plum-berry

[plum-berry]

You’re my savior🙏🙏 loving the Paddy stuff

Thank you for your support!! 🩷

[plum-berry]

Say Less

Summary: You hated Paddy Pimblett. Tonight should’ve been no different.

A/N: I wrote a friends to lovers, might as well write an enemies to lovers.

You hated Paddy Pimblett. From the moment he swaggered into a room with that smirk, the one that made your blood boil in all the wrong ways, you had despised him. His voice grated, and his laughs were always too loud. And the way he looked at you? Like he could see you beneath your clothes, deep into your skin, and he liked it.

What irritated you most was his ego. He was cocky and arrogant, but he had a right to be. He had an unbroken streak of winning — he was violence and glory wrapped nice and neat in wolf teeth.

You often thought maybe it was one-sided. You had never given him the chance to prove himself to you, but why bother? There was always heat between you and Paddy. Not the good kind, either. The burn-each-other-alive kind. He seemed to make it his life’s mission to find you and irritate you. You’d argue over nothing, just for the sake of arguing. Your friends thought he was just playful — he’s like that with everyone! don’t take it too personally, it means he likes you!

The thought of Paddy Pimblett liking you made your skin crawl in an unholy way.

Tonight should’ve been no different.

The club pulsed around you like a living organism — bodies moved and swayed like an erratic heartbeat. You could feel the music in your bones. You loved nights like this, when the air was thick with musk and cheap perfume. 

You were very obviously dressed to allure: short skirt, sharp eyeliner, a mouth full of fire. You weren’t necessarily here for company, but your skin was buzzing with anticipation. You could only imagine how you looked under the red and violet lights, eager to see who would be pulled into your orbit.

You swayed to the music, letting your eyes wander. It didn’t take long before someone found you.

A tall, dark man slid into your line of sight. Lean build, razor-sharp jaw, easy smile. His shirt was unbuttoned just enough to hint at something carved and golden underneath. He didn’t waste time, just stepped up beside you, smiling expensively.

He was a little too lean and sharp edges for you. But, you weren’t here to make friends, so you smiled back at him. 

“You look like trouble,” he started, voice smooth, eyes lingering just enough. He smelled expensive, too.

You tilted your head, smiling as innocently as you could. “Good thing I like trouble.”

His grin widened, fingers daring to brush against your elbow. “Let me get you a drink then. You like tequila?”

You shrugged gently, leaning in to carefully brush your fingers against his forearm. “Only if it burns.”

He laughed. “Be right back.”

You watched him weave through the crowd and absentmindedly wondered how many drinks you could get out of him before he’d start asking to take you home. You weren’t planning on leaving with anyone, so you figured after the third or fourth you’d make your Irish goodbye.

Before you could really enjoy the glow of being desired, a familiarly irritating voice made you jump.

“Thought I’d check in before some poor soul gets their heart broken,” he drawled, voice low and syrupy in your ear. “How many drinks you gonna bum out of him?”

Paddy fucking Pimblett.

“Goddammit,” you muttered, almost amused, partially resigned because of course. The warmth at your back, the press of heat, made you tense. He didn’t touch you. He never needed to.

You rolled your eyes, turning so that he was further behind you. “I’m trying to enjoy my night,” you hissed, voice dry. “Why don’t you go bother someone else?”

His breath tickled your neck. “Don’t see anyone else worth the effort.”

You finally turned and met him head-on.

There he was, all smug confidence and coiled muscle in black. That stupid smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, like he was in on a joke you’d never get. The light caught on the curve of his jaw, the mess of his hair slightly damp with sweat, the shadows in his eyes. Your eyes wondered down the column of his neck.

There was something else in the air now. Something ugly and bright. It burned under your skin and made your hands shake. You hated that you noticed.

Your mouth opened — some sharp reply ready to slice — but he cut you off.

He leaned closer, just enough to make your spine straighten. “We both know he’s not your type, anyways.”

Your jaw tightened, eyes narrowing, but your skin betrayed you — a shiver crawled up your spine. “You jealous?”

“Curious is all,” he said, flashing that infuriating grin. “Wondering how long he’d last before you chew him up.”

“Longer than you would,” you shot back, but your voice wasn’t as sharp as you meant it to be.

Paddy’s gaze dropped to your mouth, then slowly returned to your eyes. “You’ve got that look,” he said softly.

Your stomach dropped, heat flaring. “What look?”

He leans back to admire you, stupidly smug. “The one that says you hate how much you want to kiss me.”

You blinked. Once. Twice. “The only thing I want is for you to disappear before he comes back.”

He laughed — a low, infuriating thing that burrowed deep into your skin. “Not gonna happen, love. You’d miss me too much.”

You scoffed, crossing your arms. “Missing the way you never shut up?”

He stepped closer, too close, too warm, too intimate. “No, but you’d miss the way I get under your skin.”

You consider it for a moment and, fuck, you hated that you would.

And maybe it was the alcohol or the music echoing in your bones that made you lightheaded. The way he looked at you like you were the only thing keeping him tethered. But it felt like being set on fire, and finally liking the burn. You acted against your better judgement.

You kissed him first.

It was angry, hungry, a dare. And he answered in kind — mouth hot, hands rough and desperate on your hips. The kiss tasted like jaeger and hate, like the kind of desire that left claw marks. It was bruising and electric and wrong.

His hands were grabbing at you, trying to hold you in place, so you bit him. Hard.

He pulls back, sharp, fingers rushing to his lip, “Fuck!”

You lick his blood off your teeth, lacing your fingers into the folds of his jacket, voice almost mean. “You scared?”

He rubs a drop of blood between his fingers gingerly before gripping you by your shirt and pulling you up into him roughly. “You’ve got the worst fucking mouth,” he growled, lips dragging along your jaw.

You nip at his ear. “Then shut me up.”

He grins against your skin. “My pleasure.”

You ended up in the back room of the club, the door slamming shut. The music thundered behind it — a rhythm that matched the way you slammed him into the brick wall. One hand tangled in your hair, the other sliding up and under your shirt like he owned you.

Paddy’s hands roamed, possessive and sure fire — like he needed to touch and claim every part of you. Your fingers scraped down his ribs, a soft curse spilling from your lips as he bit at your jaw, your throat, your collarbone.

“God, you’re infuriating,” you gasped.

“And you love it.”

The way his fingers slid down your spine felt like you were unraveling. The air between you crackled with something raw, dark, and desperate. His touch burned — every kiss, every bite, a punishment and a promise. You bit his shoulder just to leave a mark.

He groaned, low and dangerous, then kissed you again. It was like biting down on glass, licking the fire and blood out of his mouth.

You struggled out of his grasp, just enough to unbutton his jeans, hard heavy cock springing forward. Normally, you’d like to take your time, feel his shaft thick and hot on your tongue. You’d tease him, fingers wrapped around him as you lapped under his balls. There wasn’t any room for intimacy or love, not right now.

Running your fingers through his hair, you grip and pull him off of you. You trail your eyes from his neck up to his jaw, savoring how pliant and nice he is in your hands. He’s glaring at you, but he doesn’t fight off your grip.

Slowly, you trail your hand down from his shoulder and lower. You spit into your hand and reward him with the soft pumping of your hand. His eyes roll back, thrusting hard into your hand.

You grip him by the jaw roughly, intending to hurt. “Open your eyes,” you tease, fingers halting. “Don’t be so shy.”

That anger is there in his eyes again, and you imagine how good he’d look between your thighs like that. Your pussy flutters around nothing, wet and trembling. You tighten your fingers around him, whispering into his ear, “I want you to fuck me like you hate me.”

His thick fingers shove your panties to the side, like it offends him. The hunger in your core reels, pulsing molten hot.

“You think about my cock while you were talking to that asshole?” he growls in your ear, voice wrecked.

“Yes,” you whine out, breathless as his palm presses against your cunt.

He slaps his hand against you, rough. You jolt, but his hand on your hip holds you in place. He lifts your legs, teeth pressed against your skin as he spreads your legs open with his body. The coarseness of his jeans hurts so good against your wet pussy, and then you feel the head of his cock, pressing against your folds. 

You shimmy, using your ankles to pull him in closer, desperate to be filled. You whisper against his lips, “I thought about you fucking me the whole time.”

His lips curve, filthy and delightful. “You’re so needy. Fuck, I’ll make you sob.”  

He growls, as he lines himself, gripping you hard enough to bruise. He rubs his cock through your folds, smearing your spit and slick along his shaft. When he pushes in, it’s not careful or gentle. It’s one long, brutal stroke that snaps into you. The sting, the stretch — the way he fills you has you arching off the wall, legs trembling.

“Paddy,” you choke out, nails digging into his leather jacket.

He bottoms out, buried to the hilt, rotating his hips teasingly. You’re so wet, so tight, wrapped around him. Your pussy pulses around him, greedy and sopping.

He curses against your throat, his pace relentless, punishing. Each thrust punches into you, driving you further up the wall. The grit of the brick scratching at you rips a filthy moan from your throat.

“You think anyone else could fuck you like this?” he grits out, fucking you with a hateful intensity. 

The sound of his cock drilling in out of your wet pussy is so sinfully intoxicating. You gasp, clawing at him like you were trying to get under his skin. He lets you. Welcomes it. Devours you back. It was like an insatiable fever consumed you both.

Feral. Animal.  

His teeth scrape down your neck, leaving a trail of spit and the threat of blood. You sob out, your body coming apart as he snaps his hips into you, brutal and unforgiving.

When you came, it tore through you — raw and blinding. You bite into his jacket to keep from crying out. He groans, hands gripping the back of your thighs so hard it will leave bruises.

His own release follows, sharp and broken, buried in the crook of your neck.

For a long moment, there was nothing. Just breath and sweat and the sound of your heart trying to slow down.

He doesn’t move. His forehead pressed against yours, the space between you too tight to hold anything but each other.

You don’t remember when his hands stopped trying to bruise and started trying to hold. Somewhere between the gritted teeth and tangled limbs, something softened. Paddy’s knuckles brush aimlessly against your thigh, cock pulsing and thrumming inside of you.

You hated how warm it felt. How safe.

You wriggle out his grasp, breaking free of the hold he has on you. When your feet touch the ground, cum running down your thighs, your knees knock against each other.

He offers you a hand but you just stare up at him, unsure and vulnerable. His jacket is all sideways on his broad shoulders, hair a mess and lips bitten red. You inhale sharply, almost like you’re shell shocked. God, he looks so good all —

He looks down at you with that stupidly endearing smirk, “Like what you see?”

You raise your eyebrows, squinting up at him. “No. Never have, either.”

“Oh, come on,” he drawls, hands grasping at your ass, pulling you back in. “I make sure to keep me face pretty during fights. Don’t want the girls finding me ugly.”

You shrug his hands off, playfully fighting him off of you. “You’re already ugly!”

He laughs at this. Genuinely laughs. He throws his head back, blonde hair shimmering underneath the lights. God, you can’t help but smile.

He pulls you in by the wrist, kissing you sloppily and warmly.

And, fuck, you hated how easy Paddy Pimblett made that feel.

[plum-berry]

Casual

Summary: You've known Paddy for years. Things have always been casual between you two. You want it to change.

A/N: Ask and ye shall receive! More smut… bc why not. (I feel like I’m running out of ideas. I need some of y’all to pick up the slack and write fics I can read.)

You’ve known Paddy Pimblett since before the Octagon, back in year 10 when he was just a lanky kid kicking rocks on the way to school, shaved head and braces on his teeth. Back then, he was all elbows and untied trainers, more noise than boy and wide smile. He got detention for swearing in the halls at school and made you laugh until your ribs locked up in the back of science class. He passed you notes that said stupid things like “wanna skip?” with a crudely drawn smiley face, and you always wrote back “obviously.”

He’s still just Paddy to you. Even when the fights started — the real ones in cages instead of behind the school bleachers — you were there. You watched the school boy you knew become someone people chanted for. Tall and glorious, brights lights glittering in his eyes, blood on his gloves, and victory in his teeth.

But with you, he never changed. When he sang songs and danced playful in the ring, you still saw that boy you watched climb trees and fail history tests and sneak snacks into the library.

He still called you after big wins, breathless and buzzing, like you were the only person who mattered. You’d say something simple and safe, full of pride — “Proud of you, you absolute legend!” — and when he’d reply, you could always hear the smile in his voice.

You never told him that your heart jumped every time he called. You certainly never asked if his did too. And you definitely don’t talk about the nights you stay up scrolling through clips of his post-fight interviews, or how you hold your breath when he takes a hit, or how your lips tremble until the referee lifts his arm high and mighty. You never ask him what he thinks of you, and he never asks if you’re watching.

You both know the answer.

You've never admitted you love and care for each other. Not in those words, anyway. You say it in other ways. In takeaway dinners dropped off after training. In voice notes sent at 2 a.m. when you’re both delirious, brains racing. In the way he touches you without thinking — your knee, your shoulder, a strand of your hair flicked gently aside.

But then he always pulls back.

And when he’s gone, Liverpool gets smaller.

You notice it on the days he’s training elsewhere or off doing media rounds. He still sends you pictures of his dinner and memes, and you send back long voice notes about how shit British weather is to make him feel more at home. Even then, the city feels quieter, and you stay in more than you should. You become reclusive, and yet, you never really said it aloud. How much you miss him.

You’ve thought more than once that maybe you’d both be happier if you just left and found somewhere quieter, smaller. Somewhere no one expects Paddy to be. Somewhere he doesn’t have to smile when he’s tired, or talk when he wants silence.

You imagine a flat with two mugs in the sink and your jackets tangled on the same hook. Your shoes piled at the doorway together, your pillows next to each other. You imagine waking up late, grocery shopping together on a Sunday, watching old movies with the curtains drawn.

“I ever tell you I hate how everyone stares?” he says once, while you’re both sitting on the steps outside his mum’s house, sharing a bag of crisps. It’s a cool autumn day, and you’re both sat watching the sunset bleed into darkness.

“Only about twenty times,” you reply, passing him the bag. You shiver and rub your arms a bit before pulling your knees to your chest.

He looks at you then — soft, quiet. “D’you ever think about leaving?”

You lean against your knees, and from this angle, the milky reds and pinks of the sunset set his blue eyes ablaze. Your heart stutters.

“All the time,” you say. And after a pause, you nudge him with your shoe, “But I think I’d be real sad without you.”

He doesn’t say anything. Just nods and hands you the last crisp.

And that’s really what it’s about.

It’s about the way he leans into you when he’s laughing, the way his fingers unconsciously tap against your thigh when he’s driving you around places. The way he lets his head drop on your shoulder when he’s exhausted, the way he always gives you the last bite of a snack.

You’ve shared beds before — when traveling, when drinking, when you’ve stayed up so late talking there’s no ride shares. Always under the guise of friendship. Always, it’s too dark, it’s not safe to go home.

You remember one night in particular.

The press was loud with opinions after a match. They reported that Paddy’s fights were rigged, and he wasn’t as good as he was being made out to be. He wasn’t talking much, and you knew it had gotten under his skin.

You stayed with him in his hotel. Didn’t ask questions, didn’t push.

That night, you laid side by side on top of the covers, his arm brushing up against yours, the room wrapped in darkness and silence. You whispered something about hating fanboys. He laughed once, tired.

“I don’t care what they think,” he murmured, shuffling to turn on his side.

“Well, I care.” You crossed your arms and huffed, “I think they’re all braindead losers.”

He didn’t respond, but you could feel his gaze in the darkness. You had rolled over to face him, barely able to make out the outline of his face in the dark. Gently, you placed a hand in between the two you, “You’re the strongest person I know.”

And he reached for your hand, linking your fingers without thinking. You stayed like that until the sun crept through the curtains.

When you both woke in tangled limbs, neither of you mentioned it in the morning.

But you think about it all the time.

Especially nights like tonight.

He’s finally home from Miami. He’s a bit bruised and jet-lagged, but he’s buzzing and burning with leftover adrenaline. He is still insistent on celebrating when he lands. At some point, you drift away from each other. You’re dancing with your friends, swaying to the rhythm, the air hot and thick with perfume and sweat and alcohol.

Your eyes keep drifting back to him.

You hadn’t really had the opportunity to talk to each other. You both shared a large group of friends, and they had his attention first. You knew your turn would come, though.

Paddy stood near the bar, one arm resting on the counter, drink in hand, eyes steady with yours. His jaw was tight. Even from across the room, you could tell he was trying to look casual and cool, but the set of his broad shoulders told you everything. He was watching you like he couldn’t help it.

And maybe that was the reason your smile lingered longer than it should’ve. Maybe it was why you swayed your hips just a little more deliberately.

You were barely a few beats into the next song when a guy you didn’t recognize slid up beside you. Tall, with a backwards cap and a cologne that felt like lit napalm in your nose.

“Hey,” he said, leaning in. “You here alone?”

You gave him a polite smile, pushing your body closer to your oblivious friends. “Nah, I’m with friends!”

His eyes dipped lower than they should’ve. “That so? Didn’t see anyone next to you.”

You shifted away, but not too suddenly. No need to be rude. Still, your gaze flicked up, over the guy’s shoulder, and straight to Paddy.

He hadn’t moved. He hadn’t blinked.

You held his stare.

Even from across the club, you could feel it. Something that had been growing for too long fizzled in the air. You hadn’t seen him look at you like that before. It was hot and heavy, and it had you bothered.

His mouth was set in a firm line, eyes darker than usual.

The guy kept talking, but his voice faded beneath the beat. Something about grabbing a drink, or maybe heading outside. You barely heard it. You didn’t care.

“I’m good, thanks,” you said firmly, offering a quick smile before pushing through the crowd, leaving him behind. You headed straight over to Paddy.

He didn’t say anything when you reached him, just raised an eyebrow.

“Why’re you standing over here like you’re guarding something?” you teased, chest rising and falling from dancing. You grab him by the arms and shake him gently, “We’re supposed to be celebrating!”

Paddy smiled crooked at you. “Guardin’? You mean keepin’ an eye on you before one of them idiots tries anything stupid.”

It was probably the alcohol that made you bold enough to slide closer and say, “You’ve been watching me all night. Are you jealous?”

He didn’t answer — just let his eyes wander a little too long over your lips, your neck, the way your chest rose and fell from dancing. The weight of it made your stomach flip. You reach for him, fingers brushing his wrist. He flinches. You’re suddenly nervous.

“Have I done something?” you ask quietly.

“No,” he says too quickly. “You’ve never done anything wrong.”

Later, when the group spills out into the street, a brisk downfall of rain starts, sharp and sudden. You yelp and throw your arms over your head, laughing giddy at the cool relief. Paddy shrugs off his jacket before you can even complain, swinging it over your head. It’s warm from his body, and it smells like him. He pulls you forward, clasping you in the jacket with his hands. You blink up at him in surprise.

He’s grinning, a little smug. “Didn’t want you soaked to the bone.”

You roll your eyes, but your cheeks are hot.

By the time you get back to his flat, your legs are soaked and you’re shivering. He disappears for a second and comes back with a hoodie — oversized and soft.

“Here,” he says, avoiding your gaze, tossing it at you gently. “Get warm.”

You change in the spare bathroom, trying not to overthink it, stay casual and calm. When you finally step into his bedroom, barefoot and swallowed by his hoodie, he’s already in the main bathroom.

You crawl onto his bed. It smells like him too. You curl into the pillows, scrolling your phone, waiting for him so you can pick a movie like you always do. But this night doesn’t feel like always. Your skin is still buzzing from the way he looked at you earlier. From the heat of his hands brushing your waist when he gave you the jacket. From the way his eyes dropped to your lips and —

Paddy walks out of the bathroom in low-slung joggers, a towel around his neck, hair wet and curling. His eyes find you and suddenly you’re embarrassed at how you’re a little too comfortable in his bed and his clothes.

He freezes for a second, like he’s seeing you for the first time and all at once. It’s never been like this before.

You tuck your knees into his hoodie. “You okay?”

He doesn’t answer. Just stares for another beat.

“Patrick,” and you never use his full name, “what is wrong? You’ve been all weird and distant, and I don’t know if I’ve done something or —”

But then he walks toward you slowly, towel dropping from his neck to the floor, hands dragging through his hair like he’s trying to shake something off. He stops at the edge of the bed.

“I’ve been trying to ignore this,” he starts, quiet and keeping his distance.

You crawl closer to the edge of the bed. You feel like a child, desperate for his attention and guidance. “Ignore what?”

“You.” His voice is hoarse.

You blink, heart hammering. You open your mouth, but he’s already leaning in, eyes locked on yours, giving you time to pull away.

You don’t.

He reaches out and grips your hoodie, lifting you up to your knees. He presses his forehead into yours, and you sit there briefly, just staring at each other. Neither of you say anything for a beat, content to listen to your breathing sync. And then, “You can touch me, Paddy. I don’t bite.”

He smothers his lips along your neck, down to your shoulder, teeth nipping against the skin. He’s quiet for a moment as his hands slide under your thighs. Then he says, “Don’t go back home.”

You pull him down to the bed so that he’s hovering above you. “I’d never leave you.”

He breathes through his nose and grips the nape of your neck closer, licking into your mouth, hand sweeping against your ribcage, pushing the hoodie up and over. It sparks a hot feeling down in you, quick and liquid fire.

You don’t have the chance to be timid when you’re both undressed because he is crashing his lips back to yours. He is not careful or slow. It’s years of longing and frustration and everything unspoken burning hot to the surface. He kisses like he fights — fierce and focused.

He settles himself over you, pinning you down with his weight and trapping you against the bed. Your kisses become more urgent, and you wrap your legs and arms around him. You hope you never get over the feeling of skin against skin, because it feels so good every time he touches you. You just want to be consumed by the heat of your bodies pressed tight together. You fit so well into him, and it spreads that molten heat further into your body.

Eventually, his hand finds its way between the warmth of your thighs, fingers lightly dancing around your clit and entrance. A shockwave of pleasure rolls through you as he thumbs at your clit. His rough fingers spread your folds and dip to press in without warning. He slips two fingers into the knuckle, slowly pulling out to push back in, rhythmic and playful. Your breathing is shallow already, but when you look down at his fingers slowly pumping in and out of you, a broken sound escapes your throat.

When he presses his erection hard against your thigh, you can feel how heavy and thick it is. You throw your head back, bucking into his hand, eager and hungry.

“I’m going to fuck you tonight,” he promises, whispering huskily against your throat.

You shudder at the words, sharply breathing in.

He quickens his pace, fucking his fingers into you. His other hand rests on the trembling plane of your stomach, pushing down as his fingers hook up and glide roughly. A bundle of nerves tightens and flexes in your stomach. You’re near-sobbing, writhing and whimpering and drawn tight. You bury your hands into his hair, huffing shakily into the air between the two of you. His fingers curl against that bundle of nerves again, shooting electricity up your spine. You hold your breath, stars dancing underneath your eyelids. You instinctively spread your legs wider, trying to take his fingers in deeper.

“That’s it,” he encourages. “Spread your legs for me, just like that, pretty girl.” 

You grip at his shoulders, squirming, “Paddy, please.”

He kisses a trail up your neck, “Please what?”

You writhe under him, needy and dripping into the sheets, “Please, Paddy, please fuck me!”

Before you can process what’s happening, he’s pushing his cock inside, slow and steady, inch by inch, and god, he fills you just right. He praises you with his lips, pressing kisses against your face as he forces you open, stretching you open. You screw your eyes shut, gasping out as the air is pushed out of you. You pull him down by his hair, curling your body up and off the mattress into his chest. His body covers yours so easily, and it feels so right to be there. 

“Open your eyes,” he demands, “I want to watch you.”

He wants you to see him, to know who was fucking you and claiming you. When he shifts his hands to your hips to yank you down into the thrusts, you roll your hips down with a needy whimper. He thrusts hard right up into you, and you cry out, digging your fingers into his shoulders.

“Baby,” he says, body covering yours again, pressing sloppy kisses on your collarbone, “so good for me.”

He grabs you by the chin, kissing you forcefully. He raises your hips up off the bed, tilting them so that he’s deep inside of you, right where you want him to be. Where you’ve wanted him for so long.

You clench and quiver around him, and his thrusts speed up, brutal and punishing. He fucks you into the mattress, hammering into the spot that makes you feel ready to fall apart with pleasure.

You shudder and shake against him, clinging onto his back for stability as you finish hard with a bright, keening sound. The bundle of nerves in your core unravels and explodes, igniting your nerves. You feel him everywhere, shaking numb with pleasure. You clench hard around him in waves of sensation, milking his cock. He goes to pull out, but you lock your ankles around him.

“Cum in me,” you beg between kisses, “I want you to fuck it into me.”

Paddy groans low in his throat as his body shudders, and he’s coming with a growl, spilling his seed deep inside, pushing it deep into you with solid, sure thrusts. He collapses on top of you, blanketing you with his body. You close your eyes, trying to catch your breath. You can feel him twitch inside of you, his forehead pressed to your cheek, both of you slick with sweat.

“Hey,” he pulls you closer to him. You turn your cheek against his arm, peering up at him through wet eyelashes. “Are you - are you okay?”

You realize you’re shaking, skin vibrating and flush. You have no idea what to say, except, “I’m pretty sure I love you.”

He blinks, slowly, shocked. “Do you?”

You feel vulnerable and soft and small. “It scares me. Saying that.”

“That’s okay.” He reaches out, running his fingers from your cheek down to your shoulder. He smiles sweetly and whispers in your ear, his breath hot against your chin. “I love you, too.”

[plum-berry]

MORE PADDY FANFICS PLEASE IM OBSESSED

I am working on it 🫶

(You can send requests but I can’t promise I will fulfill them)

[plum-berry]

Party on You

Summary: You hate parties — but you threw this one for him.

A/N: I am going feral crazy over this man. Someone needs to put me down like a sick dog. This is also 100% based on the Charli XCX song "Party 4 U". There is no smut, just fluff and sexual tension (sorry to blue ball). This is also on AO3, as always.

You didn’t even like parties.

Not really. Honestly, hated them.

But tonight, the lights were pink and dripping from the ceiling like honey. The bass trembled through the floors like a heartbeat, and every glittering detail — the custom cake with What Now? piped in gold, the silver balloons curling toward the ceiling, the playlist you obsessed over for hours — was all for him.

Paddy.

The fight was the night before. Bloodied mouth, split brow, roar of the crowd. You knew him before the world did — before pay-per-views and Dana White promo reels and meathead boys in the gym shouting “Lad, you see that KO?!” You were behind the camera, editing reels in your little office, finding that one perfect frame where his eyes went cold before a takedown. You never even meant to specialize in combat sports. But Paddy made it easy.

He was expressive. Fierce and fun. He was a generous fighter; he gave you moments. And you knew it.

The last video you cut — the one that went viral after his win against Chandler — had him in slow-motion, sweat flicking off his chiseled biceps, his mouthguard bloody, jaw tight, veins taught like wire, eyes cool and hard. You paired it with a slowed beat and let it ride in silence at the end, just his breath heaving, eyes locked on the camera like a threat.

Everyone called it cinematic.

Paddy had only said one thing when he saw it: “Didn’t know you could make me look that fit and that scary at the same time.” He said it with a press friendly smile. But you felt the way he watched you after that. Longer. Hungrier.

Now, at the party, you kept to the edges. A few fighters nodded at you in recognition — the quiet girl from the gym with the laptop and headphones always slung around her neck. Someone shoved a drink into your hand. You smiled tight but polite, thanked them, and kept scanning the crowd. You took large sips of your champagne, desperate to get your nerves under control.

And then, like a pull in your chest, you felt him before you saw him.

Paddy was standing across the room, half lit by the pink glow of some terrible LED sign. He wasn’t talking. Just watching the crowd.

You held your glass to your chest like it was a shield. Your dress sparkled — low back, high slit, clinging to you in places he had never touched, begged: notice me without asking you to. You’d done your makeup soft and unassuming. You’d rehearsed the moment in your head so many times: you walking up to him, pretty smile, some flirty quip. But now you were frozen, glued to the wall, watching him from across the room like a shadow.

His hair was still damp from the drizzle outside, and his ends were wisping into curls that clung to his forehead. A group approached him and he laughed. His voice — louder than the music — hit you like a gut punch.

You turned away before he could see you staring.

Go say something. You attempted to give yourself a pep talk, but your nerves were hot and frazzled, a live wire whipping around in your chest. You threw this party for him. He should be thanking you. But that wasn’t the point.

You didn’t throw the party for attention. You threw it to see him.

And when you finally looked back and locked eyes with him across the room, you knew he had caught you.

He was still talking to someone, but his eyes intentionally stayed on yours. His expression softened like he’d just remembered something important. He excused himself, brushing past people, making his way through the glitter-flecked bodies like they were unimportant obstacles to him. Towards you. Determined.

Your heart stuttered so hard in your chest, you briefly thought you might be dying.

Paddy stopped a few inches in front of you, warm and golden under the lights.

"You didn’t tell me you were throwin’ this," he said, stepping a little too close. His accent curled around each word, soft and rough all at once.

You breathed deep. He smelt like expensive cologne and rain, something you’d want to bury your face into and bite and taste and — you rolled your eyes effortlessly. You hoped you were playing off your cool and unbothered facade better than you felt. "Please. You think I’d miss celebrating your win?"

A small smile tugged at his lips. He looked at you like you were something he wanted to unwrap slowly. "Figured you’d be at some rooftop bar, too good for a fight-night afterparty."

You tilted your glass and swirled the champagne around. “Didn’t think I’d be invited to that. I’m no A-List fighter.”

He nudged you gently with his elbow, eyes narrow with mischief, a small grin on his lips. “Don’t be daft. You made me look insane in that video. You earned a red carpet.”

And, yeah. There was no denying you worked your magic specifically for Paddy. You weren’t supposed to have favorites, but you paid extra special attention to his clips. If anyone noticed online, no one said a thing.

“You looked like that on your own,” you smiled up at him. “I only hit upload.”

He chuckled again, this time with his head tilted back. You liked how he laughed — not in the way some people laugh to fill silence, but like he’s genuinely surprised by the things you say.

His eyes flicked to your dress and lingered. "Y’know, I've been lookin’ for you since the fight."

Your stomach flipped, a tiny knot of anxiety unfurling into a red hot heat.

"You found me," you said, tiny.

"Yeah." His voice dropped, lower now. He reached up, gently tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingertips trailing too slow, too soft. He took your cup and set it aside on a windowsill, then leaned back against, elbows resting, body open. His shirt clung to the definition of his chest, sleeves rolled to his elbows. The way he filled out his body, shoulders broad, biceps and legs thick and muscular; the largeness of him was imposing and comforting all at once. His hair was messier than usual, like he’d run his hands through it a hundred times already tonight.

“You really did make me look terrifying,” he said, voice threading through the music. “Scary. Dangerous. Tad sexy, too.”

“Just a tad?” you teased, leaning ever so closer into him.

He grinned. “Don’t want to sound vain, do I?”

“You don’t mind sounding dangerous.”

His gaze dragged over you, fingers reaching out to gently tug on the end of your dress. “Only if it works on you.”

That made your heart knock against your ribs. His presence was nearly overwhelming, and you wished you had your cup back in your hands. You wanted to reach out to touch and feel him.

“You ever think about putting yourself in front of the lens?” he asked, voice warm and dangerous. “Let someone film you lookin’ that good?”

He let the space hang between you, heavy like a dare. You shook your head and opened your mouth, but Paddy interrupted you.

His hand reached out, fingers brushing the low of your back, slow and casual. “Always watchin’. Always seeing people without letting anyone see you.”

You didn’t mean to look at his lips, but you did.

And he saw.

The air shifted and slowed. Your heart beat behind your ribs like it was trying to say something your mouth couldn’t. His rough hand gripped you now, pulling you close enough for him to lean down and rasp in your ear, “What if I want to see you?”

“I…,” you began, but couldn’t quite finish. Your chest ached with something you had tried to ignore. You stared up at him, trembling and electric.

He didn’t move. He didn’t lunge or press or chase. He just… waited. Letting you choose.

He brushed his hand around from the small of your back to your hip, thumb rubbing intimate circles into your skin. “Do you want me to stop?”

Your hand flew up to his chest. Your fingertips pressed hot against his bare skin as you vigorously shook your head.

He smirked softly, leaning down into your face again. “Say it.”

“No,” you whispered.

He backs you into the wall, cornering you with his arms. You fall into it much too slowly. It's less about feeling good and more about coming alive.

Gently, he presses his lips into yours. His hands have taken to skimming across the skin of your thigh through the slit in your dress. You can hear each sharp exhale when he presses deeper into the kiss.

Paddy is everywhere, but nowhere you want him. He bites on your bottom lip, tugging it a little before kissing over the swollen area.

You pull off, dazed and flushed. Your lips burn and Paddy’s hands are still touching you. He’s looking down at you, eyes dark and hungry.

"This is going to be scandalous," you breathe out, hands gripping his collar. You can only imagine the tabloids tomorrow, and you vaguely wonder how many people have already snapped videos of you two making out. You’re thankful for your nervousness earlier forcing you into a darker corner of the room.

"I know," he swallows. "Far as I know, that don't stop anyone at parties."

"I don't want to be a night for you,” you admit.

His eyes soften as he brushes a hand up against your cheek. "I'm not going to use you like that."

He dips his head to drag his lips against your neck, tender and soft. "Promise?"

The promise was made with a kiss. He’s turned into you, somewhat impatient, but you take your time with it.

His fingers aren't low enough. He knows you want them to press through you, that you want him inside and hard and fast. He meets your tongue when you part your mouth for him. His adoring fingers cage you in, his other hand latched to your hair to pull your head up into him. You whine low in your throat. You want to be taken care of and destroyed all at once. You want to be ravaged and intimately loved. You want him.

He licks into your mouth, pulling on your bottom lip every time you draw away. He catches your hand from his shoulder, intertwining your fingers, and steadies your hip until you’re just swaying and rubbing. Even though he is already hard in his trousers, he doesn’t want it to end so fast.

You laugh breathlessly against the crook of his neck, “Are we going to dance now?”

He pulls back just enough to look at you — flushed, blinking slow, almost as if he’s dazed. He lazily grins, lopsided like he’s drunk on you, voice wrecked. “We’ve been dancin’, love.”

The room spins around you in slow motion — glitter suspended midair, bass slow and syrupy, lights pulsing like a heart too full of feeling. He takes your hand and spins you gently, your dress catching the light like spilled champagne. You laugh, dizzy and lightheaded, caught between wanting him closer and never wanting this suspended moment to end.

Paddy’s hands settle at your waist, his touch hot and heavy. His gaze has quieted, softened, the heat still there but tempered.

You smile shyly, “I meant… on the floor.”

He huffs a laugh, leaning his forehead to yours. “This is better.”

You don’t argue. You just stare into each other’s eyes. Around you, the party thrums on — bass pulsing through the floor, laughter cresting over music. But in your little corner of the world, it’s quiet. It’s just him, looking at you like you’re something rare, something worth slowing down for.

“I don’t want to wake up tomorrow alone,” you murmur, suddenly nervous again.

“You won’t.” He slides his hand down your back, anchoring you. “Come home with me.”

You pause and search his face. There’s no cocky smirk now, no fighter’s bravado. Just Paddy — familiar, real, and looking at you with a silent confession.

You nod and reach up to kiss him once more.

He grabs your hand gently and leads you towards the exit. The party fades behind you — pink lights melting into the floor, the crowd a blur of shimmer and sweat. You didn’t even like parties. But damn, were you glad for this one.

[plum-berry]

Don't Play

Summary: You are an olympic weightlifter who is friends with Paddy Pimblett. You agree to train each other in your respective discipline for fun, but Paddy's roughhousing takes things a step too far. (shameless smut tbh)

A/N: This was originally on AO3, but someone asked me to post the fic here. Your wish is my command! I hope you enjoy <3 I haven't written fanfiction in so long, and I kind of miss it. Low-key might write another who knows...

“Is that all you got, pretty boy?” You playfully tease, shoving your palm into Paddy’s Shoulder.

Despite Paddy being substantially taller and larger than you and having the advantage of being the stronger grappler, there was something fun about messing around with you on the training room floor. He was always careful with you when it came to getting physical in a playful way, even though you found this to be boring.

You had agreed to train with each other even though you were in different disciplines. You competed in Olympic Weightlifting, something you had done since you were 15 years old. You met Paddy at a training event, before his UFC days, and had constantly begged him to show you how to grapple. It had taken years of begging for him to consider it, and he finally broke. You wanted to know what it was like to roll around on the mat, but he was still ever so careful with you.

“I’m only 5 kilos less than you! Stop treating me like I’m made of glass, dickhead,” you whined watching as he easily twisted out of your grip with no retaliation.

He nudges you with his hand, raising his fists in defense, “5 kilos is a heavy difference, love. Don’t want you to break.”

“I’m just curious,” you yell as you attempt to lock your arm around his neck. “I want to know how strong you are. If you could really hold me down.”

Paddy scoffed, expertly rolling you off and tossing you to the ground. “Why? You’ve seen me dismantle men bigger than you. I’d crush you.”

You attempt to grab at his legs, but he sidesteps, gently putting a palm on your forehead and pushing you back. You huff and cross your arms, “Yeah, well I’m not learning much if you just love tap me and call it a day. I want you to stop holding back!”

“I don’t want to go so hard that you sleep, love,” Paddy replies, real concern in his voice. You go to swing at him again, harder this time, but he simply catches your fist in his hand.

“Well, I want you to pin me down and shit,” you muttered, trailing off. Your eyes looked at your first as you tried to wriggle it out, but he remained quiet. Fist still stuck in his hand, you nervously peered back up at his reaction.

He was staring down at you. He took a step closer, his eyes dark. His body filled the space, broad shoulders tensed, jaw set and fist clenched tightly around yours. He felt and looked so impossibly large. You knew this look from watching his fights. If you hadn’t been friends, you might have actually been scared of him at that moment. He was testing you.

He smirked ever so slightly and firmly said, “I’ll happily pin you down, love.”

Before you can really think, your bodies collide and his hands cling to your arms. You try to use his taller frame to your advantage, clawing onto a bicep while desperately trying to get behind him. Paddy uses his strength to grip the back of your leg, sending you both to the ground. Your wish has been granted as he pins you down, hard. You squirm in place, quickly getting frustrated as you try to find a way out.

He grapples you and you inadvertently squeak out a gasp as he applies pressure with his arm on your mid section. His dark eyes soften just a fraction. He leans down closer, his body filling the space between you. The smell of him, musky and clean, like he was sweating through a fresh shower, was overwhelming. You suddenly became aware of a warm, blossoming sensation making its presence known in between your thighs. It was heavy and light all at once, a familiar pang of need. You were turned on.

“Have you had enough, princess?” He mocks you in a sing-song voice, fingers gently pinching at your sides.

You go to push his face out of yours but he grabs your wrist in his large hand, easily pinning it to the side of your head. He was manhandling you and making a joke out of it. You grumble, face red and chest heaving as you try to push up against his larger frame.

“You’re such a dick, Paddy,” you gasp out, still struggling against his grip.

“Isn’t this what you wanted?” He laughs and grins dangerously at you from above, using his knees to stretch your legs wider as he bends down lower. The thought of his body stretching you open, leaving you no room to escape made you tremble. He was a dangerous man who had you cornered and laid bare for him. He had you where you wanted, but you were a sore loser. You wanted to see how far you could push him.

Before he realizes it, your free hand shoots up from your side and into his armpit, viciously tickling him. Paddy yelps and launches away from you covering his torso with his arms. You laugh gleefully at this, scrambling away from him on your hands and knees.

Suddenly, your ankles are grabbed and you fall, chin thudding on to the mat. He drags you back to him, and he is much rougher this time.

“I don’t take kindly to cheaters, love,” he hisses out at you as he forces his arm around your neck. He pulls you into his torso, your back engulfed by his larger frame. You’re both on your knees before he locks his inner elbow around your neck, choking you, and falling back onto his back. He’s got you in a full nelson hold, locked in tight.

You gasp and shudder in place. An intense red blush painted your cheeks, and you are suddenly so happy he can’t see your face. He had you in his grip and shaking. A predator after its prey.

He instinctively uses his other hand to grab your wrist, trapping your arm. He puts his knees in between yours, spreading your legs painfully again. You whimper at the pain and fall back against him, body pressing into him fully. And you feel it.

His cock was forming a tent in grey sweatpants. You could feel the heat of it burning against your ass. You almost felt like begging. Instead, you carefully wiggled back on it, applying pressure. His elbow tightened around your neck, forcing the air out your lungs, but he released your hand.

His breathing becomes ragged in your ear, short and sharp breaths as you again grind back on him. Your fingers twitched nervously at your sides. You didn’t know what to do.

Paddy slowly brings one of his hands up to caress your side, lips pressed against your ear. His fingers brush against the waistband of your shorts. “Is this okay?”

Your voice is meek and shaky when you respond. “Yes, please.”

A high-pitched whine escapes your throat as his hand lifts your shirt, tickling your sides. The idea that the man who voraciously beats other men to a pulp, gripping you tightly was so intoxicatingly delicious. He could have so easily crushed your windpipes in his grip, and it sent a thrill of shivers up your spine. Teasingly, his hand squeezes and kneads at the small of your belly before slipping under your gym shorts.

Surprised, he slides his fingers through down to your folds. “No panties, eh?”

Your fingers pull his arm back just enough to squeak out, “Fuck you, Paddy.”

“Lift your pretty little bum, love,” he murmurs in your ear, and you do as he demands without a sound of protest. He removes his hand just enough to rip your shorts off and down your ankles. You bite your lip as his calloused hands travel back down from the swell of your stomach to between your thighs. Harshly, he tugs your thighs apart again. You feel vulnerable and small.

Paddy’s fingers languidly played between your folds, spreading the wetness evenly. He made sure to apply just enough pressure that you squirm. You preen, your hips bucking up and a pretty whine escaping your lips as he circles your clit before pushing his fingers in. Just like that, you’re gone, moaning intensely as your eyes roll back. Your breathing is ever more erratic as he pumps his fingers, languidly spreading the digits at your entrance.

He hooks his fingers, rubbing them along the top of your walls. A noise catches in your throat, and you clench hard. “G-Go back, Paddy, do that again,” you pant out.

Paddy keeps his fingers inside of you in one place and tightens his arm around your neck. He lifts your head back and pulls you in close. Your lips quiver, as do your walls around his fingers. “Beg.”

You could cry at how embarrassing it was to feel this needy, but you oblige, “Please, Paddy. P-Please, do it again.”

And so he does. He drops you back to his chest and ups the pace he was at. You press down, and it’s obvious when you’re going to come. He moves his mouth by your ear and kisses and nibbles, pumping his curled fingers in and out of you. And just like that you come around his fingers, in hot, wet pulses. Before he can pull back, you suck his wet fingers right into your mouth. He runs his fingers over your teeth and then pulls them out with a pop.

He releases you and places you on the ground. You all sit there for a few seconds, dazed and horny and shocked.

You glance abashedly at his hard cock in his sweatpants. You briefly imagine his muscular legs hidden away before scanning your eyes up his body. His stomach is flexed hard, hair is strewn across his pecs. He’s got his strong arms on display, resting his full weight on his legs. He’s staring hard at you through his wispy layers. He’s always had a strong nose and well defined chin, and god, do you want to sit on his face so badly right now. You swallow and shuffle a little.

This hasn’t happened before. Sure, there were longing glances and touches, and you definitely couldn’t lie and say that watching him fight set something off in you. The way he moved with such predatory grace was mesmerizing. You remember the animalistic look in his eyes. He didn’t just fight in the ring, he hunted. His brutality was beautiful.

You run your fingers through your hair before nervously patting it back into place. You sheepishly motion to his cock pressing against his sweatpants. “Do you, uh… want help?”

Paddy doesn’t respond, so you glance up. He’s still staring at you intensely, like he’s sizing you up. He’s hunting.

Then it came. In an instant, before you could even react, Paddy was on you—like a predator closing in on its prey. 

Paddy lunges forward, knocking you on your back. There was a slight smirk, the barest hint of amusement, that sent a shiver down your spine. His eyes never left yours as he quickly closed the gap between them, almost as if his goal was to overwhelm and smother. He was aggressive and quick tearing off your clothes. He had no patience for removing his own, shimmying his pants down just enough for his cock to spring free, hot and heavy and thrumming against your stomach. His cock was just like the rest of him—big, and thick, and angry.

He brought his arms up, trapping and encasing you. He bent down, lips dangerously close and eyes burning into yours. He brought one of his hands up to caress your neck, lips following shortly. He liked to play with his prey.

A high-pitched whine escapes your throat as his hand wraps gently around your throat. Teasingly, he dragged his lips down your throat before biting hard.

“Fuck,” you whimper out into the hot air, hands grasping at his arms. “Please, Paddy, fuck me.” 

He pulled back for a moment, as if to check this is what you wanted before he attacked your mouth with his own, almost violently. His teeth clashed with yours, pulling on your bottom lip just enough to break skin. He pulls back to lick the blood off your lip, moving his hand over your hips, gripping your thighs hard enough to bruise.

You bite your knuckles, knees shaking as Paddy continues to move down you, tasting you with kisses down your navel to your pussy. His palms clamp around your thighs, bringing them to his shoulders as he surges closer. You open your mouth to say his name, but it fizzles out as his tongue darts out, lapping a long stroke across your folds. Suddenly, his tongue finds your clit, and your whole body arches, lightning racing up your spine.

“Oh my god,” you whimper, the tension building to the point of almost unbearable as his tongue pushes up inside of you. You whine in frustration when his mouth withdraws, your heart pounding madly. Gently, teasingly, he rubs his thick shaft up and down your folds. Spit and your natural wetness coat his heavy cock.

“Please,” you beg, eyes closed and sick from desire. He eases your thighs from his shoulders, holding them wide as he gazes down at you.

“Open your pretty eyes, love. I want you to see me fuck you.”

“Oh my god,” you choke out, eyes fluttering open to look at him. “Please, Paddy, fuck me.”

“Good fuckin’ girl,” he rumbles, rutting his hips against your thigh.

You preen at his praise, spreading your legs further for him as he took his thick cock in hand and began to line himself up. He grabs your chin forcing you to look at him as he begins to enter you. 

The air is knocked out of you, he was so big. Your body shudders as he finally drives into you to the hilt, possessing you fully. He tilts his head back to the ceiling and groans low from deep in his throat, a noise that has you clenching around him. 

There’s a small fraction of time where all he does is rotate his hips, relishing in the whine it pulls from you. Paddy kisses your neck, pushing in deep before pulling out and slamming back into the tight heat. You see stars, arching your back, pressing tight against the thick cock drilling into you.

You barely have time to gasp for air before he’s all over you again, pinning you to the floor with strong, sure thrusts and calloused hands. He grasps your throat in one hand, turning your head to the side and dragging his tongue along your cheek, cock pounding into your needy, dripping pussy. You look so good, pliant and needy under the weight of his body. He wraps his arms around your thighs in the bends of your knees, leaning down to drill harder and faster into you. 

He leans back a little to watch his cock disappear deep into you, letting out a deep, satisfied growl as your eyes roll into the back of your head, back arching and fingers twitching. His cock stretches you in all the right places, almost as if he’s pushing up into your stomach. He leans back again and rubs your thighs as he watches you twitch around his thrusts, pink and stretched so good.

He slows his pace, hitting into you with deep thrusts that leave you seeing stars. “Your pussy was made for my cock, princess.” 

You pant for breath, stomach full and thighs shaking. “Paddy,” you manage to choke out between your mantra of high moans. You sound like you’re about to cry.

He pulls out halfway, only to thrust back into you roughly. He must’ve hit the right spot because you gush around him, coming hard with a bright, keening sound. Your body clenches around him in waves, pulling him in, milking his cock.

Paddy curses and slows down for a moment. He takes his hands off your hips and moves them to spread your ass and squeeze, drawing himself deeper inside. You grab desperately at his shoulders, the air knocked out of your lungs. He’s just toeing the edge when he hears your voice, raspy and dulcet in his ear. “Finish inside me, please. I want you to fill me up.”

And that’s it. He bites violently into your shoulder, coming hard, spilling his seed deep inside your pussy.

They stay there for a moment, quiet and sore and tired. Carefully, Paddy stands straight again, slowly pulling his softening cock from your weeping pussy. You wince from the pain of emptiness. Paddy stands there briefly mesmerized as he watches his cum drip out of you. It would almost be enough to make him hard again.

He gingerly leans down to capture your swollen lips in a soft kiss, so different from before that it causes you to whimper against his lips. He pulls back, worried, “I didn’t hurt you, did I?” 

You smile up at him, smoothing his worried brow with your fingers. “No, you didn’t. You were perfect.”

He kisses you one last time as he shimmies his pants up, “Let me get you cleaned up.”

He grabs his sweaty towel from earlier and goes to wipe at you. You push him away, laughing, “You’re sick in the head, Paddy Pimblett. At the very least get me a clean towel!” 

“I’ll be whatever you like, love,” he grins cheekily, reaching into a nearby bin for a clean towel. “As long as you're down for a rematch.”

[plum-berry]

I wrote a Paddy the Baddy x reader smut fanfic on AO3. I guess it’s hard to find so here is the link <3

Don’t Play