Team Effort ✴︎ Cl16, Cs55
team effort ✴︎ cl16, cs55
genre: 18+, pwp (very little plot), filthy, fem!reader
word count: 3.3k
It was supposed to be a one-time thing, but now you’re in-between your boyfriend and his teammate again. So really, maybe, this could become a regular thing. (sequel of sorts to this but can stand alone just fine)
nsfw warnings under the cut!
18+ because… alright. a threesome, penetrative sex, anal sex, oral sex (M receiving), handjob (F receiving), double penetration (crowd leaves), dirty talk (degradation), crying, breeding, rough sex, size kink, requires suspension of belief regarding the inner workings of anal and positions apologies, spit kink (crowd leaves again)
probably the most requested thing i get, and i felt like practicing my pwp writing so—i hope you like it everyone! :) love auds
“Hey, you brought the pretty girl,” teases Carlos, a glass of alcohol in hand. He pushes it into Charles’ hand and you watch as your boyfriend takes a sip, vision semi-obstructed by how dark the place is. “Mind if I get a picture?”
“Course I did.” Charles smiles, and his left eye drops into a subtle wink. “And sure, she begged to come anyway.” His teammate laughs. “Nothing I haven’t heard before. Come say hi to the others.”
Your face turns hot when it registers what he’s just said, but it’s too late to get a quip in; a gentle hand at your waist is guiding you through the crowd of people, by the DJ booth, and into the seats just beside it populated by several familiar faces. You accept and return a few hellos and heeeys from Lando and Pierre, among others, and when a shot is offered to you by Danny, you take it.
Charles lets you wander around the area for a while to get used to the place, watches you laugh about something with Carmen and try your hand at the DJ table with Lando, combing your hair over to one side. You take a few shots because George feels like “letting loose” (he takes two).
He sees a patch of concealer just below your collarbone; granted, it’d have been hidden if you were wearing something less low-cut than your dress right now, but he spots it and he immediately realizes what it is with an amused laugh.
When his eyes glide upward from your cleavage, he finds you’re already looking at him, eyes half-lidded and mouth tugged into a pretty smile. He sees you excuse yourself, walking right into his arms, pouting. He tips his glass over to your lips, pours some of his drink in.
“What’s the matter, baby? Wanna smoke?” He leans against the railing of the VIP area, seating himself there and pulling you close so you’re pressed up against him. You inhale his scent, his cologne, nip at his jaw. You always get so touchy when you’ve got some alcohol in you.
There’s a blunt or three being passed around, you smell it. “Nothing. I think ‘m getting a little tipsy, I don’t want to crossfade.” You blink and it’s like your eyelids are droopy with honey. The party’s thick with the heady scent of tequila, mixed perfume, weed, and saturated with heavy bass. If you’re totally honest you’ve lost track of time.
“There you are,” goes a voice, and you tense.
“I was looking for you, too, mate.” Your boyfriend’s arm reaches to someone behind you and shakes. “Girlfriend’s feeling a bit tipsy.” He pulls his hand back in, rests it over your the small of your back.
“You okay?” Carlos leans in, his voice hot against your ear. You blink, in a daze of tipsy and hot, nodding. You’re in between them now, still pressed against your boyfriend. Slowly, your head lolls onto Carlos’ shoulder, exposing your neck. If you stepped back just a bit, you realize—
—you’d feel Carlos’ dick pressed against your ass. “A little tired,” you say, opening your eyes to meet your boyfriend’s. Normally they’re green, but now they’re so dark you can barely tell. The limited lighting doesn’t help. Your knees are weak with the way you resist the urge to grind back onto Carlos, who’s laughing, observing your ditzy face.
“Let’s get you out of here, huh?” Charles smiles. He’s always so sweet. Doing what you want, what you need, a nice guy in that respect. So he can take what he wants later. He and Carlos down the rest of their drinks, and they’re both ushering you out the back exit and directly into the parking lot.
It’s a direct replay of what happened a few months ago, and what happened a few times afterward. After dinners, races, nights out—it wasn’t too frequent, but enough that it became a thing. Enough, too, that you could grow antsy if it didn’t happen for too long.
Your boyfriend brought a different car today, his Range Rover with a spacious backseat you’re being guided into. The lack of heavy bass and strobe lights help you feel more sober, but don’t help with the arousal at all. As you climb, your dress hikes up a bit, and Carlos catches a peek of your panties underneath, white and almost see-through, showing the outline of your pussy.
They’re on either side of you, your breath hitching when they lean in closer, lip caught between your teeth and eyes screwed shut. Your boyfriend’s hand grazes your thigh and you spread your legs, involuntary, sighing a low please. Please what, you don’t even know.
“You want this?” Charles asks. He takes things slowly, a dreamy smile on his face, eyebrows knitted together. His hand moves upward, and he runs a few teasing fingers over the lace of your white panties, pressing them harder until you’re starting to squirm, breathless ahs leaving your lips.
“Please,” you say, voice small and desperate. “Yes.”
Your approval makes them more excited; they’ve both missed this more than they’re willing to let on. Your mouth is half open, letting out noises, eyes half-open; Carlos wonders what you’d look like covered in cum. Both his and Charles’, splayed all over your pretty waiting face.
The first time this happened, Carlos watched for the most part. He’d been chained to the driver’s seat, listening to the wet noises of Charles’ fingers fucking into you. He made eye cotnact with you right as you came, a long, drawn-out moan leaving your mouth. He fucked you another time. And he’s missed the feeling. He’s missed the sight of your fucked-out face, moaning on his cock, or his teammate’s, or both.
You press your lips to Charles and he encourages you to part them, slowly deepening the kiss until you’re moaning into his mouth, hips bucking up into nothing. “Please,” you say, “give me something.” Anything, you’ll take anything.
Carlos brings two big fingers to his mouth, laves his tongue over them, and brings them to the apex of your thighs, pushing aside the lace and fucking them into you, one by one. You gasp into Charles’ mouth—his fingers are so thick, pumping in and out at a brutal pace without waiting for you to adjust to the strength. You whimper, breaking the kiss because everything’s too much, head leaning back and eyes meeting the grey ceiling of the car.
“God, she’s wet.” You hear the teasing smile without looking up. “And tight.”
“I know,” your boyfriend says, smiling as he sucks a hickey onto your throat. Your legs quiver.
It’s Charles’ voice again, sweet and deep against your ear. “Feel good?”
“Yes,” you say, nodding eagerly, lifting your head up and looking right at him.
“Thank him,” he orders. They always do this, make you talk and use your words when your brain is all scrambled and going a thousand different directions. It’s only worse when they start talking about you like you’re not there, using dirty words and sliding into native languages you can’t understand, but they can, and they laugh watching you whimper for more.
“Thank—thank you,” you whisper, turning from your boyfriend’s face to Carlos.
“You’re welcome, princesa. You’re going to make us feel good, too, right?”
You nod.
“Why don’t you start now?” The instruction comes from Charles and you follow suit, hands going from your sides to the tents in their jeans, grabbing at the huge bulges there. You’re losing grip, Carlos’ big fingers are moving faster, feeling your orgasm approach faster.
Already? Shiiit, your boyfriend says with a low laugh. Go ahead and cum first, baby. Go ahead.
His words are so sweet, kissing up and down your neck, the stimulation pushing you further until you’re cumming from just two fingers. The messy squelch of Carlos’ fingers moving in and out of you gets them both so hard, aching to fuck you, take you apart, make your voice raw. Your moans grow louder and louder, legs trying to close around the hand in between them—they’re held open by two free hands and you have to lie there and take it.
“‘M cumming,” you gasp, tension bursting inside you, pussy contracting around Carlos’ digits. You squeeze at their bulges again, wishing you had the coherency to undo the buttons and the zips. They get the message, undoing their jeans just enough to pull out their cocks.
“Wanna suck you off,” you say, turning to Charles. Shyly, you add, “Both of you.”
The only way to do that is by kneeling on the limited floor space of the car. There’s not much space, and you shuffle around a few times, but eventually you find a position, legs folded and on your knees, in between the two of them.
They’re both looking down at you with dark eyes and devious, teasing grins that feel downright evil, hands wrapped loosely around their cocks. They jack themselves off a few times, and you hoist yourself up higher to watch closely, brows furrowed.
“Open your mouth,” Carlos says sharply, tone low and rushed. You obey, sticking your tongue out, and watch as he rubs the precum off his tip and onto your tongue. He laughs, looking at your boyfriend. “Look at that. Like that?”
“Yea,” you mutter, turning a bit to let your boyfriend to the same, letting your spit drip down from the tip so the glide is easier. He slaps your cheek with it, laughs at the way you pout, and advises Carlos to do the same. You turn again, taking Carlos into your mouth until he’s prodding at the back of your throat and it’s wet all over.
They love seeing you like this—with their precum being smeared al over your shiny, spit-covered cheeks and lips, tongue peeking out to get a taste every time they drag their cocks closer to your mouth. “She’s pretty, isn’t she?”
“Sucks dick like she was made for it,” Carlos says, punctuating his sentence with a quip in Italian. They both laugh as you gag around Charles’ dick, jerking Carlos off messily. You’re choking, precum coating the back of your throat and wrist wearing out.
“You look so pretty, baby.” Your boyfriend says, grunting with pleasure.
“Pretty lips, too, yeah?” Carlos says, his hand shadowing yours and making you jack him off faster.
“She can’t reply, Carlos. Too busy gagging on my dick,” Charles says, and your eyes well up with embarrassment that you’ve basically soaked through your panties from their words alone. You want them to cum, cover your lips and eyelashes with them so you can scoop it off and let them watch you swallow it. Be good for them, their good girl.
But they never like cumming if it’s not in you, or after they’ve been in you, so you anticipate the way you’re guided off your boyfriend’s cock by your hair. They tug your head backwards, a bit on the edge of roughly, exposing the column of your throat, littered with spit and lovebites.
Your pussy is getting wetter, dripping through your panties and onto your legs folded underneath. It’s the first thing they inspect when they heave you back into the middle of the backseat, bent over Carlos’ lap so your ass is on full display for Charles and, if he cranes his head, Carlos, too.
It’s humiliating. Your mind’s so hazy you can barely tell whose hands are whose, groping at your ass, pulling away the lace to reveal your puffy, wet cunt and letting the thin strip of fabric snap back to make you yelp. Two fingers push into you, going fast instantly until you’re sobbing for them to slow down. It’s Charles. You can tell because you feel the metal of his rings.
There’s a third at that point, stretching you out further, getting you even wetter and more desperate. You cum easily, overstimulated, tears rolling down your spit-streaked face as you quiver with it, blinking them away as you’re guided back into the middle. They maneuver themselves so they’re facing each other, your pussy right above Carlos’ tip, which is just beside your boyfriend’s.
You’re itching to sit yourself down, feel the familiar stretch of his dick, big and barely fitting when he stuffs himself inside you. It’s addictive. But there’s something Charles wants to do first, evident because he’s not yet letting you ride Carlos, his big hands bruising at your hips. “We’ve done enough to your pretty pussy, haven’t we? Your lips, too, that cute mouth.” He coos, almost. “But there’s something we haven’t even touched tonight, baby.”
Carlos’ hands spread your cheeks apart and Charles’ spit-soaked thumb rubs over your tight hole, causing you to shiver. Oh, God. You squirm above their laps, heart beating with nerves and arousal, pussy rubbing over the tips of their dicks as you go. “I’m nervous,” you whimper.
“Aw, go give Carlos a kiss,” your boyfriend says, his voice teasing and goading. You lean forward, slotting your mouth onto Carlos’ soft lips, parting them with your tongue immediately. He gets you all needy when you kiss him, smiling and enjoying your mindless, needy little grinds. As you kiss him, messy with spit and tongues colliding, you feel fingers teasing you again.
You whimper, Carlos’ hands roughly pulling the low-cut top of your dress down to grope at your tits, roughing them up, flicking your nipples. You moan out loud, caught up in the multiple sensations; your boyfriend loosens you up until his finger goes deep, deeper, bottoming out and stretching your ass out.
He collects some of your slick to lube another finger up, stuffing two into your tiny little hole. You gasp with the new feeling, lips open against Carlos’, who wraps a hand around your throat to guide you into kissing him again. Distractions. Pleasure.
“Jesus, she’s tight,” Charles says, not addressing you at all.
“She’s being really good for me up here,” Carlos replies, squeezing your tits. “Taking everything I give her.”
“Give me more,” you beg, licking over his lips until he’s parting them to kiss you messily all over again. You’re unaware, lost in the numb pleasure and dull painful stretch, that there are three buried in your ass now. He should prep more, Charles figures, but he’s impatient, just wanting to wreck you already, fuck moans out of you until you’re crying.
He nudges the tip of his dick against your ass, slipping the head in and listening to your ohhh as he goes, groaning. It hurts, Charles, you whisper, but your whine is swallowed into a kiss.
“Relax, baby,” he says, gritting his teeth. “Just relax.”
You’re so tight, squeezing him so, so tight as he bottoms out.
You’re clenching around him so hard he could cum, pump all his cum in you and watch it leak out. But he’s patient. He’s sweet. He lets Carlos finally coax his own cock up your cunt, where the glide’s easier, but the stretch now is unfathomable. You blink tears out of your eyes, ones of pain that slowly become unbelievable pleasure, moans spilling forth from your lips, slick gushing out of your puffy cunt.
Carlos thrusts upward, deep, and eventually Charles finds a rhythm too, your legs spread and eyes rolling back with how fast they’re slamming into you. You want to move, you want to avoid the pleasure from how overwhelming it is, the way it feels when they both bottom out at the same time ans you can feel the way your stomach bulges with Carlos’ cock.
“Slow down,” you whine, but they only laugh, watching your face grow more sweaty and flushed and debauched.
“Feel good?” Charles asks. “Use your words, love.”
“S—so fucking good,” you say, words punched out of you thrust by thrust. Carlos leans forward, brings his flushed forehead just flush of yours, both of you bobbing in time with their thrusts, and spits messily into your half-open mouth. Most enters, some splatters over your lips, and your eyes darken with it. You’re certain you’ve cum again just from that.
“Swallow it,” he laughs. “Be a good slut.” His eyes break from yours and meet Charles’, and they exchange a few quips in Italian before your boyfriend’s hand is raking you backwards, leaning over and spitting again. He pushes your cheek around a little, laughing at your docile, fucked-out face.
“Swallow that now,” he says. “Both of them.”
Obediently, you shut your lips, your whimpers pausing as you swallow their spit down. Your cheeks are burning with embarrassment.
“There you go,” Carlos says. You’re absolutely falling apart on their dicks, wet and messy and hot, your legs quivering with it. Carlos slams up harder, pressing your lips together again so he can feel your moans, hear your cute little voice saying Carlos please let me cum right by his ear.
He pulls out, moving himself higher to use your mouth instead; the added space gives Charles the opportunity to fully bend you over, on your knees and too weak to use your elbows, face smushed against Carlos’ dick. You’re shaking, pussy still trembling and tears of overstimulation rolling down your cheek. You’re struggling to take his dick well, but Charles keeps fucking you, determined to finish.
He pushes you down so your back arches deeper, your lips parted around Carlos’ huge cock. “That’s right,” he groans. “Take it, come on, be a good girl for me.”
“She’s so tight still,” he says to Carlos. The latter’s hand strokes over your hair, pulls at it, grips at either side of your throat so he can fuck your face properly. He fucks your throat hard, watches you cough and squirm around his spit-coated cock, his balls slapping your face every time he bottoms out. He’s close—Charles is close—and you’ve cum twice again now, pulling off and whimpering I’m cumming— before finishing, gushing release all over your thighs.
“It’s our turn now,” Charles orders. They pull you off at the same time, and you go on your knees again on the floor, gazing up at them with big eyes and a flushed, pretty face, lips pink and puffy from having just been fucked.
You reach two hands up and jerk them both off again, both their hands guiding you to go faster, faster and faster until—
You flinch, the first hot spurt landing just on your cheek, then your lips, then a bit on your nose. Somewhere in between, Carlos presses his tip to your lips, coaxing them open so he can shoot cum on your tongue and chin. They lean back, collapsing onto the backseat, heaving sighs.
They both look down at you, your nasty, cum-coated face, smiling up at both of them. Carlos blinks a couple times and then smiles. “Hey, mind if I get a picture?”
More Posts from Potter-barnes-rowaelin and Others
does anyone know of the fic that reader is being spanked because she heard lily and Marlene talking about it then shows off she also got spanked?
ᴠᴇɴᴛᴜʀɪɴɢ ɪꜱ ɪɴᴇᴠɪᴛᴀʙʟᴇ
: ̗̀➛ dom!wandanat x sub!fem!reader
summary: desperate times call for desperate measures. after you lose your job and your roommate in the same month, you find yourself scrambling to find a new job to continue paying your bills. you apply for anything—even positions you most definitely are not qualified for. you’re surprised when you get a scheduled interview at the M.R. law. it was easily the most popular, well-known law firm in all of new york city. little did you know that interview would change the course of your life and open up a whole new world you never knew you wanted to experience.
au/background: wandanat who are two pretentious, successful and domineering women in between submissives. you, being the innocent little thing you are, have only heard the term “bdsm” once or twice and never really understood what that world consisted of. however, you’re curious, eager and always open to trying new things. you are somehow, something wandanat have always been looking for…they just didn’t know it.
a/n: i’ve been dying to write a wandanat series for awhile, i just wasn’t sure what i wanted it to be! now i know there are a few very popular wandanat fics out there (which i love), so i hope you all can understand that some themes/attitudes/characterizations may be similar to those other series’s. please note: i’m not purposely trying to copy or replicate anybody else’s work!
! ! parts ! !
☻ ↴
one: mrs. romanoff will see you now
two: a whole new world; a kinky place you never knew
three: is it too much, detka?
four: when life gives you dominants
five: when life gives you dominants pt. 2
six: the world we’ve charted before
seven: a different kind of attitude
eight: happy accidents
! ! one shots ! !
— uncharted territory
! ! au thoughts/reqs ! !
one || two || three || four || five || six || seven || eight || nine || ten
Hi! Love your work 💕
I’m not sure if you take requests, but could you write a NSFW Azriel x reader fic where reader doesn’t know a lot about males (az may already have a thing for reader) and so Azriel offers to give her lessons?
Hello!
Sorry it took me a minute to get back to your request, trying to maintain being a responsible adult is annoying lol. I have to say I absolutely love the idea of this so hopefully I met your expectations!
Warnings: NSFW 18+, nudity, adult language, fingering, oral sex, innocence kink if you squint
Azriel x f!reader
Now onto the good stuff
Prime Specimen
You had been studying medicine for almost a year at this point, learning about various herbs and how they all went together. You aced your test that Madja gave you with flying colors, but now you had moved on to the next thing. . .
Anatomical studies.
The Female body was a piece of cake, after all - you had one. What you struggled with were the Males and if you wanted to be a good healer, that meant learning about absolutely everything. And you knew next to nothing beyond the basics if you were being honest with yourself.
You hummed absentmindedly as you crushed more herbs in the back of the clinic while reading over the texts of your book about Illyrians and their different wing shapes.
Azriel studied you from the doorway, you hadn't even heard him come in. A small smile played on his lips as he watched you, a slight frown on your face as you read something from a book. You always did that when you were concentrated, he found it quite cute.
Madja had brought you to Velaris a little more than a year ago, surprising everyone when an extra body followed behind her into the clinic. So young and wide eyed, shy even.
He cleared his throat and you let out a small gasp and whipped your head towards him as he smirked at you. Azriel smirked down at you and you narrowed your eyes at him before mumbling something under your breath that he didn't catch.
Your attention went straight back to your book and he silently walks up to you.
"What are you studying?" He asks, hands behind his back.
"I uh-" you cleared your throat and you felt blood rush to your cheeks and you internally cursed yourself for being embarrassed, "Wings." You decided to answer simply, hoping he would leave it at that.
But he did not, he saw the flush spread across your face and he couldn't resist prodding you more. He had always made you slightly nervous, he was a silent observer and you could never tell what he was thinking.
You feel the warmth from his body behind you and you freeze. How was he so damn quiet all the time?
He leaned closer as he peered over you to read your book, a devious smirk covers his face.
"Illyrian wings, huh? Shouldn't you know all of this already?" He was only teasing you but you still blushed even harder. You saw him reach over you to examine your other books. "Male anatomy 101?"
You tried to take the book from his hands but he swiftly moved it further away from your grasp.
"Y-yes, the Male body is complicated, now give me my book back!" You weakly try to excuse yourself but he chuckles lightly.
"Why read from this dusty old book when you can just get hands on learning?" He asks, and you make a light choked sound.
"Oh yes, because I have so many Males at my disposal." You roll your eyes and huff.
"You work in a clinic."
"That doesn't mean anything!" You squeak out, truth be told you avoided them as much as possible and he laughs.
"Oh c'mon sweetheart." the endearment just slipped off of his tongue so casually, "You just waiting on a prime specimen?"
You gaped up at him and his eyes were crinkled from the shit eating grin on his face.
"Maybe I am!" You narrow your eyes and cross your arms over your chest, "Yes, that is exactly what I am doing. Someone who will let me study as closely as possible - I have a lot to learn."
He hummed in response, leaning down closer to your face. Gods you were so easy to rile up.
"Very well, I'll drop by your home at seven so you can study."
The protest died on your lips because he was gone before you could even process what the hell just happened.
+
Seven arrived faster than you would have liked, your heart hadn't stopped pounding since your interaction with Azriel. You didn't even have time to fully prepare yourself on your short walk home because there he was waiting on your front doorstep, as punctual as ever.
You muttered a greeting and unlocked your door. Your home was cozy, littered with learning material and different medicinal plants. You were nervous and he could tell, it was amusing. He observed you silently as you unloaded your bag and put things where they belonged, leaving out empty papers and a pencil for your notes.
"Are you ready?" He asks and he sees you nod so he begins to take off his shirt.
"What- what are you doing?!" You shriek and cover your eyes and he chuckles.
"Can't learn about anatomy very well if you can't see it sweetheart."
"Oh." Came your weak reply, face already flushed. It wasn't that you didn't want to see him shirtless, he was just too good looking for his own good; it almost made you wish he was ugly so it would make this easier.
"Glad you think I'm good looking." His amused voice brings you out of your thoughts. Your eyes snap up to meet his and you realized you were speaking aloud.
"You must be hearing things." You try to argue but it was truly no use so you just grabbed a piece of parchment and your pencil and walked closer to him.
He really was beautiful, and had tip-top physique. His abdominal muscles were taut and had scars here and there. You instructed him to flex certain muscles and relax others, watching his tattoos move as he did as you instructed.
He was patient with you as you poked and prodded, answering all your questions.
"I um-" You cleared your throat, "I need to study your wings, if that's okay."
He nodded, moving closer to the center of your common area so his wings wouldn't bump into anything. With his wings more spread you took a step back to make a quick drawing of them so you could label different parts for your notes.
"Have you learned about the other races wings yet?" He asks over his shoulder.
"A little." You reply as you walk up closer to him to examine the wings membranes more closely, "I know Illyrian wings are not as pliable."
He hummed in agreement.
"Wings are also very sensitive, especially in certain areas." He adds, you weren't sure what he was trying to insinuate by 'certain areas' but you nodded. "You can touch them if you need to."
"O-okay, thanks." You flushed once more, putting your pencil in the same hand as your paper as you hesitantly touched them.
"Ah!" He shouts and you curse and bring your hand back as if you burnt him.
"I'm sorry! I-" The apology died on your lips when you heard him cackling, "You asshole! I thought I hurt you!" You shove him and he turns around, amusement dancing in his eyes.
"I couldn't resist, I promise I won't do it again." You huff and motion for him to turn back around, he obliged. You were feeling more confident now and used both hands to slightly move the different joints of his wings gently.
A hand reaches further in to trace one of the large veins and you hear his sharp intake of breath. You ignore it, rolling your eyes and continued tracing along the joints and membranes. You failed to notice how rigid he had gotten, too focused on trying to learn how the wings meshed together.
His shadows played around your ankles, tickling your skin.
When you finally flatten your palm on the largest membrane you hear a deep grumble emanate from his chest. You once again ignore it, thinking he was trying to mess with you and you applied more pressure with one hand and lightly traced another area with your other hand.
His shadows swirled and the room grew darker as he whipped around to grasp your wrists. You started to protest but stopped when you noticed the dark look in his eyes. You noticed his body was shuddering slightly and Azriel could tell you were confused.
"If you keep touching me like that you will get more of an anatomy lesson than you bargained for." His voice was low and gravely and his eyes seemed to burn holes into your soul as he towered over you.
"What do you mean?" Your voice breathier than you anticipated and his eyes seemed to dilate.
"Oh sweet girl." He tsked, his face closer now, "You seem to be more of a hands on learner."
You nodded, still confused. He moved closer and his shadows surrounded you; all you could smell was him. Then you felt it. Gasping your eyes went wide as you looked up at him.
"Y-you-" Your voice squeaked and devious grin crossed his face.
"I told you that certain parts of wings are sensitive, and you managed to find them and despite every physical warning you kept touching them." His face so close you could feel his breath as he spoke to you. He was making your head fuzzy and you could hardly think.
Your body was buzzing and he grasped your jaw and made you look at him.
"Tell me to stop." He murmurs and when you don't his lips meet yours causing you to melt into him further. His hand moves from your jaw to cradle to back of your head and he deepens the kiss.
He could surely feel the pounding of your heart. His other hand lands on your waist as your own snake up his muscular arms and around his neck trying to pull him even closer to you.
He groans into your mouth and guides the two of you to your couch. He sits quickly and moves you to sit on his lap, your core grinding against him making you whimper.
With both hands on your hips he guides you back and forth, the friction sending electricity up your body. Your hands tangled in his hair, tugging slightly and he shivers.
"Doin' so good baby." He murmurs to you, resting his forehead against yours. You grind a little harder which makes you both moan, and your panties soaked at this point.
"Az." You whimper and he smashes his lips to yours, the kiss more aggressive than the last. His hands roamed more freely, slipping under your simple dress to grasp your ass and squeeze which makes you grind even harder as he groans into your mouth.
"Smell so sweet." He grunts and he maneuvers you to where your back now rests against the couch and he hovers over the top of you. "Let me make you feel good baby."
"Okay." You whisper, staring up at him with innocent eyes. You wait with bated breath as you feel his hand slowly trace across your skin to the front of your panties. He groans when he feels the wetness that awaited him.
"Has anyone ever done this for you, sweet girl?" You shake your head and all sorts of filthy things cross his mind. "Hope you’re good at keeping mental notes, because this is the first of many lessons."
His fingers slip under the lace of your panties and you gasp. He had barely touched you yet you felt like you could combust at any moment. His nimble fingers slid up and down, spreading your wetness before stopping at the star of the show - your clit.
Your back arches and you let out a startled gasp which is quickly swallowed by his mouth. His fingers circle it slowly and your hips move of their own accord.
He loved the reactions he was able to pull from you, loved that he was your first. His forefinger and ring finger to spread your lips apart and his middle finger finds the most sensitive part of your clit.
"Oh fuck!" You cry against his lips, hips bucking up. You were intoxicating.
"You're so responsive sweetheart." He growls against your lips, applying more pressure exactly where he was. His finger making tiny circles as his mouth attaches to your neck. If he thought you were wet before, you were fucking soaked now.
"Gotta taste you baby." He mutters into your neck and you nod rapidly.
"Please." You were so desperate for more, at this point not sure if you ever wanted this to stop. You didn't realize you were saying these things aloud but it made Azriel even harder.
You watch him slide down further, placing a knee onto the hardwood floor as he slots himself between your legs. Your dress had ridden up long ago and he got a good look at your soaked panties. He placed a kiss over the fabric, and you whimper once more.
You felt the warmth of his tongue as he licks a broad stripe upwards over the top of your panties. He does this multiple times and you were about to beg for more when he slides your underwear down your legs and spreads you wide open.
His eyes even darker as he took in your wet center, all for him. With that he attaches himself to your clit and swirls his tongue around it causing you to shout out.
He places his hands behind your knees and shoves them up and apart. He needed room to feast on you. Using the thickness of his tongue he gets the top your lips apart once more so he can abuse that sensitive little nub.
Your hips jolt up but he holds you down exactly where he wants you and you babble incoherently as you try to move. You cry out his name and he moans into you, the vibrations shaking your core.
"Taste so good for me sweet girl." He groans against you and you let out a shaky breath.
He lets your legs rest on his shoulders as he dips his tongue down to your hole and back up again. You feel a thick finger wiggle at your entrance and plunge in.
"Az!" You moan, hands moving down to grip his hair once more. He felt so good and you almost couldn't believe this was happening.
His other hand opened the front of his pants to free his aching cock. Using his free hand he pumped himself as you moaned above him.
He ate you like a starved man, sucking harshly on your clit and swirling his tongue expertly as he pumped his finger in and out of you.
You could feel yourself getting closer and he knew it too. He added a second finger and curled them upwards which causes you to arch off of the couch and shout his name.
He kept hitting that spot and your legs were practically squeezing his head so he couldn't move away.
"Az- I'm gonna-" You stutter and he hums against you and curls his fingers once last time before you came with his name on your lips. He didn't stop though, he still gently licked at your poor little clit. Flicking his tongue.
"I'm not done with you sweetheart, you still have a lot to learn."
🥰 lando norris masterlist 🥰
personal faves f contains smut(ty parts) s
✨ Series ✨
s KINDA HOT THO ; part one / part two
In which your brother has the most awful new teammate, but you keep finding yourself closer and closer to him. It's only sex - right?
s ROOMMATES (finished) ; part one / part two / part three / part four / part five / part six / part seven / part eight / part nine / part ten
In which you have to live with your brothers best friend who you really don't like, Lando Norris, and his many 'girlfriends' for a while, but there's always a thin line between love and hate.
f & s MORE THAN FRIENDS (finished) ; part one / part two / part three / part four / part five / part six / part seven / part eight / part nine / part ten / part eleven / part twelve
In which your best friend is going to help you to gain more sexual experience and say goodbye to your insecurities, but he's quick to discover that he never wants to share you and your new experiences with others - the only problem being, him having to confess his feelings.
s HIS TEAMMATE (finished) ; part one / part two / part three / part four / part five / part six / part seven / part eight / part nine / part ten / part eleven / part twelve / part thirteen
In which you find yourself getting closer to your brothers new teammate who's a total dick.
THE RACE LOSER (finished); part one / part two
In which you see your ex best friend again, after he cut off contact between you to because he needed to focus on racing
f & s MISTAKE(S) (finished); part one / part two / part three / part four / part five / part six / part seven / part eight / part nine
In which you keep making the same mistake over and over again by fucking the boy you hate the most
INTO IT (finished) ; part one / part two / part three / part four / part five / part six / part seven / part eight / part nine / part ten / part eleven
In which you really, really dislike your brothers new found best friend - Lando Norris - but you keep finding your way back to him
f&s FWB (finished) ; part one / part two / part three / part four / part five / part six / part seven / part eight / part nine / part ten / part eleven
In which you decide to become friends with benefits with Lando Norris, that can't be a bad idea right?
THE SISTER (finished) ; part one / part two / part three / part four / part five / part six / part seven / part eight / part nine / part ten
In which your the little sister of Max Verstappen and you meet Lando Norris, who quickly turns in to one of your best friends. But there's a thin line between friends & lovers
f&s BREAKING THE RULES (finished) ; part one / part two / part three / part four / part five / part six / part seven
In which Lando is your brothers rival during the championship, but you can't seem to stay away from him
✨ One shots ✨
s His stripper ; In which Lando his friends take him to a stripclub, where he meets you. He's quick to come back weekly, every Tuesday you're his. But when he comes another day and finds you on the lap of some other guy, something in him snaps.
s Not a chance ; In which Lando thinks he's going to win a race, to which you tell him the chances of you two fucking are as low as him winning a race - so what happens when he wins?
Regret ; In which Lando breaks up with you, but starts to regret it even more when he sees you back on the racetrack. Can he still fix things?
f Fake date ; In which Lando helps you piss of your ex boyfriend by acting like your fake new boyfriend
His masseur ; In which you're Lando his best friend and masseur, but your feelings start to cause a bit of trouble
s Crazy ; in which Lando and you are crazy for each other without knowing it from each other, until Lando loses his temper while seeing you with another
f Date ; in which Lando needs an awful push from his friends to finally ask you out
Afterparty ; in which you and Lando are oblivious idiots & you go to the afterparty with someone else after Lando told you it was no big deal, spoiler: it was a big deal
Little game ; in which you and Lando are fighting, so you decide to test his feelings for you with a little game
formula one ( poly ) masterlist
main masterlist
driver x reader x wag,
charles leclerc x reader x alexandra saint mleux
both of them !
not the same !
fashion help !
alex albon x reader x lily muni he
ultimate wag !
my favorite girls !
my shot !
l.o.v.e !
business proposal !
don’t judge a book by its cover !
george russell x reader x carmen mundt
who is she ?
my wags !
pierre gasly x reader x francisca gomes
masterplan !
oscar piastri x reader x lily zneimer
jealousy !
toto wolff x reader x susie wolff
Dios mío !
daniel ricciardo x reader x heidi berger
a misunderstanding !
driver x reader x driver,
charles leclerc x reader x pierre gasly
me n my dumbasses !
max verstappen x reader x daniel ricciardo
fuck it !
poly recs<3
PLEASE can we get more HOAF ?? Maybe their wedding with absolutely adorable Milo and Olivia OR their wedding night 👀👀👀 ~nurse-sainz
as two of you know, I've been seriously thinking about the hoaf second series. It has a title, but, because I don't want to start ANOTHER series until I finish a current one, it's something I'm going to be working on behind the scenes
1.7K
Warnings: Pregnancy, pregnancy hormones
Series Masterlist
Feel free to buy me a coffee ☕☕
She'd never expected to be pregnant on her wedding day. It was nobody's dream, to be round and swollen while stuffed into a pretty white dress that you just know would look so much better if you weren't pregnant, on your feet all day, unable to partake in any of the drinking.
Her bachelorette party wasn't all that. But she didn't want it to be. The only people she would have invited were the other wags, girls she didn't know all that well. No, her bachelorette party was her and Olivia getting their hair and nails done.
They ended the day getting dinner, just the two of them. They sat there, sharing a too big pizza while Olivia went over her details plans of the wedding.
It was the best bachelorette party ever.
Daniel had two bachelor parties. One that was organised by Max and Lando to be the wildest night of his life, with almost all of the grid accompanying them. And one where he could invite Milo.
The party with Milo was mini golf. Carlos was happy to carry Milo around on his shoulders, teach him all that he knew. The boys had all agreed to let Milo win, but he didn't have to know that. After the golf they had dinner and drinks.
One thing about Milo was he couldn't keep his mouth shut about the baby. Maybe Daniel should have reminded him that Baby Ricciardo was a secret, but he didn't expect Milo to just blurt it out, either.
But none of the drivers were surprised. They couldn't be surprised about baby Ricciardo, not when the couple hadn't exactly been good at hiding it. Daniel's hand on her stomach, the little list of baby names they'd all seen on his phone.
The party without Milo, when Milo was at home with Olivia and his momma, it really was a party. Loud music, drinks, dancing, it had everything. But, the moment Daniel got more than three drinks in his system, he was talking about her.
Arm over Max's shoulder as he slurred out his name and how much he loved her. "I want to have another girl," he said to Max, but it was barely audible. "A little girl that looks just like her."
When she had her first dress fitting, there wasn't a bump. Or, at least, the bump did little to change her frame. Her dream dress fit like a glove and Daniel's mother was crying.
It was naïve to think that the dress would still fit by the time the wedding rolled around. Her bump had gotten exponentially bigger, to the point where she couldn't hit it anymore. Now that the drivers knew, it was only time that the rest of the world knew.
They didn't announce it in any way. No, Daniel's Instagram usually had a picture of her in his photo dumps and this was no exception. Just, this time, her bump was visible in the picture.
If the world of F1 was losing its collective shit, neither of them noticed. The Ricciardo family was wrapped up in their own little bubble, just the way they liked it.
A week before the wedding, her dream dress wasn't fitting. Why the fuck wasn't it fitting? Well, she knew why. It was stupid to think anything would fit over her bump.
"I hate this baby," she said through tears as she rubbed her bump. No, she didn't hate baby Ricciardo, not in the slightest. Actually, she loved baby Ricciardo more than anything. But still, she couldn't help but wish she wasn't pregnant.
The dress she wore on her wedding day wasn't her dream dress. She couldn't wear those cute white heels she wanted to wear, couldn't even see her feet.
As she stared at herself in the mirror, just an hour away from being walked down the aisle, an hour away from marrying the love of her life, she was ready to cry. She held it back, though, couldn't afford to ruin her makeup. "What're we gonna do with you?" She whispered as she cradled her bump.
"Momma?"
She looked at Milo in the mirror before she turned towards him. "C'mere, baby," she said and held her hands out towards him. Fuck, how was he almost seven?
As her son wrapped his arms around her, she wanted time to stop. Just stop, let her live in this moment forever. He was growing up so damn fast, he was going to be a big brother soon. "You look beautiful, momma," he said.
This time, she couldn't help the tears. Stupid pregnancy hormones. "Thank you, Miley," she said through a shaky breath as she stood up and grabbed a tissue. Gently she dabbed at her eyes, trying to save her makeup.
She smoothed her dress over her bump and took Milo's hand. "Let's go become Ricciardos."
Daniel had never been this nervous before. Not in his first race back after McLaren had let him go. He was sweating in his suit as Max stood with him. All of their guests were seated, but the most important people were missing.
The door opened and Olivia and one of her friends, one that had been over a few times, walked in. They tossed the petals out of the little white basket as she walked in behind her.
Daniel knew her relationship with her family was... strenuous, at best. That was why they weren't at the wedding. With her father not there to walk her down the aisle, Milo held her hand.
Daniel's breath caught in his throat. He knew she wasn't in her dream dress, not the dress that matched Olivia's, but she still looked amazing. Holy fuck, it was enough to bring tears to her eyes. But that wasn't what actually did it.
Milo was the one walking her down the aisle. Milo in his little suit that near matched Daniels. He stood tall and proud, head held high as he walked his mother towards his step father.
The kids sat together through the ceremony. Milo couldn’t stop himself from fiddling with the little pieces of petals as his mother got married. They were incredibly well behaved throughout, with Olivia’s grandparents, and Milo’s grandparents now, too, keeping them company.
This close, Daniel could see the faults in her makeup. He didn’t care about the faults, she looked gorgeous with or without it. But still, Daniel could see the smudges under her eyes as he slipped the ring onto her finger.
Mrs Ricciardo. She was Mrs Ricciardo now.
Daniel didn’t say anything about the evidence of her tears as he kissed her. And, once he had his mouth on her, he never wanted to stop kissing her. He couldn’t dip her, like he wanted to, but his hand cradled her bump, cradled baby Ricciardo. His baby. She was his wife and she was carrying his baby.
This was the best day of his life.
Their family and friends were cheering as he walked her out of the church and into the car. Even then, even in the car, he couldn’t keep his lips on her. But he had to make sure she was okay, that took precedent. Even knowing that, Daniel couldn’t pull his lips away from her own. So the words were mumbled against her lips. “Were you crying?”
He tried to sound concerned, by her lips against his had his voice coming out as more of a desperate whine.
But, as soon as he said it, she pulled away. “I’m fine, Danny,” she said and went to rub at her eyes, rub away the evidence of her tears.
Daniel caught her wrists. “You look beautiful,” he whispered and kissed her again. “My wife looks beautiful.”
The way she looked up at him, fuck, he could have kept her in that car forever. “Say it again.”
“My wife.”
When they arrived at the reception venue, their friends and family were there, waiting. As soon as they climbed out of the car, Milo and Olivia were pulling away from their grandparents, racing towards them. Daniel couldn’t help but pick Olivia up and place her on his hip as Milo held his mothers leg.
“Are we a family now?” Olivia asked, her voice coming out almost like a demand.
But nobody could blame her. She’d been waiting for this moment for a year and a half.
Daniel rolled his eyes, but he was grinning. “We always were a family, Badger.”
There was no part of her wedding that the new Mrs Ricciardo didn’t enjoy. She wasn’t in her dream dress, but, now she had that ring on her finger, now she was married to the love of her life, she didn’t much care.
She danced, but she didn’t dance the night away, like she had dreamed. She couldn’t help but be emotional as she sat with Daniel’s parents, her mother and father in law, watching the guests at her wedding. They were dancing more than she was, at her own wedding.
Holding her bump, speaking softly to baby Ricciardo, she watched as her husband and her children danced. Daniel’s grin was so wide as the three of them were the centre of attention on the dance floor. That was the man she loved. That was the man she married.
“Your daddy, your siblings and I can’t wait to meet you,” she whispered to baby Ricciardo as her mother and father in law watched on, hearts melting. “You’ve got the best daddy going.”
And, as Daniel put Olivia down after spinning her around, he looked over to his wife. She smiled at him, a smile he’d never forget. As Olivia went to dance with Lando and Max took Milo to get something to drink, Daniel walked over to her.
“Hi, baby,” he said as his hand met her bump. And then he looked up at his wife, meeting her eyes. “Hi, Mrs Ricciardo.”
“Hi, Mr Ricciardo.”
He kissed her, and she never wanted to let him go.
If you enjoyed this, please feel free to buy me a coffee
Taglist (CLOSED): @biancathecool
@rewmuslupin
@prettiest-at-the-party
@hellowgoodbye
@cassie0sstuff
@spideybv28
@andydrysdalerogers
@aundercover
@lou-bean28
@landossainz
@purplephantomwolf
@ggaslyp1
@layazul
@phantomxoxo
@minseok-smaus
@gills-lounge
@hollie911
@annispamz
@lily-ann-b
@cixrosie
@notyouraveragemochii
@charli123456789
@amalialeclerc
@teamnovalak
@tallrock35
@teenwolf01
@chiliwhore
@darleneslane
@sava207
@thatsusbitch
@formulaal
@leptitlu
@angiesw0rld
@yunakynn
@landosgirlxoxo
@msolbesg
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@catmouseggy
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@angelxxrose
@millinorrizz
@xemiefx
@ellies-world61
@the-depressed-fellow
birthday masterlist <3
i don't know about you, but i'm feeling 22 !!
for my birthday i wanted to put together a mini masterlist of my favourite works xx
we don't play about halloween
max verstappen
max doesn’t play about three things: formula one, his cats and his girlfriend’s love for halloween
friendship bracelets
charles leclerc
charles' gf is beloved in the fandom for her love for frienship bracelets
cherry lip balm
oscar piastri
the verstappen siblings run motorsport, but the youngest's f1 allegiances may belong elsewhere
ultimate wing man
daniel ricciardo
y/n is notoriously single, and her dad decides to take it into his own hands.
big time rush
lando norris
so how is alex albon and sorority rush connected? how is lando involved? and will the grid ever understand the greek system?
nine lives
alex albon
one of the many albon pets has to take a quick trip to the vet and maybe, just maybe, it comes with love at first sight
tight knit
charles leclerc
spa 2021, where a knitting hobby comes in handy
into the arms of another
one / two / three / four
max verstappen
after charles leaves her out in the cold, y/n falls into the arms of another.
peas in a pod
oscar piastri
y/n and george russell may be twins, but they’re hardly two peas in a pod and oscar is just there for the ride
head in the clouds
lando norris
there's no one more attractive than the stranger at the same gate as you at the airport and sometimes that stranger works on your best friend's private jet.
signed up for life
lewis hamilton
f1 finally introduces a sign language interpretor to their media team
kiss it better
oscar piastri
when oscar crashes into the barrier at monza, he thinks he sees his guardian angel, in reality he's just got a concussion and that's a first responder, but it's the thought that counts.
you and me got a whole lotta history
charles leclerc
y/n is a historian and it’s not her fault her bf’s job takes him all around the world…
mamma mia
mamma mia / no more ace to play / honey, honey / age of no regret / a wonderful thing
sebastian vettel, jenson button & fernando alonso
what the hell is in the water in greece? why are pregnancy tests so expensive and why does seb name his vehicles like that?
also i am still working on requests, i have returned home and am just finishing my freelance work xx
buy me a ko-fi?
—the seasons of love
or: the enemies to lovers situationship fic charles leclerc x female reader summ. winter, the first time. the start of the year, the start of it all. minors dni, nsfw warnings under the cut. 7k words part two
18+ because: brat taming, fingering, oral (f receiving), name calling, spit, unprotected sex, overstimulation, booty call!, masturbation (f receiving), voyeurism, mad sass, fucking porn without plot basically.
There’s nothing special about the club scene in Monte Carlo. If you’ve been to a club in any major city, anywhere in the world, you’ve been to a club in Monaco. It’s all neon lights and kaleidoscope colors and poorly lit dance floors and mid-tier DJs who think they’re the next coming of Jesus.
Tonight is no exception. The air is thick and heavy with the scent of floral perfume and alcohol, the entire room shaking with the pulsating beat of the bass, reverberating off every single corner and shaking the liquor in your glass. Bodies move—yours included—half in sync with the music, half in step with their drunken stupor. Perched in the safety of Charles’s section, away from the swaying forms of laughter and shouting and screaming, your entire body thumps alone to the beat from the DJ booth a couple meters away.
Across the section, Charles sits stoic on a couch, taking up a seat and a half and frozen like some magnetic force. His eyes are stuck on you in a way that pulls goosebumps from your skin, makes you irrational angry at him. You’re feeling particularly bratty today, egged on by the tequila and his visible annoyance.
You’re on your way to interject into his pity party when your sister catches your arm, pulls you by your bicep to dance with her. Her palms are sweaty and cold and you hope that it’s the condensation from her cold glass that’s got her all clammy. The two of you have always been quite a sight after a few drinks. You get your tolerance from your mother, are both disastrous lightweights, feel the need to give any and everyone around you a show.
The two of you twirl to the music with little effort, laughing like you’re seven and the hazard littered floor under your feet is the old brown carpet from the family room you grew up hosting dance parties in. It’s all hair and giggles and hands in the air like you just don’t care. Everytime your glance catches his, he’s staring back, nursing his drink and half participating in a conversation with your brother-in-law and Jo.
“What’s his fucking problem?” you ask, leaning over to shout into your sister’s ear.
“He can’t dance,” she slurs. You snort. He can dance.
You whistle, loud and commanding and cat-call-ish even though he’s already watching you. “Charles! Get out here and dance, you fucking buzzkill!”
Your sister joins in on the fun, playfully swaying her hips to the music, tossing out an imaginary fishing line to her husband and reeling him over, calling along teasingly to Charles. “Yeah, show us what you’ve got, Il Predestinato!”
Charles rolls his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest defiantly. “I don’t dance,” he calls back with a soft chuckle. He tries to play it cool, like always, but everyone in the room knows you’re pushing his buttons. You always are. The reason he keeps you around is the same reason you stay around; your families’ relationship predates any animosity between the two of you. That, and the friend group was founded before you loathed each other and it would be too much work to try and split it up now. You’d probably never see Joris again.
You dance closer to him, putting on a dramatic show and a poor fight against the urge to continue challenging him. “Come on,” you tug on his arm, just out your bottom lip into a pretty little pout. “Live a little.”
He’s never been able to turn down one of your challenges, however thinly veiled they might be. It’s his own personal sore spot, the one that you poke and prod as often as you can. Competition has always been the foundation of your mutual annoyance, it’s not going to suddenly change after some eighteen years of consistency. Finally, he relents, lets you think you’re pulling him to his feet, dragging him to dance with you and your sister.
His moves are stiff and awkward, almost hard to watch. You laugh, because he’s wound up so fucking tight in two weeks you’d have a diamond. “See!?” your sister laughs, the contagion of it spreading to even the brunt of the joke. “I told you!” she continues, slinking her arm around her husband’s neck sloppily. His arm grips her side to hold her steady. It makes you feel sick.
A smirk tugs on his lips, and for a brief moment, there’s a hint of something more in his eyes. Not annoyance or frustration. Something seven, something innocent and childish. It’s fleeting, and you take a deep breath because the music feels quieter now. You down what’s left of your cocktail to clear your head, to calm the sudden flutter of nerves.
The more he drinks and the longer he’s forced to dance, the lighter and more magnetic he becomes. “You know, Charles, I never thought I’d see the day,” you tease. He’s been in a near constant state of pity-party for weeks now, ever since his dumb ass got dumped by another girl wildly out of his league.
He rolls his eyes, but his tone is as amused as it is drunk. “Don’t get too excited. It’s the liquor,” he retorts, a piss poor attempt at downplaying how much fun he’s having. He wouldn’t dare to give you the satisfaction. You lean in closer, brush your body against his, fueled by the noise and the alcohol.
“The liquor doing the touching, too?” you ask.
He’s always been a touchy drunk. Since before you and your friends were allowed to drink, he’s been hands-on. And maybe it’s because this is the first time he’s grabbing your hips, the first time his broad hand is flat over your stomach, but you’d never noticed him as this touchy with his girlfriends or his girls that appear when he’s around. Whatever it is, the more he drinks, the more comfortable he is with his hands on you, and the less you find the nerve to care.
It doesn’t matter how many times he does it, though. Every touch burns your skin. It’s a sick little game you two play. Sick and twisted and so, so unlike the two of you.
Watch yourself—he warns, hand on the small of your back. You play with fire. Well established and well documented, though; you never back down either. No, the thrill of annoying him is enough to dive head-first, to push his buttons until they stick. “Am I?” you ask, as innocently as the tequila can muster, taking hold of his wrist and moving it so his arm is wrapped around your midsection, fighting to settle in the space between your waistband and shirt hem.
You respond to every one of his careful touches, ever lingering finger on your arm and your waist and your back. When you close your eyes, you imagine the nonsense patterns he draws on your skin like it’s on canvas in a museum, hung front and center just for you. Your inhibitions are slipping too, and you let yourself trail wandering fingertips over his body, too.
This isn’t the Charles you’re used to, the one you go head-to-head with every fifteen minutes. This is something entirely new, so far into uncharted territory you’re not even sure which way is north. There’s something particularly intriguing about the nerves bouncing around your gut.
Everything fades away into the dark and crowded club. You don’t know if your sister and brother-in-law are still standing there, if any of your friends are. All you know if the electric charge of this, of every teasing remark and touch that draws you closer, forces you to test the waters of the newfound layer of tension.
Everything is building, it feels like, to some grand crescendo of emotion and desire. Before there’s room to explore it, though, to dive deeper into the unspoken shift, the moment is interrupted by the return of the friends you didn’t notice leaving.
The night drags on, the lines between annoyance and attraction blurring into some chaotic muddle of intoxication. Nothing is clear, nothing except the sobering and unignorable pull. It lingers in the air above you, in the space between like a secret just begging to be unraveled.
You’ve got another drink now, because you can only think of one decision that would be worse than more tequila. In due time, you’re worried you’re a lost cause when it comes to that choice as well. His eyes stay on you, even from a distance, and you revel in the glory of his attention. Embolden by it all, you continue fucking with him. “Having fun yet, Charles?” you ask, knowing smile, voice dripping in subtle suggestion.
He raises a brow, the corners of his lips quirking up. You don’t think you’ve ever spent much time looking at them, the soft shade of pink and the softer skin. “I suppose I can tolerate it,” he replies with teasing eyes. He’s irritated by your laugh, by your proximity, by your lips brushing against his ear when you whisper; you’re not the only one here trying to have fun. His jaw tightens but he doesn’t take your bait. Instead, he pulls you closer, sways in rhythm with you and replies, “I’m here to enjoy myself, not entertain you.”
He sends your brattiness running full-tilt. Forces you to carefully consider every movement, every ounce of playfulness that you allow to seep into your demeanor and the proactive sway of your hips. You grin at him every chance you get, sly and calculated, daring him to resist.
You lean in close, brush against his ear and can blame it on practicality, on the bass and the music and the DJ if anyone were to question your actions. You rest a hand on his chest. “I know you love my attention.”
His breath hitches at your audacity, heart racing so quick you can feel it in your palm. He pulls you closer, dangerously close to your lips and says, “you talk too much. Maybe it’s time someone shuts you up.”
You scoff, low and teasing. “I’d like to see you try.”
[18 minutes later]
You step into the well-lit lobby less than a pace behind him. Your hands are interlocked, have been for every block of the darkened streets—since he grabbed yours and pulled you out of the club. “Admit it,” you giggle. “You love having me push your buttons.”
He remains stoic, jaw set as he pushes the button on the elevator. The tension is at a boiling point. You’re either about to kill each other, to be on the news for some grand double murder, or something so, so much worse is going to unfold.
He leads you to the apartment without a word, but as soon as the door closes behind him, all is lost. Your head is bumping into the drywall before you even realize what’s happening, his lips harsh against yours, the pent up frustration and desire snapping like a dried twig.
It’s fierce and passionate and while you never, not for a single moment in your life, imagined what he would taste like, you somehow knew it would be like this, cool and fresh and drunk. He licks into your mouth, messy and intense, teeth clacking and both of you fighting for some nonexistent upper hand.
Fireworks are going off outside. They shake the windows with explosive gravitas as you’re blindly led by his backwards steps down the hallway. You realize that in an entire lifetime of knowing each other, this is the first time you’ve been in his place. It’s not what you expected, from what you can gather—all clutter and red cars and a boy who never had to drop his dream. “They’re going to look for us,” you say between sloppy, open mouthed kisses.
He mumbles against your skin, strong hands on either side of your jaw. “Let them look.”
You walk through a doorway, into a bedroom clad with clutter and blue sheets. He would have blue sheets. There’s another firework, loud and booming, it makes you jump. You check your watch over his shoulder, pretend your hand doesn’t shake. “It’s almost midnight.”
“Okay.” Your knees bump into his and he sits on the edge of the bed.
You laugh, climb onto his lap, your arms strewn around his shoulders, broad and strong and you laugh again–this time into his mouth. What the fuck is going on. Seriously, what the fuck is this? “Happy New Year.”
He sighs, pulls his mouth from yours long enough to roll his eyes, to speak annoyedly into the hot air between your lips. “Yeah, whatever. Happy New Year.”
“Charles,” you mutter, hand on his chest. You think he’s going to regret this more than you will. People have always told you he’s the best kind of person. You’re not held in the same regard, and you know it. Some people are made to regret and others are made to be the regret.
“Jesus Christ,” he laughs, but it’s curt and passive. Annoyed, as always, even when he palms at your ass, traces his hands along the bottom of your hiked up dress and pulls you down against him with a bruising grip. “Shut the fuck up.” You tug at the hem of his shirt, pull it off over his head in a swift movement.
“You’re doing a piss-poor job at making me.”
He moves you like you’re a fucking doll, like it’s lightwork, tossing you down against the mattress and swapping your positions in a swift movement. The strength and agility of it makes your head spin. He’s not supposed to make your head spin, he’s supposed to make it ache.
But no, no. You do ache for him. All of you aches for him, for his calloused hands and the roughness of his jeans against your thighs and the soft contrast of his lips against everything else. It’s embarrassing. You can’t believe he’s got you like this, hands pinned above your head while he buries his tongue in your mouth, grinds his hips against yours. The coarse denim is almost painful on your sensitive skin, but the growing bulge pulling the fabric tight is more intoxicating than any cocktail.
“You’re such a fucking brat,” he says, bites a bruise against the skin just above your clavicle. “Spoiled little shit.”
He sinks to his knees, big blue or green or whatever fucking color his eyes are today watching you intently, boring into you with blown, hungry pupils. His fingers trail along your underwear, pulling the thin, lacey fabric to the side, and then removes them all together. He gloats when he runs his thumb through your folds. “So fucking wet.”
“It’s not for you,” you goad.
“Oh?” He nods slowly, spreading your slick with the steady digit, watching you carefully for reaction. “For who then?”
Your eyes flutter shut when the pad of his thumb presses against your clit, circles it slowly, teases you. He’s unfocused, his mind lapsing and giving you a much needed in, a clear shot to piss him off. “Your teammate.”
“Fuck off.” You first.
“You’re right, Charles,” you speak slowly, careful to control your breathing, to hide every tell you might have. “Someone should shut me up. Do you know anyone?” Without warning, he thrusts two fingers inside you, curls them like someone had given him a diagram of your body. You gasp at the suddenness of it all. Yeah, he mutters, utterly delighted with himself. Yeah, I think I know someone.
You roll your eyes, push his head down, down, mouth onto your core. There, in the midst of licking a long stripe through your cunt, he fucking laughs, shakes his head with a subtlety you’d never perceive if it wasn’t for the tip of his nose bumping your clit when he does it. At least he can follow basic fucking instructions.
His dick must hurt pretty damn bad, all hard and swollen in his pants, because he’s unbuttoning his jeans and freeing himself from the constraints of the fabric while lapping at you, the other hand still fucking into you with steady pace and hazy curl. You can’t see it, view obstructed by the mattress and limbs and hair, but you can tell by the way his shoulders move that he’s trying to get himself off at the same time he works on you.
You’re not going to make his job that easy. You require all of his attention, pure and undivided and hopefully just as infuriated as you are. You reach down to the apex of your legs, pull his head up by his chin. “Just fuck me, already, you prick.”
He rises to his feet, shakes his head, “you’re a needy little thing,” he remarks. Needy? You haven’t fucking seen needy.
He guides the head of his cock through your folds, spreading slick and spit and smacking himself against your cunt.
Your lips purse into a sharp line. “Don’t tease me.”
“Why not?” He taunts, “you’ve been teasing for hours.”
“It’s different,” you grumble.
“How?” You could strangle him, him and all his questions. What’s a person have to do to get fucked properly around here? You already sacrified your morals by pulling tight against the navy blue sheets. A woman can only make so many sacrifices.
You groan, heavy and exasperated. He’s such a pest. “It just–oh, fuck you–” without warning, he plunges into you, buries himself in your cunt until he bottoms out, skin on skin and the sore sting of him stretching you. Your fingers bruise into his arms, nails scraping over his shoulder blades with a gasp. He gives you no time to adjust to him, rutting into you with deep, measured thrusts. What was that, he prodes. Somehow, you find the poise to stabilize yourself, to reply smugly. “it just is.”
His objective isn’t your pleasure, no. That would be his prerogative, a side privilege, a requirement in his quest to get you to close your mouth and stop pestering for once. Making you come is just another box to check.
You don’t fuck someone if you’re not going to finish, though. Sleeping with Charles might be a lapse in judgment, but being someone’s play toy, letting him reap without sowing, that’s a complete disregard of your dignity
Your fingers find your clit, circle it in just the right sequence, combining with the curve of his cock to push you closer, closer, closer to the edge of the fucking world. Your entire body burns, everywhere, all over, all at once you sweat. Tell me–he insists, voice short and breathy. Tell me when you’re going to come. “I thought you were trying to shut me up?”
“Just, fuck, just tell me.” He palms over your breasts, still covered by your bra and the fabric of your dress, however thin. “So many fucking clothes,” he grumbled, stalling inside you, hands slipping under your back, between you at the mattress to pull you off the bed. You hastily pull the dress over your head, toss it somewhere onto the clothing cluttered floor. Better? You ask. “Better,” he nods, bites your bottom lip roughly, licking against your teeth. One of the hands that explore the skin of your back make quick work of the clasp on your bra, dropping the straps from your shoulders and your back is against the sheets again, his hands groping at you, pinching your nipple between his middle and ring finger, working over it until you’re humming profanities and huffing into his mouth.
Hate and desire is such a fine, blurry line. Anyone who tells you differently is a liar.
“M’gonna,” you choke on your words. “I’m–shit–I’m coming.”
“Yeah,” He picks up his pace, maintains a steady, toe-curling rhythm. “Come for me,” his voice heavy and growled. “Come on my dick.”
You do. You come for him, hard and long, wrapping a leg around his hip in a failed attempt to still him, to just be full of him and nothing more. He’s stronger, though, and fucks you through the whole thing, faster, harder, big hands braced on your hips for leverage. You explore the idea that a person really could be fucked in half, forced right open.
“Good try,” you sputter, shaky and broken words leaving your lips before you’ve found a gravity that isn’t him. You lean up to kiss him, wrap your hand around the back of his neck and pull him to meet you halfway. Your fingers tickle the short hair at the nape of his neck, raise goosebumps to his skin. “Maybe next time,” you hum into his open mouth.
He spits a long string of saliva into your mouth when you move to close the gap. You laugh around it, down it in a single gulp and lick your lips, sticking out your tongue to showcase your empty mouth, big innocent doe-eyes watching his reaction, his eye roll and devilish smirk.
“Like I said–” you start, but he’s flipping you over, tossing you around like a ragdoll. You giggle, high on the teasing and the taunting and then he’s fucking your face into the mattress. He’s got your hair gathered up into a ratty ponytail, uses it like a handle, forcing your back into an arch, your ass to perk up into the air.
God, he’s so fucking deep, turning you into a mess of bruises and sweat stricken skin. Your hips bounce back against him, angle in any imaginable way in an attempt to feel him deeper, to feel him in your stomach and your chest and your head. To feel him everywhere that counts.
“Putain, taking me so good, baby” he groans, lets the praise and the pet name slipping past his lips in a moment that goes unnoticed by neither of you. He smacks your ass with a firm hand, trying to mask his words after they’ve already been spoken. Your eyes roll back into your head and you come again, without warning. You decide before you get to think about it that it was the stinging imprint of his hand that pushed you tumbling over the edge. Whatever the real reason, you’re up two-nothing, or, depending how you look at it, he’s the one winning.
That’s all any of this is, one big game. A power struggle. You’re always fighting to win, and this is not different. If there’s a way to lose at a game where everyone is supposed to win, one of you is going to fucking find it and force it on the other.
You’re the one doing the flipping, now. The pushing and the shoving so he’s on his back. You straddle him and he gives you this look like he’s fully pussy-drunk, sick and euphoric and floating somewhere far from here. You’re so winning at this. “Jesus Christ,” you poke, “wipe your fucking drool.”
His entire face contorts when you sink down onto him. Everytime you think you’ve reached a limit, he finds a way to hit a spot impossibly deeper than the last. His hips lift up off the bed to meet you halfway, rutting into pleasure spots you didn’t even know you had, hand moving to your cunt, thumbing lazily at your clit, leaving you fuzzy and drunk in a mess of mumbled moans above him.
When you come for the third time, messy and sweaty, nothing that leaves your lips is distinguishable, a mess of French and English and curses and nonsensical mewls. “Fuck you,” he moans, breath shaky when he pulls himself out of you. Your body clenches around air, aches for him to return.
He does, after he moves you back into the position it all started in. “So close,” he tells you, sinking slowly into you, his sigh hot and alcoholic on your shoulder. His pace is slow, then fast, then slow again. He’s as rapid as his breath is irregular. You better pull out–you groan, every muscle in your body strung out and exhausted and you’re coming again. It’s blinding white behind your closed lids, ears ringing and muscles flexing involuntarily. He’s wrecked you, finally, left you a mumbling mess.
He pulls out almost in sync with your orgasm, jerks himself no more than twice between your legs before he’s coating your stomach in hot stripes of cum, loud, guttural moans leaving his lips in a way that looks and sounds practically pained. “Christ,” he heaves, watches on as your fingers dance through his orgasm, spreading it over your skin and coating your fingers. You don’t break eye contact when you stick two of them into your mouth, swirl your tongue around them tauntingly, sucking them clean and pulling them from your mouth with a pop. You hold the clean hand up for him to see, palm facing him. When you turn it, you pull down all but your middle finger, flip him off cockily.
He swats you hand away, “Never fucking again,” he tells you.
“Oh, you don’t have to worry about me,” you scoff. “I never want to see the inside of this apartment again.”
“Why are you here, then?” He remarks, turning the corner into what you assume is the bathroom, tossing a towel to you from across the room. You clean yourself up before anything dries, before coming up with a quick rebuttal.
You don’t come up with one, mind as tired as the rest of you. This game has been exhausting. “We’re never talking about this,” you say, pulling your dress over your head, stuffing your bra into your handbag because you aren’t sure you have the strength to clasp it closed. “Ever.”
“No shit,” he says, tosses your underwear in the general direction of you.
You bend over to pick them up, step into them with the snap of the elastic. “Promise me.” You have no idea where your shoes are, but he’s already ushering you out of the room, herding you down the long hall with wide, swooping waves of his arms.
“I promise.”
“Pinky,” you say, spot your shoes haphazardly stepped out of in the entryway. You don’t have any memory of them ever being on.
“Absolutely not.”
“Charles,” you lean against the wall to slip your heels on, hook up at him with a sober glare. He closes his eyes like you won’t be able to see them roll behind his lids, pinches the bridge of his nose and squints before dropping a heavy breath, holding out a pinky to you. You interlock it with yours. “Thank you.”
He pulls his hand from yours, turns the lock on his front door and swings it open, fingers wrapped around the edge, other hand gesturing out into the hallway. “Get the fuck out of my house.”
“With pleasure,” you say, stepping past him and into the well-lit hallway of sprawling marble floors. You stop in front of the elevator, press the button and wait for his inevitable comment.
“The whole brat-schtick you’ve got going on isn’t as believable when your leg shakes underneath you,” he calls down the hall. You don’t turn your head to face him, just extend your arm in his direction and flip him off. You hear his chuckle as he latches the door shut behind you.
Everything about today has been dreary–from the near constant mist that falls over the city, to the chilly temperatures, to the poor excuses for men that grace the screen of your dating app. This is not how Fridays in your twenties are meant to be spent, sulking in the dark of your bedroom after a miserable day at work.
You’re supposed to be out, partying with friends and making drunken decisions that have you waking up in a stranger’s bed after a good night you hardly remember.
God, you need to get fucked. It’s been months. Two months and ten days–not that you’re counting. Because you’re not. Counting. You aren’t.
You’re just restless, basking in the loneliness of the night, unable to shake the weight of your thoughts, of two months and ten days ago. Of Charles and how infuriatingly good he’d made you feel. The complexities of your relationship, the shift in the very DNA of what you know, it makes your heart race–a messy muddle of annoyance and desire that yearns to be untangled.
You give up on the dating apps, know that even if you do match with someone, there’s nothing that can be done to solve your problem tonight. You opt instead to scroll through social media aimlessly, searching for any distraction from the ache in your gut. Your hand unconsciously slips under the hem of your shirt, cups your breast while you scroll and scroll and scroll. It does little to quell your struggles. In fact, the game is over the moment you become conscious of your hand’s placement, the moment you start to massage your breast, to run your fingers over your nipple until it’s hard and perky.
You switch to the other breast, fingers gently tracing over the skin, sending chills up your arms, pinpointing the ache in your core. Your hand slides down your stomach, dips below the waistband of your shorts, into your underwear. You’re so worked up–pent up, reaching a boiling point.
Your middle finger glides through your folds, grazes over your clit, teases the slick at your entrance before dipping in, collecting enough to spread it around. Your clit is swollen, needy like the rest of you, and the pad of your fingers do little to relieve the pressure. Your fingers move clockwise, then counter. Vertical and horizontal and every combination of every direction and even though you can’t remember the last time you were this horny, this desperate to come, you can’t.
You slip in a finger, and then another, try to find the right curl and the right spot–to no avail. Now, you’re thinking about his fingers, about how much bigger his hands are, how his nimble fingers pumped in and out of you with sheet-gripping, whimper-inducing pace.
Your phone taunts you, his contact behind the locked screen just waiting to be messaged.
You try to resist. You hate him. He hates you. God, he knows how to fuck you, though; veiny hands and thick cock leaving you a writhing mess. Fuck. Fuck, why can’t your fingers move the way his did?
You cave, reaching over to grab your phone and text him. Hey. What are you up to tonight? It’s a mistake, you know that it is. He’s so damn annoying, there’s nothing about him that doesn’t drive you up a wall. Frustration makes the heart go fonder, you suppose, or maybe the cunt ache harder.
Within moments, your phone is buzzing against your palm with his reply. Chilling at home. You coming over?
You roll your eyes. No.
Ok.
You bite your bottom lip so hard you think you might accidentally draw blood. It’s phantom, almost, the way you can so perfectly imagine the sting of him stretching you out, the soreness of his bruising kisses, the swollen, wet head of his dick slapping against your clit. Come over.
You couldn’t pay me.
Door’s unlocked.
Give me 20.
You’re in the bedroom when he knocks. Three times, you wonder why he isn’t just walking in. You ignore the banging, let the universe decide for you if he’s meant to turn back and walk his happy ass out of your building. The universe decides he won’t be doing that, though, because he knocks again. Louder this time.
You pull yourself out of bed, feet creaking on the hardwood floors as you move to pull the door open. “I told you it was unlocked,” you grumble.
“Eh,” he shrugs, dumb fucking grin on his face. “Wasn’t up for your games.”
You internally debate just how bad you need him here, if it’s worth all the trouble that is him. It’s not, almost certainly it isn’t. You invite him in anyway.
“So, what’s the deal? Can’t get yourself off, so you call me?” He teases. Your frustrated blush gives you away before a witty comeback can slap the smirk off his face. “Oh my god,” he chuckles. “I was fucking around, but really?”
There’s no point in trying to lie now, not when your face has already betrayed your trust and revealed the truth. “Calm down,” you groused. “The last thing this world needs if your head to get any fucking bigger.”
He continues laughing like this is the funniest thing that’s ever happened to him. You want to smack the smile off his face, dimples and all. “The last thing this world needs is for this–” he gestures between the two of you, “–to become a thing.”
You mock his movements, the dumb look on his face. “This is not a thing. It’s just two friends–”
“–We aren’t friends.”
You sigh through gritted teeth. “Two not friends helping each other out.”
He crosses his arms over his chest, chews on the inside of his cheek while his eyes trace your finger, head to toe and back to head again. “You do know how ridiculous you sound, right?”
You breathe out in resignation, heading down the hall towards your room. “Can we just get on with it?”
“No.”
You stop in your tracks, turn on your heels. What the fuck is he here for, then? “No?” You close the gap between the two of you, plant your hands firmly on either side of his jaw and kiss him, all tongue and spit and rough lips. You knock him off balance, falling out of step when he kisses you back with a matching intensity, hands hovering over your hips. He doesn’t rest them there, you can feel the warmth in the space between your skin and his, the force that pulls you together.
When he does settle his hands, it’s not to deepen the kiss, to swallow any more frustration. It’s to put distance between your mouths. “I want you to–”
You nibble on his earlobe, cut him off with your hushed words. “I don’t give a fuck what you want, I want–”
“Show me how you touch yourself,” he commands, voice failing to waiver to your hushed level, an air of snugness to him.
“Charles,” your voice cracks with his name, a hint of your under the surface insecurity peeking through, putting themselves on display for him. Here! Here! Look at me!
“Show me, or I’m leaving,” he says, and it’s all throaty and husky.
(Eleven minutes later)
Legs spread for him, two fingers moving busily against your core, circling your clit, teasing your hole.
He stares at you like he can see your fucking soul, watches from his spot across the room, leant against the old wooden dresser, arms folded and ankles crossed. You stare back–harder, maybe–like if you win the little contest your cheeks won’t burn so bright, you won’t feel so exposed, so vulnerable, so embarrassed.
Those feelings fade, they do, with each flick of your wrist. With every glance of his hungry eyes to your fingers, to your cunt, tracing their way up and down your body, you feel calmer and calmer. And when he runs his hand over his mouth, along the stubble of his jaw and off his chin, you’re closer and closer.
It pulls whimpers, soft and slow and sweet, from your lips. There’s a sick thrill to it, to him seeing her like this, all needy and open and sensitive. It’s empowering, almost.
He breaks no more than twice, watches every brow quirk, lid flutter, and lip twitch with raw, intimate eyes. He’s less interested in what you do to yourself, the curve of your fingers or the noises they create, than he is in the way you react to the movements.
“You’re not even fucking watching,” you say, the letter sounds falling to your breath, hitching as your fingers angle just right.
“Watching what matters.”
“Oh? And, uh–” you huff. “What’s that?”
He laughs, dimples digging deep into his cheeks. You’ve always thought they made his smile so childish, like you can’t take anything seriously when it comes from someone with primary-school dimples and giddy eyes. You don’t struggle to take it seriously, now. “You’re thinking about me.”
Your eyes flutter shut, a soft sigh parting your lips. “Says who?”
He pushes himself off the dresser, saunters over with heavy feet, stopping at the foot of the bed. “What are you thinking about?” He humors.
Your eyes roll. You’re thinking about a lot of things. Half a dozen, atleast. About your fingers, the way they move against your swollen cunt, sticky with creamy slick, and how his fingers are that much longer than yours. About how loud he walks, how his heavy feet stand at the end of your bed, crossed arms that pull his t-shirt tight across his chest. About the fact that you’re not sure you locked the door behind him because you were so distracted by the way his sweatpants hung from his waist. About how he doesn’t bother to adjust or hide the protruding bulge under the fabric right now. About the curve of his cock, about how pathetic and full it makes you, utterly unable to spend time thinking about anything but how well he stretches you out. About his hair, flat and straight and wholly unstyled, how your hands would mess it up so nicely, tug and twist until he has something smart to say. Beyond frustratingly, he’s right. As you quickly approach a high, breath quickened and movements desperate, all you’re thinking about is him. “Things.”
“Mmhmm,” he hums, ever the rake, unsatisfied with your response.
You add a third finger, steady pace and a held stare. The muscles in your leg twitch. You’re so fucking close. “What are you thinking about?”
He sways, rocks his weight from his left foot to the right, runs his tongue over his teeth. “Things.”
A coy smile upturns the corner of your lips. “Mmhmm,” you mock.
He moves around the bed, trails his fingers over your skin; from your ankle, along the bone of your shin, a bruise on your knee. They stall on your thigh, trace small, soft circles on the inside of your leg. “You really want to know?”
He’s such a tease, keeps moving up, up, up, over your stomach and through the valley of your breast. “I–ah– I,” you stutter through your words, fingers working tirelessly to push you over the edge. Restless, further irritated by his delicate touch, his fingers up to your jaw now, slotting themselves there, you nod. “Yes.”
He leans over you, your lips inches apart, open and hot breathed. “Too bad,” he whispers into the space between, closing the gap and kissing you with an insatiable kind of fervor. Your fingers still, your other hand reaching to grip the back of his neck, to pull him deeper into the kiss. It’s a kiss that’s half as good as the sex, the breaking of the unbearable tension that’s filled the room while he’s watched, the promise of what’s to come. A lustful implication. His hand leaves your jaw when you pull apart for air, moving over your stilled hand. “Let me?” He asks, and it doesn’t feel like much of a question, the way he’s already slipping his fingers under yours before you can even squeak out an answer.
There’s something entirely different about his fingers, like the way that you can’t tickle yourself. You can’t predict his moves, every movement of every ridge of his fingerprints is something entirely surprising. “Yeah, fuck, you make, ah, make yourself…” You give up on the sentence, your body failing your mind in its ability to spit out a comeback. Yeah, you wish you could tell him. Yeah, make yourself fucking useful.
He laughs, slides his long middle finger inside you, pumps it twice and slips in another. You gasp at his sudden movement. “You’re embarrassing yourself, baby.”
Your back arches off the sheets. “Don’t call me that,” you seethe.
“But,” he curls his fingers against the spot you’ve been trying to reach all night. A moan tumbles from your mouth and he smirks. “It makes my job so easy.”
“Fuck you.”
“I was going to let you come first, but,” he chuckles. He’s so proud of himself it makes you ill. “If you insist.”
His hand stills, threatens to pull out of you entirely, but you’re covering it with your own, holding him there when you look up, hips instinctively grinding against him. “I’ll kill you. I will.”
You’re pushing him out of your apartment by the end of night, locking the door behind him. Your leg shakes when you slide down the door onto the floor. This is the last time, it has to be. Once is an accident, twice is a coincidence. Thrice. Thrice would be a pattern. You won’t let it become a pattern.
You wake up at seven-thirty and your hair is still in knots, your body still aching from him. You find a new bruise every time you look in the mirror. You can’t shake the image of his messy hair, of the feeling of the brown locks between your fingers and the sound he’d make when you’d tug on them.
It won’t be happening again.
Azriel x Reader | The Beauty of Intimacy
type: smut (& a bit of angst) warning(s): explicit descriptions, curse words, mature language word count: 3.1k words
request: Hi could you write some thing where reader and azriel have been in a relationship for a little bit but whenever azriel tries to like do anything with her she brushed him off and be begins to think she’s not attracted to him but then she tells him that it’s because she’s never really had a positive experience with sex and so azriel shows her how amazing sex with him can be and like just worships her??? Srry this is so specific but I love your writing and would love to read this!!
- all rights reserved -
"Is it because of the scars?" Azriel’s demeanour is solemn, his shadows calm, his eyes empty, sad.
A small crack appears in your heart and you quickly lift your gaze to meet your lover’s. "No," you say. "No, of course not."
Crossing one leg behind the ankle of the other Azriel leans his shoulder against the doorframe. Then his head, and his eyes close for a long moment.
"What is it then? Y/N, please tell me." He is almost begging you to be honest with him, his tone desperate. As desperate as all his attempts for the two of you to be intimate have been. It isn't that you don’t want to sleep with him. It is way more complicated. You have never found pleasure during sex, you have never had one single positive experience and at this point you think it is because of you. Yes, you blame this lack of sensual heights on yourself. Maybe you simply cannot enjoy it? Maybe you do something wrong? Maybe there is something wrong with you?
"I thought you weren’t a virgin. Did you not tell the truth when we talked about our past? Are you scared? Nervous?” Azriel asks and blinks his eyes open. "I don’t care at all, we can go slow. But please, just tell if it has something to do with me. If it is about me. Are you not attracted to me? Not sexually attracted?"
Gods, you are. There is no male who is only half as beautiful as Azriel, and you are more than attracted to him.
"I am no virgin and that is not the problem—"
"Then what is the problem? I don’t want to push you. I don’t want to force you to have sex with me, but I would like to understand. That is all. I just want to understand," Azriel says, his voice turning softer and gentler. He pushes off the wall and slowly makes his way over to the bed you sit on.
His throat burns when his mouth parts to ask one last question. "Did someone hurt you? Did someone touch when you didn’t want it? You can be honest with me. Always."
You love Azriel so much. And especially for that. For how good his heart is, how thoughtful he is, how understanding.
Sliding your hands over his, you draw in a deep breath and give your head a shake. "No. Thank you for asking, but no." Azriel exhales a shuddering breath of relief.
Leaning forward, you let one hand slide up his arm to his neck, you lips meeting his in a soft and quick kiss. "I just don’t like…sex."
"Sex is something beautiful," Azriel says and a sheepish smile blooms on his face.
The corner of your own mouth moves up at how adorable he looks. "Is it?” You raise your brow.
Azriel nods his head frantically and places his thumb under your chin, tipping it up. "One oft the most beautiful things in this world, I might say." His eyes have turned darker, the shadows becoming alive around his figure. The shadowsinger’s posture changes from formerly rather reserved to confident and he rolls back his shoulders, sitting straighter now. Your eyes meet, and warmth fills your body.
Nervousness coats your insides, your skin prickling. "I am not sure if I am…capable of having sex. Good sex, I mean. There is not one positive experience I have made and I am over 500, Azriel. It must have something to do with me."
A low chuckle leaves the shadowsinger and he gives his head a tiny shake, silken strands of onyx hair shifting with movement. "There is nothing wrong with you, I am 100% positive about that."
You love his certainty, but you can’t quite agree with him.
"Why don’t I find it… pleasurable then?"
"Because you may have not yet been with the right male," Azriel says, his brow lifting in an almost cocky way. It is this slight arrogance that changes his demeanour that makes your toes curl and the hair on his body stand.
Your voice becomes a breathy whisper when you feel a shadow dance over your bare thigh and you lean forward. "And now I am?"
His low chuckle reverberates through you, his lips brushing yours and tingling them with the vibrations of his laugh. Azriel pecks you shortly and then says against your lips, "Now you are."
You change your sitting position, stretching your legs. ”And you are going to convince me now that it is something enjoyable?"
The shadowsinger’s scarred hand smoothes up your foot, higher onto your leg and back down again. He lifts his gaze to yours and smirks. "I going to prove to you that sex is one of the most beautiful things in the world," he drawls, his index finger circling your ankle. "Only if you want that, of course."
Wet heat fills your body when you draw in a deep breath and bow your head. "I want that."
You really want to. You want it to be good. You want for yourself to enjoy it. You have faith— Azriel is a phenomenal male, he would do it right, would make you feel right. This is going to be good, Azriel is different to the males before him, he has already proven that many times.
His fingers curl around your ankle and he lifts your leg, carefully sliding closer to you and placing your leg over his lap, your other one behind his back. Azriel regards you, silently assessing you.
"So you’ve never come then?"
"Obviously," you whisper and avert your gaze when heat flushes your cheeks. Azriel’s fingers continue their exploration, dancing over your knee up to your thigh. The spymaster draws idle circles to the sensitive skin of your inner thighs which already makes you want to squeeze them together. "Never made yourself come either?"
You could practically the warmth radiating from your cheeks. "I think…I have."
"Thinking about me?"
Biting down on your lower lip you nod.
"That’s a good girl."
His praise almost has you squirming. Gods, you haven’t known that you would like that. But something about the way he said it, the deep tenor of his voice reverberating through your body, did something to you.
His hand giving your thigh a gentle squeeze, Azriel leans into you, damp lips coasting over your ear. "I should have known you like that. Should have known my lovely lady likes to be praised for the things she does so well." His lips curl when he pecks the pointy end of your ear, chuckling softly.
“Well, “Azriel drawls, his scarred hands slowly sliding over your skin, the calluses rough against it. "Lean back against the head board," the shadowsinger orders, his voice commanding yet soft.
You do as told, nestling between the pillows and behaving like his good girl. But there is still this teeny-tiny kernel of nervousness in you — what if not even Azriel can make you reach your height? What if it truly is something about your body and he just tries to be nice?
The shadowsinger must have noticed your unease, his smile faltering, happiness slowly fading.
Azriel swipes his thumb over your cheek. "I really want you to know that," Azriel says, his eyes piercing into yours, "you not finding pleasure has nothing to do with you. It is generally more difficult for females to reach their height, but if the male does everything right and takes proper care of their lover it most definitely should work. It has nothing to do with you, you can trust me on that."
Relief truly starts blossoms in your chest at that, the corners of your mouth tipping upwards. You slowly dip your chin and smile.
"I trust you on that."
A low but content growl leaves Azriel at that and he hooks his scarred hands under your knee pits, bracing your feet on the bed and easing your thighs apart. Your nightgown pools at your hips, Azriel’s gaze dropping to your centre. He leans closer and pecks your bent knee before his gaze lifts to yours. "Now," he drawls, "let me worship you. Let me show you how beautiful intimacy can be."
The shadowsinger’s damp lips brush down the inside of your thigh, his silken strands toppling over his forehead and tingling your skin. A strangled sound leaves you when a throbbing feeling starts in your core and you desperately want to squeeze your thighs together. Azriel’s grip is tight, holding your legs spread open. He tips his head back, a brow raising when your gazes met. "Uh-oh."
His tongue poking out he gives your inner thigh a soft lick, descending, savouring your sweet skin. Damp heat pools in your core, soft, quick pants leaving you when your lids start to feel heavy. Your knuckles turn white from how tightly you hold onto the pillows next to you, watching Azriel dip his head between your thighs. Azriel’s nose brushes against your still in undergarments covered core, adding just a light pressure that has you squirming.
The spymaster’s voice is a soft growl, the deep tenor rumbling through you when he says, "Lift your hips, beautiful." Azriel steadies you, helping you, and curls his fingers around the elastic, slowly peeling the undergarment off.
His desire stretches out, making it impossible for you to breathe when his heated gaze lands on the spot between your thighs. A low groan leaves Azriel, the sound so raw and primal it has you turning even more molten, your legs shaking slightly.
He leans into you and kisses your sex. You shudder, never having felt…anything like that.
The shadowsinger inhales deeply, the scent of your arousal beguiling. The strong tendons of his throat stand out when he clenches his jaw, his pupils dilating even more.
Azriel’s throat works on a swallow, his tongue feeling so thick all of a sudden when he says, "Ever been tasted before?"
The heated honey of his eyes meets yours, his need and desire laced into his features. You give your head a tiny shake, holding his gaze. His want, his need, his desire, it does something to you. To your heart. To your core.
"Good," Azriel purrs and dips his head. He kisses your lower belly, tongue circling your navel, hands skimming over your thighs, before finally lifting them over his shoulders. "Perfect," he breaths, his mouth moving lower. Shadows softly travel up your body when Azriel parts you with his thumbs. It is the first stroke of his tongue, the first broad stroke through your silken folds up to the apex of your thighs, that has you squirming. Your back arches, your hips lift, pressing against his face when a lewd gasp leaves you.
It is the firm grip of his scarred hands that places you back on the bed, that holds you tightly, that limits your movements. Azriel chuckles lowly, sending vibrations and hot air right into your core. You squirm against him and the shadowsinger tips his head back only an inch. “Sshh,” he cooes, grinning, his lips glistening. “Relax and let me worship you probably. Let me devour you, beautiful.” You get no chance to answer, his head dips again, his tongue poking out and he flicks it against your clit. And then he feasts, his tongue driving deep into. He licks and suckles, holding you firmly, the sounds that leave his mouth feeling like a sin in your ears. Azriel is like a starved male, some primal need fully unleashed, his restraints gone. You wreathe underneath him, something in your lower body squeezing, your walls clenching. It feels so good, it feels…nearly overwhelming. Your eyes roll back and then your orgasm comes crashing in on you. Wave after of hot pleasure overflows you, washes you under. You come with a scream that is a mix of curses and his name. Azriel.
He lets you ride out your height, softly guiding you through it, his tongue and lips still sloppily licking and kissing your sex. Proud at his work and your absolutely disheveled state, Azriel flashes you a full toothy grin when he lifts his head, his face wet with your arousal, with your release.
Having made you come one time is obviously not enough for the spymaster. Just seconds later you are fully underneath his tall figure. He has only given you a short glimpse at his marvellous body before climbing onto the bed and caging you beneath him.
Azriel flicks his tongue over the hardened peak of your breast, marvelling at how you shudder underneath him. His lips close around your nipple, licking, suckling.
“More?” Azriel breathes against your breast. Your hips give a little jerk, moving against Azriel who growls in approval, reveling into the feel of your skin against his. You sigh and dip your chin.
“Words, sweetheart. Use your words.”
The shadowsinger takes your nipple back into his mouth, suckling and tugging lightly. It has you squirming and making your unable to form a coherent sentence.
“Yes, more. Please, don’t stop,” you almost whine, burying your hands in his silken strands.
“Good girl,” Azriel drawls, pushing himself up on his hands and looking down at you. With something like a predatory gaze he watches you, marveling at the sight of your ruffled hair, the flushed cheeks, the need and desire in your eyes. All he can think is that you are stunning and fully his.
“Let me make you feel good.” The shadowsinger pushes your thighs apart, settling between them. “I need you to be my good girl again. You want that, don’t you?”
“Yes, yes,” you breathe. His hand reaches down between your bodies and he adjusts himself between your thighs. He lets the tip of his hard cock slide into you. It has you both gasping. Both of you look down at where you are connected. Azriel’s lips part in a silent hiss. “Fucking hell.” He carefully slides further into you, letting you adjust, but at the same time making you feel every glorious inch of his proud length. He leans in, softly brushing his lips against yours. “Tell me if I hurt you. Tell me when you want me to stop.”
Your hands find its place in the hair at the back of his neck the moment your lips close over his. “I will,” you whisper, “but it is perfect.”
Azriel’s lips curl against yours when he moves in to the hilt, stilling inside of you. You angle your hips, gasping at the sudden spark of pleasure when his tip touches one special spot inside of you. “Move, please,” you breathe and Azriel captures your lips, slowly pulling out of you.
He kisses you softly, one hand moving over your lower belly, gently adding pressure. You pull your legs up, curling them around his waist and moan at the feeling of it. Gods, this is perfect. This whole situation is pure satisfaction. And gods, you can enjoy it. It feels good. It is good.
The shadowsinger has you pinned beneath him, his tall body, covered in a thin film of sweat, hovering above you, him moving inside of you, filling you so perfectly.
He lets go of his restraints, his thrusts turning deeper, harder. He pounds into you, always making sure you feel good and that you enjoy what he is doing.
“Tell me how good you feel,” Azriel whispers when his lips close over your ear lob and he gives you a tiny bite. Azriel knows he is good at what he is doing. And this confidence, gods, it turns you on. You love it when he is like that, cocky and confident. “So good,” you breathe through gritted teeth, your head thrown back, your eyes squeezed closed, his hips slapping against yours. The sounds are wet, your high-pitched moans and pants the only things that are louder.
Azriel regards you, your figure, how beautiful you look underneath him, with him inside you. And he feels you getting closer, you clench around him and that feeling, gods! It brings himself closer and closer to edge as well.
The spymaster decreases his pace, slowly, steadily moving in and out of you. His thrusts are long and coordinated now. A lewd sob parts your lips, your eyes only opening for a split second. Calluses scrape over your soft skin when Azriel’s hand slides up your body, cradling your face. He lowers his forehead to yours, exhaling warm air that feels like a summer breeze against your skin.
"You" -thrust- "are" -thrust- "so perfect."
Your back arches, pressing against the solid body of your lover, your mouths meeting in a sloppy brush of tongues, and lips. Azriel’s stomach flexes, cock twitching and balls tightening. He knows he his close, wants you to come with him.
Azriel nips at your jaw, his thumb circling your clit, rubbing, adding extra pleasure that brings you closer to edge. You clench around him, rocking against him when a lewd cry breaks through the noises of your panting and moaning.
"Gods," you pant. "I am close, Azriel."
He doesn’t want to make you beg, does not want to torture you, edge you. He wants you to come, to fully enjoy this moment.
"Let go, angel," Azriel says and angels his hips differently to hit that damnable spot inside of you with each thrust.
Your pants come out quicker, your moans turning a pitch higher. You claw at his shoulders, flecks of white and black sparking in your vision when your eyes roll back.
You come simultaneously, a loud sob leaving you when a tidal wave of satisfaction washes over you. The shadowsinger trembles above you, his warm release spurting against your walls, his forehead dropping to yours. Your hips rock against each other with sloppy thrusts, riding out your heights together.
After easing out of you, Azriel collects a wet cloth for you to clean up. He kisses your forehead, his clothed hand carefully sliding between your thighs and over your lower belly. You are still in a blissful steady, knees feeling wobbly, legs numb. Soft pants leave you while your eyes follow your lover until he disappears into the bathroom. You fold a hand over your forehead, grinning to yourself and exhaling loudly. Gods! Love making was good, was enjoyable, was something you wanted more of. And you were were also a tiny bit relieved—there was nothing wrong about you. It was not your fault that you did not enjoy the times before.
Getting back into bed, Azriel brings you close to his body, wings stretched behind his broad shoulders. You rest your head on his chest, hand placed right above his heart.
Azriel brings your leg over his hips, holding your thigh tightly. “Could I convince you that sex is not so bad?”
You wiggle your head, mischief glinting in your eyes when you met his gaze. “I believe I definitely need some more convincing.” Azriel’s whole-hearted laugh is like balm to your soul. He cradles you to his body, kissing the top of your head, smiling. “I love you and don’t worry,” Azriel mumbles into your hair, giving your rear a soft smack. “You will get a lot more.”
Feedback and critics are always welcome, as I still try to improve my writing. Please let me know what you think 💙
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
tag list (crossed-out I couldn't tag):
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Not A Verstappen: Lights Out {8}
Pairing: Charles Leclerc x fem!driver!reader x Lando Norris Summary: Your due date approaches but that’s not the only thing that’s been a long time coming Warnings: 18+ only, fluff WC: 2.7k F1 Masterlist NAV: Sibling Rivalry One || Two || Three NAV: Gridlocked One || Two || Three || Four || Five || Six || Seven || Eight || Nine NAV: A New World One || Two || Three || Four || Five || Six || Seven || Eight || Nine || Ten NAV: Lights Out One || Two || Three || Four || Five || Six || 6.5 || Seven || SMAU || Eight
Round 4 - Japanese GP
“I think I’m in love,” you moaned happily.
“I should hope so,” Lando commented dryly, making Charles laugh.
“She’s not talking about us, mon cher.”
You patted the vending machine full of the greatest snacks you had ever tasted. “Ignore them, it’s just you and me, now take my money.”
“Are we going to karaoke?” Pierre asked, checking his phone to see the time. “Yuki and Daniel are already there.”
“Shh, let the pregnant woman eat,” his girlfriend reprimanded. “She’s growing a whole human in there.”
“Thank you, Kika.” You sent her a grateful smile before throwing your middle finger in Pierre’s direction. The machine whirred and you turned back to see mechanical arms moving your choice down to the little door. “I just need a few more.”
“She’s stalling because she knows she sucks at singing when she’s sober,” Max joked before pulling out his wallet and going to the next machine. “What else do you want?”
Everyone caught onto Max’s idea and lined up along the alley of vending machines and within minutes there were enough snacks to last you the night, plus one huge Pokémon stuffed animal that Pierre chose for the baby. You could barely wrap your arms around the teddy and you narrowed your eyes at your old teammate. “Out of all of the Pokémon you chose…Squirtle?”
His grin widened until his laughter broke through. “What’s wrong with Squirtle? Everyone loves a big squirtle.”
“You’re so immature,” you tried to say with a straight face but it failed as you giggled. “This is going in my bed when I get home. It’s going to be my snuggler when I’m abandoned.”
“We aren’t abandoning you, mon amour. Everyone agreed it’s too close to your due date to come to China.”
You didn’t like it, but it was the truth. You were lucky to even get away with coming to Japan since you were already 37 weeks pregnant. At least there was a two week gap between the races so you would have some time with Lando and Charles before they left for the next race.
“And your mother will be there, so you definitely aren’t abandoned,” Lando pointed out. He took the teddy from you so you could better see where you were walking and tucked it under one arm so he could still hold your hand. “Max has already given us his plane so we can get back if we need to.”
“I have?” Max cocked a brow.
“You may have been drunk when you said it, but there were witnesses.”
Max scratched his head in confusion but he couldn’t recall the memory. Shrugging, he wasn’t really bothered, he would have offered for them use it anyway. “Who’s your reserve if you have to go?”
“Ollie and Pato,” Charles answered. “My baby is in good hands if we miss the race. Lando is a little more worried.”
“Not of Pato, I’ve seen him in testing,” Lando countered. “I just don’t like sharing.” Everyone looked pointedly between you and your boyfriends. “Har-har, I meant my seat, assholes.”
You eventually made it to the karaoke bar and Yuki growled at everyone for being late, except you. You got a tight hug and a strong whiff of alcohol on his breath.
“I didn’t know what you felt like, so I got a bit of everything,” he said as he pointed to the side table full of snacks and non alcoholic drinks. Pierre reached out for a pack of biscuits but Yuki slapped his hand away. “Not for you motherfuckers. Get your own.”
The annual karaoke had grown over the years and you weren’t sure if it was better when you were sober or not. On one hand you nearly wet yourself laughing at how terrible everyone sounded but on the other your ears were almost bleeding by the time they were too drunk to continue. Crashing out onto the hotel bed never felt so good when you finally got back after midnight. Thankfully it was only going to be media day for the guys so they could sleep off their hangovers.
You combed your fingers through Lando’s hair as he spawned out next to you, soft snores falling from his open mouth. A smile played at your lips and Charles chuckled beside you. “Go on,” he said as he nudged you gently. “Say it.”
You couldn’t resist and he knew it. “It’s all too much for Little Lando Norris.”
“Not little,” Lando grumbled.
“You were asleep a second ago.”
“Wasn’t asleep, just resting my eyes.”
“Such a dad thing to say,” you teased, pressing a kiss to his cheek as his breathing evened out and he was asleep once more. “Sweet dreams, my love.”
“You should try to rest too,” Charles murmured as he settled into his pillow and opened his arms for you, his bleary eyes struggling to stay open.
“I will.” You would try to at least, but finding a comfortable position grew harder each day. “I love you.”
“Je t’aime aussi. De beaux rêves.”
He was asleep before you could even reply and you soon followed.
The need to go to the toilet once again woke you and you found Charles' space in the bed empty. After relieving yourself, you followed the light in the living room to see the curtains swaying softly in the breeze.
Charles stood on the balcony overlooking the city, his fingers idly running his matching trinity necklace along its chain. It was only as you got closer you saw his eyes weren’t on the city below but the dark skies above and you wrapped your arms around his waist, resting your head between his shoulder blades.
“What’s on your mind, handsome?”
He turned and leaned back against the rail, his hands coming to rest on the impossibly large swell of your stomach. You placed your hands over Charles’ and guided them to where the action was happening against your ribs, a nice reprieve from being kicked in the bladder. You couldn’t get much bigger before you popped and the stretch marks already showed the strain the pregnancy was having on your body.
“I wish Jules was here to see this.”
You hadn’t had the pleasure of meeting the driver but from what Charles had said it would have been hard not to love the charismatic person he described. “I’m sure he would be proud of you. I am. Have you thought any more about her name?”
Charles chewed his lip before sighing. “No, I want something new. I don’t want her to be pressured by the weight of the name she carries.”
You could completely understand how a name changed everything and nodded. “Okay, I’ll cross Julia off the list.”
“And Landa.”
You wrinkled your nose in distaste. “That was never on my list. I don’t know why you didn’t shut that idea down right away.”
Charles chuckled and kissed your nose. “Because it’s funny, mon amour. He actually thought it had a real chance.”
“Our hopeless dreamer,” you sighed, resting your head on his chest as you yawned.
There wasn’t much time left to narrow down the list of first names but a compromise had been found with the last name. To make it fair, they decided if it was clear Lando was the biological father then Charles' last name would go first and vice-versa. If it wasn’t clear then you were going to have to referee their debate, something you were hoping to avoid.
“Let’s get you back to bed,” Charles murmured as he kissed your hand and laced it with his. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
It was no secret you always woke up when one or both of them went missing from your bed. Even asleep you seemed to know when their body warmth disappeared.
“It’s okay. I’ll have to get used to it.”
“When we abandon you?” he teased, but there was an edge of sadness in his tone.
“Maybe that was a little harsh but I was hungry. I’m sorry.” You climbed onto the bed and snuggled in between their warm bodies. “I know you aren’t abandoning me, Cha.”
“Good, now I need to have an important conversation.” He shuffled down so he could kiss your stomach and whispered, “Ma petite, you need to stay inside there until daddy and papa get home. I know it’s a little tight in there and we are very excited to meet you too but you have to hang on just a few more weeks, ma fille. Deal?”
“I'm not sure you are going to get an ans-” A kick interrupted you and Charles smirked.
“My girl already listens to her papa.”
“Don’t get used to it,” you warned as he rejoined you on the pillows. “I hear teenage girls are terrible at listening to their parents. Not me of course, I was an angel.”
It was Charles’ turn to laugh as he curled his arm around your waist and closed his eyes. “An angel…I don’t think that was the word your mother used.”
Your yawn cracked your jaw before you said, “It’s a good thing I have matured since then.”
“Like fine wine, mon ange.” His nose brushed your cheek before he planted a sleepy kiss on your temple. “Bonne nuit.”
Exhaustion turned your tongue heavy as your body relaxed against his. “Goodnight, baby.”
Round 5 - Chinese GP
You wanted to smash your phone when the alarm went off in the middle of the night. The time on the screen said 7.30am but it was a lie. You had only been asleep for a few minutes from what the aches in your body indicated, not hours.
“The drivers parade is starting,” your mother called out from the lounge.
With a groan you pushed away the giant Squirtle you used as a body pillow and rolled to the edge of the bed before swinging your legs off. Just the small movement left you breathless as your lung capacity dropped and you hated the think what your VO2 levels would be like at this point.
“Can you hit record please?” you yelled back before going to the bathroom. There was no way you were going to miss a moment of the days activities, even if it meant watching the pre-race grid walk after the race finished.
You made it to the couch in time to see Charles and Lando climb onto the trailer together and couldn’t help noticing the dark bags under their eyes. They matched yours. It was the first time being away from each other for so long that you were all finding it difficult to adjust and sleep. Video calls couldn’t replace touching them.
They would keep their phones with them until the very last moment when they climbed in the car so you grabbed yours and sent a quick message after reading the sweet good morning messages that came through while you were sleeping.
To Group Chat: Drive fast and keep it clean. I love you.
It took almost half a minute with the delay of live tv for them to pull their phones out before turning and waving to the camera with big smiles, Charles even blew a kiss.
The boys had promised an interesting race during their media interviews on Thursday. Everyone knew it was the first race without you there and they were going to make up for it by pushing their hardest for a win. As it turned out, Checo tried to go three wide into turn one with Max and George, causing a red flag and the retirement of all three cars.
You could practically see the fumes coming off your brother and you didn’t need to be a lip reader to know what he was saying when the camera panned to him in the garage. Maybe Checo would be the next to learn just how fast Red Bull can take away the seat they gave. He wouldn’t be the first and he definitely wouldn’t be the last.
“Eat your breakfast, it’s gone cold.”
The dish your mother made would still sit on the coffee table for another 37 laps but you couldn’t take your eyes off the screen. Charles was leading with Lewis in second place but you knew the Mercedes’ tyre degradation meant Lando would soon be able to overtake, and you weren’t even there to scream for them.
“I will soon,” you lied as you edged closer to the tv and saw the two cars enter the straight. “Get him baby…”
Lando’s rear wing opened, adding to the slipstream he was already getting from Lewis, and he pulled out to shoot past, diving onto his breaks in the corner and taking second place.
“Yes!!!” you screamed as you jumped to your feet.
“Don’t jump around too much, you might break your waters,” your mother warned as she pulled you back down into the couch cushions.
“But did you see that? That was perfect!”
Your mother smiled at your enthusiasm. “He did very well, but you need to calm down.”
Your nail beds were ruined by the time it came to pitting and they both went in on the same lap but Ferrari made a mistake and took a few key seconds to recover. It was just long enough for Lando to be released and get in front of Charles.
“Oh my god,” you gasped, nervously bouncing your knee as Lando defended against Charles. “I can’t watch. Mum, my heart can’t handle this…” She held your hand and you gripped it tight for the remaining laps.
“Go! Go! Go!” you screamed at the tv, leaping to your feet again as Lando finally crossed the finish line less than two seconds ahead of Charles. “YESSSS!!!”
You couldn’t keep still as you rubbed your belly and laughed exuberantly. “Daddy just won his first race! Holy shit, he did it!” You were giddier than the first time you won but he had waited so long for it after being robbed of the win in Sochi. “I can’t believe I’m not fucking there!”
“Language,” your mother reminded with a laugh. You turned to see she was recording your reaction and sent the video to the group chat with Lando and Charles.
“Oh please, she’s not even born, and that’s the least of her worries.”
Lando’s shouts over the team radio made you smile harder and he was still laughing and possibly crying by the time he pulled into the pit lane. “Yeah, baby, about fucking time! Woohoo!! Who’s your daddy?”
“Well done, mate, you deserve this.”
“Thanks, Jarv, are you crying?”
“I just got something in my eye.”
“Yeah me too.”
His car parked in the centre position but he couldn’t get out as sat in disbelief, his helmet dipped with his head. Charles was the first out and half hung into Lando’s cockpit as he embraced the winner. You couldn’t hear their exchange but you could imagine Charles telling him how proud he was before helping him climb out of his seat.
Lando jumped from the halo and into Charles’ arms before Carlos rushed in too after taking third place. You couldn’t help thinking it should have been you with them.
“What a way to take your first win,” Jenson said with a grin as he started the post race interview. “I guess there will be plenty to celebrate tonight. Any plans?”
“Mhmm,” Lando hummed as Charles joined him after his weigh-in. “Big plans. Important plans. We are heading straight to the airport and going home to celebrate with our wife.”
“Wife?” you asked aloud.
“Wife?” Jenson echoed.
“Uh, figure of speech, you know?” Lando chuckled, his neck turning pink at his mistake but he was so high on elation it had slipped out. “We have a baby on the way and our lives are built together. It doesn’t get more committed than that kind of thing.”
“So there haven’t been any secret nuptials we don’t know about?”
“No, not that we wouldn’t if we could but there’s kind of laws or something against it, or so my lawyers say.”
“Trust me, they’ve checked,” Charles added, but it was the first you had heard of it.
You were still thinking about that when they disappeared to the cool down room and when you watched them stand proudly on the podium, the British national anthem playing loudly. You were still thinking about it when they left the stage and the Sky presentation came to an end.
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