#synth session
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#synth session#dark ambient#ambient music#shutdown valley.#dark#atmosphere#post industrial#experimental music#noise music#noise#avant garde
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Hey

#chara yap session#miss miseryguts#riproducer#help#jiraiblogging#help please#jiraiblr#self ship#vocal synths#yumeshipping#riako#oshikatsu
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Heinali live for Patch Notes at Ostriv, Kyiv - Filmed by Nika Popova
#music#modular synth#ukrainian music#heinali#electronic music#oleh shpudeiko#patch notes#180 fact#video#live session#nika popova#ostriv#oleg shudeiko#Youtube
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Kinda found sin sample while jamming
Sorry for this shakes xd
wrong tone but still
#nine inch nails#nin brainrot#jam session#keyboard#sin#sample#trent reznor#love this synth line#Spotify
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#music#floating points#this is my fav KEXP session of recent memory. the full vid consumed me all of 2022. genuinely entrancing#I memorized the timestamps so I could skip interview portion. it’s really good but after the 400000th viewing it feels less impactful.#god bless every restless nerd with a modulation synth#Youtube
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Dungeon Session - Chapter 2 features several tracks from Lost Armor Records I appreciate all the tape hiss and analogue drone in these recordings. Little Spells really captures the energy of a kid learning their first magic out in the woods, it's lovely.
#dungeon synth#lost armor records#youtube#dungeon sessions#little spells#witchcraft#teen witch#Youtube
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My original Work , just Practicing so i'd thought i put the whole this unfinished on here for you to hear was called Raw MyPop but i want to call it Neo-Pop what do you think.
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Spotify, please, I enjoy one (1) The Human League song, and it's Don't You Want Me Baby.
Practically every single other song they've ever produced is crap.
#the human league solidifying their line up in the early 80s:#''okay cool we've got three vocalists who can't fucking sing and a rotating door of random session musicians''#and it was the fucking eighties so it didn't matter if you couldn't sing as long as your synth was sick enough#(spotify no longer expects 'hide this song' to mean anything)#(it used to mean 'ok we won't play you this song')#(now it means 'you can grey it out in the playlist but we're going to fucking play it for you anyway lmao')#(and the only way you can force the algorithm to stop feeding you songs you hate is to BLOCK THE ARTIST ENTIRELY)#(i do not have strong enough opinions about the human league to do that)
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I'm a profesional saxophonist, of twenty-odd years now, christ I'm old, and your "Sax o phone chord practice !👍" came onto my dash, and, thought I'd spend a minuet to comment on it, thought you'd be interested, maybe.
The ranges are a tad odd, if I were to arrange it, I'd use a bass saxophone for the low ranges, but, by my shit ear, it could be played on a bari
The tambres are bizzare, they're all possible, easily, but, not ones you'd ever see in the same musical context, to explain, picture (sound?) a vivaldi string piece, acompanied by early-80s synthpads, and a "weird al" yankovic polka meddley. They sound fine, it's just odd.
One bit sounds like "The Final Countdown"
Overall, sounds good, you wouldn't get a similer tone if you gave this to a bundle of session players, but they could play it easy. You'd be shocked how many pices I get given to work with that are unplayable, I can't do sixty-fourth note scale runs, or hold a note for ninty seconds. (ok, I can do the latter, but not most notes, or contexts, circular breathing is hard)
Thank you for the insight, mister saxophone. I am not privy to the typical ranges of most wind/brass instruments, at least not by their upper and lower limits, but I knew I was definitely overextending the lows in many spots, spots that'd probably suit a different brass/wind instrument a bit more comfortably. The note on timbre is something I noticed really quickly, they definitely don't cohere as well as I'd like, despite them using the same emulated room environment, which ultimately means the timbre of the instrument itself is off - and it is. I am trialing a certain physically-modeled synth that emulates the sax, so it's not actually a traditional sample library - that comes with some benefits, like easy articulations, no delay and much more custom timbre and room-tone/space, but obviously it doesn't really sound like a real wind section. I could probably do that but it'd take a lot of fiddling, and that was more made for composition practice :P Bye mister saxophone
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tumblr. You have to see this. Now
my comfort character is a lesbian femcel fujoshi. have I won. I think I won.
my friends keep teasing me about this too STOPPPPPPPPPPPP
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I am forever a believer in Steve absolutely PACKING. Like he goes slowly and tells you "you're being such a good fuckin' girl, just a little more baby, gonna give everything" praising you SO MUCH, and then he makes you cry with the press of his massive cock...anyway that's what I'm thinking about...
wanted to write a little blurbie abt this bc it's horny hours, i fear! steve harrington x fem!reader MDNI 18+ graphic smut, protected piv sex, heavy praise, language, size kink i guess? soft!dom!steve, aftercare, not proofread bc i simply cannot be asked
nothing's gonna hurt you, baby.

The itchy fabric of Steve's basement couch press against your knees where they bracket your lover's hips; pants pulled down just enough to free you both into a dirty grind over each other's laps.
You hadn't exactly pictured your first time with him being on a decade's old sofa in his parent's finished basement den, but Steve had a particular talent for making everything special. The hopeless romantic.
Television static and The Police soundtrack your breathless make out session; Gordon Summer's voice carrying on softly around you. It was the song that you always found vaguely creepy, but with Steve, it just felt romantic. The bass and synth combining to perfectly punctuate your kisses. He swears that it's not his sex mixtape. You don't believe him.
His hands have a firm hold on your hips, dragging your embarrassingly slick core over his length. This was farther than the two of you had ever gotten before, and your gut told you it would be all the way this time, too.
Seeing him without the light-wash jean barrier you'd become so accustomed to was jarring, to put it lightly. Steve was a girthy eight inches, with a thick vein traveling from base to tip; wrapping around his entire shaft. His head was pink and leaking, daring you to dip your head and have a taste for yourself. You're not sure if you've ever physically salivated at the sight of a guy's dick before.
But this? This was no ordinary dick.
Your palms hold his cheeks; afraid you'll drift away if you let go. You can't resist ducking down to place a soft kiss to the twin moles beneath the left side of his jaw. Steve's head lolls back with a sigh.
Your curiosity has gotten the better of you the past few weeks. Steve was relatively quiet during your usual, run-of-the-mill make out sessions. You wondered if he was equally as quiet in bed. You can hardly contain the shiver that wracks you when you realize: you're about to find out.
Each time Steve's cock slides through your lips, his head catches on your entrance and you keen. Finally, he says, "You want me, baby?" God, I thought you'd never ask!
"Yes," you sigh. Maybe a little pathetically.
Reaching over to the end stand table beside the couch, Steve retrieves a condom from his wallet. And he's responsible! It takes all your strength not to physically swoon. He tears it open with his teeth despite technically having both hands free; careful to only tear the foil packaging.
You watch in silent awe as he rolls the latex over himself with practiced ease, and that's when it really hits you:
He's huge. And he has to fit inside of you.
"You're-" you swallow, trying to tamper your sudden anxiety, "Really big,"
"We'll go slow, okay?" He reassures with genuine earnest, a calloused hand caressing the soft plush on your cheek.
"Okay," you breathe.
The index and middle finger of his right hand find your throbbing clit, and he plays with you while he sheaths himself onto you with ease. The pleasure of it is enough to distract you from the sting of him stretching you past your previous limits.
"Good?" Steve asks though you can tell it's with great strength, like it's taking all of his will not to completely bottom out yet. You only love him more for the gentle consideration.
"Really good," you pant, "You can keep going."
So he does. He kisses you languidly, biting your bottom lip knowing that it would make you gasp enough to grant him entrance to your mouth. His tongue swirls delicately around your own.
"Just a little more, baby. You're doing so well."
Your foreheads press together with a shared gasp when he finally does bottom out; the sting eventually simmering to a delicious pressure like you've never felt before. Steve was big enough to reach that sensitive spot inside of you that you and any guy have yet to reach before.
He plants his feet firmly on the carpeted floor below you, beginning to thrust. You knew then that Steve wasn't going to make you move a damn muscle, opting instead to do all the work for the sake of your experience. His pace picks up in speed.
Your read lolls on your shoulders and you keen, every pump and circle of his fingers stoking the flames flickering in your lower stomach. It's as if you can feel him there.
"Fuck, Stevie, you feel so good," you whine, then gasp as he repeatedly pounds against the entrance of your cervix, "Right there!"
"Yeah? That the spot?" Steve asks rhetorically through gritted teeth, his hazel eyes burning with intensity.
"Steve!"
Tears spring to your eyes at the sheer intimacy of it all. You barely register them rolling wetly down your cheeks until:
"Don't cry, baby," his thumb swiping just below your eyes to catch the salty droplets.
You simply can't help but squeeze him in a suffocating embrace around his shoulders, grasping for purchase against the skin of his back-- anything to keep you even remotely grounded in this moment with him.
"I love you." You admit breathlessly. For the first time.
Steve stunned into silence only for a moment before responding, "I love you, sweet girl. Fuckin' love you--"
You fall off the edge together, almost too perfect. Perfect like the corny moments you see in romantic comedies, but Steve made it real. He always did.
Sweat drips from his temples onto yours, your bodies merged as one where you sit together.
With a hand to the back of your neck, he eases you down onto the sofa; ties the condom off before throwing it into the waste basket in the corner of the room. You barely register him leaving and coming back with a blanket and a dripping glass of water.
"Here," Steve says as he lifts the glass to your lips, "Sip."
He was domineering in that gentle way that made your head spin and want to obey his every command. So you do. You take long, measured sips from the straw he'd put in the glass.
"Good girl," he praises as he sets the glass on the table beside your head, pressing a soft kiss to your hair once his hands are free.
The central air conditioning causes the sweat on your skin to dry and cool rapidly, causing you to shiver. Steve doesn't need to be told twice.
He brings the knitted patchwork blanket up to your chin, tucks the edges comedically tight around your sides. You giggle lethargically at the gesture.
"What?" He grins back down at you. "Can't have my girl getting cold, can I?"
After some pouting, you convince him to share the blanket with you. Steve holds you tight to his chest, the mixtape long since having ended, but the silence doesn't feel suffocating with Steve. It just feels warm.
#stranger things series#joe keery#series#steve harrington angst#steve harrington fluff#steve harrington x reader#stranger things#steve harrington#steve harrington smut#steve x reader#asks open#send asks#ask me anything#requests are open#requests open#reqs open#request#not proofread#drabble#steve harrington imagine#steve harrington stranger things#joseph david keery#joe keery and his big giant dick#steve harrington blurb#stranger things blurb#blurb#steve harrington drabble#steve harrington scenario#smut
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Hard Techno Jam with Korg Volca Beats and No Input Mixer
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˚ · .˚ ༘ 𝒔𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒅𝒄𝒉𝒆𝒄𝒌
synopsis. yoongi invites you over to his studio to listen to the new stuff he's been working on.
pairing. bts ﹢ min yoongi x reader ﹢ hot
wordcount. 700
warnings. heavy makeout session, sexual tension so thick you could record it in stereo, teasing, lap-sitting, hair-pulling, hands under clothes, yoongi being a massive tease, suggestive content (but no full smut), profanity, intense eye contact that should be illegal
You shouldn’t be here.
Not because you’re not allowed—Yoongi invited you, his own fingers flying over the keypad at midnight, asking if you were up.
But because being in his space—his kingdom of dim lights and cables and soundproof walls—is dangerous.
It smells like him. Clean, musky, something a little addictive. The desk is cluttered with headphones, old lyric sheets, iced coffee cups with lipstick that’s definitely not yours. There’s an extra hoodie draped over the back of the couch, and you’re not even halfway in before he’s already looking up at you with that lazy, devastating smile.
“Hey,” he says, voice low, a little hoarse from hours of humming to himself. “Didn’t think you’d actually come.”
You lift a brow, kicking the door shut behind you. “When have I ever not come when you called?”
Yoongi shrugs. “Still didn’t think you’d come.”
He’s so stupidly casual about it. Like the two of you haven’t been toeing a line for months—midnight texts, inside jokes, brush-of-the-hand kind of tension. You’re his friend. His non-idol friend. No stylists. No rules. Just you, standing in his cave of beats and neon glow, pretending this is all totally normal.
“You said you wanted my opinion,” you remind him.
He swivels in his chair, nodding toward the monitor. “Right. Yeah. Come listen.”
You slide in beside him, knees brushing, and try to ignore the heat crawling up your neck.
The track is slow. Seductive. Laced with synths and bass and something that feels like skin on skin. It builds and dips, not aggressive—just smooth, hypnotic, the kind of rhythm you’d move to in a dark room with someone’s hand on your waist and your heart in your throat.
Halfway through, you swallow. “Yoongi... this is…”
“Too much?” he asks, looking at you sideways.
“No,” you whisper. “It’s good. Like. Ridiculously good.”
You don’t say sexy, but the word sits there between you anyway.
He smirks. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
The silence that follows is loaded.
Your heart does that stupid flutter it always does around him—the kind you try to ignore, until he does something like reach over you to hit a key, hand brushing your thigh, breath ghosting your cheek.
You freeze.
He doesn’t move.
Then his voice, just above a whisper: “Wanna know what I was thinking about when I made it?”
You nod, slow. “Tell me.”
His eyes drop to your mouth. “You.”
Your lungs stop functioning. “Me?”
Yoongi shrugs one shoulder, like it’s nothing. Like he didn’t just crack the earth in half.
“Not in a weird way,” he says. “Just… the way you looked the other night. When we were at that bar and you laughed at something I said. I went home and—” he breaks off, then huffs a laugh. “I started layering sounds and it just… came out like this.”
You blink. “You wrote a song because I laughed?”
“You looked at me when you did it.”
Your stomach flips so violently it’s dizzying.
He doesn’t give you a chance to speak. Just shifts, slow and certain, reaching out to tug you by the wrist. You stumble forward instinctively, hands bracing on the arms of his chair.
Next thing you know, you're in his lap.
Straddling him.
“Yoongi—” you start, but your voice cracks, and you’re not even sure what you were gonna say. Don’t? Stop? Kiss me already?
He’s looking up at you like you’re the chorus he never quite finishes.
So he kisses you.
And god—it’s devastating. All tongue and teeth and heat, hands on your thighs, under your shirt, dragging you closer like he wants to wear you. Your fingers twist in his hair, yanking a sound from him that goes straight to your core.
You grind down without thinking.
He groans.
The chair creaks.
“Fuck,” he mutters against your mouth, his breath ragged. “You can’t—do that—unless we’re planning to take this way further.”
You lean in, licking into his mouth with a grin. “I didn’t think this was just a listening party. Did you?”
He laughs, breathless, dark. “Oh, you're a minx.”
You kiss him again.
Deeper.
And in the background, the instrumental loops again.
Your laughter’s not in it. But your moan might be soon.

𓂃˖ ࣪⊹ navigation : all works ; guidelines ; let's be friends .ᐟ
#min yoongi#yoongi x reader#yoongi x you#yoongi smut#yoongi fluff#yoongi fic#yoongi fanfic#yoongi scenarios#suga#bts#bts yoongi#.txt#soundcheck
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Thinking about Rachet on Synth-En and how openly off the wall insane he'd be about you.
Rather or not this is a timeline where he knows Optimus has eyes for you, I imagine Rachet keeps his more troubling cravings on the down-low. Which all goes out the window as soon as he gets the unstable substance in his system.
You WILL know how attractive he finds you (i can see him practically cat-calling you like a fratboy), and he WILL start fights to both impress you and get the others to leave you alone. He acts like a buck in that way, incredibly eager to butt heads with everyone especially when you're around to see.
For his own sake he better hope you were already publicly together at that point, cause after it wears off there's only so much he can hand wave as being the Synth-En's fault.
Obsessed!synth-en!Ratchet goes so hard, but enduring more than five minutes with him is practically impossible. Not to mention how unbearable, clingy, and horny he becomes when you're alone with him. Every dirty, hidden secret he’s been keeping, every ugly and impure need he has for you, all come spilling out. No filter, and zero intention of hiding them.
Imagine hearing, "How’s it hummin’?" every single time you walk past him (as he leans against a wall with his arms crossed, giving you the most bedroom optics you’ve ever seen from him).
The drawn-out whistles every time you have to bend down for something, or worse, just stretch casually.
Or him throwing the most diabolical, unexpected, and vile line you've ever heard in your life, like: "Hey, sugar tits," and doing it in front of all the bots because synth-en!Ratchet has no concept of shame or subtlety.
And those constant fights, damn You can’t even talk to Optimus about the weather without Ratchet butting in, convinced Optimus is trying to flirt with you. The same goes for everyone else. Bulkhead interacts with you? Ratchet is ready to rip his spark out of his chest. Bumblebee glances your way? Ratchet's already calling him out for a one-on-one in the middle of the base, and you better be there to witness him kicking the young scout’s aft. And yes, after his victory, he’ll demand a reward. And don’t make him laugh with some meek, innocent kiss on the cheek... bro is after that humanussy.
I also think synth-en!Ratchet would have absolutely no problem with PDA and becomes much more impulsive with touch. If he suddenly decides he wants to kiss you, you’re about to have the sloppiest make-out session in history. If he concludes that you’re not giving him enough attention (you just looked somewhere else for like one second) he will immediately scoop you and sit you on his shoulder so you don't have a choice but to interact with him.
You can’t even find a quiet corner to rest, because Ratchet will definitely find you. Anywhere. Don’t even think you can hide from him (a.k.a. function for a moment without being scooped up without warning). He has to be with you 24/7.
Which is why he becomes unbelievably problematic once you leave the base. Just mentioning that you have to go home makes him go feral. The entire team will have to pin him down just to open a ground bridge to your home, though Ratchet will still find a way to slip out. Before you’ve had a moment to relax, you’ll be calling Optimus, because there’s a very sus ambulance parked outside your house. And then that same ambulance will snatch the phone from your hand before you can make the call because Ratchet is feeling romantical...
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Hips Don’t Lie
Lewis Hamilton x Race Engineer!Fem!Reader



She was the tether tying him to the team…and so much more than just that
An unintended detour to a club just before a race week leads to something neither of them anticipated.
Warnings: tension between reader and Lewis, he is a tease, she is definitely trying not to be too obvious about her crush on him—until alcohol kicks in, workplace romance (?), sensual + seductive, nickname (Miss Perfect). I don’t know why I wrote this but it’s too late now
Word Count: 2.5k
They were close—they had to be. She was the only person on the team who remained in touch with him while adrenaline roared in his blood, igniting his nerves, syncing his heartbeat with the wild rhythm of the Rosso Corsa machine. Her voice—soft, sure, and steady—cut through the chaos in his ears, threading its way past the roar of the engine and the static of speed, straight into his mind. She was his tether mid-storm, the calm in the eye of every race.
She gave into his whims here and there—she had to. It was the only way to keep him content without letting him get cocky. That delicate balance was an art, almost impossible to perfect, especially when her heart stuttered every time he pulled off his helmet, breathless, sweat glinting on his forehead, eyes still chasing the adrenaline high. It was hard to hold herself at a distance when he’d walk her through technical issues with fervor, speaking in that fast, bright cadence of someone still half-inside the car. Harder still when he placed a hand on her back in the paddock—as though she hadn’t been with Scuderia Ferrari long before him.
She knew it was wrong. The way she tuned into Lewis as if he were the only frequency that mattered. The way she looked at him—when he wasn’t watching—as if he, and not gravity, was what kept her grounded. Workplace romances weren’t strictly forbidden, but they were frowned upon. Too messy. Too compromising. Too likely to draw attention away from the team and toward personal entanglements. And if there was one thing she prided herself on, it was discretion.
She wasn’t even sure how she’d ended up here, in a club too loud, too chaotic, too drenched in perfume and sweat and synth bass to suit her. Curvaceous women in glittering dresses moved through the haze, stilettos like weapons. She, in contrast, wore simple black trousers and a white button-up—an outfit chosen for a meeting, not mingling. Her original plan had been to go over logistics for an upcoming private test session at the Italian circuit—an urgent attempt to address the car’s glaring weakness.
But somehow, Lewis had steered the evening into something else. Something about her needing to loosen up. Something about her shoulders being too tight. She had said no. More than once. But eventually—how could she resist him? The man who lived in her thoughts during godless hours. The man whose charm was too easy, too sweet, too cleverly hidden behind crooked smiles and lingering glances.
And so, she found herself here. Out of place in the VIP section of a club she didn’t know the name of, sipping a Kir Royale and watching the dance floor with unreadable eyes. She never drank much in places like this. Not when surrounded by strangers. She knew her limits, and how quickly she reached them. Call it instinct or experience, but she didn’t like being vulnerable—especially not in public. Especially not near him.
A deep chuckle pulled her attention upward. Lewis, leaning back with whiskey in hand, had turned toward a group of glittering women who were clearly eyeing him. She’d seen that look before—on and off track. They always looked at him that way, with open admiration, knowing smiles. She was used to it. She had told herself that a hundred times. But the twisting in her stomach hadn’t faded over time. Nor had the hollow ache in her chest when she thought about him choosing someone else.
Someone who wasn’t her.
He could have anyone. He had had everyone—models, singers, beautiful, effortless women who wore red carpets like second skin. And she? She was the opposite in every way. Unruly hair usually tied back in a ponytail. A figure that didn’t belong in magazines. A mind that wouldn’t sit still. She was all sharp edges where others were soft, all caution where they were ease.
She knew she wasn’t what he wanted.
At least—that’s what she told herself. Over and over again.
“Something bothering you, Miss Perfect?”
She startled, yanked out of her whirlwind of thoughts by that unmistakable, honey-laced voice. Lewis’ tone was teasing, but there was a sharpness beneath the velvet, a glint in his eye that told her he’d been watching her for longer than she realized. Now he was leaning forward, elbows braced casually on his spread knees, his half-empty glass of whiskey hanging from long, graceful fingers—the very same fingers she imagined inside—
No.
She snapped out of it. She shouldn’t think like that. Not around him. Not when he was looking at her like that—with a smirk that could break her equilibrium and a gaze that seemed to burn past her clothes straight into her bloodstream.
“Nothing,” she said, too quickly, too lightly. She already knew it wouldn’t fool him. Lewis had this irritating tendency to see through her—unearthing her half-truths and quiet lies like it was a sport. And unfortunately for her, he had a competitive streak.
He raised one brow slowly, and his smirk deepened like a secret being let out too soon. But, surprisingly, he didn’t call her out—not directly. Character development, she mused wryly. Or maybe he was just biding his time, waiting for her to crack on her own.
His gaze flicked downward to her hand, specifically the delicate flute of red-gold liquid she was nursing. His brow lifted higher, somehow, and then he gave her a slow once-over that made her want to squirm—because it wasn’t lewd. It was curious. Like she’d just added another piece to the puzzle he couldn’t quite figure out.
“Kir Royale?” he asked, amused. “In this place?” He gestured vaguely to their decadent surroundings with a lazy tilt of his glass—the bass-thumping club, the strobe lights, the gold-drenched décor, the crowd full of glittering temptation. His tone made her roll her eyes instinctively.
“It’s elegant,” she retorted.
“It’s tragic,” he countered, but his lips twitched like he enjoyed her retort far too much.
Before she could respond, he shifted—casually, unapologetically—closer. And just like that, their thighs brushed, once, twice, and lingered. Her breath caught, chest rising with the effort of not showing how deeply that touch unspooled her.
She raised a brow at him this time, trying to mask her nerves with defiance. But Lewis only smirked, slow and shameless. And then—God help her—he leaned in.
His lips brushed the shell of her ear, and his breath was warm, laced with whiskey and something darker, headier.
“Couldn’t hear you, love,” he murmured.
She wasn’t sure if it was true or just one of his signature games.
Honestly, she didn’t even care.
Not when her skin was prickling from the closeness. Not when her pulse had turned traitor. Not when she was starting to believe she wanted to play.
He extended his glass to her, the amber liquid swirling in the low light—glinting like temptation itself in the crystal. It wasn’t just a drink. It was an unspoken dare, laced with something heavier than alcohol, and it hung between them like a suspended breath. Around them, the noise of the club throbbed on, a dull, distant beat. But in this little pocket of time, it was just him, her, and the silent hum of electricity tightening the air.
She caught the look in his eyes—dark and gleaming, challenging. He knew exactly what he was doing. But he’d forgotten something crucial.
If he was competitive, she was ruthless.
She had paid for it dearly in her younger years—when pride outpaced wisdom, when proving a point meant more than protecting herself. But now… now, that instinct was tempered, honed. And tonight, with adrenaline curling in her gut at the promise of something reckless—something forbidden—her hand moved before her mind could catch up, reaching for the glass.
Only—he pulled it back.
The smirk on his lips widened, slow and wicked, as he raised the glass instead to her mouth. Her breath hitched. Not from surprise, but from the deliberate way his eyes roamed over her face—slow, thorough, knowing. He watched her like a lion watches a fawn at the water’s edge: with an aching kind of hunger, the kind that promised she didn’t even realize she was prey.
Ordinarily, she would’ve stepped back. Shut it down. Reasserted the boundaries they so carefully danced around.
But nothing about tonight was ordinary. And logic was already slipping through her fingers like sand.
So she let her lips touch the rim of the glass.
The crystal was cold, but the liquid burned, rich and sharp, sliding down her throat as he tilted the glass with maddening patience. His fingers brushed hers—barely there, but enough to light her skin on fire.
And when she swallowed the last of it, when her eyes met his again—he was already leaning closer, voice like velvet dragged across embers.
“That’s a good girl.”
Her heart slammed against her ribs, a reckless staccato.
Heat bloomed in her cheeks.
And God help her—she liked it.
Half a drink turned into three, and somewhere along the way, her crimson cocktail had been abandoned on the low table beside their velvet-lined sofa—forgotten like inhibition. The sofa stood empty now, bearing silent witness to the shifting pulse of the club: bass deepening, lights dimming, and the dance floor flooding with bodies.
She found herself among them, caught under the glittering lights, hips moving to Hips Don’t Lie with a confidence that felt almost foreign. Or maybe not foreign—maybe buried. There was grace in her movement, fluidity in the way her body arched and swayed, and for once in her life, she wasn’t thinking about data points, team dynamics, or keeping her expression neutral.
She was just… being.
Until the heat returned.
Warm breath coasted down the side of her neck, making her shiver despite the sweat-slicked air. And then—hands. Large, firm, familiar. Wrapping around her waist, pulling her back into a body she could recognize without even turning. The press of his chest against her back was solid and sure, and she bit back a sound when their hips aligned in sync, swaying like they’d done this a hundred times.
Lewis.
She didn’t need to look to know. But she turned anyway, heart pounding in her ears louder than the bass. Their eyes met—his gaze molten, pupils wide and black with something unspoken. It was the same look he wore behind the visor of his helmet, chasing apexes at 300kph: focused, hungry, and utterly unrelenting.
He leaned down, lips brushing the shell of her ear, breath teasing skin already too aware of him. His grip on her waist tightened, not possessive—anchoring.
“Feeling cozy, huh, Miss Perfect?”
Another challenge. Laced in silk and swagger. He was trying to draw her in, coax her truth to the surface without force—just pressure and presence and that damn voice. But she knew the game. And she was no stranger to restraint.
So she huffed a laugh, rolled her eyes, feigning boredom even as her body melted further into his. Their hips rolled in unison, drawn together by a beat they didn’t control. They moved as one—fluent in this new language of proximity and provocation.
“Did you dance like this with Bono too, Lewis?” she tossed back, casual, airy.
A jab in velvet gloves.
His bark of laughter was low, right against her ear, making her knees threaten betrayal. And just as she thought he might pull away, retreat into some witty retort, she felt his inhale—slow, deliberate.
Her hair—freed from its usual ponytail and tumbling down her back—had brushed against his chest. The scent of her shampoo wrapped around him, soft and clean and hers, and he bent without thought, burying his nose in the strands, just for a moment.
“Bono never smelled this good,” he murmured, voice thick and rough, amusement slipping into something far more dangerous. His nose skimmed down to the side of her neck, the tip brushing the fine, sensitive skin just below her ear. “Or moved like this.”
Her breath caught.
Her body betrayed her.
And still—somewhere, through the haze of warmth and whiskey—her mind whispered:
This is a very, very bad idea.
And yet, her hips didn’t stop moving.
Her breath caught.
But she didn’t pull away.
She couldn’t. Not when his body was pressed against hers like that—heat radiating off of him, hands still resting low on her waist, thumbs stroking slow, absent circles that sent pulses of electricity up her spine. Not when his voice, low and rough-edged, was still brushing against the delicate skin of her neck.
She swayed, just slightly, hips continuing to roll in time with the music, moving against him with a rhythm that felt less like dancing and more like foreplay. Her head tipped back, resting lightly against his shoulder, and she closed her eyes for a breath too long.
A mistake.
Because in that moment, he dipped his head again, lips grazing the curve of her jaw.
“You know,” he said, words soft, almost lazy—coiled with heat, “you’ve got a hell of a sway for someone who pretends she doesn’t like to be touched.”
She opened her eyes, meeting his gaze over her shoulder—half-lidded, heat-glazed. She could still taste the whiskey he’d fed her. Still feel the ghost of his mouth, right there on her skin.
“Maybe I don’t always pretend,” she murmured, turning her body slightly so they were more face to face now—though still pressed too close, with no air between them.
He looked at her then—really looked—like he was trying to memorize every flicker of emotion across her face. The tension between them was drawn tight, the invisible thread stretched near breaking.
“I knew it,” he whispered. “You’ve been holding back. All that control—” he dipped his head, nose brushing hers, not quite kissing her, “but your hips don’t lie, do they?”
A smile tugged at the corner of her lips. It was sly, daring, edged with defiance.
“No,” she said, her voice sultry now, low and daring. “They don’t. But I think you already knew that.”
His eyes darkened, hands gripping her hips tighter, guiding them into one slow, deliberate roll against him—so intimate it made her gasp.
“I did,” he admitted. “And now I can’t stop watching them.”
He leaned in further, lips ghosting along her cheek, lower, toward her jaw again.
“You’re driving me insane, Miss Perfect.”
She shivered, her own hands finally finding his chest—fingers pressing lightly through the fabric of his shirt, feeling the heat, the steady rise and fall of breath he tried to keep under control.
“Good,” she breathed. “You’ve been driving me insane for months.”
His lips found her pulse point this time—slow, deliberate, feather-soft.
And this time, she didn’t stop the whimper that slipped past her lips.
He groaned, low and muffled against her skin. “Say the word,” he said. “Just one.”
But she didn’t.
Not yet.
Because she liked this game.
And for the first time in a long time—she had the upper hand.
#f1 2025#f1 fanfic#f1 x female reader#f1 x reader#lewis hamilton x reader#lewis hamilton#lewis hamilton x you#lewis x reader#lewis hamilton fanfic#lewis hamilton smut#ferrari
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ASK COMPILATION: Boomer Drow, Scratch, Mouthwashing, Cats and musical opinions.
A more casual compilation this time as I desperately try to make some room in my inbox. I went back so far I found lore questions and art prompts that I really liked but had completely forgotten about... That's why it's a mess in there LOL I will hopefully get to those soon!
Hi! Thank you! I still dream about smoking almost every night and had a couple during the new year but I'm hanging in there :')
Very loose and mostly as a bit. It might be something that I explore more in the future, but as of right now their "canon" setting is far, far more interesting to me!
...That's brutal and highly accurate 😭
[MORE UNDER THE CUT]
I'm not gonna lie, when I started posting I got, uh, a lot of responses like this to my art. About how I drew people "ugly" and frightening and even though it MOSTLY was meant as a compliment, it got kinda... Overwhelming 😅 It definitely led me to do a 180 for a while and re-access how I wanted to draw people. I love drawing flaws but I think that comes from not really seeing them as flaws, so the amount of folks AGGRESSIVELY harping on it did eventually get to me a little bit.
I think I've since found a pretty good balance between simple, pretty and "flawed" that I enjoy, though. So, thank you! I do take your message as a compliment and I'm glad you enjoy him.
DU drow was my first run! I have since played with a different character called Izzantar who was my first non-urge campaign though.
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... I didn't find scratch in the DU drow run. Sorry anon LOL
Now you see, this is the legacy I want to leave behind.
(thanks for making Astarion feel included)
I was the one who recommended it to him and I really liked it! I've always DREAMED of a game that actually and unapologetically put you in the shoes of a shitty person and took you through the complex reasons why they are the way that they are without justifying their actions. And I adore the way the secondary character undeniably had a hand in the tragedy that unfolded despite his good intentions. The game sincerely explored the types of flawed characters I rarely ever see explored and I can only give it my sincerest kudos to it.
I've been considering playing Origins on stream after MANY recommendations, actually!
I would suggest examining and referencing off athletes and gymnasts videos for practice while trying to garner a more in-depth understanding of musculature by crossreferencing that stuff with dry, medical anatomy diagrams. I have a few more in-depth examples and advice in my #tutorial and #advice tags!
DU drow would really like Frida. Jarboe would constantly disappoint him by being the very dumb animal that she is.
I think Astarion would like both of them but complain endlessly about how much attention they demand and how up in his business they'd want to be - I have a feeling he likes street cats, which none of my cats are (Frida has a little street-smarts remaining but has been thoroughly spoiled by now. Jarboe was a hoarder cat before I adopted her and is extremely sociable and un-cat-like because of it.)
I DM'd a single Call of Cthulhu session in my teens and only recently participated in my first ever DnD game in a discord event! That's about it.
This is for the over-attentive ANE readers but Brutus is a Dalyria song for me ☺️
He'd like Jazz A LOT.
But I think he'd be more of a root-punk/post-rock guy, not really into synth. And then a lot of the classics like Elvis, Nina Simone, Marley, etc.
Also Foetus and GG allin for whatever reason.
3 for Astarion, 5 for Shadowheart. Jaheira would never but she could get away with 8.
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