I hate losing - victor wembanyama x reader
victor wembanyama after back to back losses after winning game one while traveling with his girlfriend (y/n) from okc to san antonio. he’s pissed and slightly feeling like you’re a distraction which starts an argument but ends in a very loving hot & sexy embrace.
game one win continuation
warning: smut, emotional, dominant, a bit rough. ;)
The flight from OKC to San Antonio felt heavier than usual, like the air itself was carrying the weight of the last two games. Victor hadn’t said much since y’all boarded. He sat by the window, hood up, headphones on, jaw tight. You could tell he wasn’t listening to anything — the headphones were just a barrier, a way to keep the world out.
Two back‑to‑back losses after that insane Game 1 win… it was eating at him. You could see it in the way his leg bounced, in the way he kept flexing his fingers like he was replaying every missed opportunity in his head.
You didn’t want to push him, so you stayed quiet, your hand resting on the armrest between you. Close enough for him to reach for you if he wanted. Far enough to give him space if he didn’t.
When the plane landed and you both stepped into the private terminal, he finally spoke — but not in the soft, warm tone you were used to.
“I should’ve stayed locked in,” he muttered, shaking his head. “I let myself get distracted.”
You blinked. “Distracted by what?”
He didn’t answer right away. He just kept walking, long strides, shoulders tense. You followed him out to the car, your stomach twisting.
“Vic,” you said quietly once you were both inside, the door shutting behind you. “What do you mean?”
He exhaled sharply, rubbing his forehead. “I don’t know. Everything. The travel. The noise. The pressure. You being here—”
Your heart dropped. “Me?”
He winced the second the word left his mouth, like he already regretted it. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
“Then how did you mean it?” you asked, voice soft but steady.
He looked away, jaw clenching. “I just… I’m trying so hard to stay focused. And when you’re here, I feel—” He stopped, searching for the right words. “I feel everything more. The highs. The lows. All of it.”
You swallowed. “So I’m a distraction.”
“No,” he said quickly, finally turning toward you. His eyes were tired, frustrated, hurting. “You’re not a distraction. You’re just… you make me feel too much. And right now I’m supposed to be cold. Locked in. Untouchable.”
You sat with that for a moment, the car humming beneath you.
“Victor,” you said softly, “you’re human. You’re allowed to feel things. You’re allowed to care about someone.”
He leaned back, running a hand over his face. “I know. I just… I don’t want to take this out on you.”
“You’re not,” you said. “You’re just overwhelmed.”
He let out a breath that sounded like defeat. “I hate losing. I hate feeling like I’m letting everyone down. And then I look at you and I just… I want to forget all of it. And that scares me.”
You moved closer, slow and careful, giving him time to pull away if he needed to. He didn’t. He just watched you, eyes softening even as his shoulders stayed tense.
“You don’t have to choose,” you whispered. “You can want me and want to win. Those things don’t cancel each other out.”
His breath hitched — not dramatically, just enough for you to feel the shift.
He reached for you then, his hand sliding to the back of your neck, pulling you gently toward him. Your foreheads touched, the space between you warm and quiet.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I shouldn’t have said that. You’re not a distraction. You’re the only thing that feels real when everything else is chaos.”
Your fingers curled into the fabric of his hoodie, grounding him. “I know,” you whispered. “I’m here. That’s all.”
He closed his eyes, leaning into you, his breathing finally slowing. The tension in his body eased, not completely, but enough for him to rest his forehead against yours like he needed the closeness to stay steady.
The losses still hurt. The pressure was still there. But in that moment — in the quiet of the car, in the warmth of your hands, in the soft way he held you — he let himself feel something other than frustration.
The drive from the airport to the house was quiet, but not the cold kind of quiet. It was the kind where both of you were still coming down from the argument, still feeling the sting of the words said, but also feeling the pull back toward each other.
Victor kept one hand on the wheel, the other resting on his thigh, fingers tapping restlessly. You could tell he wanted to reach for you but didn’t know if he should. You didn’t push him. You just sat close enough that your shoulder brushed his every time the car turned.
When you finally pulled into the driveway, he let out a breath he’d been holding since Oklahoma. The house looked dark and still, like it had been waiting for the two of you to return.
He got out first, grabbing both your bags before you could protest. Even frustrated, even hurting, he couldn’t help taking care of you. You followed him up the walkway, the night air warm and quiet around you.
Inside, he dropped the bags by the door and stood there for a moment, hoodie half‑unzipped, chest rising and falling with slow, heavy breaths. You could see the exhaustion in every line of his body — physical, emotional, all of it.
You stepped closer, careful, giving him space to pull away if he needed to.
“Victor,” you said softly.
He didn’t turn around right away. When he did, his expression wasn’t angry anymore. Just tired. Raw. Human.
“I didn’t mean to make you feel like you were in the way,” he said quietly. “I hate that I made you think that.”
You shook your head. “I know you didn’t mean it. You’re under so much pressure. I get it.”
He swallowed, eyes dropping to the floor. “I just… I don’t want to lose. And I don’t want to lose you. And sometimes those fears get tangled up and I say things I shouldn’t.”
You stepped closer until you were right in front of him. “You’re not losing me,” you whispered. “Not over a bad night. Not over anything.”
His jaw tightened, and he finally let himself look at you — really look at you. The frustration was gone. What replaced it was something softer, heavier, almost vulnerable.
He reached out, hesitating for half a second before his hands found your waist, pulling you gently toward him. You rested your palms on his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heartbeat under your fingers.
“I don’t know how to do this sometimes,” he admitted, voice low. “The games. The pressure. The distance. And then you show up and everything in me just… shifts.”
You felt your breath catch. “Shifts how?”
He leaned his forehead against yours, eyes closing. “You make me feel safe. And that scares me more than losing.”
Your fingers curled into the fabric of his hoodie, grounding him. “You don’t have to be scared with me.”
He exhaled, long and shaky, like he’d been holding that truth inside for too long. His arms tightened around you, pulling you fully against him.You slid your hands up to the back of his neck, feeling the tension there slowly melt under your touch.
For a long moment, neither of you spoke. You just held each other in the quiet of the entryway, the world outside fading until it was just the two of you — tired, hurting, but choosing each other anyway.
Finally, he whispered, “Come here,” even though you were already in his arms.
And you did. You let him hold you like he’d been waiting all night for this moment. Like this was the only place he could breathe.
Victor’s arms tightened around you, pulling you closer like he needed the reassurance of your heartbeat against his. The house was quiet around you, the kind of quiet that made every breath feel louder, every emotion feel sharper.
You rested your hands on his chest, feeling the slow rise and fall beneath your palms. He looked down at you, eyes tired but soft, the frustration from earlier fading into something warmer. Something real.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured again, voice barely above a whisper. “I never want to hurt you.”
“You didn’t,” you said gently. “You were overwhelmed. And you came back to me. That’s what matters.”
His jaw relaxed, and he let out a breath that sounded like relief. His forehead brushed yours, slow and careful, like he was asking permission without saying a word.
His hand slid up to cradle the side of your face, thumb brushing your cheek with a tenderness that made your chest ache. He held you there for a moment, just looking at you — really looking — like he was grounding himself in the sight of you.
The kiss was soft. Slow. Not rushed or heated — just full of everything he didn’t know how to say. His lips pressed to yours with a kind of quiet desperation, like he needed the closeness to steady himself after the chaos of the last two games.
You kissed him back just as gently, your fingers curling into the fabric of his hoodie. The world outside the entryway faded — the losses, the pressure, the noise — until it was just the two of you, breathing the same air, holding onto each other like you were the only calm either of you had left.
The quiet didn't last long. The tenderness in Victor's eyes shifted, the softness hardening into something darker, more urgent. The guilt of calling you a distraction—of pushing you away when he was at his lowest—was still simmering under his skin, and the only way he knew how to purge it was through a physical intensity that bordered on desperation.
He didn't pull away this time. Instead, his hand slid from your cheek to the back of your neck, his long fingers tangling in your hair and tilting your head back. The kiss changed instantly. The softness vanished, replaced by a hungry, demanding pressure. He groaned into your mouth, a low, guttural sound that vibrated through your entire body, his tongue forcing its way past your lips to claim you with a sudden, rough authority.
"I can't... I can't stand that I made you feel that way," he rasped against your lips, his breath hot and erratic.
Before you could respond, he hoisted you up. Your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist, your back slamming against the nearest wall with a dull thud that knocked the breath out of you. He didn't let you recover; he pinned you there, his massive frame crowding you, trapping you between the hard wall and the heat of his body.
His hands weren't gentle anymore. He gripped your thighs, digging his fingers into your skin, hoisting you higher so he could bury his face in the crook of your neck. He bit down—not enough to break the skin, but hard enough to leave a mark, a possessive brand that signaled exactly who you belonged to.
"You're not a distraction," he growled, his voice dropping an octave, sounding primal. "You're the only thing that keeps me sane. I'm a fucking idiot for ever saying otherwise."
He reached down, his large hand fumbling with your clothes, ripping them aside with an impatience that bordered on aggression. When he found your center, he didn't tease. He shoved two fingers deep inside you in one swift motion, making you gasp and arch your back against the wall. He pumped his fingers ruthlessly, his thumb grinding against your clit with a heavy, punishing pressure that sent sparks of electricity shooting through your spine.
"Look at me," he commanded.
You opened your eyes to see him staring at you, his pupils blown wide, his expression a mix of raw apology and uncontrollable lust. He looked wrecked, desperate to prove his devotion through the only language that felt honest enough in the moment: dominance.
He freed himself from his pants, his cock springing out, thick and pulsing. He didn't use a slow glide. He grabbed your hips, tilting you perfectly, and drove himself into you in one powerful, unrelenting thrust.
You let out a sharp cry, your head snapping back against the wall as he filled you completely, stretching you to your limit. He didn't stop to let you adjust. He began to fuck you with a rhythmic, punishing intensity, each slam of his hips echoing in the quiet house. He was using you to ground himself, his movements rough and demanding, as if he were trying to merge his body with yours to erase the distance the fight had created.
"Tell me you're mine," he groaned, his voice strained, his sweat dripping onto your chest. "Tell me you know you're everything to me."
"I'm yours, Victor! I'm yours!" you sobbed out, your fingers clawing at his shoulders, digging into his muscles.
The sound of your submission seemed to snap the last thread of his control. He accelerated, his thrusts becoming shorter, faster, and more violent. He was hammering into you, his large hands bruising your hips as he held you pinned, claiming every inch of you. The friction was intense, the pleasure bordering on pain, and it was exactly what you both needed—a physical purging of the tension and the hurt.
He let out a loud, guttural roar as he hit his peak, his body stiffening as he flooded you with hot, thick cum. He buried his face in your shoulder, shaking with the force of his release, holding you so tightly it felt like he was trying to pull you inside his own chest.
As the adrenaline faded, the roughness dissolved back into that desperate need for closeness. He didn't let you down immediately; he kept you pressed against the wall, his forehead resting against yours, both of you panting heavily in the sudden silence.
The adrenaline of the first release hadn't settled the storm inside Victor; it had only cleared the way for a deeper, more possessive hunger. As he held you against the wall, his breath still ragged, he didn't slide out of you. Instead, he shifted his grip, his massive hands sliding from your hips to your waist, squeezing the flesh there with a firmness that promised he wasn't anywhere near finished.
He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark and swirling with a mixture of lingering guilt and an overwhelming need to dominate every single part of you. He didn't want this to end. He wanted to stretch this moment of reconciliation until you were completely spent, until the only thing you could think about, feel, or breathe was him.
"I'm not letting you go yet," he rasped, his voice a low, commanding rumble that sent a shiver of anticipation down your spine. "I need you to feel exactly how much I need you. I need you to remember this."
Without warning, he hooked his arms under your thighs and carried you toward the bedroom, never once breaking the connection between your bodies. The friction of his cock sliding slowly in and out of you as he walked was a torture of the best kind, a slow-burn tease that had you whimpering against his neck. When he reached the bed, he didn't lay you down gently. He dropped you onto the mattress and immediately climbed over you, his towering frame casting a shadow that completely enveloped you.
He grabbed both of your wrists in one of his huge hands, pinning them above your head against the pillows. The disparity in size was staggering; your wrists felt fragile in his grip, making you feel small, vulnerable, and utterly his.
"You think a few apologies make up for how I made you feel?" he growled, his chest heaving. "I'm going to spend the rest of the night making sure you know you're the center of my fucking world."
He shifted his weight, sliding out of you with a slow, agonizing pull that left you feeling empty and aching. But before you could gasp for air, he moved down your body. He didn't go for your breasts; instead, he gripped your thighs, forcing them wide apart, exposing you completely to his gaze. He stared at you—flushed, wet, and trembling—with a look of raw hunger.
He leaned down, his tongue lashing across your clit in one long, wet stroke that made your hips jerk upward. He wasn't being gentle. He used his tongue with a forceful, rhythmic pressure, sucking your nub into his mouth and swirling around it with a dominance that demanded your total surrender. While his mouth worked you into a frenzy, his hand remained clamped around your wrists, keeping you pinned, denying you the ability to touch him or guide him. You were entirely at his mercy, a prisoner to the pleasure he was meticulously crafting.
"Please, Victor..." you moaned, your voice breaking.
"Please what?" he murmured against your skin, his voice vibrating through your thighs. "Tell me what you want. Tell me who you belong to."
"I'm yours... please, I want you inside me!"
A dark smirk touched his lips. He climbed back up, but instead of returning to the missionary position, he flipped you over with a sudden, powerful movement. He shoved you onto your stomach, pressing your face into the pillows and pinning your lower back down with the weight of his chest.
He reached down, grabbing your hair to tilt your head back just enough so he could whisper in your ear. "I'm going to fuck you until you can't even remember your own name, let alone the fight we had."
He entered you from behind in one brutal, deep plunge. You let out a muffled scream into the pillow as he bottomed out, hitting your cervix with a force that felt like it was rearranging your insides. He didn't give you a second to breathe. He began to drive into you with a relentless, punishing pace, his hips slamming against your ass with a loud, rhythmic slap-slap-slap that echoed through the room.
He was using his height and strength to keep you pinned, his forearm pressing into the small of your back, forcing you down into the mattress while he hammered away from behind. Every thrust was a statement of ownership, a physical manifestation of his apology and his obsession. He wasn't just seeking pleasure; he was claiming you, erasing every doubt and every hurt with the sheer force of his body.
"You're mine," he groaned, his voice sounding like a predator's. "Every inch. Every breath. You're the only thing that matters."
As you neared the edge again, he slowed down. He stopped the violent hammering and transitioned into slow, deep, agonizing grinds. He rotated his hips, rubbing his cock against your most sensitive spots with a precision that was almost cruel. He was prolonging the tension, dragging out the agony of the build-up, refusing to let you peak until he decided you were ready.
"Not yet," he whispered, feeling your muscles quiver. "Stay right there. Feel me. Feel how much I want you."
He kept you on that knife's edge for what felt like hours, alternating between rough, shallow thrusts and deep, soul-searching plunges. He played with your pleasure like an instrument, pushing you to the brink of a scream and then pulling back, forcing you to beg for it.
Finally, when he felt your body begin to shake uncontrollably, he let go of the restraint. He gripped your hips so hard his fingers left marks, and he accelerated into a blinding, frantic pace. He was fucking you with a primal desperation now, his breath coming in jagged gasps, his entire body tense.
"Now you can let go!" he roared, the command coinciding with a final, devastatingly deep thrust.
The orgasm hit you like a tidal wave, your internal muscles clamping down on him in violent spasms. The feeling of you squeezing him triggered his own release. Victor let out a guttural, animalistic sound, his body locking up as he pumped load after load of hot cum deep inside you, filling you to the brim.
He collapsed on top of you, his heavy chest crushing you into the bed, both of you drenched in sweat and shaking from the intensity. He didn't move for a long time, simply breathing you in, his heart hammering against your back. He shifted slightly, kissing the nape of your neck with a tenderness that contrasted sharply with the violence of the last hour.
"I've got you," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "I've always got you." ☆
a/n: i genuinely had a 10 like goal for my first fic and i got 49 so far so tysm. im really enjoying coming up with these sadly the season will be over soon but i think ill keep this version wemby in my mind & on here. please let me know what you think! ^_^ also pray to the basketball gods we win game 7!🩵🩷🧡 ( update: we won!🫶🏾)
