Victor Wembanyama x Brat Reader: smut, oral, dom vic, p in v, edging.
An: long one-ish, and also my first time writing smut…..
The drive home from the grocery store is silent, but it's not the comfortable kind. It's the kind of silence that sits heavy in the air, thick with unspoken words and simmering tension. You're slumped in the passenger seat of Victor's car, arms crossed, staring out the window at the passing houses. You've been like this all day, short answers, eye rolls, huffing when he tried to talk to you. You don't even know why you started. Maybe it was the way he'd been busy with practice all week. Maybe it was the way he'd forgotten to text you back yesterday. Maybe it was just the mood you woke up in.
Whatever the reason, you've been insufferable, and you know it.
Victor, for his part, has been patient. He asked you what was wrong three times. He offered to take you to your favorite café. He tried to hold your hand in the cereal aisle, and you pulled away. Each time, his jaw tightened a little more, but he said nothing.
Now, as he pulls into the driveway of the home you share, the engine cuts off, and the silence becomes unbearable.
He doesn't get out right away. He just sits there, his hands resting on the steering wheel, his eyes fixed ahead. The porch light casts a soft glow across his face, illuminating the hard line of his jaw.
"Are you going to tell me what's going on?" he asks, his voice low, a hint of his French accent peaking through.
You shrug, still staring out the window. "Nothing."
"Okay," he says, and there's something in his tone that makes your stomach flip. He opens his door and gets out.
You follow him inside, your sneakers scuffing against the hardwood floor. The house is dark, save for the lamp he clicks on in the living room. He sets the grocery bags on the counter and turns to face you.
You're standing in the middle of the living room, arms still crossed, your chin lifted in defiance. You know you're being difficult. You know you're pushing him. But some stubborn part of you refuses to back down.
Victor walks toward you slowly, his footsteps deliberate. He stops when he's right in front of you, his height forcing you to crane your neck to meet his eyes. He's wearing a simple black t-shirt and gray sweatpants, and even in the dim light, you can see the tension in his shoulders.
"You've been giving me attitude all day," he says, his voice quiet but firm. "I've asked you nicely what's wrong. I've tried to be patient. But you keep pushing."
You open your mouth to fire back a retort, but before you can get a word out, he moves.
In one fluid motion, he has you pressed against the wall, his body caging you in. The cool drywall is at your back, and the heat of his chest is at your front. His hands find your wrists, pinning them above your head with an ease that makes your breath hitch.
"Now," he says, his face inches from yours, his breath warm against your lips. "I've had enough."
Your heart hammers against your ribs. The bratty defiance is still there, flickering in your chest, but underneath it, a thrill of anticipation courses through you.
"What are you going to do about it?" you ask, your voice coming out breathless.
Victor's lips curl into a slow, knowing smile. "I'm going to teach you a lesson, mon chéri."
He holds you there, pinned against the wall, his body pressed against yours. You can feel him through his sweatpants, the growing hardness against your thigh. The knowledge sends a rush of heat straight to your core.
He leans in, his mouth brushing against the shell of your ear. "You're going to learn what happens when you act like a brat. And by the time I'm done, you're going to be begging me to let you come."
You swallow hard, your defiance wavering.
He pulls back just enough to look at you, his dark eyes boring into yours. "Do you understand?"
You don't answer. You just hold his gaze, stubborn to the last.
Victor's smile widens. "Fine. We'll do this the hard way."
He releases one of your wrists, his hand trailing down your arm, over your shoulder, down your side. He doesn't touch you where you want him to. He skirts around your breasts, your hips, your thighs, his fingers dancing just out of reach of where you ache for him.
You bite your lip, determined not to give him the satisfaction of hearing you whimper.
His hand finds the waistband of your shorts. He hooks his fingers under the elastic and tugs, pulling them down your legs along with your underwear. You step out of them, your bare thighs pressing together as the cool air hits your sensitive skin.
He doesn't remove your top. He leaves you half-dressed, exposed from the waist down, pinned against the wall with your wrists still trapped above your head.
"Look at you," he breathes, his eyes raking over your body. "So pretty like this. All mine."
He drops to his knees in front of you, his long frame folding gracefully. The sight of him, this giant of a man kneeling at your feet, sends a rush of heat straight to your core.
He doesn't touch you. Not yet. He just looks, his gaze hot and heavy on the slick evidence of your arousal.
"You're so wet," he says, his voice rough. "And you've been acting like you don't want me. We both know that's a lie."
You shake your head, a final, stubborn act of defiance. "I'm not begging for anything."
Victor's eyes flash. "We'll see."
He leans in, and his tongue finally makes contact. A slow, deliberate stripe from your entrance to your clit. The sensation is electric, a jolt of pleasure that makes your knees buckle. You gasp, your bound hands straining against his grip.
He doesn't stop. He licks into you, his tongue circling your clit with maddening precision. He knows your body, knows exactly where to press and how hard. He brings you to the edge, that familiar coil tightening in your belly, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps.
He pulls away, his chin glistening, and looks up at you with a calm, patient expression.
You shake your head, your chest heaving. "No."
He shrugs, as if it doesn't matter. But you see the glint in his eye. He's enjoying this.
He goes back in, his tongue working you over again. This time, he's faster, more insistent. He slides a finger inside you, curling it just right, and you see stars. Your hips buck against his face, chasing the friction, the pleasure building and building until you're right there, on the precipice.
You let out a frustrated whimper, a sound you can't contain. Your body is trembling, aching, desperate for release. Your thighs are shaking, and there's a wetness pooling between them that has nothing to do with your own arousal and everything to do with the way he's denied you twice now.
Victor stands up, his tall frame towering over you again. He releases your wrists, and your arms fall limply to your sides.
"I can do this all night," he says, his voice a low murmur. "But you're only going to come when you ask nicely."
You glare at him, but the fire has gone out of it. You're too wound up, too needy. The brat in you is fading, replaced by a raw, aching want. Your body is screaming for release, every nerve ending alight with unspent pleasure.
"Please," you whisper, the word barely audible.
Victor tilts his head. "I didn't hear you."
You swallow your pride. The word feels heavy on your tongue, but the ache between your legs is heavier.
"Please, Victor," you say, your voice stronger this time. "Please let me come."
A slow, satisfied smile spreads across his face. "That's my good girl."
He doesn't waste any more time. He scoops you up, his arms wrapping around your waist, and carries you to the bedroom. He lays you down on the bed, the soft comforter sinking beneath your weight. He stands over you for a moment, his eyes tracing the curve of your body, the way your chest rises and falls with each ragged breath.
Then he reaches for the hem of your top and pulls it over your head, leaving you completely bare beneath him.
He takes a moment to look at you, his gaze traveling from your face down to your breasts, to the dip of your waist, to the way your thighs fall open for him, slick and ready.
And then he lowers his head between your legs.
This time, there's no teasing. No stopping. He devours you, his tongue and lips working in perfect harmony. He sucks your clit into his mouth, his fingers thrusting inside you, curling against that sweet spot that makes your vision go white. The pleasure crashes over you like a wave, relentless and consuming. You cry out, your back arching off the bed, your hands fisting in his hair as you come undone on his tongue.
He doesn't stop until your shudders subside, lapping at you gently, bringing you down from the high. His tongue moves slower now, softer, kissing your sensitive flesh.
When he finally lifts his head, his face is flushed, his lips slick with you. He crawls up your body, kissing a path up your stomach, between your breasts, up your neck. His lips find yours, and you taste yourself on his tongue.
"Good?" he asks, his voice husky.
You can only nod, your mind still hazy, your body humming with the aftershocks of your release.
He sits up, reaching for the hem of his shirt. He pulls it over his head, revealing the lean, powerful lines of his torso. His skin is smooth, stretched taut over muscle. You reach out, tracing the line of his collarbone, the dip of his hip. He shivers under your touch.
He catches your hand, bringing it to his lips. He kisses your knuckles, his eyes never leaving yours.
Then he stands, pulling his sweatpants and letting them fall to the floor. His cock springs free, thick and hard, the tip already glistening. Your mouth goes dry at the sight of him.
He climbs onto the bed, settling between your legs. The head of his cock presses against your entrance, teasing, just like before. He drags it through your slick folds, coating himself in your arousal, but he doesn't push in.
"Ready?" he asks, his voice a low rasp.
You nod, your voice lost.
He pushes in, slow and deep. The stretch is exquisite, a fullness that steals your breath. He fills you completely, his hips meeting yours, and for a moment, he just stays there, letting you adjust to the feeling of him inside you.
His pace is steady, deliberate. Each thrust hits that perfect spot inside you, sending sparks of pleasure radiating through your body. You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, and he groans, his forehead dropping to yours.
"You feel so good," he breathes. "So perfect."
His rhythm quickens, his hips snapping against yours. The sound of skin on skin fills the room, mingling with your moans and his ragged breaths. You can feel another orgasm building, coiling tight in your belly, and this time, there's no one holding you back.
"Victor," you gasp. "I'm close."
"Come for me," he commands, his voice rough. "Come on my cock."
That's all it takes. You shatter, your walls clenching around him as you cry out his name. He follows a moment later, his hips stuttering as he spills inside you, a low groan rumbling in his chest as he buries his face in the crook of your neck.
He collapses on top of you, his weight a comforting pressure. You lie there, panting, your skin slick with sweat. The room smells like sex and warmth and him.
You think it's over. You think he's done. Your body is boneless, satisfied, ready to drift off in his arms.
But then he pulls out, and before you can catch your breath, he's flipping you over. You land on your stomach, and he pulls your hips up, guiding you onto your knees. The sudden shift makes you gasp.
"Round two," he says, his voice a low growl behind you.
He enters you from behind, a new angle that makes you gasp. He's deeper this time, hitting places that make your vision blur. His hands grip your hips, holding you in place as he sets a punishing pace.
"Fuck," you moan, your fingers gripping the sheets.
"You've been a brat all day," he says, his breath hot against your ear as he leans over your back. "Why?"
You can barely form words, your mind lost in the pleasure. Each thrust drives the air from your lungs. "I... I wanted..."
"I wanted to rile you up," you admit, the confession tumbling out between moans. "I wanted you to fuck me like this."
Victor lets out a dark chuckle, the sound vibrating against your skin. "You got what you wanted."
He fucks you harder, his pace relentless. His hand reaches around, finding your clit, rubbing tight circles in time with his thrusts. You're a mess of moans and whimpers, your fingers gripping the sheets as he drives into you again and again. The second orgasm hits you like a freight train, and you scream into the pillow as you come, your body trembling violently.
Victor follows soon after, his body shuddering as he pours himself into you. He collapses beside you, both of you breathing hard, tangled in the sheets.
For a long moment, neither of you moves. The only sound is the heavy rhythm of your breathing, slowly evening out.
Then Victor stirs. He gets up, disappearing into the bathroom, and returns with a warm, damp cloth. He cleans you gently, his touch tender, wiping away the evidence of what you've done. He's careful, thorough, pressing soft kisses to your shoulder blades as he works.
He pulls the covers over you, then slides in beside you, wrapping his arms around you. He pulls you close, your back against his chest, his lips pressing soft kisses to your shoulder, your neck, the shell of your ear.
"You okay?" he asks, his voice soft, the roughness gone.
You nod, snuggling deeper into his embrace. Your body aches in the best way, a pleasant soreness that reminds you of everything you just did.
"Good," he murmurs. He brushes a strand of hair from your face, tucking it behind your ear. "Next time, just tell me what you want. You don't have to be a brat to get my attention."
You smile, your eyes fluttering closed. "I know. But it's more fun this way."
He laughs, the sound rumbling through his chest, warm and genuine. "You're impossible."
He presses another kiss to your hair, his arms tightening around you. "I do."
And in the quiet of the night, wrapped in his arms, your head resting on his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, you know it's true. His fingers trace lazy patterns on your skin, and the tension that had been coiled in your chest all day finally, fully, melts away.
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