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whiteraven87 · 2 days ago

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The Flame That Never Fades - chapter 15: Born to Die (15/16)

pairing: Toto Wolff x Victoria Lorenz (Original Character)

summary: She's young, fiery, naive and blindly in love. He's older, married, powerful and dangerously irresistible. To him, she was an obsession, an escape, a desire. To her, he was everything. The Flame that Never Fades is a story of forbidden love in the world of Formula 1, born from lust… and ending in something that can never be undone.

warnings: age gap (28 years), forbidden romance, obsession, desire, dark romance, smut, infidelity, emotional manipulation, dominant older man, angst, longing, possessiveness, emotional pain, toxic dynamics, no promise for happy ending.

word count: 37k

read on: AO3 - Wattpad - Tumblr

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my other finished fanfiction: The Unstoppable Series - Masterlist [Toto WolffxOC]

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chapters until now:

Prologue 1: Middle of the Night 2: Frozen 3: Shameless 4: Lilith 5: Ruthless 6: The Machine 7: Ride 8: No One Like You 9: Sad Girl 10: Summetime Sadness 11: Un-break My Heart 12: Blue Jeans 13: Too Deep 14: Into Dust 15: Born to Die

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Chapter 15: Born To Die

Don't make me sad, don't make me cry Sometimes love is not enough And the road gets tough I don't know why Keep making me laugh, let's go get high The road is long we carry on Try to have fun in the meantime Come and take a walk on the wild side Let me kiss you hard in the pouring rain You like your girls insane Choose your last words, this is the last time Cause you and I, we were born to die We were born to die We were born to die Born to Die - Lana Del Ray

Italy, November

One day, something changed.

Toto had never stopped searching. Not once. Every silent lead, every shadow of a memory, every line they might have once read together, every photograph — all of them led him towards one elusive truth.

Yet it was an old shipping manifest, signed with the name she once used on registration forms, that finally gave him a real clue.

A solitary cottage in the north of Italy.

He didn't inform anyone. He simply got into his car and drove.

When he parked, his heart was pounding like a drum. The cottage stood quietly, bathed in the golden beams of the winter afternoon sun, surrounded by a protective circle of forest, cloaked in silence. He saw her in the garden — standing with her back turned, wearing a long, loose dress and a thick sweater, a basket hanging from her hand. Her belly was rounded, and she moved with the slow, graceful rhythm of a woman carrying new life.

Toto froze.

Everything disappeared — the world, time, even the air around him.

"Victoria..." he whispered, as if unable to believe it was truly her.

She turned. Their eyes met. And for a long, harrowing second, she said nothing — just looked at him. Then, with the same force she once threw herself into a corner on the racetrack, she turned away and disappeared into the house.

He knocked.

"Please, leave," her voice came sharply through the door.

"No," he answered, his voice raw. "Not after everything."

The door swung open with a loud crack. She stood there, her eyes ablaze with anger and shining with the shadow of tears.

"Do you want to see what's left of your love?" she asked, her voice trembling. "Fine. Look. Here she is. Our child. But don't think for a second that it's a reason to come back."

Toto stepped closer, slowly. He looked at her — at her belly, at her hand clutching the fabric of her dress so tightly it trembled.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he whispered.

"Because you had no right to know," she said, her voice cold and steady. "Because even back then, you were already where you always returned. To Susie. To your children. To a life where there was no place for me."

"But this is my child too..."

"No." Her voice broke slightly, but her gaze remained hard as steel. "This is my child, my little daughter. My body. My decision. And I don't need you, Toto. Not anymore."

He took another step forward, reaching out a hand as if to touch her — but she recoiled.

"There's nothing left to say," she whispered. "You left me once. Then you left me again. I won't let you break me a third time."

Her eyes were full of tears, but she did not cry. Not yet. She clung desperately to what little remained of herself.

Toto stood there in silence for a long, agonizing moment, looking at her as though trying to understand who she was now — the woman he had loved, and yet no longer fully knew.

And then, he did something Victoria had not expected.

He stepped toward her slowly, without the confidence, without the armor of strength he usually carried like a second skin. He approached her not as a man victorious, but as a man broken — and he stopped before her, his heart hammering, extending his hand as if the mere act of touching her could undo the devastation he had caused.

"I love you, Victoria," he whispered. "I love you like I have never loved anyone before. And I know I failed you. I know it's too late. But I want to fix everything. Everything."

He caught her hand in his, holding it tightly, as if terrified she might vanish if he let go.

"I'm divorcing Susie. I wasn't there for you when you needed me most. But I'm here now. I want to be a father. I want to be your partner — your husband, if you'll let me. I want to wake up next to you every morning, to hold our daughter in my arms, and... to start a life. With you."

She looked at him.

And then, quite unexpectedly, her face softened. In her eyes, there appeared a flicker of something that looked almost like hope.

And it was then — that Toto leaned in.

He took her face gently between his hands. And he kissed her.

Slowly. Tenderly. With all the love he had carried within him through all those long months — through every moment when he hadn't dared to offer her what she had craved most of all.

She returned his kiss. She gave him everything.

And then — slowly, trembling — she pulled away.

She turned her head, her hand sliding from his with a slowness that spoke of struggle, as though every inch between them was a battle she had to fight.

"No, Toto," she said softly. "It's over."

She looked at him — gently, yet with a painful certainty.

"I am no longer the same woman," she whispered. "And I don't want to build a life upon ruins. I don't want to look at you every day and remember all that I was denied when I needed it most. I don't want to raise our daughter in the shadow of everything that failed between us."

"Victoria, please, I beg you..."

"Don't say anything more," she interrupted him gently. "This isn't the absence of love. It's love that has simply ceased to be enough. Now I must live for her. For our daughter. And for no one else."

She hesitated, a tremor passing through her — but then she placed her hand over his heart. She could feel it beating. She could feel his pain as deeply as her own.

Toto bowed his head and kissed her forehead — with a trembling tenderness, as though it were a final kiss, a goodbye wrapped in every broken hope.

"I will love you always," he whispered. "And I will not forget a single second."

He turned away and walked off.

He did not look back. Because he knew — if he did, he would not have the strength to leave.

Victoria closed the door behind him. She leaned her back against it, pressing herself to the wood as though trying to hold herself together.

And it was only then, when all the strength had drained from her, that she began to cry.

Quietly. Fiercely. With her whole body.

She cried the way one cries for someone who was never truly yours — and yet was everything.

***

A few days after that fateful conversation, Victoria awoke at dawn with a strange sensation low in her abdomen. Cramping — gentle at first, but steady and rhythmic.

She did not panic — there was still time, she told herself — yet something deep within urged her to act quickly, instinct overriding reason.

She packed her bag with trembling hands, slid behind the wheel, and set off toward the nearest hospital.

The road stretched before her, empty and cloaked in the cold hush of early morning, while her mind whirled with anxious thoughts — and with hope.

Somewhere within her, she sensed this was an ending of something old and the beginning of something entirely new.

She simply didn't know yet how right she was.

The truck appeared out of nowhere — surging from the bend at a speed too great, too sudden.

Victoria had no chance to react.

The collision was violent, devastating. Her car spun multiple times before crashing into a ditch, crushed heavily on one side.

An ambulance arrived quickly — someone had heard the impact, the screeching metal tearing through the dawn silence.

At the hospital, the doctors did not waste time with questions.

Emergency cesarean section. Internal bleeding. Fractured ribs. Skull trauma. Critical condition.

But the baby — a little girl — lived. Strong. Unyielding. Just like her mother.

Somewhere in a duty room, a nurse flipping through Victoria's documents paused, her gaze catching on a name listed in the emergency contacts — a name she did not recognize, but which had been there for months, constant and waiting.

Toto Wolff. And a phone number.

***

The phone rang while Toto was sitting alone, swallowed by a silence so heavy it almost had a weight of its own.

When he answered and heard the words "hospital" and "accident," he did not ask for details.

He simply stood up. And drove.

Upon arriving, he was led without delay to the intensive care unit. The doctor looked at him gravely, her face a mask of composure.

"Your partner... Victoria... has been in a severe accident," she said. "Her condition is extremely critical. We managed to save the baby — a girl — but Victoria is fighting for her life."

Toto said nothing. He could not. He stood there, frozen, as if every part of him — heart, mind, soul — had suddenly ceased to function.

"She's on a ventilator," the doctor continued gently. "She's unconscious. We performed emergency surgery to remove a brain hematoma. Now... everything depends on her."

"And... the baby?" he managed to whisper.

"She's healthy. Stable. A preemie, but remarkably strong. She has a beautiful heart. And an extraordinary will to live. Just like..."

"...her mother," Toto finished for her in a voice so soft it barely existed.

They moved toward the nursery window. Inside, a tiny baby girl slept peacefully in an incubator, wrapped snugly in a pink blanket.

Toto pressed his forehead against the glass, his breath fogging it faintly.

"My..." he breathed. "My daughter."

But even as the words left him, he turned — almost urgently — toward the ICU.

When he stepped into Victoria's room, he stopped, stricken. She lay motionless, her face pale and still. Wires, monitors, the mechanical beep of machines — the relentless, fragile rhythm of a heart still beating, still clinging to life.

Toto sat down beside her, carefully, as though afraid his presence might disturb the delicate balance keeping her here.

"You can't leave me now," he whispered, his voice cracking with the sheer force of grief. "Not after everything. Not now, when I finally understand that I never deserved you... but I need you."

He brought her hand to his lips, holding it between his own trembling fingers.

"She needs you. I need you..."

And then he stayed.

Hours passing like heartbeats, endless and aching.

He stayed, holding her hand, praying into a silence deeper than any he had ever known.

Because now — now he truly understood what it meant to lose everything.

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Next -> Chapter 16: Dark Paradise

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tyuns-world · 2 days ago

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Pairing: fem! Reader × Rockstar! Huening kai

Part one

Warnings: Smut

Summary: He was supposed to sit still and let you do your job. Instead he smirked touched teased and you let him. Now you're pressed against the vanity forgetting every rule you swore you'd follow.

The photoshoot ran long.

You stayed behind much longer than needed, pretending to clean your brushes, organize palettes.. anything to distract from the lingering burn of Kai’s hands on your skin. The room still smelled like him: peppermint, cologne, and something sharper, darker. You weren’t flustered. You were a professional. This was just work.

You just… weren’t used to your clients looking at you like they wanted to ruin you.

The door opened without a knock.

You didn’t need to look to know who it was.

“I told you this wasn’t over.”

Kai’s voice was smoother now, but no less dangerous. You caught his reflection in the mirror jacket slung loose over his frame, hair messier than before. His eyes locked onto yours, heat simmering just beneath the surface.

“Kai,” you warned, but it came out weaker than intended.

“Relax,” he said, moving closer. “I’m just here to thank you properly.”

Your eyes flicked to the clock. “Other workers will start coming in soon.”

“Then we’ll make it quick.”

Kai tilted his head, stepping closer until your body’s nearly touched.

You felt him before he made contact. His body radiated warmth, his breath ghosting over the side of your neck like a promise. You didn't move. Couldn't. Your pulse thundered beneath your skin, and he hadn’t even touched you yet.

His hand found your hip first. He was slow, deliberate, and his rings were cold against your skin where your shirt had ridden up.

“Still tense,” he murmured, fingers tightening slightly. “Want me to help with that?”

You tried to steady your voice. “Is this your thing? You flirt with every stylist who lines your eyes?”

“No,” he said simply. His lips brushed your ear. “Just the ones who look like they’d sound so fucking pretty when they fall apart.”

You exhaled sharply, more reaction than answer.

His hand slid up, under your shirt this time, palm grazing your stomach before he paused just below your chest. Waiting. Testing.

You didn’t stop him.

“Kai,” you breathed, leaning back into him.

“Mmh. There’s that voice again.”

He pressed a slow kiss to the side of your neck, open mouthed and lingering. Then another, lower, as his fingers brushed the lace of your bra.

You turned in his grip, facing him fully now. His eyes were dark, pupils blown, mouth curved into that damn smirk.

“You gonna stop me?” he asked, voice low, rough.

Instead, you grabbed a fistful of his jacket and pulled him in, crashing your mouth to his. The kiss wasn’t sweet no no it was wild, messy, full of teeth and want. His hands were everywhere, gripping your waist, sliding down to your thighs, squeezing hard enough to bruise.

Your back hit the vanity again, hard. He pulled your leg around his waist, grinding against you in slow, punishing rolls. Your skirt rode up your thighs, and he didn’t waste time. His fingers slipped beneath the fabric, dragging your underwear down in one rough motion. You gasped into his mouth, your hands yanking at his belt, fumbling with the buckle until it came loose.

He cursed under his breath, biting your bottom lip before pulling back just enough to look at you. “Condom?”

You reached into your purse without breaking eye contact, dragging one out from the hidden zipper pocket. His brows raised, amused. “You always come prepared?”

“I have a life.” You shrug

Kai huffed a dark laugh, snatching it from your fingers. He turned you effortlessly, pressing your chest to the vanity mirror. You braced yourself on the cool glass, watching him through your reflection as he pushed your skirt higher, teeth sinking into his bottom lip like he was restraining himself.

You felt the heat of him behind you, the sound of foil tearing, the rough glide of his palm down your spine as he lined himself up.

Then—

He pushed in, slow but deep, and your eyes fluttered shut as your mouth fell open in a sharp gasp.

“Fuck,” Kai growled, gripping your hips like he was anchoring himself. “So tight…”

You barely had time to adjust before he began to move, hips snapping against you in firm, controlled thrusts. Each one knocked the air from your lungs, your hands gripping the vanity edge until your knuckles turned white.

You met him stroke for stroke, every drag of him inside you blurring the line between pain and pleasure. He was ruthless, one hand wrapped around your throat, tilting your head so you could see your wrecked expression in the mirror.

“Look at you,” he hissed, voice right in your ear. “You fucking love this.”

Your answer was a broken moan, your thighs trembling as he angled his hips just right, hitting that perfect spot again and again. Your nails clawed at the counter as your body jolting with every thrust.

“Say it,” he demanded, lips brushing your jaw. “Say you want this.”

You moaned louder, arching into him. “I want it. I want .. fuck .. you.”

“That’s more like it.”

His pace grew brutal, relentless, and all you could do was take it. The sounds filling the room were obscene skin against skin, your ragged breathing, his soft curses as he buried himself in you over and over.

Your release crept up fast and sharp

“Kai—I’m—” you choked out, barely able to finish before your body snapped. You clenched around him, crying out his name as waves of heat crashed through you.

He followed seconds later, hips stuttering, grip bruising your hips as he groaned deep and low against your neck, finishing with a final hard thrust.

The sound your heavy ragged breathing filled the room

He pulled out slowly, steadying you when your legs nearly gave out. You braced yourself against the vanity. Your makeup was smudged and your body humming with aftershocks.

“I’ll be expecting a touch-up before my next schedule” he said brushing his lips on your shoulder as he smirked.

You scoffed, reaching for your makeup brush like nothing had happened. “Next time, don’t mess up your eyeliner.”

His smirk widened.

“No promises.”

#tyuns-world #x black reader #txt x black reader #tomorrow x together hard thoughts #txt smut #tomorrow x together smut #txt huening kai #black reader #txt x reader #hueningkai #hueningkai x reader #hueningkai hard thoughts #hueningkai hard hours #huening kai smut #huening kai x y/n

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omaano · 6 months ago

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I have missed drawing Boba so much, so thank you Anon for asking for this in particular! I hope you're around to see it after so long since you asked for it. I also hope that you like it :)

Polyamorous/platonic poses for sketching (I will complete the requests I've gotten, I am just taking a while apparently, sorry ^^;)

and the other drawings I’ve made for them

#poly sketches #my art #bobadinluke #boba fett #luke skywalker #din djarin #the mandalorian #the mandalorian fanart #tbobf fanart #star wars fanart #I've drawn clones most of the time this year which has been a little bad for my visual lilbrary #but I still missed drawing Boba in particular okay I really did #I'd spent the most time on him in this whole drawing XD #Din also used to have a flesh and squish face in the initial sketch but.... I figured I'd rather let him keep his helmet on #the last mando triad is almost done too #I just didn't have a steady enough hand to line it yet ^^;

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vamptizm · 4 months ago

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hotel — p. bueckers

pairing : paige bueckers x notre dame! reader (+ slight olivia miles x reader)

synopsis : after a win against uconn, you find yourself caught in a tug-of-war between your on and off ex and one of your biggest rivals, who you simply can’t stay away from no matter how hard you try.

warnings : do NOT read or interact with this if uncomfortable, i beg that u just block me. smut with a sprinkle of plot. oral r!receiving. strap r!receiving. praise. hint of size kink. slight breeding kink. squirting. toxic reader x paige. toxic reader x olivia. hannah hidalgo. allusions to homophobia. lmk if i forgot anything.

word count : 8k

note : this wasn’t meant to be a 1k special butttt since i hit that yesterday, why not? (thank u sm btw ily) this is probably the filthiest and most time consuming shit i’ve ever written and some parts are a bit messy so i apologize. i’m VERYYY new to writing smut pls go easy on me.

The fourth quarter was winding down, and the air inside Joyce Center was electric. The roar of the home crowd thundered in your ears as you felt your pulse quicken. Notre Dame was already ahead, the scoreboard a glaring reminder of the 10 point deficit UConn couldn't seem to close. But even with victory all but secured, there was no room to let up. Not now.

You dribbled upcourt after catching the rebound Sonia passed your way, only to feel the clumsy pressure of UConn's freshman, Sarah, on your hip. Her hands reached in too aggressively, and the sharp sound of the whistle sliced through the tension. A foul.

The crowd erupted in cheers, and you couldn't help but grin, though you kept your expression controlled. As you stepped up to the free-throw line, the weight of the moment settled on your shoulders. This was your chance to widen the gap and put the game even further out of reach.

You bounced the ball twice, breathing in deeply to steady yourself. But as you readied for the shot, you felt it—those piercing blue eyes on you, unwavering, cutting through the noise like a laser. You didn't have to look to know who they belonged to. Paige Bueckers. She was watching you the way a hawk watches its prey, and though you refused to meet her gaze, you could feel the intensity of it prickling at your skin.

The ball left your hands in a smooth arc, and the net snapped satisfyingly as it dropped through. One down. You bounced the ball again, shaking off the weight of her stare. When the second shot swished cleanly, the crowd's roar grew louder, and your team swarmed you with high-fives.

But you didn't let yourself celebrate. Not yet. There were still minutes left on the clock, and even with the lead, you knew better than to relax.

The game pressed on. Sarah missed a three-point attempt on UConn's next possession, and Olivia held the ball at the top of the arc, scanning the court with her signature calculating gaze. You hovered near the left wing, your focus trained on her movements, when Paige sidled up next to you, just close enough that her voice could cut through the noise.

"Bet you feel real good about yourself, huh?" she murmured, her tone sharp enough to slice through the roaring crowd.

You didn't flinch, didn't even look at her. Instead, you let a small, sarcastic smile curve your lips, keeping your eyes on the ball as Olivia dribbled. "For beating your ass? Guess so. Not that big of an accomplishment."

Paige scoffed, the sound low and unimpressed. "Cute." Her grin mirrored yours, though hers was sharper, more cutting. You could feel her ego bruising beneath the surface, but she hid it well.

It was a moment of mutual irritation, of subtle jabs disguised as casual banter, and you could feel the tension humming between you like a live wire. It wasn't new, this rivalry, this constant push-and-pull. Paige had a way of getting under your skin, but you weren't about to let her know that. Not tonight.

Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed Olivia's gaze snapping to the two of you. Her brown eyes were narrowed, her jaw tight as she watched the interaction unfold. She didn't like it. She didn't like Paige standing so close to you, speaking to you like that, her body angled in a way that felt too familiar, too charged.

Paige noticed it too. Of course, she did. Her smirk deepened as she leaned in just slightly, her voice dropping to a murmur that only you could hear. "Your girl doesn't look too happy about me talking to you. Think she's scared I'll fuck you better again?"

Your breath caught, and your head snapped toward her instinctively, your eyes locking with hers. That smirk—infuriating and self-assured—was still plastered across her face. It was as if she was daring you to react, to say something that would prove she'd struck a nerve.

The brief glance you gave Paige was all it took for Olivia to lose focus. Her frustration boiled over, visible in the way her movements became jerky and imprecise. When she shifted her weight to drive toward the basket, the ref's whistle blew again—this time for a travel.

The ball left Olivia's hands too late, sailing toward the rim and missing entirely, and the crowd erupted in jeers. She looked furious, her glare bouncing between you and Paige as if you were both to blame.

Paige chuckled softly, shaking her head. "Guess she's not handling the pressure too well." Her voice was smug, dripping with satisfaction.

You wanted to fire back, to wipe that cocky grin off her face, but the tension in Olivia's eyes stopped you. There was too much at stake—on the court, off the court. So, you swallowed your retort, turning your attention back to the game.

But even as play resumed, you couldn't shake the weight of Paige's words or the way her presence lingered like an itch you couldn't scratch. She might have been your rival, but in moments like those, she felt like so much more.

And that was a problem.

The ball was in play again, and UConn wasn't ready to give up just yet, even as the seconds dwindled down. Sarah got the inbound pass, quickly tossing it over to Kaitlyn, who barely held on under the Irish defense. Kaitlyn, in turn, sent the ball to Paige.

You watched as Paige, ever-calculated, tried to weave through defenders with her signature finesse. Her focus was sharp, every movement deliberate, but as she went up for the shot, Olivia was there, her body colliding with Paige's in a hard foul. The whistle blew, sharp and decisive.

Paige stumbled slightly but steadied herself, exhaling through her nose as she stepped toward the free-throw line. And that's when Olivia brushed past her, her voice low but unmistakably venomous. "Back off."

It wasn't clear if the ref heard it, but Paige definitely did. Her lips twitched, almost forming a smile, but she kept her composure, though you could tell she was simmering beneath the surface. She wanted to laugh—mockingly, sharply, just enough to dig under Olivia's skin—but instead, she shook her head in amusement, her voice calm and cutting as she shot back, "Not my fault she loves it over here."

The words were quiet, not loud enough to be picked up by the cameras or refs, but the way Olivia's shoulders stiffened told you she heard them loud and clear. You could see her jaw clench, though she kept her expression neutral, refusing to let Paige's jab get the best of her.

As Paige prepared for her free throws, Olivia was already trying to argue with the ref, gesturing in frustration. You rolled your eyes subtly, but the irritation was clear. This wasn't new—Olivia's inability to let things go, her need to control every little aspect of the game (and sometimes, your life).

Paige took a deep breath, her hands steady as she dribbled the ball once, twice. She exhaled and let the first shot fly, the ball swishing cleanly through the net. Despite her calm exterior, you could tell the frustration and disappointment of the impending loss were bubbling under her surface. She glanced at you out of her peripheral vision for a split second before refocusing.

The second shot wasn't as lucky. It bounced off the rim, and before anyone else could react, Hannah Hidalgo snagged the rebound. She dribbled it out for the remaining 15 seconds, much to your annoyance.

You resisted the urge to roll your eyes again, but Hannah had a way of getting to you that no one else did. Ever since she joined the team, the 5'6 sophomore had been too loud, too comfortable in her narrow-minded opinions. It was no secret that the two of you didn't get along—especially after a handful of snide comments she'd made about your relationship with Olivia. Comments that weren't just about your incompatibility as a couple but targeted your sexuality with thinly veiled bigotry.

The buzzer sounded, and the tension in your chest released in a wave of satisfaction. You'd won. The Irish had defeated UConn, and the victory felt as sweet as ever. The team quickly swarmed each other, exchanging high-fives and celebratory shouts, but Olivia went straight to you, pulling you into your usual post-game hug.

This time, though, it was different. Her grip was tighter, her touch lingering in a way that felt less like a celebration and more like a claim. Her hand slid lower down your back than you were comfortable with, her gaze locking with Paige's as if daring her to look away.

It was possessive. It was unnecessary. And it was far too public.

You stiffened, your eyes narrowing as you subtly pulled away. "Don't do that in public again," you said firmly, your voice low enough that only she could hear. "Especially not now."

Olivia's jaw tensed, but she didn't argue. She let you go, and you moved to join the line as the teams lined up to shake hands.

The tension was palpable as Olivia and Paige met briefly in the line, their glares sharp and unyielding. No words were exchanged, but the animosity between them was unmistakable.

And then it was your turn. As you reached Paige, you could see the loss weighing on her. For all her bravado, it was clear she hated this, hated losing, hated being on the other side of your rivalry tonight. Her pride was bruised, but she held herself together.

"Good game," you said, forcing yourself to set aside your rivalry for the briefest moment.

Paige's lips quirked into a small, almost condescending smirk. "Yeah, good game, princess." Her tone was laced with her usual sharpness, but something in her eyes softened, just for a second.

The brief contact as you moved past each other sent a shiver down your spine, your skin buzzing at the memory of her hands on you the last time you'd hooked up. It shouldn't have affected you—not now, not here—but it did.

And as you walked off the court, you couldn't help but wonder if she felt it too.

A few hours had passed since the game, but the adrenaline still thrummed in your veins, mixing with the exhaustion that clung to your limbs. You had showered, changed into something comfortable, and spent the last hour staring at the ceiling, hoping sleep would come and erase the memory of what had happened earlier.

The fight with Olivia had been brief but sharp—words exchanged in hushed yet heated tones, the air between you tense with something unresolved. She had wanted to try again. You had told her you weren't sure and needed time to think, and she hadn't taken it well. It wasn't a screaming match, but it didn't need to be. The weight of it was enough to settle over your chest, pressing down like a brick.

So now, you lay on your bed, eyes closed, willing yourself into unconsciousness. But your mind wouldn't shut off.

Then, a sharp ding shattered the silence.

You sighed, exhaling through your nose as you reached for your phone, internally scolding yourself for not turning on Do Not Disturb. The glow of the screen cast light across your face as you blinked down at the notification.

Paige Bueckers: u sleeping?

Your heart stuttered for half a second. You had told yourself a while ago that you'd block her. That you should block her. But you never did. Something—something—always held you back.

Your thumbs hovered over the keyboard before you typed out a response.

You: no. can’t sleep.

You could've left it at a simple ‘no’, but you didn't.

Another ding. You barely had time to lock your phone before the next message popped up.

Paige Bueckers: i can help u with that mama

You inhaled sharply. Your grip on your phone tightened, hesitating for a second longer than you should have. You knew better. You always knew better. Getting involved with Paige—hooking up with Paige—was never a good idea.

And yet, your fingers moved before your brain could stop them.

You: send the address.

As soon as the message sent, you were up, already throwing a hoodie over your head and stepping into sweatpants. Your shoes went on next as you grabbed your keys.

You made it to the door before a voice broke the silence.

"Where are you going?"

You turned to see your roommate peering at you from her bed, brows furrowed in mild curiosity.

Your grip tightened around the doorknob. You thought for a second, then shrugged.

"I'ma go get laid. Don't wait up."

The car ride to the hotel was short. Too short for your taste.

Too short for you to think, to reason, to talk yourself out of this. Maybe if the drive had been longer, if you had even ten more minutes, you would have turned around. You would have gone back to your dorm, maybe even knocked on Olivia's door, tried to fix things in the morning like a rational person. But you didn't.

Instead, you found yourself standing in the elevator, your reflection staring back at you in the polished steel doors, wearing an expression you barely recognized.

Regret? Anticipation? Something in between?

It didn't matter. The damage was done.

You could still feel the receptionist's eyes on you as you'd walked through the lobby, her polite yet knowing smile burning into the back of your mind. It had been awkward, like she had somehow pieced together your entire life story just from the way you carried yourself. The way you had hesitated. The way your smile had felt forced, almost shameful.

Now, as you stood in front of the hotel room door—room 69, because of course Paige would pick that—you didn't find the irony so funny anymore.

You lifted your fist, knocked lightly against the wood, and took a slow inhale.

The door swung open almost instantly, as if she had been waiting right on the other side.

Paige stood before you, every inch of her revealed in slow, agonizing detail the wider the door opened.

Her blonde hair was down, slightly wavy from air-drying after her shower. You rarely saw it like this—only in pictures that would randomly pop up on your feed, a rare sight that always made you pause longer than you should. The game-day braids were gone, leaving her looking softer than usual. But there was nothing soft about the way she stood there now, leaning against the doorframe, her sharp blue eyes scanning you like she already knew what was going through your mind.

She was in a black Nike sports bra, her toned stomach on full display, a pair of loose gray UConn sweatpants slung low on her hips. Just low enough to reveal the waistband of her Calvin Klein boxers.

You swallowed.

The glasses were new. Purple frames perched on the bridge of her nose, somehow making her look even more unfairly attractive. You hated that about her. How effortless it all was. How she made every single thing—every little detail about herself—feel like it existed solely to mess with you.

"Hey, pretty girl."

Her voice was silky smooth, quiet, edged with something that made your skin prickle.

You inhaled sharply, forcing yourself to look at anything but the infuriating smirk tugging at her lips. The way she stood there, relaxed, confident, like she knew you had already lost this battle before it even started.

And maybe you had.

You weren't sure what came over you. One second, you were standing in the doorway, debating every decision that had led you here. The next, you were walking inside, wordless, your body moving before your mind could stop it.

Paige stepped aside instinctively, closing the door behind you, and that was when it truly hit you.

The reality of what you were doing.

What you were about to do.

A shaky exhale left your lips. You tilted your head back for a second, staring at the ceiling, as if praying for something—anything—to pull you out of this. To stop you from ruining whatever restraint you had left.

But then you looked back at her.

At Paige, who was standing there, watching you with those eyes that had already picked you apart, dissected every thought racing through your head.

And just like that, you broke.

The space between you disappeared in an instant. You grabbed her, pulled her in, crashing your lips against hers like you had something to prove—like you were trying to drown out the part of yourself that was still screaming for you to stop.

Paige reacted immediately. Her hands were already on you, already pulling you in closer, as if she had been waiting for this, as if she had known all along that you would give in.

Her arms wrapped around your waist, strong and unyielding. Yours found their way around her neck, your fingers tangling into the soft waves of her hair, gripping onto something—anything—to keep yourself from completely losing control.

You were already lost.

And maybe you had been from the very start.

Paige's arms tightened around your waist, her grip firm, possessive. The warmth of her hands seeped through your sweatshirt, but it wasn't enough for her. She wanted more. Slowly, deliberately, she pushed the fabric upward, just enough to slide her hands underneath.

The difference was instant—her skin against yours, her palms warm and steady as they roamed over your sides. It sent a shiver up your spine, one she undoubtedly felt but didn't acknowledge. Instead, she just pulled you in closer, deepening the kiss, letting the taste of whatever candy she had been eating linger on your tongue.

What started out controlled, yet purposeful, quickly turned into something else.

Hotter. Messier.

Neither of you had moved from the door. There was no rush—just the slow, torturous unraveling of restraint with every passing second. Paige kissed you like she had something to prove, like she wanted to pull every last ounce of hesitation from your body and leave you with nothing but her.

It wasn't until your lungs burned for air that she finally pulled back, her lips slick and parted, her breathing uneven. Her hands never left your skin, but something about the way she looked at you made your stomach tighten.

You barely had time to process it before she reached up, pulling her glasses off and tossing them onto the couch nearby. Carelessly. Effortlessly. She never took her eyes off you, not even once.

And just as quickly as she had pulled away, she was dragging you back in.

Her hands gripped your waist as she kissed you harder, rougher, her body guiding yours backward without breaking contact. She moved with purpose, leading you step by step until the back of your knees hit the bed.

You gasped softly as you lost your balance, falling backward onto the mattress. Paige didn't waste time. The second you were down, she was on you, hands sliding to your sides, fingers pressing into your ribcage. With barely any effort, she lifted you, manhandling you further up the bed until your head nearly hit the pillows.

Your breath hitched.

You hadn't expected her to be this eager, this physical. But she was careful—controlled, even in her hunger.

Paige climbed onto the bed, hovering over you with that sharp, unrelenting gaze.

Her hands found the hem of your sweatshirt again, tugging at it slightly. "Can I take this off?" she asked, her voice even lower than before.

You nodded, surprised that she had even bothered to ask. Normally, she wouldn't need to. One look was all it ever took.

The blonde didn't waste time. In one swift motion, she pulled the sweatshirt up, dragging it over your head and arms as you arched your back to help. The cool air prickled against your heated skin, but the sensation barely registered before Paige was on you again.

Her lips found your neck, hot and open-mouthed, each kiss deliberate, each drag of her teeth enough to make your breath stutter.

Then she spoke.

"Does y'girl know you're here?"

The question sent a sharp, electric jolt through you.

Not because she cared.

Because she didn't.

You took a shaky breath, trying to ground yourself, trying to find your voice. "Not my girl," you managed to say. "And no."

Paige smirked against your skin, the curl of her lips sending a fresh wave of heat through you.

"She'll know by the time I'm done with you, mama."

Before you could even think of a response, before you could argue or deny the implication behind her words, she was back on you—biting, sucking, marking, until you were sure she had already made good on that promise.

Paige's lips never left your skin, moving lower, trailing slow, open-mouthed kisses along the curve of your neck and down to your collarbones. Each press of her lips was deliberate, her tongue flicking out to soothe where she had nipped, her breath warm against your skin.

But it wasn't just her lips.

Her hands roamed freely, gliding over every inch of exposed skin, her fingers tracing lazy, feather-light patterns against your sides. The contrast of her large, veined hands against your body sent a shiver through you, anticipation curling in your stomach.

She knew exactly what she was doing.

Her mouth traveled further, ghosting over the tops of your breasts, the thin fabric of your cropped tank offering little protection from the heat of her lips. She didn't rush, didn't hurry—she took her time, dragging her teeth against sensitive skin, biting just enough to leave her mark before soothing it with her tongue.

A sharp inhale escaped you, followed by a soft, airy whimper that you tried—and failed—to bite back.

Paige only smirked against your skin.

Her fingers slipped lower, brushing over the waistband of your sweatpants, teasing, testing. Your breath hitched when she hooked her fingers inside, tugging just slightly—just enough to make your pulse race.

She kept her eyes on you as she kissed down, lower, lower, her lips brushing over your stomach, your body tensing under her touch. Each kiss stole more of your breath, her movements painfully slow, torturous in their precision.

She was in complete control. And the worst part?

You wanted her to be.

The moment your sweatpants hit the ground, it became real. Her lips trailed down further, torturously slow and calculated until her path was blocked by the waistband of your panties. But did that stop Paige? No. Instead of ridding you of them like she had done with your pants mere minutes ago, she continued her actions, now placing kisses over the thin material.

Other than the sounds of shuffling on bedsheets and your breathing that started to turn into quiet pants, it was a cathedral of silence. Her lips halted right above your core, her eyes searching yours before placing another kiss over your clothed cunt, the growing wet patch impossible to miss. A small whine escaped your lips at not only that, but the sight of her altogether. The way her lips were already slightly glossed by you.

"Already wet for me, baby?" She teased, mouth hovering over your core as if she was speaking directly to it instead of you. And that familiar, infuriating smirk made you wanna roll your eyes at her.

"Shut up." You mumbled, not due to embarrassment — nor were you shy — but it was all you could muster thanks to the growing desperation for her. More specifically, for her mouth on you.

Paige simply chuckled. It was deep and irritating, but more than anything, it only fuelled the desire for her. Her finger's hooked into your panties, pulling them down and tossing them to the floor in swift motions, before her arms curled around your thighs, pulling you closer.

You barely had been given the time to process what was happening, because as soon as you felt the cool air against your exposed core, your legs were already thrown over Paige's shoulders and her mouth was on you. As much as the blonde wanted to torture you, she couldn't hold herself back.

Her tongue connected to your drooling pussy and you mewled. Paige licked a fat stripe up your folds, a choked moan tearing from your throat as she tasted you. "Even sweeter than I remembered."

Your head fell back against the soft mattress, hand flying down to tangle itself in her hair as she spat on your pussy. Her eyes were glued onto you for a moment, admiring the way her saliva mixed with your slick before diving right in.

"Fuck, please don't stop." You near to whined in pleasure while she continued her attack on your cunt, tongue flicking over your clit with just enough pressure to drive you insane and cheeks hollowing whenever she sucked on it, lips closing around your throbbing bud. She had no intentions of stopping. Not when tasting you was the same as miraculously stumbling across a source of water in the desert.

Once the tip of Paige's tongue began to circle your entrance, you were a goner. Airy and high pitched whimpers fell from your lips while you white-knuckled her hair — using it as an anchor — and the blonde was absolutely sure that, that had to be her favorite sound in the world.

Your back arched off the bed ever so slightly when her tongue prodded into you, plunging in and out with acute precision. The sight of it had her quietly chuckling against you, sending vibrations through your core.

"Damn, mama. Got you feeling that good just by eating your pretty pussy?" Paige pulled back just enough to be able to speak, the pride and her ego all too evident in her voice. She had you right where she wanted. "Your girl not fucking you right?"

You wanted to say something, anything to shut her up. To wipe that stupid smirk — that you couldn't see but were fully aware of — off her stupidly pretty face. But you couldn't. She had already corrupted your mind and robbed you of your own ego and pride. "No. Not like you." Those were the words slipping from your lips and you had no desire to take them back.

That's all it took for Paige to delve back in between your legs, tongue fucking into you and arms holding you down. You didn't even realize how your hips bucked into Paige's mouth, grinding yourself against the girl.

A low, approving hum rumbled in Paige's chest as your hips bucked against her mouth, "Just like that, baby. Ride my face just like that," Paige encouraged, her voice muffled.

Your moans grew louder, more frantic as you instinctively tried to close your legs, squeezing her head with your thighs.

Paige's hands were quick to spread you open again, one leg slipping off her shoulder but she only saw that as an opportunity, tilting her head sideways for more access. Her tongue left your entrance, running it back and forth over your clit and shaking her head from side to side. Gluttony adorned Paige as she devoured you.

She didn't slow down when you warned her that you were about to cum, didn't stop when your orgasm crashed over you while her name fell from you repeatedly. Only when your hand in her hair started pushing her head back, she finally pulled away. Paige's gaze fixated on your cunt, wetness dripping from your hole as you clenched around nothing.

Your wetness coated her lips and chin as she looked back up at you and the sight of it all had a grin tugging at the corners of her mouth— One that was hidden by her wiping her chin with the back of her hand.

As she was moving to hover over you again, you felt a digit dip back in between your folds and suddenly it was right in front of you lips. "Open up," her voice was firm and her words clear.

Without breaking eye contact, your lips wrapped around her middle finger, tasting yourself. It wasn't anything you hadn't already done before, but the way she spoke, her tone and her eyes boring into yours had you flustered.

"Good girl. Tastes like heaven, hm?" She continued and all you could do was mindlessly nod and hope that the warmth creeping up on your cheeks wasn't noticeable. Normally you'd cringe at those first two words, it was never something that you thought you'd enjoy being called. But coming from Paige? It had you turning into her ditzy little bitch.

The tips of her fingers were barely brushing against your lips, a featherlight touch that sent shivers down your spine. She took her time, her blue eyes studying you with an intensity that made your breath hitch. Your lips were swollen, your hair slightly messy, cheeks flushed with warmth, and your eyes still glistening as you tried to steady yourself. Everything about you held her captive, and she didn't bother to hide it.

"You look so fucking perfect like this," she murmured, her voice low, almost reverent.

You held her gaze, your chest still rising and falling as you came down from it, lost in the moment, in her.

After a beat, Paige pulled away, climbing off of you with a quiet exhale. She was still fully clothed as she strode toward her bag, the absence of her warmth already making you stir. You watched as she crouched down, digging through her things before pulling something out. The moment your eyes landed on the strap, you inhaled deeply, thighs instinctively pressing together.

Paige turned back toward you, her smirk slow and knowing as she studied your reaction, her gaze sweeping over you with deliberate slowness. She took her time walking back to the bed, tilting her head slightly as if contemplating something before finally speaking.

"What's wrong, mama?" she taunted, her voice teasing yet edged with something heavier. "Scared you can't take it?"

You inhaled sharply, fingers twitching against the sheets. Shaking your head, you swallowed hard, willing your voice to come out steady. "No. I can take it."

Paige didn't reply. She only let out a quiet chuckle, the sound low and rich as she hooked her fingers into the waistband of her sweatpants. In one smooth motion, she rid herself of them, standing there in nothing but her sports bra and the black harness she was now securing around her hips and thighs.

The sight of her like this—self-assured, composed, and devastatingly attractive—made something deep in your stomach twist. Your fingers curled into the fabric beneath you, anticipation buzzing through your veins as Paige settled her gaze back on you.

She smirked again, rolling her shoulders back, completely in control.

"That's what I thought," she murmured.

You blinked and suddenly felt the mattress dip, the blonde already climbing back onto the other side of the bed and resting her back against the pillows and bed's headboard. "C'mere." She demanded, patting her lap in such a cocky, infuriating way that had you wanting to roll your eyes and put your clothes back on.

But you didn't. Instead, you listened and your legs were already thrown over her thighs. You watched as spat in her hand, using it as lubricant to stroke her silicone strap while she eyed you up and down. The way your hardened nipples poked at your thin tank top and the way your cunt continued to drip on her bare thigh.

"As much as I wanna see you ride my thigh, I'd rather watch you take this dick right now." Her words were clear and direct, tainted with desire in a way that sent shivers down your spine.

Upon not getting a response from you, her hands reached out to grip your waist, pulling further up on her lap. That's all it took for you to prop yourself up on your knees—as wobbly as they felt— pussy hovering over her strap before you replaced her hand with yours, positioning the tip towards your entrance and slowly sinking down on it.

A chocked gasp fell from you, lips parting at the sheer size and girth of it. It had been a while since you took anything more than a couple digits and the switch was overwhelming to say the least.

Paige's gazes was glued onto the scene, watching the way your pussy swallowed her whole with a faint smirk—slowly but surely. Inch by inch. Her palms caressed all over your torso in order to help you feel more comfortable.

It didn't take long for you to get accustomed to the intrusion, your hips grinding back and forth. You could barely look at her, the way her hungry eyes focused you like a hunter it's prey, tongue darting out to lick her lips and occasionally biting the bottom one. It drove you insane and you couldn't think straight, your head tipped back.

"You can do better than that, baby. C'mon, ride me with the same energy you had on that court today." She spoke again, her tone encouraging, yet taunting. It almost made you chuckle. Of course she was still stuck on that, she'd always been a sore loser.

Taking a deep breath, you began to bounce up and down on her, small moans coming from you every time it hit that certain spot. You hadn't realized just how close her face was to yours until you looked down at her again, her blue eyes so dark and sharp that tore a whimper from you.

Her hands snaked up to your tank top, pushing the material up until your breasts sprung free. Her smirk grew wider and her hands slid down to your hips, her grip tightening as she watched your bounce so close to her face, before fully riding you of the material.

Paige breathed, leaning down to press open-mouthed kisses along your collarbone and up the column of your throat. She took a moment to admire the sight of your tits, her gaze hungry and appreciative. "Fuck, baby... Look at you," she murmured, leaning down to take one hardened nipple into her mouth. She swirled her tongue around the sensitive bud, sucking and grazing it with her teeth

The muscles in your thighs were starting to tighten and burn, but you tried to ignore it. The pleasure was far greater than a little pain that you could easily handle.

Paige's blunt nails were digging into your skin as she looked up at your face now, admiring the way your brows furrowed, eyes fluttering shut and lips parted as you panted. The knot in your abdomen was starting to tighten and you had no intentions of losing it.

Next thing you knew, you were being lifted off of her and thrown back onto the mattress stomach down. It only took her a couple seconds to lift your hips up and kneel behind you. In the blink of an eye, she slid herself back inside of you, her hips already back to snapping into you. A mix of 'wait's and 'slow down's came from you, but she was already in too deep.

"Said y'could take it, right? Fucking take it then. You know the safeword."

Her pace was quick and relentless, every need to prove herself to you suddenly making a grand return. Paige knew that by the end of the night, you'd be her's, one way or another. With every movement from the blonde, you were being pushed further up the bed, face pressed into the mattress with one of her hands pushing down against your shoulder and your cries muffled. Even the simplest touch of her hands and the way her fingertips dug into your hips was enough to have you a mess.

"Fuck, Paige. S' good." You managed to cry out, words muffled due to the position you were in. In all honesty, if you could've stopped yourself from praising her, you would've. But it was impossible to keep your pride alive when she was killing you from the back.

A smug smile curled at her lips and her chest filled with pride. "Yeah? Just like old times, hm?" Her voice honeyed up, cooing at you.

Of course she would say that— remind you that it wasn't the first time she's had you like this. Face down and ass up while she claimed you as hers for as long as she could. Until the post nut clarity would eventually hit you like a truck.

But until then, you were all hers.

It was clear that you were still holding back, biting your lip or burying your face into the sheets to drown out the sounds you were making. Paige wasn't having any of it.

"Lemme hear you, mama." Her tone sounded almost demanding, hands tightening their grip around your hips as she pulled you closer against her, filling you to the brim. "God— sucking my cock in, hm?"

You couldn't help but let out a loud cry, your own hands gripping the bedsheets like they were a lifeline and the sloppy sounds of Paige driving into you at full force were nothing shy of pornographic.

It didn't take long for the knot in your stomach to tighten and for the familiar warmth to pool in your pit. You didn't have to say anything—didn't want to say anything further. With the way you were clenching around her, she swore that she could almost feel it as if it were her own cock, and she knew you were close.

"Paige—"

She was quick to interrupt you. "I know. Cum for me, mama." Her tone was almost comforting, urging you to let go.

You didn't have to be told twice. The wave of pleasure washed over you, sinful and pornographic sounds escaping you— not that you had the energy to hold them back this time.

Paige's grip loosened and instead her palms were gently rubbing your lower back, soothing the areas she had held onto too tightly. The blonde carefully slipped out of you, giving you a few moments to catch your breath while she bent forward to place feather light kisses on your skin.

You were still in the same position. Face down, ass up and softly panting for much needed air. Her eyes were now on your cunt, admiring the way your own cum leaked out of you and she couldn't help but lower herself until she face facing it. Her tongue darted out to lick a stripe up your folds, just to have another quick taste, she told herself.

"Sorry. Couldn't stop myself." She chuckled lightly in response to you whining at the sensation.

Paige moved without warning, her strength effortless as she flipped you onto your back, the mattress dipping beneath you. Your breath hitched, chest rising and falling as you looked up at her, doe-eyed.

She hovered over you, her gaze dark and unreadable, a slow, deliberate heat simmering beneath the surface. Her hands—rough, calloused from years of playing—traced the curve of your waist, fingertips skimming your ribs before sliding down to your stomach in a slow, teasing glide.

She wasn't rushing. She was waiting.

Waiting for you to catch your breath, to meet her eyes, to let her know you were still right there with her.

"Think you can give me one more?" Her knuckles brushed over your abdomen, up and down and just that was enough to leave you wanting even more.

You nodded your head, taking a deep breath through your nose and letting it rest inside your lungs for a couple seconds before releasing it.

Paige grinned faintly, eyes still dark and clouded with just as much lust as the second she opened the door for you. "I'ma be softer this time, don't worry, baby." You both knew she was lying.

Eventually she was positioned between your legs, tip of her strap gliding back and forth over your soaked cunt. She paused for a moment, just long enough to admire, but the whine that ripped out of you brought her back to earth.

"Just put it in." You couldn't stand the way she was teasing you. Not when everything in you was screaming for her. The desire you felt towards Paige was like wanting her to live inside your rib cage— impossibly close.

"You want it that bad?" Her brows raised ever so slightly, no doubt taunting you for her own enjoyment.

But by this point, you'd given up. No more holding back, you'd let her have you in whatever way and every way. "Need it so bad. Please, baby."

A feral, triumphant grin spread across Paige's face at your desperate, needy pleas. With a swift, gentle thrust of her hips, Paige sheathed her thick, girthy strap deep into your dripping, eager hole.

Paige exhaled at the sight, starting to roll her hips in a steady, deep rhythm. The way you were gripping her 'dick' like a vice, coating it so beautifully had her head spinning.

She hooked your knees over her elbows, nearly folding you in half as she loomed over you, consuming you completely. "Y’need it, huh? It's mine? Pussy all mine?" Paige punctuated her words with sharp, rough snaps of her hips, forcing her cock deeper in than you thought possible, filling you to the brim.

Your eyes squeezed shut, lips parted as you tried to speak. "Yours." It came out airy, too quiet for Paige's liking.

"What was that?" She near to mocked, pressing your thighs closer against your chest so she could hit at a deeper angle. "Speak up or I'm gonna stop."

You didn't let the 'threat' linger in the air, your mind instantly scrambling to spew out somewhat coherent rambles. "Yes— yes it's yours. All fucking yours, Paige."

"There you go. Wasn't so hard." Leaning down, Paige captured your lips in a filthy, dominating kiss, all tongue and teeth as she fucked into her harder and faster. The lewd sound of skin slapping against skin and the noises you both made filling the room.

She panted at the strength in which she was fucking you. Paige knew she was hitting your cervix with every thrust, stirring up your guts, but she couldn't stop. Not until she'd ruined you for everybody else.

All you could do was whimper against Paige's lips, nodding your head at every word even if you couldn't fully process all of them. All you could think of was the feeling of the blonde on top of you, gripping and touching, the tip continuously abusing that one spot

Your moans filled the room and you prayed there would be no noise complaint with how loud the two of you were being, not that either of you truly cared. Not in that moment at least.

"Slower, please," you managed to choke out, wanting to savour it for as long as possible. Wanted to be closer to her. You could swear that you felt Paige all up in your guts— maybe even your chest— tight pussy clenching over the blonde's strap.

"Mmm, you want me to slow down, baby? Want me to fuck you nice and gentle?" She purred, her voice a seductive rasp.

Paige began to roll her hips in a slower, more deliberate rhythm, grinding her thick strap against your g-spot with each thrust.

"Can feel it in my guts." You slurred your words slightly, mind blank— fucked dumb by her cock as Paige usually liked to call it.

The blonde let out her throaty, signature chuckle. "That's because I am," she nodded her head down and your gaze followed, eyes widening and breath hitching in your throat.

You could actually see her inside of you, the bulge in your belly an indicator of just how deep she was inside of you. You rasped out a deep "fuck" at the sinful sight.

"Would knock you up if I could, pretty girl," she smirked as you clenched around her. "Yeah? Y'like the sound of that? Y'wanna have my babies, mama?"

The sight of it mixed with the idea—the vision of her breeding you, her cum dripping out of you—was pushing you towards the edge. You nodded your head frantically, nails digging into the skin of her biceps as you gripped them.

Your whimpers and moans grew more high pitched the closer you got to your orgasm, mouth agape as you tried to keep somewhat quiet. You couldn't help but hold your breath occasionally, too lost in the pleasure to breathe evenly.

Paige's hand came up to grip your jaw, squeezing your cheeks slightly and forcing you to look at her. "You wanna cum on my dick? Gotta ask for it first."

"Yes, please. Please, Paige, Please, please, please," you repeated over and over, begging for it like a whore. It felt like you couldn't even think, let alone speak coherently.

She continued to thrust into you with slow and deep strokes, coaxing your release out of you. And once again, the pit inside ur tummy started to burn, tightening until you felt like you couldn't hold it anymore. In all honesty, you can no idea whether you were about to cum or if you were about to utterly embarrass yourself.

"Go ahead, baby. Let go f’me."

You didn't have to be told twice, eyes staring into hers and jaw falling slack as it crashed over you, barely any sound escaping you as you came. Paige could feel you soaking not only her thighs, but the bedsheets as well as her eyes trained on the way you gushed all over her in awe.

It took you a few moments to come back down from it and one glance down had your hands flying up to cover your face. You groaned into your palms in embarrassment. To be fair, you had no idea that you were even capable of squirting.

"God, that was so fucking hot. Sexiest thing I've ever seen." She breathed out a faint chuckle, "Hey, look at me."

And for some reason, you complied— letting your hands fall from your face and glancing up at her.

"You're fucking perfect, yeah? Nothing to be embarrassed of." And the way she said those words, so soft and clear, told you that she was being genuine.

Paige pressed a lingering kiss to your forehead before carefully sliding out of you and slipping away, the warmth of her body leaving yours as she padded toward the bathroom. You listened to the sound of running water, your breath still steadying as you lay there, staring at the ceiling.

When she returned, she had a damp towel in hand, her expression softened as she knelt beside you. There was no arrogance in her touch now—just quiet care, her hands moving with gentle precision. The sight of it tugged at something deep in your chest.

Maybe Paige wasn't as bad as you'd thought. Maybe there was more to her than the cocky, womanizing basketball star.

You couldn't stop watching her, admiring the way her brows knit slightly in concentration, the way the dim light caught the sharp lines of her face. This time, you were the one staring in awe.

"What?" Paige asked, a small smile pulling at her lips, catching the way you were looking at her.

"You're just so beautiful." The words left you before you could think better of them, but you meant them. Every single one.

A hint of color dusted her pale cheeks, and before you could take in the sight of it for too long, Paige leaned back in, pressing another kiss to your lips—this time slower, as if she was savoring it.

When she pulled away, her voice was light but laced with something genuine. "So... you gon give me a chance or what?" It was a joke, but there was something behind it, something almost hopeful.

You held her gaze for a moment before giving the subtlest of nods, your smile faint but real. "Sure. Why not."

Paige exhaled a soft laugh, but you could feel it—the way her heart was racing just as much as yours.

taglist (mostly ppl who asked weeks ago lol i’m so sorry) @brenwritesss @bueckersbitch @starlighttsv @ekisokay @st4rrzynight @ohmybueckers @pboogerswbb @yailtsv @omg-imtumbling @xxloveralways14 @cowboylikeavaa @prettygirl-gabi @itsstavy13 @kaelaheartsyou @jnkbueckers @shootingstarrrrr @melpthatsme

#⇢ ˗ˏˋ vamptizm writes ࿐ྂ #paige bueckers #paige bueckers x reader #paige bueckers oneshot #paige bueckers smut #paige bueckers fanfiction #Spotify

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littlelovelunette · 2 months ago

Note

Hello♥️ I had this idea of Sevika and reader having sex for the first time after the reader had a baby, just some careful and gentle smut<3 (And maybe kinky breast milk stuff? 👉🏼👈🏼)

Lifting (3)

Sevika x New Mother!Reader

Part 1 | Part 2

Sex, lactation play, sex after childbirth, mating press, nipple play, slight suffocation, g!p Sevika, drinking breast milk in sex, breeding.

The baby was deep asleep. Sevika had done all the things you'd never thought you'd see her do. She had the nursery painted a pastel colour, bought all sorts of toys she could all the way from Topside. Rose was her absolute weakness after you. The way her small fist closed around Sevika's thumb as she slept on, drooling from the corner of her plush pink lips.

All the softness aside, due to the healing time you needed after giving birth, you and Sevika hadn't been engaging in anything even mildly sexual. Sevika didn't want to be the one to bring up the matter but you've seen the way she eyes you when you breastfeed your baby girl. You've seen the way she loves to stare whenever you're bending down to grab the laundry basket. She was like a desperate dog in heat, shameless about it too.

Once you told her it was okay to feel that way, she didn't hold back. Her cock lined against your slit as her hands massaged the sides of your body, "I'll go slow if you want me to," Sevika said, her voice low to not wake Rose up who was asleep in her crib next room.

You nodded, looking down where her cock head was already dripping precum at the mere sight of your beautiful pussy lips drenched with your own arousal from anticipation, hole twitching with the hopes of getting fucked hard.

Slowly, her cock slipped inside. The first few inches felt overwhelmingly big before the stretch made you wince uncomfortably, fingers digging into the sheets as your other hand grabbed Sevika's flesh arm, "H-hurts a little, wait..."

Sevika paused, her shaft halfway inside your pussy as she waited for you to get used to the girthiness. She rubbed your lower abdomen, "It's okay, sweetie. You're doing well, just take deep breaths." She said in a tone softer than her usual. "Let me know when it's okay to move."

You nodded your head nervously, gasping when Sevika's thumb found your clit, rubbing slow yet deliberate circles around it. "Yeah? That feels good?" Sevika teased gently as she pressed a little harder onto the bundle of nerves. You yelped out softly but then bit down onto Sevika's neck to keep your volume low.

Sevika didn't stop, her finger still easing circles around your twitching clit. Your legs wrapped around her waist as you pulled her flush against your own body, "Sev," you whispered needily, pulling her closer so her cock sunk deeper into your pussy. It disappears against your tight opening, stretching you out all the way. You moaned softly, walls fluttering around her in need, "I need you to rail me hard," you muttered.

Sevika smirked a little, "Yeah? You want daddy to pound you in?"

You nodded with a little shy giggle, gasping again when she bottomed out. "Oh!"

You bit down her neck again making Sevika groan, her brows furrowed as she started thrusting in a steady pace, the tip of her huge cock grinding deliciously against your cervix.

"Daddy, please, harder," the bed creaked dangerously as Sevika held your thighs with both hands and folded you.

You whimpered, her cock reaching deeper into your wet cavern. Sevika let go of your thighs and squeezed your tits making you gasp for air, her thrusts were brutal and you were almost suffocating because of the intensity of how she was pounding you into the mattress. All the wet schlik sounds that filled the room was enough to make your cheeks glow red, fingers clutching the bedsheets so tight than your knuckles went white. It had been a while since you both fooled around so it was ten times more intense than the usual.

Sevika squeezed your breasts a little harder than before a small amount of milk spurted out. She stopped, eyes wide with a little bit of surprise dancing within the grey orbs before it dissolved into amusement. "Oh?"

You hid your face with your hands in embarrassment, but Sevika's warm, bigger hands pulled yours down from your face. "Don't be shy now, baby, you're so hot," Sevika rutted her hips into your body harshly making her dick sink deep and hard.

"Ah!" You cried out, watching as Sevika's plush lips wrapped around your hardened nipple. She suckled softly at the start before she gave it a powerful suck, milk oozing out of the nub and filling her mouth. Sevika smiled against your skin.

"You're such a baby," you mumbled, playing with her hair as you squeezed down on her length.

"Mhm?" Sevika chuckled before she tugged at your nipple using her teeth, you jerked a little from sensitivity.

"Don't do that!" You whimpered, gasping for air once again as Sevika's hips continued rutting her length into you albeit a little sloppier than before as she got closer and closer. "Sev!" Your head lolled back, "Cumming!"

Sevika looked up at you, mouth partially full of milk. "Mm," she bottomed out two more times before her warm seed filled your insides up. She swallowed, "There we go, my baby mama," she grinned victoriously, "Once again, pumped full."

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capuccinodoll · 1 month ago

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— A haunted body, part one: "When I close my eyes, it feels like home" ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧⋆ ˚｡⋆‧₊˚ (jackson!joel x f!reader)

fic masterlist | ao3 | capuccinodollupdates | next chapter

— Chapter summary: After the Millers saved your life, you became something of a miracle. Now you’ve been given a second chance, and the sweetness of your new home is overshadowed by the coldness of one of them: Joel. Unfortunately for him, Tommy assigns you to work by his side, as the assistant he claims he doesn’t need. wc: 7.1k

A/N: I hope you enjoy this one. I haven't been able to get this man out of my head since season two came out, and I just had to write it. Consider it my love letter to Joel Miller.

Don't forget to let me know your opinion in the comments, it helps me a lot! <3 (TAG LIST OPEN)

Jackson, 2027. Morning. The edge of winter.

The snow hadn't melted yet. It lay heavy and whole across the landscape, an unbroken layer of white pressed onto the earth. The mountains in the distance were pale and still, touched by the sharp blue light of morning. Everything looked hushed.

Joel rode next to Tommy along the eastern patrol route, their horses’ hooves muffled in the thick frost. It was their third day in a row covering the outer line. Last week’s storm had forced them to stay close to the center of town, so they were making up for it now, filling in the gaps. The sun was climbing with that late- winter defiance— bright and high, but not enough to soften anything.

They were already on their way back when Tommy spoke.

"The sun feels warmer today, doesn’t it?” he said, squinting at the horizon. His voice was casual, he wanted Joel to say yes. Like he needed proof they were moving toward spring.

Joel didn’t answer. He kept his gaze forward, where the snow caught the sunlight and bounced it straight into his eyes. His face was raw from the cold, red across the cheeks and the bridge of his nose. He shifted in the saddle, nudged the horse ahead with a quiet click of his tongue. Then he saw something, just a break in the white, a shape that didn’t belong.

He signaled with a small gesture. Tommy followed his line of sight.

There, off the side of the road, nestled in the folds of snow, was a shape that could have been anything. A boulder, a fallen log. But Joel felt it before he could explain it— something old and hardwired in his gut pulling taut.

He approached cautiously, letting the horse come to a stop a few feet away. There was a stiffness in his chest.

Tommy saw it too, and was already reaching for his rifle. Joel had his out first.

They dismounted in unspoken agreement, boots crunching against the crusted snow as they stepped closer.

A woman.

She was lying on her side, half -covered as if the weather had tried to bury her and nearly succeeded. Her skin was raw, her mouth pale and parted. There was a slash of red across her side, staining the snow like spilled paint

Joel crouched beside her. He took off his glove, his hand bracing against the cold. With the back of his fingers, he brushed snow from her face. Then he pressed gently at the side of her neck, feeling for movement. For warmth. For anything.

There it was— a pulse. Faint, but steady.

And then he looked closer.

His eyes traced her face first, then the curve of her jaw, the slope of her neck, stopping just below the place where his fingers rested. It landed in him like a stone in deep water.

He jerked back, breath caught in his throat. As if something had reached up from the ground and grabbed him.

Tommy noticed.

“What is it?” he asked. “Joel?”

“She’s alive,” Joel said quickly. “Not infected. We need to get her up.”

Tommy hesitated, glancing between Joel and the woman. He didn't ask questions. Just helped lift her, following Joel’s lead.

They wrapped her in a thick blanket Joel pulled from his saddle. She felt light. Or maybe it was adrenaline that made her easier to carry. They positioned her on Joel’s horse, her head resting against his chest.

The ride back wasn’t quiet. The wind cut sharp between their shoulders, and Tommy had opinions he couldn’t keep to himself. Joel didn’t say much.

Jackson. Hospital. An hour later.

The room was small— bare walls, dim lighting, the faint smell of antiseptic clinging to the corners. The woman lay on a gurney in the center, surrounded by too much space for someone so still.

Joel and Tommy had left her there.

When Maria entered, she didn’t speak right away. Two volunteer doctors followed behind her, both of them already pulling on gloves, focused, professional. Maria stood just inside the doorway, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, watching as they moved around the woman—checking her breathing, cutting away the frozen fabric of her clothes, revealing skin that looked cold to the touch.

They were searching for wounds, for the hidden things the snow might have masked. Her skin was bruised in places, pale in others. The slash across her side had started to clot, the blood a deep, dark red now. She hadn’t stirred once. No flinch. No flicker behind the eyelids.

Still, she was breathing.

They had checked her at the gates for infection— protocol, as always— and she had passed. No bites. No spores. Nothing out of the ordinary. Except that she wouldn’t wake up.

Tommy stood against the wall, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Joel didn’t say anything. He was near the window, watching the light catch on the frost-covered glass. His jaw was tense, arms crossed.

“I have no idea how she's still alive ,” one of the doctors murmured to no one in particular, his voice too quiet for comfort.

Maria finally spoke. “You did good,” she said, her gaze moving first to Tommy, then resting on Joel.

Joel didn’t respond right away. He nodded once, barely, and didn’t meet her eyes.

He turned and walked out a minute after that. The snow outside had hardened under the afternoon sun. His boots pressed into it, leaving uneven prints as he moved away from the building.

Jackson. Hospital. One month later.

Dr. Hale placed the chipped teacup back on his desk. The surface beneath it was scuffed, the wood worn smooth in places by years of use. He exhaled and raised his eyes to meet yours.

You were perched on the edge of the gurney. The fabric beneath you was stiff and clean. Your legs hung just above the ground, not quite steady.

“Well,” he began, his voice careful, “you’re officially discharged.”

Your body didn’t react. You just nodded, eyes fixed on the lines etched deep across his face.

“Everything looks good,” he continued. “There’s no sign of neurological damage. Your kidneys are doing what they should. Muscle tone’s coming back. You’re going to feel weak for a bit— especially in the cold— but that’s normal, okay?”

You nodded, even though you weren’t sure what exactly normal meant anymore.

He reached for a sheet of paper, started scribbling something without lifting his head. His hands were large, knuckles like knots, fingers marked by time and use. His movements had a practiced efficiency.

“Eat well,” he said. “As much as you can. Rest. Come back in two weeks. And please—don’t go wandering around in the snow again. I’m not dragging you in a second time .”

You let out a soft laugh— small, startled by its own presence. “I promise.”

He stood then, with more ease than you'd expect from a man in his seventies. His height was solid, his frame still holding together in the way of someone who had decided long ago not to fall apart just yet.

He extended a hand toward you. His palm was dry, warm, reassuring.

“Good job surviving,” he said. “Not everyone can say the same.”

And he was right.

You knew survival hadn’t been something you did , not really. You hadn’t fought through the cold. You hadn’t rescued yourself. You had been unconscious for at least an hour before anyone found you.

Joel and Tommy Miller had pulled you out of the snow. That was the truth.

When you were brought in, the prognosis wasn’t good. Severe hypothermia. Dehydration. Hypoglycemia. A really bad combination that didn’t leave much room for recovery. But they acted fast— someone always did, in places like this. You had no memory of those first days. Only what they told you after.

You spent three days in intensive care. Five more in a shared ward. Somehow, you walked away with no permanent damage. No brain trauma. No infections. No organ failure. A miracle , someone had said. You weren’t sure if you believed in those.

After you were discharged, you didn’t have anywhere to go. So they found you a place.

The Rowells— an elderly couple with quiet voices and a spare room— took you in. Isabella, the wife, had met you in the hospital. She made tea the day you moved into their home. She told you stories about the town and her life before the pandemic. But she didn’t ask about your past.

You spent three weeks there, mostly horizontal. Reading when your eyes let you. Sleeping when you could. Waiting for your body to feel like yours again.

Tommy stopped by more than once. At least once a week, always with a bag of something— fruit, or socks, or gloves he claimed Maria had made. Sometimes she came with him. They never stayed too long. But they stayed long enough.

You knew other people had arrived in town recently . It made their visits feel even more meaningful— like they'd chosen to make room for you in a life already full of demands.

“You’re becoming a bit of a celebrity around here, you know that?” Tommy said, his voice light as he leaned back in the worn kitchen chair, a cup of tea balanced in his hand.

It was late afternoon, the sun folding softly across the window of the Rowells' house, stretching across the table in warm patches. The air smelled faintly of cinnamon and woodsmoke. You sat across from him, the chipped rim of your mug pressed to your lower lip, your hands wrapped around it to soak up the heat.

You lifted your brows. “ Oh, yeah? Why?”

He grinned. “They talk about the woman who survived the snow. There’s a whole myth forming. Some folks think it’s a miracle your fingers didn’t fall off.”

You laughed quietly, shaking your head. “That’s dramatic.”

“I’m not saying it isn’t,” he said, chuckling. “But you should hear them. They’re convinced. You know how many people around here have lost toes? A few have lost more. And you— nothing. Not even frostbite. You’re lucky.”

You looked down into your tea, watching the pale swirl of milk settle.

“You saved me,” you said, voice quiet. “You and your brother. If you hadn’t shown up, I’d be a frozen corpse halfway to town. A popsicle.”

Tommy made a sound between a sigh and a laugh. “A popsicle? ”

You nodded. “Exactly.”

“Well,” he said, tipping his cup toward you in a mock toast, “you’re resilient. That’s something. Not many people survive that long in the cold, and with a wound? Actually, a few folks started calling you Snow. You know, mysterious stranger from the mountains, almost mythic.”

You laughed this time— an actual laugh, not the tight, polite kind. “Snow? Seriously?”

He shrugged, playful. “It’s catchy. Plus, the fact that no one’s seen you outside in a month adds to the intrigue.”

And he wasn’t wrong.

Four walls, three meals a day, hours spent under blankets or seated near a window watching the sky shift. That had been your life since arriving in Jackson. Recovery wasn’t linear. Some days you could walk for twenty minutes. Others, the cold made your joints ache and your stomach turn. But mostly, you stayed in. You rested. You waited to feel like someone again.

You cleared your throat gently. “I’ve been meaning to ask... do you think I could talk to your brother sometime? I haven’t had the chance to thank him.”

Tommy paused. The change in his expression was small— barely there— but you caught it.

“Joel?” he asked. “He hasn’t come by?”

You shook your head. “No. Was he supposed to?”

“No,” Tommy said, slowly . “But I told him where you were staying. Figured he might stop in.”

You nodded. “Right. Well... maybe he’s busy.”

There was a moment of stillness between you. Not awkward, exactly. Just thoughtful.

Tommy broke it gently. “When you feel ready, we can move you into your own place. Maria picked it out a couple weeks ago. She’s been fussing over it— putting up curtains and whatnot.”

Your lips parted in surprise. “Really?”

He smiled. “Yeah. I didn’t want to say anything until you were feeling better. It’s not huge or anything— two bedrooms, one bath. Just a short walk from the dining hall.”

A warmth started to rise in your chest. “That sounds... amazing.”

He held up his hands, feigning innocence. “Look, I’m not saying Maria plays favorites. But it’s a good spot. We thought you’d like it.”

You looked at him, and for a second something inside you softened. “Tommy, I haven’t had a home in a long time. Years, honestly. Decades, if I’m being real. You could’ve given me a shed and I’d still be grateful.”

He laughed, leaning back in his chair again. “Well, it’s a few steps up from a shed. I promise.”

You smiled. For the first time in weeks, it reached your eyes.

“When you’re ready,” he said, setting down his mug, “ just say the word.”

Jackson dining hall. Two weeks later. Morning.

The sun was pouring through the high windows of the dining hall, catching in the steam that rose from bowls and mugs. The space hummed with life— forks knocking against ceramic, chairs scraping over wood, the thrum of conversation happening all at once and everywhere. Someone laughed in the far corner. Someone else said pass the salt .

The smell of beef stew lingered in the air and there was fresh bread, too. You could tell from the way the scent curled gently toward you. You closed your eyes and breathed in, letting the feeling settle in your chest. You let yourself pretend, just briefly, that none of this had ever happened. That the world you knew had not ended. That you were somewhere safe, and always had been.

For a moment, with your eyes closed, it felt like home.

Jackson did that to you. It had a way of disarming your fear without making a spectacle of it. The town felt steady, like it had grown roots and decided not to move again. There was kindness here. You saw it in the way people nodded to each other on the street, in how they lingered at the market stalls just to talk. No one looked over their shoulder while they walked. That was new.

You’d adjusted quickly, maybe more quickly than you expected. There was no guilt in that, though sometimes it hovered on the edges of your comfort like a shadow. But what else were you supposed to do? The bed they gave you was soft. The sheets were clean. You weren’t used to softness like that, not anymore, but you learned. You remembered how to fold your clothes. How to run a hot shower. How to breathe without urgency.

The little things were the most disarming: soap that smelled like coconut, almond oil on your skin, a room that belonged only to you. A window that opened onto a street lined with planters and signs carved by hand. No smoke. No screaming. Just laundry on lines and children running between houses.

People were kind, too. Curious but never invasive. Last week, a few had approached you while you waited for your turn at the bakery or wandered back from the stables. Their questions were gentle: How’d you get here? Were you alone? Your answer didn’t change. A long walk, a bad fight, then nothing. You didn’t remember much after that.

No one pressed. That was something you respected deeply about this place. Everyone had their own version of silence, and they honored it in each other. Maybe that was the truest form of community you’d ever seen—understanding when not to ask.

They didn’t use your name. Not most of them, anyway. The Rowells did. Maria did. But everyone else, even Tommy, called you Snow . It had started like a joke, or a placeholder, and then it stuck. Not in a cruel way— it was never said with ridicule. If anything, it sounded like reverence.

You didn’t mind. After everything you’d lost, being called Snow felt oddly generous. A reminder that you were still here. That whatever had happened before you collapsed in the snow wasn’t all that you were now.

And maybe, deep down, you liked it.

Now, you were starting to feel something close to settled. It was subtle, the shift— more like a softening than a transformation— but it was there. The past week had been spent tucking small pieces of yourself into the new house: hanging the spare coat on its hook by the door, folding the same blanket each morning and placing it neatly at the end of the bed. A ceramic bowl filled with dried flowers sat on the windowsill now. It wasn’t anything extravagant, but it looked like someone lived there.

You had energy again. Not the kind that came from adrenaline or necessity, but the steadier sort that allowed you to move . You were sure— quietly sure— that you were ready to work. To use your hands for something other than holding a warm mug or steadying yourself against the edge of a table.

You’d brought it up with Maria and Tommy earlier in the week, suggested helping out where needed. They listened carefully, as they always did. Tommy even nodded. But then Maria had tilted her head in that gentle, assessing way, and said something about letting yourself land fully first. Letting your bones catch up to your heartbeat. They didn’t say the word, but you could feel it hovering: fragile. Not quite visible, but not quite gone either.

This morning, though, everything felt lighter. There was sun pouring through the cracks in the clouds, the snow retreating like it had finally grown tired. Spring was arriving in slow intervals, a bud here, a patch of green there.

You put on the oversized wool coat Isabella gave you and walked to the dining hall with a quiet sort of purpose. Your legs didn’t tremble the way they had that first week.

Inside, the room was already full. It was a comforting kind of noise, the human kind. You moved along the edge, scanning for an empty seat, then slid into the corner of a long table, your tray balanced carefully in front of you. A bowl of stew. A heel of bread. And beside it, a small plastic container with a lid, something you'd packed yourself.

You weren’t eating yet. You weren’t even hungry, really.

You had seen him come in just before you. Joel Miller.

Tommy hadn’t told you much about him, only what directly concerned you— that Joel had seen you first, out there in the snow. That he’d been the one to check for your pulse. Beyond that, he remained a quiet, distant presence. He hadn’t visited while you were in recovery. He hadn’t said a word to you in passing. But you had seen him, more than once. Standing outside the stables. Walking the main road. Always looking ahead, always looking elsewhere. And each time, you waited for him to glance in your direction— just once— so you could approach him. But he never did.

And well, you only knew the basics. That he was 60 years old, and had a daughter. Not much else.

And yet now, here he was, seated alone at a small table against the wall. His elbows rested heavily on the surface, fingers laced together, gaze fixed on the plate in front of him.

You took a breath. Not a dramatic one— just enough to ground yourself.

Then you picked up your tray in one hand, and the small plastic container in the other.

You moved toward him. The rest of the room continued on around you, but the sound seemed to stretch out, soften, as if the distance between you and him was insulated in its own quiet.

He didn’t look up when you reached his table, though you had the distinct feeling he’d known you were coming from the first step you took in his direction.

His eyes stayed on his plate. Still, you stood there, a small, polite pause suspended between you.

“Hi,” you said quietly. “Joel?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just a flicker of acknowledgment— his eyes lifting to yours for the briefest moment, then dropping back to the plate in front of him.

“Yeah. Hi,” he said, his voice rough, gravel settled into each syllable, like something scraped across the floor of a long-abandoned room.

Up close, his eyes were darker than you remembered. You’d only seen him from a distance before— shadows moving across his face as he passed on the street. Eyes far away.

You swallowed, pressing your tongue to the roof of your mouth like it might steady you.

“I made these for you,” you said, setting the small plastic container down in front of him, careful not to let your fingers brush the edge of his tray. “They’re cookies. I baked them this morning. I’m not amazing at it, but... Isabella told me they turned out okay.”

Joel looked at the container, then back at his plate. He didn’t reach for it.

“I already got food,” he said plainly.

Your smile stuttered a little, but you held onto it. A sort of half-grin, the kind you give when you’ve already committed to being warm and don’t want to withdraw it too soon.

“Yeah, no, of course,” you said. “I just thought— maybe— you might want something sweet. And I wanted to thank you. For saving me. Tommy told me you were the one who—”

“You’re welcome,” Joel said, this time looking up fully. His eyes found yours and held, not unkind but unreadable.

And then nothing.

He looked away again, like the conversation had already happened.

You waited. A beat. Then another.

He didn’t speak again.

“Would it be okay if I sat?” you asked, your fingers brushing the edge of the opposite chair.

Joel hesitated. “No, sorry.”

You blinked. Not from surprise— exactly— but from the sting of it.

“Oh,” you said, clearing your throat. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s fine,” he interrupted, voice softer now but no less certain. “ You don’t have to thank me. It’s done. We helped you. You’re safe. That’s enough.”

You nodded, eyes suddenly too aware of how exposed you felt standing there. You reached for the cookies, unsure whether to leave them behind or take them with you, not wanting to look like you were withdrawing a gift, but not wanting to leave something that wasn’t wanted either.

And then the sound of a chair scraping broke the silence. Sharp and clumsy. You turned toward the noise.

A girl was sitting next to Joel now. Her energy filled the space immediately, like she’d walked into a room she already owned. She was watching you with curiosity, her expression open and mildly amused.

“Hey,” she said, grinning. “You’re the almost-dead girl.”

“Ellie,” Joel muttered, giving her a sideways look.

“It’s okay,” you said, laughing softly. The tension needed somewhere to go, and humor was a better place than most. “I guess that’s one way to introduce me.”

“Joel hasn’t said much,” she continued. “Just what everyone already knows. You’re like a miracle. Good thing you didn’t die.”

You let out another laugh, lighter this time.

“Yeah,” you said, glancing back at Joel. He wasn’t looking at you anymore. “Good thing.”

You hesitated for one more second, hoping he might say something else. But nothing came.

“Well, I should go,” you said. Your voice was even, but you felt the warmth rush to your face. The sharp kind of warmth that comes with feeling out of place.

You reached for the container and picked it up again. The cookies. And then you turned away, walking back through the sea of tables, wishing you could shrink down into something smaller.

Two days later, on a gray afternoon.

The sky had the muted tone of brushed steel, clouds hanging low and unmoving. The wind carried a chill that felt out of place for spring, like the season was unsure whether it had permission to stay. The air was crisp, not cold, but enough to sting faintly when it touched your cheeks.

You had thought about this a lot—more than you were willing to admit. Replaying the last conversation in your head, trying to see it from all sides. Maybe you should’ve said less. Maybe he’d had a bad morning. Maybe he didn’t even mean to come off that way. You hadn’t been able to stop circling the maybes. But you kept arriving at the same conclusion: you had nothing to lose by trying again.

You stopped in front of his house.

You’d seen it before from a distance. It was a modest place, sturdy- looking, with a front porch that looked like it had been swept recently. There was something careful about it.

Mrs. Rowell had told you Joel was good with repairs. “He rebuilt our staircase,” she’d said once, while pouring tea. “You can check them, he did a really good job.”

Now, you approached the door of his house with a basket in your arms, wrapped in a clean cloth that fluttered slightly in the breeze. Inside: warm bread, still soft, and a handful of cookies. The same kind you’d made before. Something simple, something you would’ve given to a neighbor in another life.

You hesitated on the porch. One breath, and then another. And then you knocked.

Footsteps padded toward the door, soft and unhurried. A pause, and then a voice— lighter than Joel’s, quicker.

“Who is it?”

It wasn’t him.

The door opened. Ellie.

Her face lit up the second she saw you.

“Hey, Snow,” she said, with the easy familiarity of someone who had already decided to like you.

You smiled, though it wasn’t exactly a smile—more like the shape of one.

“It’s actually…” You told her your name, your real name, the one people hadn’t used much in Jackson.

“Oh— shit. Sorry,” she said quickly, her eyebrows folding together in a sincere expression of guilt. “Didn’t mean to—yeah. I didn’t mean to make it a thing.”

You shook your head. “It’s okay. Really. I don’t mind the nickname. People started using it and it just sort of stuck, right?”

Ellie nodded, stepping aside a little, her hand still gripping the door.

“That’s probably for the best. Would be kind of hellish if everyone called you something you hated.” She looked at you then, expectant, as if waiting for you to say something back. But the silence stretched longer than she anticipated, and she shifted on her feet. “ Oh— shit. Sorry. Did you, um, want to come in?”

Your eyebrows rose gently. “Oh, no. No, it’s not that. I just…” Your voice trailed off, unsure. You glanced at the basket in your hands like it might explain for you. “I was hoping to talk to Joel. If he’s around. If that’s even—” you exhaled, a little frustrated at yourself, “— if that’s okay.”

Ellie tilted her head and squinted slightly, like she was trying to gauge your intention. “He’s not here. Went out about an hour ago. Why, though?”

“I brought this,” you said, lifting the basket slightly. “Just to thank him. Nothing more.”

She watched you for a second longer than necessary, her expression unreadable. Then she nodded, casual again.

“If you want, you can stay till he gets back. Or, I mean, I can give it to him .”

You hesitated.

“I’ll wait a bit,” you said finally. You glanced down at the basket, then up at her. “Do you like cookies?”

Ten minutes later, the two of you were perched on the front steps of Joel’s porch. The basket sat between you like a third guest. For some reason, you hadn’t stepped inside. It felt too intimate, too much like crossing into a place you hadn’t been invited.

The air was crisp, the sky still overcast. Every so often, a breeze tugged at your hair and made you pull your arms tighter around yourself. Ellie didn’t seem to mind the chill. She was working her way through a cookie, eating it in small bites.

Every now and then, she’d offer up a scrap of conversation—something about the newest group of people who had arrived in Jackson, about how one of them had apparently tried to barter using a broken guitar. You listened, grateful for her easy way of speaking, the way she didn’t seem to expect anything profound from you.

You nibbled on a cookie, not really hungry, just needing to do something with your hands.

Another ten minutes passed.

Then you heard the sound of footsteps, pressed fully into the ground, not rushed, not quiet either. Ellie stopped mid-sentence. You both turned your heads toward the sound.

It was Joel.

He was carrying a stack of firewood in both arms, his shoulders set in a way that made him look like he’d been holding tension. His boots were caked with drying mud. He didn’t see you at first— his eyes fixed somewhere ahead.

When he finally did notice you, just a few steps from the porch, he didn’t flinch or startle. But he didn’t smile either. His face remained unchanged, impassive.

He let out a quiet exhale—not dramatic, not performative. Just a sound that suggested he was tired.

Without saying anything, he dropped the firewood next to the porch. The logs landed with a dull thud, some rolling gently before coming to rest against one another.

Beside you, Ellie was still chewing, still holding the half-eaten cookie in her hand.

“Hey,” she mumbled.

You tried to sound lighter than you felt. “Hi,” you said.

Joel looked at you, his expression unreadable, the same tired steadiness you’d seen at the dining hall.

“I told you it was okay ,” he said. His tone wasn’t sharp, but it carried a finality that pressed against your chest.

You parted your lips to answer, but he cut in before the words could form. “What are you doing here?”

Next to you, Ellie didn’t say anything. But y ou could feel her stillness, the way her energy retreated slightly.

You stood, brushing the back of your jeans with one hand, lifting the basket with the other. Both hands wrapped around it like an offering you weren’t sure would be accepted.

“I just wanted to drop this off,” you said. “For you. For Ellie too. It’s just bread and some more cookies. I thought maybe—”

“You don’t have to thank me again,” he said, cutting you off. “What I did... Anyone would’ve done the same.”

You let out a breath through your nose, a soft sound, half amusement, half disbelief. “That’s not true.”

His eyes narrowed slightly, confused or unconvinced.

“You found me in the snow, barely breathing,” you said. “You didn’t know me. You could’ve walked away. A lot of people would’ve. In this world... yeah.”

He didn’t respond. Just stood there, jaw tight, eyes focused on something just over your shoulder.

“I’m not trying to make it into more than it was,” you said, more softly now. “I just needed to say thank you. You saved my life. That means something to me.”

There was a long pause. Joel shifted his weight, then let out another breath— this one heavier, but quieter. He looked at you for a long beat. Then, finally, he nodded. It was so slight you might have missed it if you weren’t paying attention.

“I know,” he said. “And it’s okay. Really.”

Before you could think of how to respond, he stepped forward. His hand reached for the basket, and you instinctively pulled your fingers back so he wouldn’t have to touch you. He took it, eyes flicking briefly to the cloth over the top.

“Thanks for this,” he said. “We’re square. That’s it. You don’t need to come back.”

He turned away and stepped up onto the porch, his boots leaving faint marks on the wooden boards. His back was to you now as he reached for the door. But before opening it fully, he glanced back—just barely.

“Ellie. Inside.”

Ellie looked between the two of you. Her gaze lingered on you for a second, something unsure flickering across her face.

“See you around,” she said, smiling faintly, then she walked past Joel and into the house.

You gave her a small nod, your smile returning like a reflex.

Just before he stepped inside, Joel turned slightly, his profile outlined by the doorway.

“Thanks for the bread,” he said. “And the cookies.”

He disappeared inside, and the door clicked shut behind him.

You stood there for a few seconds longer than necessary, long enough to feel the cold pressing in against your coat. Then you turned around, hands now empty, and started back down the path. You walked home.

Jackson dining hall. Four days later. Early morning

The dining hall was already halfway full. Conversations hummed softly around you—people passing mugs back and forth, chairs dragging against the floor, the scrape of metal spoons on ceramic. Outside, the light was still thin and cold.

Maria was seated across from you, her posture confident, comfortable. Her hands were wrapped around a chipped white mug, steam rising gently from her tea.

“I just don’t think you’re quite ready for that kind of thing,” she said, watching you carefully over the rim. “And it’s not about capability, necessarily. It’s about not risking further injury. If you really want to do heavier tasks later, the best thing you can do right now is keep healing.”

You rested your forearms on the table, fingers clasped. “I am healed,” you said. “Really. I feel strong.”

Maria set her mug down with a faint clink. She smiled, not unkindly, but with a kind of tempered amusement.

“All right, but what are you imagining?”

The question lit something inside you—like a switch being flipped. You sat up straighter.

“I’m a fast learner,” you said. “I mean—I don’t know everything, obviously, but I pick things up quickly. I’m not great in the kitchen, but I’m willing to learn. Or I could help at the hospital. I’ve had some first aid training, and I’d be happy to learn more. I could assist Dr. Hale, even if it’s just basic stuff. Triage. Organizing supplies.”

Maria tilted her head slightly, studying you.

“I just don’t want to be idle,” you continued. “I want to contribute. I’ve come out the other side of all this, and I don’t take that lightly. My body’s not perfect, but it’s holding up. I’m good at staying focused. I know how to be useful. And I'm really good following orders.”

As you were speaking, Tommy appeared beside Maria and slid into the chair next to her. He nodded at you in greeting, already catching the thread of the conversation.

“Good at following orders, huh?” he said, raising an eyebrow, arms folding across his chest.

You didn’t waver. “Yes. Very good.”

He gave a short laugh, exchanged a look with Maria—something half teasing, half impressed.

“Well,” he said, voice warm but steady. “That’s good to hear. I might have something in mind for you.”

An hour later, you were folowing Tommy.

The building stood tall and unassuming on the outside, like it had been stitched into place with care. It was two stories high, and smelled of sawdust and coffee.

Inside, the floorboards creaked beneath your boots as you stepped in behind Tommy. Two men passed you near the entrance, one with a clipboard in hand, the other rattling off a list of supplies—nails, paint, tools.

The space downstairs was broad and functional. Three closed doors lined one side, and a narrow staircase climbed the other. You barely had time to take it in before Tommy was already ascending, and you trailed behind him, heart tapping against your ribs—not from the stairs, not really.

The upper hallway was quieter. A couple of the doors were cracked open, and you could hear soft conversations, the rustle of paper, someone laughing faintly behind one of them. You glanced in as you passed, catching glimpses of tools and shelves and people.

At the end of the hall, the last door stood open. Tommy didn’t hesitate. He knocked, three times, sharp and confident against the frame, then stepped inside before any invitation came.

You followed him without thinking. Without preparing yourself.

The room was spacious but spare. A large window covered nearly the entire far wall, framing the outsides of Jackson like a photograph. Through it, you could see the main path leading into town, a stretch of trees, the slope of the road. It looked quiet.

To the left of the room, Tommy had already made his way toward a desk. Your eyes shifted instinctively to the man standing behind it.

“Joel,” Tommy said, and your attention snapped.

He was bent over a wide sheet of what looked like hand-drawn map, the paper creased and worn from use. He wore a thick vest over a flannel shirt, the sleeves rolled past his elbows, exposing strong forearms dusted faintly with dirt or graphite. There were glasses perched on the bridge of his nose—something about that startled you more than it should have.

Behind him was a whiteboard, and written in marker across the top were the words "Current Patrol Leads."

At first, he only looked at Tommy. His face lit up briefly in acknowledgment, a short-lived smile curving across his mouth. And then he turned his head toward you.

And the smile vanished.

“What’s wrong?” Joel asked, his voice low.

Tommy grinned a little. “I’m bringing you help.”

Joel’s brow creased immediately. He didn’t glance at you. “Help for what ?”

Tommy tilted his head. “Unless I’ve been hallucinating, you’ve been complaining every other day about how much you’re juggling on your own.”

“Well, you are hallucinating, then,” Joel said flatly.

“She needs work,” Tommy continued, undeterred. “And you need someone. She’s capable, pays attention, follows instructions. I thought the arrangement might make sense.”

You didn’t speak. You weren’t sure you trusted your voice. You stood still, fingers curled against your sides, trying not to fidget. Joel’s eyes found you, and the weight of that stare felt like being pressed between two panes of glass. Still, you didn’t look away.

“What exactly is she supposed to do?” he asked, now turning to Tommy again. “She’s not strong enough.”

A flicker of frustration crossed Tommy’s face. He exhaled, slow through his nose, then said, “She’s not here to lift beams. Delegate some of the admin work. Supply logs, shift schedules, volunteer lists. The kind of stuff you keep putting off. She can help organize, maybe join you when you walk the sites, keep things moving.”

Joel scoffed, a dry sound in the back of his throat.

“An assistant?” he asked, like it was a punchline.

Tommy nodded, amused. “That’s one word for it.”

Joel kept his arms crossed. His posture was rigid, but not angry—more like reluctant to entertain an idea he didn’t come up with himself. His eyes didn’t drift back to you. Not yet.

“Joel,” Tommy pressed, softer the name carrying just a thread of insistence.

“Tommy,” he said, imitating his brother's tone.

“Joel,” Tommy said again.

Joel blinked once, as if trying to clear something from his head. “Isn’t there somewhere else she’d be more useful?”

“She could be useful here,” Tommy said, shrugging. “You’ve got too much on your plate and you know it. Let her help, even if it’s just for a while.”

Joel sighed, the sound almost lost beneath the quiet hum of the building. His gaze finally moved—just briefly—to you. And then away again.

He looked at his brother, jaw set like he was chewing the words before letting them out.

“All right,” he said at last. “She can give it a shot. But she’s out the moment this stops working."

Tommy turned to glance at you, the corner of his mouth lifted in something that resembled a smile. “So? What do you think?”

For a moment, you didn’t say anything. The room didn’t feel like yours to speak in. There was a tightness in your chest that made speaking feel like too much effort. It was difficult not to notice the way they had been talking about you—like you were a very complicated favor being negotiated.

“I can work somewhere else,” you said finally, voice soft but clear. “It’s fine.”

You didn’t wait to see their reactions. You turned and headed for the door, your steps measured, not rushed. You barely registered the muffled conversation behind you—Tommy’s voice again, firm.

Your hand brushed against the banister as you descended the stairs, the wood familiar under your fingers. And outside, the air greeted you with a sharp inhale, and you stopped for a second to breathe it in, like it could steady something inside you.

Now that you’d left the room, now that you had space to think, it became painfully obvious that you’d misread everything. Joel hadn’t just been tired that day you showed up at his porch. It hadn’t been a matter of timing. This wasn’t about mood.

It was you.

Whatever the reason, he didn’t want you around. Not at his house. Not at his workplace.

You started walking, unsure where you were headed exactly, only that you needed to keep moving. The ache in your chest hadn’t gone away, but it dulled with each step.

Then you heard someone behind you.

“Hey,” Tommy’s voice called out, catching up. You turned to see him approaching.

“Don’t mind Joel,” he said as he reached you, tone lighter than it had been upstairs. “He’s had a rough couple of days.”

“It’s okay,” you said, shaking your head. “Really. I can find something else.”

“He said yes,” Tommy replied simply.

“He didn’t mean it.”

“He’s just—being difficult. That’s all,” Tommy insisted. “It’s nothing to do with you.”

You pressed your lips together, unconvinced. There was too much evidence to the contrary.

Tommy tipped his head toward the building. “Come on. Let me show you around, get you familiar with what you'll be doing.”

And with that, he turned back without waiting for a reply, leaving you with little choice but to follow him.

Back inside, Joel was seated now, the chair creaking faintly under his weight. He looked up when you entered, his expression unreadable. He removed his glasses and set them down beside a notepad.

Tommy gestured toward the empty chair across from Joel’s desk.

“Make yourself comfortable.” Then he looked at Joel directly, something pointed in his expression. “Joel,” he added, like a warning dressed as a goodbye. “See you later.”

You watched him disappear down the hallway. And then, slowly, your eyes returned to Joel.

He looked larger somehow from that angle—seated, yes, but his frame still imposing. His arms rested heavily on the desk in front of him, the fabric of his shirt creasing at the elbows. His shoulders were drawn forward in a way that made him seem both powerful and fatigued. Strands of grey curled behind his ears, his hair unkempt in a way that felt unintentional. His eyes were pretty dark, settled somewhere near yours, but not quite on them.

“You can use the other desk,” he said after a moment, gesturing vaguely behind you with a tilt of his head.

You turned. The desk leaned awkwardly against the wall, cluttered with a mix of papers, boxes, and what looked like layers of dust. It didn’t seem like anyone had touched it in weeks.

You glanced back at him. “You don’t want me here.”

Joel didn’t respond to that. Instead, he leaned back, arms crossing over his chest as his gaze shifted to the window beside you.

“You can get set up after we move that stuff,” he said, voice low, almost to himself. “Most of it’s junk. I kept it there thinking I’d want everything within reach while we were working. Guess that didn’t pan out.”

You said nothing. The silence grew between you. He wasn’t looking at you anymore, but after a beat, he glanced your way. There was something questioning in his expression, like he couldn’t quite figure you out—or maybe he just didn’t want to try.

Your hands were folded tightly in your lap. A quiet sigh escaped your nose. You could feel the static in the air between you, that sharp edge of someone growing less patient with every second.

You looked out the window, just to break the contact. He exhaled audibly.

“You should get a feel for the job first—” he started.

“I’ve done this before,” you cut in, meeting his eyes. Your voice was steady, not defensive. Just a fact. “A few years ago. Lists, schedules, checking inventory. I’ve done it.”

He didn’t move. “You don’t know how things work around here.”

“I’ll learn.”

Joel nodded, more to himself than to you. “Good.”

He stood up in one motion, the chair scraping against the floor as it slid back. You watched him cross the room, moving toward the coat rack without any sense of urgency. He grabbed his jacket and slung it over his shoulder like it weighed nothing.

“I’ll send someone to walk you through how we do things. In the meantime, clear off that desk. Just—don’t throw anything away yet.” His voice was still flat, businesslike. Then he turned slightly at the door, barely looking over his shoulder. “Got it?”

You nodded. “Got it.”

He didn’t answer, didn’t say goodbye. He just opened the door and stepped out, leaving it open behind him.

divider by: omi-resources

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cremeful · 13 days ago

Text

dad bf!smoke ( 35 ) x young!reader ( 24 ). icky.. kinda ? anal .. filthy older!man smoke .. thank uuu @tojisteddy for da inspo.. :3

dad bf!smoke is very mean, meaner than the old man that lives at the end of your street. He is rough in all the ways a 35 year old man can be, always fussin about your micro skirts, too small baby tees and how you just run your mouth like you pay the bills.

"m' not gonna tell you again, watch yer' fuckin mouth" his grip on your chin is tight, harsh. you reach your hand up to pry his hand off of you but his grip tightens. the one thing smoke hates is a brat, a girl who acts with no manners or disregard for no one but herself, you know that.

"knock. it. off." his voice low, steady and serious. by this point you should know you’re walking on very thing ice with his patience's; not that he had any to begin with. "you understand me? i'm not gonna say it again." yet the words you said next were anything but saving whatever patience's he had. "you aren't my dad. i can do what i want." it's not what you said, it's how you said it. smirking, like there was a joke being told. that set him off, he snatches you off the couch and pulls you across his lap, yanking down your too little skirt letting out a 'tsk' in between his teeth. "m' not yer' dad, yet i pay for all your shit, feed you, put up with your nasty attitude and you wanna say m' not yer' goddamn dad." he says it under his breath with a scoff followed behind.

"such a disrespectful little girl, i'll tell ya that." he keeps mumbling things that fall deaf upon your ears, your heartbeat is the only thing you can hear at the moment. you try wriggling out of his grasp but its tighter than the grip he had on your chin earlier. you never seen him this mad, this rough with you. it makes you wet. "quit fuckin movin." he grits out, pushing your legs down and placing his over top of yours. your skirt half way down your thighs, yours light pink underwear sits half way off your ass. He yanks them down, spreading your pussy apart "gonna stretch this little cunt until you break." he says it as promise.

you let out a small whimper, biting your lip before responding to him. "yea, i bet you'd like that. breaking a girl half your age, pussy in. you're a pervert." your giggles turn into gasps when you feel him dribble out spit from his mouth to your puckering brown hole, he circles his thumb before pushing past the tight ring, "theree, we go." dragging out his words, followed by a heavy hand onto your bare ass. "why do you still think yer' gonna get the last word?, huh?" He moves his hand to the back of your head, gripping at your soft curls until your scalp aches. "yer' gonna learn your lesson realll good today, no more games which you." his voice is mean, fed up.

he spanks your ass raw. so hard and raw that you feel heat rising from your skin, welts showing minutes later. you're a mess, face soaked from tears, voice raw from apologizing. He meant it when he said you'll learn your lesson, today. He pulls you off his lap, making you kneel in front of him. your breath this uneven, sobs broken, sniffling to try to relax yourself. Before smoke could even address you, you speak out through your sniffles "p-pa-papa, 'm sorry. i dd-didn't mean to-" He cuts you off, hushing you, pulling you into his chest, " i know baby, but you have to listen to daddy when he tells you to do something, mkay?" he says it softly, rubbing your back.

you nod your head, he pulls away taking your head in-between his hands. "just need a good fuckin dats all." he unzips his pants, pulling you up onto his lap, lining himself up to your wet pussy. you push down onto him, gasping at the stretch falling forward on his shoulder by now your panting out moans. you lazily bounce up and down but its not enough for you, he notices. grabbing you by the hips and bouncing you up in down on his cock, he bullies his fat cock up into you.

#cremeful / / 18 + 𓂃 no minors ! !#sinners fics #sinners #sinners 2025 #smoke sinners #smoke x reader #micheal b jordan x reader smut #smoke x reader smut #smoke x black reader #smoke x fem!black!reader smut

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hivemuthur · 2 months ago

Note

Anon because I am a coward lmao, but a request nonetheless if you want/have the time! Been thinking about a classic!Viktor (because him in that uniform is just so scrumptious) x f!reader in an established relationship where they have a bet going that they can't last a week without sex. They take turns over those 7 days mercilessly teasing the other and trying to make each other lose the bet (errant touches here and there, lingering kisses/looks, etc., and one of those could maybe be a heated up-against-the-wall makeout). Up to you whether they make it to day 7 or not! 🤭 And we stan a soft!dom!Viktor of course

I saw some folks picking anon emoji so I'll pick ✨️Anon if that's okay! Thanks for your time whether this makes it or not, I sincerely love everything you write! ❤️

Guess what. They didn't make it :x

All is Fair in Love and War

viktorxfemale!reader explicit! a lot of teasing + (unsafe) desk sex, if you squint diligently there is some dom!Viktor but he's so whipped he doesn't even have it in him, and there is some maybe a little bit OOC Viktor and love confessions too. Sap, remember?

word count: 5,8K (sorry it got out of hand)

author's note: Nothing, just Happy Freakday :v

—

It is funny, the human nature and the way you leap at the chance to bend and break it whenever an opportunity to prove a point arises. Often against your better judgement, hurting yourself in the process—yet the reward, the being right, you deem worth it. Whether it is or isn’t, you still don’t know. No scientific data on the matter; you'd have to somehow double yourself and join both the control and the treatment group.

It’s also infuriating how once something is forbidden or simply out of reach, it becomes instantly more desirable—damn near essential to your survival.

And it’s not that you lack self-control or are some savage animal. No. Quite the opposite—composed, focused when it matters, dedicated when it’s required, passionate when you allow yourself to be. And most of the time, that last one comes easily, naturally, around Viktor.

You don’t even remember how it started. He said something along the lines of, “Is that so?” in that tone—the one that has your head tilting and your hand bracing your hip, the one that forecasts trouble—and you responded with something like, “Why don’t we find out?” fully aware that the challenge at hand was going to inch dangerously close to impossible.

It is now day four of your ridiculous, point-proving, let’s-see-who-folds, I-can-outlast-you-with-my-finger-in-(insert an offensive body part) bet—for lack of a better name—and you really can’t remember why you picked up that stinking glove in the first place.

Day one was relatively easy. That was back when your tactic was simply to stay docile and survive. Got you all cocky, how simple it was, just to brace through a day filled with mundane tasks—a list long enough you didn’t even see Viktor for more than a minute.

Day two got harder. Viktor, the snarky bastard, had already started playing unfairly—cravat loosened at the neck, top button undone, revealing his Adam’s apple, one of your many weak spots. Another, also shamelessly flaunted: the mole on the side of his throat. One of your favourite places to press your mouth to. It glared at you all day every time Viktor craned his neck or leaned beside you to read something over your shoulder. It became painfully clear then: without proper artillery, this battle would see you utterly, thoroughly obliterated.

As if the sight itself weren’t enough, Viktor was clearly ready to have you rendered stupid and wanting right there in the lab on that second day. Pretending to be engrossed in your notes, he traced his long finger down your handwriting, occasionally tapping, humming—soft and low in his throat. The air from his nose fanned your cheek mercilessly, steady and warm. And then, the wretched scoundrel, brushed his hand against yours. The touch was barely there, a whisper of skin, designed with surgical precision to twist the knife further. To finish the kill, he leaned down and pressed his lips to your forehead in a sign of loving approbation, murmuring, “Impressive work, lásko.”

“T-thank you,” you stammered, blinking blindly—trying desperately to blink away the feel of his hot lips on your skin, to scrub the sound of his voice from your brain. The praise had bled right into the spot you had prayed would remain numb. The urge to shake out your hand, to run it under cold water, to splash your face for good measure—you managed to resist. The burn on your cheeks, however, had no such mercy.

Viktor only smiled. The smirk he wore was unmistakable: a shit-eating, obscenely smug thing that sat crooked on his mouth, gleaming with unsaid victory. You could almost hear the remark hanging off the tip of his tongue—something close to, “That’s what I thought,” or, “As expected.” But he had the mercy, that day, to keep it to himself.

As he walked away, leaving you sighing in premature relief, he paused. Turned. Tipped his head, cane idly drawing slow circles across the stone floor.

“What would you say to raising the stakes?” he asked, like it was a casual thing, like it wasn’t a hand grenade tossed over his shoulder.

Impossible, you thought. Absolutely not. I’m barely hanging on, was the reasonable choice. Which, naturally, meant that instead of saying any of those sensible things, your stupid competitive mind stepped forward first.

“What do you have in mind?” you asked, voice already on the brink of cracking.

“Well,” Viktor began, adjusting his grip on the cane, feigning neutrality with such theatrics you wanted to hit him, “if we want this test to deliver true results…” A beat.

“Perhaps we should both refrain from seeking relief by our own hands.” He gave a gracious little tilt of his head, the kind that almost passed for innocence. “Unless, of course, that would be too much for you.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Are you implying that I have no self-control?”

“Not at all, my darling,” he replied smoothly. “I’m merely implying that I have more self-control than you do.”

A scoff—hot, sharp, and angered—left your mouth as you stood and closed the distance between you. Against reason, despite the suffering you’d already struggled to endure, you came so close that the air he breathed out, you could breathe in. You whispered, low and sinister, “Bring. It. On.”

“Very well,” Viktor muttered, leaning in to your ear. “Hands where I can see them, sweet thing.”

“Likewise,” you hummed into the hollow of his neck, and noticed—not without a sickening sense of triumph—that goosebumps rose where your breath had licked his skin. A faint pink bloomed upward from beneath his collar as well.

Sleeping that night? Nearly impossible, of course. Another thing added to the growing realm of forbidden comforts that had suddenly become this much more attractive to you. And you would be a liar if you said your hands didn’t itch. Sleep became another casualty in this battle, but somehow, you managed to stand your ground.

Naturally, you had to brace yourself with tactics of your own. Day three began with a strategy. You'd woken up taut and fraying, sheets tangled between your legs and thighs pressed too tight together. Your fingers stayed loyal to the pact—barely. But if you couldn’t touch yourself, then you’d just have to make him want to.

So you dressed with a mind to war: the cravat from your uniform was nowhere to be found—lost to the laundry or sabotage, you weren't sure, and frankly didn’t care. Instead of a replacement, you simply didn’t wear one. With the first few buttons of your shirt left artfully undone, the slight gap revealed the delicate valley of your cleavage whenever you leaned forward, bent over something, or stretched, as one does.

Then the skirt. It sat a little too low, so you wrapped the waistband twice and pinned it beneath your belt, hiking the hem high enough that your garters whispered suggestively with every step.

You walked into the lab like a provocation made flesh and Viktor noticed immediately—of course he did. He always notices everything. But this time, he said nothing. Just paused, mid-motion with a wrench in his hand, and blinked slowly, like he’d just been struck by something quiet and lethal. His gaze dropped once, flicked back up, and then he returned to his work with all the casualness of a man pretending not to drown.

That should’ve been your victory. Except that twenty minutes later, while you stood at the central workbench, bent over a set of schematics with a pencil tapping idly between your fingers, Viktor came up behind you. Not touching, never touching. But his voice, cool and rich, curled over your shoulder like silk.

“Did your cravat fall victim to a tragic accident?” he asked, as if genuinely curious.

You glanced back at him with a sugar-sweet smile. “Laundry’s fault. Terrible service. Think I’ll lodge a formal complaint.”

He hummed, low in his throat. “Yes, you should. It would be a shame if such... structural integrity failed in more critical areas of your attire.”

You turned, just slightly, letting him see the way your shirt shifted open with the movement. “If you’re concerned, I’m sure you could help reinforce it.”

“I could,” he said, his mouth twitching, his eyes lingering for one heartbeat too long. “But I wouldn’t want to overstep.”

And with that, he walked off. But his limp was tighter than usual, jaw clenched, and his cane struck the tile floor with a touch too much force to be casual. You counted that as a small, simmering win—and an idea, for later.

An idea which, before, you’d deemed a last resort, now begins to seem more and more essential to your survival, because Viktor is utterly fucking shameless.

It is day four, and you are inching toward your wits' end, disbelieving how a mere four days of deprivation have indeed left you nearly drooling over his body—slouched on the couch in what appears to be an innocent nap. But the sighs and groans that leave his mouth are a little too loud, a bit too breathy, and his legs are too far apart, the slope of his groin staring at you with obscene entitlement from where you are curled up on the couch next to him. Not touching, of course.

His chest rises and falls in slow, rhythmic pulls, the fabric of his shirt straining just faintly each time he inhales. You watch the subtle shift of muscle beneath it, the barely-there flutter of his lashes against his cheek, and the way his throat bobs every so often, like his body is caught somewhere between rest and need. His lips, slightly parted, glisten with the faint sheen of sleep, and it would be so easy—criminally easy—to lean in and steal the air right from his mouth.

You shouldn't be looking, you know that. But your eyes drag down the ridges of his ribs, the soft dip of his waist, the hand resting slack against his thigh—long fingers splayed in a mockery of carelessness. You can’t even pretend to read anymore. The words on the page blur while he lays there like a temptation wrought by some divine punishment, entirely unbothered, until—

He shifts. Just a little. One eye cracks open, and the barest hint of a smile twitches on his lips. Then, hoarse and low, without even bothering to fully open his eyes, he rasps, “Seeing anything you like?”

You have enough common sense not to startle. The instinctive reaction would be to deny, deny, deny. But then, a thought strikes you—why would you? The bet entails simply not fucking, not pretending as if you don’t want to. In a swift pivot, your new tactic slides into place like a dagger in silk.

“Very much so,” you say, voice smooth, a soft smile playing across your lips while your eyes narrow. You don’t even try to hide the way you’re ogling him, letting your gaze drag with intention—chest, throat, lips, hips—then slowly back up again to meet his.

“Oh?” he murmurs, finally opening both eyes. One brow lifts lazily. “Why don’t you tell me about it?”

“Oh, Viktor,” you sigh with feigned exasperation, tilting your head. Your tone is syrupy and sharp all at once. “Are you trying to orchestrate my downfall or yours?”

“Not at all,” he hums, pleased. “I’m simply curious about what’s happening in that pretty head of yours.”

“Very well,” you whisper, fingers ghosting over his wrist as your smile deepens. You cradle it like something precious, your thumb brushing across the knuckles—each one a peak, scarred and calloused with work, each line like a story. He watches you with curious eyes, a tension winding through his jaw, but he lets you guide him. Your lips part. You press them to the tips of his fingers in something that almost resembles devotion—until your tongue peeks out and you drag it, slow and warm, along the pad of his index.

“I’ve been thinking about this hand,” you whisper, eyes locked on his as you press a kiss into his fingertip, “in here.” You take the finger fully into your mouth then, slow and obscene, hollowing your cheeks just slightly.

A hiss leaves him, barely restrained, the muscle in his cheek twitching. He leans forward on instinct, like you’ve hooked a string behind his ribs and pulled. His gaze drops, fixated, almost pained with it.

“And then possibly…” you release his finger with a soft pop, teasing, “somewhere else.”

Viktor makes a sound low in his throat, something between a warning and a plea. He shifts closer, drawn in despite himself, and his eyes flick to your mouth again—wet and gleaming. “This,” he mutters, voice hoarse and fraying where he doesn’t intend it to, “is not fair play.”

You smile, teeth flashing, all wicked delight. “All’s fair in love and war,” you hum. “And as this is both, I’d say it’s more than fitting. Besides—” you lean in, brushing your nose along his jaw, “you know exactly what you’d have to do to end this… torture. All these layers in the way…”

His breath stutters. And then a smile curls on his lips—not soft, not sweet, but predatory. The kind of smile that promises you’ve stepped too close to the fire, and you’re about to feel the burn.

“Oh?” he says, gaze raking over you, slow and thorough, like he’s peeling you open with just a glance. “And how many layers do you think exactly part us?”

You still. Stare. He cannot possibly be serious. But then, with the ease of someone who knows precisely what they’re doing, Viktor shifts back and stretches—arms above his head, spine arching, muscles pulling taut under the fabric. The hem of his shirt untucks from his trousers in the process, rising just high enough to tease at the flat plane of his stomach.

Your mouth parts, uselessly, because the trousers dip. Just a fraction. But a fraction is enough. Low, low enough that where you expect to see the band of his underwear, there is—nothing. Just skin. A sliver of the sharp cut of his pelvis, and below that, the dangerous promise of more. Had the trousers slid even a breath lower—or not been cinched by his belt—you’d have been treated to the base of his cock.

Your heart stumbles over itself. Breath caught halfway between outrage and awe, you stare. Incredulous.

“Viktor,” you scold, voice choked with disbelief. “You slut.”

He chuckles darkly at that, low and pleased, the sound laced with unrepentant menace. “What was that?” he murmurs. “All is fair, something along those lines?”

His hand lifts, fingers trailing up to your cheek with mock-gentle reverence. “Seems you haven’t measured your opponent properly,” he says, almost fond. “A mistake. Might cost you.”

Your lips twitch upward, unwillingly impressed. “We’ll see about that,” you whisper, eyes narrowing with intent.

Because now—now you know. That little move? That wasn’t confidence. That was desperation. Calculated, yes, but desperate all the same. Viktor, flashing skin like a weapon, throwing everything short of actual cock at the problem—it’s telling. And oh, you were saving your last resort. But now you know—he’s already playing his.

And it’s only day four.

It’s unbearable to keep your part of the deal that night. To say that your hands crawl with ants is an understatement, and to say that you’ve slept is an overstatement, since all you’ve done is toss and turn. And in the morning, there is no laundry mishap, no sabotage to blame for what you’re about to do.

With your skirt’s waistband rolled up and your ass outright bare underneath, you walk through the corridors, the air licking at your thighs. You pray, sincerely and repeatedly, that you won’t run into Heimerdinger at any juncture—and as ludicrous as that prayer might seem, you suddenly understand why all the skirts of the Academy uniforms are the length you once deemed too prudish to ever stir Viktor into action.

The source of your frustration is already in his usual spot, scribbling the day’s tasks onto the blackboard. You can read the smile from the back of his head the moment you step in through the door, but instead of focusing on that, your gaze drops lower—to his thighs—trying to assess whether he’s fallen twice, whether yesterday’s stunt has repeated itself today.

Sadly, you can’t tell. So with gathered-up determination, you bid him hello and muster all your innocence as you sit at your workbench, thighs pressed close together, the chair biting cold into your skin.

It’s maddeningly civil throughout the first few hours—so much so that your head snaps up each time an audible sigh leaves his mouth, only to realise it’s not about you at all. Just something work-related, some frustration that has him hunched over and his brows all knitted.

After a while it becomes clear that Viktor is struggling. It begins subtly—grunts of frustration under his breath, the occasional mutter in a tone too low to catch, followed by the sharp squeak of chalk against slate. Again and again, he scribbles something onto the board, only to wipe it away with increasing irritation. The lines start to look like arguments more than equations. Whatever he’s writing, he hates it.

Curiosity gets the better of you. You rise and make your way over, and the moment you’re close—close enough to see the tension in his shoulders and the crease between his brows—it thickens in the space between you, the air charged and humming. He doesn't look at you, not at first.

"What’s the matter?" you ask gently, keeping your voice light.

He scoffs under his breath and waves you off. “Nothing.”

But his eyes betray him. They flick, just briefly, downward. Toward your thighs. Then snap away again, his jaw tightening. Oh, poor thing.

You almost feel sorry for him. Almost. But then you remember yesterday—the stretch, the lazy way his shirt had untucked. Desperation wrapped in smugness. No. This is fair game.

“Want to bounce ideas?” you offer, brushing your fingers lightly along his forearm. He stiffens. Your hand drifts higher, skimming over his shirt, the lean plane of his stomach beneath. Purely helpful. Entirely professional.

He exhales, smiling with a certain defeated amusement. “Sure.”

“Good,” you chirp, turning your head just enough for your breath to graze his neck. “Because you seem distracted.”

His eyes cut to you, dark and narrowed. “If you really want to help,” he says, slow and dry, “start writing from the top.”

You follow his gaze upward, and ah—if you’re not the universe’s favourite today, you don’t know what. You grab the usual board stool, the seat worn out and scraped from shoe soles constantly grinding into it anytime either of you wants to make full use of the black surface. You climb onto it gracefully and, as if it’s nothing, await instructions.

He doesn’t say a word, just steps aside, still holding the chalk in his fingers. His expression is unreadable, but his pulse is visible at his throat.

You hold out your hand. “Chalk.”

He gives it to you wordlessly, his gaze fixed. You begin to write.

“Ready,” you say sweetly.

He opens his mouth, begins to dictate something—but the moment his eyes trace down your back, catch the bare expanse of skin beneath the hem of your skirt, his voice falters.

“Start with—” he begins, and stops. Silence.

You glance over your shoulder. “What?”

He stares at you, mouth slightly parted. His throat works around a swallow. You smile, victorious, as the realisation dawns in his eyes. And Viktor doesn’t speak—at least not right away.

Just stands there, stunned. Caught mid-breath, as though something vital has short-circuited behind his eyes. And then you see it—the unmistakable flicker of calculation. You can almost hear the gears turning in his head, trying to solve this, trying to survive it. But he won’t.

Instead, he takes a slow step forward. Then another. The soft tap of his cane echoes once, then again, before he stops just beside you.

Something shifts, and you feel the motion before you see it—cool wood slipping beneath the hem of your skirt. The cane lifts gently, teasingly, fabric peeling upward, making your breath still.

Viktor exhales like a man broken. “You are so wicked,” he murmurs, voice hoarse, brazen. “This is cruel,” comes next, as pained as his expression.

You smile over your shoulder, saccharine-sweet. “My love. You dug your own grave yesterday.”

A low sound escapes him—somewhere between a laugh and a curse—and then he’s moving with purpose. He hooks the cane over the wing of the board to keep it out of the way, and his hands find your legs. His palms are warm, strong, sliding slowly upward. A sweep over your calves, the backs of your thighs, fingers tightening with every inch until he’s cupping you fully, squeezing your ass like it’s his only hope.

His face presses in, breath hot against where your thighs meet, his nose brushing skin. He breathes in deep, his exhale shuddering out against you.

“I surrender,” he says, voice barely above a whisper, as if anything louder would undo him completely. “Please get down from that chair so I can fuck you or I’ll go mad.”

You exhale a startled laugh—part shock, part triumph, part sheer disbelief that you've actually won—and barely stop yourself from huffing out finally as you hop off the stool.

Your landing is clumsy, the soles of your shoes slipping on the floor, but you barely find your footing before Viktor is on you.

His hands are already on your face, in your hair, his mouth glueing into yours, starving and rough. The kiss is all teeth and heat, his breath ragged, his hips pressing you back into the board as if he means to pin you there permanently.

"You’re a menace," he mutters between kisses, voice low, cracked. "Bože můj, you’ll make me lose my mind one day—"

You gasp against him, laughter catching on your tongue, but he swallows it down. Then he takes your wrist, firm and careful, and brings your hand to the front of his trousers, where he is hot and hard and straining.

“Look what you’ve done to me,” he breathes, forehead resting against yours, words trembling with restraint, rage, want—all of it. "Four days," he grits, biting your bottom lip gently before pulling back just enough to meet your eyes.

"Four days of you teasing me, torturing me—strutting around with those fucking lips and thighs and now this? No underwear?" He kisses you through it—messy, hungry, relentless. His lips smother yours again and again, every breath you try to take stolen from your mouth. His hands don’t know where to settle, roaming from your hips to your waist to your face like he’s desperate to feel everything at once, make up for the time lost.

You stumble backwards, and he follows, half draped over you as he walks you toward the nearest workbench, his hips grinding against yours with every step.

Breathless, you manage to smile again—still daring, still cocky, even now. "You reap what you sow."

“Cruel creature,” he growls into your mouth, words lost in the kiss. “You’ve won. Are you happy now?”

“So happy,” you gasp, catching his lower lip between your teeth. “It was unbearable. And you’re no better,” you add, voice low and accusing, “I hope you got burns from yesterday’s stunt.”

“I did,” he rasps, and his voice is a beautiful wreck of need. “And you’re going to lick me back to health.” Then, a pause. He pulls back just far enough to look at you properly, eyes half-lidded and wild, a grin curling his lips.

“But first,” he says, voice dark and deep, “get on that desk.”

You don’t need to be told twice. You haul yourself onto the workbench with a kind of grace that borders on indecent, your skirt bunching at your hips, legs parting. Viktor slots himself between them without hesitation, hands gripping your thighs like he��ll die if he doesn’t touch you, mouth dragging over your jaw, your throat, your collarbone, buttons of your shirt snapping open.

“Fuck,” he mutters with effort, as you wrap your legs around his waist and pull him closer. His hands slide beneath you, guiding your hips to grind into him, keeping you right where he wants you. One arm braces against the bench beside your hips; the other curls around your back, holding you steady as his lips find yours again.

Again, a lot of teeth, even more tongue, but you don’t care—you’ve missed those teeth and that tongue like an addict. You’ve missed the feeling of his hair between your fingers, his smell, the subtle scent of him that only reveals itself when you're this close. His hands, too, shaped as if they were made to cradle your body.

And then he’s fumbling with his belt, his breath fanning your cheek. And then—oh—you don’t even know when it happens, don’t even see if he’s bare under those pants, too busy staring at his lips, but he’s free and hard and leaking against you, resting at your entrance, his mouth breathing heavily. You twitch to meet him, but he holds you still, hips fixed in place like a statue, only his chest rising and falling.

His forehead presses to yours, jaw slack, eyes fluttering shut as he begins to sink in—deeper and deeper—stretching you out inch by inch. His breath trembles out of him in ragged exhales, mouth open in a silent moan until it finally breaks into sound—helpless and guttural.

“Oh, miláčku,” he breathes. “You feel—fuck—I’ve missed you.”

You’re clinging to him, nails digging into the fabric at his back, your head falling against his shoulder. It’s almost too much—he fills you completely, and still, he’s not all the way in.

And Viktor—Viktor looks undone already. His brow pinches at first, a flicker of pain or restraint, but it vanishes in the next breath. His face goes slack, lax. A visible, physical relief settles in his body the moment he bottoms out, hips flush to yours. He moans, long and loud, like this is the only thing that’s made him feel alive in days.

Your breath is nearly non-existent, lungs almost giving out, air caught somewhere in between them. It’s not just the stretch, though that alone is close to being too much, the sharp pull giving way to a fullness that borders on unbearable. It’s the heat of him, the weight, the press of his body. The air seems thicker now, like the room is holding its breath with you.

Your hands tremble as you clutch at his shoulders, trying to ground yourself, but there’s nothing grounding about this. Your nerves are alight, every inch of you humming with sensation—burning where he fills you, tingling where his chest brushes yours, where his breath ghosts across your skin.

You feel split wide open, every part of you drawn taut around him, and he hasn’t even moved yet.

“Gods,” you whisper, almost to yourself. “I almost forgot how much…”

Viktor lifts his head, his nose nudging yours, the smile he gives you helpless, crooked, all teeth and tenderness. “How much what?” he rasps.

You try to answer but it comes out as a gasp instead, the words dissolving as your body clenches around him. You feel the tremor run through him—see it, too, in the flicker of his lashes and the flex of his jaw.

He’s holding on, yet barely. You feel it in his grip, the way his fingers press into your skin, in the quiver of restraint in his thighs. And somehow, that makes it worse. Hotter. More intimate.

“You feel like—” you choke out, panting. “You feel like you’re everywhere.”

A low sound tears from his throat, somewhere between a groan and a plea. “That’s what I want,” he murmurs. “I want to be everywhere. I want to leave no room for anything else.” His hips roll—just once, shallow—and your mouth falls open, no sound coming out.

“Tell me,” he whispers, lips brushing your cheek, your temple, the shell of your ear. “Say you missed this. Say you missed me.”

You nod before you can form a word, tears prickling at your lashes from the intensity. “I missed you,” you gasp. “I missed everything. Please, let’s not do that again.”

His mouth finds yours again, fully desperate now, and finally—finally—he begins to move. And it’s deep, grinding in slow, restrained thrusts that have your breath stuttering with each pass. It’s all pressure and heat, dragging friction and stretch, every slide of his hips drawing out a gasp you can’t swallow, it just stumbles out.

His lips are on your neck, your jaw, your shoulder as his drool dampens your shirt, mouth panting hot between murmurs—fragments of words, your name, curses in Czech that sound like a praise.

“God,” he rasps, sweat slicking his forehead as he pulls out and sinks back in, slow, careful, so careful. “You’re so—tight, fuck—I can’t, I won’t—”

He cuts himself off with a grunt, hips shuddering against yours. The sound of him sliding inside you, wet and obscene, fills the small space between you. Each thrust makes it louder, harder to keep up.

“You’re not making this easy,” he growls against your ear, pressing in so deep your spine arches. “If you want me to last—touch yourself.”

You let out a shaky breath, not trusting your voice. But your hand slips between you, fingers working tight, trembling circles against your clit. And Viktor—Viktor moans when he sees it. His head drops to your shoulder, teeth scraping your skin through the fabric, sweat dripping from his brow, sinking into your clothes, as he starts to move again, even deeper this time, harder.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he hisses, watching you, wild-eyed. “Just like that—look at you.”

You shift, needing more, angling your hips, one foot propped up on the table’s edge for leverage, other leg hugging his side. It opens you wider, gives him more room, and he uses it—hips snapping forward, the slap of skin on skin filling the lab, occasionally knocking your hand off course.

The workbench creaks beneath you. His arm trembles where it braces beside your hip. His other hand is cupping your thigh, holding it high and tight, your body drawn up taut around his like a bowstring straining at the edge of release.

And still he doesn’t stop yapping—your name, praises, filth, words that blur together into a stream of breath and groans. “So wet for me,” he pants, thrusting deep enough to have you momentarily mute. You melt around him, every time he pulls out it’s like you’re begging him not to.

His eyes meet yours, glassy and undone, and you see it—that tight coil in his gut winding ever higher. His hips stammer, breath breaks, and he’s so, so close. And you are right there with him.

Shaking—hips bucking into your hand, legs trembling where the muscles can’t hold up any longer, every part of you stretched thin and burning. He’s not faring any better. His pace has lost its rhythm, faltering now, every thrust hitting deep but messy, like he’s chasing the edge and barely hanging in there.

“I’m—” you start, breath interrupting. “I’m close—almost—”

A sound breaks from him, torn from his chest. “Thank God,” he groans. “I’m so fucking close—baby, come for me.” A breath, and a pleading hand comes to cradle your neck. “Please,” he swallows, “be a good girl—”

And it’s that. That voice, those words, the begging, cracked raw and full of want—that shatters you into pieces. Your body clenches hard around him, every muscle tightening in a violent rush of release when you cum, mouth loud, nails biting into his back, forehead pressed to his as the string stretches and snaps, ripping you apart in a way only he can undo you.

And Viktor follows immediately—unable to hold back any longer. A hoarse sound like gravel, tears from his throat, and he thrusts once more, buried to the hilt as he spills inside you in hot, thick pulses of cum. His whole body shakes with it, his nose bumping into yours, mouth catching on your moan as he answers with one of his own.

Then, neither of you moves. You’re pressed together, heaving for air, clinging to each other like the world narrowed to this—slick skin, damp clothes, soft gasps, and the slow, sticky pulse of overstimulation setting in.

“Gods,” he mutters, voice barely there against your cheek. “You’re going to kill me.”

You laugh, breathless, threading your fingers through his damp hair. “Like-fucking-wise.”

A beat. Then, with a reluctant groan, Viktor draws back—slowly, carefully—pulling out of you with a hiss. The wet sound makes your stomach flip, and his eyes flutter at the loss of contact, still caught in that delicate haze of aftershock.

“You alright?” you ask, light and shaky. Your hand lifts to brush aside the hair clinging to his temple.

Viktor nods and swallows, clearly spent—tired but blissful. He leans in again, still softening, cock resting against your thigh as he presses back between your legs to kiss you. It’s a grateful kiss, deep and languid, like he doesn’t quite know what he’s thankful for—your body, your presence, or that the torment is finally over.

“You are so horrible,” he whispers fondly against your mouth. Then, quieter, more fragile, “I love you so fucking much.”

“Again, likewise,” you murmur, letting your legs slump off the table, heels swinging lazily against the backs of his calves. “You’re no warmonger though,” you hum, fingertips tracing the slope of his cheek, the swell of his bottom lip.

“No,” Viktor agrees with a tired smirk. “Death by my own sword. How ignominious.”

You grin. “I’m impressed with your tactics, though. You almost had me yesterday.”

“Shut up,” he groans, and cackles—rich and golden and still a little breathless. The sound is honey in your ears. “You shouldn’t kick a dying man.”

“Not kicking,” you say, mock-innocent. “Just poking. And I died a little too, in case you didn’t notice.”

“Oh, I noticed,” Viktor says, smirking into the curve of your throat. “I’m tempted to make you die like that again, but I fear for my own sanity.”

“Me too.” You kiss his temple, your heart still thudding somewhere under your ribs. “I am completely and utterly mad about you.”

“Likewise,” Viktor breathes against your lips, smiling without shame, pleased beyond dignity. And you are so, so glad the war is finally over.

#my writing #viktor arcane #viktor fanfic #viktor x reader #viktor x reader smut #viktor smut #viktor x gn!reader #viktor x oc #arcane #arcane fanfic #ao3 #ao3 fanfic #viktor nation #requests

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littlepeach-world · 5 months ago

Note

Hear me out on this oneshot... 🎾🎾

In-ho and his wife has a child together *about 3 years old now* that ran off while at the island during the games and the guards along with In-ho are running all over the place looking for him and then find him inside of a game room that's already been played and empty, but still dangerous!! Toddlers always sneak away, i know mine does😂

Echoes of Fear

Pairing: Frontman/Hwang In-Ho x Pregnant!Wife!Reader

Warnings: Husband!Inho, Protective!Inho, Dad!Inho, Pregnant!Wifereader, Pregnancy-Related Stress, Child going missing, Parental Anxiety, Emotional Distress, Threats of Violence, Guilt and Self-Blame, Reference to Bereavement.

Word count: 1.3k

You just returned to your desk after putting Jaehyun down for his nap, feeling exhausted but determined to finish the work that had been piling up. Being seven months pregnant was taking its toll, making you more fatigued than ever. Inho, your caring and protective husband, constantly fretted about your well-being. He didn't even want you to work or do anything at all besides staying in bed all day. His concerns for your safety, Jaehyun's, and that of the baby were genuine and heartfelt, often leading to gentle arguments about your need to stay busy. He would lovingly remind you, "Your health, Jaehyun's health, and our baby's health come first, always."

Yet, bed rotting isn't your thing; you liked to stay busy. After a few hours of tackling your work, you decide it's time to check on Jaehyun, who should be fast asleep from his nap. The thought of seeing his peaceful face is a welcome break from the stress of the day.

However, when you enter his room, it is empty. Confusion hits you immediately, a wave of unease washing over you. "Jaehyun?" you call out, your voice echoing through the house. The silence is deafening, and a sense of foreboding begins to creep in.

You take a deep breath, forcing yourself to stay calm as you start searching the neighboring rooms. Each empty room you enter heightens your anxiety, but you try to maintain a semblance of composure.

Your serenity is shattered when you run into June, the nanny, who is pacing nervously in the hallway. Her usually neat appearance is disheveled, and her face is etched with worry.

"June, have you seen Jaehyun?" you ask, attempting to keep your voice steady.

She looks up, her expression filled with guilt and fear. "Jaehyun ran off, and I can't find him," she admits, voice trembling.

Your heart stops, a surge of panic flooding your system. "What! What do you mean you can’t find him? Where did he go?" you demand, your voice rising.

June stammers, trying to explain, but her words blur into an incoherent buzz. Your mind goes blank, your focus narrowing to a sharp point: finding Jaehyun and informing your husband, Inho. Instinctively, you reach for your phone, your hands shaking uncontrollably.

"Stay here and keep looking. I'll call Inho," you manage to instruct June, though your voice cracks with desperation.

You frantically dial Inho's number, the phone feeling slippery in your sweaty grip. Each ring amplifies your anxiety until he finally answers.

"Inho," you say, your voice on the edge of hysteria, "Jaehyun's missing! He's gone!" The words tumble out in a frantic rush.

Inho's calm façade shatters upon hearing the distressing news. The lines in his face deepen with worry, and his usual steady demeanor falters. Yet, somehow, he manages to regain enough composure to soothe your hysteria and urges you to recount every detail as he makes his way toward home. His mind races consumed by the sheer terror of losing Jaehyun.

By the time Inho arrives, he is a man on the edge, but the sight of your tear-streaked face nearly breaks him. He pulls you into a fierce embrace, his voice a soft murmur of comforting words. "We'll find him. I promise," he whispers into your hair, holding you as tightly as he dares.

Despite his own crippling fear, Inho maintains a composed exterior. He knows that he must be the pillar of strength for both you and the situation at hand. Gathering himself quickly, he turns to June, his eyes narrowing with a sharp intensity.

"How could you be so careless?" he snaps, his voice as cold and cutting as a blade. "I swear, if something happens to our son, it won’t just be you I'll deal with—it will be everyone you ever loved, anyone you’ve ever laid eyes on."

Your tears falling freely, you grab his arm gently, interrupting his tirade. "Inho, please," you plead softly. "Threatening her won’t bring Jaehyun back."

Inho takes a deep breath, locking eyes with you, understanding the profound truth in your words. His shoulders slump slightly as he nods, his rage giving way to helplessness for a moment. "I have guards searching the island, Y/N. We will find him. I promise," he vows, tightening his protective grip on you. He places one hand tenderly on your pregnant belly, the gesture meant to ground both of you.

"Breathe, please. For our baby," he murmurs, his voice a soothing balm to your overwrought nerves.

You nod, clinging to him like a lifeline amid the tumultuous sea of your emotions. "You’ll bring him home," you say, your voice tinged with both hope and desperation, more as an affirmation than a question.

"I will," Inho reassures, his voice imbued with determination and a fierce resolve. Leaving you in the care of another trusted aide, he steps back, giving one last reassuring squeeze to your hand before joining the search.

As Inho rushes out to find Jaehyun, his mind is consumed with guilt. He berates himself for being a bad father, too busy with work to spend time with his child. The pain of losing his first wife is still fresh, and the mere thought of losing another loved one is unbearable.

"Why didn't I spend more time with him?" he mutters under his breath, running his hands through his hair in frustration. Memories of Jaehyun's laughter and your gentle smile flood his thoughts, intensifying his sense of urgency.

Frantically searching the building, calling out Jaehyun’s name, Inho's panic escalates with each empty room. His heart races, and his breaths come in short, desperate gasps. Just as he's thinking the worst, his walkie-talkie crackles to life—it's a call from a guard.

“Frontman,” says the guard, his voice slightly nervous, “I believe I know where your son is. He was seen heading towards the old game room. Stage 7.”

Without wasting a second, Inho sprints to the game room, dread and hope battling within him. He presses the button on his walkie-talkie and speaks in a cold, deadly voice, “If anyone hurts my child, there will be dire consequences.”

Approaching the room, Inho pushes open the door without hesitation. The familiar setup catches his eye immediately—it's the same room used for playing "Dalgona." His eyes scan the room desperately, and finally, he sees him— your son, Jaehyun, sitting in a corner, happily nibbling on a piece of Dalgona.

“Jaehyun!” Inho calls out, his voice a mixture of relief and authority.

Jaehyun looks up, startled and scared, his eyes widening in confusion. It dawns on Inho that he's still wearing the Front Man mask, which his son has never seen before.

Hastily, Inho removes the mask, revealing his face. “Jaehyun-ah, it’s appa,” he says, his voice softening.

Jaehyun's fear melts into recognition and then into a wide, delighted smile. “Appa!” he exclaims, jumping up and running into Inho’s open arms.

Relief washes over Inho as he holds Jaehyun tight, the weight of his fears dissolving in the warmth of the embrace. Tears of gratitude and overwhelming love sting his eyes as he showers his son with kisses.

“Never run off like that again,” Inho says, his voice gentle but firm. “Eomma and I were so worried.”

Jaehyun looks up, his small hand reaching out to wipe away Inho's tears. “Appa, no cry,” he says, his voice filled with innocence.

Surprised by his own tears, Inho chuckles softly, “Appa's okay. I love you so much."

“wuv you too,” Jaehyun responds, tightening his little arms around Inho's neck.

Inho's heart swells with love and relief. He puts his mask back on, knowing he must return to his role but grateful for this precious moment. He picks up Jaehyun, carrying him out of the game room.

As they head home, Inho thinks of you waiting for them, and he feels a profound sense of gratitude. Holding Jaehyun close, he carries the warmth of their reunion with him, vowing to cherish every moment with his family from now on.

615 notes · View notes

ghstyles · 1 month ago

Text

Balance | His Angel

Pairing: College!Yn x CrimeBossl!Harry

Based on this request

WC: 4K

His Angel Masterlist

Main Masterlist

· · ─────────── ·· ────────── · ·

The emergency room at St. Thomas' Hospital buzzes with the controlled chaos typical of a Friday evening due to the influx accidents, illnesses, and the occasional drunk student creating a steady flow of patients. In one of the curtained examination areas, Y/N sits on the edge of a bed, her right ankle elevated on a pillow, already showing signs of swelling despite the ice pack wrapped around it.

She checks her phone for the third time in as many minutes, grimacing at the notifications: three missed calls from Harry and a series of increasingly concerned texts. She should have known better than to think she could visit a hospital without him finding out. The fact that she's managed to avoid his calls for the past forty minutes is already pushing her luck dangerously thin.

"Miss, the doctor will be with you shortly," a nurse informs her, pulling back the curtain briefly before continuing her rounds.

Y/N nods her thanks, then turns her attention back to her phone, typing out what she hopes is a reassuring message:

I'm FINE. Just a sprained ankle from the charity run. No need to worry. Will call you when I'm done here.

She hits send, knowing it won't be enough to pacify him but hoping it might at least prevent him from—

The curtain is suddenly yanked open with enough force that the metal rings screech against the rod. Standing in the opening is Harry, his imposing frame blocking the view of the busy hallway behind him. His expression is thunderous, a barely controlled fury radiating from every line of his body as his eyes lock onto her and then immediately drop to her elevated ankle.

Several nurses glance their way, alarmed by his forceful entrance, but something in his demeanor, the expensive suit, the dangerous energy, the absolute confidence of a man who answers to no one, makes them hesitate to approach.

"Harry," Y/N says, keeping her voice deliberately light despite the flutter of anxiety in her chest. "Fancy seeing you here. I was just about to call you."

The attempt at casual humor falls flat. Harry steps into the small curtained space, letting the fabric fall closed behind him. His jaw is clenched so tightly she can see a muscle jumping in his cheek, his eyes dark with a mixture of rage and concern that makes her instinctively want to reach for him and back away simultaneously.

"Don't," he says, his voice low and controlled in a way that indicates he's anything but. "Don't you fucking dare try to make light of this."

Y/N swallows, her smile faltering under the intensity of his gaze.

"It's really not a big deal," she tries again, gesturing to her ankle. "Just a minor sprain. The doctor hasn't even seen me yet, but the nurse said it's probably just–– "

"A minor sprain," Harry cuts her off, advancing toward the bed. "A minor fucking sprain that put you in the hospital, and you didn't think to call me?"

His voice remains quiet, but there's a dangerous edge to it that makes Y/N's heart race. She's not afraid of him, never that, but she recognizes the signs of Harry teetering on the edge of his control, his protective instincts warring with his fury at being kept in the dark.

"I didn't want to worry you," she explains, watching as he comes to stand beside her bed, his hands flexing at his sides as if he doesn't quite trust himself to touch her yet. "You had that meeting with the Italians today, and I know how important it was. It's just a stupid accident from the charity run. I tripped over someone's shoelace."

Harry's expression doesn't soften at her explanation. If anything, his eyes grow darker.

"You didn't want to worry me," he repeats, the words coming out as if they taste bitter in his mouth. "So instead, I get a call from Davis telling me you're in the fucking emergency room, and he doesn't know what happened because you won't tell him anything."

Davis, one of the men Harry has assigned to watch over her when he can't be with her himself. Of course. Y/N should have expected this, should have known that Harry's protective surveillance would extend to medical emergencies.

"I'm going to kill him," she mutters, genuine irritation flashing across her features. "He said he was just calling a cab for me."

Harry's hand shoots out, gripping her chin firmly but not painfully, forcing her to meet his gaze.

"You'll do no such thing," he says, his voice deadly quiet. "Davis did exactly what he's paid to do, protect you and inform me when you're in danger."

"I'm not in danger," Y/N protests, trying to pull away from his grip but finding herself held firmly in place. "It's a sprained ankle, Harry, not a gunshot wound."

The comparison makes his expression darken further, his fingers tightening fractionally on her chin.

"Don't," he warns again. "Don't you fucking joke about that. Not now."

Something in his tone, a rawness beneath the anger, makes Y/N stop struggling against his hold. She sees it then, the fear lurking behind his fury, the genuine panic that must have gripped him at Davis's call.

Her expression softens, her hand coming up to wrap around his wrist, not to pull him away but to maintain the connection between them.

"I'm sorry," she says, her voice gentler now. "I should have called you. I just... I didn't want to be a bother over something so minor."

Harry's grip on her chin relaxes slightly, his thumb brushing across her lower lip in a gesture that's half caress, half claiming.

"A bother," he repeats, incredulity coloring his tone. "You think your safety is a bother to me?"

Before Y/N can respond, the curtain is pulled back again, revealing a young doctor with a tablet in hand. He falters momentarily at the sight of Harry, at the tension clearly visible between them, but recovers quickly, professional training taking over.

"Miss Collins?" he confirms, glancing at his tablet. "I'm Dr. Patel. Let's take a look at that ankle, shall we?"

Harry drops his hand from Y/N's face but doesn't step back, remaining so close that his thigh presses against the edge of the bed. His eyes follow every movement as the doctor approaches, his protective stance making it clear that he has no intention of leaving.

Dr. Patel glances between them, clearly assessing the dynamics at play.

"And you are...?" he asks Harry, his tone professionally neutral.

"Her partner," Harry replies before Y/N can speak, the word carrying a weight of possession that goes far beyond its dictionary definition.

The doctor nods, apparently satisfied with this explanation, and turns his attention to Y/N's ankle, carefully removing the ice pack to examine the swelling.

"How did this happen?" he asks, his fingers gently probing the injured area.

"Charity run on campus," Y/N explains, wincing slightly as he touches a particularly tender spot. "I tripped over someone's shoelace during the final stretch."

Dr. Patel nods, continuing his examination.

"Any history of ankle injuries?" he inquires, manipulating her foot slightly to test the range of motion.

"No," Y/N begins, but Harry interrupts.

"Yes," he corrects, his eyes never leaving the doctor's hands on her ankle. "She sprained the same ankle two years ago. Rock climbing."

Y/N looks at him in surprise, she'd almost forgotten about that minor injury, which had healed quickly and completely. The fact that Harry remembers it, that he's tracking her medical history with such precision, shouldn't surprise her by now, but somehow it still does.

Dr. Patel glances between them again, then makes a note on his tablet.

"I'd like to get an X-ray to rule out any fractures," he says, replacing the ice pack carefully. "Given the previous injury and the current swelling, it's better to be thorough. I'll have a nurse come in to take you to radiology."

With that, he exits, leaving Y/N and Harry alone again in the curtained space. The brief interruption seems to have given Harry time to regain some of his composure, though the tension hasn't left his body entirely.

"Rock climbing," he says after a moment, his voice slightly less strained than before. "Another activity you insisted was perfectly safe."

There's a hint of his usual dry humor in the observation, a good sign that the worst of his anger might be subsiding.

"It was safe," Y/N counters, relieved at this slight shift in his mood. "Until I tried to show off and went for a hold that was clearly beyond my skill level."

Harry makes a noncommittal sound, finally moving to sit on the edge of the bed beside her, careful not to jostle her elevated ankle.

"Why didn't you call me?" he asks after a moment, his voice quieter now, the raw edge of fear more evident without the overlay of anger. "The truth, Y/N."

She meets his gaze, seeing the genuine hurt beneath the question. It's rare for Harry to show vulnerability like this, to admit, even indirectly, that her actions have the power to wound him.

"I didn't want to be a burden," she admits softly. "You had the meeting with the Italians, and I know how much was riding on it. It seemed silly to pull you away for something so minor."

Harry's expression darkens again, though not with the blind fury of before.

"Nothing about you is minor to me," he says, his hand finding hers on the bed, fingers interlacing with a possessive grip. "Nothing. Do you understand that? The Italians, the business, all of it, none of it matters compared to you."

The intensity of his declaration makes Y/N's breath catch. Even after a year together, the depth of Harry's feelings for her sometimes catches her off guard, the absolute, unwavering priority he places on her wellbeing, her happiness, her safety.

"I know," she says softly, squeezing his hand. "I do know that. I just... I'm not used to being someone's priority like that. Sometimes I forget that I don't have to handle everything on my own anymore."

Harry's expression softens fractionally, his free hand coming up to brush a strand of hair from her face.

"Well, get fucking used to it," he says, the crude language at odds with the gentleness of his touch. "Because that's not changing. Ever."

The possessive declaration should feel suffocating, but instead, it wraps around Y/N like a shield, the certainty of Harry's protection, his care, his absolute devotion a comfort she's come to rely on more than she sometimes wants to admit.

"I'm sorry I didn't call you," she says, leaning into his touch slightly. "I really am."

Harry studies her for a long moment, as if assessing the sincerity of her apology, before giving a short nod of acceptance.

"Don't do it again," he says, his tone making it clear this isn't a request but a command. "Any injury, any illness, anything that puts you in a hospital or a doctor's office, I hear about it immediately. Not from Davis or any of my other men. From you. Understood?"

The directive is delivered with all the authority of a man accustomed to absolute obedience, but Y/N has never been one to simply acquiesce to Harry's demands without question.

"Even if it's just a paper cut?" she asks, a hint of challenge in her voice despite her genuine remorse for worrying him. "Or a routine checkup?"

Harry's eyes narrow slightly at her pushback, but there's a flicker of something like reluctant amusement in their depths.

"Don't test me right now, angel," he warns, though some of the deadly edge has left his voice. "I'm still deciding whether to put you over my knee when we get home."

The threat, half-serious, half-seductive, brings a flush to Y/N's cheeks and a defiant tilt to her chin.

"You wouldn't dare," she challenges, though they both know there have been occasions when Harry has done exactly that, turning punishment into pleasure in ways that still make her blush to remember.

Harry's answering smile is dangerous, his thumb brushing across her knuckles in a slow caress that belies the threat in his words.

"Try me," he suggests softly. "Keep pushing, and find out."

The charged moment between them is interrupted by the arrival of a nurse with a wheelchair, ready to take Y/N to radiology. Harry stands immediately, stepping back to allow the nurse access but maintaining his hold on Y/N's hand.

"I'll help her," he says, his tone brooking no argument as he carefully supports Y/N's weight while she maneuvers from the bed to the wheelchair, ensuring her injured ankle doesn't bear any pressure.

The nurse, perhaps sensing the futility of arguing, simply nods and steps back, allowing Harry to take control of the situation.

"I can take it from here," she offers once Y/N is settled in the chair.

Harry's response is a look that makes the nurse take an instinctive step backward, not overtly threatening, but carrying the clear message that he has no intention of leaving Y/N's side.

"I'll be accompanying her," he states, his tone making it clear this isn't open for discussion.

The nurse hesitates only briefly before nodding, apparently deciding this isn't a battle worth fighting.

"Of course," she agrees, gesturing toward the hallway. "This way, please."

As they navigate through the busy emergency department, Y/N looks up at Harry, who walks beside her wheelchair with the focused intensity of a bodyguard on high alert, his eyes scanning their surroundings as if potential threats lurk in every corner.

"You know, most people would just say 'I was worried about you' instead of going full mob boss in the hospital," she comments quietly, trying to lighten the mood.

Harry's gaze drops to her, his expression softening fractionally despite his clear attempt to maintain his stern demeanor.

"I was worried," he admits, his voice pitched low enough that only she can hear. "Fucking terrified, actually. When Davis called..."

He trails off, his jaw clenching again at the memory.

"All he said was that you were in the hospital. Didn't know why or how serious it was. For all I knew, you could have been, "

He cuts himself off, unwilling to give voice to the worst-case scenarios that must have flashed through his mind during those panicked moments.

Y/N's expression sobers, genuine remorse washing over her as she realizes just how frightening those uncertain minutes must have been for him, a man who has lost too much already, who guards what's his with a ferocity born of knowing how easily it can be taken away.

"I really am sorry," she says softly, reaching up to catch his hand as he walks beside her. "I didn't think about how it would sound, getting a call like that with no details. It won't happen again. I promise."

Harry's fingers tighten around hers, his expression still guarded but some of the tension leaving his shoulders at her sincere apology.

"It better not," he warns, though the words lack their earlier bite. "Or next time, I really will put you over my knee."

The nurse pushing the wheelchair clears her throat awkwardly, clearly having overheard this last comment, and Y/N feels her cheeks heat with embarrassment. Harry, predictably, looks entirely unrepentant, a hint of amusement finally breaking through his stern facade at Y/N's discomfort.

They reach radiology, where Harry insists on staying as close as the technicians will allow during the X-ray process. When they return to the emergency department to await the results, he positions himself beside her bed like a sentinel, his phone in hand as he makes arrangements with a terseness that suggests he's still not entirely calm.

"Car's waiting outside," he informs her after ending a call. "Davis has already collected your things from your dorm. You'll be staying at the penthouse until you're fully recovered."

It's not a question or a suggestion, but a statement of fact delivered with the absolute certainty of a man unused to having his decisions questioned.

Y/N opens her mouth to protest, she has classes, assignments, commitments on campus, but something in Harry's expression makes her reconsider. The fear she glimpsed earlier still lingers in his eyes, carefully masked but visible to someone who knows him as well as she does. This isn't just his usual possessiveness or control; this is Harry genuinely shaken, needing the reassurance of having her close, under his protection.

"Okay," she agrees instead, surprising him with her lack of argument. "But I'll need my laptop and books. I have a paper due next week."

Harry's expression relaxes fractionally at her acceptance, relief briefly visible before his usual controlled mask returns.

"Already taken care of," he assures her. "Davis picked up everything on your list. Whatever else you need, we'll have delivered."

Of course he's already thought of everything, already made arrangements to ensure her comfort and convenience while keeping her firmly within his protective reach. It should feel suffocating, this level of control, but today, with the throbbing pain in her ankle and the genuine contrition she feels for frightening him, it feels like caring, like safety, like being valued beyond measure.

When Dr. Patel returns with the X-ray results, confirming a moderate sprain but no fractures, recommending rest, elevation, and a follow-up with a specialist, Harry listens with intense focus, asking pointed questions about recovery time and proper care. He accepts the prescribed pain medication and care instructions with the same serious attention he might give to a business contract, committing every detail to memory.

As they prepare to leave, Harry insists on carrying Y/N rather than letting her use the wheelchair to exit, scooping her up with careful precision that ensures her injured ankle isn't jostled. She starts to protest, aware of the stares they're attracting as he carries her through the emergency department like something out of a romantic film, but the determined set of his jaw tells her this is another battle not worth fighting.

So instead, she loops her arms around his neck and leans into his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath her cheek, a heartbeat that had surely raced with fear when he received that call, a fear she had inadvertently caused with her attempt at independence.

"I really am sorry for scaring you," she murmurs against his shoulder as they exit into the cool evening air, where a sleek black Range Rover waits at the curb, Davis standing attentively beside the open rear door.

Harry's arms tighten around her briefly, his lips brushing against her temple in a rare public display of affection.

"Just don't do it again," he says, his voice gruff but no longer carrying that dangerous edge of barely controlled panic. "I can handle a lot of things, angel, but not that. Not you in danger and me not knowing."

As he carefully places her in the backseat of the car, arranging her injured leg with a gentleness at odds with his dangerous reputation, Y/N is struck again by the contradictions that make up Harry Styles, the ruthless mob boss who carries her from a hospital with the tender care of a man cradling something infinitely precious, the dangerous criminal who memorizes her medical history and asks detailed questions about her recovery, the controlling force of nature who is utterly undone by the thought of her in pain.

It's a power she never asked for and sometimes doesn't know how to wield, this ability to bring a dangerous man to his knees with nothing more than her absence, her pain, her potential loss. A power that comes with its own responsibility, she realizes as Harry slides into the seat beside her, his hand immediately finding hers, fingers interlacing with possessive certainty.

"Home," he instructs Davis, who nods and closes the door behind them.

Home, Harry's penthouse, with its security systems and bullet-proof windows, its luxurious comforts and its isolation from the world. A gilded cage, some might call it, but today it feels like exactly where she wants to be, safe, protected, cared for by a man who would burn the world to ashes if it meant keeping her from harm.

As the car pulls away from the hospital, Y/N leans her head against Harry's shoulder, feeling the tension still present in his body gradually begin to ease at her proximity, at the tangible proof of her safety. Tomorrow, perhaps, she'll push back against his overprotectiveness, negotiate the terms of her recovery and her return to campus life. But for tonight, she'll allow him this, the comfort of having her close, the reassurance of knowing she's safe within his reach.

Because that's the balance they've always maintained, his need to protect warring with her need for independence, his control meeting her defiance, his dangerous world intersecting with her normal one. And somehow, against all odds, finding a middle ground where both can exist without destroying the other.

Harry's arm comes around her shoulders, drawing her closer against his side as the city lights blur past the tinted windows. His lips press against her hair, lingering there as if reassuring himself of her presence, her solidity, her continued existence in his world.

"Next time," he murmurs against her temple, his voice low enough that Davis can't hear from the driver's seat, "you call me. Immediately. Or I swear to God, angel, sprained ankle or not, you won't sit comfortably for a week."

The threat carries an undercurrent of heat that makes Y/N's pulse quicken despite her exhaustion and the dull throb of pain in her ankle. She tilts her head back to meet his gaze, finding his eyes dark with a mixture of lingering concern and something more primal, more possessive.

"Is that supposed to discourage me?" she challenges quietly, a hint of her usual defiance returning now that the worst of his fear has subsided.

Harry's answering smile is slow and dangerous, his hand coming up to cup her cheek with deceptive gentleness.

"No," he admits, his thumb brushing across her lower lip in a gesture that's become familiar but never loses its impact. "It's supposed to remind you that there are consequences to scaring the shit out of me."

The crude honesty of the statement, the admission of fear from a man who admits fear to no one, touches something deep in Y/N's chest, a tenderness welling up that makes her next words softer, free of their usual challenging edge.

"I am sorry," she says again, turning her face to press a kiss against his palm. "And I will call you next time. I promise."

Harry studies her for a long moment, as if gauging the sincerity of her promise, before giving a short nod of acceptance.

"Good," he says simply, his arm tightening around her shoulders as he draws her back against his chest, positioning her carefully to ensure her injured ankle remains elevated on the seat across from them.

As the car continues its journey through London's evening traffic, Y/N allows herself to relax into Harry's protective embrace, the events of the day catching up with her in a wave of exhaustion. The last thing she registers before drifting into a light doze is the steady rhythm of Harry's heartbeat beneath her cheek and the gentle stroke of his fingers through her hair, a dangerous man made gentle, if only for her, if only in these private moments away from the world that knows him only as someone to be feared.

And perhaps that's enough, these moments of tenderness stolen from a life of violence, these glimpses of the man beneath the monster, these reminders that even in the darkest hearts, love can find purchase and grow, twisted and possessive though it may be. Not perfect, not traditional, but theirs, a love forged in the unlikely space between her light and his darkness, her innocence and his sin, her independence and his control.

A balance, precarious but persistent, that somehow works despite all the reasons it shouldn't.`

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#ghstyles #harry styles fic #harry styles x reader #harry styles #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles x y/n #harry styles imagine #his angel #harry styles one shot #harry styles fanfic #one direction #harry x y/n

393 notes · View notes

vamptizm · 3 months ago

Text

SATURN — p. bueckers

pairing: paige bueckers x ex teammate!gf

synopsis: the of joy watching your girlfriend finally accomplish the dream you’d chased together for years had you feeling as if you were on another planet.

warnings: none.

word count: 4.1k

note: NATTY BABYYYY this is lowkey supposed to be part of a series but idc. might write a nasty part 2 idk yet

@brenwritesss @bueckersbitch @ekisokay @paige05bby @sierrale8ne @ohmybueckers @pboogerswbb @yailtsv @xxloveralways14 @prettygirl-gabi

You were already in your seat before warmups even started, nestled between some of the players' families — the energy in the arena pulsing like a heartbeat under your skin. The crowd was alive, buzzing with excitement, nerves, hope — everything you knew Paige was probably feeling tenfold.

You shifted in your seat, politely chatting with a few of the parents nearby, when you felt the subtle buzz-buzz of your phone in your back pocket. Once. Then again. And even before you touched it, you already knew.

It was her.

Paige was the only one you ever left your notifications on for — a quiet agreement between the two of you that started back when you were teammates. Important games, late-night flights, tournament weeks. The world could wait. But not each other.

You slipped the phone out and glanced down, already smiling at the first few lines of her message. She didn’t have to say she was nervous — not directly — you knew her. Knew the way she over-thought during high stakes. Knew when her confidence sometimes needed a little steadying hand. And maybe, in this moment, that was you.

Without hesitation, you leaned slightly toward Amy, tapping her gently on the arm. "I'm gonna go see her real quick," you said, voice raised just enough to carry over the swelling music. "I think she's a bit more nervous than she lets on."

Amy turned to you with a warm smile, her eyes soft and familiar. "Alright, hun. Be careful not to get lost or hurt," she teased, patting your back gently.

You chuckled lightly, offering a nod before slipping away, weaving through the packed row of seats with the kind of practiced ease that only years in arenas could give you. At the base of the stands, a security guard moved to stop you until you flashed the laminated pass hanging from your neck — the one Paige gave you just in case the ‘I played here’ card didn't cut it.

"Special clearance," you said with a playful grin, tapping the badge.

He nodded and stepped aside, and you made your way down the tunnel, the sounds of the court fading into a muffled roar behind you. Your footsteps echoed against the concrete, sneakers quiet but purposeful as you searched for the locker room.

You'd walked hallways like these more times than you could count, but tonight it felt different — electric. Heavier. As if every brick remembered the weight of your own games, your own moments.

You passed staff, trainers, and volunteers — offering polite nods, a quick smile, but your focus didn't waver. And finally, you reached it. The door to the locker room stood just ahead, slightly ajar, voices murmuring beyond it.

You took a steady breath.

Raising your hand, you knocked gently, not wanting to interrupt too harshly — but the response was immediate. The door swung open with a soft creak and standing there, arms crossed like a disappointed sitcom dad, was Geno Auriemma himself.

You barely had time to open your mouth before he squinted at you with that familiar mock-annoyed stare. "What the hell do you want?" he said, dry as sandpaper. "Don't you have a season to be preparing for?"

You couldn't help the grin that tugged at your lips. "Nice to see you too, Coach," you said sweetly. "Just came to say hi to your star player before the game. She sounded like she needed a little emotional support."

He huffed, dramatically stepping back but still blocking the doorway. "Great. Just what I need. A walking distraction waltzing in here like she still owns the place." He turned his head toward the locker room behind him. "Bueckers! Your traitor of a girlfriend is here."

You heard a faint laugh from somewhere inside before Paige's voice came closer, followed by her footsteps. "You don't have to say it like it's a federal offense, Coach," she called.

"I do when someone deserts my program and then has the audacity to come distract my loyal players." Geno muttered.

You bit back a laugh, stepping inside just slightly, hands up in mock surrender. "Sorry I didn't stay until I was grey and old for a sixth year. That wouldn’t have been on-brand for me."

He rolled his eyes, shaking his head. "Aubrey did it. You could've too. But no, you’re busy being passed around from team to team.

Your jaw fell comically at his harsh joke, though it was clear on your face that you found it funny.

Before you could respond, Paige appeared just behind him, her ever-familiar grin lighting up her face. "Not too much on her," she said, placing a hand on his shoulder with the kind of ease only years under his coaching could earn.

Geno snorted, stepping aside with an exaggerated grumble. "Great. Now they're both ganging up on me," he mumbled, brushing past the two of you. "You've got five minutes before I drag her back by that ponytail. Don't make me come looking."

And then he was gone, muttering something else under his breath as he disappeared down the hall.

The door clicked shut behind him, and the hallway suddenly felt a little quieter — just the two of you in your own little world for a moment.

Paige's grin melted into a familiar, knowing smirk, her eyes slowly dragging over you with no rush, like she had all the time in the world. She tilted her head slightly, tongue pressing into the inside of her cheek as her gaze took in the outfit that had her full attention: her white UConn #5 jersey — the one she wore when setting her new career high — cropped just right, the hem tucked into the wire of your bra. Two dainty chains shimmered at your waist, resting lightly against your skin, and that denim skirt you wore? It had her completely entranced.

"You look beautiful, mama," she murmured, her voice low and warm, hands rising to curl gently around your exposed waist and bringing you closer. Her thumbs brushed softly along your skin, like she was trying to commit every inch of you to memory before she had to leave.

You rolled your eyes, though your heart fluttered at the nickname, lifting your hand to place a single finger beneath her chin and tilt her face up again. "Eyes up here," you said with a teasing smile.

She smirked even more but obeyed, locking eyes with you now, and something in her expression shifted—just barely. There was still that signature confidence lingering behind her grin, but it flickered for a second. She was nervous. You knew her well enough to read between the lines of her confidence.

So you let your hands move too—one settling against her jaw, the other tracing slow, comforting patterns along the back of her neck as you leaned in just slightly.

"You got this," you whispered, your voice soft but steady. "You all do. You've worked so fucking hard. I've seen it. I've lived it. There's not a single team that deserves this more than you guys."

She sighed quietly, leaning into your touch for a moment, grounding herself.

"And no matter how this goes, okay? You've already made history. You've already built a legacy here that no one can touch. This game doesn't change that."

Paige looked at you, the corners of her mouth twitching upward. "Easy for you to say," she muttered, her thumb still circling your waist, "you won a natty your first year here. Freshie magic or something."

You snorted, brushing a lock of hair out of her face. "Yeah, and I also tore my ACL and dislocated my knee right after, and then lost two championship games after coming back," you quipped, raising an eyebrow. "Trust me, legacy isn't built in the win column. It's built in moments like this—where you show the fuck up no matter what."

She chuckled, head dipping as she pressed a quick kiss to your collarbone. "Why do you always know exactly what to say?"

"Because I'm wise. And I'm hot. And you're madly in love with me, so it helps the delivery," you replied with an obnoxious smirk, earning an eye roll and a grin from her.

But just like that, a knock came from inside the locker room—someone calling out a one-minute warning.

Paige's smile faded into something more solemn, more focused. She looked at you like she wanted time to stop.

You leaned in and kissed her—slow and grounding, a kiss full of belief and reassurance, not desperation.

"I'll be right there in the stands," you whispered against her lips. "Cheering like hell for you."

She nodded, brushing her nose against yours once more before pulling away, a last squeeze at your waist anchoring her before she stepped back inside.

And then you were turning on your heel, heart pounding in your chest, rushing back up the tunnel with a promise in your chest and her kiss still warm on your lips.

You sat wedged between Amy and Aaliyah, knees bouncing and knuckles cracking one after the other, that nervous tick you could never seem to shake. The roar of the crowd was muffled by the storm brewing in your chest—excitement, anxiety, hope. You weren't even on the court, but it felt like your lungs were working overtime, like your body hadn't quite realized you weren't the one playing tonight.

Your eyes were locked on Paige. You knew her rhythm, the way her feet moved before a shot, the slight squint she made when something didn't feel right in her wrist. And right now? She was off. Not by much, not enough for the commentators to acknowledge — but you noticed. A missed layup. A clean three that rimmed out. A hesitation where there usually was none.

"She's holding back," you mumbled under your breath, not sure if it was to Amy or yourself.

Amy glanced sideways, calm despite the tension, her hand resting patiently in her lap. "She's pacing herself. It's a long game," she murmured, like a mother who'd said that to herself a thousand times over the years.

You swallowed hard, fingers flexing again.

Halftime came. A ten-point lead didn't erase all the nerves, but it helped you breathe. You were ushered into a short media segment with Chiney, Elle, and Draya—each of them glowing with energy and optimism. Most of them had chosen South Carolina as their winner, just like the last time. And you knew Paige heard, knew that she wanted to prove them wrong once again. You forced a grin, answered their questions with practiced poise and your usual humor, cracked a quick joke about having more nerves now than you ever did during your championship games. But as soon as the segment ended and you were back in your seat, your hands found each other again. Crack. Crack. Crack.

The second half started with fire.

UConn came out swinging—faster, sharper, hungrier. It was like watching the team you knew they were all season finally come alive. The passes were crisp. The communication was seamless. And Paige? Paige lit up. The crowd surged every time her feet left the ground, and you felt every ripple of it.

Then came the moment—before the fourth quarter even began. UConn had ballooned the lead to twenty points. Twenty. Against South Carolina.

You knew. They had it.

They really, truly had it.

With just minutes left in the game, Paige was called out. You didn't even hear the announcer. All you saw was her name flash on the substitution board, and then her figure walking off the court for the last time in a UConn jersey. She headed straight for Geno.

And that was it.

You saw the second her walls fell. Her arms wrapped tight around him, her face buried into his shoulder, and she cried. Not from sadness, not even from relief—just that overwhelming wave of everything at once. The grief of goodbye, the joy of winning, the weight of all she'd carried for five years crashing down at once.

You bit your lip hard, trying to blink it away.

But the tears came anyway.

Your hand, almost on instinct, reached for Amy's beside you. You didn't even realize you'd done it until you felt her soft squeeze, her thumb gently brushing your knuckles.

"She did it," Amy said softly, her own voice thick. "Our girl did it."

You nodded, a teardrop slipping down your cheek as you watched Paige wipe her own. You didn't care about the cameras or the cheering crowd around you. All you saw was the girl you loved standing in the center of it all—finally at peace with the legacy she’d leave behind.

And God, she looked beautiful.

The clock ticked down, South Carolina letting the seconds bleed out as they dribbled at the top of the key. 82 to 59. There was nothing left to chase, nothing left to prove. You could see it in their body language—shoulders slack, heads low. Acceptance.

But you?

You could barely breathe.

Your chest was tight with emotion, heart hammering beneath your UConn jersey as if it had taken the court with Paige. The tears were already there, sitting heavy in your eyes, threatening to spill every time you blinked.

This wasn't just a win.

This was a culmination.

Of years of grit. Of heartbreak and healing. Of setbacks that could've broken her. Could've broken anyone, including you. But Paige never let them. And through every single one — every surgery, every rehab session, every media doubt and ‘what if’ — she fought her way back.

And tonight, she crossed the finish line.

National. Champion.

The buzzer blared and the world exploded. The roar of the arena became a blur as blue and white stormed the court, players tackling each other into tears and laughter and chaos.

A sob broke from your chest before you even knew it was coming.

Aaliyah pulled you into a tight hug, your bodies shaking with the same overwhelming joy. "They fucking did it," she whispered into your shoulder, and your tears fell freely now.

Then Amy was there, and you didn't even hesitate. You folded into her arms like she was your own mother, crying into her shoulder as she cradled you. "I'm so proud of her," you choked, and Amy's voice cracked, too.

"I know, baby. Me too."

It was only a moment, but it felt eternal—one of those fragments of time that would etch itself into your memory forever. The kind you'd still feel in your chest decades from now.

The hugs came in waves after that. Bob pulled you in, patting your back like he'd known you your whole life, Drew following. Jana and Azzi’s families were in tears, too — parents who'd watched their daughters pour everything into this season. You found yourself hugging them all, despite the fact that you were never the touchy kind.

But tonight? Tonight, everything was different.

You were overflowing with so much love, so much pride, that it didn't matter how many people you embraced. You wanted to hold them, hold something, because it was the only way you knew how to keep from completely falling apart.

Because this wasn't just UConn winning. This was Paige winning.

Your Paige.

And after everything she'd survived, everything she'd sacrificed, there wasn't a single person in this building who deserved it more.

Blue and white confetti began to rain from the rafters like snowflakes falling from heaven. Like they’d been waiting an eternity to rain for this team, each piece catching the light as it fluttered down onto the court—onto jerseys soaked in sweat and triumph, onto shoes that had carried a thousand miles’ worth of effort. You were already on your feet, pushing past rows of elated families and clapping fans, heart hammering as your eyes locked on the chaos unfolding below.

You didn’t wait. Couldn’t. Your legs carried you forward before your mind could catch up, weaving through bodies — staff, players, press — your official pass swinging around your neck as you moved with purpose. Nothing else mattered but getting to her.

Paige was somewhere in the mess of limbs and laughter, her face flushed with adrenaline and joy, heart pounding so hard she swore she could feel it in her ears. They’d done it. She’d done it. After everything—injuries, heartbreak, missed chances—she had finally finished what she started.

But as the arena roared around her and her teammates screamed with triumph, none of it felt quite real.

Not until she saw you.

Her eyes scanned desperately through the confetti-streaked blur, searching past the crowd of coaches and teammates and celebratory loved ones until — there. That familiar silhouette, that proud, teary-eyed smile she’d know in any stadium, in any lifetime.

You were coming toward her, dodging through the swell of people like gravity was pulling you straight to her. Your tears had long dried thanks to Aaliyah’s tissue and a few shaky breaths, but the way your chest rose and fell with emotion, the way your smile quivered just enough to betray what this moment meant—it all hit her like a second wave of victory.

She didn’t wait either.

Shoving past the bodies in her way, Paige moved faster than she had all game. A blur of blue and white, of shoes pounding the floor, until finally — finally — she reached you.

And without hesitation, she wrapped her arms around you and pulled you in like you were her anchor in a storm. Your bodies collided with the force of something years in the making, her face burying itself in the crook of your neck, breath warm against your skin as she clung to you like you were the only thing tethering her to the earth.

She didn’t care about the cameras. The trophies. The future.

She only cared about this. About you.

Your arms came around her neck, locking her in just as tight as you whispered, voice shaking but certain, “I’m so proud of you, I could scream.”

Her breath hitched against your shoulder, and when she pulled back just enough to look at you, her blue eyes were glassy—overwhelmed, elated, completely undone. You could see everything she couldn’t say reflected in them.

Another tear slipped down your cheek, and Paige leaned in to kiss it away without thinking, without hesitation, her lips brushing your skin with so much gentleness it undid you all over again.

“You fucking did it,” you breathed, voice cracking with the weight of it all.

The urge to kiss her—really kiss her—was overwhelming, but you held back. You weren’t public yet. You’d agreed to wait until the WNBA Draft, until she was ready. But truthfully, it felt like everyone in the world already knew. The way she looked at you like you hung the moon didn’t exactly scream subtle.

So instead, you cupped her face with both hands, thumbs brushing along her cheeks, trying to memorize every detail—every emotion etched into her features. Your smile trembled as you whispered, “God, I’m so relieved and overjoyed that I feel dizzy.”

She let out a soft, breathless laugh—something between disbelief and pure elation—and pressed her forehead against yours, her voice breaking through the din, “Hold onto me, then. I’ve got you, angel.”

And in that moment, with confetti clinging to her hair and sweat still glistening on her brow, Paige Bueckers didn’t just feel like a champion.

She felt whole.

The confetti was still falling when you found yourself wrapped up in the chaos of celebration—players, coaches, staff, families, cameras flashing in every direction. And yet, through all of it, Paige refused to let go of you. She hadn’t once loosened her grip on your hand unless absolutely necessary. She dragged you with her everywhere—through the mob of hugs and team photos, past media personnel and assistants trying to usher players into the right spots. If she had to move, you were moving with her.

It didn’t exactly help the dating ‘rumors,’ but it’s not like either of you were trying that hard to hide it anymore. Not when every glance, every touch, every lingering moment screamed what hadn’t been said out loud yet. And the only time she’d left your side was for a few post-game interviews—short ones she kept brief, always glancing over her shoulder like she couldn’t wait to get back to you.

By the time she returned, she was in full celebration gear — navy blue championship shirt, the official ‘2025 National Champions’ hat perched crookedly on her head thanks to the ponytail sticking through the back. It wasn’t sitting properly, but she didn’t care. She looked every bit the moment — casual, powerful, confident. The cut-down net hung around her neck like jewelry, each white loop resting against her chest like a symbol of everything she’d fought for.

You’d never wanted someone more in your life.

There she was — grinning, flushed, radiant with triumph and joy. Cool as hell with that net swaying like a diamond chain, like a statement piece. She looked like victory and history wrapped into one, and it made your heart clench. It also made your thighs clench, but that was another battle you’d deal with later.

She turned to you mid-laugh, slipping an arm around your shoulder so easily, so instinctively, it was like your place had always been right there beside her. You leaned into her side as you laughed along with your friends and their families, occasionally pausing to pose for photos, smiling so much your cheeks ached.

Still, it all felt surreal.

Overwhelming, yes—but not in a bad way. Just… different.

It reminded you of your own championship win, though yours had been more quiet, intimate. COVID-era restrictions kept the arena half-empty, the celebration smaller. It had been beautiful in its own way — just your team, close family, a bubble of victory you’d all created together. But this? This was a different universe. The noise, the cameras, the massive crowd — this was loud, unapologetic joy, the kind of celebration dreams are made of.

And Paige knew that. She remembered. She’d watched you win on her TV screen her senior year of high school, wide-eyed and proud, texting you congratulations from her living-room as she geared up for her freshman year at UConn. She’d imagined chasing a repeat with you, shoulder-to-shoulder. But god had other plans.

Instead, it was you watching her from the sidelines that year, your injured leg keeping you benched while she chased the dream alone.

It was all coming full circle now.

You didn’t even realize she was looking at you until her hand reached up to tug off her crooked hat. She turned to face you fully, that soft, easy smile spreading across her face — the kind only you ever got. Then, with the gentlest touch, she placed the hat on your head, her fingers brushing lightly along your temple as she tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

Your lips twitched up, amused and curious. “Why am I wearing your hat?”

Without missing a beat, her voice low and steady, she replied, “What’s mine is yours.”

Then her eyes held yours, deep and unflinching, as she added, “Including this natty. I wouldn’t be standing here without your love. Your support. Your belief in me—especially when I couldn’t believe in myself.”

Your breath hitched.

She leaned in slightly, voice quieting in a way that made it feel like no one else in the world existed. “We did this for you too. You, Aaliyah and Nika.”

The words shattered something open inside you. Not in a painful way — more like a dam breaking, releasing every moment of sacrifice and struggle, every cheer from the bench, every quiet tear from the stands, every night you spent holding her through self-doubt and injury and pressure.

Because through all of it, you had been there. She’d carried your strength onto that court like a second heartbeat as if you were still playing alongside her and now, standing beneath a shower of confetti and surrounded by her teammates, she was handing that championship right back to you.

Your throat burned. Your vision blurred. You blinked up at her, lips trembling into the softest, most overwhelmed smile as your fingers came up to grip the brim of the hat she’d gifted you.

You didn’t cry. Not fully. But your eyes said everything.

And Paige, with a tired smile and unspeakable tenderness, reached out and pulled you close again—not for the cameras, not for the crowd.

But just for you.

#⇢ ˗ˏˋ vamptizm writes ࿐ྂ #uconn wbb #paige bueckers #paige bueckers fanfiction #paige bueckers oneshot #paige bueckers x reader

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ratherchili · 4 months ago

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𖹭 cw: suggestive, edgy, mdni

part one | two | three | four | five ‹soon›

Your ringtone interrupts the thoughts you were just trying not to think about how it might be to fuck someone (something?) that your nervous system can't seem to distinguish from a charging grizzly.

"How the hell should I know, Toji?" You mumble into the phone wedged between cheek and shoulder as you tamp grounds for your espresso. Although you're annoyed that you're suddenly expected to answer for your big brother's friend sukuna when he fails to check in. "You want me to wake him up?" You scoff. "Not. Happening." The line goes silent as the espresso machine hums to life.

"Sooner I talk to him the sooner he's out." Toji says. Magic words.

Of course that freak would choose a room adjacent to yours to spend the night in. "Can't believe I'm doing this," you whisper into the phone as the door creaks obnoxiously on its hinges. That's fine, you'd like to be as far away from him as possible when he wakes up. "Hey!" You shout. As your eyes adjust to the dark you can make out the steady rise and fall of his massive chest. "Sukuna!" You shout. It is impossible to tell whether or not any of his eyes are open.

Against your better judgement, you step into the dark. "Hey, Toji needs to talk to you," you're saying, reaching out with trembling fingers to tap his shoulder. Before your fingertips make contact with his skin, the world spins and you find yourself crushed underneath the feverish weight of him.

The ease with which he pins you down, clamps a hand over your mouth, and holds the phone to his ear with hands to spare has you fuming and shouting muffled protests into his palm. He hardly seems to notice your struggling as he growls into the phone. When he flicks away an errant bead of water from his brow you notice that his skin and hair are damp. From the shower, judging by the smell of him. You realize he never was asleep, as your eyes trace the tattooed lines of his bare chest to land on the alarmingly small towel knotted around his waist.

The sudden realization that he's practically naked has your heart thundering in your ears loud enough to drown out any coherent thoughts. By the time you drag your eyes back to meet his, you find him looking at you like you're something to eat. Having finished what seemed to be a mostly one sided conversation, he releases your face and arms, but plants his hands on either side of you. "Couldn't stay away?" He says, leaning in. Your mouth opens, but no sound comes out.

Evidently, Sukuna interprets your speechlessness as an invitation and fastens his mouth to yours for the second time in less than twenty four hours. You find yourself thinking strange thoughts behind your closed eyes. Thoughts about how you're glad you brushed your teeth and how it's odd such a creature seems to enjoy kissing so much. Odd that he's so good at it, you're thinking as his tongue glides over yours.

You didn't mean to moan into his mouth, but it's beyond your control, really, when his teeth tug at your lip like that, when two of his massive hands grasp your waist, another tugs at your hair, and yet another wraps gently around your throat. When your hands trace the dips of his abdomen only to touch something warm and wet, you think, dazedly: oh, that's right, there's another tongue down there. Your thoughts only get stranger from there. Down there. Right where you are beginning to urgently need some part of him or another. You are rapidly becoming less picky.

There is so much to feel that your brain is incapable of sound judgement. You would never consciously choose this. That's what you tell yourself, after. After he peels away from you, laughing as you gasp at the loss of him. "Thought you didn't like me," he says, standing with his back to you, and drops that little towel before you truly have the chance to look away. At least his ass is... normal, you note.

"I don't," you spit back as you search for your discarded phone in his bedding. "Can't fucking stand you," you mutter, but he doesn't hear you. He is already dressed and gone, presumably to wherever Toji needed him to be. Maybe he won't come back, you think, even as you look around the spare room for evidence to the contrary and try to ignore the ache between your legs.

a/n: Thank you guys for showing an interest in this fic. Appreciate you all! It's super nice reading all your comments although I am not the best at responding lol. I will keep the taglist open for now, so some will be tagged in a separate post, just fyi. ♡

part one | two | three | four | five ‹soon›

taglist ‹ age in your bio to be added ›

@orikixx ; @scorpiosugar ; @just-lilita ; @shesabeeler ; @maybe-a-bi-witch ; @cairo-morningstar ; @rawwrrgal ; @sukubusss ; @raedollsstuff ; @expiredbred ; @ieathairs ; @frieddelusionparadise ; @hishearttohave ; @vellichor01 ; @mimiluvzu2 ; @lem-hhn ; @msrr-ws ; @paradisestarfishh ; @yuj111tadori ; @iminlovewqr0w ; @linaaeatsfamilies ; @samisfunky ; @noyaskneepad ; @shxyxyxxxx ; @00frenchfries00 ; @chubbyblckgirl ; @mysticranger575 ; @waterfal-ling ; @chiizuyu ; @contaminatedcupcake ; @littlesnoopy ; @dizzydotjpeg ; @sugufushi ; @missbunnybunny ; @go-go-gadget-autism ; @grapelover2000 ; @mmeerraa ; @tsukikoxo ; @slqttttt ; @akumazwrld ; @christiannugget ; @zlimeyzenin ; @gradmacoco ; @beantokki ; @indispensablephantompower ; @phoenixflames498 ; @princesssukunalover ; @jinxiewritings ; @skyler-luvs-slimshady ; @airandyeah ;

#jjk x reader #jjk x you #jjk fanfic #jjk fluff #jjk smut #jjk angst #jjk x y/n #sukuna x reader #sukuna x you #jujutsu kaisen smut #sukuna angst #sukuna fluff #sukuna smut #sukuna x y/n #jujutsu kaisen fluff #jujutsu kaisen angst #jujutsu kaisen x reader

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kokomyass · 2 months ago

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jealousy, jealousy...

whilst on a walk in skyhaven you encounter an old friend....little do you know your boyfriend Caleb was...unsettled by the meeting...

Skyhaven was beautiful tonight—but his eyes never left you.

The door shuts with a soft whisper behind you. You slip off your jacket, hang it carefully by the entrance, and turn—Caleb is still standing near the threshold, unmoving, a dark expression resting upon his defined features.

He’s not angry. You know that. But there’s a stillness in him now, like a system running a quiet background scan.

You step closer, your voice gentle. “You’ve been quiet since the walk.”

He doesn’t look away. “You seemed happy to see him.”

The words aren’t sharp. No accusation, no edge. Just truth, measured and precise, the way Caleb always is. But beneath them is something quieter. Something warmer. Human.

You smile softly, stepping close enough to reach for his hands. “I was surprised, that’s all. It’s been years.”

“He knew how to make you laugh,” he says, gaze dropping to where your fingers now brush against his.

“He used to,” you murmur, gently interlacing your fingers with his. “That laugh doesn’t mean the same thing anymore.”

Caleb’s eyes meet yours, the faintest shift of expression softening the line of his mouth. He doesn't move yet, but you can feel it—the tension easing, his walls lowering, one by one.

“You’re not usually like this,” you tease, voice low, affectionate. “Are you... recalibrating?”

That earns a quiet huff of breath—almost a laugh. “I don’t enjoy being reminded that there are parts of your past I wasn’t there for.”

You take another step forward until there’s nothing but air and heat between you. “You’re here now,” you say, thumb stroking the back of his hand. “And that matters more to me than anything that came before.”

He studies you for a moment longer, eyes darker now, focused. His hand comes up to rest lightly on your waist, as if grounding himself with the feel of you. Not possessive. Just present.

“I know,” he says softly. “I just... I don’t want anyone else thinking they still have a place.”

“They don’t,” you assure him, voice quiet but certain.

That’s when he moves.

It’s not urgent. There’s no fire behind it. Just a slow, deliberate press of his body to yours, a warmth that starts in his fingertips and spreads as his hand curves along your back, pulling you gently closer. His forehead rests against yours.

You close your eyes, breathing him in—clean and steady, tinged with something soft and smoky that’s uniquely Caleb. You lift your chin slightly, brushing your lips against his in a kiss that’s all reassurance. All connection.

His touch deepens just a little, his other hand sliding up your spine with perfect control, and your breath hitches—not from surprise, but from how good it feels to be held like this. Safe. Desired.

“I don’t need to compete,” Caleb murmurs against your mouth, his tone low, thoughtful. “But I do need to be clear.”

You smile, fingers curling into the soft fabric of his shirt. “Then be clear, Colonel.”

His response is another kiss—slower this time, longer. More intentional. When he finally pulls back, his gaze lingers on your lips before lifting to your eyes again, steady and unshakable.

“You’re mine, Y/N..” he says—not a demand, but a vow. Then quieter, just for you: “And I’ll never stop choosing you.”

You press your forehead to his, heart full. “Then we’re on the same page.”

icl guys I didn't even know what I was doing when I wrote this...

#anime #fyp #anime fluff #anime x reader #love and deep space #love and deepspace #love and deepspace mc #lads caleb #love and deepspace caleb #caleb x reader #lnds caleb #caleb #lnds #caleb lads #calebmc #caleb x y/n #caleb x mc #caleb x you

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enwoso · 1 month ago

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words of wisdom | leah williamson x teen!reader

(part of the grumpy universe)

read blood, not bond to get up to speed and for this little blurb to make any sense😅 i thought i had already posted this but clearly not..

grumpy masterlist

the house had quieted again. dinner was packed away, dishes done. the dog had curled up on the end of the couch, blissfully unaware of the emotional wreckage that was still lingering in the walls.

alessia was in the shower while leah was pottering around the house doing the little jobs while you had disappeared upstairs for a while but you hadn't really said much since you'd stopped crying in your mums arms.

leah had carried a pile of fresh washing up the stairs placing it on the end of the bed in hers and alessias room as she stood in the hallway lingering outside your room door before knocking gently.

knock, knock.

"hey angel. can i come in?" there was a pause. then a soft, "yeah."

leah stepped in cautiously, aware of what had happened. you were curled on your bed, duvet over your legs, hoodie pulled up over your head. you looked smaller than usual. softer around the edges in that way you get after an emotional storm.

leah walked in slowly, sitting on the edge of the bed but not too close. giving you the space like she always did, leah never pressed always waited for you to talk first. "thought i'd check in."

you glanced at her, then looked away again. "m' okay."

"you don't have to be." silence settled between the two of you. not uncomfortable, but full of the things that hadn't been said yet.

you let out a breath, you mind thinking too much but also nothing at the same time. "i don't even know why i got so upset."

leah smiled gently. "you found out something big. something that changes how you see someone who's supposed to be... safe. that's enough to knock anyone sideways."

"he never really been safe to me though..," you mumbled, playing with your fingers. "not like you or mum has been."

leah tilted her head slightly. "no. but he is yours. that's a kind of tie you don't just shake off."

you looked at your hands in your lap. "it's not even about the kids. not really. i mean, yeah, it stings, but... i think what hurts is that they get him. properly. all the parts of him i waited for and never got."

leah nodded slowly, she knew what you meant, heck she had lived through it with you. maybe she didn't feel it directly but she saw everything, every tear, every time he let you down. she saw the lot. "yeah. i get that."

you glanced at her. "you do?”

"i do." leah gave her a half-smile. "course i do, i remember it all angel, maybe more parts than you do."

you tucked your knees to your chest. "it feels like he replaced me. like i was a mistake, and now he suddenly knows how to do it right."

leah's voice was quiet, steady. "you weren't a mistake, angel. not ever. and he didn't replace you. he ran from his responsibilities and decided it was easier to try again than show up for the hard stuff."

"but why now?" you asked, eyes beginning to get glassy again. "why tell me now, like i'm just supposed to want to meet them?"

"maybe he thinks it's the right time. or maybe he's trying to clean up something messy with a nice little reunion. either way—it's not about what he wants. it's about what you need."

you looked over at her. "and what if i don't want anything to do with them?"

"then you don't," leah said without a beat of hesitation. "you draw your line, and you protect your peace. no guilt. you're allowed to do what's right for you, not what makes him feel better about disappearing."

you were quiet for a moment, like you were absorbing it. then: "it doesn't make me a bad person?"

"it makes you someone with boundaries. someone who knows what hurts and what doesn't feel safe. that's brave, not bad."

your throat wobbled again. "i just... i feel so angry. and then i feel guilty for being angry. and then i feel sad. and then i feel stupid for being sad."

leah scooted a little closer, gently nudging her shoulder. "that's grief, angel. you're grieving the dad you should've had. doesn't matter if he's still around—when someone doesn't show up for you, you lose something anyway."

you finally let out a shaky breath. "it just sucks. like big time"

"yeah," leah said softly. "it really does."

they sat in silence again for a beat, then leah reached over and offered her hand. no pressure. just there. you took it. and after a moment: "thanks mama."

leah smiled. "always my girl."

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antlersarchives · 2 months ago

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ａｌｌｎｉｇｈｔ

annie x reader

summary: storms roll in fast down south, and you can't bear to turn up on another stranger's doorstep, so you end up on the only one you care to know - and end up spending the night with less deliberation than you thought.

a/n: this took a long time to get out I'm sorry, but here she is in all her glory, and I'm pretty proud of this one.. please feel free to send more requests and more requests for our girl!!

w/c: 2k

warnings: comfort from wounds, cleaning wounds, slight hot and heavy smut but mostly tender fluff.

The cicadas were loud tonight, buzzing in the oaks just outside the shack, but inside it was still. The kind of quiet that settles after heat breaks — a summer storm having just rolled through, leaving everything slick and breathing heavy.

You sat shirtless on the edge of the bed, sweat still clinging to your skin, the bandage on your ribs stained and loose. The oil lamp flickered on the nightstand, casting gold across the worn floorboards and onto Annie, kneeling in front of you, sleeves rolled up and hands steady.

She dipped a rag in warm water, and wrung it out with slow, movements, some herbs and ointment clinging to the cloth soundly, then glanced up through dark lashes.

“You could’ve gone to Doc Kelley in town,” she murmured. “Why come here?”

You winced as she touched the cloth to your side. “Didn’t feel like explaining how I got it.”

“Bar fight?”

“Somethin’ like that.” You watched her dab blood and dirt away with a scratch, her fingers gentle, but her jaw tight. “Didn’t figure the doctor would be as kind.”

Annie let out a breath — not quite a sigh, more like something heavier. “Ain’t about kindness,” she said, voice soft and careful. “It’s about truth. Most folks can’t look a scar in the face without flinchin’ at it.”

You swallowed. “But you can.”

She paused. Her eyes met yours. “I got no choice not with the way I been taught.”

Her hands moved lower, sliding the cloth beneath the ribs where the gash curved like lightning, its edges glowing with an eerie blue that no normal wound should possess. Truth be told you didn't completely know where it came from, some fight went down but something otherworldly hit you that's for sure—the flesh around it pulsed with an unnatural rhythm, as if following the heartbeat of something not quite human.

The air between you thickened — not just from the heat, but from the way she looked at you like she was reading what no one else had the patience to, her pupils dilating until they nearly swallowed the iris, reflecting knowledge of things that existed beyond the veil of ordinary perception.

“I’ve seen men die over less,” she whispered, breaking the silent trance. “And I’ve seen what gets left behind when they live.”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Not with the way she was touching you — not just skin, but something deeper. Her thumb smoothed over an old, greying scar just above your hip.

“How long you been carryin’ this one?” she asked, barely a whisper now.

You swallowed hard. “Since ‘31. Rail job went bad.”

She nodded, and you saw it — a flash of memory in her own eyes. Pain she wasn’t speakin’ about, not yet.

Then she set the cloth down and kissed it. The scar. Just once. Just enough.

You froze — not from fear, but from the weight of it. The reverence it carried.

“They ain’t ugly,” she said, voice trembling like the flickering flame. “They’re yours. And you’re still here.”

You reached for her, fingers curling under her dampened chin. “So are you.”

She leaned into you then — slowly, like she didn’t want to scare the moment but unable to run away from it. Her body eased against yours, one leg folding under her, the other stretched along the bed. Her hand traced the line of your chest, her lips soft against your shoulder.

Outside, the crickets started their song again. Somewhere down the road, a dog barked once and a couple shouts sounded before the night fell quiet.

Inside, all you heard was her breath and your heartbeat.

“You don’t gotta be strong for me,” she whispered. “You don’t even gotta pretend.”

You brushed at her face, kissing the top of her head. “Not with you.”

She stayed like that — curled against you, arm draped across your stomach, thumb slowly tracing one of your oldest wounds.

And for the first time in a long time, the South didn’t feel so heavy. Not with her touch. Not with her here.

The storm had passed, but it hadn’t taken the heat with it.

The air clung to your skin — heavy, damp, humming with something that didn’t have a name yet. The smell of rain still curled under the windowsill — wet earth, pine and tobacco smoke left from a half-burned cigarette.

Annie hadn’t moved for a while. She was still pressed against you, her body a line of warmth along your side, but her eyes had gone distant. Watching the dark beyond the window like she knew something waited out there. No fear in her — no, Annie didn’t scare easy — but something stirred in her quiet.

“You hear that?” she asked, soft.

You’d been listening to her breath. To the soft creak of the bed frame beneath you both. But now you noticed: the crickets had stopped. Even the trees seemed to be holding themselves still.

“Yeah,” you murmured. “It’s gone quiet.”

Annie sat up slowly, the scarf around her slipping down her shoulder. The cotton of her slip stuck to her back, clammy with sweat and storm air. She wiped at her forehead, fingers sedated like she was moving through water. Her brow furrowed, lips parted — not from panic, just... presence.

“Somethin’s shiftin’,” she observed, almost to herself. “You ever feel it in your teeth? Like thunder that ain’t come yet.”

You nodded. You knew that feeling. Born with it, maybe. And somehow she always had been.

But you watched her more than the window — the way her posture had stiffened just enough to make your hand move to her hip. The way she licked her lips like her mouth had gone dry.

“You think we’re bein’ watched?” you asked.

“No.” She paused. “But I think we ain’t alone.”

She stood, crossed to the window with bare feet against old pine floorboards, and pushed the curtain back just enough to look. The warm light of the lamp haloed her, casting the shape of her onto the floor — long legs, curved waist, the hem of her slip hugging the mid-way at her thighs.

“Nothin’ out there but trees and ghosts,” she said at last. “Not the kind that knock on the door. Just the kind that breathe down your neck.”

You rose too, coming to her slow, cautious, like if you startled her she might disappear. You slipped your arms around her waist from behind, pulling her gently against your chest.

She let out a breath — long, staggered — and melted into you, her hands finding yours over her hips.

“No one’s going back out there” she whispered. “Not tonight.”

“Then we’ll stay here, no ones leavin’”

She tilted her head, resting it against your cheek tenderly. “I know. I just… needed to hear it.”

Your lips brushed the edge of her jaw, lingering there at each moment.You could taste the salt — from her sweat, or your own and not that you cared any. This was the kind of closeness that didn’t ask for anything except truth.

“Come back to bed,” you whispered.

She turned in your arms and kissed you then — not hurried, not hungry, just deep. The kind of kiss that says I survived this long and I’m still trying. Her hands slid to your chest, pushing you back toward the mattress, not with force — just with elegant intent.

You let her guide you down, the bed creaking under your weight. She followed, one knee slipping over your hip, straddling you slow, her breath hitching slightly when your hands found the curve of her waist under the thin layer of clothes.

“I don’t want fast,” she wetted against your mouth. “I want slow. I want it to mean somethin’.”

“It already does,” you said.

Annie’s lips parted like she wanted to say more — but she didn’t need to. Instead, she rolled her hips against yours, soft friction, slow rhythm, just enough to make both of you sigh into each other’s mouths.

Your hands moved under her slip, sliding up the curve of her spine, feeling every rib, every scar, every soft shiver beneath your fingertips. She leaned her forehead to yours, eyes half-lidded, breath catching.

“Feels like the world’s tryin’ to take everything,” she whispered. “But not this.”

You kissed her — long, open, reverent. Like prayer. Like worship.

Her eyes stayed on yours as she slid her hands beneath the hem of your shirt — slow, deliberate. Her fingers were warm and sure, gliding up your sides, tracing the shape of old scars, new bruises, skin still buzzing from her touch.

“You don’t need to hold anything with me,” she murmured, voice thick with heat and calm. “Let me see.”

And you did.

She pulled the fabric over your head, eyes never breaking from yours, her gaze heavy, steady — like she was memorising the way you came apart. Your breath caught, not from nerves, but from the way her fingers returned immediately to your chest, splayed wide, grounding you to the moment.

She pressed you back onto the bed with nothing more than a hand at your sternum.

Then her hands moved lower, slow as molasses, tugging at your waistband, knuckles brushing your heaving skin. She made you wait — not cruelly, just with purpose. Like every second she took was a sentence written on your body.

And when you were bare beneath her, the light danced cross your skin, she didn’t look away.

Didn’t rush.

She just drank you in, eyes soft but serious, the kind of look that made your pulse stutter.

“You’re beautiful when you ain’t hidin’,” she whispered.

Then she leaned down, her lips brushing your stomach, a kiss that burned more than any flame. Not rushed. Not greedy.

Just hers.

And your hands cast over her curves, slipping higher and higher up her thighs, and her breath hitched her skirt was up to her middle.

And she moaned, parting her legs just enough, letting you see her.

Let you know her.

There was no hurry in the way you caressed one another— no rush to reach the end. She was savouring every inch of you, pulling a quiet groan from your throat as she dipped lower, her fingers tracing you with such care it almost felt like worship.

And then she kissed you again — this time, not soft, but with a hunger that had been building between you for longer than you cared to admit. You pressed her body into hers, her chest against yours, her breath hot against your lips as she moved against you. Her hands slid over your thighs, and then she was pulling you closer, guiding your body with a deliberate rhythm that made your head spin.

You weren't sure where the heat originated—whether it sparked from her flushed skin or ignited within your core—but it blazed between you now, undeniable and consuming. She moved above you with delicate precision, her body arching and flowing like liquid fire, each subtle shift of her hips sending electric currents across your heaving skin. Her warm breath caressed your neck before her full lips brushed against your earlobe, the sensation making you shudder involuntarily as she whispered with honeyed confidence, "Don't worry, sugar. I've got you.”

And you did. Every movement of hers felt like it was bringing you deeper under her control, but you didn’t care. There was something in the way she moved, the way she held you close, that made you want to surrender to her entirely.

And just like that, the world outside dissolved into a distant blur. All that mattered was the intoxicating warmth of her body pressed against yours, the purposeful touch of her hands guiding you through the moment, the hypnotic rhythm of your shared breath mingling in the narrow space between you, and the quiet, steady hunger building between you both—a silent conversation of desire that needed no words.

Outside, the world might’ve been crawling toward something ugly. But here — in this bed, under her breath and your hands and the hum between your bodies — there was only softness.

Only heat.

Only her.

And she whispered your name like it was the first true thing she’d said in a long time.

#sinners 2025 #sinners x reader #annie sinners #annie x reader #annie sinners x reader #sinners movie

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