an incomplete list of reasons why sex scenes are good, necessary, and a character study, & rarely gratuitous (from a seasoned smut writer and published author)
body image and dysphoria. does this character voluntarily throw their clothes off, do they have to be coaxed, do they enjoy looking in the mirror, are there any areas they refuse to acknowledge? scars? tattoos? what does this say about their past?
what role do they take in the bedroom, and what relationship does it have to the role they take in day to day life?
social/communication skills. how good are they at eye contact, asking their bedmate what they want, are they about verbal communication or body language? what is their body language, is it open or closed off? are they nervously chatty, are their words short and clipped, are they nervously quiet?
touch starvation. how do they react to touch? when's the last time they were touched intimately? how does this touch remind them of their previous encounters with touch, or is this their first time?
glimpses of their education, sexual and otherwise, and the ways this influences their view of the world. what is their understanding of consent? where did they get it from? what do they think of kink vs vanilla? what is their relationship to both?
self esteem. do they take on a role of service in the bedroom because they want to, or because they feel like they have to in order to be worthy, no matter what they really want? how good are they at expressing these thoughts? do they freeze up when their bedmate asks them what they want? do they even know what they want?
how much attention do they want on themselves vs how much are they comfortable with? would they rather the attention was just on their bedmate?
how much guilt, shame, or repression do they have about sex in general? does it feel like a performance, is it true for them? how do they do with being vulnerable with another person, clothes on or off?
how do they feel about submission/domination, about penetration? do they want marks to be left, or do they insist on no trace left behind?
how do they treat their bedmate? loving, rough, tender, gentle, harsh, sadistic, deferring, no matter the scene/dynamic?
what about aftercare? for themself, for their bedmate? do they do it, do they know what it is, how do they do it? do they value it or do they do it just because you're supposed to?
an incomplete list. might add more. sex scenes add SO much value, insight, and development to a character. they are an incredibly intimate and vulnerable setting, which is how the right writer can show readers so much about who this character is in a bedroom setting. it is not gratutious.
briefly: mark webber x vampire!reader, daniel ricciardo x vampire!reader, pierre gasly x vampire!reader, alex albon x vampire!reader, lestappen cameo
w.c.: 1.1k
warnings: mentions of death
summary: who's to stop a girl from having a little fun?
a/n: sigh.. ok guys ik i said i was working on the spiderman!au fic but i heard "maneater" by nelly furtado and got a lil inspired.
anyways, this mini fic is dedicated to the awesome @n0vazsq who sends me nothing but the kindest and supportive messages ever.. ly girl 🥹🫶
picture credits from pinterest :)
you weren’t going to sugarcoat it. you were a maneater, plain and simple.
every few years, when you got bored of frolicking among the misty forest, feasting on rabbits and elk, or people-watching in the nearby towns, you would fly up to the fancy lodges up on the ocean-side cliffs to have a little fun.
when you flounce into the entrance with your white frilly dress, pearls, and blood-red ribbon-bows, the wealthy patrons of the red bull chalet were none the wiser to your intentions.
it was almost too easy, the way the men you picked fell for your facade. one look, one touch, one whisper in their ear, and you had them in the palm of your hand. they liked it really, making it seem like you were the prey. they led you into their rooms and pushed you against a wall for a searing kisses. that’s what made it oh-so-fun when you finally were able to sink your fangs into their necks- a nice snack before you robbed them blind and left their cold, dead bodies splayed on the bed.
stern businessman mark webber was your first.
he stood out from all the other rich pricks who frequented the chalet- dark, handsome, and mysterious- the type of guy who could be the main love interest in one of those trashy romantic paperbacks.
he sipped from his crystal glass- whiskey, neat- looking so forlorn at the empty lobby bar.
“aw, why so sad, mister?” you had inquired, taking a seat next to him.
even when he didn’t reply, you knew you had enchanted him the way his eyes scanned your alluring body.
all you had to do next was to flutter your eyelashes and put a well-placed manicured hand on his muscled arm for him to invite you to his room.
he smelled just like he looked, all leather and musk. maybe it was you who was enchanted after you ghost your glossy lips down his neck and sank your fangs into his neck.
charismatic daniel ricciardo was the second that you decided to snatch in your claws.
when you spotted him from the chalet’s entrance foyer, lips stretched into an almost-permanent smile and reeling with a big honking laugh at the bartender’s words, you knew you just had to have him. he exuded a type of youthfulness that you once had all those years ago.
you barely had time to order your drink, a singular flute of champagne, before he slid into a seat next to you with his own drink of choice, the chalet’s infamous vodka red-bull.
“a pretty thing like you should be careful around here,” he lilts in an australian accent. “didn’t you hear? a man was murdered here in one of the rooms a few years ago.”
you take a sip of champagne, purposefully tilting your head up. his eyes trail your soft throat as you swallow the bubbly liquid.
he subconsciously gulps.
when you finish, you flash a sharp smile at him.
“well then, i’m glad i’ll have a strong man like you to protect me.”
it took all but a second for him to take your hand and lead you through his room entryway, a massive oak door marked with a simple gold 3 in the middle.
it took all but a second more for you to pounce and sink your fangs into his thick neck the second he closed the door.
playboy pierre gasly was your third.
even as a self-proclaimed heartbreaker, it was laughable- you didn’t even have to try.
when he saw your big doe eyes staring at him through the gaggle of girls crawling on him, he had tipped the bartender to bring a fruity little cocktail your way- sex on the beach.
later, pushed onto the cream white sheets of his bed, he swears he saw your same warm irises turn a blood red before his vision turned black.
bashful billionaire alexander albon was your fourth.
to be honest, you saw his flashy oslo blue porsche before you saw him walk through the gilded doors of the chalet entranceway, but how could you resist his bleach-blonde hair and shy smile?
you had to work a little harder this time- sliding him a negronis, giving him enough compliments, and drawing him in with your melodic voice before he gave in and stuttered through a request to join him at his suite.
barely through the doorway, he had kissed you against the door with a fiery passion, in a way that was totally opposite of his demeanor.
he tasted real sugar sweet, but his blood was sweeter.
when you prance into the red-bull chalet once again, hungry and determined, you scan the surroundings for your next victim.
the first man you see underneath the glamorous decorations of the lobby is gorgeous, with blonde fluffy hair and big blue eyes. he huffs, bored, standing idly with his designer luggages propped next to him. you just about lick your lips. he looked like he would taste like sweet syrup.
however, another man in a blinding red sweater breezes by, wrapping the first person into a hug and kisses him on the cheek, effectively eliminating him from your list. victims that travelled with another person were too risky, too messy to deal with.
peering toward the high-end bar, you spot another man, head bowed and nursing a ruby red shirley temple.
he blushes a pink hue when he looks up and sees you studying him across the high-ceilinged foyer.
perfect.
sebastian, is what he says his name is. his blonde hair ruffles as he talks, and his voice is thick with a german accent.
well-versed in the art of allure, you try all your tricks on him. leaning in- wafting your intoxicating smell of perfume on him, sweeping over your too-white canines with a your tongue, toying with the lace trim of your low-cut dress.
like all the men before, you catch him hook, line, and sinker.
you straddle him on his bed, after he leads you to his room. it’s almost a pity you have to do this, as the moon shines through the window and makes his blonde hair glow a shiny gold.
“aw seb,” you coo, tracing a finger down the side his face.
he stares back at you with his greyish-blue eyes.
when you extend your sharp fangs and lean towards him, you half-expect him to impulsively fight back and run.
he doesn’t.
instead, he laughs before beaming back at you, curling back his soft pink lips.
where his canines were sat a pretty pair of fangs, mirroring yours.
