Welcome to my writing blog with the occasional drawings, all made by me.
All projects have adult themes. Long and detailed, with 75% of it being world-building, characterization, and relationship development, and the 25% is smut. Because porn by itself without the fun, flirty build-up and foreplay is fucking boring and amateurish.
I only write fics with male readers as the MC paired with original male or female characters, depending on the project. No race or physical descriptions of the reader ever mentioned besides being average height to fit anyone.
No fandoms for now, I only write about my niche interests. It needs to be a hyperfixation about the character for me to start writing about them.
About me:
I started writing my own fics because it's rare for me to find stories that can reach my standards. The authors I used to follow rarely write anymore, so I guess I'll do it myself then lol. I don't gatekeep, female readers are welcome to interact with me, I'm not the man that you all think I am, I have a uterus. I'm only here to write long, elaborate plots that I personally would love to read.
I swear, cars aren't the only thing I'm into. I have a lot of ideas I want to share, but I'm just super busy IRL since I'll be graduating from college this July. After that, I'll post updates twice a week 'cause I'll be unemployed before becoming a corpo scum, choom!
AO3 Projects:
Ride in Ecstasy (RiE) [Male Reader x Multiple OCs] - Ongoing, currently 115,000+ words
(New Update: May 28, 2026)
Synopsis: You are the fastest delivery driver in the city, and you caught the attention of someone important who challenges you to a race. One thing leads to another, and you get pulled into the city’s underground racing scene. Every night pulls you deeper into illegal circuits, hefty bets, heated stares, and romances that hit harder than any collision.
Second person POV :: Bisexual male reader :: Male and female OCs as love interest :: Two male and one female OCs (for now) :: Lots of smut
No Broke Boys [prelude to Ride in Ecstasy] - Ongoing, currently 15,000+ words
(New update: May 19, 2026)
Synopsis: Side plot about two of your male love interests. This is where it all started, 10 years before you joined the best and most chaotic underground racing crew in the city. Deep dive into car tuner culture. (A more hardcore and violent version of RiE)
Third person POV :: Male OC x Male OC :: Eventual smut
Future Projects:
Untitled 1920s Mafia fic - Low fantasy where magic exists, and you have crippling amnesia. Everyone wants to kill you for reasons you don't remember, and a man from your past is protecting you with unknown intentions. Has extreme violence and gore written in vivid detail, and the most fucked up, toxic, mutual codependent relationship dynamic. This is the questionable shit I'm into.
- WORK IN PROGRESS.
From Frost to Flame - Medieval Fantasy where you fall for the same Viking that destroyed your home and ruined your life. The plot got too complicated, involving politics, and you going through a villain arc. It also got too dark because of an SA scene committed on you that I decided not to continue.
- Already uploaded at some point, but now private. On hiatus, will be rewritten and posted again someday.
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◇ I don't write fluff alone, light-hearted stories are boring for me.
◇ I don't do requests but I accept suggestions, even incorporate it if it's fitting to the scene. I write for my own enjoyment only.
a bicker?!!! does m/c get to drive it?!!??!! stop i am so exited, i want to know everything RahHh
Maybe hehe
I'm excited to write it too, but alas I'm very busy irl rn cause I'm sooo close to graduating. Maybe next month I'll post a new chapter every week and a new story.
reading chapter uhh 9?? the story is so good, helloo!! i am eating it up :P came across the “Buy me dinner first.” “Sure. Deliver it to yourself.” part hehe, and now i am imagining the crew actually getting food delivered just to see “delivery boy”
Yeah, and the tips would be huge or they give him something else
Mate, been reading your work on ao3 after seeing a snippet here, and I must say, it’s legendary. The three ‘love’ interests are very well-written and attractive asf, and I really enjoy their dynamics with the m/c and with each other. Also, what a good m/c you’ve written.
I am not a car guy at all, but you describe things in such an interesting and captivating way that it’s impossible not to enjoy it. It’s also fun to read the car names and then search a little about them and admire their pictures.
Though this made me realize how broke I am, because fuck’s sake, to think that there are people with million-dollar cars (or multiple of those😭) who are risking something worth more than any house I’ll ever be able to buy with such ease….. shit. Meanwhile my penniless ass wouldn’t even be able to afford 1/5 of the yearly taxes of these vehicles.
Anyways, I cannot lose the opportunity and not ask you — is there any chance of the m/c getting pegged by Vera one day?
Holy fuck, it's you! I've read your works a while back, and they're so damn good! Confident, bratty bottoms are the best.
I'm sooo happy you like my shit, man. 🥹✨️
Anyways, I cannot lose the opportunity and not ask you — is there any chance of the m/c getting pegged by Vera one day?
Ask, and you shall receive. 😉
But not by Vera though, I don't see her as being into that. The other female love interest that's yet to be introduced, on the other hand... I don't see why not. You gave me a good idea upon mentioning it, I would definitely add that to the list to write.
TAGS: NSFW, Porn With Plot but the full plot is in AO3, Explicit M/M Smut, Bottom M!Reader, No Use of Y/N, 2nd Person Pov, No race or physical descriptions of reader ever mentioned, You angered the man with violent tendencies so good luck with that, Light choking, Making Out, Blowjob, Fingering, Anal Sex, Creampie, Multiple rounds implied get yourself a wheelchair
SYNOPSIS: You joined a racing event against ultra-rich kids. You didn't have an expensive car to enter, so Rigo told you to use his Shelby GT500 instead, since he couldn't join the event again, and you'll split the cash prize 50/50. You got greedy and wanted the biggest payout, so you wagered Rigo's car along with $100,000. Rigo is livid about what you did, but thankfully, you won in the end. He's still mad at you, though.
A/N: This is one of my favorite chapters, highly recommend reading the full version on AO3, this Tumblr version won't do it justice. Skipped over the race and other fun scenes cause only car guys can understand the terminology lol. Rigo is my favorite character. I love crazy men, they're so much fun to write about.
Word count: 6,857
Your opponent, a man driving a Ferrari SF90 Stradale, stares at you condescendingly as if you’re less than the dirt under his shoes. But you know very well he has too much money and not enough skill.
“Deal,” you say, nodding once. No hesitation.
He studies your face, looking for a crack, some twitch that gives away regret. He doesn’t find one, so instead, he lets out a short, satisfied laugh and extends his hand. You take it. His grip is firm and forceful, fingers digging into your palm like he’s already trying to prove something. You squeeze back just as hard. Neither of you looks away.
“One fifty,” he repeats. “You lose, I take the hundred and the GT500.”
“And if I win,” you reply, leaning in slightly so only he can hear, “you pay me one fifty grand and drive home crying to your dad.”
He looks angry underneath all the forced smiles. You release each other’s hands at the same time. Someone from the organizers steps in, confirming the lineup order. You’re scheduled after two more races. That will give you ten minutes, maybe fifteen, to prepare before lining up.
The Ferrari driver turns back toward his car, saying something to his entourage with forced confidence. They nod too quickly.
Suddenly, you feel Rigo’s hand clamp around your upper arm.
“Walk,” he says quietly. It isn’t a request.
He steers you away from the crowd without looking at you, his grip firm enough to hurt a bit, it’s hard to ignore. The noise fades slightly as he leads you past trailers, stacked equipment, and a row of temporary barriers. The lights thin out. Shadows stretch longer here.
You can feel it now. He’s seething.
He doesn’t say a word until you’re far enough that the crowd is just noise and shapes. The area behind the storage containers is darker, cluttered with spare tires and folded barricades. It blocks the view from the strip.
The second you step into that pocket of shadow, he stops. You turn to face him.
His hand moves fast. He grabs a fistful of your shirt and shoves you back against the metal wall of a container. The impact rattles through your spine, the cold steel pressing into your shoulder blades. The sound is loud in the quiet space. Your breath catches as you wince.
For a split second, you think he might actually punch you.
He doesn’t.
But he cages you in, one hand gripping your shirt tight near your collarbone, the other braced hard against the metal beside your head. His face is close now, close enough that you can see the tension in his jaw and the way his nostrils flare with each controlled breath.
“What the fuck was that!?” he asks, voice low and shaking with restrained anger.
Your pulse is hammering, you’ve never seen Rigo this angry, and you’re genuinely scared. You definitely went too far with that gambit, but the reward is too good not to risk.
“You wanted me to escalate, so I did just that,” you reply, trying to keep your voice steady.
“I didn’t want you to bet my fuckin’ car!!” He snaps back.
His grip tightens slightly, bunching the soft fabric in his fist. You can feel the strength in his forearm, the barely contained force. “You think this is a game!?” he continues. “You think throwing the Shelby into the pot makes you look fearless!?”
You swallow. “We needed more profit,” you justify. “One fifty changes everything!”
His dark eyes flash. “You don’t gamble my shit without telling me,” he says, his voice becomes louder, more dangerous. “That wasn’t just your call!”
The closeness is suffocating. You can feel the heat from his body, the tension radiating off him. His snapback casts half his face in shadow, but his eyes are locked onto yours with an intensity that makes your stomach twist.
“You think I don’t know what I’m doing?” you ask quietly.
He leans in closer, his nose almost touching yours. “I think you just put us in a position where if you screw up,” he says slowly, “we lose more than money.”
His breath brushes your lips. You know you can probably push him away if you try hard enough. You don’t, of course, knowing that it might set him off, and you do not want to get punched right before the race.
“You said that we’ll win,” you murmur. “You said he’s predictable.”
“I said that before you decided to stake the fuckin’ car!”
Silence hangs between you for a second. The anger is still there, but something else slips in with it. His grip doesn’t loosen, but it shifts slightly, less violent now but still threatening.
“You worried?” you ask softly, but you hate how meek you sound.
His eyes narrow. “Of him?” he replies. “Fuck no.” He pauses, “But of you doing something reckless for the wrong reason? Yeah.”
“I’m not reckless,” you retort. It was a calculated risk.
He glares at you. “You just wagered the Shelby without blinking.”
“I did it ‘cause we both know that I can beat him.”
His jaw tightens again, but this time it isn’t pure anger. “You better do,” he warns.
You hold his gaze. “I will,” you reply with conviction.
His fist remains twisted in your shirt for another second before he exhales sharply through his nose. His other hand drops from the wall, but he doesn’t step away yet. The space between you is still charged, heavy with everything left unsaid.
“You better guarantee the win,” he says, his voice low but threaded with warning. “Because if you lose that car after everything...”
He doesn’t finish the sentence. The threat is there, palpable.
His grip tightens once more, pushing you harder against the wall, enough to make the point sink in. “This isn’t about winning or losing, it’s about you wagering my shit without telling me first!” he says, voice low and razor sharp. “That’s fuckin’ disrespectful as hell! Don’t ever do that again.”
The words hit harder than the shove. You swallow, the adrenaline finally settling into something heavier. Despite your higher chance of winning, the act of potentially throwing away his hard work and his money out of greed is the scummiest thing you might have done. Fuck, now you feel awful.
“You’re right,” you say trying to keep your voice from shaking. “I should’ve told you first. I’m sorry.”
His eyes stay locked on yours for a beat longer before you add with full determination, “I won’t lose. I promise you that.”
His eyes search your face, looking for any doubt or fear. But he finds something else in the way you look at him, realizing the proximity.
Slowly, he releases your shirt, smoothing the fabric down with an almost absent motion, as if reassembling the version of you he needs on that starting line.
“Then go prove it,” he says, stepping back into the dim light, anger still simmering beneath the surface, but more tamed now. “Because if you walk back without that one fifty,” he adds, “I’m going to be a lot angrier than I am right now.” His tone suggests that he’s already prepared to kill you.
Then he turns and starts walking back toward the noise of the crowd, leaving you alone in the shadows for half a second to steady your breathing and fix yourself before you follow.
The stadium is blinding beneath industrial floodlights that bleach the asphalt into a harsh silver sheen.
Your victory is undeniable.
After the race, you guide the Shelby back toward the infield. The heat is rising from the hood in visible waves under the stadium lights. The air smells like hot rubber and high-octane fuel.
Rigo is already walking toward you before the car has fully stopped. His hands slide into his pockets as he approaches, but his eyes never leave you. His posture is different now, the rigid tension from his shoulders has dissolved, replaced by a looseness that suggests both relief and satisfaction from your win.
When you step out, he grips the top of the door, palm flattening against the frame, leaning in close enough that you can feel the residual heat radiating off the car between you. His face remains partially shadowed beneath the brim of his cap despite the glare of the floodlights overhead, but his eyes catch the light, sharp and intense. For a moment, he just looks at you. Then the corner of his mouth lifts, a smile that shows teeth and creases the edges of his eyes.
“Great job,” his tone carries pride. “You let him burn out his launch advantage, that wasn’t just luck.”
You lean one shoulder against the door, “I know.” Adrenaline is still buzzing under your skin.
“All according to plan,” he adds, nodding once in approval. The weight of those words settles heavier than the crowd’s noise around you. The approval almost means more than the money and the glory.
“I told you I wouldn’t lose,” you reply. You don’t know if your pulse is hammering because of the adrenaline, the risk, or the way he’s looking at you right now.
He huffs a quiet breath that almost sounds like a laugh, though he tries to suppress it. “Man, you had me pissed off,” he mutters, shaking his head. “Betting the whole damn car like that? That was reckless as hell.”
You tilt your head slightly. “But you trusted me.”
“I trusted myself,” he shoots back, chin lifting a little. “I knew I built it right. Knew it could take him. You just went and put my neck on the line without asking.” The faint smirk threatening his mouth weakens the argument. “Lucky for you, it paid off.”
You’re glad he isn’t mad anymore. Or at least, not in the way he was before.
Farther away, the SF90 sits parked under the lights, its red paint no longer commanding the same attention. The driver stands beside it, arms crossed, waiting. The earlier arrogance has dulled into silent anger. He’s glaring at you even from a distance.
You shift your weight as if to step toward the Ferrari.
Rigo’s hand comes up suddenly and clasps your shoulder firmly. His fingers curl over the curve of it, thumb pressing just enough to stop you mid-step. He leans in, his mouth close to your ear, breath warm against your skin.
“But don’t think you’re off the hook just yet for what you did.”
He smirks, his tone is playful on the surface, but there’s something underneath it. Something unresolved. Something that promises a later conversation that will not be nearly as calm.
You glance up at him. He’s smiling like he usually does, carrying that same easy-going energy. But his eyes say it’s not over between you. Not even close.
He gives you a light tug forward. “C’mon,” he murmurs. “Let’s go collect our one hundred fifty grand.” He lets go of your shoulder, letting you walk ahead as he settles into that ‘associate’ role again.
The Ferrari driver’s friends gather around the SF90, its owner standing beside it with a rigid stillness that borders on hostility. He grits his teeth, eyes fixed on you without blinking, as though refusing to look away might somehow reverse the outcome of the race.
The transaction is handled without ceremony.
A heavy bag is brought forward and placed on the hood of the Ferrari, the zipper pulled open with a metallic rasp that cuts through the noise more sharply than it should.
Inside are tightly wrapped bricks of U.S. currency, stacked in perfect rows.
You step forward with Rigo beside you, aware of the driver’s gaze drilling into the side of your face, but you don’t acknowledge him. Rigo, however, tilts his head and gives him a disdainful smile.
You reach into the bag and lift the first bundle, the paper firm and slightly warm from compression, recently withdrawn from the bank and secured with a thick strap labeled in bold ink: ten thousand.
You count methodically, separating stacks and laying them across the polished hood in symmetrical rows, you move carefully to ensure accuracy. Rigo helps you count the ridiculously large sum, his expression is neutral but unmistakably pleased.
“Count it twice,” he says quietly.
You do, making sure you don’t get cheated on. Each stack thumps softly against the metal as you place it down. It takes a while to confirm that the total is indeed one hundred and fifty thousand dollars in tangible cash.
The Ferrari driver remains uncharacteristically silent throughout the whole process, his resentment is unwavering, his hands clenched at his sides as though any spoken word might fracture whatever composure he has left.
When you finish, you look up and meet his eyes evenly. “It’s all here,” you say, not bothering to taunt him anymore, simply stating facts.
He gives a single curt nod. No handshake or further interaction.
Just the quiet humiliation of being out-engineered and out-driven in front of a stadium full of witnesses and losing a stupid amount of money.
Rigo transfers the stacks back into the duffel, zipping it closed with finality before turning away from the glare of the Ferrari’s lights and walking toward the Shelby. He adjusts his grip on the bag casually, as though it contains nothing more significant than spare parts.
You force your breathing to slow. Your expression remains neutral as if this kind of money changes nothing. Inside, however, your thoughts are hysterical. You feel a frenzied edge threatening to crack through your composure, a laugh that wants to escape, loud and uncontrolled, born from disbelief more than arrogance.
You have never touched that much money in your life, physically compressed into something you can carry in your hand, not in a bank account, not in theoretical figures.
Even after splitting it with Rigo later, seventy-five grand is still an amount that reshapes your reality. It’s the price of a clean title on a new sports car without financing, without monthly payments strangling your income. You could pay your debt to Nico in full, removing that pressure that has sat behind every decision you have made. Seventy-five thousand is massive breathing room.
But you keep your face straight, and you walk like this is simply a routine.
Rigo glances at you sideways once you’re far enough from the crowd. “You’re trying very hard not to lose your mind right now,” he observes, smirking.
“I’m completely calm,” you reply, but there’s a brightness in your eyes that refuses to be hidden, a restless energy in the way you shift your weight from heel to toe.
He huffs a soft chuckle. “Sure you are.”
He opens the passenger door and places the duffel carefully on the floorboard, as though the money inside requires the same mechanical respect he gives the drivetrain, then shuts the door with a solid click that feels strangely ceremonial.
You drive into the night. The adrenaline has dissipated, and the Shelby no longer feels like a weapon, but more like a tired animal finally allowed to slow its breathing. You merge onto the main road with controlled acceleration instead of a launch, letting the revs sit low, the supercharger barely whispering instead of screaming.
The cabin is dim, lit faintly by the dashboard glow.
Neither of you says anything for a while. The exhaustion settles in gradually, and now you crave peace. The engine vibrates at a steady cruise RPM, suspension smoothing out minor imperfections in the asphalt. Low-volume music plays from the radio.
Rigo leans back in the passenger seat, head tipped against the headrest, eyes half-lidded but still wide awake. His forearm rests against the center console, close enough that every small movement brushes lightly against yours when you shift gears.
“We’re not going to a bar,” he speaks after a while.
You glance at him briefly. “You don’t want to celebrate?”
“I do.” His mouth twitches faintly. “Just not with watered-down whiskey and idiots asking about the car.”
You huff a soft laugh, glancing at him for a second. “And what, you don’t trust yourself not to start random bar fights?”
He looks at you sideways, with a smile. “You also don’t want to drive drunk.”
You hum, “I like to keep my license, your car... and my life.”
The Shelby’s engine note fills the silence again. A few more turns and the city thins into quieter streets. Streetlights pass overhead in rhythmic intervals, flashing warm gold across the windshield and over his face in brief pulses.
No celebration in a crowded bar. No drunken bravado.
Just the two of you, the engine’s low rumble, and the understanding that tonight was enough.
When you pull into his driveway, you let the car idle, engine ticking softly as heat bleeds off the block. Rigo pushes his door open first, shoes hitting concrete with a dull thud. You stare at his back as he stretches his arms overhead, shirt lifting slightly to expose pale skin. Then walks toward the building without a word.
The shutters open. It rolls upward with a mechanical grind, panels folding in on themselves. Fluorescent lights flick on with a soft buzz, revealing polished concrete floors and tool cabinets. Your GR86 parked on the other side is starting to feel like it belongs here.
You ease the Shelby forward. You center it carefully between the faint tire marks already on the floor. The engine drops into a gentle lope before you cut the ignition entirely.
For a moment, it’s just the faint echo of the shutter rolling back down behind you.
Rigo picks up the duffel bag as you step out. He adjusts it casually, as if it contains gym clothes, not over a hundred thousand dollars earned in a chaotic night.
The atmosphere shifts once the shutter seals shut.
Outside noise disappears. Enclosed air that still smells faintly of gasoline and rubber.
Now it’s just you and him. The sudden silence feels intimate. You ignore it. Or at least you try to.
There’s something about being alone now, no crowd, no distractions, and it makes the space feel smaller. Unresolved tension. You’re aware of him in a way that has nothing to do with racing, aware of the faint flex of his forearm when he adjusts the strap of the bag.
Your pulse picks up again for an entirely different reason.
He jerks his head toward the interior stairwell. “C’mon.” The stairs creak lightly as you follow him up. The scent changes from car fumes to something cleaner, like detergent, faint cologne, maybe coffee.
He unlocks the door at the top and pushes it open. You step inside and pause.
It’s... normal, clean, and surprisingly organized. Just a regular apartment.
You didn’t expect that, you thought this place would be a total mess. Rigo tosses the duffel onto the kitchen counter with a solid thump and stretches his neck.
You take a slow look around. “Huh, it’s bigger than I thought it was.”
He pauses mid-step, then he chuckles, “Bet that’s not the first time you said that.”
“Freak.” You narrow your eyes at him, watching him open the refrigerator.
You flop onto the couch, closing your eyes and trying to relax for a moment. This entire day has been wild, and you haven’t fully processed everything that happened, but you have a sneaking suspicion it’s not over yet.
Rigo grabs two beer bottles, popping off the caps, then walks over and hands you one, sitting on the opposite side of the couch.
You take a slow sip from the beer, letting the cold hit your throat. He watches you over the rim of his bottle as he drinks, eyes unreadable in the dim light. A comfortable silence settles, until...
“So,” he says after a while, voice casual but with an edge beneath it. “You wagered my car.”
You set the half-empty bottle down on the coffee table, leaning back, arms crossing defensively over your chest. “I thought we were over this already.”
He leans forward, angling his body toward you and resting his forearms on his knees. The tattoos on his arms catch the overhead light as he flexes his grip on the beer bottle.
“Over it? Nah, just postponed the discussion.” His dark eyes lock onto yours, and this close, you can see the flicker of something deeper than anger.
“See, here’s the thing,” he continues, placing the bottle down with more force than necessary. Condensation leaves a slow trail across the wood. “You think winning excuses every impulsive move you make. But that Shelby? That’s more than some trophy.”
You swallow. “I know,” you say, softer now. “And I’m sorry, okay? I really am.” You sit up a little straighter, uncrossing your arms. “But it was worth the risk. As for betting your car... it will never happen again.”
He studies you for a long moment, searching your face like he’s trying to decide if he believes you.
“You don’t get to gamble things that matter to me without asking first,” he snaps. His gaze holds yours, intimidating. The proximity between you becomes charged with obvious tension.
“I get it,” you shift closer without fully realizing you’re doing it. “I really do. But I knew what I was doing.” You run a hand through your hair, frustrated at having to explain yourself again. “I wouldn’t have taken the risk if I didn’t know I could pull it off.”
“Yeah, you pulled it off,” he starts, leaning a fraction closer. “You won, fine. You made big money, sure. But I don’t like the idea of you making calls like that without considering the consequences. Not just for you,” His voice drops lower. “but for the people who give a shit if you fail.”
He’s not just talking about the car anymore, and the words land heavier than you expect.
“You wouldn’t have let me if I told you.” You argue, leaning back slightly but refusing to look away.
His eye twitches in annoyance. “You gotta stop acting like you’ve got nothing to lose,” he mutters. “Stop being so damn reckless,” his tone rises a bit.
You glare at him, “I wasn’t—” You stop yourself. You were reckless. You knew it, and now he’s calling you out on it. The silence stretches between you, thick with unspoken things. Maybe it’s pride that’s pushing you, but you don’t like being lectured like this. It makes you feel like a child.
“So what? I’m reckless. Yeah, I'll own to that.” Your voice comes out more raspy than you mean it to. “But that’s why I won!”
“And don’t pretend that you’re not being reckless after everything you’ve done tonight.”
Rigo moves closer this time without pretending otherwise. “That’s not the fuckin’ point. And this isn’t about me.” His hand grabs your jaw, fingers curling under your chin. “Don’t push it,” he warns, though his fingers press firmly against your cheeks like he wants to squeeze your mouth shut. His breath is warm against your face, his gaze dark and searching.
You don’t know when this stopped being a normal argument. One second you were trading jabs, and now he’s this close, so close you can see the way his pupils have blown wide. You don’t pull away, instead holding his gaze, defiant and challenging at the same time. Tension crackles between you like a live wire.
His hand doesn’t leave your face, thumb dragging slowly along your jaw, and you feel the roughness of it and the warmth of his skin. It sends a strange shiver down your spine.
“Fuck,” he mutters, more to himself than to you. “I hate that I can’t stay mad at you.”
His free hand comes up to grip the back of your neck, pulling you closer until his forehead rests against yours. The contact makes your breath hitch. Your face burns red instantly, heat climbing from your chest to your face. Your hands slide up on instinct, fingers wrapping around his wrists. Of all the things you thought he’d do, you weren’t expecting this.
You were supposed to be annoyed. He was supposed to be mad. Instead, you’re sitting here with his hands on you and your heart trying to break out of your ribs.
The space between you disappears. His breath mixes with yours, warm and uneven. You can feel the slight tension in his grip, like he’s holding himself back from something he hasn’t decided to do yet.
“All night—” his hands circle around your neck, “—all I could think about was wrapping my hands around your throat for what you did. And now here we are.”
His words and actions should sound threatening, but there’s no real danger to them, only... lust. His grip tightens just slightly, possessively, and you know you shouldn’t be this turned on.
Rigo’s lips brush against yours, testing if you’ll let it happen. When you finally kiss, it’s rough and messy, and you feel the scrape of his stubble on your chin. His grip tightens, forcing your head back as his tongue slides against yours. You can feel the ridge of his teeth, every ragged breath he draws as he kisses you like he’s punishing you, like he wants to erase all the reckless words you said earlier.
You gasp against his mouth, fingers digging into his forearms as he crowds you back against the couch. His body presses into yours, heavy, and the heat of him seeps into your skin through your clothes. You don’t resist as he pushes you down onto the couch, pinning you in place. The leather creaks under your weight as he slots himself between your legs. His hips press into yours, his weight settling over you as his lips trail down your jaw.
One hand slides up to your hair, tugging it back while his mouth moves to your neck. The scrape of his teeth against your skin makes you moan, and when he sucks a bruise into the tender spot on your throat, your hips jerk upward against him instinctively.
“You’re fucking trouble, you know that?” he murmurs against your pulse point, his voice rough with desire.
“Y-You’re worse than I am,” you rasp out.
He leans back just enough to look at you, his hands slide down to your chest, fingers working the buttons of your shirt. His gaze is intense with lust. He studies you like he’s trying to memorize every breathless twitch of your face, every subtle shift in your body beneath him.
“You don’t even look sorry,” he mutters. His fingers curl into the fabric of your shirt, bunching it up as he exposes your abdomen to the cold air. His groin presses firmly between your legs, he grinds down just enough to make you feel it.
“Ngh... should I regret winning?” You reply a bit derisively. Rigo lets out a dark chuckle, his fingers tighten in your shirt, pulling you up just enough to crash his mouth against yours again. Your arms cling to his back, the kiss becomes deeper, more demanding, like he wants to consume you, and it makes your head spin. He nips at your bottom lip, dragging it between his teeth before releasing it with a low groan.
"No," he murmurs. "But you should regret putting my fucking car on the line." His hips roll against yours, the heat of his body pressing against yours through layers of fabric. The friction is maddening, building in your gut like fire.
“I do... I already told you that I’m sorry,” you murmur, your hands roam over his muscular back, trying to pull him closer.
“Then prove it,” he says before leaning back. He makes you sit up, then pushes you to the floor in front of him. The moment your knees hit the floor between his thighs, you immediately know what he wants. You swallow, the bulge straining in his jeans is unmistakable.
“You wanna make it up to me? You know what to do.” He speaks with a low, rough edge. He undoes his belt, the metallic click of the buckle feels like a warning. His fingers hook into the waistband of his jeans and underwear, pushing them down just enough to free his cock. He wraps a hand around the base, giving himself a slow stroke as he watches your reaction.
You can smell his musk, the faint sweat still clinging to his skin after the long night. His free hand moves to the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair with just enough pressure to make his intentions clear.
“Open up,” he murmurs. You do, leaning in eagerly until the taste of him touches your tongue and he guides the tip past your lips. His fingers tighten in your hair when you take him in, sliding in deeper. You feel the heat of it, every vein on his shaft against your tongue, his muscles tensing while he watches you from above. A low groan escapes his throat, the sound vibrating through his body and into yours.
“Fuck,” he mutters, rolling his hips forward slightly, pushing himself deeper into your mouth. His grip on your hair keeps you right where he wants you, the control evident in every movement.
You take him deeper, the stretch at the back of your throat making your eyes water. His musk fills your senses, potent and intoxicating. “Breath through your nose,” he says, giving you no mercy, guiding your head forward until the tip pushes deep into your throat. You gag slightly, fingers curling against his thighs for balance, but he doesn’t pull back right away. He holds you there for a moment, watching your face contort before finally giving you some space to breathe.
“Ahh, you look good like this,” he says, voice filled with need. His thumb brushes over your cheekbone. You suck, moving your tongue along the underside while trying to maintain eye contact with him. You feel him twitch in your mouth, veins standing out along the thick length, and you suck harder, hollowing your cheeks. Above you, his breathing turns ragged, his fingers flexing against your scalp.
Rigo’s reactions to your ministrations are fueling you to put more effort. You reach down with one hand to undo your own pants, relieving the pressure when you stroke yourself. His breathing falters, and he watches you with half-lidded eyes as you bob your head, taking him deeper while you touch yourself. “Mmh... Mnghh—!” You moan around him, the vibrations in your throat making it feel even better for him. His hips jerk forward, fucking into your mouth with short, shallow thrusts.
“That’s it,” he grunts. His grip on your hair tightens, guiding your head to take all of him. Your jaw strains, and you close your eyes, your nose presses against his pelvis, trying hard not to gag when you feel him deep down your throat, and he keeps you there for a few moments. He pulls back slowly, and a thin string of saliva and precum connects you to the tip before it snaps.
You pant hard, and he stares down at you with dark intensity. His cock twitches as you lap at the head, cleaning the bead of precum that has formed there. Your own hand moves faster over your length, the pleasure mounting when you taste him on your tongue.
“Stand up,” he commands, grabbing your arm and pulling you onto his lap with your knees on either side of his hips. His other hand grips your chin, tilting your face up to meet his. His thumb brushes over your swollen lips, smearing the moisture. His eyes flicker down to your cock, still in your hand, then back up to meet yours. “You want this?” he asks, voice rough with need. “Want me to fuck you?”
“Yeah,” you admit breathlessly, shrugging your button-up shirt off your shoulders, and standing up to remove the rest of your clothes. His lips curl into a smirk at your immediate compliance.
He takes his own shirt off, revealing the toned muscles of someone who works out regularly. You were expecting him to be covered in tattoos, but it turns out that it’s his arms and upper back. You return to your place on his lap, your hands trailing over the intricate ink on his skin.
Rigo’s hand slides lower to stroke your length, fingers already slick with lube he must have prepared while you were distracted. Thumb brushing over the head, smearing precum across the tip. You shudder at the contact, your hips jerking forward instinctively. The other hand grips your hip, squeezing hard enough to leave bruises as he pulls you flush against him.
“This how you gonna make it up to me?” he asks, leaning in to nip at your shoulder. You nod eagerly, you can feel the hard ridge of his cock pressing against your ass. You nuzzle into the crook of his neck, teeth grazing his skin.
His hand moves below you, fingers pressing between your cheeks. It makes you tense momentarily before he teases the rim, circling, then slowly pushes inside. Leaning your head on his shoulder and letting him work you open.
You bite your lip to stifle a moan as he adds another finger, curling them, seeking that sweet spot inside you that makes your vision blur. He watches your face closely, his fingers scissor open inside you. Your nails dig into his shoulders, the stretch burns pleasantly when he adds a third, and your body clenches around the intrusion. He’s too good at this that you might just cum from his fingers alone, but you hold yourself back.
“Nnggh,” your back arches, and a low, desperate sound rips from your throat, each thrust of his fingers hits your prostate. Your cock twitches between your bodies, smearing precum onto his stomach as he stretches you wider until he deems that you’re ready.
His hands grip your hips and lift you slightly, positioning the head at your entrance. Your body is quivering with anticipation. He grips your hips tightly, his fingers digging into your skin before he slams you down onto him.
“Aahhh—fuck!!” The stretch is intense, burning when he fills you in one go. Your nails claw at his back, your body arching as you adjust to the sudden overwhelming fullness. He doesn’t move at first, holding you there sheathed fully, your internal muscles stretched around him. You can feel him pulsing inside you, the heat of him inside, and the way your body clenches around him involuntarily.
His breathing is ragged, skin flushed like he’s holding himself back from ruining you completely. His grip on your hips tightens when you finally move, lifting yourself just enough before you sink back down onto him. A shudder runs through your body as he fills you again, the thick length of him stretching you open.
He lets you set the pace for now. Your hands grip his shoulders for balance, and you ride him slow, feeling everything. Each time you descend, his length drags against your inner walls, hitting just the right spots to make you gasp. His fingers dig into your hips, guiding your movements, controlling the pace with subtle shifts of his hands.
“Feel that?” Rigo murmurs, his breath hot against your neck as you move. His thumb rubs small circles on your hipbone, his other hand sliding up your back to press you closer. “You fuckin’ made me wait for this.”
You can feel the muscles in his thighs tensing beneath you, his body coiled with restrained energy. He moves with you, meeting your downward motion with upward thrusts, driving deeper each time. The leather beneath you creaks with the movement as he pulls you down harder, burying himself to the hilt.
“Fuck,” he groans, his hands slide down to grip your ass, spreading you slightly as he thrusts up harder. Each thrust sends sparks through your body, your cock bobbing between your sweat-slicked stomachs. Your skin prickles with heat, sweat forming at your temples as your breathing quickens. Every time you sink down, a ragged gasp escapes your lips, the stretch burning in the best way. The pace hastens when he rolls his hips up, meeting you mid-motion.
You’re trembling, and he senses that your movements are starting to falter, so he pulls out of you slowly and pushes you down the couch again, pressing your back into the soft leather. His hands slide up your thighs, gripping hard enough to leave bruises before pulling your legs wider.
He doesn’t wait to take full control from you, lining himself up and thrusting in hard. “Ahhh!” A sharp gasp escapes your lips as he fills you again. The way he pushes inside makes your muscles spasm around him.
Rigo drives deeper into you, setting a punishing pace that makes your back arch and your nails dig into his skin. Each rough thrust drives the air from your lungs, your body rocking slightly with the force of his movements.
“You like that?” he growls in your ear, his breath hot against your skin. His teeth graze your neck, biting down just hard enough to make you shudder. “You like taking me like this?”
Your answer comes out as a strangled moan, your fingers clawing at his shoulders as he pistons into you. His muscles flex beneath your touch, unyielding. The wet slap of skin on skin echoes in the room, his cock sliding in and out of you relentlessly.
He hooks your legs over his shoulders, spreading you open wider, making it easier for him to ram himself inside you. He leans down, pressing his chest against your thighs, lifting your lower body slightly, and changing the angle, hitting deeper than before. A ragged groan escapes your lips as his pelvis grinds against your taint, the added pressure sending jolts of pleasure straight to your core.
His rhythm doesn’t slow, each thrust pushing you deeper into the couch cushions as he claims your body. The heat of his skin radiates against yours, his muscles flexing as he moves. He looks down at you, eyes darkened more with lust, sweat glistening on his forehead. He angles himself just right, dragging against your prostate on every thrust. The friction builds steadily, coiling tighter inside you.
“Ahh... Nggh... Mmhm...” Your unrestrained moans fill the room. At this point, you can’t even form a single thought anymore, eyes glazed over.
He reaches down, fingers wrap around your cock, the tight grip almost too much as he begins stroking in time with his thrusts. The dual stimulation sends waves of bliss through your body, your back arching off the couch as a strangled moan tears from your throat.
“That’s it,” Rigo grunts, voice rough from exertion, watching your face contort with agonizing pleasure. He leans down, forearm braced beside your head, sweat-damp skin sliding against yours. His hips keep moving, letting you feel every inch of him inside you. Your hands scramble for purchase on the leather cushions, fingers curling into the fabric as he works your length in time with his relentless pace. His strokes are rough, bordering on painful in the best way, exactly what you need to push you toward the edge.
With a loud moan, your muscles tighten around him, back arching off the couch as your orgasm rips through you and splatters over your own stomach. His strokes stay firm, his fingers slick with your release as he milks you through the intensity. His thrusts slow but don’t stop, dragging against your overstimulated nerves as he watches you come undone beneath him.
He grits his teeth as your internal muscles clamp down, thrusts become erratic, burying himself to the hilt. You whimper, feeling him pulse inside you, each small motion making your nerve endings flare, oversensitive from coming so hard just moments before.
His body tenses over yours, a low groan tearing from his throat, hips snapping forward one final time, and he stills, his cock throbbing as he finally lets go. You feel heat spreading deep within you as he spills. His breath comes in ragged bursts, sweat dripping onto your chest as he rides out the waves of pleasure. He rolls his hips slowly, chasing the last remnants of his orgasm, his hand stroking along your thigh.
His weight presses you into the couch as he catches his breath, his damp skin sticking slightly to yours. The couch creaks softly beneath your combined weight, the leather warm and slick with sweat. He exhales roughly through his nose, his fingers flexing where they grip your skin.
When he finally lifts his head, a smirk tugs at his mouth, satisfied and still inside you.
You’re still catching your breath, your chest rising and falling in uneven rhythm beneath him. His gaze locks onto yours, a fierce, possessive glint in his eyes as he looks down at you. He notices that you’re starting to fade when you close your eyes and your breathing slows. He leans down, his breathing hot against your ear.
“Hey, don’t fall asleep now. This is only round one.”
There's supposed to be a full-on character sheet with art, but I'm both busy and lazy right now. Drawing doesn't give me the same joy I get from writing, and it takes way longer too. I'll share this anyway, just for better insight.
Special thanks to the 3D Tuning site, so I can customize the cars without needing to draw them. It doesn't have the new GR86 though, so I'll have to draw that.
TAGS: NSFW, Porn With Plot but the full plot is in AO3, Explicit M/M Smut, Bottom M!Reader, No Use of Y/N, 2nd Person Pov, No race or physical descriptions of reader ever mentioned, Nico being a tease and making you fall for him, Flirting, Very light dom/sub, Making Out, Fingering, Anal Sex, First-time bottoming implied, Creampie
SYNOPSIS: You wanted your own sports car to race and tune to your liking, and Nico (secretly super rich) bought you one, but in exchange for absolute loyalty to the crew and a portion of every win you'll have until you pay your debt. And a bonus of something more personal, hehe
A/N: The context is too juicy not to add to the smut. Straight to the point sex is boring, but too much plot is still missing, I only fit what I could. You wanna top? Only if you win against him someday, only then will Nico let you.
Word count: 6,682
“So,” he starts. “You want a car.”
You nod. “A real one. Something that can match up when the Avalon can’t.”
You don’t want to borrow a car for racing, you want your own. You’ll be too worried about breaking the car if it’s borrowed, you can’t push it to its max potential if it’s not tuned just for you.
Your mind keeps drifting to the number sitting in your bank account now, forty grand. For the first time in your life, money isn’t just for survival anymore, it’s opening up options. You can finally afford a real apartment with windows that don’t rattle when trucks pass. A place where you can actually sleep during the day without dumbass neighbors disturbing you. Maybe even give you time to stop worrying about bills all the time. But it’s not enough for what’s coming. Not if you’re serious about racing.
“I don’t want to burn through what I just made,” you continue. “That’s... life money. Rent. Stability. Stuff I never had.” You look up at him. “But if I’m going to keep running these races, the Avalon won’t survive forever. And I won’t either.”
“So you want a loan,” he concludes, crossing his arms, already knowing what you’re after.
“Yeah.” You pause, choosing your words carefully. “Whatever I win from here on out goes straight back to paying it off. I don’t care how long it takes.”
“And if you stop winning?” He speaks bluntly, just to see how you’ll react.
“Then I keep racing until I do.” You answer with conviction.
A faint smile touches his mouth, intrigued. “You’re staking your future on this,” he speaks seriously beneath the amusement.
“I already did,” you reply with determination. “The moment I decided to join this crew, I did.”
A short moment of silence stretches between you, thick and electric. Nico steps closer, not crowding you, but close enough that you feel the weight of his presence more. He smells faintly of nicotine and whatever masculine cologne he’s wearing.
“Just so you know,” he states, voice low and full of implications, “owing me isn’t just about money.”
You meet his gaze without flinching, even if your heart starts to beat faster. “I don’t mind... as long as you give me something insane like a GT3.” You speak half jokingly.
Nico doesn’t even blink. “If I bought you a Porsche GT3 RS, you’ll be in debt to me for the rest of your life.” Something in his voice makes your stomach flip, he’s not even joking, he’s just speaking the truth.
“Yeah?” you challenge almost breathlessly. “And what would that debt look like?”
His piercing gaze drops to your mouth for half a second before meeting your eyes again. Nico doesn’t answer right away as he shifts his weight, one hand resting on the edge of a crate beside you, close enough that you feel the warmth of him without actually being touched. From the outside perspective, this proximity would look very intimate, but neither of you acknowledges it.
“You want me to back you,” he asserts, tone serious. “That means you’re not just another driver anymore.”
“I’m listening,” you reply.
He leans in a fraction, lowering his voice so it barely carries over the distant engines. “My terms are simple. You race for this crew. Not just on event nights but on my calls too. When I need you on a route, you show up. When I need a driver to test something, you’ll be there. No disappearing, no running off to some other crew chasing a better offer.”
You swallow a lump in your throat, but you don’t look away. “Exclusivity.”
“Loyalty,” he corrects, gaze fixed on your face. “Those aren’t the same thing, but they look similar from the outside.”
Leaving this crew didn’t even cross your mind at all. They’re giving you an amazing opportunity, and you’ll probably be sticking around here for a long time, even without Nico telling you to.
“And the car?” you ask after nodding that you understand the terms.
“I’ll front the money. We find something that fits you, fast enough to keep up, forgiving enough not to kill you while you’re still learning it. Every win you get goes toward paying it back.” His mouth curves faintly. “And you don’t get to argue when I tell you to push harder.”
You huff a breath. “Is that all?”
“For the business side.” His eyes roam, then back to your eyes like he’s memorizing your facial features. “The rest is... personal.”
The air feels more tense and electrified now, like the moment before a storm breaks. “You’re going to be around me a lot,” he continues. “Training. Late nights. Long drives. You’ll be an investment. If you’re in this, you’re in it with me.” His eyes narrow a fraction, “I don’t want someone who flinches when things get intense.”
You take a moment to think about your future. The Avalon. The way it felt watching Nico race, knowing you wanted to be on that level, not just chasing it from behind.
“Sounds fair,” you note, even though you know it isn’t. Not when you don’t even know what you’re feeling around him.
Nico straightens slightly, studying you, like he’s weighing something more than just risk. “Once you agree,” he warns, “there’s no pretending this is just about cars anymore.”
“Alright...” you exhale the breath you didn’t realize you were holding. “I agree to your terms completely, no backing out now.”
For a second, Nico just watches you like he’s making sure you understand what you just stepped into, and like he’s deciding what he’s allowed to want from you now that you’ve said yes.
Then he nods once. “Good.” There’s something in the way he says it that makes your stomach coil, like a door just closed behind you with finality.
“So,” he starts, voice pitched just low enough that it feels like the rest of the world fades a step back. “You got a car in mind?”
You rock back on your heels, trying to appear casual. “You gonna let me say ‘GT3,’ or should I save us both the time?”
“Save us both the time,” he replies bluntly without missing a beat.
You let out a short laugh. “Tragic. I had a whole speech prepared.”
“I’m sure it ended with you not going broke,” he replies dryly, his gaze flicking over you.
“You really know how to crush a man’s dreams.” You sigh dramatically.
“Pick something you can grow into,” he continues, voice low and even. “Not a flex piece. Not an expensive coffin with wheels.”
“So what, you’re gonna tell me what I should drive?” You say slyly.
“I’m gonna stop you from doing something stupid.” He counters as he steps back.
“Heroic...” you grin, tilting your head. “But alright, I’ll take whatever’s available. I just need something that can keep up. Something that won’t get eaten alive once the real races start.”
“Great,” Nico agrees. “Then think about it. Really think about it. We’ll talk tomorrow afternoon.” He pulls out his phone, taps a few times, and your phone buzzes in your pocket. He sent you an address.
You recognize the neighborhood instantly. Kingswell Terrace. A neighborhood with quiet, tree-lined streets, security gates, and houses that cost more than you’ll probably make in a decade. You don’t say anything. You just nod and pin the address. Nico watches your face, like he’s checking for a reaction. When you don’t give him one, a corner of his mouth lifts, just slightly.
“Tomorrow, 2 pm,” he repeats. “Come by my place before we go car shopping.”
Then he turns and walks away, already slipping back into the flow of the warehouse, heading toward someone important-looking on the far side of the warehouse.
You walk out after all is done. You’re standing by your new car, a Toyota GR86 that you’ll turn into a sleeper build. Nico joins you at your side, close enough that you can feel his warmth without touching. The keys are heavy in your hand, you’re still half-lost in the idea that this is real, then he breaks the silence.
“There’s something you need to understand,” he starts to explain, tone serious.
You look up at him. He’s speaking slowly, like he’s choosing each word instead of letting them spill.
“The car’s yours,” Nico continues. “You drive it. You race it. If you break it, you fix it. No one touches it without your say.”
Your grip on the keys tightens instinctively. “Okay...”
“But,” he adds, turning slightly so his shoulder brushes yours, casual to anyone watching but intentional to you, “it’s registered under my name.”
“What?” You blink. Is this a trap? Is this car even truly yours?
He doesn’t look at the car. He looks at you with a serious expression. “Insurance. Registration. Taxes. Anything with a paper trail,” he says calmly. “It comes back to me.”
You frown, brain catching up. “Nico—”
“Listen,” he cuts in, not harsh, just firm. His voice drops a notch, meant only for you. “You make minimum wage on paper. You show up with a brand new sports car, and suddenly everyone wants to know how. Cops. Neighbors. People who don’t mind their own business.”
It hits you that you didn’t even think this far ahead. You were too focused on acquiring a car that you didn’t think of the technicalities of how you could afford it. Buying it was easy, but explaining how and why isn’t.
He watches your reaction closely, eyes sharp and firm. “We don’t need that attention on you.”
“So you’re... what,” you say, “covering for me?”
“I’m shielding you,” he corrects. “From questions you shouldn’t have to answer yet.”
You let out a breath, torn between gratitude and the weight settling in your chest. “That’s a lot of responsibility.”
Nico’s mouth curves faintly. “I already have worse.”
You glance down at the keys, then back up at him. Your heart starts to beat faster. “And what’s the catch?”
For a second, something darker flickers in his eyes.
“You want a car,” he murmurs. He steps closer now, and you instinctively step away until your back presses against the GR86’s door.
“You want a future in this.” Your breath hitches as he leans down, caging you in with his arms on either side of you.
“You just tied that future to me.” His breath feels hot against your ear.
He isn’t touching you, but he might as well be, as his chest is less than an inch away from yours. He’s close enough that you can feel the warmth of his body, close enough that the scent of his cologne is intoxicating, close enough that the air between you feels fragile, like one wrong movement would snap it.
You swallow before asking. “And if I decide to walk away?” You actually don’t plan on ever walking away, you just want to know the consequences.
He leans back a fraction to look you in the eyes. His gaze doesn’t waver. “Then you hand me the keys. No debt. I own the car legally anyway.”
You study him, searching for the angle, the trap that could kill you. You don’t find one. Instead, you nod once. “Okay.”
“Good,” Nico says softly. His lips hover just shy of yours, not touching, but the proximity is intense, like he’s purposely holding the moment in suspension.
“Then we’re clear,” he finishes, voice low... teasing.
Your heartbeat is loud in your ears. You’re painfully aware of how intimate this moment is, of how your breath has gone shallow without you noticing, of the faint heat creeping up your neck to your face. His gaze dips, just briefly, to your mouth before returning to your eyes, like a test you’re both pretending not to notice. For a split second, you’re convinced he’s going to close the distance.
He doesn’t.
Instead, he straightens up, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. He takes just one step back, giving you space again, but his eyes stay locked on your face. On the color in your cheeks. On the way you swallow, trying to steady yourself against the car.
There’s something unmistakably satisfied in his expression. You have no rational explanation for the way your hands tremble at your sides, or for the way your body still leans forward even after he’s pulled away.
“Alright,” Nico says casually, like he didn’t just almost ruin you in the middle of a dealership lot. “Time to go.” The casualness in his voice is almost cruel.
You nod, a little dazed, and your eyes follow him when he turns towards where the GT3 is parked. Leaving you there, flustered. The sunlight feels too bright. The world is too normal. Your thoughts lag a second behind your body, replaying that moment over and over, the things that could have happened but didn’t, the way he lingered.
Such a tease.
He slips back into the Porsche, movements fluid and unhurried. You slide into the GR86, hands shaking just slightly as you start it up. The engine’s note grounds you, anchors you, but it doesn’t chase away the thrum under your skin.
You pull out of the lot behind him. The drive back is relatively quiet. The GT3 leads effortlessly, Nico is precise even when he’s not pushing, the car gliding through traffic like it belongs at the front of everything. You follow, matching his lines, keeping your distance consistent, your movements careful. The GR86 feels right beneath you, eager, balanced, alive, but every time you watch Nico take a corner, you’re reminded how far ahead he is.
You want that. And not just the car or the skill.
You want to pull up next to him someday and really know that you belong there, that you’ve earned the space beside him instead of borrowing it. And when he looks over, it’s not with patience or amusement, but recognition.
You want to be his equal.
The thought settles deep within you, but something in your chest feels tight. Your mind keeps drifting back to the way he stood so close, the way he watched you afterwards, like he was cataloging every reaction you couldn’t hide. You wonder if he knows what he’s doing to you. Worse... you suspect he absolutely does.
And somewhere between the busy roads, the growl of engines, and the way his GT3 never quite leaves your sight, another realization creeps in, extremely dangerous.
This isn’t just admiration anymore. You’re falling for him.
For the control, the confidence, the way he challenges you without ever raising his voice. For the way he pulls you closer, then steps back just enough to make you chase him. It’s driving you mad.
By the time his house comes into view, your pulse hasn’t slowed at all. If anything, it’s only just getting started. The sky is already starting to change when you pull back onto the familiar road leading to Nico’s place. The sun hangs low on the horizon, bleeding gold and soft orange into the clouds, the light stretching long across the asphalt. Gold fades into amber, then into a soft purple that reflects off the GR86’s hood when you park it beside the Avalon.
Side by side, they look like two different lives, old and new, past and future, sitting shoulder to shoulder. The contrast is almost funny. The Avalon looks smaller somehow, like it already knows it’s about to be retired from front-line duty.
You cut the engine and just sit there for a second, hands resting on the wheel, watching the heat shimmer fade from the hood, committing the feeling to memory before getting out.
Meanwhile, Nico guides the GT3 into the garage with surgical precision you’ve come to expect. He backs it in smoothly, one hand loose on the wheel, mirrors folded in at the perfect moment, the other resting casually as he guides the car into its space like he’s done it a thousand times. The tires stop exactly where the floor markings end. No need for corrections or second adjustments.
You lean against the doorframe, watching him more than the car.
Nico kills the engine and steps out, glancing back at you, his voice carrying easily through the open space. “Rigo can start on the GR86 after tomorrow,” he says, tone easy. “Weekly event first.”
You nod as you walk towards him. “Yeah. I won’t be racing tomorrow anyway. Just want to watch. See who’s showing up.” You want to scope out the competition.
“You’re fine with sitting out?” He asks. They didn’t sign you up for the next one since you told them not to.
“Yep,” you reply. “I want to see who’s fast without trying. Who overdrives. Who panics when they get pressured.”
He nods as he closes the garage door. “Yes. A lot of guys show their whole hand when they think no one’s watching.”
You fall into step beside him as he heads inside to the living area. “Rigo’s gonna have opinions.”
“He always does,” Nico says. “He’ll want coilovers first. Proper alignment. Probably yell at you for tires.”
“Of course he will,” you sigh.
“You’re gonna have to help him tune it to your liking,” he says dryly. “But he’s right. Suspension before power. Always.”
You nod, mentally cataloging it all as you walk. “I don’t want it flashy. I want it unassuming. Low-key.”
“That’s already how you drive,” Nico replies. “Car should match.”
The door closes behind you, shutting out the last sliver of sunset. Inside, the house is warm, dimmer now, lights low and unobtrusive. You barely notice when the conversation carries you deeper inside.
“Tomorrow you watch,” Nico continues, heading toward the stairs. “You learn. You don’t let anyone rush you.”
“I wasn’t planning on it,” you say, following him. “I’m not trying to make enemies before I’ve even raced.”
He huffs softly. “Too late for that. Being with me does that automatically.”
You glance at his back. “Worth it.”
He pauses at the foot of the stairs and looks over his shoulder at you. There’s something unreadable in his eyes, something that lingers a second too long.
“Yeah,” he says. “It is.” You don’t see him smirking as you follow him automatically.
You keep talking as you climb, still riding the ease of the discussion. Tuning. Tire temps. How some drivers bluff aggression early to scare newcomers. How others wait too long and miss their window. You follow him like a lost puppy, still nodding along, still distracted by the sound of his voice. You admire the way the light slants through the upper windows now, softer, more intimate.
It isn’t until he pushes open a door and steps inside that something finally clicks. You don’t even realize where you are until you’re here. You stop just inside the threshold.
The room is unmistakably his. Dark wood furniture against white walls, dim gold lighting that makes everything feel cozy. The gap in the heavy curtains shows the last remaining sunlight outside. If not for the random clutter on the shelves and small framed photos on the desk, you’d think this is an expensive hotel room. Immaculate but lived-in.
When the door closes behind you, the house seems to fall silent, like it knows better than to intrude. The mood shifts as the air feels denser here, electric, pressing in on your skin. Like this room has witnessed things, it keeps to itself.
And suddenly, standing this close to him in a space this personal, it feels different than the garage, different than the dealership. More intimate. More dangerous. Like you’ve crossed a line without realizing when you stepped over it.
The conversation trails off. Nico turns, noticing your stillness. “What?”
You hesitate. “We’re... in your room.”
His gaze flicks to the door behind you, then back to you. He doesn’t look surprised. If anything, he looks thoughtful. You’re suddenly hyperaware of how close he is again, of the way the last light of the sunset paints his features in warm gold. He just looks at you, eyes dark in the fading light. The moment stretches, thick with all the things neither of you said at the dealership.
“You followed,” he says gently.
Your pulse spikes. “You didn’t stop me.” You didn’t realize he would lead you here.
A slow smile curves his mouth, subtle but full of implications. “No. I didn’t.”
This feels like a continuation of something unfinished, like the moment back in the dealership finally caught up to you. You stand there, staring at him, his words hanging in the air between you. Your heartbeat pounds in your ears, each thump echoing in the heavy silence. His presence alone is overwhelming, filling the space with an energy that coils around you like a tightrope stretched between two buildings, dangerous, but thrilling.
Then, Nico steps closer slowly, giving you every chance to pull away. You can still leave, but you don’t want to.
The space between you shrinks. You can feel his warmth again, that gravity pulling you in. His hand lifts, hovering near your waist like a question without words. When you don’t stop him, his fingers settle there, warm.
It feels inevitable when he finally leans in, there’s no teasing this time, no hesitation.
The moment his lips touch yours, your body tenses, caught between a thousand impulses. His kiss is slow at first, testing, but then his fingers tighten at your waist, pulling you closer.
Your breath catches as the pressure deepens, his mouth sure and possessive. His other hand grabs the back of your head, preventing you from pulling away. Your hands find his chest instinctively, bracing against the hard muscle beneath his shirt. He groans softly against your mouth, and the sound vibrates through you, down to your bones. It's enough to make your head spin.
Nico’s mouth stays pressed against yours, hot and commanding, as his fingers grip your hair tight, tilting your head back just slightly. The change in angle makes the kiss deeper, more intense, as if he’s trying to consume you entirely. Your pulse thunders in your ears, your grip on his shirt tightening as your tongues connect.
His hand slides down to the small of your back, pulling you firmly against him until you can feel every inch of his body through the thin fabric of your shirt. The heat between you builds up, making your skin prickle with awareness. He moves gingerly, taking his time as if savoring every second of the contact between you.
When he finally breaks the kiss, it’s only to trace his teeth along your jaw, nipping gently at the sensitive skin. His breath ghosts over your ear as he whispers, “You taste exactly how I imagined.” The words vibrate through your skull, sending shivers down your spine.
You can feel the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath your palms, each breath calculated, controlled, like everything else about him. The air in the room feels thick with desire, tension, and the of danger neither of you is running from. His hand at your waist doesn’t loosen; if anything, it tightens as his mouth finds the curve of your neck, making you gasp.
Your pulse stutters as you lean back willingly. It’s not just the contact, it's the way he holds you, like he already knows you belong to him. The thought should scare you. You tied your future to him. But it doesn't. You let out a breath that trembles slightly, your fingers digging into his shoulder, pulling him closer.
Nico’s teeth graze your skin just below your ear, sending a jolt through your body that settles deep in your stomach. His other hand moves from your hair, tracing a slow path down your side before settling on your hip. The heat of his palm burns through your clothes, leaving an imprint like a brand. He pulls back slightly, just enough to meet your gaze.
“Tell me how much you want this,” he murmurs, the words rough at the edges. His eyes search yours, dark and intense in the dim light of the bedroom. The challenge is there, but there’s something else too, something vulnerable buried beneath the confident exterior. He needs to hear the words.
You swallow hard, throat dry. Your fingers roam against his chest, feeling the solid heat of him beneath the fabric. There's no hesitation when you tilt your chin up to meet his gaze. The way he looks at you, like he’s already claimed you, like he sees past every wall you've ever built, sends a rush of heat through your body. The words tumble out before you can stop them.
“I want you... So much,” Your admission comes out rough, shameless. “Please, take me.”
Nico’s pupils dilate at your plea, his breathing catching for just a fraction of a second before he moves. He pulls you towards his bed. The mattress dips beneath you as he pushes you onto it with a firm force. His body hovers above yours, one knee wedging between your thighs as he braces himself on either side of your head. The heat of him seeps through your clothes, through the air between you, suffocating yet intoxicating.
He moves a hand to your throat, not squeezing, just resting there, the rough pads of his fingers brushing against your pulse point. “Good,” he murmurs. The word rumbles through you, thick with promise. “Because I’ve been waiting.”
Your back arches instinctively as he speaks, as if your body knows what he means without needing clarification. His fingers trail down your throat, over your chest, thumb brushing over your nipple, teasing the bud until it hardens under his touch. Then lower until he reaches the hem of your shirt, yanking it off of you. Your breath hitches as he leans down, his lips following the same path his fingers had taken moments before. His teeth graze the skin of your chest, and a shudder runs through you.
“Fuck,” you breathe out, fingers curling into the sheets at your sides. His knee pushes between your thighs, applying just enough pressure to make you feel trapped—deliciously so. You tilt your hips up slightly, your body moving on instinct as it chases friction. You’re pretty sure he can feel your arousal building up.
“Get naked,” he casually commands as he leans back. His fingers move with practiced deft, the fabric of his shirt pulling away to reveal the hard lines of his chest and abdomen. He watches you as he moves, the corner of his mouth twitching like he’s holding back a smirk. You sit up, hands already moving to your waistband. Your fingers fumble slightly as you unbuckle your belt, the metal clicking in the quiet room. You push the fabric over your hips, kicking them off the side of the bed in a single motion. Nico does the same, undressing with ease.
The truth is, this isn’t the first time you’ve gotten intimate with another man, but the guy you hooked up with in the past isn’t as intriguing as Nico. And back then, you weren’t the one on the receiving end.
Now you’re both naked. His gaze flicks downward, and the way his eyes darken when they settle on your groin makes your pulse hammer in your throat. You stare up at him with just as much lust, gaze raking across his toned body. Your breath comes a little slower now, a little deeper.
He leans down again, looming over you, and lifts a hand to your jaw, caressing your face before he pushes his thumb between your lips. You part your lips without hesitation, letting him thrust the finger inside your mouth. The taste of his skin fills your senses as your tongue circles around the rough pad of his digit. His breathing deepens, the heat from his body enveloping you as he holds your face in place. The dominance in his grip, the way he controls even this small act, sends a thrill through your body.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, his free hand moving to grip the base of your cock. His hand wraps around the shaft, giving it a slow, measured stroke. His thumb brushes over the tip, smearing the precum already gathering there. The touch is light but it sends a jolt through your body and makes you moan around his thumb.
You suck his thumb, the pressure building in your groin as his grip is firm, his palm rubbing against the underside of your length in just the right way to make your breath hitch. The friction is perfect, he’s feeling you out, learning exactly how you respond. You know he’s watching your face for reactions, but you can’t focus on anything except the heat of his hand moving along your shaft. He smirks, knowing exactly how he’s affecting you. You feel his prominent arousal against your thigh.
He moves the hand holding your jaw away, as he reaches over the nightstand to take a bottle of lube. You watch his movements, the casual ease when he stretches for the bottle, the controlled way his muscles shift. Your body hums with tension and anticipation. He pours a generous amount onto his fingers, then sets the bottle aside. His eyes lock onto yours, burning with intent as he presses a slick finger against your entrance. A deliberate push follows as he circles the rim, spreading the slickness.
“Strange, for all your confidence, I thought you’d fight me for control,” he smirks, voice rough yet teasing. The words roll off his tongue like a challenge, his fingers still teasing at your entrance. Your hips lift slightly of their own accord, seeking more friction, and you see the way his lips twitch in amusement at your body’s response.
“You’re... not giving me much chance to fight,” you say, your voice already thick with arousal. You reach up to grip his biceps, the muscles taut beneath your fingers.
Your breath shudders as his finger eases inside, pressing lightly as he watches your reaction. The sting isn’t much for now, only the slick stretch as he pushes further, curling the digit to rub against that deep spot inside you. You’re so down bad, you’ll probably let him do whatever he wants. A full-body tremor runs through you.
“Fuck,” you mutter, fingers gripping the sheets beneath you.
Nico hums in satisfaction, pleased by your response. His other hand grips your thigh, hiking your leg up higher, opening you more for him. He adds another finger without warning, the stretch sharper this time, his thrusts slow and deep. It burns, but the pain fades quickly under the rhythmic stimulation, replaced by something hotter, something desperate.
His fingers scissor inside you, widening you as his thumb strokes your taint. His breathing is heavier now, lips parted slightly as he watches the way your muscles clench around him. He knows exactly what he’s doing, the angle of his fingers, the pace, the timing—he’s mastering your body as easily as he masters a track.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, rough with desire. His thumb brushes over the tip of your cock again, smearing another bead of precum. “Bet you want more.”
“Y-Yes... ahh,” you admit hoarsely, the words tearing from your throat before you can stop them. The dual stimulation is driving you mad. Your back arches slightly as his fingers sink deeper, the stretch making you groan as he adds a third finger. You can feel his own length pressed against your thigh, hot and heavy, and the knowledge that he’s this turned on by just touching you sends a fresh jolt of arousal through your body.
He chuckles, his hand leaves your cock so he can stroke his own as his fingers continue their relentless thrusts inside you. “You’re gonna feel even better when I’m inside you.”
“Nghh,” words are failing you as he curls his fingers again, dragging them across that sensitive spot inside you. He withdraws his fingers slowly, making you feel it all, then reaches for the lube again. This time, he pours it directly onto his shaft, spreading it over his length with firm strokes. The slick sounds fill the room as he prepares himself, his other hand gripping your thigh.
“Turn over,” he commands, voice rough with need.
You hesitate for only a second before obeying, rolling onto your stomach. His hands are immediately on you, one pressing between your shoulder blades to keep your head down while the other guides your hips up. The position exposes you completely to him, your ass presented high in the air. His breathing hitches at the sight, and you can feel the weight of his gaze. The mattress shifts as he moves behind you, his hands gripping your hips with rough ownership. He rubs the head of his length along your crease, teasing, not quite entering yet.
“You want this?” he asks, though the question sounds more like confirmation than doubt.
“Yeah,” you breathe out, pushing back slightly, seeking that first contact.
He doesn’t make you wait long. With a sharp exhale, he pushes forward slowly, breaching you. The stretch is intense, painful in the best possible way, and you bury your face in the sheets, fists clenched around the fabric. You’re trembling, biting the sheets hard to stop yourself from crying out.
Nico pushes inch after inch inside, your body’s natural resistance making it evident to him that you haven’t bottomed before. Internal muscles clenching instinctively like you’re trying to push him out. He doesn’t stop. His grip tightens on your hips as he pushes deeper, forcing you to take him until his thighs are flush against yours. The burn is intense, the fullness is overwhelming. You can feel him pulsing inside you, hot and heavy. You’re panting hard now.
He gives you a long moment to adjust before withdrawing halfway and pushing back in. “Fuuck,” he mutters, the word dragged out as if he’s savoring the tightness. His hand slides up your back, fingers digging into your tense muscles. He starts moving then, setting a slow and deep rhythm that makes you moan every time he bottoms out. His hand on your back keeps you down, limiting your movement to his pace. Your neglected cock leaks onto the sheets beneath you.
He groans, hips snapping forward with increased intensity. The sounds he’s making are raw, sending a thrill through you. He’s holding back, you can tell, keeping himself in check for your sake.
His thrusts gradually become harder, faster, each movement meant to drag against your prostate. You moan, your hips jerk involuntarily when he grinds particularly deep, and he chuckles darkly at your reaction.
"You like that?" he asks, though it's not really a question. His hand slides from your back to grip your throat without choking you, pulling your head up slightly so you’re forced to arch your back. The angle changes everything; the new depth makes you whimper.
Your body’s resistance fights him even as you arch your back to take him deeper. It only makes it feel even better for him. Every inch of you is hyperaware of his sweat-damp skin pressed against yours, the heavy slap of his hips meeting your ass, the thick stretch of him inside you.
“Ugh... nnghh...” You’re practically sobbing into the sheets now. His free hand slides around to your stomach, fingers splaying across your abdomen as he pulls you flush against him. His teeth graze your shoulder as he groans into your ear.
“Feel that?” he rasps, punctuating the words with a slow grind of his hips. “That’s how bad I want you.”
Your cock twitches visibly against the sheets, dripping now in a continuous stream of precum, even untouched. You whimper as he rolls his hips in a way that makes his tip drag across that perfect spot inside you again and again. His breathing is ragged, controlled yet uneven; he’s close, and so are you. The realization sends a fresh surge of heat through your body.
He suddenly shifts his weight, one arm hooking under your shoulder as he pulls you up onto your knees. The new position opens you wider, drives him impossibly deeper.
“Ahh...” You feel his toned chest press against your back, his breath coming in sharp bursts against your shoulder. His fingers dig into your hip, holding you steady as he starts fucking you in earnest now, each thrust hitting deep.
And you realize with sudden clarity that he’s been holding back this entire time. “Ah—!! Hnngh! Mmmh!” You’re openly moaning, whole body trembling, and there isn’t a single thought behind your half-lidded eyes besides overwhelming pleasure.
“You’re taking me so good,” he murmurs, voice raspy. His own breathing is heavy, barely keeping it together. His hand slides down to wrap around your length, rough fingers stroking in time with his thrusts. The sounds of skin meeting skin, wet and desperate, your own ragged breathing mixing with his low grunts fill the room.
It doesn’t take much to push you over the edge, and you come hard with the most scandalous moan that ever left your lips. His grip tightens around your length as he pumps faster, dragging out your release with relentless strokes. The pressure against your prostate doesn’t relent, each thrust timed to maximize your pleasure. Your body convulses in his arms, back arching as you ride out the waves of ecstasy that leave your entire body shaking and spent.
He slows his movements but doesn’t stop, drawing out your climax until you can’t take anymore. Your vision blurs from the intensity, muscles quivering as he holds you up with one strong arm. The heat of his body radiates against your back, his breathing still ragged with need.
“You look perfect like this,” he grunts, his free hand tracing the line of your jaw. As he looks at your flustered face over your shoulder. He keeps thrusting, chasing his own release despite your oversensitive body protesting. You gasp as each slow drag of his cock sends fresh jolts through your overstimulated nerves. His grip on you is ironclad, keeping you flushed against him as he rolls his hips in a way that has you seeing stars. The heat of his breath ghosts over your shoulder as he exhales shakily against your skin.
His teeth dig into your flesh as his orgasm finally hits, hips jerking as he spills deep. A guttural sound escapes his throat, vibrating against your back. You can feel every pulse of him inside you, every twitch of him as he fills you up with warmth. His grip on your chest tightens momentarily before he loosens his hold, letting his fingers trail lazily over your pecs.
“Fuck...” he exhales, pressing a wet kiss to the junction between your neck and shoulder. His breath is hot, ragged, still carrying the weight of his release. His body remains against yours, holding you up as he catches his breath. After a long moment, he finally withdraws, pulling out slowly, leaving you feeling hollow and oversensitive, and you collapse forward, completely exhausted. You feel the slick heat of his release seeping out of you, the feeling sending aftershocks through your limbs.
You don’t even bother holding yourself up, your body is devastated. You sink into the pillows and close your eyes, losing consciousness soon after.
…
You blink sleep-heavy eyes open to find yourself still in Nico’s bedroom. The clock reads 11 pm, you’ve been out cold for hours. You realize that you’re still naked but surprisingly clean. The sheets beneath you are fresh and spotless where your skin meets them. Your body doesn’t feel sticky or messy in the way it absolutely should after everything that happened.
Heat rushes through you at the thought of Nico taking care of you like some prized possession while you were unconscious. You bring a hand up to your face, rubbing your eyes, then let it fall to your chest as a soft, disbelieving laugh escapes you.
TAGS: NSFW, Porn With Plot but the full plot is in AO3, Explicit F/M Smut, Top M!Reader, No Use of Y/N, 2nd Person Pov, Flirting, Car Sex, Making Out, Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Creampie
SYNOPSIS: You're a delivery boy who just happens to be very good at driving. A woman driving a Dodge Challenger Hellcat challenges you to a race. You've beaten and impressed her, and she invited you to drive her car to an impromptu (not) date. She convinces you to join an underground racing crew, and you get intimate afterwards.
A/N: This is the beginning, I'll only put the smut here on tumblr. The long, elaborate version of this is in AO3. Wait till I have the time to draw my boys, then I'll post the gay smut. Anyone is welcome to read, except minors.
Word Count: 3,472
You roll onto the throttle smoothly. The Hellcat responds instantly, nose lifting just a fraction. Vera’s attention drops to your hands, the way you guide the wheel with calm confidence, fingers relaxed, precise.
“There’s a crew,” she continues. “Big money. Industrial roads. Warehouses shut down for a night, like they never existed. We join weekly events.” She grins, “I can get you in.”
“Assuming I want in,” you counter, easing around a sluggish SUV without breaking rhythm.
She laughs, short and sure. “You do.”
“I don’t have the right car,” you say. “They’d laugh at me, eat me alive.”
Vera leans closer, bracing a hand on the dashboard as the road bends. The scent of vanilla fills the cabin. “That’s the best part,” she murmurs. “You think they don’t already know about you? There’s a guy in this city driving an Avalon like it’s built for war. And soon they’ll know you can drive anything.”
Your pulse spikes as you take the turn clean, feeling the suspension load, the tires bite. The car doesn’t protest. It trusts you. She watches everything, head tilted, lips parted just enough to give her away.
“Fine,” you finally agree. “I’ll look.”
Her grin flashes, bright and dangerous. She moves her hand off the dashboard and settles it over your thigh firmly. Not exploratory… yet.
“You won’t be able to resist,” she says, voice velvety as she moves closer. Her black hair brushes your shoulder. “And when you’re out there in some borrowed hunk of steel, I’ll be watching.”
Your grip tightens on the wheel. The Hellcat surges, obedient and smooth. The space between you feels smaller, hotter, filled with engine noise and intent. Her thumb presses once, slow, through the denim.
“You nervous?” She asks, voice low. “You’re gripping like you’re holding something back.” She watches your reaction with amusement, her fingers slowly rubbing circles against your thigh.
“I grip when I’m focused,” you reply, feeding in more throttle. “Different thing,” you counter, pressing down harder on the accelerator. The Challenger surges forward, speed building in smooth increments.
Vera’s laugh is breathless as the wind rushes past. “Not just fast. You drive like you’re making love to the road.” Her fingers dig in slightly.
“Funny,” you smirk. “I was thinking the same about you.”
You continue, raising an eyebrow, “Why are you suddenly seducing me, babe? I thought you weren’t easy.”
Her hand stills, pressure increasing just enough to be felt. She turns toward you fully, studying your face like it’s a puzzle she wants to solve. “I don’t do easy,” she says. “And I don’t chase boring.”
Her fingers slide from your thigh to your wrist, resting over your pulse. She feels it jump. Her smile softens, not kinder, but more certain.
Her free hand slides up your arm, fingertips tracing the muscle beneath your shirt sleeve. “But you? You’re something different.” The car swerves slightly as she shifts. “First time I saw you, I knew you’d be trouble. And I like trouble.”
She leans in closer, her breath warm against your ear as the car speeds down the empty street. “Besides, you owe me a proper celebration after tonight.”
“Do I? I’m the one who won.” You laugh lightly, “and by the looks of it… I’m about to win again.”
You glance at her out of the corner of your eye. She doesn’t pull away, doesn’t even pretend to be offended. Her lips quirk into a smile, hungry and sharp like the edge of a blade.
“Yeah? Then what are you waiting for?” Her hand on your arm tightens for a moment before sliding down, fingertips tracing the contour of your bicep. “You’re not scared, are you?” she murmurs. The challenge in her words is playful. “Of a little competition? A little heat?”
“You’re gonna get us into an accident if you keep this up.” You drive slower now. Your fingers tighten around the steering wheel as her hand slides from your bicep to your wrist, her thumb brushing the pulse point. Her grip is firm. The way she watches you is knowing, like she’s already read your reaction in the way your breath catches.
“You wanna take this somewhere quiet?” Vera murmurs, leaning in until her lips are nearly brushing the shell of your ear. “Or you gonna keep pretending you don’t want to see what happens next?”
The city rushes past the windows, a blur of neon and streetlights and distant sirens.
“Fuck…” You breathe out, eyes scanning everywhere to find a private area where you can park. “You keep that up, and I won’t be responsible for what happens next.”
Her smile widens, clearly satisfied. “Good.”
You swerve into a side street lined with shuttered businesses and abandoned lots, the Challenger settling into the darkness between two streetlights. The engine idles, a low, constant growl beneath the seat.
Vera doesn’t wait.
The moment you shift the gear to park, Vera moves fast and unhesitating. Her hands find your face before you can even turn fully toward her, pulling you into a kiss that tastes like adrenaline and something sweet, like the gum she chewed earlier. Her fingers dig into your jaw, nails just sharp enough to tease as her body presses into yours, she’s half-sprawled across the center console.
You groan against her mouth, hands sliding from the steering wheel to tangle up in her hair, pulling her closer. Her hands still frame your face, fingers flexing against your skin like she’s holding you in place, as if she expects you to pull away. You don’t, of course.
The kiss deepens, your tongue brushing against her lips. Her mouth opens for you without thought, and the contact sends electricity down your spine. You didn’t expect your typical Tuesday night to turn into this, not that you’re complaining.
Your free hand cuts the engine and you reach for the button to move the driver’s seat back, giving you more space, so you can pull her onto your lap. She straddles you without hesitation, her knees settling on either side of your hips as she grips the back of the seat for balance. The denim of her own jeans rubs against your thighs as she grinds down. The heat between you two is already intense, even through the layers of fabric.
The kiss turns ravenous, teeth scraping and tongues tangling as you both pull and push at each other, hands exploring with equal parts roughness and hunger. Vera grinds down against you, her body molding to yours in the narrow space of the car. Her nails dig into your scalp, drawing a low groan from your throat. She’s not playing anymore, this is pure need, and she’s not even trying to hide it.
“Fuck,” you mutter against her skin as you kiss down her neck, your hands sliding down her back to grip her ass and pull her flush against you.
She smiles slyly, biting her lip and keeping eye contact as she removes her leather jacket, throwing it to the passenger seat. The fabric of her tank top and bra does nothing to hide the rapid rise and fall of her chest, the hard points of her nipples already pressing through the materials.
You don’t know much about her yet, but you don’t care right now. The feel of her body against yours is all that matters. You doubt this will be a one-night stand.
Her hands slide under your shirt, nails scraping lightly over your skin as she maps the contours of your chest and abdomen. She pulls back just enough to watch your face as she grinds down harder, her breath coming in little gasps that tell you she’s just as turned on as you are.
“Admit that you want this,” she murmurs, her voice rough with need. “Admit that you’ve been thinking about this since the moment I challenged you to that race.”
Your hands tighten on her hips, fingers pressing into the denim of her jeans. “I do want this.”
“But are you really giving yourself up to me like this, like we haven’t just met hours ago?” You smirk, you just can’t help but tease her as you trail kisses on her throat.
She bites her bottom lip, blue eyes flashing with the combination of amusement and lust as she moves her hips in slow circles against you.
“Hours ago, you were some delivery boy in a shitty Toyota.” Her hands slide up your chest to grip your shoulders, nails digging in just enough to make her point. “Now you’re the guy who just owned the streets of in a fucking Avalon.”
The corner of her mouth curves into a smile as she continues. “And maybe I just like the way you handle yourself under pressure.”
She nuzzles the side of your face. “Maybe I like the way your hands work the wheel.”
She leans closer, her breath warm against your ear as she whispers, “Or maybe I just like the way you look when you’re driving my car.”
Her words send a pulse of heat through you, making your grip on her hips tighten reflexively. The leather of the driver’s seat feels warm under your body, the heat from the engine still lingering in the car’s interior.
Vera’s tank top has ridden up, exposing a sliver of slim stomach, the smooth skin inviting your touch. You trail one hand up her side, fingers brushing the underside of her breast as she arches into you.
“Maybe you just like the way I do things in general,” you murmur in her ear, dragging your thumb along the curve of her waist.
She lets out a soft laugh, breathless and amused. “Oh, I definitely love that.”
She shifts her weight, rolling her hips against yours in slow, teasing circles as her fingers work at the hem of your shirt. The material pulls tight across your chest as she yanks it up. You lift your arms without hesitation, letting her peel the shirt off over your head. The cool night air kisses your skin, but the way she’s looking at you intently makes you burn all the same. She tosses your shirt onto the dashboard before moving back just enough to tug her tank top over her head.
She makes a show out of it, maintaining eye contact with you. She lifts her arms, pulling the white tank top over her head, purposefully slow and teasing. The fabric drags against her skin, and the bra follows right after. In the dim glow of the streetlights filtering through the car windows, her naked pale skin seems almost luminous. She’s not shy at all.
She leans down, her teeth grazing your collarbone before she licks a stripe up to your neck. Your breath catches as her teeth scrape lightly against your skin, the sharp edges sending a jolt straight down your body. The damp heat of her tongue follows, dragging across your pulse point before she nips at the tendon in your neck. Her fingers explore your exposed skin as she presses closer, her skin flush against yours.
Your hands find her hips again, fingers pressing into the softness of her flesh as you guide her movements. Her covered thighs squeeze against yours in the narrow space, the heat between her legs pressing unmistakably against the growing hardness in your jeans.
You help her take the rest of her clothes off, struggling in the enclosed space of the car, but you manage, and now she’s completely naked on your lap. The car’s interior feels smaller now, warmer, as if the air itself has condensed around the two of you. The flickering streetlights outside cast a dim, rhythmic pulse through the windshield, washing over Vera’s pale skin.
Her head tilts back, exposing the pale column of her throat, and you take full advantage, kissing and nipping at the sensitive skin while your hands explore her body, running at along every curve. Her nails dig into your shoulders, her breath coming in short, panting gasps.
“Ah, mhm…” She gasps, face flushed red as she presses herself against you. “You really know how to drive a girl crazy, don’t you?”
You smile against her neck, one hand sliding up to squeeze her breast. “I could say the same about you, sweetheart. You’re about to ride me harder than you rode this Hellcat.”
A grin spreads across her face at your words, her fingers tightening in your hair before she kisses you again, moaning into your mouth.
Your hand gropes her ass before sinking lower, teasing her already wet folds before sinking two fingers in. She gasps, rocking her hips against your hand as you sink them deep. Her free hand moves between your bodies, deftly working the button and zipper of your jeans open. The cool air hits your skin as she pushes the denim aside, her fingertips trailing fire in their wake. She strokes you, spreading the bead of precum along the rest of your length.
She positions herself above you when she feels ready, one hand guiding your cock to her entrance as she slowly sinks down. Her eyelids flutter close as she takes you inch by inch. Your hands are now on her hips, steadying her. A low moan escapes her lips as she seats herself fully, her internal muscles instinctively clenching around you. Her nails dig into your shoulders, her breath hitching as she adjusts to your size.
Once you’re fully sheathed inside her, she stills for a moment, her forehead pressed against yours, hot and intimate.
Her eyes are dark, pupils blown wide and almost swallowing the blue. Her hands caress your face affectionately.
Then she presses her palms against your chest, pushing you back against the seat as she begins to move. She moves slowly at first, rolling her hips in tight circles, letting you feel every squeeze as she adjusts. The heat between her thighs surrounds you, her slick walls fluttering around your shaft. Her hands brace against your shoulders as she lifts herself up, then sinks back down with a soft gasp. Your fingers dig into the soft flesh of her ass, guiding her movements as she picks up speed.
“Ahh—you feel so good,” she breathes against your ear, her breathing hot and quick. Her pace intensifies, her ass slapping lightly against your thighs as she rides you.
Your hands tighten on her hips, guiding her movements as she fucks herself on your length. The heat between her thighs envelops you, each downward thrust squeezing you tight. Her tits bounce lightly with every motion.
“Is this what you wanted?” you ask, voice rough as you grind up into her, meeting her movements.
“Mhmm…Nghh,” she moans, nodding, rolling her hips in slow circles before slamming down again. Her nails dig into your shoulders as she quickens her pace, chasing her own pleasure. The tight space of the car makes every movement more intense, her bare thighs sliding against yours, the leather seats creaking beneath you. Her hips rolling in sinuous motions. Every movement is intended to milk your cock, to make you go crazy. Her inner walls flutter around you, squeezing in rhythmic pulses that have you gritting your teeth.
“Fuck… just like that,” you groan. Her hands leave your shoulders to brace against the headrest, giving you a better view of her breasts bouncing during every movement. She watches your face, her own expression warping as her body tenses. You lean forward to capture a nipple in your mouth, sucking and biting gently. Her back arches, pushing her chest forward as a sharp cry escapes her.
The sound of her moans fills the car as you switch between her breasts, lavishing attention on each bud with equal fervor. Her fingers tangle in your hair, holding you close as she pushes herself against your mouth. Her breathing quickens, small whimpers accompanying each motion. The stark contrast between the wet heat of your mouth and the cool night air makes her shudder.
One of your hands is gripping her hip hard enough to bruise, while the other roams around her back. She grinds down onto your cock with increasing intensity, and you meet her halfway by thrusting up, her slick walls clenching rhythmically around you.
“I-I’m gonna come… don’t stop…” she gasps, her nails scraping down your chest as she bounces harder. Her thighs tremble against yours, muscles straining as pleasure builds. The wet slap of skin against skin fills the confined space of the car.
She throws her head back with a choked moan as her orgasm crashes over her, her entire body tensing for a moment before shaking violently. Her inner walls pulse around your cock in tight, undulating waves, soaking you further as her juices gush onto your thighs. Her mouth falls open in a silent scream, her nails digging crescent moons into your shoulders as she rides out the pleasure.
“C-Come inside me,” she whimpers, still rolling her hips in slow, shuddering circles. She can feel you’re close, feel how your cock throbs inside her, feel the perfect friction every time you thrust. Her skin is flushed pink all over, especially across her chest and face. Her breathing comes in ragged gasps as she looks down at you with heavy-lidded eyes.
You usually wouldn’t risk it, but something about the way she looks at you tells you it’s fine. You thrust up hard, burying yourself to the hilt inside her as your hips stutter and jerk. The first hot pulses of your release fill her in thick spurts, each one dragging a guttural groan from your throat. She moans at the feeling, her inner walls still fluttering with aftershocks as she milks your cock, drawing out every last drop.
“Fuck… yes…” you mutter, hands gripping her hips as your body trembles. She’s still moving, rolling her hips in small circles to prolong the pleasure for both of you, her slickness making the movements smooth and effortless. She can feel everything, every twitch, every vein, the heat of your release, and the way you slowly soften inside her.
“Mmmh,” she hums, biting her lower lip as she watches you come down from your high. Vera admires how hot you look right now with your hair sticking to your sweaty forehead, your breathing uneven, and your skin flushed. She can’t help but pull you into another kiss again, savoring the taste of you.
You both stay like that for a while, enjoying the moment, making it last longer.
“Why are you randomly on birth control, babe? Unless you were looking to fuck from the start?” You finally ask after a while, smirking knowingly.
A throaty laugh escapes Vera’s lips as she slides off your lap and moves to the passenger seat. You both clean yourselves up with the wet wipes she keeps in the glove box. Her blue eyes glitter with mischief as she starts to dress up.
“Sweetheart,” she murmurs teasingly, using the same terms of endearment that you used on her. She tilts her head to the side, “In this day and age, it pays to be prepared for… unforeseen opportunities.” She looks up at you through her lashes.
You laugh genuinely at that. “… What an eventful night,” you sigh happily as you run your fingers through your sweat-slicked hair and put your shirt back on.
Vera hums in agreement, shifting just enough to get comfortable again, unapologetic in the way she settles back against the seat. “Eventful,” she repeats, amused. “That’s one word for it.” Her lips curve, satisfied, eyes half-lidded as she studies you like she’s still memorizing the shape of your face.
“You always this reckless?” you ask, glancing at her, voice lowering a bit. “Or am I just special?”
She snorts softly. “Please. If I were reckless, I’d be dead right now.” She replies as she flips hair over her shoulder. “You earned this.” Her knuckles brush your arm, light, familiar already. “Besides, I don’t invite just anyone into my car.”
You shake your head, smiling to yourself. “Guess I should feel honored.”
“You should,” she responds automatically. “Not many people impress me twice in one night.”
“You know,” she muses, eyes flickering to your fingers where they press lightly against her jeans, “you’re better than I thought you’d be. At driving. And…” She angles her face toward you, grinning crookedly. “Other things.”
“Seems like you want more,” you tease while adjusting the seat forward again.
“You really don’t hold back, do you?” she murmurs the words quietly.
The city is silent when you finally pull back onto the road, the Challenger gliding out of the shadows like nothing happened at all. The engine settles into a calm, confident purr, no rush right now, no proving anything. Just motion and the glare of distant streetlights stretching into lines of gold.
Hey guys, I was thinking, since a lot of people know nothing about cars, and my writing gets technical cause I enjoy it like that, but I know it deters those who are too dumb to understand it LMAO.
I was debating whether I should just post the smut scenes here on Tumblr. Why? I just wanna add on the x Male! Reader inserts side too, 'cause it looks like a barren wasteland now that 99% of the blogs I follow with good writing are dead.
3rd option is a joke, don't pick that, I'm not putting the entire thing here!
Post the RiE smut scenes here?
Yes!!! Give us good sex scenes on tumblr!!
No, the sex scenes rely on your plot, better with context in AO3!
Fuck it, post the entire fic by chapter! Even if it's 100k+ words!!!
Voting ended onJun 7
What is RiE? Ride in Ecstasy! It's an original male! reader insert story about underground racing, gambling, and fucking hot men and women. It's my passion project, written by a car enthusiast. Inspired by Initial D with a realistic plot, unlike Fast and the Furious and cop chases like Need for Speed, minus the crashes.
It's gotten to a point where I don't even know when I can update. I'm not even free on Sundays. So I'm giving away snippets and drafts now. I swear I'll update before May.
Anyway, enjoy the Vera content!
You finally moved to your new apartment. Vera came along to help... As moral support. Right now, she’s at the window, one arm resting on the frame as she peers down into the parking lot like it’s a live show meant just for her.
“Look at them,” she says, grinning.
You don’t even turn. “What now?”
“A random couple is making out in the parking lot.” She laughs under her breath, clearly entertained. “Damn, they’re really going at it too.”
You chuckle, shaking your head as you shove a stack of shirts into the drawer and push it closed with your hip. “Sounds like the kind of shit we do,” you mutter.
“It’s exactly the kind of shit we do,” she agrees instantly.
You finally glance over your shoulder. She hasn’t moved. Still watching like it’s premium entertainment. “You’re being creepy,” you tell her.
She gasps, “I’m the creep?” Her hand comes to her chest dramatically as she turns halfway toward you. “Not my fault, they’re doing it in public... like they want an audience.”
She turns back out and cups her hands around her mouth and yells, “GET A ROOM, YOU FREAKS!!!”
“Oh my God! Vera!” You immediately rush to pull her away from the window before the couple spots her. She’s laughing loudly while you scold her, “You’re going to give me enemies on day zero here.”
“Psshh, you’re so boring right now,” she shoots back, nodding toward the box in front of you. “Stop pretending you care about folding clothes properly.”
You scoff. “I do care. This is my home now.”
“Yeah, yeah,” she turns back to the window, leaning her shoulder against the frame. The couple is gone, probably got embarrassed, so instead she lies on your bed as if she owns it.
You go back to what you were doing. “What would you do if someone judges your body count and calls you a freak like that, huh?” You ask without looking at her.
She turns her head towards you, already grinning. “Fuck off,” she laughs, pointing at you. “My total body count is only four.” There’s no hesitation in her voice that would imply that she’s lying.
“You,” she starts, counting on her fingers, completely unashamed. “That rich guy with the Bugatti Chiron,” she lifts another finger, “a past fling that lasted longer than it should’ve, and... my first long-term boyfriend from college.”
You glance at her, then smirk slightly. “No Rigo?”
She looks at you with mock disgust. You chuckle, “I mean, you two seem to get along well, and you said you like trouble.”
“Yeah, he’s hot, got a nice body and all,” she admits. “But he’s a different kind of trouble, like he’s a legit dangerous criminal. It’s scary, and I don’t get involved with psychotic assholes like that.”
She grins devilishly, “Besides, have you seen the way he looks at Nico when he thinks there’s no one looking? Suspicious as fuck!”
“No, I didn’t notice. Because, unlike you, I’m not a creep that spies on people.”
She gives you a flat expression and flips you off with both hands.
This is a short, unpolished part of chapter 15 of RiE. My friend complained that there's too much dih and not enough kitty, so I'm writing not safe for work content AT work 'cause I like living dangerously LMAO
This snippet has now been added to chapter 15 of RiE.
There's smut too hehe
You think about the way everything changed after you met her, how you’re here now, in a place that actually feels like home, with people who somehow became important to you. And when you trace it all back, every turn, every moment that mattered, somehow leads back to her. Meeting Vera was the best thing that ever happened to you.
Vera leans into your touch, her eyelids dropping halfway as if savoring it. The softness of her skin, the heat of it spreading beneath your palm. Her hand rises to rest on top of yours. Her fingers lace gently with yours, an unspoken affirmation of something both of you already know, and the way she looks at you with fondness and longing that makes your pulse race.
You lean down and close the remaining distance between you.
I swear the long-awaited M/M/M threesome will happen before chapter 20. I just need a good excuse on why they would be fucking in the first place, cause the build-up and foreplay matters!!!
This is where the idea of Chapter 14 came from. So you're forbidden to go 100mph cause it's too dangerous but the police can and it's completely fine?? Reality is crazier than fiction huh. Nico would Florida and whatever's wrong with it.
thoughts on F1?? you mentioned boss Nico should've gone pro
More about Nico's past will be explored in the sideplot. (I'm too deep into this fic that has consumed my life now lol.)
Anyway, I think F1 is overrated lmao. Sure, it's the fastest motorsport, and I'm reallyyy impressed by the insane engineering. The teams build their own million-dollar race cars, which makes the biggest difference in who would win. (I've done research about it for fun, even if I'm not gonna write about it.) I don't give a shit about the drivers though, 99% of all the fanfics I've seen about them, the writer doesn't even know anything about cars or racing, and only writes about it 'cause they think the driver is hot, hahahaha. Disappointing af as a car enthusiast. I simp for the engine not the driver.
But other motorsports are underrated and more impressive for me. Like WRC, their cars will literally be flying and the terrain is dangerous. Imagine racing on S-curves in snow (spoiler, I'm gonna write about that in RiE) During mid-race repairs, the mechanics would just sledgehammer the chassis back in place. It's hilariously impressive how they can make a wrecked car still run fast. Or even MotoGP is cooler, 'cause racing unprotected on a motorcycle going 200mph is scary af.
This is just my opinion though. I don't hate F1, I just don't watch it. Have a great day, anon!
It's gotten to a point where I don't even know when I can update. I'm not even free on Sundays. So I'm giving away snippets and drafts now. I swear I'll update before May.
Anyway, enjoy the Vera content!
You finally moved to your new apartment. Vera came along to help... As moral support. Right now, she’s at the window, one arm resting on the frame as she peers down into the parking lot like it’s a live show meant just for her.
“Look at them,” she says, grinning.
You don’t even turn. “What now?”
“A random couple is making out in the parking lot.” She laughs under her breath, clearly entertained. “Damn, they’re really going at it too.”
You chuckle, shaking your head as you shove a stack of shirts into the drawer and push it closed with your hip. “Sounds like the kind of shit we do,” you mutter.
“It’s exactly the kind of shit we do,” she agrees instantly.
You finally glance over your shoulder. She hasn’t moved. Still watching like it’s premium entertainment. “You’re being creepy,” you tell her.
She gasps, “I’m the creep?” Her hand comes to her chest dramatically as she turns halfway toward you. “Not my fault, they’re doing it in public... like they want an audience.”
She turns back out and cups her hands around her mouth and yells, “GET A ROOM, YOU FREAKS!!!”
“Oh my God! Vera!” You immediately rush to pull her away from the window before the couple spots her. She’s laughing loudly while you scold her, “You’re going to give me enemies on day zero here.”
“Psshh, you’re so boring right now,” she shoots back, nodding toward the box in front of you. “Stop pretending you care about folding clothes properly.”
You scoff. “I do care. This is my home now.”
“Yeah, yeah,” she turns back to the window, leaning her shoulder against the frame. The couple is gone, probably got embarrassed, so instead she lies on your bed as if she owns it.
You go back to what you were doing. “What would you do if someone judges your body count and calls you a freak like that, huh?” You ask without looking at her.
She turns her head towards you, already grinning. “Fuck off,” she laughs, pointing at you. “My total body count is only four.” There’s no hesitation in her voice that would imply that she’s lying.
“You,” she starts, counting on her fingers, completely unashamed. “That rich guy with the Bugatti Chiron,” she lifts another finger, “a past fling that lasted longer than it should’ve, and... my first long-term boyfriend from college.”
You glance at her, then smirk slightly. “No Rigo?”
She looks at you with mock disgust. You chuckle, “I mean, you two seem to get along well, and you said you like trouble.”
“Yeah, he’s hot, got a nice body and all,” she admits. “But he’s a different kind of trouble, like he’s a legit dangerous criminal. It’s scary, and I don’t get involved with psychotic assholes like that.”
She grins devilishly, “Besides, have you seen the way he looks at Nico when he thinks there’s no one looking? Suspicious as fuck!”
“No, I didn’t notice. Because, unlike you, I’m not a creep that spies on people.”
She gives you a flat expression and flips you off with both hands.
This is a short, unpolished part of chapter 15 of RiE. My friend complained that there's too much dih and not enough kitty, so I'm writing not safe for work content AT work 'cause I like living dangerously LMAO
