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beibigirl124 · 1 month ago

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A Gift For The Victor Pt. 2

Phil Brooks (CM Punk) x reader

TW: Smut, smut, and more smut. Minors DNI!!!!! PnV, creampie, pet names used, dirty talk, choking, oral (m receiving), fingering, PDA, jealousy/possessiveness, also lots of fluff. I think that’s it…

Tags: @reebs-luvs-rhodes-and-wrestling, @eringobragh420, @thatgirljayy, @princessesareforsuckers, @kkd1021

✧･ﾟ:*ᴵ’ᵐ ᵇᵉᵃᵘ ᵗᶦᶠᵘˡ (ꈍ ꒳ ꈍ✿)*:･ﾟ✧*

Y/N smooths her hands over her dark red dress as she looks herself over in the mirror. She looks good. Hair perfectly styled to show off her natural locks, makeup simple yet elegant, the most dangerous part about it was the red lipstick that matched her dress perfectly. The dress itself was a one piece, but the front of it opened up around her stomach, showing just the right amount of skin to tease without revealing too much. The fabric hugged her thigh tightly to show just how hard she trains to be where she is.

Y/N glances down at her watch, noting that it’s five forty-five. She inhales sharply, bracing herself for the night ahead. She sprays a few spritzes of perfume on herself before sliding in a few accessories as her finishing touch.

The hotel bathroom light wasn’t great, but it was enough for her to admire her choice in color for the night. She sends herself a small, reassuring nod in the mirror before walking out to slip on her sleek black strap heels. She was ready.

And as if it was on cue, three knocks rap on her door. Y/N glances at her watch again. Five fifty. Cheeky son of a bitch is ten minutes early. Y/N can’t help but smile to herself. He must be eager to see her after everything that’s gone down between them. Can’t say she blames him. With how she looks in this dress, he won’t be able to keep his hands to himself.

Despite her confidence, there is a part of her that’s nervous. She took a big risk with her stunt at Mania. So now is the true test to see if it was all worth it. She slowly walks over to the door, wiping her palms on her legs to make sure they aren’t sweaty before slowly opening the door.

Y/N opens the door just enough to see him first — and damn it all, she’s not ready for the sight that greets her.

Phil stands there like sin dressed up in a tailored black suit. No tie. Top two buttons undone, sleeves rolled so she can see the ink curling around his forearms — those forearms she’s thought about more times than she’ll ever admit. He’s wearing that grin too, the cocky half-smile that makes her want to slap him or climb him, depending on her mood.

His eyes drag over her, unhurried, his tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip like he’s tasting her already. For a second — just a second — she swears she sees his pupils blow wide, throat working as he swallows hard. Oh, she’s got him. She’s got him by the balls.

“Holy shit…” The words slip out before he can catch them, voice low and rough. He laughs once under his breath, shaking his head like he doesn’t believe his luck. “You really decided to wear that for dinner, huh?”

She raises a brow, leaning her hip into the door frame, giving him a show of toned thigh and just a sinful peek of stomach where the fabric parts. She swears she sees his knuckles flex at his sides. Good. Let him suffer.

“I wore it for dessert, actually,” she purrs. “Dinner’s just the formality.”

He huffs a laugh, but it cracks halfway out of his chest. He shifts his weight, fists clenching, eyes locked on her mouth like it’s a crime scene he’s dying to contaminate.

“You’re playing with fire, sweetheart. You know that?”

She shrugs a bare shoulder, pretending to be bored even as her pulse skitters beneath her skin. Jesus, he smells good. She wants him under her nails, under her tongue, under her — god, focus.

“Better men than you have tried to tame me, Brooks,” she taunts, dragging out his last name on purpose. She knows exactly how it riles him up. “They all failed. What makes you think you stand a chance?”

Something in his face flickers — then shutters. He pushes off the doorframe, one hand braced beside her head, boxing her in with his body. She doesn’t move. Won’t give him the satisfaction. But her lungs forget how to breathe when he leans in, nose brushing hers, lips so close she can feel the ghost of his breath every time he speaks.

“Because you kissed me first,” he murmurs, voice like gravel and silk all at once. “You started this. And you knew exactly what the fuck you were doing when you did it.”

A shiver rattles down her spine. She hates how easily he can do this — turn her insides to molten heat with one damn look. But two can play. Her fingers crawl up his chest, slow, deliberate, tracing the line of ink peeking out from beneath his shirt. She feels the way his abs tighten under her touch. She smirks. Let him burn the same way she’s been for the past year and a half.

“I knew you wouldn’t have the balls to finish it,” she whispers. Lies. He’s always had the balls — that’s the problem.

He growls — actually growls — low and hungry in the back of his throat. Then his lips crush to hers so fast her head spins, one big hand tangling in her hair, the other sliding shamelessly down to her hip, tugging her against him so she can feel exactly what she’s doing to him through all that expensive fabric.

She gasps against his mouth, and he takes it — deepens the kiss, tongue stroking hers in a filthy promise of exactly how he’ll taste every inch of her later. When he pulls back, barely, his breath is ragged, eyes so dark she swears they’ve gone black.

“You’re gonna be the death of me,” he rasps, forehead pressed to hers, both of them fighting for air. “Keep looking at me like that and I’m gonna bend you over this damn table before the appetizers even hit the plate.”

Her laugh is breathless, shaky, deliciously wicked. Her hands fist in his lapels, tugging him back for another bruising kiss, this one messier, needier. She bites his bottom lip on purpose, smirks when he groans into her mouth like she’s the first woman who’s ever made him lose control. Maybe she is.

“Try it, Punk,” she dares, words a hot whisper against his wet lips. “See if I stop you.”

He pulls back an inch, eyes flicking between her mouth and the rest of her body, like he’s trying to memorize exactly how she looks right now — skin flushed, lips redder and just a little swollen. His control hangs by a single, frayed thread. He could snap it right now, and they both know it.

“Dinner first,” he growls, but it sounds more like a threat than a promise. His hands slip lower, fingertips skimming exposed skin at her waist. “Swear to god, you better eat fast, L/N. Because the second we get back here? I’m not stopping until you’re begging.”

She licks her lips — on purpose, of course — and watches him watch her tongue like it’s a live wire. Her smirk is pure poison.

“Who says I’ll beg?” she taunts, voice dripping with wicked delight.

He kisses her again — a quick, savage thing, teeth and tongue and a silent promise of ruin. When he breaks away, he’s the one smirking now.

“Oh, you will,” he breathes against her lips. “One way or another.”

He steps back just enough to offer his arm like he’s some well-behaved gentleman. It’s bullshit and they both know it. She loops her hand through his elbow, chin high, heart pounding hard enough she’s sure he can hear it.

Dinner is going to be agony. And the real meal won’t start until they come back.

He walks her out like a prize he fully intends to unwrap later — one hand at the small of her back, warm and possessive, the other tucked in his pocket like he’s the picture of restraint. It’s a lie. She can feel it in the way his thumb occasionally presses just a little too low on her spine, in the subtle flex of his fingers like he’s fighting the primal urge to drag her into the nearest dark corner and remind her, right then and there, exactly who she belongs to.

When a sleek, black town car glides to a stop at the curb, she arches an eyebrow at him, amusement dancing behind her lashes.

“A car service, huh?” she teases, chin tilted up just enough to bait him. “Someone’s trying hard tonight.”

He just gives her that crooked, infuriating smirk that’s equal parts bad habit and secret weapon. “What, you think I’d risk letting you crawl all over me in the back of a regular cab? I have standards, sweetheart.”

She huffs a laugh, dark and dangerous, and when she slides into the car first, she makes damn sure to flash him a scandalous amount of leg — just to watch his jaw tighten. By the time he settles in beside her, she’s already tucked her dress neatly back over her thigh, pretending innocence she doesn’t possess for a second.

“Behave,” he growls, voice so low it scrapes deliciously down her spine. His hand lands on her bare knee, squeezing firmly enough to remind her who’s in charge — for now.

“I’m an angel,” she lies sweetly, batting her lashes at him. “A gentleman would know that.”

His thumb draws lazy circles on the inside of her thigh, drifting higher with each pass, each touch a silent threat to unravel her composure before they even get to dinner. She swallows hard, hating how easy it is for him to drag need from her with just a look, a touch, a whispered promise against her skin.

“You keep testing me…,” he murmurs, dipping closer, breath hot against her ear. “We won’t make it to the restaurant if you keep looking at me like that.”

“Big talk.” She shifts her hips, just to watch his nostrils flare. “Not sure you’ve got the stamina for it anymore, old man.”

The low chuckle he lets out is pure sin. He leans in so close she can taste the words against her neck: “Oh, you’re gonna regret saying that later. When your legs don’t work.”

A shiver wracks through her despite herself. She wants to retort — has a dozen sharp comebacks perched on the tip of her tongue — but then he says it, soft and almost thoughtless, and it slams straight into her chest before she can deflect it.

“I like spoiling you, you know that?” His thumb brushes the seam of her dress where it parts at her hip, a touch that’s all heat and ownership. “You deserve it. More than anyone I know.”

She goes still. The car hums beneath them, city lights flickering across his face. It’s stupid, really — just words. But it lands heavy and warm in her chest, nestling right where she swore she wouldn’t let him get to.

She tries to cover the sudden flutter of her heart with a smirk, nudging his shoulder with hers. “Careful, Brooks. Keep saying shit like that and I might actually start to like you.”

He turns his head, eyes locking with hers in the dim backseat. There’s mischief there, sure — but beneath it, something raw and honest that makes her breath hitch.

“Yeah?” His hand squeezes her thigh just a touch harder, his voice dipping into that low rasp that ruins her every time. “Good. Makes it easier when I break you later.”

She laughs, breathless, as the car glides toward the restaurant — her pulse thrumming loud in her ears, her thighs pressed together beneath his possessive palm.

✧･ﾟ:*ᴵ’ᵐ ᵇᵉᵃᵘ ᵗᶦᶠᵘˡ (ꈍ ꒳ ꈍ✿)*:･ﾟ✧*

The restaurant surprises her. Not because it’s expensive — she figured he’d splurge if only to prove a point — but because it’s thoughtful. Tasteful. Quiet enough for murmured secrets but warm enough that she doesn’t feel on display. It’s not some celebrity hotspot for paparazzi to catch them tangled up in scandal; it’s a place you take someone you actually want to know.

The host leads them to a candlelit corner booth tucked away beneath a soft pool of golden light. Phil slides in beside her instead of across, thigh pressed flush to hers from the second she sits. She pretends not to care, but the warmth of him seeps into her bones before she can muster her usual armor.

“You planned this,” she murmurs, voice pitched low, her knee brushing deliberately against his under the crisp white tablecloth.

He leans in until his lips ghost her ear, and his answer hums straight down her spine: “I plan a lot of things when it comes to you.”

God, she wants to roll her eyes. Call him cheesy, accuse him of rehearsing that line in the mirror. But when she glances at him, he’s just watching her — open, a little raw around the edges in a way that makes her chest twist painfully tight.

She tries to hide how much it hits her. Because this — this — she hadn’t been sure about. She knew she could get under his skin physically; hell, kissing him at Mania was proof enough of that. But this tender undercurrent? The possibility that he might feel something more than hunger for her? She hadn’t dared believe it.

He makes it impossible not to.

He orders her favorite wine before she can even glance at the menu — dry and dark, exactly how she likes it. He teases her about the bread basket, then wordlessly slides the warmest piece onto her plate when she’s not looking. He’s ruthless with his flirting — whispering filth in her ear between polite exchanges with the waiter — but it’s wrapped in warmth, genuine care threaded through every grin, every touch.

“Slow down,” he murmurs when she nearly chokes on a bite of steak after he nips at her earlobe like a menace. His thumb wipes the corner of her mouth, lingering a beat too long. “Want you fed and fucked tonight. Can’t have you fainting on me halfway through.”

She laughs so hard her stomach aches, smacking his shoulder before stealing a sip of his wine just to spite him. He lets her, watches her lips wrap around the rim of his glass with a heat that makes her thighs clench beneath the table.

Between courses, his hand roams — always finding its way under the tablecloth to her bare thigh. Sometimes innocent, sometimes possessive enough that she has to grip the edge of the table to keep from giving them away. He feeds her a bite of steak, then kisses the taste from her tongue, slow and languid and so tender it makes her eyes flutter shut for one stolen second.

He smells like expensive soap and faint leather. Every time he shifts closer, she wants to crawl into his lap and stay there until dawn. It terrifies her how much she wants that — how deeply she wants him to want it too.

When she teases him back — palm sliding over his thigh, fingers brushing the evidence of how worked up he is — he hisses through his teeth, eyes dark and wild in the flickering candlelight.

“Careful,” he growls, voice so low she can barely hear it over her pulse hammering in her ears. “I swear to God, I’ll clear this table with one fucking sweep and take you right here.”

The threat sends molten heat rolling through her veins. She wants to push him — to break his control just to see what happens — but then he cups her jaw, thumb brushing the corner of her mouth again, and his eyes soften.

“You look beautiful tonight.” His confession is quiet, too earnest for the filth curling off his tongue moments before. “More than beautiful. You know that, right?”

She hates how the words hit. How they carve past the armor she spent an hour in front of that hotel mirror fortifying — checking her hair, her makeup, the stupid dress she’d bought hoping he’d look at her. She didn’t want him to see her nerves, her stupid wish that maybe, just maybe, she could matter to him off-camera too.

But he says it like it’s obvious. Like it’s not even up for debate. And it wrecks her.

She hides the lump in her throat behind a mocking smirk, flicking her gaze to his mouth. “Who would’ve thought you were capable of being so sweet?”

He grins, devilish. “I’m not. But for you? I could pretend.”

She’s about to bite back with something wicked when he presses a soft, almost reverent kiss to her temple. The kind no one sees coming from CM Punk. The kind that makes her pulse stutter in her throat.

“Be right back,” he murmurs, lips brushing her hairline. “Don’t go anywhere. I’ve got a surprise for you.”

He slides out of the booth and she watches him go, pretending her thighs aren’t pressed tight under the table, pretending her heart isn’t trying to leap out of her chest at how good he’s been to her tonight. How seen she feels.

She doesn’t know he’s not headed for the bathroom. She doesn’t know he’s whispering to the manager about a dessert they don’t even make anymore — something he found out weeks ago she loved once, years back, and never forgot.

She continues looking at his retreating figure, fighting to slow her pulse — every part of her humming with the echo of his touch and the way he’d been so sweet with her before sliding from the booth. She tries to focus on her wine instead of the heat coiling low in her belly, tries to convince herself she’s not sitting here grinning at her phone like a teenager.

She doesn’t notice them at first. Just the soft scrape of sneakers, the faint smell of cheap cologne, then two shadows crowding her candlelit corner.

“Hey, uh… your Y/S/N, right?”

She glances up — two guys, maybe mid-twenties, buzzed on more than just beer, eyes wide like they can’t believe their luck. The taller one clutches his phone like a lifeline.

“Yeah,” she says, polite but guarded. “Hi.”

“Sorry to bug you. Just… huge fans. Could we maybe…?” He lifts the phone hopefully.

She softens a fraction. They don’t look too obnoxious. Yet. “Sure, quick one. Then I gotta get back to my date.”

They lean in close, sandwiching her shoulders, the phone flashing once, twice. She forces a smile until they pull back — but instead of thanking her and leaving, they linger. The shorter one grins, eyes flicking to the empty space beside her.

“So, you’re out with CM Punk, huh? Didn’t think that Mania kiss was real. We had a bet going you two’d deny it by Monday.”

She laughs, stiff. “Yeah, well… guess you lost that one. He’ll be right back, so—”

“Come on, though,” the tall one cuts in, voice dropping like he’s sharing a dirty secret. “He’s cool and all, but… dude’s what, pushing fifty?” He whistles low, not bothering to hide the way his eyes sweep down her neckline. “Seems like a waste, you know?”

Her smile dies. “I’m gonna stop you right there—”

“You just look like you’d be a lot to handle, that’s all,” the short one says, bolder now that his buddy’s pushed the line. “Bet an old guy like him can’t keep up. You ever get bored, you let us know. We know how to show a girl a good time, yeah?”

The taller one leans an elbow on the back of her booth, trapping her in place. “Yeah, fuck it — how ‘bout a drink? He’s not even here. Just one. You can tell him you got swarmed by fans—”

She lifts her chin, voice low and lethal. “Boys. I’m not gonna say it again: back. Off. Now.”

“Oh, feisty…” The short one cackles, sliding closer. “Come on, babe, don’t pretend you don’t—”

“Don’t pretend she doesn’t what?”

Phil’s voice doesn’t boom or bark — it slices, quiet and cold as a blade against a throat. The taller one jolts so hard his elbow nearly slips. They turn in unison — and the way Phil’s standing there, sleeves pushed up, jaw set, eyes black and locked on them like prey… it’s enough to drain every drop of liquid courage they had.

Before either can stammer an excuse, he moves. He doesn’t yell. He doesn’t threaten. He just slides back into the booth beside her, one arm hooking around her shoulders like a vice, the other palm cradling her jaw as he turns her face to his.

“Hi, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice dripping with dark amusement meant for them, not her. “Miss me?”

Before she can answer, he kisses her. Not polite. Not PG. It’s filthy — tongue sliding into her mouth, a groan rumbling deep in his chest as he pulls her so tight she ends up half in his lap. His fingers tangle in her hair, his other hand squeezing her hip like a promise.

By the time he breaks the kiss — leaving her dazed, lips tingling — the two idiots are halfway backing out of the booth, eyes wide, hands up like they expect him to lunge.

“Problem?” Phil asks, dead calm, thumb brushing her lower lip like he’s not daring them to say something stupid.

“N-no, man, we were just—”

“Yeah, I saw what you were just. Fuck off.”

They don’t need to be told twice. They scatter so fast the next table watches them leave with raised eyebrows and poorly hidden grins.

Phil turns back to her, brushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear, and kisses her nose just to be an asshole about how soft he can be. “You okay?”

She’s still breathless, eyes sparkling with mischief and a grudging softness she can’t hide anymore. “Jealous much, old man?”

“Territorial,” he corrects, nipping at her lower lip. “You’re mine. They needed reminding.”

Before she can tease him more, the waiter materializes with a delicate porcelain dish — chocolate, berries, a swirl of cream — so beautiful she blinks in surprise.

“For the lady. A special request from Mr. Brooks.”

Her eyes snap to his, words caught somewhere behind her ribs. “You did this for me?”

His smile is softer than she deserves. “What, you thought I’d let some frat boys be the highlight of your night? Not a chance, sweetheart.”

He leans in, lips brushing her ear, and the tenderness in his voice cracks right through her defenses: “Only the best for my girl.”

She barely tastes the first bite before his hand slips back onto her thigh, possessive and warm, and his whisper goes molten hot again.

“Why don’t you wrap that up? Check’s paid. We’re done here.”

She bites back a grin, feigning innocence. “But my dessert—”

He smirks, eyes dark and hungry. “Trust me. You can easily box that. What I’ve got planned for you is sweeter.”

And when he pulls her out of the booth — his hand firm at the small of her back, guiding her out into the warm night like a king escorting his prize — she doesn’t look back once.

✧･ﾟ:*ᴵ’ᵐ ᵇᵉᵃᵘ ᵗᶦᶠᵘˡ (ꈍ ꒳ ꈍ✿)*:･ﾟ✧*

The ride to the hotel is a blur — a tangle of stolen kisses, bitten-off moans, and whispered filth that would’ve gotten them banned from any respectable car service if the driver weren’t too professional to dare a glance in the rearview.

By the time they reach the curb, her lipstick’s half gone, his shirt is wrinkled from her fists clutching it, and they’re both one sharp breath away from saying fuck it and taking each other right there on the backseat.

But he won’t. Not yet.

Phil’s hand never leaves her — not when he helps her out of the car, not when he palms the small of her back to steer her through the marble lobby, ignoring the curious glances, not when they reach the elevator and he crowds her against the mirrored wall before the doors even slide shut.

“You got no idea what you do to me,” he growls against her neck, teeth grazing that spot just below her ear that makes her knees quake.

“Mm,” she hums, pretending composure while her body betrays her, pressing shamelessly into the hard line of him. “Pretty sure I have an idea.”

The elevator dings, way too soon and yet not soon enough. He drags her down the hall like he owns it, fumbling the key card with a muttered curse when she giggles against his shoulder.

Inside the suite, the door clicks shut — and for a moment, time hangs suspended. The city glows through the windows behind him. She stands there, back pressed to the door, chest heaving, heart pounding so loud she swears he can hear it.

He should pounce. Hell, he wants to. Every inch of him thrums with the need to tear her dress off and wreck her against every surface in this overpriced room. But when his eyes find hers — wide, glistening, uncertain in a way she’s never let him see before — he freezes.

“Hey.” He steps closer, cups her jaw with a touch so gentle it shouldn’t belong to the same man who threatened to ruin her in an elevator thirty seconds ago. “What’s goin’ on in that pretty head of yours?”

She tries to laugh it off, but it wobbles in her throat. “Nothin’. I just… I don’t know. I’m being stupid.”

“Hey.” His thumb brushes her lower lip, his brow furrowing like the very idea she’d doubt herself offends him on a cellular level. “Tell me.”

She swallows, voice raw. “I just… I wanted tonight to be perfect, you know? I wanted you to like me — really like me. Not just because of… this.” She gestures helplessly at herself, at the space between their bodies buzzing like a live wire. “I was so damn scared I wouldn’t be enough for you. That I’d just be… a fling.”

For a heartbeat, the only sound is their breathing. Then he laughs — not mocking, but soft, disbelieving, warm.

“Y/N...” He crowds her back against the door again, but this time he kisses her slow. Deep. Like he’s trying to anchor her with every brush of his tongue, every sigh into her mouth.

When he pulls back, she’s dazed, lips parted. He smiles — a real one, crooked and stupidly boyish for a man who just made her feel owned in front of half the city.

“You know what I remember?” he murmurs, forehead pressed to hers. “I remember standing in that ring at Mania, the whole damn arena losing their minds — and you were the only thing I could see. You had the balls to do what I should’ve done months ago. You kissed me. You claimed me first. And I don’t know if you remember this, but I just so happened to kiss you back. That wasn’t me just letting you, sweetheart. That was me finally getting my shit together and realizing I couldn’t have you one-upping me.”

She huffs a tearful laugh, but it breaks when he kisses her again — this time harder, fiercer, a growl rumbling in his chest as he walks her backward until her knees hit the bed.

“You wanna know if you’re enough for me?” he says, voice rough against her throat as he pushes her gently onto the mattress, following her down like a stormcloud ready to break. “You’re it for me. Got it?”

She nods, breathless, but it’s not enough for him — he wants it carved into her bones. So he says it again, lower this time, mouth ghosting over her pulse as his fingers bunch the hem of her dress around her hips.

“You’re it. Mine. All fucking mine.”

And when she tries to answer, to protest, to say something smart — he shuts her up the only way he knows how: with his mouth crashing into hers, swallowing every doubt, every fear, until the only thing she knows is him.

Before she knows it, he’s backing her up towards the bed. She manages to kick her heels off on the way over, him doing the same to his own shoes. Their lips never leave each other, both of them silently impressed with how coordinated they are without looking.

Phil’s hands squeeze the soft skin of Y/N’s hips causing her to groan quietly in his mouth. He swallows it happily, wanting to draw more of those noises out of her if he can. That’s when her legs finally hit the back of the mattress. He wastes no time in pushing her down, her body falling backwards gracefully.

Her chest rises and falls rapidly with every breath. Her hair splayed out crazily underneath her. Her red dress rides up her thighs, finally exposing what he’s been waiting to see all night. A piece of black lace pokes out underneath, causing his cock to twitch in his pants.

“Take it off,” he commands.

The way his voice sounds, gravelly and deep, makes a wave of heat shoot down Y/N’s spine and directly to her core. But she couldn’t just give in. She had to make him work for it.

That insufferable smirk takes over her face, “Take what off…?” She asks innocently, biting her bottom lip. Her fingers slowly dance over the hem of her dress, pulling it up just a little bit more to reveal the lingerie she picked out just for him.

Without missing a beat, Phil surges forward and wraps his hand tightly around her throat. She gasps out of surprise but he doesn’t miss the way her pupils dilate and how her thighs clench. His patience is withering. He wants her now, and he wants her obedient.

“Take. The. Dress. Off.”

Y/N stares him directly in the eye as she slowly starts peeling the tight fabric off her skin. He keeps his hand wound tightly around her neck, watching as she reveals every inch of herself. He’s seen her in her ring gear before, but this– this is different. The way the black lace hugs every curve of her perfectly was enough to make him want to fuck the brat out of her. But he restrained himself. He wanted both of them to enjoy tonight.

But judging by the look in her eyes, maybe she wouldn’t mind being fucked silly.

That would be something for a different night.

Phil only removes his hand from her neck briefly as she finally pulls the skimpy dress over her head. He licks his lips in a predatory manner when he sees the lace bra she has on matches the panties perfectly.

Y/N flutters her eyelashes, spreading her legs slightly as his eyes practically burn holes through her. “See something you like?” She taunts.

“I see a lot of things that I like,” Phil mumbles, taking in the beautiful woman beneath him. “And what are the odds? All of them have something to do with you.”

Y/N feels her cheeks heat up at his words. The sincerity behind them and the way he’s drinking her in like a man who hasn’t had a glass of water in centuries, it’s enough to make her feel like the most special girl in the world.

He furrows his eyebrows when he notices her stare. He opens his mouth to say something, but Y/N beats him to it. She sits up, grabbing the collar of his shirt and pulling him down towards her. Their lips collide in a hungry way. She kisses him as if her life depended on it. As if she had a deadly disease and the only way to cure it was his lips on hers.

Phil lets out a hum of surprise when they connect once more. He eases his way onto the bed, legs straddling her lower half. Both his hands reach up to cup the side of her face, deepening the kiss more than either of them thought was possible.

Suddenly, Y/N feeling ever so bold, slips her tongue past his lips and into his mouth. That also catches him by surprise, but at this point, her taking the initiative should be expected. He shoves his tongue forward as well, both of them fighting for dominance over the other.

Y/N’s hands slip up from his collar to his hair, her fingers lacing through the soft strands. She tugs slightly, earning a moan from him, but he doesn’t relent. If anything it makes him want to win more. He hooks his hand under the crook of her knee, hiking her leg up to wrap around his waist. With the newfound space, he pushes forward to show her just how much she’s been affecting him up until this point.

Y/N gasps and that gives him the opportunity to take over, not that she minded. Her focus was drawn elsewhere now. She grinds down on his clothed cock, using it to relieve some of the pressure building inside of her. The friction is nothing short of delicious, rendering both of them short of breath.

Their restraint is waning the more time passes. As soon as Phil moves his attention from her lips to her neck, it’s over. Y/N bites her bottom lip as he sucks a mark at the pressure point between her shoulder blade and neck. Her hand smoothly slides down his sides and right over to where he needs her most.

He growls against her skin as she starts massaging his dick through his pants. He can’t stop himself when he ruts into it like a horny teenager. His eyes droopily meet hers, and the lazy yet satisfied smile on her face is enough to make him cum on the spot. But he wouldn’t give her that victory.

And apparently she didn’t want it to come that easy either. Soon enough, she’s leaning forward, taking a page out of his book as she nips and kisses his neck. She fiddles with his belt buckle, somehow managing to get it off without looking.

Y/N must’ve felt his surprise as she mumbles against him, “If I can take a bra off one handed, I can do this…”

Phil manages to let a strangled laugh escape as she starts pushing his pants down, giving him enough room to kick them off. Once those are discarded, she pushes his boxer down just as quickly.

“Someone’s eager,” he teases.

“No fucking shit,” Y/N fires back heatedly. “I’ve had this on my mind since I saw your haircut at WarGames.”

Phil goes to say something, but is cut off when she surprisingly flips them over, her now on top of him. Her eyes immediately dart downward to his cock, glistening with the precum oozing out of his mushroom tip. She licks her lips, eyes growing wide with need.

“WarGames huh?” He continues teasing. “That’s a long time, sweetheart.”

Her eyes snap back up to his, now at least three shades darker than what he’s used to. “Yeah,” she leans down, connecting her lips with his for one more kiss. Punk lets out a strangled sound of pleasure when her hand wraps around his dick, slowly stroking up and down. That’s when she pulls back, smug smile and all, ��Then I guess I shouldn’t waste anymore time then.”

In the blink of an eye, she’s now between his legs, still stroking him at just the right pace. Phil watches her with a mesmerized expression, trying to find something to say, but every time he does, she flicks her wrist in just the right way that it makes whatever words he has die on his tongue.

Y/N feels her core throbbing with need. Truthfully, she could just push her panties to the side and ride him right then and there, but she’s hungry for a little more tonight. She looks directly at Phil, maintaining eye contact as she slowly lowers herself down. Her breasts start to spill out of her tight-fitting bra, making Phil wish he would’ve left more marks there when he could have. But that thought escapes his mind when her wet lips wrap around the head of his cock.

“Fuck…” he gasps, eyes closing as her tongue swirls around the tip with practiced ease.

Y/N simply grins again before pulling off just enough to lick down from the tip to the base. She familiarizes herself with every vein and ridge, noting what places make him shutter with pleasure. When she finally makes it back to the top, she doesn’t give him time to process before completely devouring him.

The tip hits the back of her throat, the sound of her gagging being like music to his ears. A string of curses leave his mouth as he takes a handful of her hair, guiding her up and down his length. Spit forms at the corner of her mouth, the saliva dripping down his dick forming the most beautiful mess he’s ever seen.

Y/N reaches up, her hands slowly massaging his balls. Her tongue moves as if it has a mind of its own, the ministrations making his mind turn to mush. She has him wound around her finger so tightly that he’s not even sure she realizes it. Her hands move in sync as her head continues moving up and down with a rhythm that’s almost musical. She relishes in the way he twitches in her mouth. Knowing the amount of pleasure she’s giving him is now bordering on astronomical does numbers for her ego.

Phil has to squeeze his eyes shut for a moment when he hears the obscene noise she makes as she takes him deeper. He feels himself hit the back of her throat and he swears it changes his life. “How are you so damn good at this?” He grunts, slightly thrusting into her.

Y/N comes up for a moment, pulling off his dick with an obscene pop that would make most porn directors blush. Her eyelashes flutter slowly as a string of spit still connects her to his tip. “I’ve had some practice…” she answers.

Phil doesn’t know why, but that sends a white hot rage surging through him. It shouldn’t. He knows it shouldn’t. Both of them have had partners previously, and they were both aware of the fact. Hell, Phil was married. But just the thought of her doing this, using that tongue on a man who wasn’t him, it was enough to make him want to burn the world down.

Y/N could see the shift in his demeanor. The way his bright blue eyes darkened more than she’d ever thought they could. The way his jaw ticked with a flaming anger he only reserved for those who really pissed him off. It should worry her, but for whatever reason, it only makes her pussy throb. She can feel herself soaking through the lace fabric that’s barely covering her as it is. She opens her mouth to say something, but she can’t seem to find the right words. The way he’s looking at her renders her mind completely useless.

There’s a long and tense silence. His dick still twitches beneath her, begging for her lips to wrap themselves around it. While she wants nothing more than to continue her mission of making him climax in her mouth, she doesn’t dare look away from him. Not when he has that dangerous look in his eyes.

That’s when he finally breaks the silence, “Who?” He asks, voice tight, almost like he’s not sure if he wants to know the answer.

Y/N rubs her thighs together, desperately wanting to get back to what they were doing. “Does it really matter?” She asks, her tone still soft and filled with lust. “Just wanna make you feel good.”

Y/N tries to dip back down, her lips parting to take him back into her mouth. But he stops her. His hand grips around her hair, roughly yanking it upwards so she couldn’t reach what she really wanted. The pain mixes with the arousal that’s continuing to build inside of her. She lets out a breathy moan, feeling more wetness gush around her thighs. It takes every ounce of strength Phil has not to let her go and pound into her right there. She likes it rough. Noted. Now he wants his answer.

“It matters,” he states simply. “Tell me who.”

Y/N stares into his eyes as best as she can, despite her hair being pulled back. Phil’s chest heaves up and down as he waits. His jaw is clenched tightly, the grip he has on her hair unrelenting. Y/N swallows thickly, her nerves growing slightly at the thought of mentioning who she’s had previous dalliances with.

She knows it will make him angry. It’s not like she’s slept around or anything, but the two people she did have this kind of interaction with aren’t exactly his best of friends. She bites her lip nervously, trying to figure out the best way to break it to him.

So she decides to try and get around it, “Just some randos,” Y/N shrugs. “Highschool, one night stands, that’s all.”

A loud smack echoes through the room, Y/N moaning again as his hand connects with her ass harshly. She can feel the bruise already forming on her skin. Phil stares angrily, his patience wearing thin.

“Let’s try this one more time without lying,” he says through gritted teeth. “Who was it?”

Y/N whimpers, desperate for any sort of friction. She grinds against his thigh, but it’s short lived as he smacks her once more. At this point, she might as well fess up. Maybe then she’ll get something for her honesty.

“If I tell you… you can’t get mad,” she bargains.

“We’re already getting past that point, sweetheart,” he tells her darkly. “So I suggest you start talking before things get worse for you.”

“It was just once,” Y/N rambles. “Well, one of them was once, the other was a casual thing but we stopped like three years ago so it’s really not that big of a–”

“Y/N,” Phil shoots her a pointed look.

“Colby and Andrew,” she finally forces it out.

Y/N squeezes her eyes shut tightly, not wanting to see how he reacted. There’s a long stretch of silence, a surge of concern flowing through her. Her mind runs with anxiety, worried she just ruined their whole night. Y/N finally forces herself to open her eyes, “Phil, I–”

A small yelp escapes her as the man below her yanks her down towards him. The way he kisses her this time is nothing short of feral. Their teeth clash, tongues tie, and suddenly Y/N is flipped on her back, Phil now taking control.

Y/N arches her back into him, gasping when he rips her panties directly off of her. She whines, the price tag briefly flashing through her head as the torn fabric falls to the floor. The frown on her face is short lived though as two fingers are shoved roughly into her.

The sound that leaves her is everything Phil wanted to hear. The pain that mixes with the pleasure is enough to send Y/N into a state of euphoria she had never experienced before. His fingers manage to reach places she’s never even discovered herself.

“Oh fuck,” she moans loudly, her hands lacing through his hair once more as she pulls him back down to continue kissing him. With one particularly hard thrust, Phil’s fingers hit that spongy spot inside of her. “Shit! R-right there. Oh my God.”

“My name ain’t God sweetheart,” Phil murmurs lowly in her ear. “Try again.”

Y/N’s brain is nothing but a mushy mess. It takes her a moment as he continues plunging his fingers in and out of her to register what he’s saying. Apparently, Phil also thinks she is taking too long as he spanks her another time to coax what he wants to hear out of her.

“Phil,” she whines out in a tone that makes chills run down his spine. “Feels so good.”

“Yeah?” He smirks cockily, an evil chuckle escaping him as his eyes zero in on her chest. He watches as they bounce up and down with every thrust and it’s almost hypnotic. “They ever make you feel this good?”

And there it is.

She knew dropping those names would come back eventually. At first she thought it would be him getting angry over her hooking up with the two guys he’s feuded with since rejoining the company. But this is a much more preferred outcome.

“No,” Y/N rapidly shakes her head. “No, no. Only you. Shit! Just you.”

“Oh, I don’t know if I believe you,” he taunts, thrusts suddenly slowing. He could feel the way her walls started fluttering around his fingers. Despite never having been with Y/N like this, it’s almost as if he knew every part of her. What made her tick, what indicated she was close. But after what she admitted, he couldn't let her get what she wanted that easily.

Y/N groans, pushing herself up on her elbows. If she could, she would smack that stupid smirk off his face. The tight knot that formed in her lower belly starts to slowly dissipate, causing her frustrations to grow more and more.

“What the hell?” She exhales, filing a complaint with whatever sex god there is that is preventing her from finishing.

“Oh, what’s wrong Y/N/N…?” Phil continues teasing, his fingers still smoothly moving in and out of her soaked pussy. It only makes it worse when he maneuvers his other hand downwards to play with that special rose bud. Y/N throws her head back, trying not to grind on his fingers, knowing it’ll only make him edge her more.

“Please,” she begs him. “More.”

Phil laughs. He laughs in her face. Y/N practically growls at the way he blatantly makes fun of her. “You’re so needy,” he says smoothly, his fingers picking up pace before slowing down again. “I wonder if you were ever like this with either of them. Wonder if they ever made you this desperate.”

“Oh my–” Y/N practically yells. “Either ask what you want to know or get the fuck out of my way so I can finish things myself.”

Phil raises an eyebrow, shocked by her sudden outburst. He can’t help but smile, shaking his head as he leans down to kiss her again. “You’re so damn sexy when you’re mad.”

Y/N kisses him back softly but not before biting his bottom lip. He flinches from the harsh contact, opening his eyes to see her glaring at him. Her hand runs down his chest, gripping his cock once more, stroking it at the same pace as he’s fingering her. He keeps his face stoic, but his body betrays him. She shifts slightly, pushing closer and closer to where she needs him most. His hands may be in the way, but she can still coat him with the juices he’s taking for granted.

“Ask,” she whispers against his lips.

Phil grunts, ignoring how good his dick feels rubbing between her folds. “Fine…” His hand tightens on her hip, just shy of bruising. His voice drops to that low, lethal rasp that makes her stomach flip. “Who was it? Who kept fuckin’ you when I should’ve been the one?”

His fingers have now been slowly taken out. He maintains eye contact before slipping his fingers into his mouth, eyes rolling into the back of his head at the taste. Y/N inhales sharply when she feels the tip of his dick prodding at her entrance. God, she doesn't know how much longer she can hold out. She needs him and she needs him now.

He slowly moves his hips, pushing in and out of her at a tantalizing pace. She’s so close to getting what she wants. Seeing that dark jealousy in his eyes was a promise in itself. She tilts her chin up, lips curling into that wicked smile that always gets her in trouble — the one he loves to hate.

She drags her nails lightly down his chest, slow and mocking, then whispers, sweet as sin, “Colby.”

She says it like a dare — like she wants to see him break. Her teeth graze his jaw as she adds, smug, breathless, “He was good, too. Lasted longer than I thought he would—”

She doesn’t get to finish.

Phil snarls, a sound ripped straight from somewhere primal, and slams his mouth onto hers so hard she starts to taste a bit of cooper. Whether from him or for her, she doesn’t know, nor does she care. His hand fists in her hair, yanking her head back again just enough for him to bite her throat, to mark her deep and furious.

“You think he was good?” he growls against her skin, hips already grinding her down into the mattress like he’s trying to bury the memory right out of her. “Gonna make you forget his fuckin’ name. Gonna ruin you for every goddamn one of them.”

She tries to laugh — but it dissolves into a gasp when he thrusts his dick fully inside her, pinning her open, devouring her mouth like an exorcism and a promise all at once.

Y/N swears she has an out of body experience as he splits her open with no remorse. He’s big. Not the biggest she’s ever had, but he fits inside of her perfectly. He gives her no time to adjust, setting a punishing pace. The pain mixes with the pleasure in the most intoxicating way. Y/N lets out a mix between a scream and a moan as she wraps her legs around him, linking her ankles together to keep him from going anywhere.

The sound of skin slapping skin was something both of them wanted burned in their minds forever. Phil smirks as the whites of her eyes become the only thing he sees as he continues pistoning in and out of her. He growls when he feels her digging her nails into his back. She drags them down, leaving her own mark that he will no doubt have to cover up before going to work on Monday.

“F–fuck,” she lets out a guttural sob as he continuously pounds into that spongy spot, somehow managing to penetrate her cervix. “Keep going. Just like that, Phil!”

Her words only spur him on. Hearing his name leave her mouth in that town awakes something primal inside of him. He continues thrusting in and out at an alarming speed, using his free hand to free her breasts from the lace bra he left on. He sucks the small bud into his mouth, biting down softly before swirling his tongue around the soft flesh. He repeats the same routine to the other side, lifting his right hand to place on her lower stomach.

The only word he can use to describe the sound she just let out was a scream.

He can feel his own bulge hitting his hand as he thrusts deep enough to show through her abdomen. Y/N arches impossibly higher, gripping onto him like she has an incurable disease and he’s the only relief she can find.

This kind of pressure is otherworldly. Y/N has never felt someone this deeply before. She can feel that familiar coil about to snap inside of her. She has to practically force herself to open her eyes. When she does, she watches as Phil’s attention is solely on the way his cock disappears so far inside of her that he can see it. It makes her pussy flutter pathetically around him watching him watch her.

Phil feels the little twitch and that’s when he finally looks up, meeting her gaze. She truly is a site to behold. Fucked out and drunk on his dick. The only thing coming out of her mouth is little babbles, the only coherent word he can pick up on is his own name.

“No one can fuck you like this, huh?” He ruts faster, feeling her about to reach that boiling point. “Just me. No one can make you feel like I can.”

Y/N tries to agree with him, but his continuous abuse of that sweet spot deep inside of her keeps her from forming a full sentence. He knows he’s the best she’s ever had. Y/N’s always been someone who had something to say about everything, and right now? She’s rendered absolutely speechless.

“I’ve got you so fucking scrambled you can’t even talk,” he chuckles, hips stuttering for a moment as he feels himself reaching that pinnacle. He bites her shoulder, breath ragged, words a snarl between gritted teeth. “Still think about him? Huh? How ‘good’ he was? Bet you can’t even picture his face now—only feel me, only mine—fuck, that’s it, pretty girl, forget every fuckin’ man before me.”

“Phil–” Y/N gasps, pulling him down to connect their lips in another messy kiss. “I’m– I’m gonna– fuck!” The man above her smiles at the tears starting to roll freely down her cheeks. “Can I– can I come? Please, please, let me come. Please, Phil, I can’t hold it.”

“Look at those manners, baby,” Phil coos, kissing the tears off her cheeks. “I didn’t even think you had that in you. You wanna come?”

“So bad,” Y/N sobs, nodding her head rapidly. “Please?”

“Yeah? You think I should let you?” He teases, increasing his pace.

“Yes!” She exclaims frustratedly. “I’ve been so good, Phil! Just let me, I’ll–I’ll do whatever you want, just please. I can’t hold it any longer.”

“Whatever I want, huh?” He makes a face as if he’s actually contemplating whether or not to accept the offer. “Well… how could I possibly say no to that?” He leans down, pressing one final kiss to her lips, barely pulling back as he whispers, “Go on, sweetheart. Give it to me—show me who fucking owns you.”

And that’s all it takes. Her body arches up into him, thighs trembling around his hips as the world splinters into white-hot bliss. She comes undone beneath him, a sob ripped from her throat that sounds like a prayer and a curse all at once. Every nerve ending is fire, every thought gone except for the feel of him—his voice, his hands, his name on her tongue like it’s the only word she’s ever known.

And through it all, he doesn’t stop—he rides her through it, murmuring, “That’s it—fuck, look at you—so perfect for me—mine—” until she’s limp and ruined and absolutely, irrevocably his.

Her climax drags him under with her. He buries his face in the curve of her neck, a low, broken growl vibrating against her skin as his hips stutter, grinding deep to the root like he’s trying to fuse them together.

“Fuck, baby—” His voice catches, breath ragged. “You feel that? Gonna take all of it, yeah? I want you so full of me you forget anyone ever fucking touched you.”

She moans helplessly, nails digging into his shoulders, too blissed out to do anything but nod and cling to him while he spills inside her with a rough curse. He keeps moving, slow and possessive, working every last drop into her while she trembles under him, gasping through the aftershocks.

When he finally goes still, he doesn’t pull away right away — instead, he lets his weight settle on her just enough to keep her pinned and kissed stupid. His lips find hers, soft and unhurried, tasting sweat and satisfaction and the sweetest little sighs she can’t hold back.

Eventually he rolls to the side, dragging her with him so she’s half sprawled across his chest, one leg thrown over his hip, his hand spread wide and warm across her lower back like he owns every inch of her now.

For a few moments, neither of them says a word. She just listens to the hammer of his heart under her ear, her fingertips tracing the ink on his chest while she catches her breath.

Then she huffs a breathless laugh, pressing her lips to his collarbone. “Jesus Christ, Phil… remind me to never piss you off again.”

He chuckles, voice still rough but softer now, rumbling deep in his chest. “Yeah? You learn your lesson, sweetheart?”

She lifts her head just enough to look at him, eyes glazed but teasing. “Mmhm. And for the record? You win. Best I’ve ever had. No contest.”

He grins, all teeth and triumph, and nudges her chin up so he can kiss her slow and deep, like he’s sealing that truth right into her bones.

“Damn right,” he murmurs against her lips, playful but tinged with something warm that makes her chest ache. “Poor Colby’s probably crying into his little fancy scarves right now. He’ll never get another chance to fuckin’ ruin you like I just did.”

She snorts out a laugh, swats his shoulder weakly. “Jealous old man—”

“Yeah, but I’m your old man.” He kisses her again, and this time it’s softer, almost shy if it weren’t for the possessive squeeze he gives her hip. “And you’re mine. All mine. No more waiting around. No more bullshit.”

She smiles, too warm and sleepy to fight it, fingers threading into his hair as she pulls him in for another kiss, slower this time, a promise and an apology all in one.

“Took you long enough to figure that out, asshole.”

“Yeah, well,” he murmurs, lips brushing hers with every word, “you’re the one who was always a few steps ahead. Kissing me in front of thousands of people. It just took me a minute to take the hint.”

She laughs into his mouth, sweet and easy, and when he rolls them so she’s tucked beneath him again, and she doesn’t complain one bit.

They’re a mess of tangled limbs and damp sheets, breathing hard into the quiet room. Phil shifts onto his back, pulling her with him until she’s sprawled across his chest like she owns the spot.

She’s tracing lazy circles over the ink on his ribs, her lips brushing his collarbone every now and then just because she can. He hums at the contact, one hand idly smoothing her hair back.

“Can’t feel my legs,” she mumbles, voice muffled by his skin.

He huffs a rough laugh. “Good.” He presses a kiss to her temple, smirks against her hair. “Means I did my job.”

She snorts, pinching his side just enough to make him grunt. “Cocky bastard.”

He shrugs one shoulder, unfazed. “Not cocky if it’s true.” He lifts his head, catches her eyes with a grin that’s surprisingly soft. “You okay?”

She pauses. There it is — that stupid earnest part of him she never saw coming. She nods, smiling against his chest. “Better than okay. Didn’t think you’d be so… sweet.”

He snorts at that, rolling his eyes to the ceiling. “Don’t spread that shit around. I’ve got a reputation.”

She laughs, but then she lifts her head and kisses him slow — no heat, no teeth this time, just warm lips and lingering breath. When she pulls back, her voice drops, sincere in a way that makes him feel something deep in his ribs.

“I’m glad it’s you,” she says simply.

For a moment, he doesn’t say anything — just watches her like she’s something he found and never plans to lose. Then he cups her face, thumb brushing the corner of her mouth.

“Yeah. Me too.” He kisses her again, a little rougher, because he can’t help himself.

She giggles into it, pulling back just enough to breathe out, “You gonna cuddle me or pass out?”

He gives her a mock glare, but his arm tightens around her waist, pulling her flush to him like she weighs nothing. “Shut up. And get comfortable. You’re not going anywhere.”

She hums, curling into him with a satisfied sigh. “Bossy.”

“Mm. Get used to it,” he murmurs into her hair, already drifting, a smile tugging at his mouth as sleep pulls at the edges.

And for once, neither of them feels like they’re missing a damn thing.

✧･ﾟ:*ᴵ’ᵐ ᵇᵉᵃᵘ ᵗᶦᶠᵘˡ (ꈍ ꒳ ꈍ✿)*:･ﾟ✧*

The arena is its usual Monday night circus: crew shouting into headsets, production carts squeaking over concrete, rookies darting around trying not to get yelled at. But somewhere beneath all that noise, there’s something quieter. A hum. An electricity only two people can feel — and they feel it deep in their bones.

Phil spots her first, just past the catering table. Y/N’s laughing at something a makeup artist said, fingers wrapped around a cup of ice water, one leg cocked out so casually he wants to bite the inside of her thigh just to watch her squirm. He should keep moving — keep his head in the game, the way he’s always preached. But instead, he adjusts course without thinking, drifting through the crowd until he’s right behind her.

She feels him before she sees him. It’s a prickle at the base of her neck, a tiny flutter low in her stomach. She’s got just enough time to school her face before his shadow falls over her shoulder and his mouth dips low, close enough that she can feel the scrape of his beard when he mutters, “Careful, sweetheart. You keep looking at me like that, I’m gonna forget I’m supposed to be a professional.”

She lifts her cup, lets an ice cube clink dramatically against her teeth. “Pretty sure you forgot that the minute you crawled into my hotel bed the other night, old man.”

His laugh is quiet but filthy, pressed just behind her ear. No one notices, not with the chaos around them. He lets his eyes drag down the line of her throat, his tongue brushing the corner of his mouth like he’s picturing exactly what he’d rather be doing right now.

“You keep calling me that, you’re gonna be begging this old man to let you come later. Again.”

She flicks a half-melted piece of ice at his chest. It hits him dead center. “Don’t blame me when you get your ass kicked tonight because you couldn’t keep it in your pants.”

His grin is lazy and mean and all hers. Before she can swat him, he dips just close enough to kiss the hinge of her jaw — so quick it’s gone before anyone’s the wiser — then melts back into the throng like he was never there at all.

Twenty minutes later, she’s half-ignoring the stage manager’s directions when she rounds a corner near Gorilla — and slams chest-first into him again. He’s leaning against the wall, arms folded, boots crossed at the ankle, waiting. Like he knew she’d come this way.

“You stalking me now, Brooks?” she huffs, trying to dodge. He blocks her path easily, one hand catching her hip to pin her gently but firmly against the cold cinderblock.

“Stalking? Nah,” he says, voice dropping to that low rumble that makes her legs feel like water. “Just need another taste before I go out there and pretend I give a shit about this match.”

“Phil—”

Her protest dies in her throat when he dips his head and kisses her. This time it’s not quick. It’s slow and deep and possessive, tongue sweeping into her mouth like he owns the space behind her teeth. He swallows the small sound she makes, his other hand braced against the wall by her head so she can’t slip away.

When he breaks for air, they’re both breathing too hard for two people who are supposedly just “co-workers.”

“You’re gonna ruin my lipstick,” she mutters, trying for sass.

His smirk is pure threat. “Good. Maybe next time you’ll think twice about marking up my back when I’m supposed to go on TV half-naked.”

She flushes red, shoves at his chest — but he barely moves, pressing a final biting kiss to her bottom lip before letting her go. “Behave. Or don’t. Fuck it– I prefer when you act like a brat. Makes it all the better when I screw it out of you.”

He strides off toward Gorilla before she can come up with a snappy comeback. She slumps back against the wall, brushing her swollen mouth with her knuckles and hoping nobody rounds the corner and sees her looking like she just got thoroughly wrecked.

It doesn’t stop there.

In the hallway by the trainer’s room, she tries to pass him again. He grabs her wrist in passing, spins her into an empty storage nook, and lifts her onto a stack of folded ring aprons before she can squeak.

“You done torturing me tonight?” he mutters against her throat, nose skimming her jaw as his hands slide under the hem of her shirt, calloused palms rough on her bare waist.

“I’m not doing anything,” she lies, breath hitching when he nips the spot just under her ear.

“Liar. You really think I didn’t notice the way you were lookin’ at me when you were talking to Josh?” He kisses her hard, a bruising clash of teeth and tongue that makes her moan into his mouth. When he pulls back, he’s grinning like the devil himself. “Keep it up and I’ll skip the match and fuck you right here. You’d love that, wouldn’t you?”

She shoves at him again, half-laughing, half-scandalized. “Go wrestle, Punk.”

His grin softens into something smug and warm all at once. He pecks her lips — once, twice, like he can’t help himself — then steps back. “Keep that mouth warm. I’ll need it later.”

He leaves her perched on the aprons, hair mussed, lips kissed raw. When she hops down, she nearly runs straight into Drew, who does a cartoon double-take at her state and barks a laugh loud enough for half the hallway to turn.

Back near catering again, she tries to get her heartbeat under control. She catches his eyes across the sea of bodies, and for a moment, it’s like they’re the only two people alive. He mouths something filthy — she reads it clear as day on his lips: Gonna bend you over after.

She nearly chokes on her water. He winks and disappears behind a rolling light rig, leaving her wanting to murder him and ride him at the same time.

In the blink of an eye, it was main event time. The arena pulses with energy as Seth Rollins storms into the ring, the crowd roaring its approval. Y/N leans against the railing backstage, eyes locked on the TitanTron as the familiar figure of Seth moves with his signature swagger.

Her gaze flickers across the ring where Seth launches into a series of hard-hitting moves, sweat gleaming on his broad shoulders. Then the spotlight shifts as Phil’s music hits, and the crowd explodes in response.

She leans in closer to the screen, heart already racing, watching Phil stride confidently to the ring. His eyes scan the crowd, and then… she freezes.

The tank top Phil’s wearing gets ripped off in a brutal exchange, exposing his back — broad and powerful, but more importantly, marked. Fresh, angry red scratches zigzag across his skin like a map only she knows.

Her stomach drops. She curses silently. Shit.

At the announce desk, Michael Cole zeroes in immediately, his voice carrying loud and clear over the roar:

“Looks like Punk’s been fighting outside the ring too, huh, Graves?”

“Oh yeah — I mean, look at that. Someone’s been… busy. Hope he brought ice for that. Or a safe word.”

The crowd catches on instantly, whistles and catcalls spilling out. The chant rises: “You still got it! You still got it!”

Y/N nearly drops her phone, cheeks flaming. She tries to shrink back, pressing herself against the cold wall, desperate to disappear.

Just then, Rami slides up beside her, grinning like he’s got front-row tickets to the best show in town. He nods toward the screen, then at her, eyes twinkling with mischief. “So… Phil got a cat at home we don’t know about, or…?”

She groans, burying her face in her hands. “Don’t. Even.”

Sami just chuckles and throws an arm around her shoulders. “Hey, no judgment. Just… maybe don’t kill the old man before WrestleMania, yeah?”

She laughs despite herself, peeking back at the screen. Phil’s face is locked in fierce concentration, a faint smirk twitching on his lips as he dodges a stiff punch from Drew. Her chest tightens — a mess of pride, nerves, and that overwhelming affection she tries so hard to hide.

Later, after the match, Phil storms back through the curtain, sweat-drenched and bruised but victorious. One hand wipes the blood from a split eyebrow, the other hooks under Y/N’s chin before she can even say a word.

“You see Graves run his mouth?” His voice is rough, ragged from the fight but low enough only she can hear.

“Mmhmm,” she hums, eyes sparkling, trying to hide the blush creeping up her neck. “He’s not wrong. You’re pretty marked up, champ.”

Phil grins wide, teeth showing through busted lips, and leans down so close she can feel the heat rolling off him. “Good. Let ‘em know who fuckin’ owns me.”

His mouth crashes onto hers then, fierce and claiming, like a seal on a promise no one else needs to understand. The world falls away — the crowd noise, the flashing cameras, the prying eyes.

When they break apart, still pressed close, Y/N finally finds her voice — but it’s shaky, breathless.

“I didn’t think you’d actually forget to cover those up.”

Phil smirks, fingers trailing a light path down her arm. “Guess I’m a little distracted these days.”

Y/N smirks, staring into his eyes with a softened expression. “Yeah, me too.”

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beibigirl124 · 1 month ago

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𝗜𝗿𝗿𝗲𝘀𝗶𝘀𝘁𝗶𝗯𝗹𝗲 || 𝗕𝗶𝗹𝗹𝘆 𝗛𝗮𝗿𝗴𝗿𝗼𝘃𝗲 ||

↳ Part Two

Warnings: Billy fantasizing about the reader,body shamming, Destruction of personal property, male solo (aka Billy touching himself to the thought of the reader )

A/n: Part 3 will have smut / female receiving oral, if ya'll want it

The next time he saw you, it was in the library.

It wasn’t intentional—at least, that’s what he told himself. He wasn’t exactly the book type, but detention had landed him there after he mouthed off in Mr. Harmon’s class again. Typical shit. What wasn’t typical was you—tucked into the farthest corner by the windows, cross-legged on the carpet with a stack of books beside you, as you tugged your cardigan sleeves over your hands.

You didn’t notice him.That irritated him more than he expected.

Billy had been noticed his whole life—for better or worse. People stared. Whispered. Girls giggled. Guys glared. But you? You were in your own world. A little crease between your brows as you turned a page, your lips mouthing the words as you read. There was a highlighter tucked behind your ear and a thermos beside your backpack that probably had tea in it. Because of course it did.

And it shouldn’t have made his palms itch.

It shouldn’t have made him shift in his seat, adjust himself under the table as he stared at you through the bookshelf.

But it did.

You were the kind of girl no one paid attention to unless they needed help with homework. The kind guys like him ignored. Which, Billy realized now, was their mistake.

Because he saw you.

He saw the way your sweater stretched across your chest when you lent forward. The way your skirt tugged across your thick thighs when you adjusted your position. How flushed your cheeks got when someone complimented you—he remembered now, vaguely, someone from band class had said your shoes were cute and you practically tripped over your own thank you.

You were adorable.

And he wanted you.

Billy didn’t know why this felt different. Normally, girls were a game—fun to chase, easy to forget. But something about your quiet, smart, curvy little self made his chest tighten and his cock throb at the same damn time.

So when you stood up and walked to the front desk—still not sparing him a glance—he stood too.

He didn’t make a scene. Not yet. But he walked by close enough that your scent hit him. Vanilla and something floral. Soft. Sweet. Just like you.

You looked up. Finally.

Your eyes met his.

You blinked.

He smirked.

And when your face grew warm and when you immediately looked away, he bit back a groan and kept walking.

'Oh yeah', he thought, tongue dragging along the inside of his cheek. 'She’s gonna look at me like that again. Over and over.'

By the end of the week, Billy had a new routine.

He started showing up early to school—something no one ever thought they’d see. He lingered near your locker. Made sure he was at whatever vending machine she used. Walked past your study hall window just slow enough for you to notice. Always smirking. Always watching.

He didn’t speak to you yet.

Not really.

But he’d make you wait for it. Build it up. Make you wonder.

Because when Billy Hargrove wanted something, he didn’t just take it.

He made it crave him first.

And from the way your eyes flitted to him and then away like you were guilty of something? Like your breath caught just a little?

Yeah.

You were almost there and then he happened.

Jason Carver.

Jason Carver was a prick.

Everyone knew it—rich boy attitude, that smug grin, always running his mouth like he owned the damn school. And when it came to girls, he was worse. Especially ones who didn’t fit his perfect little cheerleader mold. The ones who were shy. Smart. Soft around the edges. The ones he thought were “easy targets.”

Which is why he started in on you.

It started with little comments in the hallway.

“Careful, nerd herd incoming,” Jason would snicker to his friends when you passed by, hugging your books tighter to your chest.

Or worse—when he caught you dropping something.

“Damn, earthquake or just her thighs?”

Billy had heard that one. From behind you, no less. You hadn’t even flinched—just ducked your head like you were used to it.

That pissed Billy the fuck off.

He knew how to spot cruelty wrapped in a smile. Knew the type that needed a lesson in pain.

And Jason? He was asking for it.

But Billy didn’t do warnings.

He did payback.

That night, Jason’s Camaro sat parked right outside his perfect little suburban home. Pristine. Polished. White paint gleaming under the glow of the porch light like it was proud of itself.

Billy pulled up a few blocks away, boots hitting the pavement with slow, deliberate steps. Smoke curling from his lips as he crushed a cigarette under his heel, pulling a pocketknife from his leather jacket like it was second nature.

No hesitation.

No second thoughts.

Just a slow, deep drag of breath as he crouched down and slashed the tires one by one, the hiss of escaping air sweet as a fucking lullaby.

Then came the fun part.

He stood, eyes gleaming, and ran the tip of his key down the length of the driver’s side door with all the force he could manage. Screeeeech.

He carved one word, nice and deep:

PIG.

Then—just to add a little signature—he flicked the butt of his second cigarette into the open hood vent.

Wasn’t enough to start a fire. But it would reek.

He stepped back, admiring his work with a smirk before turning on his heel, leather jacket whipping behind him as he walked off into the shadows.

The next morning, the whole school was buzzing.

Jason stormed into the parking lot red-faced, screaming bloody murder. “Some psycho keyed my car! Slashed my tires!” he shouted, shoving one of the underclassmen who had gotten too close.

No one had proof.

But Billy?

He showed up late that day, sauntering past Jason with a smirk on his lips and murder in his eyes.

And when he saw you down the hall—soft sweater, shy glance, avoiding everyone’s eyes—he leaned close enough as he passed to murmur just loud enough for you alone:

“No one fucks with what’s mine.”

You blinked up at him, startled.

And Billy? He gave you a wink and walked away like nothing happened, the scent of smoke and leather trailing behind him—leaving your heart racing and Jason Carver with four flat tires and a bruised ego that would never recover.

The next few days were a blur as it finally rolled into Summer, he hadn't expected you to turn up at the pool.

Nor did he expect you to look down right sinful.

It wasn’t supposed to hit him that hard.

You'd been sitting by Hawkins community pool with your legs in the water, laughing nervously at something one of you friends said, adjusting the oversized towel wrapped around your waist like you wanted to disappear into it. But it was too late.

Billy had seen you.

Not just a glance—really seen you

The way that black swimsuit clung to your curves like it was made just for you. The soft swell of your tits just barely covered by the scoop neck. The way your plush thighs pressed together when you sat. That little stretch mark peeking out near your hip when you shifted. Things you'd probably tried to hide. But Billy?

He couldn’t look away.

His drink had gone warm in his hand. His jaw tight. And the second you looked his way—eyes wide, shy, startled like you weren't used to being watched—he felt it. A punch of heat low in his gut.

He left the party ten minutes later.

Now he was in his room, door locked, lights low, that same towel-wrapped image of you burned into the backs of his eyelids.

Billy lay back on his bed, one hand already tugging his belt open, breathing shallow, cock hard and aching beneath his jeans. He wasn’t gentle. He never was.

But this?

This was different.

He let out a low groan as he pulled himself free, already leaking, already picturing you sitting by the pool—wet skin glistening, legs shifting like you were trying to be modest.

Fuck.

His grip tightened, slow at first, dragging his hand over his length as he exhaled through clenched teeth. His mind filled in the blanks. How you'd feel under him. How your breath would hitch when he touched you. How your soft thighs would tremble when he spread them.

You'd be shy about it, he knew. Would probably try to cover up.

But he’d whisper to you. Rough and low.

“No, baby. Let me see you. You’re fuckin’ perfect.”

His pace picked up. His hips jerked up off the mattress slightly as he imagined peeling that towel away, revealing everything you tried to hide. Holding you still while he buried his face between you thighs. Making you sob his name while you clutched his hair.

“Jesus…” he growled, jaw tightening, sweat beading on his brow as he pumped harder, faster, fucking into his fist like he could feel you around him.

You'd be warm. Tight. Fucking soaking.

His name would fall from your lips in that breathy voice of yours, that sweet little whimper that would drive him insane.

“Billy…”

That did it.

He came with a low, guttural groan, hot and messy across his stomach, hips stuttering as he rode it out, the image of you etched into the haze of his mind.

He lay there for a moment, chest heaving, skin flushed.

And then he laughed, just once—low and breathless.

Because now?

He was obsessed.

And the next time he saw you?

He wouldn’t just be watching, he was going to let you know how he feels.

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beibigirl124 · 1 month ago

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✧˚ · . .sextape

pairing — damian priest ♥︎ f!reader, super mild damian priest ♥︎ cody rhodes summary — after the podcast, damian and cody discover they have more in common than they thought, so damian brings him home to you. words — 3.3k warnings — nsfw. voyeurism/exhibitionism, recording sex, dirty talk, degradation, oral (m and f receiving), unprotected p in v, super mild m/m (happy pride, y’all), cum 18+ taglist — if you’d like to be added, please click here! requested by — anonymous, thank you so much!

MASTERLIST DAMIAN PRIEST KINK LIST

if you enjoy my writing, please consider donating toward my IVF journey!

Cody followed Damian through his house, up the staircase, and down the hall toward your and Damian’s bedroom door. He fingered the corner of his cell phone in a front pocket of his slacks when he stuffed his hands inside, smirking when Damian told him that, yes, sometimes you could be a brat, but more often than not, you were only too happy to obey any orders or suggestions given by your boyfriend. And, upon opening the door and revealing the picturesque scene, he was proven absolutely correct, because there you stood, in the white lingerie Damian had purchased for you not long ago, hands clasped behind your back, devilish smirk tugging at your lips.

Until Cody Rhodes came into view, stepping out confidently from behind Damian. As your man continued toward you, Cody hung back, and considering your clothing, or lack thereof, and the wolfish grin morphing Damian’s plump mouth, you could only guess what was going through his mind.

Damian chuckled at your lack of immediate surprise, dropping a gentle giant of a hand on your bare shoulder as he passed smoothly behind you. The entirety of the backside of your body ignited, and you tilted your head with a drunken smile when Damian nuzzled your neck, kissing the junction between your neck and shoulder, nipping.

“Told you,” Damian grumbled, hands sliding from your sides to your belly, down to your hips, fingers dancing along your panty line.

“You did,” Cody replied, smiling, tilting his head.

They were so different, Cody and Damian, physically and otherwise—Cody was the exact opposite of your type—but you couldn’t stop the clenching of your pussy or the hardening of your nipples or the hitch of breath in your throat as you watched him watching you, watched him watching Damian delicately devour your neck. He was a beautiful man where Damian was sheer sex; pretty, amiable sapphire eyes where Damian’s were dark and lewd. But it wasn’t so much Cody turning you on as it was Cody watching.

“After the podcast,” Damian explained, lips still exploring your warming skin, “Cody and I started talking about … things.” Your and Cody’s gazes met. “Turns out, the American Nightmare is … a watcher.” You gulped, thighs rubbing together as your pussy continued to dampen. “He likes to watch people fuck.” You gasped, Damian snickering into your ear. “Girls, guys, both … he just wants to watch.”

“And direct,” Cody added. Your brows rose. “And record, if possible.” Speaking like he was negotiating a business deal—why did it turn you on? The suit, the speech, the deviance in his azure eyes. Damian’s hands roaming your burning body, his lips, tongue and teeth now ravaging the other side of your neck.

“Record,” you breathed.

“So I had to tell him about you, angelita,” Damian continued explaining. “That you like to be watched. We like to be watched.” One arm was around your waist, the opposite hand clutching your chin and turning your head in his direction, breaking your eye contact with Cody. “And I told him you like to be told what to do. Directed.”

Realization dawning on you, you turned your head as much as Damian would allow so you could look at Cody once more. Hands still in his pockets, but his eyes were gleaming—a sparkle in those blue diamonds you imagined was seen by many prey just before they were maimed by their respective predators. Your panties were soaked by now, skin decorated in goosebumps.

“So you wanna direct our porn,” you stated in the most simplest of terms. These two men seemed to be dancing around the subject, or drawing it out—either way, your body wasn’t built to handle waiting.

Cody’s chuckle was a soft breath. “And keep it.”

You nodded slowly. “And?” you pressed.

“Watch it.” Cody took a few steps forward, slyly deleting most of the space between you. Damian’s teeth scraped your earlobe, and your own teeth clamped onto your bottom lip.

“And?” you continued.

Damian laughed. “She wants to hear you’re gonna jerk off to her,” he said.

Cody nodded. More slow steps, closer to you—close enough you could now feel his heat, smell his cologne, delve so deeply into his eyes that you were momentarily lost in a cerulean sky. He leaned down a bit, and you now smelt the mint on his breath, the vodka, as he whispered, “What makes you think I haven’t already?”

Enough was enough. Grinning like a fool, you turned in Damian’s long, strong arms and pressed your lips to his. You drank down his moan, grinning at his familiar, breathy noises, hands sliding to the back of his neck and head, tugging on his hair still wrapped in a bun. You heard Cody moving behind you, heard the familiar click of a cell phone being unlocked, and your heart pounded into your ribs. Damian had made videos before—you sucking him, him eating you, every position of fucking either of you could imagine—but it was different now. A second set of eyes on you, a third if you counted the phone, and the exhibitionist in you celebrated—this was your Everest, your platinum-selling record, your goddamn Nobel prize. You were a performer at heart, and sometimes putting on a show every Friday night just … wasn’t …

“Take his clothes off,” Cody softly directed, and so focused were you on Damian’s taste, his hands all over every inch of your body he was able to reach, you didn’t notice how easily you gripped the bottom of his shirt, lifting as high as you could reach, allowing him to take the shirt the rest of the way. You kissed his chest, the tattoos drawn there, his skin so warm and shockingly soft, and your hands skidded down his abs, stopping at the buckle of his belt. Pulling the pieces apart, you jerked the leather through the loops of his jeans, dropping it to the carpet with a quiet thud. Next, you unbuttoned his black jeans, lowered the zipper, and pushed the article down his legs. All the while, with your peripheral vision, you clocked Cody moving his phone this way and that, attention focused on the screen.

“Good,” Cody said. “Now get on your knees.”

You shared a smile with Damian, a knowing smile, an erotic, excited, smile, before descending to your knees, joining the discarded black belt. Without instruction, you mouthed the big man through his black briefs, his semi-hard cock twitching to life within seconds. Hands on his thick thighs, you licked the dampened fabric along the length of his dick, lewdly dragging your tongue on the cotton—showing off for Damian, for Cody, for the camera.

“Fuck,” Damian whispered.

“Take it out,” Cody rasped. He squatted next to you, his eyes and phone directed on your hands as you lowered the elastic waistband of Damian’s briefs, allowing his impressive dick to bounce free. “Lick it,” Cody whispered, and you instantly obeyed—equal parts needing your man’s cock in your mouth and because Cody told you to. Your tongue bathed Damian’s dick from the head to the root and back, circling the head, refamiliarizing yourself with every ridge and every vein. “This is even hotter than I imagined.” Your eyes fluttered, fingers squeezing Damian’s thighs, and you pressed a wet, sucking kiss to the underside of the head. “Put it in your mouth.” Cody dropped to both knees beside you, iPhone a barrier between you. “And I wanna hear you gag.”

You didn’t need any further instruction as far as gagging was concerned. Happily, you enveloped Damian in your scorching, wet mouth, the head passing along your tongue and into the back of your throat, where you forced it down as far as it would go. Until your body convulsed. Until you gagged, eyes squeezing shut, tears poking at the corners. “Again,” Cody ordered. Pulling back, your tongue played briefly with Damian’s slit before forcing your head forward and his cock into your neck. You gagged, coughed, spit coating Damian’s thick shaft, and you couldn’t quell the moan from deep in your chest. “You’re just a cockwhore, aren’t you?” Another groan, and you tried forcing Damian deeper as you nodded. “Yeah … I knew it. It’s always been obvious how bad you need dick in at least one of your holes all the time.”

“Fuck!” Damian repeated. “He’s right … and I didn’t have to tell him a fuckin’ thing.”

Your body shuddered at the words, cunt clenching around nothing but your juices under the weight of the mens’ blatant gaping. Your cheeks hollowed, your mouth creating a vacuum, and Damian snatched a chunk of your hair.

“Say it,” Cody whispered. “I wanna hear you say it.” The lisp, usually an endearing quality, now made your thighs tremble and your heart flip flop.

Reluctantly removing Damian from your mouth, you gasped, “I’m just a cockwhore.”

Cody nodded, satisfied. “Put it back in your mouth. And I’m really surprised a slut like you needs to be told to pay attention to the balls.”

He had a point, and so as you slurped Damian back into your tight throat, your hand rose to cup his full balls, massage them, give them a bit of a tug until Damian grunted, his fingers pressing into your skull.

“That’s my girl,” Damian breathed. “Show him how much you love this dick.”

As you sucked and licked and rolled and tugged, Cody stood and made his way toward the bed. You watched, mouth still working, as Cody unbuttoned the vest he wore, loosened his tie, and then he fell on the mattress, his back against the headboard.

“Come here,” he said, following a moment of recording from a new angle.

Reluctantly, and only after several moments and several bobs of your head, you released Damian from your mouth, his glistening cock bouncing in the cool air. Shrugging at your boyfriend’s strangled whine, you climbed to your feet and then climbed on the mattress, crawling up to Cody as he waggled his fingers, his phone held steady on his chest as he continued making his movie.

“Spread your legs,” Cody said, and your knees slid apart on the white sheets, back arching, and the movement of the phone wasn’t lost on you. “How’s that pussy look, Priest?”

After moving your panties to the side, Damian boasted, “Wet as fuck.”

“Get a shot of that before you destroy it,” Cody said, handing his phone off to Damian behind you, and you fought the urge to close your legs at the sudden zoomed-in scrutiny. “What’s got you so wet, princess?” Cody asked you. “Sucking cock or being watched while you suck cock?”

“Both,” you answered honestly. “Oh, god,” you burst. “Papí.” Damian’s tongue licked from the top of your slit up to your hole, poking inside before sucking your clit into his hungry mouth.

“You call him daddy?” Cody growled, leaning forward to take possession of his phone again. Eyes closed, able to catch the raw lust in his tone, you smirked, tip of your tongue traveling along your lips. “I knew you were a slut, but you were able to hide just how much of a slut you really are, weren’t you?” His hand cupped your face, and you nuzzled into his tender touch mere moments before Damian smacked your ass, ripping a scream from your throat. You collapsed forward, cheek mashing against one of Cody’s unforgiving pecs, Damian’s tongue everywhere all at once, inside and outside, up and down, left and right. You weren’t a stranger to his tactics, but sometimes the fierceness with which he ate you surprised you.

Cody pushed gently at your shoulder until you rose back up to your hands and knees, and then he cradled your chin, your eyes meeting his. The filth you found—the unadulterated deviance—in those blue pools sent you teetering on the edge. “That’s a good girl,” Cody praised, glancing at his phone to be sure everything he wanted to see was in frame, gaze returning to yours quickly.

“Fuck, Papi, I’m gonna come,” you babbled. You felt and heard your boyfriend’s deep chuckle, and somehow he was able to dive further into your pussy, all tongue and lips and teeth.

Cody’s grip tightened on your chin, your brows furrowing as a result of the discomfort. “Right here,” he said. “Put your pretty eyes right here and let me watch you come.” Your body shook, beginning in your thighs, ending in your wrists, mouth hanging open like a dehydrated dog, but you kept your eyes open and you kept them on the lens in the corner of the phone. “Is Priest getting a mouthful of cum?” Cody wanted to know.

You nodded. “If you wanna know what I taste like,” you breathed, eyes switching from the phone to Cody’s hooded ones, “you could give Damian a kiss—” Cody’s head tilted. “—I bet he wouldn’t mind.” Damian smacked your ass again, a squeal and a smile the effect this time.

“Roll over,” Cody commanded.

You waited for him to release your chin before obeying, though, since he hadn’t been specific on where exactly he’d wanted you to lay, you lifted yourself over Cody’s leg, glancing at him over your shoulder. Understanding was clear and instant, and Cody spread his legs to accommodate you, switching the angle of the phone as you carefully rested your head against the solid ridge in Cody’s expensive pants.

“Since you’re so adorable—” Cody admonished, thumb caressing your cheek as you watched Damian maneuver himself between your legs, between Cody’s legs, weeping shaft bobbing deliciously in the air. “—you’re gonna have to beg your Papi to give you his cock.”

“Please, Papi,” you whispered, nails dancing up his abs to his chest, scraping over his nipples, smiling at the shudder he tried to hide. “Please fuck me.”

“Tell him how bad you need it,” Cody urged.

“So fucking bad,” you mewled, squeezing Damian’s strong shoulders. “I need you inside me. I always need you inside me. Please?”

Damian slapped his cock against your sopping pussy, the wet sounds echoing off the walls, and your back arched. “Is this what you need, baby girl?” Damian asked, the bass in his voice enough to make you come again.

Your nod was frantic, creating just enough friction against Cody’s cock to steal a moan from him. Damian’s eyes passed over your head to meet Cody’s, and an expression painted his features like something you’d never seen before—was he asking permission? Receiving whatever he needed, Damian pounded into you, your hands slipping from his shoulders so your arms could wrap around Cody’s sturdy thighs, steeling your body against Damian’s fierce thrusts. Your eyes locked, your peripheral vision picking up the phone in Cody’s hand once more as it floated around in the background, and you smiled up at Damian, silently thanking him for making your night even more interesting than you’d anticipated. A few more thrusts and he pressed into you as far as possible, kissing your cervix, launching his cum as far inside you as he was physically able.

“You feel me?” Damian breathed, huge hand splayed across your lower belly, pressing down like he might feel the outline of his cock.

“Everywhere,” you whispered in response, releasing Cody’s legs to curl your arms around Damian’s neck. “So fucking deep.” Your lips crashed together, your head still resting against Cody’s straining erection, Damian delicately continuing to move inside you until he couldn’t anymore, soft cock falling out of your still-tightening hole.

“Can’t believe how well she took that monster cock,” Cody aloofly commented.

Damian giggled—giggled. And was that a blush? “I had to train her,” he replied, hands all over you—your neck, shoulders, breasts, sides, hips. “She didn’t come out of a box ready to take this dick.” You rolled your eyes, listening to Cody chuckle behind you. “You wanna get a shot of this?” He spread your thighs, his fingers sliding to your folds so he could pull them apart, and that’s when you felt his cum start to leak out of you.

“Absolutely,” Cody replied, handing his phone off again. You looked up at him, his face just as beautiful upside down, and his hands took Damian’s place, though they settled mostly over your breasts, fingers dipping inside your bra, his thumbs drawing small, soft circles around the hardened, sensitive peaks of your nipples. “The camera loves you,” he said.

“Yeah?” you whispered, enchanted by his eyes, his mouth, the lisp.

“Oh, yeah. Now put your fingers in your pussy—” You gasped, thinking the filth was behind you. At least for the time being. Always willing to obey, your own hand slid down your body to your ruined cunt, and you gathered the mixture of your and Damian’s cum on your first two digits. Cody and Damian were silent as they watched you bring your index finger to your lips, slurping it into your mouth, cleaning it as deeply as you suspected Cody was about to tell you to do.

Taking things a step further—you really didn’t think either of them would make the first move if they ever made a move—you rolled back onto your stomach, still safely between Cody’s legs. Smiling softly, eyes zeroed in on the American Nightmare’s mouth, you slowly moved your still-dripping middle finger toward it, giving him every opportunity in the world to stop you. When he remained still, your grin stretched, and you touched the pad of your finger, coated in your cum, coated in Damian’s cum, to his bottom lip, spreading it along the rosy skin like chapstick.

“Look how pretty, Papi,” you whispered, turning your head, though your attention on Cody remained unbroken.

Damian draped himself over your back, your smile somehow broadening, and he kissed your shoulder, your cheek. “He is pretty, isn’t he?” he surprisingly agreed, though you weren’t sure he was focused on Cody so much as he was focused on you. One arm supported his weight while the opposite hand skidded along your ribs, belly button, hip, back to your ass, which he smacked one last time, this one not as strong as the others. It was lust before, sheer need—now it was love, unmatched adoration, a gentle reminder of just how much you meant to him.

But you had to finish this one thing.

“Will you lick it?” you asked Cody, breathless, eyes fluttering as Damian rutted slow, hard, against your now-tingling ass cheek. Cody cocked his head, those brilliant sapphires sparkling as he watched you for a moment, gaze flicking to Damian, and the three of you were so close, sharing shallow breaths and still-rising heat.

“I think he wants you to ask nicely, angelita,” Damian growled, plump lips grazing the shell of your ear.

Cody’s eyes came back to yours.

“Will you please lick it?” you whispered. “I promise it tastes so good.”

After a pause, Cody’s lips twitched, the viscous cum glistening, and if he wasn’t gonna lick it, somebody was. But you got your wish—Cody’s pink tongue slithered out, the tip sliding along his bottom lip before he sucked it into his mouth, and you saw his chest collapse with a sigh. “Fuck,” he said, eyes closing.

Damian was hard again, hot and heavy behind you, still making a meal of your neck and shoulders. Cody was still hard, and when his eyes blinked open, you saw his patience was wearing thin.

“So,” you said, “what do I have to do to get you two to make out?”

TAGLIST:

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beibigirl124 · 1 month ago

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It's All So Wrong, Yet So So Right Part 2

Cheater!Bobby Nash x Cheater!Reader

3.2k word count

Summary Your a firefighter with the 118. Your engaged to Evan Buckley who you've been madly in love with for 4 years. Life is perfect. That is until a late night in the fire house sees a spark between you and your Captain Bobby Nash who happens to be a married man.

Slow Burn/Fluff/Angst/Cheaters

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Authors Note: I hope this sorts the first chapter. Can't say I'm happy with it but it'll do.

Bobby’s P.O.V

It didn’t happen all at once. I wish I could say it did. That it was a flash of something — some impulsive spark I could point to and blame.

But no. It was quiet. A slow burn I kept trying to smother before it could catch.

It started with Y/N being… her.

She reminded me of Marcy. My first wife. Not in the obvious ways — not in how she looked, or even how she spoke — but in how she moved through the world. Gentle. Steady. She carried herself like someone who knew how hard life could get, and chose to show up with grace anyway.

She cared about people without needing attention for it. Stayed late to help Ravi double-check inventory. Took the worst patient on the worst calls without complaint. Made sure every single rookie felt like they belonged. She always offered to do dishes even when it wasn’t her turn.

She never made it feel like a performance.

That’s what got to me first, I think.

It felt like… peace. A kind of quiet calm I hadn’t realized I missed.

It reminded me of Marcy — how she used to hum while she folded laundry, or leave notes in my coat pocket. Little things that told me I was seen. Loved.

And for a while, that’s all it was.

A warm, familiar echo. A ghost of something I’d already lost.

I love Athena. I want to say that clearly. She’s an incredible woman — fierce and loyal and uncompromising in all the best ways. We came together after both being burned down to ash. We helped rebuild each other’s foundations.

But over the past year, it’s like we’ve gone from partners to… allies. We support each other. We respect each other. But we’ve stopped reaching.

It’s hard to admit that.

Even harder to admit that I noticed it more when I started noticing Y/N.

It crept in slowly. One moment, she was just another firefighter on my team. The next, I found myself waiting for her laugh at the dinner table. Watching for her reaction during calls. Feeling a little steadier when she was nearby.

Then it was moments — little ones — that stayed with me longer than they should’ve.

Like the day we were cleaning equipment in the bay, and she asked if I was okay. Just like that. No pretext. No fuss. Just saw through me, like she knew I wasn’t, and didn’t need me to pretend.

Or the night we all came back from a bad call, and I couldn’t shake the image of that kid’s face. I’d gone into the kitchen to be alone, and there she was, already making coffee, like she’d sensed it. She didn’t talk. Just handed me a mug and sat with me in the silence.

It felt intimate. But it wasn’t inappropriate. Not yet.

So I convinced myself it was nothing. That I was just tired. Lonely. Nostalgic.

That I was reading into something that wasn’t there.

But then one day, I saw her laughing with Buck across the kitchen — laughing like she belonged there — and I felt something sharp in my chest.

Jealousy.

Not the angry kind. Not possessive.

But a kind of aching envy that he got to be the one she went home with. That he got to fall asleep beside that warmth every night.

And that was when I knew.

It wasn’t a memory I was holding onto. It was her.

And I hated myself for it.

She was engaged. To a good man. A man I respected.

And I was married.

Even if Athena and I had been more distant lately — even if we were both throwing ourselves into work more than each other — I had no business wanting anyone else.

So I buried it. I kept my distance. I avoided lingering too long. Cut off conversations before they could go too deep.

Until that night.

The station was quiet. Shift was over. Everyone had cleared out except me and Y/N. She was sitting at the table with her logbook, frowning down at the paperwork like it was fighting back.

I was cleaning the kitchen. Wiping the same damn spot on the counter just to have something to do with my hands.

I watched her — not openly. Just glances. The way she bit her lip while concentrating. The little crease in her brow when she was annoyed.

And I felt it again. That pull.

I made two cups of fresh coffee. Set one beside her without a word. She looked up, surprised, then gave me a soft, tired smile.

“Thanks,” she said, wrapping her hands around the mug.

I sat across from her. The table between us felt narrower than usual.

She didn’t speak right away. Neither did I.

Then she asked, “Is Athena on shift?”

Her voice was casual, but her eyes weren’t.

I met her gaze. “Yeah. Long one. She’s been working doubles lately.”

Y/N nodded. Looked back down at her notes. “We haven’t seen her around much.”

“No,” I said quietly. “You haven’t.”

She didn’t push. She didn’t need to.

Then came the night in my office.

The air between us shifted — thickened — like we both knew this was a line we’d been circling for too long.

I stood. Slowly. Carefully. My palms were damp. My heart thudded like I was back on my first engine.

I walked around the desk. She’d stood from her chair facing me, her breathing shallow.

“Tell me to stop,” I said, surprising even myself.

Her eyes met mine, wide but steady. She didn’t look away.

And then I leaned down — not to take, not to rush — just to ask, silently, if this was okay.

Our lips met.

Soft. Still.

There was no fireworks. No dramatic rush.

It felt like standing in the eye of a storm. Everything quiet. Everything clear.

Her hand brushed against my sleeve. Just enough to ground me. Then she pulled back.

“I have to go,” she said. Her voice cracked just a little.

I nodded. “Okay.”

She left without another word.

And I stood there in my office, still tasting the kiss we hadn’t meant to share.

It felt like peace. And guilt. And the beginning of something I couldn’t walk away from.

Even if I should.

…

Y/N’s P.O.V

The front door clicks softly behind me.

Buck’s in the living room, sprawled on the couch with a bowl of popcorn and some disaster movie playing on mute while he scrolls through his phone. He doesn’t look up right away.

“Hey, babe,” he calls out, casual, warm. “Leftover pizza in the fridge if you’re hungry.”

I mumble a thanks, but my voice barely works. My fingers still feel cold, even though it’s warm in here.

I slip off my boots like muscle memory, force my jacket onto the hook, and move through the apartment like a shadow of myself.

Buck glances over when I walk in, his easy smile spreading across his face. “Come sit. This building’s about to get hit by an asteroid. Very educational.”

I manage a small laugh that doesn’t quite reach my chest. “Give me a sec.”

I duck into the bathroom, shut the door quietly, and lean over the sink.

Stare at myself in the mirror.

My lips still tingle. My chest is still tight. And I hate how part of me keeps replaying it. The warmth of his mouth. The quiet way Bobby had asked me to tell him to stop. The fact that I didn’t.

Buck calls something out from the living room—probably a joke or a one-liner. I splash cold water on my face and pretend I didn’t hear.

By the time I come out, he’s shifted over to make room for me, patting the couch cushion like always.

“You okay?” he asks, tilting his head.

“Just tired,” I say, sliding into the space beside him. “Long shift.”

He hums in agreement, throwing an arm around my shoulders and pulling me close. “Tell me about it. We got slammed today, huh?”

I nod against his side, grateful he doesn’t push for more.

The screen flickers in front of us—buildings crumbling, sky splitting open, people running for their lives.

It’s oddly fitting.

Because I feel like something inside me just collapsed and I’m standing in the rubble trying to figure out which parts are still mine.

Buck presses a kiss to my forehead. “Love you,” he says simply.

And I close my eyes.

“I love you too.”

The words come easily. Too easily.

But tonight, they feel like someone else’s.

…

The sun’s not even all the way up when I walk through the station doors, coffee in hand, heart hammering harder than I’d ever admit.

It’s ridiculous, really. I’ve been through burning buildings, collapsed highways, people screaming and bleeding and dying. And yet… This? Facing Bobby after that kiss? This feels harder.

The locker room’s mostly quiet when I arrive—just the low buzz of fluorescent lights and the sound of someone tossing a duffel into a locker.

Buck’s already here, of course. He grins when he sees me, pulling me in for a quick kiss that’s light and familiar. Easy.

Too easy.

“You good?” he asks. “You look a little—”

“Tired,” I cut in. “Didn’t sleep great.”

He doesn’t question it. Just squeezes my hip and says, “Well, we’ve got a shift to power through. Better caffeinate.”

I nod and grab my gear, heading up the stairs before I lose my nerve.

The second I reach the kitchen, I feel it. That strange energy that only exists between two people who’ve crossed a line and are pretending they didn’t.

Bobby’s at the stove, stirring something in a pan. He glances over his shoulder when I walk in—just a flicker of his eyes, barely more than a second.

But it’s enough.

My stomach flips.

“Morning,” he says, his voice steady.

“Morning, Cap,” I reply, trying not to let my voice catch on the word.

Hen, Chim, and Ravi file in behind me one by one, trading jokes and arguing over which playlist should go on during cleanup duty later. It’s the kind of noise that fills a room quickly, making it easier to breathe.

But not easy enough.

I take a seat at the table, keeping my eyes on the back of Bobby’s head as he flips something in the skillet.

He looks the same. Acts the same. Like nothing happened. Like he didn’t kiss me in his office and change the way I think about everything.

When he turns to set the plates down, his hand brushes mine—just for a second. And we both freeze.

Not visibly. Not enough for anyone else to notice.

But it’s there. That charge. That quiet, humming truth neither of us knows how to deal with.

“Eggs are up,” Bobby says. “Eat before the alarm ruins your morning.”

Everyone dives in, Buck sliding into the seat beside me, nudging my leg with his under the table. I smile at him. I laugh at something Hen says. I try like hell to be normal.

But across the table, Bobby doesn’t look at me again. And I can still feel the way his lips felt against mine. Still hear the way he whispered, tell me to stop.

…

The station’s nearly empty.

I can hear Hen’s laughter fading out as the door closes behind the rest of the team. The usual shuffle of keys, boots, and quiet goodbyes is gone now.

It’s just me.

And Bobby.

I hover outside his office door for a moment, coffee cup still in my hand even though it’s gone cold. The blinds are open, but he hasn’t looked up.

I knock once on the doorframe.

He glances up, brows lifting slightly. “Hey.”

“Got a minute?”

He nods and gestures to the chair in front of his desk. “Always.”

I close the door halfway, just enough to make the hallway feel distant, and take a seat.

We sit in silence for a second. He watches me like he’s waiting for me to speak first.

I clear my throat. “About the other day.”

He nods once, slowly. “I figured we’d have to talk about that eventually.”

“I just… I don’t really know what we’re doing,” I admit, trying not to overthink each word. “Or what that kiss meant. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it, and I don’t know if that’s… okay.”

His hands fold together in front of him, resting on the desk. “You’re not the only one who’s been thinking about it.”

I meet his eyes, and something in my chest tightens. He’s not avoiding it. He’s not pretending.

“I shouldn’t have let it happen,” he says gently. “You’re engaged. I’m married. I’m your captain. There’s a line we crossed.”

“Yeah, well…” I sigh and rub the back of my neck. “I didn’t exactly stop you, did I?”

He gives the smallest smile. “No. You didn’t.”

The silence stretches again, but it’s heavier now. Not awkward — just full of things neither of us knows how to say without making it worse.

I stand slowly. “I just wanted to clear the air. I didn’t want to… let it sit like that.”

He stands too, walking around the desk. I think maybe he’s about to thank me for coming in or say he agrees we should just let it go.

But instead, he says quietly, “Do you want to forget it happened?”

I don’t answer. Not right away.

Because I don’t know.

And maybe that’s what answers him.

He steps in just a little closer, but not all the way. Not like before.

We’re quiet again, barely two feet between us.

“I keep thinking,” he says, voice soft, “about how easy it was to kiss you. And how hard it’s been not to do it again.”

That’s all it takes. One small step, one quiet look.

And we’re kissing.

Slow, careful, like we both know it shouldn’t be happening but can’t help it anyway.

It doesn’t last long.

I pull away first.

Not because I want to. Because I have to.

“I should go,” I murmur.

Bobby nods, expression unreadable. He doesn’t try to stop me.

I don’t say anything else as I head for the door.

This time, I don’t slam it. I don’t rush out like the building’s on fire.

But when I step outside, I take a long breath and realize I’m even more confused than I was before I walked in.

…

The water’s been running for ten minutes. Steam curls around the mirror, blurring my reflection like it’s trying to protect me from myself.

I sit on the edge of the bathtub, fully dressed, phone in hand. The white noise of the shower helps drown out the guilt twisting low in my stomach.

Buck’s voice drifts in through the door. “Hey, babe! I’m heading over to Eddie’s for a bit — he needs help lifting that new trampoline he swore he wasn’t buying.”

A pause.

“I’ll grab coffees on the way back!”

“Okay!” I call out, loud enough to sound normal. “Text me if you need anything!”

I wait until I hear the door click shut and his footsteps disappear down the hall. Then I finally unlock my phone.

Bobby [9:12 AM]: Athena’s at work till late. If you want to talk, I can come grab you now.

Bobby [9:13 AM]: We can get out of the city for a bit. Just talk. No pressure.

I stare at the texts longer than I should.

There’s a tiny thrill in it. The secrecy. The soft certainty behind his words. But there’s guilt too. Heavy and stubborn and sitting right between my ribs.

Still… I start typing.

Y/N [9:16 AM]: Yeah. Okay. I can meet you downstairs in ten.

Three dots flash back almost immediately.

Bobby [9:16 AM]: I’ll be there.

I kill the water and grab a towel, wrapping it around my shoulders more out of habit than need. The air is heavy with steam and everything else I’m carrying.

As I move quietly through the apartment, I glance at the couch — the blanket Buck always tangles himself in, the empty popcorn bowl from last night, the hoodie of his that still smells like laundry detergent and safety.

I leave a note on the counter. Just in case. Went for a walk. Be back later x

Then I slip out.

Bobby’s waiting at the curb in his truck, sunglasses on, elbow resting against the window. He looks up when he sees me, gives the smallest nod.

I slide into the passenger seat.

“Hey,” he says softly.

“Hey,” I reply.

Neither of us moves to fill the silence too fast.

Then he puts the truck in gear and pulls away from the curb, away from Buck, away from everything I’m supposed to want — and toward something I still can’t name.

But we’re heading there together.

We don’t talk much on the drive. Not because we don’t want to. Because we’re both trying to figure out where to start.

The city fades behind us in pieces — street signs, strip malls, the long sprawl of LA smudging into coastline. Eventually, Bobby pulls off the road near a beach I’ve never been to before. It’s quiet. Remote. The kind of place that doesn’t ask questions.

The wind picks up the second I step out of the truck, the salt sharp in the air. Waves roll in slow and steady, crashing against sand that looks barely touched.

We walk side by side, no plan, just the sound of the ocean filling in the gaps between everything we haven’t said yet.

After a while, Bobby stops and drops down onto the sand. I sit next to him, knees pulled up, shoes half-buried in the grit.

He takes a breath like he’s steadying himself. “I wanted to see you. But I wasn’t sure if I should text you. I didn’t want to make this harder than it already is.”

I pick at a piece of sea grass near my foot. “It’s already hard. Not seeing you didn’t make it any easier.”

He looks at me then. Really looks. “So what are we doing, Y/N?”

“I don’t know,” I admit. “I just know that when I’m with you, everything else fades out. And when I’m not… I’m thinking about being with you.”

His hand brushes the sand near mine. He doesn’t reach for me. Doesn’t push. He just listens.

“I’m not saying it’s right,” I say quietly. “And I’m not trying to blow up my whole life. But I also can’t pretend that what’s happening between us isn’t real.”

He nods slowly, eyes focused on the waves. “It is real. And I hate that it’s messy. I hate that it’s complicated. But I don’t want to lie to myself about it anymore either.”

I finally look at him. His expression is so open. Careful. Honest.

“I don’t have answers,” I say. “But I want to see where this goes. Even if it’s just… quietly. For now.”

He finally reaches over, lets his fingers find mine in the sand. They brush, pause, then settle. Warm. Solid.

“We don’t have to figure it all out today,” Bobby says. “But we don’t have to walk away either.”

I nod. “So we keep it between us. For now. Just… see what happens?”

He squeezes my hand gently. “Yeah. We see what happens.”

The wind picks up again, tugging at my hair.

And for the first time in days, the tightness in my chest eases — just a little.

Because whatever this is, whatever it becomes… We’re not pretending anymore.

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beibigirl124 · 2 months ago

Text

Sister Sinner, Chapter Four

Request: Do you do cross-overs? I was thinking Neal Caffery’s younger sister works with the BAU, her brother, Mozzie, and Peter on a case, and ends up crushing on Derek Morgan.

Fandom: Criminal Minds/White Collar

Characters/Pairings: Derek Morgan/Reader; Garcia, Hotch, Prentiss, Reid, Rossi, Neal

Words: 2,136

Y/N - Your Name

“The good news is that he was definitely in contact with someone the entire time. The bad news is that the Gambinos – or whoever else might have been on the mic – only opened their end of the transmission when they communicated into his wire, which was for only seconds at a time and not long enough to trace. The radio signals bouncing out were encrypted very heavily with very dense coding and went through half a dozen proxy servers in the New England area before leaving the country.”

Garcia looked very nervous as she presented the results of your first undercover meeting with Gio, and although you couldn’t say you had enjoyed being in his company, you were kind of excited that you would have to keep reprising your role as Sofia. It felt good to be the one under pressure for once – the one in the loop, the one whose abilities were coveted, the one who had the power to make it or break it. Since going good, you’d been doing far less of your own thing, mostly because you knew it would make things rough for Neal if Peter (or anyone else in law enforcement, for that matter) caught you.

“Garcia,” Hotchner prompted, inserting just the one word in his boss voice between her rambling sentences.

Keep reading

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beibigirl124 · 2 months ago

Text

Personal Best 5

🤍 Summary: She’s keeping her distance. He’s keeping control. But underneath the silence, it’s still burning. One look, one message, one night and everything they’ve been trying to bury comes roaring back.

🤍 Pairings: Coach!Cody Rhodes x Female Reader

🤍 Warnings: 18+ only, Minors DNI!, Explicit Sexual Content, Power Imbalance (coach/athlete), Strong Language, Implied Age Gap (but age appropriate, as always), Workplace-Adjacent/Semi-Public Setting, Angst

🤍 Word Count: 6.0k

🤍 Links: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5

🤍 Notes: Thank you for all of the amazing feedback and encouragement on this story. I did not expect it to take on the life it has, but y'all really encourage me to keep going, so thank you!

He wakes before his alarm. Not from rest, but from habit. The kind of habit that never really leaves your bones, no matter how little you slept or how late the ghosts kept you awake.

The hotel room is still dark. He’s on his side, one arm bent beneath the pillow, the other stretched out like it had been wrapped around someone who isn’t there.

She’s not here.

And yet, somehow, everything still smells like her.

He stares at the ceiling. Blank. Boring. Beige.

His body is still. But his brain isn’t.

He sees her.

Pressed against him. Bare. Soft. Real. The way she held on like maybe she needed it just as badly.

Fuck.

He exhales through his nose, trying to bury it.

Last night happened. Really happened.

Not just the sex. Not just the way her body surrendered.

It was everything after.

The way she collapsed against his chest, silent and shaking, like she’d been holding it together too long. Like his arms were the only place she remembered how to breathe.

And the way his arms folded around her. Not because it was the right thing to do. Because it was the only thing he wanted to do.

He sits up, rubs a hand down his face. The weight of what they’ve done hangs heavy across his shoulders. Not shame. Just... clarity.

He knows what they’re risking.

He’s known it for weeks.

But last night didn’t feel reckless. It didn’t feel like a mistake. It felt inevitable.

And that’s what terrifies him.

He closes his eyes for a second. Tries to focus on the noise outside. The rattle of a shower in the room next door. The buzz of the hotel AC. A distant elevator bell. Anything to keep from replaying last night like a highlight reel.

But it’s no use.

He remembers the way she looked at him when she walked away from the bus. The way she didn’t look back.

Strong girl. Always trying to outrun whatever’s chasing her. Including me.

He stands. Stretches. Rolls the tension from his shoulders. It doesn’t help. His body remembers. The weight of her. The way she moved. The way she didn’t pretend.

He moves through the morning motions like muscle memory. Shower. Shave. Watch steam fog the mirror and pretend he doesn’t imagine her standing beside him.

He towels off. Gets dressed. Drags on a clean track jacket. Swipes the mirror with his palm and stares at his reflection, searching for answers he knows aren’t there.

He doesn’t regret it.

Not even a little.

What he regrets is holding back. Every second he kept his distance. Every time he swallowed the words he wanted to say.

Because last night, he could have had her. All of her.

And he didn’t.

Not because he didn’t want to. God, he wanted to. Wanted to take her apart, piece by piece. Watch her unravel with him inside her.

But that’s not how it happened.

Because last night, it wasn’t about him.

It was about her.

He could’ve chased the finish. Could’ve gotten off right there with her in his lap. But instead, he put her first. Watched her come undone. Felt her break open in his hands.

And it wrecked him.

Not just the touch. Not just the sounds she made. But the way she looked at him afterward. Like he was more than a mistake. Like he was someone worth holding onto.

And when he got back to his room, alone, lips still tingling from her skin, he couldn’t take it anymore.

He braced a hand on the bathroom counter, shut his eyes, and came with her name on his lips.

It wasn’t about release.

It was about her. The way she trusted him. The way she felt. The way she let him see her.

Even then, it wasn’t enough. Because it wasn’t with her. Just him. His hand. The echo of her voice in his head.

Because it never stopped being about her.

He wipes the mirror again, clearing the steam. Meets his own eyes, jaw tight, gaze wearier than usual.

It never stopped being about her.

And that’s what scares him most.

Because if it’s always been her, how the hell is he supposed to pretend it doesn’t matter?

He checks the clock.

Time to face the day.

Time to face her.

And pray he doesn’t give himself away.

Hot water pounds against your skin, steam clinging to the glass. Your hands brace against the shower wall, fingers slipping against slick tile.

His body is pressed to your back, every inch of him soaked and solid. One hand wraps around your waist, the other tangles in your hair, tugging just enough to make you arch.

You’re breathless. The heat of the water blurs with the heat of him, and every roll of his hips drives the air from your lungs.

You push back into him, feeling how perfectly he fits. His hand slides from your waist to your thigh, fingers teasing upward, closer, until he’s exactly where you need him.

He bites your shoulder, just hard enough to make you gasp. Then his fingers slip between your legs.

“Shh,” he murmurs against your skin. “Don’t want everyone to hear you, do you?”

You bite your lip, but it’s no use. His fingers curve just right. His hips grind against you, and the sound that escapes your throat is more plea than protest.

“God, you’re perfect,” he groans, thrusting his fingers back in, faster now. Your knees wobble. Your whole body coils tight.

His other hand finds your breast, rolling your nipple between wet fingers, and it’s all too much. Too good.

“You my girl?” he asks, low and wrecked.

Your voice breaks. “Yes.”

And then you’re falling. Body shaking, mouth open, legs barely holding. He catches you, steadies you, muttering filth against your neck as you come apart in his hands.

Your breath’s still shallow when he turns you, kisses you hard. Heat, water, and him all at once.

He lifts you, your legs wrapping around his waist, and then he’s inside you. Deep. Familiar. Real.

You moan into his mouth, fingers gripping his soaked hair—

—

And wake up gasping.

The hotel room is quiet. Early light seeps through the gap in the curtains. Your heart still races. Skin too hot. Body aching in a way that feels almost cruel. You take a shaky breath, staring at the ceiling, willing your pulse to slow.

It takes a second to place yourself. Hotel sheets. Running gear on the chair. The AC humming like it’s losing a battle against the heat.

Right. The meet. The trip. The bus…

The bus.

It all rushes back.

His hands. His mouth. His voice in your ear. The way you melted into him, muscles gone soft. The way he held you—like he knew.

You sit up slowly, careful not to wake Jaylah, who's sprawled across the other bed like she’s had the best sleep of her life. One arm flung over her forehead. Mouth open. One sock half-off. Totally unbothered. Must be nice.

You swing your legs out of bed, plant your feet on the scratchy hotel carpet, and just breathe.

You’re sore. Not hurt. Just marked. A reminder he was there. That he touched you. That you wanted it. And now you're expected to eat powdered eggs with the team like nothing happened.

You curse under your breath and slip out of bed, careful not to wake Jaylah. Grab your toiletries and head to the bathroom. Flick on the light. Catch your reflection.

Your cheeks are flushed. Your eyes, heavy. You look different.

Or maybe you just feel it.

You splash cold water on your face. The dream clings. The heat stays, burrowed deep, like his mouth still on your skin.

You grip the sink. Steady yourself.

You’re supposed to be focused today. Supposed to be ready.

But all you can think about is him.

Last night.

And the way you already want more.

Jaylah groans when you walk back out, rolling over and blinking at the ceiling. “You’re up early.”

You shrug, pulling on clean clothes. “Couldn’t sleep.”

“Damn,” she mumbles, sitting up. “You really are nervous about this meet, huh?”

You nod slowly. “Something like that.”

She yawns, then grins. “Come on. Let’s go grab breakfast before the vultures wipe out the buffet.”

You trail after her, heartbeat picking up as the lobby nears. The elevator hums, opens with a ding. Jaylah’s already chattering about the meet schedule.

You’re only half-listening. Your eyes scan the room the second the doors open.

He’s not there. You can’t tell if that’s relief or something worse.

You and Jaylah slide into a booth. Teammates trickle in, some in sweats, some with bedhead, the usual low murmur of morning noise swelling around you.

You poke at your eggs. Sip your coffee. Nod at whatever Jaylah’s saying.

But your mind is miles away.

Still on that bus.

Still in his arms.

Still waiting for proof it meant more than just another night.

You wonder if he’s doing the same.

Or if he’s already decided to forget it happened.

The team piles onto the bus, a slow-moving crowd of duffel bags and half-awake groans.

You grab a window seat near the middle. Jaylah flops down across from you, armed with a protein bar and iced coffee.

He’s not on the bus yet.

You tell yourself it doesn’t matter.

Outside, the parking lot blurs, chatter rising, music kicking on, the usual pre-meet buzz. But it barely registers.

Then the door hisses open. Footsteps on the stairs.

A pause.

You don’t look.

You don’t have to.

Coach Rhodes steps on board. Silent.

No greetings. No rundown. No eye contact.

He walks the aisle, clipboard tucked under one arm, hat pulled low.

He passes your row.

Doesn’t look.

Not even a flicker.

The air punches from your lungs.

Jaylah says something, voice muffled through the fog in your head. You nod automatically, stomach tight.

He didn’t even look at you.

The rest of the ride fades out.

You don’t hear the music. Don’t catch the jokes. Don’t feel the engine rumble beneath you.

Your eyes are on the trees streaking past the window, but your mind is still back on that bus.

His forehead pressed to yours.

Like he didn’t want to let go.

And now he’s pretending you don’t exist.

He doesn’t even look at you.

That’s the part that gets him.

He can’t.

Not when you’re sitting there, head turned to the window, sunlight brushing your cheekbone. Not when his whole body’s still wired from last night.

He swallows, jaw tight, eyes forward as he moves down the aisle. He feels you before he sees you, your presence humming louder than the bus itself.

Don’t look. Don’t look. Don’t look.

He grips the clipboard tighter. Lets his gaze skim over heads in front of you. Doesn’t even glance when he reaches your row.

And it hurts.

Hurts like hell not to touch you. Not to sit beside you. Not to see you.

But he knows better.

You’re looking out the window, and even without seeing your face, he knows you felt it. The deliberate distance. The way he erased you with a blink.

He tells himself it’s the right call.

It still feels wrong.

At the front, he leans against the wall near the driver’s seat, back to the team. The clipboard’s a blur. His thoughts are stuck on last night.

He can’t forget how you looked at him.

Like he was more than just your coach.

Like he was yours.

And now all he can think about is how badly he wants you back.

But he’s supposed to be in control.

And fuck if you don’t make that impossible.

The bus rumbles to life. Chatter rises. He doesn’t move. Shoulders locked, heartbeat loud in his ears.

He knows it hurt when he walked past.

But if he’d looked, even just once, you would’ve seen it on his face.

And the last thing he needs right now… is anyone else seeing it too.

The meet venue is already buzzing when you unload.

Athletes jog the perimeter. Staff set up tents. Trainers unpack coolers and crates. The team clusters near check-in, adjusting warm-ups, stretching, squinting under the rising sun.

Coach finally speaks.

But not to you.

“All right,” he calls, voice sharp and clean. “Events, relay squads, warm-up windows, split targets. If you’re not dialed in, go sit the fuck down.”

Everyone tightens up. He runs the list like clockwork—cool, commanding, clinical.

Then— “Y/N.”

Your name cuts through the air like a gunshot.

Your body tenses. You look up.

And he’s looking at you.

Really looking.

For one full second, it’s just you and him. Everything else fades—the team, the heat, the noise. Last night flickers behind his eyes. The kiss. The breath you shared. The way he held you like he didn’t want to let go.

He clears his throat.

“Anchor leg,” he says, slipping back into neutral. “Warm with Group B. You’re up second half.”

You nod once. That’s all.

He moves on.

But that crack in the mask?

It said everything.

The moment passes, but your pulse doesn’t slow.

And neither does his.

The day unfolds. He doesn’t speak to you again, but he’s there.

Every time you jog past the tent. Every time your name’s called. Every time you bend to lace your spikes or strip your warm-up off, his eyes are on you even when they shouldn’t be.

He doesn’t hover.

But he watches.

And somehow, that’s worse. Because it means he’s trying.

Trying to stay professional. To keep distance. To stay in control.

You are too.

But your body still hums from the memory of his touch.

Your legs still ache, but not from drills. Your chest still tightens every time you think about the way he held you when it was over.

And the way he hasn’t looked at you like that since.

Events roll by. Your teammates cheer, collapse onto benches, crushing water bottles. The sun climbs high. Heat soaks the track.

Finally, your group is called to staging.

Anchor.

Last leg.

Final chance.

Your heart kicks. You shake out your limbs. Roll your shoulders. Glance across the infield.

He’s by the tent. Clipboard under his arm. Sunglasses on.

But you know he’s watching.

You don’t wave. You don’t smile.

You just nod.

I’ve got this.

The gun cracks.

Your teammates run hard. Clean handoffs. No drops.

You pace at the line, adrenaline hot under your skin.

The baton flies toward you—smack—and then you run.

You run like hell.

The crowd is a blur. The noise folds into a wall of sound. But all you hear is your breath and the rhythm of your spikes tearing into the track.

The girl beside you is fast.

But you’re faster.

You dig. You burn. You finish.

And when you cross that line, lungs on fire, body screaming—

You look for him.

He’s across the track. Sunglasses off. Clipboard forgotten. Watching you.

And he’s smiling.

Not a twitch. Not the restrained smirk he hides behind when he’s trying not to give too much away.

A real one.

And it hits harder than the race.

Harder than the kiss.

Harder than anything else.

Because it’s real.

Back at the hotel, you’re freshly showered. Moisturized. Relaxed. Wrapped in that post-meet haze that’s part exhaustion, part adrenaline echo.

Jaylah pulls a swimsuit from her bag.

“Hot tub. You coming?”

You hesitate. “I’m beat.”

She grins. “Girl, we all are. That’s why it’s a hot tub and not a 5K.”

You smile. “You go ahead. I might come down later.”

She shrugs, doesn’t push. “Don’t fall asleep with your contacts in again. You looked possessed last time.”

Then she’s gone, towel slung over her shoulder, humming something off-key as the door clicks shut behind her.

Silence.

Buzz.

Your phone lights up on the nightstand.

Coach Rhodes: You looked good out there.

You stare at the screen.

Just five words. But it’s not just that.

It’s him. Testing the waters. Just a little.

Your fingers hover over the keyboard.

Y/N: You gonna pretend you weren’t watching again?

A beat.

Buzz.

Coach Rhodes: Not pretending anything.

Buzz.

Coach Rhodes: I was staring.

Coach Rhodes: And not just because of your split time.

Your heart skips. Your thighs press together, memory rolling through you. You lean back against the headboard, phone tight in your hand.

Buzz.

Coach Rhodes: What are you doing?

Y/N: Nothing.

Y/N: Team’s in the hot tub.

Y/N: I stayed behind.

A longer pause this time.

Buzz.

Coach Rhodes: You stayed behind for a reason.

Coach Rhodes: Didn’t you?

Your breath catches.

Of course he knows.

You type.

Delete.

Type again.

Y/N: Didn’t think I could handle those girls in a hot tub.

Buzz.

Coach Rhodes: Probably smart.

Buzz.

Coach Rhodes: You sore?

The question hits like a jolt. Your stomach twists.

Y/N: Why?

Y/N: Planning on making it worse?

You toss the phone onto the blanket beside you and cover your face with both hands, heat crawling up your neck.

You already know where this is going.

You know damn well it’s not going to stop.

Buzz.

You reach for it.

Coach Rhodes: 633

Your brow furrows.

Y/N: What?

Buzz.

Coach Rhodes: My room number.

Buzz.

Coach Rhodes: Come here.

Three seconds later—

Buzz.

Coach Rhodes: Please.

Please.

You don’t even think. You just move.

You’re off the bed, scrambling for your room key. Shoes on. Door cracked. A quick glance both ways down the hall and then you’re sprinting for the stairs.

No Jaylah.

No teammates.

No reason to stop.

Your heart’s pounding by the time you reach his floor. The door is cracked just enough to say come in without actually saying it.

He’s on his feet when you slip inside, like he hasn’t sat down since you texted.

The door clicks shut behind you. Silence stretches between you.

The room’s tidy. Bed made. Clothes folded. His jacket draped over a chair. Steam still lingers in the air from a recent shower.

He watches you like he’s not sure you’re real. Like he’s scared to blink in case you vanish.

You can’t help but smile. “Expecting someone else?”

He huffs a quiet laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “If I was, I’d be disappointed.”

You step forward, slow. “Good answer.”

He shakes his head like he’s trying to clear it, but his eyes never leave you. “You didn’t even hesitate.”

You arch a brow. “You think I would?”

His mouth twitches. Almost a smile. “Guess not. You never do.”

Another beat of silence. You fold your arms, cock your head.

“You gonna just stare at me, Coach? Or did you have something else in mind?”

He closes the distance in one long step. You don’t pull back. Instead, you meet him halfway, letting your knuckles brush his.

He inhales like you’ve stolen the air right out of him.

“So you were watching me,” you say, just loud enough for him to hear.

His hand slides to your waist, pulling you in a little closer. “Yeah. Couldn’t help it.”

You tilt your chin up, heat blooming in your chest. “Thought you didn’t play favorites.”

He gives you a look, amused, a little desperate. “Never said that.”

Your pulse skips. “So... I’m your favorite?”

No hesitation. No blink. His hand shifts to the small of your back, pulling you flush against him.

“You’ve always been my favorite.”

You don’t know who moves first, but the next breath is his mouth on yours.

Your hands slip beneath his shirt, searching for heat, for skin.

His breath catches.

You grin. “You good?”

He laughs under his breath. “You’re bold today.”

You pull back just enough to meet his eyes. “Didn’t know I was supposed to play it safe.”

He leans in again, teeth catching your bottom lip. “You never do.”

You nudge him back a step, and he follows, easy. Hands still locked on each other, the two of you press into the wall with a soft thud.

“You almost got me in trouble today,” he mutters, lips brushing your neck.

You laugh. “No one made you watch.”

“Couldn’t help it.” His grip tightens at your hips. “You look too damn good when you’re focused.”

Your breath stutters. “You told me to run like someone was chasing me.”

“Didn’t mean me.”

Your fingers trace his collarbone. You kiss the corner of his mouth, feel the shiver run through him.

“What if I wanted it to be you?”

He kisses you again, hands sliding to your thighs, hitching one leg around his waist.

“You’re awfully careful for someone who begged me up here.”

“Been thinking about this all day,” he says, voice low. “Don’t wanna fuck it up.”

You press your forehead to his. He holds you there, breathing with you.

You kiss him again, and the tension softens.

When you finally pull back, your lips are still brushing, breath shared.

“Coach?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re allowed to want this.”

He kisses you like he finally believes it.

And for a moment, there’s nothing else.

Just you. Just him. Just this. You smile against his mouth. “I like you better when you’re not bossing me around.”

He nips your bottom lip, just enough to make you gasp. “Don’t get used to it.”

You laugh, but he cuts it off with another kiss, deep and claiming, pulling you closer until there’s no space left between you. Just heat. Just want.

Then he pulls back, that crooked smile playing on his lips as his eyes scan your face.

“What?” you ask, still breathless.

“You’re grinning like you got away with something.”

You drag your lips over his again, slow. “Maybe I did.”

His hands slide down your sides, lingering. “Yeah? Like what?”

“Got you to beg.”

His jaw flexes. His eyes darken. But he’s not angry. Not even close.

“You’re not gonna let that go, are you?”

“Not a chance.”

He shakes his head, stepping back, only for you to keep a grip on his shirt, barely giving him room to move. The backs of his knees hit the bed. He sits, pulling you between his legs, hands firm on your hips.

“So, Coach,” you smirk, “was the game plan just making out against every wall in the room?”

“Didn’t think that far ahead.”

You fake a gasp. “You? No strategy? I’m shocked.”

His hands slip under your shirt, thumbs brushing along your ribs. “Keep talking. See where that gets you.”

“Hopefully somewhere comfortable.” You glance behind him. “Like, I don’t know—this bed.”

He doesn’t miss a beat. “I could make you stand the whole time. Would that be comfortable?”

You scoff, pushing lightly at his chest. “I’m not a damn marathon runner.”

He tugs you into his lap like it’s nothing. His body heat sinks into you instantly.

“You’re right,” he murmurs, voice lower now. “You’re more of a sprinter.”

Your eyes narrow. “Are you implying I’m quick to finish?”

He’s already smiling. “You brought it up.”

You lean back, pretending to be offended. “Wow. Cocky much? Maybe I should take my talents elsewhere.”

He doesn’t flinch. Just pulls you back in, mouth grazing your jaw. “Yeah? Where would you go?”

You grip his chin, make him look at you. “I hear the pay-per-view selection here’s pretty good.”

He blinks. “What?”

“Hotel porn, Coach. Might be a better use of my time.”

He laughs, the sound low and warm against your chest. “Oh, is that right?”

You bite your lip, teasing. “Heard there’s a feature on bossy track coaches who act tough but say please when they’re desperate.”

His eyes flare at that, but his jaw loosens, and you can tell he’s trying not to grin.

“You’re lucky I don’t take that as a challenge.”

You tilt your head, sugar-sweet. “Maybe I want you to.”

He doesn’t hesitate this time. His hands slide under your thighs, lifting you just enough to ease you back onto the bed. You land with a soft bounce, elbows braced behind you, watching as he follows.

When he kisses you again, it’s not rough. Not rushed. Just... honest. Like he’s finally letting himself feel it. Really feel it.

You’re not used to that. Not from him.

And for once, you don’t try to fill the silence with a joke. You just let yourself fall into it. Into him.

His lips skim your cheek. His hands move slow, tracing the shape of your body. You don’t stop him. You don’t pull away.

You let him take his time. Let him hold you like he means it.

When he pulls back, eyes locked on yours, it hits you. The way he’s looking at you. He’s looking at you like you’ve just upended his whole world.

Maybe you have.

And maybe, you’re okay with that.

He’s on top of you, mouth hot against your neck, hands sliding beneath your clothes, tugging your shorts down just enough to get to you. You squirm, trying to help, legs tangled in fabric and urgency.

He chuckles against your collarbone. “Hold still.”

“You’re taking too long,” you whisper, hips wriggling.

He pulls back, eyes blazing. “Impatient today, huh?”

You grab his shirt, yank him back down. “Don’t act like you don’t love it.”

His laugh is low and warm as he finally strips your shorts away, his eyes widening when he realizes you’re bare underneath.

“Fuck,” he mutters, hands gliding up your thighs. “You came here like this?”

“Didn’t have time to think about underwear. Too busy sprinting to your door.”

His mouth finds yours again, slower this time. Like he wants you to remember this.

Your hands slide under his shirt, nails dragging lightly across his stomach. He pulls back just long enough to yank it over his head, then he’s back on you, kissing down your throat, pushing your shirt up, mouth catching your nipple, sucking just hard enough to make you gasp.

“Shh,” he teases, covering your mouth with his hand. “Gonna get us caught.”

You grind up against him in reply, and he groans into your skin. You bite his palm and he pulls his hand away, pinning your wrists to the bed.

“Don’t start something you can’t finish,” he warns.

You grin. “Who says I can’t finish?”

He leans in, breath hot against your ear. “Oh baby, I know you can.”

You arch again, hips meeting his in a slow, perfect grind that pulls a growl from his throat. He kisses his way down your stomach, stopping just above your hip. Nips the skin. Watches you twitch.

His pants are still on, and it’s pissing you off.

You sit up, fingers fumbling with the waistband. He laughs under his breath and helps you strip them off, boxers and all, until they’re gone.

You don’t realize you’re smiling until he tilts your chin up, thumb brushing your cheek. His eyes meet yours, softer than you expect. He presses a kiss to your forehead, lingering. His lips move against your skin, barely a whisper.

“You know this isn’t just about fucking anymore, right?”

Your breath catches. Heat blooms in your chest, low in your belly. Your fingers tighten on his side, heart pounding.

He leans back just enough to see your face, and something in your expression makes his gaze soften even more.

“I mean it,” he says, brushing his nose against yours.

Your mouth opens, but no words come. The ache in your chest rises to your throat, too tangled to name.

“I want to make love to you,” he says. It’s not a question. Just truth. Simple. Devastating.

You freeze, heart hammering. It’s too much. Too real. And he sees it, sees the hesitation flicker across your face. His grip loosens.

“Hey,” he says gently. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

You shake your head, quick. “No. It’s not you,” you rush out. “It’s just... I’ve never done that before.”

He blinks. “Never…?”

You look down, hands pressing into his shoulders. “I’ve had sex. Plenty. But making love? I don’t know how.”

Silence. Then soft laughter. Surprised. Kind.

You glance up.

He’s smiling at you. The kind of smile that makes your chest twist.

“What?” you ask, heat blooming in your face.

He leans in, brushing a kiss to the corner of your mouth. “Baby,” he says, voice low. “We already are.”

You blink, confused. “What do you mean?”

He cups your face, thumbs stroking your cheeks. “Last night. Just now. That’s me making love to you.”

Your throat tightens. His lips graze your jaw.

“You don’t have to force it,” he murmurs. “Just feel it.”

When you meet his eyes again, they’re wide open. Blue, steady, sincere.

“Follow my lead,” he says. “Let me show you.”

He kisses you slow, unhurried. His hands slide to your waist, pulling you closer, and you melt into him. your body responding before your mind can catch up.

And this time, it’s different.

Still intense. Still electric. But layered with something gentler, deeper. His hands trace you with reverence. He doesn’t look away, even when you try to hide in the crook of his neck.

He tilts your chin up, kisses you again. And suddenly, you understand what he meant.

It’s not just touch. It’s presence. The way his mouth lingers. The way his voice rasps your name like it means something sacred. The way he holds you like you're breakable but not fragile.

You’re used to urgency. Rough hands. Breathless want. But this…

This is careful. Intentional. Earned.

His thumbs brush your jaw. His eyes don’t leave yours as he slides into you, deep and slow. Your fingers clutch at his back, grounding you in the moment, and it feels like discovering something you didn’t know you were missing.

You want to crack a joke. Ease the tension. But then he looks at you—and whatever you were about to say dies on your tongue.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers.

His hand drifts down your stomach, tracing the curve of your waist. You’re breathing hard, strung tight with heat and feeling, but his voice calms you.

“Easy,” he murmurs against your mouth.

It’s not just the words. It’s how he says them—like he means them. Like he's been waiting for this.

His lips trail down your throat, slow and steady. Every kiss pulls a soft sound from your lips, and he smiles against your skin.

“That’s it,” he whispers, coaxing more from you with every breath, every careful touch.

He keeps his eyes on you, even when you try to look away. He won’t let you hide. His hands frame your face. His kiss is slow. Tender. Honest. Like it’s telling you something he doesn’t know how to say out loud.

Your whole body hums, tension winding tighter. But it’s not just desire.

It’s something deeper.

Something that settles low in your chest and makes your whole body ache with how much it matters.

He kisses you again, soft, searching, and you let go. Thread your fingers into his hair. Move with him. Breathe with him.

And feel yourself fall.

He breaks the kiss just enough to rest his forehead against yours, his breath hot and uneven. “Look at me,” he whispers.

You force your eyes open. And he’s right there, watching you like he doesn’t want to miss a single second.

“Tell me what you want,” he says, lips ghosting over your cheek.

“Harder,” you breathe. “Please.”

He rewards you with exactly that, driving deeper, the rhythm brutal and tender all at once.

Your hands slide to his shoulders, holding on like he’s the only steady thing in a world that won’t stop spinning. His name slips out before you even realize it, soft and broken, like a sin you didn’t mean to confess.

“Cody...”

His eyes widen and his whole body stills. His real name. Not “Coach.” Not the title he’s always hidden behind. Just him. Just Cody.

You see it hit him. The way the sound of his name rearranges the air between you. You’ve broken the last rule.

His jaw flexes. His breath deepens. Then his hands grip your hips, pulling you impossibly closer, like he needs every inch of you.

His kiss changes.

It’s deeper now. Less careful. Desperate in a way that has nothing to do with sex and everything to do with you.

He buries his face in your neck, saying something too quiet to catch, but you feel it. Every word written in the way his lips tremble against your skin.

“Say it again,” he breathes, voice rough.

You don’t hesitate. “Cody.”

His eyes close. He exhales like he’s been holding that breath for years.

When he opens them again, they’re different.

Unshielded. His.

He kisses your temple. Your cheek. Your mouth.

You whisper it once more. “Cody.”

He smiles against your lips, whispering back, hoarse and stunned, “God, I love the way you say that.”

And just like that, you know. This isn’t just another night. It’s not just skin on skin. It’s not just lust.

It’s him.

And it’s you.

And this is what it feels like to stop pretending.

Low chatter and giggles fill the hallway. Jaylah and a few of the other girls stumble down the corridor. Their skin smells like chlorine, still slightly damp from the hot tub. Someone’s passing around a tiny bottle of vodka. The cheap kind that costs way too much at the gas station but feels like freedom when you're not supposed to have it.

One of the girls, Bianca, has her phone out, giggling as she reads the next challenge off her notes app. “Okay, so we’ve gotta find room 637 and take a selfie with the door. Extra points if it’s open.”

Jaylah snorts. “You realize that’s just gonna get us yelled at, right?”

Bianca shrugs. “Worth it.”

They round the corner, laughter bouncing off the wallpapered walls, voices hushed but not really. Jaylah’s still trying to figure out how they convinced her to join this scavenger hunt when something makes her stop in her tracks.

A noise.

A low, muffled sound.

Almost rhythmic.

Coming from one of the rooms up ahead.

Bianca’s ears perk up immediately. She nudges the girl next to her, eyes wide. “Did you hear that?”

The other girls go quiet, straining to listen.

Another sound. Clearer this time. A moan. Distinctly feminine.

Bianca’s eyes light up like she’s just discovered the world’s best gossip. “Oh my god,” she whispers, eyes darting to the door of room 633. “Is someone having sex in there?”

Jaylah’s heart drops into her stomach, and she’s moving before she can think. She grabs Bianca by the collar, hauling her backward. “Keep moving,” she mutters, forcing the group to shuffle down the hall.

“What? J, come on! That’s like... legendary,” Bianca protests, trying to crane her neck back to the door.

Jaylah just pulls harder, practically dragging her. “Leave it,” she snaps. “We’re not trying to get caught.”

The other girls groan, but Jaylah’s grip stays firm, marching them toward the elevator. One of the others mutters something about being a buzzkill, but Jaylah doesn’t care.

Her pulse is pounding in her ears.

When they’re halfway down the hall, she glances back. Just for a second. Just to check.

Her eyes land on that door again.

Room 633.

And somehow, she just knows.

Not because of logic.

Because of that sharp, cold twist low in her stomach. That feeling.

She stares for one more breath. Then turns back to the group.

Still not sure what’s happening. But sure as hell knowing:

She’s closer to the truth than she ever meant to be.

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beibigirl124 · 2 months ago

Text

You Should Probably Leave (Damian Priest x female reader) (18+)

After years of stolen moments and hidden feelings, Damian and his longtime friend finally give in to their longing. A single touch leads to a passionate night where love, not just desire, is finally set free.

Damian Priest x female reader

Warnings: Smut (18+), penetration, language, yet another hotelroom lmao, friends to lovers

Word count: 1,6k

⸻

It was late. Later than it should’ve been.

I shouldn’t have let her in. She shouldn’t have knocked.

But here she was: standing in my hotel room, rain in her hair, her black jacket clinging to her like a second skin. She looked like trouble wrapped in the kind of comfort I didn’t know I craved until I met her. The kind of woman who smiled with her eyes and made you forget why you built walls in the first place.

She tossed her bag on the chair and turned to me, breathless from the run up to my floor.

“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice soft. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

I swallowed hard. It was a lie. She knew exactly where she was going.

And I wasn’t strong enough to turn her away.

We had a history of sorts. Not the kind anyone else could see. It was in the looks that lasted a second too long, in the brushes of fingers as we passed, in the quiet moments when no one else was paying attention. All those small, stolen things that didn’t mean anything.

Except they meant everything.

She sat on the edge of the bed, running her hands over her thighs to dry them. I stood across the room, trying to ignore the fact that she was wearing my hoodie. The one she stole months ago and never gave back. It hung off her like it belonged to her, and maybe it did.

The silence between us was heavy. Not awkward, just full. like there were words floating in the air, waiting to land.

“You okay?” I asked finally.

She nodded, but didn’t meet my eyes. “Just needed to be somewhere quiet. Somewhere… safe.”

That word—safe—hit me in the chest. She could’ve gone anywhere. But she came here. To me.

I moved toward her without thinking, slow and cautious, like she might bolt if I moved too fast. She looked up as I sat beside her, eyes searching mine, and for a moment I saw it. something flickering there. Unspoken. Unexplored.

We’d never crossed that line. Not really. A few teasing jokes, a laugh too close, a drunken lean against my shoulder that lasted longer than it should’ve. Nothing to write songs about. Nothing anyone else would notice.

But I noticed.

Every single thing.

It was quiet in the room, the kind of quiet that wraps around you when there’s something you’re both too scared to say. She sat beside me on the edge of the bed, rain still glistening on her lashes, wearing my hoodie like it had always been hers.

I reached up, almost without realizing it, and brushed a strand of hair from her cheek. Her breath caught. She didn’t move away.

I touched her mouth.

Not to silence her, not to tempt her. But because I had to. Because I’d spent too long thinking about what it might feel like. My fingers traced the soft curve of her lips, and she didn’t move away. She just looked at me like I was something she’d never let herself want out loud.

“You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen,” I said, the words falling out before I could stop them.

She didn’t smile. She didn’t look away. Her breathing changed, and something in the air shifted and turned electric. Real.

Her voice, when it came, was barely a whisper. “I shouldn’t be here.”

“I know,” I said. My hand was still close to her face, fingers twitching with the need to touch her again. “You should probably leave.”

She looked down at the floor like she might agree.

But then she looked back up. “I think about you all the time,” she admitted, so quietly I barely heard it. “Even when I shouldn’t.”

She leaned in.

Slow. Like she wanted to give me time to stop her. But stopping her was the last thing on my mind.

My hand cupped her cheek, and I met her halfway.

When our lips touched, everything else went quiet. It was as if there was no rain, no nerves, no doubts. Just her. Soft and warm, like she’d always belonged right there against me. Her hand curled into the front of my shirt, like she was afraid this might still slip away.

But I wasn’t going anywhere.

The kiss deepened, slow and searching, and the weight of all those almost-moments melted away in the heat of now. I felt her smile against my mouth, just barely. Like she couldn’t believe it either.

When we finally pulled apart, foreheads resting together, our breaths mingling in the space between us, she whispered, “I don’t want to leave.”

I pressed a kiss to her forehead, eyes closed, heart wide open.

“Then stay,” I said. “Conmigo.”

She nodded, curling into my arms like she’d been waiting for this moment as long as I had.

The room pulsed with silence, thick with tension and breath and everything unspoken that now hung in the air like electricity. I hovered above her, one hand buried in her hair, the other braced beside her head, holding myself steady as everything inside me threatened to come undone.

She looked up at me like I was something sacred. Her hands moved beneath my shirt again, palms trailing over my ribs, my back, slow and searching, like she was still trying to convince herself this was real. Like she was afraid she’d wake up and it would all vanish.

“I’m not going anywhere, baby” I whispered, needing her to know. “This… us… I’m not walking away from it.”

Her fingers paused, her eyes locking onto mine with a heat that hit me like a wave.

“Then show me,” she said, barely more than a breath. “Show me you mean it.”

I kissed her again, slower this time. Reverent. My hand slid down to the hem of her hoodie—my hoodie—and I tugged it up gently. She lifted her arms without hesitation, letting me peel it off her, revealing bare skin underneath. She wasn’t wearing anything beneath it.

My breath caught in my throat. ¡Dios mío!

She was beautiful. Not just in the way that made heads turn in a crowded room, but in the quiet, aching way that destroyed you. The kind of beauty that made you forget every rule you swore you’d follow.

“You’re killing me,” I murmured, tracing a line down her collarbone with my fingers. “You’ve always been killing me.”

“I need you, Damian,” she let out, in a desperate breath. It was invigorating to hear the messy desperation in her voice.

My lips followed where my fingers had gone. To her throat, her chest, her stomach, leaving slow, open-mouthed kisses across her skin. She gasped when my mouth reached the space just above her hip, her hands curling into the sheets.

She wasn’t just responding. No. She was giving herself to me completely. No more hesitation. No more restraint.

And I worshipped her. Every inch. Every sound she made. Every whispered gasp, every soft moan as her body arched under mine. It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t just need. It was the slow unraveling of two people who had waited too long to finally feel what they’d only imagined.

I undressed slowly, and when I was bare before her, she looked at me with such intensity I felt it in my bones.

“Come here,” she said, voice husky and almost in an animalistic purr, eyes pulling me in.

When I slid into her, it felt like a breath I’d been holding for years finally released.

Fuckkkkk.

Her legs wrapped around me, her body rising to meet mine, and for a moment, we just held still, foreheads pressed together, breaths tangled, hearts pounding in sync.

Then we moved.

Together.

There was nothing frantic about it. There was only need, slow and deep. Her nails scored down my back, and I kissed her harder, deeper, losing myself in the rhythm we found. She whispered my name like it was something holy, and I answered her with every thrust, every touch, every look.

It was as if someone had lit my entire body on fire. Every nerve-ending was electric and I felt more alive than I’d ever felt.

The world narrowed to just her and her heat, her voice, the feel of her body wrapped around mine, the love that had always been there, quietly burning beneath the surface.

The way her glossy eyes were staring up at me was damn-near pornographic, seemingly craving me equally as much as I was craving her.

The eye-contact was fucking lethal.

My hands found every possible sliver of her soft moonlit skin, in a desperate attempt to claim her as my own. The lights of the city beneath us made her look ethereal and completely irresistible.

Her silky lips were plump, a tiny bit swollen and slightly parted from the magic we were making. I made sure to make an internal note of exactly how sexy she looked.

She clung to me, like her life depended on it, and it fueled the fire that had been lit inside of me.

And when we finally came apart together, her eyes locked deeply onto mine and didn’t let go. It wasn’t just release. It was connection. Home.

We lay tangle in each other afterward, bodies slick with sweat, hearts still racing. She curled into my chest, fingers tracing shapes over my skin, and for the first time in a long time, I felt whole.

No more pretending. No more distance.

Just her. Just us.

And I knew this was what I’d been waiting for.

Not just the kiss.

Not just the passion.

But her.

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beibigirl124 · 2 months ago

Text

top of the head kiss pt 2 (+ jey putting on codys jacket)

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beibigirl124 · 2 months ago

Text

Celebration

Pairing: Dominik Mysterio x Reader

Summary: Back at the hotel (Name) and Dominik have a private celebration of his championship win.

Trigger/Content Warning(s): smut, dirty talk, oral sex (female receiving), piv sex, unprotected sex

Word Count: 2523

A/N: I said I had a smutty follow up to Crazy and I wasn’t joking. Honestly I love this. I hope you all do as well. I also have one final part of this series that is just kinda cute and fluffy.

Previous Part(s):

Crazy

The hotel room in Vegas was nicer than any (Name) had ever been in before. She supposed it made sense since she was staying with a WWE superstar. Still she thought the way her life had gone was crazy.

And she wouldn’t change a thing. Standing in line for hours to get a selfie and program signed by the wrestler that she loved was worth it. Meeting Dominik was wild and he was even better looking in person.

But the way he smiled at her and slipped her his number when he signed the page with a wink.

She had been skeptical but texted him later. Which led to a text conversation then a phone call then a date for coffee the next morning.

That date had led to another and a semi-long distance relationship with the man who had just won the Intercontinental Championship. They’d been together for a little over a year now and she hadn’t regretted a second of it.

Dominik was in the shower after a long day while she was getting ready to show him just what she had under the t-shirt she’d modified into a tank dress. She slipped it off but left the cheap tights she wore on, she knew he liked to tear them off of her. She was wearing it. A lingerie set the same colors as the graphic on the shirt. Red and yellow. But with a black lace trim and overlay.

The tattoo of a rose on her hip peeking out from the band of her panties.

She fluffed her hair and touched up her red lipstick before getting into the bed and positioning herself against the pillows in a sensual pose.

The shower shut off and she heard Dominik pulling on the grey sweatpants he had brought in there with him. Not even thinking about the fact he wouldn’t need them for very long. She settled even more into position.

She wanted to tease him, call out and ask what was taking him so long. But she didn’t. She kept quiet. Pursing her lips to keep her giggles contained.

Dominik walked out using a hotel towel to finish drying his hair, grey sweat pants hanging low on his hips, without a shirt. God that sight was enough to make her swoon. He froze when he saw her on the bed, eyes devouring every inch of her body.

He let out a curse in Spanish at the sight.

Dominik held no shame that he liked that she was a bit heavier. Plush and plump in all the ways that made his mouth water. And the way she lay in this hotel bed, in lingerie she bought just for him, like a full course meal waiting for him to come feast.

He dropped the towel, a smirk spreading over his lips, “What’s all this hermosa?” He growled, “This all for me?”

“Only you, Papi,” (Name) purred.

Dominik crawled onto the bed to join her, trailing his fingers up her legs, even through the cheap tights and fishnets she wore he could feel the goosebumps his touch caused blooming. He couldn’t fight his grin that he always got such a reaction out of her.

His hand reached her hip and he gripped it tightly. Adjusting their bodies to straddle her legs pinning her below him. He licked his lips.

“Fuck baby,” he said in a husky whisper, “Knowing you were there tonight, seeing you cheering for me...almost made it hard to stay in character.” He teased, “Mmm, but you like Dirty Dom, don’t you, you like it when I’m a bad guy...dirty girl...it turns you on, huh?”

(Name) let out a whimper and nodded, gripping his strong biceps in her trembling hands. There was just something about him taking control that turned her brain to mush.

“Say it,” He growled, “Beg me for the attention.”

“Dom...please...I need you,” She whined, “Yes you turn me on when you’re in the ring like that...I want you to take control of me like that.”

Dominik’s grin could definitely be described as predatory as he looked over her. He quickly captured her lips and kissed her with a ferocity and passion that took her breath away. Her hands moved from his arms to dig into his hair and pull him closer, rolling her hips upwards as best she could to entice him more.

Dominik kept their lips locked then let his hands begin wandering her body. Groping and teasing her breasts and thighs. Toying with her nipples through the bra she wore. Swallowing every simpering moan or whine she let out.

He broke from her lips and began to trail his along her jaw towards her ear where he growled, “I’m going to ruin you tonight, mi vida.” Before taking her earlobe between his teeth to give it a tug.

(Name) shuddered. There was just something about him saying such filthy things all while calling her the sweetest pet names that caused her to melt for him.

Dominik began to kiss down her neck, taking the time to nip her soft spot before worrying a mark into her collarbone with his teeth. Drawing more whines from his lover. The heat building between (Name’s) thighs was intense. She gripped him close and arched her back. She could feel just how hard he was through the sweatpants he wore.

“Dom...baby...please Papi…” she moaned.

Dominik let out a low growl again, kissing further down her body. Pausing only to let her sit up enough for him to pull her bra off. Her tits were perfect to him and he loved to play with them. Both his hands and mouth knew their every inch and he relished in their access to them.

He groaned while sucking one of her nipples harshly, loving the way she squealed when his teeth teasingly drug over the sensitive bud.

She may have had it in her mind that tonight was going to be all about him and his pleasure, but she had forgotten that one of the things he drew the most pleasure from was pleasing her. Was getting her off.

He trailed one hand down her body to rub her through the unfortunate layers over her pussy. He growled in irritation making her giggle as he pulled away from her breasts.

Without a word or second thought Dominik grabbed the flimsy fishnets in his hands and ripped them open at the crotch. Before doing the same with the regular tights.

(Name) gasped out at the show of raw power. That did something for her that she would never be able to truly explain.

He didn’t even bother to pull her panties off before burying his face between her deliciously thick thighs. Flattening his tongue against the wet spot that resulted from how much he turned her on. He let out an almost feral groan at the taste of her already.

He licked her through her panties a few more times before he tore himself away just long enough to pull her panties down. Then he was back in his favorite place...between her thighs. His large hands held them open so his mouth could attack her sweet pussy.

He swiped his tongue up her a few times before flicking her clit with the tip of his tongue. He let out a growling groan when he felt her hands bury themselves into his still slightly damp black hair.

“Oh yes...Dom!” (Name) moaned.

He began to suckle her clit to drive her crazy. She cursed and bucked her hips a bit, making him pin them down more firmly.

He moved from her clit to bury his eager tongue inside of her. The sounds Dominik made when he ate her out always served to turn (Name) on even more. He enjoyed eating pussy, especially hers. He liked to say he didn’t need to breathe if it meant he could taste her sweetness.

For her part (Name) would moan and whimper his name. Curse and urge him on. Her fingers gripping his long hair tightly in a desperate attempt to ground herself.

His tongue caressed her until her thighs were shaking and she was crying his name while cumming. He worked her through it and when he pulled away she could see some of her juices clinging to his mustache making her giggle. Dominik chuckled and leaned in to capture her lips in a kiss which she eagerly returned, loving that she could taste herself on his lips.

She wanted to go down on him as well but he stopped her, “I need to be inside of you querida,” he breathed, ditching his sweats and underwear at the same time.

He knew she enjoyed giving head and normally he would never turn that down, but he knew that if he didn’t fuck her now he wouldn’t be able to last.

“Later,” She promised him before kissing him again.

Their mouths moved together for a moment before he broke their kiss just long enough to position himself between her legs, the tip of his hard dick at her entrance.

“Fuck me,” (Name) keened.

“Beg me,” Dominik growled with a smirk, his dark eyes locked on hers.

“Please fuck me, Papi,” (Name) breathed, her lips brushing against his.

That was all it took to break his resolve. Sometimes he likes to tease her more, but tonight he was just as desperate as she was. He pressed inside with a soft groan. He kissed her again, beginning to thrust. He wasn’t going to last long, he could tell already.

He gripped her hips and urged her to wrap her legs around him.

There wasn’t much time for dirty talk or anything more than moaning and gasps between passionate kisses.

(Name) had her arms wrapped around him, dragging her nails along his back as he fucked her.

“Dominik,” she moaned loudly when he hit her g spot.

He slipped one hand between their bodies to toy with her clit. He knew she was always more sensitive after one orgasm so he could easily bring her over the edge once more.

“That’s it baby, give me one more, you can do it...cum on my dick…” he grunted against her lips.

“Fuck…” she cursed and tightened her legs around his hips.

It didn’t take much more for her to cum hard. With a high pitched cry of his name she threw her head back in bliss.

Dominik followed her over the edge all too soon with a groan of her name before crashing his lips against hers.

He thrust a few more times, working them both through their orgasms. He pulled out and collapsed beside her. Pulling her to rest her head on his chest.

(Name) snuggles close, listening to the still rapid beating of his heart.

“I love you, (Name),” Dominik murmured, kissing the top of her head.

“I love you too, Dominik,” (Name) breathed, kissing his chest before snuggling closer, settling in for the night.

—

The next morning (Name) woke up before Dominik which was unusual. But he had worn himself out twice yesterday. She got up to snag a shower of her own before they started their day. Packing up to head home and then prepare for his next bout of traveling. Though this time she was going to be joining him. They had a few things to take care of with his bosses to set it up. But she should be able to head out with him by the time of his first match as Intercontinental Champion.

She was excited about all of the possibilities. She was nervous, she’d never travelled outside of the US, had barely traveled outside of her home state before moving to California for work. (Which she was forever thankful for since that move allowed her to attend that one WWE show and meet the man who had captured her heart)

When she got out of the shower she took a little extra time to blow dry her hair before pulling on some lounge pants and a t-shirt. She walked out of the bathroom to find Dominik sitting up in bed waiting for her.

She grinned and crawled back into his arms.

“Good morning handsome,” She murmured.

“Good morning gorgeous,” Dominik chuckled and hugged her close, “We don’t have to catch our flight home until around ten tonight, I requested a later flight so we could have a day in Vegas together.”

She smiled and nodded, pecking his cheek. She snuggled back into his hold and relaxed. They could get up for breakfast later. Right now she just wanted to enjoy this relaxing moment with him.

“I know you’re ready to start traveling with me, but there’s one other thing I wanted to talk about last night,” Dominik began, stroking her hair, working up the nerve, “But somebody wore me out.”

“Well, you can get those three back the next time you’re in the ring together,” she teased about the fatal four way match he had won his title in.

Dominik couldn’t help but laugh softly at her snark, even first thing in the morning she could be a smart ass. Truth be told, that was one of the things he loved most about her. Their attitudes meshed well.

“Anyway, as I was saying,” he pretended to be irritated, making her giggle, “You’re going to be spending at least this next year traveling with me…” he adjusted to where he could look at her resting her head on his chest, he could get lost in her eyes, he also made sure to slip his hand into the pocket of his sweatpants, when he realized she was showering he hurried to grab what he needed out of his duffel bag, “I was wondering if you would spend the rest of your life with me?”

He opened the ring box with one hand as her eyes widened. He sat them up so he could present her with the ring he had so carefully chosen. The Diamond was offset with a smaller stone on either side (her birthstone of course), on a simple golden band. He knew she wouldn’t want anything too flashy.

When the shock had finally washed over her (Name) nodded and wrapped her arms tightly around his neck, holding him close, “Yes, yes, yes!” She exclaimed.

Dominik laughed, he was certain that was what she would say, but her momentary silence had made him a little nervous. He hugged her tightly before he made her let go just long enough for him to slip the ring onto her finger. She stared at it for a moment. The slight weight on her hand made her smile.

It felt perfect.

Like his ring was meant to sit on her finger.

He couldn’t help but smile at the look of wonder and love on her face. He cupped her cheek and pulled her into a kiss.

“I love you,” He murmured against her lips.

“I love you too,” She breathed deeply, kissing him deeply.

She couldn’t wait to see what life had in store for the two of them next.

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beibigirl124 · 2 months ago

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OMG THE MOODBOARD MADE ME FERAL.

GIVE ME A HEEL READER X FACE CODY AND HE SUPPORTS READERS RIGHTS AND WRONGS.

I love cody im bawling hes so pretty

(current!cody rhodes x heel!reader, warning red hot bat shit diva incoming)

Beautiful, Violent, Vulgar

Now, you love Cody. Truly, with everything in you. But he’s too nice sometimes. Along with everything else about him, you love Cody’s compassion for the people surrounding him, but he was genuinely kind to every single person he’d ever met.

Every here and there, you tell him that. He just kind of scoffs it off though, considering your reputation of being an asshole to everyone except him (most of the time).

This new annoying ass version of John Cena trying to prove it though? That pissed you off. What pissed you off even more was the ‘proof’ he gave in his last WrestleMania match.

You had a deep, terrible gut feeling that Cody was going to lose. The two of you tell eachother everything, and he had told you the same thing in the quiet of your bedroom the night prior. You would’ve been okay with it if it was fair, however, all of this with Travis Scott was bullshit. Nothing in your entire lifetime of constant bitching and discourteous actions, could have made you angrier than the disrespect put on the one person in the world that not only you could stand, but that could stand you.

The second the ref counted to three, you flew down to the Guerrilla and tried your best not to pick any fights in the mean time. That could wait until after you knew Cody was okay.

He looked completely defeated, and it broke your heart worse than you thought it would. When Cody finally looks up, his eyes immediately lock on you. The two of you rush to eachother, the tall man folding into your embrace.

“Baby…” You pull him tighter, hand curling in his short, bleached locks, the other around his back.

“I told you,” He shakes his head against you. “I told you.”

“Codes,” You pull him up a little so you were face to face. “You’ll get it back. I swear to God you’ll get it back. The only thing you proved out there is you are too good of a man to let bottom dwelling, filthy, middle aged, Hollywood sellouts manipulate you into changing.”

He scoffs, shaking his head but you keep talking.

“That’s what he is, Cody.” You nod. “And I know you used to love him, but that was when he was a wrestler, and a good man. He is not the good man he used to be, and if he needs Rihanna’s husband to get in your face then clearly he isn’t a good fucking wrestler either.” Your voice is growing with anger, so you take a quick breath and pull yourself together. “We can talk about that later. Are you okay? No injuries?”

He nods again, lips curling in the smallest smile, but the biggest one you’d seen just about all day.

“Just sore, that’s all.” You hum at his answer, rubbing up and down his sides before you pull your hands back. “I just- I just want to get out of here.”

You’re quick to lead him to the bus, running into Cathy Kelley who you might’ve yelled at for a quick seconds after Cody basically ran up the bus’ steps. Oops. You’ll give her an offhand apology through a gift card, maybe flowers, or something later, you know Paul put her up to it. Speaking of, you needed to have some words with him.

When you clamber up the steps of the RV and find Cody sitting at the cramped table with his eyes shut and his head against the wall behind him, all bruised and bloodied, the last teensy bit of self restraint you’d managed to keep leaves you. You will be having those words with Paul, now.

“Left my water bottle back in Guerrilla, baby, i’m gonna go grab it before we take off.” You’re already shoving the door open again, yelling that you’ll be right back over your shoulder while you speed walk through the background of Cathy’s screen time. You didn’t leave your water bottle, it was sitting right next to Cody. Hopefully he wouldn’t notice for a bit.

You’re storming through the Guerrilla like a lunatic, screaming for Paul at any passing person. Some staff member ran off the scene and grabbed his attention from the social media directors, creative team, press conference, and every other thing you could imagine and he’s rounding the corner with furrowed eyebrows under the reading glasses he didn’t get the chance to take off. Paul sighs, and his eyes close when he sees you. He says your name, riddled in pure exhaustion. You don’t care.

“No.” You stick your hand out. “What in the absolute fuck was that.”

“You know how this business works,” He tells you, attaching your name to it with the shake of his head like you’re some petulant child with no reasoning behind their argument. “He had to lose it eventually.”

“That’s absolutely not what i’m talking about and you know that. You make him lose, I don’t give a fuck, he’s still the best damn man in this place without a belt. But that bullshit with Scott was embarrassing. For this company, for Cody, for, and I couldn’t care less about him, but for Cena.” He tries to interrupt you again, and you shove the hand you’d been waving around back in his face. “I know you’re money hungry, Paul, but that was a fucking disgrace.”

He lets silence blanket over, the rest of the staff in the Guerrilla finally taking the hint to leave while he gathers his thoughts.

“I’ve known you for a very long time, kid.” He finally manages to start. “I know you’re very opinionated and you aren’t afraid to stand up for yourself. But I am your boss, and you can’t speak to me like that.”

“Oh, cmon, Paul,” You roll your eyes. “How many times have you threatened to fire me, huh? It’s not gonna happen. We both know that. I’m trying to bring light to the problems this company has with you running it- and you want nothing but money. Everything is a goddamn marketing scheme now, and it’s disgusting.” Stephanie rounds the corner, standing next to Paul just as you decide you’ve had enough and start to turn around.

“What’s going on here?”

“You and your husband are greedy moneybags running this company into the fucking ground!”

You hadn’t planned for all of this. All you’d wanted was to throw a couple back handed compliment around, but here you are, screaming at your bosses because you can’t help yourself, when all you want to do is get back out of the stadium to Cody.

Paul yells from behind the curtain of the Guerrilla you’d just torn through about how that was your second strike. This was your third second strike of the year, Paul really liked the idea that he had the ability to get your attitude managed with the threat of firing you. Usually, you would have rolled your eyes, maybe scoffed, and kept walking. Today, though?

Today, you may not have forgotten your water bottle, but Tiffany Stratton did, and it’s right there in all of its clunky, big-ass, bright pink, metal, Stanley cup glory. You pick it up and chuck it back through the curtain and against the wall behind him and Stephanie.

“You want to fire me, Paul? Do it! Do it!” You burst back through the curtain. “There’s your media reason.” You point to broken cup, spilling ice water everywhere on the ground. You’d buy Tiffy a new one, you were actually pretty good friends. “See where this company goes when we leave again. Back in the fucking trash.”

With your grand finale, Shawn Michaels steps in from behind you to gently lead you from the room. Though you may get on Paul’s nerves, you reminded Shawn a lot of his younger self. He was on drugs though, you’re just kind of bat shit. You finally start the dash back to the RV with no interference, walking back up the steps and plopping into the seat across from Cody with heavy breath.

He’s staring you with raised eyebrows and the gleam in his eyes tells you he’s trying not to smile. His big, veiny hand is spinning your water bottle on the table.

“What’d you do?” He tilts his head up, a tiny smile breaking through. You shrug.

“Nothing to worry about.”

“Did you get another strike?”

“…Maybe.”

I had absolutely no plans of doing this rn it’s so late but i miss cody so much

this is probably pretty bad i wrote it laying in bed on my phone im sorry </3

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beibigirl124 · 2 months ago

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the warmth between us - chapter 1

a/n: sorry for the delay on this guys! i hope you all enjoy the first chapter of the warmth between us!!!

word count: 4k

tw: just a touch of angst and maybe some fluff! 🥰

Shutting the door behind her, Valentina flipped the sign on her flower shop's door from closed to open. The crisp morning air had her in a good mood for today’s predictably not so busy Tuesday. Opening up barely a month ago, Valentina had come to learn Tuesdays were typically the least busiest day of the week. Streets were empty, barely any cars around, let alone people, especially on this side of town.

To say the least, Valentina surprisingly enjoyed when it was busy. Not only because of the fact she was making her well earned money, though that was surely a plus. She just enjoyed interacting with others. She didn’t get the chance to interact with many people often, so when she could it was always appreciated.

But then again…what did she expect moving to a big city. All alone..no family, no friends, just her and her puppy, Aurora.

It was a sad and quiet experience, but in some way peaceful? She’d never felt so at peace before, but also never so bored.

Valentina has always leaned to be more on the shy side. To people she didn’t know, she was quiet, barely speaking at all. But when she warmed up to someone they’d never hear her shut up.

Nonetheless, opening 'Marianna’s' had always been her dream. From a young age it's all shes ever wanted. Her grandmother, whom she named her flower shop after, was one of the large influences for her love for gardening. Valentina would spend her whole summer break planting flowers all around her house, street, neighborhood. Valentina loved the concept of caring for something so beautiful, it made her feel like she has a purpose.

The phone ringing behind her desk cut off her thoughts. She dropped the pink roses she was holding and rushed to the phone.

"Hi, I'm Valentina, how can I help you?" she asked with a relatively cheerful tone. She didn’t get phone calls often, most people would just drop by. It was simpler that way. She had come to learn when people called, most of the time they had orders.

"Hi! I believe i'm calling ‘Marianna’s’?" The voice on the other side of the phone seemed to come from a woman. She sounded friendly and like she was around her age.

"That's correct,” Valentina wondered who would be calling bright and early at this time. It was unlikely to have customers this early, and rarely did she ever get phone calls. “how can I help you?"

"I actually work right beside you. Reigns Enterprises." Valentina always took notice of the large building, the building which was practically attached to her little shop. It was absolutely humongous, towering over every building in sight. She was impressed they even took notice of her building.

"Wow, really?"

"Yes! My husband’s cousin is actually the CEO," Valentina paused. She had heard of Roman Reigns. The CEO of Reigns Enterprises. She knew he was known for his hostility and hard work ethic. The voice on the other side of the phone spoke again “It's kinda his birthday, and well, we know he doesn't like to do much..so we just thought we'd order some flowers for him. Something small, but meaningful.”

"Aw! That's really sweet of you guys! Is there anything specific you'd like?" A big company like Reigns Enterprises ordering flowers meant a lot. If she made a good impression, the possibility of them ordering again would be likely. "Not at all, we know absolutely nothing about flowers! But, just one small favour, would you mind dropping the flowers off here? I know you may be busy but the streets out are kinda dead.”

Valentina glanced outside, the streets really were dead empty, no one in sight. Plus, it'd be cool to drop off flowers to such a professional company. "You know what, sure!"

"Just tell the people at the front, Naomi ordered flowers. I'll let them know too in case."

Hanging up the phone, Valentina skipped around her shop putting together the best bouquet she could. Grabbing a mix of red and pink roses, she tied it up the bouquet, and locked up her shop. Within less than a minute Valentina was walking into the absolutely humongous, slightly intimidating building.

The interior Reigns Enterprises was nicer then the exterior, if even possible. Valentina could even see her reflection coming off the spotless white floor. She approached the two female sectaries, who gave her a look up and down.

She blushed as she remembered her dress wasn't exactly appropriate to wear in a place like Reigns Enterprises. She smiled kindly before beginning to speak.

"Hi! I'm Val-"

"Yeah, we know, the flower girl. Head on up to the the last floor. Last door in the left hallway." The secretary was straight forward, she had a pair of large square glasses on, with an oversized yellow blouse. She had a look of disapproval on her face. A small frown came across Valentina's face, but was quickly covered up by smile.

She stood in the large elevator with the flowers tucked under her right arm. Following instructions she was headed to the top floor, nervously smiling the few employees that would hop on and off the elevator at each floor.

Knocking on the two large doors, Valentina awaited to finally meet Naomi. Instead what she didn't expect was male voice to respond in a "What?" that sounded so ever bothered.

Valentina gulped softly, before opening the door slowly. There sat a man, an undeniably handsome man, his hair slicked back perfectly, a suit the hugged his seemingly perfect body, and she couldn’t ignore the bothered look spread across his face.

She hadn’t realized she was staring at him, he looked at her dumbfounded. She fiddled with her fingers nervously, speaking in a small voice.

"Hi, i'm Valentina. I'm here to drop off the flowers that were ordered." The man looked at her intently. His face began turning a bright shade of pink, alongside his ears, indicating one thing, anger. “What fucking flowers? I didn't order anything."

"I got a call- They told me-"

"Well, I didn't fucking call. How stupid are you? Do you know who I am?" Valentina was visibly taken back by his sudden lash out. Her cheeks began to heat up of embarrassment. She hadn’t been exposed to this behaviour for…awhile now.

"No..I don't know who you are.." she whispered nervously while staring at the floor. He scowled darkly.

"I own the fucking building your standing in." His voice oozed pure confidence. Valentina peered up at him, as it all clicked. Who else would have a large office at the very top of the building? Roman Reigns.

"Oh my god. I'm so sorry. I believe I was supposed to drop these off to someone by the name of Naomi," Pure fear overcame Valentina's body, wondering if the stories shes heard of this man were true. His brows furrowed slightly. In attempt to be respectful she began to address the reason she was sent here in the first place. "Happy Birthday by the wa-"

"That's it! That's fucking it! Get the fuck out of my office!" His hands slammed harshly on his desk. Valentina's body shook in surprise. She didn't expect that. Tears came to her eyes out of pure shock. She dropped the flowers on the floor and she could feel the tears coming.

Without second thought she ran out of his office, scrambling to the emergency exit staircase. Running down the steps, she left the building, heading back to her own shop. She couldn't believe people were actually so mean.

————

"Roman! I can't believe you acted that way! She seemed so sweet!" And beautiful Roman thought to himself. He couldn't believe Naomi actually ordered flowers for him. He rubbed his temples for what felt like the 100th time today.

He was just having a frustrating day, and took it all out on the girl who was told by his dumbass secretaries to come up to his office. He could see the way her eyes watered when he yelled at her. The guilt was now all settling in while Naomi was telling him off.

"I want you to go down there, right now and apologize." Roman chuckled at her words. "In your fucking dreams." Naomi looked at Jimmy for back up. Jimmy scoffed, before then taking notice of Naomi’s very serious look.

"C'mon Uce. Ole girl really did seem nice. Naomi had her on speakerphone. She seems real passionate bout her job." Roman looked daggers his way, while Jimmy looked at the floor, stifling his laugh. Jey, sat on the sofa, also trying not to crack up.

Roman could still vividly remember the way her pretty brown eyes were full of warmth. And how sad they looked after he acted like a goddamn nutcase.

She was beautiful either way though. That was one of the first things he noticed about her. Her beautiful eyes, the way they looked so soft and kind, her soft full lips, and her perfect figure. She was undeniably beautiful.

"I'm not taking no for an answer, Roman." Naomi spoke like she could get Roman out of his seat to go apologize. But, he also knew she wouldn't stop bickering to him about it till he did so. If there was one thing about Naomi, it was that she’s determined. Roman admired the hustle, but also got pissed off time to time.

"Fine," he spoke gruffly. "Don't expect me to fucking mean it though."

"I'll come with you, uce." Jey spoke his eyes moving from his phone to Roman. "Anything to get away from Sami ass."

The pair began to leave the room, Roman moving as fast as he could to just get this dumb shit over with. Jey however taking his sweet time, slightly causing Roman to want to yell at him.

“Her name is Valentina by the way!” Naomi called out as they left the room. A stunning name for a stunning woman, Roman thought to himself.

Roman and Jey both looked up at the girlish flower shop. It was called 'Marianna’s" the whole place was decked out in colour. How fucking ironic. Roman did wonder how the name ‘Marianna’s’ applied to her. Naomi called her Valentina, so this definitely resonated elsewhere.

"Let's do this, fast."

The door of the flower shop was so small, Roman swore if he straightened out he would have a fucking concussion from the short ass doorway. The smell of fresh flowers was all over the small shop. He saw the familiar girl sitting on a crate, sorting out the different coloured roses laid across the floor.

He couldn't seem to ignore the small frown on her face. The frown he may have had something to do with. He didn't know why, but that made his heart twitch. The fuck.

"Hey, sweetheart." Jey spoke slyly catching Valentinas attention. She softly smiled, her plump lips pressing against each other. "Hi, anything I can do to help you?"

Roman didn't know why, but he didn't like Jey talking to her. Calling her sweetheart and shit. That wasn't his place to do so. She got up from the crate she was sitting on and walked towards Jey. She then realized he wasn't exactly alone.

Her eyes moved from Jey to Roman, her smiling dropping. "My big cousin wants to apologize to you.." Jey started talking. Her eyes widened slightly. Roman moved a few steps towards her, maintaining eye contact.

"I'm sorry for speaking to you the way I did..it's- it’s just been a rough day, that's all." He spoke in an exhausted tone. He truly was exhausted. Always being in his office, and living off of 4-5 hours of sleep wouldn’t exactly make him the happiest person.

Her small smile reappeared as she nodded her head understandingly. "It's okay, I get it. We all have those days."

For some reason that made Roman feel even worse. He knows damn well if someone spoke to him that way he’d be pissed the fuck off, but she was so easily forgiving. It made him feel like shit all over again.

She was naive. He could read people well, and knew she was the type to forgive and forget too easily. He realized his anger had slightly simmered down too.

He nodded his head at her before turning around to leave. That's when he realized Jey wasn't moving. He was in a trance staring at her, with a small smile playing on his lips. She giggled when Roman pulled him back roughly by his shoulder catching his attention.

"Time to go. Now." Roman once again didn’t know why, but he felt angry all over again that Jey was looking at her like that. Like he wanted her. He doesn't even fucking know her.

The two left the shop walking back to the building.

"Don't try no shit with her." Jey looked surprised by Roman's tone. He sounded almost possessive. "Why not? You like her?" Jey said half jokingly half serious. His big cousin has never told him off regarding anything to do with a girl. Roman looked at him with a small scowl.

"Fuck no. Just don't try no shit." He spoke with a unwavering voice. He sounded convincing. "Aight, Uce. You got my word.”

------

The last thing Valentina expected from Roman was a apology. More surprisingly, a seemingly genuine apology. Her thoughts were cut off again by the door opening. This time a beautiful woman, a woman with a dark complexion walked through the doors of her shop.

"Hi, I'm Naomi. We spoke over the phone," Valentina was now also wondering what Naomi was doing here. “I’m also here to apologize for that whole misunderstanding. I shoulda been more clear with the secretaries instead of sending you straight to Roman’s office.”

Valentina did not expect that. Her eyes widene, not exactly knowing how to respond. “Oh um- that’s totally okay! Mistakes happen.”

Naomi walks towards her, leaning onto a table. “I just thought i’d come here to chill for a bit, feels good to actually interact with a female. I’m stuck with stupid men alllll day long.”

Valentina giggled softly before she decided to switch topics out of curiosity. “Was the man that came here with Roman your husband?”

Naomi laughed loudly. “No, that’s actually his twin brother, Jey.” Twins? “My husbands name is Jimmy.” Naomi looked at Valentina before beginning to speak again.

“You know what, tomorrow head on over to the building, and bring some of your pretty flowers,” Her eyes danced across the shop taking everything in. “You can help me decorate for the business dinner we’re hosting. We don't need anything super crazy, maybe just a little something to make the atmosphere look a little…happier.”

Valentina thought it through. It didn’t seem like a bad idea, and Naomi’s right, some female interaction even for her would be nice. “Sounds good, i’ll be there!"

Naomi smiled pleased, she stood up straight and walked to the door. “Be there 9 on the dot! See ya, Val!”

----

Walking into the same building that almost had her shedding tears, Valentina felt a wave of anxiety in her stomach. She had her rolling stand full of boxes with all sorts of flowers and decorations.

She was almost..scared? Not necessarily scared of the people, just the situation. Roman.

He’s all that’s been on her mind. The way he was utterly upset with her, but also genuinely apologized to her.

Maybe he wasn’t as bad as he seemed?

This time Valentina didn’t bother approaching the secretaries. Naomi texted her to inform security would just let her in, and she could go straight to her office.

Walking in, there Naomi stood laughing with two men. Twins. The man with the shorter hair who she recognized to be the man who came with Roman yesterday. And the other man with longer hair, hair that was coloured half red, that was obviously Naomi’s husband.

“H-hi..” Making her presence aware.

The trio all turned to look over with smiles on their faces. Valentina took in how similar the twins looked, hair being a way to tell them apart.

“Yay, you’re here!” A smiling Naomi walked over linking arms with Valentina.

“This is my husband Jimmy,” Naomi pointed at the man with long hair. Jimmy smiled kindly at her, with a small wave. “Wudup?!” Valentina could already tell Jimmy was a ball of energy. “And this is Jey, my brother in law.”

Jey seemed to be a little more serious. But a smile formed on his face nonetheless, added alongside a small nod.

“Aight! Let’s start then!”

While working on putting the meeting together, Valentina couldn’t ignore the way Jey kept on staring at her. Jey would stare at her for minutes on end, looking like he was trying to figure her out. It almost gave her a weird feeling in her tummy. She didn’t know if she liked him staring at her or not.

However, within 30 minutes, the four of them had the meeting room looking happier, more alive. Naomi had a look of proudness on her face. “We did a pretty good job.”

“Damn straight. Wait till Roman sees this he’s gonna be impres-”

The door behind them opened abruptly. Turning around, there Roman stood. Valentina took notice in his perfectly pulled back hair, and his sleek black suit. He looked…well..like a business man.

“You guys did a pretty good job,” Roman glanced around the room, with almost a hint of impression on his face. Valentina wanted to impress him.

Unaware of the fact he was staring almost directly at her. Valentina’s cheeked turned a warm shade of pink as she broke eye contact. She could still feel his eyes on her and as she looked down at the floor.

“O-Okay, i’m gonna head out..”

“I’ll walk you ou-” Jey was cut off by Roman. “No. I’ll walk you out.”

A scowl appeared on Jey’s face which was quickly followed by his fists clenching, then unclenching. Roman took notice immediately, barking, “Is there a fucking problem?”

“Nah, Uce. No problem at all.”

Naomi and Jimmy shared worried glances taking in the situation. Jey was a hothead, and Roman was just…well, Roman. Roman had an amused look on his face, with a small smirk playing on his lips. He always got what he wanted.

Everyone knew the cousins could get along well enough, and in the blink eye turn into each others fucking enemies. Its just the way Roman and Jey have always been. No one questioned it. There was no need to. It’d been this way since they were kids.

---

Walking into the elevator together, Valentina couldn’t help but notice the strong masculine scent coming off Roman. He smelt…expensive.

“Ya’ll did a good job, I can give you that.” His tone wasn’t hostile like yesterday. He sounded like a genuine normal person.

Valentina always loved hearing positive feedback from people regarding her job. This was definitely something she would not be taking lightly. The Roman Reigns just told her he was impressed with her work.

Her cheeks once again felt heated as she replied hesitantly. “Thank you…it..means a lot.”

“How long you been into flowers?” Valentina surely didn’t expect Roman to keep the conversation going. It was unlike him to.

“Well…my grandma introduced me to more so gardening. We used to plant all sorts of flowers though. When I was younger i’d always help her garden in our backyard. Every summer it was all we’d do.” Valentina felt a wave of emotion come through her. Eyes watering at the thought of her favourite person, Valentina felt so suddenly small and vulnerable. “I miss her so much..”

Roman’s eyes softened at her words. He stared at her as he debated on how to reply. He wasn’t all too good with this feelings shit. “I understand…loss is hard on everyone,” Debating if he should continue speaking, he settled on not being a total dick. “Everyday it gets easier and easier. I promise. Can I ask when your grandmother passed?”

Valentina eyes widened in surprise to Roman’s reaction. She didn’t expect any comfort from him. And especially not a follow up question. Today was completely full of surprises.

She smiled softly at the thought of her grandma. The kindest, most caring, and beautiful person to ever grace her in life.

“She passed away about 3 months ago. She had just turned 83. I actually opened this flower shop in honour of her. She taught me all about flowers and gardening.”

Roman nodded his head, with an unreadable look on his face. “Shit, so her death was recent. I’m not surprised you’re still upset about it. It was recent. But, like I said, day by day, shit does get easier.”

A smile spread across Valentine's face. Roman couldn't help but softly smile back at her. This damn girl was contagious. He didn't know why but a smile on her face, made him feel....at ease?

The elevator opening stopped Romans thoughts. He moved aside for her to step out first. He didn't know why but he felt the need to be kind to her. Poor girl owned a small flower shop, and looks like she’d cry is anyone raised their voice at her. He had some lingering guilt in him from his little breakdown he had yesterday.

Walking out the doors of the elevator, Valentina couldn't help but notice the nasty side eyes the same secretaries were giving her. She never liked have eyes on her, and felt herself becoming nervous.

Breathing out as they finally leave the building, Valentina goes to thank Roman. "I really appreciate your advice," she truly did. He obviously seemed to know what he’s talking about. It couldn’t help but to cross Valentina’s mind if Roman has ever lost anyone that meant a lot to him. Nonetheless she replies in a simple way. “And you’re right. Day by day things do get easier."

Roman nodded with a small smile on his face. Walking to the front of Valentina’s flower shop, Roman planted his feet, eyes lingering from the bottom of the shop, to the top.

“I’ll give to you. You’ve done a pretty good job with the place already. I see people walking round here with flowers all the time recently,” Valentina blushed profusely over his praise.

His eyes moved back to her, he looked unsure of what to say next, but spoke with confidence nonetheless. “Tell you what, if you need any business advice, or even someone to talk to, you know where to find me.”

He was so bold. Valentina could barely respond with the mixed emotions coming over her. She barely mumbled out a quiet “thank you,” before smiling softly, staring at the floor. “I appreciate it.”

Roman nodded his head, his eyes moving over her once more before he turned around, walking back to his building, leaving her with a bundle of emotions to unpack.

all likes and reblogs are appreciated!! i’d love to hear everyone’s thoughts! i hope everyone enjoyed chapter 1 💗💗

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beibigirl124 · 3 months ago

Text

The Assistant Pt. 10

masterlist

A/N: Getting close to The End! I can't believe it! Thank you all so much for reading and for all the love. Still have a handful more chapters to get there, so let's enjoy 'em. Written to this and this. ☺️

Word Count: 3,755

Ratings/Warnings: Slow burn. Soft Angst. Mama, there's a Seth Rollins behind you.

taglist: @femdisa @xkittypunkerx @reebs-luvs-rhodes-and-wrestling @eringobragh420 @murrylove @amandairene88 @jadert15 @beibigirl124 @espresscs @yolobloggers (please dm or comment if you would like to be added!)

Punk remembered the first time he fell in love. Gwendolyn Knoxville.

Way out of his league. He was sixteen—skinny, awkward, more hair than muscle, glasses thicker than the comic books he read. She was seventeen, already had a tattoo, a boyfriend, and a car. But she kissed him one summer night at a party he had no business being at. Took him home. And for a minute, he thought that meant something.

That was the first time he learned that loving someone didn’t mean you got to keep them.

The second time, well, you know.

He’d arrived at the training center long before the sun came up, and he wasn’t planning to leave until well after it set. Tonight’s match was fluff—a tag team with his old friend Rey against his snot-nosed kid and one of his goony friends. Crowd-pleaser. Easy work. Didn’t require nearly as much effort as Punk was putting in.

But it was better than the alternative.

He’d slept nine full hours, but felt more tired than the day before. He already missed Zelma’s presence in bed—how his hand could stretch across the sheets and find her on the other side.

He hit the ropes harder than usual. Drilled the same spots twice, sometimes three times. Took bumps he didn’t need to. Rey cracked a joke about overachieving, and Punk just shrugged. What else was he supposed to do—sit still?

Stillness let the silence in. And silence let thoughts in. And Punk had been thinking too much lately.

About Zelma.

About how fast things had gone. How good it had felt. How real. Until it wasn’t.

Zelma was probably across town right now, checking out the venue and wrangling the latest round of press changes Amanda dumped on her plate.

He could’ve seen her that morning. Could’ve called, texted, walked down the hall.

But it didn’t feel right to. He felt ashamed for not finding the right words the night before to convince her to stay. Not after Amanda gave him another lecture and hissed, “You’re old enough to be her father,” moments before the suits came into earshot.

He’d just smiled through an overpriced steak dinner, talked about branding and pay-per-views with people who saw him as a product. And all the while, Amanda’s words sat in his chest like iron.

It wasn’t her. Never her.

He was ashamed of himself—for needing her so badly, for not knowing how to need her right. His only regret was not owning up to his feelings sooner.

Now he was beginning to feel ashamed for even having them at all.

Zelma hadn’t been checking her phone much today.

Not because she was swamped, though she was. Amanda had handed off a laundry list of tasks before leaving her in charge of final venue logistics: lighting cues, security walk-through, catering confirmation, and press table placement.

But every time she checked her phone, she half-expected something.

And that made her feel stupid.

Punk was noticeably absent from breakfast. She tried to tell herself it wasn’t a big deal, that he just wanted a head start on training. Amanda didn’t give any insight that there was anything besides business as usual. If things were truly wrong, would she be standing here watching and approving his entrance sequence? No, right? She would’ve gotten a one-way ticket back to Chicagoland.

She clicked her pen and jotted down a note about the timing on the pyro. Too soon, she'd have to flag that.

Her headset crackled. Someone asked for approval on a last-minute floor decal. She gave the go-ahead without looking.

Punk wasn’t that kind of guy… was he?

Breathe, Zelma, breathe.

She had to look composed. Competent. Capable. The woman who’d been personally entrusted with running the most marketable wrestler in the world’s business in his place. Not the woman he had spread out in a greenroom.

“Zelma!”

She turned on instinct, posture straightening as Seth Rollins jogged toward her, curls bouncing.

“Well, if it isn’t my favorite assistant,” Seth grinned, arms open like he expected applause.

Zelma blinked. “Don’t you have your own?”

He smirked. “She’s not as fun as you.”

Zelma didn’t flinch. “In what world am I fun?”

“There it is,” he said, pleased. “That thing you do—pretending you don’t want to give me the time of day. Don’t you feel it?” He gestured between them. “This?”

She scrunched her nose as her headset buzzed, the producer asking if they could move to the next talent.

“Yeah—” she pressed the earpiece tighter, her eyes flicking over Seth’s smug expression, then lower. His shirt hugged his chest; his jeans were too snug for humility. “—I feel something. Secondhand embarrassment.”

He feigned a wound to the heart, staggering back like she’d stabbed him.

“Ice cold, Zelma,” he gasped. “Ice cold.”

He held the dramatics as he sauntered up the ramp toward a waiting producer. Zelma bit her lip to hold in the laugh—but dammit, he caught it. His brown eyes lit up, his grin curling deeper. He mimed twisting the knife again, and Zelma let a small giggle slip.

His jaw was too sharp, his eyes were warm.

Fuck.

She turned back to the ring, just in time for the producer in her ear to snap, “Get off the ramp!”

Her sneakers absorbed the shock of jumping off the ramp onto the concrete ground. She didn’t mean to grip the intercom so tightly, her knuckles light around its edges.

What was that? Another ego-fueled pissing contest with Punk as collateral? Zelma tried not to think about it too much. He wasn’t worth renting that much space in her head.

Just Seth being Seth—harmless, silly, magnetic in that way only someone who wasn’t your boss could afford to be.

And yet, it was the first time her mind wasn’t on Punk all day.

Helping Rey bend his son over his knee and spank him was the most fun Punk had at a show in a while. The crowd loved it, and it was cathartic in that old-school way—pure spectacle, zero stakes. It felt good to remind people he could still steal a show without breaking a sweat. Felt even better to do it with Rey. The two bumped fists as they walked through the gorilla, still buzzing off the pop.

Zelma was like sand through his fingers. Tonight was special, a connection of the east and west; thus, there was a dress code for everyone in the back. Women wore cocktail dresses, eyelashes, and six-inch heels. Men wore suits with their Sunday best shoes. Everyone wore makeup, even the ones pretending they didn’t. It was the kind of night that could change your life if you just looked right.

All in the name of the game.

Punk still had a towel wrapped around him when he was whisked away for an aftermatch panel. The questions were stupid, but the dessert was delicious. He ate two servings of matcha tiramisu, nodded along, cracked a few dry jokes, posed with a sponsor’s logo behind him like his smile could be monetized—and it could.

He was good at this. Always had been. The voice. The man.

But his eyes kept scanning the crowd.

Zelma wasn’t there.

She was probably working. He knew that. Knew how Amanda loved to delegate at events like this. Knew Zelma wasn’t the type to lean against a wall and watch him shake hands and kiss babies.

Still, he looked.

It wasn’t until after he was handled backstage, took a shower, and forced himself into a suit that he found her. Well, the back of her. Her brown skin glowed against the overhead lights, her strappy heels giving room for legs that stretched for miles. Her dress was dangerously short, stopping just below the curve of her ass, the scarf of her halter was longer. The deep plum complemented her skin so well that he almost drooled at her sight.

As Punk approached, it took him a beat too long to register the other presence beside her.

Seth Fucking Rollins.

He was standing too close. Talking with his hands, some dumb story that made Zelma tip her head back and laugh—a genuine fucking laugh. Her hand brushed Seth’s arm as he leaned in to say something.

Punk couldn’t hear the words, but he could tell they were comfortable. Familiar. Maybe even flirtatious.

He stopped walking.

A fan walked past and asked for a selfie. Punk didn’t even blink. Just nodded, leaning in frame, his eyes looking just beyond the camera at them.

Seth kept leaning in, his lips whispering something, and Zelma laughed again, tipping her drink toward her lips. He barely noticed the fan saying thank you as he watched the scene play out before him. Zelma's hand lingered on Seth's forearm for a moment too long.

Out of all the assistants in the world, why his?

He adjusted his tie, suddenly hyper aware of the starch in his shirt and the tightness in his collar. The whole suit felt stiff like armor.

He wasn’t mad at her.

He wasn’t.

She looked happy. Relaxed, even. Like the weight she carried around him—around them—had lifted, if only for a second. Maybe that’s what's killing him.

Punk took a slow lap around, pretending to check his phone. He ended up bumping into Paul and Stephanie, forced into a conversation they were having with people way above his pay grade. By the time he was able to escape, they were already gone.

He was halfway through the crowd when he saw her again, a few feet from where she was before. But now she was alone, her back pressed against the wall, her gaze fixed on her phone. Punk took the space right in front of her, his shoulders wide enough to block her view.

"Hey, stranger."

She looked up.

"Punk," she smiled, her expression brightening. "Hey."

He nodded to the crowd. "Where's your date?"

Her brow furrowed.

"Rollins," he clarified.

"Oh, Seth," she shook her head. "He was just wasting time, that's all."

"Oh, yeah?"

She lifted her chin. "Jealous?"

The air shifted, the noise around the arena fading into a whir. He tried not to focus on the way the lights reflected off her face, making her eyes glitter, or how her lips glinted with gloss.

"Maybe a little," he said.

She bit her lip, her teeth flashing white, and his mind flashed to the night before.

“It wasn’t like that.”

"I didn't ask."

"Your eyes did."

Punk didn’t answer right away. He adjusted his cufflinks, eyes flicking toward the crowd, then back to her like he couldn’t quite stay away.

He leaned in.

"Okay, fine," he admitted, "Maybe I was wondering."

She shrugged.

"If you're wondering," she said. "He's not my type. I like my men tall, greying, and a little grumpy."

Punk chuckled, and she winked, glancing around the room.

"I missed you," he said.

"I missed you, too."

Punk forgot where he was. The people. The cameras. He didn’t care, he had to have her. The lighting caught her just right—gold around the edges, soft over her skin. Her fingers lingered on his arm, and neither of them moved to break the contact.

His eyes drifted down.

"You're staring," she teased.

"No, I'm not," he said.

"Yes, you are."

"No, I'm not."

"Then what are you doing?"

"Looking," he corrected. "I'm looking at you."

"What, specifically?"

"Your dress."

"What about it?"

"It's very..." He paused, searching for the word. "Short."

Zelma arched her brow. “Problem?”

“No,” he said, voice going down an octave. “Just an observation.”

Zelma let out a quiet breath, almost a laugh, but it caught halfway. Her fingers curled away from his forearm, like she didn’t trust herself. He wanted to lean in, just once, to see if she’d still melt into him like she had before.

But he didn’t.

Because she was still his assistant.

And he didn’t want to mess this up any more than he already had.

Instead, he nodded toward the ballroom. “Wanna get out of here?”

She hesitated, eyes searching around the room.

But then she nodded.

“Lead the way.”

And just like that, Punk slipped her hand into his and they weaved through the crowd, heads low. He held on like she was fragile—like if he gripped too tight, she might disappear all over again.

The elevator was slow to come, so they took the stairs. They bellowed down concrete flights, a giggle escaping Zelma’s lips from too much aftershow champagne and not enough food.

“Seeing you with him…” Punk kept his eyes ahead. “I didn’t like it.”

The only sound was her heels scraping against concrete. They continued down another flight, the night air coming through the concrete. They were between the third and fourth floor when Zelma said—

“You could’ve talked to me this morning.”

“Didn't know how,” he replied.

They hopped the rest of the flights down, the scarf of Zelma’s dress breezing behind her, the silk fabric sculpting around her frame. Punk helped her down the last three steps that led to the main street, his hands clenched lightly around her waist, steadier than they needed to be, but not for her sake.

Zelma didn’t say anything, but she didn’t move away either. Her hand lingered on his shoulder, and his hands never moved from her waist.

“Where do you want to go?”

Punk didn’t think that far. He wasn’t thinking at all.

“I can think of a place or two.”

The rooftop of the hotel was quiet. The skyline stretched out in soft pulses of neon and halogen, its noise dulled at this height, the sky a purple haze against the midnight backdrop.

Zelma crossed to the railing, her heels clacking against the concrete before she kicked them off and set them beside a vending machine. Her dress shimmered beneath the glow of a flickering overhead bulb, and she sighed, leaning her elbows on the metal barrier, her arms dangling over the edge. Punk stayed back for a beat, letting the door clang shut behind him. He dropped the plastic bag of snacks—rice balls, canned coffee, strawberry milk, sour gummies—on a low bench and cracked his knuckles.

He was a coward, but she was too beautiful not to look at.

Zelma tilted her face toward the night, and for a second, Punk could believe he was the only person in the world.

She stayed quiet, letting the city breathe for her.

Punk moved slowly, settling beside her but not too close. He leaned forward on the railing, his forearms brushing cool metal—a reminder that he’d rolled them up during their 7-Eleven run. It felt ridiculous to buy $2 snacks while wearing $20,000 cufflinks.

"How did you find this?"

Zelma didn’t look at him, just kept her eyes on the skyline. "I came up here last night. I couldn't sleep, so I thought I tried the onsen, then ended up here."

"I couldn't sleep, either."

Zelma gave a small nod, like she already knew. The wind tugged lightly at her halter scarf, the silk lifting and twisting in the breeze.

“I almost texted you,” she said after a beat. “But I figured... maybe space was better.”

Punk swallowed, the lump in his throat stubborn and familiar. “I almost knocked on your door.”

She finally looked at him then, slow, deliberate. Her eyes were tired, but not cold. He searched her face for anything sharp, anything that might tell him to back off. There was nothing.

“Why didn’t you?” she asked quietly.

“Because I didn’t want to make it worse.” He exhaled through his nose. “You said it yourself, you needed a night. I don’t know how to behave when I’m around you.”

Zelma turned back to the city, the silence stretching.

“You keep doing that,” she said softly.

“Doing what?”

“Deciding what I can handle for me.”

It was Punk's turn not to respond. His eyelashes looked so long against the distant lights. Zelma could see the wrinkles in his eyes, the fatigue from being in a different timezone, and a life lived.

“I wasn’t trying to,” he said eventually.

“I know.” Her voice wasn’t angry. “But that’s what it feels like.”

Zelma straightened, her arms slipping off the railing, and walked back toward the bench. She bent to dig through the plastic bag. The wind kept tugging at that damn scarf like even it wanted more of her.

“Want a rice ball?” she asked.

Punk turned to face her. “Which one do you want?”

She shrugged, the corner of her mouth twitching as she held a tuna and a salmon in her hand. “I’m trying to be generous.”

He reached for the salmon one. “Then I’ll be selfish.”

Zelma sat, tucking her legs beneath her. “You’re not selfish.”

Punk didn’t sit right away. Just stood there, looking at her. “You said you liked your men tall, greying, and a little grumpy.”

“I did.”

“Still true?”

“Why would it change?”

Punk looked down at the rice ball in his hand, suddenly uncertain. His thumb traced along the edge of the plastic wrapper, not opening it.

“Because,” he said quietly, “sometimes I feel like the grumpiness outweighs the rest.”

Zelma paused mid-chew, her eyes softening. She swallowed, wiping her fingers on a napkin she’d pulled from the bag.

“Punk,” she said earnestly. “That was the selling point.”

Punk looked up, his smile growing. Zelma laughed, her face relaxing, her eyes crinkling at the corners.

It was the first real smile he saw her have all day.

It made her even more beautiful.

When the silence settled again, Punk finally took a seat beside her, leaving no space between them. Zelma leaned her head against the back of the bench, her hair sweeping across the fabric. They ate their rice balls in silence, their elbows bumping into each other, but neither seemed to mind. Punk wrapped the packaging in his hands, turning it over and over like an anxious tic.

"I'm sorry about yesterday."

Zelma turned her head, the bare skin of her shoulder brushing his suit jacket.

"For what?"

"Everything." He sighed. "How I handled myself. What Amanda probably said to you."

"Punk..."

"I didn't think it was going to be a thing."

"And I did? I just needed a job."

"No," Punk shook his head, his eyes meeting hers. "You're not just a job."

It was obvious, but Punk felt it needed to be said. The moment he caught her outside that first night he took her on the road. Hell, from the moment he laid eyes on her, she was so much more.

Punk couldn't help it.

He leaned in and kissed her.

Her mouth was soft, tasting faintly of strawberry milk. The plastic wrapped dropped from his hands as he touched her face, cradling her cheek in his palm. Zelma sighed into him, her shoulders relaxing. Punk ran his thumb along the curve of her ear, the shell of her neck. He would freeze them there if he could.

"What do you want, Z?" he whispered.

Zelma didn't say anything, just let her eyes fall shut as he leaned in, her lips parting for him. Punk slipped his tongue into her mouth, and she leaned into it, her back arching, her hand pressing against his chest.

Punk pulled away, "I mean it."

Zelma didn’t answer right away. Her eyes were still closed, her hand still resting lightly on his chest.

Then she exhaled, her voice a murmur.

“I want to believe this is real.”

Punk brushed a stray curl from her temple. “It is.”

He pressed his lips to the side of her face, trailing a path down the slope of her jaw. He was careful, not wanting to smudge the makeup, her skin was warm and pliant.

“I want to know you’re not going to pull away the second it gets hard,” she muttered, her eyes fluttering open. “Or weird. Or inconvenient.”

Punk stilled, his lips resting at the edge of her jaw.

“I won’t,” he promised.

She didn't move, but her eyes couldn’t let go of his.

"What's next?"

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “But I’d rather try and fuck it up than not try at all."

Zelma bit her lip, her hand falling from his chest. Punk waited, the air heavy around them. She leaned in—her lips brushed his, and he felt her smile before he tasted it.

"Me, too."

Punk's hand slid from her neck, down the column of her spine. Zelma's body shivered as he pulled her closer.

"I don't want to go to bed without you," he breathed. It was their last night in Tokyo, and they'd already wasted the most important hours.

"I don't want to either," she said, her breath ghosting his lips. "Take me to bed, Phil."

He scooped her into his arms, the sound of her laugh echoing into the sky. Her body fit perfectly against his, her thighs draped across his forearm, her chest flush against his. The trip back to the room was a blur—city lights blinking past like fireflies, her heels swinging from her hand, the plastic bag of snacks rustling softly with every step.

She didn’t protest. Just rested her head against his collarbone, quiet now, one hand loosely gripping his lapel, but she knew he would never drop her.

Silence passed between them by the time they reached the suite. Punk let them in with one hand and nudged the door shut with his foot. The room felt bigger than it had all week. Quieter, too. Like the universe was finally letting them be.

He set her down gently, her feet swinging over the bed. All that champagne, four glasses, was finally catching up to her. She drank one just to get through Seth's soliloquy, another when she saw Punk from across the room. She squirmed around, taking off her dress as Punk stripped off his suit jacket and loosened his tie, neither feeling the need to hide.

Punk's eyes didn't leave her. He was afraid she'd vanish again.

"Where are you?"

"Here."

He climbed on top of her, his weight a welcome presence. She sighed, her eyes drifting closed, her skin tingling at his touch.

"Hey."

She felt the warmth of his breath. His lips pressed against her temple, his stubble scraping her cheek.

"Are you sleepy?" Punk asked.

"Yeah."

"Let's go to bed."

They climbed under the sheets like they’d done it a thousand times. She curled into him, and he reached for her instinctively—his hands pulling her hips flush to his. His mouth pressed against her bare shoulder, their breath in sync.

The last thing Zelma felt was his fingers running through her hair.

And she was asleep.

47 notes · View notes

beibigirl124 · 3 months ago

Text

Almost Yours - Part 6

🤍 Summary: The cameras are rolling, and you're back in the spotlight. As Cody and Punk play to the crowd, you're forced to face the truth: this triangle isn’t just for show anymore. The storylines are blurring, the fans are choosing sides… and you still haven’t chosen at all.

🤍 Pairings: Cody Rhodes x CM Punk x Fem Reader

🤍 Warnings: All of my writing is 18+ only, Minors DNI!, Fluff, Slow Burn, Emotional Distress & Anxiety, Gaslighting / Manipulation (Implied), Power Imbalance & Exploitation (Workplace), Cyberbullying / Social Media Commentary, Love Triangle, Jealously, Light Angst

🤍 Word Count: 5.0k

🤍 Links: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6

🤍 Notes: Alright y'all... I am back to writing. And we are full speed ahead to the ending of Almost Yours. I also have a couple of your requests on the backlog, and I will get to them when I can. If you are new around here, I am the slowest writer/publisher known to earth so just bear with me 😭

You didn't sleep. Not really.

You dozed in fits, haunted by fragments of them. The way Cody's breath had ghosted over your ear, the weight of Punk's stare, the kind that burned through your skin and sank into your veins. Your body was still responding to a dream like it had been something real. Like it wanted it to be.

You sat on the edge of your bed for what felt like hours, staring out the window. The morning didn't feel like a reset. It felt like a continuation. You went through the motions: shower, coffee, pack your bag. But the air around you still carried them*.* Like they'd followed you out of your head and into reality.

By the time you got to work, your nerves sparked underneath your skin. You half-expected whispers, side-eyes, maybe even a "heard about last night…" But no one said a word. Everything was normal.

Too normal.

It was the kind of normal that felt staged. The kind that made you wonder if everyone was in on something you weren't. But the more you thought about it, the more you realized this must be all in your head…right?

You passed a group of your coworkers. One gave you a smile that felt a little too polite. Another glanced away just a second too fast. Were you imagining it? Or had you become so used to the chaos that silence felt ominous?

You took a breath, trying to slow your pulse as you made your way down the corridor. Your boots echoed against the concrete. The smell of coffee swirled through the air. The usual. And yet, nothing felt usual.

You turned the corner, and there he was.

CM Punk. Hoodie pulled up, earbuds in, sipping on some coffee with one leg casually crossed over the other. Not a mark on him from last night's chaos. No tension in his jaw. No bruised ego. Just... calm*.*

He looked up as you passed, offering a lazy smirk. "Morning, sunshine."

You paused mid-step. "You're in a good mood."

He shrugged. "Had a good night's sleep."

You swallowed. "Did you?"

"Best in weeks."

All of the thoughts swirling in your brain screeched to a sudden halt. Was that sarcasm? A dig? Or… a clue?

It didn't matter. Just keep walking.

You turned your head and kept it moving. Your heart was hammering louder than your footsteps. Then Cody rounded the corner. His shirt clung to his chest in a way that reminded you, unfortunately, of too many late-night thoughts and one very vivid dream. The scent of his cologne hit your nostrils. Too familiar. Too close.

"Hey, Y/N."

You stopped short, barely catching the surprise on your own face. "You're... talking to me now?"

Cody furrowed his brow like you were the one acting weird. "Should I… not be?"

You narrowed your eyes. "You're awfully chill for someone who just threw hands with Punk like it was a WrestleMania main event."

He shrugged. "It's just business, right?"

Just business.

Your stomach twisted. Was this...gaslighting? A bit? Some messed-up shared joke you weren't in on? Or worse, was the dream not a dream after all?

You could still feel the heat of Cody's voice in your ear and the way he touched you. You could still feel Punk's breath against your skin, his stare, and how your body reacted. Your hands clenched at your sides. You walked off before you could say something stupid. Or ask a question you weren't ready to hear the answer to.

You ducked into an empty room, pressing your palms to your temples. Your head was spinning. The pressure in your chest wouldn't go away.

Did they know? Did they feel it, too?

And if they didn't… what the hell did that say about you?

Were you craving the chaos now? Was the attention, the lust, the chase, somehow becoming a drug?

You'd said you were done. On live TV. With a mic drop and a fire in your eyes. And here you were, body aching over a damn dream.

You buried your face in your hands. "Get a grip."

"Rough morning?"

You looked up to see Rhea leaning against the doorframe with her arms crossed and her gaze steady.

You hesitated. "Do I look okay?"

She tilted her head, assessing you. "You look like someone who's being haunted by ghosts."

You snorted. "That obvious?"

She stepped inside, her voice quieter now. "You wanna talk?"

You almost said no. Instead, the words spilled out anyway. "I had a dream. About them. Both of them."

Rhea's brow lifted slightly. "Sexy dream?"

"Too sexy. Too real." You groaned.

"Dreams don't come out of nowhere."

"I know," you said softly.

"Then maybe the question isn't what they're doing," Rhea continued. "It's what you're doing."

You didn't answer right away. Because deep down, you knew the truth. You were tired of being the pawn. But maybe...you were starting to like being the queen.

You're sitting in gorilla, watching the monitor like your life depends on it. Technically, you're supposed to focus on your segment's logistics. But all you can think about is him.

"Tell me, baby... you ever wonder what it'd be like to finally let go with me?"

The line echoes in your head like he just whispered it in your ear. Like it was real.

You glance back at the screen. Punk's on commentary tonight, stretched out in his chair like a king who already knows he's won the war. One arm is draped over the desk, making him look smug and effortless. He has that familiar edge in his eyes that says I know things you won't say out loud.

Then he glances toward the camera and winks. The motion is small, almost throwaway. But your chest tightens like you just swallowed fire.

Does he know you're watching? Of course, he does.

He always knows.

You look away too fast, trying to hide the flush rising in your face, and that's when you feel the air shift beside you.

Cody.

You didn't hear him walk in, but now he's there. He's pacing, stretching out his arms, shaking loose the tension in his shoulders before his match. You pretend to look at your notes, but it's useless. His presence commands the space.

You risk a glance. And, of course, he's already watching you.

Cody's gaze locks with yours, steady and burning in that quiet way that's so uniquely him. He doesn't speak, and he doesn't have to. The smile that ghosts across his lips is too wise as if he's remembering all the things that you are trying to forget.

Your heart stumbles, skips, and slams against your ribs as if your body already knows something your mind is too scared to admit. You stand abruptly. The chair legs scrape loudly across the floor as you push it back. Cody straightens slightly, but you don't look at him again.

You just walk away. Fast.

Something is happening.

Something you can't control.

And for the first time, you wonder if this script you're trapped in... isn't being written by Creative.

It's being written by you.

The segment wasn't even cold before your phone lit up like a five-alarm fire—not from friends or family, but from marketing. You stared at the group text on your screen, a dizzying mix of emojis, exclamation marks, and corporate enthusiasm.

Great pop tonight!!! Poll numbers already climbing 🚀 Next week: mixed-tag vote reveal We're gonna milk this triangle like it's WrestleMania season 🤘 Y/N, you're a STAR 🔥🔥🔥 Also: Cody or Punk; who should she choose? YOU DECIDE! 🗳️ (P.S. Don't check Twitter. It's a war zone.)

Too late. You were already scrolling. And yep, your name was trending again.

#TeamPunk

#ChooseCody

#YNRuinsEverything

#SheKissesWho

It wasn't just a storyline anymore. It was blood sport. It was like watching a game you never signed up to play. One where the prize was your own damn heart, and everyone in the audience got a vote.

One comment cut through the noise.

"She doesn't know who she wants. That's the problem. She wants them both to chase her forever."

You froze. It didn't sting like a slap, it sank in like a needle. You stared at the screen until the letters blurred. Then let the phone slide from your hand onto the couch cushion, screen-down.

Something in your chest shifted quietly. You realize you've been fighting to exit a game you never stopped playing. And you might not want it to end.

"Okay," the executive beamed, clapping their hands. "Here's the vision."

You already hated it.

"Fan poll goes live tonight," they said, snapping their fingers like it was revolutionary. "The audience chooses who you tag with in tonight's mixed tag. Punk and Rhea vs. Cody and You. Or vice versa."

You blinked. "So they're choosing who I... fight with?"

"Exactly!" they grinned. "High stakes. High drama. We're talking real soap opera heat. And hey, maybe a kiss. We're workshopping it."

You stared. "You want me to kiss one of them?"

They didn't even flinch. "Only if you want to. Think of it as fan service."

You inhale slowly through your nose and count to five, attempting to swallow the scream pressing at your throat. "You realize I just publicly said I was out of this, right?"

"And now you're back in it!" they chirped. "Because that promo worked. You went viral. The crowd loved it. You've got fire, girl."

You looked around the room, hoping someone might raise a hand. That someone would point out how insane it all sounded.

No one did. So you sat there blindsided while they built your life into a storyline. Again.

They're not listening. They never were.

You almost say it. I'm not your puppet.

But you swallowed the words. Like always. They caught somewhere between your ribs and your pride. A lit match that never reached the fuse.

So, instead, you smiled.

And nodded.

And hated yourself for it.

The fan poll had been live for less than twenty minutes when Cody found you. You were leaning against a wall, scrolling through your phone, and trying to ignore the spike of your own name trending alongside #TeamPunk and #ChooseCody. You didn't even hear him approach.

"Fifty-two percent," he said, his voice low and annoyingly smug.

You turned slowly. "For what?"

He flashed that infuriatingly boyish grin that used to get him out of every bit of trouble. "Me."

You gave a dry laugh. "Congrats, prom king. You get a plastic crown with that?"

Cody stepped in a little closer. His voice dipped. "I was just wondering…"

You raised an eyebrow.

"…if the winner gets a kiss at the end of the night. Or is that only reserved for Punk's crowd-pleasing shtick?"

There it was. The flick of jealousy. The sting behind the smile. You narrowed your eyes, your body suddenly aware of every inch between you. And how easy it would be to close it.

"Careful," you warned. "You're slipping out of character."

His smile widened, but it wasn't all charm. "Am I?"

Your heart kicked against your ribs. He stepped back, just enough to break the spell but not enough to cool the heat he'd stirred.

"I'm just staying on script," he said, still watching you. "Unless you want to change the ending."

You had no answer for that, not with your pulse thudding in your throat and his words hanging in the air like a dare. Instead, you turned and walked off because you weren't sure what you would do if you stayed one second longer.

And that was the problem.

Later, you found yourself in front of one of the backstage mirrors, touching up your makeup with trembling fingers. You told yourself it was just the bright lights. Just the excitement. Not the fact that your entire life had been reduced to a fan poll and a maybe-kiss in front of the world.

You didn't hear him approach behind you until you saw him in the reflection.

Punk leaned against the counter beside you, slowly unwrapping a piece of gum. His eyes locked on yours through the glass.

"So," he said, popping the gum into his mouth, "how's it feel having your life turned into a poll?"

You didn't answer. You were too busy pretending your hand wasn't shaking as you touched your mascara wand to your lashes.

He smirked. "I voted for me, obviously."

You replied with a hollow laugh. "Do you ever take anything seriously?"

He didn't reply right away.

Then, said softly. "I take you seriously."

The smirk was gone when you met his eyes in the mirror again. There was no sarcasm in them now. No teasing. Just quiet honesty, stark and disarming. It knocked the breath out of you.

"I know it's a circus out there," he said. "But when I'm out there with you? It doesn't feel like a show."

You turned away from the mirror, needing space, needing something to break the pull between you. But he didn't move. He just watched you like he was daring you to call it what it was.

"You don't have to say anything," he added. "Just… know it's not a game to me."

You swallowed hard, your hand gripping a makeup sponge like it was the only thing anchoring you to reality. Punk pushed off the counter, brushing past you with that same quiet energy he always carried. But before he moved out of sight, he looked over his shoulder.

"When you're ready to admit it’s more than an act," he said, "you know where to find me."

Then he was gone.

You stood center ring as the graphic lit up the tron:

FAN POLL RESULTS: 68%: Y/N aligns with… CM PUNK.

The crowd exploded into a chaotic cocktail of cheers, boos, and thunderous chants. Some screamed Punk's name like he was the second coming. Others shouted Cody's like he'd just been robbed. You could barely hear your own breath beneath the roar.

You didn't have time to process it. Punk sauntered toward you like he'd known the outcome before it even flashed across the screen, drinking in the moment. From the edge of the apron, Cody watched it all. And you felt it. Even through the noise, even through the lights and the moment… you felt him watching.

"Camera two: Y/N and Punk. Close. Sexy. Play the moment."

The cue buzzed in your ears. You wanted to scream. But instead, you hit your mark.

You met Punk halfway, let him grab your hand, and twirl you around. When he pulled you close, lips barely brushing your temple, the crowd went feral. You didn't kiss him. You didn't have to, because it already looked like you wanted to.

And maybe… a tiny, awful part of you did.

But the match had already begun.

You turned, locked eyes with Rhea Ripley across the ring and stepped into the fray. She met you with her usual fire, but there was something quieter in her eyes, too. Concern and solidarity.

"You good?" she muttered as you circled each other, just loud enough for you to catch.

"The show must go on," you replied.

She nodded.

The match was sharp from the start. Stiff. Fast. Clean. The crowd was eating it up, every slam, every near miss, every flash of intensity between you and Rhea.

You knew how to work her. And she knew how to bring the best out of you.

But then, the dynamic shifted.

Mid-grapple, you heard the slap of skin on skin. Rhea stiffened for a second. Cody had tagged himself in. And suddenly, it was him stepping through the ropes. He stared you down, eyes focused and unblinking.

The crowd screamed, sensing the shift in energy before you even moved. He didn't say anything. Rhea, ever the pro, clocked the moment. She shoved you backward to knock you out of your trance.

Punk reached over the top rope and slapped your shoulder to tag himself in. He slipped past you into the ring. His body language was clipped, and his focus was on Cody.

You turned, and your eyes met briefly. The look he gave you said it all.

What are you doing?

Before you could answer, Rhea yanked you into a hip toss that rolled both of you under the ropes and off the apron. You hit the floor with a thud, and Rhea landed hard beside you. The crowd lost their minds, caught between the chaos in the ring and the sudden crash at their feet.

You sat up slowly, blinking the adrenaline out of your eyes, trying to find your breath. Cody and Punk were squared up in the center of the ring. You stayed on the floor, heart in your throat as the ring above you transformed into a war zone.

Punk and Cody were trading blows like nothing else existed. No theatrics. No cheap shots. Just stiff forearms, brutal explosions, and the kind of heat that turned even the most skeptical fans into believers.

The crowd was losing it.

Every slam had them on their feet. Every near fall sent a wave of sound crashing through the arena. Punk would get a two-count, and Cody would kick out, roll through, and hit the ropes. Two-count. Punk barely got his shoulder up. They were telling a story with fists and sweat.

You scrambled to your feet, catching the apron for balance, only to see Rhea on the other side. She was crawling to her corner, fingertips brushing the bottom rope, positioning herself for what you knew was coming. Punk had Cody down again.

One. Two.

Rhea lunged up onto the apron, ready to dive through the ropes and break the fall, but you were faster. You grabbed her around the waist from behind, dragging her off the apron with everything you had. She fought back, but you held tight.

Inside the ring, the ref's hand hit the mat.

Three.

The bell rang. The arena erupted. Punk sat up slowly, sweat dripping down his stomach, chest heaving. He looked over his shoulder, eyes locking with yours.

For just a moment, the noise faded. You still had your arms wrapped around Rhea, but she'd gone still, too. And when she looked back at you, there was pride in her expression.

Punk climbed to his feet as his music hit, raising one arm in victory. And you were still standing there, shaking, adrenaline-drenched, heart slamming against your ribs. You slid under the ropes. Punk turned toward you and grabbed your wrist, lifting your arm high like you were the one who'd pinned Cody. Like this was your victory.

Your ears were ringing from the pop. The arena shook with it. Punk grinned, chest heaving, sweat dripping from his brow as he pointed at you with his free hand. And for a second, you believed in this. You and him. The heat of the lights. The roar of the fans. His hand is still wrapped around your wrist.

Then everything slowed.

The noise softened into a low, muffled hum like you were underwater. Your heart beat louder than the crowd. Your skin buzzed with electricity. And when Punk turned toward you, something shifted in his face. The grin faltered. His eyes locked with yours.

Breathing hard. Watching you. The weight of the moment pins you in place.

He leaned in. "Should we give them what they want?"

You didn't answer.

You weren't thinking.

Your mind was spinning, your body moving before your brain could stop. You surged forward and collided with him like gravity made the choice for you.

Oh my god. That's his tongue.

His hands found your waist. His mouth was confident, no hesitation, no question. You felt the ring shake beneath your boots as the moment detonated around you.

This is wrong.

You weren't supposed to do this. This wasn't in the script. This wasn't in any script.

But his tongue curled against yours, and a traitorous hum escaped your throat. Your arms curled around his neck like he was the only thing keeping you upright.

And then you remembered.

Cody.

Watching.

Watching this unfold in real-time. Watching you.

Your chest seized, guilt slicing through it like a hot blade.

You pulled back, gasping like you'd just surfaced from underwater. Punk's eyes were blown wide, lips parted, the heat between you still crackling in the space left behind. You didn't regret the kiss. You regretted what it said about you.

You took a step back. Then another.

The crowd was still screaming.

But all you could hear was your pulse.

And somewhere inside there, Cody's silence was louder than anything else.

Backstage after the show, you changed out of your gear and tried to take a second to breathe. Cody was standing right outside the exit, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed.

"Quite a performance," Cody said flatly, his voice slicing through the buzz still ringing in your ears.

You didn't stop and barely glanced over your shoulder. "That's all it was."

But he followed. "Was it?" he asked, closer now.

You stopped short, whirling around to face him. "I don't know, Cody. Okay? I don't know what anything is anymore."

He stared at you, jaw tight, chest heaving like he'd run a whole marathon to catch up to you. "So what, that kiss out there... it didn't mean anything?"

A short, broken laugh escaped you. "It meant I was doing my job. That's what you wanted to hear, right?"

Cody scoffed, the sound bitter. "Yeah, hell of a job. Looked real convincing when Punk's tongue was halfway down your throat."

You flinched. Anger flared. Without thinking, you turned to storm off, but his hand shot out, catching your wrist and pulling you back. You stumbled into him, chests brushing up against each other.

You felt his hand tighten. His forehead dropped forward until it almost touched yours, and his voice softened. "I'm sorry," he rasped. "I'm not mad at you. I'm just—" He broke off, searching your face. "Tell me what to do, Y/N. Tell me how to fix this."

You blinked, throat tightening instantly. You hated him for asking that. You hated yourself for wanting to believe it could be that easy. Your hand found his chest, your palm spreading flat over his heart, feeling it hammer against your skin.

"I ruined everything," you whispered.

He didn't move away. If anything, he leaned in more.

"You didn't ruin anything," he said. "I did."

The heat between you was unbearable. You felt yourself tip forward without meaning to. His hand slid to your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek. Your lips were inches from crashing into his when you caught yourself. You pulled back an inch, just enough to breathe again.

"Just...give me time," you whispered.

Cody nodded once, as if it physically hurt him to let you go, but he did. His hand slid off your wrist. You turned away before you could change your mind and walked away without looking back.

But you could still feel him standing there, watching.

Waiting.

Back in your hotel room, you let the silence swallow you. The TV flickered in the background, muted, looping clips from a late-night sitcom. Social media was a battlefield. Some crowned you queen of chaos. Others tore you apart like you were guilty of making them feel anything at all.

You watched a slow-mo video someone posted of the kiss. The camera caught everything; the hesitation, the hunger, the way you melted into Punk like he was the only solid thing left in a crumbling world.

Someone captioned it:

"She looked like she wanted to kiss him… but she's still in love with Cody. You can see it."

You tossed your phone aside and didn't pick it bp for the rest of the night. The scariest part wasn't that they were saying it—the scariest part was that they were right.

You didn't just kiss Punk tonight.

You didn't just break Cody's heart again.

You broke your own.

When you closed your eyes, you still felt Punk's hands steady on your hips. And somewhere, buried deep enough to hurt, you still saw Cody and the way he looked at you made you seem like you were the only thing worth fighting for.

And the truth, the one you couldn't outrun anymore, was this:

You wanted them both to stay.

You wanted them both to choose you.

You wanted to be the one thing neither of them could walk away from.

But real life doesn't let you live in the in-between.

And when it comes time to choose, you don't just risk losing them.

You risk losing yourself.

You pressed the heels of your hands into your eyes until the sting went away. You couldn't afford to fall apart. Not yet. Because no matter what the crowd screamed, no matter who the company shoved into your spotlight, the real war wasn't Cody vs. Punk.

It was you versus the version of yourself who was too scared to choose how you wanted to be loved.

You wanted to sleep. But your body wouldn't let you.

So you stared at the ceiling, willing the memories back.

You needed to remember who they really were to you before all of this. You needed to remember before the spotlight, before the storylines, before your heart started belonging to rooms full of strangers.

What we were. That thought haunted you. Before it was this complicated, it was something else entirely.

Cody.

It was years ago. Before he left, before everything became fractured. You were both rookies, green as hell and hungry. It was your first house show loop. You'd taken a bump wrong the night before and could barely sit down without flinching. You were icing your lower back backstage, biting back tears and hiding your wince when the door creaked open.

"You okay?" Cody asked, pausing mid-stride.

You forced a smile. "Totally. Just rehearsing my death scene for RAW."

He didn't laugh. He knelt down, his brow furrowed as he looked at you.

"Hand me the ice," he asked.

You waved him off. "I've got it. I'm fine."

"Stop saying that when you're clearly not." His voice wasn't angry, just firm. He took the ice pack from your hand and gently pressed it to your back. His fingers were warm where they brushed your skin.

You should've pulled away, but you didn't.

"You don't have to take care of me," you said.

He shrugged. "I want to."

That night, you shared a rental car, a playlist of 80s rock, and gas station snacks. You didn't talk about wrestling. You talked about movies. Siblings. What you'd be doing if this dream didn't work out. He listened to you like your words mattered. Like he was storing them away. You remember thinking: This is someone who sees me. But he was also someone who would leave. And he did.

Two years after he left, you ran into him at a convention by total coincidence. You were doing a panel. He was signing autographs. He saw you first and called your name. Your stomach twisted the second you turned around. But he smiled like you were still 24 and sharing playlists in a rental car.

He said, "It's good to see you."

You wanted to say you left. You wanted to say don't pretend this is fine.

But instead, you said, "You too."

Later, he sent you a DM: You ever think about that night in Milwaukee?

You didn't respond.

Because you did.

All the time.

Punk.

It wasn't soft with him. Not at first.

You were older. Smarter. Guarded.

You'd been burned by the business, by people, by someone who once stood next to you and swore they'd never let go.

But Punk… Punk didn't try to get in.

He just was.

You started teaming up for press events. Together, you do sit-downs, appearances, and a few panels here and there. At first, it was all sarcasm and banter. He'd needle you in interviews just to make you laugh. He'd steal your coffee and claim it tasted better when you were mad.

But then came that night in Tampa.

You'd just lost a match you were supposed to win. A last-minute rewrite. Backstage politics. You didn't complain. You never did. But Punk found you outside the arena, sitting on a loading dock, your hands shaking with rage that you wouldn't let anyone else see.

He sat next to you and didn't say a word. Just passed you a warm Red Bull and bumped his shoulder against yours.

After a long silence, he said, "You should've had it."

You blinked. "Had what?"

"That win. That moment. They robbed you."

Your voice cracks in your throat just a little.

"You saw that?" you asked.

"I see everything," he said.

"You good?" he asked after a beat of silence.

You nodded. "I will be."

He tilted his head. "You always say that."

You didn't reply.

"You want to go out? Get a drink?"

"Don't drink," you replied.

He nodded. "Me neither."

He didn't try to fix it. He didn't offer clichés or corporate lines. But he saw you break and didn't look away. That night, he walked you to your hotel room. He didn't ask to come in.

He said, "If they ever make you feel small again, remember this: you're the only real one in a room full of copycats."

Then he left.

You stared at the door, wondering what it would be like to open it and ask him to stay.

You never did.

But the thought never left.

You blinked, your vision snapping back to reality as the ceiling came back into view. It was so clear, all of it. The things you didn't say. The things you never finished. The words were still stuck between clenched jaws and aching ribs.

Punk stayed.

Cody left.

Cody came back.

Punk stepped up.

You never chose. Because deep down, you were terrified of choosing wrong. Because if you chose wrong... maybe it wasn't them who broke you. Maybe it was you all along. You weren't powerless. You were paralyzed. And that was a choice, too.

No Pressure Tags:

@harmshake @southerngirl41 @alyyaanna @smile1318 @espresscs

@aureliacorvina @lovelysagesblog @eringobragh420 @coyotegirl-ramblings

@reebs-luvs-rhodes-and-wrestling @h0ney-fiction @isabella-2025 @amandairene88 @xmariakx

@beibigirl124 @rhodesusoripleyslut @yolobloggers @thatgirljayy @straightedgevixen

@kdawgiedawg @futuremrsflatstanley @stacys-momxx @hadesorion @aconfusedtoad

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beibigirl124 · 3 months ago

Text

✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: 𝓒𝓜 𝓟𝓾𝓷𝓴 𝓜𝓪𝓼𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓵𝓲𝓼𝓽 :･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧

“I am the voice of the voiceless.”

➶ pairing: CM Punk x Reader/OCs

➶ genre: [fluff] [angst] [comfort] [semi-smut] [smut]

➶ status: am writing for

⸻

✦ All Roads Lead Here

“It was never about the destination—it was always you.”

→ genre: [angst] [comfort]

→ summary: After years of miscommunication, missed chances, and cities that never felt like home, fate brings you and Punk back to where it all began—Chicago. But closure doesn’t always come quietly.

→ release date: April 23 2025

→ status: queued

⸻

𓆩☆𓆪 more fics coming soon!

✦ titles + summaries to be added here as they’re written!

✦ follow + turn on notifs so you don’t miss updates!

⸻

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beibigirl124 · 4 months ago

Text

gif credit 1 | 2

Personal Best

🤍 Summary: She’s just trying to run. He’s just trying to coach. Neither of them are doing a very good job.

🤍 Pairings: Coach!Cody Rhodes x Female Reader

🤍 Warnings: 18+ only, Minors DNI!, Explicit Sexual Content, Power Imbalance (coach/athlete), Strong Language, Implied Age Gap (but age appropriate, as always), Control Play, Mirror Play, Light Humiliation/Verbal Degradation, Hair Pulling, Spanking, Workplace-Adjacent Setting, D/S Dynamics

🤍 Word Count: 7.0k

🤍 Notes: Thank you to whoever suggested adding Coach Rhodes to the roster. Now it's my new hyperfixation 🤭 and there WILL be a part 2

New semester. New schedule. New coach.

Coach Rhodes. You didn’t think much of him at first. He was all stern attitude and cockiness, giving pep talks in a gravelly voice that had the underclassmen girls shifting in their seats and hanging on every word. He strode into every room like he owned it, clipboard in one hand, ego in the other.

You were too busy chasing seconds off your 400 split to care. It was your last semester, and the only thing you were worried about was yourself.

That was until he started watching you. Not like coaches usually do. Not with casual oversight or strategic interest. No. This was different. His gaze held weight, like he was measuring something invisible beneath your stride. Watching more than your form, drive, and ability. He watched you like he was trying to find your breaking point.

You made sure he never saw it.

Not at first.

The conference room was crammed. Restless legs bounced under the long table. Coach Rhodes stood at the front, clipboard in hand, laying out the season. His quarter-zip clung to every flex of his arms as he moved. His fan club of girls planted themselves in the front, all dreamy and doe-eyed, hanging on his every word.

You had to admit to yourself there was something about that voice. It was made to be listened to. Not just heard. It had that low, worn-in grit, like a record that had been played too many times but somehow still hit every note. Gravelly, sure, but smooth in places you didn’t expect.

You hated that it made you listen. Hated that it made the room quieter, made your pulse louder. It felt like a voice that could get you to run faster, jump higher, or confess things you didn’t mean to say.

But that was all in your head. And that’s where those thoughts would stay. At least that's what you told yourself. You were in the back row, your notebook open but pen idle. You were watching him.

Maybe more than watching, but noticing.

The way his sleeves clung to the lines of his arms when he moved. The tight set of his jaw when he paused between talking points, like even stillness was something he controlled. Even the way he stood had a presence to it, like his body was used to taking up space and getting away with it. There was a focus to him, a tension in his posture, like he was always one second away from action. It made you wonder what it would take to knock him off balance.

You told yourself it was just curiosity. Just observation. Nothing more.

You hadn’t expected your coach to make such an impression on you. But when he spoke, half the room straightened up. And yeah, you noticed that, too.

The way his voice cut through the noise, not loud, just sure. It had gravity. It settled in your chest and made your spine straighten before your brain caught up. He didn’t bark orders like most coaches. He didn’t need to. One word from him and people moved.

And maybe it wasn’t just the voice. Maybe it was the way he carried himself, all lean muscle and calculated motion, like his body had married discipline and control. Like he didn’t waste energy on anything that didn’t matter. There was precision in everything he did, in the way he looked at you, like he saw more than you meant to show. Like he knew you were watching him, and maybe he didn’t mind.

You told yourself it was just respect. Admiration, maybe. Professional. But your stomach had a different opinion. So did the way your breath caught for a second too long when his eyes swept over the room and paused, just briefly, on you.

The meeting ended. The room erupted in a shuffle of movement, chairs scraping back against the scuffed linoleum, notebooks slapping shut, voices rising as the team filtered out in clusters. The air shifted, looser now, filled with the rustle of bodies eager to leave.

But you didn’t move. And he noticed immediately.

Coach Rhodes looked up from his clipboard, catching your stillness like a flash of motion in reverse. His gaze locked on you, sharp and assessing.

“Questions?” he asked. His voice was level, but with an edge, like he already knew this wasn’t going to be routine.

You shrugged, slow and easy, feigning indifference you didn’t feel. “Got a few.”

He set the clipboard down with a quiet thud and crossed his arms over his chest. His biceps flexed beneath the fitted sleeves, unintentional or maybe not. The way he stood, shoulders square, feet planted, was a challenge in itself.

“Shoot.”

You stood, taking your time, letting each step toward him stretch just a little longer than necessary. Like it didn’t matter. But it did, almost too much. Your heartbeat wasn’t loud yet, but it was present. That low, steady thrum of something beginning to shift.

“I want to run anchor in the 4x4,” you said, holding his eyes. “But my name’s not on the chart.”

He didn’t blink. “Because right now, you don’t have the closing split for anchor.”

You arched a brow. “You’ve never even timed me in a full 400.”

“I’ve seen your tapes. Read your stats.”

“And you think that’s enough to judge me?”

His jaw tightened, just slightly. The smallest twitch appeared at the corner of his mouth. Maybe it was annoyance or interest, it was hard to say.

“It’s enough to tell me you’ve got potential,” he said. “Not results.”

That landed. You felt it in your gut. But it didn’t make you back down.

“Then test me.”

There was a pause. His eyes dropped, not far, just enough to skim the set of your shoulders, the way you stood your ground, and when they came back up, they were narrowed.

“You want the anchor spot?” he asked, voice lower now. “Be here tomorrow. 5:30 a.m. I’ll time you myself.”

A current sparked in the space between you. Nothing touched, but everything felt close. You hated how much you wanted to impress him. Or maybe be seen by him. Right now, you couldn’t tell the difference.

You smiled, but it wasn’t sweet. “I’ll be here.”

You turned to leave but paused, tossing one last glance over your shoulder. The kind meant to linger.

“Oh… and Coach?”

He raised a brow, his expression both wary and curious.

“You don’t have to play hard-ass to get respect around here.”

His mouth twitched again, more visible this time. “I’m not playing.”

You grinned. “Maybe that’s the problem.”

The sky was still bruised with dawn, smears of navy and violet streaking across the horizon like the world hadn’t quite decided to wake up yet. The stadium lights buzzed faintly overhead, casting cold, artificial light across the empty track. Lane one stretched out before you like a dare. The air held that early spring bite, sharp in your lungs, soft against your skin. You liked that kind of cold. It made you feel alive.

Campus was silent. No teammates. No distractions. Just the low hum of electricity, the echo of your breath, and him, standing alone on the infield, stopwatch in hand, shadow stretching long beside him.

Coach Rhodes didn’t speak.

He didn’t need to.

You rolled out your quads. Stretched your arms overhead. Rolled your neck until it popped. Shook out your hands to keep them from trembling, not with nerves, not quite, but something close.

Then you stepped onto the line.

Your spikes scraped against the rubber. The silence deepened, not empty, but expectant. Like the track itself was holding its breath.

He raised the whistle.

You met his eyes, steady, level, like you weren’t already keyed up from the way his gaze held a question you weren’t sure you wanted to answer. Like his attention didn’t wrap around you tighter than the morning chill ever could.

He blew the whistle.

And you ran.

Not just hard. Not just fast. You ran like your body was making a case your mouth didn’t need to argue. Like the lap itself could speak for you. Each stride struck the ground with purpose, carving your will into every meter. This wasn’t practice, it was performance. A promise. A threat. An answer.

Him. He wasn’t the finish line, but he was the reason you didn’t slow down.

When you crossed, lungs heaving and sweat already cutting trails down your back, he was already walking toward you, calm and unhurried, like he’d known you’d deliver. Like this had only ever been a formality.

He checked the stopwatch. “Faster than I expected.”

You looked up, hands braced on your knees, your breath ragged and your pulse still running. Your lips curved into a half-smile, cocky and a little breathless. “So put me in.”

There was a pause, just long enough to make your stomach tighten.

Then he nodded. “You’ve got anchor.”

He turned without ceremony, already starting to walk away like that was the end of it. Like it hadn’t meant more.

But you weren’t done.

“Coach?” you called, voice cutting through the quiet.

He stopped and looked back over his shoulder. The light hit the edge of his jaw, the sharp line of it shadowed just enough to make him look almost unreal in the morning dark.

“Careful,” you said, lifting your chin. “Keep looking at me like that and I might think you’re impressed.”

His mouth twitched again, that almost-smile, the one he used like armor, like misdirection. But it didn’t hide anything. Not this time.

Because you saw it.

You felt it.

Not a kiss. Not a touch.

Just a moment.

The first time you knew he saw you.

Not as a number or a body, but as a question he didn’t have the answer to yet.

The locker room was quiet, humming beneath flickering fluorescent lights that buzzed like distant hornets. Wind hissed through the cracked windows, rattling the old frames with every gust. A storm was rolling in, thickening the air around you.

You didn’t look up. But you felt it. That shift in the room. The weight of someone watching. The kind of presence that made your spine straighten without thinking.

“Track’s closed after eight,” he said.

You glanced at the wall clock. 8:27. The second hand ticked, loud in the silence.

“Guess I lost track of time.”

He didn’t move closer. But he didn’t leave, either.

“You ran the full set,” he said. “Could’ve skipped. No one would’ve known.”

You turned slowly, sweat clinging to your neck, darkening the line of your collarbone.. “You would’ve.”

“You don’t have to push yourself to prove something to me.”

“I’m not,” you lied.

And he heard the lie, clear as day. So did you.

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward, it was stretched taut between you, humming with all the things neither of you would say out loud. The overhead lights buzzed. Thunder rolled low and distant, like a warning. His eyes dropped, just for a second, to the cling of your tank top, the way the fabric hugged your ribs and hips like a second skin. The way your pulse beat just beneath the surface at your throat.

You followed his gaze.

To see if he’d notice.

And he did.

“I came to lock up,” he said, quieter now. Like he was talking to himself. “Not babysit.”

You smiled, stepping into the silence he left behind. “You always use that tone when you’re trying to avoid something?”

That hit. You saw the shift. The tightening of his jaw. The way he inhaled like he was holding himself in check.

“You think you got me figured out?” he asked.

“No.” You moved a step closer. “But I think you like watching me try.”

Now there was no space left.

Just breath.

Just body heat.

“And I think you like what you see.”

You could see the flecks of darker blue swimming in the icy color of his eyes. The faint scar near his temple that only showed when the light caught it just right. The clench of his fists at his sides, knuckles white, jacket sleeves twisted in his grip like if he let go, he might do something you’d both regret. Or wouldn’t.

“You’re pushing it,” he said, his voice a fraction rougher now. Not angry. Just on edge.

You tilted your head, eyes locked on his. “Am I?”

Then he moved.

Not away.

Toward.

His hand lifted, slow and careful. It hovered just shy of your arm, like the space between you was a barrier he couldn’t cross. Like one inch more would change everything. It didn’t touch you, but God, you felt it. Every nerve tuned in to that almost-contact.

“I’m your coach,” he said, voice tight. Like the words cost him something.

You didn’t flinch. “That’s not the problem.”

His eyes didn’t leave yours. “That’s exactly the problem.”

The words came out like a confession he didn’t want to make, but couldn’t help.

And then he stepped back. His hand dropped to his side. His jaw locked. Shoulders squared. Controlled again. Composed, but barely.

“Go home,” he said. Not harsh. Just steady. Like it took everything in him to put the wall back up.

You didn’t move right away. You let the tension hang between you. Then you grabbed your bag, slinging it over your shoulder like you hadn’t just stood on the edge of something dangerous.

You walked past him, close enough that your arm brushed his. Just barely. But enough.

His breath caught.

And you felt it.

You didn’t say goodnight.

You didn’t have to.

He was already watching you leave like he regretted letting you go.

Like he wasn’t sure he’d be able to next time.

The next time it happened, there were no words. Just the late-afternoon sun spilling gold over the track. Just his eyes on you.

You were doing block work solo, but you felt it. That low burn between your shoulder blades that meant he was watching. Not just monitoring. Watching. Like watching you move was a habit he hadn’t figured out how to break.

You didn’t look at him right away. You let it build, the silence, the awareness, the question between you. He stood at the far end of the track, arms crossed, jaw tight, eyes shadowed beneath the brim of his cap. He didn’t speak. Didn’t have to. The air between you was already thick with everything unspoken.

Then finally, his voice cut across the space between you.

“You gonna run through the turn this time,” he barked, “or are we pretending it’s a damn photoshoot again?”

You didn’t break stride. Just tossed a glance over your shoulder, the smile already forming.

“Maybe if you had me running against someone faster, Coach.”

The team laughed.

He didn’t.

But his eyes stayed on you a beat too long.

It became a game after that.

You pushed. He pushed harder.

You’d flirt with the edge of every drill. Talk back just enough to make the others laugh, but never enough to be insubordinate. He gave it right back, harder practices, sharper critiques, but the fire in his voice never quite matched the heat in his gaze when it landed on you.

Then came the office hours.

You started showing up with questions about “training schedules,” leaning against his desk, arms folded beneath your chest just so. He’d sit back in that creaky old chair, arms crossed, jaw locked, pretending not to notice the way you bit your bottom lip whenever he said the word “discipline.”

But his eyes always dropped, just for a second. To your mouth. Your collarbone. The way your legs crossed at the ankle.

And one afternoon, the line you’d both been toeing blurred, and suddenly, neither of you were pretending anymore.

You were alone in the locker room, tying your shoes. Post-practice quiet. The low hum of the vents. The faint drip of a leaky pipe. Your shirt clung damp to your back, still cooling from the last set.

You didn’t hear him come in.

You just felt him. The shift in the air. That steady presence that had become so familiar you could sense it before he spoke.

“You always this mouthy,” he said, voice low, rougher than usual, “or do I bring it out of you?”

You looked up, catching his eyes in the mirror.

Your reflection caught his, just over your shoulder. The way he leaned against the frame of the doorway, arms crossed, like he wasn’t entirely sure why he’d walked in. Like some part of him was still trying to keep the line from blurring.

“Depends,” you said, quiet but clear. “You always an asshole, or do I bring it out of you?”

There it was.

That almost smile again. Not on your face, but his. The one that was more teeth than lips. The one he only used when he was trying not to react. His jaw clenched right after, like he’d let something slip.

The space between you sizzled, alive and electric. You turned around stepped past him, close enough that your shoulder brushed the front of his jacket. You didn’t touch, not really, but the feeling was there. Enough to set your skin on fire.

You stopped just beside him and tilted your head toward his ear. “Thought so.”

Your voice was a whisper. Barely a breath. But you felt the way he stilled.

And then you walked out, your head high, heartbeat thudding, your bag slung over your shoulder like armor.

You didn’t look back.

Because he was still standing there trying to figure out which of you had started the fire, and who was going to be the first to stop pretending they didn’t want to get burned.

The rest of the team had cleared out, their laughter echoing faintly off the bleachers as they disappeared toward the locker rooms. Their laughter trailed behind them like smoke.

But not you.

You were still running.

Lap after lap, your legs burning, your breath smooth and measured. The sky was turning molten behind you, streaks of orange and pink stretching long across the horizon. The track shimmered gold in the light, catching in the heat rising off the pavement.

Just you.

And him.

Coach Rhodes stood at the edge of the infield, arms crossed over his chest, sunglasses pushed up into his blonde hair. He looked casual, neutral, even bored. But you weren’t fooled.

He hadn’t checked his watch in ten minutes.

Hadn’t so much as looked away.

You knew the way his gaze tracked your movements had nothing to do with stride mechanics or split times. His attention wasn’t clinical. It was focused.

You finished the last lap, lungs tight, calves aching, sweat slicking down the curve of your spine. You jogged over to where he stood, letting your steps slow to a walk.

You lifted the hem of your shirt to wipe your neck, dragging it over your face, exposing the hard line of your stomach and the flush across your chest. You kept it there for a second too long, long enough to test him.

He didn’t blink. But his jaw shifted. A small, sharp tic.

“Still here, Coach?” you asked, voice light.

He shrugged. “Waiting for you to stop showboating.”

You grinned, still catching your breath. “You could’ve gone home.”

“I could’ve.”

His skin was sun-touched, the light catching at the sharp edge of his cheekbone, tracing the hollow beneath his throat. You stepped in a little closer, just enough to narrow the space between you. Close enough to feel it.

“You sure you’re here to supervise?” you asked, voice dropping half a register. “Because it kinda feels like you just like watching me.”

His eyes flicked to yours, and that was the moment you saw it.

His control wavered. Just a flicker. Just long enough for the honesty to slip out. His jaw tensed again. He shifted his weight. A muscle twitched in his forearm, the one crossed tight over his chest. But he didn’t deny it.

“I watch all my athletes,” he said.

But it was too smooth. Too rehearsed. And you both knew it.

You tilted your head, gaze steady. “Do you stare at all your athletes’ asses when they run, or am I just special?”

His breath caught. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just a tiny hitch, so quiet you might’ve missed it, if you weren’t listening for exactly that.

He didn’t answer. Not out loud.

But he looked at you.

And that was the line.

Not the words.

The way his eyes moved over your face like he’d memorized it. The way they dropped to your lips. And stayed there.

That was the slip.

That was the give.

Your pulse jumped.

So did his.

He didn’t touch you. Didn’t step forward. But his restraint felt like a thread that was one second from snapping.

Then, quietly, he exhaled. “Go home,” he said.

But the words didn’t land like they used to.

Not an order.

Not even a warning.

More like a plea.

You held his gaze for another breath, just long enough to let the heat between you sink in. Then you turned, slow and unhurried. Behind you, you felt it, that crackle of energy still alive in the space where you’d been.

The weight of him watching you leave. This time, not as your coach. But as a man very, very aware that the line had just moved.

The team’s gone. Showers no longer running. Lockers no longer clanking. The sound of laughter fades down the hall, swallowed by distance and the heavy silence that settles in their absence.

You’re in front of the mirror, still damp from your shower. Skin still flushed from the hot water. Muscles loose but buzzing. You’re alone. Or you were.

Then the door opens and closes. The latch clicks, followed by the metallic snap of the lock sliding into place. That’s new. You don’t turn around, because you already know that it’s him.

“This a co-ed locker room now?” you ask, voice casual, watching him approach through the mirror.

Coach Rhodes steps in like he owns the place, like the space shifts around him, recognizing who’s in charge. He’s already shed the formality, the clipboard, the whistle, the mask. What’s left is just him in his track jacket and track pants that leave almost nothing to the imagination.

His eyes meet yours in the glass. “Locker room’s empty,” he says, voice low and measured. “Except for you. Me. And that mouth.”

You smirk, catching the flicker in his eyes. “Thought you came to tell me I got benched.”

“You got promoted,” he says without missing a beat. He takes a step closer, like he’s already decided what happens next. “But first, you need to learn some boundaries.”

“And you need to learn some self-control,” you reply.

You meet his gaze in the mirror, and he’s looking at everything except the curve of your waist. Which means, of course, he’s definitely thinking about the curve of your waist.

The space between you hums with electricity. Neither of you moves.

Not forward.

Not away.

But the air is heavy with every sharp word you’ve traded over weeks, every unspoken moment you both pretended wasn’t real.

Your voice softens, barely a whisper. “Guess we’re both failing.”

And for a second, just one, he looks at you like he wants to destroy every rule either of you has tried to follow.

But he doesn’t.

Not yet.

He stands his ground. Still. Steady. Controlled. But never unmoved. Never that.

You hold his gaze in the mirror, eyes narrowed, lips parted slightly with anticipation. You don’t turn. You just watch the way he closes the distance with each step, the way his reflection grows behind yours. His chest broad, his shoulders square. His hands curl at his sides like he’s holding himself back, but barely.

You arch back slightly, involuntarily, as his body nears yours. Not touching yet. But close enough to feel the heat coming off his skin.

“There's going to be rules,” he says.

Your pulse spikes instantly. “Yes, Coach.”

The way you say the word causes him to release a low sound that vibrates from his chest to your spine. It’s not theatrical, it’s real. Like every second of restraint is costing him something.

“That word hits different now, doesn’t it?” you add, your tone daring.

He presses himself ever so slightly into your back, and suddenly any additional sharp words you had in mind die in your throat.

His lips brush the shell of your ear, barely a whisper of contact, but it sets off a chain reaction down your spine.

“Rule number one,” he says, ignoring you. “When we’re alone, you do what I say.”

The command isn't barked. It's given. With certainty. Like he already knows you’ll obey, even if you pretend not to.

You smirk, defiant even now. “What if I don’t?”

His hands are on you before the words even finish leaving your mouth.

Large, warm palms grip your shoulders, firm but controlled. His touch slides downward over the slope of your arms, tracing the muscle and tension there, skimming the edges of what’s allowed and what’s already been broken. By the time his hands find your wrists, you’re trembling.

The first time he’s touched you, and it’s like your entire body lights up beneath his hands, every nerve ending tuning into him like he's the frequency you were made for.

“Hands on the counter,” he orders, voice brushing the back of your neck. “Eyes on yourself. Don’t look at me.”

The words flood through you, settling low in your belly. Your hands move before your mind can catch up, palms flattening against the cool tile. Your legs part instinctively, just enough. The air between your thighs feels suddenly too open and vulnerable.

Your breath stutters. But your mouth still has bite.

“Sure thing, Cod—”

His grip on your wrists tightens sharply, just enough to silence the rest of that sentence. His chest presses flush to your back, body heat bleeding through the fabric of your shirt.

“Rule number two,” he interrupts. “You call me Coach. Nothing else.”

He waits.

You don’t respond right away, so he leans in closer, lips brushing the shell of your ear again. “Got it?”

“Yes, Coach,” you whisper, the words a rasp, a surrender laced with sarcasm you can’t quite hold onto.

Only then does he release your wrists.

His hands slide down the curve of your hips, fingers catching the waistband of your shorts.

And then, slowly, so fucking slowly, he pulls them down.

The fabric drags against your skin in a whisper-soft caress, grazing your thighs, the backs of your knees, your calves. The shorts pool around your ankles, forgotten.

No underwear.

You hear his breath catch before you see it in the mirror. His pupils growing wide. Hunger sharpening into something almost feral. Then, without a word, he slides a single finger between your thighs, collecting the wetness waiting for him. He groans low in his throat at the feel of it, and the sound goes straight to your core.

You suck in a breath, your knees already buckling beneath the intensity of just one touch. His finger drags slowly up and down your slit, not pressing in, just gliding, tracing, taunting. Your hips twitch against your will.

“Rule number three,” he says, and this time, there’s a cruel little smile behind the words. His finger pauses, teasing your entrance, “From now on, when we’re in public, when we’re with the team, when you see me and can’t touch me,” his voice drops, low and lethal, “you think about exactly how I feel inside you.”

Your breath catches. Your stomach flips.

His other hand finds your hip, steadying you as he curls his finger slightly, dragging it along your inner wall just enough to make your thighs tremble.

“And you don’t show it. Not one fucking tell. Not a look. Not a sound. You want to be mine, you carry it… in silence.”

He thrusts his finger in to the second knuckle, slow and firm, and your gasp is immediate.

“You understand me?”

You nod, but it's not enough. Not for him.

His hand comes up, fisting in your hair, tugging just enough to bare your throat to your reflection.

“I said,” he growls, “do you understand?”

Your voice shakes. “Yes, Coach. I understand.”

He pulls his hand back, fingers slick with you, and watches the way your body chases the contact without thinking.

“You’d better,” he says, straightening, his tone sharp and final. “Because if you slip, even once, I’ll stop. I’ll ignore you. Act like this never happened.”

His lips brush your ear again, gentler now, but cruel in a different way.

Your whole body tenses.

He smiles.

“When we’re not alone, you don’t look like mine. But you never forget that you are.”

The words wrap around you like a restraint, invisible but tight. Your pulse pounds. Your breathing’s uneven. Every part of your body is already stretched thin with want, but now your mind is too, caught in the promise of having to pretend, to hide, to carry this in silence every time you see him. Every time he acts like nothing happened. Like his fingers weren’t inside you. Like you don’t still feel the phantom weight of his hand wrapped around your throat.

And just like that, you’re gone. Needing more. Aching for it. Knowing he won’t let you fall until he’s good and ready.

He lets his knuckles drag across the inside of your thigh. You feel his cock straining against his pants as he presses it between your cheeks.

“So wet already,” he mutters, almost amused, almost impressed. “You knew I’d follow you in here, didn’t you?”

Your eyes flicker up to the mirror, catching his gaze with your own. Your lips curl into a smile that’s equal parts satisfaction and challenge.

“Coach,” you whisper, voice dripping with mock sweetness, “you’re predictable when you’re horny.”

His palm cracks across your ass, sudden and sharp. The sound rings off the tile like a gunshot, and your gasp follows right after, raw and startled, your thighs pressing together instinctively, trying to control the heat spiraling through you.

“Eyes. On. Yourself,” he scolds.

You blink hard and look up again, refocusing on the mirror, on your reflection, the way your body’s already shifting toward him, desperate for more.

You really look at yourself. And fuck, the sight is obscene. You’re bent over the counter, bare ass arched in the air, his hand on your hip, his other hand releasing his cock while he watches you fall apart from just his voice.

“You see that?” he growls, voice steady despite the tension pulling at every muscle in his body. “That’s what you look like when you’re about to get fucked.”

Your eyes flutter slightly, pulse thundering in your ears. Your fingers tighten against the tile as he presses just slightly closer, not yet, but almost.

Your pulse pounds in your throat, in your wrists, between your legs. Your chest rises and falls faster now. You feel him ghosting behind you, not touching, just letting your body burn in the space he fills. He moves with deliberate slowness, letting his knuckles skim the curve of your ass. Not a grip. Not a slap. Just the suggestion of contact. His thumb traces the dip of your spine, featherlight, like he’s studying the lines of a map he’s already memorized but wants to relearn from scratch.

Then lower.

Between your thighs again.

This time slower.

He drags the pad of his finger through your slick folds, a lazy stroke that makes your hips twitch and your jaw tighten. You bite your lip hard to keep from making a sound.

“Oh, fuck,” he breathes, barely audible. “You really do want this, huh?"

His fingers leave you for a moment, only to return with two, pressing in just far enough to make you gasp. Not enough to satisfy. Just enough to tease. His pace is maddening, his rhythm slow and exploratory, like he's testing exactly how much you can take before you beg.

But you don’t.

Not yet.

“You’re not going to ask for it?” he says. His fingers curl ever so slightly, just enough to make you shudder. “Not even going to say please?”

You shake your head. “I don’t beg.”

“Not yet,” he whispers, pulling his hand away completely.

The loss of contact makes your whole body ache, your hips pressing back instinctively, but he doesn’t let you have him.

Instead, he leans forward, mouth brushing your ear, hot breath skating across your skin.

“You're going to,” he says. “Maybe not tonight. But you will.”

One hand fists in your hair, tugging your head back gently, just enough to bare your throat to your reflection again. The other trails down your stomach until it rests between your thighs again.

But he still doesn’t fuck you.

He just waits.

Watching you in the mirror. Studying every twitch, every unspoken plea, every little shift of your body that betrays how badly you want him.

“How long were you going to keep pretending this isn’t exactly what you pushing for?” he asks, his voice low, thick with hunger but never rushed. His fingers trace slow circles against your clit, just light enough to drive you mad. “Because I’ve been patient.”

You try to glare at him through the mirror, but it’s ruined by the way your hips roll against his hand. You’re coming apart from nothing, just teasing. Just his words and his voice and the way he makes you feel like a storm is building beneath your skin.

And he knows it.

“Still not begging?” he asks, smirking now.

Your eyes avoid meeting his in the mirror.

“I don’t beg,” you manage to repeat.

He leans in until his lips brush your shoulder, voice barely audible now. “No,” he says. “But you’re going to wish you had.”

You catch the movement in the mirror as he lines himself up with you, his jaw tight, brows drawn, chest rising just a little faster now. You can feel his cock against your thigh, the promise of it alone enough to make your knees threaten to give.

But he doesn’t push in.

Not yet.

Instead, he drags the head along your slit, letting it catch at your entrance, teasing you with shallow pressure. Again. And again. Barely dipping in before pulling back, wetting himself with you. Every time your hips shift back to meet him, he pulls away.

“Impatient?” he teases. “You were talking big earlier.”

You bite your bottom lip. Fingers gripping the edge of the counter like it might hold you together.

He does it again, just the head breaching you, stretching you just enough and then withdrawing, leaving you clenching around nothing.

Your voice shakes. “If you don’t—”

He cuts you off with a hand curling around your throat. His mouth brushes your ear, his voice a low, deep rasp. “If I don’t what?” he whispers.

He leans in closer, the tip of his cock pressing right against you now, firm and steady, but still holding back. You can feel every heartbeat.

“You’re ready,” he says, tone soft but deadly. “But I want you desperate.”

He rocks forward just enough to slip in a single inch. Your eyes go wide in the mirror. You can see it, the way your mouth parts, the way your body strains toward him.

But he holds there. A low groan rumbles from his chest as he watches your face, your breathing, and the tension flooding every inch of your frame.

“You feel that?” he asks.

You nod, but just barely.

“Say it,” he demands.

“I feel it,” you breathe. “Please…”

His grip tightens on your hips. You feel it coming, the loss of his patience, the exact moment his control shatters.

And then he pushes in. Deep.

One smooth, brutal thrust that knocks the breath right out of you. Your hands nearly slip off the counter from the force of it, your body jerking forward as he fills you completely, no space left, no teasing anymore.

He lets out a low, fractured sound. “Fuck…”

He holds you there, buried to the base, his hips pressed flush against your ass, his hands gripping you tight enough to bruise skin.

He starts to move.

Not fast. Not rough. Not yet.

Just slow, deep strokes. Each thrust filling you, pulling out, and then slamming right back in with a precision that feels calculated to make you fall apart inch by inch.

His hips roll into yours with a rhythm that feels designed, cruel in its control. You can feel every ridge, every vein, the way his cock stretches you wide and presses deep, hitting the exact spot that makes your toes curl.

“This is what happens when you talk shit,” he growls against your neck.

You exhale hard, your knuckles white against the counter. “Thought coaches were supposed to motivate, not threaten.”

He grabs a fistful of your hair, yanking your head up so you have to look in the mirror again. Your reflection is flushed, mouth hanging open, eyes dazed and still, somehow, defiant.

“Don’t worry,” he snarls, thrusting in deep again. “I’ll keep you motivated.”

His hand slides around to your throat again, just resting there. Just enough to remind you he could take more if he wanted.

“Look at you,” he says. “All that mouth, and now you’re taking my cock like it’s the only thing keeping you standing.”

You grin through a moan. “Guess I’m just trying to be coachable.”

He laughs and fucks you harder. The rhythm builds, the strokes deeper, rougher. His fingers dig into your hips, holding you still as he starts to lose some of that perfect control, his groans getting rougher, his body heavier behind you.

“You like this?” he pants, thrusting hard enough to rock the counter. “Getting fucked in the locker room like a filthy little slut?”

You moan shamelessly now. “Like you haven’t been thinking about this every day.”

“I have,” he replies. “Every time you fucking mouthed off. Every time you ran past me on that goddamn track with your ass bouncing like it was made to ride my dick.”

His words sink into your skin. You finally meet his eyes in the mirror, panting, half-smiling. “So what took you so long, Coach? Scared you couldn’t get it up?”

That makes him snap. But it wasn’t because you broke the rules and looked at him. In fact, he’s so lost in you, he barely noticed. His hand slaps across your ass again, hard enough to make you yelp and clench around him, and he makes a sound that vibrates through his chest and into your spine as he drives into you deeper.

“You wanna talk now?” he grits out. “Let’s hear it. Go ahead. Run your mouth while I’m fucking the attitude right out of you.”

You try. You do. But the words stumble out half-formed, broken by moans and the rhythmic slap of skin on skin. You’re bent over, sweat sliding down your back, his cock filling you with every brutal thrust and still, you find your voice.

“Gonna have to fuck me harder if you want me to shut up,” you gasp, pushing back against him, matching his rhythm.

His hand grabs a fistful of your hair, pulling your head back so far that your mouth opens in a gasp.

“Oh, you’re gonna regret that,” he growls.

“Promise?” you pant.

Every thrust hits with intent, with force, a brutal kind of worship that makes your legs shake and your vocals break. The counter rattles beneath your palms, your reflection blurs with sweat and tears, and his voice stays in your ear the whole time, filthy enough to brand itself into your memory.

“Listen to you,” he groans. “Moaning for me. You love it. Love being fucked by the one person who isn’t afraid to put you in your place.”

And you do.

But you’ll never say it first.

Because you know he’s already saying it with every thrust, every slap of skin, every dirty word muttered in your ear.

And you’re already saying it with every sound you can’t hold back.

“Touch your clit,” he says, voice hoarse, barely holding on to control. “Don’t stop. Watch yourself come.”

Your hand obeys before your mouth can even form a reply.

One palm braces against the mirror, slick with sweat and fogging the glass where your fingers spread. The other drops between your thighs, finding the swollen, aching bundle of nerves already desperate for attention. You circle your clit fast and tight, matching the rhythm of his cock pounding into you, the sound of skin on skin echoing sharp and obscene in the otherwise silent room.

Your breath comes in short, frantic gasps. Your knees threaten to buckle beneath you. Your eyes flutter. He sees it instantly.

“Don’t look away,” he snaps, and his hand comes up to your jaw, fingers digging in just enough to sting.

He holds your head in place, forces your gaze to stay locked on your own reflection.

And fuck, it’s too much.

The glisten of the sweat on your skin. The way your breasts bounce underneath your shirt with each deep, brutal thrust. The slick sheen between your thighs. Your mouth parted mid-whimper. The way your eyes beg and your body takes everything he gives like it was made for this.

“Goddamn,” he pants, voice fractured with fascination. “Look at you.”

His fingers flex around your jaw, keeping you there, keeping you honest.

“Letting your fucking coach ruin you in front of a goddamn mirror. Dripping down your legs. Bent over like you were waiting for this.”

Your stomach coils tight. Your vision blurs at the edges. Then your orgasm hits, violent and immediate.

It rips through you like fire, like a wave crashing hard enough to drown someone. Your thighs tremble, your hips jerk, and your hand stays between your legs, working yourself through every pulsing second as your walls clench around him with a force that drags a guttural moan from his throat.

You cry out, the sound punching out of your lungs as you come apart beneath him.

“Fuck… fuck.”

He pulls out in a rush, and you barely have time to register the loss before you feel it. His hand wraps around his cock, the heat of his release painting your lower back with thick, hot ropes.

You gasp at the sensation.

The mirror catches everything.

His jaw tight, head thrown back.

Your body still arched and quivering.

Both of you panting and shaking.

You stare at your reflection, lips parted, skin flushed with the aftermath, and his come sliding down your spine.

Used.

Marked.

And still, somehow, standing.

Barely.

Behind you, he exhales a breath like he’s been holding it for weeks.

Neither of you speaks. Not yet. There’s too much in the silence. Too much that still buzzes between your bodies like the crackle of electricity before an incoming storm.

Then in the mirror, he meets your eyes.

Not with guilt.

Not with regret.

But with that same look he’s worn since this started.

The kind of look that says:

This isn't over.

Not even close.

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