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bluebeary-jay · 2 months ago

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Crawlin' back to you

Joel Miller x f!sunshine!Reader

Summary: you ask Joel for help while preparing for your upcoming date with another man. (or so it seems)

Tags: grumpy x sunshine, idiots in love, sweet sweet fluff, age gap, a drop of angst, peepaw is insecure abt his age :(, Jackson era, Joel is kind of slow but it's okay we still love him (pookie doesn't realize how hot he is), me dancing around the smut like i'm a fucking circus acrobat

Word count: 4K

A/N: sooo very long time no see 🙈 ever since the start of 2025 i'm telling myself to get back into writing but it still felt like a chore lol. but i REALLY wanted to finish this fic before tlou s2 drops so here it is!!! i'm really proud of how it turned out and i hope to write more in the near future. love you all so so much and as always, happy reading!! 💕

dividers by @saradika 🩷

Joel Miller didn't have friends.

He had a couple of buddies before the outbreak with whom he used to watch the game sometimes, but nothing more than that. Tommy didn't count, of course, because he was his brother and therefore had to be nice to him. The only other person who could put up with him was Ellie, but the kid was… a kid. As for the other people in Jackson, they were wise to keep their distance from Joel, not wanting to hang around a shadow of a man such as him.

He didn't mind. He liked the peace and quiet, and it didn't bother him one bit that everyone seemed to give him a wide berth, whispering about the danger that he was.

Well, almost everyone avoided him. You, the exact person that should stay far away from a man like Joel Miller, gravitated to him with an almost effortless ease. Even amongst all the hopeful people that created Jackson, you were the purest, brightest ray of sunshine, always helpful and compassionate towards anyone who came your way. And even though Joel wasn't exactly welcoming to you in the beginning, you never gave up and persisted – and eventually, befriended him.

And ever since the first time you spoke to him, he didn't stand a chance. You were young and pretty, and so charming with your innocent optimism… Before Joel realized, he was fantasizing about you during the lonely evenings, dreaming of your voice late in the night, and looking for you in the crowd when he was out of the house.

He was way too old to feel this kind of way, and every now and then it felt like he was balancing on a tightrope between being stupid and borderline creepy. Such a sweet girl like you wouldn't look twice at an old man like him if she knew the things that sometimes ran through his mind when he was seeing other men flirting with you, seeking the same warm light that Joel grew addicted to.

That was the poison mixed with your sweetness – even though it was irrational, with you everything seemed easier than it was.

…even falling in love.

And fall Joel Miller did. It was an embarrassing, tainted experience, especially when he remembered how much older than you he was. But he couldn't help it, and once this burning want became clear to him, he didn't really want to fight it, either.

You were everything he should stay far away from – young, pretty and so bright with your smiles, your hope, your innocence. A sinner like Joel Miller had no place in your life, and yet he couldn't muster the courage to let you go. It was selfish of him, he knew, but spending time in your company was one of the few brightsides of his life… and he didn't have many of those, lately. He genuinely enjoyed being near you – a lot more than he probably should.

That's why, when he noticed you skipping his way with a bright smile splattered across your cheeks, he felt his heart instantly lighten. It was a hard day of work at the construction site and he was relieved to finally be heading home, but just the sight of you made the weariness disappear from within his bones.

“Joel! Hi!” Something must have stirred you quite strongly, for you were practically bouncing with excitement. The words were spilling out of your mouth before he even had a chance to say hello. “I need your help, right now. Please.”

“Slow down, darlin’,” he chuckled, letting you drag him by the arm to a wall of the nearest building and away from the crowd. “You alrigh’?”

“Yeah, yes, of course.” You waved to someone passing by, totally unfazed – or maybe just ignorant – that you were being seen with him in public. “I just need your help.”

“Well, what is it?” he repeated the question and finally, you turned to face him. Joel couldn't help but match the pretty smile on your face, but it quickly faded when you blurted out your next words.

“I like someone.”

That short, simple sentence wrecked Joel’s world by the foundations. For a couple of seconds he just stared at you with his mouth slightly agape while you fidgeted with your hands nervously, but still overjoyed.

“Wh– uhh, sorry?”

“I like someone,” you repeated excitedly, as if your words weren't piercing right through Joel's heart. “And I need your help.”

All of the sudden, the world lost all its colors, as if all the meaning was sucked out of the universe just by your words.

Why it was such a surprise to him, Joel didn't know. Of course you'd sooner or later get together with someone. He should have expected it. You were young, pretty and such a joy to be around, people were gravitating towards you instinctively. Like moths to a flame.

Just like him – yet he was always destined to only get burned.

“Joel?”

You leaned closer and Joel's eyes instinctively focused on your lower lip worried between your teeth. You were obviously oblivious to his feelings, as well as the effect you had on him – otherwise he doubted you'd tempt him like that, unknowingly making his mind fixate on how perfect your lips would have felt under his touch.

But no, it wasn't his caresses you wanted. There was someone else, someone far more deserving of you, and you were asking Joel only for his help. And though it hurt him – it killed him to lose this small sliver of affection you had been giving him so far – he nodded supportingly.

“Wha… what do you need help with, sweet girl?” he asked softly, trying not to show how devastated he felt inside. Joel had no desire to hear about whoever was fortunate enough to gain your favor, but again, luck wasn't on his side.

“I made a plan to meet him,” you explained enthusiastically, grabbing his forearm. Joel looked at where your fingers touched his skin, barely listening to your words. “Tonight. And I need you to come with me.”

That woke him up from his reverie. Joel huffed and shook his head sharply, looking at you like you were out of your mind.

“No.” His tone was almost biting, but through his firm refusal, a trace of panic was slipping through. You pouted, squeezing his forearm lightly.

“Oh, come on, please? I just want to make sure everything’s perfect.”

“No,” Joel repeated, much weaker this time. “Hell no. Why would I–” Then, a dark thought bloomed in his mind and his face turned concerned. “You're worried he'd do somethin’ to you?”

“Oh, no, no!” It was your turn to shake your head, and you actually cracked a smile at Joel's worried tone. “No, he'd never hurt me.”

Your voice got softer; your smile turned serene. Joel wanted nothing more than to turn away when your eyes started to wander across his features, but again that proved to be too herculean of a task compared to the hold you had over him.

“He's kind,” you continued absentmindedly, and on the edge of consciousness Joel remembered your hand was still on his arm, tracing small lines with your thumb. “Respectful and thoughtful… A real gentleman.”

“A-and who’s he?” Joel found the courage to ask, breaking you out of your daydreams. You smiled happily again – that damned, sweet smile of yours – and removed your hand. He immediately started missing the feeling of your touch.

“You'll see.” You looked over your shoulder when someone shouted your name a street away, and waved from the distance. You gave Joel one last pleading look, clasping your hands together. “Come to the Tipsy Bison at 9. Please? You can just sit in the corner but I'll feel so much better and safer with you there.”

Once Joel looked into your beautiful, pleading eyes, he was a goner. He never could deny you anything either way.

Even when he would kill for a chance to go on a real date with you.

“Okay,” he finally caved in. “Alrigh’. I'll be there.”

The overjoyed smile you gave him was almost enough to soothe the hollow pain in his chest.

Almost.

Great. Fucking great.

Joel made another turn around the street, trying to build up the courage to approach Tipsy Bison. The flannel shirt he wore was itching uncomfortably, but he was already half an hour late and there was no time to go back home and change.

He regretted ever setting foot in Jackson. It was a nightmare situation for him, having to spend the evening in a room full of loud, drunk people and watch as you go about your date with another man. Joel thought a dozen times about making up some excuse as to why he can't chaperone your date after all. He even went as far as to beg Tommy to accompany him, just that he wouldn’t have to suffer alone, but his younger brother just gave him a pitying look, saying something about spending time with Maria tonight. Joel could always cancel, lie that he can’t make it after all… but then he remembered how hopeful and thankful you looked, and all his resolve was wavering again. He couldn't ever say no to you, even though he desperately wanted to.

He looked at his broken watch, sighing at the hour. He delayed the inevitable long enough, so with heavy steps he approached the bar at last. You asked him to go through the back door, for whatever reason, and he was too tired at the time to point out there’s nothing back there except for the kitchen and storage rooms. Whatever. You probably were already in the main hall, with your date, and either you were angry at Joel for being late, or not thinking about him at all. He wasn’t sure which one would be worse.

Once he stepped over the threshold, he carefully closed the door behind him. The racket from the bar was muffled here, but from the nearest room he could hear someone muttering. Joel swallowed heavily and cleared his throat to alert whoever was on the other side of the wall.

“Joel?” he heard your voice before you appeared in the doorway. At the sight of him your shoulders dropped and with confusion he noted that you didn’t look angry or disappointed – you seemed relieved. “Goddammit, finally you’re here. You took your sweet time, huh?”

Before he could answer, you walked forward and took his sleeve, half-dragging him behind you. Words of protest bubbled on his tongue, but they all died quickly when Joel saw the room you emerged from.

The storage shelves were decorated with fairy lights and in the middle of the room stood a small table with two chairs opposite each other. The only other source of light were a couple of candles on the table and around the room. There was food on the table – probably cold by now – and a bottle of wine. But most importantly – there was no one else in the room except for Joel and you.

While he was looking around like an absolute fool, searching for an explanation for this situation, you cautiously closed the door and walked around the man, coming to a stop by the set table with your hands clasped in front of you.

“...Well?” you asked after an uncomfortably long silence, letting out a nervous laugh. “What do you think?”

Joel blinked, not sure if you were talking to him.

“Where's the guy?”

You threw him a confused look, but truly, it was the only thing Joel could think of. He glanced around the room again, as if his mysterious competition was going to jump up from behind one of the shelves, but there was no trace of anyone else here.

“Your… your date,” he clarified after a moment and cleared his throat once more. A spark of understanding flashed in your eyes and you pressed your lips together. “It's late. Is he… He didn't set you up, did he?”

“That depends,” you finally answered softly, keeping your wary but hopeful eyes on him. “Are you finally gonna sit down?”

A cog clicked into its place in Joel's mind and he turned his head, not sure if he had heard you right. You smiled nervously and motioned to the table.

“The food’s probably cold by now, but I can heat it up. It’s your own fault, though, since I asked you to be here forty minutes ago–”

“I don’t…”

He didn’t understand. Nothing made sense, but he had to make sure, “So there’s no… there’s no date?”

You were clearly nervous, judging by the way you were fidgeting with your hands, but you sent him a shy smile nonetheless. “I mean, you’re here…”

Joel didn’t answer – frankly, he didn’t know what to say. So many conflicted emotions were swirling in his chest, blocking his throat from squeezing out even a sound. It created almost a physical pain between his ribs, especially when your eyes were still on him, so hopeful and patient.

After another pregnant pause, you let out a quiet breath and took a step forward, throwing him a lifeline since he clearly must’ve looked like an idiot. “There’s no one else coming, if that’s what you’re asking. I made all of this for you – for… us, maybe. I just…” You half-shrugged, and only now Joel realized how nice you looked, wearing a dress he never before saw you in, “didn’t know how to tell you.”

Joel swept his gaze over the room once more – the dinner, the lights, your pretty dress… and you. And it was all for him, apparently.

“Why?” he breathed, the weight of his age almost making him collapse to his knees. He desperately wanted to say something more profound than one word at the time, but his voice was failing him. Thankfully, you were always kind enough to fill in the silence.

“Why did I lie to you or why did I drag you here of all places?” You rounded the table, eyeing the decorations with a proud smile. “Well–”

“No, darlin’, why…” He shook his head. Everything felt too unreal, too sudden. And he felt so tired. “Why me?”

That made you pause and you turned to him with a surprised look, like what he just said was the last thing you expected to hear.

“What do you mean, why you?” you huffed incredulously, leaning forward against the back of the chair, and though you tried to look casual, the nervousness in the tension of your body was apparent. “You’re just… I mean, it must be pretty clear that I really like you… And I thought you might have felt the same. You know, with all the ‘darling’s’ and looking at me, and stuff…”

Was it a dream? You always looked like you were out of a dream, but something about this moment… the fairy lights, your shy demeanor, the words he never thought he’d hear from you… Joel didn't know if he was still alive or maybe that's what the afterlife looked like.

“...You could say something,” you half-joked with a trace of worry in your voice, obviously growing uncomfortable at his lack of reaction. “You know, Tommy only let me have this place ‘til midnight before they come by to restock the bar. We can at least eat and talk a little, right?”

“Did Tommy put you up to this?” Joel asked bitterly, unable to stop himself at the mention of his brother’s name. He recalled the look Tommy gave him earlier today, his excuses as to why he can’t come with him... What other explanation could there be for such a gorgeous, young woman to be interested in Joel of all people, if it wasn’t just a product of his kin’s poor humor? However, he instantly regretted asking you this when your soft smile disappeared altogether, and you wrapped your arms around yourself.

“You can just say if you don’t feel the same way,” you said dryly with an angry and hurt furrow on your brow. “No need to be a dick about it.”

You walked by him, apparently done with Joel’s accusations and grumpiness, but he quickly caught your arm before he could think better of it. You spun around, probably ready to tear into him, but he wouldn't hear a word either way – no while a vortex of doubts and questions raged in his mind. Joel didn’t know how or why you’d ever take interest in an old man like him, but he was now certain of two things.

One, you were telling the truth. For whatever reason, you really liked him – enough to plan and prepare a whole dinner date just for him.

And two, if Joel let you walk out now, he’d regret it for the rest of his life.

You must’ve noticed the change on his face when his eyes flickered to your lips because you froze, the words of hurt and disappointment drying out on your tongue. Joel swallowed and wet his lips, looking for any sign of hesitation or regret on your face, but there was nothing in your eyes but pure, fragile anticipation. He delicately put his hand on the side of your face, the rough pad of his thumb brushing your cheek slowly. Your eyelashes fluttered closed and you let out a shaky breath, and that was all it took for Joel to lean down and press his lips to yours.

The kiss started delicate, but almost immediately turned into a fervent, hungry thing, which you ardently reciprocated. Joel wanted to take his time, to test the waters and build up the anticipation until you were ready to beg for him, but he didn’t expect just how fucking good kissing you would feel – and how eager you were for his touch. The smell of you, the feel of your hands on his chest and arms… it was driving him crazy with want, and without thinking twice, he spun you around and pinned your back against the edge of the table, making you whimper into his mouth.

“Goddammit, baby…” The term of endearment slipped out before he realized it, but judging by your reaction you didn’t mind at all. Your breath hitched, making him smirk to himself as he started to realize just how much power he held over you. It certainly shouldn’t excite him as much as it did. “Are you absolutely sure that’s what you want?”

“Joel, if you don’t stop questioning me…” you started, and although your words were firm, your voice leaned into a deliciously needy pitch, the kind of which he yearned to hear for far too long. Joel groaned into your mouth, moving down to press hot kisses against the line of your jaw and down your neck, greedily drinking in the noises you were making.

“Tell me, darlin’,” he asked in a low voice, experimentally running his palm up your thigh under the pretty dress you wore. The effect was immediate, and you pressed your body closer to him, seeking his touch the moment it left your skin. “I need to know if you really mean all this.”

“For fuck’s sake, Joel–” You made a surprised noise as he hoisted you up and onto the table, but it turned into another needy whimper when he knocked your knees apart and slotted himself between them with ease. You glanced behind you, worried that you'll push the silverware off the table, and Joel took this moment to resume the onslaught on your neck, kissing and sucking every inch of skin he could reach. You choke back a moan as his touch made a shiver run up your spine. “Joel, please…”

“I need to hear it, sweetheart,” he murmured lowly against your skin, slowing down to tease you when he felt your heartbeat quicken up beneath his lips. “Need to make sure you know what you're gettin’ into.”

“I do, I promise,” you assured him fervently while your hands went to the back of his head, fingers tangling into his gray locks. “You have no idea how many times I thought about this. I wanted you for so long, Joel, please…”

“Wanted you, too, darlin’.” He put one of his hands on the small of your back, pulling your lower half closer to the edge of the table so you could feel what you were doing to him. “God, every time you smiled at me it was all I could think about… So kind and beautiful, never thought you'd look twice my way.”

You didn't bother to answer this time, instead angling his head up to kiss him deeply again. The doubt and fear were still present in Joel's mind, but he honestly couldn't focus on them with you in front of him. You were so warm under his palms, so pliant and eager, a literal putty in his steady hands. He could never imagine how incredible it felt to be wanted by someone so much, but at the same time he knew he had to take his time. As much as he wanted to keep going, to make you see stars and sing his name, it was more than just lust with you.

So when you reached for the buttons of his shirt, he gently grabbed your wrists and moved them away, finally regaining his self-control. You whined disapprovingly, but the crease between your brows quickly disappeared when Joel kissed your fingers softly, not taking his eyes off you.

“Shh, sweetheart, don’t rush,” he cood, earning a small disappointed pout. He had to close his eyes, lest he caved in. Fuck, the sight of you before him – your pupils blown wide, lips swollen from his ministrations, your heavy breath and the dress bunched around your hips… Joel was sure you’d let him do anything to you right now. And God, he couldn’t wait. “Let me do this properly, yeah? Have a nice date with you, then maybe take you home if you don’t change your mind…”

“We can skip the dinner,” you quietly offered, your breath still uneven and cheeks flushed. He huffed a laugh with fondness and leaned in to plant a soft kiss on your forehead, his own breathing also slightly erratic.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he murmured against your skin before taking your face in his hands. “Someone did say I’m a gentleman, no?”

You seemed to regret your previous choice of words, accentuating it with a disappointed whimper and a buck of your hips. Joel groaned and kissed you deeply again, almost able to taste all the impatience and desire on your tongue. Surprisingly, you didn’t fight him further and instead obediently slid off the table, wrapping your arms tightly around his neck to be as close to him as possible.

Joel was grateful for this moment of calm before even more excitement – and he didn’t mind spending it by watching you, standing so close and smiling up at him as brightly as the sun itself.

“You believe me now?” you asked teasingly, stifling your giggles when Joel rolled his eyes playfully. “Good. You will have to make it up to me, then.”

Worry crept back onto Joel’s face, but you were quick to calm him down with a tender kiss to his jaw, and then another one lower, on his pulse point. “You were late. If you got here on time, we could’ve been doing this at least half an hour longer.”

Joel chuckled and lifted your chin with his finger, before kissing you briefly one last time.

“Baby, let’s enjoy the dinner you prepared, first. After that, I swear I’ll make it up to you in however many ways you want.”

Judging by your smile, you didn’t seem to mind at all.

#joel miller x reader #joel miller #pedro pascal #the last of us #joel miller x y/n #tlou hbo #joel miller fanfiction #the last of us fanfiction #joel miller fluff #joel miller angst #grumpy x sunshine #the last of us fic #joel miller x you

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heavenlybodies333 · 2 months ago

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Daddy’s Little Assistant - R.C

Rafe Cameron x wards assistant!reader

Tell me again how professional you are while I’m fucking you stupid

Ward had rules. Dress modestly. Answer every call. Don’t touch the bourbon.

You’d followed them to a T since day one—pressed skirts, tight buns, soft yes, Mr. Cameron and no, Mr. Cameron. You’d charmed him effortlessly, outshining Rafe in the only thing that ever mattered to him: his father’s attention.

Rafe noticed. He always noticed.

That morning he’d watched Ward hand you the keys to the family boat—the family fucking boat—and say, “You’re the only one I trust with this right now.”

He nearly snapped.

You were in the study that night, alone. Filing something, probably. Looking like temptation in kitten heels, a white blouse tucked into a high-waisted pencil skirt, lips glossed just enough to shine. You didn’t even look up when the door shut behind you.

“Miss Secretary,” Rafe drawled, mockingly respectful.

You flinched, turning to face him. “Rafe. Can I help you?”

His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Funny. That’s supposed to be my line, isn’t it?”

You opened your mouth to respond, but he was already crossing the room—casually “You’ve been real helpful to my dad. Filing his papers. Pouring his drinks. Flirting with him like a little—”

“I don’t flirt with your father.”

“Oh?” His tone turned cruel. “Then what do you do? Huh? Smile pretty and bend over every time he drops a fucking pen?”

You backed into the edge of the desk. “You’re out of line.”

“I’m out of line?” he echoed, one hand bracing on the desk beside your hip. “You think you’ve got him wrapped around your little finger? Think a few good manners and tight skirts make you untouchable?”

You held his gaze, sharp and unwavering. “I’m good at my job.”

Rafe laughed, the sound bitter. “Oh, princess. You’ve got every man in this house fooled.”

He reached up, brushing a stray strand of hair back into your bun with fingers that lingered too long against your temple. “You play the part so well. But I see through it. I see you.”

You swallowed. “Then what do you want, Rafe? You want me gone?”

He leaned in, “Nah. I want you to admit it.”

“Admit what?”

“That you like the attention.” His hand found your waist, fingers pressing into the fabric of your skirt. “That you like being watched. Liked it when he handed you those keys in front of me.”

Your pulse pounded in your throat, but you didn’t move. “That’s not what this is.”

He smirked, fingers sliding just a little lower. “No? Then what is it? A promotion? A chance to be the new Mrs. Cameron?”

You slapped him.

The sound cracked through the air, sharp and satisfying, even as your palm stung. His head snapped to the side—but he only grinned wider, eyes wild now, feral.

“Touchy,” he breathed, turning back to you. “Did I hit a nerve?”

“I don’t have to listen to this,” you said, trying to sidestep him. But he blocked you easily, chest brushing yours as he crowded you back against the desk.

“Why do you hate me so much?” you asked, voice trembling—not with fear, but rage, confusion. You’d done nothing wrong.

He let out a humorless laugh. “Because he never looked at me like that.”

You blinked. “What?”

“He never gave me the keys. Never said I was the one he trusted. Not once. Not even when I—” He stopped himself, jaw tight. “But you? Walk in here with your shiny shoes and fake little smile and suddenly you’re his golden fucking girl.”

“Because I work,” you snapped. “Because I’m clean, and sober, and I don’t crash his cars or embarrass him in front of clients—”

“Don’t you fucking dare,” he growled, slamming a hand down on the desk beside your hip. “You think he gives a shit about any of that? He just likes that you make him look good. That’s all you are. A little doll he can parade around to show he’s still got taste. Still got control.”

You stared at him, chest heaving. “You think you’re so different?”

Rafe blinked, as if you’d slapped him again.

“You act like you hate him, but every time he walks past you, you flinch like you still want his approval. You practically beg for it.”

He said nothing as you leaned in, whispering, “And you hate that I don’t.”

“You want to be in control so bad, don’t you?”

Before you could answer, his hands gripped your waist—tight, bruising—and hoisted you onto the desk. You gasped as your skirt rode up.

“You think you’re above me?” he sneered, yanking your thighs open.

Then he shoved your skirt up and tore your panties down in one vicious motion. The air hit your soaked heat and Rafe just… stared. Like he couldn’t believe it. Like your body was the final betrayal.

“No fucking way,” he muttered. “You’re this wet for me? For this?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

“Slut,” he whispered, almost reverently. Then he spit—right on your cunt. Watched it drip between your folds, his thumb swiping the mess through your slick.

“God, you’re so fucked,” he growled. “You like pretending to be good. Dressing like a little wife. But underneath, you’re just filthy, aren’t you?”

You arched, whining as two fingers pushed into you without warning. He pumped them slow, curling deep, dragging out a cry that echoed off the walnut-paneled walls.

He pumped faster, grinding the heel of his palm against your clit until your thighs were shaking and your moans were desperate.

You came on his fingers, panting, shame burning through your veins as he dragged them out slowly, wet and sticky.

He popped one glistening finger into his mouth and groaned.

"Better than coke."

You were still shaking when he undid his belt with one hand, the buckle clinking, his slacks falling just enough for you to see how hard he was. You didn’t have time to speak before he was fisting his cock, dragging it through your folds, wetting the tip with your release.

“Rafe,” you whimpered, still breathless.

He grinned, feral. “Still so polite.” teasing you as he lined up and thrusted, burying himself to the hilt in one brutal motion. Every thrust hit deep, dizzying. Your blouse had ridden up, your bra askew. You were a mess—moaning, squirming as his thrusts got rougher. Your nails clawed at the desk as he fucked you through your second orgasm, and into your third.

“Not so fucking proper now, are you?” he snarled, snapping his hips so hard the desk shook. “Look at you. Legs wide. Mouth open. Moaning like a whore.”

You scratched at his back, your head tipping as pleasure rolled through you—hot, overwhelming, endless.

He leaned in, pressing his forehead to yours. “You gonna cum for me again, pretty girl?

You sobbed his name as your walls clenched around him, the overstimulation making your thighs tremble. He bent you in half, your knees pressed to your chest now, his cock drilling into you from above.

“Fuck, I’m gonna cum,” Rafe hissed. “Where do you want it, baby? On your back? Your tits? In that pretty little mouth?”

“Inside,” you begged. “Please—inside, fill me up—”

He let out a guttural groan, hips jerking wildly as he spilled into you, feeling his warmth fill you. He didn’t move for a long moment. Just panted above you, letting your body twitch and tremble under him.

When he finally pulled out, you felt his cum drip down your thighs, thick and hot.

Rafe smirked, brushing your hair from your face.

“Clean yourself up, sweetheart. Ward’s home in ten.”

And he walked out, leaving you half-naked, shaking, and soaked on top of the desk you once called your workplace.

So much for professionalism.

a/n: daddy i promise that ill never disappoint you😩

MASTERLIST

#rafe cameron #rafe cameron x reader #outer banks #drew starkey #rafe cameron fanfiction #rafe cameron outer banks #rafe outer banks #rafe cameron x you #rafe x you #rafe smut #rafe cameron smut #rafe x reader #outerbanks rafe #rafe obx #rafe cameron x smut #rafe cameron x female reader #rafe imagine #rafe cameron x y/n

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chuxmy · 2 months ago

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Hello! I really love all your work, especially the Seung Jae one. Speaking of Seung Jae, can I request a one shot smut about him (if you're comfortable to write smut) where reader and him have a private and secret relationship. Then one day, someone was flirting to the reader but reader is so shy and naive that she thinks that he is friendly to her. Then, Seung Jae saw it and felt rage, jealousy, and possessiveness towards her. Btw, their relationship is not toxic but there are times that it can be toxic when Seung Jae can't control his emotion. Thankie 😘

Only mine

Pairings: Geum Seongje x Fem!Reader

Summary: You smiled at the wrong guy.

Warnings: Smut, explicit sexual content, possessiveness, jealousy, praise kink, mdni

A/N: *gulp* it‘s kinda hot in here..

You’ve always been soft.

Polite. Shy. The kind of person who smiles at strangers without thinking twice. It’s part of your charm one of the reasons Seongje fell for you. But sometimes, that sweetness felt like a curse.

Because it made people think they had a chance with you.

And today, someone took that chance.

It was during break, near the vending machines. A boy from another class. You didn’t know him well he wasn’t even on your radar. But he struck up a conversation. Said something about how you looked better every time he saw you, called you “adorable” in this half joking, half serious voice.

You thought he was being friendly.

You smiled. Awkwardly. Tucked your hair behind your ear and said, “That’s really nice of you,” like you always did.

You didn’t see the possessive stare from across the hallway.

But Seongje did.

He saw everything.

You don’t notice his silence until hours later after school, when you meet in the unused music room, like always.

You close the door behind you, expecting his usual smirk, his lazy voice teasing, “Took you long enough.”

But when you turn, he’s already across the room. Eyes dark. Hands in his pockets.

Something is off.

“Seongje?” you ask gently. “What’s wrong?”

He says nothing. Just stares at you.

Then moves.

Fast.

You barely register the way his hand slides behind your neck, how his mouth crashes onto yours, how your back slams into the nearest wall with a gasp. His kiss is rough. Messy. Tongue pushing past your lips like he’s trying to claim every part of you.

You whimper, clutching at his hoodie. “W-wait, what—?”

“You smiled at him,” he hisses against your lips.

You blink. “Who—?”

“That fucker by the vending machines.”

Your breath catches. “He was just being nice…”

He laughs, but it’s humorless. “You really believe that?”

You swallow. “I didn’t think—”

“That’s the problem. You never think when it comes to this shit.”

His tone isn’t cruel, but it’s sharp. Laced with frustration. With something worse.. hurt. As if your smile had cut him in ways you didn’t even understand.

“I’m sorry,” you say, voice small. “I didn’t mean to upset you—”

He kisses you again. Harder. Teeth clashing.

“You didn’t upset me,” he growls. “He did. But watching you smile at him like that… like you enjoyed it…”

“I didn’t,” you whisper.

But he doesn’t stop.

His hands are already under your shirt, calloused fingers skating across your ribs, making you shiver.

“You don’t get it, do you?” he murmurs darkly. “You don’t see how guys look at you. You think they just want to be friends?”

Your silence answers for you.

His hand slides up your thigh, under your skirt. You gasp when his fingers brush your inner thigh, the heat of him pressed between your legs.

“They want you,” he breathes, dragging his lips down your jaw, to your neck. “They want to take you from me. And you don’t even fucking notice.”

His touch is rough, almost desperate, like he’s trying to erase the idea of anyone else from your skin.

“I didn’t do anything wrong,” you say softly, trembling.

“I know,” he mutters, dragging your panties down. “You never do.”

Then, lower, much lower he rasps, “But you need to remember who this belongs to.”

You inhale sharply when he dips his head, mouth brushing against your core.

“I—I didn’t know someone could be this jealous…”

He looks up, eyes blazing.

“You think this is just jealousy?” His voice drops an octave. “I love you so much it makes me crazy.”

Then he slides his tongue along your folds.

You choke on your breath, hand flying to your mouth to muffle the moan. Your other hand buries in his hair, gripping tightly as his tongue moves with skill you didn’t know someone like him had.

“You’re already soaked,” he murmurs against you. “You liked me getting jealous, didn’t you?”

“N-no, I—”

“Liar.”

He fucks you with his tongue until your thighs shake.

Then he stands, pulling you to him. Lifting you with one strong arm under your thighs, he carries you to the piano bench and sets you down, your legs spread around him.

His pants drop. You barely see it happen, your eyes are half lidded with need, your breath uneven.

He doesn’t ask.

He slides in deep, all at once.

You cry out, your hands flying to his shoulders.

He’s big, he always is and this position makes it even deeper. You squirm, gasping his name.

“I know,” he groans, forehead resting against yours. “I know it’s a lot.”

But he doesn’t stop.

He won’t.

His hips begin to move slow at first, then faster. He grunts softly each time he sinks into you, the wet sound of your bodies filling the small room.

“You’re mine,” he whispers again and again. “Mine. Mine. Mine.”

“Yours,” you gasp, clinging to him like a lifeline. “Only yours.”

Your body wraps around him like you were made for him. His thrusts hit deep, dragging broken sounds from your throat.

You cry out when he hits that perfect spot inside you again. And again. And again.

“Look at me,” he demands, voice wrecked. “I want to see your face when I make you come.”

You do.

You look up at him, eyes wide and shining with emotion and he shatters.

“Fuck, I love you.”

Then your orgasm slams into you like a wave, blinding, breath stealing, intense. You moan, body shaking, clinging to him with everything you have.

He follows seconds later, hips jerking as he empties inside you, groaning your name.

When it’s over, he doesn’t move.

He stays pressed against you, arms around your waist, face buried in your shoulder.

You’re both breathing hard.

Your fingers stroke his hair.

“…You okay now?” you whisper.

He laughs quietly. “No.”

You blink.

He lifts his head. “Because I know I’ll feel this again. The second someone else even looks at you.”

You smile sadly. “You can’t keep getting mad at me for being… me.”

“I know.” He kisses your collarbone. “But I can remind you who you belong to.”

You cup his cheek.

“You don’t have to remind me.”

He closes his eyes, leaning into your hand.

“…I still will.”

#weak hero class 1 #weak hero class two #geum seongje x reader #seongje geum #seongje geum x reader #geum seong je #geum seongje #seong je geum #weak hero class 2 #weak hero season 2 #weak hero class x reader #weak hero class one

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abbotjack · 3 months ago

Text

Booked for One

pairing : Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x fem!resident!reader

summary : A black-tie charity gala in Chicago. One bed. Months of tension. And a storm that forces both of you to stop pretending.

warnings/content : 18+ content, explicit sexual material (fingering, penetrative sex, condom use), strong language, emotionally repressed characters, unresolved sexual tension (resolved), jealousy, mutual pining, power dynamics (attending x resident), one bed trope, clothing sharing (his hoodie/boxers)

word count : 4,850

18+ ONLY MDNI, not beta read. Please read responsibly.

a/n : This is me projecting every inch of tension into one hotel room and letting it burn. Robby is so done pretending he doesn’t want her. She’s so done pretending it doesn’t wreck her. No further questions.

The Chicago skyline glittered beyond the ballroom windows like something out of a dream, but the room itself was thick with too much perfume and performative laughter to feel romantic. Somewhere between the crystal chandeliers and the overpriced floral centerpieces, you remembered: this was a charity gala, not a fairy tale. Not that you’d expected it to be one.

Your heels clicked confidently across the marble as you stepped into the crowd, the sound sharp and unapologetic. The red dress did exactly what it was meant to do—stop conversations mid-sentence. Backless, sculpted, slit high enough to make someone drop their champagne. Almost inappropriate. Almost. But cut with just enough class to keep mouths shut and eyes glued. You didn’t stumble into this look—you chose it. Every inch of it said exactly what you needed it to.

And beside you—silent, composed, unreadable—walked Dr. Michael Robinavitch.

Not behind. Not trailing. Beside. Step for step, shoulder to shoulder. Close enough that your perfume reached him, close enough that his silence pressed against your skin like static. The air between you practically hummed. No words were exchanged, but you felt his presence—intentional, sharp, heavy. Not accidental. Never accidental. He wore that tux like a threat and walked like he already regretted coming.

You didn’t blame him. He’d hated the idea of this from the moment the assignment hit both your inboxes. He spent most of the flight to Chicago muttering about schmoozing donors and dressing up for people who’d never seen what a ruptured spleen looked like in real life. Said if AGH wanted charm, they should’ve sent a PR team—not a trauma attending and a second-year resident.

But for all his complaining, he showed up anyway.

Beard neatly trimmed, jaw tight, suit tailored to the exact width of his frustration. He hadn’t bothered with a tie—left the top button undone and rolled his sleeves up in the car, like he couldn’t stand the performance of it all but still dared anyone to question whether he belonged.

Classic Robby.

All precision. All control. Except, maybe, for the way his eyes kept drifting back to you like he hadn’t meant to.

You’d felt it before you even got here.

The moment you stepped out of your hotel room earlier that evening, still adjusting the strap of your dress, you felt the air shift. His gaze had dragged down your spine like heat—slow, reluctant, and absolutely devastating. He hadn’t said a word. No compliment. Not even a grunt. Just stood there in the hallway, watching you like a problem he didn’t know how to solve.

Then you got into the car.

And now, here you were. Walking beside him like none of that tension had happened—like it wasn’t still buzzing under your skin.

He said nothing.

So, you flirted.

You’d barely handed off your coat when a man caught up to you. Mid-thirties, polished, expensive suit, and the kind of grin that usually came with a boarding group upgrade and a trust fund. His eyes dragged over you—slow, practiced—and landed on your badge.

“Emergency?” he asked, matching your stride.

You didn’t break pace. “That a problem?”

“No,” he said, trailing beside you now. “Just wasn’t expecting it. Not in that dress.”

“Guess I don’t dress for your expectations.”

He laughed under his breath, clearly intrigued. “Wasn’t trying to offend. You just... don’t look like you’ve pulled a chest tube.”

You glanced at him, expression unreadable. “You don’t look like someone who’s coded a patient without crying, but I’m not holding it against you.”

He blinked, thrown for half a second—then smiled, slower this time, like the game had just gotten interesting.

“Alright,” he said. “I deserved that.”

You gave a noncommittal shrug. “Probably.”

He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. “Should I try again?”

You didn’t answer right away. You just looked at him—cool, steady, unreadable. Not interested, but not walking away either.

“If you want,” you said finally.

And then you turned, letting him follow you into the crowd. He kept close, too close, like he wasn’t used to being dismissed.

“I’m Lucas, by the way,” he said, offering it like a favor.

“Of course you are.”

He laughed under his breath, clearly not sure if it was a compliment. Robby was across the ballroom, watching it all.

You watched him back. The way his jaw clenched every time you touched Lucas’s arm, the way he barely blinked when Lucas leaned too close.

"You here alone?" Lucas asked.

"That depends," you said, voice light.

"On what?"

You looked past him. Past the buffet table. Past the sea of donors and old-money medicine. Straight into Robby’s eyes. And you smiled.

“On whether he comes over here or not.”

Lucas turned, confused. “Who?”

You just tipped your glass toward Robby.

Robby didn’t move. He just stared back—still, unreadable, drink untouched in his hand like he wanted to throw it at something.

You turned back to Lucas. “Nevermind.”

You ended up pressed against the gold-veined marble counter in the bathroom ten minutes later, Lucas’s mouth hot and insistent on yours, his hands already on your hips like he’d earned the right. The chill of the marble cut against the warmth pooling low in your body, but you didn’t stop him.

Outside, rain had started to streak across the windows—steady now, soft at first and building. You barely registered it. All you felt was Lucas’s palm dragging slowly up your thigh, slipping beneath the slit of your dress, fingers skimming skin like he expected you to beg for it.

He kissed like a man used to being told yes. Confident. Greedy. A little too practiced. His teeth grazed your lip, tongue sweeping into your mouth with a low hum as he pushed closer, like he couldn’t get enough of the way you tasted.

You let his hand slide higher. Let him mouth at your neck, at the soft line beneath your jaw. Let him tug the strap of your dress down far enough for the fabric to slide off your shoulder.

Your lipstick smeared between you. Your breath came faster than it should’ve. And all you could think about—even now—was how Robby hadn’t said a single goddamn thing about the dress.

Lucas tasted like champagne and ego. His hands were good. His mouth was eager. His knee pushed between yours and your back hit the mirror with a dull, aching thud.

“You’re unreal,” he muttered against your collarbone, breath hot, hand skimming the edge of your breast now. “Jesus.”

You tilted your head back and closed your eyes.

Pretending it was enough.

Pretending it didn’t burn.

Then, gently—too gently—you pressed your palm against his chest.

“I should go.”

Lucas blinked. “Seriously?”

You didn’t answer at first. You just looked at him, steady, breath catching, lips swollen from someone you didn’t want.

Then: “Yeah. Seriously.”

Not cold. Just done.

You slipped out before he could say anything else, smoothing your dress and swiping your thumb across your mouth.

Outside, rain ticked louder against the glass.

And just a few feet down the corridor, exactly where you didn’t want him to be—was Robby. Like he'd positioned himself there on purpose. Like he knew exactly where you’d be. His eyes tracked you the second you stepped back into the ballroom—sharp, steady, and unmistakably furious.

“Was that worth it?” Robby’s voice cut through the hum of the ballroom, low and sharp like a scalpel slipping beneath skin.

You froze mid-step, spine straightening. “What?”

He pushed off the column, slow and measured, like he’d been holding himself still for too long. “Lucas. From Hopkins, right? He’s been at a few of these things.” Robby’s voice was low, sharper than it had any right to be. “In the bathroom. That's how you planned to go about your night?”

You crossed your arms. “Careful. You’re starting to sound jealous.”

“I’m not jealous,” he said, stepping in closer. “I’m pissed.”

You lifted your chin. “Why? Because he touched me, or because I let him?”

His jaw flexed. “You really want me to answer that?”

“You’ve been watching me all night, Robby. If you had something to say, you could’ve said it before I walked away.”

“I didn’t think you’d let someone else touch you first.”

You laughed once, dry and humorless. “That’s on you.”

“Don’t twist this.”

You held his stare. “Don’t try to control something you keep pretending you don’t want.”

He stepped closer, voice rough. “You think I don’t want you?”

“I think you want me when it’s convenient. I think you want me more when someone else does.”

His eyes darkened. “You don’t get it.”

“Then explain it.”

He shook his head. “You walked out of that bathroom looking wrecked—and all I could think was, I should’ve been the one to ruin your lipstick.”

Your breath caught.

“I mean it,” he said, voice lower now, almost ragged. “I stood here like a fucking statue while he got to touch you. Got to taste you.”

“Then do something about it,” you snapped, the air between you flaring hot.

“I can’t,” he said, jaw tight. “Not here. Not when I’m still trying to be the version of me that’s good for you.”

Thunder rumbled outside, closer now. A gust of wind rattled the balcony doors, and someone across the room shut one with a sharp bang that turned a few heads. Staff began to move like shadows between tables, and the string quartet shifted into something slow.

“Why not?” you whispered.

“Because the second I touch you,” he said, “I won’t stop.”

A waiter brushed past with a tray, and the spell broke—the quiet clatter of silver on porcelain snapping the air between you.

You stepped back like it burned. “We should go.”

Neither of you said another word.

Minutes later, you sat stiff in the back seat of the Uber, arms crossed tight, trying not to look like your heart was still somewhere back in the ballroom. Robby stared straight ahead, one hand flexing on his knee, the other resting uselessly between you. The driver didn’t ask questions. Neither of you offered answers.

By the time you stepped back into the hotel, the lobby was chaos—umbrellas dripping onto the tile, soaked coats draped over chairs, luggage leaving wet trails across the marble.

You were halfway to the elevators when the concierge spotted you.

“Miss?” she called out gently. “Room 124?”

You turned, already bracing.

“There’s been a situation,” she said. “A pipe burst on the first floor. Maintenance was able to shut it off, but your room was affected.”

Your chest tightened. “Affected how?”

“Flooded,” she admitted. “We pulled what we could from your room and sent everything to the laundry department for evaluation.”

You blinked. “Evaluation?”

She hesitated. “Some items were soaked. Our team is assessing what’s salvageable.”

You didn’t need her to spell it out. You could picture it already.

Your suitcase—soaked through from the bottom up, clothes clinging to the lining like wet leaves. The silk sleep set you packed on a whim, twisted and ruined. Your toiletry bag overturned, mascara tubes and tampons and a busted travel-size mouthwash bobbing in shallow water. Your heels wrapped in white hotel towels like they’d been injured. Your charger? Fried. The paperback you'd half-finished on the plane? Warped and curling at the edges like a dried flower.

You didn’t want it assessed. You wanted it not to have happened.

“We’re also fully booked due to the weather,” she added, almost apologetic now. “We’ve had cancellations, stranded travelers, local walk-ins. There’s a waitlist, but we can’t guarantee anything for tonight.”

Of course not.

You stared past her, toward the barricaded hallway at the far end of the lobby. Caution tape. Industrial fans. A sign printed in sharpie: FLOOR CLOSED FOR CLEANUP—1st. You could hear the low, constant roar of air pushing moisture out of drywall.

“Fine,” you muttered, reaching for your phone. “I’ll find another hotel.”

You had barely tapped the screen when Robby spoke.

“She’s with me.”

You turned your head slowly. “You don’t get to decide that.”

“You don’t have a room,” he said, measured. “You don’t have clothes. You’re not getting another hotel this late.”

“I didn’t ask for help.”

“I’m not offering help.” He looked at you then—just once, jaw locked, eyes hard. “I’m not letting you walk around Chicago at midnight with a dead phone especially during a thunderstorm.”

That shut you up. Not because he was angry.

Because he was worried. And trying not to show it.

The concierge handed over a second keycard.

Robby took it before you could say anything.

Just like that.

Final. No discussion.

He didn’t even look at you as he turned toward the elevators.

You followed him.

The click of your heels echoed against the tile, sharp and precise. Rain streaked the windows behind the lobby seating area, lightning flashing faintly across the marble floor. Neither of you spoke.

“I don’t have anything to sleep in,” you said finally, your voice clipped.

“I’ve got boxers and a hoodie,” he answered without looking back.

You stopped. Right there in the middle of the lobby.

“Oh, perfect. I’ll just wear your hoodie like this is totally normal and not weird at all,” you said, tone sharp.

He turned—slow, deliberate. Shoulders tense, jaw tight.

“What’s your move, then? Wander around downtown at midnight in heels that are cutting off your circulation, soaked through, no phone, no plan?”

You didn’t answer fast enough.

His jaw ticked. “It’s a hoodie and boxers, not a wedding dress. Don’t flatter yourself.”

You blinked, slow. “Oh, I’m not. I just prefer not to sleep in something that smells like you’re still wearing it.”

He stepped in—closer than necessary. “You didn’t seem so bothered by that smell earlier. In the elevator. Or at the event.”

Your pulse jumped. You hated that it did.

You crossed your arms. “I’d rather not spend the night with someone who can’t stand to look at me.”

His eyes didn’t move from yours. “You’re not upset about me glaring.”

“Oh no?”

“No,” he said. “You’re upset because the wrong man undressed you with his eyes—and made a move before the one you wanted ever did.”

Your stomach dropped.

You opened your mouth. Nothing came out.

He didn’t move. He didn’t smirk. He just let the words sit there between you, heavy and sharp and so goddamn true you wanted to slap him for it.

“Wow,” you breathed. “You’re a dick.”

“And you’re still standing here,” he said.

The elevator dinged.

You turned and walked in first.

He followed.

The doors slid shut behind you with a hush that felt like it should’ve echoed.

You stood a little too close to the mirrored wall. He stayed behind you, angled slightly off to the side. You watched him through the reflection. He wasn’t watching you, but he wasn’t relaxed either. His jaw was locked. His hands were in his pockets, knuckles tight enough to show through the fabric.

His chest rose slow. Measured. Controlled.

The air between you wasn’t just tense—it was alive. Like it had heard every word back in the lobby and didn’t believe either of you were done.

The elevator climbed.

At floor ten, your arms were crossed so tightly your shoulders ached.

At floor eleven, your pulse jumped just from the space between your hands and his body.

At floor twelve, he looked at you in the reflection—just a flick of his gaze—and your breath caught.

“We’re both adults,” he said.

Your voice barely made it out. “Barely.”

The elevator doors opened, and you stepped out before he could say anything.

His footsteps followed—steady, patient. The hall was quiet except for the distant hum of the rain hitting the windows at the end. The carpet muffled everything but your heartbeat.

He unlocked the door with one swipe of the keycard, then held it open. You didn’t look at him as you walked in.

You flicked the lights on.

And there it was.

One bed. Big. White. Obvious.

Robby walked in behind you, shutting the door with a soft click. He shrugged off his jacket and hung it neatly, like this was any other night.

You stared at the bed, then at him. Your voice was dry.

“Of course it’s one.”

He didn’t flinch. “Wasn’t expecting company when I booked it.”

You crossed your arms. “But when you offered to share—”

“I knew,” he cut in, voice smooth, unreadable. “Yes.”

“And you didn’t think to mention that part?”

He turned to face you fully, one brow lifting just slightly. “I had a single room. Why would it have two beds?”

You blinked at him, but he kept going, tone low and infuriatingly rational.

“Sorry, I forgot to ask the hotel for the ‘in case my coworker gets drenched and stranded’ package.”

You scoffed. “A heads-up would’ve been nice.”

He tilted his head, eyes skimming over you. “Right. And if I’d said, ‘It’s one bed,’ you’d have said what? ‘No thanks, I’ll sleep in a puddle’?”

You didn't answer.

He smirked. “Exactly.”

The silence stretched. Long enough to make the storm outside feel closer. You peeled your clutch from under your arm and set it on the dresser like it gave you something to do.

He crossed to his bag. Pulled out a hoodie and a pair of boxers, both folded with the kind of care you recognized in him—practical, precise. He set them down at the end of the bed.

“They’re clean,” he said. “Bathroom’s yours.”

You didn’t move yet. Just looked at the bed again. Then at him.

He hadn’t looked away once.

You took the clothes in one hand.

“So,” you said slowly. “We’re just gonna sleep next to each other like none of this ever happened?”

His voice didn’t waver. “Is that a problem?”

You raised an eyebrow. “I don’t know. Can you keep your hands to yourself?”

“Yeah.”

“Even if I wear this?” You lifted the hoodie an inch.

His gaze dropped for a single second. Just one. Then back up.

“Especially if you wear that.”

You stared at him.

He didn’t blink.

The moment hovered—thick and heavy with something neither of you wanted to name.

Then you turned toward the bathroom without responding.

The door clicked shut behind you, and you swore you could still hear the sound of him exhaling—low and rough, like he was trying not to want something he didn’t have permission to reach for.

The bathroom was quiet except for the faint hum of the fan and the thunder outside.

You reached behind you, fingers brushing the zipper. It slid down with a soft sigh, the dress loosening around your frame. The straps slipped off your shoulders, and the fabric followed, slow and heavy, like it didn’t want to let go.

It fell in a hush against the tile—crimson and careless at your feet.

You stepped out of it without hesitation.

His hoodie came next. It was oversized and warm. The sleeves hung past your hands, the hem grazing your thighs. You pulled on the boxers last. Loose, low, unfamiliar. You kept one hand on the waistband, like that might anchor you.

In the mirror, you didn’t look like the girl who’d worn that dress. You looked like someone else entirely—bare legs, messy mascara, lips still parted from things unsaid.

Like someone who’d made a choice.

Even if you hadn’t figured out what it meant yet.

When you opened the door, the lights in the room had dimmed. Only one lamp was still on, casting a warm glow over the bed and wall. The storm outside had deepened to a constant rhythm—rain tapping like fingers against glass, thunder slow and low in the distance.

Robby had moved. He was no longer standing.

Now he was sitting in the chair by the window, already in his pajamas. But the second you stepped out, he looked.

And stayed looking.

His gaze dragged from your legs to the oversized hoodie, to the hand resting at your hip like you didn’t quite trust the boxers not to fall. Then to your face.

He didn’t say a word.

He didn’t have to.

The air in the room changed. Tightened. Coiled.

You walked past him in silence, slid into the bed slowly—like you weren’t listening for the hitch in his breath, even though you were. The sheets were cold. Your skin prickled beneath the fabric, awareness spreading like a pulse.

You heard him stand.

Not right away. Not fast.

Just... eventually.

The creak of the chair. The soft thud of his steps against the carpet. The flicker of the switch. Then the dip of the mattress behind you.

He pulled the blanket up slowly. Settled on his back. Close, but not touching.

You stared at the ceiling. Felt the heat of him beside you—close, steady, impossible to ignore. Six inches of space. Maybe less.

And then you moved.

Not much. Just enough for the blanket to pull tighter across your hips, for the edge of your thigh to graze his under the sheets. It was barely contact.

But it felt like heat.

You knew he felt it too—because he stilled.

His breath caught, just slightly, like his lungs had registered something his mouth hadn’t been cleared to speak on. You could feel the way he was holding himself back. The way every inch of him had been still and disciplined until now, and now… now he wasn’t.

"Robby," you whispered.

He turned his head toward you.

Just a glance. But in it—everything. The tension. The ache. The silent plea for permission. Or for you to stop him before he crossed a line he couldn’t walk back from.

You didn’t.

Instead, you reached out—slow, careful—and let your hand find his forearm beneath the blanket. Warm skin. Solid muscle. He tensed at your touch, but didn’t move.

So you let your hand drift down, sliding along the inside of his wrist until your fingers brushed his.

He hesitated.

Then laced them through yours like he couldn’t help it.

That was all it took.

His fingers slipped free again, and his hand moved—up your arm, slow and deliberate. Not over the fabric. Under it. He pushed the hoodie up just enough to touch your bare skin, his palm dragging heat along the dip of your waist, the soft slope of your stomach. He moved closer, his leg brushing yours beneath the blanket, chest barely grazing your shoulder.

Your breath caught.

He heard it.

He hovered above you now, weight on one elbow, eyes locked on yours in the dark.

You reached up and found the side of his neck. Warm, tense, familiar.

That was enough.

He kissed you—deep, slow, but hungry. Not rushed. Just built-up control finally cracking. His hand slid higher beneath the hoodie, fingers spreading across your bare ribs, then rising to cup your breast—skin to skin. His thumb brushed over your nipple, and you gasped, the sound catching between your mouths.

He pulled back a breath’s distance, just enough to look down at you.

“You knew,” he said roughly.

Your lashes fluttered. “Knew what?”

His eyes dragged over your face. “That I wouldn’t stop if I touched you.”

You didn’t answer. You just arched into him, hips tilting, hand reaching for the hem of his shirt. Your fingers found the edge and pushed up, knuckles brushing his stomach.

He moved to help, lifting his arms, letting you tug the shirt over his head and toss it aside. Then he leaned back, one hand tugging the blanket down from both your bodies, eyes never leaving yours.

His chest rose and fell—slow, deliberate, barely in control. And he was still watching you like he hadn’t even started.

His hand slipped beneath the waistband of the boxers.

You gasped—quiet, sharp—and he froze.

“Okay?” he asked, voice hoarse against your throat.

“Yes,” you said. “Don’t stop.”

He groaned—quiet, guttural—and kissed you again, his fingers sliding through you slowly, then sinking deep. One, then two.

The hoodie stayed on.

But everything underneath it was his now too.

“You have no idea,” he whispered, “how long I’ve wanted to do this.”

“I think I do,” you said, breathless.

He kissed you again, but this time deeper—tongue sliding against yours with the kind of hunger that tasted like restraint finally breaking. His mouth moved from your lips to your jaw, then your neck, slow and deliberate, as if he was testing how far you’d let him go.

You didn’t stop him.

You tipped your chin up and gave him more.

“You’re soaked,” he said, voice dark. “Jesus.”

“Yeah,” you breathed. “I’ve been like that all night.”

His hand moved in slow circles over your clit. You arched into him.

“Robby—”

“Fuck, you feel—” He cut himself off with another kiss. His forehead rested against yours, breaths coming fast now. “Don’t rush me.”

“I’m not.”

“You’re shaking.”

“You’re making me.”

He added another finger. Your hips jerked, and he caught them with his other hand, holding you still while he fucked you slow with his fingers—deep, steady, curling in all the right ways. You whimpered into his mouth.

“Look at me,” he said roughly.

You did.

His pupils were blown wide. His jaw tight. His fingers still moving, still coaxing, still building the ache that had started the second he offered you this bed.

“Tell me when.”

Your breath broke. “Almost—don’t stop.”

His thumb pressed against your clit, just enough pressure to push you over. You came with a gasp—hips trembling, body curling into his. He kissed you through it, slow and open-mouthed, like he was breathing you in.

When your body stopped trembling, you reached for his waistband and pulled it down. He was hard. Thick. Heavy in your hand.

You stroked him once, twice—slow, just to feel the way his body jerked under your touch. His eyes fluttered shut, jaw clenching hard as your thumb teased the underside of his cock.

“Condom?” you asked, voice low.

“Top drawer,” he said. “I checked earlier.”

You arched an eyebrow. “Hopeful?”

“Prepared.” he muttered.

You fished it out and handed it to him. He rolled it on with shaky hands, then settled between your legs again—his hips aligned with yours, one hand braced beside your head, the other curling under your thigh.

He paused. “Last chance.”

You locked your eyes on his. “Shut up and fuck me.”

He pushed in with one slow, smooth thrust—stretching you open inch by inch, until your back arched and your nails dug into his shoulders.

“Jesus,” he gritted out, forehead dropping to yours. “You feel like—”

“Move.”

He did.

Long, deep strokes that built slow—his body pressed against yours, breath hot against your cheek, the bed shifting beneath you. His hips rolled just right, his rhythm steady but desperate, each thrust dragging a sound out of your throat you couldn’t have silenced if you tried.

You wrapped your legs around him, ankles hooking behind his back, dragging him deeper. His hand slid under the hoodie, found your breast, thumb brushing your nipple until you cried out.

“That’s it,” he whispered. “Come again.”

He angled his hips and thrust again—harder now, rougher, the sound of skin meeting skin echoing through the room. You moaned into his mouth, fingers clawing at his back as your body built again, tighter, hotter.

Then you broke.

Your climax hit fast—sharp, shattering. You buried your face in his neck and held on as he fucked you through it, thrusts stuttering, voice breaking on a groan.

“Fuck—I’m—”

He followed you over the edge with one last deep thrust, his body shaking above you, hips grinding into yours as he spilled into the condom with a low, guttural noise that sounded like surrender.

When it was over, he collapsed half on top of you, chest heaving, skin slick with sweat.

Neither of you spoke.

You lay there tangled in each other, his hoodie bunched around your waist, your breathing slowly syncing with his. His hand rested on your thigh—still, warm, unhurried. Gentle in a way that felt unfamiliar for both of you.

The storm outside had quieted to a hush, rain tapping a soft rhythm against the windows like it was trying not to interrupt.

Minutes passed.

Then, quietly—like it had been sitting on his tongue all night—he said, “You looked really beautiful in that dress.”

Your heart stuttered.

You turned your head just enough to look at him. “You didn’t say anything.”

“I know,” he murmured. “Didn’t think I should.”

You didn’t answer right away. You just watched him, his features softer now in the dim light, his usual armor cracked wide open.

After a moment, you whispered, “I waited for you to.”

His fingers flexed lightly on your thigh, like the weight of your words hit somewhere deep.

“I know,” he said again, barely audible. “I’m sorry.”

You didn’t forgive him out loud. You didn’t need to.

You just shifted closer, let your leg hook over his, and finally let yourself exhale.

Not everything had to be said right now.

But for the first time in a long time, it felt like something had changed.

And neither of you reached to undo it.

#the pitt #dr robby #the pitt fanfiction #the pitt x reader #the pitt hbo #the pitt 2025 #noah wyle #michael robinavitch x reader #michael robinavitch #dr robby x reader #smut #slowburn

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wendichester · 1 month ago

Text

⋆ 𐙚 ̊. sweet, oblivious, you²,

summary. dean likes you. sam likes you, too. lucky you, oblivious to it all.

pairing. dean winchester x reader x sam winchester genre. smut ( mdni )

wordcount. 2263

notes / warnings. as requested by many families, here's the unholy part 2. i need to go confess myself now to the pope (my local priest isn't equipped enough) ✌🏻// explicit language, explicit sexual content ( sex on the kitchen table!!! ), just weird and kinda hot??

ᯓ★ read part 1

It starts to change after that night.

Not in any big way, not all at once. It’s not like Dean drops to one knee or Sam starts reading you poetry by firelight (though honestly, neither would be completely off-brand at this point). No, it shifts in the quiet ways. The subtle ones. The ways that feel like they’re nothing — until suddenly, they’re everything.

Like how Dean now insists on sitting next to you at every meal. Not across, not diagonally. Right next to you. Close enough that your elbows brush when you cut into your food. Close enough that his arm accidentally finds the back of your chair more often than not, his fingers ghosting over your shoulder, like he just needs to rest his arm somewhere. Totally innocent.

Sure, Dean.

Sam counters with morning coffee.

You don’t even remember telling him how you like it, but one day it’s just there — your exact brew, perfect amount of sugar, that one creamer you love but keep forgetting to buy.

“You didn’t have to—” you start, blinking sleepily.

He shrugs, easy and casual, but there’s that gleam in his eye. “Didn’t mind.”

Dean starts walking into the kitchen shirtless.

Because of course he does.

“Too hot to wear a shirt, sweetheart,” he says one morning, voice husky with sleep, like it’s a suffering he’s graciously enduring for your benefit.

Your brain hiccups for a second. Sam drops his knife against the counter with a little too much force.

It’s war.

You just sip your coffee and try not to combust.

Training sessions become the next battleground.

Dean offers to “spot” you during strength drills. And by spot, he means stand behind you, one hand on your lower back, one guiding your wrist, voice low in your ear, breath brushing your neck like he’s trying to reprogram your nervous system.

“Atta girl,” he murmurs, just a little too close. “Keep that form tight, yeah? Just like that.”

Meanwhile, Sam’s out here playing the long game — patience and precision. He takes you through defensive maneuvers, calm and steady. But his hand lingers when he helps you up off the mat. His body presses just a second too long when you crash into his chest. And his praise?

Way more dangerous than Dean’s.

“You’re a fast learner,” he says one afternoon, gaze locked on yours, his thumb brushing your cheekbone after a sweaty match. “I like that.”

You freeze. Swallow hard. Laugh it off.

They both see it.

They both want more.

One night, Dean finds you in the library, legs curled under you, hoodie slouching off one shoulder. You’re so into whatever lore you’re reading that you don’t hear him until he drops onto the couch beside you, legs spread wide, knee bumping yours.

“Whatcha readin’?” he asks, all easy charm.

You hold up the book without looking. “Something about Norse possession rituals. Kinda creepy. Kinda cool.”

Dean watches you over the rim of his beer. “You’re kinda cool.”

You blink at him. “What?”

He grins. “Nothin’. Just sayin’. It’s… cool. That you’re into that stuff.”

You stare at him, a little amused. A little suspicious. “Are you okay?”

“Peachy.” He throws his arm across the back of the couch — again, purely accidental — and lets his fingers brush your shoulder. “You cold? You can borrow my hoodie if you want.”

You’re wearing a hoodie. His hoodie.

He knows. He gave it to you last week and hasn’t stopped thinking about it since.

You’re about to make a joke when Sam walks in, sees you two curled up, and stalls.

Something flashes behind his eyes. Something dark and determined.

He says nothing. Just walks over, grabs a book from the shelf — and drops it in your lap.

“You should read this one next,” he says smoothly, ignoring Dean completely. “It ties into that ritual text. Same demon class. More dangerous, though.”

Your fingers brush when he hands it to you. His touch is warm and deliberate. You feel it all the way down.

Dean clocks it.

His jaw ticks.

Game on.

Later that night, you’re walking down the hall toward your room, yawning. Dean’s voice calls out behind you.

“Hey, sweetheart.”

You turn — and he’s there, way too close, one hand braced on the wall beside your head.

His smirk is soft, but it’s hiding something sharp underneath. Something hungry.

“You got plans tomorrow?” he asks, voice honey-slick and low. “Thinkin’ about takin’ you for a drive. Just us. Sunset. You know. Mood lighting.”

Your heart skips a beat. “Oh. Um. Yeah? That sounds nice.”

He leans in — just slightly — enough that your breath catches.

“You’re somethin’ else, you know that?”

Before you can answer, a door opens behind you.

“Hey,” Sam says, voice calm but cool. He steps into the hall, barefoot, shirt rumpled, like he’s been pacing. “Didn’t know you were still up. I was about to make tea. You want some?”

Dean doesn’t move. Sam doesn’t blink.

You’re caught between them, flushed and wide-eyed, every cell in your body screaming that something’s happening, even if you don’t know what exactly it is.

You laugh — nervous, flustered — and nod. “Sure! Tea sounds great.”

Sam’s eyes flicker to Dean. “Coming?”

Dean peels himself off the wall with a lazy roll of his shoulders. “Nah,” he says, but the look in his eyes promises blood. “I’ve got other things on my mind.”

And then he walks off, all swagger and smirk, leaving you and Sam standing in the hall like the first scene of a very slow, very dangerous fire.

Sam turns to you, gentle again. “Chamomile okay?”

You nod, suddenly short of breath.

He smiles, soft and devastating. “Good.”

⋆ 𐙚 ̊.

It starts with a look.

One look, too long. Too loaded. Too everything.

You’re in the kitchen again. Nothing special — tank top, sleep shorts, mug in hand. It’s late. You can’t sleep. The bunker hums with quiet and warmth. You’re barefoot on cold tile, staring into the fridge like it holds answers to questions you haven’t asked yet.

And then Dean’s there.

Leaning against the counter like he was born to brood, beer bottle dangling from two fingers, jaw shadowed with stubble and sleep. His eyes drag over you, slow and simmering, and for once?

He doesn’t look away.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asks, voice low and sandpapery.

You shake your head. “Nope. Thought warm milk might help.”

He smirks. “Old school. Cute.”

You roll your eyes. “Thanks, grandpa.”

But your heart ticks faster.

He doesn’t laugh. Just watches you, like he’s trying to memorize something.

You go to the stove. Pour milk into a saucepan. And then?

You feel him behind you.

Not close — not inappropriate — but present. Solid heat. Quiet intensity. You stir the milk and try not to notice the way your breath shortens. The way you’re aware of him in a way you weren’t before.

Dean doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move.

He’s just there. Waiting.

And then Sam enters — quieter than usual, in joggers and a soft black tee, hair mussed, eyes unreadable.

You expect things to ease.

They don’t.

He sees you.

Sees Dean.

And something shifts in him too.

He walks over to you — not Dean. To you. And places a hand lightly on the small of your back, fingers splayed.

“Everything okay?” he murmurs, voice soft but loaded with that same heat Dean’s carrying. A different flavor — gentler, deeper — but no less intense.

Your mouth goes dry.

Dean watches Sam’s hand. His jaw flexes once.

And suddenly… something clicks.

You freeze, spoon mid-stir.

They aren’t just being friendly.

They haven’t been for weeks.

The lingering touches. The quiet glances. The midnight coffees and training sessions that feel like something out of a dream you’re not sure you should be having. The way Dean’s hand finds your waist when you pass too close. The way Sam’s voice drops when he calls you by name, like he’s saying something sacred.

Holy shit.

You’ve been so dumb.

You look up — Sam on one side, Dean on the other — and finally, finally see it.

They want you.

Both of them.

The room tilts.

The milk starts to boil.

Dean moves first — reaches over you, kills the burner with one flick of the wrist. His body brushes yours, solid and hot, and you gasp just slightly when you feel his chest at your back.

“You okay, sweetheart?” he murmurs, mouth just behind your ear.

You nod. Lie. “Fine.”

Sam’s hand still hasn’t moved.

Dean’s breath ghosts down your neck. “You sure?”

You should say yes.

You should say you’re going back to bed, thanks for the weird vibe, have a good night—

But instead?

You turn.

Right between them.

Your eyes flick from one brother to the other, and for the first time, you don’t play dumb. You don’t look away.

You look back.

Sam swallows hard. Dean licks his lips. You feel the air crackle.

“Tell me,” you say, voice shaking slightly. “Tell me what this is.”

Dean tilts his head, watching you like a lion would a lamb that just bared her throat. “What do you want it to be?”

Sam’s voice cuts in, soft but certain. “We want you.”

Dean nods. “We’ve wanted you.”

The words slam into your stomach like heat lightning.

You blink.

“Both of you?”

Sam steps closer. “Yeah.”

Dean moves in, too. “We know it’s… different. But we’re not gonna lie to you. Not tonight.”

Your pulse hammers. “You’re serious.”

Dean’s fingers lift to your jaw. “Sweetheart. Do I look like I’m fuckin’ around?”

You open your mouth — to argue, to ask more, to do something — but then Sam kisses you.

Just like that.

Big hand curling around the back of your neck, mouth warm and sure, and it’s like your brain short-circuits. You melt against him instinctively, fingers curling in his shirt, lips parting under his with a helpless, startled noise.

And then Dean’s mouth is on your throat.

Not kissing. Tasting.

His tongue flicks along the line of your neck, rough stubble scraping gently, and your knees almost give out.

Sam pulls back just enough to breathe. “You okay?”

You nod. Whisper, “Please.”

That’s all it takes.

Dean lifts you like you weigh nothing. Hands under your thighs, mouth crashing into yours now — hot and filthy, tongue sweeping past your lips like he’s trying to ruin you from the inside out.

Sam follows, fast and quiet, hand sliding under your shirt, warm palm skimming your waist.

“Bed,” you gasp between kisses.

Dean growls against your mouth. “Didn’t plan on making it that far, sweetheart.”

They lay you out on the kitchen table.

Dean strips your shorts off in one smooth tug, kneeling to drag his mouth up your thigh, slow and reverent. Sam kneels opposite him, pressing soft, lingering kisses up the other.

You stare at the ceiling, panting, heart trying to escape your ribs.

This is real.

This is happening.

Dean hooks his arms under your knees, spreads you wide. “You still with us?”

You nod frantically. “Yes. God, yes—”

Sam’s mouth replaces your answer.

Warm. Wet. Perfect.

He eats you like it’s worship.

Dean groans at the sight, lips brushing your inner thigh. “Fuck, Sammy. That’s not fair.”

Sam pulls back just enough to smirk. “She tastes like heaven.”

Dean doesn’t wait — he takes the other side, tongue flicking over your clit as Sam pushes two fingers inside you, curling just right, deep and slow.

You scream.

They hold you down gently, murmuring filth like a prayer.

“Look at you,” Dean groans. “So fuckin’ pretty when you fall apart.”

“She’s shaking,” Sam says, awed.

They devour you.

And when you come — because of course you do — it’s not quiet. It’s not graceful. It’s violent. Ripping through you like fire, hips arching, fists gripping Dean’s hair while Sam strokes you through it with something dangerously close to reverence.

When you finally breathe again, Dean’s standing, mouth wet, unbuttoning his jeans.

“You want more, sweetheart?” he pants, eyes blown wide.

You nod, half-drunk on bliss.

Sam kisses your shoulder. “You sure?”

You pull him down by the shirt and kiss him hard. “Yes.”

Clothes vanish — you’re not sure how. You’re all hands and mouths and noise. Dean presses inside you slowly, groaning so deep it shakes the table. He fills you like he was made for it, rocking into you with slow, brutal thrusts that make you keen.

Sam kisses your lips, your throat, your chest, whispering praise against your skin.

When Dean pulls out to let Sam take his place, your whole body trembles. Sam’s slower — deeper. He kisses your temple when he bottoms out, hands holding your thighs like you might disappear.

They trade you.

Again.

And again.

And when they both finish — one groaning against your neck, the other gasping into your mouth — you lie there, boneless and wrecked, caught in the heat and scent and feel of them.

You’re not sure who moves first.

Dean brushes your hair back. Sam kisses your knuckles. You curl between them, blinking up at the ceiling, heartbeat finally slowing.

Dean grins. “Still think we’re just bein’ friendly?”

You snort, dazed. “You two are the least friendly people I’ve ever met.”

Sam chuckles, breath warm against your shoulder. “Guess we’ll have to prove otherwise.”

Dean presses a kiss to your temple.

And for once, you don’t feel like the prize.

You feel like the winner.

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dilf-docs · 8 months ago

Text

The Rock N' Roll Got Harder and Softer

eddie brock x younger fem!reader

summary: common sense isn't really your strongest suit. so here you are, riding a stranger's bike on halloween night. hey, he saved you! with one hell of a costume, no doubt. because it has to be one, right?

warnings: 18+ (minors dni), age gap (do we see the blog name? get used to it), smut, flirty reader! she's got no shame just game ++ also overshares (sorry if this trait is mischaracterizing you, everything will be okay❤️) praise kink, oral f. receiving (have u seen that tongue? ik its abt eddie but venom's tongue plays a part there... he defo going in my hear me out cake), does this count as sub!eddie idk?? the man is touch starved, p. in v. (use protection okay!! don't be like these dumb horny bitches), reader gets harrassed but the lethal protector saves the day!!

word count: 5,008 words

side note: i was re watching venom 1 and watching venom 2 since my friends want to see the third, so i got the tom hardy and his plump princess lips have to be mine virus!! like i wish i was kidding but after watching the movies and the top 100 dilf poll on twitter i felt in the need to use my hands (iykyk) ++ after finding out i have a pattern for lonely fucked up dilfs (first with old man logan now eddie). also, irdgaf halloween just passed; let's pretend ur calendar got stuck on the 31st as u read. this can happen after venom (2018) but the time isn't really important!

This is stupid.

It's a cold october night, the wind blowing in your face, and you're navigating this part of the neighborhood you don't know in nothing but a skimpy red bathing suit, like it's a hot summer day.

Dressing up as Pamela Anderson in Baywatch sounded much better a couple months ago; not now, when all the people passing by ogle your body up and down, whether it be with lust or judgment.

Your night has gone to shit: you feel cold, hungry, tipsy and vulnerable. One thing is wanting to be objectified by the possible candidates you would take home from the party, and other is being eyed by strangers who look at your body like hungry wolves.

You finally spot a mini-market amid the packed street, blue hues of light providing some sense of relief.

After getting something to drink and eat, you'll probably feel better and have the energy to walk home; there's no way you and your very small costume are getting inside an uber at ten o'clock tonight.

The bell chimes in as you enter the store, but the lady behind the counter doesn't even glance your way, focused on the TV behind her.

"Hi" she waves her hand absentmindedly, "Do you have any water?"

She mutters something that sounds like an annoyed of course we do, and points to the freezer in the back, still without looking.

"Alright, thanks" you say, walking to the freezer section and grabbing a bottle you chug until it's almost empty. You're still hungry, but at least your throat doesn't feel like you've eaten sand anymore.

With the bottle in your hand, you take the time to scour around the store, looking for something to eat. You finally decide on some chocolates; heck, it's halloween. Going home and stuffing your face with a bunch of candy for what's left of the night does sound nice.

You finally spot the chocolates on a display, moving towards it. As you're about to grab a bunch and go, another hand interrupts you.

"Oh!" you exclaim out loud, stepping back.

Maybe you're haven't gone trick or treating in years, but you will treat yourself tonight. And not with the chocolates. There's a God out there, definitely, who has blessed you not only with great curves but also with the chance of showing them off in the precise moment.

"Sorry!" your voice chirps a bit too excited for your liking. Control yourself. You clear your throat, suspecting the burn in your cheeks gives you away.

You're supposed to be confident! Flirty and charming! You're young and pretty! But how can you not be nervous when the stranger looks like that?

The eye candy who sports tattoos and a bad boy aroma that makes you drool; the jacket and beat up look just adds the perfect layer to the whole vibe. You're known to have a preference for men who look like he does. Something about the dangerous makes your heart race and skin prickle. Then your eyes travel to the motorcycle helmet in his right hand. Yummy.

The heat in your cheeks returns.

You don't even know his name, yet you've oggled him up and down without shame. It's probably all the pent up energy you had saved for the party. You figure it has to be invested somewhere else. Maybe with him.

Him, who's way older than the other guys you've been with. But that just just makes it even better.

"It's okay" he speaks up, and his voice is not only what you imagined it to be. The rich grave undertone is making your panties wet just with the sound. "You go first"

He points to the stand full of said treats. You motion forward, not without putting some extra sway and effort in your walk. By the reflection of the mirror in the corner, you know you've at least got his attention.

"Done" you say, leaving some space for him to pass. "Would the gentleman give me the honor of knowing his name?"

"I'm Eddie" he extends his hand, "Eddie Brock".

You shouldn't be this excited to shake a hand but when his large palm engulfs yours, you find it hard to let go.

With the closeness, you take another look at his face, getting lost in his warm eyes and the eyebags that adorn them. It's unfair how good they suit him; unlike you after a wild night out.

"Nice to meet you. Very nice, indeed" you purr.

You also make sure to bat your eyelashes in a way your friends tease you but has proven to be effective every time.

It seems to have done its magic, because he also takes a look at you.

But it's different.

You can sense something else is happening when his eyebrows furrow first, then face contorting into a disgusted expression as Venom says: I want to eat her, Eddie. I bet she tastes as sweet as she sounds! It's too tempting!

"Shut up" he mumbles (but loud enough for you to hear), then mutters something like We're just supossed to eat the bad guys! but you're confused and hurt, so you don't really pay attention; your ego really taking a blow tonight.

"I beg your pardon?"

Eddie curses under his breath, "that wasn't for you".

"Right" you chuckle dryly, looking around at the empty store. "Don't see who else that could be for"

"I'm sorry, it's hard to explain" he rushes the apology, looking rather embarrassed. "Now, if you excuse me".

And walks past you like it's nothing. Maybe that weird spark you felt was just on you; the interest isn't mutual.

"Hi Mrs. Chen" you hear him salute the lady behind the counter. Sighing, you grab your chocolates and head to cash out, adding another deception to your already bad night.

The bell chimes again when you make your way to the line, behind Eddie, but this time, you don't bother to look.

"Well, hello" the voice behind you says. It takes you a few seconds to realize they're talking to you.

"Hi" you mutter a bit annoyed, looking at the front. The silence is dense, the beep of each of Eddie's (million) of chocolates being the only silence filling the store.

"Won't even spare a glance, doll?" they continue, despite your clear apathy. "C'mon, lemme see if that face is as pretty as your ass"

Blood rushes to your face, and you're so embarrassed your body stiffs, fully aware the other two people in the store have noticed. You hug your body, because there isn't really anything you can cover yourself with right now, not daring to look back.

Well, fuck me.

If you thought leaving the party was going to solve your problems, it's only proven to cause more.

Eddie finishes, leading to your turn. You give a strained smile to Mrs. Chen, and she just gives you a look of pity.

"Hey, I'm talking to you!" they start to get irritated, and you just pray they don't follow you outside once you're done. "Are you deaf, Pamela?" he mocks, making your blood boil and skin sweat.

Mrs. Chen is done, but the stranger isn't taking your silence as an answer. Before you can leave, they grab your hand.

"Already leaving? You haven't even given me your name yet"

It's such a silly thought to have right now, but you realize you hadn't given Eddie your name either.

"I don't know if you've noticed, but she's clearly not interested, buddy" a voice speaks out, and you know it. It's probably the panic but you hadn't realize Eddie's still here. You hold his gaze for a few seconds, and even thought you hate having to depend on a man to be left alone, you need his help; so you plead, boring into his warm chocolate eyes.

"In case you haven't noticed, this is a two people conversation" the stranger snarls.

"Looks more like a one sided conversation to me" he bites back, making the stranger mad. That's the last thing you need. You just want to go home and curl under your warm and soft blankets; you've even lost your appetite.

"It's none of your business. Are you not understanding?"

"Oh, but that's the problem. You're the one that isn't understanding" what appears to be black surrounds his before bare neck, and you feel like you haven't completely sobered up, your mind playing games with you. The black engulfs his whole body, making him taller and more intimidating.

"It is" he threats on a distorted voice. Now, where Eddie's face used to be, another one replaces him: with white instead of two eyes and a big mouth with teeth and a really long tongue.

You hadn't even drink that much. No way this is real.

The stranger gulps, petrified. Oh, so they see it too; it's not you.

"Sorry, idiot. The lifeguard shift is over" and before the stranger replies, his head dissapear inside the mouth, chopping it off.

"Fuck!" you curse out loud, the body falling limp at your side.

A shiver runs through your back. This is a nightmare.

"Well, now that makes us two who know your secret now" Mrs. Chen adds in a rather monotone voice, and you wonder if people have gone insane―you included.

You can't even speak. Less when the black starts dissappearing, and it's Eddie's face and body again.

"Hey, sorry about that" you don't know who Eddie is talking to when saying that. "You okay?"

Okay? Sure, that you are. Fine? Not really.

"It's alright if you're scared" he reaches out to you but you flinch. He looks used to it, apparently, "I know this is weird".

You chuckle, bemused. "Weird? Not even in my wildest acid trip, I could've imagine that"

"It's easy to explain, but hard to understand" he begins, but trails off. "Would you, uh, let me?"

Well, he had saved you. If he wanted to eat you and have you go the same fate your harasser did, he would've done it by now.

Besides, common sense isn't really your strongest suit. Never was. You've had so many problems stem from it, including tonight's events, that you could probably write a column or do a podcast of it.

"Sure" you agree, "as long as you don't eat me".

You regret the (attempt at a) joke as soon as it leaves your mouth, but that is gone when you hear him laugh. A little pride fills your chest, especially at the velvet-like sound.

"I won't" he raises his palms in a playful manner, "but he wants to".

Not anymore, you don't eat the people you save!

"He?" you quirk an eyebrow, "you better rush that explanation, yeah?"

"Sure" he chuckles, "uh?"

"Y/n" you answer, and the honeyed tone is back. God, you need to get a grip. This guy could snap you in, "but just for tonight, Casey Jean Parker. So you better put some good use to it before she leaves, cowboy"

"Will take it into account, blonde" he laughs at your hair.

You hate it because it reminds you of Anne, pussy.

"Hey, it's a good wig!" you playfully slap his shoulder. "You wish you had hair like this".

You flip it, to which he just laughs. Then he bids goodbye to Mrs. Chen and you both head outside, where the wind hits your body cruelly.

A curse leaves your mouth, "Shit"

Eddie notices. Before you can react, he's putting his jacket over your shoulders.

"You got the seasons messed up, baby" he jokes, the pet name rolling off his tongue a bit too easily, "don't even think about taking it off; don't want you to catch a cold".

There's a beat of silence before he asks:

"So, about the costume..."

"I know" you properly put his jacket on. It smells like him: pine, gasoline, sweat and a bit of chocolate. "It sounded better when I came up with it in August"

"No!" he corrects hastily, then coughs "I like it".

Light pink creeps up his cheeks.

"Good to know I still got the charm" you joke, winking.

"Was this" he points with his ringed fingers up and down, "for a contest?"

"No, a party. Jesus, how old do you think I am?" you chastise in a mocking tone. "It's what pretty college girls do, Eddie: party".

Venom likes parties! I like her, Eddie!

"And if that's what you do, pretty girl" two can play the game it seems, "what exactly are you doing out of the water, Ms. Parker?"

You scoff, shocked. "You're supposed to give me your answer first".

Fortunately for Brock, you have a bad habit to overshare; it gets worse, especially with men. God knows you don't know such thing as boundaries.

You lay against the concrete wall, exhaling. Your worries condense in front of you as Eddie waits attentively, examining the way your face falls.

"I was supposed to go to a party today, hence the costume" you motion to your body, "but things went wrong".

"So you went?"

"And left" you add, "which wasn't part of the plan".

He lays next to you, crossing his arms. You try not to get distracted with the closeness.

"Why did you?"

"Leave? Because... well, things happened".

Your skin prickles uncomfortably, like it did back at the house you ran away from―the whole reason you're here, next to Eddie.

"That thing being...?" Brock presses, then realizing you probably don't want to tell, so he shuts up.

"Don't worry" it's like you guess his thoughts, "It's just... sort of embarrassing".

You breathe in some air.

"He wasn't supossed to be there. My ex" you clarify, "yet he went. And guess what? With his new girlfriend! And alright, I'm not a girl who holds grudges, but it hasn't even been two months since we broke up and now he's matching costumes with her?"

Saying it out loud sounds a tad bit childish, but Eddie doesn't seem to be judging, and your pride continues to be bruised, so you carry on with your little rant.

"So I drank a little too much and went up to them. I don't know what took over me, but one second I was dancing and then Pamela Anderson in Baywatch was grabbing Pamela Anderson as Tommy Lee's wife by her hair. Real blonde hair, on top of that... that bitch. I decided to be Pamela Anderson first! Which, by the way, would never do that. She truly is a girl's girl" pause, "by that I mean parading around with the guy I ended things with because of you"

We should eat them.

Instead of what Venom said, Eddie asks:

"Your boyfriend cheated on you?"

"Yeah" embarrassment washes over you, "The owner of the house is friend's with her. So, I decided it was for the best to leave. My not so bright idea that followed was to walk to the nearest store for some junk and head home. And now I ended on this side of town I don't know. Lucky me"

Lucky us that found you.

"Wow" Eddie manages to muster after all your information dump and Venom's little comment, "they're idiots. I'm sorry".

"Thanks, but my night is still ruined" you take a look at your legs, "now I have to walk home, and I suspect, bare―without your jacket".

He doesn't know what takes over him when he says, or maybe it's Venom giving him the boost of courage he needs.

"Need'a ride?" your face morphs into surprise. He adds, "Keep my jacket. That way you can give it back when we're there"

Your eyes trail to the bike parked on the side, which you guess belongs to him. This is hard because the decision is so easy.

Hey, sometimes you gotta do it for the plot!

"We both win" is his way of insisting. "No more stares, and my jacket gets express delivered to me".

You don't need that much insisting, almost instantly caving in, walking over the bike and hoping behind him―like you know he'd never hurt you; full on trusting him.

"I don't have a spare one. Use mine" he apologizes, handing you the helmet he carried before.

"Thanks" you accept, "at this point I'll have to pay you. Do you accept my chocolates? It's all I got with me"

"We'll discuss those arrangements later" his deep voice comments, and well, you might just give him anything he wants!

Before you can regret your life choices, the engine roars, Eddie making his way through the street, all your surroundings reduced to a blur.

"Woah!" you shout, but it gets lost in the wind and speed. Luckily for you, the wig is secured inside the helmet. At this speed, there would be a blonde mop on the street somewhere.

"Liking it?" he asks over the noise. You only can happily humm in response.

Honestly, you've never felt this... free before. It's liberating: your hair dancing in the wind, the crisp trepidation in your fingers, the way you dare yourself to let loose and let the experience consume you. It's the first time you truly feel alive.

All you can think now is on the adrenaline coursing through your system. That and the way you're holding onto Eddie's thick back, your arms caging his form. You can feel his heartbeat too, as steady as yours. You can't help but wonder if it's because of the ride or the passenger he's carrying in the back.

You keep giving him directions whenever he looks back, keeping it like that until you both arrive at your apartment complex.

Once the bike is parked, he whistles. "Nice. Much better than mine"

You give his helmet back, taking the wig off in the process too.

"I'll have to see it to believe it" you tease, and if he heard, Eddie pretends not to.

There's some silence until you understand it's over: the original "stuffing and watching horror movies until I sleep" isn't sounding as good as extending your time with Eddie. For some reason, you can't seem to let go yet, and accept that tonight was a rare occasion that will only be once.

"Well, I guess this is it" you hate the way the obvious disappointment drips in your tone, "thank you, Eddie. Goodnight"

You hop off and take the jacket out of your body. If your skin gets goosebumps, you'll blame the cold.

Guess Pamela Anderson didn't work her magic tonight.

"Wait!"

Or maybe she did.

"Yes?" you turn around, smiling a bit too much.

Eddie doesn't look at you when he says, "we didn't discuss the payment"

Your red lips purse into a smile.

"We can discuss the details inside" and point out your apartment on the third floor, "for the cold, obviously. It's warm up there, you know; I've been told they like my heat"

You finally recognize the feeling from before, at the store. It's mutual. The tension; it still lingers.

"Sure" he says sounding all but that, "show me the way".

Your voice drops as you say, "Follow me, then"

And you lead the way: wet spot in between your legs, growing as your excitement. As you open the door, Eddie can't help but think the inside is so you: sweet and girly―like a strawberry bubblegum.

"Like what you see?" you joke, sitting in the couch. It has double meaning, obviously, but Eddie is so oblivious he just answers:

"It's so... you" mentally slapping himself when he says it, "I mean... you know, pink"

Idiot! She's talking about herself.

You giggle, "And?"

Patting the empty spot next to you, Brock walks over, like in a trance. You can see him gulp―nervous, the adam's apple on his throat bobbing.

Coward! Say something.

"Pretty..." he breathes out.

His hand finds its way to your bare thigh, and the touch is so electric, it takes you a lot not to jump at the contact.

Now kiss her!

"Don't be scared, Eddie" your voice is so low he swears he's dreaming. "I don't bite" there's a pause before you add, "unless you want me to".

Do it!

He would be lying if he said Venom is the reason why he leans forward, wrapping his lips around yours. Why he suddenly feels hungry, starving, eating your mouth out like he hasn't had a meal in days is beyond him.

"That's right" you moan between kisses, "cash your pay out, cowboy".

His hands tug on your hair as he deepens the kiss, a few groans echoing around the apartment.

"I like it" he twirls a strand in between your fingers, "suits you better".

There's a hearty laug emitting from your chest, "you do? Show me then"

It's like something snapped inside of him.

His hand moves to hug you from behind, right at the bare spot the swim suit had.

"You smell so sweet" Eddie's inhaling the vainilla scent off your soft skin, and Venom growls in pleasure, "like a pastry".

You have to laugh again, because this man is clearly touched starved.

Now he's rubbing his nose along the length of your neck, leaving some wet kisses that have you swearing his tongue isn't human. He mumbles incoherences like he's drunk, begging he wants to shove his mouth where it belongs: that being between your legs, to taste what he’s been craving for so long.

"Well, if you want it so bad" you make a play at his earlier words, "eat it".

So with trembling hands, he's pushing the little piece of bathing suit until your clit is exposed. His other hand grips your hip, and it doesn't take that long for him to fall onto his knees, the pink fluffly carpet on the floor providing some ground.

He beggins to toy with it, leaving you to collect a gasp. Alright! He has experience. Not that you ever doubted it, but now that he's here, his fingers inside of you, you can't help but feel the luckiest girl in the world.

"Thought the sweet you wanted was some chocolates" you manage to joke between moans, his thick fingers too busy lubing the needy area.

He gets another moan out of you, "this is better" grabbing a finger out, he licks a bit of your essence left on his fingers, "tastes much better. Look at you, so wet already; good girl"

Now he's doing tight little circles, his thick fingers speeding up the pace―quicker and quicker, until you're writhing in his grip. Your red nail dig into his forearm leaving little crescents. The haze may be too much that you don't know if the way they instantly heal is something you imagined or not.

"P-please, Eddie" you mewl.

Let me try, Eddie.

Without explaining, his tongue begins licking your inner thighs where your liquids dripped. It sends a shiver down your spine, and God, how thankful you are about leaving the party. The consequences of your petty fight and disastrous little adventure didn't end up being so bad.

"Sweet" he exclaims in that distorted voice back from the store. Your eyes go wide, so he rushes an "I'll explain later".

He doesn't give you much time to dwell on it before his tongue finds its way to your core again: the muscle licking the wet folds of your sensitive clit before diving fully. You swear his tongue has gotten longer with the way he explores your warm insides, quickly finding the spot no one but yourself has correctly pleased before.

Soft sobs fall from your lips. "Yes, More! P-please!"

His tongue continues its ministrations, almost lazily against it. Your body tenses up, reacting to him so well, and the familiar warmth pools in your abdomen.

He keeps licking until you’re twitching in over-sensitivity. A groan escapes his drooling lips, "I'm still a gentleman, you know?" the vibration his voice makes in between your legs sends a delicious wave that does nothing but ignite the fire pooling in the low of your stomach. "Ladies first"

You deliciously cum on his awaiting tongue. Even in your haze, you find his eyes, and the previous warm brown looks closer to hungry now, his pupils blown wide.

"Go ahead" you encourage, "be a good boy for me and taste it".

His fingers lick your remains off of them, his tongue making an obscene display.

"Will you let me pay you, now?"

He doesn't even need to wait, his hand eagerly taking his cock out of his pants―taking the sweat pants out in record time, sliding his girth between your legs, rubbing it against your folds that give him a warm welcome, coating it in your wetness.

Eddie slides inside you with ease, his hands resting on your waist as he slams his entire length inside you. The couch creaks, the only other sound in the apartment your hiss, because of the initial stretch. He gives you time to adjust and then he starts moving.

"Y/n, God. You pretty sweet thing" his hot breathe mumbles against your ear.

Never in your life you would've thought you'd gone home with a complete stranger, but by the way Eddie Brock is deep inside you right now, you may do it more often. Or even better, bring him back. Maybe meet his apartment next time.

Eddie thinks he's gone insane. He's never had sex like this before. Not even on his wildest dreams. Hell, doesn't know if it's the lack of activity before you, your filthy mouth dripping with moans or the way you perfectly wrap around him, or maybe his newfound stamina he could finally put to use, thanks to Venom. Maybe it's all that, but who cares? God, he's loving every second of it.

Eddie uses his hands to grab your ass, holding onto the soft flesh so firm, you'll have bruises tomorrow for sure. He starts pumping you fast and deep like an animal. You muffle your screams against the crook of his neck, fully aware that doesn't stop the paper thin walls from telling your neighbours the good time you're having.

You feel your moves start to get unsteady, your orgasm closer and closer. "I'm c-close" you blurt out and he growls instead of talking. The way your body jolts with each of his poundings is insane. Your friend will never let this go if you tell them. But it just feels so fucking good.

"Fuck!"

Your whole body shakes when the wave of pleasure heats you. His hand is suprinsingly soft, caressing your cheek as you rest your forehead against his to catch your breathe.

"That's the best sex I've ever had" he confesses, his voice sounding drunk. Every drop of alcohol in your system has completely vanished by now, but you feel dizzy too, the overstimulation driving your senses to it's limits.

But it doesn't make you stop.

"How can you rate something that hasn't finished?" you move your body so Eddie stays against the coach. When he realizes what you're trying to do, he half-supresses a moan. "If you want to give your opinion, you better finish the whole plate".

So now you're on top of him, riding his cock like nothing; you must also have a symbiote inside of you, because Eddie can't explain your infinite stamina. So young, so pretty and so goddamn tight; he really won tonight, huh?

The change of position makes his cock slightly change the angle, hitting your g-spot. "Oh my god, right here!" you gasp. Your pussy clenches while you keep bouncing on his dick. If it weren't for the bathing suit, your tits would be bouncing. That doesn't mean he doesn't imagine them, your nipples perking through the fabric making it all too easy.

"You're so perfect" he whispers against your shoulder, "you sweet little thing".

If he keeps calling you like that, you might ask him to stay the night.

You feel like it, so, as a reward, you press your lips against his and he moans at your cunt clenching. He knows you are close again.

"Cum for me, y/n" he demands in his deep voice. Your name in his lips is such an addictive sound, you're sure you've reached heaven.

"Cum with me, Eddie" you manage to say.

So now he sits a little straighter on your poor couch (that's seen and taken only so much) so he can wrap his other arm around your waist. You take him deeper every time, even if now the position makes it a bit uncomfortable, but every shiver of pleasure you get is worth it.

"At least look at me when you do it" his brown orbs bore into yours. You can't hold back any longer, your hips rolling to increase the friction.

Your second orgasm washes over you: toes curling and body shaking. You've never felt more tired and energetic in your life. So you fall in Eddie's strong tattoed arms. He joins you, painting your tight walls with his thick and white shots of cum.

You are both out of breathe but Eddie takes his time and kisses you deeply.

"I think this life guard is out of duty for now" you mumble sleepily against his arms, tracing lazily his tattoos. He chuckles, moving one of his hands to brush strands of your damp hair from your forehead.

"What about the chocolates?" he jokes.

"Fuck them" you yawn, "stay here". He might've heard it wrong.

Stupid Eddie and stupid little human brain. She wants us here!

After some minutes of silence your sleepy voice mumbles, "You didn't explain me anything, cheater. If you want to stay, talk".

He feels you rest your head on his shoulder, sleep taking control of your form. You look so cute, he starts to forget how shitty his life actually is.

Hey! I can hear your thoughts, idiot. Your life isn't shitty anymore, I'm here!

"How about a bed time story? I promise I won't leave any detail out"

You cuddle closer to his warm body, "Promise?"

He intertwines his pinky finger with yours, promising himself this won't be the last time he sees you.

"Promise"

cr: divider @kodaswrld / gif @badassbaker

#dilfistwrites #eddie brock #eddie brock x reader #eddie brock x you #eddie brock fanart #eddie brock imagine #eddie brock smut #eddie brock fanfic #venom #venom movie #venom symbiote #venom smut #venom spoilers #venom 3 #venom the last dance #marvel #marvel smut #pls excuse the filth<3

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nemesyaaa · 11 months ago

Text

buffalo 66' au ! old!serial killer!rafe x young!sugardoll!reader (how they met, and their first night together.)

you were red and you liked me 'cause i was blue. but you touched me and suddenly i was a lilac sky.

warnings : lmfaooo this part always killing me but here it is....rafe being 90% of the warning part and the menace he already is, kidnapping, daddy issues, urge of sexualing your own self, slight of stockholm syndrome, dubcon, smut, dark!rafe, violence, mentions of threats, r being a missing girl, age gap, size difference, choking. rafe being mean to the reader. slight of daddy kink. sick attitude. dirty talk. attention whore. just minors DNI. (why it's bigger than my grocery list actually...). please carefully pay attention to the tags !!?

author's note : it's my first time writing a dark fic so don't expect too much 🙏🏿 you can read this without watching buffalo 66.

some girls were the trailer park princess, and others the queen of the gas station.

as the girl of the gas station, you were there all day on the road of these men much older than you, who had and drove pretty vintage cars who were literally bigger than you. those rich daddies surely had more money than your poor father who was always sitting behind the desk of his shop waiting for the night.

your father never gave you any attention, not even a look, he didn't care about what you did on your summer days as long as he never saw you. so you stayed all day at your playground queendom across from the pitiful, filthy motel where you lived. because here at least the men were looking at you.

of course they were looking at you, you always gave them something to look at with your tiny dresses that showed your naked thighs, your tits pressed together in that backless top. you always dressed in that soft and milky blue shades. as the sea and the sky, you were blue.

while their wives found you sick, you could feel their stares every time you leaned down to grab the keys that they forgot to give you each time. you could feel their eyes completely charmed by the way your summer dress rode up above your ass, and your panties stuck out.

fully bent over, you could hear the groans of these old men, the way they forced their hands themselves to not touch you when you wanted nothing more than to see them give in to the young temptation that you were.

you had a power in them and you loved to see them completely crazy.

you worked as a gas pump attendant. in reality, you did it behind your father's back because it allowed you to stay in the company of these men who only had eyes for you.

you always put on a show for them, and it always worked because you were irresistible.

but there was this guy every time, a regular customer, cold and short-spoken who never spoke to you.

he had a beautiful and luxurious car and you always wondered what job he did to drive such an incredible vehicle, and to spoil you so much with all this money.

he never said thank you for your service. after all, you were paid for it. his eyes were blue as you. he could park and glare at you for hours, sitting deep in his seat, a cigarette stuck between his opened lips.

he was so much older than you, so much to the point it was indecent. when you had first seen him, you had melted like sugar.

as you were coming back from the ice cream parlor, your lips sucking that delicious vanilla ice cream, you sat on the edge of the gas station, right in front of his car, your legs completely spread, white cream melting and dripping between your thighs. he rubbed his painful boner through his boxer.

you were sick, you let him look at you with this completely perverted stare while you let chunks of ice fall into your cleavage.

his eyes were all over you, but this time it was different, because this time it was him who was thinking about you while touching himself. this time it was him who was sick about you , him who had all these furious ideas about you. he pumped himself so hard, biting his lips harshly. and you continued your depraved show, while he jerked off, his big cock shaked and leaked in his own hand, his thick and already experimented fingers moved around his length faster and faster, the sweaty and dirty sound of his balls slapping, the squeaking noises of his chair, his arched back making the chair shaking. you thought of the veins of his dick engorged of blood pulsated against his hefty strength. that was enough to make you fully wet.

you wanted nothing more than to make this old man reach for you. but the problem was, you were too young and naive to know how mad he was, and what he really wanted to do with a pretty doll like you.

you stood up when you finished your ice cream, putting your dress back on neatly, and leaned down, leaning your porcelain princess arms over his car window.

you shuddered when he spread his cum on your face without any warning, smeared the remains of vanilla ice cream over your sloppy lips gloss with lick of drool.

he pushed his big thumb against your little mouth, pushed it into an o shape, and you closed her to start licking up the drops of his cum.

but like every time he came here, he never spoke to you. you had just seen the car leave, while you still had the taste of him on your lips. it was rude.

the next day, your father sent you out to do some groceries on a sweltering hot summer day, tired of seeing you around doing nothing. what he didn’t know was that this was probably the last time he saw you. and even shoupe that you had seen earlier in the morning, and who had told you to be careful, something with a killer around.

when you were done with the grocery, you started walking through the empty parking lot.

you thought you were alone, even though there were a few empty cars.

but it was a mistake, a terrible mistake that you were going to regret.

“didn't shoupe tell you to be careful this morning, sweetheart ? because i'm pretty sure, he did. ”

you screamed when the man grabbed you by the waist, pressing your little ragdoll body against his chest much stronger. the stranger quickly covered your mouth, and bruised your pretty lips with violence without any caring, shoved down his fingers between them to the point that you almost choked with your own breath and saliva.

“ you hurt..me…! ” you tried to say with a lot of difficulty, as his firm grip crushed against your breasts.

“ not yet actually, doll. but i promise, i will if you continue to fight. so beware, or i will fucking kill you. not a threat, sweetheart. it's a promise. “ and you knew that even god couldn't save you at this time.

you tried to bite him, but your teeth barely touched his skin. his lips hovered above your ear, you could hear his deep older voice warned you.

" bite me one more time, and i will break you. i love wrestle with you little girl, but i think you will really hate the way i fight. because when daddy fight sugardoll, he kills. and tiny things like you are so easy to wreck. and you dont want to die today, right ? you're too young for that. do you got it ? nod if you got it, yes. smart baby, understand easily that she needs to listen and not fucking run away. ”

his strength was heavy. you had stopped resisting a few minutes ago, even when he put you in his car.

he started driving, with a smirk, he looked in the rearview mirror before telling you.

“ what's the matter, sugardoll ? don't want to put a show for me, anymore ? ”

he had taken you to a shitty old motel down the road, where no one would be able to pick you up here. you knew he was intelligent, you knew it because you understood that every time he came to see you, he tried to learn more about you, but not to know you no, but to know when would be the right time to kidnap you. you knew it because he had stalked you carefully.

he had tried to tie you up while you tried to struggle one last time. but he had grabbed your jaw so violently that you felt your face shiver in his hands. “one more move, and i’ll show you how dolls are really treated, how i have no fucking bother to kill a tiny thing like you. ”

“i’m not going to run away.”

"i know.” he shushed you with a sick evil smirk. “ but it's not because you don't want to, sugardoll .but more because you can't.” he said, while releasing your jaw.

“ that's the small but important difference. i kidnapped you. do you even know what it means ? "

you started to cry, tears running down your cheeks.

“ you want a real reason to cry? fine. i can do that for you. i kidnapped you but you want to know the big part of all this? is that no one will come for you. your father doesn't love you , and that's why you work in this stupid gas station. you love the attention of these men so bad that you feel obliged to sexualize yourself to feel desired but me, i wanted you the first time i saw you. i let you do it, i let you play with them, but now it's all over. since i own you, this game is fucking over. ”

“shoupe will come after me ! ”

“but maybe you won’t be around to see it anymore.” he looked at you, and shushed your tears, while staring in your wet eyes. “ yes, i really like when you give me those tears, cry to me, little girl i'm the only men that really got you. ”

you glared at him as if he had fallen from the sky.

“ but now you have to be careful, don’t get on my nerves. i know it's hard for you, but don't do stupid things. ”

he placed your hand on his lower back, where you had felt the metallic coldness of the gun. and you shivered.

"yes, you got it. don't ever get on my nerves.”

“ how can i get on your nerves ? you don't really seems like a bad guy. more like a sweet guy ? ”

“ i'm not. and i'm not trying to be so watch your mouth. “

“ but i really think you are. can i hug you ? ”

“ try it, doll, literally try it. just try to touch me, i dare you. and i bet you will never tell me i'm the sweetest guy again. ”

“ can you at least bathe me ? ” you asked seriously.

“ jesus, do you think i'm your slave or whatever ? do you forget which position you are in ? in the captive one. so do not ask me those stupid things again. and don't try, no, never try to run away because, i can promise you that when i will find you, it will not be a pleasant time for you. and not even a little, but to the point, you will ask me to kill you. and i will be in a mood to accept your request ? yes, me. ”

you nodded as the kind and little girl you are who cannot argue against this tall man. he released your small face, and you were bathing alone. while you were taking your bath, alone in the tub, you heard rafe on the phone without being able to understand what he was saying but after that call, he left the room.

you had decided to buy some food with the little money you had at the food and drink vending machine.

with a happy smile, you went back up, hoping to please him. but you had found him on the chair in front of the TV.

“look, what…”

“i think you’re really nice. but not at your own good, sugar. ”

“ i just wan…”

“ get on the bed, now. ”

he couldn't help but relaxing when he saw how your blue dress was so tiny, already showing your soaked underwear.

" no whining. " he said as he shoved himself deeply in your tight abused cunt, your ragdoll body pressed down in the mattress, his thick stronger arms hugged your small waist, while thrusting harder and harder, your walls clenched around his fat cock. you can felt the size growing bigger in your wettering pussy, as he turned you into a real crybaby, tears flowing down your cheeks. you were caged by his beefy and muscular body on the bed, gasped on the edge. “ you wanted to act like a big girl ? then take it like a big girl. no fucking whining, i'm just giving you what you want. ”

he was literally buried inside you, snapping your hips, moving in and out. the atmosphere was hot, you felt the heat, there were trails of saliva around your mouth. “stop whining babydoll, daddy is not at his worse actually. and you don't want to see this happen.” you wanted to hate him but it was like you appreciated him being so mean to you, your pussy was dripping, your fluids drenching him, your sticky walls surrounded his girth. " yes, that's it. pull up some juices for daddy, make it easier for him to destroy you. "

everytime you runned away from him, he lifted your head with a grunt, and with a wild thrust inside of you, making you drip even more as his glistening tip reached your spot, the dirty and wetness sound of his moves echoed in the room, your body trapped against his taller one.

with a hand on your throat, you were arched to the point where he could see your wetted eyes rolled up. "try to run away again, and you will have the fucking pleasure to be a momma, as well as a missing girl. i'm not asking you to take my cock better.” he said with a threat. “ no, i'm telling you to do it as your fucking job. ”

all teary, you could bet that rafe didn't know how big he was for telling you this. you were trying your best actually. he was rutting in you, holding your tiny size with one big hand, getting so feral everytime he saw your small body twitching when he pushed himself further. your moans were loud, as your squirted more than one time on him, your dripping walls clamped his hard cock. even when your third orgasm flowed against your bulging pussy, creating a mess at the surface, he continued.

" you know sugardoll, you better work faster for my cum, because i will only stop when i will see how creampie your pussy is for my dick.”

he stuffed your puffy messy cunt, while your pumped his fingers who slidded deep down in your throat, your warm and bullied tongue fighting to not dropped them.

you slobbed more with the overstimulation. you felt like this man was insatiable. rafe loved to see you, his sugardoll in pain, taking so much for him.

when he finally stopped teasing you, and fighting himself to not cum, and clearly toying you, he exploded, making you cried out. all your body was filled with spasms.

you expected something from rafe when he pulled out, a little soft spot, or at least, just one look but he just went to the bathroom. alone.

you expected him to be sweet for you, like the sugar you were for him. and you knew, that you will work for this later.

when he came back, you looked at him, always attracted by his charisma, the way he made you felt so tiny by his big size, the way he was old enough to make you feel like a little girl, just the way his raised voice made you feel so small.

“ can i sleep with you ? ”

“ whatever. just don't touch me. ”

“ you're not gonna be my big spoon ? “

“ what the fuck is this ? i'm not gonna be your spoon. jesus, can you just sleep and not ask for any stupid things that you think i will do because you're already so obsessed with me ? and give me your hands. ”

he tied them up on the bed with your little blue ribbon.

“ just in case you think you can escape me. ”

“ i can't sleep like that ! ”

“ i fear it's not my fucking problem, sugardoll.”

“ fine. i will talk and talk all night. ”

“ i can fuck you all the night too. but one of us will not survive this. so stop being so damn annoying. ”

“ what if i want to pee in the middle of the night ? ”

“ you're strong enough to hold it. and you fucking better be strong enough to hold it. ”

“ why are you so mean to me ? why you kidnapped me ? ”

“ sugardoll, listen to me. look at me, yes. eyes on daddy right now. i swear, and you need to listen carefully because i will tell you once, just once, so your dumby brain need to pay attention, if you're talking another time, even if i see your lips moving, just a twitch, i will put my dick right in your mouth, making you suck it for without a break until the sun rises again. and i can promise you that after, you will never talk to me because you will never be able to open that mouth again. do you got it ? nod your head if you got it, doll.”

and you nodded.

as a doll, you were conditionned to listen to your owner, even if he was so mean to you. but you were as soft as sugar, always melted around, already thinking he was the best guy around.

“ sweet dreams, sugardoll. ”

i promise one day i will write something very good, just give me a chance. i think the only sweet thing in this work, it's rafe calling r " sugardoll ", he's so mean please 😭😭 i think i make him a little too dark to the point, i'm questionning about how he can be sweet to the reader now ????? but i guess, it's part of the game. tysm @bunnyrafe and @fae-of-prey me a lot !

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eclairemaire · 14 days ago

Text

Meeting the Missus pt. 2

Part 1 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5

Pairing: Robert "Bob" Floyd x Wife! Reader

Category: Fluff

Summary: The Team finds out Bob is married and wants to meet the missus.

Warnings: Slight allusions to mature content(nothing explicit ever stated though), Reader is described very similarly to Rhea Ripley, Reader and Bob are very much in love, No mention of Y/N used, Southern Reader (she's like all southern ladies sweet like iced tea, but can knock you on your ass if she has too), Express mentions of reader and Bob's Child, Lemme know if I missed any.

Word Count: 1.9K

Notes: This is the second part of 'Meeting the Missus'. I highly recommend reading the first part before reading this. Please enjoy!!! And I will continue to update as I'm able.

After the first meet-up with the dagger squad at the Hard Deck, it became almost routine that every other week or so, you would meet up with them for an evening at the bar. Bob wasn’t all that surprised that the team liked you so much; what wasn’t there to like? All that southern charm wrapped up in a woman who had all the means to be anything but. The team had pestered him so much about what you even did all the time and why they only got to see you every other week, but working from home and being a full-time parent had taken up most of your time.

“So Bobby, when are we going to get to meet this kid of yours that you keep hidden all the time?” Hangman asked as the squad made its way to the locker rooms from the hangar.

“Probably soon,” Bob said, wiping sweat from his brow. ”The missus is planning to have a cookout soon, and I get the feeling that all of you will get invited, seeing as neither of us has family here in San Diego.”

“Oh? An invitation to your home and free food.” Rooster sighed, “Man, are you sure that’s a good idea? We might never leave.”

Putting his helmet on the bench and starting to remove his flight suit, Bob sighed as well, “I don’t have a choice in the matter. She tells me what she plans, and I do what I can.” He shivers at the reminder of what happened when he didn’t do something you asked of him when you were pregnant; he’ll forever be haunted by the memory.

“I can’t tell if that’s because you love her so much or if you’re scared of your wife?” Fanboy says as he starts putting on his civvies.

“Can’t you tell it’s both?” Coyote states as he shoves something into his locker, “That woman is capable of folding any of us like lawn chairs if she wanted to.”

Bob looked at the rest of them with a look that said, ‘I’m not answering that question.’ Grabbing his bag and slinging it over his shoulder, and shoving the truck keys into his front pocket starts to leave.

“I’ll see y’all tomorrow, and let you know when the cookout is,” he waved a hand over his shoulder and exited the locker room.

Pulling into the driveway, Bob sees the lights off in the house and hears music and laughter coming from the backyard. Unlocking the front door and putting his bag on the bench in the entryway, he’s greeted by one of the dogs.

“Hey Nuggs,” he says quietly, squatting down to give the dog some pets. “I’m home!” He yells as he stands up and starts moving toward the back door.

“DADDY!” Little feet can be heard running toward him as the back door opens. Seeing his kiddo coming at him full speed, Bob braces himself for the incoming tornado that is his daughter. Picking her up and spinning her around, he smiles as he sees you approaching after shutting the back door. “Hi, Bug.” He tells Riley as he places her on his hip, turning to you, kissing you on your cheek. “My love.”

“Ewww..” Riley says, starting to squirm in his arms. “Daddy you’re gonna give Mama cooties.” He turns to her and starts peppering her face with kisses, and giggles erupt from Riley as soon as his attention his on her, making her squirm even more.

“Cooties? Mama can’t get cooties from me she’s got super powers” he giggles at her squeals, as you watch with a fond smile as you lean against the wall with your arms folded over your chest showing off the muscles that reside there. Riley turns to look at you from her dad's arms and smiles.

“Yeah, Mama’s got super strength and super love!” She exclaims, eyes bright with admiration for her mama. Bob sets Riley down with a warm smile.

“Bug, why don’t you go wash up before we eat dinner?” you ask her before she scampers off down the hall and up the stairs to get ready for dinner. Leaning off the wall and stepping into Bob’s bubble, you smile as you string your arms around his neck as his arms snake around your waist, hands resting on your lower back.

“Hi.”

“Hi,” It’s a quiet exchange before he leans down to kiss you on your lips, it’s soft, full of love, and longing after a long day apart. Pressing his forehead to yours, he asks, “How are you?”

“Good, it’s been a productive day, Riley had a good nap, and I got plenty of work done and dinner made on time with no major disasters. The only thing missing was my wonderful husband.” You say pecking his lips. “How was yours?”

“The usual, drills, reports, pushups. Told the squad about the cookout,” he said, noticing the furrowing of your brow, “Didn’t give them a date but a forewarning that it’d be happening at some point in the future.”

“Oh, ok, good, guess I’ll move up the date then.” You said, stepping back and turning toward your office through a pair of French doors down the hall, Bob follows silently. Going up to the big calendar on the wall, looking over the dates and what has good availability, for all the prep needed for what you were planning.

“It doesn’t have to be soon,” he says, observing you as you head toward your desktop to check your work calendar.

“No, no, it’s all good. My current project should be done by next Wednesday at the latest. That’ll give me all of Thursday and Friday for prep and Saturday morning for last-minute arrangements if necessary.” Stepping away from your computer and heading to the exit of your office, you motion for him to scoot out of the way so you could close the office doors. Just as you head for the kitchen, you hear a thump from upstairs and then the sound of muffled cries from what could only be your daughter. Sharing a brief look at each other, you both rush up the steps to see Riley in the hall with what appears to be carpet burn forming on her forehead as she looks up at both of you with tears in her eyes. Her lip wobbles for half a second before she wails at the top of her lungs.

“Ma-Mama,” She sobbed as she reached out for you. Bending down and picking her up swiftly, she tucks her head under your chin and wraps her arms around your neck, as Bob starts to head to grab the first aid kit from the bathroom.

“Meet you in the kitchen,” you say as you turn down the stairs and go to the kitchen. Setting Riley on the island countertop, you grab a wash cloth and wet it with cool water to dab against her forehead. “What happened, Bug?” You ask, your tone soft. Bob is next to you, first aid kit set open on the counter, grabbing Neosporin and several band-aids for her to choose from.

“I tripped an-an-and fell on’ta floor,” she said, hiccups coming in strong as she tried to calm down. Bob had started to rub circles on her back as her hiccups continued and her tears started to slow. Wiping her tear tracks with the wash cloth and stepping away so Bob could apply Neosporin to her forehead.

“Oh, Bug,” Bob said as he finished applying the cream and wiped his fingers clean with the damp wash cloth. “How would you like to pick out a band-aid, then eat dinner and watch a movie after with me and your mama, does that sound good?” he asked, holding out the band-aids for her to choose from. She nodded her head as she reached for an orange one with dinosaurs on it, her eyes glossy as she looked up at both of you.

“Ok,” you say as you take the band-aid to put it on her forehead. Afterward, Bob picks her up and takes her to the dinner table, and you get everyone a bowl of food, and you all eat as soft conversation flows.

After all the dishes are put in the dishwasher, you all pile on the couch, Riley in between you and Bob, as the opening scenes for ‘Quest for Camelot’ play on the screen. By the end of the movie, Riley is having a hard time keeping her eyes open. Bob picks her up as you both go upstairs to tuck her into bed. Placing a kiss on both of her cheeks, you say, “Good night, Riley, I love you.” She snuggles up to her stuffed animal as Bob does the same.

“Night, muma, da’dy… love you,” She mumbles as she squishes into her blankets. You and Bob slowly back out of the room and close the door. Heading into y’all’s bedroom just down the hall.

Once inside, Bob shuts the door behind you, grabs your hand, and heads to sit at the end of the bed. Sitting down, he pulls you in between his legs, his arms wrapping around you, holding you there, and rests his head against your chest. Carding your fingers through his hair as you sway lightly. You both stay that way for a few minutes, just basking in each other's presence. You move to sit next to him on the bed, facing each other, you take off his glasses and set them aside. You lean your forehead against his and look into his eyes, they were a magnificent blue, as though they held all of the oceans within them, deep and filled with love. Tilting in to kiss him, deliberate, sensual, filled with all the love you carried for him, he returned the kiss with fervor, one hand on the side of your face, the other holding your hip as you leaned into him. Letting out a hum as you release him from the kiss.

Looking at his still closed eyes, “I’m going to wash up.” It was hushed, barely spoken above a whisper, moving to head towards the ensuite in an unhurried manner, he held onto your hand until you were out of reach. “You can always join me,” it was said in an unserious tone as you entered the bathroom. Bob just groaned from his spot on the bed.

The following morning, Bob woke up enveloped in your arms as your head rested on his shoulder. He was surrounded by your smell and your heat. Placing a kiss on your forehead, he started to unravel himself from you. As soon as he started to move, you started mumbling in your sleep, small, incoherent thoughts.

“Mhmm, ugh, sweetheart, is it time for you to go already?” You mumble as you try to pull him back into the bed. It was a good thing you didn’t have a good hold on him anymore ‘cause that would’ve been a losing battle for him.

“Yes, my love,” he leaned down to place a kiss on your head, before he started to get ready to head to base. Getting dressed in his khakis and heading downstairs, grabbing an apple and a protein bar to eat on the way to base, he started to dig through the fridge for some leftovers from dinner the night before to take as his lunch. Before leaving for the day, he went upstairs to hug and kiss you goodbye before going to Riley’s room to do the same and wish her a good day.

Part 1 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5

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uncuredturkeybacon · 27 days ago

Text

𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚝𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚖𝚊 || 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚐𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚡 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

in which a glance turns into something more

You didn’t expect your seat to be this close.

Court side. Right next to the scorer’s table. Inches from the Dallas Wings bench. Close enough to hear the squeak of sneakers, the soft smack of high-fives, the clipped shouts from the coaches. But none of that mattered—none of it registered—because Paige Bueckers was on the court.

And you? You were in her line of sight.

She’s in warmups, bouncing from side to side, her hoodie half-zipped and draped loose over her practice jersey. She’s focused, kind of. Talking to teammates, stretching, shooting.

But every few seconds—without fail—her eyes flick to the sideline.

To you.

You pretend not to notice the first time. The second time, you wonder if you imagined it. By the third, you’re smiling to yourself. And by the fifth, you’re already leaning your cheek against your knuckles, elbow perched on the scorer’s table, your eyes following her like they belong there.

You’re not here by accident. You know what she can do. You’ve watched the highlight reels, the draft night interview, the pressers. But nothing—not the ESPN features or social media clips—prepared you for her in person. Not like this. Not from this close.

And maybe… maybe she wasn’t prepared for you either.

Toward the end of warmups, Paige glances at you again—longer this time. Her lips curve into something between a smile and a dare.

Then she jogs over.

“Hey,” she says, voice casual but breath catching on the edges.

You look up, pretending to be surprised. “Oh, hey. You talking to me?”

She grins. “Yeah. Unless someone else is sitting next to the scorer’s table looking like that.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Looking like what?”

She opens her mouth, closes it again, rubs the back of her neck. “You know. Just… like that.”

“Ah,” you tease. “That clears it up.”

She lets out a breath of laughter, almost shy, and points to the court. “I’ve got, like, two minutes before the buzzer. But I figured if I didn’t come over and say something now, I’d spend the whole game trying to work up the courage.”

“And what made you work it up now?” you ask.

She shrugs. “You kept looking at me like you were trying to memorize me. Kind of gave me confidence.”

Your smile falters just slightly, stunned by how direct she is. “Maybe I was,” you say softly.

The horn sounds. The crowd starts cheering. Paige steps back.

“I’ll be back,” she says with a wink, jogging off to join the huddle.

When the game starts, you think that’s it. A moment. A good story to tell.

But then the first timeout is called.

And she comes straight to you.

She plops down on the empty seat to your left—the bench already crowded, but apparently not too crowded for her to make room. A towel around her neck, sweat glistening at her temples.

“You impressed yet?” she asks, turning to you with that same bold smile, but her cheeks are flushed for a different reason this time.

You lean in just enough to make her breath hitch. “Maybe a little.”

She grins, nudging your shoulder with hers. “A little? I hit two threes and stole the ball. What more do you want?”

“I don’t know,” you muse. “Eye contact while you do it?”

Paige laughs, loud and bright, and a couple fans behind you gasp—not from the game, but from watching her. Someone shouts her name, camera out. Another yells, “Who’s she talking to?!”

But Paige doesn’t look away. Not once.

“You’ll get it,” she says.

By the third quarter, it’s a pattern.

She plays. She scores. She checks out. She sits next to you. And every time, she starts where you left off.

“I made eye contact that time. Did you catch it?”

“I did. You bit your lip after. That part intentional?”

“What—are you studying me?”

“Should I not be?”

“I didn’t say that.”

You sip your drink, and Paige watches your mouth like it’s the game.

Between minutes on the court, she becomes a different kind of player—less basketball, more charm. It’s effortless and clumsy at the same time. She tries to be cool but stumbles every time you respond without flinching. Your confidence knocks her off rhythm in ways a full-court press never could.

“Okay, I need to know something,” she says during the next timeout, twisting to face you.

You raise a brow. “Yeah?”

“Are you, like, doing this on purpose? The whole… cool, calm, collected mystery girl thing?”

You grin. “Is it working?”

Paige blinks at you. “Unfairly.”

By the time the fourth quarter rolls around, you can feel the phones pointed your way. The row behind you is buzzing with whispers. “Who is she?” “Are they together?” “She hasn’t stopped smiling at her this whole game.”

A clip of Paige sitting next to you—grinning like she’s at brunch, not in the middle of a WNBA game—is already circulating on TikTok. “Paige Bueckers sitting with her WHO? Mid-game??” The comments are ruthless and unhinged.

“she’s sitting there like it’s DATE NIGHT” “somebody find this girl NOW” “if i was next to paige i’d pass out” “this is why she’s my favorite. she RIZZES mid timeout”

You don’t know any of that yet, but Paige’s teammates clearly do.

“Paige,” one of them hisses under her breath as she returns to the bench. “You’re trending.”

“So?” she mutters.

“You’re blushing.”

She is. But she just shrugs and glances back at you. “Can you blame me?”

You’re still smiling.

After the game—after her final three-pointer, after the confetti of applause—she jogs off the court and right back to you, towel around her neck again, ponytail swinging behind her.

You’re already standing.

“So?” she asks, breathless and beaming.

You nod once, like you’re giving her an award. “Color me impressed.”

She laughs, cheeks flushed, sweat still drying on her skin. “I’m Paige.”

You tilt your head. “I know.”

“And you are?”

You offer your name, softly, watching the way it lands on her lips.

“Okay,” she says. “Okay. Cool. Um—are you doing anything after this?”

You blink. “Are you asking me out?”

Paige scratches her neck, eyes hopeful. “Asking you to dinner. Just… as a celebration. Of me. And my incredible skills. And maybe you, for looking so good court side.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “I’d be honored.”

Fans around you shriek. Someone yells, “Oh My God!”

Paige grins. “C’mon. Let’s get out of here before someone tries to follow us.”

And just like that, she takes your hand—not caring who’s watching anymore—and walks off the court.

Still blushing. Still smiling.

And still utterly, hopelessly impressed.

Paige disappears into the locker room with a final wink and a promise—“Don’t go anywhere”—and for a moment, you just stand there in the chaos of the post-game crowd. Fans swarm, ushers start corralling people toward exits, the jumbotron flashes game highlights overhead. But your world feels oddly quiet. Still. Like you’re waiting for something that already knows how to find you.

You make your way to the tunnel wall and lean there, hands in your pockets, legs crossed at the ankle. The corridor is mostly empty now, save for a few media stragglers and arena staff sweeping the court. You ignore the curious glances. A few more phones raise in your direction. One girl mouths “Are you Paige’s girlfriend?” and you just smile without answering.

A security guard gives you a small nod as you lean back against a wall, trying to look casual. You scroll through your phone, pretending not to notice the flood of notifications already piling up from the viral moment—clips, screenshots, tweets.

“Y’ALL PAIGE HAS A COURT SIDE GIRLFRIEND???” “I don’t know who she is but I want to be her.” “the way she LOOKS at her. I’m crying.” “someone find this mystery woman NOW.”

You look up when you hear footsteps.

A little while later, the locker room door opens with a soft metallic clank.

Paige steps out in fresh clothes—oversized graphic tee, cargo pants, curls damp and pulled into a low bun. She’s clutching her phone in one hand and something in her other—a folded towel, maybe—but her eyes find yours immediately. And she lights up like she just won a second game.

“You waited.”

“Did you think I wouldn’t?”

She jogs the few feet over and leans against the wall beside you, nudging your arm with her elbow. “I was afraid you’d get swept up by the internet.”

“Oh, I’ve definitely been recorded. You’re probably already being shipped with five different usernames.”

Paige groans, hiding her face in her hands. “God. I forgot the fans.”

You smile at her flushed cheeks, her bashful grin. “They love you.”

“I’m more worried about you,” she murmurs, eyes peeking up at you through her fingers. “All those videos… might be a lot.”

“Let them talk,” you say simply. “They saw what they saw.”

“And what did they see?”

You take a beat to look at her—really look. She’s all height and folded nerves, caught somewhere between confident and terrified, trying not to let the moment slip between her fingers. So you offer her a soft smile.

“They saw someone falling for you in real time.”

Paige blinks. Once. Twice. Her mouth parts but no words come. She just stares at you like you’ve knocked the breath from her chest.

Then, finally, she says, “You wanna go?”

She leads you out a side entrance, past media doors and a few lingering fans hoping for autographs. When one of them spots her and yells her name, Paige just waves politely and quickens her pace, making sure to stay close.

“You drove?” she asks.

“Nope. Wasn’t expecting to be swept off my feet post-game though.”

She chuckles, unlocking her car with a chirp. It’s clean inside—new car smell, mint gum in the console, a Wings baseball cap in the passenger seat. She tosses it in the back and opens your door for you.

“M’lady,” she gestures to the seat with a small, awkward flourish.

You laugh as you climb in. “You always this smooth?”

She shrugs. “Depends who I’m with.”

When she gets in on the driver’s side, you can feel a shift. The tension softens but doesn’t disappear—it stretches. Becomes something slower, warmer. Like curiosity and nerves, tangled into something unfamiliar and thrilling.

She starts the car, music humming low. The windows fog slightly with the contrast of your breath and the night air.

“I know a place,” she says, turning the wheel. “It’s, like, twenty minutes outside the city. Small diner, barely anyone goes. But they’ve got pancakes at midnight and extra thick milkshakes, which is basically a love language.”

You smile. “Sounds perfect.”

For a while, the drive is quiet. Not awkward. Just peaceful.

You glance sideways. She’s tapping her fingers on the steering wheel. Her right hand lifts slightly from the wheel once… hovers near the center console… inches toward you—closer, closer—

Then pulls back at the last second.

You watch it. Watch her. Her jaw clenched just slightly, eyes glued to the road, like she’s mad at herself for not doing it.

So you take the initiative.

You reach out and gently take her hand, guiding it to your lap. Her breath catches audibly, but she doesn’t stop you. When you intertwine your fingers with hers, she exhales slowly, her grip tightening just enough to say thank you without words.

She glances over at you once—quick, like it hurts not to look longer—and you see it. The blush, high on her cheeks. The shy bite of her bottom lip. The twitch of a smile she can’t hold back.

“I wasn’t sure if I could,” she says softly.

“So I did it for you,” you reply.

She nods, eyes flicking to the road again, then to your hands in your lap. “I really like holding your hand.”

You grin. “You say that like you’ve been doing it for hours.”

“It kind of feels like I have.”

You let the silence stretch again, but now it’s charged. Every finger she squeezes, every thumb stroke over your knuckles—it’s all speaking louder than anything else in the car.

The city lights thin out behind you, and the road opens into dark stretches of highway dotted with gas stations and flickering signs.

Finally, she pulls off an old exit and rolls into a narrow parking lot. A small diner glows at the corner, neon sign buzzing softly. Open 24 Hours.

Inside, it looks like it hasn’t changed since the ‘80s—vinyl booths, checkered floor, a jukebox in the corner. You already love it.

She puts the car in park but doesn’t move.

You turn to her. “You okay?”

She nods. “Yeah. Just…” She squeezes your hand. “You make me nervous in a really good way.”

You lean in, letting your forehead rest against hers for just a moment. “Good. You do the same to me.”

And that’s all it takes for her to finally move.

She opens her door. Walks around. Opens yours too, even though you beat her to it. Holds your hand again the second you’re out of the car, thumb brushing along the back.

You walk inside together.

And she doesn’t let go.

The diner is quiet, with only two other tables occupied—an elderly couple sharing a plate of fries and a trucker hunched over his coffee like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.

You and Paige slip into a booth near the window. She lets you slide in first and then settles across from you, but her hand doesn't leave yours. She just shifts it onto the table, her fingers still tangled with yours like she’s afraid if she lets go, you’ll vanish.

The waitress walks over—name tag says Lucy, pen tucked behind her ear, eyes crinkling at the sight of Paige.

“Well, if it isn’t Miss Bueckers,” she says, tapping her notepad. “Back already?”

Paige grins. “Can’t stay away from the pancakes, Lucy.”

“And who’s this pretty thing?” the woman asks, glancing at you with a warm smile.

Before Paige can answer, you lift an eyebrow. “Just the girl she couldn’t stop staring at during her game.”

Paige lets out a laugh that makes her whole body shake, her eyes crinkling in that way that only happens when she’s caught off guard in the best possible way. Her grip on your hand tightens. She’s blushing again.

“Damn,” Lucy mutters with a chuckle. “Good luck, sweetheart. This one’s already head over heels.”

Paige covers her face with her free hand. “Please stop,” she mumbles, but she’s smiling so wide it looks like it hurts.

You lean forward, resting your chin on your hand. “So. You bring all your girls here, or am I special?”

Her eyes peek over her hand. “You’re definitely special.”

You pretend to think it over. “Hmm. I guess I’ll let that answer slide… if the pancakes are as good as you promised.”

Paige smirks. “They won’t disappoint. Trust me.”

You both order—her the usual and two chocolate milkshakes. Lucy winks and disappears to the kitchen, leaving the two of you in the dim hush of diner lighting and the low croon of an old country song from the jukebox.

Paige rests her arms on the table, leaning closer to you.

“I wasn’t kidding, by the way,” she says softly.

“About what?”

She bites her lip. “You. Sitting court side tonight. It really… threw me.”

You tilt your head, watching her.

“I’ve had good games,” she continues. “I’ve had great games. But I’ve never felt like I had something—or someone—I was playing for. Not until tonight.”

You let her words settle in your chest for a moment before reaching out, brushing a loose strand of hair from her forehead.

“I watched every second,” you whisper. “And not because I was trying to be impressed. You didn’t need to do anything for that. I was already impressed the second you walked out.”

Her breath catches again. You swear she does that a lot around you. It’s endearing. Almost addicting.

“You make me want to be smooth,” she admits. “Like Azzi or Nika level smooth. But every time I try, my brain short-circuits.”

You laugh. “You’re doing fine.”

“Fine?” she teases. “Not great?”

“I’ll let you earn great.”

Her eyes spark. “What does that take?”

You shrug. “We’ll see. Could be a few more games. Could be one very excellent grilled cheese.”

“Now that,” she says, laughing, “I can definitely deliver on.”

Lucy returns with the food, sets it all down, and watches the two of you for a moment before patting Paige on the shoulder. “Good pick, hon.”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” Paige says, eyes still locked on you.

You talk for hours.

About basketball. About life in Dallas. About her rookie year and the pressure of being the face of something bigger than herself. About how she doesn’t sleep the night before games and always orders breakfast food after wins. About your job, your own dreams, the way you never thought this would happen but now you can’t imagine it not.

She tells you about her family. Her brother. Minnesota winters. Her guilty pleasure being romcoms that she watches alone with a blanket pulled to her chin.

You tell her you’re not surprised.

“You seem like the type to cry at the airport reunion scene.”

“Shut up,” she mumbles. “It’s emotional, okay?”

You reach across the table again and squeeze her hand. “It’s sweet.”

When you finally step back out into the night, the stars are bright overhead, the air cooler than before. Paige walks you back to her car, her hand brushing yours again until you catch it and hold on like it’s second nature.

The ride back is quieter, but not uncomfortable. Her playlist hums low in the background. One of your hands still rests on your lap—hers folded neatly within it.

When she pulls up in front of your apartment, she doesn’t move to unlock the doors right away.

You look over.

She’s staring at you again.

“What?” you whisper.

“I don’t want to say goodnight.”

“So don’t,” you murmur back. “Say something else.”

She leans in slowly. Her eyes flick to your mouth, then back to your eyes.

“Can I kiss you?”

You nod once. “Please.”

And when she kisses you, it’s nothing like how she plays—there’s no adrenaline, no charge. It’s slow. Gentle. Like something she’s thought about a hundred times but didn’t dare try until now.

When she pulls back, her forehead rests against yours again.

“Still impressed?” she whispers.

You smile against her lips. “Paige?”

“Yeah?”

“I was impressed the second you said hey.”

And in the passenger seat of her car, just outside your apartment, the world softens into silence. Just you. Her. The beginning of something new.

#paige bueckers #paige bueckers x reader #paige x reader #paige buckets #uconn women’s basketball #uconn wbb #lesbian #wlw #wuh luh wuh #dallas wings #wnba x reader

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bluehourbucky · 14 days ago

Text

Lunch boxes

pairing: newavenger!bucky x reader

summary: you make lunch for new avengers John almost loses his life

a/n : just a silly drabble been thinking about it for days

bucky masterlist

Bucky never knew softness until he met you. You are the epitome of softness, you think of others first and then yourself. He loves that about you its sweet but he never let's it go too far.

He knows one day he'll marry you, buy you a house in the country side all those domestic things he dreamed of. He just needs a bit more time. Bucky sees the way you look at him, with love and absolute certainty that he's your future.

There's nothing he wouldn't do for you, not when he meets your doe eyes full of hopes and dreams. And he can't wait to make them all reality.

One thing about you is that you show your love through food, lots of it, he gained a few since you two started dating. Bucky didn't even know he loved food this much ( maybe he doesn't and its only to please you but the line blurred long ago when he realised that love is you and everything you do and make).

He never intended for you to meet the other new avengers, but they somehow found their way into your shared home. You welcomed them with open arms and heart. And you charmed them from the fist second. He knew you would, all you have to do is smile and you have people falling over left and right.

They weren't used to kindness and you had so much to give and you gave it freely in abundance.

Last night was rough for them and they all needed somewhere to recharge for the hard day ahead, so what did they do? They came to a little sanctuary, that is yours and Buckys apartment.

Even if Bucky hadn't called ahead you had opened the door in the middle of the night, you didn't even seem upset that they woke you up or that he brought five more people with him.

You jumped into his arms like it didn't matter that he was all dirty and sweaty and bloody, and to you it didn't.

Your small apartment was looking even tinier with the six avengers in the living room/kitchen.

"Welcome back! I'm sorry I didnt know you were coming you must be hungry! Ah I didnt prepare anything! I'm sure we have something around here!"

Bucky told you not to fuss about it, they'll order something for tonight and be out early in the morning. It took a lot of convincing and stolen distraction kisses to make you drop it.

"Jamie it's not nice! They're guests, your work family!" He smiles and pulls you into a hug and kisses your forehead.

"You can cook some other time come on back to bed." Bucky ushered you to your room and laughed when he noticed your frown. He took a quick shower and then gave the rest of them towels and told them to figure it out how to sleep on one pull out bed. He didn't care enough he just wanted his girl.

"Good night, doll." Bucky says as he pulls you into his chest and kisses your neck. He feels you smile.

"Night Jamie."

In the morning Bucky can smell food? Its all kinds of food. He gets up and opens the bedroom door. Four figures stand behind the kitchen counter and watch you.

John is sitting on the pull out sofa, his eyes closed.

"Damn Soldier Barnes! Your wife is so talented! Look how she cooks!" Alexei says pointing at you stiring the pot and shaking the pan at the same time. You turn and your cheeks are flushed, both from the stove and the way Alexei called you Buckys wife.

"Morning love!" you look at him sheepishly, like you're caught doing a crime.

"She won't tell us what she's doing but this looks dangerous? No?" Yelena says..

"I'll be done soon I promise."

Bucky fondly laughs and walks over to you to give you a morning kiss but before he can do that an alarm sounds from your phone.

"Ah get that out of the oven! Thanks honey."

Bucky does as he's told and pulls out a huge tray of pastries out of the oven with his metal arm.

"Are we feeding an army?"

"Yes Bucky look how many of you and no one should work on an empty stomach."

Before he can say something you shush him and peck his lips.

"Okay now everything's done!"

And there on the counter six paper bags, each one has a name written on it, with a little doodle each different than the other.

Buckys heart grows and aches in ways he can't quite understand. You did all of this for him, for them, the people who have done horrible things, are doing horrible things.

First one to grab a bag is Alexei who then gives you a bear hug and lifts you off of the floor.

"Ah you are amazing woman! If Soldier doesn't treat you right he will have problem with me! I am very grateful!" You laugh and hug him back.

Ava just nodds and takes the bag, but in her eyes you see softness and thankfulness.

Yelena takes hers and says "Ah my favorite! Thank you! You are the best! I can't promise I won't come back for another round."

"You're always welcome" you reply and give her a hug.

"Thank you, miss. I appreciate your effort it is very kind for you to give us this food!" Bob says and stands at the door with the others.

John's the last one but he only stands up and goes to the door.

"Wait I made you one too!"

"Im not taking a children's lunch box I'll just buy something out."

The silence that came is deafening, you could hear a pin drop. Your eyes well up in tears.

And then Bucky grabs John by the throat, Yelena pulls her guns and points them at John, Ava teleports next to John and hits him and Alexi says

"I kill him now."

"Im sorry I'm sorry Im sorry I swear I didnt mean it." John starts to beg the avengers for mercy...

"Not to us stupid."

Bucky drops him to the ground and then John crawls to your feet and starts begging.

"Its fine I forgive you." you say kind of terrified and touched that they all care so much.

"You live another day, next time you make my girl cry I will kill you and then cut you into pieces and then I will burn those pieces."

John only nods and runs out the door.

Buckys eyes immediately soften as he walks over to you and grabs the last bag, it says love of my life and there's like a dozen hearts drawn. His hear melts.

"Thank you baby. I love you and I already miss you." you giggle at the hundreds of kisses Bucky gives you.

"Love you too!"

#bucky barnes #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #marvel fic #bucky fic #marvel imagine #bucky fluff #james buchanan barnes

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pizzaapeteer · 5 months ago

Text

[S]he will be loved ~ part two

Sum Reader is hopefully and madly in love with her best friend, constantly having her heart broken living in the shadows of other girls. Unaware that he’s hiding a secret, unable to express the truth about how he feels for her too.

Warn: NSFW18+, angst, yelling, swearing, PIV, fingering, semi handjob, dirty talk, (the smut is a little vanilla for the sake of being romantic), use of Ace as a nickname, y/n occasionally, Dramatic asf fr, maybe too dragged-out argument lmfao. Wc: 9.4k An: thank you for being so patience! It is suggested you read part one if you haven't, once again I went a bit in circles with this and so now will run away nervous as hell! but hope you all enjoy! Dividers from here & here

He makes good on his promise, avoiding you for the rest of the weekend and into the next week. His absence leaves a heavy weight of guilt that presses hard onto your shoulders, regardless that he had been the one to mostly start the fight. What had you really even done wrong?

Despite his elusion you still see him, amongst your shared classes, the late nights in the common room or when passing in the halls. His head locked straight ahead, as if the wall is the most interesting thing, and if his gaze weakens and he nips a glance at you, it holds no kindness. The icy water drenches your bones again and makes you question your memory, and how badly you’ve hurt him.

Dean keeps his distance as well, despite being unaware of your fight with Mattheo, the damage by him is more than physical and Dean wishes to keep far from the drama tempting to unravel. He decides it’s not worth getting involved now that Mattheo’s made his intentions clear. He wants nothing to do with it. His distance doesn’t go unnoticed by you, and you can’t help wondering how you’ve managed to drag him into an unnecessary mess.

Had you, in spite, subconsciously used Dean to get a reaction from Mattheo? Were you challenging the bounds of your friendship? It wasn’t like you had planned to even consider Dean an option. He had just suddenly been everywhere, like a convenient beacon. It hadn’t been hard to get along, with his contagious energy and charming personality, he had easily cleared the thick aged brain fog once completely consumed by Mattheo.

Clouds slide inwards, covering the heat of the sun, and casting downward shade along the cobblestones, making you plan to head back inside soon. You sit under the shelter of a tree in the viaduct courtyard pondering the inner turmoil. Feeling conflicted, you sigh, weighing up the differences between them.

Dean, a kind and warm spirit who opened his arms to you instantly, making you feel needed and welcome. So ready to listen, and match your energy to his own passions. But there was always something missing. It all felt very surface level, and maybe that was because it was new. Or maybe he just gave you what you were yearning so desperately for. Attention.

But it wasn’t the right type you craved. For the way you felt under Mattheo’s spotlight was divergent. He made you feel special, your heart beating to a different rhythm for him. Being with Mattheo was like watching a sunrise for the first time, the shades of orange and pink peeking up after you both stayed up all night stargazing. It made you feel alive. He made you feel alive. Made you feel electric with life and like you could conquer anything with him by your side.

Maybe you ought to give Mattheo some credit, for he his life had always left him complicated.

You, of all people, know the traumatic strain his upbringing had scared him, continuing into his current life. There is no escaping the forceful path his life has been shunted down, his hands bound. It wasn't his fault he was deeply flawed, but it was your choice to be the one to see him past those sharp thorns. To help bloom the roses that laid trapped underneath the rumble, bring them to light in the same way as how you saw him.

You sit up suddenly, spotting Dean crossing the courtyard with his friends, and jump at the chance to make amends with him. “Dean!”

His head whips around and he stops walking, allowing you to approach. His smile is less, but not unwelcoming. “Hey Y/n.”

You eye his friends awkwardly till they call out for Dean to catch up and continue walking. You shuffle between your feet, feeling nervous about starting the conversation. “Hi- I.. I just wanted to apologise. I’m really sorry about what happened last weekend.”

Dean is quick to shake his head, respectfully dismissing your apology. “It’s fine, you don’t have to apologize, y/n. I hold no grudges towards you - besides, my nose has healed up all fine.”

You wince at his little joke, adding, “It's not just on behalf of Mattheo, I want to for myself too.”

“Oh?”

“I’m worried. I led you on.. Though I swear it was completely unintentional..”

Dean nods his head firmly and grabs your shoulders to calm your rambling. He already understands and offers you one of his kind smiles you had grown to miss. “It’s really alright. I kind of figured that out already.. And I definitely don’t wanna meddle in the middle of your situation with Riddle.”

“Figured out?”

His eyes crinkle and shoulders shake as he laughs at your oblivious confusion. “I'm not oblivious like you two are, besides I don't really want a repeat of my last relationship.”

You nod, not quite understanding what he means by oblivious, but feeling the recurring wave of guilt hit for misleading Dean and so you just give him an appreciative smile. Your heart remains heavy despite Dean’s forgiveness. “I’m sorry again, anyway.”

He shakes his head, dropping his hands from your shoulders, “It’s fine y/n. Maybe catch ya with Eli sometime. But good luck with everything, yeah. Not entirely sure what you see in the nutter, but knowing what kind of girl you are, it must be something good.”

While Dean retreats, catching back up with his mates, you stay eyes locked on where he last stood in a daze of thought. Must be something good. That’s always what you’ve seen in Mattheo, aware that it’s the defining string between your relationship. The knot that continued to tighten throughout your years at Hogwarts, strengthening with every moment of trust and kindness you shared with him.

For once you bite the trepidation and unknown awaiting, the thought illuminating and making the lightbulb brighter. Hoping maybe Mattheo’s reactions to Dean were rather explainable, and burying the one doubtful tic questioning if this was his usual protective self or merging into something new.

With newfound determination, you set off to find Mattheo, choosing to believe in the bright possibility that this territory was Mattheo awaiting under the rainbow of your deepest fantasies with a mutual feeling.

A week without you had been to put nicely, hell for him. He had wallowed entirely, sulking like a pathetic child, like his favourite candy had been ripped from his clutches. He realized quickly that this was worse, that having your attention shared, not having your presence at all, had turned him into a dreary grump. His mood was not subtle in the slightest, every emotion of agonized resentment shadowed his face in a deep scowl.

He was mad at you for how you defended that prat so easily, without stopping to question his intentions. But then again, he’d never openly admitted that Dean’s words had gutted him, mentioning his biggest insecurity. Not being worthy of you. Of your attention, your kindness, your laughter, your warmth, and last, your love. It had eaten away at him all week.

He’d hardly slept, which was saying something for he rarely could. He knew he was undeserving, and yet if there was anyone he wanted to prove his worth to, it was you.

He continued to watch the lull of the black lake from within the Boathouse, a quiet spot for his thoughts to wrestle in the ring with one another. He missed you in his arms. He missed the gentle way you would soothe him to sleep. With warm caresses that resembled a mother’s touch, but with you it felt more intimate. His cigarette burned, allowing small moments of relief to flow through his lungs, the inhale of nicotine calming his distressed heart.

He hears the footsteps of someone entering the wooden house and peers over his shoulder, assuming it was someone who knew he came here. Seeing its you, he turns back to look at the water, exhaling another deep breath, his heart exhilarating just by your presence. He suddenly feels clammy, wishing to douse himself in the cold water just to calm his nerves.

His shoulders square tensely as you near, and you continue with caution, uncertain how to proceed. Everyone knows the extent of Mattheo’s temper, and thankfully you’ve never found yourself on the other end.

Your earlier bottomless energy and hopeful determination seems to have found a sudden end, diminishing like his smoke does into the afternoon sky. Being around Mattheo again makes the doubt seep back inwards, wondering if Dean had been imagining something between the two of you.

Clearing your throat of nerves, you speak directly to the point. “I didn’t mean it.” Mattheo's stubbornness had always been a persistent habit, one of his shortcomings that meant you knew it was unlikely he'd apologize first. Especially considering he can’t even look at you.

He stays quiet, listening actively. He doesn’t like where this is going, despite aching to make up with you, having never fought with you like this before. He’s aware this is leading to an unstable vulnerability, and he’s not sure he can hold on to the part of him that despises being soft.

“I’m sorry, I.. I- you.. are wanted. Always, Mattheo.”

He flinches at the use of his full name. Coming from your lips, it sounds so sweet and remorseful. He knows you’re being sincere. He can hear it in your voice and somehow it makes it harder for him to admit his own wrongdoings. “But not in the right way.” He mutters mostly to himself, exhaling the last of his cigarette.

Frowning, not catching his mumbled whisper, you take another step bravely and stand beside him, finally capturing a glimpse at his face. It holds no clear emotion of how he’s truly feeling, constrained by the mask he wears protectively. Eyes locked dead on the smoothness of the water, the clouds darkening out above the lake and the surface breaks as raindrops ripple, gently dropping onto it. Even in his blank expression, he still looks gorgeous, making the butterflies flutter.

He sighs, knowing you’re giving him a look to explain, for an answer, anything as he keeps his lips pressed into a thin line. His jaw clenches desperately trying to avoid glancing at you, for he’s well aware that with just one look, he'd crumble.

He stabs the end of his cigarette out on the wooden panels, discarding it into the previous piles of used up ones. “It's fine, Ace. You’re forgiven. We’re still friends, alright.”

Even as he says the words, he curses himself for leaving your relationship there, when he so wants to take the conversation somewhere else. Somewhere further, where he can express himself to you fully, but he’s afraid. He turns towards the exit. “It's late, and it's starting to rain. Let's head back up.”

You stand frozen, reflecting over his words, “wait - what? I’m forgiven?!”

“Yes, that's what I said. Isn’t that why you came here?” He pushes through the door, feeling the beginning of the downpour hitting his skin, quickening his pace, not checking to see if you’re following.

You trail behind him in disbelief, appalled by his audacity. You knew he was stubborn, but not to this extent. “Yes, but-what about yours? Don’t you think I deserve one too?!”

He hears the pain and confusion in your tone and curses himself. He fights the part of him wanting to swallow his pride and spit out an apology, but he’d never been good at those. That would mean he’d have to explain the reasoning and vulnerable depth, years' worth of trauma that built a viscous insecurity he’d never shared with anyone, not even you. He didn’t feel exactly spritely about indulging you just because you were upset that he hit Dean.

“For what? You’re the one that called me unwanted.”

He knows it's a hard blow as soon as the words leave his lips. But he refuses to change something about himself he knows will only make him weak. Showing that kind of vulnerability and transparency to you is not something he can afford in his life. He can't stand to see your view of him change. To see him fragile, the hidden boy behind the hard exterior. Even if you end up hating him, he’d go to the grave protecting that piece of him, even from himself.

He keeps walking, not noticing that you’ve come to a stand stall, frozen in shock from his jab. His words make your heart ache. It's clear he still holds a grudge over the words you said. You had never meant it like that. It wasn’t that he was unwanted, but his overwhelming protectiveness that ultimately made you feel like he was in control of you, and you had always put up with it.

Never once had you allowed yourself to be selfish and actually enjoy the potential opportunity of romance. Until now, and yet he still continues to act cold, pushing you away.

The rain pours harder, soaking your clothes through to the bone, and you wish for it to absorb you completely. Mattheo finally notices the quieting of your pestering and turns to see you just standing there with an unreadable stare. His brows knit with concern, his earlier irritation washing away, and he blinks through the rain, feeling a wave of guilt.

“Ace.” He descends back down the stairs with a fasten pace, “Fuck- Don’t just stand there, merlin it's pouring.”

Your arms wrap around your body to provide any warmth physically and to your heart, lifting your head heavily as he approaches. “I said I was sorry.” The words whisper with the tone of desolation. Despite your anger, the guilt and worry break the barrier through the emotions you wear on your sleeves, knowing you never wished to hurt him.

He sighs with realization, his habit of self protection had only projected an icy blast at you and messed with your head. He steps without hesitation; coming closer, wrapping you up into his arms, a much needed hug for the both of you. He aches, feeling you reciprocate, gently hugging him back, and he holds you a little tighter, having missed your touch. The way your hands grip with need the longer the two of you stay embraced, and your head snuggles into his chest.

It's one of his favourite positions, his chin aligned with the crown of your head so perfectly. The way he feels ten times lighter now that you’re in his arms, and his eyes close, finally taking a breath of clean air. He gets lost in the moment, grateful for how you’re able to calm him so quickly. How you can take away all his anger at the snap of fingers, all his stress, all his pain even if momentarily just from the mere warmth of your touch.

His peaceful tranquillity breaks by the shakes of your body, and he’s reminded that he is the one to have hurt you. The small sounds of your sniffles smothering into his chest vibrate through to his heart painfully, like an earthquake causing destruction to his protective walls.

Cold water continues to splatter, coating the wet clothes that cling to your bodies, the only warmth radiating from your chests pressed together as one. He rubs your back soothingly, allowing you to express his feelings in the only way he knows how to offer comfort.

He opens his eyes, looking up at the thick darkness of the night; blinking back the rain that has no effort to cease. He can’t fully determine whether your body is still shaking from sadness or the cold. He sighs deeply, looking down at you, offering a smiling feeling as if things will calm back to normal at any moment. “Come on, we should get inside.”

You shake your head stubbornly, not wanting the conversation to end here, and pull back with a deep frown. His smile does little to ease the pain and, in fact, bothers you at how nonchalant he’s acting. “No. it’s just a little rain, and it’s not hurting me nearly enough as your absence of an explanation.”

He studies the wedge of separation you stick between the two of you, the reigniting of infuriated energy charging him like an electric circuit. Why won't you just drop this? He doesn’t answer you, his head turning, looking out over the castle grounds, afraid that if he opens his mouth, he’ll snap at you or, worse, reveal something vulnerable.

You press onwards despite the tensing in his jaw, annoyed that he ignores you. “Don’t you trust me? Why can't you tell me the real reason? I just need to know why you hit Dean?”

“Please, just drop it Ace.” He grits out, trying to keep from raising his voice. His body still turned; his mind buzzing, humming with anxiety.

The lingering anger swarms to the surface at his refusal to even look at you, “I’ve been here for you through thick and thin and you can't even tell me this one simple thing?!”

The clouds boom before a thicker onslaught of water spits down harder on the concrete steps, making it harder for him to hear you. Cowardly, he’s hoping if he ignores the issue, it will go away. But he knows you, and the determination you’re expressing only makes you stubborn like a mule, knowing you won't drop it till you’re satisfied with an answer.

He turns glaring at you. “Let’s just go inside, Ace! It’s fucking thundering!”

Apprehensively, you pause at his loud tone, knowing he’s beyond pissed. But the urgency for the truth pushes you onwards into your questioning, with your heart thinly stretched on the line.

“I can't! I need to know!”

He groans, “Why?! Can’t you just believe me and drop it? Like I already told you that shithead deserved what he g-”

“No! That's not good enough. I need more, a proper explanation Mattheo… and if you can’t tell me why.. I-I'll-”

“You’ll what?!” He snaps with an offensive scornful tone, so bitter he can taste the metal on his tongue for the attitude he’s giving. He blinks the water out of his eyes, shaking his wet hair that hangs soaked to his forehead. “You’ll leave?”

He's ignoring how his mind is screaming to just tell you the truth, to finally bare his heart and soul to you, but the fear of rejection has him by the throat. At this point, though, he’s afraid it won't matter what he does. The outcome is hanging dangerously, that he might lose you either way.

You swallow your turn not to say anything. You hadn’t wanted to actually say it, because it wasn't true. You didn’t want to leave, but you were feeling frustrated, hurt, betrayed.

He continues walking closer with intense energy, the darkness of the atmosphere making him look intimidating than ever. “Gonna walk away? Had too much of me finally, huh!”

His voice raises and you force yourself to hold still and not move from your spot, even when he gets right up in your face. You noticed the clear strain behind his words, and there's a flash of something more in his eyes other than anger, pain.

“Please Matty-y just tell-” you whisper pleadingly.

“Don’t. Don’t do that.. Stop looking at me like that.” He breathes out, hissing with venom and agony.

“Like what?” Uttering the question feels risky, as if the answer will hold all the truth to how he feels. His face twists and turns as your mind spins with anxiety. This is it.

“Just,” He groans with frustration, his voice raising again. “Like that! Fuck. Ace.” The lump in his throat grows, making him uncomfortable and his fists shake, clenching them to control the unravelling pressure.

You blink back the swelling tears and take a braver step closer, “Tell me- god please Mattheo, I swear if this friendship means anything to you! You’ll fucking tell me.” The doubt creeps back in; Dean was wrong. He doesn’t see you the same.

He’s cracking under the pressure and intensity of your gaze, seeing the fire burning like an inferno. There's no longer the usual glowing light he loves. How you stare at him like his answer will make all the difference to how you feel about him. But it's the way you mention your friendship with him that ultimately makes him combust, spilling his deepest, most impenetrable secret.

“Because when you look at me like that, it makes me feel unworthy!” He spits, not pausing to even let you process the emotions coming out of him. “Like I’m breaking you apart from the inside and i-I can't handle that. I can't handle seeing you cry…or even when you look at me in anger. It makes me feel like a piece of shit for who I am.”

His arms are up and his hands stress tangle through the wet locks in distress, “because you’re the best thing in my life! And yet I'm just scum on the bottom of your shoe.. And that motherfucker was right and I hate him for it, because I-i-I don't deserve you!.. Not your kindness… or attention… or friendship, and yet I'm still greedy. I still want more!”

He takes a step back, needing the distance from you. His chest heaves while he lowers his eyes at the pebbled ground, deep in realization that he’s slipped up. The silence between you two is killing him and he’s lost in his head with dread and doubt that he’s just gone and fucked up everything more. He raises his eyes with the little spirit he has left, eyes filled with great pain that knocks the air out of your lungs.

“You want… more.. With me?” The question is barely breathed out into the open space of increasing vulnerability.

He licks his lips, contemplating his next words, taking his time to really study your appearance. He notes the lack of uncomfortableness. There's no show of disgust or rejection of his disclosure for how he feels. He’s surprised he’s still standing considering how his heart is beating, sure if it beats any more he’d need a replacement.

He swallows with force the last of his fear, feeling the lump drag down his throat and sink to the bottom of his pit. He nods, unable to utter anything else, allowing himself to be fully transparent for once.

Tears of realization stream down your face as you comprehend his words, blending with the saturation on your face. He’s not even mad at you. He’s angry with himself. You know him well enough to spot that his eyes reveal his tell. He’s afraid. He wants more, even though he can’t admit it. Your heart skips a beat at the confession.

He’s close enough to catch the onslaught of tears beginning and his face falls with fear. This is what he had apprehended. “Fuck!” He turns with anger, his fists clenching, his body shaking with regret and anguish. “Ace-e - why would you let me tell you this? Jesus!” He’s facing away from you to hold back his tears, his head clouded with assumptions of why you’re upset, all heading in the wrong direction.

“W-what? Mattheo - no these are-” You step forwards reaching for him with a tender arm.

“Dont. Don’t lie to me, Ace.” He shrugs your touch off, blocking his walls back up with ease.

“Mattheo, I'm not lying! I’m not upset-”

“Y/n I’m being serious.. I don’t want your pity-”

You scoff, offended, “Pity!? I've never once taken pity on you, Mattheo Riddle. Is that how you think I see you?” You blink back the tears as he turns again, fighting the frustrations to not just smack some sense into him. God, how oblivious is he to you. “I could never pity you. I respect you too much.”

“Respect me?! What in fuck for?”

The water builds behind your eyes, blurring your vision amongst the rain, watching him express his insecurities. “B-because- because I fucking love you, you idiot!”

There's a buzzing, fluttering feeling in his chest like all his nerves have lit on fire, and he blinks, frozen in shock. His chest rises and falls, shallow and slow, but his heart palpates rampaging behind it. The fuzzy feeling migrates around, running from his fingertips up to the apples of his cheeks like an unwelcoming chill as he attempts to process your words.

Everything he thought he knew disintegrates out into the open space, like a gust of wind swept through his mind collecting all his stupid, suspecting doubts. You love him. Love. Love! The unfamiliar word bounces around his mind as he mulls over the possibilities of the meaning. His mouth runs dry despite the assault of rain, as he struggles to form any words.

“I know this is hard, hell I can’t believe I just said that to you-”

You're shut up by the pleasant surprise of his lips smashing onto yours, with an effort of urgency urged behind the feel of his soft lips. His hands move to cup your face, your soaked face, the warmth of them rising a blush to your cheeks, as he holds them with tenderness. He kisses you with all the love he has, willing to give you every beat of his heart. He knows you already have it. It's always been yours.

Truly, every piece of love for you is magnified by your relationship with him. Your generosity to accept him for who he is, to open your heart to him, even if he always believed it to be platonic. It was enough to grow his heart, and since then, it had always belonged to you. He pushes every ounce of emotion through, knowing it's easier to express than through words.

“You-u..” He breathes, catching his breath as he pulls back, struggling to get the words out.

“Actually?” He smiles in reassurance and hope glosses over his eyes. His chest vibrates as he chokes out a disbelieving laugh and his grin broadens. "You-u lo-” He can't even finish the sentence so choked up by all of this.

A smile graces your face with wide, full cheeks that burn with happiness and you reciprocate his choked upness, feeling the tears start again. The way your head nods ridiculously fast, flicking your drenched hair in all directions, makes him chuckle and he cups your cheeks for fear of it flying off. “Not fucking with me are you now Ace, cuz I swear to god if you-”

Leaning forwards you capture his lips effortlessly, now being the one to shut him up. It's sweet but passionate and he can’t get enough when you pull away. He threads a hand through his soaked hair in utter disbelief, his eyes returning to your loving ones. “I’ve wanted to do that for so long. Kiss the crap out of you over and over.” He rests his forehead against yours and reaches down for your hand.

He’s taking in everything you’ve just said, grasping for the same longing that's been sitting, waiting to be released between the two of you like a dam. His face lights, and a little smile curves onto his face, and for the first time he feels the words sitting with ease on his tongue. “You have no idea how in love I am with you. Ace, I’ve been in love with you since forever. Fuck i-just you know I'm not good with words, feelings, all that bullshit.”

You try to fight the blush creeping up your neck, but the smile that appears beaming brightly back at him is impossible to suppress. You’re completely speechless, overwhelmed with euphoric feelings of contentment. Words you’d only dreamed of hearing, now confessed to you in the eye of a storm, and suddenly you’re laughing. “Are we insane?”

His eyes light at your happiness, but he raises a curious brow, not catching what you said at the sound of another boom. “Are- we…WHAT?”

The sound of your laughter bubbles at his adorable confusion. “It doesn’t matter! We should head inside now.” He seems to catch the end of that and nods hurriedly, reaching out to grab your arm, leading the two of you up and into the castle.

Under the shelter of the overhanging archways he turns, grabbing you by your shoulders, “wait- just let me get something else off my chest first.” He swallows, pushing the wet strands back behind your ears, “I’m s-sorry.”

You watch him feeling an immense depth of pride for him, and you smile softly, reassuring him to continue. “look.. I won't apologise for hitting Dean, I don’t regret that and- i-I can’t tell you it all yet, but he said something that cut deep. Whether or not the asshole meant it, I couldn’t take how it made me feel. But I am sorry I ruined your night at the gig. Fuck- I was angry and jealous and I really was trying to look out for you.”

You nod in understanding, accepting that he’s not ready to bear that much emotion in one night, and bring him in for a hug. “Matty.. You don’t know how much I appreciate you trying.” He clings to you, a desperate boy finally receiving the much needed love he had been deprived of for too long. “And-d you didn’t really ruin my night. I wanted to go with you first, anyway. But I got in my head - the doubt i-i just didn’t want to ruin us.”

He pulls back cupping your cheeks, “god we’re stupid aren’t we?” He smiles amused with the obliviousness and blindness you both held for one another. “I’m just glad I didn’t lose you.”

You shake your head, “you never would have. I was bluffing completely.. I couldn’t handle being without you, Mattheo.”

He grins, leaning down to press another soft passionate kiss to your lips, “and you couldn’t have lost me even if you tried Ace. You’re literally iron cast around my heart. The knot is too tight. You’d have to break me just to free the attachment I have to you.” His eyes are sincere and hold so much emotion you’re verging on tears again.

“Okay, ah let's not cry again. I wasn’t lying about not being able to handle that. Let's go back to my dorm. Come on.” His arm guides you wrapping around your waist, a stark contrast to the way his arm usually drapes over your shoulder casually. He helps you walk back to his dorm with care and compassion, the energy between you a mixture of excitement and lightness, the weight of the confession lifted.

He helps you into his dorm, closing the door and gazes at you with pure happiness before searching his dorm for some towels. A room you’ve stood in many times before but never in this sense, and just being here with all your feelings out in the open makes your body prick with anticipation.

You stand watching him shivering a little, and begin to unstick your thick sweater, clinging to your soaked through shirt, stripping it up with difficulty while Mattheo searches through his draws for some clean clothes. The head of the material sticks trapping your head and you groan, frustrated, trying to pull it off, catching Mattheo’s attention. He peers over his shoulder, laughing at the awkward situation he’s spotted you in.

His gaze drops and his eyes darken shamelessly, admiring how your shirt clings to your body, accentuating your chest. He licks his lips, letting his thoughts run wild for once with no guilt, and stops what he was doing walking closer. His hands graze your waist, letting you know of his proximity as he speaks with a low husk in his tone. “Lemme help Ace.”

He slides his hands gently up your sides till he pushes the sleeves of the sweater up, freeing your arms before helping squeeze your head through the hole. The sweater drops to the floor; the moment becoming charged with heightened tension and desperate looks reflected in both of you.

His fingers descend, tracing down your sides in slow strokes that makes your heart leap your full attention on him. You exhale small shallow breaths, feeling your insides squirm under his intense stare, not daring to say a word. His hands wrap around the curve of your waist, tugging you inwards till you press fully up against him, giving you his signature boyish grin.

“That's better.” His eyes flicker between the desperation dripping in your eyes to the soft parting of your lips, waiting with anticipation.

His head dips, brushing his lips back against yours, and he whispers with the weight of a man ready to feast on his deepest desires. “Ace..you know I want you… don't you?” He’s so close that when he licks his lips, his tongue grazes your lower lip with the subtlest of touches and he relishes in the sucking in of your breath. Barely able to hold back the teasing smirk at your reaction, he presses his lips to your cheek in a gentle, tender kiss instead.

You nod, your chest rising and falling with intense yearning, whispering back, “Yes.. I know now.”

“Good. That’s good.” He presses another kiss travelling up your cheek, sparking the heat to rise, flushing the skin a deep red. He grins sincerely, “you look so pretty when you blush.”

You swallow, feeling your body alight with need, buzzing with electricity that runs down to the tips of your toes. You wonder if he knows how aroused you feel right now. The rest of your clothes are slick still with rainwater, but you already know the puddle forming in your panties is definitely from the heat. You attempt to exhale quiet bated breaths throughout your nose, unable to trust your mouth to open, uncertain what kind of animalistic sound would fall out.

Mattheo might be oblivious to love, but he’s a keen observer in the act of sexual intimacy. It’s as if his eyes are an x-ray lust detector. He knows all the tells of an aroused woman. “So pretty Ace, fuck..you’re making me want to kiss you senseless.” His voice strains with restraint. He’s still holding onto some concern, not wanting to freak you out with all his intense energy waiting to consume you.

The struggle in his tone only makes you want him more and your eyes lift upwards, filled with hungry persuasions. Uttering a simple, “please.”

The moment you plead with those sweet eyes, all his control gets thrown out the window. Taking your jaw in his hand, he leans back in to kiss you. His lips melting onto yours, the two of your lips colliding in synchronization. His hands cup the nape of your head, tilting it back, and diving deeper, his tongue pushes, seeking entrance as kindly as he can be while he fights the pure animalistic hunger to devour you urgently.

You moan softly, allowing him access, the two of your tongues dancing with one another like a fervent tango. He mumbles softly against them, “Do you know how long I craved to feel these lips, Ace?”

A deep flush grows on your cheeks and you breathe heavily, gazing up, feeling his lips kiss along the side of your neck. “How long?” You ask breathlessly.

He chuckles at your response and interest. “too fucking long. I always knew that you’d taste this sweet.” The soft sighs and hums that vibrate out of you have his mind spinning and he presses his lips harder onto your skin, needing to entice more out of you. He pulls you closer to him before he’s back, kissing your lips, engulfing you completely.

The two of you continue to make out, still standing, before his fingers slip under your wet shirt and he hisses at the cold contact. “Merin, you're still freezing.”

“I’m okay.” You reassure him, shivering from his touch.

He smiles, noticing the shiver. “Yeah?”

You nod, promising him, finding it sweet how he’s concerned about you. Sliding your own hands up his arms, you find solace cupping the back of his neck, pulling him down, needing another kiss. He falls back into the growing pattern, not wanting to miss even a single moment of your touch.

“I know a way you can warm me up, though.”

His eyes flutter open and he gazes at you, his eyes glistening with similar intention. “Oh, yeah?” He flashes an amused smile, intrigued by your flirtatious energy. “What might that be, Ace?”

Biting your lip with a teasing smile of your own, you step back, pulling him with you onto the bed, causing him to chuckle happily. His arms flex, holding himself up from crushing you with his weight, and his head dips. “Fuck, you look so sexy when you bite that.”

Your face contorts with a soft whine at the flustering compliment and he grins, more pleased with your reaction. His lips reclaim yours once more with delicate urgency, and you match it quickly getting lost, diving your hands into his curls. Having only stroked his hair tenderly, your fingers move with eagerness, tugging and pulling desperately to get a sound out of him.

His hands trace you with the utmost respect and value, different from his experiences with other girls. There's reasoning and depth behind every touch. Enjoying every sweet moment, being able to explore every curve he’s only dreamed about touching. He’s finally able to hold you the way he's always wanted, no longer needing to hide behind his fragile vulnerability in the dark. He's finally giving you all of him under the limelight, and he hopes to show you how he’s felt this whole time.

Mattheo groans at each tug of hair, lowering himself to keep kissing you, his hands sliding under your shirt again, feeling the way your body contracts. The muscles twitch with sensitivity and he swallows your gasp, grinning before pushing dominantly his tongue back in. His fingers peel the wet shirt up and over your bra.

He sits up ditching his own shirt, and your hands roam over his chest, feeling the groves of his past scars, sending shivers down his back. He watches gazing at your eyes and how they view him. You already know about the meaning behind them, but now you get to love them, and he bites his lip to not get choked up at how you look at him with love in your eyes.

He grabs your wrists, gently kissing both of them before he pins them above your head, shocking a gasp out of you. He grins, satisfied by your reaction as he shifts, sliding his hands upwards, intertwining your fingers together in an intimate hand hold.

“I’ll go gentle on you...just for today, yeah.” Another cheeky grin flashes your way, unaware of the concealed experience of your sexual life.

You laugh at his sweet reassurance, squeezing his hands, loving the feeling of holding onto him. “I’m really not as innocent as you believe, Matty.”

He raises a brow with surprised curiosity. “Are you telling me I’m not about to be your first Ace?”

The silence confuses him, for when he looks down at you, there's a flash of guilt in your eyes. “I’m not?” He feels a wave of jealousy flow through his veins at the thought of you with someone else, though he knows he has no reason to. He leans down, carrying on his sensual onslaught, kissing up behind your ear. He nips it gently as he whispers sultry, “really?”

Feeling your head nod, he lets out a tiny groan, mostly at himself for taking too fucking long to get his shit together. “That is a shame, baby.”

Turning your head to lock with his sight, reassuring him, “It means more with you, though, Matty.”

His eyes soften, giving a curt nod. He can see the sincerity and honesty in your eyes and he offers a smile back, pecking you. He knows it's true, as it is for him. “The same goes for me.” He cups your cheeks, pressing his forehead to yours, “This isn't a one time thing, okay? You mean so much to me, Ace, and never again do I want to make you feel how I did before.”

His eyes hold so much truth and devotion that you can feel your eyes beginning to water. That is before his hips shift, pressing ever so subtly down, getting into a grinding rhythm as he distracts you from the raw moment with kisses.

He almost jumps out of his skin when your bold hand explores down south, not expecting you to act so brazenly. He shifts, rolling onto his side, allowing your hand to slip inside his pants and wrap around his cock. He can’t help but buck his hips into your palm at the feel of your hand making contact.

“Fuck-Ace.” His eyes droop, looking at you shifting onto your side too, your tits squishing together in the constraints of your bra, his mouth gaping letting out a hitched shaky breath.

Capturing your lips once more, moaning into your mouth, he drowns in the pleasure of how your hand increasingly pumps his cock up and down. He murmurs, resting his forehead against yours with knitted brows, “oh - yeah, ace like that.”

His own hands creep and unbutton your jeans, pushing them down with a bit of urgency. “This okay?”

You nod and ask back, “You? This okay?”

He nods, kissing your cheek and down your neck, “Yes.. better than okay- your hand feels so good.”

You tug your jeans down, kicking them off revealing your panties and he groans, peering down, before he slides a hand rubbing your thigh and tracing his fingers teasingly over the skin as they itch with temptation, brushing gently over your core. He rubs, applying slow pressure over your clothed covered clit and runs a hand through your hair, tugging it back to kiss you. He loves hearing your little sounds muffled into his mouth at the extra sensation you’re feeling.

“So pretty..you sounds so hot.”

You whine sensitively and he swears he’s sent to heaven at the harmonic pitch of your voice. His cock twitches, pulsing in your hand to the sound. Your actions slow focusing on your pleasure and for once he doesn’t mind not being the centre of attention.

He watches with an intense focus full of desire at how your pretty eyes can’t handle staying open, fluttering. The steady rise of your chest increases with every bit of pressure he rubs tauntingly slow. He can't wait any longer, maneuvering his hand under your panties, sliding one finger in, his skin saturated instantly in your juices.

His own breathing congeals to short tiny gasps, eyes darkening, consumed with lustral appreciation. “Soakin Ace. You've been this wet the whole time?”

His question, which seems sincere, causes a flustered reaction and you moan again, grabbing hold of the sheets. He takes it as a yes.

Soft moans of satisfaction infiltrate the room at each hum of your lips. He can feel just how much you’re enjoying this, welcoming him to do what he wants. The trust you have to know what he’s doing is appreciated, and he hums himself in arrogance. Every reaction, sound, movement - watching as your hips begin to jut slightly seek more friction only fills him with a deep pride. You're his girl now, and he’ll never disappoint you again.

His lips move peppering kisses down your neck, nipping at the skin, seeking the achievement of leaving marks of purple hues. “You like that, yeah?”

His finger protrudes deeper, gaining a steady pace, and his eyes flicker away from decoration markings on your neck to your legs spreading wider for his hand. He needs more, hearing every gasp and the sweet moan exhaling from you is pure bliss, and makes him feel on cloud nine.

He hisses gently at how your hand involuntarily squeezes the nearest thing, which happens to be his cock still. It's torture, as you're so focused on him, just pleasing him to even notice the subtle teasing you’re providing. “Sweetheart..” His tone is gritted with bated breath. “F-fuck, please either let go or do something with your hand.”

You moan at the pet name and begin pumping him again, trying to multitask, your brows frowning at his addition of another finger. “Ah- sorry Matty.. I’m trying…just feels s’good!”

He grins at your struggle to speak. “Yeah, feels good?” His fingers meticulously move with skill, slick knuckles deep in your cunt, before he curls them, scraping the spot to make your back arch.

There’s a string of whines as your hips buck up into his hand, “Uh! Yes!”

“Yeah, you want another? Want me to stretch you out…wanna be ready for me, don’t you, Ace?”

While his words are forward and prompting for more, he doesn’t make any moves to do anything until you give him confirmation. He’s continuously checking for your assurance, making sure this is what you want. He just wants to bring you pleasure, watch you get off riding slowly onto his fingers. How your back is arching and your muttering soft pleads, all for him. What's yours is his right.

You nod desperately, “Please Matty!”

He obliges, pushing in a third with ease, your walls contracting to fit him snug inside your drenched pussy. The warmth that evades his fingers has him groaning, listening to a new wave of mews slur out of you. “Fuck-that’s it. Such a good girl, baby.”

He bites back the small protest when you release his cock and grip his arm instead, the indents of your nails digging into his skin, stinging but filling him with a possessive power. He wants your marks on him as much as he wants to leave them on you. To combine your bodies as one and intertwine in a way that goes beyond physical.

Pure bliss overcomes your face and you turn, opening your eyes, glossy with need. Bringing his head down in urgency, you plead. “Matty…Matty, I want more.. Please, I don’t wanna cum unless it’s in you.”

“Shit-t yes yeah?”

His fingers slowly drag, retracting out, pulling a needy whine from the back of your throat, and you nod urgently. He gives his fingers a quick lick, not wanting to waste a single drop of you, watching focused how you shuffle out of your panties.

He shifts sitting up and starts removing his own wet pants with great difficulty. The jeans are heavy and compressed to his thighs tight, causing them to stick, his groin constricted pushing snuggly against the material of his unbutton pants. “Shit- fuck, these are fucking tight now.”

Wandering his gaze at your movements, he watches frozen, disbelieving the vision before him. Sitting up onto your elbows, you unclip your bra, freeing your tits and exposing yourself fully. His pants sit halfway down his legs, his jaw tensing, eyes gazing with enamour at your bare body. He blinks again, swearing this has to be one very good sex dream.

“Fucking Salazar.” He takes in your body as you lay waiting patiently. His lustful gaze only makes you that much hotter. He leans against the bedpost, unable to drag his eyes away. “Ace?”

“Yeah?”

“Just checking this is real.” He finishes pulling his pants down, almost tripping over them with excitement that draws a giggle out of you. The sound of your laugh shakes him out of his daze, and he grins cheekily, continuing his mission of ridding his clothes as fast as possible. “God, I love your laugh.. gonna make me cum right now.”

Your laugh grows in ecstatic shock at his vulgar words. “Mattheo!”

“Oh yeah, look at you practicing screaming already.” He grins, finding your flustering adoring. He frees his cock, admiring the absolutely thirsty look painting your face. He can’t help how his mind backtracks to your admission of not being a virgin, and he lets out a speck of jealousy. “Tell me really, am I bigger?”

“Bigger?” Only just are your eyes able to drift away and up with a furrowed brow.

“Yeah.. Then the fucker who stole your virginity.”

You can’t help the pleased laugh breaking out at his not-so-subtle jealousy, trying to hold back the smug attitude. “Seriously, you're getting jealous now, while I'm baring not only my body but my heart and soul to you.” Lifting a feigned unimpressed eyebrow, you watch with astonishment at how his face changes, expressing a small sheepish smile.

You beckon him closer with a finger, welcoming the confidence flowing through you. “Come here.”

As if pulled by a magnet, he crawls back down, hovering above, his eyes gleaming enticingly and the deep inhale of need. The way you’re looking at him as if he holds all your answers, holds all the warmth for you and that he’s the only one to bring you happiness prick at his skin, feeling nervous. But then you smile and wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him closer and whisper an adorable, “Hi.”

He grins back, finding himself relaxing just at the mere sight of those brimming cheeks and whispers back, “Hey gorgeous.”

His hands roam, maneuvering over your body and pushing your thighs apart. He notes how your eyes fall, breath spiking with anticipation. “Hey, look at me.” His voice is a soft, strained whisper, on the break of losing it altogether as the head of his tip drags through your folds. “You know I love your eyes. It's one of your favourite features of mine.”

He’s never done this before. Been so openly intimate, especially as he’s preparing to fuck someone. He nudges the tip a little further in just gently, a low rumble etching out with hoarse feralness. “I want your eyes on me the whole time, ok Ace.”

Meeting his eye, losing yourself drowning in warm pools of brown neediness, listening to his gentle but essential request, you nod in confirmation. “I will. I never want to turn my back on you again. I love your eyes too much, too.”

His cheeks are hurting from how much they’ve stretched into a smile tonight. “God, you’re perfect, aren’t you?” He captures your lips in a short but passionate kiss.

“Just tell me if it's too much, yeah.” He warns concerningly, biting back the desire to lose control and wreck you completely. At just your nod he utters, looking back up, “words Ace.”

“I will.. yeah, Matty just please..”

“Good girl, such sweet manners.” He grins, licking his lip as he grips his cock, nudging it further in between your folds, his eyes fixed on the way your pretty pussy embraces the head so perfectly, like it was made just for him. A glottal groan of relief passes through his lips and he thrusts his hips gently, his cock sliding deeper into the tightness of your warm walls.

“Oh-f-fuck.” He drops his head, pressing his forehead already beginning to bare a sheen of sweat onto yours, feeling the gaping of your own mouth. The sound that pulls from you is sinful, a delicious lewd moan that makes him grip your hips with firmness to not fall apart so quickly.

“God-yeah…You feel so fucking’good.”

At the flexible way your legs bend back towards your chest naturally, he groans breathlessly, taking it as a sign you’re okay for him to pick up the pace. His hips thrust, driving into you with a satisfying rhythm, the moans continuing to tumble from your lips.

“That’s it… you sound so pretty, baby.” He rasps low and husky. He’s looking at everything, watching the pleasure etched on your face while you lay with your eyes scrunched closed, absorbing it all. He flickers his eyes back and forth from how his cock slides between your folds captivatingly and up to your pretty blessed out face. Your mouth gaping as streams of whiney moans flows out, your head thrown back in ecstasy. “Fuck, I don't know where to look baby…look so good taking me.”

Clutching onto him with a grip of iron, nails pinching into his skin as he cages your body in. His biceps bulge under the movement of holding his weight above you. He drops his head into the crook of your neck and he groans, feeling your fingers dig into his hair, listening to your babbled praises. “Matty- ah feel s’good.”

He roams his hands, stretching your legs wider as he presses his palm down to stabilize himself, his hips vigorously bucking with the strength of a raging bull. He doesn’t know how he told himself he could go easy, with the way your pussy squeezes his cock feels as good as pure heroine. He plants kisses on your neck and turns your head towards him, pressing his lips back onto yours.

He’s in love with the way you feel, the way you sound, your touches roaming his body, switching from gentle caresses to carnal scratches. He feels whole with you, intertwined as bursts of passion taint your tongues, each sound harmonising together heavenly. “Ace.. fuck, you’re so perfect.”

You nod, trying to form a solid thought in response, but the way the tip of his cock is gliding so effortlessly into your cervix only makes you chant his name, your voice breaking with a high pitch strain.

It’s one of the most beautiful things he’s ever witnessed and he kisses your ear, whispering sweet nothings into them, encouraging your onboarding orgasm. “Mmm yeah, cum for me baby, so fuckin pretty wanna watch you fall apart.”

Your climax breaks, spots of white light blurring your vision and you tighten your arms around him, clinging to the one thing grounding you from the overwhelming pleasure. His head lifts, watching with pure delight at the way your body convulses, glistening with sweat like an ethereal being. His body shakes as his hips jutter following you. Broken groans mumble against the skin of your neck as he spills his seed into you entirely.

He huffs a tired pant, not wanting to move, for he’s never felt so whole as right now. He murmurs softly, pressing a sloppy kiss to your ear, “s'good..the best ace. I could live in your pussy, just fall asleep and never wake up.”

You catch your breath, letting out a shaky laugh that makes your cunt squeeze his cock, releasing another deep groan. He shifts his cock aching sensitivity and pulls out rolling to lie beside you, wrapping an arm around your neck to tuck you into his side.

He rests his chin on top of your head. “You okay?”

Nodding with droopy eyes, you plant a kiss on his collarbone and try to calm your mind and absorb the reality of what’s just happened. “Yeah..you're definitely bigger.” You grin answering his earlier question. You blink, gazing up at him with nothing but love and a rapturous glow on your face. “but I’m ok.. im great.”

He chuckles warmly, not even caring to be cocky anymore. He tangles his hand into the still wet knot of your locks. “fuck yeah you are..and your super sure you're real?”

You pinch his thigh, making a sudden squeal come out of his mouth. “Alright! Aight, no need to seek revenge on me - I already apologised.” He jests cupping your head in a firm hold like one of his usual headlocks, but only plants a soft kiss on the top of your head.

“I am sorry, though, and I mean it.” He shifts so your face is parallel to his and he admires the returning light that shines back into your eyes, a warmth that lights the darkness inside him. He brushes your check with his thumb, over the red hues adorning your cheeks, evidence of your spent state.

“I may be a twat a good portion of the time, and this-”, he gestures between the two of you. “Still scares me, so fucking much.” His words are raw and burn with a vulnerability that still sits unfamiliar in his throat. “You’re truly an enigma. I still don’t know what in the hell you see in me?”

You smile, eyes brimming with the utmost love. "I see everything you don’t.”

It’s the truth, and it always has been. The way Mattheo makes you feel is frightening, electrifying, like you’re caught in a storm and he’s your saving grace, parting the seas, giving you everything you need. How his eyes shine, reflecting your clear emotion, makes your heart beat with the force of a thousand drums stimulating the rest of your body.

A warm buzz vibrates between the two of you, knowing that all along, everything you were both missing was right there. The notion that you'll both be alright, swaddled in the new cocoon of your relationship, both finally receiving the love you deserve together.

This work is my own, please don't copy or claim. Any and all interactions are appreciated, thank you for reading! ty again @amongemeraldclouds for your love and support! couldn't have done this without you!

⤷ navigation. ⤷ masterlist. ⤷ mattheo masterlist. ⤷ Extra piece. All work is my own and is not to be copied, claimed or stolen.©️pizzaapeteer 2025.

#mattheo riddle #mattheo riddle imagine #mattheo riddle angst #mattheo riddle fluff #mattheo riddle smut #mattheo riddle one shot #mattheo riddle x reader #slytherin boys #slytherin boys imagines #she will be loved m.r

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pillow-coded · 2 months ago

Text

Recording In Progress

Summary: A private investigator goes undercover to expose Spencer Reid’s secrets—but when he catches on, things far more personal than she ever intended.

prompts used: A thinks they've successfully tricked B... when B leans forward and speaks directly into their wire. — “Did you really think this was going to work on me?”

Couple: Spencer Reid/Fem!Reader

Category: Smut (NSFW, 18+) MDNI!!!!!

Content Warning: strong language, first person POV, penetrative sex, semi-public sex, dirty talk, power play, unprotected sex, light dom!Spencer, mentions of betrayal and emotional manipulation, semi-consensual dynamics/dubcon, Kinda angsty.

A/N: This is my entry for @imagining-in-the-margins Criminal Minds Undercover Challenge (Also my first second attempt ever for writing smut, hopefully it’s not like bad or cringy)!!

Word Count: 6.3K

I’ve done worse jobs for better pay.

Political smear jobs, corporate leaks, scumbag CEOs cheating on their fourth wives. I’ve worn heels into strip clubs and smiled through dinner with men who thought I didn’t know what a burner phone was. I’ve been called a bitch, a genius, and a ghost, depending on who was signing the check.

I was hired to investigate Dr. Spencer Reid. No reason given, no name offered. Just a large sum wired to my account and a single note: Find out what he’s hiding.

Simple enough.

Except… Spencer Reid doesn’t have a digital footprint. He’s like a ghost in the machine. No scandals, no secrets, not even a hint of skeletons in his closet. And believe me, I looked.

And now here I am—three weeks into my “trial run” as the Bureau’s newest PR-friendly face. The temporary Media Liaison job I got thanks to me pulling some strings. I talk to the news reporters, fetch coffee. Pretend not to notice how agents avoid eye contact when they think I’m listening.

But Spencer?

Spencer doesn’t avoid anything.

He looks right at me when he speaks—slow, deliberate, almost too polite, like he’s weighing every word before he lets it leave his mouth. Like he’s watching for a reaction, waiting to see what sticks. It should’ve made him easy to read. But he wasn’t. If anything, he made me feel like the one under observation.

At first, I told myself he was just awkward. A little too smart, a little too soft. All anxious fingers and mismatched socks, like some deer that wandered too far from the herd and was just hoping someone might keep him company.

Innocent, I thought.

Innocent my ass.

Because there’s something behind those eyes—something that doesn’t flinch. Something that sees everything and stays quiet anyway. And now that I’ve gotten too close, I’m starting to wonder if I’m the one being hunted.

And maybe I should’ve been more careful—should’ve kept my distance.

Because it’s getting harder to tell which parts of this are pretend. The way my hand lingers on his arm when I laugh. The way he says my name like it’s always surprised him.

The wire beneath my shirt itches when I lean forward. I pretend it’s nothing, cross my arms to cover the mic. But he keeps talking.

Stories. Facts. Soft opinions. I record all of it. Hours of audio. Dozens of little truths. And yet none of it sounds like a secret.

It started with coffee.

Not because I actually wanted it—God knows the Bureau’s idea of caffeine tastes like it was filtered through a floor mop—but because he always had one. Every morning. Same cup, same lid, same little paper napkin wrapped around it like he didn’t want his fingers touching the surface.

So I started bringing him one. A peace offering. An excuse. A way in.

“No cream, four sugars,” I’d say, like I didn’t already have it memorized from the second day.

“You don’t have to keep bringing me coffee,” he’d murmur, almost shy. “But thank you.”

Then he’d take it anyway. Every time. Like it was a favor he wasn’t sure he deserved.

It disarmed me.

The first few days I kept things casual—too casual. Just enough charm to keep the agents from digging into my file, just enough polish to look useful in a crisis. And Spencer? Spencer was easy to hover near. Everyone else gave him a wide berth. Not because they didn’t like him, I realized. Because they didn’t understand him.

But I did.

Or I acted like I did, which, honestly, wasn’t hard. He talks when you let him. Especially about things most people pretend to care about but don’t. String theory. Linguistics. Microexpressions. Magic tricks.

“The trick isn’t in the sleight of hand,” he told me once, while shuffling a deck between his fingers. “It’s in where you make people look instead.”

“Is that what you’re doing to me?” I’d asked. “Misdirection?”

He didn’t answer.

Just smiled without showing his teeth.

And it messed me up more than I expected.

Because here’s the thing: Spencer Reid doesn’t flirt. Not really. He observes. He listens, catalogues, memorizes. And he gives you just enough of himself to make you want more. That’s the part I wasn’t prepared for.

Like yesterday—he’d asked about my family. Out of nowhere. Soft and curious.

“You mentioned your dad’s a journalist,” he said, halfway through a case debrief. “Is that what made you want to work in media?”

He had no idea how deep that question could’ve cut. But he asked it like he already suspected the answer and just wanted to see if I’d lie.

I did.

“Yeah. Something like that.”

He nodded. Didn’t press.

But something shifted.

He started watching me more closely after that. Saying my name more often. Brushing past me in the hallway, close enough for the hem of his sweater to ghost over my knuckles. A lesser man would’ve tried something by now. Spencer just... lingered.

And then today. God, today.

The bullpen was nearly empty. Just the two of us, caught in that odd hour between too-late and not-late-enough. I made a joke—light, harmless.

“You know, I’m starting to think you don’t actually like coffee,” I said. “You just like holding something in your hands so you don’t have to look busy.”

I waited for that soft half-smile he always gives when he’s amused. The one that makes his eyes crease, just barely.

It didn’t come.

Instead, he looked at me.

Really looked at me.

“You ask a lot of questions,” he said quietly. Not accusing. Just… observing.

I felt it before he even moved—this creeping heat behind my ribs. I tried to keep still, tried not to let the sudden tension show.

“So do you,” I replied, aiming for playful. It landed a little too breathy.

He took a step forward.

Then another.

I could’ve backed up. I didn’t.

He was close now. Closer than protocol allows, closer than he’s ever been. My pulse ticked loud in my ears. I swallowed. I waited for him to speak.

He didn’t. Not at first.

His eyes flicked to my chest, and for a moment, I thought—

But no. He wasn’t looking at my lips. He was looking lower.

Right where the mic was taped beneath my shirt.

“You wore that all day?” he asked, voice low. No heat in it—just something sharp and calm and terrifying.

“I don’t know what you—”

“Don’t lie to me,” he said.

My mouth shut. The weight of his gaze was like gravity, dragging me down into silence.

And then he leaned in. His mouth hovered just beside my ear, breath warm, voice so low it barely stirred the air between us.

“Did you really think this was going to work on me?”

I stopped breathing. My spine locked. My mouth went dry.

“You’ve been recording me.” It wasn’t a question. He tilted his head slightly, studying me the way you’d study a fracture—trying to guess where the break began.

He didn’t pull away.

“You’ve been careful,” he murmured, “I’ll give you that. The questions were subtle. The charm? Believable. The coffee orders were a nice touch. But I don’t trust people who learn too fast.”

I wanted to speak. I really did. But my throat wouldn’t work.

“Especially not people who ask about things I’ve never told anyone.”

And just like that, he stepped back.

My heart was in my mouth. The wire burned under my shirt like a brand. I felt exposed in a way I never had before—caught not just in a lie, but in something deeper. Something personal. He didn’t sound angry. He sounded disappointed. Maybe even hurt.

“Who sent you?” he asked, softer now. Not demanding. Just… tired. Like he already knew.

“It’s not what you think,” I said.

A small smile tugged at his mouth. But there was nothing warm in it.

“Then tell me what it is. Because I’m trying really hard to believe this wasn’t just some elaborate… game.”

I didn’t say anything.

I wanted to. I think I even opened my mouth. But there was no defense I could give that wouldn’t sound like another lie. Another twist of the knife.

So I just stood there, heart thudding against the wire, pulse loud in my ears, and let him look at me.

He waited.

And when I didn’t give him anything—not an apology, not an excuse—something in his face changed.

Not anger. Not disgust.

Something quieter.

Like disappointment. Like resignation. Like he’d already filed me away under lost cause.

“Tell whoever sent you they won’t find what they’re looking for.”

He paused.

“And if they want to try again,” he says, eyes still on mine, “tell them next time… they should send someone I won’t miss when they leave.”

He turns to walk away, and I should let him.

But I don’t.

“Wait,” I say—sharper than I mean to.

He stops. Doesn’t turn around right away.

When he does, it’s slow. Controlled. Every part of him unreadable. Except his eyes—they're sharper now. Sadder too. Like I’d cut him without knowing where the blade was.

“You think I wanted this to happen?” I ask. “You think I planned to care?”

He just looks at me. Long and hard.

“You didn’t plan anything,” he says. “That’s the problem.”

He steps closer. The space between us evaporates. My pulse flutters. His eyes fall to my chest—where the wire sits taped beneath my shirt. His jaw clenches.

“I should report you,” he says. “Walk you out of here myself and forget this ever happened.”

“You should,” I whisper.

He exhales slowly through his nose. Like he's trying to talk himself down from something.

“I knew something was off,” he says. “But you—you looked at me like…”

He stops. Closes his eyes for just a second. Opens them again.

“I was doing my job,” I say.

“You were lying.”

We’re close enough now that I can feel the tension roll off him like heat. His hand lifts—hesitates—then brushes the edge of my collar. Just two fingers. Just enough to press gently over the place where the wire sits.

His voice is low, and it trembles with something between fury and want.

“I’m going to give you five seconds to walk away before I do something we’ll both regret.”

He doesn’t count.

Neither do I.

Because I don’t move.

And neither does he.

Not until the pretending breaks—soft and sudden, like the snap of a wire pulled too tight for too long.

His breath stutters, and I see it—right there in his eyes—that flicker of recognition. That I’m not going anywhere. That whatever this is between us, it’s no longer something we can ignore.

Then he moves.

Slow at first, like he’s giving me time to pull away. Like he’s testing the current between us.

But I don’t flinch. I can’t.

Without a word, he closes the remaining distance, seizing my chin gently between his fingers. His touch is deliberate—measured—there's heat in it, too. His thumb traces the curve of my lower lip, slow and careful, brushing against the sensitive skin just beneath.

His other hand finds my hip—strong, sure—as he pulls me flush against him. I feel the heat of his body through the fabric of my clothes, the hard planes of his chest and abdomen molding against the softer lines of mine like they were made to fit.

He leans in slowly, giving me time to pull away. I don’t.

His lips hover just above mine, a hairsbreadth of space between us. I can feel his breath mingling with mine, warm and unsteady. The scent of him fills my lungs—clean cologne, warm skin, and something unmistakably him.

“Last chance,” he whispers, voice low and rough and dangerous in the best way.

And I don’t take it.

His words hang in the charged air between us, suspended for a single, trembling moment. Time seems to slow—each heartbeat stretching into forever—as I stand there, breath caught, teetering on the edge of something I can’t undo.

He murmurs something under his breath—too quiet to catch, too dark to be innocent—and then he moves.

He closes the final inch between us, and his lips crash into mine in a searing, hungry kiss that steals my breath and sets every nerve in my body alight.

One of his hands tangles into my hair, tilting my head just enough to deepen the kiss. The other tightens at my hip, pulling me harder against him until there’s nothing between us but heat and tension and the press of his body against mine—hard, unyielding, and everywhere.

His tongue slips past my lips, bold and sure, stroking along mine and sending sparks through me so sharp they feel like electricity in my bloodstream. I can taste the desperation in his kiss—feel the pent-up longing in the way his fingers clutch at my waist like he’s afraid I might disappear.

It isn’t a kiss. It’s a demand.

And I give in to it, completely.

He walks me backward, mouth still on mine, until the edge of his desk catches the backs of my legs. I hit it with a quiet thud, breath hitching—not from shock this time, but from the sheer, aching need curling low in my stomach.

His hands skim up my sides, fingertips dragging slowly over the thin fabric of my blouse. His palms are warm and slightly rough, catching just enough to make my skin spark beneath the surface. I feel every inch of contact like a live wire beneath my clothes, and when his hands reach my ribcage, he pauses—just for a breath—before slipping his fingers to the buttons of my shirt.

One by one, he undoes them.

I gasp as cool air brushes the skin beneath, the lace of my bra suddenly far too delicate, too flimsy. But his attention isn’t on the fabric. Not entirely.

His fingers ghost over the mic, still taped below my sternum. He lingers there, the pad of his thumb brushing lightly over it. Then he looks up, eyes dark, mouth curling into something between a smirk and a warning.

My stomach flips. My mouth parts—but I don’t know whether it’s to object or to breathe.

He doesn’t wait for a response.

He leans in and presses his mouth to the base of my throat, kissing a path downward. His lips are hot. His stubble scrapes. He grazes my pulse with his teeth before his mouth latches onto that tender skin just above my collarbone.

He suckles and nips with deliberate intent, letting his jaw rasp against my neck as he pulls another broken breath from me.

“Do you have any idea what you’ve done to me?” he mutters against my throat, voice low and uneven.

Without warning, his hands grip my thighs and lift—effortless, like he’s been waiting to do it for weeks. He sets me on the edge of his desk, the cool surface biting against the backs of my legs. In the next breath, he steps between them, settling into the cradle of my hips.

The zipper of his slacks scrapes rough against my inner thighs, and then I feel it—hard, hot, and insistent, pressing right where I need him most.

He doesn’t move. Not yet.

He just waits—daring me to admit I want it just as badly.

His eyes lock on mine, sharp and unrelenting, like they’re looking through me, not at me. There’s heat there, sure, but it’s more than that. It’s intensity. Focus. A fire that catches deep in my belly and threatens to devour everything in its path.

The air between us pulses, thick with tension. A silent standoff. Neither of us willing to look away. Neither of us willing to surrender first.

“Tell me,” he says, voice low and raw, rough enough to scrape down my spine. His hands tighten on my thighs, grounding me. Holding me still. “Tell me you’ve felt this too. The way we… fit. The chemistry—it’s like a live wire between us, and you know it.”

He leans in, mouth brushing so close I can feel the shape of the words before he says them.

“I want to hear you say it. Admit it. That you’re just as lost in this… thing as I am. That you burn for my hands, that you crave my mouth, that you ache to be undone by me.”

A tremble works its way through my spine. I don’t trust myself to speak.

His hand slides from my thigh up my side—slow, deliberate. Fingertips grazing the curve of my ribcage, mapping the slope of my breast. He palms it through the thin lace of my bra, the heat of his touch making me gasp.

Then his thumb finds my nipple.

Rolls it. Just once.

A shock of sensation shoots through me, and I bite my lip to stop the sound that nearly escapes.

He feels it. Knows it.

And his mouth curls, just slightly. Like he’s satisfied—but not nearly done.

He gathers my answer without a single word—reading it in the tremble of my thighs, the sharp hitch in my breath, the way heat blooms across my skin in a helpless, rosy flush. His eyes, now dark and heavy-lidded with want, drag over me like he’s cataloging every reaction… and storing it for later.

I don’t even know what I’m begging for when I whisper,

“Spencer… please…”

But it’s enough.

It’s more than enough.

Something shifts in him—like control has finally slipped through his fingers, and now he’s choosing to let it go.

His hand dips beneath the lace of my bra, his fingers brushing bare skin. My breath stutters as his palm curves around me, warm and possessive. He cups the weight of my breast, rolling it gently, then pinches and tugs my nipple between his thumb and forefinger until it stiffens in his grasp.

The sensation ricochets through me—sharp, heady, electric.

Before I can even moan, his other hand finds its way into my hair. He fists it at the base of my skull, not rough, but firm enough to steal my breath. And then he kisses me.

No warning. No hesitation.

Just heat.

His mouth crashes into mine with a hunger I feel in every nerve ending. It’s the kind of kiss that scrapes thought from bone. The kind that tells me this isn’t just lust. It’s possession.

I’m not kissing Spencer Reid.

I’m being devoured by him.

He devours my moan like he’s starved for it—like the sound alone could satisfy something buried deep inside him. His mouth moves hungrily against mine, swallowing every breath, every sound, as if he’s trying to consume me from the inside out.

His grip tightens in my hair, angling my head with a rough kind of reverence that opens me completely to him. The hand on my breast isn’t gentle anymore. He kneads the soft flesh firmly, expertly, and the mix of pressure and pleasure sends shivers racing down my spine.

When he finally tears his mouth from mine, I’m gasping—but he doesn’t give me long to recover.

His lips blaze a trail down the column of my neck, his teeth dragging, tongue soothing, until he reaches my pulse point and lingers there. He bites, just hard enough to sting, then soothes it with his tongue, in a way that makes my whole body clench.

He trails lower.

Mouth warm and wet as he moves down the swell of my breasts, over the valley between them, until he reaches the curve of lace hiding what he wants most.

His lips close around my nipple through the soaked fabric of my bra, sucking hard enough to make me cry out. My hips jerk instinctively, chasing friction, chasing him.

His fingers don’t hesitate. They find the clasp at my back, working with practiced ease, and I feel the tension in the garment give way.

I’m panting now, barely keeping up with the pace he’s set—as the cool air hits my bare skin, kissing over every exposed inch and pebbling it with goosebumps. But there’s no relief. Not from the heat pouring off of him. He’s everywhere. Surrounding me. Consuming me.

He shoves the fabric of my bra aside and his mouth descends without hesitation, closing around my nipple in a wet, greedy heat that makes my head fall back against the wall with a soft thud. He licks, broad, deliberate strokes, then circles the sensitive bud with the tip of his tongue before suckling, hungry and unrelenting, like he’s ravenous for me.

I cry out. I can’t help it.

His other hand cups my remaining breast, fingers rough and insistent as they knead and pluck, teasing the tip until it aches under his touch. Every movement marks me until I feel like there’s nothing left untouched.

And still, it’s not enough.

His hips begin to move—slow, grinding rolls that press the hard ridge of his arousal against my center. Even through the barrier of my clothes, the friction is maddening. Precise. He grinds again, and I feel my thighs part a little more with each thrust, until the thick swell of him is nestled perfectly against the place I need him most.

I arch. I whimper. I burn.

“Tell me what you need,” he growls, voice rough and low in my ear.

I meet his gaze, barely holding it. My voice trembles as I breathe,

“You… all of you.”

His hand leaves my breast, trailing down the center of my body in a path that feels like fire. slow and deliberate. His fingertips glide over my trembling stomach, dipping lower until they reach the waistband of my skirt.

He doesn’t ask permission.

He just slips his hand beneath it, under the thin barrier of my underwear, and groans softly when he feels how soaked I already am.

“Like this?” he rasps, fingers brushing against my center with maddening restraint. “Is this what you wanted?”

The heat in his voice wrecks me. Low, rough, commanding. A far cry from the soft-spoken man I’d spent weeks practically studying. This wasn’t shy, awkward Spencer. This was something darker. Hungrier. A version of him I wasn’t sure anyone else had ever seen.

He strokes me through the slick fabric, circling over my clit with just enough pressure to leave me gasping but not enough to satisfy. Every touch is calculated—teasing, fleeting—designed to unravel me without giving me what I want.

“Tell me,” he says, the edge in his voice tightening. “Tell me how badly you need me.”

I try to answer, but all that comes out is a broken sound—half gasp, half plea.

His fingers press a little harder, his mouth close to my ear now, every word dripping with dominance and need.

“Say it,” he breathes. “Say you want me. Say you want to feel me deep inside you… filling you, wrecking you.”

The pressure builds, unbearable, electric. I’m shaking. I can barely breathe.

And I want it—I want everything.

“Say it,” he growls, fingers pressing harder against my aching center. The friction sharpens, maddening—his touch no longer teasing but demanding, as he rubs firm, relentless circles over my clit. His other hand grips my hip, holding me in place with bruising intensity, like he doesn’t trust me not to fall apart.

“Beg for it,” he mutters, voice low and wrecked. “Beg for my cock like the desperate little thing I know you are. I want to hear you scream for it.”

The words hit me like a jolt to the spine—vulgar, filthy, perfect.

His fingers shove my panties to the side, and one thick, calloused fingertip slides between my folds, slow and deliberate. He drags it through my slick heat, teasing—hovering just at the entrance, never quite giving in. A low, satisfied sound escapes him, like he’s savoring the way I tremble beneath him.

And then, with the hand not working me open, he reaches down to his belt. I hear the soft clink of metal, the zip of fabric sliding apart. He doesn’t rush it. Doesn’t break eye contact. Just keeps touching me—keeping me on the edge—as he frees himself with terrifying calm.

“You feel that?” he mutters, pressing himself into my thigh, the outline of him thick and undeniable through the cotton. “You shouldn’t be able to do this to me,”

His breath stutters against my cheek as he shifts his weight, one hand still working me open while the other reaches down. I feel the stretch of fabric, the quiet drag of cotton being pushed aside. Then the thick heat of him presses directly against me—bare now, heavy and pulsing at my entrance. The last barrier is gone. There’s nothing between us anymore.

He’s right there—right there—poised to push inside, to take, to ruin, and still… he waits.

And I break.

“Please,” I choke out, breathless, undone. “Oh my God, please, I—I need you.”

“I think you do,” he growls, voice low and ragged. “I think you need my cock buried inside this sweet little pussy”

And then he moves.

One swift, brutal thrust—and he’s inside me.

Fully. Completely.

I gasp, no sound behind it, my mouth falling open as he stretches me wide in a single, punishing stroke. He drives in to the hilt, hips pressing flush against mine, forcing my body to take every inch of him.

I’m overwhelmed. Split open. Filled.

“Fuck,” he snarls, the sound rumbling out against my chest, where his body presses hot and heavy over mine.

He gives me no time to adjust—no breath, no mercy. He pulls out almost entirely, just the thick tip left inside, and then slams back in with a force that steals what little air I have left.

Again.

And again.

Each thrust is brutal. Precise. Unrelenting.

The rhythm builds fast—sharp, punishing, perfect—and it’s all I can do to hold on. My cries are ragged, torn from my throat as he drives up into me like he’s trying to etch himself into my body, brand me from the inside out.

One hand clamps around my hip, fingers digging deep into flesh, anchoring me in place as he fucks me like he owns every inch of me.

His free hand moves lower, searching.

I barely register it through the haze of sensation until I feel a sudden tug at my waist—sharp, deliberate.

His fingers find the wire trailing from the recorder clipped to my skirt, and before I can react, he yanks. The movement is swift, almost angry. The adhesive holding the tiny mic to my chest rips free with a sting, the wire snapping taut as he drags the entire thing into his hand like a secret he’s been waiting to expose.

He brings it up, slow and deliberate, until it’s hovering right at my lips.

“Is this still on?” he murmurs, voice wrecked and quiet, eyes never leaving mine. “You gonna send this to them? Let them hear what you sound like when you're being fucked by the person you’re supposed to be investigating?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer.

He just holds it there—steadily, deliberately—catching every breathless moan, every gasp, every desperate sound that spills from my lips.

“All those filthy little sounds. Let it record what you sound like when you're mine.”

And God help me—I moan for him. Loud. Unashamed.

His eyes flicker—dark and satisfied—as he presses the mic even closer to my lips, like he wants it to catch everything.

“That’s it,” he breathes, the corner of his mouth twitching into the ghost of a smirk. “Let it hear how desperate you sound when I’m inside you.”

He punctuates the words with a sharp thrust, forcing another cry from my throat—one I can’t bite back even if I tried.

“You think they’ll recognize your voice?” he murmurs, low and mocking as his hips roll into mine, relentless. “Think they’ll hear how wrecked you sound and wonder what it cost you?”

Every thrust lands with calculated force, his pace unforgiving, grinding me closer to the edge with each brutal stroke. My hands scramble for something to hold—his shoulders, the edge of the desk, anything—but there’s no grounding here. Just him. Just the sound of skin meeting skin and the filthy, wrecked sounds he’s dragging from my throat.

And the mic.

Still held to my lips. Still recording everything.

“You were supposed to be watching me,” he grits out between thrusts, the words strained with effort. “But look at you now.”

Another slam of his hips, and I cry out again—louder this time, legs shaking, breath hitching. I can feel the tremor starting in my core, the tightening that warns of everything about to snap.

“This what they wanted?” he growls, jaw clenched. “You giving them everything but the answers?”

He presses in deeper—deeper than before, like he’s trying to bury himself in me, leave something behind. His forehead drops to mine, sweat-slick and shaking with restraint.

“You’re not gonna be able to listen back to this without coming apart,” he whispers, voice rough and fraying. “You know that, don’t you?”

“Spencer!”

My nails dig into his back, desperate for something—release, control, him. I don’t even know if I’m clinging to him or trying to pull him deeper, but he groans when I do it—low and wrecked—like it unravels something he’s been barely holding together.

His pace stutters for just a beat.

Then he grabs my thigh, hikes it higher around his hip, and drives into me again with brutal, unrelenting force.

The desk creaks beneath us. The microphone trembles in his hand.

“That’s it…” he breathes against my mouth. “Say my name.”

Another thrust. My body arches, wrecked and raw.

“Say it like you mean it. Let them hear you fall apart for me.”

And I do.

Each time his name tears from my throat, his grip tightens—on my thigh, on my waist, on the mic still trembling in his hand. He’s losing rhythm now, chasing something just out of reach, buried deep inside me like he can’t stop until we both fall off the edge together.

His movements turn rougher, more erratic, like control is slipping through his fingers and he wants it to.

“That’s it,” he groans, voice breaking apart. “Come on—give it to me.”

The pressure coils tight and fast, unbearably sharp, building from deep inside me like a wave I can’t outrun. I feel it clawing up my spine, lighting every nerve on fire, and I know—I know—I’m about to break.

“Spencer—” my voice fractures.

I shatter around him with a cry that borders on a sob, back arching, thighs trembling, everything inside me clenching hard around him as my climax hits like a lightning strike—hot and endless and all-consuming.

He groans my name in return, low and guttural, pressing his forehead to mine as he follows me over the edge with a final, desperate thrust. His body jerks against mine, hips stuttering as he spills into me, his breath ragged and uneven in my ear.

And then… stillness.

Just the sound of our breathing. Heavy. Shaky. Shallow.

His hand falls away from the mic, letting it dangle by its wire like a forgotten confession. He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t move.

Neither do I.

For a moment, it’s just quiet.

Then he pulls out of me slowly, carefully, like he doesn’t want to hurt me—but the ache he leaves behind is instant.

I shift, suddenly aware of my half-unbuttoned blouse, the stretch of my thigh still hooked around him, the sweat cooling between us. The shame doesn’t hit all at once. It creeps in.

And then he speaks.

“You can stop recording now.”

His voice is calm. Too calm.

My throat tightens. I reach for the mic with shaking fingers, powering it off in silence. He watches me do it—watches everything—and still doesn’t look away.

“Who sent you?”

I flinch.

It’s not a growl. Not a threat. Just a question. Clinical. Lethal in its precision.

“Was it internal? Press? Private buyer?”

I try to form words, but none come. I look at him, eyes wide, mouth parted, still wrecked in every sense of the word. I open my lips—twice—and still nothing.

He exhales through his nose, eyes flicking away for the first time.

Not angry. Not even hurt. Just… resigned.

“That’s what I thought.”

He moves before I can speak. Reaches down, tucks himself back into his boxers, then zips up his slacks with that same quiet efficiency—controlled, distant, like he’s locking something away. Like he doesn’t want me to see any part of him he didn’t mean to give.

“Get dressed.”

His voice is steady, but the tension in his jaw speaks volumes.

I open my mouth again.

“Spencer, I—”

“Don’t.”

He turns away, running a hand through his hair like it hurts to keep standing there. His shoulders are tense, spine straight, but I see the tremble in his hand. He’s not angry.

He’s wrecked.

Not because I fooled him.

Because he let me.

And he’s about to walk away—leave me in the silence we created—when the word escapes me, sharp and sudden:

“Wait.”

He stops. Doesn’t turn around fully. Just enough for me to see the side of his face, unreadable.

My fingers move before I can think. I reach down, disconnect the recorder, and slide out the memory card. Small. Light. But somehow heavier than anything I’ve ever held.

I walk toward him. Quiet steps. Careful steps. And when I reach him, I place it in his hand.

“Here,” I whisper. “Here’s everything.”

He stares at it for a long moment. Then closes his fingers around it.

“What do you want me to do with it?” he asks, voice low. Tired. But not cold.

I meet his eyes.

“Whatever you want.”

He nods—just once—and slips it into his pocket.

For a moment, neither of us moves.

And then, softer than before, he says, “You know… You could’ve just asked.”

I step up beside him, shoulder to shoulder. Not touching, but close enough to feel the warmth still clinging to him. Close enough to imagine, for a second, that we could leave like this. Side by side.

“Would you really have told me anything?” I ask quietly, not looking at him.

There’s a pause.

Then—just barely above a whisper—

“Maybe not everything.”

Another beat. A breath.

“But I would’ve told you the truth.”

We stand there in the hallway—two liars trying to remember how to be honest.

And this time, when he turns to walk, he doesn’t walk away.

He waits.

take a slow step forward, then another, until I’m beside him again. Close enough to feel the quiet shift in the air between us.

“Well… I’ll keep that in mind for next time,” I say, trying to smile—trying to ease the weight.

He doesn’t respond. Just watches me.

So I drop the joke.

“For the record… even if you don’t believe me, it got real. Somewhere along the way, it stopped being part of the job.”

I glance up, meet his eyes.

“You’re real to me, Spencer.”

And for a moment, he just looks at me—searching. Like he’s trying to decide whether to believe me.

Then, finally, quietly—

“I know.”

And he starts walking.

This time, I follow.

#mentioningmargins #spencer reid #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid smut #criminal minds

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redcreekheart · 1 month ago

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Nsfw alphabet w Remmick!

After a long wait is finally here lmao

@fuckoffbard you told me to tag you lol

Warning: female!reader, mention on blood

A= Aftercare (what they’re like after the act)

Remmick is a passionate lover who enjoys the art of making his sexual partners rely on him for guidance and affection.

He praises them afterwards and stays for a bit to keep them attached and make them feel wanted. But that's about it.

Now, with his true love, the one he absolutely cares about and it's not just another follower. Well, Remmick would do whatever is in his power to make them feel utterly adored.

He showers them in love and praise, soothing the pain away from their limp body, peppering kisses all over their skin as he cleans them from the sweat and cum (even blood) that was smeared all over their sore body.

B= Body part (favorite body part their own or their lovers)

Remmick loves your entire body, but he pays so much attention to your legs it's crazy.

He loves to kiss them up and down, nibble on your thighs and grope your ass as he's eating you out.

Remmick loves everything about them.

C= Cum (anything that has to do with it)

Can vampires even cum? Idk but Remmick likes to cum deep inside you and make you take every drop of it. He likes to fill you up to the brim, fucking his cum back to you if it starts to ooze out and praise you for being such a good girl for him.

D= Dirty secret (Pretty self explanatory)

Remmick has nothing to hide sexually, he's an open freak and has no shame.

However if we had to say something, Remmick loves to play with his food. He has a hunger for blood, yours smells so good and it makes him want to sink his teeth deep into your skin and suck you dry, but he waits.

He doesn't do this with other humans, Remmick lures them and drinks every single drop of blood their body has to offer. But you're different.

He keeps you around, he gets off on the edge, to have a bit of you but no whole.

He loves when you get your period because he gets to taste you completely, a little treat to ease his hunger. But he's waiting for the day he gets to devour you without mercy.

E= Experience (do they know what they’re doing)

He knows what he's doing, alright? This man got 100 years and more of experience (both of his own and people he has transformed) up his sleeve and he's ready to show off and rock your world.

F= Favorite position

Legs over his shoulders or pressed against your chest where he gets to thrust deeper into you, it's perfect. He loves watching you fall apart underneath him, crying out his name as he pounds into you.

If you're a human (his little toy) he's going to nibble in your flesh, not enough to fully dig his fans and make a feast out of you, but it's so fucking tempting and he's drooling like a starved man which adds to the excitement of everything.

G= Goofy (how serious are they)

Remmick is charming and he can crack a few jokes here and there, however, in sex I feel like he's playful and alluring. He isn't funny, but he's not dead serious either.

He's keeping you on your toes for sure.

H= Hair (grooming habits)

Remmick is hairy, perhaps nothing too wild, but he's not bald down there. You see, the road is lead by some chest hair that goes down to his happy trail and dies with a nice patch of hair where his dick stands.

I= Intimacy (in the moment romantic or rough/dirty)

Remmick is a hungry man ready to take his prey, he's not exactly kind. His poundings are rough and dirty, he wants- no, he needs to claim you as his over and over again and will be vocal about it.

Can he be sweet and romantic? Sure, you're his pretty little thing, he wanna makes you feel good.

J= Jack off (do they masturbate and how often)

Remmick doesn't really do it, he got you for that. However, if he does jack off is to tease you, to make you watch as he pleases himself until you're begging to get a taste.

K= Kink (kinks what they like possibly unusual)

Breeding kink, perhaps even a pregnancy kink too: Look, Remmick loves claiming you as his over and over again and the thought of making you all swell and round with his babies is way too tempting for him not to do it.

Honestly I believe that he's a family man, he wants to have one and he also likes the process of knocking you up.

Also dominance, he's not aggressive about it, but he wants you to rely on him fully and obey what he says.

Blood kink as well, he loves to make it pour out of you and lick it off your skin. Whenever you get your period he's a happy man.

L= Location (where they like to get it on)

He doesn't care as long as he got you, however, I feel like he would get such a thrill for public spaces.

Perhaps it's not blown out sex, just teasing, running his hands on your body, whispering the dirty things he wants to do to you once he gets you alone.

M= Motivation (things that makes them tick/turn ons)

You relying on him for whatever reason, it makes him feel needed and God it turns him on so much. He loves when you come asking for help, when you get flustered when he praises you, when you let him lead you.

N= No (turnoffs or absolutely won’t do)

Share you. You're his and only his and he would be damned if he lets somebody else be with you, Remmick is greedy and he knows it.

You're the only good thing keeping him grounded and with a sense of belonging, he's not losing that.

O= Oral (receiving or giving and how skillful they are)

HE'S A MUNCH you cannot tell me this man doesn't love eating pussy, he said it himself lmao.

He's so goddamn good at it too, all that pent up knowledge inside his head working as he sucks on your pussy, licking and fucking his tongue and fingers. Remmick got you seeing stars.

As for a blowjob? He's not telling you no lmao, he appreciates his baby wanting to please him and will praise you for it, guiding your pretty mouth as he takes a hold of your head, he makes so many lustful sounds that'll make you drip.

P= Pace (how fast they are and how long they last in bed)

The duality of man, he doesn't care if it's fast or slow, he can go either way really.

Remmick is a little rough though, passionate with the goal of reminded you who you belong to with each thrust, however, it doesn't have to be all fast. He can be slow, making you get lost in the pleasure and roll your eyes back in pure bliss.

Q= Quickie (do they prefer fast and hard)

If there's no time then he's gonna suck it up and take what he can, however, Remmicks prefers to take his sweet time with you.

R= Risk (do they like to try new things)

Absolutely yes, Remmick doesn't shy away from a challenge and, even though he had done a lot of things in his life, he's down to try them with you as long as you're in for it as well.

Sure, he might be a little persuasive, but he still wants you to enjoy yourself so he doesn't push too much.

S= Stamina (how many times they can go and how long each round lasts)

Remmick can last as long as you want him to, he got that vampire stamina going on and he's not stopping after just one round.

T= Toys (are they game for using sex toys on themselves or lovers)

I doubt Remmick had access to any toys, but if he did, he for sure would be down to use them on you. I told you he's a freak.

Remmick takes pleasure in watching you come apart by his hand, he got the power and the decision on how things would go even if he's laid back watching you masturbate with some dildo or whatever.

U= Unfair (how do they tease or do they enjoy suspense themselves)

HE'S A TEASE, this man got a dirty mouth and does the most nasty things that makes your knees wobbly, but he's gonna make you beg for it.

V= Volume (are they loud, what sounds, and do they talk)

Remmick is pretty vocal, he wants you to know he's enjoying what you're doing, he moans and grunts and talks you through it all the way till your cumming.

W= Wild card (random sincannon of any sort)

He loves watching you be stained in blood, it's such a nice view for him.

X= X-ray (what’s down below in dem pants)

Slightly bigger than average (that thing hits his stomach when it's hard, go figure), thick and veiny.

Y= Yearning (sexdrive level)

I would say it's fairly high and he's ready to fuck whenever you asked him to, listen, Remmick wants to have a good time with you, away from problems and doubts. The only thought he wants to have is how good you feel

Z= Zzzz (do they sleep after if so how quickly after)

Does Remmick sleeps at all? He might a little tired if anything, but he's not sleeping anytime soon. He keeps you close, letting you rest your head on his chest as he got an arm tightly wrapped around you, lazily caressing your hip as he kisses your head.

You can talk about sweet nothings, about how things were back in his days and what you guys wanna do now in the present.

It's calming and he loves it.

#remmick imagine #remmick x reader #remmick #sinners imagine #sinners

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vamptizm · 2 months ago

Text

SNOOZE — p. bueckers iv.

pairing: paige bueckers x soraya mensima (oc)

synopsis: rookie paige bueckers enters the league with confidence, charm, and a bad habit of gravitating toward things she shouldn’t want— like soraya mensima, the wings’ respected star and reluctant heartbreaker. soraya’s been here longer, knows better, and refuses to let lines blur... even as paige keeps rewriting them with every smile.

warnings: fluff. slight angst. mentions of weed. sexual content. high sex. oral (s!receiving) pussy drunk paige.

word count: 12.8k

masterlist

♯┆taglist (open) .ᐟ ★ @brenwritesss @bueckersbitch @ekisokay @paige05bby @sierrale8ne @ohmybueckers @pboogerswbb @yailtsv @lilpaigeyherbo @prettygirl-gabi @mariahthealchemist @avvwritesstufff @vintagebueckers @naeswrrldd @thaatdigitaldiary

Soraya's phone buzzed with a short vibration on the nightstand, lighting up the screen with a message from Paige:

BDB Paige💜: downstairs. take your time, passenger princess.

She blinked at it for a second, then sighed softly. She already felt bad enough letting a rookie chauffeur her around all week—not that Paige had given her a choice in the matter. But to make her wait on top of that? No. Even if Paige didn't seem to mind in the slightest, Soraya wasn't about to add ‘ungrateful’ to the list of things she didn't like being called.

Grabbing her gym bag and keys, she gave a quick glance back toward the living room where her cat was curled up on the couch. She padded over and leaned down to press a kiss to Jiggy's furry forehead.

"Be good," she murmured.

Jiggy didn't even twitch. Not a flick of the ear. Ungrateful, indeed.

Soraya rolled her eyes, heading for the door. She moved too fast down the stairs, nearly missing a step and stumbling before gripping the railing with a muttered curse. Deep breaths. Chill. She wasn't about to break her ankle before practice even started.

When she opened the back door of Paige's car, she tossed her bag in the backseat before sliding into the passenger side. Her gaze instantly landed on Paige—her hair pulled into a low, messy bun, face completely bare of makeup, purple glasses perched slightly crooked on the bridge of her nose.

God. She looked beautiful in that effortless, stripped back way. The kind of beautiful that wasn't trying to be anything at all.

It wasn't until Paige turned to her with a lopsided smile and held something out that Soraya noticed the iced matcha in her hand.

"Good morning to you too, passenger princess," Paige greeted, her voice a little tired but bright in the way early mornings sometimes made people seem more sincere.

Soraya blinked down at the green drink, then back up at her. "What's that?"

"Matcha? That's what you like, right?" Paige asked, brows pinching together slightly like she wasn't totally sure she hadn't just imagined it.

Soraya tilted her body slightly toward her, looking between the cup and Paige's face in silence. The quiet stretched just long enough for Paige to feel it press into her chest.

"Who told you that?" Soraya finally asked, her voice quieter, more curious than suspicious.

"No one," Paige shrugged. "I just heard you mention it to Nai the other day. Figured you'd appreciate one this morning."

The words came out with practiced ease, but the thud in her chest betrayed her cool front. Why was she nervous? It was just a drink. A gesture. Nothing weird about that.

Right?

Another beat of silence passed before Soraya reached out. Her fingers brushed against Paige's as she took the cup gently, and for a brief second, the contact felt louder than either of them expected.

"I do. Thank you," Soraya said, her tone softer than before. She didn't acknowledge the tingle that climbed up her wrist from the contact, and neither did Paige.

Paige watched her for a second longer, studying the way the rim of the cup pressed against her lips, how she seemed slightly more present after the first sip.

She glanced at Soraya's reflection in the passenger window—loose ponytail, skin bare but glowing, two tiny pimple patches on her cheek, and black glasses that made her look softer, somehow. Paige caught their mirrored images: matching glasses, morning wrinkled clothes, and sleepy expressions. They looked almost domestic. Cozy. Like something warm and familiar.

The thought snuck up on her, unexpected and uninvited, and nestled somewhere in her chest.

"No problem," she replied.

They didn't speak for a while after that, letting the silence bloom between them as Paige pulled away from the curb.

Not awkward—just still. The kind of silence that didn't ask to be filled. Outside, the morning light bled through the trees, casting long, shifting shadows across the dashboard as Paige drove with a steady hand. Inside the car, the soft hum of music floated through the speakers, cushioning the quiet.

Then the opening notes of Another Life by SZA came on.

Soraya's posture shifted instantly. Her shoulders, once slightly hunched from the early morning chill, relaxed. A faint brightness sparked in her expression, barely noticeable unless you were looking closely—and Paige was.

"Turn this shit up," Soraya said, leaning forward without waiting for a response. Her fingers adjusted the volume with a practiced ease before she sank back into the seat, a satisfied little grin pulling at her lips as the beat deepened.

Paige flicked her gaze toward her, just for a second, before returning her focus to the road—the kind of driver who never let her attention drift for long. Still, the curve of her mouth betrayed the question forming on her tongue.

"You like SZA?"

Soraya turned to her with an expression that landed somewhere between disbelief and amusement. Her brows pinched together slightly as if Paige had just asked whether she liked air or water.

"Like?" she repeated, drawing out the word. "I fucking love that bitch. Especially this song. It's been on repeat for weeks."

Her voice was alive in a way Paige hadn't heard yet—animated, unfiltered. There was something playful tucked into the edges of it, something that made Paige's chest stir a little.

She smiled, unable to help it. "Same," she said simply, voice quiet but full of something real.

She didn't offer more. Not yet. Not because she didn't have more to say, but because Soraya was still a closed book, just beginning to crack open. And Paige had learned that pushing too hard made people snap shut. So she stayed where she was—present, open, patient.

Soraya glanced at her sideways. Something in her chest warmed at Paige's answer. Sure, liking SZA wasn't exactly rare, but this specific song? There was a quiet intimacy in that. Knowing that Paige, someone who always seemed composed, cool, and sharp around the edges, played this song on repeat too—it did something to her.

She didn't say anything else. Just gave a soft, almost imperceptible nod, then brought the matcha back to her lips.

She wanted to speak. She really did. But the words stuck to the roof of her mouth. Not because she didn't have them, but because sharing them still felt unfamiliar. They weren't close enough for comfort yet, not quite. And Soraya wasn't the kind of girl who spoke just to fill the air.

So they drove on, not speaking. Letting the music talk for them.

The breeze came in through the window, light and cool against her skin as SZA sang over layered instrumentals. Soraya closed her eyes for half a second, just breathing it in—the sound, the calm, the sense of someone beside her who didn't make silence feel suffocating.

It was rare. And she wasn't ready to name it, but she liked it.

And Paige? She kept her eyes on the road, but she noticed. Every little thing.

For once, Soraya didn't detour to the vending machine. No organic fizzy peach red bull, no chocolate bar, no three minute stall in the hallway just to avoid walking in with someone else.

This morning, she walked straight in.

Which meant she and Paige entered the locker room together, shoulder to shoulder, no space to pretend otherwise.

The second they crossed the threshold, the atmosphere shifted.

It wasn't dramatic. No gasps, no silence. Just a few too casual glances from the girls already inside. Some looked up, gave absent nods, and kept it moving. But others—Arike, Dijonai, and Nalyssa, seated in a trio near the back—exchanged knowing looks like they'd been waiting for this moment all week. Grins stretched across their faces before the teasing even began. Eyebrows wagged. Shoulders bumped. Silent laughter buzzed between them like an inside joke without a punchline.

Soraya rolled her eyes immediately, already regretting everything. She let out a quiet exhale through her nose and rolled her eyes, pointedly ignoring them.

Beside her, Paige caught the theatrics out of the corner of her eye. A faint smirk tugged at her lips, but she swallowed it down. She didn't mind the attention. Not when Soraya was walking beside her, shoulders relaxed in that effortlessly cool way of hers.

They moved to their lockers, which happened to be right beside each other. Had been since before the first day of the rookie's arrival, although Soraya still hadn't decided if that was good or bad luck.

Soraya sat first, dropping her bag by her feet and unzipping it with one hand while tugging off her zip up sweater with the other. Paige followed a second later, stretching her long legs out in front of her and began to carefully put her eye contacts in.

They changed in silence, the usual locker room hum around them. The shuffle of sneakers, clinking of water bottles, the occasional burst of laughter. Nothing felt particularly different, and yet...

After a few minutes, Dijonai's voice rang out over the noise.

"Alright y'all, listen up!" she called out, already grinning. "Me and Lyss are throwing a little welcome get-together tomorrow night. Just something chill. Drinks, snacks, music, vibes. First preseason game’s almost here and we got hella new faces, so it's only right."

A wave of agreement rippled through the room. A chorus of "bet," "say less," and "I'm down" followed, everyone nodding or tossing their hands up in agreement. It was a day off, after all, and the idea of unwinding before the storm of the game began was too tempting to resist.

Everyone seemed excited except Soraya, who remained quiet where she sat in front of her locker, lacing up her sneakers like she hadn't heard a thing.

Dijonai noticed immediately.

She didn't bother saying anything aloud. Just gave Soraya the look—one they'd perfected after years of friendship. Her expression didn't say ‘are you coming?’ It said ‘you're coming, and you know it.’

Soraya didn't argue. She didn't have to. She just rolled her eyes lightly in response, the universal sign for ‘fine, whatever.’

But then, as she finished tying her last shoe and leaned back slightly, she glanced to her left to Paige, who sat almost close enough for their shoulders to brush if either of them shifted their chairs closer just a little.

"Y’going?" she asked, casually. The question was simple. Almost too simple. But it landed with more weight than it should have, a quiet ripple in the space between them.

Paige was caught slightly off guard by the question. She blinked once, then looked over at Soraya beside her, their bodies aligned, their legs almost touching.

It was such a small question. Barely a sentence. But something about the way Soraya asked it—the softness behind the words, the faint tilt of her head, the way her dark eyes flicked up with something unsure—made Paige feel like the answer mattered more than it should. God, how could someone have such hypnotic eyes?

"Yeah, I'll be there." Paige said quietly. She nodded once to seal it, like it was obvious. Like there was no other choice.

'If you want me there,' she added in her head, the words lingering like a secret between her ribs.

Soraya held her gaze for a second longer than necessary. Then nodded, just as quietly. "Okay." Her voice was lighter now, lower, like she didn't want anyone else to hear.

The older turned back to her locker. She didn't smile—not visibly. But there was a flicker in her eyes, a quiet glint of satisfaction. Like she got the answer she wanted, even if she'd never admit she wanted it. But Paige noticed. And something in her chest warmed at the sight.

Eventually, everyone began filing out of the locker room, ready to start another day of training. But Soraya and Dijonai lagged behind, as usual.

Dijonai—slow on purpose—rifled through her duffle bag like she had all the time in the world. Soraya, now fully dressed and ready, leaned against the lockers and waited, arms folded, gaze aimlessly drifting until her best friend finally stood and motioned toward the gym doors.

As they walked side by side down the corridor, Dijonai bumped her hip playfully against Soraya's. Her grin was smug, like she'd been waiting to get her words in.

"'Y’going?' " she echoed in a poor imitation of Soraya's tone—soft, almost sweet, way too obvious to be brushed off. "Since when do you care about any of the rookies?"

Soraya groaned, head tipping back in dramatic irritation. "I asked because she's the one that would have to drive me, dumbass," she said flatly. "I don't care what she does."

"Mhm," Dijonai replied, with the exact amount of disbelief that made Soraya want to punch her in the arm. "Sure. Keep tellin' yourself that, Sora."

Soraya didn't answer. She just shook her head and kept walking, but her silence said more than words could. And Dijonai, who'd known her since college, saw right through it.

Practice had gone well.

Another long day of training camp, the kind that left legs sore and minds buzzing, but with the kind of exhaustion that felt earned. The coaches were ramping up the intensity— two days until the first preseason game and a little over two weeks until the season opener, and it showed. The drills were sharper, the scrimmages more heated, especially for the rookies, who had to fight for every inch of space and respect.

Soraya though, wasn't worried about herself. She'd earned her spot long ago—two years in the league, one of the most versatile hybrids on the team. She knew the playbook, the pace, the pressure. This wasn't new to her.

And if there was one other person Soraya definitely wasn't worried about, it was Paige Bueckers.

UConn's golden girl. A four year starter who'd practically built a legacy brick by brick under Geno. The league had been buzzing about her debut long before she even declared. Watching her in camp, the way she moved— deliberate, unbothered, efficient—only confirmed what Soraya already knew. Paige wasn't just making the roster. She was about to be the face of it.

That night, after a quiet car ride and a murmured "thanks" before slipping out of Paige's passenger seat, Soraya had gone straight to bed. Not from exhaustion, necessarily, but from that bone deep kind of tired that came from silence. She hadn't said much during the drive, hadn't offered conversation, directions, nothing.

It lingered with her the next morning.

Soraya wasn't the type to feel guilt easily. But something about Paige carting her around without even a flicker of annoyance—not once asking for gas money or thanks or a single word in return—sat in her chest like a quiet weight. She needed to sort out her car situation, and fast. It'd been almost a week now, and the mechanic hadn't offered much hope unless she was willing to fork over the price of a used Honda just to revive her 4 year old Kia.

Maybe it was time to let it go. Time to invest in something new. Something reliable. Grown up.

Still, for today at least, she could ignore that. The rare bliss of a day off meant no early alarms, no sprints, no whistles. Just rest.

She slept in—or at least, what counted as sleeping in for her. It was 8:47 a.m. when Jiggy padded her way across her back, each paw landing with perfect, tiny disrespect. Her breath, which smelled somewhere between old cheese and expired curiosity, hit her square in the face as she sniffed around with impunity. It was that, and not the sun that truly woke her up.

"Ugh," Soraya groaned, face buried in her pillow. "Your breath smells like death."

Jiggy, unbothered as always, sat on her hip like she owned the lease.

Despite the rude awakening, Soraya found herself smiling, brushing a hand over her fur as she blinked the sleep from her eyes. Waking up to her squishy little face was still her favorite part of the day.

She spent the rest of the morning moving slowly—eating fruit out of the fridge, catching up on half a show she barely remembered starting, scrolling aimlessly. Her phone buzzed with messages from teammates in their group chat, confirming times and rides for the get together later that evening, but she didn't respond just yet.

The day was hers. Quiet and slow. Untouched by anyone else's energy.

But by late afternoon, around 4:30, Soraya was up again, tying her hair into a loose bun and slipping into her kitchen. She'd never been the type to show up empty handed. Not now, not ever.

It was just how she was raised.

In both Ghanian and Algerian culture, hospitality wasn't optional—it was sacred. A value woven deep into everyday life. Whether you were invited to someone's home or just dropping by, you brought something. Food, flowers, a bottle of juice. It didn't matter what it was, only that you came with your hands full and your heart open.

To show up empty was to show up without respect. And respect, especially the quiet kind, mattered to Soraya, contrary to popular belief.

So she started to bake.

Her kitchen smelled like chocolate and browned butter within minutes. The warm, familiar notes that reminded her of childhood, of her grandmother's kitchen, of small apartment ovens filled with the scent of long lost care and love.

As the brownies baked, she glanced at her phone again.

It was going to be a long night of pretending to be social. She needed the calm now, while it lasted. And maybe—just maybe—she didn't mind the idea of Paige being there.

While the brownies baked in the oven, the real battle was happening in Soraya's bedroom.

She stood half dressed in her closet, hands on her hips, surrounded by rejected options draped over her bed and chair. Most things she owned were either loud, bold, or unapologetically her. Statement pieces, sculpted silhouettes, textures that caught the light. ‘Doing too much’ was kind of her thing. That was the point. She never underdressed, unless it was for practice, and even then, it was a stretch.

But tonight, she wasn't sure. She didn't want to look like she was trying too hard, especially not in front of teammates she was still getting used to. And especially not in front of her.

Eventually, she settled on something that felt like a compromise. An short, ashy-brown leather skirt with a built-in belt that hugged her hips just right, paired with a black halter cami. Velvet florals bloomed across the sheer mesh, like ink spreading in water. The delicate tie at the neckline and the open back teased more than it covered, letting the curves of her chest breathe against the air. If we were being honest it, it was more of a covering bikini top with curtains. It wasn't modest—far from it—but it was honest. Soft in its confidence and a little vulnerable.

Soraya wasn’t big on modesty. She’d already spent a large majority of her life covering almost every inch of skin for other’s satisfaction.

Still, she lingered in front of the mirror longer than she wanted to admit.

She moved on to makeup next, more in control here. She swept soft shimmer across her eyelids, letting it catch the light just right, lifting the corners with a foxy blend. A warm brown lip combo followed—subtle, but sensual. Polished. Intentional. She didn't rush. She never did. Glamming up was second nature, one of the few rituals that truly relaxed her. She thought of Dijonai then, how they'd once bonded over their love for fashion, makeup and heels that made statements louder than words.

Just as she added the final touch of gloss, her oven timer went off. She sighed, standing from her vanity chair and carefully padding into the kitchen.

Jiggy sat by the oven, tail twitching lazily like she was the one doing all the work.

"Thanks for looking out, chef," she laughed, slipping on oven mitts before carefully pulling the tray out.

The brownies were golden at the edges, still slightly gooey in the center—perfect. She let them cool as she packed up the rest of her things, slicing the squares neatly and transferring them into containers with practiced care. Her phone buzzed on the counter just as she was sealing the last lid.

She answered quickly, tucking her phone between her ear and shoulder while making her way back to the closet.

"Hello?" she said, scanning the floor for her shoes.

"I'll be right down," she added, slipping her feet into a pair of low-level black Miu Miu heels that hugged her ankles like they were made for her.

"Don't rush yourself, ma. I'm downstairs whenever you're ready."

That casual pet name—ma—was said so lightly it almost flew over her head.

Almost.

But it landed. Oh, it landed.

Her heart did something it hadn't in a while—skipped, stumbled, caught itself. She shook it off quickly, grabbing her purse and the brownie containers, trying not to overthink it. Paige called everyone names like that. Probably. Maybe. Right?

Still, she found herself holding the containers a little tighter as she hurried out of her building and spotted Paige's car waiting at the curb, headlights glowing against the soft dusk.

She slid into the passenger seat like she'd done so many times now, the door clicking shut behind her as she placed the containers in the back. When she finally looked over, Paige was silent.

Her gaze was already on her.

And not in a casual, what's up? kind of way. No, Paige was looking—really looking. Her eyes moved slowly, taking Soraya in from the top of her goddess braids to the curve of her waist, the cut of her cami, the way the skirt clung to her hips like it belonged there. Her stare lingered in a way that made Soraya suddenly hyper aware of the exposed skin at her chest and back, the way the neckline dipped dangerously low.

The air in the car thickened for just a moment.

"Sorry for keeping you waiting," Soraya finally said, trying to break the tension—unsure if Paige was judging her, if the silence was disapproval, or worse, indifference.

It pulled Paige out of whatever trance she'd been in. Her lips tugged upward, soft and slow.

"Don't worry about it, beautiful."

Beautiful.

Another pet name. This one warmer. A little more intimate. A little more... intentional?

Soraya looked ahead quickly, lips parted in surprise but no words coming out. The butterflies in her stomach were unwelcome and unexpected. She didn't know what scared her more—how easily Paige said it, or how easily she liked hearing it.

As Paige pulled away from the curb, Soraya forced herself to breathe evenly, casting a sidelong glance at her driver.

It was her turn to look.

And oh, she looked.

Paige wore a pair of black cargo pants and a white cropped polo tank, the fit hugging her torso just right, revealing a sliver of toned waist and abs. Her hair was down and straightened, silky and effortless. It threw Soraya for a loop. She'd never seen Paige like this—feminine with just enough edge. She couldn't help but blink at the profile in front of her, like she was seeing her for the first time all over again.

She turned her gaze to the window quickly after, not trusting herself.

They pulled up to the apartment just as the sky dipped fully into night, warm light pouring from the windows onto the pavement. Soraya carried the containers of brownies carefully, and Paige stayed close behind her, not quite hovering but not straying too far either.

When Nalyssa opened the door, she was already grinning.

"Look who finally decided to show up," she teased, stepping aside to let them in.

She dapped Paige up first, before turning to Soraya and giving her a brief pat on the arm. That was the extent of her touch, and that boundary had been understood from day one. Soraya didn't do hugs or unnecessary contact, and everyone respected it.

"Fashionably late, huh?" Nalyssa said with a smirk, stepping back as the two walked in.

Paige glanced over her shoulder toward Soraya, who was hanging her purse up at the entrance. "Someone took her sweet time," she said casually with a small grin, tilting her head in Soraya's direction like it wasn't that big of a deal.

But Soraya had good hearing. Very good hearing.

She turned slowly and shot Paige a look—sharp enough to draw blood—before walking past the two of them, her heels clicking pointedly against the hardwood. Nalyssa raised her brows and looked at Paige like ‘girl...’, holding back a laugh.

Paige just sighed, dragging a hand down her face as she trailed behind.

The apartment buzzed with chatter and laughter. Dijonai and Arike were already at the kitchen island passing around drinks, Ty and Maddy were sprawled out across the floor with the rookies, and someone had music playing low in the background, just enough to fill the gaps in conversation.

The smell of something sweet in the air—probably the brownies Soraya brought—only added to the warmth of the room.

Soraya eased back into it quickly. She wasn't loud, but she wasn't closed off either. Her natural poise made her stand out no matter where she sat, but tonight she was unusually relaxed. She even cracked jokes here and there, and they landed. Like, really landed.

"Okay so, one time she told our Coach she couldn't finish the scrimmage because Mercury was in retrograde?" Dijonai burst out, unable to contain herself.

"I wasn't wrong," Soraya replied coolly, raising her brow. "We lost three players to rolled ankles that week. Don't play with the planets."

Everyone erupted. Even Teaira snorted into her drink.

Laughter came in waves, and Soraya's one-liners caught people off guard in the best way. The Soraya they'd seen in practice was focused, reserved, borderline intimidating. But tonight? She was magnetic—deadpan and witty with a rhythm all her own.

Paige laughed with them, but her attention kept drifting. She couldn't help it.

Her eyes followed Soraya without meaning to. The way that leather skirt moved when she walked, how her top dipped when she leaned forward—one wrong move and it would've revealed everything, if she hadn't tied it just right. And Paige had noticed things she hadn't before. Small tattoos near her ribs. Another under her shoulder. Subtle, delicate. Intriguing.

She was captivating in a way that made Paige feel both restless and rooted.

Eventually, the group filtered into the living room, drinks in hand for those who'd Ubered, water bottles or soda cans for the others. The couch and floor quickly filled with players sitting cross-legged, leaning into one another, lounging with the kind of ease only teammates could achieve.

Dijonai, drink in hand, stood in the center with her usual flair.

"Alright," she declared. "Never have I ever. Don't fight it. Team bonding."

Groans and eye rolls followed, but mostly playful ones.

Even Soraya, who usually slipped out of games like this with a raised brow and a conveniently timed phone call, stayed seated. She rolled her eyes, sure—but the smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth betrayed her. "This game's always messy."

"That's the point," Arike said with a grin, already holding up her fingers.

Paige sat on the floor, back against the couch, her legs stretched out in front of her. Soraya settled onto a floor pillow a few feet across from her, crossing her legs at the ankle, posture perfect, fingers resting loosely on her lap like she had better things to do—but her eyes were glinting, amusement tugging at her mouth.

She was in it.

And Paige, from her spot on the floor, looked at her from under her lashes, suddenly hyper aware of the quiet tension pulling between them again.

It wasn't the game that had her nervous. It was whatever the hell this was..

Everyone held up ten fingers, and the first few questions came quick.

"Never have I ever shot on the wrong basket."

Half the room groaned, fingers dropping fast. Soraya included.

"Never have I ever been ejected from a game."

Another wave of laughter—especially when Teaira and Madison both dropped their fingers with a shared look of shame.

"Never have I ever gone on a date just for free food."

Fewer fingers fell. And when Soraya lowered hers, there were whistles and grins tossed her way.

Laughter cracked through the group like thunder, Aziaha nearly choking on her drink. But soon enough, the questions turned from harmless to heated.

"Never have I ever had a situationship that felt like a relationship," Nalyssa tossed out casually, like she wasn't about to expose half the circle.

One by one, fingers dropped. Except Soraya's.

"Seriously? Like never?" JJ blinked at her, clearly appalled. "That's basically the college experience."

Soraya cocked her head, the gold accents on her earrings catching the light. "That shit is stupid. I'm an adult, thank you."

A chorus of fake boos erupted. Someone threw a throw pillow her way. She caught it without flinching and dropped it right beside her with practiced grace.

"Okay, okay," Dijonai jumped back in, practically bouncing where she sat next to Nalyssa. Her grin was wicked. "Never have I ever hooked up with someone from an opposing team right before playing them the next day, dipped without a word, and then lost because they were out for vengeance."

Loud ooohs echoed. Soraya groaned, eyes narrowing at her friend like she might leap across the room.

"You're so annoying," she muttered, putting a finger down.

Paige was already laughing, shoulders shaking, head tipped back, the whole nine.

"It's not that funny, Bueckers," Soraya said flatly, though her lip twitched with a smile.

Paige only chuckled harder. "It’s hilarious, actually."

A few more rounds passed—some tame, some eye opening—but it was Soraya's turn again, and she didn't miss a beat.

She shifted slightly on the pillow. Her eyes locked on Dijonai, lips curling slow like she'd been waiting all night.

"Alright. I've never had a wet dream about a teammate and then couldn't look them in the eye for a whole day."

The room exploded.

Dijonai gasped like she'd just been shot. "That was years ago, and it was traumatizing!" she yelled, pointing wildly.

Nalyssa leaned into her girlfriend, cackling. "You didn't speak to me for 48 hours."

"I didn't know what to say!"

Soraya just leaned back like a queen in her throne, smug satisfaction radiating off her. "Whatever you sayyy."

But her victory was cut short when she saw it—movement across the circle. Paige, quiet and collected, lowering a finger.

For that question.

Soraya blinked.

Her brows pinched for just a second, confusion curling in her gut. It was subtle, but it was there. Who? Who had Paige had a dream about? Was it someone on the team now? Someone in the past? Someone in this room?

But before she could spiral deeper into suspicion, Paige looked up and right at her. The blonde smiled slightly. Slow. Crooked. Unapologetic.

And then—

"Never have I ever faked an orgasm," Paige said, smooth as silk, tossing it out like she wasn't digging her fingers into something deeper.

The question hit like a spark flicked into a gas line.

Giggles rose around the circle, but Soraya didn't move right away. She just looked at her. Something in her chest tightening, burning, thrumming low and quiet like a secret.

And slowly, like she was peeling back a layer of clothing, she dropped a finger.

Paige's brows rose subtly.

The others kept laughing, teasing, some dramatically offended, others proudly innocent, but all Paige could hear was the static buzz behind her ears—and see Soraya's perfectly still expression. Not flustered. Not shy. Just watching her like she knew exactly what she'd done.

The air between them crackled.

Her tongue flicked across her teeth behind closed lips, and she leaned back against the couch, eyes narrowing slightly as she tried to recalibrate.

Paige swore if they were even a little more alone, she might've said something stupid. Or done something worse. She didn't know if she was delusional, horny, or just weirdly intuitive—but whatever game Soraya was playing... Paige was ready to lose on purpose if it meant staying on the board.

Instead, she just bit the inside of her cheek and sat back, trying not to let it show.

But Soraya saw it.

It was almost 11 by the time people started standing, stretching, and murmuring their goodbyes—some hugging, some exchanging sleepy jokes, others pulling out their phones to call Ubers. A few of them swayed just a little more than usual, giggling tipsily as they stumbled into shoes or jackets. But not Soraya. And not Paige.

They were still steady. Still grounded. Still hyper aware of each other.

The night had been full of laughter, louder than expected, filled with too many inside jokes and confessions that would probably resurface in group chats come morning. But underneath all of it, a different current had been pulling—quiet but electric. Glances that lasted too long. Eyes catching across the room, then darting away. A couple times, Soraya had caught Paige already looking. Paige never tried to hide it.

Now, standing by the door, Soraya gave a single, lazy wave as everyone called out their goodbyes. Paige said a few quick words, hugging a few before the two of them stepped out into the warm Dallas night.

The heat wasn't bad, but it was the kind that lingered on your skin like a second layer. The streetlights buzzed softly. Soraya's heels clicked lightly on the pavement as they made their way to Paige's car. The ride back was supposed to be short—fifteen minutes, maybe less with little traffic—but the silence that filled the space between them made time stretch and thicken.

There was music playing low through the speakers, vocals melting into the hum of the engine. Paige's hand rested loosely on the wheel, the other shifting between the gear and her thigh. Her knuckles tapped occasionally with the rhythm. And still, she hadn't said a word.

Soraya sat back in the passenger seat, one leg crossed over the other, her eyes flicking toward Paige's profile now and then, subtly— like she couldn't stop herself. It felt hotter in the car than it should've. Summer creeping in early, or maybe it was just the weight of everything left unspoken between them.

When they pulled up in front of Soraya's apartment complex, Paige's headlights flashed across the familiar stone facade, casting quick shadows. She eased the car into park and for a second neither of them moved.

Soraya stared at the building, then at her lap, then back at Paige. The silence stretched tight.

"Wanna come up?" she said suddenly, her voice even and casual, almost as if it had just occurred to her.

She turned her head toward Paige with a calm expression, but there was something sharp underneath it.

Paige looked at her. Just looked. Studying her face, taking her in like she hadn't been doing it all night.

And then she nodded. Soft. Sure. No hesitation.

And up they went.

The hallway felt quieter than usual. More echoey. The faint smell of someone cooking down the hall mixed with the click of Soraya's heels against tile.

When Soraya unlocked the door, she didn't even need to flip the light switch to know what she was about to hear.

Sure enough, the moment the door creaked open, Jiggy padded into view with practiced entitlement, meowing as if to say finally.

The light flicked on. The cat made a beeline—not for Soraya, but for Paige.

"Oh my God," Paige laughed under her breath as Jiggy circled her ankles, tail held high like a question mark. "She remembers me?"

Soraya raised an eyebrow as she slipped her heels off by the door. "Of course she does. She's got standards."

Paige bent down and scooped the cat into her arms effortlessly, cradling her like she'd done it a hundred times before. Jiggy melted into her with a satisfied purr.

And Soraya just... stared for a second. The sight of Paige—tall, confident—holding her cat like a baby, her thumb gently stroking between Jiggy's ears... it did something to her. Softened her in a way she wasn't used to feeling around anyone. Definitely not someone who looked at her the way Paige did.

"God," she muttered, turning toward the kitchen to distract herself, "Why’d you have to be so cute?"

"What was that?" Paige called out with a smirk.

"Didn't say anything," Soraya tossed over her shoulder, voice light.

But her heart was thudding.

And Paige, now standing in the middle of her living room with a cat in her arms and something unreadable in her eyes, wasn't exactly making things easier.

Paige sat on the couch, legs spread comfortably, Jiggy curled comfortably against her thigh like the cat had claimed her as her own again.

The light in the apartment was low, golden and forgiving. The kind that made everything feel a little dreamlike. Or maybe it was just Soraya.

When she returned, Soraya had two cold cans of Diet Coke in hand. Condensation clung to the sides, dripping slightly onto her skin as she leaned over the coffee table and placed them down with a soft clink.

Then, casually, almost like it was nothing, "You smoke weed?"

Paige looked up from where she was gently scratching Jiggy's ear, her eyes meeting Soraya's across the small space.

A beat passed.

"Sometimes," she admitted, voice low but honest.

That faint smirk curved across Soraya's lips again, a little slower this time, a little more knowing. "Bet."

And with that, she turned and disappeared down the hall.

Paige stayed where she was, but she couldn't help the way her eyes trailed after her, the slight swing of her hips, the way her hair caught against her back. Everything about her was so... intentional. Even in silence, Soraya seemed to be saying something.

When she returned, she came armed—with a small ziplock bag, a Hello Kitty grinder, a bedazzled pink lighter that looked half used, and a neat little pack of papers.

‘Cute’, Paige thought to herself.

Soraya dropped the supplies on the coffee table and plopped down on the couch beside Paige like it was routine. Like they'd done this a dozen times before.

She didn't say a word.

Just reached for the grinder, poured some of the weed into it, and began twisting calmly, like she had all the time in the world. Her fingers worked with quiet confidence—no rush, no wasted movement. Paige watched her, not even pretending to look away. She noticed how Soraya's brow furrowed slightly as she concentrated, how her nails tapped the edge of the tray in rhythm with the music, how the ring on her thumb caught the light every time she passed it over the paper.

Then came the part that made Paige's breath catch.

Soraya brought the joint to her lips and licked the edge of the paper slowly, precisely. Her tongue traced the seam before she sealed it, her lashes low, her mouth soft and deliberate. Paige had to look away for half a second but it was too late. Her face already felt warm.

Soraya reached for the lighter, brought it to her lips once more and lit the end. She took a slow, steady inhale, holding the smoke in for a beat before letting it curl from her lips like a whisper.

The silence was thick now, but not awkward. Not empty. Just heavy.

Soraya turned her head, eyes finally meeting Paige's. There was no smirk this time. No teasing. Just a slow, quiet look as she extended the J in her hand, offering it wordlessly.

There was no pressure in the gesture. No expectation. Just the space to say yes or no.

Paige took it.

Their fingers brushed as she did—skin to skin, warm and fleeting—but it lingered. A spark that passed from hand to hand. Soraya didn't look away, and neither did Paige.

She brought the joint to her lips, inhaled slowly. The smoke curled around her like fog, and Soraya watched the way she moved through it. The way the red tip of the joint glowed faintly in her hand. The way her mouth opened slightly with each exhale.

"You smoke often?" Paige asked after a long moment, her voice softer now. Almost lazy. The way people get when their edges begin to melt.

That earned her a look from Soraya—something unreadable flickering in her eyes before she took the J back. She inhaled again, slower this time, deeper. Like she was savoring it.

"Special occasions only," she murmured.

Paige tilted her head slightly. "What's the special occasion?" The question was teasing, but gentle. A nudge. A smile curling on her lips.

Soraya let out a soft laugh—an actual laugh, one that Paige hadn't quite heard yet. It was quieter than the ones she gave the team, less performative. A real sound. And for some reason, it made Paige want to lean in.

"I don't know," Soraya said, gaze dropping to the rolled piece in her hand, then flicking back up to Paige. Her voice was low, almost amused, but there was a vulnerability tucked beneath the words. "You tell me."

And Paige could've sworn her heart skipped a beat. It was suddenly so easy to forget that this was still technically just a casual nightcap between teammates. That they hadn't even kissed. That nothing had happened yet.

Because everything was happening already.

Right there, in the silence. In the smoke. In the way their knees brushed when they shifted. In the way Jiggy had fallen asleep against Paige's thigh like she was already home.

At some point, Jiggy abandoned them.

She hopped down from Paige's lap with a soft thud and padded off into Soraya's room, her tail twitching once as if to say ’good luck’, before disappearing down the hall. Maybe it was the lingering smell of weed—or maybe even the cat couldn't handle the tension in the room anymore.

The joint was nearly gone, passed back and forth like a secret. Their fingers had brushed a dozen times now and each touch burned hotter than the last. Their bodies were relaxed, slouched and open in a way that only came with that deep, sinking high, like the gravity had shifted and softened just for them.

Paige couldn't ignore it anymore. Couldn't ignore the way her lips tingled when the joint, still warm from Soraya's mouth, touched hers. Couldn't ignore the faint taste left behind—sweet, unmistakable, chocolate lip gloss. She knew she wasn't imagining it. Knew it wasn't just weed induced paranoia. She could taste her.

That alone was driving her a little insane.

Somewhere along the way, they'd turned toward each other, almost magnetically. Paige now lounged back against the couch, legs wide, that lazy manspread like she owned the place. One arm slung casually over the backrest, fingertips nearly brushing Soraya's shoulder. Her body language was open, indulgent. Like she was daring Soraya to come closer without ever saying a word.

Soraya, meanwhile, had folded herself into the corner of the couch, her legs tucked under her, skirt riding up her thighs without her even noticing—or maybe not caring. She knelt slightly, leaning toward Paige, red rimmed eyes locked on her with a kind of amusement, but also something else. Something slow burning. Her lashes fluttered as she laughed and giggled, as her voice lifted, lighter than usual. The weed had peeled back her layers just a little. Made her softer and looser. She giggled at Paige's dry comments like they were stand-up material, body tilting forward and supporting herself with a hand on the rookie’s shoulder. And every time she did, Paige felt like she'd earned gold.

She wasn't even trying to be funny anymore. She just liked the sound of Soraya's laugh.

The room was drenched in sensuality—almost too much of it. The music hadn't helped. Soraya had thrown on a playlist earlier without a second thought, just wanting background noise. But now... now it played the kind of songs that made you want to slide a hand up someone's thigh. Slow beats, sultry voices. Jhené Aiko crooning softly over the speakers, followed by a slow Bryson track. Then Doja. Then PARTYNEXTDOOR. It was music meant to be played with hands between bodies and mouths pressed to skin.

And they both knew it. They just hadn't said it.

Paige's eyes were dark now. Not the usual bright, carolina blue, but something stormy, clouded. She was watching Soraya with a hunger she wasn't trying to hide. Her gaze moved over her like a hand—lingering on her thighs, the slope of her neck, her lips as she chewed them slightly, unconsciously. It was all slow, all thick and heavy like honey.

Then, like she was trying to snap herself out of it, Paige spoke—voice deeper now, worn soft by weed and want.

"As fun as this is, it's getting real late."

She didn't move, though. Didn't make any effort to get up. Her head turned slightly toward the door, but her body stayed exactly where it was, rooted beside Soraya like she was stuck to the couch.

Soraya didn't miss it. She shrugged a shoulder, casual but her voice had that same weighted undertone. "You can't drive like this. Just stay the night, I don't mind."

Paige's mouth curved into a slow, knowing smirk. "Oh, you don't mind?" Her eyes dropped to Soraya's mouth. "Or you want me to stay?"

A breath of laughter slipped from Soraya's lips before she could stop it. It came from the chest, quiet, a little raspy. The weed made it harder to be careful. She tried to roll her eyes, but it didn't land the way she meant it to. Nothing she did could hide how warm her face felt, or the way her chest fluttered under that gaze.

"Maybe."

The corner of Paige's mouth twitched again. She leaned deeper into the couch, even more relaxed, legs spread further now. Like she wanted Soraya to feel the space she was offering. Her voice dropped to a near whisper. "It's a yes or no, ma. Can't have you being unsure."

She brought the joint back to her lips—what little was left of it—and took a lazy hit. Then she leaned forward just enough, still lounging, still looking like sex personified, and held it out in front of Soraya's face.

There was something so quiet in the moment. So devastatingly attractive.

Soraya looked at the joint, then back at Paige. The blonde's hand steady, fingers loose but sure and her lips parted. There was something in her eyes that didn't blink.

Soraya leaned in.

Her lips wrapped around the joint exactly where Paige's had been. They didn't break eye contact—not once—as she pulled, slow and deep, the tip burning bright. The smoke settled in her lungs like it belonged there. Her heart pounded harder, louder, and she swore Paige could hear it.

Then she exhaled, smoke curling between them like a veil, thin and white. Her lips parted slightly as she did, and the faintest tremble threatened to betray her.

Paige hadn't moved. Still slumped. Still watching.

Those sharp blue eyes were half lidded now. Unreadable. Unrelenting.

The music behind them was still playing—something darker now, slick and dripping in bass. Paige's lap still looked inviting, and Soraya couldn't stop herself from imagining how it might feel to crawl into it.

Soraya nodded.

It was small—barely more than a dip of her chin—but it was all Paige needed. Her lips were parted, the gloss still catching the soft glow of the TV light, but they looked dry now. Kiss starved. The kind of mouth that needed to be ruined or worshipped—there was no in between.

"Yes."

That one word was soft. Steady. But it split the moment in half. Like it answered more than what Paige had asked. Like it reached back to every sideways glance, every unspoken stare since the day they ‘met’. Every tension laced interaction that had crawled under their skin and taken root. Yes was surrender. Yes was want. Yes was finally.

The joint burned quietly between Paige's fingers.

She held it out to Soraya, never breaking eye contact, and her voice came out like smoke—slow, husky, and laced with a pull that couldn't be denied. "C'mere."

Two syllables. A command and a confession all in one.

The second Soraya moved, something shifted. A switch flipped. Her body seemed to move before her brain could catch up. Like the ache between her legs had taken over the steering wheel. Like the weed had slipped its fingers into her bloodstream and whispered ’go.’

She straddled Paige with quiet hunger, one knee sinking into the couch cushion then the other, until she was settled firmly in her lap. Right on top of her. Right where she wanted to be. Right where Paige needed her.

The soft leather of her skirt rode up her thighs in the motion, revealing smooth skin, just enough to make Paige's throat go dry. The way Soraya sat was intentional, hips tilted forward, pressing herself down like she wanted Paige to feel everything.

And god, did she feel it.

Paige let her eyes trail down, slow and shameless. Those thighs—soft and warm and pressing down against her lap like a living fever. But then Paige's gaze dragged lower, catching the slight tremble in Soraya's hands as she took the joint again.

Soraya was just as gone. Her eyes wandered over Paige's exposed skin, the hem of her crop top riding up from the way she was slouched. It bunched at her ribs, barely covering the hard lines of her stomach. Abs hidden and revealed in folds that looked good enough to bite.

Soraya licked her lips unconsciously. She imagined dragging her tongue along every ridge. She wanted to touch and she wanted to taste. But instead, she brought the joint to her lips again and took one last, deep hit.

Then, her hand reached forward, fingers curling under Paige's jaw, tilting her face up gently. Her touch was careful, reverent. And then she leaned in, slow and dangerously close.

Her mouth hovered just above Paige's.

And she exhaled.

Smoke poured from her lips directly into Paige's mouth—warm, thick, tasting of weed and chocolate and something maddeningly Soraya. Their lips never touched, but it didn't matter. The space between them sizzled. Paige's hands found her hips, fingers digging into her waist, like holding her was the only way to stay grounded.

Their mouths lingered there. A breath apart.

Close enough that Paige could feel the heat of her. Could feel Soraya's breath catching. Her pulse racing. Could see every detail in her eyes, dilated and bloodshot.

There was a beat where Soraya didn't move. She just stared at Paige, pupils blown wide and chest rising in quick, shallow breaths. The weed clouded her thoughts, but not enough to drown out the way her body screamed for something more. Something to answer the ache now burning low in her stomach, in the space between her thighs where Paige's thigh rested.

She wasn't used to this. The silence between wanting and taking.

Soraya Mensima wasn't afraid. She rarely was. But this felt different. Not because she didn't want it—but because she wanted it too much. And in this moment, she needed to let go of the wheel.

So she leaned in, close enough that Paige could feel the brush of her breath again.

‘Fuck it.’

The words never left her lips, but Paige could see them pass through her expression. In the way her shoulders dropped. In the way her lips parted slightly, expectantly. In the way she looked at Paige like she was giving permission—not out of submission, but necessity.

Paige didn't hesitate.

She grabbed Soraya's face like she'd been dying to. Like her hands had been twitching to do it all night. One hand slid behind her neck, the other gripping her jaw, fingers spread wide like she was anchoring herself. And then she pulled her in.

Their lips met in a kiss that was anything but tentative.

It started soft, yes—testing the waters for the briefest second, a flicker of hesitation—and then it devoured.

Open mouthed. Desperate. Hungry.

Like Paige had been starved for a taste and Soraya was the meal she hadn't known she'd been craving until now. She kissed her like she needed it to breathe, like she'd been wandering through a desert and Soraya was the first drink of water she'd found.

Soraya melted into her immediately. Her hands gripped Paige's arms, nails digging through the fabric of her shirt, holding on like the kiss was threatening to pull her under. The soft clink of bracelets on her wrist echoed faintly as her hands started to move—grabbing at Paige's shoulders, her chest, her waist. Anywhere.

There was nothing gentle about it. They kissed like they'd waited too long and now had too little time. Lips clashing, tongues tangling, breath catching between them in broken little gasps. They didn't pull away. Not even to breathe. Only long enough to change angles, to kiss deeper, harder, hungrier.

Paige's grip tightened at Soraya's waist, blunt nails digging in to drag her closer, grind her down just enough that they both felt it. A strangled sound slipped from Soraya's throat, caught between a whimper and a moan, and Paige swallowed it like she wanted to collect every sound Soraya could give her.

Soraya's mouth tasted like smoke and watermelon gum and heat. And Paige kissed her like she wanted to memorize every bit of it with her tongue. One of Soraya's hands buried in Paige's hair now, tugging just enough to make the blonde groan into her mouth, and god—if she'd known it would feel like this, she would've said yes days ago.

The music in the background had long faded into white noise. The playlist still spun sensual tracks on shuffle, The Weeknd humming some filthy lyric in the background, but neither of them heard it now.

There was only heat. Skin. Lips. Tongue. The rustle of clothing. The sharp inhale when Paige grabbed Soraya's ass through her skirt and pulled her flush against her.

And Soraya? She didn't stop it. Didn't slow it. Didn't even try to tame the wildfire they'd sparked. Her body moved on instinct now, chasing friction, chasing sensation, chasing her.

She wasn't thinking anymore. She was feeling.

And Paige's hands, mouth, and body were giving her everything she didn't know she needed.

Eventually, Paige broke the kiss, breath ragged and eyes searching, her hands still holding Soraya's face like something precious. The world felt quiet, everything dulled except for the pounding of their hearts and the warmth between their bodies.

"Look at me," Paige murmured, and Soraya did—her lashes heavy, lips swollen, pupils so blown out her eyes looked nearly black. Her breath caught in her throat at the way Paige was looking at her, gaze simmering with restraint and need all at once.

"I need you," Paige said, voice low and husky with emotion and hunger. "But only if you want this too."

The air felt too still, too thick. Soraya's mind, already fogged from the weed and the ache between her legs, didn't hesitate. Her nod came first, slow and sure. Then her voice followed, soft but steady.

"Yeah."

One word, but it sealed everything.

Paige didn't move right away. She watched Soraya for a few more seconds, eyes scanning her face like she was double checking every detail. For sincerity. For a reason to stop.

But she found none.

So Paige's hands slid down to Soraya's hips again, curling under her ass as she rose to her feet in one smooth motion, lifting Soraya with her like it was second nature. Soraya's legs instinctively wrapped around her waist, her hands bracing against Paige's shoulders.

As the blonde turned and gently sat her back on the couch, she leaned in to kiss her again—deeper this time, but somehow slower and more deliberate. Her hands roamed, sliding up the curve of Soraya's waist beneath the material of her top that barely covered anything anyway, fingertips dragging over her warm skin, memorizing it.

With one knee between Soraya's legs, Paige hovered over her, just close enough that their breaths mixed again. She kissed her slowly, like she could lose herself in the taste. Soraya let her, let herself fall deeper and deeper into it, until Paige began trailing down, her mouth ghosting down her jaw, her neck, the hollow of her throat.

Then Paige pulled back.

She knelt.

Right in front of the couch, between Soraya's open legs, hands caressing the smooth skin of her thighs. Soraya could hardly breathe as she looked down at her, breath caught like a stone in her chest. The heat of Paige's hands, the intimacy of her position—so close, so reverent—left her lightheaded.

Paige placed a soft kiss on Soraya's left knee. Then the right. Gentle, like prayer. Like worship.

It made Soraya dizzy.

"You're fucking killing me," Soraya whispered, the first thing she'd said since the yes.

Paige's lips curled into a smirk against her skin. "Good."

She spread Soraya's thighs slowly, her hands firm but tender. The sight that met her had Paige cursing under her breath—purple lace, slightly damp, so soft and delicate it almost felt unfair. Her mouth watered.

"Fuck..." she murmured, almost to herself. "You're so pretty like this."

She kissed the inside of Soraya's left thigh, then right, inching higher with each kiss, her voice low and warm against her skin.

"I've been thinking about this since the second I saw you."

Another kiss, even higher.

"Since the first time you invited me up."

Higher still. Paige's voice dropped even more, practically a whisper.

"Since the way you looked at me across the room tonight like you wanted me to ruin you."

Soraya's breath stuttered. Her thighs twitched in Paige's hands.

Paige looked up then—just for a second. Her lips brushed over the crease where thigh met hip, dangerously close.

"Y’do want me to ruin you , don't you?"

And Soraya could only nod again, barely able to form the words, her fingers curling into the couch beneath her.

"Yeah," she breathed. "Fuck, yeah."

Paige's lips didn't stop moving, trailing further up the inside of Soraya's thighs with each kiss, each brush of her mouth a new promise. Soraya's skirt had already started to ride up with how wide her legs were spread, the leather bunched around her hips, and Paige took her time.

Her hands moved with purpose, sliding along the hem until they found the small side zipper. With one hand she tugged it down, slow and deliberate, the metallic sound of it unzipping breaking through the heavy silence like a warning bell. The built-in belt hung uselessly, never meant to be functional. Paige didn't touch it. She didn't need to.

She peeled the skirt down Soraya's legs inch by inch, letting her knuckles brush along the soft skin of her thighs as she did. When it finally slipped off completely, she tossed it to the floor without looking away from her. Her eyes stayed locked on Soraya like she was studying something sacred. Like she wanted to remember every reaction, every shift of breath.

Paige leaned back in, her breath warm against the front of Soraya's purple panties. That shade—pale and light, her exact favorite kind of purple—caught her off guard. Of all the colors in the world, of course it was that one. It made her blink slowly, almost like the universe was mocking her with how perfect this felt.

She looked up, locking eyes with Soraya, her voice low and full of restrained hunger.

"Can I take these off, ma?"

Soraya's breath hitched, her lips parting as her chest rose with the weight of her anticipation. Her eyes were already glassy, breath shallow.

She exhaled. “Mhm.”

Paige's fingers moved to the waistband, hooking around the delicate fabric so gently it made Soraya's stomach twist. She pulled them down slow—agonizingly slow—making sure the brunette felt every second of it. The way her fingers dragged down her hips, her thighs. The way the fabric caught momentarily on her skin before giving in.

Once they were off, Paige let them fall to the floor beside the skirt, and then she returned to her knees.

She lifted Soraya's legs gently, draping them over her shoulders with careful hands like she was setting up something sacred. The weight of them grounded her, but the sight in front of her nearly knocked the air from her lungs.

Face to face with Soraya's core, glistening and inviting, Paige could do nothing but stare for a long, suspended moment. She swallowed hard, lips parting, a soft curse slipping out under her breath.

"Fuck..."

She was completely, utterly entranced. And she hadn't even tasted her yet.

Paige didn't move at first. Just took her in, like Soraya was something holy and intoxicating all at once. Her lips were barely an inch away, and when she finally spoke, it was with a rasp that made Soraya's hands curl against the couch cushions.

"Just wanna kiss it," Paige muttered, almost to herself, eyes glued to Soraya's glistening cunt. "Just one little kiss."

And she did. Soft. Barely there. Like a whisper of a touch, like she was trying to memorize the feeling and taste in slow motion. Then another, with more pressure and less restraint. It had Soraya twitching, breath catching in her throat as her hips lifted slightly in response.

But that was all it took. Paige let out a quiet groan, deep and low in her throat like it physically hurt to hold back. Her hands tightened around Soraya's thighs and then she was in it—mouth open, tongue flattening against her with no shame, no patience.

Every slow flick and lick turned greedy. Every drag of her tongue became more intense, messier. Paige was absolutely gone.

"Goddamn," she breathed against her, voice wet and muffled. "You taste so fuckin' good, mama..."

Soraya whimpered—an honest, unfiltered sound—and it only made Paige work harder, tongue lapping at her with messy, unrelenting strokes like she was starving. She wasn't just eating—she was devouring. Worshipping.

Spit and slick, her mouth moving with purpose as she moaned into it, like she needed Soraya to know how much she loved every single second of this. She mumbled filth between licks, words slurred and drunk with need.

"Fuck, you're perfect. So sweet. So wet. All f'me, huh?"

Soraya couldn't answer. Not with words. Just breathless cries and quiet moans that got louder every time Paige's lips wrapped around her clit and sucked, again and again. Her fingers clenched the cushions, legs trembling around Paige's shoulders.

Whenever Paige let out a "That's it, mama," or "You like that, huh, baby?", it lit the other girl up from the inside out. Made her stomach clench. Made her thighs shake. That nickname in Paige's voice, drenched in lust, had her head spinning.

Paige didn't stop. Didn't want to stop. She was lost in it—pussy drunk, completely feral. Her hands gripped tighter, mouth moving faster, sloppier. Like the taste of Soraya was the only thing tethering her to the ground.

And Soraya? She was gone too. Unraveled. Floating somewhere above the room with every flick of Paige's tongue and every ragged moan whispered against her. Her whimpers turned into cries, the kind that echoed off the walls and left her unable to hold anything back.

She'd never been devoured like this. Worshipped like this. Fucked like this without even needing to be fucked.

Paige was the whole experience. And she wasn't even done.

She didn’t come up for air.

Not when her jaw started to ache. Not when her arms started to shake from holding Soraya so close, so still, so completely spread for her. Her mouth was messy, her face soaked with spit and slick.

She was ravenous and adorned with greed—tongue working in slow, then fast strokes, dragging and curling as she devoured the girl above her like she was the only thing she’d ever eat again.

There was nothing sweet about the way she moved. Just pure hunger. Like she needed to claim every inch of her, mark her with her mouth. She groaned into her again, louder this time, tongue pressing deep and curling, nose brushing Soraya’s clit in just the right rhythm.

Soraya gasped, hand flying to the back of Paige’s head, not to pull her away—no. To pull her closer. Her voice came out shaky, breathless, almost ruined. “Fuck… Paige…”

That alone earned her another deep groan from between her legs, like Paige needed to hear her name fall apart on her tongue.

And then—quiet but clear—Soraya exhaled, “That’s it, Paige. You’re so good at this.”

That broke something in Paige. Shattered any sliver of control she had left.

She hummed into Soraya’s pussy, sucking on her clit now, tongue flicking harsh and fast as her hands gripped the girl’s thighs like she could fuse them to her skull. She was fully unhinged. Greedy. Possessed.

“Say that shit again,” Paige rasped between sucks, eyes wild when she glanced up, her voice strained and hoarse. “Say it again, mama. Tell me whose pussy this is.”

Soraya was barely breathing, her words tumbling out between moans, “Yours… all yours, don’t stop—”

Paige didn’t. She dove back in like a woman starved, moving with messy precision, chasing every moan like it was oxygen. Her hips subtly rolled into the couch from underneath, lost in the rhythm of what she was doing.

“Look at you,” Paige murmured darkly against her, licking a fat stripe from slick to clit, “fuckin’ fallin’ apart just for me. So wet, so fuckin’ good…”

She kissed it, then licked again, then sucked—loud and wet. Soraya cried out, hips arching upward instinctively, the sound guttural and raw. Paige grinned into it.

“You like that, mama?” she rasped, her voice wrecked, wet and swollen lips brushing against Soraya’s core with every syllable. “You gonna cum for me just like this? Let me taste all of it?”

“God—keep talking,” Soraya whined, eyes rolling back as her hands trembled in Paige’s hair. “You’re fucking sick.”

Paige chuckled lowly and quietly, tongue sliding deep again before she pulled back to kiss the inside of her thigh—just once—before diving back in. “Maybe. But you fucking love it.”

Her fingers slid up, spreading Soraya open even more, and her tongue worked like she had something to prove. Like she’d die if she didn’t make her cum in her mouth. She didn’t care how soaked her chin was, didn’t care about anything except the taste, the sounds, the way Soraya moaned her name like she owned it. Like it was a prayer.

“Shit, maybe,” she breathed, half-laughing, half-moaning, her legs tightening around Paige’s head. “You—fuck, Paige, I can’t—”

“You can,” Paige corrected. “Wanna feel all of it, baby.”

Soraya whimpered, dragged one hand up to her mouth where she bit down on her knuckles before yanking it away and reaching for Paige again.

The rookie latched back on to her clit, moaning into her as her hands gripped Soraya’s thighs tight. Her mouth moved with a rhythm and power that should’ve been illegal, and all Soraya could do was fall apart.

Paige could feel it. The way Soraya’s thighs clenched, how her moans dissolved into whimpers, her hips twitching—every inch of her trembling and on the edge.

“Cum for me, mama,” Paige murmured, licking through her like sin. “Let me taste how good I make you feel.”

And Soraya did.

With a cry that ripped from her throat and a body that buckled under pleasure, she let go. Paige didn’t stop, not even as she came, licking her through it, drinking down every drop with a greed that was almost frightening.

And when Soraya finally collapsed back into the couch, chest heaving, skin flushed and trembling—Paige licked her lips and looked up at her like she just found a new religion.

Soraya couldn’t think.

Her body was still humming, strung out in the best way, chest heaving as if she’d just run a marathon with no finish line in sight. The room felt thick with heat, smoke, and the echo of her own voice, moans she barely recognized as her own still ringing in her ears.

Paige was still between her legs, eyes heavy and mouth glistening, and Soraya didn’t dare move. Couldn’t. She was stuck in the moment, pulse fluttering in her throat, legs twitching involuntarily.

The only sound was their breathing. Paige looked wrecked. Flushed cheeks, wet chin, swollen lips parted as she was still catching her breath. But her eyes stayed locked on Soraya, never once breaking contact, as if she were trying to memorize every inch of her.

Soraya hated how much she liked being looked at like that.

And even worse? She didn’t want her to stop.

She swallowed hard, reaching down with fingers that barely felt steady enough to move. They brushed through Paige’s hair gently, grounding herself. Paige leaned into the touch.

The softness of that moment nearly broke something open in Soraya.

She blinked, tried to slow the rush of thoughts that flooded her—what the hell just happened, why did it feel like that, why did she already want more?

“Uh…” she started, but her voice was raw. She didn’t even know where she was going with it.

Paige looked at her, raising a brow, a lazy little smile playing on her lips. “Uh?”

Soraya huffed a breath, her smile barely there. “I don’t know what to say.”

Paige chuckled, dragging her hands slowly up Soraya’s thighs, light and reverent. “It’s fine. Just breathe. Don’t want you passing out on me.”

That should’ve made Soraya laugh. Or roll her eyes. Or something.

But all she could do was stare.

Her body was still buzzing. Her mind was a mess. She didn’t know what this meant, didn’t want to think about it too hard—but Paige’s presence between her thighs, the burn in her lungs, the ache still blooming in her stomach—it all screamed that something had changed.

And yet, Soraya didn’t pull away. Didn’t move to cover herself. Didn’t speak.

She just let Paige’s fingers trace slow patterns into her skin, let the silence stretch between them like a thread pulled too tight. It wasn’t uncomfortable. It was risky.

She didn’t want to admit how much she liked it. How she wanted to reach down, pull her back in, let her do it all over again.

But she didn’t. Because that would mean admitting she wanted her in some way. And Soraya wasn’t ready for that.

After Soraya directed Paige towards the bathroom and she disappeared down the hall, the room felt strangely quiet. Too quiet. Soraya leaned back against the couch, her chest still rising and falling, skin tingling, nerves flickering like a live wire. The haze of weed and release hadn’t cleared yet, but the first hints of post-climax clarity were creeping in.

She swallowed hard. Her legs fell a little heavier against the cushions now that Paige wasn’t holding them up. The absence was loud. Almost too loud.

By the time Paige returned, a damp washcloth in one hand and something unreadable behind her red, half-lidded eyes, Soraya was still—watching. Thinking too hard. Feeling too much.

Paige knelt again, silent, gentle. She didn’t say anything as she ran the cloth over sensitive skin, careful and slow, as if Soraya might break. She didn’t flinch, but she didn’t sigh or smile either. She just watched. Her lips parted once, maybe to say something—thank you, maybe? But nothing came out.

“Let me know if it’s too much,” Paige murmured lowly, almost like she was checking in, like the lines of care were still being drawn.

Soraya just shook her head, a nearly imperceptible movement. “It’s fine.”

And it was. But it also wasn’t.

When Paige finished, she sat back on her heels, wiping her hands dry on her thigh. “I should let you sleep,” she said, quiet but casual.

Soraya hesitated, then nodded, before slipped her panties back on with slow, practiced movements, her fingertips grazing the sides of her thighs where Paige’s hands had just been. The air felt thick around her, heavy with heat and haze, and though her breathing had started to settle, her thoughts hadn’t.

She didn’t say anything at first, just quietly rose from the couch, legs still a little unsteady, and padded toward her bedroom.

“Guest room’s just down the hall,” she said over her shoulder, not quite looking back.

Paige, still kneeling on the floor and catching her breath, nodded in silence, lips parted like she’d thought about saying something but stopped herself.

Inside her room, Soraya quickly changed into her pajamas. The room was dimly lit, and for a second, she caught her reflection in the mirror: cheeks still flushed, lips still swollen, a familiar unreadable expression settled in her eyes. She didn’t look away. Not yet.

She grabbed a folded shirt and a pair of cotton shorts from her drawer—simple, loose, soft. The hem on the shorts reached her knees, and she figured they’d fit Paige just fine. Close enough. She hesitated before grabbing a fresh set of sheets from the closet, cradling the bundle against her chest as she walked back down the hall.

Paige was standing in the guest room now, just inside the doorway. Her arms were loosely crossed over her chest, like she didn’t quite know what to do with them—an unfamiliar awkwardness that tugged gently at Soraya’s chest. She didn’t say anything as Soraya walked past her and to the bed, setting the clothes down carefully.

“These should fit just fine,” Soraya murmured, smoothing out the shirt with her hand.

Paige’s eyes flicked to the clothes, then to Soraya. Her voice was soft, quiet in a way that felt strangely intimate. “Thank you.”

It was just two words, but it made something in Soraya tighten.

She focused on the sheets instead, methodically stripping the bed and remaking it with clean linens. Paige watched her the whole time, not out of expectation, but as if watching was the only thing she could do. The silence between them wasn’t tense, it was full, almost thoughtful. But it pressed down on Soraya all the same.

She stood at the doorway once she was done, her hand resting lightly on the frame. She didn’t say anything right away. The words felt heavier now that they were here, standing in this new version of space between them.

“Goodnight,” she finally said, eyes not quite meeting Paige’s. “Sleep well.”

And then she turned before Paige could reply, disappearing down the hall and back into her own room.

The second the door clicked shut behind her, Soraya exhaled like she’d been holding her breath the entire time.

She crossed the room and sat at the edge of her bed, her head falling forward into her hands. Jiggy was already curled on the pillows, small body tucked into a loaf beside where Soraya usually lay.

Soraya didn’t move at first. Her heart was still beating too fast, a low, steady thump echoing through her chest, her throat, her wrists. She stripped back the covers and climbed beneath them, laying flat with her eyes wide open, staring up at the dark ceiling.

Jiggy shuffled closer and pressed into her side.

What the hell did I just do?

The thought came sharp and cold, slicing through the soft warmth that lingered from Paige’s touch. Her hands rose slowly, covering her face as she groaned softly into the empty room.

She hadn’t meant for this to happen. She hadn’t wanted it to happen.

Except… she had.

That was the worst part. She hadn’t just let it happen—she’d wanted it. She’d wanted Paige’s mouth on her, her hands on her skin, her voice murmuring things Soraya should never let herself crave.

And now the air between them was different. Something irreversible had bloomed in the silence, and she’d thrown her own rules—rules she set for a reason—out the window for a night of hungry, breathless want.

She rubbed her hands down her face, forcing herself to breathe.

The ceiling fan spun in lazy circles. The bedsheets felt too hot. Her skin still tingled. And her mind was spinning in cruel, chaotic loops.

She’d fucked up. Big time.

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