eyes expression

a small pause occurs before he gives in. 'fine.'

it's unfortunate that sukuna doesn't personally show any interest to christmas but that doesn't stop you from dragging him to the christmas markets and make him buy overpriced hot chocolate for you or make him come gift shopping with you.

'how many bags do you need, woman? you need presents for your friends not presents for the entire fucking planet.'

it's only when you give him that look that he shuts the fuck up.

it's only when he catches you backing in the kitchen with a cheesy christmas song in the background with you singing along that Sukuna begins to take it seriously. making christmas cookies with flour down your apron and all over your face makes his heart finally race.

and that's when he locks in for christmas.

he's one of those people around in the store looking for a last minute christmas present, trying to get a gift for those he can think of. yuji his nephew, his brother, his grandfather and finally you.

your gift is proving to be the trickiest. what the fuck does he get you? he's not really known for being sentimental with gifts and with a quick back and forth phone call to his twin brother, Jin, that he finally gets the gift right.

bright and early on christmas morning he waits for you to awake, as per usual, your smile and giddy expression almost has him in the christmas mood.

almost. maybe you can spot a smirk here and there.

the exchange of gifts goes pretty well. soft christmas music in the background with a classic film playing and the warmth of the room keeping the winter cold away.

you're extremely satisfied with your gifts as is sukuna, the two of you thanking each other.

to your surprise there is one last gift left under the tree...and it's all for you.

as you open this gift you can't help but notice Sukuna's gaze, waiting for your reaction. you raise a brow as you tear the wrapping to find a boxed package, opening up the lid you find a necklace.

a gold necklace with the first letter of your name in a heart. It was the same necklace you had been eyeing a few months ago, back in spring when you and sukuna walked past the jeweler once. you made the offhanded comment of 'oh that looks pretty' towards the very same necklace in your hand right now.

you look up at sukuna, your chin wobbling.

'you're not about to start crying-'

'oh kuna!'

you interrupt him, jumping onto him for a hug with arms around his neck. he catches you with ease, a hand around your waist for security.

'merry christmas my love' you sniffle.

'merry christmas to you too.'

#a little rushed but i love this #angel writes #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen x reader #sukuna ryomen #angel talks #ryomen sukuna #ryomen sukuna x reader #sukuna fluff #sukuna x reader #sukuna x reader fluff #sukuna #jjk fluff #jjk fanfic #jjk headcanons #jjk x reader #jjk x reader fluff

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bunny-jpeg · 1 year ago

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grid bunny - a (long) drabble

feat. max verstappen, lando norris, charles leclerc & carlos sainz

(it's dirty filth, i'm sorry!!!!!) 🐇

most grid bunnies know they're grid bunnies, they actively search for drivers to bed. but not you, you got caught up in this for some reason or another.

you joined redbull as a mechanic, you were proud of that title! not many can call themselves that! it was an opportunity to see the world and work on what you loved. the cars. your focus was on the cars, not men driving them.

you thought that the relationship you struck up with max was platonic, the thought didn't even cross your mind that he had any feelings for you. you thought to him you were just another face in the crowd. that was until you both split a bottle of wine and you ended up in his hotel room.

you were face down in bed and let him fuck you. he grumbled under his breath in dutch and liked to hold your head back. the three time champion loved to bite as well, your shoulders looked like a total mess by the time you staggered out of his hotel room. you however didn't get far as before you could get your pants in, the champion had his strong arms around you and pulled back into bed.

max was the kind of fuck that you knew you wouldn't get out of your mind. he liked it rough and dirty, he liked that he could move you into the position he wanted as he rutted up into you. it left you out of breath and hot all over, sweat stuck to the expanse of your back. he said to you in a brief break between rounds, "only the best." before he ran his thumb across your clit which made you grow tense. it only made him chuckle before his lips were on your neck again. "you look good in redbull colours."

you wouldn't end up leaving till morning, at least max bought you breakfast and some tylonel for the back pain. the hickies on the other hand had you zipping your coveralls a little higher to cover your neck fully.

lando was a flirt, he was all smiles and determination. you had assumed that word got around that the new little mechanic for red bull was a good fuck. he was in your personal space and made you laugh. he'd continue to make you laugh when his head was between your legs.

the driver didn't even get his racing gear off as he got you up on the couch in the driver's room. his tongue dragged along your pussy and you had to cover your mouth to not cause attention. the last thing you needed was some assistant walking in on lando norris, the second higher driver between your legs. headlines in the making. the gloves he wore were rough against your bare thighs as he sloppy noises he made filled the room. he ate like a man with an insatiable hunger, like he had been yearning to get between the legs of the little mechanic. "you feel so good." he groaned, "they should've hired you to bring a little relief to the grid." he chuckled as he looked up at you, "but i'm pretty sure i'd get just a little jealous if you were shared amongst the grid. bad enough i have to share with verstappen."

you felt flushed all over, so vulnerable under him. it was almost cute, as his tongue grazed your clit and soon his fingers joined the fray. you tried to keep noises down to a minimum. it was bad enough the max had rubbed it in lando's face that he had a grid bunny in his repertoire, you didn't want everyone to know about it.

every driver did know about it. which landed you in the arms of charles. he was smiles and sunshine, you took a liking to leo. but it was hard for charles to maintain the conversation when he saw you bent over to look at the dog. when you giggled at the animal's antics, you swayed a little which only enticed the ferrari driver.

he had heard from both max and lando about the mechanic that was scurrying around the paddock. with a pussy soft and tight, and a smile that was infectious. that and she was a easy to bed. charles didn't go after grid bunnies, but you were technically a mechanic, so.... charles however would take the longest to bed you, you thought it was because he was a gentleman.

that was not the case, instead he was trying to figure out how to tie you up in his hotel room as he fucked you. also forget about condoms, you had to scatter to different pharmacies in austin to find plan b.

the way he fucked you, he liked watching your face. he like the faces you made when he hit your sweet spots. it was almost a rivalry between the other two men as he held you face in his hand and maintained eye contact. no shying away from him as he moved his hips against you. "pretty girl." his voice was a low drawl and you felt your heart leap in your chest. his hands played with your breasts and you noticed when he got close, his tongue hung out of his mouth like a panting dog.

you'd never admit how good a cream-pie felt, you didn't want any of the others to know that they could do that. you weren't going bankrupt on emergency contraceptives.

if charles knew, then carlos knew. you were starting to get a little worried about it. you managed to get yourself through the top four ranking drivers, two from the same team. you couldn't help but feel a little flustered by it all.

the sex was amazing you weren't going to deny it, each driver had their strengths as a lover. the strength of max, the selflessness or lando and the eagerness of charles. carlos was a whole other beast entirely, he liked his hands in your hair. he liked the yank on it as he fucked you from behind. that wasn't his favourite activity though, he loved when you sucked his cock.

when you sucked his cock, it was warm up. he'd always get a little too excited and end up with you on your hands and knees. because of course, your main draw was your pussy after all! (sadly, not your mechanic skills). he did kiss a lot however, any time he pushed you a little too hard he'd smother you with kisses as he tried to ease his pace. but, it was hard. sometimes he forgot that you joined formula one as a mechanic when he was balls deep inside of you. his cock always nudged a little further than his teammate, which often took the air out of you. he had you by the waist as he moved against you. he'd often whisper praise to you, which only made your pussy wetter. he was diligent about protection which you were thankful for (two nights prior you were wrestling lando trying to get him to wear one). if you could describe sex with carlos it would be fun. even if it exhausted you, and he was just as rough as the other three.

maybe these men were egomaniacs who all fucked you as a means of one upping each other. passed between first and fourth. but, jesus were they big suck-ups when the post-nut clarity hit.

lando bought you flowers ("pretty flowers for a pretty girl!"), max snuck you some of the fancier food from the driver's room while you worked on his car ("you have to keep up your strength to help me win"), the lengthy almost romantic text message from charles before you started working "i hope it all goes well today, mon amour! i will be waiting for you at the finish line"), and finally the smothering after-care from carlos ("do you need anything? anything you want, i'll get.")

meanwhile you were around the paddock with a slight limp and rope burns around your wrists and thighs (fuckin' leclerc). but you appreciated it, it made you feel like you were more than just some stress relief for the top drivers. they thought about you, or at least thought enough about you, that these acts of kindness (maybe love) were on their mind.

they did have a habit of trying to one-up another. a race of their own for your affection. meanwhile you just wanted to make sure you weren't going to end up in hr's office. you just came here to fix cars!

at the end it felt like you were on a routine for each race with minimal breakaway from it. thursday you were with max, friday you were with lando, saturday with charles and sunday with carlos followed by an evening with who won (or at least got to podium), which often meant limping out of max's room in order to meet the other mechanics for the flight out of whatever country you were in.

you didn't want to think about the wetness in your panties when you sat in the plane seat. the plane would take off and the cycle would repeat.

by the end of the season, you were exhausted. as a christmas present you were gifted a one-way plane ticket to monaco. you looked at it then up at max who had his hand in your hair.

"where else were you going to spend the break?" he asked, not even taking into consideration that maybe you'd go home to your family, "i promise it is very nice this time of year, we want to make sure that you're safe over the break." he cupped you by the cheek and those blue eyes gazed into yours.

the idea of your safety needing to be assured sounded like a half assed attempt to seduce you back to the sunny shores of monte carlo. you wondered for a moment if you even needed to pack clothes.

"come home with us."

you took the ticket and looked at it closer. every excuse died in your throat, there was no way that you were going to weasel your way out of this. you should be happy, most would kill for the attention of one driver, and now you had the lingering gaze of four.

you just had to figure out how to get your hands on better birth control before the holidays started because you could only imagine the damage that was going to be done over the next few months. <3

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auxmodi · 6 months ago

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sexual tension

drabble ;)

my masterlist

summary: around the campfire, the men start teasing sandor about his size, and as the crude jokes fly, you can't help but sneak a glance at him. when you catch the outline of him beneath his clothes, your heart races, and you can't look away. sandor notices, and the tension between you two is almost too much to handle. you're left wondering what will happen when the camp settles down for the night.

warnings: nsfw, sexual tension, sexual attraction , reader's smutty thoughts, alcohol, objectification, p in v sex, unprotected sex, dirty talk, swearing , public sex kind of.

word count: 3.2k

the campfire crackled and spit, casting flickering shadows over the circle of men gathered around it. the air was thick with the smell of sweat and woodsmoke, the chatter growing louder as the ale flowed. you sat just outside the circle, not part of their bawdy camaraderie, but close enough to catch every word, and gods, how you wished you weren’t.

“clegane,” one of the younger men drawled, a drunken smirk plastered across his face. “bet you’re hiding something fierce under all that armor, eh?”

the others laughed, quick and eager to latch onto the joke. sandor, seated across the fire, didn’t so much as glance up.

“reckon it drags behind him in the snow,” another chimed in, slapping his knee.

more laughter, rough and raucous. your stomach twisted as you pulled your cloak tighter around you, hoping to disappear into the night.

sandor’s lip twisted into a mocking half-smile, his gaze sharp as it swept over the group. “keep talking about my cock,” he growled, the words a low, gravelly threat, “and I’ll make sure it’s the last thing you ever get to look at.”

that earned a chorus of hoots and hollers, none of them taking the threat seriously.

“you hear that?” the first one cackled, slapping his thigh. “big man’s got a temper to match!” he leaned forward, squinting at you. “what d’you think, girl? you’re always hovering around him, eh? got an eye for—”

you choked on your sip of water, quickly lowering the cup and staring at the ground as your cheeks burned hotter than the fire.

the thud of steel slicing into wood made you flinch. when you dared to look up, sandor’s knife was embedded in the log beside the man’s head, the blade gleaming menacingly in the firelight. the man froze mid-laugh, his face blanching as though all the blood had drained from it.

the men fell silent for half a beat before breaking into another round of laughter, though it was more nervous this time, the kind of laughter that comes when you’re not sure if someone’s joking.

“aye, no need for that,” the first one said, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “just a bit of fun, clegane.”

sandor leaned back against the log, his long legs stretched out and his lips curling into something close to a smirk. He didn’t say another word, just shook his head as if they weren’t worth the effort.

you tried to focus on the cup in your hands, but the conversation around the camp was impossible to ignore.

the men roared, and you dared a glance toward sandor. he was still as a stone, sitting against a log, legs stretched out in front of him. His bowl of stew rested in one hand, the other dangling lazily by his side.

but it wasn’t just his size that drew your eye. It was the way he carried himself, like he was more than aware of the effect he had on everyone around him.

the long lines of his legs, the thick muscles visible even under layers of leather and wool. your gaze drifted lower before you could stop yourself, there, was the unmistakable outline of him, large and thick, pressing against the fabric of his trousers. your heart pounded in your ears as you realized just how much of a hold he had over you.

you tried to tear your eyes away, but the way he filled out his clothes, the way he made you feel. you wanted to touch him, to feel that strength, feel the weight of him, his size, pressing down on you. the image of him, thick and demanding, burned into your mind, refusing to leave.

when you glanced up, you found sandor watching you. his eyes were steady, sharp, like he knew exactly what had been going through your mind. there was no judgment in his gaze, only that intense, unblinking stare, like he was daring you to admit it. To admit just how much you wanted him, how much you needed him.

slowly, almost lazily, he tilted his head.

“enjoying the view?” his voice was a low rasp, just loud enough for you to hear over the chatter of the men.

your heart raced, and you looked down, fumbling with the crust of bread in your hands like it held the answers to your embarrassment.

he huffed a quiet laugh, deep and rough. “thought so.”

the sound of his laughter, knowing, made your pulse jump. you risked a glance up, only to find he was still watching you, his lips curling into something between amusement and triumph.

you tried to gather yourself, but your body felt light, almost dizzy from the weight of the moment. but then, as the world around you came back into focus, you realized you weren’t the only one who had noticed.

the men around the fire had been watching too. they’d seen, heard everything. you could feel their eyes flicking between you and sandor, their glances filled with anticipation, like they were waiting for something to happen.

one of them, who’d been watching intently, couldn’t help but chuckle. “well, looks like you’ve caught the big man’s attention, girl.”

you could feel every set of eyes on you now, watching, waiting for something, anything to happen. and you knew that whatever had just passed between you and sandor wasn’t going to be forgotten.

some time passed, and you were finally alone. you had been chosen to set up the camp, and for once, you weren't mad about it. the embarrassment still lingered, heavy on your body, but with this task, there was no one around to remind you of it.

the dirty thoughts still lingered in your mind, persistent and unsettling. it was the way he looked at you, like it didn’t bother him at all. there was something strange between the two of you, an unspoken connection that you couldn’t shake, no matter how hard you tried.

lost in the depths of your thoughts, the sudden crunch of boots on the ground behind you pulled you from your trance. you didn’t dare glance over your shoulder, but the shadow cast by the moonlight told you everything you needed to know. his presence loomed large, unmistakable. it was sandor.

he stood there for a moment. then, in his usual gruff manner, he spoke. “you’re alone out here.” his voice was steady, not a question, but a statement. the air between you felt thick, but his presence, though imposing, didn't seem to demand anything more.

you glanced at him, trying to hide the slight amusement creeping onto your face. his expression was unreadable, his eyes dark as always. he was standing too close, close enough that you could feel the warmth of his presence, but still, he didn’t move, didn’t push.

“well?” he asked after a long pause, his voice rough, yet tinged with something you couldn’t quite place. “you gonna stand there all night? ain't you got a camp to set up?” his voice reeked of alcohol.

you blinked, suddenly realizing you were still rooted to the spot, caught in the strange tension he’d created. his tone had been flat, but there was something in the way he looked at you, like he was waiting for you to say something.

“right,” you muttered, shaking your head as if to clear it. you turned away from him, reaching for the bedrolls and stakes you had set aside, trying to ignore the way your heartbeat had quickened. “I’ll get to it.”

you could feel his presence still lingering behind you as you bent down to fasten the stakes into the ground, the weight of his stare making the silence awkward and thick. every movement felt too deliberate, like he was watching your every action, even though he hadn’t said a word since his last remark.

suddenly, you felt a hand press against your lower back. startled, you flinched and glanced up at him. without warning, he yanked you to your feet by your pants, pulling you tightly against his chest, your back to him. "don't make me do all the work" he murmured low, his voice thick with intent. you held your breath, feeling the undeniable pressure of his body against yours. his hips subtly thrust forward, the hardness of his bulge pressing into your lower back.

your pulse quickened, a mixture of nerves and something else you couldn’t quite place. you shifted uncomfortably, trying to create some distance between you, but his grip was firm. "sandor," you whispered, unsure of what you wanted him to do. "this isn't right."

without answering, he lowered his mouth to your neck, his lips brushing the sensitive skin just below your ear. the warmth of his breath sent a shiver through you, and before you could react, his hand moved down your body. with a sudden, forceful motion, his fingers grasped the fabric of your shirt, pulling it taut before ripping it open. the sound of fabric tearing filled the air, and your breath caught in your throat.

you gasp, instinctively crossing your arms to shield your chest, but he seizes your wrists and firmly pulls them behind your back. sandor smirks, his voice low and rough as he says, “hiding won’t save you now.”

he pulls you back into him, your ass pressing against his bulge. sandor chuckled, a sound that reverberated through you. "is that what you want?" he growled low, his voice thick with desire. you could feel the tension in his body, the way he stiffened behind you as you pushed back into him. his groan followed, deep and unmistakable, as his hips involuntarily thrust forward.

"keep pushing, and you're only going to make it worse," he whispered against your ear, his voice a mix of amusement and promise.

but you couldn’t stop. you pressed back into him again, your body moving against his in a way that left no room for hesitation. his breathing hitched, and before you could react, sandor spun you around with brutal force. you fell to the ground, the air knocked from your lungs, and you gasped in surprise.

you now sat on the floor, hands pushing up your body to regain some balance. your breath was shallow, heart racing, and as you looked up, you saw sandor towering over you, his gaze locked onto yours with an intensity that made your pulse quicken.

he took his time, slowly unbuckling his belt as his gaze never left you. you couldn’t help but feel a mix of excitement and fear, the way his eyes held you in place, his every movement calculated.

he noticed the excitement in your eyes, a small, knowing smile tugging at the corner of his lips. a low chuckle escaped him, the sound rich with amusement. "you’re eager," he murmured, his gaze darkening as he took in your reaction.

you were frozen, not knowing what to say, your words lost in the heaviness of the moment. all you could do was sit there, heart pounding, waiting for him to move, unsure of what would come next.

without warning, he unzipped his pants and slowly takes out his cock. you stared in disbelief, you couldn't help but notice how much larger he was than you'd expected. his gaze remained locked on yours, and with a slow, almost indifferent smirk, he muttered, 'didn't think you'd be this quiet. thought you’d have more to say.'"

his words stung, challenging you, and without thinking, you pushed yourself to your feet. you met his eyes, you didn’t know if you were trying to prove something to him or to yourself, but you took a step closer, your breath steadying as you faced him head-on.

you stared at him, the silence heavy between you. neither of you needed to speak to know what you both wanted, but the words failed to form. uncertainty gripped you, but something inside urged you to move, to take the first step. without thinking further, you leaned in and kissed him.

your lips met his, the kiss harsh and impatient, filled with undeniable desire and lust. you felt his tongue push past your lips, exploring your mouth, his hand tightened his grip on your thigh, finger digging into your skin. "answer me", he said, his voice low, "you think you can take all of me, huh?" his other hand quickly yanked your pants down to your knees, the urgency in his movements making your pulse quicken.

you looked up at sandor, meeting his intense gaze, your voice barely above a whisper. "do your worst." the words were edged with hesitation, but there was something else there too, a quiet challenge. he smirked, clearly appreciating the boldness beneath your uncertainty, before he spun you around and shoved you face-first into the tree.

his grip on your wrists was rough, pulling them behind your back and holding them there with unrelenting force. his breath was hot against the back of your neck, sending a shiver down your spine. as reality set in, so did a rush of nervousness, your breath quickened, your heartbeat pounding in your chest.

he chuckled, feeling the tension in your body. "you're not getting cold feet now are ya?" his voice gravelly, "it's too late to back out now."

you feel the cold breeze on your legs and chest, and you try to arch your back slightly, as if to invite him in. you feel his hard presence against you, waiting impatiently.

when all of a sudden you felt sandor's thick fingers attach themselves to your pussy. his other hand stil holding on tight to your wrists. "let me see" he mutters, his fingers brushing against your folds, stroking up and down.

you desperately tried to clamp your legs shut, the humiliation heavy in your chest, too much to bear. but his hand, strong as usual, forced them apart. the weight of it settled heavy on you, the sense of being exposed, vulnerable, naked in a way you never thought you'd be, especially with sandor, your usual companion in the mud and blood of battle, seeing you like this.

sandor, clearly tired of you already, grabbed you by the neck with a cold, firm hand, his grip locking you in place. you were shoved hard against the tree, your body pinned to the bark. there was no hesitation in him now, he didn’t want to wait any longer.

"quit fightin’," he growled. "you’ll give in, like it or not."

you were so overwhelmed by his actions that your mind went blank, unable to focus or think clearly. he noticed, of course he did. "please, sandor," you murmured, desperately trying to create some friction by swaying your hips, but he held you down firmly, laughing at your attempt.

sandor is so smug about it too, groaning just quietly enough while his hands grab your ass, pulling you further apart so he can finally enter you. "been waiting for this," he murmured, his voice low and filled with satisfaction.

you turn your head towards him, glancing over your shoulder just to see how big he looked as he loomed over you, pulling you closer while gripping the base of his cock as he slips his tip into you. the sharp, overwhelming pain makes your body ache. you cried out in desperation, you close your eyes and try to relax every muscle in your body as he slowly fills you up, little by little.

sandor furrowed his brows as he holds still for just a moment, his rough hands were all over you. "fucking hell, don’t tell me you’re a virgin" he growls through his teeth.

"not that,” you finally managed to whisper, releasing the breath you were holding. “i just- it’s been a while.”

"you're so fucking tight". he grunted, finally feeling your cunt stop clenching, he immediately pulled back and thrust into you forcefully, causing you to cry out, your arm instinctively reaching back to hold his hips back from the overwhelming sensation. he ignores your protests and starts thrusting into you quickly, your body responding to his every move. you whimper with each thrust, moving in rhythm with him, your hand still holding his hip in protest as he drives into you relentlessly.

he grabs the arm that's gripping his hip and pushes it behind your back, gaining a better angle as he thrusts into you. "c'mere," he growled, his grip tightening on your arm. "let me feel you, all of you".

the eye contact, his words, it’s almost enough to make you tap out. sandor’s eyes never leave yours as he pushes into you roughly.

as the rustling of footsteps grows closer, you freeze, heart racing. sandor's grip tightens on you, his eyes scanning the surrounding woods. the sound of your men moving through the trees grows louder, and you can feel the tension in the air.

"stay quiet," sandor murmurs, his voice low and commanding, as he pulls you closer, putting his hand over your mouth. almost covering your whole face with just one hand. neither of you can be fucked to care, the pleasure building low in your stomach as he keeps on pounding into you.

the men approach, oblivious to your presence, and you hold your breath, hoping they don't notice anything out of the ordinary.

you can hear their voices now, but they pass by without a second glance, the danger passing as quickly as it arrived. sandor lets out a low grunt, picking up his speed, fueled by frustration. his hands find your hair, pulling it harshly, causing you to yelp.

you choked on your moans, your aching pussy taking him whole, sandor leans in close as he pushes you back and forth on his cock. loving how you whine everytime he slides inside of your pussy.

he can't hold back anymore, his control snaps, and all that’s left is brute force and raw lust. he grips your hips tightly, his hands holding your ass as you let him take control. his touch grows bolder, sliding up your sides, skimming your stomach, and grazing your chest until they rest just above your throat. he pulls your towards him, looking for you eyes.

you look at him and find him staring at you, his lips parted, his eyes moving from your face to your ass, watching as he splits you open, again and again.

"oh gods" he mumbles under his breath, still staring at where you bodies keep on meeting together with his brute force. his breath quickens, short, guttural growls of pleasure escaping his mouth, you nod, sandor immediately knowing what you mean, his fingers dig into your hips even harder, his breathing becoming faster and more labored, as he picks up the pace. the sound of slapping flesh becoming even louder in the forest.

before you know it, you're cunt is filled up with his seed, you cum and his name keeps on falling of your lips. "that's it girl." he thrusts his seed deeper. it's quick, the way he eases himself out of you, how you feel it flowing down your inner thighs.

you try to stand secure on your wobbly legs and it was you who finally said something. "y- yeah, you've made your point."

sandor just watches you with a grin on his face, cocky bastard.

#gameofthrones #game of thrones #sandor clegane x reader #the hound x reader #sandor clegane #sandor the hound clegane #sandor clegane smut #sandor x reader #the hound fanfic #got #game of thrones x reader #drabble #smutty #game of thrones smut

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iraot · 4 months ago

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Wanted to put something out for valentines day! :3 This is part one of two drabbles for the guys, I hope you all have a good day!

Prompt "Saying I know baby when she cums on your cock"

꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷

∘•···············•∘ʚ Sylus ɞ∘•················•∘ She shudders beneath him, breathless and breaking apart, and Sylus knows before she even says a word. He feels it in the way her fingers dig into his back, nails pressing hard enough to leave their mark, claiming him as much as he claims her. The way her thighs tremble around his hips, locking tight as if she’s afraid of slipping away, of losing the solid heat of him buried deep inside her. He doesn’t let up—won’t, can’t, because this is what he lives for. This moment, this unraveling, this desperate surrender that only he gets to see.

His name catches in her throat, strangled and desperate, her body tightening, burning, her skin slick and trembling under his hands. His grip is firm but reverent, like she’s something sacred, something meant only for him. His forehead presses to hers, silver-white strands clinging to sweat-slicked skin, and his breath is ragged when he speaks.

"I know, baby."

A murmur, a promise, a reassurance. Like he’s been waiting for this just as much as she has. Like he needs it just as badly. His voice is rough, wrecked with knowing, a low growl in her ear as he holds her through the breaking point. He feels every flutter, every pulse, every desperate pull of her body trying to keep him exactly where he belongs.

She gasps—sharp, high, helpless—head thrown back as pleasure overtakes her, but Sylus doesn't look away. He watches, drinking in the sight of her coming apart beneath him, because there’s nothing in the world more beautiful than this. The way her lips part, the way her lashes flutter, the way her body moves against his with something between surrender and possession.

His hands roam, mapping the curves of her, grounding her, keeping her close. One hand slides to the nape of her neck, fingers threading through damp strands as he pulls her back to him, catching her mouth in a kiss that’s more than just hunger—it’s devotion, need, a silent confession that he could never say aloud.

She’s still trembling, still pulsing around him, and he groans into her mouth, feeling himself tip dangerously close to the edge. He drags his lips down her jaw, over the racing pulse in her throat, teeth grazing the sensitive skin before he murmurs against her—low, dark, unshakable.

"That's it. That's my girl."

His. Always. No name needed, because it just is. ∘•···············•∘ʚ Caleb ɞ∘•················•∘Caleb has never been one to hold back, not with her. Not with the way she tightens around him, not with the way her breath stutters, her back arching, her body stretching to take him in ways no one else ever could. He knows her—knows her—better than she knows herself sometimes, and right now, he knows exactly what she needs. Exactly how to drag her to the edge and keep her there, hovering, gasping, drowning in the way he fills her. Her hands are locked in his, fingers tangled, held down against the sheets as he pins her beneath him. Not just with his weight, not just with the way he sinks so deep she’s got nowhere to run—but with his presence, his grip, the sharp violet of his eyes locked onto hers. He’s there, with her, completely, utterly.

And he feels it. The way she tightens, the way her legs lock around his waist, the way she starts to shake, little whimpers turning into something desperate, something breathless.

His grip tightens. His hips snap forward, slow but brutal, pressing so deep she swears she can feel him in her throat.

"Yeah," he murmurs, his voice rough, teasing, but his lips brush against hers like he’s trying to keep her from slipping away. "I know, pipsqueak."

It’s low, a promise, a taunt, a claim.

She breaks.

Her body goes taut beneath him, hands squeezing his so tight he almost feels pain, but he doesn't let go. He never lets go. Her mouth parts in a choked gasp, her walls clenching down so hard around him he groans, his forehead dropping to hers as he holds her through it.

"That's it," he grits out, his breath ragged, his own control slipping because fuck, she’s squeezing him like she’s trying to keep him inside forever. "Come for me, I’ve got you."

She does. Hard.

She shatters, legs trembling around him, her nails digging into his hands, and Caleb doesn’t look away. He watches it—watches her—because this isn’t just anyone. This is his girl, his best friend, the only one who’s ever mattered.

He presses kisses to her jaw, to her temple, murmuring through the aftershocks.

"Still my little pipsqueak, huh?"

He thrusts once, slow, deep, making her whimper through the oversensitivity.

His smirk is sharp, but his voice is softer now, reverent even as he teases.

"Mine."

∘•···············•∘ʚ Xavier ɞ∘•················•∘Xavier had her pinned, one arm braced beside her head, the other gripping her thigh and keeping her spread wide for him. He was methodical, deep strokes that pushed the breath from her lungs, his blue eyes locked onto hers, watching every twitch, every shudder, every moment she came apart beneath him. He lived for this—watching her lose control, watching the slow unraveling until she couldn’t do anything but whimper his name, nails digging into his arms as if that would somehow slow him down.

“Xavier—” Her voice broke on his name, high and desperate, and fuck, that was all it took. He knew she was close, could feel it in the way her thighs trembled, the way her walls clamped down around him, trying to keep him as deep as possible.

“I know, baby,” he murmured against her throat, voice thick with satisfaction, with promise. His pace quickened just enough to tip her over, and the second he felt her body lock up, her head tilting back against the pillow as her orgasm tore through her, he let himself go.

Heat flooded through him, his grip tightening, a guttural groan ripped from his chest as he spilled deep inside her. His hand found her throat, not squeezing, just resting there, feeling the rapid pulse beneath his palm, grounding himself in the reality that she was his, that he had done this to her.

She was still trembling when he finally collapsed beside her, pulling her close, tangling their limbs together. He could feel the aftershocks rolling through her, the occasional twitch, the way her breath hitched as she came down. He loved that. Loved how wrecked she looked, how utterly spent and satisfied, like he had given her exactly what she needed.

“Holy fuck,” she finally breathed, voice hoarse.

∘•···············•∘ʚ Rafayel ɞ∘•················•∘ “Come on, cutie,” Rafayel purred, his voice thick with amusement as he rolled his hips, slow, controlled, forcing her to feel every inch of him dragging against her soaked heat. His hands framed her face, thumbs stroking along her flushed cheeks, those gradient eyes of his burning as they watched her struggle, torn between wanting more and trying not to fall apart so easily. “Aren’t you supposed to be my big, bad bodyguard?”

She tried to glare at him, but it fell apart the second he thrust deep, her breath catching, nails clawing at his shoulders. He grinned, pressing a slow, taunting kiss to her lips. “That’s what I thought.”

She hated how easily he unraveled her, how easily he turned her from someone trained to handle anything into a mess beneath him, gasping and writhing, helpless against the way he worked her body like he’d been born to do it. He was too good at this—too good at knowing exactly how to tease, exactly when to slow down, exactly when to pick up the pace until she couldn’t think of anything except how fucking good he felt.

His name slipped from her lips in a broken moan, her thighs trembling as she clenched down around him. Rafayel laughed, low and satisfied, his breath warm against her ear.

“There it is,” he murmured, rolling his hips just right, pushing her further into the pleasure that had her seeing stars. “That’s what I wanted.”

Her body arched, a choked sob of pleasure ripping from her throat as she shattered beneath him, pleasure crashing over her so hard her vision blurred. And that was all he needed.

“Fuck—” His breath hitched, and he buried himself deep, his grip tightening on her hips as he spilled inside her, his body shuddering as the pleasure took him under. His lips ghosted over her temple, his voice nothing but a lazy, satisfied drawl.

“I know, cutie.”

∘•···············•∘ʚ Zayne ɞ∘•················•∘ Zayne had been careful at first. Measured. Like he always was. Deep, steady thrusts, his jaw tight, breath controlled, his green eyes locked onto hers as if memorizing every second, every expression. He wanted to take his time, to make it last, to keep himself in check like he always did. But she was ruining him.

The way she clenched around him, the way she gasped his name like she couldn’t help it, the way her fingers clawed at his back, dragging him closer, demanding more—he was slipping. His control was slipping.

“Zayne—”

Her voice was high, desperate, and something in him snapped.

His grip tightened—one hand splaying against her hip, the other curling around the back of her neck as he drove into her, deep and unrelenting. No more careful control, no more restraint. Just raw need, just the unbearable heat coiling in his gut, pushing him toward the edge.

She cried out, back arching, body seizing up around him as she shattered. He felt it, felt the way she pulsed around him, how wet, how warm, how fucking perfect she felt clenching down on him. And that was it.

His breath shuddered, his rhythm faltering as pleasure crashed over him, tearing through his spine, his limbs, his entire body locking up as he spilled inside her. His forehead pressed against hers, his breath ragged, his grip still unyielding, still his.

“I know, baby,” he murmured, voice rough, spent, like he felt it just as deeply as she did. Like he’d lost himself in her, and maybe, just maybe, he wanted to.

#lads smut #rafayel smut #xavier smut #sylus smut #caleb smut #zayne smut

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dreamdrbbles · 6 months ago

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so here’s my first drabble! interpreted from a very fun dream i had. it’s definitely a fantasy, so if you don’t mind suspended reality a little bit with me.

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: you’ve finally convinced yourself to go back to school and get your degree, you’re late to your first class and your professor doesn’t take too kindly to tardiness. or, does he?

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: aaron pierre as dr. pierre & the black!fem reader as you.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: heavy smut, power imbalance, daddy kink, crude language, a bunch of grown folks things. minors do not interact.

Going back to school was your greatest accomplishment to date. At thirty, it wasn’t easy to take the leap and register for classes. You were terrified of being seen as the old freshman, but your dreams held more weight than your ego. You were proud of the life you’d built, sacrificing your own education to work and save so your younger brother could have the college experience he deserved. At just eighteen, you stepped up for your family, getting a full-time job to help fund his education. Now, ten years later, your baby brother was well on his way to earning a master’s degree. It was finally time to center yourself for once.

“Shit!” you yelped, bolting upright in bed. Your alarm hadn’t gone off, and the panic was immediate. You were supposed to be up an hour ago, but now you were going to be late for your very first college class. The one everyone told you not to take because it was at 8 a.m. You’d brushed them off, thinking, I used to wake up earlier than that for work. I got this. Clearly, you didn’t. It was 7:15, and you had 45 minutes to pull yourself together and get to Magnolia A&M University, your local HBCU.

Luckily, you’d picked out your outfit the night before. You had work later at the country club, and tennis lessons were on the schedule. That meant your Nike tennis skirt and matching top would have to do. After a rushed shower, skincare routine, and throwing your hair into a curly pineapple, you grabbed your keys. It was a ten-minute drive to campus, but with your luck today, who knew if you’d make it on time?

Magnolia A&M wasn’t just a school; it was a deliberate choice. Your family had always valued community and Black excellence, so an HBCU was a no-brainer. Every time you stepped on campus, you wished you’d started right after high school. Now, at thirty, you felt too old for frat parties or the Battle of the Bands, but you still loved the sense of unity. The royal blue and orange school colors? You wore them with pride.

You sped to campus like you had a getaway driver’s license, thanking the ancestors you didn’t get a ticket. After finding the right building, you made it to the lecture hall only 15 minutes late. African-American History was your first class of the day—and your minor. It had been the first course you registered for, the one you were most excited about.

As you pushed open the lecture hall doors, all eyes turned toward you, including those of your professor. You couldn’t see him clearly from the back of the room, but his posture alone radiated disapproval. Your stomach sank as you scanned the rows of seats. Of course, the only open spot was smack dab in the front row. Middle seat.

You braced yourself for the walk of tardy shame. Muttering “excuse me” and “sorry” at least ten times, you maneuvered your thick frame between tables and chairs. The awkward ordeal felt like it dragged on forever, but finally, you slid into the empty seat, heart racing.

The professor’s voice was what caught your attention first—deep, rich, and laced with a smooth British accent. You froze mid-search in your bag for a notebook and pen. When your gaze finally lifted to meet his, you nearly forgot to breathe.

Goddamn.

The word echoed in your mind before you could stop it. Beautiful wasn’t a word you usually reserved for men, but no other word fit. His sharp, masculine features contrasted with a pair of thick lashes framing aquamarine eyes. His neat facial hair outlined full, pink lips, and you couldn’t stop your thighs from pressing together as a very salacious thought crept into your mind. one that started with his wet duo on your first set of lips, and ending on your second.

Focus, girl. Eyes off the man and on the syllabus.

You forced yourself to listen, trying to ignore the low hum of his voice that made your spine tingle. Curiosity bubbled up as you wondered what a man from London was doing teaching African-American Studies in Texas. Almost as if reading your mind, he began explaining.

He told the class how reading The Autobiography of Malcolm X in middle school ignited his fascination with race relations in the West. That fascination led him to pursue a bachelor’s, master’s, and doctorate in African-American Studies. The name “Dr. Aaron Pierre” on your schedule had conjured an image of an older, graying professor who had more experience than book knowledge. You weren’t expecting a thirty year old Adonis who looked like he belonged on the cover of GQ.

The class went on like normal, an introductory first day of school. The hour ticked by as you gawked at your professor’s arms in the fitted black polo shirt he wore. It wasn’t until everyone around you had gotten up that you realized class had been dismissed. You followed suit, only to have your name called out in that deep baritone. How had he remembered it? Your introduction was one of the first of at least seventy-five.

“Can I see you in my office? You missed the first few minutes of class, just want to make sure you’re up to speed.”

Your throat was suddenly rivalry for the Sahara desert, your stomach hollowed. You were about to get kicked out of your first college course, all because your stupid alarm didn’t sound. You followed him to his office in silence, he opened the heavy wooden door for you and you ambled inside. Once the door closed behind you, you turned on your heels with an explanation at the ready. Until you realized his eyes were scanning your frame.

“The outfit… it’s different.” His comment caught you off guard, making your brows knit together. Was he picking on you? You glanced down at your tennis skirt. It hugged your curves, sure, but it wasn’t like you’d rolled out of bed in pajamas.

“I work after class,” you explained, tone sharp but polite. “I’m a tennis instructor.” His eyebrows lifted slightly, a flicker of interest flashing across his face. “Tennis?” He asked as he walked past you, to the other side of the cherry wood desk.

“Yeah, tennis.” You straightened your back, meeting his gaze. You’d been playing since elementary school. Your parents always joked that you could’ve been the next Venus or Serena, but you were realistic. You weren’t that good, just good enough to teach seven and eight year olds the basics.

Dr. Pierre leaned back against his desk, crossing his arms. “Let me be clear. Lateness will not be tolerated in my class. I take my work very seriously, and I expect my students to do the same.”

You resisted the urge to roll your eyes. He really expected a room full of teenagers and young adults to be on time for an 8 a.m. lecture? Cute, and delusional. “Dr. Pierre,” you said, softening your voice. “I apologize. My alarm didn’t go off, and I worked late last night. I promise, it won’t happen again.”

His gaze lingered on you, and then he said, with absolute confidence, “I know.”

Your head tilted slightly, trying to figure out what he meant. He didn’t know you. And he sure as hell wasn’t your daddy. “Uh, okay. Whatever that means,” you mumbled, more to yourself than to him.

He smiled—a slow, deliberate curve of his lips—and then, to your utter shock, said, “You’re beautiful.”

“Tha-thank you,” you stammered, your voice barely above a whisper.

Dr. Pierre’s expression remained unreadable as he began to close the distance between you. Each deliberate step sent a jolt of electricity racing down your spine, rooting you to the spot. You couldn’t move, couldn’t think—completely stunned by his actions. By the time he was within arm’s reach, your breath was shaky, uneven. His hand reached out, wrapping gently but firmly around your wrist. The warmth of his touch sent a spark up your arm, and before you could process it, he pulled you closer.

Your chest brushed against his, and the faint, intoxicating scent of teakwood and cedar enveloped you. The combination was rich and grounding, but it wasn’t just the cologne—he smelled good. Too good.

He leaned down slowly, his aquamarine eyes locking onto yours, heavy with intent. You were hyperaware of everything in that moment; the way his grip lingered, the heat radiating from his body, and the way his lashes framed those impossible eyes. Your faces were so close now that your noses barely brushed. The faintest touch, but enough to make your heart race like you’d run a marathon.“Can I?” he murmured, his voice low and velvet-smooth, like a secret meant only for you. The words hung in the air, and without hesitation, you gave him what he needed, your consent.

The moment his lips met yours, the world seemed to fade away. His kiss was slow, deliberate, and impossibly soft. He moved with care, as though savoring every second, every touch. You felt your knees weaken, and for a fleeting moment, you feared you might melt into the floor right where you stood. The scent of him, the warmth of his lips, the way his hand slid down to cradle the small of your back—it was all-consuming. Time slowed, and the only thing that existed was him. When he pulled back, just enough to let your noses brush again, his eyes searched yours as if waiting for a sign. Your lips still tingled from his kiss, and your heart thundered in your chest.

“I-I’m going to be late for work.” You stumbled, he laughed, amusement of the irony coming from the depths of his diaphragm. “You didn’t give a fuck about being late to my class, am I not just as important? Hm?” He inquired, tilting your head up so that you were staring in those oceanic orbs. He subtly pushed you backwards until the bend of your knees collided with his desk. With ease, he picked you up and sat you on top of it. He kneeled down before you, as if your body was an altar he would pray to. “You smell so good.” He uttered as he leaned in and pressed his nose to the center of your now soaked panty, taking in your aroma. It was the sexiest thing that had ever happened to you.

“I can’t believe this…” You meant to keep that inside, but clearly your mind had other plans.

“Believe it.” He responded with a laugh. “I wanted you the moment I saw you walk in my class, baby.” Skillfully he pulled your panties off completely, opening the drawer next to him and dropping them in there as his own personal souvenir. He pushed your skirt up onto your body until it was damn near a belt, balling up the pleats in his hands as he devoured your center, lick by lick.

He feasted on you as if he would never be nourished again, sipping your waters as if they came from the finest of natural spring. hell, clearly they had. “Oh my fucking God!” You squeaked as his lips wrapped around your pulsating clit, giving it a sweet, sloppy french kiss. His middle and index finger grazing your drenched slit as he slipped both inside. his thick digits filled you up, causing your muscles to tighten around him. He grunted against your pussy, imagining how tightly you would grip his manhood.

“That’s not my name princess, I’m not God.” He was to you, in this moment. he had sucked your free will right out of your coochie. What was his fucking name? “What’s my name?” He inquired as if he was reading your mind once again. His fingers continued to please you, grazing his smooth tips against your ribbed g-spot. This nigga had a Ph.d in more than just some history. “Doctorrrrrrrrr….” You whined out, dragging out the profession as he pressed sweet kisses right above your gushing mound while you smothered his digits in your sweetness.

“Doctor….daddy!” You cried out, hoping that there was no one in the near vicinity that would’ve heard your outburst. Another laugh as he slowly slid his fingers out of you, now covered and dripping in your cum. “Doctor daddy..I like that.” He retorted before slipping his fingers into his mouth, cleaning you off of him one by one as you watched in awe. Stunned by his insistence of eye contact. Removing his fingers, he used the same two to beckon you to come close to him, once you sat up he leaned over you, his lips ghosting yours before he spat the mixture of your cum and his saliva into your mouth before engaging you in a messy lip lock.

The kiss was the distraction. You had completely missed the unbuckling of his belt, the sound of his zipper or him removing his hard inches out of his dress pants. Before you realized it, he pulled you to the edge of the desk and slipped inside of you. Your walls reacted before your brain could, gripping onto him for dear life. So surprised by the intrusion that it felt like you would push him out all together. Your breathing hitched, in a way to relax your body so that he could continue exploring the depths of you.

“Augh!” You groaned out as he worked the first few inches of himself in and out of your throbbing center. He pressed his lips to yours repeatedly, whispering for you to hush every now and again. “Be a good girl, take this dick…if you can be late to my class, surely you can handle dick.” He mumbled, his accent causing a chill to run up your spine. He was gentle, despite his rough approach. He fed you little by little until your pelvises collided and you were completely full of him. He laid you on the desk, hands on each side of your head, eyes connected as he began to stroke, deep and powerful. “Look at you, such a pretty girl. Wrapped around me like you love me.”

‘I DO.’ You wanted to scream. But instead melodic moans escaped your warm lips, words were inconveniently absent. You can tell your lack of verbal participation was bothering him just a bit, by the way the swing of his hips picked up with every new thrust. After a moment or two, he was fucking you relentlessly. His thick crown had found your spot and was no longer caressing it with care. He was beating your shit.

“Are you gonna’ be late again?” he asked, every syllable being drilled into your guts. Your stomach twisted and turned with each pump, but he peered down at you like he expected an answer, like your brain could comprehend what he was even saying.

You parted your lips to speak, but failed once again, a moan being the only verbalization you could produce. the strokes came to an abrupt stop, he pulled out of you without so much as a warning. “Wait!” you called out, desperately, holding your hands out like you could put him back in your damn self. he chuckled darkly. “You think you can ignore me and cum?”

You couldn’t realistically promise you’d never be late again, you didn’t control traffic, or flat tires, or bad hair days but you would’ve said anything to feel him again. “I’ll never be late again, Doctor. I promise. Just please…let me cum all over you.” You purred, making empty promises.

“I don’t believe you.” He added curtly, slapping the head of his massive erection against your clit, watching his pre-cum glaze your bulb. “But your pussy feels too good for me to argue.” He concluded as he entered you again, continuing his euphoric pillage of your body. The knots in your belly felt permanent, your toes curled as your legs wrapped around him. Your climax approaching with the volt of a thousand watts. His wood throbbed inside of you, pulsating with the same intensity. He was meeting you at your peak. “Fuck…” He grunted, proving your theory right. You draped your arms across his neck, leaning in and pressing your lips to his jawline, placing kisses until you reached his ear. “Cum with me, Dr. Pierre…I wanna feel you dripping out of me.” Your salacious words seemed to do the trick as both of you unraveled at the very same time.

You should’ve felt shame, or even disillusioned. But you felt nothing short of satisfied and empowered. Your legs were shaking and you were full of a strangers seed, but dammit was your first day of school memorable.

“8:00 AM, Wednesday. Don’t be late…” He spoke as he buckled his belt, looking up at you with those piercing orbs. “Oh, and that seat in front of me is now your assigned seat.” He added, prompting a laugh to fall from your lips.

“See you Wednesday, Dr. Pierre.” You concluded as you exited his office and back into the real world.

Fuck, you were late for work.

#aaron pierre smut #aaron pierre x black!reader #aaron pierre x black reader #black writers

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ohproserpine · 1 year ago

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for valentine's day, i thought i'd buy a gun.

synopsis: you make your husband mad on purpose tags: fem! reader, married couple, blood&injuries, demi alastor, suggestive/steamy, just a short kinda bad drabble to break my writer's block, ooc-ish alastor, soft alastor at first, vox mentioned don't like? don't interact.

"Cher!"

Alastor greeted you with a smile, his lips curved into a charming yet slightly crooked grin that softened the rugged edges of his appearance.

Leaning against the door frame, he looked every bit the rogue hunter returning from a hunt. His once-neat attire bore tears, burns, and scratches, with both knees of his pants ripped and scuffed thin. His monocle hung loosely on his chest, the glass broken and shards glinting in the light. Tousled strands of crimson hair fell haphazardly across his forehead, framing his rugged features, while a trickle of blood from the cut on his lips dripped down his chin, staining his deathly pale skin.

"Christ!" You jolted off the hotel bed, propelled into action by concern, your heart racing with worry. You began running around, collecting towels, extra clothes, and a first aid kit in a frantic rush.

Alastor moved into the room and stood in the very center, observing your frenzied activity with an amused smirk.

Finally, with all your materials in hand, you rushed to your husband's side, your footsteps echoing against the cold carpet.

"What happened to you?" you asked, filled with concern as you assessed his injuries, your eyes scanning his form for any more signs of distress.

"Just a little scuffle on the hunt, my doe," he replied with a cheer in his tone, spinning his staff in his hand. "Came across a feisty, moronic beast. But nothing I couldn't handle."

"A scuffle?" Disbelief colored your voice as you got on your tiptoes, straining to reach up and dab at the blood on his chin with a damp towel.

Alastor grinned down at you, his eyes tracing your features with tenderness. Always such a pretty view, but seeing you so domestic and sweet for him made him begin to feel hot below the collar. Leaning down, he reached out to sweep a stray strand of hair from your eyes, his long, sharp claws grazing against your skin.

"That can wait," his voice crackled with low static as he pulled you flush against him, chest against chest. "I've missed you dearly."

“Good heavens, Alastor, you’re insatiable,” you chided him playfully with a swat, though the warmth in your tone betrayed your affection. Your fingers lightly brushed against the rough fabric of his torn shirt as you urged him to let you continue tending to his injuries. "Let me fix you up first."

Alastor's ears twitched back as he rolled his eyes at you, but his grip remained firm as he pulled you closer and closer until you were practically dragged towards the bed, falling into his lap with a gentle thud.

"Love," you began to protest, but before you could continue, he silenced you with a deep kiss pressed upon your lips, a low chuckle vibrating against your own, melting any further protest.

He drew back briefly, only to dive back in, his lips tracing a delicate path along your neck. With a familiarity born of passion, his hands roamed, each touch igniting a cascade of sensations that threatened to consume you both.

"Al," you whimpered, unable to resist the intoxicating allure of his touch. As his lips began to trail up your jawline, you found yourself melting into his arms, the tension of the earlier encounter gradually dissipating in the heat of the moment.

He let out a dark chuckle, the sound echoing in the room, as he threw off his ruined coat and loosened the tie around his neck. Gripping onto your hips with a firm hold, he all but threw you off his lap and onto the bed.

The smug bastard. He knew all too well that his affections could smooth over any trouble he found himself in.

"Alastor," you murmured, your senses cutting through the haze of desire, "We really should attend to your wounds first."

Alastor began to move towards you, his claws digging through and tearing the mattress beneath him. "In due time, my heart."

"I am serious," you insisted, ignoring the wide smile you received in return. Alastor merely hummed, a low, melodic sound, as he moved to press himself against you, encasing you in an embrace that felt simultaneously comforting and confining.

You leveled him with a glare. Gritting your teeth, you continued, "What did you even do? I know damn well you didn't get these," you gestured to the charred edges of his shirt, "from an animal."

"Well, dearest, it was from an overlord meeting. You understand how tense politics can become," Alastor countered with a laugh.

"Bushwa," you scowled, jabbing your finger into his chest. "I know a lie when I see one."

"Rather accusatory," Alastor hummed, his tone dismissive.

"Well, I apologize for worrying about my husband, who looks to be on the verge of collapse any moment now," you snapped, frustration seeping into your voice.

"So enough of this," you scolded, your expression hardening. "What did you do?"

"What was necessary," Alastor scoffed, a mirthless chuckle following.

"I'd say he deserved it. You should have seen the way he looks at you," he continued, his voice low and tinged with a hint of warning, the air around him crackling with static.

"Who?" you asked, leaning down to meet his gaze. "There are plenty of people. Plenty of looks."

"Don't act as if you don't notice that pompous television bastard hanging around the hotel nowadays," Alastor's voice crackled with dark intensity, the radio static grew stronger, prickling against your skin and nearly making his words incoherent.

So this is what it's about?

You couldn't help but roll your eyes at Alastor's jealousy, though a small part of you felt a flicker of flattery at his protectiveness.

Your husband's irritation simmered beneath the surface, evident in the subtle set of his jaw and the way his normally smug gaze turned icy. But a mischievous spark ignited within you, tempting you to push his buttons just a bit further, to dance dangerously close to the edge of his patience.

"Are you talking about Vox?" you asked with a smirk playing at your lips. Tilting your head coyly, you met Alastor's gaze with a glint of mischief in your eyes. Your voice was laced with honeyed sarcasm, dripping like molten gold from your lips.

His expression darkened at the mention, a flicker of raw anger crossing his features before he regained his composure.

"You know well who I'm talking about," Alastor's grin was uncanny, his voice carrying the same tone you'd heard the night he faced death. "Don't toy with me."

Despite the seriousness of his tone, you couldn't resist the urge to tease him further. A playful smile danced on your lips as you reached out, gripping onto his tie and pulling him closer, closing the distance between you with a pull.

“What if I found him charming?” you breathed out against his lips, your voice a tantalizing whisper as you ran your hands up the fabric of his undershirt. Your touch was featherlight, fingers smoothing down the wrinkles of his torn button-up with a teasing caress. “I might have let him have me right then and there.”

A sudden sharp pierce of a distorted screech, like a radio malfunctioning, cut through the air, shattering the moment. Claws flying up to grip your face, Alastor broke the kiss and stared down at you with glowing blood-red eyes, their intensity piercing through you. Your breath caught in your chest at the sight, your heart pounding in your ears as you were overcome by a mixture of fear and anticipation.

Alastor called out your name. It was the first time you had heard him utter it in a while. Throughout the years, he had always addressed you by endearing nicknames, leaving you half-convinced that he had forgotten your actual name.

But as the sound of fell from his lips, despite the danger, you found yourself yearning to hear it once more, to feel the weight of your name on his tongue.

"My sweet," Alastor tutted, a screech of radio feedback following him as he cupped your neck in one hand, guiding your gaze back to him. His touch was possessive, firm, and demanding, akin to the control of a puppeteer manipulating his marionette.

"Never utter such words again," he growled softly, his voice a low rumble that sent shivers down your spine. His grip tightened ever so slightly, sharpened claws a warning of the consequences should you dare to defy him. "No one else shall lay claim to you."

With a defiant tilt of your chin, you met his gaze head-on, refusing to back down in the face of his dominance. "And what if I refuse?" you challenged, your voice steady despite the fear that coiled in your belly.

Alastor's lips curled into a manic grin, his canines shining beneath the lights of the room, his grip tightening ever so slightly as he leaned in closer.

"Then you shall suffer the consequences."

#have this shite drabble sorry for no writing :P i had a competition yesterday and the results come out today + i have prom tonight lolol #sephiewrites #hazbin hotel x reader #alastor x reader #hazbin hotel imagine #alastor imagine #hazbin imagine #hazbin hotel x you #alastor x you #hazbin x you #hazbin x reader #hazbin hotel #alastor #hazbin vox

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