#<- she shows up twice. she gets to be in the tags...

[harrywavycurly]

Fine Print: Chemistry

Masterlist: Here

CW: shyness, brief moments of insecurities, smut (masturbation), Harry is a nervous baby.

A/N: I am so excited to get this story going and I hope yall like it, I’ve never done shy Harry so this was fun!✨

Word Count: 6.5K

Tag List: @vikiii07 @pearlybows @sweetmoonlove0214 @mads3502 @somewiseguy @matildasatellite @lizsogolden @spinninc @prettygurl-2009 @onrsie @silastylesswift @umadirectioner @littlemomentsofbeauty @sunflower-tia @tulips4harry @gmikaelson @fangirl509east @howling-wolf97 @outofthisworl-d @namoreno @blckburd @triski73 @mema10 @angeldavis777

Summary: Harry’s mom sets up a meeting, you make Harry nervous but are determined to have him feel comfortable around you✨

“But who is she?” Harry asks for the third time as he follows his mom around her garden, adjusting his glasses as she kneels down to cut a few stems of her rose bush. Anne doesn’t look over at her son as she hands him the stems so he can place them in the basket he has his soft cardigan covered arm looped through.

“I told you Harry she’s a lovely girl that I think will do splendidly as your significant other.” Harry feels his tummy do flips at the idea of this girl he doesn’t even know being his significant other. “I know this isn’t ideal and you’re a romantic but it’s just temporary okay? Just until you settle in and get your footing in your new role.” She goes on to add as she spots a few more good looking roses to cut off and hand to Harry to place in the basket.

“This is all just-just a lot and and what if she doesn’t even like me?” Harry feels his chest tighten as he pictures sitting down across from a woman who ends up leaving as soon as Harry opens his mouth and stutters over his hello because he’s nervous and ends up saying something ridiculous. “She’ll probably think I’m-I’m weird or not her type because-”

“Now Harry that’s just ridiculous you’re everyone’s type.” Anne says gently interrupting his nervous rant, not trying to downplay his worries but not letting him talk poorly about himself in the process. “You’re not weird so that’s enough of that and I happen to know for a fact she thinks you’re quite charming.” Harry’s face gets five shades redder as his mother lets him in on a little secret she’s been carrying around ever since she approached you with the idea of marrying her son so he can take his father’s place as head of the family business.

“R-really? She-she said I’m charming?” He stutters as he reaches up and adjusts his glasses, Anne turns her head to look over at him and nods with a soft smile.

“She did.”

“So we’ve met before? Her and I?”

“Once or twice yes.”

“When?” He wonders as he follows his mother as she moves to another rose bush with pink flowers. She waves her hand and lets out a hum as if she’s trying to shoo away his questions.

“I don’t remember.” She answers not looking at him, focusing on finding the prettiest flowers to add to the basket so she can make a few arrangements to place around the house. “Just don’t be late tonight okay? That’s not a good first impression.”

“Mother we’ve already met so this isn’t going to be a first impression.” He states making Anne shoot him a glare that has him swallowing down his sudden braveness, not wanting to get on his mother’s bad side when she seems to be in a very cheerful mood.

“This is important Harry I need you to just be on time and show her how truly lovely you are.” He lets out a sigh as his mother turns so she’s facing him. “Think you can manage that?” She asks as she raises her hand that’s glove free and rests it on the side of Harry’s face, giving his cheek a gentle pat.

“Yes ma’am I can manage that.” He answers with a small smile, trying his hardest to not let his nerves show. And it clearly works as his mom just returns his smile before turning back around to cut a few more roses from the bush. Harry watches from a few steps away as his tummy twists itself into knots and his heart begins to beat a mile a minute when he looks down at his wrist and sees that in a little over four hours he’ll be meeting someone who will potentially be his wife for an undisclosed amount of time, and all he can think or more so worry about is if you’ll like him.

Harry feels as if the entire weight of his family business is resting on his shoulders as he sits in the plush leather seat in the middle of a cafe near his house. He looks around as he nervously fidgets with the ring on his index finger, spinning it around while trying to seem like nothing is troubling him and act like it doesn’t bother him in the slightest that whoever is about to take the seat across from him is going to eventually have the same last name as him. His knee is bouncing up and down as he tucks his bottom lip between his teeth, regretting the choice to wear a long sleeve cream colored jumper knowing that he tends to run a little warm when he’s nervous. He is halfway through debating on if he should order a coffee or if it’ll make his heart that already feels on the verge of bursting with how wildly it’s beating, actually do just that with the addition of caffeine when he feels a presence behind him.

“Is it normal for you to sit in a cafe and not order anything?” Your voice startles him as you lean down and fold your arms on the back of his chair so you’re lips are right next to his ear, Harry immediately jolts forward so he can turn his upper body and look at you just as you stand up with a smile on your face that has him struggling to form complete sentences in his mind.

You watch his cheeks turn a deep pink as he reaches up and fixes his glasses that slid down his nose a bit with how quickly he scooted forward in his seat. You can’t help the way your smile spreads into a full blown grin at how utterly adorable the man sitting in front of you is, with his khaki colored slacks and soft knitted jumper and his glasses that bring your attention to his soft jade colored eyes that can’t seem to stare into yours longer than a few seconds before they look elsewhere. You feel his eyes on you as you walk around his chair until you’re standing in front of him with your hand out.

“Allow me to introduce myself.” Harry takes your hand as you tell him your name and it’s one that for some reason sounds vaguely familiar. “I’m going to be your wife in,” you take your phone out of the back pocket of your jeans to check the date on your lock screen. “Two and a half weeks.” You state with a smile as you give his hand a firm shake.

“Oh uhm uh hi I’m-I’m Harry St-Styles.” He fumbles his way through his greeting and it makes him internally cringe at how dumb he sounds just trying to tell you his name, a name that he knows you already know.

“I like your last name.” You tell him as he lets go of your hand, you turn and walk over to the seat across from him. “I like it so much I think I’ll make it mine as well is that okay with you?” You ask as you plop down into the seat, letting your bag fall to the floor by your feet. Harry blinks a few times before clearing his throat and running a hand through his curly brown hair.

“You’re uhm really okay with all of uh-this?” He gestures between the two of you with his hand that’s not white knuckle griping the armrest of his chair.

“Yeah I’m fine with it-I mean don’t get me wrong it’s a little old school to need the person running your family business to be married and a man but it’s not the craziest thing I’ve ever heard.” Your answer has Harry’s mind reeling with possibilities of what could be the craziest thing you’ve ever heard, his eyes glance down to your shoes when you catch him staring at you for a beat too long. “I’m going to need you to do something for me okay?” Your voice is soft and sweet but still gives off a sense of confidence that has Harry already mentally agreeing to whatever it is you’re about to ask him to do. You lean over and rest your forearms on your knees, your hands clasp together and your eyes stare into his once he swallows down his nerves and dares to meet your gaze.

“Wh-what is it?”

“I need you to look me in the eye for a full two minutes.”

“I-I uhm why?” He asks as he adjusts his glasses and feels his face get hot as you continue to stare directly at him making him have to look away.

“Because it’ll make it easier for you to not get so-blushy around me if we just stare at each other for a few minutes and then maybe it’ll also help you listen better because I hit you with two jokes about us getting married and you didn’t even chuckle so yeah we have to get this out of the way before it becomes a thing.” Harry sits there in awe of how well you managed to get through your whole little spiel without fumbling over your words, looking away from him and all without your cheeks even gaining the tiniest hint of a blush. Your words came out smoothly and your voice never lost its gentleness, not even when explaining how he failed to laugh at your two little attempts at jokes that clearly went right over his head.

“Why-why two minutes? Why not just uh just one?” He rubs at the back of his neck as his eyes glance over your shoulder to the back of the small cafe, needing a break from the eye contact.

“It’s been scientifically proven that the longer you can maintain eye contact with someone the less likely they are to make you nervous and as your soon to be wife I’d like to make you a little nervous.” This time Harry doesn’t miss the small change your voice does when you lightly tease him, how the softness has a playful edge to it. “But not enough to make you uncomfortable.” You explain with a calming smile that makes a swarm of butterflies go off in his tummy.

“Okay.”

“Great.” You pull out your phone and scroll to the timer app and set it for two minutes before placing it on the armrest of your chair. “Ready?” He gives you a nod in response as he fixes his glasses and runs his palms over the tops of his thighs. “Two minutes starts now.” His eyes slowly find yours and he has to fight the urge to immediately look away, his hands grip his pants as he feels his cheeks get warmer and warmer as the seconds tick by.

“Is there anything you want to ask me?” Your voice almost makes Harry look away but he just clears his throat and maintains his eye contact.

“Uhm uh-have we met before? My mom said-”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“Five or six years ago I think? It was very brief at a convention my dad dragged me to. Your dad was talking to my dad about golf clubs and I dropped my badge on the floor and you picked it up for me.” The wheels in Harry’s mind begin to turn and you smile as if you can actually see him beginning to figure it out.

“Your dad knows my dad?” You just nod and then the lightbulb goes off in Harry’s mind. “Oh-I knew- knew your name sounded familiar. Your dad used to-”

“Own one of your biggest competitors? Yeah. Well before he sold it two years ago.”

“Oh.” He says as he sits back in his chair, his eyes a little wide but still locked onto yours. “Is that-that why my mom picked you? Because of your family?”

“Picked me? Harry do you think she selected me out of some applicant pool as if she posted about this on some job site?” You ask with a laugh making him shrug, the timer goes off and you silence it and much to your surprise Harry stays looking directly at you.

“I don’t know how she did it. She just uh told me what was happening and if I’d uhm-have any-any issues with it.”

“Well your mom has been going to my tennis club for the last year and a half so we’ve gotten friendly and she approached me two weeks ago with this proposal of marrying her son so he can take his father’s place as head of the company.” Harry nods as you begin telling him the story his mother has been refusing to. “She told me she wanted someone like me because I know how it goes-running a company and the toll it can take on someone. But mainly because she wanted someone who would help you gain the confidence and respect of your employees because you’re-”

“Too nice? Soft? A w-wimp?” Your eyes harden just a bit as you stand up from your seat and Harry regrets opening his mouth as you approach his chair.

“Being soft isn’t a bad thing. The world is plenty sharp enough I think it needs more softness.” Harry feels his hands get sweaty as you place a hand on the back of his chair so you can lean over and run a hand through his hair. “She said you’re kindhearted and she doesn’t want to see you get taken advantage of.” You answer as you stand up and he feels as if he can take a sigh of relief when you look away from him and over towards the counter. “Let’s go order something so we don’t look like the only two weirdos not drinking anything in the middle of a cafe.” He stumbles out of his chair to follow you as you head for the counter.

“So uhm why did-did your dad uh sell the company?” Harry asks surprising not only you but himself as the two of you stand off to the side after ordering your drinks. You just give him a casual shrug as you lean against the counter.

“He wanted to retire and I didn’t want to take it over.” Your answer is simple but Harry can tell there’s more to it but before he can ask anything else a nice barista is handing him a cup of coffee and you an iced late.

“Thank you.” You quirk a brow at Harry’s soft spoken thanks, because you were standing next to him when he ordered and you know for a fact he didn’t order a hot coffee. You notice him bring the cup up to his lips and make a face that tells you he doesn’t like whatever he just took a sip of.

“Excuse me?” Harry nearly trips over himself to follow you as you take the cup from his hands and walk around to the front of the counter, as he stands behind you he begins to think this is going to be something he’ll be doing a lot of, stumbling over himself to keep up with you.

“Hi how can I help you?” You give the barista a pleasant smile as you place the cup down on the counter in front of her.

“He ordered a double shot over ice with two creams and one sugar.” You explain with no hint of annoyance or rudeness in your voice, just right to the point. The woman looks at the cup and then back at you with an apologetic look on her face.

“So sorry I’ll get that out right away.”

“Thank you so much.” You say before turning around and Harry watches your hand as it comes and rests on his arm. “It’s not rude to ask for things to be fixed. It doesn’t make you an asshole.” It’s as if you can read him like a book the way your words hit him right in the chest. “Don’t settle for things you don’t like. Not even something as small as a cup of coffee.”

“Here you go ma’am so sorry about that.” You turn and grab the cup from the nice woman’s hand, giving her a smile.

“Thank you it’s for my husband-gets a little cranky without his mid day caffeine kick.” You joke making the woman laugh as she looks over your shoulder towards Harry who is looking down at the floor while rubbing the back of his neck hoping neither of you can see how pink his cheeks are.

“Enjoy the rest of your day.”

“Did you call me your uhm hus-husband?” You just nod as you hand him his coffee and walk back over to the side of the counter to grab your latte and head back to your chair.

“Might as well start getting used to calling you that right?” You stop mid step nearly making Harry crash into you as you turn around and raise an eyebrow at him. “Unless you don’t want me to be your wife and you’re just trying to think of a polite way to tell me you’re not interested and your mom needs to find someone-”

“No no I like you.” He sputters out faster than he intends making you let out a chuckle. “I just don’t uhm know what happens now?” You reach your hand up and place it on the side of his face, Harry instantly without any shame leans into the warmth of your touch.

“Well did you want to propose now or wait until after my background check clears?” This has Harry choking on a sip of coffee and trying to catch his breath as you reach up and place a kiss to the cheek your hand isn’t holding.

“I uh-uhm I don’t-don’t know.” You laugh as you pull away from him and drop your hand from his face allowing him to collect himself.

“I’m just kidding Harry- that’s three jokes now so maybe we need to do some more eye content drills.” You lightly tease as you give his arm a reassuring squeeze before looking down at the watch on your wrist with a small frown. “It was lovely meeting you but I have to go-I’ll see you in a few days for drinks or dinner okay?” All Harry can do is nod as you give him one last warm smile before turning and grabbing your stuff and heading out the door of the cafe.

“Holy crap.” He mumbles as he walks over to his chair and plops down with a humph. “That-that was my future wife.” A smile creeps its way onto his face as he leans his head against the cushion of he chair, the sound of your voice and the way your eyes seem to sparkle when you smile replaying in his head as he begins to think that maybe this won’t be too bad, you seem nice and have enough confidence for the both of you so maybe this will turn out better than he thought.

“You look cute.” Your words already have Harry feeling flustered as he stands up to greet you when you make your way to the table in the back of a little Italian place you suggested the two of you have dinner at.

His eyes quickly rake over your frame, he is in a slight daze over how effortlessly put together and cute you look with your green dress that you tossed a thin white sweater over so you don’t get cold. It’s not lost on him how you manage to make something that’s simple look as elegant as an evening gown with how you carry yourself. He can see exactly why his mom sought you out for him. When his eyes meet yours his tummy does a weird little flip when you give him a little wink.

“I like you in brown.” He smiles and looks down at his light brown cardigan he has over his plain white t shirt that’s tucked into a pair of jeans, you hang your bag in an empty chair before leaning over and placing a kiss to his cheek. “Makes your eyes pop.” You explain making him just nod as he tries to act like the feeling of your lips on his cheek hasn’t been at the forefront of his mind since you did it the first time two days ago in the cafe.

“Thank-thank you uhm you look beautiful.” His voice gives his nerves away as he feels his whole face get hot when you pull away from him. You let out a chuckle as you take your seat in the chair right next to him that he is quick to pull out for you.

“So glad I’m marrying a man with manners.” You say appreciatively as he helps push your chair closer to the table.

He smiles as he lets his eyes wander over your face for a moment before taking his seat, taking note of how pretty you look with the candle light blanketing your features in a soft glow. He feels suddenly out of place sitting here with you, as if he doesn’t quite meet the standards of someone you should be seen having dinner with.

“Okay come on.” He’s brought out of his thoughts by your hand grabbing his on top of the table.

“Where-where are we going?” He asks making you laugh as you shake your head and even though you’re laughing at him having no clue what’s going on he decides he likes the way it sounds.

“No where.” You say with a laugh as you wrap your fingers around his hand. “Just need you to look in my eyes for a bit because that’s now four marriage jokes I’ve told you since meeting you and I still haven’t gotten even a little giggle out of you and it’s not that I think I’m wildly funny or anything but I do think those were decent chuckle worthy jokes.”

“I’m-I’m sorry I just-”

“It’s okay.” Your voice puts him more at ease as you give his hand a soft squeeze. “I just want you to feel comfortable around me that’s all so come on-look me in the eyes and tell me what you’re wearing to this party on Saturday so I can plan accordingly.” Your eyes are soft and easy to get lost in when Harry finally finds it within himself to look into them.

“Uhm I’m wearing a black suit with a r-red shirt and black slacks and uh-uh black dress shoes.” You nod along as Harry slowly tumbles his way through telling you what he’s wearing to his father’s retirement party, never making him feel as if he needs to rush you just simply sit there and look at him as if what he’s saying is the most interesting thing you’ve ever heard.

“Okay I have a red dress but I’ll have to see the exact shade of red your shirt is to make sure it matches or else we are going to look silly.”

“You-you want to match with-”

“With my fiancé? Yes. Makes it look as if we’ve been coordinating our outfits for years-it’ll be good to make it seem as if this won’t be our first social outing as a couple.”

“Oh right-yes that makes uhm sense.” You instantly pick up on the slight shift in Harry’s voice, going from shocked and excited to almost deflated and it has you leaning towards him, a small smirk playing at the corners of your mouth.

“And I just want everyone to know you’re mine and nothing does that better in a room full of nosey businessmen and their even nosier wives than a matching color scheme.” Harry has to break the eye contact as he feels his cheeks get hot, he adjusts his glasses and softly clears his throat before he can look at you again. “So just send me a photo of your shirt and I’ll make sure my dress matches.”

“Did you want to arrive together? Uh like with-with uhm me? So it doesn’t look weird us showing up separately?”

“Oh my man has manners and brains? I might never give you up.” This has Harry quietly chuckling making your eyes go wide and a grin to spread across your face. “Oh my god I’ve done it!” He smiles as you give his hand a firm squeeze and reach over with your free hand and place it on his cheek. “You laughed.” You say with a happy sigh making him once again let out a chuckle at your dramatics that give him a warm and fuzzy feeling on the inside because of how happy you are over the fact you managed to get him to laugh.

“Does this mean we don’t-don’t need the eye contact uhm drills anymore?” He asks nervously as you pull your hand away from his cheek and when you just give him a look he already knows your answer.

“Oh no we are going to continue to do them until I get a full on belly laugh out of you.” He just nods and rubs his lips together as you finally let go of his hand so you can grab the menu that’s in front of you. “Now let’s pick something to eat because I’m starving and you and I have things to discuss and I can’t do business on an empty stomach.”

“So you-you don’t want to change anything about the contract? You’re-you’re sure?” Harry asks as you scrape the last bit of ice cream from the sundae you ordered for dessert. “Not even the uhm-uh compensation? I left that-that open for negotiation.” You let out a hum of pleasure as you put the spoon in your mouth that has Harry’s gaze falling away from your eyes and down to your lips. He watches as you pull the spoon from your mouth and lick your lips in what seems like slow motion making him shift in his seat and look down at the table as he fixes his glasses.

“Harry I don’t need to be heavily compensated I have enough money to live a very comfortable life so yes everything is fine.” You answer as you push the now empty bowl away from you. “I was a little shocked at what was hidden in the fine print though.” Harry raises an eyebrow as you fold your napkin and place it on the table next to your bowl.

“What-what fine print?”

“The fine print that says that the timeframe for our marriage is dependent upon on how quickly we can get you to be taken seriously and seen as a dependable and confident new head of the company but I can expect it to take anywhere between six months to over a year.”

“Oh I see.”

“And that I get an extra ten thousand for every baby I give you.” You have a playful smile on your face as Harry nearly drops his glass of water and looks at you with wide eyes.

“That-that’s not-there’s no way-you don’t have-”

“Relax Harry I’m kidding. There’s nothing about babies in the contract.” Harry lets out a sigh of relief that has you reaching over and lightly smacking his arm. “Gee can you sound anymore relieved? I mean I don’t think having babies with me would be that horrible.”

“Oh no that’s not-I don’t think it would be bad it would be lovely-not the uhm making of the babies but that you’d-you’d uhm make lovely-lovely babies.” Harry officially wants to get up, walk away and change his name as the words seem to fall from his mouth without his permission.

“I think you’d make some pretty adorable babies as well Harry.” He can’t bring himself to look at you as your words hit his ears, still too embarrassed by the ridiculous stuttering mess of jumbled up words he just said to you. “Your mom said we are announcing the engagement at the party so that will officially mean the countdown is on and we have to be married by the time your dad leaves his office for the last time.” You quickly and smoothly move the conversation along as you grab your glass of water so you can take a sip.

“Okay does that me we have to-”

“How are we doing over here?” Harry looks up as the waitress approaches the table, her eyes never leaving Harry as she stands there with a smile on her face. “Need anything else? More water or-”

“I think we are good thank you.” You answer as the waitress not so subtly checks Harry out, who is too busy turning and looking over at you to notice. When she finally looks away from him and over at you, you reach over and place your hand over his arm as you lean just a tad bit closer to him to show the waitress that Harry is very much not avaible for her to drool over, at least not in front of you. “Oh actually maybe the check if you don’t mind?”

“Oh uh yeah sure thing I’ll be right back.” You see the small hint of disappointment on her face when Harry just stays looking at you, making her have no other choice but to nod as she turns and walks away.

“So how are you feeling about this? Like really?” You ask with a tone that Harry hasn’t heard from you before, it’s still sweet but the undertone is more serious.

“I uhm-”

“Don’t be afraid to hurt my feelings okay? Be honest.”

“I feel good about this uhm I was nervous-I’m still nervous but not about this but more about uh taking-taking over the company that-that’s uhm yeah a uh a lot.”

“Well you won’t have to do that alone.” Harry once again feels butterflies in his tummy when you give him a genuine smile as you give his arm a squeeze. “I’ll be there every step of the way.” Your words have him relaxing a bit, you slide your hand down so it’s over his wrist.

“Thank you.” He says with a smile that lets you see his dimples for the first time, your whole face lights up as you stare at him.

“Oh goodness dimples? Yeah good luck getting rid of me you’re like the total package.” Harry’s face gets warm but he fights through it and doesn’t take his eyes off yours.

“I uhm had a good-good time tonight.” He tells you as he mindlessly flips his hand over so his palm is facing up and you don’t waste anytime in sliding your hand into his making him swallow nervously as you slip your fingers between his.

“Here’s your check. Have a good rest of your night.” You reach over with your free hand and grab the check from the middle of the table before Harry can even try to reach for it as soon as the waitress walks away.

“I can’t let you-”

“Can’t let me what? Buy you dinner? Why not?”

“Uhm because that’s-this is like a uh date right? So-so I should pay.”

“Says who?”

“It’s the polite thing to do.”

“Don’t worry I won’t think you’re rude for letting me pay it’s okay.” Harry lets out a sigh as he shakes his head while you grab your wallet out of your purse. “Look at us. Having our first fight over who gets to pay for dinner. We’re so cute.”

“This-it’s not a fight but just know I’m not okay with this.” You laugh and give his hand a squeeze as you place the check down with your card tucked underneath it.

“I’ll let you pay for everything else from now on how about that?”

“Fine.” He tries to sound upset but the smile tugging at his mouth gives him away and before he can stop himself he’s leaning over and tucking some hair behind your ear. “Sorry you-”

“It’s okay. You’re allowed to touch me I’m not made of glass.” Your voice is light and teasing but Harry can’t help but sense a hidden meaning to your words but before he can think to hard about it the waitress comes by to grab the check.

“So I’ll see you this weekend?” You ask as you stand outside the restaurant, adjusting the strap of your bag on your shoulder.

“Yes I’ll uhm come pick you up around six if that-that works for you?”

“Works great.” You answer as you take a small step towards him, Harry looks down at you and adjusts his glasses as you wrap your arms around him in a hug. “I had a nice time tonight Harry. Thank you for being such a gentleman.” You tell him as his body finally reacts to what’s happening, you rest your cheek against his shirt as his arms loosely wrap around your shoulders returning your embrace.

“Thank you for being uhm so-understanding I uh can see why my mom picked you.” You smile as you pull away and look up at him.

“See you Saturday hubby.” You give him a playful wink that has him chuckling and it works as a distraction so he doesn’t notice you reaching up on your tiptoes until he feels your lips on his in a kiss that is so quick the only way he knows it actually happened is he can faintly feel the softness of your lips when you pull away with a smile. “Don’t worry I’ll text you when I get home. I know how much you worry about me.” You tease as you unwrap your arms from around him.

“Uhm uh-see-see you Saturday.” His words are rushed and it makes you giggle as Harry’s arm fall down to his sides as he watches in a trance like state as you turn around and head towards the car that’s waiting to take you home. You give him a wave that he doesn’t register and try to return before it’s too late and you’ve already climbed into the backseat and closed the door, leaving Harry standing there in a daze as he watches the car drive off down the street feeling not nervous, but actually kinda excited about Saturday.

Harry can’t seem to get you out of his head when he gets home from dinner. His mind is a mixture of images that remind him of how pretty you are, how sweet your voice is when you’re telling him a story and the adorable smile you get when you’re teasing him. But the main two things that have Harry’s mind spinning is how much he enjoys hearing you call him your fiancé or husband already, he knows those are titles he’ll actually be to you soon but hearing them fall from your lips with such enthusiasm and excitement makes his heart do weird things and he really can’t get over how soft your hands feel whenever you slide them into his or wrap them around his wrist.

Harry steps into his shower thinking it’ll help him relax and get you off his mind, he lets the warm water hit him easing the tension in his shoulders as the warmth of the steam engulfs him. He lets out a deep sigh and closes his eyes, but he’s instantly met with visions of you laughing and smiling at him and something about the way you smile at him sends a shiver down his spine. The visions playing in his mind are so vivid, he can practically hear your voice saying his name and the feeling of your hand gently wrapping around his wrist and suddenly it’s all too much for him.

Harry’s arm reaches forward, his hand resting on the cool tile wall of his shower as he feels himself hardening at the mere thought of you. He slides a hand down his toned stomach wondering how it would feel if it was your hand and not his own, he lets out a groan as he wraps his hand around his hard length giving himself a few slow strokes. He knows this is probably borderline inappropriate, stroking himself to the idea of how it would feel to have your soft hands on him but in this very moment Harry can only focus on how good he feels.

“Oh shit.” He mumbles as he remembers the faint feeling of your lips against his, his mind spinning with ideas of how nice those lips would feel wrapped around his hard cock. He lets out a soft moan as he pictures you kneeling down in front of him, your pretty round eyes gazing upward, lips parted invitingly. His hand tightens around himself as he envisions your tongue tracing him teasingly, your mouth enveloping him fully feeling deliciously warm and wet around his shaft, your head bobbing rhythmically.

“Oh yes-just like that.” He murmurs breathlessly, his hand quickening its pace, gripping tighter as pleasure starts to build rapidly. Harry swears he can almost hear your soft moans, they’d be sweet and a bit whiney and it makes his cock twitch in his grasp. He imagines your hands gripping his thighs as you take him deeper, letting his hands tangle in your hair, imagines the moans you’d let out when he gives it a few tugs.

“Fuck.” He gasps urgently, his hips thrusting instinctively into his own hand, driven by the vivid image of you looking up at him while he thrusts his hips letting the tip of his thick cock hit the back of your throat making you gag slightly. Your nails digging into the back of his thighs urging him on.

“Shit-oh fuck.” He groans loudly, the warm water cascading over his trembling body as his climax surges powerfully through him, releasing in hot pulses onto the shower tiles. He shudders deeply, breathing heavily as the intense pleasure begins to subside. His eyes slowly open and he lets out a shaky breath as he realizes what he just did and instead of feeling guilty or even embarrassed at how quickly he managed to get himself off he just lets out a breathy laugh at how flustered you made him after just a few interactions with you, knowing it’s only going to get worst the longer he’s around you. He shakes his head making water fling off the ends of his damp hair, trying to clear his mind.

“Get it together Harry.” He mumbles to himself as he tilts his head up towards the water and runs both hands through his hair. The movement making him remember how good your hand felt when you ran it through his hair in the cafe. He has to shut his eyes tight and make himself think of other things like memos from work and meetings with the marketing team so he doesn’t get worked up again but even those thoughts have him remembering how soft your voice sounded when telling him how you’ll be with him every step of the way as he transitions into his new role and he feels his cock twitch between his thighs making him let out a frustrated groan.

“I’m so fucked.”

[lascvitae]

WICKED GAMES ✵ SHIN RYUJIN.

❀ ༉ ‧ ₊ ˚ alt. YOU’VE BEEN PLAYING WICKED GAMES

YOU KNOW WHAT YOU DO TO ME .ᐟ

ᝰ.ᐟ you and ryujin aren’t serious. you never were. it was just late nights, bad habits, and knowing exactly where to find each other.

ᝰ.ᐟ pairing. ryujin x fem!reader ᝰ.ᐟ genre. smut (18+), angst ᝰ.ᐟ warnings/tags. cursing, toxic dynamics, dom!ryujin, hate sex, fingering (r receiving), possessiveness, degradation, yall fuck in the car and deny your feelings

ᝰ.ᐟ wc 1.1k

ᝰ.ᐟ katty i love ryujin

(🎧) now playing — wicked games by kiana ledé.

masterlist.

YOU MET RYUJIN AT A PARTY you weren’t even supposed to be at.

someone’s rooftop. cheap tequila. hot smoke and hotter girls. she had a blunt tucked behind her ear and some chick pressed into her side like an accessory. didn’t even look at her when she laughed.

you said her taste in music sucked.

she said you looked better pissed off.

you ended up in the bathroom, dress bunched around your hips, her hand between your legs, her palm slapped over your mouth so no one could hear you moan.

that should’ve been it.

but then she started calling. not a lot. just enough to fuck you up.

sometimes she showed up at your door. sometimes you showed up at hers. no rules, no pillow talk.

now it’s been… weeks? months? you’ve stopped counting.

you don’t date. you rarely cuddle. you don’t text each other good morning.

but you always answer when she calls.

tonight, you didn’t expect to see her.

you came out with aeri and ning. it was just drinks, just dancing, just to get your mind off everything. you had a new dress on. a red one you haven’t worn before. you told yourself it had nothing to do with her.

but she was here.

leaning against the bar like the place owed her something. talking to some girl with long legs and short patience. laughing like she meant it but touching like she didn’t.

she didn’t even look at you at first.

just took a sip of her drink, nodded along to the music, and acted like you weren’t standing ten feet away watching her press her hand against some girl’s hip like it was nothing.

you’re not together.

you’re not anything, actually. you’ve both made that clear.

but she knows your schedule. knows your favorite things. knows how you sound when you fall apart in her hands, even though she barely texts first.

and you know her tells, even the ones she thinks she hides.

like how her jaw ticks when she sees you dancing with someone else.

how she smirks like it’s funny.

how her fingers tighten around her glass until her knuckles go white.

you let her see you dance with someone else tonight. and when you catch her eyes, heavy and unreadable, like a challenge, you give her a smile.

but your drink was gone faster than you expected.

so was your patience.

you ended up in the parking lot. maybe to breathe. maybe to run. maybe to cry. you’d never admit to any of it.

and then you heard her voice behind you.

“that dress is new.”

you didn’t turn around.

“so’s your whore.”

she laughed. that low, throaty kind of laugh that made you hate how your skin reacted.

“she’s not my type.”

“right. your type’s anyone who’ll open their legs.”

that made her walk closer.

you felt her behind you before she touched you. cold fingers at your elbow, then lower. bolder.

“get in the car.”

you should’ve said no. but your legs were already moving.

the car door slams shut behind you.

she kisses you hard. messy. like it’s punishment.

your back hits the passenger seat. she pulls you onto her lap before you can think twice — firm hands gripping your waist, thumbs pressing into skin like a warning.

your dress rides up. her fingers slip under it without hesitation.

you moan but she swallows it.

her mouth moves to your neck, tongue dragging along the curve as your hips roll into her.

“thought you didn’t miss me.” she murmurs.

you lean back enough to look at her, panting.

“i don’t.”

she smirks.

“liar.”

your lips crash again, rough and desperate.

it’s just friction and heat. no love.

just the way her thigh feels between yours and the way you grind down like you need to break something.

then her phone lights up.

you don’t even mean to look. but it’s right there.

yeji

“still coming over?”

your body stills. her hands don’t.

“ignore it.” she says, mouth on your collarbone.

you grabbed her wrist. shoved it away.

“don’t fucking touch me.”

she freezes. blinks once. then laughs like she can’t believe you have the nerve.

“you’re always so dramatic.”

you slide off her lap with a scoff, yanking your dress down, jaw locked.

“and you’re always so desperate.”

her brows lift.

“for you?”

you smile without warmth.

“please. you’ve been eye fucking the whole club. yeji just happened to text first.”

her smile fades.

“you’re real mouthy for someone who was about to cum on my leg.”

“and you’re real cocky for someone who hasn’t made me cum since april.”

the air thickens and her nostrils flare.

“watch your fucking mouth.”

“why? gonna shut me up with those lazy ass fingers?”

you don’t even see her move. just feel it. the way she grabs your throat and forces you back into the seat, body caged in by hers, breath hot.

“you wanna talk shit? let’s talk.”

you grinned, eyes gleaming.

“go ahead. show me how weak you really are.”

she yanks your legs open and slides her hand between them like she’s been waiting to do it all night, fingers fucking into you like she wants to leave bruises where no one else can see.

you cried out, head slamming into the seat.

“fucking pathetic. were you like this in the club? dripping all over someone else?” she mutters, dragging her lips down your neck.

“at least they would’ve finished the job.”

she stills and you smirk.

“what? hit a nerve?”

she rammed her fingers deeper and you choked on your moan.

her palm moved against your clit, fast and rough, and your whole body jerked.

“this lazy enough for you?” she hissed.

“still kinda— fuck—”

she slapped your thigh.

“run that mouth again.”

“you like it when i do.”

she lets out a laugh but doesn’t deny it. her grip tightens. she curls her fingers just right and watches your little attitude break in real time.

“that’s better. you’re prettier when you shut the fuck up.” she mutters.

you shudder, chest heaving, thighs trembling.

“fuck—”

she bites your neck.

“what was that? couldn’t hear you over how wet you are.”

you hate her. hate how she knows your body too well. hate how she fucks you like no one else could. hate how your body betrays you. hate that you were already close.

“say it. say you’re mine.” she hummed.

you moaned instead.

she sped up.

“fucking slut.”

you came with a sob, thighs shaking, nails dragging down her chest.

she didn’t stop. didn’t let you breathe. kept going until you whimpered her name like it hurt.

then she pulled her fingers out slowly and sucked them clean, eyes never leaving yours.

“say some dumb shit again. see what happens.” she murmured.

you glared at her, lips swollen, chest still moving up and down.

“you gonna fuck the attitude out of me?”

she leaned in, tongue dragging across your bottom lip.

“you’ll see.”

and you did. every fucking time.

taglist — @saysirhc @blissfulflw @yuyuy90

[pandora-writes-one-piece]

The Meet-Cute - Kid's Story - 14

Source for pic

Imperfect 14

Word Count: 5845

Tags and Summary can be found here.

Special Warning: English is not my first language, I apologise for any possible spelling or grammar mistakes.

Notes: I meant to release this earlier. Gosh, this story has such a hold on me! But my blood pressure has been really low for the past two days, and I'm feeling a tad drained. Anyway! Here's another angsty chapter with a huge revelation. I hope you enjoy it! Tell me all about it, will you? (didn't reach 6k, but it got close!

Additional Note: Ughhh, this song is everything Killer is feeling! I'm crying!

Here's a Spotify Playlist I created for this story if you want to check it out!

Masterlist

Shanks dropped him off five minutes ago, but Killer still hasn’t found the courage to knock on his friend’s door. Thunder still echoes in the distance, but it’s so far away its rumble is nearly imperceptible. The rain is nothing more than a drizzle and a bad memory, the scent of damp earth obliterating the stench of pain and regret that Killer can still sense. 

He flexes his hand while a muscle tics in his jaw. His hand doesn’t hurt; he didn’t punch Kid that hard, but it’s like a lingering phantom pain from the accusation Kid sent his way. It was untrue and justified the punch, but it wasn’t completely unfounded.

The feelings were there. He’d just chosen not to act on them. 

Did that make the whole ordeal better?

With a sigh, he shakes his head and knocks twice on the door. No answer. 

“Open up, man. It’s me.” Killer knocks again. Still no answer. “For fuck’s sake.” He jiggles the handle, and it opens. Unlocked. 

Careless.

The place reeks of alcohol, and the stench stings his eyes. The blinds are still drawn, and the dim light from the open door reveals empty bottles and cans scattered across the floor. Either Kid got right back to drinking once he got home, or he hasn’t cleaned up since he came back from the car show.

A bottle clinks against Killer’s boot and rolls away to join its brethren. 

The latter option seems more likely. Kid’s just piling up empty bottles and regrets. 

Killer walks to the window and opens the blinds to let in the meager light from the overcast sky, and Kid groans in response to his actions. 

“You alive, man?” He opens another set of blinds and the windows too, to air out the place, before closing the door and walking towards the couch where Kid is sprawled. 

The couch was always too big for Kid, but in the state he’s in, it’s an especially obvious fact. His friend has one leg propped over the arm and the other on the floor. There’s crusted blood on his lip and a defeated expression on his face. 

“Barely…” Kid replies, swinging his arm over his eyes. Either to shield them from the light or to keep the shame out of Killer’s sight. “Came over to finish the job?” Kid snorts. “My jaw’s still workin’.”

“Should’ve hit you harder then, moron.” Killer looks around the chaos and flexes his hands, his body itching to do something, to clean this all up, to fix it. “I didn’t come here to finish nothing. I came to see if your head was still far up your ass.”

Kid just snorts again, and that’s answer enough. 

Silence stretches, and Killer shuts down another urge. This one tells him to make some coffee and cook some breakfast for his best friend. Not yet, he thinks. He still needs to get his shit together. 

Finally, Kid speaks, his face still buried in the crook of his arm, as if facing Killer could tear him apart. 

“How is she…?” The words sound raspy and pained. Killer stares at Kid with his arms crossed. He wonders whether he should answer this or not, but of course he answers it. Of course he does. 

“Broken, lost, a mess. Just like you. Minus the booze.” Kid stiffens but still doesn’t look at him. Killer can still feel your broken sobs against him, the warmth of your tears, the sound of your heart shattering. “It was fucking overkill, Kid. What the fuck were you thinking?”

“I’m no good for her, man. Ye know that.”

“I think she should be the one to decide that. You just have to do your fucking job and love her back. Be there for her. Be the man I know you are. That’s all.”

Kid stands on the couch abruptly, his prosthetic hand gripping the arm tightly, because everything is surely still spinning. “I ain’t that man! I can never be that man, don’t ya get it? Fuck! I’m wreckage! I’m scraps! She deserves better!”

Killer kicks the nearest bottle, and it slams into the wall, shattering into pieces. “Then fucking change! Not just for her, but for you!” He takes a few steps forward and leans down, blue eyes burning with fury as Kid does nothing but blink back at him, mouth slightly agape. 

“You say you’re no good? Fine! Be better! You convinced yourself you’ll only hurt her, you keep proving that one right. So just fucking learn to stop! Go to therapy! Get clean! Do whatever it takes to be a better man! You don’t run or quit, for fuck’s sake!”

Killer’s heart thunders away in his chest. He was always the one to lay down the tough love to his friend, but it has never been this personal, this gut-wrenching, this painful. 

Kid swallows hard, his throat bobbing up and down as he runs a hand over his face. “It’s not that simple,” he growls. 

“No. It’s not. It never is,” Killer whispers, placing one hand on Kid’s bare shoulder. “But you don’t fucking quit. Not when someone like her loves you the way she does.”

“Did,” Kid scoffs. “She don’t love me anymore. I made fuckin’ sure of that.” Silence. “I saw her face, man. She looked at me like I really am the monster everyone talks about. It fuckin’ haunts me.” He shakes his head, lips curling into a snarl. “She’ll move on! Aye, maybe we’re both in the shite now, but she’ll move on. Eventually.”

Killer takes a step back, taking him in, his throat tight with emotion. “You think what you’re doing is noble? That you’re being a hero and a martyr, letting her go even if it hurts you both? Fuck you, Kid. You’re not being righteous. You’re being an ass. And a fucking coward. You’re just running from yourself.”

Fuck. Fuck. Too harsh, too much. 

But he can’t stop now. “This is not for her! You can paint it that way just to make yourself feel better, but it doesn’t make it true.” Killer gestures around the room, at the mess, at the broken bottles, at the stench and shame ingrained in these walls. “This is you running, just like you’ve been doing since we got sent back home! This is you putting your tail between your fucking legs and avoiding accountability for your own fucking actions!”

Kid stands up, breathing hard, chest heaving with ragged breaths as his eyes wander around the room, still not meeting Killer’s.

“I’m not fuckin’ runnin’.”

“Then why the fuck are you surrounded by your own wreckage instead of crawling out? Why are you beating yourself up instead of fighting back?”

Kid’s hand clenches into a fist, but he doesn’t answer. He can’t. 

“You don’t get to use her as an excuse for your shit, Kid. It’s about time to take a stand. She saw something in you, she fought for you, teeth and nails, even when you kept breaking her heart, little by little. She came back. She got up and tried again. It’s your fucking turn to do it. To fight.”

Killer’s gaze burns into Kid, even if he doesn’t look back. “It’s not easy! Fuck, Kid, it’s everything but. You’re allowed to feel like shit. You’re allowed to feel worthless and guilty. But there comes a time when you just have to stamp your fucking foot down and choose to be a better man. That time is now, brother.”

Kid finally stares at Killer, eyes narrowed with guilt and shame, but still not enough flame to ignite a fight. Not just yet… fuck.

After a few seconds, he sits back down, elbows resting on his knees, eyes facing the floor. “Ye done?”

“Fuck no. Not even close.” But he is. For now, at least. Killer’s sure some of his words got through Kid’s thick skull. Now he needs to let him mull them over, taste them on his tongue, and see if this time his best friend is willing to rise up and fight for himself. “You know where to find me when you decide to stop being an idiot. If not, I’ll be back.”

Kid doesn’t say anything else as Killer exits the room. The last thing Killer sees is Kid’s hand hovering over another bottle.

He doesn’t stick around to witness his choice.

-*-

It still smells like him.

You tossed his jacket into the closet and closed the door, drew the curtains, and crawled into bed to hide beneath the covers, but it’s like the whole room smells like Kid.

The hollow ache in your chest expands, threatening to swallow you whole. He did it. He finally pushed you away for good. Everything you fought for went out the window the moment he chose to bleed you dry instead of fighting too. 

You know that girl was just a pawn. You know for sure he didn’t feel anything for her. Maybe not even attraction. She was just a tool he used to hurt you deeply. A final blow to make sure you stayed away for good.

And fuck… this time, he might’ve succeeded. 

The fact that he did that after you told him you loved him… 

You swallow down a sob and push the covers over your head. Funny, you thought your tears had dried up by now. 

Your phone lies forgotten on your desk, so you don’t have any idea how much time passes. Soon enough, you hear your dad’s truck parking, followed by the door opening and his footfalls on the stairs. 

A soft knock at your door announces his presence, but you stay quiet. He might be ready to talk, but you’re not sure you are. 

“Bug?” Shanks pushes the door open and peeks in. You don’t answer, but he enters the room anyway. “Errands ran late, so I brought you some lunch.” You don’t turn, keeping your face to the wall and head tucked under the covers. The warm scent of greasy food hits you, and you groan, curling into yourself.

“Not hungry?” You groan again, and Shanks sighs. He leaves your room for a moment, and when he returns, he’s not carrying the food. “Sweetheart, let me look at you, please?”

You let that sit for a second. There’s a good chance you’ll break down in tears the moment you look at him. Also, there’s that lingering feeling of shame that hiding beneath the covers helps to mask. Shanks told you this was going to happen, but you thought you knew better. 

With a sigh, you pull the covers down and turn to face him. He tries to smile, but it's a weary grimace that twists his lips. You must look like hell. 

“Hey.” He bends down and gives you a peck on your forehead before grabbing the chair from your desk and turning it around. “How are you doing?” Shanks sits, resting an elbow on the back of the chair, tilting his head. 

You shrug, facing the ceiling. The old paint is still chipped and peeling in places from the fluorescent shooting stars you stuck up there when as a child. 

Shanks stays quiet for a few beats before adding, “You don’t have to tell me what happened. And I’m not going to say I told you so. Trust me. I wish I had been wrong. It wouldn’t hurt as much.”

You fight the prickling in your eyes, but a stubborn tear still slips down unimpeded. 

“It’s just,” he starts. Then he hesitates with a deep sigh. “I saw it coming, baby, I did. And now I’m kicking myself for not protecting you from heartbreak…” He looks down and groans. “Again…”

You shut your eyes tight, forcing more tears to stay in, even though they still find a way to spill over. It’s not your dad’s fault. It wasn’t with Ichiji, and it’s not with Kid. 

Maybe you’re just undeserving of love? 

“I know it hurts, Bug, I do. And I wish I could make it better. But time will make it better…”

Time… fucking time. You thought you had all the time in the world. Time to help Kid build himself up, to help him realise he’s not a monster, not bad, not just broken. But no. He had to ruin that. 

“I told him I loved him.” Your voice is barely a whisper. “I told him that, and in the next moment, he used it against me. Just to make sure I left.” You sniff, a sob clawing its way through your defenses. “And the worst part? He thinks he’s protecting me.”

Shanks presses his lips together before reaching out and taking your hand in his. His thumb draws soothing circles on your skin, but you can feel him holding back his feelings, throat working, and jaw flexing. 

“That sounds like a coward’s way out.” He clears his throat, trying to dispel the anger. “That’s not how you love someone. He doesn’t get to do that. He—” 

Shanks cuts himself off and lets out a deep sigh. 

“I thought I could make it work. That I was enough. That he’d want to fight for me. For us.” 

Your dad grips your hand tighter. “You are enough. This is not your fault,” he snarls. “You’re worth fighting for, and don’t ever think otherwise. Shame’s on him for not seeing it.”

You nod at his words, though you’re not really absorbing them. It’s all still too fresh, too raw. You just want to close your eyes and rest, drift away, pretend it never happened. 

“I’m here, sweetheart. For whatever you need. You want to yell, break stuff, cry… call me, okay?” He squeezes your hand, and you nod numbly. “I brought the food downstairs. Give me a holler if you want to eat.”

You nod again, and Shanks fills your water glass before pausing in the doorway for a beat. 

“Love you, sweetheart.”

You hum in response, too tired to speak the words that damned you the day before.

-*-

Kid relocated to the garage in the middle of the afternoon, just to give his idle hands something to do besides drinking. 

It didn’t work.

So now, instead of being slumped on the couch upstairs, he’s slumped on the couch in the corner of the garage, his ghosts keeping him company again. Ever since the party, they’ve refused to go away, no matter how much he drinks.

They’re just… there. Judging, taunting, punishing. And there’s nothing he can do about it. 

Part of him wants to consider Killer’s words, that he’s worth something underneath all that garbage; that if he works a little harder on himself, he might be someone worth loving. But every time his mind starts to consider the possibilities, to imagine a life without ghosts, without misery, and… with you… he’s interrupted by the sneers and taunts of his dead friends, reminded once more why he’s undeserving. 

When he hears the garage door opening, he knows it’s not Killer. It’s not his friend’s easy gait approaching. Kid straightens, and as soon as his eyes meet the visitor’s, he stiffens, the grip on the bottle tightening. 

“Aye, let’s get this over with.” Kid angles his jaw, offering up the part of his face that’s not completely busted up. “Killer fucked up my left, so if ye’d take my right, I’d appreciate the kindness.”

Shanks takes two more steps and then stops. His eyes narrow as he takes in Kid’s sorry state, then wander around the garage, taking in more empty bottles and cans that litter the place. He presses his lips together, and Kid can feel hot waves of anger rolling off him. 

“I’m not going to hit you, Eustass. Though I’m glad Killer did.” Shanks runs his hand through his hair, tightening his lips once more to keep from snarling. “I wasn’t going to come. I really wasn’t. You see, I’m trying this thing where I become a better parent.” He snorts. “And that comes with respecting her boundaries, but… shit, Eustass…”

Kid sets the bottle down and leans back, feigning indifference, but he fails. Shanks’ rage isn’t loud, it’s so much worse: controlled. Calculated. Intimidating all on its own. It simmers under the surface, controlled and contained, even though Kid knows that if he let it explode, it would be devastating. 

“My baby girl is back home, breaking because she poured her heart out to you and you trampled it. Just like I fucking warned you not to.”

Even though he’s cursing and pacing the space in front of Kid, Shanks’ voice never rises. Barely even wavers. 

“You think you’re protecting her? That by pushing her away, you’re being a hero, keeping her unharmed?” Shanks shakes his head, and his voice drops further. “It takes a special kind of coward to do that, you know? Because if you cared for her even a fraction as much as she feels for you, you would’ve fought.”

Heat snickers to his right, Wire sighs and shakes his head, and Bubblegum pounds the workbench, trying to contain his laughter. Kid’s heart constricts, and he growls, baring his teeth. And then he lowers his head and takes it. Because Shanks is right. And this is the wrong battle to fight. If he were going to fight, it would have been for you.

“I despise what you did to her, but I’m fucking glad that the action might finally make her realise what a useless shit you are.” Shanks kicks an empty bottle and takes another step closer to Kid. 

He faces your father, raising his chin instead of cowering away. Enough of being a coward, enough of that. Fuck.

“You wanna destroy yourself? Drink yourself to death? Wallow in your own self-loathing? Fine.” Shanks’ voice drops lower, eyes narrowing like a predator. “Become the wreckage you think you are.”

Kid holds his breath, stands by the accusations because they hit too close to home. But he does not look away.

“But you do not get to drag my daughter down with you.” Shanks points a finger at him in warning. “You stay the fuck away from her. You do not get to try and fix this. You do not get to be a selfish bastard and pull her back into your fucking misery just to stamp on her heart again!”

The fire in Shanks’ eyes rivals the color of his hair. Kid grits his teeth. His first instinct is to fight back. He doesn’t take shit from anyone. But Shanks is just protecting you, and that is exactly what Kid is trying to do, too. 

Even though he’s failing miserably. 

So he clenches his fists and swallows down all his rage, taking in every word, every warning, every threat in silence. And then, with a herculean effort, he dips his chin in understanding.

“You made your fucking choice. Now live with it. Just know that if she spills more tears over your sorry ass, I won’t be as forgiving.”

They stare at each other, and Kid keeps fighting back his instinct to rage or to mock. He grinds his teeth, clenches his fist, and evens his breath before opening his mouth, “I wouldn’t expect ye to.”

Shanks holds his stare for another beat before he turns his back on him and walks away. 

-*-

“It’s been three days, Killer. She’s not eating anything.” Shanks sighs, pacing the kitchen. “She’s surviving on water alone. I don’t know what to do! I’m taking her to the clinic. I—”

Killer places one hand on Shanks’ shoulder, trying to calm him down. 

Three days. Three fucking days of hell. Killer’s been drifting from your house to Kid’s, trying to pick up all the pieces you two keep leaving behind, trying to patch you up as best he can, so you’re both whole when this all blows through. 

But it’s been hell on earth. 

You refuse to eat and spend your days curled up in bed, only getting up to use the bathroom and drink water. Killer spends hours by your side, trying to get you to talk, laugh, be you, but the best he gets is hums. You’re in a depressive state, and Shanks is not overreacting. Perhaps he should take you to the clinic. 

Kid, on the other hand, just keeps spiraling further and further. Killer thought his initial conversation had gotten something out of him, that his friend might actually consider getting help. But he’s only gotten worse. If Killer thought Kid was at rock bottom before, he was wrong. He’s found a way to dig himself even deeper, and it’s getting harder to help him climb out.

He keeps saying his ghosts don’t leave him. He drinks and he fights. Killer forced him to stay inside last night, claiming to need his help with something he made up last minute, but he’s not sure if the same trick will work today. Kid’s running out of time. He’s about to hit the destruct button for good. 

So before he does that, Killer plans to step in. 

But you first… you first. 

Killer removes a container from a bag and opens a cabinet, searching for a bowl. “I made her a hearty soup. Gonna try and get her to eat it, okay?” Killer hates that his voice already sounds defeated, like he knows he’s going to fail. “If she doesn’t eat it, I’ll help you take her to the clinic.”

Shanks slumps into the kitchen chair and nods, his hand running through the scruff of beard he hasn’t shaved in two days, his eyes restless. The soup is still hot. Killer made enough for you and Kid. In his opinion, comfort food is halfway to a healthy recovery. In both your cases, he’s hoping it’s the first step towards finally getting you out of your spiral. 

He ladles two scoops into a bowl and grabs a spoon and a napkin. Each step up the stairs to your room is a broken plea to whichever deity might be listening. He needs you to eat. 

Killer knocks, but he knows better than to expect a reply, so after a few minutes, he pushes the door open, sighing when he notices no difference from yesterday. The curtains are drawn, the blanket pulled up to your ears, and despair clings to the walls. 

“Hey, love. How are you?” The chair is there for him. You don’t move it, and he stopped doing it, trying to purposely leave it in the middle of the room to see if you’d get up and put it away. 

You don’t. 

So he places the bowl on your nightstand, pulls the curtains to let in some light, and sits, leaning in to observe you. You lie in bed all day, but you don’t rest. There are heavy bags under your eyes, and your face looks pale and withdrawn. 

You’re withering away. 

“I made soup. I know you’re gonna love it. I don’t wanna brag, but I’m the best cook in this town.” Your lip twitches like you’re about to smile but quickly falls back, your eyes boring a hole in the wall. “Can you just try it? A few bites? Please…”

Nothing. 

Killer’s chest tightens, and his jaw clenches. He stares at the steam curling slowly from the bowl, then back at your unmoving form, then closes his eyes, his breath shuddering with a heavy exhale. 

“I’ll show you my face,” he states. You stop breathing for a moment, then slowly turn your head to stare at him, blinking softly, trying to process whether he’s speaking the truth. Killer swallows hard. “I’ll make you a deal. You eat that soup and you get up. You go about your day, and you start living again. And I’ll show you.”

A fleeting memory of a drunken you asking him to show you his face floats by his mind’s eye. How you made him claim that he’d show you his face if you ever needed cheering up. 

Well… this is it. 

You hold your breath, your weary eyes holding his ransom. He nods again, assuring you it’s true, he’ll do it. So you let out that breath and sit up slowly. Without breaking eye contact, you reach for the bowl with trembling hands. It takes you a while, but you eat more than half the portion before your stomach starts to complain. 

Killer has to bite his lip to contain his excitement. You fucking ate. You chose to take that step. Finally. Fucking finally. 

“I ate…” Your voice sounds raspy and affected from days of disuse, but it’s the most beautiful thing he’s heard recently. 

“Yeah…” Killer nods, reaching to take the bowl from your hands, buying himself some time before he has to compose himself. “You did. And you will get up? Get out of bed?”

You nod slowly, and he raises his brow at you, expecting something else. 

“I promise, Kill.”

Killer’s heart swells. It’s a beginning. It’s a win. It’s a fucking celebration. He has to close his eyes for another moment because, for a hot minute there, he thought that what Kid had done was irreparable. 

“Alright.” He sighs, reaching for the knot in his bandana and untying it with precise movements. After the accident, he never let anyone see his face besides Kid. No one. So he won’t pretend he’s not terrified of showing it to you, to the one person that matters most. 

But he’s not a coward. And he made a deal. 

The knot breaks, and he closes his eyes for a second before letting the fabric slip. The air is warm and stale, but the skin on his jaw and cheek is extra sensitive, so he sucks in his breath to adjust as he follows your reaction closely. 

Your eyes widen, lips parting slightly. Your gaze falls on his permanently curved lips, scarred from the burning kiss of flames. Then they follow the remaining scar tissue across his cheek, down his jaw, and around his nape, where the flames licked and lapped on that fateful day. 

Your hand twitches, and then you raise it, meaning to touch him. He flinches briefly, and you catch your breath. You both adjust to the novelty before he nods, and your fingers caress him gently. You use a feather-light touch, but everything feels heightened. 

Killer can’t remove his eyes from yours as you’re standing so close to his face. He sees the curve of your lips, the rise and fall of your chest; he feels the warmth of your breath and the curiosity in your eyes. 

A slight dip. Just a tiny movement, and he would be able to kiss you. 

Fuck.

“I’m—”

“Beautiful,” you finish for him. He was going to say hideous. Because that’s what he is. Who in their right mind would take one look at his scars and call them beautiful? Call him beautiful? 

“You don’t have to lie for my sake…” The words barely find their way out of his lips. You’re still too close.

“I’m not lying, Kill,” you whisper, your eyes catching his now, making a mess out of the once steady beat of his heart. “How did this happen?” you ask softly, your gaze mercifully retreating back to his face. 

Killer clenches his jaw. He can’t share the full story, he doesn’t know what Kid wants to share or if he’ll ever want to share it all. 

A tiny, selfish part of him tells him that this is also his story, and he could tell you if he wanted, but Killer shuts that beast down before it has a chance to transform and overtake him. 

“Our last mission… the one that… fell to shit,” he murmurs. “This was from a close-range explosion… I… Kid didn’t get out of the way in time, so I… forced him.”

I shielded him. It’s what Killer did, really. But he won’t say it like that. He doesn’t resent Kid for it, since he also lost an arm in that explosion. And they both lost so much more than that. 

You still have your fingers pressed against his ugly face. You’re still too close to him. So he sees the way your nose scrunches, eyebrows shooting up. 

“But… I saw the army picture in Kid’s garage. You had the bandana on there. Was it taken after? Because Kid had both arms in it…”

Killer swallows hard, his eyes turning to the side as he scrunches the black fabric of his bandana. He’s itching to cover his face again, he feels too exposed, like he’s baring his heart out to you. 

“It was taken before. I never liked my smile. I used to wear the bandana for photos or videos, mostly. After… after, it just became permanent. It’s part of who I am now. I don’t want to bear the pity stares or see the disgust on other people’s faces.”

You shift slightly, pulling yourself even closer to him as you cup his cheek with both hands. It’s too much. Too close. Too overwhelming.

“You’re not disgusting, Kill. I’ll say it as many times as it takes: you’re beautiful.”

His throat works as he swallows down the emotions, and he nods because he can’t trust himself enough to speak. You let your hands fall to your lap but don’t retreat back into bed. 

“Can I see it?” you ask.

“See what?”

“Your smile…”

No. 

Killer shakes his head slowly, but when your eyes narrow, pleading, he falters. He’s always hated his smile. But, shit, if there’s someone he’d willingly show it to, it’s you…

“Maybe some other time, love, okay?”

He must sound really weary, because you nod softly and finally fall back, leaning against the headboard with a deep exhale, like you’ve been holding the weight of the world on your chest and he just helped relieve it. 

“I’ll hold you to it, too, you know?” you joke, a ghost of a smile twitching your lips upwards, and Killer’s heart skips a beat. You’re smiling again. Fuck yes. 

“Wouldn’t expect it otherwise, City Girl.”

A comfortable silence envelops the room while he fastens the bandana back into place, tying the knots easily like he’s done a thousand times. Except the fabric feels tighter this time, abrasive against his soft skin, begging him to stop hiding, perhaps. 

No one has touched his face in years. No one but himself and doctors has even touched his scars. It’s fitting that you’re the first one to do it. For a fleeting moment, he wonders what would’ve happened if he let you see his smile.  

He sighs and pushes that thought away, because it stings just thinking about it. Instead, he finishes the knot and watches you. You’re looking out the window, with that slight pull of your lips still present. There’s a small light behind your eyes now, something he thought was missing. 

God, he could stare at you for hours. 

“You’re gonna finish that soup later?” he asks instead, feeling gutted by reality. 

You nod softly, training your gaze back on his. “It was very tasty, Kill. I’ll finish it.”

“Good,” he states, getting up and picking up the bowl. “I’ll toss it in the fridge, then. Don’t forget to get some fresh air, okay? You promised.”

You nod again, mock-saluting him in a way that crumbles some of the heaviness in his chest. You’re getting back to normal. You’ll get there. 

He opens the door, ready to head downstairs before you stop him.

“Killer?” He pauses. He will never grow tired of the way you say his name. Soft, sweet, asking for nothing else but his attention. “Thank you. For… everything.”

He grits his teeth hard and nods once, just before closing the door as fast as he can. Just before words he can’t say spill out of his goddamned mouth. You’re recovering, and that’s all that matters. 

As soon as Killer enters the kitchen, Shanks springs up from the chair, his eyes immediately landing on the half-empty bowl of soup. 

“Oh, thank God!” he blurts, slumping back down, a heavy sigh of relief parting his lips. 

“She says she’ll eat the rest later. I’ll store it in the fridge.” Killer feels exhausted, the weight of holding your and Kid’s recovery dragging him down. But he can’t give in to exhaustion yet. Not yet.

One down, one to go.

“You even got her to talk?” Shanks gets up and paces the kitchen as Killer busies himself with the soup. 

“She promised to get up and get some air, so hold her to that promise, will you, Shanks?”

“She did?” Shanks huffs out a laugh. “God, that’s— God! Thank you, Killer.”

Killer nods, placing the container in the fridge and closing the door, then washing the spoon and cleaning up the little mess he made. All in contemplative silence. He can feel Shanks’ gaze boring into his back, but he doesn’t dare meet the older man’s eyes.

Until Shanks speaks. 

“You love her.” Just three words, said with a finality that brooks no argument. Shanks speaks with the confidence of someone who’s lived through life, who knows things, who sees what people try to hide. 

Killer wipes his hands on the kitchen towel, his shoulders slumping in defeat. “She’s not mine to love,” he says after a moment of silence. 

“Doesn’t change the truth…” Silence. “Are you planning on telling her?”

“No.” Never. He won’t do that. Not to Kid, not to you, not even to himself. Because there’s no way anything good would come out of it. 

“You’re the better man,” Shanks deadpans, contempt weighing his words down. 

“He’s my brother, Shanks.” Killer turns to face him, his lips set in a fine line behind the bandana. “Not by blood, but… in every way that matters.”

“He’s not here. He’s not trying.” 

“You told him not to!” Killer argues, using the words he knows Shanks said to Kid because his friend told him, after much persuasion. 

“And would that stop you?” Killer hesitates. And that’s all Shanks needs to know his answer. “That’s what I thought.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Killer says, nipping the conversation in the bud. “He’ll get his shit together, and whatever has to happen, happens. It’ll be out of our hands. I’m just looking out for their happiness.”

Shanks holds his gaze, and Killer feels himself shrink. He’s looking at him like a father would. With care and worry, like someone who holds all the answers, but is waiting for him to figure them out. 

“And who looks out for yours?”

He doesn’t have an answer to that. 

So he grabs his stuff, mutters a quick goodbye, and flees to the porch, gulping in the fresh air with rapid breaths, trying to steady the harsh beating of his heart. Killer doesn’t care about himself. He can’t right now. Not when you and Kid need him. Not until he gathers all the broken pieces. 

Not until he fixes it. 

And even then… maybe you and Kid’s happiness is all he’ll ever allow himself to want.

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[ellswritings]

In My Corner

(Part 1), (Part 2), (Part 3), (Part 4), (Part 5), Part 6

Phil Brooks/CM Punk x reader

Colby Lopez/Seth Rollins x reader

TW: Regular wrestling violence and Colby being hella cheeky at the end.

Tags: @reebs-luvs-rhodes-and-wrestling, @scream4mami, @mandmilovehim

✧･ﾟ:*ᴵ’ᵐ ᵇᵉᵃᵘ ᵗᶦᶠᵘˡ (ꈍ ꒳ ꈍ✿)*:･ﾟ✧*

Ay yo sis, where you at?

Y/N smiles to herself at Jonathan’s message to her. She had been running a tad behind all morning and her entire schedule had been thrown off. She’s walking into the Resch Center in Green Bay Wisconsin, a duffel bag with her gear slung over her shoulder. She wasn’t late by any stretch of the means, she’s twenty minutes early actually, but on Y/N time, that’s considered late.

The boys are used to her arriving a solid forty five minutes or so before they even get there. So the fact she’s showing up later than them had alarm bells blaring in their heads.

Y/N sent him a teasing message in response, swinging the back door to the arena open as she starts her journey through the hallways to go and change in the Bloodline locker room. That’s one thing she’ll always be grateful for in being a member of the Bloodline. Having their own space away from everyone else is a Godsend.

Throwing the door to their locker room open, she’s met with three heads turning simultaneously in her direction. There’s a brief pause as Joe, Jonathan, and Joseph stare at her blankly. Y/N stares back, looking between all three of them when Jonathan throws his hands up.

“Well God damn, took you long enough,” he chastised playfully. “Took yo sweet ass time didn’t you?”

Y/N rolls her eyes, throwing a loose towel from her bag at him. “Shut up. I’m literally still early.”

“Nah, this is late for you,” Joseph shakes his head. “Got us all worried you were dead in a ditch or sum.”

She finally throws her duffel down on an empty bench, turning on her heels to face them. She crosses her arms over her chest with a scoff, “Have you both always been this over dramatic? Or did I miss the memo?”

That’s when Joe wraps his arm around her shoulder, pulling her in for a tight squeeze. “They were just worried ‘bout you, that’s all,” he tells her before kissing the side of her head. “You’re usually the one on our asses to get here so it threw ‘em for a loop. I told ‘em you were fine, but they wanted to see for themselves.”

Y/N tried her hardest to look annoyed, but knowing how protective all of them are over her, it made her heart swell. She rolls her eyes before walking away from Joe and over to the other two. She looks between them, “You can stand down now,” she teases, playfully treating them as dogs. “I’m safe and I'm here.”

Jonathan raises an eyebrow to say something snarky, but it dies on his tongue when she pulls him and Joseph in for a hug. He hates that she has that effect. Literally just hugging her released whatever anxiety he had about her being late. Even Trinity would think they were psycho’s for freaking out the way they did. But they can’t help it. There’s a routine, and when that gets thrown off, things feel weird.

Y/N pulls back, moving back to her bag to start getting herself ready. “Have they brought the call sheet by yet?” She asks, briefly looking back before pulling out her gear.

“Paul went to go get it a few minutes ago,” Joe answers. “He should be back in a few.”

“I’m pretty sure we go out first though,” Jon comments. “Thas what they made it seem like when they sent the rough copies of the script.”

“Then we got a backstage segment after that, right?” Y/N asks. “Before you and Randy go out for the main event?”

“Yeah,” Jon nods. “That sounds right.”

Right on cue, Paul Heyman knocks twice before entering the locker room. He notices Y/N, smiling at the woman with a respectful nod. He says nothing about her being later than usual which she appreciates. At least one member here doesn’t feel the need to be an overbearing big brother.

“Good, you’re all here,” he says, papers ruffling in his hands as he shuts the door behind him. It closes with a soft click and they all watch the Wiseman expectantly. Y/N always found it interesting how it always felt like they were still in Kayfabe even when they weren’t live. Paul just always had that way of keeping them in character just by being around.

“I have the updated call sheets, but there have been some additions that involve you all,” he starts handing out each seat the all the members of the faction. Y/N reaches into her bag, pulling out her reading glasses and putting them on. She hears Jon and Joseph snicker from their spot which causes her to throw a pen at them.

She glares, “Y’all better shut up before I break your fingers. You’ll be walking around with two hands full of finger splints and then my glasses won’t be so funny anymore.”

That quiets them up, making Joe start laughing as well. There’s that sharp tongue he loved having around. He knew that if anything were to happen to him, she’d be around to help carry his legacy. To take care of his family. That’s why he wants her here. Why no matter how many times creative tried to change things, he wouldn’t let them take her.

Y/N pauses as she sees her own name on the call sheet, “Wait, I have a match tonight?” She asks, confused. “I thought I was just here for the segments.”

“Apparently since you were a part of Bianca’s group at WarGames, they thought it would up the stakes if you and Bayley were to have a match,” Paul explains with a sympathetic tone of voice. “I know you just competed on Raw, but having all this drama will increase the ratings and keep your name trending online and with the fans.”

“Do they want us to just improvise the whole thing?” Y/N asks confused. “Pam and I haven’t gone over anything for a match since WarGames.”

“We’ve still got about three hours before the arena even opens,” Paul assured her. “They said you guys can use it for as long as you need to work something out. It won’t be for the championship. It’s just something to add to make it more personal. Possibly setting up for a championship match down the line, but we’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.”

“So now I’m having a feud with Nia and Bayley?” Y/N laughs slightly. “Seems like they don’t know what to do with me.”

“I’m sure it’ll intertwine eventually. They’ll let us know the full picture when the time comes. They always do,” Paul nods before looking at the boys. “Other than that, everything else stayed the same. We go out first, do the whole family spiel before getting interrupted. Then the backstage segment where there’s a little tiff between us, and then Jimmy’s match with Randy as the main event. Which we will, of course, run interference along with Knight who will come out in defense of Randy.”

A small grin flickers across Y/N’s face at the mention of Shaun. It doesn’t go unnoticed by her pseudo brother’s, all of them making eye contact before Jonathan decides to voice what they’re all thinking.

Hey caught the flicker of her smile like a hawk locking onto prey.

“Oh nah, nah, hold up—what was that?” he pointed at her like she’d just committed a crime. “That little cheese grin right there. I seen that.”

Y/N didn’t even look up from adjusting the wrist tape she was digging out of her bag. “What are you talking about?”

“You know exactly what I’m talkin’ about,” he said, grinning as he leaned back dramatically like he was trying to catch her in the act again. “That was yo flirty smile. You heard his name and your mouth forgot how to stay neutral.”

Joseph let out a low whistle. “She was tryna hide it, too. Nah, sis—you was smilin’ hard like you knew somethin’ we don’t.”

Joe raised an eyebrow, arms folded over his chest as he side-eyed her from his corner. “Mmhmm.”

Y/N snorted, tossing a roll of tape at Jon’s chest, which he caught with a laugh.

“Y’all are doing way too much,” she said, rolling her eyes. “I smiled because I like working with him. He’s funny. He sells my shit like it hurts. And he’s fun to mess with out there. That’s all.”

“That’s all?” Jon echoed, clearly not buying it as he leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. “That grin looked like you got caught dreamin’ ‘bout him bringin’ you flowers or some shit.”

Y/N gave him the flattest look she could muster. “I’m gonna knock all your braids loose if you don’t shut up.”

Joseph leaned in closer with a teasing smirk. “Bet if Colby was here, he’d have clocked that smile before you even knew it was on your face.”

Joe cut in with a low chuckle. “Yeah he would’ve,” he agrees. “Then he would’ve went out and clocked Shaun.”

“For real,” Joseph added, nodding. “Man would’ve seen that look and gone, ‘Yeah, I’ma go handle somethin’ real quick.’”

Y/N threw her hands in the air. “Colby is not like that.”

“For you?” all three of them said in sync.

Joe was still calm about it, like he was stating a fact. “Nah, Y/N/N, Colby different ‘bout you. We all see it. Has been since the first day you joined the Shield.”

Jon snickered. “He be actin’ chill but the second somebody even breathes too close to you? He’s got that ‘feral dog’ look on his face.”

Joseph leaned back, nodding solemnly. “He’d catch a charge for you.”

Y/N groaned, dragging a hand down her face. “You’re all absolutely ridiculous.”

“That’s what family is, girl,” Jon grinned, clapping her shoulder as he passed by. “Annoying as hell but built in protection.”

Joe chuckled under his breath and stood up to grab his hoodie, nodding toward the hallway. “C’mon. Let’s get ready before they come looking for us.”

“Makeup better be on time today,” Joseph muttered as he gathered his gloves and pads.

“Better not be tryna take out my braids,” Jon said, brushing his hair out of his face with exaggerated flair. “They did that last time, I was lookin’ like a bootleg Usher all night.”

Y/N laughed as she headed toward the partition to change into her gear, shaking her head as their voices started to trail off down the hall. But before she could slip into the curtained corner, Paul Heyman’s voice stopped her like a soft echo down a long tunnel.

“Y/N.”

She turned, tugging on her shirt as she faced him. “What’s up, Paul?”

“I won’t keep you long,” Paul said, voice low and almost conspiratorial. “I just wanted to say something before the chaos begins.”

She nodded, curious.

“You’ve always had an instinct most people spend their entire careers trying to fake,” Paul said, folding his hands in front of him. “When you're out there — whether you’re speaking, reacting, wrestling — there’s a presence that can’t be taught. It’s like watching lightning remember it’s thunder.”

Y/N blinked. “Thanks… I think?”

Paul offered a tight-lipped smile. “It’s a compliment, believe me. But what you choose to do with that… that’s what separates good from legendary.”

There was something in his eyes — a flicker of calculation beneath the reverence. Something she couldn’t quite put her finger on.

“I just hope,” he continued, “that when the time comes to make decisions for you, and not just for the family… you’ll remember what I said.”

Y/N tilted her head slightly. “Paul, are you trying to Jedi mind trick me right now?”

He chuckled under his breath. “Not at all. I’m simply planting a seed. It’s up to you if you want it to grow.”

With that, he gave her a small nod and stepped away, disappearing down the corridor with his ever-present papers in hand.

Y/N stood there for a beat longer, the quiet echo of his words lingering in her ears. She didn’t know what he meant exactly. But something about it made her spine straighten.

Shrugging it off, she grabbed her phone, shot Pam a text to meet her at the ring, and rolled her neck to shake off the weirdness.

She had a match to make up. And one too many protective brothers to make fun of later.

✧･ﾟ:*ᴵ’ᵐ ᵇᵉᵃᵘ ᵗᶦᶠᵘˡ (ꈍ ꒳ ꈍ✿)*:･ﾟ✧*

Pam tied her hair back as she stepped through the ropes, clapping her hands once before stretching her shoulders out.

Both her and Y/N are decked out in their gear for the night. They both decided it would be best if they just got fully ready since planning out their match would probably take up most of their time.

Y/N cracks her knuckles before shaking her limbs out. She bounces back and forth on her feet to keep herself limber so they’re ready for the elaborate sequence of moves they’ll no doubt chain together.

“I can’t believe they handed us this match today,” P huffs, walking closer to her opponent.

Y/N stood in the corner, one foot on the bottom rope as she adjusted her wrist tape. “Yeah. Paul dropped it on me this morning like it was a coffee order.”

Pam scoffed. “And they want us to make it mean something?”

“Apparently. Supposed to feed into a future feud I guess. I’m assuming it’ll be between you, Nia, and I at some point for the title.”

There was a pause, and then they both cracked a grin.

“So…” Pam started, hopping in place, “we’re giving ‘I hate your guts, but I also respect your ring work’?”

Y/N nodded once, stepping toward center ring. “Exactly. We’re keeping it stiff, a little ugly. Like the heat’s been brewing since WarGames. It’ll be after you interfere with Michin and Zelina’s tag match so it’s okay if it looks a little rough.”

“Cool. You want me to jump you before the bell?”

“That’s a given,” Y/N said. “Fans love when you get under my skin. Let’s milk that.”

“Alright.” Pam tilted her head. “Want me to work your leg early? Make it look like I’m trying to take your speed away?”

Y/N considered, then nodded. “Yeah. And I’ll sell it hard at first, limp through the middle, then shake it off toward the end like adrenaline’s kicking in.”

Pam grinned. “We always do dumb shit for the pop.”

“It’s tradition,” Y/N said, her tone dry. “Let’s throw in a fake finish—me hitting the knee strike, you kick out at two and a half.”

“Oh, they’re gonna eat that up.”

They walked through the first few sequences, calling it as they went. Fast and fluid. A little aggressive in motion, but controlled. They knew each other’s rhythms too well to mess up.

“I’ll throw you into the corner,” Y/N said, “but you reverse, hit the running knee, and I collapse in the ropes like I’m out cold.”

“Then I’ll pull you up by your gear and start talking shit in your face.”

Y/N smirked. “Good. Keep it loud enough that the crowd gets mad for me.”

“Always.”

The door to the side entrance creaked open, followed by the familiar click of boots on concrete.

Neither woman looked—yet.

Then Pam muttered under her breath, “Don’t look now, but Loverboy’s here.”

Y/N glanced sideways. Shaun stood near the barricade, arms crossed, a bottle of water in his hand. He didn’t say anything. Just watched with that half-smirk he wore like it was tailored for his face.

Y/N rolled her eyes and kept moving. “Ignore him. He probably just got lost looking for catering.”

Pam laughed. “Uh-huh. And just happened to wander into your rehearsal?”

They ran a strike exchange—Y/N blocking a punch, spinning into a forearm that tapped Pam just enough to make her stumble.

Pam exaggerated the bump, flopping on the mat with a groan. “Damn. You really are annoyed.”

“You talk a lot of shit as Bayley,” Y/N called down to her, loud enough for Shaun to hear. “I’m just trying to get in character.”

Pam snorted, sitting up. “Sure you are.”

Y/N turned toward Shaun then, finally acknowledging him. “You lost, Ricker?”

He leaned on the apron, casual. “Nah. Heard there was a clinic happening in here. Thought I’d audit.”

“You taking notes?”

“Always.”

Y/N rolls her eyes but turns back to Pam. The two of them run through a couple more sequences, before deciding where the end of the match should be. The result is supposed to end in a win on Y/N’s part so they decided she could hit whatever big move she wanted to end the match.

Pam rolled her shoulders as they circled again. “Let’s run the finish one more time. Clean this time.”

Y/N nodded. “Set me up off the ropes, I’ll reverse into the spin kick, fake the stumble—then boom, finisher.”

“Cool. Let’s make it snug. People should gasp when you hit it.”

Pam charged, Y/N ducked under, hit the ropes, rebounded—Pam caught her in a short-arm clothesline attempt, but Y/N twisted under, landed behind, and—

BAM.

That signature snap echoed through the empty arena as Y/N’s finisher — a modified elevated facebuster with a back hook leg sweep — drove Pam clean into the mat.

A beat of silence followed.

Then Pam groaned, still face-down. “Goddamn, I bet that looked sick.”

Y/N grinned and helped her up. “You sold the hell out of it. If we nail the setup with the crowd hot, they’ll lose it.”

Pam pulled her into a quick hug. “You got a name for that move yet?”

“I call it Lights Out.”

Pam smirked. “Fitting. ‘Cause I saw none of that coming.”

They both laughed as they stepped through the ropes and hopped down to the floor. Pam grabbed a towel, tossing one to Y/N who caught it and wiped her face.

“That’s it then?” Pam asked. “We got it down?”

Y/N nodded. “We’re locked in. Good timing too—my lungs were about to give out.”

Pam chuckled and patted her shoulder. “You killed it. You always do.”

She headed off toward her locker, but before Y/N could follow, a voice called out behind her.

“Yo.”

She turned to see Shaun still leaning on the barricade, still watching like he owned the air around him.

“You ain’t even gonna say goodbye?”

Y/N cocked her head. “You were lurking like a weirdo the whole time and now you wanna talk?”

Shaun smirked, walking toward the ring. “Just waitin’ for your little girlboss moment to wrap. Didn’t wanna steal your spotlight.”

“Oh, how noble of you,” she said, grabbing her water bottle and taking a sip. “You here to give me notes?”

“Nah,” he shrugged. “Just came to confirm what I already knew.”

“And what’s that?”

He stepped in close enough for her to hear the subtle drawl drop in his voice. “That you’re a damn weapon in that ring.”

Y/N raised a brow. “Because I hit Pam with a move I invented two weeks ago?”

“No,” he said. “Because you smile after.”

She let out a quiet scoff. “Maybe I just like hurting people.”

“Even better.”

They locked eyes for a long second. It wasn’t a stare-down. It wasn’t flirtatious in a cheesy way either. It was that weird, magnetic tension that didn’t need words to thrum in the air.

“You always this nosy?” she asked, lifting one brow as she stepped back a bit.

Shaun tilted his head. “Only when it’s worth it.”

Y/N rolled her eyes and tossed her hair over her shoulder, “Well keep hovering and your pretty face might end up on the business end of a fist.”

“I know, I know…” he says with a smug grin. “Your little boyfriend would be on my ass if he caught me talkin’ to you like this.” His laugh echoed behind her. “I gotta admit though, he’s got good taste. I’d fight for it too.”

Y/N couldn’t stop smiling, “He’s not my boyfriend,” she clarifies.

Shaun quirks a brow, “Does he know that?”

Y/N stares at him for a moment, tilting her head to the side. Her eyes flicker over his face before she reaches up, dusting off fake particles from his shirt. Shaun watches her, his pupils dilating as she playfully grazes his chest.

She loves her games.

And almost like she never even came up to him, Y/N takes a step back and turns. “I’ll talk to you later, Shaun.”

She made her way back toward the Bloodline’s locker room, towel slung over her shoulder, adrenaline still humming low in her veins. She wasn’t about to entertain Knight — not seriously.

But that look in his eye?

Yeah. It made things interesting.

✧･ﾟ:*ᴵ’ᵐ ᵇᵉᵃᵘ ᵗᶦᶠᵘˡ (ꈍ ꒳ ꈍ✿)*:･ﾟ✧*

Standing in Gorilla, Y/N sucks in a deep breath as she finishes getting herself into character. Joe, Joseph, and Jonathan are standing a few steps ahead of her with Paul flanking Roman’s side. Her title is slung over her shoulder, having always carried it on her own. Normally Roman has Paul carrying his, but Y/N never wanted anyone else to hold it besides her. She earned it, so she bears the weight of it.

She listens as the crowd screams at the top of their lungs for the intro to the show. They are officially live in Wisconsin. The sound guy nods over to the Bloodline as he hits Roman’s entrance music.

The pop is insane. It always is in every city, especially when Roman opens up the show. It’s rare, but it happens sometimes. Since his most recent issue is with Randy Orton, there’s going to be a lot of different things Roman does to keep the story interesting.

As soon as they walk out from backstage, they are met with thousands of one’s held up in the air, along with a handful of boos. The entire stadium is on their feet, acknowledging their Tribal Chief. Y/S/N smirks confidently as the group strides up to the ring, a certain cockiness glowing from within all of them.

However, as Y/S/N glances to the side, she notices a little girl in the front row with her father. She has her exact championship draped over her shoulder and her hair is styled in the exact same way Y/N usually does hers. Her heart warms when she notices the girl is completely decked out in her merch.

It’s moments like this that make it hard to stay in character. If she wasn’t with the rest of the Bloodline, she would not have hesitated to reach out and take a picture with that little girl. Y/S/N watches as she takes her title off with a small glint of hope in her eyes, and she holds it out into the walkway with a sharpie in her hand.

Y/N can feel herself slipping out of Y/S/N’s mindset. But seeing this young girl look so hopeful, she couldn’t crush that for her. So as the boys stop mid-walkway to raise their own fingers up before the pyro goes off, Y/N stops in front of the young girl.

She grabs the sharpie, quickly popping the top off to sign the title. The girl gasps loudly, clearly not having expected her favorite wrestler to stop. Even her father looks shocked. As a character, Y/S/N doesn’t do this often, but she could make an exception.

Y/N winks, patting the title, “Looks good on you. Don’t let anyone take it from you, okay? You fight for it.”

She nods rapidly, “I will! Just like you!”

Y/N gives her a nod of respect, fighting off the smile that threatens to spread across her lips. She simply turns her nose back up in the air and joins the rest of her faction as they continue down the ramp.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome… special counsel, the Wiseman Paul Heyman, Solo Sikoa, Jimmy Uso, and the Undisputed WWE Universal men and women’s Champions… Y/S/N and Roman Reigns!!!”

Roman rubs his hands together as Y/N keeps that smug expression she wears so well. She hoists her title up further on her shoulder, not bothering to look at any more audience members. She can’t afford another break in character. She does have a reputation to protect.

Despite the amount of people reaching out to get so much as a high five, no one from the Bloodline gives in. Once they reach the outside of the ring, Paul does his signature bow for Roman as the rest of them climb in behind him. Y/N follows directly behind her Tribal Chief, followed by Jimmy and then Solo.

They can barely hear the commentary team as Y/N and Roman take one step forward, raising their titles in the air as the pyro goes off again. His music slowly dies off and that’s when they hear the mix of boos and cheers more clearly. There’s a couple of “Yeets” thrown around in there, the crowd showing their undying love for Jey Uso, who Y/N could not be happier for.

Solo stands stoically, Y/N in between him and Roman while Jimmy is on Roman’s other side with Paul next to him. The Head of the Table glances around the packed stadium, a slight look of disdain on his face as sounds of disapproval are thrown their way.

One of the stagehands had handed Paul a microphone. He waits patiently for Roman to ask for it. The Reigning champion sticks his hand out and Paul wastes no time in handing it to him, shouting his own praises about his Tribal Chief.

There’s a brief pause before he raises the microphone to his lips, “Green Bay!” He screams, exciting the audience with his booming voice. “Acknowledge me,” he demands.

The crowd raises their fingers in the air, Jimmy, Solo, and Y/S/N doing the same. Roman soaks in the reaction before walking over to the left side of the ring, “Alright, alright… Shut your mouths now.”

The crowd reacts negatively, their voices drowning out any coherent thought. Roman smirks, “I wouldn’t have had to done that if you woulda kept the boos down.”

The crowd replies by booing louder. Roman simply laughs mockingly, Jimmy and Solo mean mugging the audience. Y/S/N tilts her head, glancing around with a small chuckle. “Come on,” Roman coaxes, “It’s the Christmas season. It’s the holiday’s, man. I’m here to celebrate.” That earns a more positive reaction. Everyone loves Christmas. “It’s promotion season, y’all!”

Jimmy nods excitedly, Y/S/N’s eyes never leaving Roman’s figure as he continues pacing. She tilts her head, wondering who exactly he could be promoting. Of course, Y/N read the script so she knows what’s coming, but Y/S/N has no idea.

Roman continues, “Because I’m a good boss. I’m a fair Tribal Chief. When someone’s doing good, we let ‘em know.”

Jimmy smiles widely, more than confident he’s the one about to receive his older cousin’s praise. Y/S/N furrows her eyebrows, hip jutting out to the side. Solo stands at attention like he always does, ready to do whatever Roman commands him to do.

“Then when somebody’s doing bad. We smash ‘em. But that’s not tonight, y’know what I mean?” He chuckles as some people cheer at his words. “So tonight it’s about one man. This man has bent over backwards. He sacrificed everything you can imagine over the past year or so. This man understands what representing our family means. This man understands what it’s like to keep this family at the top of the mountain.”

That’s when the “WHAT” chants begin. Y/S/N frowns at Roman’s monologue. Not that she desired or needed Roman’s validation to know her worth, but it would’ve been nice to get some recognition for what she’s done for the family too. The camera zooms in on her face, catching her confusion and frustration. That’s definitely going to be analyzed all over the internet later.

Which means she did her job perfectly.

“And God forbid, if anything happens to me, this is the man that’s going to step up. He’s the next in line.” Roman turns as if he’s going to talk to Jimmy. There’s a pause and the audience immediately takes that as an opportunity to start chanting for the Viper.

Roman’s face falls, his anger growing. “No, this ain’t for Randy Orton.” He says disgustedly. “No. Hell no! This man is going to be responsible for this Bloodline. This is the next Tribal Heir. The next Tribal Chief.”

Jimmy starts taking off his jacket, getting ready to be inaugurated as the next in line. Y/S/N hopes that for his sake that Roman is actually talking about him. “Jimmy!” Roman calls to his cousin, the man taking a step forward to stand next to the current Chief. “Join me in congratulating your brother.”

Y/S/N closes her eyes, exhaling dramatically. Jimmy’s smile is immediately wiped off his face as Roman rips away all his hopes of being the next face of the Bloodline.

“Solo.”

Y/S/N steps aside as Roman goes to hug his younger cousin. She walks over to Jimmy who is very clearly trying to hide how angry and lost he is about why he wasn’t the one chosen. Y/S/N places a hand on his arm as she watches on with her own opinions written very clearly on her face.

This was wrong.

And the audience could see that clearly on the other two Bloodline members. The seeds of destruction were officially being sewed between them. The rift was forming right in front of the audience’s eyes. The fallout of the Bloodline was officially underway.

“And so now you see–”

Suddenly Roman is cut off with the music to “Voices.” All of their heads turn towards the entrance way to the ramp and out comes Randy Orton himself. He’s very clearly on a mission, his face only expressing his own self-assurance. His top half is adorned with his own merch t-shirt, the white fabric clinging to his muscles like a second skin. His black pants doing the same for his legs, his ginormous thighs practically bulging out of them. He puts a hand up to his ears, encouraging the audience to sing louder for him.

He menacingly walks towards the ring, taking a microphone of his own. Y/S/N stands beside Roman, the rest of the Bloodline getting into formation behind them. Y/S/N’s championship glistens under the light as it sits front and center with her. Randy looks on at the group of five as the audience continues to chant his name.

“For eighteen months, I have been thinking about this moment right here. I’ve been thinking about what I’m going to do. I’ve been thinking about what I’m going to say.” He takes a few steps, gesturing with his hands before turning back to them. “But you know what, Roman? The only thing I really need to say to you…” He grows closer and closer, showing how he truly is not intimidated in the slightest. “Is that I’m coming for ya.”

Roman narrows his eyes, but there is a brief flicker of concern that crosses him. He shakes his head in disbelief, not believing that anyone could dethrone him.

“You took eighteen months from me. So I am going to take everything away from you. And I don’t care which one of your family members, or little goons I have to go through to get the job done. The fact of the matter is this Big Dog.”

Y/S/N’s eyes widen at the mention of Roman’s old persona from their Shield days. Roman clearly picked up on it as well, his lip twitching in irritation as all those memories came flooding back.

“It starts tonight. It ends at the Royal Rumble. Because I am challenging you, Roman Reigns, for the WWE Championship!” Randy declares with a finality that would make it hard for even the best of lawyers to argue with him.

The crowd cheers loudly, chanting his name in agreement. They want the Viper to be the one holding the title. Randy encourages them to continue chanting for him, but Roman won’t go down without a fight.

“By the sound of the fans, it sounds like you deserve it,” Roman says. The crowd shouts in agreement. “But hold on, hold on. What’d you say, eighteen months you’ve been thinking about this?” Randy nods as Roman shrugs, “Well, I haven’t thought about you at all.” He and Paul Heyman laugh at the fact. “You’ve been gone for eighteen months, you haven’t done anything to earn this opportunity. Therefore, you don’t deserve this opportunity. Therefore, you can go to the back of the line where you belong.”

Roman shakes his head when he hears everyone being unhappy with his response. “Listen, this is crazy. You just– Everybody wants to get down with the Tribal Chief, and they think they’re just going to show up and get the opportunity. That’s not how it works. No, no. So why don’t you go ahead and do what you do?” He takes a mocking step toward Randy, “Tap into that big dumb head of yours. And why don’t you listen to those voices that are going off?” His tone is so condescending that Y/S/N was surprised Randy hadn’t tried to RKO him at this point.

“It ain’t 2007 anymore. I’m levels above you and everybody else,” Roman states confidently as Paul holds up his title proudly. “Those voices in your head, they’re telling you right now, ‘get out of the ring, Randy. Run. Leave this man alone. Do not disrespect your Tribal Chief.’ Listen to them.” Roman advises. “Because if you have a match with me, it ain’t going to be an eighteen month vacation. Understand me? It’s just retirement. You ain’t ever coming back.”

Randy shakes his head, his tongue poking the inside of his cheek. He leans on the ropes, “You know what? You know what? Maybe you’re right. You know, I’m looking into the eyes of the Tribal Chief, and I can see that you have changed. For the better. For the better you have evolved, for the better you are no longer just a historical champion. You, sir, are a legend.”

Roman nods, his own smirk forming. But Y/S/N could sense the “but” coming in that statement from a mile away, especially when Randy started smiling. “Now, I’ve changed too. I’ve changed too. I have evolved. But the one thing Randy Orton will always and forever be…” his eyes darken menacingly as he leans into the mic, “is a legend killer.”

Roman clenched his fists tightly as the crowd becomes louder, all in support of Randy. The two men stare at each other, the tension increasing with every passing second. Y/N waits for her cue, and when she sees Randy’s eyes flicker towards her for a brief second, she readies herself.

The Viper jumps forward, pouncing to try and RKO Roman, but Y/S/N intercepts it. She quickly gets in the middle, pushing Randy away as Roman stumbles backwards. The latter falls down at the edge of the ring, Randy smirking at Y/SN as he crouches down.

Randy stays crouched for a beat longer, eyes flicking up toward Y/S/N with a knowing smirk.

“And speaking of legends…” Randy stands tall again, casually adjusting the mic in his hand. “I gotta say, Chief—” he says the title like it leaves a bad taste in his mouth, “—you might be holding that men’s title hostage, but at least somebody in this little family knows how to defend one.”

That gets a reaction.

The crowd pops—a mix of laughter, surprise, and full-throated support for Y/S/N.

Roman’s head slowly turns toward her. That trademark tick in his jaw twitches. Paul Heyman immediately shifts his weight, almost stepping forward like he’s about to speak, but thinks better of it.

Y/S/N’s expression doesn’t change. Still smug. Still composed. But her posture stiffens just slightly as Randy keeps going.

“Yeah, I said it,” he nods toward the audience, “She shows up. She fights. She defends her title.” He glances back at Roman. “You? You show up twice a month to breathe into a microphone and call it domination.”

The crowd starts chanting again—louder this time.

“Y/S/N! Y/S/N! Y/S/N!”

She glances to the left, then right, barely acknowledging it. She doesn’t need to. The reaction speaks volumes. Even Solo blinks at the sudden shift, while Jimmy casts a sidelong glance toward Roman like he’s unsure whether to smirk or keep it pushing.

Roman lowers his mic slowly. His nostrils flare. Y/S/N doesn’t meet his gaze, instead staring dead ahead at Randy.

“You don’t like that, do you?” Randy says, taking a step closer to the ropes, eyes on Roman but nodding toward her. “That the fans are chanting her name instead of yours?”

Roman moves like he’s about to speak—but Randy cuts him off again.

“It’s gotta burn a little, knowing your own right hand woman’s got more respect in her pinky finger than you got left in your entire reign.”

The crowd goes nuts. Jimmy tries to mask a grin behind his hand. Solo stays unreadable. Paul looks like he’s about to pass out.

Y/S/N remains still, jaw tight, the only movement coming from her thumb lightly tapping the plate of her championship belt like a tick—a small tell.

“And you know, you say you haven’t been thinking about me, man. Maybe you should start thinking about me.” He looks off to the side, placing a finger to his temple. “Hold on, I’m getting something right now from the voices in my head.” He nods, mumbling to himself to really emphasize his point. “You know what they say, you know what they’re telling me? The voices just told me that Roman, you might have just crapped your pants.”

Y/N forces herself to bite the inside of her cheek to prevent herself from laughing. She didn’t remember reading that in the script, but it works. It takes everything in her not to react to the man. Randy notices her holding back a smirk and it only eggs him on more.

“And there’s one more thing that they also said, and I’ll leave you with this.” He turns, face completely stoic as he deadpans.

“Daddy’s back.”

The crowd goes wild as Randy exits the ring, leaving the Bloodline completely shaken in the ring. Roman grabs his title from Paul, raising it in the air as he continues screaming at Randy’s retreating figure. Y/S/N stays glued to her spot, not knowing how to react or what to say to The Viper’s words. She didn’t know how to bring Roman down from the cliff he was about to jump off of. And the hardest part about all of this is that—

Randy wasn’t wrong.

✧･ﾟ:*ᴵ’ᵐ ᵇᵉᵃᵘ ᵗᶦᶠᵘˡ (ꈍ ꒳ ꈍ✿)*:･ﾟ✧*

Y/N leaned back against one of the catering tables, one hip propped as she stabbed another piece of watermelon with a plastic fork. She wasn’t really hungry, but pretending to be occupied was better than awkwardly lurking near the men’s locker room door like an overeager rookie.

Her title belt rested on the table beside her plate, gleaming under the harsh backstage lights. Every few seconds, she’d glance at the digital clock above the catering line. Joe had told her ten minutes before the backstage segment needed to be filmed, but she’d learned by now that Joe’s ten minutes could mean twenty if Paul Heyman got going.

She took another slow bite of watermelon, eyes drifting to one of the nearby monitors playing a highlight reel of the night so far. Her own face flickered across the screen for half a second — that trademark smug expression locked firmly in place — and she huffed out a humorless laugh.

“You know,” came a dry, familiar voice from behind her, “if you stare at yourself on that screen any longer, you’re gonna fall in love with your own reflection.”

She didn’t have to look to know it was Kevin Steen — or, as the WWE Universe insisted on calling him, Kevin Owens. She did turn, though, just in time to catch him nudging her belt aside so he could set down his steaming cup of coffee.

“Kevin.” She gave him a lazy grin, fork still dangling between her fingers. “You’re here to ruin my snack break?”

“I’m here because catering has the only halfway decent coffee in this building,” he said, then tilted his head down at her plate. “Also, what’s with you and melon lately? Didn’t you used to survive on protein shakes and bad catering pasta?”

She shrugged, popping another piece in her mouth. “Trying to be healthy. Champion’s diet. You wouldn’t understand.”

He raised an eyebrow, then gestured dramatically at his bandaged hand. “Oh yeah? ‘Cause this right here is peak physical conditioning.”

She laughed softly, reaching out to flick the edge of his brace with her finger. “How’s the hand, genius?”

Kevin grimaced but didn’t move his hand away. “Hurts like hell. Doc says I shouldn’t be punching people yet. So naturally, tonight I’m going to punch Austin Theory as many times as possible.”

Y/N barked out a laugh, loud enough that a couple of crew members looked over. She didn’t care. She needed this — this small bubble of normalcy.

“I swear, your brain cells are still somewhere on vacation with Rami.”

“Hey now, don’t bring Rami into this. I have one working hand, that’s all I need to powerbomb that twerp back into 2022.”

She snorted. “You better be careful, or Joe’s gonna think you’re aiming for his next challenger spot after Orton.”

Kevin gave her a pointed look, then glanced at the belt beside her. “Yeah? Well, maybe I should just come for yours instead. You defend it more than he does, anyway. At least I’d get to actually wrestle.”

Y/N rolled her eyes, but couldn’t fight the crooked smile tugging at her lips. “Please. You couldn’t handle this gold, Steen. Too heavy for your glass bones and paper skin.”

“Oh wow, that’s rich coming from you. It’s a miracle you even have muscles since all you eat anymore is apparently fruit.” He chastises teasingly before pointing his good finger at her. “You know, you’re lucky I like you. And that you’re about to babysit SmackDown’s royal family. Otherwise I’d challenge you right now — injured hand and all.”

She leaned in, voice dropping conspiratorially. “You know what? I’d still beat you. One-handed Kevin Owens versus fully-functioning me? No contest.”

Kevin looked offended for all of half a second before he burst out laughing. It echoed through catering, a bright sound against the hum of backstage chaos.

He nudged her shoulder lightly with his good arm. “Seriously though… you good? I know you got that segment coming up. I can’t imagine what they’ve got to say. Especially after Randy went off script.”

Y/N’s eyes flicked to the hallway leading to the locker room. She felt the smile soften, just a fraction.

“I’m good. For now. Just gotta go play loyal soldier a little longer.”

Kevin sipped his coffee, eyeing her the way only a real friend does. “Well. If you ever get tired of the Tribal Drama, you know where to find me. We can start our own Bloodline. Only rules are: no crowns, no finger-pointing, and mandatory snacks.”

She laughed again, then bumped her title belt against his hip playfully. “Deal. Now go tape up that sad excuse for a hand before you get embarrassed by Theory.”

Kevin raised his coffee in a mock salute. “Yes, Your Majesty. Reign responsibly.”

She watched him go, the grin lingering even as she turned back to the clock. Ten more minutes, maybe fifteen now. Then back into the wolf’s den — but at least she’d had this.

A small reminder that somewhere between all the lies and the gold and the Bloodline… she was still Y/N. And that was enough.

✧･ﾟ:*ᴵ’ᵐ ᵇᵉᵃᵘ ᵗᶦᶠᵘˡ (ꈍ ꒳ ꈍ✿)*:･ﾟ✧*

Y/N stands next to Solo, leaning against the counter behind them as Joe and Jon take up the couch, Heyman on a chair behind the couch. A few crew members circle around them as they prepare for the next segment. Y/N runs over her lines in her head, slightly altering ones she doesn’t like as much. Creative wouldn’t mind. She’s always been good at improvising to make it better.

One of the camera guys throws his hand up, indicating to them they have five seconds before they start recording. Y/N zones in, her hand lazily placed on the title that’s sitting next to her on the table.

That’s when the countdown hits zero and they start.

“Tonight was supposed to be a celebration,” Roman grumbles to his family, leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees.

Heyman listens to him intently, Solo standing there quietly as he usually does, and Jimmy slightly squirming in his spot. He’s still bothered by the fact Solo was picked over him, but he’s not going to outrightly say it.

“Randy Orton completely ruined this. Completely ruined Solo’s moment.” He runs a hand over his beard before looking at Jimmy, “You saw it, right?”

Jimmy scoffs quietly, nodding. “Yeah, I saw.” He bobs his head side to side with that signature Uso attitude.

However, if Roman sees it, he doesn’t say anything, too obsessed with the drama Randy created. “Someone’s got to… someone’s got to shut his mouth,” he growls lowly. “The things he said to me… He needs to be silenced.”

Jimmy sits up, “Listen Uce, I can silence Randy Orton, but it sounds like a job for the uh–” he sends a petty look up to his younger brother, “Tribal heir.” He emphasizes the last word dramatically, over pronouncing every syllable.

Once again, Y/N’s in danger of breaking. She’s really off her game tonight. Or maybe Jon’s delivery was just too funny to ignore.

Roman looks at Jimmy with a bewildered expression, “You kidding me? It’s promotion season. If you’re able to handle Randy Orton alone, just imagine what’s in store for you. Get anything? You understand?”

That little teaser didn’t get past Jimmy. Suddenly his posture is a bit straighter, and he’s a little more willing to fight Randy. Anyone could see he’s still irritated about Roman’s choices, but he couldn’t deny. The thought of earning his cousin’s respect was hard to pass up. He smiles like a kid in a candy store, his excitement becoming harder to contain. Before he knows it the forbidden phrase in the Bloodline locker room escapes him.

“Yeet.”

It almost feels like everything stops. Y/S/N’s eyes widen, Solo glances at his brother, and even Paul freezes. Roman’s head turns impossibly slow towards Jimmy. His eyes narrow in an intimidating fashion, almost daring Jim to say that again.

Jimmy watches in fear for a moment, swallowing thickly. “…No yeet.” He mumbles, almost like an apology.

Roman’s eyes stay locked on Jimmy for a long, suffocating second, then he lets out a breath that’s more growl than exhale. He pushes to his feet in that deliberate, powerful way he always does when he wants the whole room to feel his authority.

“Come on,” he orders, voice low but sharp enough to cut the tension. He jerks his chin at Solo and Paul. “We’re done here. Let’s let Mr. Yeet man Junior here figure out his match with Randy.”

Heyman nearly trips over his own feet gathering Roman’s title and the mic, murmuring anxious agreements as he follows. Solo doesn’t say a word — just pushes off the counter and stalks after his cousin, stone-faced, massive presence trailing behind Roman’s.

Jimmy doesn’t move. He watches them leave, lips pressed into a thin, bitter line. He barely notices when Y/N crosses the space and drops into the seat next to him, close enough that her knee bumps his thigh.

For a moment, neither says anything. The hum of backstage dies down as it just becomes the two of them. No pressure from Roman, no lingering Paul, no hard stare from Solo… Just them.

Y/N nudges him gently with her elbow. “Hey.”

Jimmy glances at her, eyes tired despite the forced smirk tugging at his mouth. “Hey, Queenie.”

She rolls her eyes at the nickname but doesn’t correct him this time. Instead, she studies him for a heartbeat — the restless bounce of his knee, the way he keeps cracking his knuckles like he wants to punch something but knows he shouldn’t.

“You know,” she says, her voice softer than the usual cocky edge she uses for the cameras, “for what it’s worth… I think you deserve it.”

Jimmy’s brow furrows. “Deserve what?”

“The spot. The title. The… whatever Roman keeps calling it this month. ‘Heir.’” She mimics Roman’s dramatic emphasis, earning a breathy half-laugh from him. “You deserve it just as much as Solo. If not more.”

Jimmy scoffs, shaking his head, but it’s not dismissive — more like he’s trying to swallow something sharp. “Nah. Nah, Solo’s the good soldier, right? Stands there, doesn’t talk back, does whatever big bro says. I open my mouth too much, make too many jokes. That’s not ‘heir’ material.”

Y/N leans in, catching his eyes so he can’t look away. “Yeah, well, maybe the real problem is that you care. You feel all this more than they do. You bleed for it. You’ve been fighting for this family since day one. That doesn’t make you weak, J. It makes you stronger than any of them.”

He exhales through his nose, a shaky chuckle bubbling up. “You sound sappy as hell, y’know that?”

Her lips twitch into a small grin. “Yeah, well maybe it’s just because this sap and I both see you clearer than you see yourself.”

Jimmy falls quiet, staring at the floor like he’s looking through it. Then the frustration leaks out — raw and honest, no camera to posture for.

“I don’t mind doin’ the dirty work. I don’t mind takin’ hits for him, for Solo, for any of ‘em. But damn, just once… just once I wish it was me. Not the one left behind. Not the joke. Not the one they send to lose so Solo can look good. And, you know I don’t say nothin’. I keep my mouth shut and just keep grindin’. But I’m tired of it. I’m tired of bein’ overlooked all the time.”

Y/N’s hand finds his, squeezing tight enough that he actually looks up. “Jim, you are the heart of this family. Without you, Roman’s just a king talking to an empty throne. You hear me? They can’t crown an heir if there’s no kingdom left to stand on. And you keep this standing.”

Jimmy blinks a few times, then laughs softly, rough with emotion. “Yeah? And what about you, huh? He shoulda just left it all to you. At least you show up. You hold your gold. You do the work. I’d get it if it was you. Hell, I’d follow you.”

She laughs then, nudging him again. “You do follow me. Every time we get booked together, you stand right behind me doing dumb dances.”

“Damn right,” Jimmy says, grinning wide enough to chase away the gloom for a second. “Ain’t nobody better than you, sis.”

She squeezes his hand again, then bumps her shoulder to his. “Right back at you, Uso.”

For a moment they just sit there — two soldiers in the same war, finding the only comfort they can in each other.

Then the red light on the camera goes dark with a click, and the crew chief calls out, “Cut! That’s it, good work, guys!”

Jimmy lets out a long breath and slumps back against the couch dramatically. Y/N hops up, extends a hand to him.

“C’mon. Handshake time.”

Jimmy snorts but takes her hand. They slip into that little secret routine she and Jon made up forever ago — a quick slap, a twist, a finger-gun point, and a goofy snap at the end. It’s so dumb but it never fails to make both of them grin.

“Not bad tonight, huh?” Jimmy says, pushing himself up.

“You killed it, J. Seriously. They’re gonna eat that promo up.”

He throws an arm around her shoulders, pulling her in for a quick squeeze. “Next time, you and me, no Solo. We run the whole damn show.”

She smirks, tilting her head to bump his temple. “Bet. Now let’s go find you somethin’ to eat before you start getting grumpy. Last thing I need is a hangry Jon.”

Jimmy laughs, warm and unburdened for just a second, as they head down the hall together — two rebels, still holding the Bloodline together whether Roman knew it or not.

✧･ﾟ:*ᴵ’ᵐ ᵇᵉᵃᵘ ᵗᶦᶠᵘˡ (ꈍ ꒳ ꈍ✿)*:･ﾟ✧*

Y/N’s still dragging her boots one step at a time, half-delirious from adrenaline and half-annoyed at the sting in her shoulder, when the backstage curtain drops behind her. The roar of the crowd spills through for one last echo before Gorilla swallows it back up, leaving just the hum of crew radios and distant PA chatter.

She huffs out a breath, wipes the sweat sticking her hair to her neck, and lets the heavy championship belt drop against her thigh with a dull thud. If her legs could file for divorce, they would’ve done it halfway through that last superplex from Bayley.

The match went just as planned. There was only one little snag with Y/N’s landing during the superplex, but other than that, the crowd ate up their last minute match. The feud and tension is growing, both of their names already trending on X as mentioned by one of the sound guys when she was walking back.

She’s halfway to the locker room when a high, bright squeal of, “There she is!” nearly makes her jump out of her skin.

Bianca barrels straight into her, hugging her around the shoulders — uncaring of the sweat. Trinity follows right behind, looping her arms around both of them, trapping Y/N in a sticky, giggling sandwich of glitter and hairspray.

“I literally hate you both,” Y/N deadpans, squeezing them back anyway. “I’m ninety percent sweat and forty percent shoulder pain. Do not touch me—”

Bianca just flicks her ear. “Stop complaining, you show-off. That crowd lost their damn minds! Did you hear them? ‘This is awesome!’ Girl, YOU are awesome!”

Trinity snorts, leaning back just enough to look her up and down. “You look like you fought a bear and won. You good?”

“Barely,” Y/N grumbles. She adjusts the title on her shoulder, tilting her head side to side to pop the ache out. “And if either of you are about to pull out a phone, the answer is no. I’m not doing one of your TikToks tonight. My knee still hasn’t recovered from that TikTok you made me do before Mania.”

Bianca clutches her chest dramatically. “Wow. No faith in us. We just wanted to talk. Right, Trin?”

“Totally,” Trinity agrees far too quickly. “Let’s just… stand here. And talk. While we find good lighting.”

Y/N squints at both of them. “…Why are you dragging me towards the catering sign?”

Bianca pats her cheek like a baby. “Shhh. Don’t worry about it.”

By the time Y/N realizes she’s been bamboozled, Bianca’s plopped her bag on a production crate and is propping her phone up against a water bottle to keep it steady. She even checks the camera angle, licking her thumb to wipe a smudge off the lens. Trinity does a quick spin in the overhead light, making sure her braids catch the shine.

“Okay, scoot back—” Bianca shoves Y/N by the hips until she’s standing dead center in front of the phone. “Perfect. We’re doing the Barbie mashup dance.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Absolutely yes,” Trinity singsongs. She does a few warmup hip rolls. “Come on, you know the first part already. Arms up, hips left, then pop-pop—”

“I just survived Bayley’s discount Mortal Kombat finisher and you want me to pop-pop?” Y/N points to her knee accusingly. “This knee hates y’all.”

Bianca pinches her cheek again. “She’ll live. Now smile — we’re all pink, we’re all pretty, we’re all unstoppable.”

Trinity slides next to her, flicks her hair over her shoulder like a true hype woman, and cues up the audio: that mix of “I’m a Barbie girl” with the dramatic beat drop that blew up on everyone’s FYP over the last few months.

Bianca counts them in under her breath: “Five, six, seven, eight—”

Y/N tries not to look like she’s dying while matching their snappy arm flicks and hip dips, but she can’t help it — halfway through, Trinity spins the wrong way and nearly whacks Bianca in the boob, and Y/N loses it, wheezing out a snort loud enough to echo off the catering sign.

“Stay on beat!” Bianca yells mid-spin, even though she’s laughing too hard to catch the next step herself.

“I’m TRYING!” Trinity shrieks. “I got long legs, B!”

Y/N holds her stomach, breathless, but somehow still manages the final pose: one hip out, both arms thrown up like a pageant queen. The audio fades out just in time for a new voice to chime in, low and amused behind them.

“Seriously?”

All three women turn. Shaun’s leaning against the doorway with his arms crossed, smirk so smug it practically has its own zip code. He cocks a brow at Y/N first, then at the phone.

“You roped her into this again?” he asks Bianca, tone flat but his eyes giving him away.

Bianca points at Y/N immediately. “Don’t look at me. She did the dance better than both of us. Go on then, Big Man — get in here, let’s see what you got.”

Shaun scoffs. “You don’t want that smoke.”

Trinity bounces over, grabs his wrist, and yanks him next to Y/N before he can flee. “Too late. Camera’s still rolling. Impress us.”

Y/N wipes sweat off her forehead, giggling. “If you break your hip doing this, I’m not helping you up.”

Shaun gives her a side-eye — then without warning, he matches their pose, counts himself in, and hits every step of the Barbie mashup with obnoxiously precise pops and a final hip roll that would make Trinity cry tears of joy.

The squeal that leaves Bianca’s mouth is unholy. “STOP IT. You practice this at home!”

Shaun just shrugs, trying not to smile but failing miserably. “Gotta stay young somehow.”

When they hit the final pose again — all four hands up, giggling and half-bent over from laughing — Trinity lunges for Bianca’s phone and yells, “Posting that NOW! And tag me first, you petty cow!”

Bianca’s cackling too hard to argue, half-hugging Y/N with one arm and fanning her face with the other. “This is gonna break the internet, I swear—”

Y/N leans her head back against Shaun’s shoulder, eyes closed but grinning so wide it almost hurts.

“I hate you all. And I love you all. Now someone buy me a damn Gatorade before my knee files a restraining order.”

Shaun hums, arms still around her shoulders. “Only if you promise to teach me that other dance you said was too ‘Gen Z’ for me.”

Bianca screams, “OH, he wants the Renegade next! Say less!”

Y/N just groans dramatically, but her laugh gives her away.

And for a minute — despite all the chaos waiting outside catering — everything is bright, stupid, pink, and perfect.

✧･ﾟ:*ᴵ’ᵐ ᵇᵉᵃᵘ ᵗᶦᶠᵘˡ (ꈍ ꒳ ꈍ✿)*:･ﾟ✧*

The night had gone by relatively fast. Y/N leans against one of the production crates, chuckling quietly at something Joseph said as Jon exits from Gorilla to meet Randy Orton at the ring. It’s main event time. The two of them continue snickering to themselves, earning pointed looks from some of the crew for being too loud.

“Stop,” Y/N playfully scolds, smacking Joseph’s chest. “I already have to pee and you’re making it worse.”

Joseph scrunches his nose, pushing her back. “Girl get outta here,” he waves her off. “You shoulda went before we had to get ready.”

“I didn’t have to go then,” Y/N fires back, sticking her tongue out at him.

“Then suck it up,” he sasses. “I ain’t about to get in trouble ‘cause yo ass couldn’t hold it.”

“I wouldn’t be struggling if you’d stop making me laugh,” she scolds through gritted teeth.

“Why am I being told you guys are causin’ issues,” Joe’s voice catches their attention as he strolls up to them. His voice sounds serious, but the smirk on his face gives away his playfulness.

“It ain’t me, man,” Joseph says, defending himself. “Thas on her. She’s bein’ all loud and shit.”

Y/N scoffs, “Me?!” She exclaims rather loudly, seemingly forgetting where she’s at.

That was enough to warrant a “shh” from one of the nearby producers. Joseph slaps a hand over his mouth to stop himself from cackling at Y/N getting in trouble. Joe simply smiles, laughing softly as he shakes his head.

“I hate both of you,” Y/N grumbles, crossing her arms as she turns away from them. Her eyes move towards the monitor, flinching as Jimmy hits the mat hard. But she won’t look back at the two men behind her, giving them the cold shoulder for making fun of her.

“Oh c’mon, Y/N/N,” Joe placed his hands on her shoulder, squeezing her softly. “We’re just playin’.”

“Shh,” she barely throws a glance his way, finger pressed to her lips. “I’m trying to watch the show. Don’t wanna be a ‘distraction,’” she makes air quotations with her fingers.

“Damn,” Joseph’s eyebrows shoot up into his hairline. “She petty petty.”

Y/N keeps her arms stubbornly folded, jaw set like she’s made of granite, but Joe’s thumbs gently kneading at her shoulders makes her resolve flicker. He leans closer to her ear just to poke at the bear some more.

“You gon’ ignore your Tribal Chief now?” he teases low, a grin tucked behind his tone.

She elbows him back lightly, not moving her eyes from the monitor where Jimmy crawls toward the ropes. “Chief my ass. According to you, Solo’s the real chief—”

“Hey!” Joseph barks out a laugh at her mutiny, pressing the back of his hand to his mouth again to hide how loud it is. “Nah, you heard that Joe? She said you washed.”

Joe gives him a look like keep talking if you wanna run laps tomorrow. Then he flicks Y/N’s earring just to be annoying.

“Watch your mouth, lil girl,” Joe warns, but his grin is all affection.

“I’d say make me,” Y/N sasses, finally glancing up at him with a sugary sweet smile that means trouble. “But you’d cry if you tried.”

Joseph wheezes so loud the poor sound tech behind him actually flinches. “Man, y’all gon’ get us fired—” he barely gets out before a new voice interrupts him.

Shaun slides right up behind Y/N, winding one big arm casually around her waist like it’s second nature. He tugs her back against him, chin hooking over her shoulder as if he owns the real estate there.

“Who’s getting fired?” Shaun hums. “Not my girl, I hope.”

Joe’s brow arches high enough to hit the ceiling rig. He flicks his eyes pointedly from Shaun’s hand on Y/N’s hip to Y/N’s face — then lifts his chin slightly, the silent Colby gonna love this message clear as day.

Y/N sees it. She sees it and purposefully ignores it, leaning back against Shaun with a smug little hum. “Hi, trouble,” she says instead, voice dripping sugar.

Joseph’s practically doubled over, muffling his cackles into the back of his wrist. “Oh, nah, she playin’ with her life for real!”

Joe just clicks his tongue once, a subtle warning, but before he can say more the unmistakable pulse of Solo’s entrance music shakes the Gorilla curtain. Joseph instantly straightens up, rolling his neck like he’s prepping for war. He flicks Y/N’s nose on his way past. “Hold ya man back if he starts swingin’, aight?”

Y/N flips him off sweetly, then watches him stalk out to the arena, his silent enforcer mode flipped on the moment he passes through the curtain.

Y/N stands planted by the monitor, Shaun’s arm draped low on her hip. He leans in close, murmuring in her ear, voice warm and amused as they watch Joseph on the screen.

“You think he’s really got Orton rattled?” Shaun drawls, teeth grazing her earlobe for just a second — enough to earn him a sharp elbow in his ribs.

“Behave,” she warns, but she’s fighting a smile.

“Oh, I’ll behave…” His palm slides lower. “…after I handle Solo out there.”

Before she can roll her eyes, the arena explodes again: Shaun’s music crashes through the curtain next — the crowd roaring for LA Knight. He grins, all wolfish mischief, and plants a quick, cocky kiss just under her ear.

“Watch me, sweetheart.”

He slips away before she can swat him — bursting through the curtain to that trademark YEAH! chant that rocks the rafters. Y/N presses her fingertips to where his mouth just was, heat blooming in her chest even as she tries to focus on the monitor.

She doesn’t get long.

“Go,” Joe’s voice rumbles behind her — a warning and an order. “Don’t let him have all the spotlight. Go remind him whose ring it is.”

And just like that — her theme hits.

The pop is violent. People don’t just cheer — they scream.

Shaun’s head whips around halfway down the ramp. He should be locked on Solo — but the second her music cuts through the chaos, his whole demeanor shifts. A cocky grin splits his face, and he stops dead mid-stride, eyes locked on Gorilla.

Y/N stalks out like she owns the place — shoulders back, eyes gleaming, fury in every step. The audience catches on instantly: something is about to happen.

On commentary, Wade Barrett barks, “WHAT?! The champ’s coming out here now?!”

Knight keeps his eyes on her — Solo forgotten — anyone looking at him would assume that the only person who mattered in this arena to him, was her.

Y/N stops just feet away, the ramp sizzling with tension. The audience howls. Phones shoot up in every direction, capturing the shot: Knight and the champion nose-to-nose, teeth bared, neither blinking.

Cole on commentary nearly blows a gasket: “Look at this face-off! LA Knight’s not even paying attention to Solo — he’s obsessed with Y/N!”

Shaun drops his chin until his mouth hovers just over her ear, voice pitched low for only her:

“Hit me first. Do it. I know you want to.”

Her hand fists in his vest — every ounce of her fighting the urge to slam him right there on the ramp.

Behind them, Orton’s eyes narrow. He clocks the distraction instantly. A predatory grin curls at the corner of his mouth — and with Knight too busy sizing up Y/N, Randy lashes out, planting Jimmy with a vicious RKO out of nowhere.

The ref’s hand slaps three.

Randy Orton has stolen it.

Y/S/N and Knight’s head spin towards the ring as Jimmy rolls over to the side, his head still spinning. After a moment, Knight starts chuckling, the sound low and filthy as he glances back to her to see the shocked expression on her face.

That moment between them is now burned in neon; the Megastar and Women’s Universal Champion standing nose to nose, the internet already losing its mind as pictures from various angles are posted.

LA goes to take another step in her direction, almost like he can’t help himself. Just as Solo struggles to get back up to his feet in order to protect Y/S/N, she shoves Knight backwards roughly. The entire arena explodes as she starts screaming at Knight for causing a big enough distraction.

Knight simply starts screaming back, the two of them so engrossed in yelling at each other that he is completely blindsided when Roman comes bolting down the ramp, knocking him onto the floor with a seething blow.

He falls, limbs sprawled out all over the ramp before he reaches up to clutch the back of his head. The arena is earth-shatteringly loud. Roman’s eyes meet Randy’s in the ring, the Viper falling to the floor, slapping the mat how he always does when he’s daring an opponent to come at him.

There’s no hesitation in Roman’s stride as he continues his way to the ring. Y/S/N darts quickly behind him, her shorter legs having to do much more just to keep up with her Tribal Chief. Both of them slide into the ring with practiced ease, Roman popping up to immediately go after Randy.

Y/S/N on the other hand, runs over to Jimmy who’s sitting in the corner of the ring. She quietly asks if he’s okay, to which he responds with a nod of his head. She helps him to his feet as Solo climbs into the ring now, going after Randy to help Roman.

Solo tries to hit Randy with a Samoan Spike, Roman holding him down. But that’s when Knight charges into the squared circle, taking Solo out from behind. With that, Y/S/N and Jimmy are on their feet.

Y/S/N immediately goes after LA, the two of them facing off once again. Just as he’s about to open his mouth, she spins on her heel, lifting her other leg up in the air to deliver a gnarly roundhouse kick to the side of his head. Jimmy follows it up with a super kick to his gut before shoving him down into the corner and delivering lefts and rights straight from hell.

“Jimmy Uso and Y/S/N just completely scrambled the brain of LA Knight! What is happening?!”

“I’ll tell you what’s happening, Cole. The number’s game always seems to catch up to any opponent of the Bloodline,” Wade voices. “And despite the Megastar and Randy Orton being as tough as they are, they’re no match for this faction.”

Just as Roman is about to deliver the final blow to Randy, a familiar beat drops . Blue lights flicker all over the arena and Y/S/N freezes in place. Her eyes flicker all around, trying to get a visual on the superstar none of them were expecting.

AJ Styles.

The place goes white hot. Suddenly, AJ jumps out from the WWE universe and is up on the top rope of the ring in a flash. He springboards off the top rope and drills Roman with a Phenomenal Forearm that flips the Tribal Chief inside out.

Pandemonium. The Bloodline scrambles out of the ring, dragging Jimmy between them as they stagger up the ramp — Solo snarling over his shoulder, Roman clutching his ribs, Y/N fuming but forced to retreat beside them.

Left in the ring: Styles, Orton, and Knight — battered, cocky, victorious for tonight.

But AJ doesn’t smile long. He spins on Knight, hoists him — and plants him with a Styles Clash dead center.

Michael practically screams: “AJ Styles just laid out LA Knight! Nobody is safe tonight!”

AJ stands tall for half a heartbeat, glaring down at the wreckage — then stalks out through the crowd again, leaving Knight to groan on the canvas under the strobing lights.

Meanwhile, at the top of the ramp, Y/N lifts her title defiantly — eyes locked on Knight, who’s already pushing up on bloody elbows to grin back at her.

The second the cameras cut, the chaos doesn’t stop — not really. Crew members hurry to break down barricades while agents clap each other’s shoulders, buzzing about the segment’s heat.

Roman wipes sweat from his brow, Jimmy leaning heavy on his shoulder while Solo trails a few steps behind, seething about Styles’ return. Y/S/N moves right in the middle of them — all business, but her grin betrays her pride.

As soon as they cross Gorilla, a ripple of laughter and congratulatory shouts breaks out. Road agents, creative, a few producers swarm them — praising the brawl, the surprise pop, the viral moment brewing online already.

AJ is there, bouncing on his toes with that old swagger, exchanging quick hugs with staff who can’t believe he’s back. Y/N pushes through the clutter first — not bothering with words as she wraps him in a tight hug.

“Welcome home, old man,” she teases against his shoulder.

He chuckles, squeezing her tighter. “Don’t ‘old man’ me, kid. You’re the one out here stealin’ everybody’s thunder.”

She pulls back with a wink. “Somebody’s gotta keep you humble.”

AJ laughs, swatting the back of her head gently before drifting to talk with Randy. Speaking of — Orton materializes behind Y/N, running a hand over the top of his head and tapping her shoulder. She spins around, instantly high-fiving him so hard their palms crack.

“That kick looked like it’d break my jaw,” Randy says, that signature glint of mischief in his eyes.

Y/N shrugs, “It was just a good sell,” she tells him. “I’m sure it would feel like a butterfly kiss to you.”

He laughs — actually laughs — before clapping her on the back and stalking off to find a trainer.

A heartbeat later, she feels the familiar brush of fingers on her wrist. She doesn’t even have to turn. Shaun’s there, sweat glistening on his hairline, a crooked grin carved across his mouth.

“Hell of a show out there, champ.”

She rolls her eyes, but she can’t hide the small smile that slips out as they high five — except he doesn’t let go. Instead, his bigger hand slides down to clasp hers properly, fingers weaving through hers, palm to palm.

For a breath, it’s warm. Dangerous. Just enough space between them to remind her how easy it would be to close it.

“Shaun…” she warns softly, eyes flicking toward the Bloodline boys a few feet away — Solo watching, Joe stone-faced as always.

He raises their joined hands, brushing a teasing kiss to her knuckles. “I know. I know.” He lets her go, reluctantly. “Can’t blame a guy for tryin’, though. Gotta keep my hat in the ring somehow, right?”

She shakes her head, cheeks flushing despite herself. “Idiot.”

“What can I say? You bring it out in me,” he fires back, voice lower, softer — the tease masking something else neither of them can afford to say.

Before she can respond, he tips an invisible hat and strolls off — drawing a few catcalls from the crew that she pointedly ignores. With that, she spins back to where Joseph’s perched on a crate, arms crossed, expression thunderous. Jon is sprawled beside him, selling his neck but managing a grin when she leans down to peck his cheek.

“Good job tonight, Uso,” she murmurs, ruffling his sweaty hair.

Jon hums, voice scratchy. “Better job distractin’ Knight, sis.”

She laughs, flicking his forehead. “Shut up.”

Joe catches her eye then — a rare, softened look from the Tribal Chief himself. He nods once. No words needed. She nods back.

With a final squeeze to Jon’s shoulder, she straightens, hoisting her bag from the bench.

“Alright boys, I’m headed back to the hotel before y’all drag me into more chaos. Don’t wait up, and don’t break anything.”

Jonathan throws her a weak two-finger salute. Joseph just grunts — which, for him, might as well be I’ll kill anyone who messes with you. Joe watches her go, that silent understanding lingering: she’s family, by choice and by bloodline.

As she slips through the curtain toward the exit, the chaos of the arena fades behind her — but that buzz, that tension, the sparks she left with Knight? That’s gonna burn all the way to the next show.

✧･ﾟ:*ᴵ’ᵐ ᵇᵉᵃᵘ ᵗᶦᶠᵘˡ (ꈍ ꒳ ꈍ✿)*:･ﾟ✧*

Y/N sinks back against the headboard, hair damp and towel slung around her shoulders, phone propped between her knee and the comforter. Her room still smells faintly like the hotel shampoo — lavender and whatever promises “luxury” — but right now, all she cares about is the way her phone vibrates in her palm.

Colbs 🔥

FaceTime Incoming…

A soft groan escapes her, but she’s already smiling when she swipes to answer. Colby’s grin greets her first — smug, insufferably handsome, hair still wet from his own shower and brushing his bare shoulders.

“Well, well, well. Look who finally decided to stop body-slamming the entire men’s division and answer my call.”

Y/N rolls her eyes dramatically. “I was showering, big shot. Some of us like to wash off other people’s sweat before bedtime.”

“Oh, you showered, huh?” His eyebrows wiggle, voice dropping into that teasing rasp that never fails to send goosebumps up her spine. “I’m gonna need proof, sweetheart.”

She gasps, feigning horror, tugging the towel tighter around herself. “Colby Lopez! There are children in this hotel.”

He barks out a laugh, leaning back in his chair — the familiar walls of his hotel room behind him. “Yeah, yeah, sure. Speaking of children… you and Knight? That tension tonight?” He whistles low. “You gonna tell me how far that’s gonna go, or do I gotta fly in and mark my territory?”

Her head falls back against the headboard as she laughs, covering her burning cheeks with one hand. “Oh my god, you’re so dramatic.”

He hums, predatory. “And you’re deflecting.”

“I’m working, dummy. Using what I got to help the Bloodline stay on top. That’s all.”

“Oh, I know.” His voice curls around the word like velvet. “Doesn’t mean I like watchin’ another man look at you like that. He’d risk it all if you crooked a finger.”

She giggles, pressing her fingertips to her warm cheek. “Shaun’s harmless. He knows better.”

Colby lifts a brow, teasing and sharp. “Mmm. Does he? Pretty sure he was about two seconds away from bending you backwards on the ramp. Should I have come down there and reminded him who you come cryin’ to when it’s late?”

Her eyes narrow, playful but suspicious. “Whoa, whoa — what is up with you tonight? You’re being way too bold. Usually you’re just all shy and cute about it, now you’re actin’ like I’m yours to claim or something.”

Colby’s grin softens but turns wicked at the edges. He scratches his jaw, then leans closer to the camera, voice so low she can feel it in her belly. “Maybe watchin’ that pretty face stand nose to nose with someone who isn’t me lit a little fire under my ass. You think I wanna see him stand that close to what’s mine? Nah. So now I gotta make sure you remember.”

Y/N chokes on a laugh, a little squeal slipping out. “You’re ridiculous. ‘What’s mine’? Colby, we’re not even—”

“Not yet.” He cuts her off, pointing at her through the screen, eyes burning with that quiet confidence that always makes her weak. “But keep teasing me, sweetheart. See how long I stay polite about it.”

She shoves her AirPod deeper with an embarrassed squeak. “God, you’re so annoying tonight—”

“You love it,” he fires back without missing a beat, voice back to a low purr. “You love me flustered and when I remind you I could break Knight in half if I wanted to.”

Y/N shakes her head, biting her bottom lip as she snuggles deeper under the covers. Colby watches, his eyes scanning over what he can see slowly. He grins wolfishly, voice dropping until it’s all soft gravel. “Go on. Deny it. Tell me who you think about when you can’t sleep.”

Her mouth falls open — and no sound comes out except a small, traitorous laugh. She hides behind her palm. “I’m gonna hang up if you don’t knock this shit off.”

“No you won’t.” He wiggles his eyebrows, then pretends to pout. “But seriously, when are we makin’ this official? You know I don’t share well.”

She sticks out her tongue. “You want me? Come earn me, Lopez.”

“Oh, I plan to, don’t you worry.” His grin turns downright sinful. “And when I do? There’s not a man alive gonna get that close to you again, mark my words.”

Her pulse does an embarrassing somersault in her chest, her face splitting into the widest grin she’s worn all day. “You talk too much.”

“And you think too loud.” He points at her through the screen. “Bet you’re picturing me right now, huh?”

She runs a hand over her face with an indignant squeak. “Okay, enough of you!” She taps her phone to escape to TikTok, needing a distraction before her body combusts from how hot her face feels.

Colby’s voice floats through her speaker. “Don’t run from me now—”

She freezes. Right there on her feed is the TikTok — the TikTok — the one Bianca posted earlier. The Barbie mashup. Her, B, Trinity… and Knight popping up at the end, all stupid grin and cocky shoulders. It’s got millions of views already.

She snorts, reading the comments out loud.

@WWEQueenEnergy: the Bloodline’s real threat is her fine self lmaoooo

@ItsWrestleTea: tell me Knight didn’t wanna risk it all when she showed up 😂🔥

@wrestleMOM69: she ain’t even that good, why she everywhere now? 🙄

@RomanAndSoloFan: stay mad, she EATS every time.

Colby barks out a laugh. “Oh send that to me right now. I’m about to go tag him in a ‘stay away from my girl’ meme, watch me.”

She shoves her face into her pillow, muffling her scream. “You’re so embarrassing! And technically I’m not even ‘your girl.’”

He tsks. “Maybe not right now. Just give me a minute though. We’ll see how long that lasts.”

She shakes her head, warmth pooling in her stomach at the way he says her nickname. Swiping back to Instagram for distraction, she starts mindlessly tapping through stories — Bianca reposting the TikTok, Trinity reposting it with sparkles… then— She goes still.

A black screen. Just one photo. Her match with Bayley, mid-finisher. Sharp. Crisp. Untagged.

@CMPunk.

Colby’s voice cuts into her stunned silence. “Hello? Trouble? You get shy on me all of a sudden?”

She can’t help it — a small, soft smile curls on her lips. Her heartbeat does that annoying skip again. He still watches. Despite everything. Despite the fights. Despite how strongly they dislike each other now, he still watches her.

That’s something she always wondered when he left. He always told her that no matter what, no matter how mad he ever got at her, he would never stop watching her. Said the way she moved in the ring was unlike anything he’d ever seen. That kind of talent couldn’t be ignored. And now seeing that, maybe that was a sign that despite his loathing towards her now, he still kept his word.

“It’s nothing,” she breathes, warmth flooding her tone even if she tries to swallow it. “Just… the internet being the internet, you know?”

Colby hums, suspicious but soft. “Mmhm. You keep secrets from me, I’m gonna come find you myself. You know I know what hotel you’re staying in, right?”

She laughs, her eyes still locked on the story that shouldn’t make her feel anything — but absolutely does. “Goodnight, Colby.”

“Dream about me.”

“I always do.” And she ends the call, alone in her hotel bed — her phone glowing in her palm — heartbeat thrumming with a thousand feelings she’s not ready to unpack just yet.

[thereallycoolmonsterithoughtup]

laios i will feed you ten million cheesecakes . one at a time . over the course of multiple centuries

bonus girl laios for the cool people

[wackywatchdotcom]

something i genuinely adore about tadc is how painfully flawed everyone in the circus is. and not in a small way

everyone does SOMETHING that negatively impacts the others. but it makes the fact that you are supposed to sympathize with and really connect with them all the more potent. because its easy to want to put a bunch of characters in a bad situation together and to just have them all be nice to each other and everyone and never make mistakes because theres no reason to hurt each other, and most of them dont TRY to, but the way they cope is so, so realistic for each of their personalities, and it doesnt always mesh with the others, and sometimes it exceeds self destructive and Just Hurts Others, Too

they still generally care about each other and the mistakes they make and the ways they end up hurting each other dont lose their weight but like. it doesnt take away from their humanity and the fact that they are all trying so hard to manage in an awful situation

and the characters seem to have sooome sort of understanding of this too. not fully, because the characters dont tend to be 100% communicative, but when they hurt each other, it often makes EVERYONE uncomfortable. because these are the only people they have. these are their friends. and theyre all coping. but it doesnt change how much it affects them (best illustrated by ragathas lines at the start of ep 2 or gangles 'i love her, but after a while it gets kinda hard to tell how genuine shes actually being'). its not all like this, theres a good amnt of variety, but characters knowing this but not really knowing what to do about it is very painful in an effective way

(i think a subtle example of this is how zooble handles gangles situation in ep 4- they were so genuinely trying to help her because they care. but could tell as the day went on that oh, this is not working at all and its making things worse, and they leave gangle alone- something that very genuinely couldve been the moment she abstracted, because of the mask zooble gave her- and we dont get to have a super blatant explanation of zoobles thoughts on it, but they reach a fairly healthy conclusion about it that helps both of them, and i like that a lot, because on paper zooble could be placed at fault but the narrative doesnt dwell on it excessively, because thats not the point. i dont know if that tangent makes sense but i think about it sometimes. i think zooble wasnt 'to blame' but it was still a mistake, which is a hard balance to strike, and having them help at the end feels extremely effective at rounding it off!!!)

but like. in general its complicated balancing making characters in a bad situation act flawed because it can run the risk of seeming like the story is scolding them or blaming them for the situation theyre in, or like youre expected to not sympathize with them despite it (though the inverse also has complications- if characters in a bad situation never mess up, it feels unrealistic and hard to relate to, and can imply that their innocence is why whats happening to them is bad at all), but the show handles it so well

even the characters who are genuinely trying all try in different ways- some of them have similar outlooks or attitudes towards these thing but theres vital differences for ALL of them- sometimes it works and sometimes it doesnt. in fact some of the more painful mistakes characters have made in the show have come from them so genuinely trying (like the thing i mentioned w zooble, or basically Everything Ragatha Does, or pomnis first attempt at helping gangle, etc), which hits harder than if every mistake characters made had wholly selfish and cruel goals.

i mean, there is a selfishness to many of the characters' actions but imo not in a way thats not warranted. because all of them are in a horrible setting. its uncomfortable to watch characters be selfish. but it is a natural instinct to survive. its not the foundation of most of their actions, but when it is, its uncomfortable but hard to completely disparage them for in a way that makes you feel kinda conflicted

and like. it hurts to be doing your best and for that to make things worse, but its what happens often in the show. because no one in a bad situation is gonna handle it well. by the very nature of trying to survive something is gonna give, but it makes the themes of the show so much more powerful. that making sure the people around you dont feel unloved, cherishing them and finding meaning with others is no less important just because everyone is fucking up. it complicates things, for sure, but it doesnt make those characters exempt fromt this. theres a reason pomni tells gummigoo that she doesnt want "anyone" to feel like theyre nothing, and that kinger doesnt add ANY quallifiers to making sure people feel wanted and loved (not that i think either of them were thinking SUPER super hard, but it conveys smth from the perspective of the narrative

it gets complicated when you add in jax for sure, since i think on the surface he IS the exception to this concept- none of the characters like him, including pomni or kinger. but i think this is something thats gonna be examined further down the line, bc hes the main complicating factor in this reading of the show, but i feel like thats on purpose. hes universally disliked (and so is caine, in a different way) and his actions arent mistakes. they are him coping. the show has made it clear that he can be a complex person AND also a piece of shit. his actions dont detract from the fact that hes a person and the show reminds us of this. so it makes things so messy, but im genuinely super excited to see how the show examines that. where his character goes is, imo, going to be a massive piece of how this show fleshes out this concept

[ajn-illustrated]

Thinking about her (Emily Chance) ♥️

[lesbiten]

are you aware of the. doctor who events

hey man i just watched the episode tonight.

[listen-to-the-inner-walrus]

I really hate when you read a book that has an interesting enough story but is structurally bad.

It keeps you thinking about it because fucking hell, I could have written this story better, but it wasn't my story to write. But goddamn it, this could have been so much better.

[tulipe-rose]

Shinichi

Shiho

Yusaku

Yukiko

The brunette to her cherry blonde.

You can not convince me that Shinichi's eyesight is still 20/20 after all that strain (fireworks (where he was so up close I'm surprised he wasn't burnt), flash bombs, and straining to see in the dark then suddenly having huge headlights pointed at you. Did I say bombs?). The explosions that happen in his vicinity –mind you, he's usually at the heart of them–almost daily must have had some sort of aftereffect on his eyes and ears, no matter how small.

In conclusion, I AM AT YOUR DOOR AOYAMA, OPEN UP. YOU CANNOT DO THIS AND THEN PRETEND THESE PARALLELS MEAN NOTHING TO YOU WHILE YOU GO ON ABOUT SO CALLED TRUE LOVE. 'Shinshi is never going to happen-' I WON'T HEAR IT, ESPECIALLY NOT FROM YOU, AOYAMA.

[sintenda]

Oh hey, I have that manga in Japanese. Funny coincidence

Thinking about Patchouli from Ladies of Scarlet Devil Mansion

[madamechrissy]

Stripper! Satoru

Pairings- Stripper! Satoru x Bride! reader

Summary- You've been promised your entire life to Naoya Zenin, and now there's just one night left. Never having a choice, or any freedom, raised to be his perfect bride- your friends throw a party with the hottest male revue show there is, and that's where you meet him - Satoru.

Warnings - MDNI- Satoru is basically Magic Mike, angstyyy, explicit sex, loss of virginity, oral ( f receiving) sweet/whipped Satoru, sheltered reader, kissing, drinking, reader is engaged (arranged marriage) so morally gray but it's Naoya so fuck him, emotional asff , open end for now! (story will wrap it up) <3

This will be a FULL length multichapter fic after I finish a cpl wips, it's been eating me up to write so I want to show you at least a preview of it! tag list open for when it's released, drop a comment if you wanna get added! it's a long one <3

Stripper! Satoru who is the star of the biggest male revue in the nation, he's always showing off his well oiled, defined abs, and making every girl there feel so good. He loves watching how they tremble as they touch his abdomen, loves the way they giggle when he dances, straddling them in their chair, brushing their cheeks with his fingers, a wink that makes them melt.

Stripper! Satoru oils his toned, muscular body before each show until it's gleaming under the lights, hips undulating as he tossed that cowboy hat into the air, clad in assless chaps and a thin tie, with some black silk on his cock that shows his entire outline. And God was he packing, the other dancers of the review get the oohs and ahs, but he is always center stage and thrives in it, in the looks of everyone dying to bring him home.

Stripper! Satoru and his crew have an exclusive party tonight, for a bride to be - and she must be wealthy, because they're walking right into a mansion, dressed up as cops tonight, Satoru loves to put on a good show for these women, his white hair tucked under a police cap, as he rings the doorbell, which opens with what he assumes are the bride's friends. They're already giggling and rushing the men in, one pulls Gojo aside, whispering in his ear - 'please, make her smile tonight... she's really...' he doesn't need the rest of the answer when he sees your face, so lost and broken, and it makes him falter.

Stripper! Satoru has never seen a bride not giggling and excited, once or twice he absolutely saw them nervous or worried, some of them would want to sleep with him or the crew as their 'last night' of freedom, and most of them were usually fine giving it to them. Not Satoru however, although he has hooked up with his fair share of women, he does not sleep with brides to be, as much as they have tried, he does have a couple small boundaries and that is one.

Stripper! Satoru still gave them a good show, he still licked across their skin and let them touch his body, he put a smile on their faces, made them blush, he made them all soaking wet. But he's never encountered the sad eyes that meet his now, the nervous biting of your lower lip as you look around in utter confusion. Your friend sighs, tugging Satoru down now. 'Arranged marriage, and he's... fucking horrible. Please, help her forget for one night?' he sees now why they paid so much, it's clear your friends love you, as the lights turn off and the LEDs turn on, your face is illuminated with red light, haunting him as he almost forgets the routine.

Stripper! Satoru and the crew begin to 'pretend' to arrest you and the girls, fake handcuffs on their wrists while the men press the girls down on the chairs, beginning their 'pat down'. But as Satoru approaches you, and touches your skin with the toy, fake metal of the cuffs, you just sigh, making him pause. The music continues, but he instead gently presses you on the seat, getting on his knees now, as your eyes drink the prettiest man you've seen once he takes off those dark shades. Your breath catches when he gently brushes your hair off your shoulder, and asks - 'Are you even okay with this, sweetheart?'

Stripper! Satoru doesn't realize, you've never been asked if you're okay with anything, your whole life was just made so you can marry the leader of the Zenin clan, so that you were a pristine, perfect and untouched wife. You take a shaky breath, easing in his presence, finally having someone ask if you were okay was something you didn't even have growing up. To come from a stripper dressed like a cop was surprising, but you instantly relax, thighs spreading just a bit, which his insane blue eyes dart to. 'I'm sorry, yes, I want to, please...'

Stripper! Satoru has never felt whatever the fuck it was when he touches your skin, the sensations shooting through him, he watches goosebumps rise on your skin when his crew grabs his attention. He smiles, looking at you once more. 'I'll give you the funnest night, I promise' you giggle, you don't think you've ever giggled, nodding as he steps back, and the men play that music and rip off the fake outfits bit by bit. That's when your tummy clenches, heat pooling, watching Satoru's body revealed as he rolls his hips, and your friends all smile at you, seeing you actually happy for the first time since you heard the wedding was impending.

Stripper! Satoru is insanely talented, not just his ripped, perfect body, but how he moves it, so clearly the leader of them all, surely they all had gorgeous bodies, but something about him drew your avid attention. You get flustered and shift as you study his movements, and his eyes just won't leave yours, they kept glancing at you, a smile on plump lips while they all strip down, and then step close to each of you, you're the only one without the cuffs, they sit on your lap instead. Satoru braces his arms on either side of you, breath trailing across your neck when he dances between your thighs, abs flexing right in front of your face. Your breath dances on his skin as you nervously exhale, feeling your heart pounding in your chest.

Stripper! Satoru runs the most famous male revue for a reason, he's about as charming and confident as it gets, it's enigmatic his pull, but mostly you keep looking at those eyes, getting lost in them - for a moment forgetting your wedding to Naoya tomorrow - a man you've known bits and pieces of for a long time, long enough to be terrified of him. For a moment you let go and smile nervously, you touch his slick muscles when he puts your fingers on his chest, and the laughter carries through the room. As their set ends, an entire party begins, with shots everywhere and dancing, you see your friends stealing little kisses, envying their freedom, but the blue eyed man with slicked back white hair seems to focus on you, taking your hand and bringing you into a dance then. You giggle again, shaking your head. 'I can't dance... what's your name? The real one, not the stage name' you say, looking up at him then, and he tugs you closer against him. 'It's Satoru'

Stripper! Satoru uses a stage name, but for some reason he wants you to have that name, a hand sliding down your body over your pretty white dress, addling his mind. 'Anyone can dance, you've just never tried, sweetheart' you shake your head again, but he's already moving your hips for you, turning you so that your back presses against him, and that's when he feels it, your sweet body against his making him ache in ways he hasn't in a long time. 'See, you're dancing now' you lean back against him, shutting your eyes then, just feeling him. 'My friend set you up to cheer me up, huh?' he sighs against your ear, aching to press a kiss against your neck, but knowing he shouldn't. 'You do have good friends, but I just like dancing with you'

Stripper! Satoru has you downing another shot, the atmosphere is intense- these parties get this way, frequently, another perk of being the most famous male revue was endless beautiful women, and making bank on top of it. Satoru notices the dilation of your eyes when you take one more shot, licking your lips before peering around so shyly. 'Everything okay, these parties get a little...' he's asking about you again, the mere thoughtfulness pushes you to step forward, pulling him down by the black bow tie he's got on, nothing else but a black speedo at this point, revealing the body carved out like a statue, but he lets you yank him down, eyes lowering to your lips. 'If I could, have a kiss, a real one before I... don't get a choice anymore' your whisper ends him, his heart breaking for a girl he doesn't know, even in a haze of liquor and undulating bodies, everything fades but you.

Stripper! Satoru can't help but ask in surprise - 'you've never kissed?' and you see the surprise in his eyes, you look around, the music still blaring, overwhelming your senses. 'No, never, um... I shouldn't-' Satoru breaks his own rule then, slamming his lips down on yours, your first kiss, one you will think upon when it's just that cruel man looking down at you instead. You gasp against his lips, inviting his tongue to dance inside your mouth, yours dances along his, messy and clumsy but following every movement like a dance itself. He feels it then, his cock throbbing from a kiss, you don't seem to notice or maybe don't even want to say something as it presses high up on your tummy, while his hands slip up your body, for all eyes to see. But your friends clearly are pleased- they wanted you to have one night of fun, even if it wasn't what you were 'supposed' to do.

Stripper! Satoru has you against a wall before you can blink, like a switch went off in his mind and all that turns on is you. His hands are on either side of you when he pulls back, taking a breath, cursing softly, your breasts are rising and falling as you look up at him, desire for the first time in your life overtaking you. 'Thank you, Satoru' you smile sadly, was it better to not kiss at all than to have this? 'Is it that bad, the guy?' he murmurs then, and you look down, trembling just a bit, and his instinct is to protect you when he doesn't even know you. Satoru is protective of those he loves, but this feeling makes no sense. Tears fill your eyes and you sniffle, looking away, but he tilts your chin up, swiping one off with a thumb now. 'Thank you for tonight, I see why you're so popular...' he tries to smirk then, raising a brow. 'Because I'm so sexy?' you giggle even through your tears, you've never laughed so much in your life, shaking your head, making him pout. 'You're kinda mean, you're saying I'm not?'

Stripper! Satoru is trying to tease it off, the feelings throbbing though his body, but you're too much when you say - 'no, it's because you're really something special' another tear falls despite tremulous lips, swollen from his kiss, he feels the eyes on him, this isn't what he does, never ever the bride, but it's like he can't drag himself away from your gravity. Kissing you again is too easy, lifting you like it's nothing is even easier, the way you cling to him and lose yourself as the two of you are now locked in a room is even easier. Your dress slips up your hips with a silky whisper, his big hands gripping your hips and dragging you against him, you whine out as you feel it, the sweat dripping against your skin while he barely holds it together, ignoring the fact that he knows better, forgetting that you're not his, and how badly that for some reason feels to him, while he's got your back on a bed, kissing down your breasts and tugging at your dress now.

Stripper! Satoru has his mouth devouring every pretty inch of skin you allow him to, hot and hungry while you melt under him, clothes dissolving with gentle tugs, baring you to his vision, his fingers dance across your skin like you're a canvas and they're delicate paint brushes at first, then they're more insistent, more pressure, hungrier and hungrier for you. 'Fuck, you're beautiful...' he doesn't say that either, of course he compliments, but he's never seen someone earn that title quite like you, when he frees your breasts and they gently bounce from your bra, when your nipples perk up just for his mouth to suck on. When your hands entwine in his silky white hair, and he's pulling one into his mouth, while the other hand twists your other bud taut, and your cunt starts drooling, throbbing, one that's never been touched, even by yourself. Sheltered and taught it's all terrible, your friends had shown you some things but you're mostly lost to anything Satoru is doing, just lost in how good it all feels.

Stripper! Satoru pauses for a moment, as he's licking a trail between your breasts, eyeing you under snowy lashes, watching as you breasts rise and fall. 'We should stop now, before... I can't stop' his husky declaration is filled with need, your hand rushes through his hair, taking a shaky breath and whispering - 'would you be my first?' he pulls back, terrified at the statement, his mouth wide open, he knows it's too far to do, his morals grey enough, just hovering. 'He's cruel and he's... awful to women, it won't be happy for me. I just want once, to be my choice...' Satoru swallows nervously, lifting one of your thighs now, pressing his cock against your heat, watching your head fall back. 'You're really stuck in this? there's no way to get out of it?' you shake your head, trying to focus as your body responds to him. 'N-no, there's no way, y-you don't have to just I-' he moans then, internally cursing himself, because he's already intoxicated off you. 'Your choice' he repeats softly, you nod quickly, taking shaky breaths and gripping his shoulders. 'My choice'

Stripper! Satoru has his long pink tongue slipping across your panties, hot and wet against your cunt, the material pressed tighter and tighter, you're whining out, uncaring of any noise you make, the first time any one has touched you and it's with his mouth. Satoru moans against you, vibrations making your cunt throb when he yanks your panties to the side, baring your perfect, pretty pussy to his hungry gaze, glistening already with your slick. You cry out now, hips raising up for more, when he places a lewd kiss on it, honeyed arousal pouring from your little hole. You should be more nervous right? Afraid of a stranger seeing you? But you're not, you're so ready the moment his mouth latches you're screaming out, hips bucking, whining out at how good it feels.

Stripper! Satoru loses it once he tastes you, those panties slipped down your thighs, torn between leisurely teasing you and straight up devouring you. He opts for the latter, slipping panties down your thighs and gripping you by the fat of your ass, bringing your cunt flush so he can bury himself. He drowns in your cunt as his tongue lavished your walls, while you are rolling your eyes back, breaths coming in little pants while he licks every part of you, tastebuds soaking in your flavor. He has you falling apart under him in moments, your gummy little walls gripping his wet muscle, feeling you tremble underneath him as your first orgasm rocks you so hard you can't see.

Stripper! Satoru presses one more kiss, leaning over you and slipping down that thin satin layer between you, revealing a thick, long cock, you gasp when you see how huge it is, for one moment wondering how it would fit, when he kisses you so messy and desperate, hot heavy cock slapping your skin. 'Satoru!' Your cry makes him leak precum against your inner thigh, as he looks down at you, sighing. 'Are you sure, sweets? We can stop here' again, he gives you the choice, despite speaking through gritted teeth, as if he's in pain, holding his breath and just watching you. You shock him then, hand sliding down to touch his cock, a featherlight brush that almost makes him cum, eyes meeting his now. 'I want it, please'

Stripper! Satoru isn't going to turn down your sweet plea, your desperate ask under him, asking him to take something so special, but he understands you, he knows you need to have a choice without even knowing you. He kisses you then, more intimate in moments than he has been with women before ever. His cock teases and dips against your soppy little hole then, pressing slightly and feeling your tight resistance, moaning as he does. 'It will hurt just a sec, okay sweetheart?' You nod then, and the pain hits, sharp and sweet and addictive, he pauses, letting you adjust, trying not to bust from how fucking right you feel, how perfect. Instead he holds back, watching you with bright blue eyes. 'You okay honey?' - and making you relax under him, the burn and stretch mixing with pleasure the further he presses, nodding eagerly, dragging him back down for a kiss, which he whimpers into as he thrusts inside.

Stripper! Satoru hardly holds back, knowing it's your first time, shaking with the effort not to fold you in a mating press and fuck you to the hilt like he wants. 'Perfect, fuck you feel s'good, mnh...' he's muttering those words as he pulls back and thrusts further, stretching you out impossibly, she's soaking down his veiny length to accommodate, while she pulses from her aftershocks, and you feel that fullness, you're so full. Satoru shoves in harder, deeper, seeing what you can take, your head falls to the side to be littered with kisses, careful not to mark you, though God he wants to, to bite and bruise every inch of skin with his teeth. He wants to leave bruises on your hips, fill you with so much cum you drip him when that man comes near you - but he knows that's fucking stupid.

Stripper! Satoru is pussy drunk so fast, as you open for him, as you loosen your hold, arching your hips up to meet his thrusts, unleashed as you scratch his back, leaving your marks, marks he'll wish will never leave in the coming days. You kiss across his neck, teeth sinking into it and leaving your bite, as he bottoms out in your perfect cunt, the echoes of the squelching wetness and your cries mixing with the smacking of skin, as he loses his control, and you fall off the edge with him. Moans and sighs, gasps and cries, all while he's filling you over and over, bringing you closer to the brink, losing anything and everything all under his long, lithe body, the shadows casting and stretching across the wall, of him over you, of your thighs wrapped around his narrow waist.

Stripper! Satoru has never felt anything like you gripping him, never tasted anything like that honey lingering on his lips, fucking you and dragging his tip on your spot just so, until you shatter, cumming blindingly, crying out his name as you do. He quiets you with a kiss, your cunt spasming around his cock and gushing down further, making a mess of the bed, of him, of you. You're blinking back your vision as you gasp and he leans up, dragging you all the way down his length, his whine so sexy while his head falls back, veins in his arms bulging as he grips you so tight, watching the bulge in your tummy as he slowly moves in and out. 'cum once more, please, wanna feel her again' his whisper is met with a jerky nod, when he finds your clit with the pad of his thumb, running in circles and shoving in so deep he slams your cervix.

Stripper! Satoru watches the pretty bride - not his, how are you not his? - cum for him then, thighs shaking, your head falling back into the soft pillows, and he's done for, leaning forward to pump a few more times, fucking you through that orgasm, before he pulls out with a gasp, wishing he could finish in you, instead pumping that cum on your tummy, white networks of ropes decorating it as it moves up and down with your heavy breaths. You start to come to, when he's cleaning you up, when he's wiping the soreness between your thighs, when he's holding you and kissing you. You feel the emotions hit, the overwhelming pleasure can't override this one singular feeling - dread - and moreso now that you felt this, that you know what it is, to feel so perfect and cherished by a stranger.

Stripper! Satoru panics when you cry, 'was it too much, are you hurt sweetheart or-' you shake your head, hugging him to you tightly, sweet kisses on his neck and cheek then. 'No, it was perfect, so perfect Satoru. Thank you' you shouldn't be thanking him, he musees to himself, letting you kiss him as the knocks finally sound on the door. He gently helps you get dressed, the party is clearly still going on but your friend wanted to check on you, to see your disheveled state she just smiles, rushing off and apologizing, but your skin is decorated in your blush, and he sees it, the fear in your gaze. 'Am I horrible?' he shakes his head then, kissing you again. 'No, you're perfect' and it just leads to more, he can't stop kissing your skin, he can't stop fucking into you, each time hurting less and just feeling better, letting you ride him tentatively, holding you from behind as he fucks you, until the two of you fall asleep, against each other.

Stripper! Satoru overslept clearly, as you're all ready to leave - for a wedding to a monster - and most of the men are hungover, sipping coffee and ready to go home. When he does get dressed in the normal clothes he brought with, you hold his hand, looking down and swallowing, not knowing what to say - that you think in one night you fell for a man - that you'll never be available. It sounds too cruel to say to someone, when there's no future, so instead you hug him tightly, and he holds you against him, trying to hold back everything he wants to say and do. 'Are you gonna be okay?' he asks softly before he leaves, and you smile as brightly as you can, nodding. 'I will be. Thank you for... everything.' one more sweet kiss, and Satoru has to let your hand go, knowing he will never have you again eats at him and he was just inside you, he can't even speak or answer a question, all he can think of is you.

Stripper! Satoru seems like a fantasy, as you walk down the aisle, seeing the bored and cruel gaze staring right at you, dark brown eyes with murderous intent, a nasty smirk as he assessed you. Tousled blond hair, he looks instead at a few of the women sitting in the benches waiting, winking at them instead, before turning back and setting his jaw. When you stand in front of him he yanks back your veil, eyes narrowing and humming to himself. 'Suppose you'll do' he says then, leaving you to feel sick as he grips your wrist, unceremoniously putting a glittery ring on it. 'that hurts...' you whisper weakly, and he squeezes harder, glaring now. 'Keep your mouth shut, little bitch, got it? you're my property now' you sink back, knowing then, the pit in your stomach had been correct, the rumors must be true- he is horrible.

As you sit through the ceremony, as your friends try to comfort you are sent home, as your entire world crumbles and ends, you try to cling to the memory of feeling special, beautiful, you feel his touch, you feel his caress - his gaze. You cling to it as your eyes fill with tears, as your stomach fills with nausea, as he's yanking you onto his lap and laughing cruelly at you. You think of him...

Satoru

Soooo yes this will be a long one, and dw it will end happy somehow! Comment for tags of you're interested in their story <3

perm tagsss- @alt--er--love @nanasukii28 @cuntphoric @loafteaw @n1vi @indiewritesxoxo @miizuzu @beachaddict48 @honeybunnnnie @re-tired-succubus @gojosukuna2268 @waterfal-ling @1brii @wise-fangirl @moncher-ire @orikixx @uhnosav @baepsays @designerpvssy @orixxxana @airandyeah @nina-from-317 @evelynxxo @naammiii @soyokosuguru @espresso1patronum @tomboy-disaster @iam-souless @lanii-i @cristy-101 @doeeyestoji @cvixmei @mutsu422 @ivyvenus333 @g00seg1rl @suki91 @satoao-main @fairygardenprincesss @theonlyjuggernaut @huntyhuntycunty @lovelockdownff @ibreathesmut @s777athv @twinklywinkly @akiii143 @squeezyvalkyrie @cookielovesbook-akie @oinksa @grignardsreagent @shokosbunny

[whoevenisjavier]

sugar coated, lies unfolded

pairing: CEO harry castillo x exec. assistant f! reader

summary: you try to stay away, to do the right thing, but somehow, you end up back in your boss’ bed... well, your boss and his wife’s bed.

part 1 here

tags/warning: +18, mdni. harry castillo is 48 and married. reader is 25 and has a boyfriend. age gap. cheating. f!reader. partners dissing. oral sex (f! receiving). unprotected piv. anal fingering. she does stuff to him while his wife is on the phone i’m sorry.

w/c: 10k

Someone is talking about the ripple effects of the Forbes cover on New York’s business scene, explaining how the new feature on Harry Castillo will influence decisions made by investors and agents, especially now that Castillo & Co. is expanding operations in Asia.

“It’s an unbelievable feat to be on the cover of Forbes twice in just twenty months,” the public relations manager is saying.

You jot down the word unbelievable on your iPad before the rest of the sentence drowns in flashbacks from the night before, flooding your brain like quicksand made of memories, tastes, and touches.

You shift in your chair, wishing you were anywhere but a conference room at eight-thirty in the morning, and your gaze, though fixed on your tablet screen, starts to blur around the edges.

Between your legs is tender, deliciously sore in all the right ways after being claimed by the thick length of Harry until almost two in the morning, when he finally dropped you off at home.

You didn’t even make it to the bed in his Lenox Hill apartment. You had sex on the white oak floor in the living room, on top of a blanket, desperate, and everything on you is sensitive today.

You slept with your boss. You actually slept with your boss.

God. Harry has such a filthy mouth.

Someone calls your name.

“Do you think he’d want that?”

Your eyes meet those of Harry’s personal PR manager, who has one brow raised. You like her. She’s sharp and direct and doesn’t have time to waste, a trait that’s written all over the look she’s giving you now.

“Sorry, I didn’t catch that,” you admit. “What was the question?”

An impatient sigh.

“I asked if you think Harry would want to talk about his career journey.”

“No,” you say immediately. “He covered that in the last interview, and he’ll kill someone if he has to answer the same questions again.”

The intern to your left scrambles to erase something from her own iPad.

When you leave the meeting, it’s settled that Harry’s next interview will be with Forbes, set to be edited and published on a rush schedule. Now you need to inform him, schedule the interview, send ten thousand emails.

You press the elevator button and wait. When the doors finally open on your floor—Media, Marketing, and Advertising—there are three people inside, and your boss is one of them.

Your first instinct is to stay put, but one of the men is holding the door open for you, and Harry is looking at you with an unreadable expression. Everyone knows the two of you get along well, so you can’t exactly not step in.

“Good morning,” you say as you enter, greeted politely by the other two men. You stop beside Harry, both of you facing forward, side by side. “Good morning, Harry.”

“Morning.”

His tone is polite and to the point, as it always is when other people are around.

The doors close. The elevator screen shows stops on the fifth and seventh floors before heading to the fifteenth, where Harry’s office is. Background music resumes while you focus on breathing mechanically, because even that feels too tense right now.

Is he thinking about how he practically begged to come inside you twice?

The elevator stops. One of the men steps out, exchanging good mornings.

At some point last night, he brought up your boyfriend while he was still inside you, and you wanted to kill him for it, because your body was torn between being turned on by the wrongness of it all and feeling sorry for your partner, who was probably asleep at that hour, completely unaware of how his name was being dragged through the situation. But then the irrational possessiveness bug bit Harry and he made you admit your boyfriend didn’t fuck you nearly as well.

The elevator stops again. The last person exits, leaving just you and Harry in the confined space. The music starts up again.

Harry speaks first.

“Did I hurt you?” he asks quietly, still looking ahead.

“What do…” you start to say, then remember how, toward the end of the night, you told him you were so sensitive between your legs, something Harry then soothed with his own tongue. “No, you didn’t hurt me.”

“You complained.”

“I made an observation,” you clarify. “Because it’s true. You and my boyfriend are different. And with you, it was hours.”

He says nothing.

“We said we wouldn’t talk about this at work,” you remind him. “Last night didn’t happen.”

The doors open on your floor, and Harry, without addressing your last comment, holds them open for you to exit first. You both begin walking to your respective places — your desk, his office — and you slip back into your executive assistant persona. The one who doesn’t know what his sweaty skin smells like, how his kiss tastes, or the sound of that deep groan when whispered into your ear.

“I need to talk to you about the Forbes interview,” you call after him. “Can we schedule a meeting at three?”

“Yes. Put it on the calendar, please,” he says without slowing down or looking back.

He enters his office and shuts the door behind him, which means: do not disturb.

So you don’t.

You and Harry are good actors. That you gotta admit.

For the next three weeks, nothing happens. He’s your boss, you’re his assistant, and that’s the only dynamic that exists between you. The world keeps spinning. And you don’t get fired, which was a very real possibility in the mental report you filed the morning after that night.

You start arriving earlier so you don’t have to stay late, which means you don’t have to be alone with him. Harry stops sending cryptic messages about his meetings. He also stops emerging from his office when you walk in wearing the red dress he once said he loved.

Three weeks later, on a Friday at four p.m., Harry steps out of his office and walks over to your desk.

You look up from the Excel spreadsheet where you’re logging his personal expenses and ask politely,

“Can I help you, Harry?”

“Are you going to the cocktail party?”

He’s talking about the Castillo & Co. event tomorrow night, celebrating the release of the Forbes issue featuring his new interview.

“Yes, of course. Do you need something?”

“I need you to come with me to the tailor and take the suit to my apartment. I’ve got something at six, won’t have time to go back to my house.”

“Okay. Now?”

“Now.”

You nod, like the good assistant you are, and save the file before shutting down your computer.

In silence, you both head down to the parking garage and slide into the back seat of Harry’s car. His driver is already behind the wheel. Harry immediately crosses one leg over the other, foot bouncing, and pulls out his phone. You turn toward the window as the car leaves the underground lot.

This is the first time you two are in a car together after that night, that had felt so different.

Harry had dismissed the driver, so he was the one behind the wheel. The silence back then was heavy with anticipation, tension, and the electric certainty that something was going to happen. When he stopped at a red light, he leaned across the console to kiss you and slid a hand under your skirt, pressing against you through your underwear in a way that made you feel completely, undeniably his.

You squeeze your thighs together and close your eyes, steadying your breath.

The moment shatters with the sound of your phone. You glance down and see “baby” on the screen — your boyfriend. You’d asked him to call to plan dinner.

Shit. Perfect timing.

“Hey, babe,” you say softly. In your peripheral vision, you catch Harry’s foot stilling. Your boyfriend is cheerful, loud enough that Harry can probably hear every word. He asks if you’re still at the office. “No, I’m heading to the tailor with Harry, then I’ll go straight to your place. Is that okay?”

He says it is. Says he bought a special bottle of wine because the pink label reminded him of you—your favorite color—and the ache in your chest tightens.

“You’re so sweet to me,” you say, and maybe it’s just in your head, but your voice sounds too guilty. He tells you that you deserve it. You don’t know what to say, so you ask, “Do you want me to pick anything up for dinner?”

He says no. Says he just wants one thing from you. You lower your voice.

“What do you want?”

The car is dead silent. Your phone volume is up too high when he says, “I want you on the kitchen counter, wearing nothing but your panties, while I cook.” That’s your assignment, he adds.

You let out an awkward little laugh, praying Harry didn’t catch it.

“Deal,” you say. “See you tonight.”

When you hang up, Harry isn’t on his phone anymore. He’s just staring out the window, unreadable.

You arrive at the tailor and the driver opens your door. Harry joins you on the sidewalk and, for the first time in nearly a month, places a guiding hand at the base of your back as you walk inside. He used to do that all the time, but apparently that kind of touch was banned after what happened between you.

The receptionist greets you and leads you to one of the private fitting rooms. Three of the walls are mirrors and two velvet couches sit in the corner. There’s a tray with water and candied orange peels, and, In the center of it all, is the raised circular platform where Harry usually stands during fittings.

She shows him the suit, neatly arranged on two hangers, and tells him to try it on. Then she leaves, shutting the door behind her.

You head straight for one of the couches, which makes Harry’s hand fall away from your back.

“Want me to wait outside?” you ask, out of habit, as you sit down. You’ve done this a dozen times.

“Nothing you haven’t seen,” he says, pulling off his shoes.

You resist the urge to roll your eyes.

Off comes the blazer, placed on the rack. Then the watch and the cufflinks are dropped into the tray. Then come the buttons—first the sleeves, then the collar, all the way down…

You clear your throat and open your phone, responding to emails, not looking at him.

“So your boyfriend cooks for you,” Harry says casually.

And just like that, you know he heard everything.

Half his chest is exposed. He’s not even looking at you as he untucks his shirt and slides it off, standing shirtless in front of you, wearing only slacks.

“Yeah, he likes to cook.”

“Is it a special occasion?”

“Does it have to be?” you counter, eyes glued to your screen.

“Just asking.”

He unbuttons his pants, and you lock your gaze on your phone.

“Anniversary,” you finally say, which makes you realize that you’ll need new lingerie for tonight.

“What if he proposes again? Will you say yes?”

“Harry,” you say firmly, lifting your gaze now that he’s put on the dress pants. “That’s none of your business. You pay me to manage your life, but that doesn’t mean you get to know everything about mine.”

“I love how passive-aggressive you get when I bring up your relationship. You hate it.”

“I don’t hate my boyfriend.”

“I didn’t say you hate your boyfriend. I said you hate your relationship.”

He starts buttoning the newly fitted shirt, and his tone is so maddeningly casual you feel heat rising in your chest.

“You just want me to hate my relationship so you can feel a little better,” you say, holding your fingers up, barely apart, “just this much better, about the fact that you hate yours too.”

“I don’t need to feel better about it. I know the truth. If we didn’t hate our relationships, we wouldn’t have had sex.”

“We agreed not to talk about it.”

“Oh, that again. Has it helped? Not talking about it has made you think about it any less?”

You lock your phone and set it aside. Adjust yourself on the couch and look directly at him. Your voice stays quiet, but sharp.

“Of course not, but what do you want me to do? I’m in a relationship, you’re married, we have lives, and I need my job. And even if I do think about that night, I can’t do anything about it. So yeah, it’s better to pretend.”

“So you do think about it.”

“If that’s what strokes your ego, then fine, yes. I think about it. There hasn’t been a single damn day since that night that I haven’t remembered it. It haunts me.”

Harry finishes buttoning his shirt, tucks it in, then slips on the blazer. The suit fits like a glove. Every seam perfect, every line flattering.

“I told you I had morals,” Harry says quietly after a beat. “But I put them aside for you. And now, here I am, with none, asking you to keep going.”

Your heart stumbles.

“Keep going what?”

“What started that night in my office. I’m not going to ask you to break up with your boyfriend, and I won’t promise I’ll divorce my wife. I can sign a five-year job security agreement if that’s what it takes to make you feel safe. But I want you.”

“This won’t work.”

“Do you want it?”

What a stupid question. You nearly die a little every day from how much you want him.

But your answer never comes, because the tailor opens the door and walks in, greeting Harry cheerfully.

And now you can’t stop thinking

You think about it as you head to Harry’s apartment to drop off his suit, ignoring the pair of gold hoops on the entryway table that make it painfully obvious he’s a married man. You think about it later, when you go to your boyfriend’s place and undress for him. And even later, in the shower, when you notice the mark he left near your breast while you were having sex.

This has absolutely no chance of ending well, and you’ve never been the kind of person who lets irrational impulses get in the way of your career. But for the first time… you’re tempted.

And the worst part? You can’t tell anyone. Maybe your therapist, but she’ll just say again how unhealthy this dynamic is, and you don’t want to hear that. And you don’t trust her that much with this kind of secret.

You think about it as you get ready for Harry’s cocktail party, aching to see him and hoping for permission to touch him.

Your boyfriend approaches, eyes wide when he sees you in the strapless red gown, and lets out a whistle.

“Are you sure I’m even allowed to be seen with you tonight?” he teases, wrapping his arms around you from behind and kissing your neck. “You look gorgeous. Stunning dress.”

“Harry gave it to me. Well, he gave me the money and his personal shopper bought it,” you say, because there’s no way you could afford a Schiaparelli, and your boyfriend is used to hearing about the things Harry buys you whenever there’s an event.

All so you look presentable as Harry Castillo’s executive assistant, of course.

“Of course he did,” your boyfriend says, rolling his eyes. “Ready?”

When you arrive at Castillo & Co.’s event hall, hand in hand with your boyfriend, you realize that, no, you’re not ready. The decor is tasteful and elegant in shades of fawn, black, and ice white and everyone is in black-tie. At the back of the room, a digital display showcases the Forbes cover. Harry looks amazing in the photo, completely fitting for the role he holds, but the headline reads: From Concrete to the Top of the World.

He must’ve hated that.

“Do we have fancy whiskey?” your boyfriend asks as you start to cross the room. “And shrimp cocktail?”

The questions are rhetorical. Before you can answer, he plants a loud kiss on your lips and heads off toward the food tables. You watch him walk away, wishing he stayed with you, but then a waiter offers you a glass of champagne and you accept. You walk toward the edge of the room, and sip while scanning the space.

People are gathered in polished little clusters, all impeccably dressed and beaming. But there’s a larger group crowded around one person, and the reason is Harry, who’s speaking with ease and commanding the social scene with effortless charm, looking absolutely delicious in a tux.

Your view is partially blocked when his wife appears beside him, placing a hand on his forearm, looking radiant in a white off-shoulder draped gown. Without stopping his sentence or glancing her way, Harry slips an arm around her waist.

She seems to glow under his touch. You understand the feeling, despite the hundred-pound weight settling in your stomach.

How ridiculous, to feel jealous of the wife. You are the wrong one, not her. And how twisted is it that, beneath the jealousy, there’s a flicker of satisfaction because Harry wants you, not just her?

Harry laughs at something one of the men says. He scans the room briefly, and that’s when he sees you. Your stomach twists, and nearly melts, when his eyes sweep over you from head to toe, so subtly that no one else would notice.

Smoothly, he turns back to the conversation, as if his attention had never strayed.

Your own attention is pulled back by your boyfriend returning.

“There’s so much food,” he says, his excitement making you laugh. He laughs too, but insists, “Seriously. It’s insane. Have you eaten?”

You shake your head, and he grabs your hand, guiding you toward the buffet tables. There are a million options, and you let yourself get distracted by them so you don’t start looking for Harry, which doesn’t work, because ten minutes later, he’s the one who finds you.

His wife is with him.

“Darling,” she says, leaning in to kiss your cheek. “That dress is stunning. It’s Schiaparelli, isn’t it?”

“It is,” you reply, and she keeps looking at you like she’s waiting for an explanation. You add, “A loan from Harry, so I wouldn’t embarrass him.”

“It’s not a loan. It’s yours,” Harry says, leaning in to greet you with a kiss on the cheek. His smell, what the fuck. He extends a hand to your boyfriend. “So you’re the boyfriend.”

“So you’re the boss,” your boyfriend jokes as they shake hands. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Castillo.”

“Likewise,” Harry says, though the tone is anything but warm. Then to you: “My PR rep asked for a few photos of us. Can you do that now?”

“Sure,” you reply, accepting his offered arm.

Harry kisses his wife lightly and says he’ll be right back. You do the same with your boyfriend. Together, you walk toward the PR team, and once you’re far enough from the crowd, Harry speaks, eyes still forward.

“Have you thought about it?”

“Do I have a deadline?”

“So you’re considering it.”

That shuts you up. Yes, you are considering it.

“If we were to do this,” you murmur to Harry, smiling politely at one of his business partners entering your field of vision, who’s always courteous to you, “I’d want that job security agreement.”

“I’ll call my lawyer right now and have him draft the contract.”

The conversation pauses as you reach Harry’s publicist—a tall man who always wears eccentric suits, whether because of the patterns or the bold colors. Tonight, he’s in blood-red with round glasses and greets you with a giant smile.

“Stunning,” he says, kissing both of your cheeks. “What an honor for Harry to be seen with such a beautiful woman.”

You shoot him a look.

“Besides Mrs. Castillo, of course!” he adds quickly, and you decide not to check your boss’s face. “Shall we?”

You and Harry pose in front of a wide LED panel bearing the Castillo Construction & Co. logo. He places a hand on your waist without a hint of a smile, and you fall into your executive posture: back straight, polite, demure smile.

Photos are taken with instructions from both the photographer and the publicist. When it’s over, but before you and Harry can step apart, he leans in, under the guise of a polite hug, and whispers in your ear:

“She’s traveling for work tonight. If the answer is yes, you know where I live.”

Then he disappears into the sea of people who can’t wait to be near him.

By sheer luck, you don’t see Harry again during the next two hours you remain at the cocktail party. Your boyfriend indulges in the expensive whiskey, and you sip two more glasses of champagne, but there’s an anticipation humming beneath everything you do, like something is lurking.

Like the night won’t end at your home, in your bed, with your boyfriend.

You leave around nine, and you practically have to guide your boyfriend into the Uber waiting at the curb. He’s nearly unconscious on the ride back to his apartment, just awake enough to walk on his own. You help him inside, stay with him while he showers, and then watch over him as he collapses into bed.

A glass of water and two aspirins on the nightstand. A kiss on the forehead. And then he’s snoring, totally out.

You close the door gently behind you and, leaning your back against it, pick up your phone.

You open your chat with Harry. The last message is a simple “ok” you sent after he asked to reschedule a meeting.

There’s no telling how long you stand there, staring at the screen and imagining a thousand different scenarios, but when you finally type something, it’s:

“Let the front desk know I’m cleared to come up.”

Because even though your name is on the list of people with access to his apartment, the building has strict policies about non-residents after 8 p.m.

Harry replies ten minutes later:

“Done.”

The doorman, an older gentleman who’s always polite, greets you as always: with a gentle tone, a compliment (this time about your dress), and a polite question about whether Harry’s being a decent boss. But you catch the slight wrinkle between his brows, the subtle confusion in his smile. It says: What the hell are you doing here at this hour?

You see the same look from the security guards, and from the person at the front desk. But you lift your chin, square your shoulders, and pretend your reason for being here is purely professional.

You build a whole story in your mind as you walk across the marble lobby, your heels clicking with each step, just to make it easier to face. Harry needs a report for Monday morning, and he’s paying you overtime for it, but the source documents are physical, and he can’t scan them.

He took them home because he planned to work on them tonight, but the cocktail party took over his evening.

You step into the elevator and enter the code for Harry’s apartment.

And he remembered the report at the event, of course he did, because the partner he’s meeting on Monday mentioned looking forward to the negotiations. So you, ever the good employee, offered to stop by and grab the documents.

The elevator doors close, taking you toward the penthouse duplex, and you shut your eyes, erasing the fake narrative.

Now, it’s just you and your conscience.

There’s no report. No meeting. No overtime. Now it’s just Harry and you, both willingly choosing to do this and hurt your partners in exchange for nothing more than physical satisfaction.

The doors open into the private foyer of the penthouse, warmly lit and lined with framed art. Harry is standing in the doorway of the apartment, barefoot, blazer gone, bowtie undone and hanging loose at his collar.

You take one step forward, leaving the elevator.

“How was the rest of the party?” you ask, trying to sound casual through your nerves.

“Good. They liked the feature.”

You stop a few feet away, feeling his eyes on you. You twist your clutch in your hands.

“We left early because she had to catch the flight,” Harry adds, answering the question you hadn’t asked. “Want to come in? I think I still have some champagne.”

You nod, agreeing, and step inside as Harry closes the door behind you. The long hallway leading into the living room, all decorated in earth tones and golden light, greets you like a witness.

“There are some things I’m assuming based on the fact that you’re here,” Harry says behind you. You turn to face him. “But obviously, I need you to say it.”

“I don’t know if I can say it out loud.”

He watches you for a beat, reading your face.

“Morals?”

“It’s called having a heart.”

He smiles, and it’s far too sensual for the subject at hand.

“Speaking of hearts… what excuse did you give your boyfriend?”

He walks past you, heading down the hallway, and you follow. The two of you move into the living room, and you settle onto the couch, watching as Harry disappears for a few seconds and reemerges with an unopened bottle of Bollinger and two flutes in his hands. He sits beside you, and within moments, the bottle is open and champagne is flowing into both glasses.

You slip off your heels. Harry tosses his bow tie onto the coffee table. And only after you’ve taken your first sip of champagne do you finally answer.

“I didn’t need an excuse. He was asleep,” you say, referring to your boyfriend. “I think he had a lot of whiskey.”

“That’s a shame. He could’ve spent the night with you, but he chose to drink,” Harry replies, settling in beside you as he clicks his tongue. “Rookie mistake.”

“You think it’s exciting to sleep with me because it only happened once and it’s forbidden. After three years, he doesn’t think like that anymore.”

“There isn’t a universe where I don’t find having you in my bed exciting.”

That makes you blink slowly at him, then at the ring on his finger, while the champagne tastes suddenly bitter on your tongue.

He notices where your eyes have landed.

“Does it bother you?” he asks, gesturing to the ring.

You don’t even need to think, which probably bumps you up twenty points on the I’m-A-Terrible-Person scale.

“No,” you say, because it’s true. “Did you feel guilty?”

“Tonight?” you nod, and he draws in a long breath. He seems to test a million possible words before landing on: “No. I didn’t. I was angry at your boyfriend, and then I felt like an asshole for that.”

When you don’t respond, Harry throws the question back at you.

“Did you?”

You take another sip of champagne, gaze fixed on the massive TV mounted across from the sofa.

“I wish I had. It would be easier to deal with all this if I felt guilty.”

Harry reaches over and takes a lock of your hair that had fallen over your chest, twirling it around his finger before brushing it over your shoulder. He does the same with the others, gently moving each strand behind you, letting it fall down your back.

Before anything else, he places his glass on the coffee table beside the bottle and settles into the cushions.

“Come here.”

The way he pulls you brings your body into his, with your back partially resting against his chest and your legs tucked beneath you.

“I usually have answers for everything,” Harry says. “But for this? I don’t.”

You tilt your head just enough to hear the rhythmic beat of his heart beneath your ear, and you intertwine your fingers with his. His arm rests over your right shoulder.

“It’s okay… I don’t need comfort. I’m here because I want to be.”

Harry makes a low sound, like agreement, and presses his hand flat against your chest. He can probably feel the same quick heartbeat under his palm.

He changes the subject because that’s the smarter choice.

“You look beautiful in that dress,” he says near your ear, his voice more intimate now, more private. You close your eyes and savor the sound like it’s dessert. “Everyone was looking at you and envying your boyfriend.”

His hand drifts lower, cupping your breast over the smooth silk of your gown, his touch feather-light. Your skin prickles.

“But I’m the one they should envy, right?” Harry keeps whispering. The dress has a slit that’s just wide enough for him to slip his hand underneath and cup your breast. “I was trying to think of a way to make that obvious.”

“That you’re cheating on your wife with me?”

His soft thumb finds your hardened nipple, and a wave of heat rolls between your legs as he circles it.

“That I got what all those wide-eyed bastards wanted.”

“You’re awfully possessive for someone who’s the other man.”

He laughs, and you feel it more than you hear it, the vibration under your cheek against his chest. You smile, and the smile stays as Harry reaches for the small zipper on the side of your dress and slowly, slowly pulls it down.

The fabric loosens with each inch the zipper drops, and you’re the one who slides the top of the dress down to your waist, exposing your breasts. His hands cover them one at a time, squeezing gently, and you push them toward his palms.

Soon, it’s his mouth on your neck, lips parted over your sensitive skin. You have to tighten your grip around the champagne flute just to keep from dropping it as Harry kisses and bites your neck, his beard scraping and tickling in a way that leaves your whole body weak.

“Turn around and kiss me,” he says, taking the glass from your hand and placing it on the coffee table.

When he leans back into the couch again, you kneel on the seat beside him, just like that first night in his office, and meet his mouth. Harry holds your face with both hands but lets you set the pace, following your movements. And you devour it, because you’ve thought about this too much. His kiss, his taste, the way he leads without ever needing to be rough.

Your mouths part wider, undoing all the restraint that’s built up over the last three weeks. Harry slides one hand down to finish unzipping the dress completely and pushes it off your hips, leaving you in nothing but panties.

You’ve barely thrown the dress to the floor before his hand is already inside your underwear, and your knees weaken. He finds the slickness there and mutters a curse under his breath before sitting up straighter to get a better angle as he rubs slow circles over your clit.

The blood is pounding so hard in your ears that you barely register the phone ringing.

Both of you freeze, breaths and hearts racing. You meet Harry’s gaze, seeking some sort of shelter in it, and he looks back at you, lips red, before glancing toward the coffee table.

Before he can move, you kiss him again. Screw the phone. Harry immediately sinks back into the kiss, and the middle finger still inside your panties traces slowly from your clit down to your dripping entrance. It doesn’t take long before he slips it inside, and you swing a leg over his lap, settling into him.

The phone stops ringing.

Harry moves slowly, probably remembering how sensitive you were last time. He takes his time with just one finger, working you open, making you wetter. Your clit is practically throbbing, and he starts to speak—

—but the words are swallowed up by the phone ring again.

“Fuck’s sake,” Harry mutters, clearly annoyed, pulling his hand from your panties and gripping your waist. With you still in his lap, he leans forward and grabs the phone. You feel his whole body tense beneath you when he sees the screen.

“What is it?” you ask.

“My wife,” he says.

You want to be a bitch and tell him not to answer, to hang up, but you can’t. Even though you know he might actually listen if you said it.

“Answer. It could be important.”

Harry squeezes your waist as you try to move off his lap.

“Stay,” he says, and clears his throat before answering. “Hi, darling. Everything okay?”

“Hey, babe. Why didn’t you pick up the first time?”

You can hear her voice clearly because she’s speaking loudly and because of how close the two of you are, but you stay quiet and still, as if moving might somehow make her see you.

The lie rolls off his tongue effortlessly.

“Sorry. I was on a video call with some investors in Japan. I didn’t see the phone ring.”

You keep your eyes on his as your hand reaches the button on his pants. You undo it silently, then ease the zipper down.

Harry doesn’t stop you.

“I’m at the airport,” his wife is saying. “I upgraded to business class, but for some reason they need you to authorize the purchase on your bank app.”

“That’s strange. They’ve never needed confirmation before.”

With the zipper all the way down, you slide your hand into his underwear and pull out his hard cock. Your mouth practically waters.

“I said the same thing!” she laughs. “I think I’m just going to cancel and try using my own card… Not the joint account.”

Harry opens his mouth to answer, but it’s exactly when you lick your hand and wrap it around him. His jaw tightens and his eyes flutter shut. He pulls the phone away from his face to suck in a sharp breath.

“Harry?”

“I can authorize it from here,” he says into the phone, eyes glancing down to follow the motion of your hand. “Up to you.”

“Hmm… no worries, I’ll just use mine.” A pause. “My flight boards in thirty minutes and you know what I can’t stop thinking about?”

“What?”

You remove your hand from his cock only to quietly slip out of your panties. His gaze drops, devouring the space between your legs, and you sit back down on his thigh, not caring in the slightest if you leave a wet mark on his pants.

She says,

“The way you fingered me in the car after the party.”

Your hands freeze. You raise an eyebrow at Harry, and he gives you a small, crooked smile before replying to his wife,

“You liked that?”

“Mhm. Too bad I couldn’t make you come, too.”

You narrow your eyes and squirm with jealousy. You tighten your grip and focus on the swollen tip. Harry tries to stop you, but you challenge him and keep going, watching his expression break. You want her to hear.

“I didn’t need to,” he manages to say. “That was for you.”

Harry moves the phone away completely, whispering a curse just as her voice returns on the other end.

“But I miss sleeping with you.” Her tone is overly sweet, but there’s a hint of real sadness buried beneath it.

The smile that threatens to curl your lips is cruel and selfish, and you don’t dig too deep into what it means. Probably something about how you’re about to have what she wants. Which is awfully childish, you know that.

But part of you feels for her. That’s what you think as you lift yourself onto your knees, placing one over Harry’s thigh to get the angle right, and guide his erection to the slick heat between your legs.

You’d feel that way, too, if you were married to a man like Harry and he didn’t want you.

Harry leans his head back on the couch, avoiding your eyes. He stares at the ceiling, the knuckles of the hand holding the phone pale and strained.

“Sorry. A lot on my mind,” he says, just as you sink down on him.

His chest tightens in a heavy breath. His free hand clutches your hip, his thighs tense beneath you, a vein in his neck practically pulsing. He’s a vision of self-restraint, and you revel in it, grinding down onto him and biting your lip hard enough to nearly break skin just to keep quiet.

“I get it,” she says. “I just wanted you to know.”

“Darling, I need—”

“Promise me we’ll try harder.”

You lean forward as he stretches you, kissing the side of his damp neck while your fingers work on the buttons of his shirt, your tongue tracing the line of that vein. He shudders.

“I promise,” Harry says, his nails digging into your waist as you begin to rock in his lap, moaning against his skin. “I… I really need to go. Have to finish some documents. But text me when you land, okay?”

You don’t even register their goodbye. All you know is that Harry practically throws his phone onto the coffee table.

“Brat,” he mutters against your mouth as he pulls your hair, tugging off his shirt in one fluid motion. “Can’t believe the phone didn’t pick up the sound of this wet pussy.”

“Lucky you,” you say. “So Harry Castillo isn’t fucking his wife? What a shame.”

He tightens his grip around you and stands, pulling a gasp from your mouth as he slips out of you.

“You’re too old to be lifting like that,” you say, even as your thighs wrap around his hips. “Your physical therapist’s gonna be rich.”

“And you still want this old man?”

You nod, and Harry gives a smug little smile. Men are so easy to please.

He carries you through the hallway into the master bedroom. Your wide-eyed gaze meets his a moment before he sets you down on the enormous, messy bed. One glance to the side and you see the open door of his wife’s closet, purses and heels in view, just before Harry flips you onto your stomach and raises your hips.

You brace on your elbows, spine arching.

Two pillows rest at the head of the bed. One nightstand holds a book, a pair of glasses, and a man’s watch. The other has hand cream, a gold bracelet, a bottle of vitamins, and a pink hair clip.

It’s literally the most intimate part of a couple’s life, and this bedroom embodies that, exactly why you used to think, and agree, it was a line not to be crossed. But not for Harry, apparently, who climbs onto the bed behind you and slides into you again.

Your head drops forward, blocking your vision, fingers clutching the sheets as he sinks in fully.

Harry leans over your back, his fingers finding your pulsing clit, stroking in slow circles that make your whole body melt.

“Harry—”

“Come on my cock and I’ll fuck you.”

You writhe beneath him as his fingers move faster, smaller, tighter circles. You roll your hips forward and back in short, needy thrusts, just enough friction to push you toward the edge.

Your mouth dries, eyes squeezing shut as the tension coils in your belly. When Harry switches to horizontal strokes, rubbing directly across your clit, you come so hard it borders on painful, then dissolves into something warm and all-consuming, like being lowered into a hot bath.

“Just like that,” he whispers against your moans, slowing his movements so you can ride out every last wave. “I’m going to fuck you now.”

You nod, even though your ears are still buzzing. You nearly miss the weight of his body when he pulls back, but then one hand presses between your shoulder blades and the other grabs your hip, and he starts to thrust.

It’s almost too much. You’re still sensitive, your clit sparking with each slap of his balls, but it’s so good. You hear his grunts, low and rough, and you spread your knees wider, gripping the sheets. Your eyes land on his wife’s nightstand at the same moment Harry says,

“This what you wanted? Climbing on top of me while I was on the phone? Almost making me lose it?”

You nod. Harry pulls your left leg, then your right, laying you flat. He lies on top of you, keeping your legs tight between his, and thrusts again.

“Say it out loud.”

He kisses your neck, brushing your hair away. Your skin tingles.

“For a second, I wanted her to hear,” you admit, grateful you’re not facing him.

Harry breathes against your temple.

“Yeah?”

“I wanted her to know that what she wants…” You can’t finish before he speeds up, and you have to grit your teeth. With your legs squeezed together, every thrust hits deeper. “You’re giving it to me. And you’re so, so hard for me…”

There. You said it. This time, you break the rule about not talking about the others. And you can’t regret it, not when Harry wraps a hand around your throat, bites your shoulder, and fucks you, the slap of skin clashing with the wet sounds of his cock inside you, again and again, until he growls a curse.

He pulls out and flips you onto your back. Harry climbs over you, stroking himself, eyes roving over your body—your breasts, the space between your thighs. You touch yourself too, unable not to, watching his face tighten as he gets close.

And when he comes, it’s on your belly, whispering your name as the hot ropes of cum cover your skin.

“Open your legs,” he says, voice hoarse and skin sweaty. You fold your knees and spread your thighs. “You’re already close again… Look how you’re throbbing.”

This time it’s the tip of his cock that presses against your swollen clit, massaging it, smearing his cum across your skin as he strokes. His softening head glides over you in slow, steady movements. With his free hand, Harry uses his fingers to open you wider, and when he finds the exact spot again, he presses.

Your next orgasm isn’t as explosive as the first, but just as overwhelming. When it hits, you can’t take anymore. You clamp your legs shut and push his hand away.

He gets it. He lies down beside you, pulls you into his arms, and holds you while you catch your breath.

As your senses return, you notice the only light in the room is coming from the open closet. The bedroom is softly decorated, the sheets far too luxurious to have been chosen by a man, even one like Harry Castillo.

“Why did we have sex in here?” you ask.

“Hm?”

“You must have ten guest rooms in this penthouse. Why this one?”

He stays silent, stroking your back.

“Because doing something wrong turns you on?” you ask, turning to look at him. Harry meets your eyes, saying nothing, and his hand goes still on your ribs. “I get it. I think I got wetter when I realized where you brought me.”

Before he can reply, you ask,

“Will you think of me when you’re here with her?”

“I already do,” he says. “The difference is now I’ll have memories. Not just imagination.”

You lean in to kiss him, and Harry welcomes it.

Even so, the two of you sleep in the guest bedroom, because you don’t want to use her pillow or wrap yourself in the same sheets she does.

Harry takes you to the end of the hallway, into a room that seems like it’s never been used, even though the sheets smell like fabric softener.

The bed is bigger than yours, and after a quick shower, the two of you tangle up together, naked, beneath the covers. It’s the first time you’re actually about to fall asleep with him, and he behaves exactly as you expected: he wraps himself around you, throws a leg over yours, and presses you tightly to his body. You’re surrounded by Harry—in your skin, in your sweat, in the sheets, in the house, in the scent that wraps around you.

And just like that, sleep comes easy.

Maybe it’s the unfamiliar space, or the furnace that is Harry’s body, or the emotional chaos, but you wake up in the middle of the night.

He’s completely asleep, his legs trapping yours, and you try to fall back asleep for a few more minutes, but it doesn’t work. Slowly, you untangle yourself from his body and tiptoe out of the room to get your phone, which you’d left in your bag on the coffee table.

You sit on the couch to check for any unread messages, but the moment makes you feel exposed. The champagne bottle and flutes still sitting there give you a headache. You lower the brightness on your phone and go back to the guest room.

Harry hasn’t moved.

There’s a small loveseat by the window, and you curl up there, turning your phone screen back on. The first unread message is from your boyfriend, sent about an hour ago. He’s thanking you for taking care of him. Says you should’ve stayed at his place so he could wake you up with breakfast.

You deserve it for looking after me, he writes and you let out a humorless laugh, because you definitely don’t deserve anything.

There’s a message from your mom, a photo of her, and a few from your friends who saw your picture with Harry on Forbes’s Instagram. You click the link, and it takes you to the post.

Harry Castillo, CEO of Castillo Construction & Co., and his executive assistant, is the caption.

You both look good. You make a striking image.

Harry’s sleepy voice pulls your attention back.

“Can’t sleep?”

He’s rubbing his eyes, propped up on one elbow to look at you.

“Think it’s just the unfamiliar bed. I can’t fall back asleep.”

“That really all it is?”

You chew on your bottom lip, hugging your knees and resting your chin on them after leaving your phone aside. Even though you’re completely naked, you don’t feel uncomfortable around Harry, which is saying something.

“What now?” you ask instead, feeling sorry for him, seeing as he just woke up and is being struck with this emotional turbulence. “Are we something?”

“That was the proposal.”

“We’re gonna have to get really good at lying. You know that, right? At some point, ‘I need to stay late at the office’ won’t cut it anymore.” A headache pulses at your temples. You laugh. “This is crazy.”

“What is?”

“When I started working at the office, I was obsessed with you. I practically drooled when you walked by, watched all your interviews, melted whenever you talked to me. And then you got married, so I made it a point to find someone, or anyone, to date, just to get you out of my system.”

Harry looks at you in a way you don’t like.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you groan, rolling your eyes. “I’m not some virgin girl doing this because I’m in love. You fuck me well, and I like it. That’s all.”

Harry gets out of bed and grabs a pillow. He walks over to you and, without a word, places it on the floor in front of the chair. Then he kneels, and you fall silent at the sight of Harry Castillo on his knees before you, his hair tousled from sleep.

He lifts your left ankle, holding your leg halfway out to kiss from your ankle to your knee, taking his time. The moonlight from outside casts a soft glow over his profile.

You watch, heart pounding.

“I remember your first day at work,” Harry murmurs, sleep-rough voice breaking the silence as he parts his lips to kiss the inside of your thigh. Your stomach twists with nerves and anticipation. “You were wearing a white dress. Your hair was tied up. And you widened your eyes at everyone who came near, like a damn deer.”

Your own eyes are probably wide now as he rests your right leg on his shoulder, stretching your left again to repeat the same trail of kisses. You grip the edge of the seat.

He remembers what you wore your first day, four years ago.

“You came into my office,” he continues, and lifts your left leg to join the other on his shoulders, his face now nestled between your thighs as he places open-mouthed kisses along your skin. “Asked if I needed help with anything specific, and when I told you to sit beside me so I could show you how to open my encrypted report, you tripped over the edge of the rug. In that exact moment, I wanted you.”

He says the last words right before he opens his mouth over your pussy, the heat of his breath making you arch into the chair and clutch his hair.

He looks up at you, mouth still busy, and God… if you could capture a single moment in a photo, it would be this.

You slide your legs off his shoulders just to grab his face and pull him up so you can kiss him. Harry kisses back eagerly, and there’s nothing tender about the way he licks into your mouth. There’s nothing tender about the way he breaks the kiss either just to place your legs back over his shoulders and bury his face between them again. One hand presses down on your lower belly to keep you in place as his mouth seals around your clit and starts to suck.

You hold his face with both hands, pressing him harder against you, watching him, watching the way his cock hardens just from tasting you.

“So good,” you whisper, your fingers on his jaw. “You have no idea how good it feels to have Harry Castillo on his knees for me.”

He doesn’t pull away, but you swear, if he could, he’d be smiling.

What he does instead is lower his mouth until his tongue is inside you. Your eyes flutter closed. Moans echo in the room, along with the wet sounds of his mouth, and you lose yourself in all of it, until his thumb slides inside you. But just as quickly, it leaves, and instead, glides down.

You open your eyes with a jolt just in time to see Harry sucking your clit while his thumb starts circling your other entrance.

It’s different. Strange. Not unpleasant.

“You’ve done this before?” he asks, likely meaning anal.

You shake your head.

“Well, look at that,” Harry says, overly pleased, rubbing in slow circles. “So, in a way, you’re still a virgin. Can I?”

There are very few things you wouldn’t give Harry if he asked.

“Just the finger. Just one. Slowly.”

“Always, baby.”

And he goes slowly.

He waits until you’re melting under his tongue, licking his thumb before returning it to your tight rim and gently pushing in the tip. It doesn’t hurt—not with just the tip—but it’s unlike anything you’ve done, something you never even tried with your boyfriend, even though he asked.

“Relax for me, sweetheart,” Harry whispers. “Breathe. Let me in.”

You don’t know how much time passes before your breathing calms and something in you releases. You feel safer.

Harry plunges his tongue into your pussy and brings his other thumb to your clit, and you’re surrounded by him in every possible way when, slowly, he slips his lubricated thumb into your ass, pulling a deep moan from your chest. The build-up of sensitivity throughout the night, paired with the newness of it all, crashes into you, and you come in his mouth, pulsing around his fingers in both places.

He doesn’t stop, even when you try to push him away and close your legs. Harry keeps sucking your clit harder, and you shake beneath him, overstimulated. He brings you to the edge again with his mouth and hands, and just as you’re about to fall, he stops and tells you to ride him.

You do, on the floor of the guest room. Apparently, you two have a thing for sex on the floor, because it’s rawer, messier, heavier with tension. You kiss the whole time, grabbing at whatever part of him you can reach, and the two of you come together.

Harry, inside you.

You, wrapped around him.

Hardly a word between you.

The next morning, Harry drives you home in his car, without a driver.

You’re wearing one of his T-shirts over your dress, your hair still wet and your face free of makeup, and you probably look ridiculous. A charitable act from the CEO of CCC.

The good news is that the street is empty. It’s still nine a.m. on a Sunday, so there are fewer witnesses to your disastrous state. A few brave souls pass by in running clothes, others look like they rolled out of bed five seconds ago, forced outside by the physiological needs of the small dogs following on their leashes.

Harry parks in front of your building and turns off the engine.

“Too cliché if I thank you for the night?” he asks, leaning back in his seat.

“I’m not going to thank you for the orgasms, because yes, I think that’s cliché, but” you raise your index finger, watching the smug smile take over his face. “solid performance for a senior citizen. Forbes would love to know about the five orgasms.”

“Six,” he corrects, ignoring the comment about the ‘senior citizen.’ “Two this morning. One in bed and one in the shower.”

Oh, right.

“Six,” you agree. “High performance, Mr. Castillo.”

“Glad you approve,” he says. “I suppose I can’t kiss you here.”

You shake your head.

“Not here.” You exchange one last look, entirely charged. “See you tomorrow.”

“See you.” Harry says, and you force yourself to open the passenger door. You place one foot out of the car, but before you can get out, Harry places his palm on the back of your neck and makes you look at him.

“Thank you for tonight and for accepting my proposal.”

You turn just enough to place a kiss on Harry’s wrist and get out of the car, shutting the door behind you.

When you turn toward your building’s entrance, you find another gaze on you.

That gaze runs over you from head to toe, taking in the clothes from the night before, the wet hair, the bare face, and then shifts to Harry’s Mercedes.

A freezing terror takes hold of your entire body, paralyzing you where you stand.

And then your boyfriend’s cold eyes meet yours.

[danysdaughter]

After Hours

pairing | au!bucky x teacher!reader

word count | 7.8k words

summary | when bucky barnes keeps showing up early to pick up his nephew from school, it’s definitely not just about being a good uncle—it’s about the sharp, no-nonsense kindergarten teacher who won’t give him the time of day. one desperate club night and a locked bathroom later, you finally do.

tags | (18+) MDNI, unprotected sex, p in v, semi-public sex, rough sex, oral sex (f!receiving), dominant!bucky, flirty!bucky, modern au, cocky!bucky, no-nonsense!reader, slow burn to smut, mutual pining, enemies to lovers-ish, no description of reader, BUT reader does have surname (racially ambiguous as always), ABBOTT ELEMENTARY CROSSOVER (this is fanfiction so I can do whatever I want)

a/n | this is filthy you guys, based on this request, and after reading this if you haven't I beg you to watch abbott elementary, literally rewatching for the fourth time, it's everything and changed my entire personality

likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨

ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ

“You do realize we’re ten minutes late, right?”

The voice came from the backseat—small, unimpressed, and filled with the kind of quiet disappointment usually reserved for tax season and slow Wi-Fi.

Bucky glanced at his rearview mirror and caught sight of his nephew, Danny, hair flattened oddly on one side from sleep, Superman backpack twice the size of his torso, and the most judgmental frown a five-year-old could possibly muster.

Bucky cleared his throat, shooting the kid his best reassuring grin. “Ten minutes is nothing, buddy. Trust me. Back in the day, I once showed up to basic training a whole hour late.”

Danny blinked. “Did you get yelled at?”

“Oh, absolutely.”

“Did you cry?”

“…No.”

Danny leaned back in his booster seat like a seasoned war general staring down a doomed campaign. “Ms. Lane’s gonna be mad.”

Bucky huffed a laugh as he pulled into the parking lot, spotting a scattering of parents still dropping kids off at the entrance. “Your teacher’s not gonna be upset you when I explain. You’re five. You’ve got diplomatic immunity.”

Danny shook his head slowly, solemnly.

“Not with me. You.”

Bucky paused mid-parallel-park, one hand still on the wheel, his brow furrowing. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Danny didn’t answer. Just stared straight ahead at the entrance to Abbott Elementary like it was the last checkpoint before war. Like he was waiting for the music from The Godfather to start playing.

“You’ll see,” he said simply, grabbing his backpack straps like they were armor.

Bucky frowned as he helped him out of the car. “What’s with the dramatics, huh? She gonna throw a book at me?”

Danny shrugged. “She’s just… Ms. Lane.”

And with that, the kid marched ahead like a tiny soldier into the building, leaving Bucky trailing behind, wondering what the hell kind of teacher scared a kindergartner more than a DC-level supervillain.

He was about to find out.

Bucky followed Danny down the hallway, trying not to feel like he was walking into a parent-teacher trap. It smelled like crayons, wet sneakers, and disillusionment.

A cluster of teachers loitered near the front office—one of them with an armful of broken rulers, one loudly arguing with a printer, and one sipping coffee with the grace of a woman who’d already survived decades of nonsense.

He made a beeline for her. Elegant, composed, a pearl necklace that said “respect me,” and an aura of calm he hadn’t felt since his last decent nap.

“Ms. Lane?” Bucky asked, offering a smile that had gotten him out of more than one parking ticket. “Sorry for the delay, I was doing my sister a favor—her son, Danny? He’s in your class.”

The woman blinked up at him, unimpressed. He could practically hear the mental pen clicking as she filed him under Oh no, not another one.

“I am Mrs. Howard,” she said, calmly correcting Bucky like he'd just misquoted Scripture. “Ms. Lane is the other kindergarten teacher.”

Bucky opened his mouth to apologize, but she wasn’t done.

“She’s just down the hall. Room 3B.” Then came the pause. The head tilt. The look.

“Young man…” She gave him a once-over. Not flirtatious. Not judgmental. Just quietly disappointed—like he'd shown up to church in jeans.

Bucky blinked. “Yes, ma’am?”

Mrs. Howard offered a solemn shake of her head. “Good luck.”

And with that, she turned and glided off, coffee in hand, already done with his entire existence.

Bucky stood in the hallway for a second, frowning. How bad could this Ms. Lane be? What, was she going to quiz him on phonics or glare him into a coma?

The door was already open a crack, but Bucky still knocked first, because that’s what you did when walking into enemy territory.

There was no chaos. No screeching. No glue sticks flying through the air. Which was immediately suspicious for a kindergarten class.

Instead, he stepped inside to find… silence.

Twenty tiny heads bent over worksheets like they were prepping for the SATs. Crayons moved in eerie unison. No one screamed. No one licked a desk. A kid in the back raised his hand quietly—quietly—to ask if he could use the bathroom.

That was his first warning.

Because when were kindergarteners ever quiet?

Bucky hesitated in the doorway, feeling like he’d just stumbled into enemy territory. What kind of boot camp were they running in here?

Danny nudged him forward, but Bucky’s attention was already drifting to the figure at the whiteboard across the room—spine straight, skirt fitted, heels clicking as you scrawled a date across the board with clean, efficient precision. You didn’t look up. You didn’t need to.

You radiated authority from thirty feet away.

He half-expected to see gray hair, maybe glasses on a chain. Strict. Sharp. The kind of teacher whose name gets spoken in terrified whispers on playgrounds.

Then you turned around.

And Bucky’s mouth dried up instantly.

You weren’t old. You weren’t scary. You were stunning. Not just pretty—gorgeous. The kind of beautiful that hits you like a left hook. And you didn’t smile when you saw him. Of course you didn’t.

You just turned, one brow raised, assessing him like a problem you were deciding whether to fix or eliminate.

Bucky cleared his throat, defaulting to his most practiced, most lethal move: the smile. The one that had gotten him out of bar fights, jury duty, and once, weirdly, an IKEA return policy.

“Hi. Sorry—I’m Bucky Barnes,” he said, stepping inside. “Danny’s uncle. Rebecca asked me to drop him off today. It’s my first time—”

“Kids are supposed to be in class by eight,” you interrupted, voice calm, level, and sharp enough to slice drywall. “It’s eight fifteen.”

Right. Okay.

The smile faltered just a fraction.

You crossed your arms, waiting, watching him like you were unimpressed by his entire bloodline.

Danny, standing a little behind Bucky now, mumbled, “Told you so.”

Bucky sighed and shot him a look before stepping forward a bit, trying again with a little more Sergeant, a little less smug.

“Yeah,” Bucky said, holding onto the edge of that smile. “That’s on me. My sister got called in early, and I didn’t realize traffic near the school was… a situation.” He gave a little shrug, trying to soften the blow. “It’s only fifteen minutes.”

One kid—front row, bowl cut, way too invested—visibly winced for him as you took a step closer to him. Bucky barely caught the movement before he felt the weight of your stare.

“Danny,” you said, never breaking eye contact with Bucky, “you can go take your seat.”

Danny didn’t hesitate. He made a beeline for his desk like he was escaping a hostage situation, never once glancing back at his uncle.

You turned your full attention on Bucky then, your eyes sweeping him head to toe in a single motion so dry, so thoroughly unimpressed, it made his spine straighten instinctively.

“Fifteen minutes,” you said, voice still perfectly pleasant, “is long enough for a child to lose their morning routine. It’s long enough to miss foundational learning, to feel behind before they’ve even started the day. It’s long enough to build a habit of dismissing responsibility.”

Bucky opened his mouth.

You didn’t stop.

“Fifteen minutes late to school turns into fifteen minutes late to interviews. Fifteen minutes late to jobs. Fifteen minutes late to life. That might not seem like much to you, Mr. Barnes, but to a five-year-old trying to learn structure in an unpredictable world? It matters.”

A low “oooh” rippled through the class like someone had just witnessed a verbal assassination.

You turned your head—just slightly—and every single one of them went silent like a switch had been flipped.

Then you turned back to Bucky with a smile so polished it might’ve passed for genuine, if not for the gleam in your eye that said this isn’t over, and you will remember me.

“Have a good day, Mr. Barnes.”

He blinked. “I—”

“Have a good day, Mr. Barnes.”

His mouth shut. His posture shifted. He nodded, respectful this time. “Of course.”

You turned back to the whiteboard without another word, already moving on like he was just a bump in your perfectly structured morning.

As Bucky stepped out of the classroom, he glanced back over his shoulder one last time.

The kids were still silent.

You were still terrifying.

And now?

You were stuck in his head.

From then on, Bucky made a small but strategic adjustment to his week.

He got Rebecca to agree—grudgingly, at first—to let him handle school drop-off twice a week and pick-up three times. It was about being involved. Showing up. Being a solid, male figure in Danny’s life. A steady one. That’s what he told himself. And his sister.

And sure, maybe it was also because Danny’s kindergarten teacher was the most infuriatingly magnetic person Bucky had ever met.

Ms. Lane.

You.

Every time he stepped into that classroom—on time, now, thank you very much—you were there. Clipboard in hand, spine like steel, eyes that didn’t blink when he smiled at you like he’d invented it.

You never giggled. Never blushed. Never let him get so much as a twitch of a lip curl when he dropped a line like, “Careful, you keep looking at me like that and people are gonna think we’re in a PTA scandal.”

Nothing.

You’d just stare at him, arch a brow, and hand him a paper that said ‘Parent Reading Night RSVP – Required.’

At one point, he was pretty sure you gave Janine more reaction for sneezing glitter.

And the worst part?

The kids loved you. Danny adored you. Sure, you also partially terrified them all, but you had their respect. Which meant Bucky couldn’t even pretend to resent the way you owned every room you walked into. He just had to lean in, play along, keep showing up, and try not to let it get to him when you ended every conversation with a clinical “Have a good day, Mr. Barnes,” like he was some stranger in a waiting room.

So he tried harder.

He wore better jackets.

When Becs didn't have the time, he made Danny’s lunches look like they were packed by Pinterest moms.

He learned all the traffic patterns around Abbott to avoid being even one minute late.

He even tried calling you “Ms. Lane” in that flirty voice he’d once used on girls outside jazz clubs in Brooklyn.

You looked up from your lesson plans, dead-eyed, and said, “Are you choking, or is that how you normally talk?”

You were unshakable.

Immovable.

He was in hell.

Beautiful, dry, completely-uninterested-in-him hell.

And he couldn’t stop coming back.

The door creaked open just as you were nodding along to whatever Janine was rambling about—something involving manifesting healthy communication with her plants or possibly something about moon phases and exes.

You barely suppressed a sigh. You liked Janine in small doses. She was enthusiastic. Kind. Chronically incapable of taking a hint. And lately, she’d made it her personal mission to turn your life into a rom-com, complete with imaginary “will-they-won’t-they” tension and way too much commentary.

“See, what I’m saying is, if he keeps showing up early, that’s basically a love confession. And if you weren’t so emotionally repressed—”

The door opened and he walked in.

Bucky Barnes strolled into your classroom like he owned a portion of the lease. Jacket unzipped, sleeves rolled, hair an intentional mess. He gave Janine a familiar nod and then locked his gaze on you like he always did—like you were the only person in the room.

He smiled. That easy, smirky, I-know-you-hate-this-but-maybe-you-don’t kind of smile.

“Ladies,” he greeted smoothly. “Miss Teagues. Ms. Lane.”

You didn’t look up from your clipboard. “You’re early.”

“Yeah, figured I’d show up before the bell, for once.” He leaned against the edge of a desk, far too casual. “I hear being punctual really impresses a certain someone.”

You deadpanned, “My class is in the library for story time. They won’t be back for another twenty minutes.”

He grinned. “Guess I’ll just have to entertain myself then.”

“God, you two are so adorable,” Janine burst out, hands clasped like she’d just walked in on a Hallmark movie climax. “The way you flirt—so classic enemies to lovers. It’s giving Pride and Prejudice. But like, modern. And in a school.”

You didn’t even blink.

“Janine. Leave.”

You looked at her. Just looked. One long, unimpressed, soul-shearing glance.

“Right. Right, right, right,” she mumbled, fumbling for her tote bag. “I have… bulletin board stuff. Laminating. Paper… science.”

She took two steps backward, then paused, giving Bucky the most exaggerated wink a human could physically perform.

You didn’t react. You were too tired.

She nodded like she was passing the torch of your romantic destiny and literally backed out of the classroom like Homer Simpson into a hedge.

The door clicked shut.

Bucky exhaled dramatically, like he’d just survived a natural disaster. “She’s like a human glitter bomb. No warning. No escape.”

You didn’t look up from your clipboard. “She’s enthusiastic. It’s exhausting.”

He chuckled, low and knowing. “So I guess that means I’m not your type either.”

“You’re not glittery.”

“Oh, come on,” he said, stepping closer, that damn smile still lingering at the corners of his mouth. “I sparkle a little.”

You glanced at him then—slowly, flatly.

“You always this persistent?” you asked, voice dry as ever.

He tilted his head, hands sliding into his jacket pockets like he had all the time in the world. “You always this impossible to impress?”

You shrugged, tapping your pen once against the clipboard before setting it down. “Only with people who try this hard.”

He gave a low whistle, grinning like you’d just scored a point in a game he didn’t mind losing. “Damn, but I bet if I said I was here for the stimulating curriculum and not to see you, you'd kick me out.”

“I’d consider it,” you said coolly. “But I’m invested in Danny’s education.”

“Ouch.”

He stepped a little closer again, but not too close. Like he was testing a line with his toe, just to see if you’d swat him back or finally step over it yourself.

“I ever make you laugh, Ms. Lane?” he asked, real curiosity under the velvet of the question.

You raised an eyebrow. “Do you want a sticker if you do?”

His grin turned into something a little rougher. “I’d rather earn one of those gold stars I see on your discipline chart.”

You didn’t smile. Not quite. But there was a flicker in your eyes he caught anyway, and his grin deepened like he’d won something.

You turned back to your desk, flipping a folder open without looking at him again.

“You know,” he said, glancing around your empty classroom, “this is the quietest I’ve ever seen it. Kind of eerie. I was starting to think the kids were fake—like one of those training simulations.”

You gave a low, unimpressed hum. “If they were fake, they wouldn’t sneeze directly into my coffee when I’m not looking.”

He chuckled, eyeing your desk. “Is that why you’ve got three different mugs over there? Just in case?”

You didn't respond. But the faint upward curve of your mouth—blink-and-miss-it—was the closest he’d gotten to a laugh since the first day he met you.

It made something curl low in his stomach.

“I know I keep saying this, but I’m not just here to bug you,” Bucky said after a beat, his voice edging toward sincere despite the grin still playing at his mouth. “Danny likes it when I pick him up. Says it makes him feel cool when I show up.”

You looked up, just slightly. “He does like showing you off.”

Bucky’s smile softened, just a little. “Kid’s got good taste.”

Then his eyes slid back to you, the cocky glint returning. “Speaking of good taste—what are the odds I could convince you to grab coffee sometime?”

You gave him a long, slow blink. Not mean. Just… devastatingly neutral.

He added, “I’ll be on time. And I promise not to flirt with the barista.”

You opened your mouth—possibly to respond, possibly to destroy him—but before a single word could land, the bell rang.

Shrill. Loud. Unforgiving.

You sighed like the universe had interrupted you on purpose.

“Danny’ll be waiting for you outside the library,” you said, already picking up the clipboard again like this was over and done. “Probably trying to con the librarian into letting him borrow another comic book.”

Bucky hesitated. “So… is that a maybe on the coffee?”

You didn’t even look up. “It’s a ‘your nephew’s in the library.’”

He grinned, slow and crooked. “I’ll take that as a soft yes.”

You arched an eyebrow. “Take it however you want, Barnes. Just go get your kid.”

He turned toward the door, still smiling, still smug—but quieter now. And before stepping out, he glanced back one more time.

You were already back to your paperwork.

But you hadn’t said no.

Bucky was still smirking to himself as he stepped out of your classroom and into the hallway—clearly riding high off your non-answer like it was a personal victory.

And, as luck would have it, he walked directly into Principal Ava Coleman’s path.

She had sunglasses on indoors and a folder she clearly hadn’t opened all week tucked under one arm.

“Good afternoon,” he said politely, offering her a nod and a half-smile.

Ava turned so fast it was like she’d been waiting for this exact moment. “Oh it is now,” she said, eyes raking over him so blatantly Bucky actually paused mid-step.

She watched him until he rounded the corner, then turned on a heel and bee-lined straight for your classroom, heels clicking like trouble.

She leaned into your doorway with no regard for your personal space or your peace of mind.

You didn’t even look up as she strolled through your door, “Girl.”

You kept sorting worksheets. “Ava.”

She gave you a look like she just walked in on free tickets to a concert and front-row seats.

“Now that is the finest white man I’ve seen this whole year,” she said, plopping down into one of the tiny student chairs with zero grace and maximum chaos.

You glanced up, deadpan. “It’s March.”

Ava rolled her eyes. “I meant school year. Don’t try and be smart with me.”

You arched a brow. “Wasn’t trying.”

She pointed a perfectly manicured nail toward the door. “You better quit playing with that man’s heart before I mess around and pull rank.”

You blinked once. “I’m not playing with anything.”

Ava smirked. “Girl, please. You’ve got him showing up early on purpose. That man’s in here more than Gregory and he actually works here.”

You didn’t respond right away. Just gathered your things slowly, expression unreadable.

Then: “He’s annoying.”

Ava stood, smooth as silk. “Mm-hm. And yet he’s got you so annoyed you keep your lipstick fresh after lunch.”

You glanced at her, unimpressed.

“I’m just saying,” Ava continued, striding around the room like she owned it (she technically did, unfortunately), “if you don’t take him, I will. That man is gonna give me some fine, emotionally stable mixed babies.”

You looked at her. Just looked. Slightly disgusted, mostly exhausted.

“Ava. Seriously?”

“What?” she asked, clearly unbothered. “You’re the one over here acting like you don’t notice. Always so uptight, hair all sleeked back like you’re about to defend someone in court. Girl, this is a school.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Ava, what do you want?”

“I’m going out tonight,” she said, waving a perfectly manicured hand like this was some kind of decree. “Clubbing. Drinks. Vibes. You’re coming.”

You didn’t even flinch. “Absolutely not.”

She pointed. “You’re coming.”

“No.”

“I’m your boss. You’re forced to. It’s in your contract.”

“It’s really not.”

“Also,” she added, shrugging, “you’re the closest thing to an equal I’ve got in this place. So you’re coming for moral support.”

You finally looked up, full eye contact. “Ava. No.”

She pointed at you. “Nine o’clock. I’m texting you the address. Now go home, let your hair down and let your scalp breathe for once. Wear something that says ‘I’m open to bad decisions.’ Not ‘I’m about to read you your Miranda rights.’”

You opened your mouth to decline again, but she was already halfway down the hall, yelling something about “energy healing” and “pre-gaming with affirmations.”

You sighed.

Loudly.

“You gotta stop lookin’ like someone stole your dog,” Sam said, nudging his shoulder as they walked toward the club entrance. “You’re killin’ the vibe.”

Bucky shot him a look. “You dragged me out.”

“I’m saving your sad, one-woman-man life,” Sam said. “You need to remember other women exist, Buck. The world’s bigger than that kindergarten teacher who makes you sweat like you’re back in basic.”

Bucky sighed, scanning the line outside the club. “You’re not gonna let this go, are you?”

“Nope.” Sam clapped him on the back. “C’mon. Maybe the actual girl of your dreams is in here.”

“Already found her.”

“You are so damn whipped, man,” Sam muttered.

Inside, the club was all neon glow and bass-heavy music. The air pulsed with energy and cheap cologne. Bucky kept his hands in his jacket pockets, jaw tense as Sam tried to steer him toward the bar.

And then he saw you.

You were standing near a tall cocktail table, back to him, dress hugging every curve like it was tailored by sin itself. That deep burgundy color against your skin, the sheer lace sleeves, the neckline that made his mouth go dry—fuck.

It was like the air got sucked right out of the building.

He stopped walking. Just… stopped.

Sam bumped into him. “What? Don’t tell me you already gave up—”

Bucky lifted a hand, pointing without looking away. “That’s her.”

Sam followed his gaze. “That’s Ms. Lane?”

Bucky nodded, dumbfounded. “Yeah.”

“She teaches kindergarten?”

“Yeah.”

Sam stared a moment longer. “I’ve never wanted to re-enroll in school so bad in my life.”

Bucky’s jaw worked. You hadn’t noticed him yet. You were talking to someone—smiling, even, which was a rare enough sight that it nearly took him out.

Then he saw who was beside you.

“Oh. Ava’s here too.”

Sam turned. “Who’s Ava?”

“The principal.”

Sam blinked. “You’re telling me the tall one with the long hair and wearing that is the principal?”

“Yep.”

“I’m calling Sarah,” Sam said, already reaching for his phone. “We’re transferring my nephews.”

Bucky didn’t respond. His eyes were locked on you—his teacher, his girl, his quiet obsession—laughing in a club with a dress that made his palms sweat. All those weeks of buttoned-up shirts and sarcastic dismissals, and now here you were, looking like a damn vision.

Sam nudged him. “You gonna stand there drooling or go say something?”

“I can’t.”

“Why?”

“I think I’m in love.”

Sam rolled his eyes hard. “God, you’re so dramatic.”

But Bucky didn’t hear him. You’d turned just enough for your eyes to start sweeping the room, and the moment you looked in his direction—

He knew you saw him.

And he knew everything was about to change.

The club pulsed around you—sweaty, crowded, way too loud—and you were already regretting everything.

You weren’t the kind of woman who went out on Friday nights. You were the kind who wrote parent emails about glitter-related injuries and kept a drawer full of emergency dry-erase markers.

The kind who dodged PTA moms like landmines and maintained a firm no-nonsense reputation because the moment you didn’t, someone’s child would be climbing the bookshelf like it was Everest.

But here you were. Burgundy dress, heels too high, lip gloss too shiny, sipping on a drink that tasted vaguely like regret and melted candy.

Ava was beaming beside you, obviously thriving. “Now this is what I’m talking about,” she said, swaying to the music. “You, me, outfits that should be illegal. This is the energy we need.”

You took a sip, trying not to look like you wanted to crawl out of your own skin. “I already want to go home.”

“You always want to go home. You're, like, emotionally married to your couch.”

You opened your mouth to reply, but then Ava froze—gasped like someone had pulled the fire alarm—and grabbed your arm with enough force to startle you.

“Girl. Girl. You will not believe who just walked in right now.”

You frowned, confused. “What—”

“Look.”

You followed her eye line. The club suddenly felt ten degrees hotter.

Bucky Barnes stood at the entrance, taller than anyone else around him, leather jacket open over a dark henley, hair tousled, mouth set in that stupid half-smirk like he knew he didn’t belong there and didn’t care. His blue eyes scanned the crowd like he was looking for someone.

And then they landed on you.

Oh no.

No.

“This is not happening right now,” you muttered, nearly tripping over your own words. “I have got to get out of here.”

You turned, already strategizing your exit route, but Ava threw an arm out in front of you like she was stopping traffic.

“Girl, forget you. Look at that man’s fine ass friend.”

You blinked, turning your head just enough to catch him—Bucky’s friend. Broad shoulders. Clean-cut. Smiling already like he knew how this worked. His eyes were on Ava like she was a problem he was already planning to solve.

“Hell yes,” Ava said. “That’s my man. Manifested. Claimed.”

You were too busy trying to make your brain reboot. Because Bucky was still watching you. He hadn’t looked away once. Like you were the only person in the club. His mouth curved slightly. Not cocky. Not playful. Just… locked in. Sure.

And damn him—you felt it. That same heat in your chest you pretended didn’t exist every time he came to pick up Danny. Except now, there was no desk between you. No escape.

And then, the inevitable.

The two pairs drifted toward each other. Like planets colliding. Like destiny had a sick sense of humor.

It was Ava who broke the silence first.

“Hi,” she said to Bucky’s friend, offering a hand like she expected it to be kissed. “Ava Coleman. Principal. Administrator. Visionary. And I know you’re about to buy me a drink.”

Sam blinked once, clearly amused. “Sam Wilson. Nice to meet you, Ms. Visionary.”

“Mmhm. I know.” Ava looped her arm through his like it was nothing. “Let’s go, future Mr. Coleman.”

You turned, shocked. “Ava—”

She didn’t even glance back. “You’re on your own, counselor. Don’t mess this up.”

And with that, she strutted away with Sam trailing behind her, clearly both confused and deeply invested.

You turned back to find Bucky still standing there.

Still watching you.

And now it was just the two of you.

No classroom.

No clipboard.

No rules.

Just you. And him. And the truth you’d been ignoring.

He smiled.

And you suddenly couldn’t remember a single reason why you ever told yourself he wasn’t dangerous.

Bucky stood there for a second longer, drinking you in.

The lace sleeves. The curve of your waist. The neckline that made his brain stop working for a solid five seconds. It wasn’t just the dress—it was you in it. Out of your usual uniform. Out of your guarded shell. Still composed, but softer somehow. Looser.

“You look—” he started, voice low.

“Hot?” you cut in, arching an eyebrow, mouth twitching just enough to betray your awareness.

He laughed, quiet, head tipping slightly. “I was gonna say amazing. But hot works too.”

You rolled your eyes and took a slow sip of your drink to hide the way your pulse jumped.

Bucky stepped closer, just enough to speak without raising his voice. “I didn’t think you went to places like this.”

“I don’t. Ava dragged me.”

You glanced past him, where Ava was already leaned over the bar with Sam looking both impressed and slightly alarmed.

“And now she’s dragging him,” you murmured.

Bucky followed your gaze and let out a soft chuckle. “Should we check on them?”

“No,” you said instantly. “Let natural selection take its course.”

He grinned again—less smug this time. Quieter. More real. The kind of smile that said he’d missed seeing you. The kind that made your breath catch a little deeper than you wanted to admit.

You took another sip, letting the pause stretch, then tilted your head at him.

The music pounded around you. People brushed past. The lights shifted.

But it felt like everything stilled between you and him.

“I thought maybe, outside the classroom... you’d stop pretending I’m not getting to you.”

Your grip on your drink tightened slightly.

You didn’t look away.

You should have.

But you didn’t.

Instead, you held his gaze like it was a contest. Like you were daring him to blink first. Your chin stayed lifted, eyes steady, but something behind them flickered—just for a second.

Bucky saw it. That crack in your wall. And God help him, it made his pulse jackhammer in his throat.

You tilted your head slightly, that same biting calm in your voice. “You really think you’re getting to me?”

He stepped in closer, slow, careful—not touching you, but close enough that the heat rolled off him like static. “No,” he said. “I know I am.”

Your throat worked on a swallow you tried to hide, but Bucky clocked it.

You were still composed. Still wrapped in that hard-earned edge of professionalism, like even now, in heels and lace, you could throw a behavioral chart at him and end the whole thing.

But your body betrayed you.

The shift of your weight. The way your breath hitched when he looked at your mouth.

You didn’t push him away.

“You always this arrogant?” you asked, voice like silk-wrapped steel.

“Only when I’m right.”

You opened your mouth, probably to put him in his place again—but then the music shifted, a heavy, pulsing bass dropping in from the DJ booth. A sea of people moved on the dance floor, but the space between you and him felt small. Pressurized.

His eyes dipped to your lips, then back up.

“Dance with me,” he said.

You blinked. “What?”

His smirk curled slowly. “You heard me.”

You scoffed, already shaking your head. “I don’t dance.”

“Sure you do. You just don’t want to with me.”

“Accurate.”

“But you will.” He leaned in, voice brushing the shell of your ear now. “Because I’m asking. And because for once, I don’t think you want to walk away.”

You hated how that made your stomach flip. Hated it even more when he held out a hand—not cocky, not smug. Just… waiting.

You stared at it.

Then at him.

Then, slowly, you slid your hand into his.

And that was all he needed.

Big win. Massive win.

He tugged you gently into the swell of bodies, his hand warm against yours, his other settling lightly on your waist. And when he pulled you close—closer than you’d ever let him stand before—you didn’t pull back.

You danced.

At first, stiff. Calculated. Like you were trying to make it not mean something.

But Bucky? He knew how to move. Knew how to guide without pushing, how to lean in just enough to make your head spin. Every time your hips brushed, every time his hand slipped an inch lower on your back, you felt it in your knees.

You hated him for being good at this.

You hated yourself more for liking it.

And when his lips brushed your ear again, breath hot and voice low, you barely heard the words over the music:

“Just admit it.”

You swallowed, refusing to answer.

He smiled against your skin.

He already knew.

You didn’t answer.

Couldn’t.

Because something inside you snapped the second his breath touched your neck. And the next thing you knew, your fingers were gripping his wrist, dragging him behind you through the crowd with single-minded purpose. Not speaking. Not thinking. Just moving.

Bucky didn’t ask where you were going.

Didn’t need to.

He followed like a man being led to his own damn salvation.

You found the restroom near the back—single occupancy, thank God—and yanked the door open, pulling him in after you. The lock clicked behind you just as his mouth crashed into yours.

It wasn’t gentle.

There was no space for that anymore.

You kissed like you’d been waiting weeks to do it—months actually. All teeth and tongue and heat, his hands gripping your waist like he still couldn’t believe you were real. You pressed him back against the wall, palms flat on his chest, lips dragging along his jaw, biting at the curve of his neck just to feel him shudder.

His hands roamed—your waist, your hips, sliding lower, greedy, hungry, completely unrestrained. His mouth returned to yours, catching your gasp mid-kiss as he backed you against the sink now, one hand curling around the back of your neck, the other on your thigh, tugging it up around his waist.

“You sure?” he murmured against your mouth, breath ragged.

You answered by dragging his lower lip between your teeth.

“Fuck,” he breathed.

He kissed you harder.

Sloppier.

Desperate.

The kind of kiss that said he didn’t care about the lipstick smudging or the way your dress rode up or how his belt buckle knocked against the porcelain edge of the sink. It was all teeth and moans and hands gripping too tight.

Your fingers slid under his jacket, then his shirt, pushing it up, needing to feel skin—hot, firm, real. You ran your nails over his stomach and he groaned like it physically hurt to be touched that way.

“You have no idea what you’re doing to me,” he panted.

You gripped his belt, pulling his hips flush to yours. “You’ve got a pretty good idea what you’re doing to me too.”

He looked down at you like he was already wrecked—and still starving.

Like this wasn’t enough.

Like it was never going to be enough.

Then suddenly Bucky let out a breathless laugh, eyes darting around the cramped bathroom as he made sure to lock the door behind you. “In here? Really?”

You smirked, stepping backward until your back met the cool tile wall, the sink brushing your hip. “What?” you said, voice teasing, eyes locked on his. “You’ve never fucked in a public bathroom before?”

He tilted his head, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Have you?”

You shrugged, that slow, calculated way that always made him insane. “First time for everything.”

He stared at you for a beat, eyes dark and full of heat—then moved.

He was on you in a flash, hands braced on either side of your head, mouth finding yours again in a kiss that tasted like restraint snapping in half. It was messy, all tongue and teeth, lips crashing together.

Your hands threaded into his hair, tugging, nails scraping against his scalp as he kissed you harder, deeper, needier. His body pressed into yours, firm and unrelenting, and you gasped when you felt the hard line of his cock against your thigh.

Then he dropped.

Literally—dropped to his knees, palms dragging down your sides with reverence and greed.

“Bucky—”

“Shh,” he murmured, voice rough as his eyes flicked up to meet yours. “Let me.”

His hands pushed your dress up slowly, worshipfully, bunching the burgundy fabric around your hips. He hooked a finger into your panties, pulled them to the side, and let out a soft, guttural groan.

“Jesus Christ…”

Then he dove in.

His mouth pressed against your cunt like he was starving, tongue parting your folds with a groan that vibrated against you. You cried out—soft, sharp—your hands flying to his hair again as he started to lick, slow and purposeful. Long, wet strokes that made your knees go weak.

One hand clutched the sink for balance, the other fisted in his hair as he sucked your clit into his mouth, groaning like you were the best thing he’d ever tasted.

You bit your lip to keep quiet—pointless, really. Your hips bucked against his face and he held you there, arms locking around your thighs, face buried between your legs like he had no intention of coming up for air.

“You taste so fucking good,” he growled, voice muffled as he licked deeper, tongue fucking into you before circling your clit again with maddening precision. “Been thinking about this since the first day I saw you.”

You choked on a gasp, head tipping back, the edge already building—too fast, too strong.

And he wasn’t stopping.

Not for anything.

Your grip tightened in his hair as Bucky’s tongue dragged a slow, torturous circle around your clit, only to suck it between his lips with a low, obscene groan that vibrated through your entire body.

“Fuck—” you gasped, breath hitching as your thighs threatened to close around his head.

He wasn’t having it.

His left hand braced against your hip, holding you open, steady, while his right slid up your thigh—palm rough, fingers sure—until he reached your slit. One thick finger slipped inside, slow, dragging along your walls as he moaned like he felt it too.

“You’re so tight,” he breathed against your cunt. “So wet for me. This pretty pussy’s been waiting for me, huh?”

You shuddered, jaw slack, hips rolling down onto his face and hand like your body knew exactly what it needed. He pumped the finger slowly, deliberately, curling just right to make your knees buckle. Then he added a second—stretching you, filling you—and the heat in your belly twisted hard.

“Oh my god—Bucky—”

“That’s it,” he murmured, eyes flicking up to watch your face as his fingers curled deep inside you. “Let me hear you, baby.”

His mouth returned to your clit, licking in messy, desperate circles while his fingers fucked into you faster—his rhythm syncing perfectly with your shaking body. Every thrust hit that spot inside you with aching precision, your thighs trembling as your moans broke free.

You weren’t composed now.

You weren’t silent.

You were his, unraveling in his mouth, pulsing around his fingers, the world narrowing to the slick sounds of your body and the obscene groans he made as he devoured you like it was his last meal.

“I could do this all night,” he panted, fingers curling hard as your hips jerked. “You gonna come for me? Gonna soak my fuckin’ fingers?”

You couldn’t even form words—only nod, only whimper, only clutch at his hair and the edge of the sink like you might float away if you let go.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he growled, tongue flicking your clit fast and filthy now, fingers pounding into you. “Come on my face.”

Your body clenched, the pressure snapping like a whip crack—your orgasm crashing over you so hard you cried out, hips shaking, thighs locked tight around his head. He groaned, licking you through it, fingers still working you until you were whining, pushing weakly at his shoulder.

He finally pulled back, mouth and chin glistening, chest heaving.

He looked wrecked.

And proud.

Bucky stood, chest rising hard, his jaw clenched like he was fighting off every urge he’d ever had. His mouth was slick with you, his fingers still glistening, and he looked down at you like you were the only thing tethering him to sanity.

Then he cursed.

“Shit—” he growled, hand dragging down his face. “I don't have a condom.”

You blinked, still breathless, still shaking.

Then you reached for his belt.

You pulled him close with both hands, grabbed his face, and kissed him hard—tongue sweeping into his mouth, tasting yourself all over him.

He groaned, loud and broken, his hands flying to your waist, gripping tight.

“I’m on birth control,” you panted against his lips. “It’s fine.”

He froze for half a second.

Then everything snapped.

He spun you around, bent you over the sink, and shoved your dress up around your waist again with a growl that sounded like it was ripped from his chest.

“Fuck, I’ve wanted this,” he muttered, dragging his pants down just enough to free himself—his cock hard, thick, flushed at the tip.

You looked at him over your shoulder, eyes dark, daring. “Then take it.”

He didn’t hesitate.

He grabbed your hip with one hand, the other guiding himself to your soaked entrance. He groaned when he felt how wet you still were, and then he thrust in—hard, deep, one sharp movement that made both of you cry out.

“Jesus—” he bit out, buried to the hilt inside you.

You gasped, your hands bracing against the sink, your head dropping between your arms as he pulled back and slammed into you again, rougher this time, like all the control he’d been clinging to shattered in one thrust.

His grip on your hips was bruising.

His rhythm? Relentless.

“Look at you,” he gritted, hips snapping into you again and again, cock dragging perfectly over your walls. “All that attitude. All that sass. And now you’re fucking dripping for me.”

You moaned, arching your back, pushing back onto him. “Shut up and fuck me.”

That did it.

He pounded into you, deep and rough, grunting with every thrust, each one sharper than the last. Your hands scrambled for grip, one of your heels slipping as he rutted into you like he was trying to claim you, pull every sound out of your throat that you’d refused to give him in daylight.

“Been thinking about this since the first time you called me Barnes like it was a threat,” he growled, one hand fisting in your hair to pull your head back. “And now you’re letting me fuck you in a goddamn club bathroom?”

You gasped, eyes fluttering. “Shut up.”

He fucked you harder.

“You love this,” he growled in your ear. “You love the way I feel inside you. Admit it.”

Your nails scraped the porcelain.

He yanked you upright against his chest, his cock still buried inside you, pounding you with punishing, perfect rhythm.

“Say it,” he demanded, voice ragged. “Say you wanted this.”

You moaned, nearly sobbed. “I—fuck—I wanted this—”

He groaned, low and guttural, lips dragging over your shoulder and hand drifting to your neck.

His hand on your throat wasn’t choking—just holding. Just claiming. His mouth was at your ear, breath hot, voice wrecked. You were bent over the sink but upright now, your chest flush to his, and your eyes—

He made sure they were on the mirror.

“Look,” Bucky growled, fucking into you hard enough to make the sink creak. “Look what I’m doing to you.”

Your gaze caught the reflection—and fuck, it was obscene. Your lips parted, cheeks flushed, sweat-damp hair clinging to your temples. His broad chest against your back, one hand gripping your hip, the other still around your throat like he was holding you steady so you couldn’t escape how good it felt.

Every thrust slammed into you from behind, deep and fast, his cock stretching you wide, hitting that perfect spot over and over until your legs were shaking.

You whimpered, unable to hold back anymore.

“That’s it,” he rasped. “Let me hear you. No classroom. No clipboard. Just you. And me.”

Your head tipped back onto his shoulder as his thrusts grew rougher, deeper, fucking you in front of the mirror like he wanted you to remember this—to see exactly what he turned you into.

“I can feel you squeezing me,” he panted. “So fuckin’ tight. You gonna come for me?”

You moaned, body tensing, orgasm coiling hard in your belly, your thighs trembling, the pressure too much.

His fingers moved down your stomach, finding your clit, rubbing tight, fast circles as he slammed into you.

“Come for me,” he growled into your ear. “Come on my cock. Let me feel it.”

You shattered.

It was sharp, messy, loud—your cry bouncing off the bathroom walls as your pussy clenched around him, body locking up, hips jerking uncontrollably. You came so hard you saw white, barely able to hold yourself up as your orgasm rolled over you in crashing waves.

“Fuck, that’s it,” Bucky grunted, and then he lost it.

His rhythm stuttered, a broken gasp tearing from his throat as he buried himself deep one last time and came inside you, hips jerking, breath ragged against your neck.

He held you tight, forehead pressed to your shoulder, still inside you, both of you shaking and panting, sweat-slicked and spent.

The mirror caught everything.

Two people undone.

Two people who couldn’t take it back.

And neither of you wanted to.

The room was quiet now, save for your breathing and the soft hum of music bleeding through the walls.

You blinked slowly at the mirror, still bent over the sink, your hair mussed, dress bunched around your hips, Bucky’s body heavy and warm behind you. He was still buried inside you, both of you barely recovered.

He exhaled, lips brushing your shoulder, then your neck. “Well, damn.”

You let out a breath that might’ve been a laugh if you weren’t still coming down from the best orgasm of your life.

He finally pulled out with a low groan, pressing a kiss to your shoulder as he did, and then helped smooth your dress back down over your thighs. His touch lingered just a second too long, like he wasn’t ready to let go of you just yet.

You straightened, turned slowly to face him, your expression mostly neutral—but your eyes were warmer than before. He saw it. He always did.

Bucky leaned back against the sink beside you, tucking himself back into his jeans with practiced ease, still watching you with that lazy post-orgasm smirk.

“So,” he said, running a hand through his hair, still slightly breathless. “Now that we’ve gotten the hard part out of the way…”

You arched a brow, lips twitching. “That was the hard part?”

He grinned. “Figuratively. And literally.”

You rolled your eyes, turning to check yourself in the mirror. Your lipstick was gone. Your cheeks were flushed. Your neck had the faint outline of his stubble. You looked exactly how you felt: fucked out and dangerously close to letting him in.

You dabbed at your collarbone with a paper towel.

He watched you quietly for a second, then said, softer now, “Come on, baby. Just one date.”

You froze.

He didn’t miss it.

“One date,” he said again, stepping a little closer, voice still low. “Not the club. Not the classroom. Just you and me. Dinner. Or drinks. Hell, coffee if that’s all I get.”

You looked at him, really looked.

He was flushed, eyes bright, hopeful in a way he hadn’t been in weeks. There was something real behind that smirk now. Something open. Unprotected.

You should’ve shut him down.

Should’ve said something cold. Dismissive.

But instead, you leaned in—kissed him, slow this time, less teeth, more tongue. Just a whisper of what could happen again if you said yes.

When you pulled back, your lips barely brushed his.

“You’re gonna regret asking me out, Mr. Barnes.”

He grinned.

“Not a chance, Ms. Lane.”

[bucketbueckers]

BIGGER IN TEXAS

pairing: paige bueckers x fem!reader

content: filth (and some plot, as a treat)!! language, light alcohol/body shots, oral, fingering, strap, fuck ass cowboy hats, freak shit im talm bout inittttt, slight overstim, mirror, light choking (author is unoriginal we know this), reader is honestly thirsty as hell but so is paige, idk how to tag smut properly just know im losing my spot in heaven for this fic

wc: 10.5k

synopsis: A Dallas Wings rookie and a Dallas Cowboys Cheerleader walk into a club together. What could possibly go wrong?

notes: i wasn't ovulating when i drafted this but i am now! maybe tmi. sinners changed my life and my main takeaway from that movie is everyone is a munch and thats a life philosophy i think everyone should have. make sure you all say "thank you kali uchis" because i actually got insane writers block after waking up this morning but her album saved me. not much to say but im actually going to hell for this so please make it worth it and hit up my inbox pls and ty 🫶 as always i hope yall enjoy!

Let the record show that you weren’t serious.

Okay. You were like, 50% serious. As in if you were presented with the opportunity, you would take it, but if any of your friends were to ask about it, you would probably deflect.

You realize now that you tend to get a little overzealous on Twitter – it’s far more unhinged than your Instagram is, where you share pictures of your everyday life and action shots as a Dallas Cowboys Cheerleader. You have less followers on the bird app (it is not X), you’re a little more…real, and as a bonus, your mom doesn’t follow you, so you feel like you can be a little more insane on there.

Although you’d probably apologize to her later – because one of your recent tweets is going a little crazy.

It didn’t start as anything crazy. Being a Dallas athlete, you kept up with nearly every sports team – the Mavericks, the Stars, the Cowboys, obviously, but you loved the Wings, too. You watched the WNBA draft as did countless others in the country.

When the Wings admin posted the Welcome to Dallas, Paige Bueckers! tweet, you’d giggled to yourself, mostly because you were nursing a Chili’s margarita and because she looked insanely good in the graphic.

You retweeted it, typing, welcoming you into dallas w open arms @.paigebueckers1 🤠

Then, almost like an afterthought, you commented on your own retweet, typing, and with open legs 🙏

You didn’t think much of it. Obviously. You didn’t have a huge following and if anyone asked, you’d just be kidding. The next ten minutes are peaceful as you finish off your margarita and scroll aimlessly through TikTok, keeping one ear out for the next draft pick. And then your phone starts blowing up.

A bunch of likes. A few people retweeting your second comment with various laughing or crying emojis. But what makes you pause is the notification reading Paige Bueckers has liked your tweet!

Oh. You click just to make sure, and – yeah. Definitely the one about having open legs.

Any other day, this would probably be mortifying, but today you’re a little emboldened by the margarita in your veins and you can’t help but think this is a little funny. You’ll probably regret it later when everyone remembers that you’re kind of a public figure and decides to flame you for being a little unhinged on main. For now, though, it’s not that big of a deal.

When you wake up in the morning to an unread DM from Paige – who’d followed you back, mind you – on your Instagram, you suddenly realize that it actually is a big deal.

Paige 💕: I’m flying into Dallas on the 23rd for media Paige 💕: If the offer still stands maybe you could show me around the city?

You stare blankly at your phone. Then you blink once. Twice. You power off your phone, press your pillow to your face, and you scream.

You weren’t serious, but you think you’re being presented with the opportunity – and, well, who are you to look a gift horse in the mouth?

After you finally come back to your senses, you reach for your phone again, navigating back to your DMs with Paige. You only have to contemplate for a few seconds before your fingers are flying across the keyboard.

You: i’ve been known to be a thorough tour guide You: let me know what your schedule looks like and i’ll show you the pretty parts of dallas

Her response comes quicker than you were expecting.

Paige 💕: Looking forward to it 🫶 Paige 💕: Not sure how Dallas compares to you but I can be open minded

Admittedly, you have to reread her message twice to fully grasp the cheesy pick-up line, but you hate the way it makes your cheeks flush. You’re not sure how to respond to that.

You settle for screaming into your pillow again.

The week passes by quickly. You and Paige talk — a lot — truly enjoying getting to know each other during your rare moments of free time. Paige is busy with flights and appearances while your schedule is packed with practice and learning the audition choreography for the next season of DCC. 

Despite yourself, you can’t help but think how nice it is. There’s no expectations. You’re both athletes with a combined two hours of free time. For now, you’re just content to see where this goes. You enjoy her company, and honestly, you’re really into her. Paige flirts relentlessly, but you can tell there’s an undercurrent of respect and admiration that makes you feel like that feeling is mutual, too. 

She texts you a picture of the Dallas tarmac when she lands on the 23rd, a coy reminder that you did promise to show her around. Paige has media for a good portion of the day, though, so you know you won’t be seeing her for a while. You tune in for a little bit of her rookie press conference, and no, you weren’t cheesing while listening to her speak. But if you were, that wouldn’t be anyone’s business but your own.

You don’t hear from her for the next few hours, which doesn’t bother you. You do get a call from one of your squadmates, Lielle, asking if you’d be down to hit the club before the DCC season starts – and who were you to say no to that?

You settle for a light, natural makeup look, throwing on a blue, mesh, halter corset top that sparkles in the light and a pair of cropped, white denim shorts. They’re long enough to cover what they need to, but it’s the perfect club outfit – something with the right amount of tease and will make you feel confident enough to truly let loose.

Lielle picks you up along with a few other of your friends who tease you relentlessly for your actions on Twitters – it’s no use defending yourself, although they’re nearly howling in excitement when you point out that Paige is in your DMs, so you’re probably doing something right.

You and your girls enter the club with high spirits, the atmosphere already electric, and two of your squadmates break away to find a table while you and Lielle make your way to the bar to order shots and drinks for everyone. Lielle leans over the bar, already laying it on thick for the bartender, who grins politely like he’s seen just about every variation of whatever game Lielle is playing.

On the bright side, he does end up discounting your drinks on account of being a DCC fan, which makes you think Lielle never truly had a chance, anyways – but a cheaper drink is a cheaper drink, especially in Dallas. Lielle walks away with a wink and the drinks in her hands as you remain to order something for yourself. The bartender has just slid the drink your way when you feel the heat of someone’s body next to yours. At first, you’re alarmed, but you soften when you hear their voice, followed by finally looking at their face.

“Didn’t expect to see you here.” In person, Paige Bueckers is so much taller than you’d anticipated, which is probably a really stupid thing to say for a professional basketball player. She’s tall, her cologne a heady scent of warm vanilla and something distinctly floral, and she rests her arm against the bar in a way that’s devastatingly casual and dangerously alluring. Paige is wearing a black and white striped Nike sweater, the very same she’d done media in, a look not befitting of the club but you can’t help but think about how perfectly her it is.

You crack a coy smile, taking a quick sip of your drink for some liquid courage, because Paige is staring at you like she knows exactly what she wants from you and your heart thrums because if she said the word, you’d be willing to give it to her. “What, is this place too scandalous for a cheerleader like me?” you joke, and the heat of her gaze travels down your body in one quick motion.

“Nah, nothing like that,” she assures you. “Just didn’t think that out of every club in this city, I’d be lucky enough to run into you my first night out.”

“Seems we’re both feeling a little lucky tonight, huh?” you say, and she laughs gently under her breath. Paige holds out a hand to you. In lieu of a shake, you settle for hugging her instead, which she relaxes into immediately, her hands resting respectfully at the small of your back. “It’s great to finally meet you in person,” you say genuinely, pulling away at the right moment. “You enjoying Dallas so far?”

Paige shrugs a little, a smile on her face and gratitude on her tongue when the bartender slides a drink her way, too. “Haven’t got the chance to see much,” she says honestly. “Was in media all day, then I stopped by Costco so my apartment looked a little less pathetic. Now I’m here. Something about rookie initiation, according to Rike, but I think she just wanted someone to buy her drinks.”

You laugh. “Look at you already taking care of people,” you comment, your grin widening at her playful expression. “You’re here with your team, then? Where are y’all sitting?”

Paige purses her lips, her eyes squinting as she peers through the dim lighting of the club. “I think over there?” she says, pointing at the VIP section towards the back. She’s closer to you now, her chin resting just above your head, and you follow her gaze. You can’t help your smile, something she picks up on immediately. “What’s funny?”

“I think your team’s already hitting it off with mine,” you say, easily spotting Lielle handing a shot to Arike and clapping when she downs it in one go. You don’t think Lielle is drunk yet, but she has a natural excitement and zest for life that makes her the easiest person in the world to befriend.

Paige huffs a little under her breath, amusement lacing the sound, and her hand finds your waist. “Must be meant to be,” she says to you. Despite yourself, you preen, your smile widening when her hand finds your skin. “After you.”

Paige walks almost protectively behind you, the crowd of club-goers parting instinctively for the both of you. When you make it back to the VIP section, both of your teams cheer – like they know something you don’t – which causes a blush to rise on your cheeks and a nearly smug expression to take over Paige’s.

Introductions are swift, if a little unnecessary. You’d run into many of the Wings players before, having made a genuine effort your first year as a professional cheerleader to show up to many of the Dallas sports games.

Before you know it, Arike has ordered more shots for the table, and Paige slides into the booth next to you with a dangerous glint in her eye and two shots of tequila in her hands. The table is lively, raucous, with Kelsey – one of your squadmates – going shot for shot with Aziaha James and Lielle and Arike instigating.

But here, now, in this little corner you and Paige have tucked yourselves into, you’re enjoying the intimacy of the moment far too much, feeling as though you’ve been afforded far more privacy than you actually have.

Paige presses one of the shots into your hands, a loose smile on her face. “To Dallas?” she asks you, raising her glass.

You tap yours against hers, a matching smile of your own as you agree, “To Dallas.” You down your shots in one go, the liquid warming your belly pleasantly. “And to Twitter,” you add a little jokingly, but your blush deepens when Paige smirks, raising a thumb to your lip to wipe away the excess tequila beading on your mouth.

She sucks her finger into her mouth, humming a little insufferably, and you’re burning for an entirely different reason now. Your gaze hones in on her hand, flicking between her lips and her eyes. And, sure, she was constantly flirting with you over text. You knew she was feeling you as much as you were feeling her – but to watch her behave so confidently in front of you, to unravel you like it was nothing… The confirmation makes you ache. It reminds you that you’re not the only one feeling the warm buzz between the two of you.

“You always that forward?” Paige asks you, referring to your tweet. “Or am I just lucky?” Her words are punctuated with a heated grin, one that makes you shift in your seat. You hope that she didn’t notice, but you see the way her eyes darken and how she leans in a little closer to you.

“Only when I’m tipsy, apparently,” you mutter. You glance up, taking in her expression, the curiosity and desire in her eyes. Your lips quirk into an amused smile. “But I don’t think I have to tell you about the effect you have on people.”

“Good thing I don’t really care about other people,” she says, her gaze dropping down again. You can’t tell if she’s looking at your lips or your chest, but it makes warmth bloom under your skin, anyways. Paige makes eye contact as easily as she drinks you in. It’s disorienting, unwavering. It’s almost like you can see exactly what she’s thinking by the way her pupils dilate. Her fingers brush against the inside of your wrist, setting each and every one of your nerve endings on fire. “But you? Didn’t know I was affecting you like that.”

“Oh, you’re not,” you laugh, which just makes her laugh, too, something dangerous flashing in her eyes. Dangerous because you know you’ve already given in. Any other attempt at saving face or trying to look a little less down bad is just meant to make you feel a little bit better – like she hadn’t already won you hook, line, and sinker the moment you promised to show her around Dallas. 

“Lying is a sin,” Paige murmurs.

“Lust, too,” you retort.

Paige’s subsequent grin is a little too wicked. “Touche,” she agrees, and you can’t help but lean into her touch when her hand splays over the expanse of your toned waist, her thumb brushing your skin like she’s trying to memorize every shift in your muscles. Her voice drops a few decibels, only loud enough for you to hear as she presses in closer to you. Your hair raises when her lips ghost across your temple, the shell of your ear. “You’re already burning for me, though. Probably soaked through these fucking shorts, aren’t you? So why pretend you ain’t?”

“Paige,” you whisper, your heart beating a little faster, pounding against your ribcage. Your hand finds hers, linking your fingers together, and you don’t stop her when she maps out every inch of skin not hidden by your top. If anything, you arch into it slightly, enjoying the heat of her palm against your belly. She grins like she knows, like she’s already called the Uber and is thinking about how she can ruin you in the car without alerting the driver.

“Jus’ say it, mama,” she murmurs, her breath hitting your ear. You should feel some type of way for how easily your body betrays your brain, pressing further into her without your permission. “Tell me what you want and we don’t gotta play these games in front of your girls.”

Your mouth opens, the words getting caught in your throat when Paige finally grips the meat of your thigh with her hand, not hard enough to bruise, but enough to claim.

But before you can give into the feeling of it all, the bubble of peace between the two of you is broken by Lielle exclaiming, “Who wants to do body shots?!”

Breathless, you glance up at Paige, who stares back at you with mischief. She squeezes your thigh gently, whispering, “Be good,” before tugging you to your feet and towards Lielle, who holds the salt, lime, and the bottle of tequila. You sigh a little, already feeling like you could combust.

Your combined teams cheer when Paige volunteers you. Her smile, which is borderline smug and nearly possessive, makes your skin burn, but her eyes betray the ease in her features. She scans her teammates like she’s waiting for one of them to think that they could take her place.

Kelsey clears space on the table while Lielle uncaps the bottle of alcohol. One of the other Dallas rookies – JJ, you think her name is, extends a hand to help you onto the table, but all it takes is one glaring look from Paige to make her raise her hands in surrender. Paige steps up, her gaze dark, and she grips your hips, raising you onto the table with a weightless ease. Her eyes never leave yours, watching you with rapt attention as you lean back, getting comfortable.

“You good?” she asks, her hand resting over your stomach, which rises and falls steadily under the heat of the moment. You nod quickly, needing her hands on her body more than you think you need air, and she allows herself a quiet smile as she reaches for a lime wedge. Gingerly, she holds it out to you. Your teeth part at her wordless command, clamping down on the lime, trying not to wince at the taste. Her fingers linger on your lips, pupils blown wide, and it makes warmth coil low in your belly when you realize just how reciprocated this feeling is.

She reaches for the salt next, uncapping it, too, and meets your eyes with one last unspoken question. You don’t hesitate before you nod, uncaring of where she lines up the salt. You are surprised when she leans down, licking a stripe between the valley of your breasts, wetting the skin there so the salt can stick. You hardly register the wolf whistles around you, far too focused on the satisfied, focused grin on Paige’s face as she sprinkles the salt on your skin.

Finally, Lielle hands over the bottle of tequila, and you try to steady your breathing as Paige pours a generous amount in your navel. A drop slips, trailing down and soaking into the fabric of your shorts. You swear you can hear Paige’s breath hitch, but the club is too loud for you to be certain.

Lielle is probably recording. There’s no way she isn’t – she’s the life of the party, and whenever you wake up tomorrow, you’re sure you’ll find the video of Paige doing a body shot off of you on her close friends. But right now, when Paige is staring at you like you’re the only person in the room, like she can’t wait to get you alone and ruin you? You can’t think about anything but the blonde athlete and how willing you are to let her unravel you.

With one last glance to check in on you, Paige leans over you, caging you in with her arms. Her head dips down, licking the salt off of your chest with a devastating slowness. You catch the edge of her grin as she trails her lips down your torso, settling at your belly and drinking the tequila directly off your stomach.

Her tongue probes for the last drop and she presses a farewell kiss to your skin that makes your breathing stutter. Then, finally, she makes her way back up to your lips, her skin a little flushed, and she parts her lips to take the lime wedge in between her teeth.

But Paige isn’t through with you. You watch with wide eyes as she punctures the flesh with her teeth. She takes the lime wedge in between her fingers and with her free hand, she cups your jaw, her thumb brushing against your lip. You adhere to the silent demand, your lips parting again, and she presses down on the bottom row of your teeth with her thumb, keeping you open as she squeezes the juice of the lime into your mouth.

You shudder, eyes slipping shut in a non-physical pleasure – Paige hasn’t even touched you yet, but you feel like you’re ready to fall apart. The lime juice makes your face contort from the sourness, but you hardly think about it when your eyes blink open once more to take in Paige’s lazy expression. She’s already gone – her smile wide, reverent, satisfied, proud, and she discards the lime peel.

Paige removes her finger from your mouth, closing your jaw for you, her features softening with pride as you swallow the juice dutifully. You barely hear her whisper, “Good,” before she helps you off of the table, steadying you when you sway a little unsteadily, and the both of you make every effort to ignore your friends.

They don’t focus on the two of you for too long – JJ is helping Kelsey onto the table to keep going, so you take advantage of their distraction and pull Paige down to your level by her collar. She grins insufferably, like she knows she’s teased you to the point of no return. Her smile widens when you demand, “Take me home. Or we’ll cause a scandal in the middle of this club.”

Her lips brush against yours. “Uber’s already here,” she informs you, her expression far too satisfied. If you were any less pussy drunk, you’d probably hate yourself for being too easy, but all you can think about is how her skin would feel against yours.

You let her pull you through the club. You let her hands linger on your hips when she helps you into the Uber. And without so much as a noise, you part your legs for her in the car, letting her fingers trace the inside of your thighs discreetly. Paige doesn’t give you what you need – you knew she wouldn’t.

You keep your reactions tempered, even when she leans in closer to you, her nose brushing against your ear as she whispers filth that the driver is none the wiser to. And when you make it to her apartment complex, you hardly hear the driver’s farewell before she guides you out of the car, through the apartment lobby, and into the elevator.

Paige’s grip on your hips is tight, like you’re not sure if she’s trying to keep you close or trying to restrain herself from defiling you in the elevator. Either way, you don’t mind. You press your hips to her front, grinning in satisfaction when her fingers tighten and her breath hitches, a groan building in her throat. The ding of the elevator breaks you both from your stupor and you follow her to her door, watching in amusement as she fumbles with the key in her haste.

“Do you remember my tweet?” you ask a little offhandedly, sliding your fingers under the hem of her sweatshirt. She curses under her breath when your fingers find her waist, splaying across her abdomen – it’s more for your pleasure than it is hers, feeling her muscles jump under your hold. Her eyes are a little wide and blown out when they meet yours.

“S’all I’ve thought about for weeks,” she confesses, finally getting the lock to turn. Her words give you pause as she throws open the door. Catching you by surprise, she picks you up, one arm looping under your ass, and your arms slide around her neck for stability as she shuts the door behind her, making sure to turn the lock back.

It’s all speed from there. Paige kicks her shoes off in the entryway, her hands gripping the back of your thighs as she blindly walks the both of you through the hallway towards the bedroom. You silently thank her coordination as an athlete, more so when she starts mouthing at your chest like it’s been the only thing keeping her going. Her tongue darts out, wet against your skin, and she hums against your breast as she tastes the residual salt from the shot and the sweat. Paige nips at your skin and holding onto her tighter with a wordless sigh is all you can do to keep it together.

Finally, she finds the bedroom door, throwing it open without a care in the world. Paige deposits you safely on bed and then almost falls over herself following – the dichotomy makes you ache, the way she’s so desperate to get her hands and mouth on you, but the evident care she makes sure to treat you with despite her need. You want her to turn you out in every single way she’s thought about since draft night, but the respect is touching.

She clicks on the dim lamp at her bedside, her eyes returning to your figure when her vision adjusts. She shakes her head like you’re not real, her hands touching your hips, your waist, your breasts covered by the thin material of your top. You’re sure she’s burning this image into her mind forever – you’re doing the same. You may never be able to forget the image of Paige Bueckers hovering above you, eyes wild and gone, messy like you’re already five rounds deep and not just pent up from fucking around in the club.

The first press of her lips against yours makes you keen, arching into her exploring hands while yours cups her cheeks. You’ve thought about this for weeks, too, how it would feel to have her on top of you like this. She tastes like a tequila shot and something distinctly fruity from the cocktail she was sipping on. Combined with the lime juice on your breath, your kiss is intoxicating for several different reasons, and the heat coiling in your belly reminds you of how badly you want this.

She tugs your bottom lip between her teeth, pulling it back and letting it snap back before her lips find every inch of your skin. The hinge of your jaw, the tender spot on your neck that makes you thread your fingers through her hair to pull the tie loose, the dip in your throat where your moan vibrates against her lips. Paige is ravenous. Like there’s a million different things she wants to do to you before the sun comes up. You’d let her.

“Thought about this forever,” she murmurs, her voice hoarse and wrecked. Your breath stutters, back arching to help her untie your halter top and letting her pull it off you. She goes almost painfully silent when she takes in your breasts fully, your pebbled nipples. “Fuck.” Her curse sounds like a filthy prayer, one that you’d give up almost everything to respond to. One of her large hands splay over your breast while her mouth finds the other one, alternating between kneading and sucking and here – you’re sure you could fall apart completely, your hips jumping up for contact.

“You don’t know what that stupid comment did to me,” she continues, almost to herself, but she knows you’re listening. She feeds off of the way your breath hitches as she pulls back long enough to rip her sweatshirt and sports bra off in two quick motions, the chains around her neck tangling briefly before they trail cold caresses across your stomach when she leans back down to take your skin in her mouth. Your jaw falls open in pleasure, gripping onto her, the sheets, anything to stay rooted.

“Looked at your page, and those–” Her fingers find the waistband of your shorts, popping the button and pulling the denim off while she rambles. She falters when she takes in the white lace covering your body, a low, wrecked groan spilling from her lips at the sight of the wet patch at the apex of your thighs. Paige brushes her fingers against you, relishing in the way your hips jump and your whispered plea.

“Those stunts you do,” she continues finally. “That fucking uniform is sinful, you know that? Got myself off thinking about you, how good you’d be. You offered yourself up and all I could think about at the presser was how many different ways I could get you to come for me. I wonder if I could do it without my hands.”

You’re not coherent enough to tell her she could probably do it with words alone, but you reach for her and pull her back to your lips, kissing her hungrily, like you’re on death row and she’s your only chance of salvation.

Your hands explore while her kiss disorients you. Finding the waistband of her pants, you reach for the belt, undoing it. Paige helps you pull her pants off, leaving her in a dark pair of boxers. Her skin is impossibly warm against your palms as you press your fingers into the small of her back, undoubtedly leaving marks.

She pulls back to trail her lips down your body, sucking marks everywhere, her hands holding you like she’s afraid you’d float away if she didn’t keep you rooted.

Paige doesn’t make any effort to strip you out of your damp underwear – if anything, she stares at it like she’s more proud of it than getting drafted first overall, and she presses her lips to the skin just above your waistband until it blooms red and purple. She soothes it with a kiss, her expression far too smug and satisfied.

“You’re soaked,” Paige murmurs, pressing her thumb to your cunt again, her grin widening when you moan, your hands shooting down to grip her hair. She makes eye contact with you and sucks her thumb into her mouth, eyes slipping shut as she tastes you. You can’t help the curse that tumbles from your lips. “That ‘open legs’ offer must have been a cry for help, huh?” she teases, but her voice is rough, like the very taste of you is a drug and she’s addicted. “Nobody else doin’ it for you?”

“No,” you admit, cheeks burning under the weight of your confession. The truth is you’d stopped looking after a while, but now, with Paige tucked between your legs and staring at you like you’re the most beautiful girl she’s ever seen, you briefly consider the fact that she’s going to ruin you for anyone else. For yourself.

She grins again. “Shame,” she murmurs, her lips trailing down to the inside of your thighs, where she presses gentle kisses. “Someone got to you before me and they couldn’t even make it worthwhile.”

She nips at your skin, the pain blooming into pleasure instantly. Your breathing comes to you a little faster the closer she moves to your aching cunt, but she soothes you with a hand to your belly. “I got you, mama. Gonna be the best you’ve ever had. Swear.”

You don’t doubt it, your head already swimming, and she presses one last kiss to your clit through the damp material of your underwear. It makes you jolt, but she steadies your hip with her hand as she pulls the lace to the side slowly. You can’t help but gaze down at Paige, locked in on the way her eyes glaze over with desire when your cunt is finally revealed to her.

You don’t think you’ve ever been this wet in your life. Maybe it’s been a fire that has been slowly burning ever since she initially hinted at flying out and taking you up on your offer. Now, all you can focus on is the way her hands grip your strong thighs, holding you open as she dives in to lick a long, slow stripe up the length of your slit.

You both moan in tandem – yours of pleasure and hers in awe. You’re dripping onto her comforter, hardly able to feel much remorse about it, but something tells you that Paige is really fucking into the fact that she has you so pliant beneath her.

Her tongue is exploratory, drinking in every drop of your arousal, her brows pinched together as she focuses on building you up. Her nose brushes against your clit while her tongue finds the source, licking you clean like she’s stranded in a desert and you’re the only thing that could satiate her thirst.

She’s wild, her tongue everywhere all at once, muttering messily into your cunt about how you “taste so fucking good,” but you’re sure you fall apart completely when her lips close around your clit and she sucks.

Your brain is mush. You’re not sure if you want to keep your eyes on her or let your head fall back into her pillows, unable to process the pleasure fully.

Paige makes the decision for you when your eyes slip shut and she nips at your clit gently – not enough to hurt (even though it sends a surge of pleasure up your spine, anyhow), but enough to get your attention.

The message is clear – she wants your attention. Thinking about how she’s probably getting off from you watching her makes the heat coil in your stomach, ready to snap at any given moment.

You tangle your fingers in her messy hair, pressing her deeper into you, head tipping back in pleasure when she doubles down on her motions. Paige is ravenous, tongue circling your clit, never once stopping or slowing.

Not until your thighs are shaking from pleasure. Not until the tears bead at your waterline. Not until she encloses her lips around your clit again, her cheeks hollowing from the pressure, and releasing you to drag the arousal from your entrance to your clit, coating it completely.

You’re wholly unprepared for the first press of her fingers against your entrance. Paige doesn’t push in – not yet. She drags her fingers through your folds, soaking them, listening and looking for your reaction as she probes deeper.

The first finger sinks in until it reaches her knuckle, punching a breathless moan out of you, and she curls her finger as she pulls out. She’s a quick study – learning what you like and how much pressure she needs to unravel you completely. But she’s slow, not adding in another finger. You get the message instantly when her eyes find you, her gaze dark and imploring.

Not above begging, your voice is hoarse, rough from your moans, your lips split-slick and bitten. “Please, Paige, keep going,” you request, clenching around the single finger in you. “More, please, fuck–” The words get caught in your throat when she smiles against you, taking your clit in her mouth again just as she slides in a second finger. Too far gone, you can’t help the repeated, delirious ramble of “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” or the choked out, “So fucking good.”

The more vocal you get, the more she gives you. Her lips and her tongue speed up, flicking against your clit with a devastating intensity. Paige’s finger’s scissor inside you more firmly, sliding in deeper with every thrust, particularly timed with her mouth. It’s a Pavlonian response. The pleasure is overwhelming, and you can’t find it in yourself to be too embarrassed by how loud you are.

You chant her name, breathless little sounds that sound more like pleas than sentences. The grip on her hair must be painful but she never slows. She’s fucking you closer and closer to the peak, and when it finally arrives, warning her is all you can do.

She’s heedless, her pace somehow intensifying even more, and you come with a sob that’s a mix of her name and a string of curses as the pleasure washes over you.

Paige doesn’t stop, drinking in every drop of you like she’s parched, her fingers slowing as they work you gently through the shockwaves. You’re breathless, stuttering through the euphoria, gratitude lacing your words.

When she pulls away, the bottom half of her face is slick with your arousal, her tongue darting out to catch the edges of her lips, but it’s like drops of water in a bucket. For all intents and purposes, she’d been drowned, but her grin tells you she would have been more than happy to go out that way.

Boneless and limp in bed, she trails her lips up your body until she finds your lips, kissing you deeply and allowing you to taste yourself on your tongue. The taste is heady, something you’d probably attribute to the taste of her, too, and you can’t help but moan against her lips, your body burning under the touch again.

“Don’t think I’m letting you tap out so soon,” she murmurs, squeezing your waist and peering down at you. “We haven’t even started.”

“Greedy,” you say teasingly.

Her subsequent grin is sharp, nipping your lip gently. “And proud,” she states, already leaning over and digging through the drawer of her nightstand. When her hand comes back into view, she’s holding a strap and the harness.

The sight of it makes your brows raise – it’s modest in size, but it’s still bigger than anything you’ve ever taken, both in length and girth. “What?” she asks, a smirk appearing on her lips as she fastens the harness around her hips.

“It’s big,” you point out obviously, but the heat is already licking at your skin again as you stare at it longingly.

“Everything’s bigger in Texas,” she retorts. The strap hanging from her hips makes your mouth water, and you suppose this is what you wanted anyway – for Paige to ruin you. She glances at you curiously, able to read how your hesitation washes away. You’re safe with her. She wouldn’t hurt you. That thought alone makes you a little more hungry for it. “Trust me, you ain’t gotta worry.” She drags her fingers through your folds again, raising it to the lamplight and showing you how they shine. It makes you blush, but her smirk is a little insufferable. “But, I mean…if you wanna try something smaller–”

“No,” you disagree a little too quickly. She raises a challenging brow, one that infuriates you. She’d been mean all night – teasing you and working you up. And, sure, she delivered, but you think that she deserves to be knocked down a peg or two.

You wrap your legs around her waist, and in a quick motion, you flip the both of you over, straddling her waist with your hands on her chest. She’s a little breathless, eyes wide and pupils dilated, yet you can spot the impressed look in her gaze. “You don’t think I can handle it?”

“Didn’t say that,” she says, her eyes drinking you in, the fucked out look on your face and she bruises covering your skin. Her hands find your waist, pulling you onto her fully – onto the strap – and she guides you into a slow grind, taking back the control seamlessly as you gasp. Paige grunts, too, the strap pressing back into her clit, and the fact that she’s feeling as good as you are makes you tremble with want.

“You insinuated it,” you argue, a little miffed.

She grins like your indignance is cute. “Just tryna be in you, mama,” she says, tugging you down a little harder, and it punches a moan out of you. “You gonna let me do that or are we gonna sit here and argue all night?”

You narrow your eyes at her, but you don’t say much else, and she draws her bottom lip between her teeth as she gazes down at where your centers connect. “That’s what I thought.” Her words are mostly said to herself.

She grips the waistband of your underwear and pulls them down your legs – you adjust to help her pull them off, and she throws them to the side.

Now that you’re completely bare, she pulls you down onto the strap again, your arousal coating the silicone. The unrestricted contact makes you shiver and you loop your arms around her neck for stability while one of hers finds your waist again.

With her free hand, she reaches for the base of the strap, guiding it to your entrance and holding you steady – the tip of the strap brushes against you, but she doesn’t allow you to move.

Her eyes are zeroed in on where you’re clenching around nothing, your arousal leaking out of you. Then, finally, she pulls you down slowly, controlling each and every small movement. Your breath hitches when the head breaches inside, pressing into you, and Paige kisses all over your chest to soothe you.

“Good, that’s it,” she murmurs, lips encircling a nipple as she pulls you a little further down. The stretch is delicious, splitting you open, her hands mapping out your skin. She grips the flesh of your ass in one large hand, the other reaching around to rub featherlight circles on your clit to distract you.

The sensations are overwhelming in the best way possible. Her mouth drags wet kisses across your body while she listens for your reaction. Paige lowers you further down, drawing a drawn out moan from you, and you feel her grin against your breast as you tighten your grip around her neck, pulling her tighter against you.

“Perfect girl. Taking me so well,” she coos. Her body is impossibly warm against you and you can feel yourself relaxing into it, wanting to sink down completely, but she doesn’t let you. “Want you to feel good, baby. Don’t rush it.”

Still holding onto your annoyance from earlier, you can’t help your slight eye roll as you nip at her neck, sucking a matching hickey into her skin. She hisses, letting you fall another inch before gripping your hips tightly. “Would feel good if you just fucked me,” you state, staring at her with an expression that’s borderline pathetic. “What’d you say earlier? Just tryna be in you?”

“Think you have a patience problem,” she muses. “I’d heard so much about this southern hospitality bullshit growing up in the north, but it seems like you got a manners problem, too. I gotta teach you how to say please and thank you?”

You barely resist a sigh. Instead, you let your lips pucker out in a pout, the motion drawing Paige’s attention immediately. You press closer to her, your breasts dragging against her chest, and she sighs from the feeling. “Please, Paigey?” you beg in a near whimper, taking the hitch in her breathing as a sign that you’re doing something right. “Just want you to fuck me. Been good for you all night, haven’t I? And I promised to welcome you to Dallas. Let me make you feel good.”

Her eyes narrow slightly, but the way her throat bobs tells you she’s minutes away from flipping you over and making you forget your name. “You’re dangerous,” she whispers.

“I’m yours,” you respond, and that’s enough for her. Paige drags you down the last few inches, bottoming out. You moan into her neck, the hand at the small of your back pressing you into her. You’re sure that you’re soaking her lap, but judging by the way her hips rut up into yours, she likes knowing how fucked she has you.

Her hands settle at the bottom of your ass, pulling you up as she mouths at your chest, her tongue darting out to taste your skin. You sink down on the strap again. The sound is obscene, drawing a gasp from you, and you repeat the motion.

Up, then down. Up, then down, beginning to set the pace for yourself, but making sure you grind at the bottom of your strokes to make sure that Paige is getting off too. Her eyes are hooded, darting from your face, to your chest, to the apex of your thighs where you’re soaking the strap.

“Fuck,” she groans, her voice rough, and it sends white hot desire up your spine. She speeds up your motions, the veins on her hand protruding from the effort of keeping you upright, her jaw unhinging in awe as she stares at you. 

You allow yourself a small smirk, your right hand tilting her head back, revealing the expanse of her throat as you grind down onto her. With your ears so close to her mouth, you can hear every stutter in her breath, every jilted moan she tries to hold back, the hiss of pleasure when you bite down, sucking dark marks into her skin. 

When her motions start becoming desperate, her hips bucking up into yours in time with every drag down like she’s trying to chase her high, you reach down for her hands, tangling your fingers together and pressing them into the pillows over her head. 

“Really?” you murmur, your lips ghosting the dip in her throat. “You’re this close just from helping me get off?”

She laughs a little, something that sounds like a sob mixed with a whine, and her jaw falls slack in a low groan when your lips attach to the sensitive spot below her ear. “Can’t help it,” Paige manages. Her lips are slick, bitten raw, so you kiss her deeply, swallowing the sound she makes when you grind down especially hard. “Think you like it, though.”

“Mmm,” you hum. You speed up your motions, feeling your thighs and your stomach burn with the effort, but also feeling yourself teeter on the edge of crashing down completely. Your thrusts draw out another moan from Paige, one that makes you grin – because she’d tried so hard to keep herself together, to pretend she was here to fuck you and not the other way around. “Think I just like you.”

That makes a lazy smile appear on her face. Paige pulls one of her hands out of your grip, inching towards your throat and tangling in the necklace there. “Yeah?” she goads, her tone a little insufferable. “Didn’t – fuck – didn’t think I affected you.”

You’re still rutting against her, sweat beading on your temples as you argue, “You don’t.”

But that just makes her grin turn a little more smug. She releases your necklace, her fingers pressing lightly into the sides of your throat, squeezing once in warning. It makes your hips stutter, your breath catching. “Keep lyin’, mama,” she mutters, something dark in her eyes as her fingers trail down your body. One tweaks a nipple, kneading a breast as you gasp. Then, she goes lower still, bracing her large hand over you while her thumb finds your clit, rubbing messy circles through the slick there.

You lose your rhythm again, whimpering, but you keep going despite the exhaustion. It’s less about your pleasure now. You need to get Paige off, to tear down that ego of hers, to silence her for once. Even as you stare down at her, your eyes a little hooded, you realize she enjoys receiving as much as she enjoys giving, and there’s truly no winning with her – she’s getting off either way. 

“Actin’ like I don’t know you already,” she continues, her thumb as ruinous as her hips – as ruinous as her words. “What you like. What you need.” You could fall apart like this – her words picking you apart piece by piece, her thumb reminding you that she has you right where you want her. Paige gazes up at you, her pupils blown wide, but you can make out the challenge in the blue of her eyes – she’s daring you to get smart again.

But you’re just as competitive as she is. Without faltering in your movements, you lean slightly, reaching for the cowboy hat perched on her nightstand. It has Paige stitched on the bill. Her jaw falls slack again as she watches you slide it over your head.

“You talk too much,” you retort, and then you’re doubling down again. You can tell the image of you wearing Paige’s hat is doing something to her – the way it bounces in time with your thrusts, combined with the wrecked sounds leaving your lips, the slick sound of the strap deep inside you, the fact that Paige wants you so bad it makes her stupid. 

It doesn’t take much longer after that. You and Paige were already pent up. Her thumb quickens on your clit, her free hand gripping your hips tight enough to leave a bruise as she drags you up and down relentlessly, her own hips meeting yours. You can tell she’s getting close when her breathing turns ragged and her face burns red. You’re right there with her, digging your nails into her shoulders for stability as you push yourself to your high.

Part of you expects Paige to open her mouth again, to say something slick that would leave you trembling, but you don’t give her the chance to. You pull her face to yours, silencing your cries with her lips. You shiver when she bites down on your bottom lip harshly, soothing the sting with her tongue. “‘M close,” you manage breathlessly, holding onto her tightly – feeling as though your orgasm would wreck you completely. 

“I know,” she murmurs, her voice choked. “Let go, mama, I’m right here.”

So you do, the pleasure washing over you completely as you cry out, sagging onto her body bonelessly, the cowboy hat falling off to the side of the bed. Paige drags you against the strap, riding out the high, her jaw slack in wordless pleasure while her body burns. She doesn’t still until you push her hands off of you, the overstimulation buzzing under your skin.

Your thighs are still trembling, your breathing uneven. You hardly have the energy to slide off of the strap, so you settle for holding onto Paige, tucking your head into the crook of her neck where sweat glistens and the lingering scent of her cologne remains. You shift, feeling the soaked comforter beneath both of you. It’s enough to make you groan.

But then Paige is shifting, too, the strap brushing against a spot inside you that punches a moan out of you. You don’t have to look up to know she’s smirking. “Chill,” you admonish, your body still sizzling. You don’t know how she still has the energy and the stamina to go after she just turned you inside out, but she moves her hips again, on purpose this time, and the heat coiling in your belly returns tenfold. “You’re insatiable.”

“Look who’s in my bed,” she says as if it explains everything. You just shake your head, amused by her. Paige’s fingers trail down your sides, brushing against your skin while she presses featherlight kisses to your temple, your cheeks, the hinge of your jaw. “Know you’ve got one more for me, don’t you?”

You can’t find the words, but you don’t need to. You grab onto her chain – mostly to hold her in place, and you kiss her – deep, lingering, soft despite the moment prior. She grins against you, sliding the strap out as she maneuvers you. The emptiness makes you sigh, but the shift doesn’t take long. She angles you until you can see your bodies in the mirror across her room, your breath catching at the insinuation.

You watch through the mirror as she reaches for the cowboy hat again, settling it over her messy curls. Her smile is determined – like she’s not quite satisfied, not content with the two orgasms she’d pulled from you; ravenous like she can’t wait to have you again. It shouldn’t turn you on like it does, but the flame is licking at you once more and you can’t help but succumb to the fire.

She wraps her right arm around your waist, pulling you up to a kneeling position while she settles in behind you. The strap brushes against you. The sensitivity makes you jolt, but Paige soothes you with a hushed murmur, her hand pressing against your stomach and keeping you tethered. “Want you to watch,” she whispers in your ear. Her right hand abandons your waist to hold you by the jaw, gently tilting your head up until you make eye contact through the mirror.

You’re rendered breathless by the sight – Paige’s body eclipsing yours, the hickeys adorning your skin, the slick between your thighs that shines from the lamplight. Paige isn’t much better, either. Her hair is a mess, the hat on her head skewed to the side, her neck littered with your teeth marks, skin shining from exertion. For stability, you hold onto the arm that’s wrapped tightly around you, pushing back against the strap.

“Can you do that for me?” she asks, pushing her hips forward, dragging through your folds. You nod quickly, letting out a soft whine when the tip of the strap catches your sensitive clit. “Keep your eyes on me or I’ll stop.”

“I will, Paige, promise – just…please–”

She hushes you again, kissing your neck. “I got you, baby. Relax for me, okay? Gonna give it to you. Just need you to be good for me.” You nod again, melting into her body, and with the hand not holding you upright, she guides the strap to your entrance. You moan softly as she slides inside with little resistance, bottoming out as she murmurs, “That’s it, perfect girl. You take me so well.”

You can’t muster the words to respond to that, so you lean your head on hers when she drags the strap out, then pushes back in with a devastating slowness that you feel throughout your entire body. Your body is still buzzing with oversensitivity, but the slowness of her thrusts helps to ground you.

She glances up to the mirror to ensure you’re still looking at her – which you are, enraptured and unable to look away – before she trails her lips down your neck, pressing gentle, wet kisses to your overheated skin.

She’s softer now. Soft in a way that makes you clench around the strap breathlessly, tilting your head to give her more access to your neck. She recognizes that it won’t take much to build you up again, more focused on making sure you enjoy every second – every motion, every push and pull of the strap. Paige plants a kiss on every hickey she’d left on your body, her actions borderline reverent in a way that makes you want to come for her again and again and again.

With one arm still wrapped around your chest, holding onto your jaw, the other wraps around your hips, holding you by the stomach.

Unable to look away, you tighten your grip on her arms, trying not to fall apart too soon. Your stomach coils, already close, but Paige moves slowly, her thrusts hitting deep, and you’re all too content to float along the current of pleasure. Her lips still ghost across your body, licking the salt off of your skin, pressing gentle apologies to the dark spots on your neck.

“You want more, mama?” she murmurs in your ear, a gentle check in despite the question. You hardly have to think about it before you nod. With the hand braced over hers, you drag her left hand down, her fingers finding your clit with ease.

She doesn’t apply much pressure, just enough for you to feel it without overpowering the sensations. You don’t let go either, guiding her motions, moving it further down to gather more of your slick before bringing it back up to circle your clit.

The slide makes it impossibly sweeter – she tightens her circles, pushing deeper inside you with the strap, the tip brushing against the spongy spot inside of you that makes you keen.

Paige doesn’t slow. She doesn’t speed up. She keeps her pace deliciously consistent, the strap dragging in and out of you deliberately, her fingers working you up in tandem.

Her free hand keeps your gaze locked on the mirror, watching her as she kisses your neck, the shell of your ear, listening to her breath heavily as if she’s feeling everything you are, too. That thought alone makes your hips stutter, pressing back into her.

She soothes you with gentle whispers. “So good for me, baby,” she’d say, or she’d time the circling of your clit with a deeper thrust, murmuring, “You feel me? Want you to feel good.” And the stupid hat makes you unravel a little bit more – it hangs off of her head loosely, threatening to fall at any moment, but all you can think about is how you rode her wearing her hat, how she claimed you in the club and how she made you fall apart wearing something with her name on it. You’re hers now, and honestly, you don’t hate that idea.

It doesn’t take much longer before your eyes are slipping shut, confessing, “Close, P,” in a hoarse voice. The sensations are overwhelming – her hot skin pressed against yours, the strap sliding through you and hitting spots you’d never knew existed, the maddening feeling of her thumb against your clit, her breathing against your ear, the pounding of her heartbeat against your back revealing just how close she is to falling apart, too.

“Okay, baby,” she whispers, her motions never slowing, kissing your neck again. But she presses her fingers a little more firmly to your clit, her free hand tapping against your cheek to gather your attention.

Your eyes blink open, finding the mirror again, the ruined look on her face. She looks desperate – not to get off, but desperate to watch you get off. “Want you to watch yourself.” Her voice is a little broken, almost begging, and it makes your breath catch in your throat. “You look so pretty when you come for me, you know that? Wanna watch you do it over and over and over again.”

“Paige,” you gasp, the sound coming out like a half-sob, half-whine, the pleasure building and the heat coiling.

But she hardly hears you, her eyes glazed over and pussy drunk. Her jaw hangs slack like she’s the one being fucked, her breathing uneven and heavy. “You feel so good,” she rambles. “Like you were made just for me. Can’t get enough of you. Please, mama, wanna see you fall apart for me. You’re so good, so fucking perfect–”

The coil snaps, white hot pleasure coursing through your veins, electricity down your spine, and all you can do is sag back into her one final time, moans tumbling from your lips while she works you through the aftershocks.

Her hips and her fingers slow, murmuring incoherent sentences into your ear, her words dripping in both gratitude and a satiated desire like watching you get off finally quenched a thirst she’s been harboring for years.

You don’t have to say anything, either – it’s like she knows your body by heart now. Gingerly, she slips the strap out of your soaked cunt and detaches her fingers from your sensitive clit. As much as you’d love to feel her skin against yours, her hips dragging against yours, you can barely keep your eyes open. The final aftershocks dissipate, your thighs calming, the pleasurable fog in your brain clearing.

“You still with me?” she asks softly, smoothing the hair at the crown of your head with her clean hand.

At that, all you can do is muster a laugh, your eyes opening blearily. “Yeah,” you say, “no thanks to you, though.”

“Hmm,” she scoffs, amusement in her eyes. “Coulda sworn this was exactly what you wanted. You know, open legs and all.”

“Alright,” you deadpan, attempting to roll on your side, but you can’t summon the strength. You settle for some weird half angle that’s hardly worth the drama of the moment. “Goodnight!”

“No way,” Paige laughs. “C’mon. I need you awake. Lemme run you a bath and change these sheets so you can rest, okay? You good with that?”

You meet her eyes again, your smile softening at the gentle earnestness on her face. If she hadn’t already ruined you before, you’re sure you are now. But there’s something in her eyes that promises this might not be a one night thing after all. “Yeah,” you whisper, drawing her closer to plant a chaste, affectionate kiss to her lips. You feel her grin. “You’re gonna have to carry me, though.”

“Whatever you want, baby,” she assures you, crawling off the bed and unbuckling the harness on her hips. She throws it haphazardly into the adjacent bathroom and you try not to laugh when something clatters to the floor. Paige picks you up with ease, one arm looping under your knees and the other wrapping around your back. She sets you on the edge of the tub as she heats up the water, helping you into it gingerly and tossing in a eucalyptus bath bomb for your aches. Before she leaves to swap the sheets, she plants a soft kiss onto your forehead.

You soak for a few moments until she returns, offering you a small smile before she slips in behind you. Her body is almost as warm as the water and twice as soft. She massages the shampoo and conditioner into your hair and jokingly points out her assault on your neck with a mixture of pride and concern. You tell her she’ll have to buy your concealer in bulk but when she murmurs, “As long as I get to see you again,” you find that you don’t really care about the marks on your neck as long as you get to keep this annoyingly charming, devastatingly beautiful athlete in your life.

Paige helps you out of the tub, your eyes drooping once more, dressing you in a pair of her boxers and an oversized t-shirt from her college days. She guides you back to bed gingerly, the sheets fresh and clean, and you have your head on her chest before she’s even got her head on the pillow. She grins because it doesn’t bother her at all. You smile because her heart’s pounding and you think you know why it is.

Just before you fall into a blissful, exhausted sleep, Paige’s voice cuts through the fog once more. “About that offer,” she whispers, tapping on the leg you have slung across hers. “Does it expire?”

She jokes, but you can hear the truth of her question beyond it. She’s not referring to your legs. Not literally.

Your smile is tired, but it’s no less affectionate. “For you?” you echo, drowsiness lacing your tone. “No. It’s renewable.”

“How long?”

You’re quiet for a beat, just enough to consider your words.

Is this something you want? Relationships can be hard. Tricky. But something about Paige tells you she’s in for the ride. That you can trust her – with you and your heart.

So you press a kiss to the hinge of her jaw, feeling her cheeks stretch with a smile, and you make her a promise:

“As long as you want.”

[aurorawritestoescape]

THE NEED

Joel Miller x f!reader || 550 words

Summary: Joel gets you ready to take him.

Tw: 18+ mdni, smut, pwp, fingering, f!oral, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, praise kink.

A/n: Written for @jolacheese ‘s B&B Trope Search challenge💞 Trope - ‘overstimulation’. Motive - ‘the horny’. Beta-ed by @milla-frenchy ily baby😍😘 Dividers by @/saradika-graphics

Part 2 INSATIABLE || MASTERLIST

“No way you’ll be able to take my cock, darlin.”

You’re standing in front of Joel, eyes glossy with need, tears glistening on your lashes.

“I can! I… I’ve had sex before.”

Joel tuts, shaking his head.

“Nah… No one’s as big as me. And I ain’t hurtin you. ‘s not my thing.”

“But Joel,” you plead, one second away from falling to your knees and crawling to his bulge like it’s a bright beacon in the darkest night. “It’ll stretch, I know it! Give me a chance.”

You want him.

You need him.

You’ve never craved anyone this much. No one but Joel.

You are sobbing quietly, but soon your tears get bigger, your whimpers louder. Joel watches you from under his bushy eyebrows, then raises his huge hands with a sigh and motions for you to step up closer.

In a flash you’re standing between his spread legs, eager and excited, desperation in your eyes slowly drowning in hope.

“Show me. Need to see what I’m workin with.”

You pull your skirt up and your underwear down as swiftly as possible, scared that he’ll change his mind.

Joel sits up straight with a grunt, one warm hand wraps around the back of your thigh, while he begins inspecting you with the other. He pushes his middle finger between your folds and slowly drags it up and down, making you moan and tremble.

“Holy… you’re drenched. Really want this cock, huh?”

”Yeah.”

Your body is buzzing with arousal, your knees are ready to buckle, when Joel pinches your clit and rubs it lightly with the pads of his fingers.

“Oh, Joel…”

He chuckles, seeing you melt.

“Softest pussy ya got here, baby. Needs to be kissed, licked. Sure you want my big dick anywhere near her?”

“I do, I do, Joel.” There’s not a trace of doubt in your voice. “I need you more than air.”

Joel scoffs and mumbles ‘poetic’ under his nose.

You’re still standing up, one foot on Joel’s thigh for his better viewing, two of his thick fingers knuckles deep in your pussy.

He’s been examining you for twenty minutes at least, has already made you come twice, turning you into a complete mess. You’re breathing fast, fire is licking at your core, your folds are engorged and covered in your cum juices.

“Look... You’re leakin down my hand, sweetheart,” he marvels. “Sweet little pussy… openin up fast but I need more. Can’t have you cryin on my cock, can I?“

You dig your fingers into his shoulders and whimper, when his third digit finds home in your sopping cunt.

“Mmh... Good girl.”

When he leans down and kisses your oversensitive clit, you feel like your soul is leaving your body, ascending into heavens. A flick of his hot wet tongue against your twitching bud— and you explode, mewling and moaning, clenching his greying curls, wriggling against his face in painful ecstasy.

“One more finger, baby,” he gruffs, voice muffled by your pussy. ”One more and I’ll give you my cock.”

Trying to catch your breath, you slightly lean forward and watch Joel push his pinkie in your stretched hole. It’s too much but you’re revelling in this sensation. You’ve never felt so full in your life. So complete.

Finally, Joel looks up at you, his face dark with lust, and orders,

“Lie down. She’s ready.”

Thank you for reading! Please comment and reblog if you enjoyed the fic!❤️

Part 2 INSATIABLE

MASTERLIST

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