#no good refs of them from the front…

[perryisle]

im enaing out!!!!

[littlegochu]

12 rounds │ jjk 18+

“Lose the fight, win me. That’s the deal.”

pairing: jeon jungkook x reader (f)

genre: boxer jungkook, toxic but addicting, established couple

rating: 18+, smut

synopsis: He loses the fight. Unfairly. Publicly. And the only thing stopping him from snapping is her—barefoot on the balcony, refusing to be shut out. She doesn’t coddle him. Doesn’t flinch when he’s cold. She pushes back. And when the silence finally breaks, it turns into something they both understand better than words—heat, desperation, and a need to feel something real.

-

The crowd roars around you, but your eyes don’t leave him.

Jeon Jungkook. In the ring like he owns it—shirtless, sweat-slicked, muscles cut and coiled with every movement. His jaw is locked, knuckles already bloodied, and the way he moves is pure venom. Focused. Cold. Dangerous.

And yours.

You’re standing near the front row, VIP badge barely needed when everyone already knows who you are. Cameras flash your way, whispers trail behind your back—“That’s his girl.” “They’re so hot together.” “How the fuck does she pull him?”

You ignore them. You’re not here for the attention.

You’re here for him.

He hasn’t glanced at you once since the fight started. You don’t expect him to. That’s how he is when he’s locked in—ruthless, silent, unreadable. You fell in love with that part of him and hated it all the same.

But you know he felt you walk in. Felt your gaze when it landed on him. He always does.

You catch the way his shoulders roll back when the second round ends—his back glistening with sweat, muscles twitching beneath bronzed, tattooed skin. He’s a walking sculpture, wrapped in rage and breath and heat. The kind of body that’s earned—not gifted. The kind that could ruin you without even trying.

You’ve seen him like this before. Too many times. But it never gets old.

Jungkook in the ring is another version of him entirely. More vicious. More beautiful. Like a storm trapped in a body. That controlled fury in every punch, the precision in every dodge, the restraint that only you understand because you’ve seen what it looks like when he lets go.

“Finish him!” someone yells, and you catch the glint in Jungkook’s eye.

He’s tired. You can tell from the way his footwork staggers for half a second—no one else would notice it, but you do. He should’ve had this guy knocked out in the second round, but the ref was too slow on the break call, and the other guy got a cheap shot to the ribs.

Dirty hit.

You grit your teeth, arms crossed under your chest, diamond bracelet glinting under the arena lights. You look good tonight. Too good. Cropped jacket hugging your waist, heels tall enough to look down on half the men here. Your makeup’s untouched even after hours.

Jungkook always says you look like trouble. And that’s why he likes you.

And even though he’s locked in—throwing punches, tasting blood—you know he saw you. You know he saw the way your lips parted when he ducked under a hook. The way your hand wrapped tighter around the bar railing when he landed a left.

He fights like he knows you’re watching.

The bell dings for the final round.

He exhales, shoulders tight.

And even though he hasn’t looked at you once, his jaw ticks like he’s holding back everything he wants to say.

He knows this isn’t going to be clean. You both do.

-

You feel it the second the final bell rings.

And you know—before the ref even lifts the wrong hand—that it’s about to be bullshit.

The other guy’s arm is raised.

The crowd erupts in boos. Furious, stunned. It’s not even subtle. Everyone saw the illegal shot. Everyone saw Jungkook dominate the first four rounds. But the judges? The commission? Bought. Blind. Doesn’t matter.

Your heart drops.

Jungkook doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t move. His jaw is tight, lips parted, chest rising slow like he’s trying not to explode. Blood trickles from his brow, sweat carving paths down his torso. His taped fists hang at his sides, and for a full five seconds, he just stares at the ref.

Then he turns. And you’re already moving.

Security parts before you like instinct. You walk in heels like they’re made for the mat, your blazer hugging your waist, hair still perfect, not a drop of emotion on your face—except for what’s in your eyes. Fury. Devotion. Fire.

He sees you immediately.

And that’s when he finally breathes.

His gloves are already off, tossed to the side. Tape loose around his wrists, knuckles bruised and red. He walks straight into your space like a magnet, and before you can say anything, his hand catches your hip, dragging you in.

Your arms go around his neck like instinct. His body is hot and hard and shaking.

“Don’t say anything,” he mutters against your ear. His voice is low, dark. Controlled the way dynamite is controlled—right before the fuse is lit. “Not here.”

You nod, forehead pressed to his. “I’m not.”

His other arm wraps around your lower back and pulls you flush against him. It’s not soft. It’s not delicate. He holds you like a claim, like possession, like he wants every camera watching to see exactly where he finds peace. His scent hits you immediately—leather, sweat, the faint echo of his cologne, spiced and sharp and familiar.

“Fucking rigged,” he mutters, voice cracking with restraint.

You tilt your head and stare up at him. Even angry, he’s beautiful—his lip is split, his cheek swelling, but his eyes are dark and locked on yours like they haven’t seen anything else all night.

“You should’ve knocked him out,” you say quietly.

“I tried.” His jaw flexes. “Didn’t want to kill him.”

You smirk, just barely. “Pity.”

His lips twitch. The smallest hint of a smile—there and gone.

Then he leans down.

A quick kiss. Messy and sharp. His bottom lip tastes like blood. Yours smudge gloss onto his. It’s not sweet—it’s public. It’s loud. It’s a declaration. His hand slides down to your ass, gripping without shame as he pulls you tighter, and you feel his exhale shake against your mouth.

Let them all see.

He’s not hiding anything.

Reporters shout both your names. Cameras flash in waves. A mic’s shoved toward your face, and a voice slices through the noise.

“Y/N, thoughts on the decision tonight? Do you think Jeon Jungkook was robbed?”

You don’t break eye contact with him as you reach up and gently fix a strand of damp hair from his forehead. His hand stays wrapped around your waist like a cuff.

Then, to the cameras, your voice comes out steady and clear—

“Wasn’t a fair fight.” Your tone is cool. Confident. The exact opposite of the storm you’re holding down inside. “But that’s okay. We’re not done.”

Jungkook hums low in his throat like he agrees.

He lets go of your waist just long enough to lace your fingers together, holding your hand as he steps down off the mat. Security tries to hold back the press, but he doesn’t give them a choice—he walks you through the chaos like it’s his runway, like the world owes him a moment of silence.

-

You don't need to look at him to feel it. The shift.

He’s still holding your hand, but his grip has changed—firmer, tighter, a little too close to a fist. The crowd is screaming, cameras flashing, everyone clawing to get a glimpse of him. Of you. Of you two.

But Jungkook doesn’t care about the noise anymore.

He walks you out of the arena like he’s dragging a ghost behind him. Silent. Stormy. The win stolen right out from under him, and the only thing keeping him from knocking out someone on the way out is the weight of your hand in his.

He lets you in the limo first. His touch on your hip is automatic, firm, but there’s no softness in it now. No teasing squeeze. Just pressure.

The door shuts behind him with a hard thunk.

And he goes still.

The moment feels longer than it is. The silence isn’t peaceful—it’s thick. Suffocating. Like the air’s too heavy to breathe.

He sits across from you. Shirtless. Shoulders wide, bruised, skin glinting with the last remnants of sweat and blood. His jaw is locked, his brows drawn. The cut above his brow has stopped bleeding, but there’s still a smear on his cheekbone. You know he’ll refuse to get it cleaned up until the morning.

His phone buzzes. He checks it with a flick of his eyes. Then declines the call without a word.

You sit still.

Waiting.

Watching.

The engine hums beneath your feet, and outside, the crowd disappears. The tinted windows block out everything, but inside the car, the silence only gets louder.

“You’re not gonna say anything?” you ask quietly.

He doesn’t answer.

You try again. “That decision was bullshit.”

Still nothing.

You cross your legs, lean into the seat. “Cool. So you’re doing the sulking-in-silence thing tonight.”

He exhales through his nose. Slow. Measured. Controlled. That control scares you more than if he’d yelled.

You press your tongue to your cheek. “At least you looked good getting robbed.”

He finally moves—just his eyes. Sharp and dark, cutting across the seat to look at you like a warning.

You meet it head-on. “Don’t look at me like I’m the one who handed out the scorecard.”

“You don’t get it,” he mutters.

“I don’t get what?”

He leans forward, forearms on his knees, voice low and cold. “I worked for that fight. I fucking bled for that fight. And they gave it away like I was nothing.”

“You think looking good is enough to make that go away?” he says. It’s not cruel. But it’s sharp. Wounded.

“I don’t want to hear anything right now.” His jaw clenches.

You stare at him. “Guess I’m just for show, huh? Pretty thing to stand beside when you lose.”

“I didn’t lose.”

You pause. Quiet. “Then why do you sound like you did?”

His gaze flicks away. That’s the last thing he says.

He leans back, hands rubbing over his face once, then through his damp hair. The seat creaks under his weight. You watch him closely, waiting for him to break the silence.

But he doesn’t.

He shuts down completely.

The ride continues like that—heavy, wordless. The distance between you stretched by everything he’s not saying. You’re still in your heels, still in your perfect blazer, still looking like the girl every guy wants to steal. But he doesn’t reach for you.

Doesn’t even look.

You fold your arms and turn to the window.

Fine.

If he wants quiet—he’ll get it.

-

The elevator opens to the quiet luxury of the penthouse—glass, marble, soft lighting, the city glowing below like it has no idea the man standing in this hallway just got robbed of a win that bled months of preparation.

Jungkook walks in first. No word. No glance.

You follow behind, slower. He leaves the door open for you, but doesn’t wait. His duffle hits the floor with a dull thud, water bottle in hand before you’ve even unzipped your jacket. His back is to you when you step inside, and it stays that way.

You toe off your heels by the door, your body still humming from the adrenaline of the arena. But he doesn’t even look.

The silence follows you through the living room like a shadow. You sit on the edge of the couch, slowly undoing your blazer buttons, waiting—hoping—he says something first.

He doesn’t.

He twists the cap off the water bottle. Drinks like it’s a chore. His jaw tenses with every swallow, throat bobbing, chest rising and falling too quickly.

Still no words.

You exhale. “You’re really not gonna talk to me?”

He caps the bottle. Tosses it on the kitchen island. Then turns around—but his eyes don’t meet yours.

Your voice drops. “You’ve been quiet since we left. You gonna keep doing that all night?”

“Don’t,” he mutters, walking past you.

That’s all he says.

Don’t.

You stand slowly, arms crossed. “You don’t get to snap at me like I’m the one who made the call.”

He doesn’t even slow his steps. Just walks straight to the balcony, opens the glass door, and steps outside.

You blink. “Are you fucking serious?”

No response.

The door shuts behind him with a cold finality.

You stay frozen in the living room, lips parted in disbelief, hands curled at your sides.

He’s done this before—gone quiet when shit gets under his skin—but this? This feels different. Sharper. Like he’s not just mad about the loss. He’s mad about everything. The fight. The cameras. Himself. And maybe even you, though he won’t admit it.

You walk to the balcony door, stop just short of opening it. He’s out there with a cigarette between his fingers, leaning against the glass railing, the glow of the city painting his skin in soft gold and silver. Shirtless. Silent. Alone.

Smoke curls from his mouth as he exhales. His hair’s still damp. His knuckles are red and scraped raw. He presses the cigarette to his lips again, breathing in slow like he’s trying to stay sane.

You stare at him through the glass.

Your chest rises, falls. But you don’t go out there.

Not yet.

Because if he wants space, if he wants to stand out there and pretend like you didn’t ride for him all night, then fine. Let him.

You walk back to the couch, arms still crossed, jaw still tight, sitting down like you’re done talking until he starts.

And in the silence, the distance stretches like a fault line between you.

-

The cigarette’s almost done.

You watch from the couch, pretending not to care, but every time you look up, he's still out there. Still silent. Still leaning on the glass railing like the weight of the city might drag him over it.

And you’ve had enough.

You rise slowly. Quietly.

The balcony door opens with a soft click, and the air outside hits you—cool, sharp, but nothing compared to the chill in his silence. The wind brushes your skin. You walk barefoot onto the balcony, arms folded, steps deliberate, slow.

Jungkook doesn’t look at you. Not right away.

You stop beside him, close but not touching.

He exhales smoke without a word. The wind pushes his hair back from his face. His profile’s cut in moonlight—high cheekbones, the edge of a bruise on his jaw, lips still red from the fight, or from you. His chest rises, slow and tense.

You stand still.

The silence stretches between you, long and bitter.

And then you speak—softly, just above the wind.

“You gonna be quiet forever?”

His jaw clenches, cigarette between his fingers. “Depends.”

“On what?”

He flicks the ash over the edge. “On whether or not I say something I’ll regret.”

You look at him, long and level. “You already did.”

That makes him finally glance at you. A flash of guilt crosses his face, but it disappears just as fast. He drops the cigarette in the ashtray beside him and leans back against the glass, arms crossing loosely over his chest.

“I’m tired,” he mutters.

You nod once. “I know.”

“I’m angry.”

“I know that too.”

He looks at you now. Really looks. “Then why are you out here?”

Your lips twitch. “Because you always act like the world’s ending when you lose. Like I’m supposed to stand back and let you implode.”

“I’m not imploding.”

“You’re not talking.”

“Same thing, isn’t it?”

You pause. “Not with you. With you, silence is worse.”

He looks away again.

You hate how beautiful he looks like this—quiet and bruised, still burning. You can see the fight still living in his shoulders, in the way he breathes, like his lungs are too full of everything he didn’t get to say in the ring.

You step closer, slowly. Until your shoulder almost brushes his arm.

“You don’t have to talk,” you say softly. “But you don’t get to shut me out like I’m the problem.”

His eyes flick to yours. And for a second—just a second—you see it. The crack. The thing underneath all the silence.

He reaches out.

Fingers graze your wrist. Light. Hesitant.

Then firmer.

His hand wraps around your wrist, tugging gently until your front touches his side. His head dips toward you, forehead resting against your temple, his eyes closed like he’s just too tired to keep carrying all that weight by himself.

“I don’t know how to lose,” he whispers.

You press a hand to his chest. His skin is warm. His heart is pounding.

“You don’t have to,” you murmur back. “Not when I’m here.”

He doesn’t say anything.

But his hand slides to your waist.

Not tentative this time. Firm. Certain. The kind of touch that says he’s done pretending you’re not exactly what he needs.

He exhales into your neck—warm, shaky. “You wore that just to drive me crazy, didn’t you?”

You smirk, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “I always dress for war.”

His fingers tighten, pulling you flush against him. Your chest meets the bare heat of his torso, and for a moment, you both just breathe—his nose grazing your cheek, your fingers curling into his shoulder. The bruises on his skin don’t scare you. If anything, they only make him feel more real. Less like a symbol. More like your man.

The one who bleeds, and breaks, and still tries to keep the world on his back.

He turns his face, mouth finding yours in the dark. And it’s slow this time. Not sharp. Not angry. Just deep. Needy. His lips part against yours like he’s tasting relief, like kissing you is the only thing that makes him feel like himself again.

He kisses you like he lost something out there and found it the second you walked onto the balcony.

Your hands tangle in his hair. His body presses you gently against the glass. You gasp softly into his mouth when his palm moves lower, finding the backs of your thighs, lifting—just enough to make your breath hitch.

“I need you inside,” you murmur, voice low. “Now.”

He doesn’t answer. Just takes your hand and pulls you in.

You follow him through the dark, quiet penthouse. No lights on. No music. Just your footsteps, your breathing, the sound of his body so close you can almost feel him without touching.

He stops in the middle of the living room.

Turns.

And kisses you again—harder this time.

Your back hits the couch. He leans over you, not breaking the kiss, hands roaming with more heat, more pressure. Like all the silence from earlier is pouring out now in the way he touches you. Desperate. Focused. Controlled in only the way he is when he’s about to lose it.

His mouth leaves yours to trail down your jaw. Your throat. Your collarbone. Every kiss is a vow. A bruise. A surrender.

You pull him closer.

Because this is what it always comes down to.

Not the fight.

Not the anger.

But this— The way he breathes when he’s on top of you. The way his body fits against yours like it’s home. The way he falls apart when you touch him like he’s not invincible.

And for once… he lets you hold him without flinching.

No more silence.

Only skin, and sighs, and everything he doesn’t know how to say in words.

Your back hits the couch cushions and his weight follows immediately—solid, heavy, demanding. His knee parts your legs without hesitation, and you open for him like muscle memory.

His mouth is back on yours, but different now. Gone is the slow burn. This is messier. Breathless. All tongue and teeth. He kisses like he’s punishing you for showing up. Like he’s mad it made him feel better.

Your head tilts back and you moan against his mouth. His hand wraps around your throat—not choking, just holding. Grounding. Possessive. His thumb brushes your jaw as his other hand pushes your dress up roughly, bunching the fabric around your hips.

“Fuck,” he growls into your mouth. “Look at you.”

You gasp when his palm slides up your inner thigh, fingers dragging, slow and firm, like he wants to take his time even though you both know he won’t. His touch is hot, calloused, and so familiar it makes your chest ache.

You grab his wrist, breath hitched. “Don’t tease.”

He smirks, but it’s darker now. “You don’t get to make demands.”

His fingers slip past the edge of your underwear, and you jolt, legs twitching. He grunts when he feels how wet you already are, dragging his fingers through you, slow at first—just enough to feel how badly you want it.

“Fuck, baby…” His voice is low, wrecked. “You like it when I’m angry?”

You stare up at him, lips parted, breathing hard. “You like pretending you’re still in control.”

That makes him snap.

He pulls your underwear down roughly, doesn’t even bother taking it off fully—just pushes it past your knees and spreads your thighs with both hands. You feel the heat of his breath as he looks at you, not touching, not yet.

“You’ve been testing me all night,” he mutters, sliding two fingers into you without warning.

You arch off the couch with a sharp gasp.

His fingers curl immediately, dragging against that spot you hate how fast he finds. His thumb presses down on your clit, slow circles that contrast the way he fucks you with his hand—deep, rough, unrelenting.

You grip the cushions, eyes fluttering. “Jungkook—”

“I said don’t talk,” he growls.

He leans in close, nose brushing your cheek. His breath is hot, his words even hotter.

“You sat through the whole fight looking like a fucking trophy. And now?” His fingers thrust harder, faster, obscene sounds filling the room. “Now you’re dripping for me. Soaked through and shaking.”

You moan, thighs closing around his hand. He forces them open again, pushing them down with his knee.

“Keep ‘em open,” he commands.

Your fingers slide up his back, nails dragging through the sweat and tension in his spine. He shudders from it, his mouth dropping to your neck, biting hard enough to leave a mark. You gasp again. His tongue soothes over it.

He groans low in your ear. “You want me to fuck you like I lost?”

You nod, dizzy. “Yes.”

“Like I hate everything but you?”

“Yes, Jungkook—fuck, yes.”

He pulls his fingers out, slick and shining, and you whimper at the loss. He pushes up onto his knees, breathing hard, undoing his sweatpants with one hand, eyes locked on your thighs like he’s about to destroy you.

When he pushes in, it’s fast and deep—too deep. You cry out, legs wrapping around him, nails digging into his biceps as he starts thrusting without mercy.

Every snap of his hips punches a sound out of your throat. He’s gritting his teeth, jaw clenched, eyes dark and fixed on the way your body gives under him.

“This what you wanted?” he pants, fucking into you hard enough to rock the couch. “Wanted to be the only thing I could feel after getting robbed?”

You nod, whimpering, trying to keep your voice from breaking.

“You are,” he snarls. “You fucking are.”

You’re not even sure what you’re saying anymore—just sounds, gasps, curses, his name. His name, over and over.

He slips one arm under your back, dragging you up against his chest so you’re nearly sitting in his lap, your legs wrapped around him. His rhythm doesn’t slow. If anything, it gets rougher.

Skin on skin. Bruising, breathless. His hand on your ass, your nails in his neck, teeth grazing lips between ragged kisses.

He’s not being gentle. And you don’t want him to be.

This isn’t careful. It’s not sweet.

It’s two people breaking at the seams and using each other to survive it.

His forehead drops to yours. His breath is hot, shaky, lips brushing yours with every thrust.

“I need you,” he murmurs. It’s not rough. Not this time. Just honest. Raw. “I need you, baby. Stay with me.”

You kiss him like a promise. Like you’ll never go anywhere.

Your orgasm hits hard—fast and full-body. You shake, fingers clenching around him, crying out his name. And he follows, growling into your neck, burying himself inside you with one final thrust that leaves you both breathless.

The only sound left is the way you both breathe.

Then silence.

Warm. Spent. Wrapped around each other on the couch, skin damp and hearts pounding.

And for the first time all night— He’s not angry. He’s just holding you.

authors note: comment and lmk what u think!

[riddlesbunny]

thawed out

summary: Frustrated after losing a game to your brothers’ team, you let Cregan take his frustration out on you.

pairing: Modern!Cregan x Targtower!Reader

word count: 1.1k

warnings: Explicit smut, semi-public/rough sex, spit, p in v, creampie, 18+ MDNI

note: Sorry it’s been a month since I’ve posted!! Watch this flop asdfghkl

Your eyelids flutter as Sara lightly dabs glittery eyeshadow onto them with her ring finger.

“Try to hold still,” she tells you, just as your reflection catches her eye in the mirror that hangs on the back of her closet door.

“Oh no,” she frowns, making note of the jersey you’re wearing, “Cregan is not going to like that.”

The jersey — all black, has no distinctive feature of any team, but it does have the name “Targaryen” etched onto the back, and 01 on the front, which is your brother Aemond’s hockey number.

Cregan is number 13.

“Targaryen is my last name,” you remind her, “and besides, Cregan is the one who wants to hide me. If he wants me to wear his jersey to games, he will have to make me more than just a fuck buddy,” you shrug.

Her lips turn downward into a frown, but she nods her head in agreement with you.

Very few people are aware of your relationship with Cregan. He’s a good guy with a big heart, the complete opposite of a fuckboy or a player. The main, if not only, reason why the two of you decided to keep things a secret was so you wouldn’t have to deal with the backlash from your brothers.

Cool air whips against your face, and tensions are high with only a few minutes left remaining of the game.

You watch on eagerly as Aegon pulls a move that is supposedly illegal, but the ref’s don’t seem to count it. Resulting in your brothers’ team winning the game.

You can’t help but wince as you watch Cregan rip his helmet off and make a beeline toward Aegon on the ice.

“What the fuck was that?!”

“Aww,” your eldest brother frowns in response, “Run home with your tail between your legs!” he calls. Cregan grunts in response while the rest of Aegon’s teammates, Aemond included, howl maniacally like wolves. Making a mockery of Cregan and the rest of his team.

You roll your eyes at the scene and push your way out of the stands and through the crowd.

You pick at your fingernails nervously as you wait outside the locker room, refusing to enter until the remainder of Cregan’s teammates pass you by.

The smell of sweat fills your senses as you enter the abandoned locker room.

“Cregan,” you call, “baby?”

The locker room is quiet and dim. The only audible sound in the room is the faint buzzing of one of the poorly lit fluorescent lights.

Cregan is sat on one of the benches, his nose pinched between his thumb and forefinger. You reach your arms around him.

“Hey,” you offer, “for what it’s worth, you did great.”

“I’m just so fucking pissed off!”

Cregan’s deep voice echoes through the locker room as he throws his stick to the floor. As mentioned earlier, Cregan’s a stand up guy, but his temper is a force to be reckoned with; and nothing sets it off quite like losing a hockey game.

“I know you’re upset baby,” you state empathetically as you dig the pads of your fingers into his shoulders. An attempt to massage the tense tissue, he all but grunts in response.

“You wanna take it out on me?”

“What?” He asks in a deadpan.

“Your frustration … you should just take it out on me.”

Cregan raises his eyebrows at this but he takes no time to react. He stands up quickly, his thick frame hovering over yours before he shoves you against the lockers abruptly. Gripping at your chin with force, he demands you to open your mouth. You oblige and he spits directly down your throat, you swallow obediently with a content mewl as wetness pools at your center.

A pathetic “please” is all you’re able to muster out to him as he stares at you hungrily.

He takes a seat on the bench, tugging his uniform pants and boxer briefs down to his ankles in one swift motion, exposing his cock.

His calloused hands lift you onto his lap with haste. A shiver runs through your body as he yanks down your leggings and underwear in a quick swoop, causing you to hiss as cool air fans your cunt. It isn’t long before Cregan’s warm hand is cupping you, his fingers playing in your slick.

You want to cry out when he removes his hand from you but once his hands are at your thighs again, spreading you open, you feel the throbbing head of his cock prodding against you.

“Fuck, baby,” you moan, egging him on, “come on, I said, take it out on me.”

A growl erupts from his chest as he forcefully spears you down onto his cock, filling you to the hilt. Your eyes flutter shut and you try your best to suppress a moan as he begins to split you open.

He continues with unrelenting thrusts while his grip on your hips only tightens, taking full control.

“Fuckin. Targaryen’s,” he says through gritted teeth, harshly slapping the swell of your ass. Your head snaps up as you glare at him disapprovingly.

“Obviously not you baby,” he coo’s reassuringly, running his fingers along the red handprint that’s forming, soothing the pain before kneading at the tender flesh.

“It’s just— Gods, do they fuckin’ rile me up,” he mumbles as both his hands make their way to your waist again, helping him thrust into you even harder.

“I know, baby, I know” you whimper, pressing your forehead to his as he continues to fuck into you at an unrelenting pace.

“But you know just how to make me feel better, don’t you, baby?”

“Y-yes,” you choke out as he perfectly angles his cock against your cervix.

“Yeah you do, this sweet little pussy is all I need.”

You can feel the tension building in your body at his words, your breath coming out in short gasps as he expertly moves inside of you.

His fingers trail down from your hips to your cunt again, sending hot waves of electricity through you.

His intense, grey, gaze never leaves yours. With each thrust, you feel yourself on the brink of insanity. Each drag of his length has you closer and closer to the edge.

Cregan moves with determination, his body pressed hard against yours as he takes you to new heights of pleasure. His digits finally find the apex of your thighs and pinch at your throbbing bud, causing you to gasp and arch your back.

Urging him on as he expertly works his fingers over your most sensitive spot. Each touch sends waves of pleasure through you. With one final pinch and a flick of his thumb, you’re cumming around him — gasping and trembling as the walls of your cunt tighten around his length.

His breathing comes labored and heavy, his eyes squeezed shut as he chases his own release. His own hips stuttered as he felt you continue to pulse around him. Unable to keep his composure any longer, he lets out a loud groan and spills himself inside of you, painting your walls with his seed.

“Fuckin’ Targaryen’s,” he drawls, this time his tone is filled with appreciation.

[iluvbuckets]

seeing paige fall at the game today just made me fume on how no one even tried checking if she had a concussion 😓

so could u do like a one shot where r basically throws a whole tantrum over seeing paige on the floor and demanding she gets checked

I BEG

great minds think alike bc i literally started this immediately when i saw the announcement

concussion protocol

 paige bueckers x fem!reader 

summary: you and paige are teammates on the dallas wings and she takes a hard hit to the head in the second quarter.

warnings: nothing just you having a soft spot for paige

word count: 2.1k

notes: i could make a part 2 if y'all want also i'm not used to getting anon messages i feel so special

read part 2!

✷✷✷

you had been playing for the dallas wings for two years.

this new team had been nicknamed the team of crashouts, with paige bueckers being a mini diana taurasi combined with dijonai carrington and myisha hines-allen. but you had never been the type to argue with a referee, so you were quickly nicknamed the mom. you kept everyone calm while they were having genuine conversations, as paige would call it. of course, if a call was particularly bad, you did talk to the refs, but not in the way they did. and you had always been that way, even since aau basketball. 

there were many clips of you coming over to talk to any of your teammates while they were talking to refs, especially paige because she seemed to be doing it the most. 

when paige was announced as the number one pick in the draft, you and your team danced around the room in dallas like it wasn’t being live-streamed. you were so excited to get someone as skilled in the sport as paige, and someone who was so kind off the court. 

during training camp, she quickly became your favorite teammate. there was a running joke among the team that she was your velcro player because she just always seemed to be where you were without fail, and you pretended to be annoyed by her, but you would never admit that you secretly loved it. having her around was like a breath of fresh air with her sweet, childish energy, especially because she made sure everyone was always having fun at practice.

and you were becoming close off the court as well. during the first week and even throughout the rest of training camp, you could tell she was having a hard time adjusting to being so far from her loved ones. you started inviting her over for dinner a couple of nights a week so she didn’t feel so lonely and honestly, it felt good to have someone who wanted to spend time with you like that. 

it had evolved from just dinner, though, to full-on hanging out any chance you got, and everyone knew. the two of you had been caught at the mall, professional sports games, the grocery store, restaurants–all by fans wanting photos. not that you minded, of course, because she was quickly becoming one of your best friends.

so when you finally won in connecticut, you were so happy for her, you thought you could cry. it was the place she had never lost in front of her old teammates that she had missed so badly, so you knew it was a full-circle moment. you definitely weren’t expecting her to ask you to come meet her old teammates, either. when they saw you two walking together, they gave each other looks, but you pretended to ignore them for the sake of your sanity. 

leading into the next game against the sky, she was still riding on that high. the last game she had been on fire and she was determined to bring it back to chicago with her. 

but things didn’t always go according to plan.

during the second quarter, while running point with courtney vandersloot guarding her, she tried to drive to be able to get the shot (or a good pass, knowing paige). instead, she ended up colliding with sloot and was sent tumbling to the ground. you were standing in the opposite corner waiting for her to go so you could move from your spot. you barely even registered that she had been hit until you saw her stumble. as soon as the whistle blew, you were running to her side, not even waiting to see if she would get right back up.

and she didn’t, she stayed on the ground. her eyes were pinched shut, biting her bottom lip as hard as she could, hands on her forehead, as she tried to will the pain away on the floor. your stomach dropped at the sight.

you placed a hand on her knee, bending over her a little bit. “are you okay?”

she just nodded in response, moving her hands to cover her face, but you weren’t convinced. you glanced over to the bench to see if they were sending any trainers or if coach was coming over, but she reached her hand out for you to help her up, so they didn’t. they can’t come onto the court unless the player can’t get down. still, you helped her up, patting her on the back comfortingly. she blinked a few times, wincing as she did so.

“you need to go get checked out, paige,” you said sternly.

“no, i’m fine,” she argued, shaking her head. you didn’t know if she was shaking her head at you or trying to shake some of the pain away, though. “i can play.”

you threw your hands up at her, clearly angry. “you just hit your head.” 

she just shrugged as she turned to walk to her spot for the possession throw-in, getting stopped by sloot on the way to check in.

“paige!” you yelled in frustration. she just shook her head at you and pointed to the baseline, silently telling you to drop it and just throw it in. 

you began to walk over to the ref, debating on whether or not there was anything he could do. ultimately, you decided there wasn’t much except give you a technical for arguing like that, so you immediately pivoted to direct your anger to your coach.

“you’re going to let her play?” you practically screamed, watching as his eyes widened slightly, but he attempted to remain calm. he had never been the butt of your emotion before (well, he’d probably never seen it on film either, so this would be a total first).

you couldn’t even stop to think about how to handle it rationally without lashing out, and you didn’t think about the way the announcers would be talking about it either.

uh oh, that’s new. y/l/n seems to be having some words with her coaches after bueckers took that fall.

the arena was quiet enough watching it all go down that the livestream could hear you yelling too, and that would definitely get sent around later, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. a head and neck injury is a serious injury, and you can’t believe that they aren’t treating it as such.

“if she says she’s fine, she’s fine,” coach shrugged, not wanting to make a scene. 

“i don’t give a fuck what she says,” you laughed in disbelief. “evaluate her, at least. she just got hit in the head!”

i don’t think we’ve ever seen y/l/n this heated before. i’m surprised there isn’t smoke coming out of her ears.

paige was standing where she was supposed to be, chewing on her lip, watching this all go down. she couldn’t decide if she was embarrassed or feeling giddy seeing you react this way, but she was definitely a little annoyed. she tried to play it off as best as she could so she wouldn’t get taken out and there you were, ruining it. 

before you could keep yelling, dijonai was pressing a hand to your stomach to push you away before things got too heated. she gave you an apologetic smile, but didn’t say anything as you walked back to where you were supposed to be. when you were standing on the baseline, you shot paige a glare that she ignored.

you played out the final minute, but you couldn’t stop thinking about how angry you were. at paige for getting up, at your trainers and the refs for not intervening, at your coach for not taking it seriously. you didn’t blame your teammates because honestly, what were they supposed to do?

when the buzzer sounded to signal halftime, you walked straight past your coach as you went into the tunnel back to the locker room. you stood at the bench lining the wall for a few moments, closing your eyes and tipping your head back to try to gain some composure before the rest of the team walked in.

you nearly jumped out of your skin when you felt arms wrap around you from behind and a head rest on your shoulder, a ponytail touching the side of your neck.

“i’m okay,” paige’s voice broke the silence. it was soft and quiet, and attempting to be reassuring, but it didn’t help.

you laughed, but not out of amusement. “don’t piss me off.” 

“you already are.”

“not at you, but i will be if you don’t get evaluated,” you said.

she let go when she realized you weren’t going to hug her back, sitting on the bench in front of you and staring up at you. you didn’t sit next to her, though. you just crossed your arms and shifted your weight to one foot. 

“i just did a quick one,” she replied matter-of-factly. “they said i can still play.”

you rolled your eyes at her words, knowing that meant that you had to just let it go if she was cleared, but you still knew it was a bad idea. your brother played in the nfl, and if that happened to them, they would’ve been immediately pulled from gameplay because symptoms can take 24-48 hours to show. it’s ridiculous that paige didn’t get the same treatment. 

“you have a headache?” you asked, raising an eyebrow. 

she shook her head, but didn’t make eye contact. then opened her mouth to speak, but the rest of the team started filing into the locker room. 

for the rest of halftime, you didn’t meet your coach’s eyes as he spoke. you just sat on the bench next to paige, stealing glances every so often to try to catch her wincing in pain so you could plead your case and trying to diffuse your anger. 

she doesn’t though, and you’re forced to carry on into the next quarter like usual.

but it wasn’t usual. she was moving slowly, throwing up bad shots, and making lazy passes. all those stupid mistakes that a normal, healthy paige would never dare to make, even by accident.

at some point toward the middle of the third quarter, she bumped into one of the opposing players. the hit wasn’t even hard and a foul was called on someone somewhere else on the floor, but you watched as she reached up to touch her temple where she had been hit and winced. 

“paige!” you yelled again, approaching her as everyone went down the floor to throw in on chicago’s side. “what the hell was that?” 

she gave you a confused look. “what?” 

“you have a fucking headache,” you accused. there was no reason to ask at that point; you could tell. her face constantly looked like she was in pain for the entire quarter and that touch only gave it away. “get the fuck off the court.”

“i’m fine,” she shook her head, running down the court where everyone was waiting.

you marched right over to the bench for the second time that night to give your coach a piece of your mind. 

“take her out,” you said, pointing to paige.

“she was cleared,” coach said calmly. 

“okay? you want to play around with our best player like that?” you asked, throwing your hands up. still, you jogged back down the court so the game wasn’t delayed anymore and you could avoid a call for that. 

the game continues like nothing happened. 

toward the end of the quarter, another foul is called on your team. it results in free-throws from chicago. while they are setting up, you use the opportunity to approach paige again. 

when she noticed, her eyes widened like she was scared you would yell at her again. you didn’t, though, you wrapped your arms around her shoulders in a hug, making sure your head was on the side she didn’t get hit on. she relaxed in your touch, her hands coming up to rest on your back. 

“i’m not mad at you. i’m just worried, okay?” your murmured in her ear, reassuringly. “i want you to get a full evaluation after this game is over.”

she nodded into your shoulder, knowing she didn't have a choice.

[dpr-moni]

Pairing: Lee Know x reader (afab, she/her)

Genre: 5x1, strangers-to-friends-to-lovers, smut

Summary: You followed Minho home because you had nowhere else to go. Then you kept following... all the way into his heart, but not his bed.

aka five times you and Minho don't fuck and one time you do.

Word count: 13.5k

Content: the gang do some light crime and then some less light crime (nothing specific), references to sex trafficking, reader is 16 in the first section (nothing romantic/sexual happens but there are refs/allusions to it), interrupted foreplay, attempted car sex, fingering, unprotected piv sex, [not actually] unrequited feelings

A/N: reposting this because it's one of the last things i wrote that i actually felt good about i think?? this hasn't been edited since it was originally posted; it seems like AO3 (where I copied this from) may have put in some random extra spaces so... cool..... originally beta'd by @violetsiren90

FIRST  

“Why don’t you fuck off?”  

The voice came from behind you. It was low and cold and threatening. It was directed at Shindong , the man in front of you, whom you were sure was this close to offering to take you home. You whipped around to see who had uttered it.  

Your immediate thought was that he was too short and too slight to be walking up with that level of aggression. Your second thought was interrupted by the spark that shot up your arm when he grabbed your hand. You’d have pulled it back, but his grip was solid and your arm didn’t budge.   

“What the fuck do you want, Minho?” your companion replied, all the charm sliding off his face, replaced with a loathing, arrogant sneer.   

“I want you to fuck off.”  

“She yours? Might want to keep a closer eye on her; she was just about to come home with me.”  

The stranger’s hand squeezed yours, so hard it started to hurt. He offered nothing in response.   

Both men continued to stare at each other. Shindong had inches on Minho – both height and breadth – and you couldn’t believe your eyes when you saw him hesitating. He flicked his eyes between you and Minho.   

“What if I want to fight you for her?”  

“What if I told you she’s not legal?”  

Shindong hesitated, moved just a fraction backwards, no longer leaning in, looming over the two of you. He rolled his eyes and gave a heartless chuckle.  

“Not worth the fucking bother,” he muttered as he walked away.   

Minho, still a stranger to you, still holding your hand, who hadn’t even looked your way, pulled you sharply by said hand, storming off and taking you with him. You followed him into one of the warehouse’s many dark corners. He kicked out the couple who were two clothing items shy of a citation for public indecency, and only then did he let you go. Only then did he turn his dark, flaming eyes on you.  

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” you asked.   

Shindong had been your lifeline. What did this guy think he was playing at?  

Your vehemence took him off-guard, surprise flashing across his face, until his scowl returned, worse than before. You understood now why he made Shindong hesitate. His gaze was fierce, penetrating, his jaw set, his mouth a taut, grim line. You would never show your hand to anyone, but a cold droplet of fear slithered down your spine. You straightened it, rolled your shoulders back, lifted your head. You wouldn’t let him intimidate you.  

“Do you know him?” he asked, voice still low, still threatening.  

Not personally. Not until that evening. But people like him came with a reputation that preceded them. A reputation that you were relying upon being based in fact. A reputation that had spread all around your school and beyond, but that you had heard from a source close to the truth. It was close enough that you were able to find him here, in a part of town you’d never been to. It was close enough that you were able to pick Shindong out from this crowd. Close enough that when you approached him and he laughed at you – young, naïve, foolish, all of those things you were sure he thought – you were able to drop his cousin’s name and he suddenly took you seriously. That was what you had been hoping for. A connection was all you needed to keep you covered for a night, at least. Just one would be something.  

And then this guy showed up.  

“I was about to.”  

Minho’s top lip curled, just a fraction, his nose barely wrinkling with the movement, but you got his meaning. Disgust. He could be as disgusted as he liked; that wasn’t your problem. Your problem was that his disgust had led him to chase away your only lead.   

Or was he? Was Shindong your only option?  

You changed tack. Realised that maybe you had another now. Minho, whoever the fuck he was, had approached you as if he knew you and scared off the competition. That must have been it. Despite the way he glowered at you, absolutely no interest or desire lurking behind his dark eyes, you figured you had nothing left to lose.   

You relaxed a little, pouted your lips, played up to the damsel in distress he might have thought you were.  

“But if he’s so awful, I guess I can only thank you,” you said, making your voice soft, your eyes a little wider. You lifted your lips in a tiny, shy smile and then put a hand to them, your thumb and index finger tugging a little on your bottom lip, hoping it made you look small, nervous, sweet.   

He gave you no reaction. He continued to glare, his stance unchanged, unmoving. So you moved. You stepped towards him: shy, little bird steps, until you were so close that he moved backwards.  

“Thanks for looking out for me. Your name’s Minho, right?”  

His eyes tightened minutely. He didn’t reply.   

“I’d like to thank you properly,” you said, sliding your body into his, pressing just one finger against his chest. You fluttered your lashes up at him.  

His face changed immediately. Eyes wide, mouth dropping, and he was stumbling backwards, pressing himself against the wall.  

“What the fuck are you doing? What are you, fifteen?”  

Embarrassment licked your cheeks like flames and your scowl returned.  

“I’m sixteen !”  

“Wow, big age. My mistake. By all means, let’s fuck, Sixteen .”  

His sarcasm was biting but you hadn’t given yourself up yet.  

“Don’t you want to?” you asked, innocently. “You must have sent Shindong away for a reason. If not this, then what?”  

He let out a sigh so aggrieved it was almost a shout. He rolled his eyes.   

“Jesus Christ, where are your parents?” he asked, but it was muttered, almost under his breath and you didn’t know if you were supposed to answer. You did anyway.  

“Dead.”  

His lack of reaction grated. He didn’t flinch. There was no surprise, no guilt on his face. He had robbed you of Shindong and now he had robbed you of your fun: getting a reaction out of people as a poor, orphaned, little Annie was as close as you got these days. Then again, he wasn’t a well-meaning aunt or nosy teacher. He knew what this place was; he knew, or at least knew of, Shindong. Maybe your hand-grenade was, here, little more than a snap.  

“And this is your great life plan? Offering sexual favours to predators?”   

He gestured widely to the room behind you, and you could only assume he did not mean to include himself in that group.   

Actually, it was your plan. Kind of… Insofar as you had any sort of plan at all. You would not be telling him that. You kept your mouth shut tight and jaw clenched, refusing to look down, to be the one to break the eye contact.   

“You know he’s a fucking bad guy,” he said, more softly than he had said anything so far but the hard edge remained.   

“And what are you, my hero ?”  

“Absolutely fucking not. I do not want to have anything to do with whatever mess you are making of your life, but I’m not about to let that cunt take off with a child .”  

“I am not a child!” you shouted, right in his face.   

He took it, impassive, unimpressed even.   

“That’s exactly what a child would say.”  

You wanted to hit him. You wanted to smash him in his beautifully sharp jaw, or break that perfect, delicate nose of his. You were just about not stupid enough to try. How did he even know you were young? You knew you didn’t look it; you were always getting told you looked older than you were. How did he know? Why did he care?  

“Go on then,” you said, darkly. “Leave. If I’m not your fucking problem, why don’t you fuck off?”  

He didn’t answer, but he didn’t move.   

“Worried I’ll get murdered?”   

You lifted your hands to your open mouth, eyes widened, a mockery of fear.   

His face and tone were flat when he responded.   

“There are things worse than death.”  

Then he pushed past you and out of the door.   

You took one shaky breath and walked after him before you could talk yourself out of it. You decided that, one way or another, this guy owed you and it was time to collect.  

You followed him, not too closely, but not exactly hiding it, for over a mile. You wondered, at one point, if he was trying to lose you, if he was actually heading to his destination or just trying to outlast you. You’d show him. You were a long-distance runner at school; you were extremely confident you could keep up.  

So confident, in fact, so determined were you not to lose him, that you were too slow to notice him slowing, to notice him stopping, to very nearly not stop yourself walking into him.   

“What the fuck are you doing?” he asked, not turning to look at you.  

“I’m walking here.”  

“Stop following me.”  

“I’m not following you.”  

He raised his eyes skyward. He stood for a moment and you stood, too, waiting for him to continue – walking or talking, you didn’t know which. He finally turned around and looked at you, everything about him a little softer than before. Not soft , but soft er .   

“You can’t follow me,” he told you slowly, emphatically. “I am not looking after you. I am not your fath-“  

“I don’t have a fucking father.”  

He scoffed.  

“Yeah, that much is very clear, Sixteen .”  

“I’m not sixteen!”  

He frowned.  

“That’s what you told me.”  

“That’s not my fucking name ! Stop saying it like I’m a child. How old are you anyway?”  

“Old enough to know better.”   

“What does that mean?”  

“Go home, Sixteen.”  

“I don’t have a home.”  

“Well you can’t have mine.”  

He turned on his heel and continued walking, a little faster this time, increasing his pace to a jog as he crossed the road. You knew he hoped you wouldn’t be able to follow, that the flashing green man would disappear before you could make it, but you’d been underestimated before.   

After another mile or so, you saw him take his phone from his pocket and put it to his ear. You couldn’t quite hear what he was saying but you thought it sounded like Japanese. Was he Japanese ?   

It hadn’t missed you, the knowledge that you had no knowledge of this man. You understood that you were, as far as you knew, in as much danger following him home as you had been going with Shindong. But you literally had no other options. It was follow this guy somewhere or wander around on the street all night; it was too cold to stay out. You hadn’t thought beyond that when you’d left your house earlier that day. Hadn’t thought much at all, except about getting out.   

Now you were out. Mission accomplished. And you had no idea what to do next.   

You almost missed him ducking into a narrow side street, but you caught the door he rushed through just before it shut. He disappeared from view through another door, off to the left of the dingy, dimly lit corridor you found yourself in. You stalked up to it – it wasn’t even fully closed – but something made you hesitate.   

Suddenly the fear that you had been suppressing all night raised its head. Was this a lion’s den? A serpents’ nest? Was Minho playing some kind of long game, saving you from Shindong so you would trust him, so you would follow him here, so he could…?  

“Are you going to fucking stand out there all night?” you heard a voice call from inside. It had to be Minho’s but you wouldn’t have bet on it.   

You fixed your face, your scowl reappearing, and kicked the door open with excessive force.  

It was just a bar. Just him, sitting on a stool with a beer in his hand, and one other guy, standing opposite, looking at you with his eyebrows raised in the way a parent does when they catch their child doing something naughty.  

“You break that door, I’m going to make you pay for it,” he said, in an accent that you knew wasn’t local.   

And, just like a defiant child, you slammed it shut without breaking eye contact. He turned to Minho.  

“Thanks, man. You had to bring home a fucking streetrat.”  

“I am not a streetrat,” you spat.  

“No?” Minho chimed in. “Then where’s your home?”  

“Fuck off.”  

“I really wish you would.”  

You sat down in a booth just off to your left and stared him down.   

“She can’t stay here,” the stranger said to Minho, as if you were no longer there.   

“I didn’t bring her; she just came .”  

He, the newest stranger, looked between you and Minho for several seconds. He was looking at Minho when he spoke again.  

“One night. That’s it. And she’s your responsibility.”   

He heaved a box full of empty glass bottles into his arms and wandered away, through a different door, mumbling something about ‘strays’.   

“Who was that?” you demanded as Minho continued to sip at his beer.   

You realised that you hadn’t actually been introduced to him either. And he hadn’t asked for your name. You wondered if he would now.  

“None of your fucking business,” he answered, finally moving from the stool to walk behind the bar.   

He opened the cash register and took bags from a cubby just below it. He produced a tiny pencil from his pocket and tore off a strip of the receipt roll. He took out the cash and started to count. You watched his lips move silently as he flicked quickly through the notes, pausing to drop a stack onto the bar and write a number down. He picked up the next stack and repeated.   

“Don’t even think about it,” he warned, not looking up, not even, apparently, pausing in his counting. “Even if you got your urchin mitts on it, you wouldn’t make it to the door.”  

You believed him, but you weren’t planning some kind of move. You didn’t need his money. You were just watching.   

You watched until all the notes and all the coins were accounted for, until they had been put into bags and those bags into a box and Minho turned to follow his friend. You stood from your seat and went after him.    

There were two doors, you realised. Minho took the left. It led to an office. The other guy must’ve taken the right because the room was empty except for furniture and, in the corner, a safe. Minho dumped the box before it and turned to you.  

“Turn around.”  

“Worried I’ll crack the code?” you asked with your eyes rolling back in your head.  

“Just turn around.”  

You did as you were told without a fight because, at that point, there was nowhere else to go. You couldn’t admit defeat and walk out of there; you weren’t sure that Minho wouldn’t make you do just that. It was a knife-edge, being the obnoxious, vile brat that you were. You’d stormed past boundaries before but, well, look where it got you. You were tired and worried enough now to decide you would stop pushing your luck. It had been stretched far enough already.  

There was a second of silence before you heard the beeping of the buttons pressed and the shuffling of bags, the clink of coins, the thunk of a bigger, metallic something against the walls of the safe. He didn’t tell you when he was finished, didn’t say you could turn back around. He just walked past you, out of the office, turning the light off as he went. As soon as you were out of the door, he shut and locked it.   

You followed him back to the bar and he did the same thing: turned off the lights and held a door for you (not politely, not because he was being nice ), following you through it and locking this one behind him, too. You walked to the end of the corridor and he gestured you down some wooden stairs that creaked as if they would break under your weight. He turned the corridor light off, too, and locked the door at the top of the steps.   

This was it. You were locked in. There were at least two locks between you and escape. When Minho shoved past you to the left and opened yet another door, your stomach sank a little further. Three locked doors. He didn’t hold this one for you but he didn’t slam it in your face either, so you rolled your shoulders back, put on your game face and walked through.   

You almost regretted it when you saw where it led. It was possibly the worst place you had ever seen. It wasn’t messy, but there was something dirty about the room anyway. Outdoor furniture inside; everything vaguely brown in a way that you didn’t think it had been fresh out of the box; everything tired and worn and sagging; the naked lightbulb dim and humming as it shone; the fridge, scratched and dented and shoved into a corner, also hummed, managing to sound as well as look tired. It was bleak. It was grey. It made you feel like things were crawling on you and you’d only just stepped foot in it.   

You half expected your feet to stick to the floor when you took a few steps forward. They didn’t but the carpet was so old and worn that you had no idea what colour it was originally; in places, you could see the floorboards clearly through the threads.  

Minho pointed to the sofa.   

“There,” was all he said.   

Then he disappeared out of the room. You gingerly sat on the edge, wondering if you should be more concerned about your health or your safety. Maybe you were sheltered here, but you pictured a thousand and one diseases squirming on the cushions. It wasn’t fair to, because you could see that it was cleaned . The room wasn’t filthy; there were no crumbs or water rings on the coffee table; there was no rubbish littering the floor; the sink was empty and a stack of plates and bowls stood beside it, washed if not yet dried. Minho was clearly diligent.   

Minho and whoever else lived here. There were too many doors leading off this room for him to be here alone.   

Your curiosity was stopped in its tracks when he reappeared with a pillow and a towel. He threw the pillow wordlessly at one end of the sofa and then he raised the towel a little.  

“I don’t have any blankets. Don’t get cold.”  

You scoffed a laugh and were grateful that he ignored it. You weren’t indignant; you weren’t being a brat this time. You were dismayed. You couldn’t believe it. A house with no spare blankets. You were going to sleep under a towel . You glanced around you for a final time, tears pricking in your eyes, fingers at your lips, picking nervously. You weren’t going to die here, you told yourself. Probably. You were probably not going to die here and that was all you needed.   

You stood up, turned off the light, tested the door handle (not sure if you wanted it to be locked or unlocked), then returned to the sofa. You took off your shoes, took your bag from your back and hugged it tightly to your chest. You lay in the dark, in a stranger’s horrible house, alone, tired, more vulnerable than you would ever admit. You cried silently, reluctantly grateful for the towel, until you fell asleep.    

SECOND  

“Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday to everyone! Happy birthday to you!”  

You only got one birthday a year. The whole group of you. There wasn’t enough to stretch to everyone getting an individual birthday, an individual cake, a day off. So the middle day of the year, 2 nd July, was chosen and you all had a birthday together.   

One cake, one candle each, six people blowing them out. Most unsanitary, but, by now, there wasn’t much you hadn’t shared so a little spit didn’t even register.   

You were too drunk by far, which was stupid really. It wasn’t even your first time drinking legally (because your real birthday wasn’t until later in the year), so there was no reason for you to behave as if you had never had a drink before. You should have learnt a little self-control.   

But it was your birthdays. So you kept having one more and one more and one more. As did everyone else.   

“Nineteen!” Minho called as he fell into the booth next to you.   

“I thought I was Sixteen?”  

He shrugged.  

“You do still act like it.”  

You shoved him, almost hard enough to push him off his seat completely. He shoved you back.  

“Shut up, Minnie.”  

He narrowed his eyes at you, plotting death for using the nickname he loathed above all others, and you sent a simpering smile back at him.   

“You’re a little squirt, anyone ever tell you that?”  

You rolled your eyes.  

“You, literally all the time, because you are for some reason desperate to sound like the oldest grandpa in the room.”  

He let out a growling sort of cry, dramatic because he’d also had too much to drink. Then he stood.  

“BYE, Sixteen !”  

If someone didn’t know the two of you, it would seem as if nothing had changed in the time since you met: both antagonistic, unlikable, as hard as you could make yourselves, forced together and barely tolerating it.   

Those who did know you, however, knew that things were very different now. Minho had, reluctantly, taken responsibility for you and, when you had grown up just enough to realise what that had meant, you felt all your hard resolve melt.   

They had very little, this ragtag bunch of kids (barely older than you) but they shared everything between them. Never quite enough to go around, money from legitimate enterprises never stretching far enough and having to be supported by money from less than legitimate means. You were a liability. In every sense. The only girl, a stranger, certainly not (at that time) a criminal. But Minho took responsibility and the others let you in.   

When you had learnt to see past your own nose, you saw the myriad ways in which they took care of each other. The silent, invisible way Minho cared for his friends. For you. You hadn’t forgotten the sting of electricity you’d felt when he held your hand way back when. Before you’d even seen him, before you knew his name, before any of this. You felt it all the time now. You were a live wire for him.   

No one in the group was stupid enough to refer to you as siblings or even joke that you acted like them. Your feelings for Minho were your most closely guarded secret but that didn’t mean everyone didn’t know. You were pretty sure even Minho himself knew. Not that he would ever act on it. He pretended not to notice, you thought. You had pushed close to the edge of being kicked out enough times to know that some things were still precarious. To know that he would never risk his weird family by acknowledging there was anything more than friendship between you. If it even was between you. He had given you very little reason to believe your feelings were reciprocated. So you did your best to ignore them.   

They became a fact of life. Like the fact that Minho was the only one Chan trusted to count the cash (not because the others weren’t trustworthy; they just weren’t accurate). Like the fact that Chan had the final say on everything. Like the fact that he would never abuse that authority and act for anything other than the wellbeing of the entire group. It just was.   

And it wasn’t like you were stupid enough to pine. You had some pride. Plenty, in fact.   

You stood from the booth and sauntered to the bar where your sometime-boyfriend, Johnny, was getting another drink.   

“Babe,” you whined, draping yourself over his back, hooking your chin over his shoulder.   

“Babe,” he whined back, copying, mocking.   

“Entertain me, I’m bored.”  

“It’s your party.”   

You pouted and forced him to join you on the makeshift dancefloor. You refused to notice that Minho left it as soon as you joined, his face dropping, looking only at Johnny and never once pleased about it.   

*  

Chan had cut off the booze supply hours ago and the sun was thinking about raising its head above the horizon, which meant that, far from being wasted and happy and giddy and passing out in your bed, your hangover was already crawling in and you were tired and irritable. Johnny had pissed you off sometime before the booze dried up and then pissed off entirely before you’d begun to sober up, so you’d spent the smallest hours of the morning making your bad mood everyone else’s problem.   

Everyone except Minho. Because whilst you were always determined, at these moments, to needle him, to want to get under his skin, to want to scrape it back and spit on it, he was never there. He managed to avoid your venom and, even when he didn’t, seemed immune. He would just slow-blink at you as if he were looking through you and turn away. It boiled your blood and he knew it.   

You stomped downstairs to the same shithole basement you’d walked into two years ago. Everyone else had either left or gone to bed already, you thought. You expected it to be empty. It wasn’t.  

“Fuck sake, Mouse,” you spat, using your usual nickname, his preferred one (… preferred being too strong a term; it was the one he allowed you to use without retaliation). “Why are you sitting on your own like a fucking loser?”  

“You know he treats you like a fucking loser?”  

He turned to lean over the back of the sofa, looking tired under his eyes but energetic within them.   

“Fuck off,” you returned. “As if you give a shit who I date.”  

“Date? That’s what you call it?” He scoffed, deliberately, exaggeratedly, as if you wouldn’t otherwise have recognised his scorn. “He treats you like dirt.”  

“You would know.”   

He was on his feet and in front of you before you could blink.   

“The fuck is that supposed to mean?”   

You’d had about enough of it, you decided at that moment. Not enough sleep, too much alcohol, and just enough of this bullshit. You grabbed the front of his T-shirt and pulled him with force towards you. You took him by the back of the neck and kissed him, hard and like you meant it. Because you did. It only took him a second to push you back, hands firm on your shoulders, holding you away from him. His face had lost his usual mask – the blank, passive, flat-eyed one that he used to stare people out with unnatural stillness – but he was still keeping you out; it was guarded, flashes in his eyes being stamped out with every blink, his jaw held tight and his mouth shut.   

“ That’s what I fucking mean, Minho ,” you hissed.   

“How dare you?” he hissed back, voice so low in his throat you almost couldn’t hear it. “You have no fucking idea.”   

His blinks weren’t quick enough this time to hide all the anger burning in his eyes.   

“No idea of what? What ?!”  

His lip curled and he let you go. He let his guard down around you more than he should have: shrugged you off and turned his back on you. You took both palms and pushed him. He tumbled forward, catching his foot on a side table, pulling it down with him as he hit the floor. Cat-like in his reflexes, he was on his feet before the table had stopped rocking. He charged straight at you and continued until you were pressed up against the door, until he was pressed up against you.   

“You want a kiss?” he asked and every part of you should have been screaming yes, because you did.   

You did want a kiss, but nothing about this was how you wanted it. It was a threat, not an offer. You’d been threatened with worse. You jutted your chin out a little, always standing up, never backing down.  

“You going to give me one?”  

His eyes flicked towards your lips, hovered there a second, like he was really thinking about it. They stayed there a little longer and doubt was picking up speed on its race to your consciousness. You thought he wouldn’t. You thought he would. You still couldn’t predict his behaviour. You thought you had him pinned and then he flipped you. You always thought you had him on the ropes, but you never really did.   

You were impatient, tiring of this, doubt and insecurity and embarrassment swelling up inside you and you opened your mouth to tell him to go away, to fuck off and die, to do something vile to himself. It was at that moment that his eyes met yours again, for a split second that sent a streak of ice through your blood, and then his mouth was on yours.   

You had never once looked a gift horse in the mouth, but even if you had wanted to, even if you had decided before he did it that you would push him off, return his rejection, you couldn’t possibly have done it now. His lips were soft, his hands still tight around your arms. He crowded you further against the door, your bodies pressing together as he swiped his tongue against your bottom lip, asking for entry. You gave it to him. Your hands snaked up his chest and into his hair; it was softer than you’d expected, silky. For a moment, you were disarmed by it. Soft. He never let his softness show if he could help it. Only rarely. Only when he felt safe enough to let his guard down did it ever come creeping out from its hiding place. But here it was, sprouting from the top of his head. Here it was, pressed against your lips, brushing your tongue. You felt weak at the knees.  

As far as kisses go, it was the best you’d had. Fire and ice fighting: goosebumps erupting on your skin as it flushed hot, making you shiver. His mouth was warm and wet and sweet and you were desperate for more, knowing that he was kissing you just right and that you weren’t doing the same. You were too eager, too greedy, too needy. This wouldn’t be enough. Couldn’t be enough. Just his lips on yours, his tongue rolling with yours, his hands still pinning your sides. You couldn’t stop here. You had to have him. All.   

You whined when he pulled back, when his grip on you loosened, and you opened your eyes expecting his to be soft and liquid, to be those sweet, round boba eyes he didn’t show enough of.   

They were hard and flat. He moved away from you in one, long step and back was that impassive blankness he loved so much.  

“Happy fucking birthday,” he said.  

He stalked off to his bedroom and shut the door.   

You stayed, glued to the front door, shaking. With anger, probably. With embarrassment, maybe. With something akin to heartbreak, but you would never admit it. The roaring in your ears, the screaming of invective at both yourself and Minho in your head so loud that you didn’t hear the sound of a key in the lock, weren’t aware that someone was trying to get in until they were shoving at the door, pushing you with it.  

“What the fuck?” came a quiet whine from the other side of it as he slowly pushed you away and got the door open. “Why were you trying to keep me out?”  

Jisung’s hamster cheeks were full of kimbap, the other half of the roll still in his hand, and his eyes were wide with that cute, pitiful look he carried off so perfectly.  

You ignored him. You stomped into your bedroom and slammed the door as hard as you could.  

THIRD  

Despite having your own bedroom (graciously offered up by Changbin and very ungraciously accepted by you), privacy in the small basement flat was an issue. Which is why you were huddled in the farthest corner of it, fists stuffed in your mouth, crying as quietly as you could in the dead of night.   

You lived with five men, but you had not yet found someone to date who would take the threat of them seriously. They did make threats, on occasion, when they had to. Because you had not yet found a man who could treat you as anything more than shit but you had, apparently, found the least bothered and most unfazed men in the city. The one before last had barely flinched when all five of them had battered down his door to come for you, when you had finally managed to get a message out that he was keeping you there.   

You never found out what happened to him. You didn’t ask and no one told you.   

This one hadn’t been that bad. That was the problem. You had thought he was nice. You had thought (as you had so many times before) that he might actually be the first to treat you right.   

You were wrong. So, you were crying in the corner of your room. You didn’t always cry. In fact, you didn’t often cry. Rarely, even. It meant that, when you did, the floodgates opened and you found it hard to stop. You found it almost impossible to breathe, desperately snatching air between sobs. Your head was already pounding, your face aching. It was total and complete the way it overtook you. So much so that you didn’t notice the presence of another person until they sat down beside you.  

You gasped, as much as you could amongst your shaking, shallow breaths, and were only slightly comforted that it was him . He said nothing. He pulled you towards him and held you like that until the storm had passed.  

You continued to sit in silence as your tears dried on your face, as your heartrate settled and your breathing became even. He didn’t make a move to let you go and you didn’t make one either. You were tired. You were sad. You were, though you wouldn’t admit it, a little bit heartbroken. This bit of comfort was exactly what you wanted.   

You didn’t want him to say anything. You didn’t want to hear it. That you’d done it again. That you’d never learn. That, somehow, you were gullible and easy to fool despite the fact that you had been hardening yourself against vulnerability of every kind since you were a child. That men just found a way to get beyond your defences—that bad men found a way. The good ones didn’t find you at all.   

“His loss,” was what he said.  

You lifted your head, tears still clinging to your lashes, drying on your cheeks. He had that look on his face that he saved for you: the soft, sweet one he gave you when you’d earnt it or when you needed it. The one that made your insides curdle, that even now made your heart skip a beat, that you wanted to fall into forever, that had sealed your fate so many years ago now. He blinked slowly at you, cat-like as always, and brushed your hair from your face.   

You opened your mouth to speak but nothing came. Your voice was trapped in your throat because he was still looking at you like that but his eyes kept flicking down, then back up, then down again at longer and longer intervals until he closed them completely and brought his lips to yours.   

You didn’t have to think twice. Didn’t have to think at all. Your body did the thinking for you. Your hands pushed into his hair and your legs pushed you up so you could slot them down either side of his hips. His hands found your waist and then the soft skin on the other side of your t-shirt.  

This was nothing like the first time. You remembered it all too well: the electricity, the anger, the volcano of feelings you’d tried to suppress rumbling and threatening to erupt, to blow the lid off the equilibrium you’d found. The hunger, the desperation, your own neediness spoiling it all.   

You weren’t desperate anymore, for his approval, for his love, for whatever he would give you. You wanted it all, would lay yourself on the floor and kiss his feet if he asked, with no hesitation, but you always knew he wouldn’t ask. You’d got used to that.   

Except now he was kissing you – he had kissed you – and his hands were squeezing at your waist and it was slow. Controlled. Deliberate. There was nothing accidental about the way his tongue rolled over yours, the way his teeth bit at your bottom lip, the way his hands pulled you lower on his lap, pulled you closer to him until there wasn’t so much as a breath of air between you.   

“Mouse,” you murmured, quietly into his mouth.  

He shook his head minutely, a tiny hum swallowed by you when he pressed your lips together again. No talking. Fine. You didn’t need to talk. If he kept kissing you, kept touching you, you wouldn’t need to utter another word again. But you couldn’t stop the little gasp when he sank his teeth into the sensitive skin of your neck, the moan rising in your throat when he ran his tongue over the same spot, hurting then soothing. Like always.  

It made your brain turn fuzzy, static wavering in your mind, as all your conscious thoughts turned to liquid, melting into Minho’s mouth, swallowed down by him, eaten whole.   

Then the front door slammed hard.  

“Guys!” Chan shouted, in a way that he never did.   

You heard him pounding on doors, opening them, starting with Changbin and Hyunjin’s on the right.   

You sprang apart like two north magnets, instinctively repelled by one another, just in time for Chan to burst through the door and scan the room for you, too wired, too stressed to register that it might have been weird for you to be sitting on the floor like you were, certainly not noticing your kiss-bitten lips or heavy breathing or the way Minho’s hair was ruffled like it had just had a fist in it.   

“We’ve got to go,” Chan announced. “Like, right fucking now.”  

FOURTH  

No one wanted to up the ante. No one wanted to start getting involved with the organised crime lot. Your crime was… disorganised. It was local. It was just you doing the things you needed to, skirting around the law to survive. It wasn’t really crime, not if you squinted hard enough. Then the police raided the bar (which was illegal in pretty much every way that mattered) and you had nowhere left to go.   

There was just enough of the trust your parents left you (which you got access to at 21) to secure a new apartment (one that was not underground) and a small buy-in with a group of much larger, older, more experienced criminals. There was very little else you could’ve done at that point. Or so you all told yourselves.   

The apartment was an upgrade in every way but size. It was newer and above-ground which meant it stayed warm and didn’t get damp. It had windows which let the sun in. It had enough room for two sofas so everyone could sit comfortably. It had a gas hob which really only Chan and Minho cared about, but they cared a lot. It had two bathrooms with reliably hot water and good pressure. It did not get power cuts. It did not always smell musty. It was not brown and beige and grey. But it did have fewer rooms to be parcelled out between you all.   

The last one had four rooms that served as bedrooms. This had three. Between six. There had been furious arguments and endless straw-pulling and no one was happy with the results. It took a few weeks but eventually things shook out as they always should have.   

You shared with Minho because he was the only one who was willing. You both had reputations for being scary (in totally opposite ways: you the raging bull to his still, fathomless water); you loved to take your bad moods out on one another; he was the only one you ever willingly let see you when you were sad and small and vulnerable. Besides which, no one else would dare try to take the space at your side from him. So you shared a bedroom: two twin beds on opposite sides of the room, because Minho refused to sleep in a bunk bed and you refused to sleep together in a double. There was little room for anything else.   

You complained about the sleeping arrangements almost daily. You loved the hot water and the sunlight and the not-mouldiness of the apartment, but some days, you couldn’t bear the way you couldn’t get away from Minho.   

You’d thought you had it bad. This was even worse.  

Four days. Four days, so far, staying ( squatting ) in a vile, empty, dilapidated villa apartment, staring out of a window, waiting for something to happen. Just you and Minho and one room. For four days and counting.   

It was Minho’s turn to watch and he sat at the monitor, diligent, hard-working, as always, whilst you were supposed to be catching up on sleep. Instead, you were lying on what passed for a bed, tossing an apple into the air and catching it, over and over and-  

“You going to stop that?” Minho asked, with his trademark tone: both light and threatening.   

“Nope!”  

“Want me to make you?”  

You flicked your eyes over to him: he was studying the monitor seriously, but you were sure he had been looking at you.   

You hadn’t spoken about that night. Partly because you hadn’t had the time. You’d jumped up from the floor of your bedroom, grabbed as much stuff as you could fit in the first bag you could find and the six of you had legged it, making it out just in time to watch the police cars roll up and trash the place.   

“There was so much fucking money in that safe,” Chan had said, plaintively, staring at the sky. That was when you’d offered up yours. 

*

You had had to find somewhere to live, and fast. You’d all had to find jobs, something to do, some way to make money that wasn’t connected to the bar. You had been passing like ships in the night, meeting only to argue about shower time and sleeping arrangements. Then Changbin had come home with a suggestion. You’d argued about that, too, but in the end, it was unanimous. Go in with the bigger boys or – well, there was no ‘or’. That was the point.  

So you and Minho were working recon. You’d pulled the short straw in more ways than one. It was the longest you had spent together. Ever. Confined for days in this space.  

On the first day, he refused to talk to you at all.   

On the second, you made everything into an argument because at least you could get a rise out of him.   

On the third, he had seemed to thaw. Something had softened and you talked, like friends, like you used to. You laughed and joked and it wasn’t so bad.  

Now it was the fourth day and that ice had returned. He had frozen over, doubled-down on silence. No sooner had you had warmed up than he was giving you frostbite, chilblains. Whiplash. Those ten words were the first he’d spoken to you all day.   

“No,” you answered. “I don’t want you to make me.”   

You paused, wondering if the words you were considering were a sign that you were going mad, that being cooped up in this space had sent you a little doolally. The unbearable nothingness of your days passing like sludge forcing all those hidden thoughts forward, with nothing to distract you from them. The words were certainly risky, but Minho had shown his hand. He had kissed you. Like he meant it. And you knew he would’ve continued to kiss you had Chan not interrupted. He’d have continued to do a whole lot more than just kiss you.  

And you were bored.   

“I want you to fuck me,” you said plainly, catching the apple in front of your face and turning to look at him.   

He was still studying the monitor. Nothing on his face gave anything away: surprise, disgust, lust, laughter. Nothing. You were used to that.  

“We’re on a job.”   

“Yeah, and it’s boring and nothing is happening and who fucking cares? I would rather have sex.”  

He sighed and rolled his head to look at you.  

“Really, Sixteen? Now is the time you want to bring this up?”  

“Stop calling me Sixteen.”  

“I always call you Sixteen.”  

“You always call me Sixteen when you want to put me in my place or make me feel like a child. I’m not a fucking child anymore.”  

“I know you aren’t.”  

“Then why won’t you fuck me?”  

He laughed and your blood began to simmer.   

“There’s more that I look for than just ‘is not a child’.”  

“Don’t try to act like you don’t want to.”  

“I didn’t say I didn’t want to.”  

“Well then, shall we?”  

He smirked and the glint in his eye was new to you.   

“We’re on a job.”  

“Stop saying that!” you cried, stalking the three steps from your side of the room to his.   

You manoeuvred yourself into his lap, blocking the monitor from his view, and took his face in your hands.  

“We’re on a job and nothing is happening and nothing will continue to happen for ages yet, so why don’t we make it a little less fucking boring?”  

You knew he wanted to. Could see his pupils dilate. Watched his eyes flick to your lips and your chest and back up. This might have been all he wanted: sex and nothing more. You didn’t know. Weren’t interested in having that conversation. Were convinced that it didn’t matter either way. If he only wanted sex, you would give it. Give it until it was too late and he was in too deep to come back out. Hadn’t worked before but there was a first time for everything.  

But even that was beside the point. You were desperately bored and bored of being desperate for him and there was one stone that would kill both those birds.   

“Mouse,” you said quietly, keeping your voice low, as you placed a kiss on his jaw, as you spread your knees a little wider, sinking lower into his lap. “Come on.”  

His hands were on your thighs, neither encouraging nor discouraging, just holding tight. He didn’t respond as you continued to press kisses to his face, to his neck, grinding your hips over him slowly. You could feel his pulse beat fast, noticed the way his breathing was getting heavier, his fingers dipping deeper into your skin, until it hurt. Until he stopped pretending he was going to continue to work, stopped pretending that he could resist you.   

“Fuck,” he gasped, his voice hoarse.  

He gripped the hair at the back of your head and pulled you from his neck, tumbling you both to the floor. You didn’t want it to be fast, but you’d take it any way he’d give it. So when his hands pulled at your t-shirt, you let him take it off as you unclasped your bra. He didn’t give you time to fumble with the hem of his top, to discard it for him; he dipped his head straight down, swirling your nipple with his tongue, sucking it into his mouth; he rested his weight on one elbow and his other hand descended. You were grateful you had no buttons, no zips to contend with, just the loose, elasticated band of a pair of leggings that had seen better days. Minho’s fingers slipped beneath it and he circled his fingers around your clit, the fabric of your underwear dulling the sensation only slightly.   

This was moving even faster than you’d expected but you’d been waiting so long already. Blood rushed to the surface of your skin and your breath began to shudder. Underwear now pushed to the side, you gasped when Minho ran a finger through your folds, shivered when he moaned at what he found there. He brought his lips back to yours but you turned away to let his name drop from your open mouth.  

“Mouse...”  

“Shut up,” he said firmly as he sank two fingers into your slick cunt and stole your breath with another kiss.   

You couldn’t talk but you could moan. Could whine. Could whimper as his fingers moved inside you, as he ground his palm against your clit, as he made your thighs twitch and walls spasm. You tried not to lose your mind completely, to stay grounded, to stay present now that this was finally, really, actually happening. You reached your own hands down to Minho’s trousers; he hadn’t got the no-buttons, no-zips memo and your fingers fumbled with both. They shook with adrenalin as you popped the button through the hole and dragged the metal zip down. You pushed them away from you, off his hips, and had one hand in his boxers when the crackle of the walkie-talkie cut through Minho’s moan.  

You both froze.   

“Minho? What’s happening? Chan said they’re on the move?”  

You glanced at each other, for one more frozen second, and then the world lurched into overdrive. Minho clambered to the monitor with his trousers around his ankles and, as soon as he saw the screen, started swearing viciously, tugging at his clothes and throwing your t-shirt back at you.   

“What’s happening?” you asked, breathless for all the wrong reasons now.   

“They’re clearing out,” Minho reported into the walkie-talkie, ignoring you but answering your question anyway. “Two loads have left, a third on its way.”  

“Shit! How did you miss it? What the fuck were you doing?”   

“Nothing! We lost the feed for a minute but it came back quickly and then they were already moving.”  

He shot you a glance, something between panicked plea and angry admonishment. It wasn’t often he was caught on the hop, wasn’t ever. You, however, were used to being on the wrong side of things, so you re-dressed quickly and had already started packing your shit up. No matter how sideways this went, you could take two positives from it. One, you wouldn’t have to stay locked up here with Minho any longer. Two, he definitely, definitely wanted to fuck you.  

FIFTH  

You still hadn’t talked about it. You continued to share a bedroom, sleep there every night, wake there every morning but you had not once discussed the twice now that you had almost had sex. You were waiting for him to bring it up, even though you knew he never would. He wasn’t a coward, not ever, but if there was one word to describe him it was loyal and you knew he would protect your group with his life. And that also meant not pursuing whatever it was that was between you. Because it was a risk. It could jeopardise the stability of what you had established—what Chan had established long before you ever came into the picture.   

But you were digging your heels in this time. You’d already come on too strong. Your pride was being wounded with each day that passed, with each day that he continued to pass you up. You’d crack first. You knew you would. You always did. Minho was unbreakable. You weren’t. But you wanted to pretend, for at least a little while, that you could be. That you could be impenetrable, too.   

*  

“Shit shit shit shit shit,” Junho repeated as he slammed into the car, instructing Minho to drive before the door was even shut.   

Minho didn’t need telling twice.   

“Where to?”  

“Safe house,” he gasped, ragged breathing setting your teeth on edge.  

You didn’t ask what had happened. What had gone wrong. That didn’t matter as much as getting out. Getting Junho out. You were disposable, still. You knew that. Even Minho. You were runts; you also still had something to make up for given what happened on your last assignment. So you travelled in silence. Junho in the back, breathing heavily; you didn’t turn around to see if he was ok. You didn’t want to know. You assumed he wasn’t but as long as you could hear him breathing, you knew he was alive.   

Minho was facing forward, eyes scanning the roads ahead, reflexes allowing him to run red lights without accident – in this part of the city, no one would stop a flashy car like this for speeding, for driving recklessly. That was what they all did. His jaw was tense, eyes tight. He looked calm but you could see his little legs kicking under the water. You knew him well enough by now.   

You didn’t keep your eyes on the road. You kept them on him. Felt like someone needed to be watching out for him, too – not that there was anything you could have done to be helpful anyway. There were always two in the getaway car. That was the rule and you didn’t ask why because you didn’t want to know the answer.   

As a teen, you had thought you knew everything. You were old enough now to know not only that you knew nothing but also that you preferred it that way. Need to know basis. For everything. All the time.   

Minho slowed, driving more carefully as the car left the city, winding across hills, negotiating turns that you’d have driven straight over, plummeting you all to a miserable death. He turned the headlights off at the mile marker he’d been told about, one that you’d already forgotten, and crawled, slower still, up to the house, blanketed in darkness, hidden by an overgrown and untended garden.   

Junho grunted.  

“Thanks. Wait until I give the signal then get the fuck out of here. Do not go anywhere you’ve ever met with us. Ditch the car when you can; destroy the plates.”  

He didn’t wait for a response. You watched him stagger away and then waited until the light in the top right room flicked on and off and on and off again.   

Minho put the car in reverse and slowly backed out. At a further mile marker, he turned the lights on. He continued to climb, driving away from the city still, until the car reached the top of the hill. The lights from the city were so bright you almost didn’t need the headlights at all. It didn’t feel a safe place to stop. Too visible.   

Then Minho slowly and quietly backed the car into nook on the hillside. No doubt worn away from years of cars trying to pass each other on the narrow road, it barely contained the car, but it put it in some shadow and no one would hit you.   

He turned the engine off and let his hands fall to his lap. His head tipped back against the headrest and he sighed.   

“You ok?”  

You asked him all the time and he never gave a serious answer because he always was. And if he wasn’t, he certainly wasn’t going to talk about it. But you asked all the same.   

He nodded then turned to you.  

“You?”  

You laughed nervously, suddenly feeling the last twenty minutes as the adrenalin began to drain.  

“Kind of feel like I could hurl.”  

He laughed too and nodded again.   

“I feel like I want to sleep for a thousand years but also like I could run a marathon,” you continued.   

“I feel half-dead already but also fucking invincible.”  

He held his hand out and it trembled. You clasped it between yours and held it tight. He smiled; from where you were sitting, it looked like a smirk, but then he turned more fully towards you and it wasn’t. It was sweet. His eyes were gleaming. Your mouth dried.   

“Half-dead, huh?” And you knew you were going to say it. You always knew you would be the one with which it would raise its head. “How about a little dead? A little death , even?”  

“Sixteen…”  

His voice had that warning tone to it but the gleam in his eyes remained and you’d broken the seal now. Were going to push this as far as he’d let you.   

“Mouse…”  

You saw him waver. Absolutely, definitely, were certain that he was considering it. Until a car came over the crest of the hill and its headlights flashed in at you; at the same moment, Minho’s phone buzzed from the cup holder it had been thrown in. You jumped. He jumped. Whatever moment there had been was gone now.   

Minho took his hand from your grasp and checked his phone. Then he put the car in gear.   

“We’ve got to get out of here.”  

*  

You expected it to be quick. Expected it to be simple. It turned out to be neither. You had managed to destroy the plates and were very near clear of the car you’d now abandoned when you, once again, found trouble (‘why did it always have to be you?’ you had asked yourself fleetingly as Minho shoved you towards your own piece of shit car that had been waiting for your getaway; he had not waited for you to be fully seated or your door to be closed before he slammed a foot on the accelerator and squealed off). The two of you were screaming around corners, tearing out of the city in whichever direction provided the easiest escape. With the headlights off and the city lights streaming into the distance, you could barely see the road in front of you, had no idea how Minho was still driving straight. You trusted him with your life and it was just as well, because it was in his hands. His, yours, and potentially everyone else’s, too.  

The summer sun was minutes away from popping its head above the horizon when you were finally able to return home.  

You sat in silence for a few moments. You had moved beyond exhaustion into this kind of frayed, wired alertness. You felt your eyelids dropping even as your heart still hammered. Minho’s hand found yours.   

“Mouse,” you said, letting the rest of it fall away unspoken.   

“Yeah,” he replied but you didn’t know if that was his answer . “Just give me a minute.”  

You were too tired to argue so you let silence fall again. You were almost dropping off, head just beginning to nod, when he tugged on your hand.   

“Come here.”   

You turned. You leant. His other hand cupped the back of your head and pulled you closer. He kissed you. Electricity crackled and a surge of energy rushed through you. It was happening again. He was kissing you. You couldn’t let this time pass by.   

You scrambled in your chair, forgetting to undo your seatbelt, being pulled back by it and swearing coarsely when your lips broke from his. You clambered over the gearstick and the handbrake and fell with one foot heavily in the footwell as Minho slid his seat all the way back. You didn’t have time to care about the jarring in your knee or the bump on your head as it hit the roof. Could barely feel it. Didn’t matter.   

Well, it didn’t matter until it did. Until there wasn’t really room enough for you to straddle him. Until you were pressing yourself up against the roof so there would be room for him to get his hands to his belt. Until you lost your balance and fell backwards, landing with bump on the steering wheel, which blared out into the dark dawn street.   

“Fucking hell,” Minho muttered. “Get in the back.”  

More willingly than you ever had, you did as you were told. He moved his seat forward again, all the way, and you watched him climb through to you, hands reaching for him. It was no less awkward. Not enough room to lie down. Still not enough height to sit. Not space enough between the back and front to kneel. It was messy and uncoordinated, grabbing for anything, taking what you could get, knocking into the window and falling off the seat, kicking and elbowing each other in a tangle.   

“Jesus fucking Christ!” Minho roared, in an uncharacteristic display of frustration. “No use. Not happening.”  

He sat back and sighed, trousers undone but still around his hips. He pushed his hands through his hair and you tried to settle demurely next to him, smoothing your own hair, zipping up your jeans, swallowing hard as you fought to accept that he was right. It was not happening. Not here. Not now.   

You stared through the car window and were sure you could’ve punched straight through it. You wanted to. It was the window, Minho, or yourself. Couldn’t effectively punch yourself. Knew you wouldn’t dare hit your mouse. Your fingernails pressed sharply into your palm as you squeezed your fists tightly.   

A hand covered yours. Gentle. You looked at Minho and there he was: your secret, soft guy. You unfurled your fingers and he linked them with his own.  

“Come on,” he said quietly. “Let’s just go home.”  

FIRST  

You tramped into the apartment, bringing your bad mood with you. Everyone was sick of it by now – you were sick of it, but you couldn’t shake it.   

Minho was avoiding you. That much was clear. He had been avoiding you since you tried and failed to fuck in the car. You didn’t know why because you didn’t care. You had reached the end of your tether with the universe. Three times now. But still no cigar. You wondered – asked yourself a hundred times a day – what it was going to take to make this happen.   

Frustrated didn’t even begin to cover it. You could go out and hook up with whoever you liked. You could get yourself off just fine. But it ran so much deeper than that. If you pulled at the thread, it tugged on your heartstrings, all tangled up in knots. It hurt. It pulled at something so deeply interwoven with your very being; all anyone had to do was follow it to its source and they could destroy you. All anyone had to do was cut it and they’d cut you, too.   

You didn’t like that. Hated it, in fact. Hated that all this tugging and wiggling had opened up a hole and you could feel your vulnerability exposed. You could feel weakness leaking out of you, seeping from your pores, visible to the naked eye, for anyone to see.   

It made you bitter. Made you angry. Made you lash out even when you shouldn’t have. Because you were always on the defensive. Even now. Especially now.  

You knew the others were talking about you. About Minho. About the two of you. Knew it from the awkward silences when you walked in a room and the furtive glances and the group chat that had grown curiously quiet, leaving you to assume that there was a separate one you weren’t a part of.   

You were beginning to lose your patience and you were not starting with a plentiful supply.   

You lay on your bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to calm your rage. You had woken with it, just like every other day this week, and it would not leave you. You breathed slowly and carefully and tried to think of difficult and boring things.   

You thought only of Minho.   

Then he opened the door. He hesitated – you could feel him standing there, assessing – and then shut it, leaving you alone. As the door clicked, you felt that tug. You felt the knots tighten, so impossibly tight now that the joins weren’t even visible. You jumped up and threw yourself through the door.  

“Stop fucking ignoring me!”  

You hadn’t meant to shout.   

Minho turned and looked at you. His stillness enraged you further. He didn’t say anything.  

“Are you going to fucking say anything?!”  

“What do you want me to say?”  

“ANYTHING! You haven’t spoken to me for weeks! You literally walk out of rooms if I’m in them! What the fuck is wrong with you?”   

“You think this is easy?”   

His voice was cold and sharp as steel. His head cocked lightly to the side and his eyes narrowed, peering at you, looking inside you.   

“You think I want it to be like this?-”  

“I don’t know what you fucking want!”  

His nostrils flared. This delighted you. He was annoyed and you loved it.  

“Not once,” you continued, still shouting because you couldn’t rein it in, “have you ever fucking told me. Not once have you ever actually said what you want! That you want me. Do you? Fucking do you? Because I don’t fucking know anymore! Every time we get close, you get further away from me! I’m not a fucking yo-yo, Minho. You can’t play with me-”  

“Play with you? You think I’m playing? What part of this is a game?”

His voice was rising now, too, his perfectly blank mask slipping.  

“It’s never been a game, Sixteen! Not once in the entire time since we met has it been a game! How are you still not getting it? Junho almost fucking died and if he had, it would have been our fault! We all almost ended up in prison because of the fucking bar. The night we met you almost got yourself trafficked! It’s not a game! You act like life is so fucking simple! It’s not!”  

“IT IS! It can be that fucking simple! Stop overthinking! Stop taking everything so fucking seriously!-”  

“It is serious! That’s what you don’t get!”  

He was close now, had been inching closer and closer, and he was looking down at you, his eyes black as pitch, his jaw tight, his breath struggling through clenched teeth.   

“You don’t get it and you never have.”   

His voice was quiet, back to that steel that sent a chill down your spine.   

“Everywhere you go, I look out for you. Everywhere you are, I am responsible for you. It’s been nine fucking years, Sixteen, and you are everywhere I go.”  

Your vision tunnelled, stomach fell to your feet. You had to look away and hated yourself for it. You never flinched. You never backed down. You were never the first to retreat. Except for him. You couldn’t bear to look in his eyes, to see what loathing and disdain they held for you. Your embarrassment was on your cheeks already and pricking in your eyes.   

Then his nose nudged yours and he took more steps forward. He pushed you slowly against the wall and you cursed yourself for retreating to it.  

“You are in my life and in my bedroom and in my fucking head,” he whispered. “All the time. All the fucking time. And I haven’t been able to do shit about it because you are my job . You are mine to protect. Everyone knows it. Everyone knows I would burn this place to the ground for you. I would scorch the earth. I would drain the sea. For you . Don’t you get it? When it comes to you, I’m a fucking liability.”   

You risked it. A glance. Lifted your eyes for less than a second but you had to do it again. Had to stop there, be sure you were really seeing what you thought you were.   

Soft, round, liquid eyes. An openness in his face that he hadn’t let you into before. His mouth was still a grim line, turned down at the corners so slightly, had it been anyone but you, it would have gone unnoticed.   

“Mouse...”   

You tried to whisper but could barely manage that, his name creeping out on a hoarse gasp.   

He moved his face closer to yours, lips almost touching.   

“Don’t you get it?” he repeated.   

You got it. Because everything he said was true for you, too. You’d started out as a liability, for sure, but you had continued to be one because Minho was your north star. Not Chan. Not the group. Not whatever sense of purpose you might have derived from the life you had cobbled together. If he said jump, you wouldn’t ask a thing. You would jump. You’d been following him since day one and, then, it might have been desperation, a lack of options. Now... well, there was still desperation: a desperate need for him, a desperate desire to be wanted by him, kissed by him, touched by him. You had other options. Options you would never take, not as long as he existed. You would stop existing before you ever thought of leaving him.   

You nodded, feeling more like a foolish, vulnerable 16-year-old than you had when you were foolish and vulnerable and 16.   

He sighed, breath sweet with the pudding he could never resist, and you were closing your eyes, tilting your chin up, expecting him to give in.   

He turned away. You watched him, mouth agape in disbelief, as he pushed his hands through his hair.   

“FOR FUCK’S SAKE!” you screamed, bringing your hands down on his back in something that was half-shove, half-slap.   

He had whipped around before you could lower your arms and you found your wrists caught in his hands.   

“You don’t fucking stop, do you?” he hissed.   

“Why would I stop?! I don’t want to stop, Minho! And nor do you! You can’t say you don’t! Because I KNOW. I KNOW you want it. I know you want me. And I’m fucking throwing myself at you. Take me! TAKE ME!”  

His eyes were hard and dark. His fingers pushed so tightly into your wrists that you could feel your pulse against them. He was breathing heavily, nostrils flaring but lips shut tight, pressed together in a thin line.   

“Take. Me,” you repeated, level and firm, not sure if he would, but sure that, if he didn’t, things would never be the same again.   

You couldn’t do this a fourth time. Couldn’t put yourself in his hands, have him take you, and then... Not. And then stop. And then act as if you didn’t exist. That thread between you, tied up in your heartstrings, was taut, stretched, at its limit. And so were you.  

The pause was painful. Excruciatingly long. Adrenalin coursed through you, making you hot, making you shake, making your heart beat so hard against your ribs you thought they might break. Thought your heart might break. Hadn’t been willing to admit how fragile it was but it felt like venetian glass now. You could already feel the cracks forming, the web extending, the shards-  

He kissed you. Pulled you roughly towards him by your wrists and kissed you. Put his hands on your hips, then slid them under your top, and still kissed you. He was kissing you. It took a few seconds to slip back into your body, to feel it, the soft petal of his lips against yours, the sharp bite of his teeth, the wet warmth of his tongue. You forgot your shattering heart and grabbed his T-shirt, using it to pull him closer, to drag him into your shared bedroom.  

Not that he needed dragging. You stumbled over each other’s feet as you tried to kiss and walk and grope all at once. You tumbled backwards onto his bed and took the brief separation as an opportunity to lose your top, to unclasp your bra. Your hands were in the waistband of your joggers when Minho climbed over you, topless now too, breathless as he mirrored your actions, pushing his trousers and his boxers over his hips. He huffed a frustrated sigh as you giggled, as he stood back up to take them all the way off, to kick them off his ankles and take yours away, too.   

He didn’t give you time for admiration, for appraisal. He lay his body over you and his lips pressed against yours, quickly, firmly, before trailing them across your jaw and down your neck. He was every bit as vicious as you thought he would be, teeth nipping at your sensitive skin, sinking into your soft flesh. You wanted him to mark you, wanted the proof of it to last. You scraped your nails down his back and he hissed when you broke the skin. Hissed but didn’t complain. Hissed and moved his mouth lower, swirling his tongue around your nipple, sinking his teeth into that, too.   

When you tugged on his hair, he pulled off, looked at you, his face an open question. You shook your head.  

“It’s fine,” you panted. “I like it. I just want to pull your hair.”  

He laughed and clamped his teeth over your breast again, harder this time, so you keened and your back arched into him. You twisted his roots in your fist and he moaned, eyes flicking up to yours as he kissed across the valley of your chest.   

“Do that again.”  

“Fuck,” you gasped, tipping your head back, doing as he had asked and tugging hard.   

The ache you felt for him had ballooned inside you, taken up all your hollow spaces. There was your flushed skin and your fluttering heart, your rushing blood and your deep, persistent ache for Minho. Nothing more. Nothing less.   

“Mouse,” you whispered, voice tight with desire. “Touch me, please.”

You never asked. You didn’t beg. If you liked a guy, you let them do what they wanted with you, and if you didn’t, you took what you wanted. It was always one-sided.   

But this wasn’t. It was Minho. It was the fathomless depth in his eyes as he lay his mouth all over you. It was the slip of his fingers through your soaked folds as he sucked sweet bruises against your neck. It was the sound of a moan caught in his throat when you wrapped your fingers around his hard, leaking length. It was mutual. It was reciprocated.   

It was burning you up, hotter and sweeter than you’d ever felt before. His fingers sinking into your core made you shudder with delight. The twitch in his cock as you brushed your thumb over his head made your mouth water. The sound of his mumbled sweet nothings pressed against your skin, whispered in your ear, licked straight into your mouth, made you dizzy.   

“So soft,” he said. “So wet... Fuck, you’re so fucking beautiful... I’ve wanted this for so long... Wanted you...”   

He used your name, your real one, the one he didn’t learn (didn’t ask for) for months after you met. You returned the favour, ‘Minho’ tripping from your lips, until he shook his head.  

“Mouse,” he murmured, mouth still pressed against yours. “‘Mouse’ is yours.”   

“Mouse,” you echoed and he nodded before kissing you so that you could say nothing at all.  

*  

You barely spoke, couldn’t catch your breath enough to form the words, couldn’t engage your faculties to find any to say. Minho spoke, though, more than you had ever heard him speak: praise and exclamation and remembrance and, yes, even admonition, but it was all so sweet, syrupy, dripping from his tongue like honey. You’d never heard him speak like this before, never had him melt in your hands or in your mouth, never felt him as easy and pliable as this.   

It wasn’t just his body. It wasn’t just the perfect smoothness of his warm, soft skin. It wasn’t just the stretch, the fullness, he made inside you, the insistent rhythm of his hips thrusting his cock tightly into your slick, waiting warmth. It wasn’t just his wet, sugary mouth, at your lips, at your jaw, at your clavicle. It wasn’t just all these things he was doing to you, all the things you were doing to him.  

It was his open eyes, round and shining and fluttering closed as your walls clenched around him. It was the tenderness in them, the depth he was letting you see, for more than just seconds at a time. It was the gentle tracing of your face with his fingers, even as he fucked into you, even as his teeth drew blood beneath your skin. It was Minho, the entirety of him. Yours. Finally yours. Finally giving in to you, giving himself to you.   

You got it. You had said you did and you had, but now, beneath him in his bed as he loved you, you actually understood the magnitude of it. His feelings for you. Yours for him. Held back behind a dam for so many years and now, the dam had broken. Now came the deluge that would flood the world, could drown everyone in it.   

To hell with them, you thought. To hell with anyone else. You found what you needed almost a decade ago. He found you. You found each other, somehow, by some miracle.   

When the pleasure swelled up in your core, toes curling, back breaking, you cried out with all the breath you had in your lungs, felt tears sting in your eyes, and the following inhale wobbled and shook. Minho paused, pressed his forehead against yours, kissed you lightly, didn’t have to ask the question out loud.   

You nodded and kissed him again, then again, each time hungrier than the last. You didn’t want to stop. Didn’t want to feel anything but this, but him. He moved slower now, though, hips rolling smoothly, lips not leaving yours, even when he spoke, even when he murmured how fucking good you felt, how much better than he’d imagined, how hard he was trying not to come, how he didn’t want this to end.   

You couldn’t take it. Thought you really would cry, thought you would collapse entirely under his weight, under the weight of everything you’d been carrying around, all these feelings: all this love and fear and frustration. He pushed you to the edge again without even trying, your red thread thoroughly tangled, inseparable now, and pulling a greater ecstasy from you than you had ever known.   

He couldn’t hold out either, his final, sharp thrusts filling you with his sticky release. You held him there, as close as he could be. He kissed you, so light it was barely there, his fingers grazing your face as he pushed the hair from your brow.  

“Mouse,” you choked, tears threatening your waterline.   

He kissed you again, that little butterfly kiss; you’d never seen him be this gentle.   

“Sixteen,” he whispered and, for possibly the first time, it didn’t sound like disdain, didn’t come accompanied by a smirk or an eye-roll; it was hushed and secret and just for you.   

As it had always been.   

*  

You lay on his chest, bodies pressed together in the small, single bed, as they would have been even if the bed were bigger.   

“I want some water,” he said, lips against your forehead before he manoeuvred himself out from underneath you. “Want a drink?”  

You nodded and he smiled down at you as he fetched clean underwear and pulled a T-shirt over his head.   

You watched him go, watched him open the door, and then heard the sound of party poppers, whoops, and applause.   

The apartment was empty. Had been empty when you entered your bedroom. In the midst of everything, you had failed to notice the gang return home. They had not failed to notice you and Minho.   

“Fucking finally!”   

“You mean, they finally fucked?”  

Laughter resounded from the living room. Minho turned around, closed the door, and climbed back into bed without a word.  

[jo-speaks]

UNDER CONTROL

OVERVIEW: after quinn's captaincy skills are put to the test, you want nothing more than to help him relax.

WARNINGS: 18+ content, MDNI. bondage play, unprotected sex, p in v, etc.

note: atp, it's tradition for me to write a smut piece after every game.

wc: 2279

The game against Columbus had been a hard watch. 

Being sat on the couch in your and Quinn’s shared apartment was becoming increasingly more and more difficult the more the game carried on. During the first period, you couldn’t help but be a little frustrated at the lack of effort shown on the ice. 

However, your frustrations only grew during the last two periods. Watching Quinn and the rest of his teammates get assaulted every other second fueled your emotions, causing you to lash out at the TV due to the refs who seemed to be blind.

By the time the game had come to an end, resulting in a win for the Canucks, you couldn’t help but feel a bit irritated at everything that had transpired within the hours of the night. You knew Quinn would be happy with the win, but you also knew him well enough that he would be feeling the physical results of it too.

Once you received his text that he would be home in less than ten minutes, having found an alternate route to avoid the Vancouver traffic, your brain scrambled to think of ideas on how to make his night a little bit easier, not only on his body but on his mind.

You started by popping some leftover pizza into the microwave, knowing Quinn would eat anything you put in front of him, not caring what it was. Next, you brought out the fluffy pillows from the closet and laid them out on the couch, lighting some random Yankee candle you had found in there as well. Just as the microwave beeped and you put out one of Quinn’s favorite books on the coffee table, the front lock clicked, indicating he had arrived. 

Fumbling with your hands, you quickly walked over to the kitchen to pull the pizza out of the microwave and bringing it back over to the couch. 

“Hey.” You greeted, walking over to the doorway to kiss him.

He tiredly kissed you back, small droplets of water falling from his hair and onto your forehead, “Hi.”

“Congrats on the win, hot shot.” 

Quinn chuckled, “Thanks. Do you wanna order in or are you cooking?”

You smiled sheepishly, “Um, I actually just heated up some of the leftover pizza from a few days ago. I got too caught up in the game to actually… cook.”

He quickly noticed the embarrassment flood your face and he was quick to put a stop to it. He kissed your cheek, “You watched the game?”

“Always do. I just normally don’t get too into them, you know? But this one was really good”

Quinn let out a sigh before nodding. You could tell he was tired of standing, so you slid his hockey bag off of his shoulder and set it down on the floor. As you guided him over to sit on the couch, you couldn’t help but want to do more to help him relax. 

“Do you need anything? Water? Gatorade?” You questioned the second he sat down on the soft cushions. 

“Could you grab me a gato from the fridge?” 

You nodded, quickly making your way to the fridge and making your way back just as fast that you were surprised you hadn’t slipped, “Anything else?”

Quinn furrowed his eyebrows, “No thanks. Are you okay? You seem really jittery.”

It wasn’t hard to read you, but you were worried about the toll his body had taken during the game that you couldn’t help it. Your lack of a response caused Quinn to start to worry himself, doing the exact opposite of what you wanted to do.

He tugged you down onto the couch gently, allowing you to settle your tense body against his. It was silent as you let out a breath, easing into his touch. As you nestled your face into his chest, he winced, his body pulling back instinctively.

You pulled away quickly, “Did I hurt you? I’m sorry.”

Quinn shook his head, “No it wasn’t you. Just got a bit roughed up tonight.”

You gave him a look, silently asking if you could lift up his shirt to see what exactly he meant by “roughed up.”. He tensed at your gaze, nodding subtly as he allowed your hands to lift up the fabric. It was hard to see the patch of purpled and slightly yellow skin spread across his chest and you couldn’t help but grimace at the sight. 

“If anything my head hurts more than this. I promise it looks worse than it feels.” He lied, not wanting to worry you further. “I got it under control.”

Quinn had always been one to try and shake things off himself, but after tonight he desperately wanted to distract himself from not only the pain but also to forget about how the night had started.

The first period had been rough, especially for him. It was a low-effort skate from everyone and that’s exactly what the fans were seeing. He struggled to think of ways to encourage his team or even help them out, but there’s only so much one guy can do.

When they entered the locker room he was determined to shift gears. Tocchet was barely able to get a word out before Quinn took the lead, getting his team back into a winning mindset. He was always looking for ways to improve himself and the team, and if they could focus and get their heads back into the game, he knew that would show that improvement. 

What he hadn’t expected was the mental toll it would take on him. He was exhausted both mentally and physically. He wanted nothing more than to get home and fall asleep since he expected you to already be in bed. But when he saw you awake and attentive to his needs, he wanted to simply sit and enjoy your presence.

“I can tell you’re tired, Quinn. Can I do anything or do you just want to head to bed?”

“There is one thing you can do for me.” He smiled, instantly gaining your attention, “Kiss me?”

You blushed at his request, slowly leaning in to press a soft kiss against his lips. “Better?”

Quinn smirked, “Think you might need to do it a few more times.”

Compiling, you kissed him again, letting this one linger a bit longer before pulling away again, an expectant look on your face, and a non-amused one on Quinn’s. He let out a sigh before pulling your leg over his lap, allowing you to straddle him. Bringing a hand up, he entangled his fingers gently in your hair, pushing your head slightly towards him to connect again.

It quickly began getting heated, a soft kiss turning into a full-blown make out session on the couch. Your hands wandered across his upper body, beginning to tug his shirt up when your knuckles made contact with his bruise, causing him to bite down harshly on your lip. 

You yelped at the pain but also realized what you had done causing you to pull away from him. “I’m so sorry,” Quinn reassured you quickly, trying to pull you back in, but you pushed against his force. “Maybe we shouldn’t do this tonight, I don’t wanna hurt you, Q.”

“Y/N, it’s fine. You’re not gonna hurt me.” 

“I just did! You’re hard not to touch, and I just don’t want to make it worse.” You mumbled, shying away from his touch and trying to return to your previous spot on the couch. 

Quinn was quick to stop you, “You trust me?”

You nodded, the question being a no-brainer. Quinn sat you down on the couch, walking over to the doorway to fetch something out of his bag. You weren’t sure what it was until he sat back down, returning you to your previous straddling position. 

“Quinn, what are you-?”  He cut you off, taking your hands behind your back, pushing you gently to lean a little bit forward, tying the fabric of his suit tie around your wrists and securing it tightly behind you.

“Now you can’t hurt me. So please, shut up and kiss me.”

His boldness caught you off guard but you had no time to be surprised as he tugged you down to kiss you yet again, You moaned against his mouth, the feeling of being restrained shooting a thrill throughout your body. 

The apartment suddenly felt hot and you knew it wasn’t just you who was feeling it. Quinn reluctantly pulled away, laying you down on your back as he stripped himself of his shirt and pants, his boxers coming down with them. 

Your mouth fell agape at the sight, but he had no time to notice as he hastily pulled off your bottoms, throwing them somewhere on the floor below you. 

“So fucking beautiful, baby.” He admired, shifting his body to hover above yours.

You wanted to tug on his hair desperately, but they were still bound behind your back, “Q, please. Wanna touch you.” 

Quinn chuckled, “Wanted you to touch me too, but you were so worried. Let me help us relax, yeah? I think we deserve it.” 

A whine was all that escaped your lips, bringing a smile to Quinn’s face. He sat you up yet again, his smile quickly replaced by his lips parting as he guided your hips to lower down onto him. You moaned softly at his pace, taking his sweet time to dwell on the feeling before bottoming out. 

He didn’t move, his hands resting tightly on your hips as he felt his muscles decompress. “You wanna do me a favour, sweet girl?”

You nodded, “What do you need, Q?”

Quinn looked up at you with tired eyes, “Fuck yourself on my cock.” Your eyes widened at his vulgarity, “I worked so hard tonight. Think I deserve it, don’t you?”

Too stunned to respond verbally, you pressed your body up slightly by using your legs, before letting yourself drop back down. Quinn groaned at your movements, fingertips digging deeper into your skin. 

You repeated the motion, setting a gentle, soft speed in order to let him relax and indulge in the pleasure. It felt good for you too, but you were fighting to resist the urge to go faster. You found yourself so lost in thought that you barely registered the feeling of Quinn’s hips snapping up to meet yours, picking up the pace slightly before settling back down and letting you take over.

“Fuck, Y/N. Feels so good.” He moaned, letting his head fall back onto the couch. 

Leaning forward, you began to litter kisses on his neck, eventually switching to suck on his skin, leaving purple marks along his shoulders and collarbone. Quinn sighed, letting his eyes flutter shut at the feeling of your lips on his skin as well as at the feeling of the relatively slow pace he had managed to keep you at.

“You’re so perfect.” He babbled, losing himself in the pleasure, “So sweet to me, ready to help me relax after such a long night.”

You whimpered at his words, the sweetness of them rushing straight to your core. “Quinn.”

Quinn perked his head up slightly, “Yeah? What do you need, baby?”

“Need to go faster. Please.” You begged, the slow tempo becoming unbearable.

He nodded, using his hands to guide you into a quicker speed, your hips dropping onto his faster than they had before. The desperate desire to cum was increasing by the second, and Quinn knew it by the way your moans got louder and your walls clenched tighter around him. 

You were trying your best to keep up with the pace you had longed for, but the burn in your thighs was getting harder to ignore and with your hands being bound behind your back, there wasn’t much you could do to support yourself, “Quinn…” 

“Tired already?” He teased, grabbing your jaw so you’d face him, “Imagine how I felt tonight, baby. Got shoved and slashed every time I got the puck.”

You cried out, the knot in your stomach getting closer and closer to snapping. “My hands! Please, Quinn. Please.” 

Quinn only wanted to push you so far, so keeping your hands tied at this point just seemed cruel. He tussled with the tie for a moment before unwrapping the knot, letting your hands breathe. One immediately found his shoulder, using the newly added support to help them speed up to a pace that had Quinn moaning, while the other found a home in his brown locks in order to avoid his bruise. 

“Fuck. Gonna make me cum.” He groaned, “Don’t stop, Y/N.”

His words alone were enough to tip you over the edge. You whined as you let go, body trembling as you submitted to the euphoria, face dropping to rest on his shoulder. The feeling of you leaking all over him caused Quinn to cry out, his release coating your walls white as he nipped at your neck to muffle his sounds. 

Your connected bodies stayed limp, heavy breathing echoing off the walls as you both came to. You were the first to move, pressing a kiss on his shoulder before tilting your head to the side to get a look at him. 

Quinn’s eyes stayed shut, chest heaving as calmed himself down, his body feeling at ease for the first time in 24 hours. 

“Relaxed?” You asked, leaning up so you could look at his face properly.

He blinked his eyes open to meet yours, “Definitely. We should really do that after every game.”

You laughed softly, pressing a loving kiss on his lips that he gladly reciprocated, “If it makes you feel better.”

[prettygirl-gabi]

Title: Playing for Keeps

Fandom: Women's College Basketball (LSU, USC, UConn)

Pairing: Juju Watkins x Reader x Paige Bueckers

Rating: T (Teen)

Warnings: Heavy angst, jealousy, territorial behavior, unresolved tension, eventual poly relationship

Summary: Being close friends with both Juju Watkins and Paige Bueckers was already a lot to handle, but when they both caught feelings for me? It became a full-on war.

Both were competitive. Both were used to winning.

And both, apparently, had decided that I was worth fighting for.

"You sitting courtside for me, right?" Juju had asked, leaning against my desk in my LSU dorm like she had all the time in the world. "I need my number one supporter looking good in red and gold."

I opened my mouth to answer, but my phone buzzed.

Paige [4:35 PM]: Hope you’re packing some navy and white, ma. Can’t have you out here in Trojan colors. Wouldn't be a good look for you.

I groaned, tossing my phone onto my bed. Juju smirked.

"That her?"

"Don't start," I muttered.

Juju chuckled but didn’t say anything else. She didn’t have to. We both knew that she and Paige could barely stand to be in the same room, and the fact that I was friends with both of them only made it worse.

The game between USC and UConn was already set to be a battle. But for them, it wasn’t just about basketball.

It was about me.

Sitting courtside felt like sitting in the eye of a storm.

Juju was putting on a show—deep threes, crossovers that sent defenders stumbling, celebrations that felt just a little too directed at Paige.

Paige? Oh, she was taking it personally.

Every time she made a play, she looked at me. Every time she scored, she smirked like she was reminding me why she should be my favorite.

And then came the third quarter.

Paige went up for a layup. Juju was right there. They collided mid-air, and Paige hit the ground hard.

The whistle blew, but neither of them cared.

Paige shoved Juju’s shoulder as she stood up.

Juju shoved back.

And suddenly, they were chest to chest, jawing at each other.

I saw it before the refs did—the pure, reckless need to prove themselves.

Over me.

"Man, they’re really about to fight over you," Taylor muttered beside me.

I buried my face in my hands. "I hate them both."

"Sure you do," she laughed.

They both got hit with a tech. The game went on, but the tension never left.

Three days later, I was still recovering from the absolute embarrassment of watching my two best friends nearly get ejected because they couldn’t stop competing for my attention.

So when I heard a knock on my dorm room door, I should’ve known it was them.

What I didn’t expect?

For them to show up together.

I folded my arms. "Y’all better not have come here to argue in my dorm."

Paige sighed, rubbing her forehead. "We’re not."

Juju nodded. "We figured it out."

I blinked. "Figured what out?"

They exchanged a glance. Paige spoke first. "We’re gonna share you."

I stared. Then laughed. "Hilarious. Get out."

Neither of them moved.

Oh. They were serious.

Juju shrugged. "Look, we get it. You’re not gonna pick between us. And we’re not about to sit here and act like we don’t both want you."

Paige leaned against the doorframe, smirking. "So instead of fighting over you, we’re just gonna make it work. Together."

My head was spinning. "You—what?"

Juju smirked. "What, you can handle both of us, right?"

Paige grinned. "Or are we too much for you, ma?"

I glared at them. "I hate y’all."

Paige tilted my chin up. "No, you don’t."

The worst part?

She was right.

I thought the madness would end after they worked things out.

I was wrong.

Because now, instead of fighting over me, they were ganging up on me.

And that’s how I ended up at my lacrosse game, standing on the field, watching both of them sit front row in LSU gear.

They looked way too comfortable. Juju was leaning back in her seat like she owned the place. Paige had her feet propped up on the railing, arms crossed like she was analyzing my every move.

Taylor, sitting on the bench beside me, snorted. "Yeah, that’s not normal."

"Tell me about it," I muttered.

The game hadn’t even started yet, but they were already making themselves known.

Juju cupped her hands around her mouth. "Yo, baby, don’t let me down out there!"

Paige smirked. "She never lets me down, Watkins. She’s built different."

Juju scoffed. "Please, she’s my girl too. We’ll see who she winks at first when she scores."

I groaned, dragging my hands down my face. "I’m actually gonna die."

Taylor patted my back. "Nah, girl, you’re just stuck between two of the craziest ballers in the country."

"That’s supposed to make me feel better?"

She shrugged. "You picked them."

I sighed. "No, they picked me. And now I have to deal with—"

The ref blew the whistle, signaling the start of the game.

And before I even ran onto the field, Paige and Juju were already yelling for me.

Loudly.

Taylor smirked. "Yeah, you’re never escaping them."

After the game, I barely made it to the locker room before Juju and Paige cornered me.

Juju draped an arm around my shoulder. "Not bad, superstar. But next time, point at me when you score, yeah?"

Paige scoffed. "Oh, so you didn’t see her looking at me after that goal?"

I groaned. "Can y’all not?"

Juju grinned. "Nah. We’re invested in your career now, babe."

Paige smirked. "Exactly. We gotta make sure our girl knows we’re here for her."

I exhaled. They were never gonna let me live this down.

Taylor walked past, shaking her head. "Man, y’all are something else."

Paige and Juju high-fived.

I sighed.

This was my life now.

And honestly?

Maybe I didn’t mind it so much.

■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■

       -Thank You For Reading!🩵🩶

                             -prettygirl-gabi🎀✨️

[demie90s]

can you do like a juju x uconn! reader and one of jujus teammates fouls her and they get into it and juju has to pull reader away from her teamate and tells them to back off??

JuJu Watkins x fem!Reader

Don’t Touch Her

MASTERLIST | MORE

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: When one of JuJu’s teammates fouls you a little too hard, you don’t let it slide. She has to step in—between you, for you—and make it known: she doesn’t play when it comes to you.

ɢᴇɴʀᴇ:sports rivalry, tension, protective juju, enemies-to-lovers (light), possessive energy

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ:on-court aggression, language, protective behavior, light romantic tension, jersey grabbing, intense stares

ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: ~0.4k

ᴠɪʙᴇ:whistle blows, bodies collide, you square up, she pulls you back by your waist, glares at her own teammate like “don’t make me say it again.”

It wasn’t just a foul.

You’ve been fouled before. You’ve taken elbows to the ribs, hands to the stomach, hip checks so nasty your teammates paused the game on replay just to laugh. You can handle a foul.

But this? This was different.

You beat her on the spin. Easy. She was slow all game, couldn’t read your footwork, didn’t have the reach. You were gliding past her toward the basket when her arm caught your shoulder and yanked—full body contact, no attempt at the ball. You hit the floor hard. Elbow first, then hip, the kind of fall that bounces.

The whistle blew late. Of course it did.

You rolled, sat up, already shaking your head, jaw clenched. The crowd groaned. Even their bench winced. But the girl? She stood over you like it was nothing.

No apology. You stood fast.

“Watch where you f—”

KK was halfway off the UConn bench. Paige was holding her jersey. Aaliyah’s eyes were locked on you like she was calculating the penalty.

You squared up. Not fists raised—just energy loud. “You foul like you can’t guard.”

The girl smirked. “Stay on the floor next time.”

You took a step.

And then JuJu was there.

Not in front of you. Behind you. Her hand wrapped around your waist, firm, not forceful, just enough to anchor you where you stood. Her chest brushed your back. Her voice low, not for you—for her teammate.

“Back off.”

That’s all she said. But it hit like a buzzer.

Her teammate scoffed. “She started it.”

JuJu didn’t flinch. “And I’ll end it. Don’t touch her like that again.”

The gym went quiet. Whistles weren’t even blowing anymore. Ref hesitated. Fans held their breath. And you? You were still standing there, pulse wild, chest heaving, but not moving.

Because her hand was still on you.

“Let’s go,” she muttered, tugging gently.

You didn’t fight it. You let her pull you back, not far, just a few steps—just enough to keep space between you and the girl still staring.

JuJu let go slow.

You turned to her. “You know she’s your teammate, right?”

“I know,” she said. “She’s not worth it.”

Your throat was dry. “Neither am I.”

JuJu’s eyes flashed. “Don’t say that.”

You blinked.

She stepped closer again, voice low. “You good?”

You nodded, even though your elbow throbbed.

“Let them sub you if you’re hurt.”

“I’m not hurt.”

“You’re lying.”

You didn’t answer.

She held your gaze for a second longer before the ref finally called the teams apart. Reset the play. Game moved on.

But your heart didn’t.

Not when you saw her glare at her teammate again on the way back. Not when she mouthed something you couldn’t hear. Not when she jogged away without another word but still looked back once to check.

You were fine.

But she made sure everyone else knew not to test it again.

And that meant everything.

[meimei-archives]

BODY PARTY!:: rafe cameron

WARNING! ::professional boxer! Rafe , blood, fighting, rough sex, marking, slight public sex, manager! reader, man handling, oral.

SUMMARY! :: after yet another win for Rafe you insist on cleaning his cuts after a shower leads to the both of you celebrating in a completely different way than expected.

You were front row watching Rafe, the smell of sweat and stale concession stand food almost made you feel nauseous if it wasn't for the way he was bouncing on the tips of his feet waiting for his opponent to tap gloves with him, clenching his teeth against his mouth guard showing off his prominent and sharp jawline.

Once and a while you could see his sharp eyes flicker from the referee and the guy he was facing. In the front row dressed all pretty, wearing one of the necklaces he had gifted to you and a cute small dress was you; his manager. He knew people didn't take him seriously because of how polite and pretty you were. They expected easy losses out of him, but if they saw how lenient you were during his training sessions or before his matches they'd understand you weren't just some airhead.

He watched as you gave him a bright smile and a thumbs up. He couldn't help the smirk on his lips. "Who's that? She's something ain't that right Cameron?" His opponent laughed at the sly comment while his greedy eyes never left your figure. Rafe felt his brow twitch at the words "watch your mouth" he said sternly as he felt heat on his skin from sheer annoyance.

"That's your play thing Cameron?" The man asks with a scoff, Rafe knew he was trying to be funny; trying to get to his head, but he's done this way too many times to even let it get under his skin. That wasn't going to stop him from ripping whoever this guy was apart and going back to his hotel with double the money he came in with. Not even bothering to answer him he knocks gloves with him and steps back while the ref signals the bell to chime.

You prepped Rafe for this, he knew what he was getting into when he signed to fight the boy who was about a year or two older than him, he was much newer to fighting in the ring which was just an advantage. But since Rafe had been doing this since he graduated high school he was much more experienced with the fighters, and the atmosphere. You could only count how many losses Rafe has had on one hand and you knew for a fact that Rafe wasn't going to fly all the way from North Carolina to Brooklyn without putting in the work for a show.

The both of them circling around the ring with raised gloves nearing to exchange punches. You could never understand how Rafe took a punch like it was nothing, almost like he enjoyed taking the hits, because it did nothing but push him to hit back harder. Rafe always knew how to get the crowd going, he would fight at least two rounds before absolutely running through his opponent until they gave up or it was a K.O regardless every time he did it he always had a crowd coming back for another fight.

He was on his 2 minute break in between rounds, the cutmen sitting him in his corner as he poured water into his hair and mouth letting the water spill into a metal bucket coming out pink, putting Vaseline on his cuts that were starting to bleed out. Rafe usually would've dropped his opponent by now, he was a shit talker and Rafe just let anything he heard go from one ear out the other, and it was usually the same bullshit.

'You can't fight' or 'your good looks won't save you' and Rafe never took it to heart because it's the same people talking that are being knocked on their ass and being wheeled back to their locker rooms. But this guy, no. He was bringing you into this, and Rafe had no reason to give him any remorse especially when he was being straight up vile and gross.

When they were both called back into the center Rafe could feel the sweat and water build up on his neck and shoulders. Rafe watches his opponent as if he was waiting for the right moment to send him to the ground, holding up his fist damn near ready to pounce on the guy who was just as tall if not a few inches taller than Rafe, blonde and tattoos all over his skin that nobody could miss.

Rafe couldn't miss the smirk on his lips as he sauntered towards him throwing sloppy and lazy punches that were barely even landing "you think your girl would wear that dress for me when I get her in bed?" He asked, huffing out almost slurring his words. Rafe could only clench his fist feeling a wave of straight anger wash over him completely. Cocking his hand back and letting one loose right to the center of the blonde's face he didn't stop as he saw him drop to the floor.

Straddling over his hips Rafe didn't hesitate to keep the hits going, one after the other people in the crowd almost shocked at how he wasn't letting up regardless of how you could tell the man under him was knocked out. "The fuck is he doing? He's gonna throw the match" you could hear Topper just a seat away looking almost stressed watching his friend use his opponent like a personal punching bag.

When the referee pulled at his shoulder Rafe finally pulled away with the deepest glare you've ever seen on his face, his gloves stained a crimson shade as he backed away from the unconscious and bloody man on the floor. Waiting to see if the man could beat a simple 10 count and get back to his feet but failed Rafe's hand was raised in all its glory as they announced his win.

The warm and sticky blood that gathered in small chunks at his hairline, and split lip, and dark bruises on the corner of jaw and the expanse of his back and shoulders began to bloom while sweat was dripping off his body. He stood in the middle of the ring as his publicity team swarmed in with congratulations and after party plans.

Leaving the small barricades that separated the crowd and the ring you find yourself going through the ropes and inside the squared ring filled with your coworkers and friends. Smiling as you near him, the copper smell of blood and hints of sweat filled your lungs as you can feel the mat underneath your feet shake from the jumping and cheering Rafe stood with a similar smile holding open his arms for you to hug him.

Regardless of his sweat seeping through the fabric of your dress or how warm all over you felt under his embrace you mumble words of encouragement "you did good, I'm proud of you. But you gotta stop losing your temper" you shake your head grasping his wrist that rested on your lower back comfortably.

Lifting over both of your heads you both face the crowd with smiles as you knew the both of your faces would be in the tabloids by the next morning, but from all the yelling and talking over other people you could feel a headache coming. Though it didn't matter much as you, Rafe, and the rest of your team decided to retreat back to his locker room.

Being stopped along the way by the press asking him questions, his heavy arm around your waist as he smiles and answers the simple questions, answering a few questions yourself as you hold Rafe's gloves under your arm you could feel his eyes practically burn through you when it was your turn to speak.

The both of you are making into the less busy locker room a few of his friends sticking around to make plans. Rafe sat on the padded bench as he looked at his taped up hands and wrist, he could feel dried up blood building up at his hairline and the small split on the middle of his lip starting to become sore.

You sit down beside him as Kelce and Topper talk about plans of a dinner or a get-together later tonight in celebration, but you could tell that Rafe wasn't really listening. Your brows scrunch together as you see him picking at the tape trying to unravel it and his silence was slowly becoming apparent. "You guys wanna give us a minute? I'll call you if we need anything" you mumbled to them as they eye their friend worriedly the youngest nodded.

They retreat to the door "we're gonna head back to the hotel, if you do decide to go out tonight just give me a call" Kelce mumbles before closing the door behind them. The silence in the room starts to get louder, your mouth opens but your words die in your throat seeing him finally getting the dingy tape off his skin and releasing a sigh.

Tossing the blood stained adhesive into the trash he walks further into his locker room towards his shower , you could hear the water hitting the tile and small grunts and winces of pain as he cleans off the blood and cuts off his body with soap and water. You space out for a while and let Rafe think in peace, you knew he would tell you whatever was on his mind sooner or later.

But once he finally finished showering you watched him walk back into the main area the cuts on his face still fresh and bleeding, it bugged you. His towel low on his hips, and his hair clean and messily slicked back with a few thin strands falling in his face. "You want me to clean your cuts so we can get out of here faster?" You ask quietly, watching him sit in a metal chair that sits in front of a long mirror. Shrugging at your question, you took your chance.

Opening the nearest locker you find a mini first aid kit, seeing everything you need inside you sit on the floor beside the leg of the chair and open a small pack of cotton pads, and rubbing alcohol. The smell alone made both of your faces scrunch as you lean close to his face attempting to find the cuts covered in dried blood.

"You wanna tell me why you beat that dude's face in?" You ask as you gently swiped away at the cut on the corner of his forehead that made him shut his eyes tightly at the stinging pain. "Doesn't matter," he said as his hands tightened around the edges of his seat. "It does if you almost threw a match because of it. I don't get why all of a sudden you're being your normal self, and next thing you know you are bashing his face in" you huff.

You and Rafe have gone over things with his anger and little to none patience, Rafe has moved past being provoked and talked down to, and ever since you've never seen him lose his cool like that up until now. "Even if it's something dumb, you know you can tell me right?" You ask as you discard the bloody cotton pad.

Sighing Rafe caves as he opens his eyes to meet your gaze "he was talking about you" he mumbled. His voice is gruff and frustrated, you can tell he was getting angry just rethinking about it. "What?" You were confused, what could have possibly set Rafe off about you? "He was talking about sleeping with you, just being disrespectful and shit" he rolled his eyes.

You scoff "you got mad about that?" You ask which makes his brows furrow at the question "of course I'm gonna get mad y/n, we work together. I know you personally, and I'm not gonna let somebody talk about you like that" he said, you could feel the heat radiating off of his skin as he spoke. "You shouldn't. You have more to worry about than some dude talking shit" you say picking up another pad and putting alcohol on it, you tilt his chin looking at his cuts.

"Well I do. I don't like when people talk about you in any way, you just do your job and you get shit on for no reason" he explains which makes you roll your eyes yet look to meet his gaze as you feel him stare into your soul. "It's a part of my job. I knew what I signed up for, even if you don't like it that's not gonna keep people from doing it. Don't get so worked up over it" you shake your head at him.

The silence in the locker room was becoming overbearing, holding a strong glare. Rafe was not listening to a single word you had to say, he didn't care if this was your job or not, you don't deserve that. His bruised hand reaching your jaw, his thumb drawing comforting circles on your skin "you don't deserve that, that's why I'm so worked up over it. You've been around since my first match, were roommates. I know everything there is to know about you, so why would I not get upset over shit like that?" He asks but more rhetorically.

"Your job is to fight Rafe, not bash people's heads in because of a stupid friend" you mumbled, shaking your head showing your disapproval once more, you move his hand to clean up his cuts once more. "You're not just a stupid friend" he scoffs. "I am, the only thing I really do is look out for your schedule, your P.R interviews and shit. Nothing special" you let out a small chuckle under your breath. Standing him to your full height

Rafe's eyes never leave your face as he pulls at your wrist moving it away from his face, his hand that once cupped your jaw pulls you in, Rafe closing the remainder of space between you both as his soft lips press to yours. You felt like you had been shocked, you didn't move for what felt like seconds until you pulled away and blinked rapidly. "I don't want you to be just some stupid friend or manager to me" he whispered.

You huff out a sigh before leaning back in and pressing your lips to his, being more confident with your actions your hands find themselves raking through his hair tugging it softly, groaning against your lips.

Letting out a small groan, Rafe's hand makes way to the fabric of your dress, clutching it in his fist and pulling your hips closer against him sends him into a small daze.His tongue now licking a stripe on your bottom lip begging for access, parting your lips, his tongue immediately brushing against yours, mixing your saliva. As you suck on his tongue the remnants of blood and mint. Realizing what the both of you are doing you pull away "we shouldn't be doing this" you say.

Your foreheads pressed together and noses grazing each other, Rafe shakes his head "I don't care about all of that right now" he slurs feeling the weight of the punches and kicks he had taken. Kissing at the corner of your lip smudging your lipgloss.

Rafe has always been professional with you, outside of work you two are like the best of friends, this was a line you had never thought to cross said line, but the feeling of his lips against yours made you feel fuzzy. You didn't care about the line anymore and both of you are now toppling over it. "I just want you" he mumbled as he pressed his nose against your; eyes clouded with an unknown feeling.

You smile lazily as you lean into him, giving him a chaste kiss. You both smile like kids as you pull apart. His hands trail from the bunched up fabric of your dress to your thighs pulling them apart "sit" he whispers making you nod and blink dreamily as you choke back a whimper at the sheer friction between his thighs and your pussy.

Arching your back until your chests press against each other, hands all over each other touching any part of each other that possibly could be in this position. Rafe couldn't help but grind up against you as the warmth of your core rubs against the throbbing bulge held behind his towel, the fabric running against the both of you earning a moan.

Pressing your lips against Rafe eager to steal ever last breath out of his lungs as your hands grip at his hair. Rafe doesn't hide his needs as his hands slide all around your body anywhere he could reach. Moaning against each others lips Rafe presses his forehead against yours as you both part panting against each other.

"You really wanna do this here?" He asks huskily turning you on even more. "I don't care if we did it in the car I just want you Rafe" you whisper against his lips making him smile, feeling on top of the world at your response. Rafe knew his feelings for you were beyond just Manager and client, but he knew to never go beyond that. But right now... he really didn't give a damn.

Pulling the tight skirt of your dress over your ass until it bunches at the waist, his palms Slide Over the soft skin as your lace panties; wet and sticky cover everything he's craving at the moment. Groping and kneading the skin harshly making you moan as your hips press down against his once again, his hands guide you against his towel covered lap.

Biting your lip harsh enough you could almost break flesh. "You think you can cum like this for me?" He asks sending shivers up your spine thinking of rutting yourself against the dirty blonde haired man until you hit your peak "mhm" you respond giving a small nod choking up your words with whimpers.

Your arms slink around his shoulder as you rest your head against the nape of his neck letting stimulation get the best of you. The fabric of your panties rubbing against your clit makes you feel utterly dizzy. "Just like that, you feel good?" He asks under his breath landing a harsh slap against your ass making you moan louder "feels so good" you whimper "you make me feel good Rafe" you moan as your hips recoil into his as the tension in your stomach grows.

Rafe could feel a wet patch of your slick deep through the towel over his hard cock making him bite his lip in satisfaction. He could see how much faster your hips are grinding into him showing how close you were to cumming, Rafe wraps his arms around your waist pressing your chest tightly to his as he grinds up against you.

The sound of the chair scraping against the concrete floors is almost background sounds to the both of you too wrapped up in getting your much wanted orgasm. "You're gonna make me cum" you whine as your eyes shut tightly and your eyebrows scrunch together "yeah? Do it" he says sternly making you shutter as your jaw slacks at the overwhelming feeling "fuck" you sob as your nails dig into Rafes back.

Hissing at the feeling Rafes hips come to a stop, his hands rub your thighs as they slightly shake. "You okay?" He asks with an airy laugh at your fatigued face that pulls away from his body "yeah, just give me a second" you whisper coming down from your high as the constant throbbing between your thighs starts.

Pulling yourself out of his lap your knees buckle feeling like jelly, you lower yourself fully until your knees press into the harsh concrete, not minding it much your hands trail over the white towel tucked around Rafes waist, looking up at him with soft eyes "you don't have to do anything" he speaks up and it makes you smile. This was the considerate and caring Rafe you had always known, never selfish and always seeking just a smidgen of approval from anyone he could when he could.

"I want to do this with you, nobody else" you say as your fingers brush against the skin of his lower stomach as they hook over the tightly wrapped towel. You were eager, the new found feeling was overstimulating in all the right ways. Pulling the fabric away from his lap now completely exposed to the cold air Rafe shivers, he doesn't know if it's from excitement or the decrease in temperature but either way he felt like he was in heaven.

The way your hands travel over his thighs makes his breath get caught in his throat, your eyes rake over his body with a look he's never seen on your face but regardless he loves it. you wet the palm of your hands with your tongue before taking his cock into your fist, slowly jerking and teasing the tip with your thumb.

His head falls back with no support from the chair he mutters out "fuck" as his hands grip at the towel underneath him. And when you finally put him in your mouth, finally swallow down the already there taste of him on your tongue—you both let out a moan. Can feel the top half of him shift like his head has fallen back, an image of his beautifully parted mouth hung open, eyes screwed shut in pleasure has you moaning against him again; your body on fire, your pussy aching.

You match the pumps of your hand with the drag of your mouth up and down his dick. Swirl your tongue around the head and suck when you reach it. Let yourself go as far as your gag reflex will let you until you're gagging around him and he's cursing and digging his nails into the side of the chair once again.

And when you steal a glance to the side you can see how red his knuckles look from the death grip he has the towel. How his fingers twitch and hand runs along his thigh, acting as if he wants to touch you but not daring to. You steal another glance up at him, "oh fuck" tumbling from his lips when your eyes meet; he looks so desperate in the moment. He didn't want release, he needed it, Rafe had never been a begging man but in the moment Rafe would do just about anything to cum.

you keep your nose pressed into the skin of his pelvis until you physically can't, pulling off of him with a loud pop. your cheek is wet with tears, and your chin is slick with spit, the two coalescing at the tip into a sticky mess.

the sight makes him twitch in your hand, because this is what he's been dreaming of. This was his selfish wish, to see you below him with this expression. eyes all doe-eyed and desperate. But it also doesn't take Rafe much time before he lets his eyes flutter shut his hips now slowly bucking into your mouth, groaning at the feeling of your throat closing around him tightly.

he can't help but to reach out and rub the heavy pad of his thumb over your parting lips, pressing the salty digit flat against your tongue, and retreating it in the same breath to hook it around your cheek.

a string of profanities leave his lips. he's close, and you can tell by the way he begins to fuck into your face with a slight roughness. to guide him there, you begin to hollow your cheeks and narrow your throat, using a single hand to massage his thigh digging your nails into his skin.

he can feel you start to get riled up, and when you start to scratch and claw at his thighs for air, that does it for him. with a final, lazy thrust, he releases the entirety of his load down your throat, keeping you pressed down on him until he's sure every last bit has been spilled.

Pulling away slowly, your breathing uneven and filled with small coughs and hiccups, your hand rests on his scratched up thighs, Rafe looks at you with nothing but lust. Your swollen lips, your mascara staining your cheeks, his hand cupping your jaw to bring you close his nose brushing against yours as your heavy breathing mixes with his.

"You're so fucking beautiful" he grumbles as he presses his lips against yours harshly parting your lips with his tongue messily running yours against his. Slowly without breaking the kiss Rafe moves himself out of the chair, his own knees feeling a slight sting at the feeling. Guiding you down to your back as the kiss grows more hungry as he grinds his bare cock against your panties growing frustrated at the very little skin on skin contact, his hands settling on your upper thighs slither until his hands are underneath the fabric of your dress.

His fingers find the elastic band of your panties finally pushing them down your thighs and past your ankles where he recklessly tosses them out of his way to only who knows where. Your dress being the only obstacle left he pulls the zipper tugging your arms through the sleeves easily he damn near rips you dress off at the seems just to see your body in all its glory. He doesn't take his eyes off of you not even for a second his eyes follow every dip and curve with the most adoration one could hold in their gaze and it makes you feel warm.

His eyes rake over you from top to bottom as his eyes latch onto the sight of your thighs glistening in slick. He hissed through his teeth absentmindedly his hand gently travels between your thighs as his thumb presses between your slit making friction with your sensitive clit making you whine at the feeling. His hand leaving your body he takes his length into his own hand gripping himself.

"You look so good like this" He says as he presses his tip against your slit teasingly sliding against it as it makes a slick sound as your essence covers his tip and shaft, dipping his tip into your entrance Rafe sucks in a deep breath as he pushes into you groaning at the feeling of your tight walls enveloping his tip.

Pushing deeper inside you he lets out a moan "fuck you feel so good" he says as he catches his bottom lip in between his teeth. "You're so big" you gasp, feeling how good he filled you up to the brim as you feel him begin to slowly move. Rafe couldn't get enough of the sight as his cock disappeared inside you.

His cock buried deep inside you makes you moan and your nails into palms as your chest is pressed against the cold hard floor making your nipples perk and a shiver run down your spine; setting a pace for bouncing against him. The feeling of your velvety walls tightening around making him choke back a moan.

"Oh- god" you whisper shakily. His hands holding onto your hips guiding a pace, the soft sound of skin slapping with your small moans could be heard throughout the room.

A small sheen of sweat on your skin and your makeup smeared while your ass bounced on his cock it was addicting. "You like being fucked like this?" He asks as he bucks his hips into your sharply.

Moaning at his dirty words and sudden surge of confidence your head falls into your hands muffling your sweet voice Rafe's palm sharply smacks your ass "Answer me" he says groaning as he soothes the stinging feelings on your warm skin.

"Mhm, I want people to hear how good you fuck me" you say lifting your head from your hands as you bite your bottom lip hard as you hear how wet you are with each thrust he gave you. Rafe; eager to let his load off inside you, holds your hips stopping you from bouncing any longer and begins to thrust his hips into you harder. The feeling of his tip pushing at your cervix.

His hips piston into you as your thighs and ass jiggle at the repetitive thrusts "right there" You moan as you feel him pounding in a certain part of your walls. You tighten around him as your essence forms a white ring around the base of his dick.

"Just like that, I just want you to cum inside me" you babble mindlessly as his stomach churns at the words spewing out. "Yeah? Want me to fill you up with my cum?" he groans as the knot in your stomach begins to tighten and his death grip on the fat of your ass almost sending you over the edge if it wasn't for how hard he was pounding you.

You nod eagerly as you begin to alternate between grinding and bouncing, your nails drag against his inner thigh leaving behind a red and irritated trail- yet he didn't mind it as it pushed him closer to his orgasm.

Leaning down with his chest to your back Rafe presses his lips to yours moaning against each other's lips pushing you closer and closer. Your back arching even more as you move faster wanting to cum so badly "keep going. Don't stop" he groaned, letting his head fall back.

His hair messily pushed against his forehead as it was covered in sweat and his eyes rolled back "god I'm gonna cum" he says breathily as you grind back against him to meet his thrusts as the sticky sound of him pounding your sloppy pussy resides in the air of the locker room.

The room was warm and all you could care about was how good your best friend was fucking you. "You like having an audience to be fucked like a slut in front of huh?" He says as he grips onto your hips harder to stop your movement as he pounds into a spongy part of your walls.

His hair sticking to his forehead and his breath becoming heavier "I love being fucked like a slut" you rasp as you hear his breathy laugh at your words desperate to feel release "good" he says as he fucks into you harder. "Tell me how much of a slut you are" he groans as his nails dig into your hips, "I'm such a fucking slut for you, god I'm your cockslut" you whine as his thrusts are deeper and sharp it has your eyes rolling to the back of your head.

Pulling your back to his chest hitting an angle inside you that made you see white as your ass bounced into his lap your hands desperately thrash to grip your own thigh as a result of overwhelming pleasure.. "Oh fuck- just like that, You're gonna make me cum" he moaned deeply into the nape of your neck.

Letting out a string of whines you clench harder "I'm close" he moaned as he began to twitch inside you, his words buzzing in your ears making you grind against him eagerly "please let me cum" you beg as you turn your head over your shoulder to look at Rafe who was absolutely pussy drunk on the feeling of you.

"You gonna cum?" he asks as his hand falls between your thighs, his fingers press against your clit "You gonna fucking cum?" he asks rhetorically as his words slur, you nod as your breathing becomes uneven "do it" he says pushing you back down into the cold ground roughly gripping your hips and you were sure it would leave bruises his eyes roll back as he feels how you clench around him and let your orgasm washes over you, with a few more hard thrusts he would also be tipping over the edge to his orgasm moaning as his thick white strings of cum fills you up leaving your body feeling warm and fuzzy.

Fucking you both through your highs your thighs clench shut as overstimulation creeps up on you your moans began to come out choked which makes Rafe slow down his pace until his hips were no longer moving against yours.

Pulling out you both hiss, as his cum drips down your thigh Rafe chuckles at the sight almost wanting to use his fingers to fuck his cum back inside you but deems you're too fucked out. He pulls away completely standing on shaky legs walking off to the bathroom to grab a clean towel wet with warm water to clean you off. You breathe heavily, almost too lazy to pick yourself up looking at the mirror perched against the wall seeing how your face was most likely in it.

Your actions finally sink in. You hear the footsteps near you, Rafe walks back into the locker room he wipes you off rubbing small soothing circles into your thighs he wipes you down clean. Rafe would be sure you were getting treatment you deserve even if it wasn't in the most romantic place.

After he takes care of you can hear "I'm sorry if I was being too rough," he says softly as he looks at you with soft eyes "don't worry about it. I like that stuff anyways" you say with a chuckle you roll over onto your side you look at your best friend "it felt good. No need to be sorry" you say waving him off. Rafe sighs in content, almost nervous that he had hurt you or took too much of his anger out on you.

"Get up, you need a shower before we go back to the hotel" he says rubbing your sore thighs. You bite back a groan as you think about actually having to leave your spot on the ground. Your body feeling sticky and covered in sweat, You cave sitting up. You press your hand to your sore back thinking about how harshly your back had been pushed against it. Rafe holds a hand out to you as he coaxes you into a warm shower.

You hadn't thought about the fall out of the matter, you have in fact slept with your best friend, the person you live with, and spend every day with. You had no idea what was going to happen tomorrow but you didn't let that thought sink in that much as well when Rafe's more intimate with you, the lingering touches, the small pecks on your lips as he washes you up with the soap he had packed in his bag. The smell of him washes over you as you let all of your thoughts wash away with the soapy water down the drain of the shower.

You'd just have to worry about it another time.

[choochooboss]

Submas Sketchdump Vol. 4 July 2022 Part 2!!

I knew that particular month beat my all time record for productivity multifold but I had forgotten SO MANY PIECES from the original collection!! I think I finally got them all?? More stuff under the cut!!

BREAKMAS!! WIP of the first piece I posted of them, here's the link to the final version! I tried coloring this first but the black & white had ultimately more impact so I went with that!

TRAINS!! I like this base color version too! Link to the final version!

The top sketch is a direct reference to Cluedo! A spinoff game, "Missingo", starring certain familiar characters trying to figure out what happened to Ingo/trying to prove their innocence in the case! Also WIP sketches for these two Breakmas comic pages!

As you may know I adore butlermas! For the classy and stylish look which appeals to me in general, and coincidentally I had played PLA & got hit by submas train only one week before butler Ingo's banner rolled out! The pure bliss of finally meeting both twins in a game I felt was incomparable!! This moment in the Curious Tea Party event was really entertaining to me! We got to see submas get serious and stand up against this selfish collector thief! Two towering train twinks with commanding voices looming over the unfortunate guy was enough to make him change his mind ahah! They truly are the protectors

1-hour submas challenge prompt "Descend"! This is the actual one hour result before I continued rendering this!

Mmmmm not my first attempt at drawing them hug and definitely not my best OR last. I want to make that moment something very special when I finally go all out on it!!

Comic cover vibing~

The scrapped last page for this silly comic! Sorry the dialogue is all over the place on the first piece, might be hard to read! I wasn't happy with how I presented Elesa, I wasn't familiar enough with her character back then so I thought of her carrying a toy taser to threat her friend even as a joke was too much and I couldn't come up with anything else for it. This held me back from posting the other three pages for another 5 months! In the last panel

I prefer to not mess up the twins too much but my brain is still very curious and conjures some peculiar stuff like this sometimes.. I think I may have broken his arms there looking at the anatomy, ooops! I hope you don't mind the photo quality or the two weird guys in the corner, they escaped containment!

Idea of warden Ingo, being projected to modern era by his Alakazam, walking through crowd on a train platform & Emmet standing inside a passing train. Their eyes meet for just a few seconds...

Pokemas Ingo practise!

Another WIP of a piece I posted! I started this piece like this but then later I decided to flip the whole thing.

YET another WIP of something I already posted! No idea why I went and mixed up his suits but I like this sketch! They rarely end up looking this clean haha

Sketch version of the self-defense practise piece! I love getting creative with action stuff! I barely ever think of how difficult they are to draw, I just get so excited and fixated on visualising the scenes in my mind I just keep at it, pull out refs and pose in front of mirrors until it looks good to me! I want to draw more action scenes but besides being challenging to draw my brain comes up with more silly and cute ideas than cool ones unfortunately ahah

One more WIP, here's the link to the final results!! I really like how genuine their expressions look here even if the faces are a little off. I recall spending a long time figuring out this perspective. I thought it would be fun to you to see how all these pieces started and... looking at the sketch above and the stuff before that, you can compare some range of my style!

RANDOM SUBMAS MISSILES GO

OHHH looks like some nasty passengers got the best of them!! If I recall correctly there was no fight because they managed to paralyse the two before they could act. Fully awake yet completely helpless... how convenient unfortunate. Thank you so much for checking these out!! Not every sketch is that exciting but I'm always happy to hear your thoughts on these!

Previous posts: Sketch dump Vol. 1: April-June 2022 Sketch dump Vol. 2: July 2022 Sketch dump Vol. 3: August 2022

[heavyhitterheaux]

Black, Purple, and Blue

AN: fluffy goodness 😘💕

Synopsis: The amount of times your husband gets hit during the Ravens game quickly has you concerned, but he tries to reassure you that there is nothing to worry about

Pairing: Husband!Joe Burrow x Wife!Reader

Requested by: a beautiful anon 😍

Please Do Not Repost My Content Anywhere

Hit after hit after hit

You watched your husband get pummeled to the ground multiple times against the Ravens from the comfort of your bed at your home in Cincinnati and it seemed as if there was no end in sight. Multiple people had asked if you wanted to watch the game with them, but you quickly decided against it. You would rather be at home by yourself and not be at some random bar hearing people drunk off their asses talking about your husband if he were to lose.

A fight almost ensued between you and another fan during Joe’s second season with the Bengals and from that point on, you knew it wasn’t even worth your time. You knew Joe was an amazing quarterback and his stats proved it despite what people may say about him.

The game was not moving in the direction that you originally thought, but despite this you still held onto hope since the score was so close.

Joe had confessed to you earlier in the week how anxious and nervous he was for this game and it was to be expected. They were playing in Baltimore on their turf, but seeing how the Ravens caused them an upset at home, it would only be right if the Bengals did the same thing.

Joe was always focused during the season, but it went to a different level when he was playing any team within the same division as the Bengals were.

When the Ravens had gotten the ball back, the camera suddenly cut to the Bengals sideline and you could see Joe wincing in pain as he was holding the left side of his body, Silently cursing to yourself before letting out a sigh, the wheels in your head began to turn and immediately thought the worst.

This time last year as he was playing the Ravens, he sustained his wrist injury that put him out for the rest of the season and the last thing you wanted was for him to go through that all over again. You saw the way it bothered him deep down, even though he thought he was being good at putting up a front for you.

Being married for a total of four years, you could see right through his bullshit and could immediately tell when something was off with him.

You took a sip of your strawberry flavored Truly as you saw Joe throw to Ja’Marr and end up with a touchdown and quickly placed it back down on the table in order to celebrate.

But now, it was time for your nerves to be turned up to another level because you saw them wanting to go for a two point conversion.

“You cannot be fucking serious right now.” You quietly said out loud, even though there was no one in the room but you.

During the play, someone on the Ravens defense had pulled Joe’s face mask and you were yelling at the television seeing as how they never even called it.

Suddenly, your phone rang next to you and you debated on whether you should answer it until you saw that it was your cousin Yalisa. Clicking accept, the first thing you heard was her yelling.

“Y/N! WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK IS GOING ON IN THIS GAME?! DO YOU SEE HOW MANY CALLS THEY MISSED?! And not them beating your husband like he stole something.”

“I’m so over this, I don’t even know anymore. It seems like they are personally working against them. Did you see him grab Joe’s face mask?”

“Yes! And that’s why I called you! Are the refs blind?!”

“Um, the only names I’ve heard all night are Joe and Ja’marr. It doesn’t seem like anyone else showed up to play today.”

“See? That’s why Joe is as ripped as he is now because he’s carrying this team on his fucking back!”

“And he keeps wincing, so I’m concerned because he has yet to seek medical attention. He just keeps going back in and I can tell that something is wrong with him.” You quietly said and tried to take a deep breath to help ground you from the uneasy feeling that was creeping in.

“I guess he sees it as he has to go back in because who the fuck else is going to? They are seriously pissing me off. Is this the week that Zac gets fired?” She asked and you immediately stifled a laugh.

“As much as I would like that to become a reality, a lot more things need to change beside that one.”

It was one in the morning when your phone rang alerting you that you had a facetime call from your husband and you immediately answered.

The two of you stared at each other as you noticed Joe was laying down. In order to get more comfortable, he adjusted himself and you once again saw him wince. But before you could say anything about it, you heard his voice.

“I didn’t wake you up did I?” He asked and you simply shook your head no.

“No, and you know I always wait for you to call me before I go to sleep. I have to hear your voice one way or another.”

“And hearing your voice has to be my favorite thing in the world. I just can’t wait until tomorrow when I actually get to hold you.”

“I can’t wait for that either and I am going to fix all your favorite comfort foods and we’ll eat ourselves into a food coma to get through this.” You replied as you brought the comforter higher up your body since you were getting cold.

“While watching rom coms of course.”

“A man that knows a way to my heart.” You told him and he gave you a small smile.

It was quiet for a few seconds and then you spoke up again.

“Baby?”

“Yes?”

“I saw you wincing during the game. I don’t like when you wince.”

“I’m okay, really. It’s not a big deal.”

“Joey, don’t give me that. You got hit multiple times. If something happened then…”

“I promise that I’m okay, just a little sore. I already took the motrin that you slipped in my bag for me earlier.”

“Well someone has to do it seeing as you always forget.”

“True, and I don’t know what I would do without you.”

“Stop! Stop being so cute when you’re so far away and I can’t kiss you until you get back, it’s not fair.” You whined and Joe let out a small laugh.

“You can have all the kisses you want once you see me. Promise.”

“Joey? How are you and do not under any circumstances bullshit me right now because I will be on the first flight to Baltimore if you do.”

The deep sigh he let out before giving you a verbal answer was telling.

“Frustrated.”

“Go on.”

“It seems like there is a disconnect somewhere and I can’t put my finger on it.”

“Cough your coach Zac Taylor cough.”

“Well, that and there is something else. Just haven’t quite figured it out yet.”

“Can I be honest? You are amazing in your own right and even though I know that you already know this, Joey the last thing I ever want to happen is for you to in lack of better words waste your career for an organization that doesn’t quite seem like they value or care about you. Like, my husband is the shit and I’m not being biased. You are one of the best, if not the best, okay now I’m being biased. But, you’re amazing and I just want so much better for you. Do you know how much it hurts to see you so upset every week that you lose knowing that you show up every time for your team and give 100% while others don’t?”

—

Hearing the front door open from you and Joe’s shared office as you were working on your laptop, you immediately hopped up and ran to the foyer to greet him.

As soon as he spotted you, his bag was thrown to the side as he opened up his arms to embrace you as he placed several kisses on your lips.

When you did bring him in for a hug, once again you saw him wince.

“Joseph….”

“No, stop. I’m fine.”

“Hmm, pull up your shirt.”

“Damn, you want me to fuck you already? I was thinking…” Joe started to say, but you cut him off.

“No! Well yes, but not yet! Lift it.”

“But…”

“NOW.”

Once he did, you saw a black, purple, and blue bruise in the area where his ribs were on the left side and immediately gasped.

“BABY!”

“I’m fine, just a little bruised. I don’t want you to worry yourself.” He told you as he put his shirt back down and grabbed your hand as he kissed the back of it.

“A LITTLE bruise? It literally takes up a very good portion of your torso. And how can I not worry? My husband is a professional football player. Worrying is ingrained in my brain now. It got ingrained when I met you at LSU so stop.”

“Would it make you feel better that I got checked out before we got on our flight to come back home because it was bothering me when I woke up?”

“Yes. Kind of. But still!"

“And I’m fine. I promise like I said, and you're so cute when you worry about me."

"Not cute, I get flustered and pray nothing bad happens to you."

Crossing your arms, you nodded your head as Joe uncrossed them and leaned down to kiss you.

"Nothing is going to happen, and I'm going to need you to relax for me. Now that we got that out of the way, I’m also going to need my wife to lose her clothes.”

[pboogerswbb]

YOU'VE BEEN MISSED

natasha cloud x oc In which Tash makes you get on your knees after the Liberty win over Fever, still high on the adrenaline from her game-winning plays (request)

Warnings: sexual content (smut w/ minimal plot, oral & strap, rough and some slapping involved...), language, NOT PROOFREAD Wordcount: 2.4K A/C: because the way she played against fever was sexy (it's short but i had to get it out of my system

-

”She tried to flop so bad! But you had her messed up baby the ref was looking right at her-”

”Yeah?” Tash grins, sliding the keycard to get the hotel door open. She’s been all smiles, beaming still from the adrenaline of the amazing game she had.

”- and that steal in the fourth? The pass to Stewie? Fuck babe,” you gush. Tasha is eating all of it up, smiling from ear to ear as she lets you in first.

”Mhm, tell me more mami,” her voice is more hoarse and raspy than normal, worn out by the game. Her hand snakes around your waist as she closes the door behind you, walking you in by your lower back.

”- and that block in the fourth,” you add, turning to your girlfriend, eyes twinkling with pride and admiration. ”You’re just so tough T.”

”You think so?” She asks softly, wrapping her hands around your waist. She runs her fingers up and down, finding your hips and digging her digits into your skin. 

”Yeah baby,” you hum, leaning into a kiss. But she dodges, not grinning anymore. No, now she was serious.

”Then why don’t you take off your clothes and get on your knees.”

The mood shifts quickly, the giddy atmosphere suddenly loaded with tension. You swear there’s a waterfall between your legs, making your underwear damp. Seeing her play the way she did, so fired up and passionate had you going crazy all day. But you were prepared to have to wait, assuming she might be exhausted. She had given it all to the game. Seemingly it was the opposite, the adrenaline still flowing through your girlfriend.

So, under her piercing gaze you do as she says. Painfully slowly, you pull off your t-shirt and throw it over your head onto the floor. Tasha keeps her eyes on you, covering the lower half of her face as she looks you up and down.

Unbuttoning your jeans that fit you just right, you push them down your legs left in a matching red lingerie set. Tash is nearly drooling.

”Goddamn mami,” she groans, unbuckling her own belt in a hurry. Her movements are frantic and desperate, suddenly half undressed in front of you in boxers and a white tank top.

You drop onto your knees, never breaking eye contact. With soft, teasing kisses you run your lips against her muscular thighs. Tash groans, she doesn’t want to play these games. Not right now.

”Thought you were proud of me,” she starts, pulling down her boxers at once. ”Show me.”

With that her hands grab hold of the back of your head and she’s pulling you in. Not that she had to, you were already itching in to taste her.

”Fuckkkkk,” she groans, throwing your head back as you kiss sloppily along her slit, darting your tongue out. She’s soaked, folds covered in her slick already. No wonder, Tash had been wanting you since giving you that touchy, sweaty hug post game.

”Shit mami,” she gasps, mouth falling open, tattooed hand gripping onto your hair. You stare up at her, eyes fluttering shut when she yanks your hair. She’s beautiful, all muscle - prominent abs heaving as she inhales deeply, the outlines of her biceps visible even as her arms rest. ”Making papi feel so good.”

You whimper at the sounds of her grunts, doing everything in your power to make your girlfriend feel good. Allowing your tongue to poke out, you run it against her dripping folds, lapping her up. You’re too gone to be precise or focused, your only goal to get her to cum for you.

”Take that bra off,” she hisses, heavy eyes stuck on the way you look - doe-eyed and needy. Like a complete slut and somehow an angel all at once.

Without hesitation you reach back, unbuckling your bra and throwing it somewhere behind her, your mouth never leaving her pussy. A guttural moan leaves her open mouth, hand reaching down to fondle your bare tits, slapping them both.

You wince, back arching subconsciously as your own need grows in your abdomen. It’s almost embarrassing when you feel your own wetness making your thighs sticky.

”Oh mami,” she moans, lips wrapping around her clit causing her to let out a high pitched moan. ”Such a good girl, so beautiful.”

You whine and whimper at her words, running your long nails against her thighs. Goosebumps rise on the surface of her skin, and you take that as a sign to keep going. You dig them into her, scratching hard enough to leave marks. This drives your girlfriend crazy, forcing her to throw her head back. 

Satisfied, you smile into her pussy. Seeing this, she grins too before biting down on her bottom lip. ”That make you happy? Making papi feel good?”

”Mhm,” you nod, closing your eyes as you swirl your tongue and mouth against her. 

”Tell me baby, let papi know.”

”Wanna- make papi feel good,” you mumble into her dripping cunt, pink tongue circling her sensitive bud. She groans, grabbing the back of your head harder and pulling you closer. She’s chasing it now, her own high. Not caring if you breathe or not. And quite honestly you didn’t care either right now.

”Aw shit,” she moans, eyes squeezed shut as she starts to grind herself against your mouth, fucking your face. It drives you crazy, completely putty in her hands, willing to do anything for her.

”Mmm,” you moan, feeling the painful throbbing inside you. But Tash ignores it, enjoying the way your moans vibrate against her. Her thighs tremble as you scratch up and down, eyes rolling back. 

”You’re gonna make me cum,” she gasps, raspy whimpers leaving her lips.

”Mhmmm,” you hum, moaning against her. You needed to get her off desperately.

”You’re so sexy,” she whimpers, pulling you somehow closer, cutting off all your airflow. But you don’t care, your tongue working endlessly until she’s reaching the edge.

You lap her through it, letting Tash ride out her orgasm until she’s letting go of your hair. With a gasp of air you pull back, face glistening with her.

Tasha bites her lip and pulls you back up by her jaw, kissing you hungrily. It catches you by surprise. But you kiss back, your tongues clashing as she walks you backwards, hands groping everywhere - your waist and breasts and ass.

Suddenly you’re being flipped around pushed against a wall. It’s cold against your skin, cheek pinned to it tight as Tash holds you there by your hair and waist.

”What’re you doing?” You ask, struggling and squirming. The need between your thighs was growing unbearable.

She smacks your ass, and growls. ”Stay here.”

So you do, breathing coming in ragged waves as you wait for what feels like forever. But you remain patient, praying you’ll get your reward eventually.

Then, finally, footsteps creep closer behind you, big hands landing on your hips. You feel like you’re going crazy, desperate for relief. 

”Papi…” you whine, curling your back to show her how badly you needed to be touched.

”Mmm,” she hums hoarsely, slapping your ass again. You gasp. You needed more. ”What mami?”

”Please,” you cry out, cheek flush against the wall still.

”Give papi a lil taste first,” she groans straight into your ear, her hot breath tickling against you. She falls onto her knees behind you as you subconsciously spread your legs for her. Tasha moans. You’re dripping through the lace of your panties.

”Shit,” she mumbles, pulling them down. You hang onto the wall like a lifeline, but the trembling of your legs is making it hard to focus on anything but that - and the cold air hitting your slick core.

”Lemme taste that pussy,” Tash murmurs, licking up the mess on your thighs. Her tongue runs upwards, warm and wet. At last her hands spread you apart by grabbing your ass, and she leans in.

”Ohhhh baby,” you gasp, legs spreading even further and pushing your ass out for her.

Simultaneously chuckling and groaning into your pussy, she begins to lap you up, tongue teasing your entrance.

”Oh yeah mami? You like that?” She murmurs, the sound of her slurping coming from between your legs.

You can’t answer, whimpering as your nails scratch against the wall and legs shake around her head. It seems to satisfy her.

”I think you do,” she mumbles into your folds, nose protruding inside you when she nuzzles closer. It causes a shiver, your cunt squeezing around nothing. Tash doesn’t miss this, pulling back and spreading your pussy open.

”Want your strap,” you whine, voice more pitiful that you’d like.

”You want papi to fill you up babygirl?” She asks, finger circling your entrance.

”Yes.”

”Beg for that shit,” she hisses, standing up and pushing up against you at last. The silicone is heavy and cool against your ass, teasingly missing your pussy.

”Please baby,” you cry out. It’s not enough. Tash slaps your ass, harder than before. Certainly leaving a bruise this time.

”Please papi, need you to fill me up,” you continue, turning your head to look behind you. She looks completely fucked out and blissful, looking down at your body as she slaps the strap against your cunt. The sound fills the room, causing you to throw your head back.

Without warning, Tasha guides the silicone to your entrance and slams her hips into you. A loud gasp forces your mouth to fall open. The woman behind you moans, beginning to pound you with her strap.

The stretch is delicious, the tip poking against your g-spot every single stroke. The squelching is sinful, your wet cunt wrapping tightly around her. It doesn’t take long till your eyes start to water, barely holding yourself upright.

”Aw sh- Tash,” you cry out. Her hand grabs your hair, pushing your red cheek flush against the concrete. 

”Yeah? You like that? You like my strap?” She asks, panting as she uses all that adrenaline to pound into you. She’s in your guts, deeper than anyone ever had been. It’s too good, too rough.

”Love this pussy,” she groans, slapping your ass twice and leaning into your shoulder with wet kisses. You stumble, legs nearly giving out.

Tash chuckles again, kissing her teeth as she leans back to look at the strap slipping in and out of your cunt, covered in your slick. 

”Fuck,” she hisses, pulling out. You immediately protest, the empty feeling bordering on painful as you throb. ”Turn around.”

Too fucked out to listen, she flips you over and pins you against the wall again. The concrete is cold against your clammy back, but you don’t care. Only thing you cared about now was getting to cum.

”Look so sexy, mama,” she grunts hoarsely, wrapping your arms around her shoulders. ”Jump.”

Putting all your trust in her, you wrap your legs around her hips. Like expected, she grabs a hold of your thighs, holding you up with ease.

Tasha reaches behind you, and guides the silicone to your entrance again, pressing you closer and harder against the wall. A sigh of relief forced from your lips, as its length slips into you again. Now nose to nose with her.

She’s hissing, using all her strength to pound into you, tattooed biceps bulging. You’re a moaning mess, mouth wide open listening to the sound of skin slapping together. 

”Papi,” you gasp, letting her fuck you into the wall.

”I’m right here,” she moans, never easing on her movements. ”Such a good girl for papi.”

Her words make you cry out, long nails scratching at her spine. She grunts with every thrust, determined to bring you to the edge. You bite your lower lip to muffle your own moans.

”Open,” Tash commands into your ear, nuzzling her nose into the crook of your neck. As you do so, she lets a warm spit drip onto your tongue from her mouth. It forces your cunt to throb, gushing around her length.

”Tash, baby,” you mewl, entire body tensing as a result of the strap prodding the soft tissue inside you. Your climax was building fast. ”I’m close.”

She moans, eyes fixed on your scrunched up expression. She couldn’t dare to look away, your face only giving her the stamina to go faster. 

”You gonna cum on papi’s strap?” She asks, taking in big gulps of air. You can merely nod, mind too gone to get you to form real words. 

”Tash, papi-” is all you can cry out. Her name like an oath.

”I’m here, look at me babygirl,” she grunts, your cunt gripping the silicone tight. Opening your eyes, you find her eyes already on you, pupils blown out.

”Papi,” you repeat, your voice high-pitched and desperate as that familiar knot builds in your gut. She’s so big, so deep inside you, hitting all the right spots.

”Cum on this strap mami,” she gasps, never letting up her pace. Your wetness is gushing around the silicone, each stroke deep but fast, the desperate look in her eyes being the final straw to get you there.

You grip onto her with your arms and legs, scratching her skin red as you release on the strap slamming into you.

“Fuck mami,” she grins, eyes locked on you as you cum and moan her name. “Fuck you that good huh?”

“Shit,” you gasp. She slows down, still staying inside you while you catch your breath. Finally, Tasha carries you to the hotel bed and places you on it, the strap leaving you. A wince spills from your lips due to the sudden emptiness, body completely worn out. The mattress beside you dips as your girlfriend lies beside you, scooping you quickly into her arms. You feel weak and sore, Tash feels it now too with her adrenaline used up.

“I should play like that more huh?” She asks, fingertips tracing your arm. You hum happily, too tired to open your eyes.

“Yeah,” you agree. “Need to see a ring on you.”

Tasha chuckles, pressing a kiss onto your forehead. “I’ma have you in bed for days after that.”

“Bet,” you agree, mind buzzing with admiration still thinking about your girlfriend and how she left it all on the court that day.

-

taglist: @sierrale8ne @thaatdigitaldiary @lilpaigeyherbo @uconnwag @swiftie4evr @yourmom-25s-blog @vamptizm @iknowwhatyoutellyourfriends

[wosospacegirl]

Can I please request more ABJ headcannons love them

A/N: Lioness!Reader / Arsenal!Reader

This is a scheduled post, so I hope it works, otherwise I’m just talking to myself lol.

Hope you enjoy this little rivalry moment between Y/N and Aggie!

..

Rivalry

- Aggie and Y/N had known each other for years–youth camps, national team friendlies, U17s– and they’d always been on opposite sides. Aggie was Chelsea through and through. Y/N was a die-hard Arsenal girl. That part never changed.

- Despite that, their rivalry never got in the way of their friendship.

- Usually, they were cool with it. They chirped at each other during warmups, flicked each other off during the handshake line, but it was all in good fun. 

- It never bothered them. If anything, they liked it.

- Until it got ugly.

- The semifinal match was tense. The winner went to the final. Arsenal vs. Chelsea. Y/N vs. Aggie.

- Y/N was locked in– marking Aggie tightly, constantly in her space. She was provoking her in that annoyingly calm voice, stepping into every run, blocking every angle.

- If Aggie was lining up to shoot? Y/N was there, launching the ball to the other end of the pitch. If Y/N was about to send a pass to Alessia or Caitlin? Aggie was already there, stealing it.

- They weren’t exactly clean players, but Y/N was more reckless. She didn’t mind making it obvious she was marking Aggie.

- Aggie was not amused by that. Her usual deadpan expression shifted into a full-on scowl.

- It all boiled over when Y/N intercepted a pass with a slide tackle that sent Aggie crashing to the ground.

- Aggie snapped. She got up, shoved Y/N hard, and the ref immediately pulled a yellow.

- The whistle blew, and their teammates just stared at them. No one had ever seen the two of them go at each other like that.

- Y/N stood up with a grin. “Touched a nerve, huh?”

- “That wasn’t a fucking clean tackle,” Aggie snapped.

- “Tell that to the ref. You’re the one with the yellow, not me.”

- And just like that, Y/N walked off to her position like nothing had happened–loving every second of how worked up she had gotten Aggie… or maybe just loving having her attention.

- Later, Aggie grabbed Y/N’s shirt mid-run to stop her from getting ahead, holding her back right in front of the ref. Nothing was called. Y/N was fuming.

- Post-match? Silence. No texts. No sarcastic banter. Just mutual rage.

- It took two full weeks and a national team call-up for them to finally speak again — and even then, it started with a 1v1 shooting drill where Aggie–of course- won.

- Their teammates were convinced they hated each other. Everyone was used to seeing them together, grabbing food, teasing each other, going out for drinks. Now they wouldn’t even make eye contact.

- Most assumed the rivalry had finally gotten the better of them.

- It hadn’t. It had just cracked something open��something hot and entirely new.

- Especially after a very intense training session in their shared camp room that night. Wink wink.

[woso-dreamzzz]

Boys

Magdalena Eriksson x Child!Reader

Part of The Big Adventures Universe

Summary: Boys are the worst

When kids are little, football teams are usually mixed.

Boys and girls.

Girls and boys.

Magda knows this. She doesn't particularly care that they're not separated. It's not really needed at this point when kids haven't gone through puberty and there's not much of a difference physically between them.

She has no problems with that.

She does have a problem with the parents of boys who think the team shouldn't be mixed.

"Good girl!" She says as you make another save.

It's been nearly a year since the move to Germany and it had taken that amount of time for her and Pernille to find you a little football team to join.

They don't want you at the Bayern academy. In fact, they don't want you at any academy until you're a bit older, when you're absolutely sure that football is what you want to do.

But this is a nice compromise.

You still get to play football but without all the pressure to perform that academies provide.

"Just push her over!" One of the dads from the opposite team yells," Are you really letting a girl beat you?!"

Ordinarily, Magda would have seen red but after the humiliating time she had the last time this happened and was subsequently told to wait in her car, she's not eager for a repeat.

So, Magda just starts clapping louder and yelling out her praise as you pass the ball off to one of the other kids.

This is a kid's football match so she can forgive a few moments of physicality. Kids can get a bit aggressive and it's clear, even to Magda's own biased eyes that you're leagues ahead of all of your peers.

In fact, that makes her puff out her chest a bit in pride.

Of course her little girl is the best one here by miles.

Your talent is obvious and your clear idolisation and perfect listening to the goalkeepers in your life has you more than prepared for a bunch of untrained kids trying to play a game of football.

So, all in all, Magda can forgive a bit of physicality.

What she can't forgive is the little boy who tugs at your hair after you save his weak shot on goal.

"Ow!" You yelp and Magda's hands clench into fists.

"That's got to be a red!" She heckles the ref, who looks to be barely out of puberty and not paid enough to deal with the yelling of parents. "Give him a red!"

"Pull her hair harder, son!" The boy's father says and while Magda can't hit a child, she can definitely hit an adult.

She shoves him back, crossing the field in quick strides to catch him off guard.

He stumbles a little before his face twists into outrage, spitting right at Magda's feet. "Watch it, bitch!"

The resemblance between you and Magda is uncanny so it's clear he knows which child is hers.

"If your kid can't take a bit of hair-pulling then maybe she should stop playing a boy's game and go back to doing her nails."

"Watch it!" Magda snaps back," Or your son is going to watch his dad lose to a girl as well."

"Go back to the kitchen!" He says back and Magda rolls her eyes," Football's a men's game!"

She expected a better insult.

At some point, they've started yelling at each other and the poor teenage referee has to slide between them to make sure no one starts swinging.

"Go to your cars!" He says," You-You can't argue in front of kids!"

So much for Magda not getting sent off again.

"Yeah!" The dad clearly doesn't know how to take a hint. "Come back when you learn how to play the game!"

Magda stalks away, throwing over her shoulder," Come back when you've won a league title!"

Magda stews in her car, arms crossed over her chest. She doesn't even turn on the radio, split between anger and working out how she's going to avoid telling Pernille she got sent to the side-lines again.

You practically skip over to the car, escorted by one of the parents that Magda's yet to learn the name of.

"Hey," She says as you pull yourself into your seat, leaning back so she can buckle your seatbelt up," How was the game?"

"You got told off," You say instead.

"I did."

"You should have punched him in the nose."

"Violence isn't the answer to arguments, princesse."

You frown. "Georgia told me that the only way to deal with mean men is to prove you're better or punch them in the nose. I proved I was better. You should have punched him in the nose."

"Of course Georgia told you that," Magda mutters under her breath before raising her voice again," But how was the match after I was sent away?"

"It was good," You say, rifling through your bag for a snack," I saved a penalty."

"You did?!" A pang of disappointment stirs in Magda's stomach. "I'm sorry I couldn't see it."

"It was the boy that pulled my hair," You say, trying to stab your straw into your juice box," He cried."

"Good."

"Yeah and then before Miss Sophia brought me over to you, he gave me a flower and told me I was cool."

Magda nearly slams on the breaks then and there. "What?"

"Yeah. It was kind of weird because he was still crying. Boys are weird."

"Yes. Yes they are."

"Are you going to get sent off next match too? Because if you are, can Momma come to my matches too? I want someone to be able to watch me."

[steddieas-shegoes]

hit the showers

for @steddiesportsau prompt 'locker room'

rated e | 2,042 words | cw: public sex but they don't get caught | tags: established relationship, modern au, hockey au, college hockey players, soft dom eddie munson, sub steve harrington, praise kink, blowjobs, coming untouched

🏒🏒🏒🏒🏒🏒🏒🏒🏒🏒🏒🏒🏒🏒🏒

There is a certain kind of silence that only happens after a tough loss.

The championship game should’ve been theirs. They put it all on the line, sometimes more than they really had to give.

The refs were missing calls left and right, but calling every possible penalty on them. Biased may not even be the word to describe the way they so clearly worked for the other team to win.

Steve is definitely the most upset, staring down at the floor still fully dressed except for his helmet. Everyone else is undressing, packing their equipment bags, leaving the locker room quietly.

Eddie keeps his eyes on Steve the entire time he gets changed.

He knows what Steve’s doing.

He’s replaying every moment of the game, every shift, every pass, every shot on net, every whistle. He’s thinking about what he could’ve done differently, wondering if one small change could’ve led to a win.

Eddie knows it wouldn’t have mattered. They were meant to lose this game.

He knows what Steve needs.

He waits for the room to clear out, telling their equipment manager he’ll make sure to lock up when he can get Steve out. It’s not the first time he’s done this, so Robin doesn’t think much of it.

She’s seen it all already; Nothing he says or does would give her pause.

He counts to 60 just to be sure they’re alone. He doesn’t hear anything in the hall. There’s some music in the distance, but it’s probably the other team celebrating. They won’t come in here.

He sinks to his knees in front of Steve, placing his hands on his thighs. He’s stripped to just his underwear, can still smell the sweat layering his skin and Steve’s.

“You did good, Steve,” he says slowly, carefully. Sometimes it’s hard to read how quickly he needs to hear it, even when he knows Steve better than he knows himself. “You made us proud. Made me proud.”

Steve whimpers, shakes his head.

Eddie’s grip tightens. “Look at me.”

He does.

“See? Always good for me.” Eddie knows he’s about to push, maybe a little too hard. But that’s why they have rules, safewords. “You’re gonna repeat after me.”

Steve nods, but he knows this is hard for him. They’ve only done it a few times, and he had to use his safeword once. He’s gonna take it easy, though.

“I did the best I could,” Eddie starts.

Steve swallows. “I did the best I could.”

“I was a great teammate and captain.”

Steve shakes his head and closes his eyes. Eddie reaches under the pants and pinches at a small patch of skin. He whines.

“I was a great teammate and captain.”

“Good boy,” Eddie praises. Steve thrives off of praise, even outside of this. “This next part might be harder, but I know you can do it.”

Steve’s eyes are glassy, but less like he’s going to cry and more like he’s sinking, falling into Eddie’s protection despite the fight he usually puts up when he’s so upset.

“I am better than any player on that team.”

As expected, Steve hesitates with this one. Eddie reaches down to unlace his skates slowly, waiting patiently. He knows Steve will repeat it eventually.

He’s removing the tape from his socks when Steve’s breath catches. He looks up.

“I’m better than any player on that team.”

Eddie grins. “That’s my boy,” he leans up to kiss the corner of his mouth. “One more.”

Eddie stands up and helps Steve stand from his bench. He unties his pants and starts to push them down his legs, helping him step out of them.

“I deserved to win that game.”

Steve doesn’t repeat it. Eddie waits. He pulls Steve’s jersey over his head and gets his chest pads off. They’re both standing there mostly naked, sweaty, disappointed in their night.

Eddie cups his face in his hands. “C’mon, sweet love. You can say it.”

“We deserved to win that game,” he finally says, barely more than a whisper.

“That’s not what I said, is it?” He asks. Steve bites his lip. “Tell me exactly what I said, baby.”

“I deserved to win that game.”

Eddie can feel him shivering, can see how flush his neck and chest is. He’s beautiful, even when he’s struggling.

“We all did deserve to win. But you understand why you specifically deserved it?” Eddie continues before Steve can answer. “You kept pushing yourself and all of us even when we lost hope in the second period. You never showed any doubt that we would win, not even in the last minute when we were still down three goals. This whole team would follow you into war if you asked. Losing the game today says nothing about your leadership except that we’ll be able to come back better next year.”

A tear falls down Steve’s cheek. Eddie doesn’t usually let himself get emotional when he’s trying to be strong for Steve, but he can’t help letting the tears well up in his own eyes. He rubs his thumb across Steve’s cheek.

“I love you and I’m proud of you,” he finishes with.

Steve sobs and falls forward, his forehead hitting Eddie’s shoulder, almost painfully. If Eddie wasn’t used to Steve’s weight already, the force might have knocked him over.

He holds him as he cries, waits for him to calm a bit on his own before he does anything else. Sometimes he has to take it slow, sometimes it’s more of a help to let Steve lead. They’re in no real rush. The rink will be open for another few hours and they’re sharing a room at the hotel. If Steve wants to cry for the next hour, Eddie will let him, will hold him through it all, will cry with him.

“It’s not fair,” Steve finally says, minutes later when his breathing has mostly returned to normal and his voice sounds a bit more stable. “We were the better team.”

“Yeah, we were,” Eddie agrees. “But you and I both know sometimes the better team loses.”

“Why did it have to be now?” Steve turns his face into Eddie’s neck, sighing as his shoulders relax. “Why us?”

“I wish I knew, sweetheart. We did our best.”

Steve is quiet for another few minutes, and Eddie almost thinks he’s somehow managed to fall asleep standing up. Just when he considers trying to pick Steve up and set him on the bench, he kisses his neck and pulls back.

“Thank you,” he whispers.

“For what?”

“Always knowing what I need.”

Eddie kisses his lips softly, barely more than a peck. Steve tries to deepen it, but Eddie holds him away.

“Are you sure you wanna do that here? Now?” Eddie wants him to focus on where they are, and how he’s actually feeling. He may think he wants the distraction, but Eddie won’t let him make a decision he normally wouldn’t just because he’s feeling upset about the loss.

“Can I make you feel good? Please? I can be quick,” Steve begs. He always sounds so good when he begs. Eddie can’t resist it, can’t resist giving him everything he wants.

“If you can make me come in five minutes, then you can do whatever you want,” Eddie allows.

Steve drops to his knees with a moan. He’s gotta be a little sore from the game, especially after a pretty rough check in the third. He loves being on his knees though. Eddie once kept him there for a few hours, his cock in Steve’s mouth for most of it. He was meant to be there, between Eddie’s legs, licking and sucking him until he couldn’t help but fuck into his mouth.

He’s quick to pull Eddie’s underwear down, wrapping a hand around his half-hard cock and leaning forward to lick the tip.

Eddie knows it won’t take long; He’s already getting harder from his breath hot against his length and his tongue swirling around the head. They’ve never cared much about lasting long. What feels good, is good.

Steve swallows most of his cock and he knows he’s done for. Steve looks up at him with wide eyes, knows exactly what he’s doing by blinking slowly and moaning around his length.

“Fuck, such a good boy. Should always be on your knees,” Eddie groans out. “You’d love that, huh?”

Steve moans again, the vibrations sending shockwaves through Eddie’s entire body. He can’t tell if Steve’s hard, but he’s sure he’s enjoying this even if not. Steve really does love being on his knees.

“Know you would. You love being down there, love when I use your mouth, too,” Eddie rambles on. Sometimes even his impressive self-control loses a filter. “Want me to fuck your mouth now?”

Steve nods, forcing himself to take all of Eddie’s cock. He chokes for a second, but Eddie knows he’s fine. He blinks up at him, tears in his eyes for a different reason now.

“You’re so beautiful,” Eddie gasps as Steve pulls off of him for air. “Gonna use your mouth, fuck you until I come, okay?”

Steve opens his mouth and tilts his head back enough for Eddie to feed his cock back inside, slowly at first so Steve doesn’t choke again. He laces his fingers through Steve’s hair, pushing further until he hits the back of his throat.

Steve whines. Eddie groans.

“Ready?” He asks, even though he knows Steve’s ready.

Steve taps his thigh once as a yes and Eddie pulls out and fucks forward a few times slowly, maddeningly slowly. It drives him crazy to take his time, but he knows it drives Steve crazier.

He moves faster, making Steve take his entire length with every thrust. It’s loud and wet, and Steve’s spit is getting everywhere. He looks beautiful like this. He looks like Eddie’s.

“Fuck, I’m gonna come already,” Eddie pants. “In your mouth or on your face?”

He tugs Steve off of his cock, wincing at the cold air hitting him. He tightens his grip in his hair to make Steve focus.

“Mouth, please,” he finally says.

Eddie gives him what he wants.

It only takes a few more thrusts for him to come down Steve’s throat, his legs shaking as he tries to hold himself up as Steve swallows it all. He feels lightheaded, though it’s probably also a bit from dehydration.

“Thank you,” Steve sighs, resting his head against Eddie’s thigh.

“Thank you,” Eddie says with a laugh. He sits on the bench and pulls Steve into his lap. Steve’s dick is soft, but sticky. “You came from making me feel good? Fuck, you’re so good.”

They kiss lazily for a couple minutes, both knowing they aren’t going to do anything but rinse off in the shower and head out after. They can take a longer shower at the hotel, grab dinner with the team, and get some much needed sleep.

Eddie’s sure Steve’s parents have already called and left a message on his phone, something about how they wish he could have scored more, they’re proud of his accomplishments but hope he can do more next year, whatever other bullshit they like to spout that leaves Steve stressed for days. He knows his Uncle Wayne probably called and left messages for them both, telling them how proud he is of them and how he can’t wait to see them win it next year.

The rest of the team will be cooled off by the time dinner rolls around, everyone back to relaxing and joking around, getting excited for next season for those who aren’t graduating. Steve and Eddie will be seniors next year, both getting their degrees in teaching, though Eddie’s has a music focus.

Hockey is what brought them together, both rookies on a shitty college club team for their Freshman year. They both helped the team move up a division, and won the championship their sophomore year before they moved a division again. They were the favorites to win this year, but sometimes that’s not enough.

What is enough is knowing that they’ve got each other, and another shot next year, and a future they’re both looking forward to regardless of losing this game.

[tremendouscreationperson]

A little fic based off of this

Whenever I write an X Reader it's usually for chubby!reader but it's actually a plot point in this one

Chubby/bullied!reader x stan

You, Ford, Caryn and Filbrick sat in the front row.

Stan had a big fight tonight, the only reason his father came, and you were nervously tapping your leg. His opponent, Godfrey Davies, was bigger and looked meaner but you knew Stan could potentially pull it off.

The two entered the ring and Stan gave you a cheeky wink before his eyes caught his father. His whole expression changed when he clocked Filbrick.

"He better win." Ford commented.

You knew what Ford was implying. If Stan lost in front of his dad he would be crushed. And Filbrick was the type of man who would leave if he was bored so Stan would also have to put on a good show.

The two touched gloves and the bell rang.

You weren't a huge boxing fan but wouldn't deny the rush a match gave you. The adrenaline of the room coursed through your veins as each punch landed. Godfrey was strong, he had hit Stan's stomach a few times but Stan was quick enough to dodge any major strikes.

Godfrey managed to land a blow against Stan's cheek and your hand grasped Fords.

You glanced at Ford as an excuse to spy on Filbrick but the man gave nothing away. Merely enjoying? the show.

In the split second your eyes were off of Stan, he had managed to gain the upper hand with a series of quick jabs against Godfrey's right side.

"He's hurt him." Ford informed you. "See the twitch."

You followed his fingers, unable to see the twitch, alas you trusted Ford's intelligence. If Ford said Stan hurt him then he hurt him.

The two danced around each other for the remainder of the round, there was a soft tap here and a dodge there but otherwise it was quiet.

The next round was similar. There were the odd moments of carnal violence sprinkled in between their dance but it was the third round that mattered.

As Stan took a sip of water, he turned in your direction, his pale skin beginning to pinken as it swelled up. He gave you all a sloppy smirk and when the bell rang again, there was a new fire in him.

Stan kept low and stayed with defence until Godfrey tired himself out - punching ludicrously hard against Stan's forearm block - and just when Godfrey stopped to pant, Stan whacked him with an uppercut.

Godfrey stumbled backwards, wobbling on his feet. Stan was on him in an instant punching him in the face and forcing the man to the floor.

The ref called it and everyone cheered.

He had won!

This was a big deal.

He could now fight in a higher tier.

This was really good news!

You released Ford from your hug and he ran over to his twin. The boys embraced, clapping each other's backs, grinning from ear to ear.

Caryn was next, she slipped in the hug, squeezing her babies tight. You knew she said a cheesy joke along the lines of 'I didn't need a crystal ball to know you'd win' because the twins rolled their eyes in sync but there was no real malice behind the gesture.

Filbrick finally made his move: a pat on the shoulder. You knew it meant the world to Stan. He deserved it. He really did. He was glorious.

A photographer worked his way into the ring and told the family to smile but Stan stopped the photo.

"Wait, where's Y/N?" His eyes scanned the crowd that had formed, swarming the ring side. He had a lot of groupies, unsurprisingly. People loved a big strong man and it didn't hurt that he looked like that.

They landed on you and you smiled, waving awkwardly as he gestured for you to join them. The room was noisy and people were still cheering, drinks being drunk, music blaring so he didn't hear your reply. You tried to call out again but in the end shook your head, sheepishly.

It was his moment. He needed this. To be in a photo with his family. He could frame it.

Besides, you'd only ruin it.

You weren't exactly pretty.

A fact that everyone had relentlessly told you at school.

The only reason you were still alive was Stan and Ford's friendship, otherwise you'd have had to fight the onslaught of insults alone and you really didn't think you were strong enough for that.

Stan frowned momentarily before forcing a smile for the photo.

~~

"Doll face?" You were sitting in your garden, on the swing your dad had made, reading the Lord of the Rings. Turning your head you found Stan. He was standing next to you, hands in pockets. He had bruises on his cheek and a split lip you hadn't noticed at the time.

"Hi." You smiled up, closing the book. "How'd's it feel to be a winner?"

Stan chuckled, plonking down on the swing next to you. Your dad had to install another when you eventually made friends. "'little sore."

"I bet you don't feel it because your dad was proud of you." You mock punched his arm. "He really was."

Stan swivelled on the swing, the rope twisting together as he spun around.

You suspected he had something to say so kept quiet until he found the words.

Stan let go, spinning until he was back in the correct place.

"You know you're gorgeous right?" The words tumbled out.

They took you aback. You hadn't ever thought those words would come out of his mouth. "Pardon?"

He let out a shaky breath, gazing up at the sky. "You're really pretty. I don't know why Jorgie and her gang tell you otherwise. Like a damn movie star."

Where had this come from? "Wh-"

"The photo." He answered without needing the question. "I wish you were in it."

You didn't know what to say or how to respond. The only thing you could think to do was shyly smile and reach for his hand.

~~

"Filbrick, that's Y/N." You overheard Caryn whisper to her husband. They were in the Kitchen where you were planning on getting a drink. "She comes over all the time."

He huffed.

Did-did he not know who you were?

You were here every other day.

Hell, you once made the man dinner!

Caryn had been sick and the boys were useless so you came around and rustled up some grub for the four of them.

That was insulting.

"The fat one?" He questioned.

Fat?

Were you fat?

You glanced down at yourself, you could see your toes but maybe not as much as you should be able to?

"She's no-well, it doesn't matter. She's good for Stan..and Ford. Keeps them sane."

Caryn thought you were fat too?

You stepped away carefully, avoiding the spots in the wood that creaked, and nestled yourself back into the boys room. Settling next to Stan in his bed as they argued about nothing important.

~~

You'd declined every offer Stan made to go out. You didn't want to look like you were avoiding him but his parents thought you were fat and that had shaken your self image.

You were obviously not thin in the mirror and people at school called you fat and ugly all the time. So much that part of you believed it and part of you brushed it off but to hear it from them... From people you trusted...

You knew you were nothing great to look at. Stan being sweet was just him trying to comfort you, you probably embarrassed them.

In an effort to beautify yourself, your evenings were spent jogging mostly. It was awful and you hated it but you made sure to do it before dinner or you wouldn't eat.

"Oit." A voice called, you spun to see Stan running to catch up.

"Hey."

"What're we doing?" He fell into pace with you.

"Jogging." You offered.

"Har, har." He playfully shoved you. "Why are we jogging? It's the worst."

Your face split into a grin, loving how in sync the two of you were. "It really is! I hate it."

When you both rounded the corner, he repeated himself. "C'mon what are we doing?"

"Trying to lose weight." You answered.

"W-why?" Your reply had caught him completely off guard that he faltered. Stan had to speed up to match your pace again. "You don't need to."

A dark chuckle left you without your consent. "I heard someone talking-"

"Ignore the girls at school." He interrupted.

"It wasn't-" Jogging and talking was hard. "It was someone whose opinion I'd hate to admit I trust. They said it straight."

Stan made a face but didn't argue. He would let you win this round and later convince you to come to the diner and get a thick shake. He knew you weren't fat. Well, maybe you were but not in a bad way! You looked amazing! The meat on your bones was in all the right places. More to love like platonically.

Eventually the two of you came to a stop outside your house.

"I don't think jeans were designed for running." Stan tried to pry the fabric off his thigh.

"I'd never blame you, beautiful." He folded his arms. "Now, who do I have to beat up?"

You giggled. "Don't blame me. I didn't ask you to join me."

"No one." Your eyes rolled automatically.

"Hey, don't do that."

"I'm not doing anyth-"

Stan closed the distance, cupping your cheeks in his palms, forcing eye contact. "Tell me. 'cause you're perfect."

Why had he decided to be all sweet and flirty recently? He did know you were the butt of every joke, right? Like everyone else, he was well aware that boys would ask you out as a prank. Was this one? No, not your Stan.

Well he wasn't your Stan.

"Earth to Y/N." He manipulated your head, swaying it gently side to side.

"Huh?"

"Who called you fat?"

The words seemed to leave your mouth before you had the chance to stop them. Your mind hadn't even registered properly and they were released into the world. "Your parents."

The neutral expression morphed into anger. Stan's brows pulled as his pupils shrunk. A twitch occurred in his jaw. "My dad?"

"Your mom, too." You shrugged. "It's nothing massive, it's actually helpful. Now I know it's true I can-"

"No." He shook his head. "No, it's not. It's mean." Stan placed his forehead against yours and took in a breath. "When I say you are perfect, believe it. Don't change anything. Please, doll."

~~

The new few months played out in the usual fashion. You'd go to school, then theirs, they'd come to yours, the three of you would worry about test results, studying was tricky when the boys were helping - they always got off topic. It didn't take long before all the exams were finished and the school year was coming to a close meaning prom.

You and the twins went together. None of you officially had dates but that didn't matter because it was always you three vs the world.

A triangle was the strongest shape after all.

You arrived at the Pines house on time, barely giving the door a knock before it swung open. Stan was quick to exit and pulled you towards the car.

He didn't look back, settling you into the passenger seat as he rounded the car to the driver's.

"Stan?" You glanced at the front door. "Everything okay?" Caryn had begged you to come in and take photos less than a week ago. Maybe Stan knew you were embarrassed or maybe he was going back on his words... Maybe he was embarrassed of you.

Stan gave you a curt nod, his palms tightening in the steering wheel. You watched the knuckles whiten on his left hand before his right caught your gaze. There was blood on them.

Why was there blood on his knuckles?!

"Where's Ford?"

As if on cue Ford left the house, closing the door behind him and strode towards the car.

He slipped into the backseat and gave you a sheepish smile.

The car journey was blessedly short and weird to say the least.

You distracted yourself with the radio.

At school you took the obligatory "couple" photo. You stood between the boys arm in arm. Even if it was fake, it was the first time Stan smiled tonight.

You were led to the gym - they had dressed it up for a party but it was still just your school gym - and found a spot to stand and people watch.

Ford attempted to make small talk with others but he wasn't hugely successful, coming back each time with an 'aww shucks'. At least he didn't have punch thrown at him. Silver linings and all that, hey?

Stan was still being strange so you let him be. Sometimes he went quiet when he was thinking too hard. You hoped he was able to at least enjoy a bit of the evening.

He had just excused himself to use the toilet when Ford sprinted back to your side. "Finally!"

"What?!"

"He punched dad." Ford whispered.

Huh, it sounded like Ford told you Stan had punched Filbrick but that would be insane. "Care to run that by me again?"

"Dad said something and Stan shouted before he just socked him. It was intense. Dad then shook his hand!"

What?!

"Wait, I don't get it." You frowned. "Your dad's been an asshole for years, what made Stan snap?"

Ford shrugged but you knew he knew. Why wasn't he telling you? "Ask him."

"Oh, yeah, I'll just ask Stan 'why'd you finally decide to whack your dad?' Think about it for more than two seconds!"

Ford's eyes slipped over your shoulder and he nodded minutely. Stan was back in the room.

Your eyes immediately found his knuckles, they weren't bloodied but even from here you could see the slight pink hue. You turned to ask Ford something only to find he had disappeared again.

Stan made his way through the dancefloor and stopped by your side.

After Ford's confession the silence was maddening. You needed to ask why but how do you go about it? How do you just ask him? And his dad shook his hand? Was that a goodbye? Was Stan being kicked out? No, Filbrick wasn't that cruel.

"Fancy a dance?" You offered. Stan looked at you and then the crowd, unease splattered throughout his expression. "We don't have to."

"It is a dance, though." He commented. "Just- there's a lot of people."

"It's okay." You brushed him off. It wasn't a massive deal, you didn't have to dance at a dance.

"There wasn't anyone in the corridor by Mr Tymeh's. Could still hear the music." He didn't outright ask you but you'd been friends long enough to read between the lines.

"Lead the way."

The two of you left the gym and wandered past the toilets to the small 'office' Mr Tymeh ate his lunch and moaned at the less athletic students in.

Stan was right, you could hear the music from here and the corridor was empty.

"Wanna do this then?" He asked, making zero eye contact.

"Stan, we don't have to if yo-" You were unable to finish the sentence because he pulled you close, hands on your waist, and swayed.

Your hands met his shoulders and you let him move the two of you back and forth. The song wasn't meant for slow swaying but this half-dance was really sweet so you weren't going to complain.

"I like your suit." You brushed your fingers along his collar.

"Thanks, got mine and Fords for the price of one." He smirked cockily. "You, uh, you look beautiful as ever. That colour's real pretty."

You didn't give the compliment to get one, hopefully he knew that!! Yet it was sweet hearing the words. Choosing the colour was very hard, you didn't want to look good for everyone else, you wanted to feel good for yourself and when you finally decided what you were wearing you did feel good.

Maybe tonight you'd believe Stan's words.

Believe you were pretty passable.

Your brain was getting too distracting so you softly asked, "what happened to your hand?"

"Some schmuck." He shrugged. "No one important."

You pulled his hand from your hip and frowned at the knuckles. "That's not what Ford said."

Stan groaned. "That fucker."

"Are you alright?"

He looked into your eyes before nodding. "Yeah."

"Gonna tell me about it?" You raised a brow.

"He was just being an asshole." There was more to the story. There had to be. Filbrick had been an asshole for years and Stan hadn't snapped, so why now? Stan saw the confusion in your face and elaborated. "He made comments about you."

Your frown deepened. "You hit your dad for me?" You were not worth that. Why the fuck would he-

"Course I did." Stan paused. "He can say what he wants about me but not you." His eyes flickered to your opening mouth. "It was strange, he patted me on the back and shook my hand after. Proud of me for standing up I guess."

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@nyx-universe @aceistheplace86