contains: swearing, sum roughness, creampie (no preggo dw lol), lil short so sorry its just a blurb
ꫂ᭪݁
"That's a real pretty skirt you got there."
Your head lifted from your book, and sure enough, there was Jackie, leaning against the wall like he hadn't a care in the world. Always bothering you when you had some peace.
You rolled your eyes the second you saw him. "Don't you got a tree to bark up, Jackie?"
A slow grin spread across his face, looking far too pleased with himself. "Well, that ain't very nice, y/n."
He walks over, looking like trouble as usual. Afro picked to it's best shape, pants perfectly fitted, and his shirt buttoned. Jackie had a rep around town along with his brothers, but he was a sly one. Always using that smooth talk he's been practicing on every pretty girl he could find willing to listen. He'd tried all that on you before. It never worked. Well, not in the way he wanted. These days he seemed to flirt just to watch you roll your eyes at him, and judging by that grin he always wore afterward, he thought it was the funniest thing in the world. But one day you'd give in.
"Can't be nice to devils," you say shrugging.
"You reading?" He asks stepping over.
"Mhm"
"Mm. Sounds about right."
"What you want?" you asked him.
"You not gonna take the compliment I gave you?" he asks innocently, but you knew his mind was far from innocent. The skirt was pretty, sure, but knowing Jackie, he hadn't brought it up just to be nice. He always had something up his sleeve, and judging by the grin threatening to pull at the corners of his mouth, today was no different.
"Need your help with something" he then says looking around the room.
"Where your brothers at?" You asked mostly because you wanted to hear what excuse he'd come up with.
Jackie sucked his teeth. "Somewhere doin' somethin'."
"Mm-hm."
"I'm serious."
"Sure you are."
He rolled his eyes at you, "I ain't my brothers' keeper."
A small smile tugged at your lips. "You kinda are. You're the oldest."
He loved his brothers so of course what he said was a lie. You watched him shift his weight, hands sliding into his pockets. For a second, he looked almost annoyed that you weren't making this easy. "You gon' help me or not?"
Or not, you thought to yourself. You huffed to yourself and got up.
You walk passed him and into the hallway, you then stop and turn, "Don't try anything Jackie" you tell him before walking. He puts his hands up in a surrender motion, he then follows right behind you. Of course, his eyes happened to glance down every time you walked, he couldn't help himself. You both walk to another room, bunch of stuff, stuff that needed to be thrown out or sold.
"Told you I needed help" Jackie said slightly annoyed looking at the mess.
"Yeah, but i'm the wrong person to call. I'm not getting my hands dirty over this," you tell him looking around.
"Look, you can clean your little hands later. Just help me with this before it gets crowded around here," he says moving some stuff. You rolled your eyes, but slowly eased into helping. You moved stuff around, putting it up on new shelves and tables. You then tried lifting something up, it was heavy, you could pick it up if you wanted to. Luckily you didn't want to.
“Jackie,” you called his name, and he turned around at once. “It’s too heavy. Pick it up for me,” you said, nodding toward the box.
He followed your gesture, then gave you a look like he was trying not to smile. “Bossy,” he muttered, more amused than anything.
Still, he walked over and crouched down to it.
His hands reached first, long fingers wrapping around the edges, palms steady as he tested the weight like it was nothing. The veins along the back of his hands shifted slightly as he lifted it, effortless, like the box had no business being called heavy in the first place.
"This needs to get thrown out anyways, i'll be back" he says walking out the door, leaving it cracked to get back in.
You then turn away and start looking through some old stuff. More books, fans, music notes, just stuff. You lean over to grab something, as you do, it only took a few seconds to hear Jackie's footsteps from the hall. He almost fully walked in, just before his steps stopped. There you were, bent over something, skirt lightly high up, just enough to have your panties show. He stares, just keeping quiet, but you knew he was there. You lightly smiled to yourself. So, you bent over more, pretending to find something. Jackie felt himself grow hard underneath his pants as you did. His eyes were low, he tried being a gentlemen and looked away.
"You need some help over there?" he asks.
He was already moving before you answered, footsteps slow as he came up behind you, careful not to crowd you too fast… even if he ended up closer than he probably meant to be.
“No, why?” you said without looking up.
"Because, you're bent over like you're asking for some help" he says looking at you.
You scoffed to yourself and sat up, "Or maybe, you just can't help yourself."
"Maybe I can't help myself." He closes the door and walks up to you, "You did that on purpose?" he asks you.
"I don't know what you're talking about," you say shrugging at him, but you knew.
"You sure like tempting people," he says tilting his head at you. "Or is it just me?"
"And what would I get out of tempting you?" you asked.
“Don’t know, baby,” he said, voice easy, like it wasn’t nothin’. “Maybe a reward.” He shifted his weight, hands slidin’ into his pockets, eyes still on you.
"And what's this award?" you asked him tilting your head, now you were playing along. For once it was Jackie being teased, but not for long.
"Hm, it involves these hands running down that skirt I love so much," he mumbles to you. Then, he gets closer. His hand lightly ran down your skirt, just like he said. "Maybe a little more," he says. His hand hovered right above your hip, your heart was racing, but you wasn't gonna back out now.
"What if I want more than that? What if I wanna feel your hands lower?' you asked him, and with that his hands went lower, right on your butt. His hands gently caressed through the fabric of the skirt.
"Like this, or you want some more?" he asks looking at you. There it is was, that hunger he's been trynna hide every since he's laid eyes on you. You both looked at each other, then slowly but surely started kissing. You both gave the nastiest yet wettest kisses, its almost as if the tension finally started to settle down between you. Your hands found their way to his face, you held onto him, tasting every bit of him.
His kisses trailed down your neck, sucking some spots then coming back to kiss you. You pulled him back against you, the table bumping behind you.
"Shit, you making this hard," he says between kisses.
You kissed him back fully, "I make that dick hard Jackie?" you ask him. He lets out a low groan hearing you say that, and it was every bit true. As much as he tried being a gentleman, you damn near made it impossible.
"Everytime, want you to come handle it for me," he says grabbing your face now. He shuts you up from any back talk, just kissing your lips. Your hands travel down to his pants, lightly rubbing over his bulge.
"Take it out," he says breaking the kiss lightly.
"Ion need you telling me what to do," you replied smartly. You undid his pants, pulling down just the top. His dick sprung out as if it couldn't wait to feel your fingers over it. You hum lightly as you stroke it from his pants. He let out a small moan from you doing so.
"Don't get flip" he says before making his move to your panties. His fingers hooked into the waistband of your cotton panties and dragged them down your thighs. They were soaked through, clinging for a second before they slipped free. Jackie let them drop to the floor, then spun you around so your hips met the edge of the table.
"You all confident now, just wait" he says his hands rubbing and massaging your sides. Your skirt was still on, just your panties and shoes off.
"With the way you be acting, my expectations is high," you say looking back at him. He chuckled again, looking right at you.
“Mm-hm,” he said, slow. “Look at you talkin’ big now.”
He eased you forward until your palms met the surface of the table. His body pressed close behind you, dick just sliding between your thighs, dark tip right between your slit folds, just teasing. You moan lightly feeling the pressure hit where you needed him most. He gently kisses the side of your face, before letting you relax.
"Pussy just wet" he says. You felt him angle lower, the blunt tip nudging at your entrance before sliding back up with your wetness to tap your swollen clit again. Another soft whimper slipped out of you.
“Jackie…” The word came out half plea, half warning.
He chuckled low. “Yeah, I hear you. Just making sure you’re ready for all this.”
One hand smoothing up your spine. "Easy," he murmured. "I got you."
He pressed forward slow, letting you feel every inch as he stretched you open. Your walls fluttered around him, trying to pull him deeper, but he stopped halfway, holding still so you could adjust to his thickness.
One hand curled around the front of your throat, not squeezing, just enough to tilt your head back so he could hear every sound.
"Shit, that's good," he says to himself, letting you get comfortable with him. “Why you not talkin’ now?” he asks, a small grin tugging at his mouth.
You grunt underneath your breath, you were quiet now, besides the small moans that tickled from your lips.
Your hands focused on the table, keeping balanced. He waited until you were good before he started pushing in n out. Your back arches slowly as he did, you hated to admit it, but damn did he feel good. His dick gave you a whole new reason to sing out, his strokes felt perfect.
"Hmm, good girl mama," he says thrusting his dick, the slickness started filling up the room. His free hand gripped your hip, pulling you back to meet each stroke as he began to fuck your pussy. Your ass smacked against him and he pushed your right up against him.
You moaned at his praise, pussy still clenched around dick. "Mhm-Jackieeee," you moan quietly.
"Hm, I'm here baby" he says before giving you slow strokes giving you a break.
"Don't wanna give you too much," he says before spreading you open some more. His hand lightly smacked your ass, grinning to himself.
"Then again, this what you wanted right?" he asks you. You nod your head slow, back still arched for him. He starts to speed up again, balls hitting right on your clit.
"Oh my gosh, mmhgn-" you say trying to keep quiet.
"I wanna see your face," he says lowly. His fingers gently pulled your head up, making you look back at him.
Your eyes were watery from the pleasure building up inside you, your pussy couldn't take it anymore. He knew, the way your walls were clenching around his thick dick.
"You wanna cum mama?" he asks looking at you, same sly grin on his face.
"Please," you whimpered out to him, "Please let me cum Jackie, I need I need it." He liked this, seeing you so desperately wanting to cum on his dick.
"Ah damn," he says as he feels you flood his dick with your juices, he keeps the same pace, pounding the same spot to keep your orgasm going.
He then felt himself about to cum, "Ready for your reward baby?" he asks you quietly. You moan out quietly as he still thrusted in you. Your ass still pounding against his hips.
"Mhm there we go, gonna cum," he says moaning. He goes deeper in you, then warm cum shoots out from his dick, painting the inside of your womb. He goes slow, giving you every last pound he got, making sure his cum goes deep in you. He stayed pressed close, breathing hard against your shoulder. He then slowly pulls out and watches his nut drip out your pretty pussy. His fingers lightly spread open your lips, he smiles to himself.
"Fuck," you let out a tired groan before sitting up. You were out of breath, but you felt good. You look to him, and lean in to kiss him again.
"Felt good huh?" he says before kissing you back
author's note; this was so short omg lmfao. ignore typos etc 🌚.
𝑆𝑖𝑟𝑒𝑛—𝐴 𝐷𝑎𝑛𝑔𝑒𝑟𝑜𝑢𝑠 𝐷𝑒𝑠𝑖𝑟𝑒 ⠀ ⠀ ⠀♱
𝑁𝑜𝑡𝑒𝑠: This story includes Bad era Michael, vampires, and midnight ballerinas. Please be advised this story is written for audiences 18+. Feel free to comment any thoughts as I drop chapters.
— WITH L-O-V-E,
@loves2tour
—𝐵𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑓 𝑆𝑢𝑚𝑚𝑎𝑟𝑦
To the world, she is "Siren"—the most captivating and sought-after dancer at the city's most exclusive underground club. But in the shadows, she is Alexis Laurent, a lethal vampire belonging to the powerful House of Laurent. Her family runs the club for one specific reason: to use their hypnotic allure to entrance men into willingly giving up their blood. For centuries, Alexis has effortlessly separated her feelings from her prey. Many men have desperately wanted her, but they are all just food. None have ever come close to claiming her cold, guarded heart.
Until Michael walks into her club.
Radiating a gritty, dark magnetism, Michael is instantly mesmerized by Siren. He begins booking her for private dances, but to Alexis’s complete confusion, he never actually wants a dance. Instead, he spends a fortune just paying for her time so he can talk to her, determined to break through her icy exterior and get to know the real woman behind the stage name.
Alexis tries her best not to take him seriously. He is too innocent, too beautifully human for her dark world. But when she attempts to use her vampire compulsion on him, it fails. There is something profoundly different about Michael's energy—a pure, creative shield that renders her powers useless. Even worse, his unwavering attention and the undeniable, electric chemistry between them does the one thing Alexis fears most: it makes her feel truly alive.
As Michael slowly chips away at her walls, pulling her out of the shadows for secret, late-night dates, Alexis realizes she is falling for the very human she was supposed to drain. But the House of Laurent does not tolerate weakness. As her family grows suspicious of her refusal to entrance him, Alexis must decide if she is willing to risk her immortal life to protect the man who sees right through her... the man who is already writing a song called Dirty Diana about the dangerous girl he can't stay away from.
The heavy, intoxicating silence of the master suite was broken by the sound of Maeve’s soft, breathless moans.
Sunlight poured through the large bedroom windows, but Maeve’s eyes were squeezed tightly shut as she rode a devastating wave of morning pleasure. She had barely managed to catch her breath from their intense session the night before, but Michael had woken her up with a relentless, driving hunger.
He was positioned perfectly between her bare legs, his large hands gripping her hips with an unyielding, bruising strength. "Look at me," he demanded, his voice thick with sleep and raw arousal.
Maeve’s eyes fluttered open, instantly locking onto his dark, burning gaze. She was completely bare beneath him, her warm, naturally rich complexion flushed with a deep, radiant heat as he set a punishing, deliberate pace. Every deep thrust was a physical reminder that she had been thoroughly claimed. He drove into her slick heat effortlessly, watching with a dark, predatory satisfaction as her composure entirely unraveled.
"Michael—please," she gasped out, her nails digging into his broad shoulders as the tension coiled tightly in her stomach.
"You're doing so beautifully for me," his normally gentle, velvety murmur vibrated deeply in his chest even as he ruthlessly pushed her closer to the edge. "Let go for me, Maeve."
With one final, impossibly deep thrust, Maeve shattered, crying out his name as her body clenched tightly around his thick length. Hearing her submit to him pushed Michael over the edge. He groaned loudly, his chest heaving as he finally allowed himself to heavily climax deep inside her for a second time, completely unapologetic about marking her as his own.
As his breathing slowly steadied, Michael collapsed against her, pressing a hot, open-mouthed kiss to her neck. He pulled her flush against his side, wrapping a strong arm around her waist.
For a long moment, they just lay there in the quiet aftermath. Maeve rested her head against his chest, completely overwhelmed by how drastically her life had shifted. Before taking this position, she had been highly cynical, convinced that meeting an elite celebrity was as trivial as choosing a new shade of polish. She had assumed that a global superstar of his massive caliber would just be a carbon copy of the other arrogant executives she had managed, just hiding behind a different name. Instead, the man holding her was fiercely protective, incredibly dominant, and completely devoted to ravishing her.
"What is going on in that beautiful mind of yours?" Michael murmured, his thumb drawing slow, lazy circles on her bare hip.
Maeve tilted her head up to look at him. "I was just thinking about my apartment. About... Jordan's things being there. All of my clothes are still at the condo."
The mere mention of the careless boy who had bought her off with diamonds caused a sudden, aggressive shift in Michael's demeanor. The relaxed post-coital warmth in his eyes sharpened into a cold, territorial authority. He pulled her flush against his body, his grip on her waist tightening possessively.
"You are not going back there," Michael stated, his tone carrying a firm gravity that left absolutely no room for debate.
"Michael, I have to," Maeve reasoned gently, though her body betrayed her as she arched into his warm touch. "My whole life is in that condo."
"Then we will bring your life here," he replied effortlessly, his gaze dropping to her swollen lips. "I will not have you returning to an empty apartment where he might try to confront you when he returns from his little ski trip. I am sending my security team to pack your belongings this afternoon."
Maeve blinked, completely taken aback by his absolute authority over her life. "You want to send the security guards? The same ones who laughed at my frantic, embarrassing sprint up your massive driveway on my very first day?" she teased lightly, a small, shy smile playing on her lips.
A genuine, breathtaking smile broke across Michael's handsome face. "They were very impressed, I'll have you know," he chuckled softly. "I still admire how you managed that athletic feat in stilettos.
His amusement slowly faded back into a deeply sincere, magnetic intensity. He shifted his weight, hovering over her bare body once again. "I am entirely serious, Maeve. The moment you showed up in that delicate blush-colored outfit, completely out of breath, my only instinct was to soothe your nerves with a drink and ensure you were taken care of. I permanently solved your commuting issues because I wanted you safe. I am not about to stop taking care of you now."
He leaned down, capturing her lips in a deep, consuming kiss that instantly sent a fresh wave of electric heat straight to her core.
"You will stay in the guest wing until we can design a space for you properly," Michael instructed, his soft-spoken dominance completely melting her remaining defenses. "But make no mistake. You are moving in. I want you right here in my bed, where I can do whatever I want to you, and ensure you are treated with the exact devotion you deserve."
Maeve stared up at him, her heart hammering wildly against her ribs. "Okay," she whispered, fully surrendering to his unyielding control. "Yes, Michael."
"Good girl," he murmured fiercely. Jordan was entirely erased, her past burdens were permanently handled, and there was absolutely no denying that she was exactly where she belonged.
The relocation was executed with military precision. True to his word, Michael’s security team arrived at Maeve's condo that very afternoon, swiftly packing away her entire life into custom garment bags and sleek boxes. They didn't leave a single trace of her behind. By the time evening fell, her clothes were perfectly organized in the massive closets of the estate, and the painful chapter of her life involving Jordan was supposedly closed forever.
For the next two months, Maeve lived in an absolute, intoxicating dream.
She seamlessly balanced her role as Michael's executive assistant during the day and his completely devoted lover by night. He was an incredibly demanding boss, but behind closed doors, his intense physical worship and fierce protectiveness made her feel entirely invincible.
However, the bubble of their secluded sanctuary was about to be tested. Michael was scheduled for a massive international performance in London. The itinerary had been set for weeks: they were supposed to fly out together on his private jet on Friday morning, turning the business trip into a lavish, intimate getaway.
But on Wednesday afternoon, the careful control Michael had established was abruptly shattered.
Maeve had taken her designated SUV into the city to pick up a few specific travel items. As she stepped out of the high-end boutique, flanked by one of her guards, a familiar, desperate voice called out her name.
Jordan stepped out from the shadow of the adjacent building, looking disheveled and frantic. The security guard immediately stepped between them, placing a heavy, threatening hand on Jordan's chest to stop his advance. But Jordan didn't back down, pleading loudly with Maeve over the guard's shoulder. He begged for just five minutes of her time, claiming he couldn't move on with his life until he properly explained his side of the Aspen trip and got the closure he desperately needed.
Shaken by the ambush, Maeve didn't say a word. She simply got into the SUV and had the driver speed back to the estate.
When she found Michael in his study later that evening, he was reviewing stage blueprints. The heavy mahogany room felt warm and inviting, but a knot of anxiety twisted tightly in Maeve's stomach.
"Michael?" she began softly, closing the heavy doors behind her.
He looked up, his dark eyes instantly softening at the sight of her. "There's my beautiful girl," he murmured, his velvet voice wrapping around her like a warm blanket. "Is everything packed for Friday?"
"Yes, but... something happened in the city today," she admitted hesitantly, her fingers nervously playing with the hem of her blouse. She took a deep breath and explained the ambush outside the boutique. "Jordan wants closure. And... honestly, Michael, I'm starting to think that if I just give him five minutes to speak his piece over the phone, he might finally stop trying to track me down."
The temperature in the room plummeted instantly.
Michael slowly set his pen down on the desk. The warm, affectionate man who had just greeted her vanished, entirely replaced by a cold, territorial authority. He stood up, his towering frame casting a long shadow as he took a slow, deliberate step toward her.
"You want to entertain the boy who publicly humiliated you," Michael stated, his voice dropping into a dangerously quiet register.
"No, I don't want to entertain him," Maeve corrected quickly, her heart hammering against her ribs as Michael closed the distance between them. "I just want him to leave me alone. If five minutes of closure gets him to back off—"
"Absolutely not," Michael interrupted, backing her smoothly against the heavy wooden door. He placed a hand on the wood just beside her head, completely trapping her in his space. "I have established a very clear boundary regarding your safety, Maeve. Interacting with him violates that rule."
"Michael, you're being unreasonable," she whispered, her breath hitching at his overwhelming proximity. "Are you really that jealous of a five-minute phone call?"
A dark, wicked scoff left Michael's lips. He leaned in, his face inches from hers, his dark eyes burning with an intense, possessive fire. "You mistake my protectiveness for insecurity," he murmured fiercely. "I don't care if other men look at you, Maeve. When we go out, I see the way they stare at your gorgeous skin and your beautiful curves. It actually turns me on. I love knowing that no matter how much they crave you, you belong entirely to me. But Jordan is not just a man looking at you. He is a reckless liability. He ambushed you in public today."
He reached up, his large hand firmly but gently gripping her chin, forcing her to look directly into his blazing eyes.
"From the very first day you stepped foot on my property—frantic, flustered, and reliant on a last-minute cab—my only instinct was to permanently remove the things that cause you panic," Michael reminded her, his thumb brushing possessively over her lower lip. "I promised you that you would never have to worry about your safety again. And now, you are willingly asking to put yourself back into a volatile situation with a boy who does not respect boundaries. I will not allow you to put yourself in danger."
Maeve swallowed hard, completely mesmerized by his dominance but stubbornly holding her ground. "I am a grown woman, Michael. I can handle a conversation."
A flash of genuine frustration crossed Michael's handsome face. He absolutely hated fighting with her, and the agonizing thought of being away from her tore at his chest. But his need to establish this boundary was stronger than his desire to coddle her. She needed to understand the absolute severity of his protection.
He slowly released her chin and took a step back, the sudden loss of his body heat leaving Maeve shivering.
"If you are going to dismiss my rules and jeopardize your own safety, then I need space to think," Michael stated coldly, his jaw ticking. He picked up his desk phone, dialing his head of logistics. "Have the flight crew prep the jet. I am leaving for London tonight."
Maeve’s eyes widened in shock. "Tonight? But we're supposed to fly out together on Friday..."
Michael hung up the phone and looked at her, his expression an unyielding mask of strict authority. "I will fly out early, alone. You will stay here on the estate, where my security team can ensure that you do not make any reckless decisions regarding your ex-boyfriend."
Before she could protest, he walked past her, opening the heavy mahogany doors. "I will see you when you arrive on Friday, Maeve. Hopefully, by then, you will remember exactly who you belong to.”
Finding out Michael was supposed to preform DD while tied to a bed while a performer dances above for the This is It tour has ruined my week IM ANGRYYYYYY
That second clip… oh yes sir🫦🫦 imagine him pulling out after completing splitting that thang in half and he looks down at you and the mess yall made w that look🫠🫠
Summary: The night is supposed to be about legacy. About gold statues, applause, and a name cemented in history. And Ryan plays his role perfectly in front of the world, composed, grounded, untouchable. But the moment he sees Justice in that deep red, backless dress, it feels like the world stops. They’ve already crossed that line once. Already know how each other feels… against skin, inside memory, inside need. So the tension isn’t about if. It’s about how long they can pretend they still have control. The after party becomes background noise. A corner becomes a confession. A whisper becomes a promise.
Warnings: 18+ content, explicit language, heavy sexual themes, possessive dynamics, praise and dominance undertones, public-to-private escalation, oral sex, squirting, unprotected sex, intense dirty talk, emotional intimacy mixed with physical intensity, Black romance
Between Frames | After Hours, Still Yours
It didn’t start at the Oscars.
It started in the quiet.
In the kind of spaces people don’t clap for, don’t document, don’t replay in highlight reels. The kind of moments that don’t need validation to matter.
Late nights stretched into early mornings, scripts forgotten on coffee tables while conversation drifted into something softer, something more honest. The kind of honesty that didn’t need an audience, the kind that settled into the body instead of just passing through it, leaving something behind every time.
Justice had gotten used to his presence before she ever let herself name what it was becoming. It crept up on her, not loud, not dramatic, just steady.
Ryan wasn’t loud with it. He wasn’t flashy. But he was consistent in a way that felt dangerous.
The way he showed up.
The way he listened to what she said actually mattered, like he wasn’t just waiting for his turn to speak.
The way his attention stayed on her even when the room tried to pull it elsewhere, like everything else faded just enough when she was around.
And then there was the way he touched her.
Never rushed. Never careless. Always intentional, like he understood that touch meant something, that it said things words didn’t have to.
His hand at the small of her back when they moved through a room, grounding without being heavy. His fingers brushing hers when he handed her something instead of just passing it, the contact was brief but felt. The way his palm would rest just long enough to be noticed, then pull away like he was giving her space to feel it after he was gone.
Like he knew anticipation could be just as loud as action if you let it sit long enough.
That first night after dinner changed something. Not just because of what happened, but because of how it happened.
The kiss in his car wasn’t accidental. It wasn’t impulsive. It was overdue, built up in every glance, every almost-touch, every moment they chose not to cross the line before that night.
Slow at first. Measured. Like they were both making sure it was real.
Then deepening in a way that made it clear they had both been thinking about it longer than they admitted out loud. His hand at her jaw, steady and grounding. Her fingers gripping his shirt like she needed something to hold onto. Breath shifting between them like something alive, something that had finally been permitted to exist.
And when they made it back to her place, it wasn’t about rushing into anything new. It wasn’t messy. It wasn’t reckless. It was intentional.
It was two grown people finally letting something that had been building… happen without pretending they didn’t feel it.
After that, things didn’t spiral. They didn’t get complicated in the way people expect when lines get crossed.
They got deeper.
More grounded. More real.
They took their time. Still saw each other. Still showed up. Still kept their rhythm.
Dinner turned into conversation. The conversation turned quiet. Quiet turned into comfort. And comfort turned into something that didn’t need to be rushed to feel real.
But there was a difference now. A weight to it.
Because once you know how someone feels against you, inside you, how they sound when they stop holding themselves back, how they say your name when it’s low and meant only for you…
You don’t forget that.
You carry it.
In the way your body reacts when they walk into a room.
In the way your breath shifts when they get too close.
In the way your thoughts start to drift at the worst possible time, pulling you back to moments you said you wouldn’t replay.
Ryan stayed disciplined.
He had to.
In public, he was still Ryan Coogler. Focused. Professional. Grounded in a way that made people trust him without question. The man who shook hands, held conversations, and carried himself with intention and control.
“Justice,” he’d say, voice even, respectful, measured like nothing underneath it ever slipped.
And if you didn’t know better, you’d believe that was all there was.
But she knew better.
Because behind closed doors, that same voice changed. It dropped lower, slower, warmer, closer.
“Peaches.”
And the way he said it wasn’t casual. It wasn’t a joke. It wasn’t something he threw around.
It was deliberate.
Personal.
Something that settled low in her chest and stayed there, heavy and warm. Something that made her body answer before she could think about it, heat pooling low and immediate, before she could decide how she wanted to respond.
He wasn’t different.
He was just… less restrained.
And that difference mattered.
They didn’t lose control again after that night. Not like that.
They could’ve.
There were moments.
Plenty of them.
Times where his hand didn’t just linger, but wandered slowly along her thigh, testing how far he could go before she stopped him… and noticing when she didn’t.
Times where her breath caught, and neither of them pretended it didn’t.
Times where one more second, one more touch, would’ve tipped everything over again.
But they didn’t.
They kept it contained.
Shared glances that said too much.
Subtle touches that meant more than they should.
Private moments that didn’t cross the line but stayed right on top of it, balanced there like they both understood exactly how far they could go before it became something else.
Like they both knew that once it tipped too far again, there wouldn’t be anything stopping it.
And maybe that was the point.
Maybe they liked the tension.
Maybe they liked knowing exactly what they could do to each other… and choosing not to.
Choosing control.
Choosing pace.
Choosing each other without rushing what that meant.
But that kind of restraint doesn’t disappear.
It doesn’t fade.
It waits.
Builds.
Sits heavy under the surface, quiet but constant, until something finally permits it to come back up.
Tonight just happened to be that kind of night.
Because success looks different when someone is watching you, who knows you outside of it. Not the titles. Not the awards. Not the expectations.
Just you.
And desire hits different when it’s tied to pride, to admiration, to the quiet way someone has been choosing you long before the spotlight ever did.
They had already crossed the line once. They knew what was on the other side of it.
They just hadn’t let themselves fall into it again.
Not yet.
But tonight?
That control was already starting to feel thinner than it had before.
The room is too bright, too polished, too full of people pretending not to be watching each other while watching everything. The Oscars have a way of making even the real moments feel staged, as if the air itself has been rehearsed.
Ryan sits still in his seat, shoulders relaxed, hands resting together like he’s anywhere but here, ike this isn’t the biggest night of his career so far, like his name isn’t about to be called in a room full of people who measure success in gold and legacy. But his jaw is tight. Subtle. Controlled. The kind of tension you only notice if you’re looking for it.
Justice is.
She sits a few rows behind him, dressed in something that doesn’t beg for attention but holds it anyway, the fabric moving with her instead of against her. Her posture is calm, composed, but her fingers rest lightly against her thigh, pressing just enough to ground herself, nails grazing fabric in slow, absent patterns. Because she feels it too, not the pressure of the room, not the weight of the moment, but him. The way he’s holding himself together. The way he always does. The quiet discipline in it.
The presenter steps onto the stage. Names are read. Clips play. Applause rises and falls like waves that don’t quite reach the shore, swelling and breaking without ever fully settling. Justice’s gaze doesn’t leave him, not once. Even when the screen lights up. Even when the room shifts. She watches the way his shoulders stay level, the way his breathing stays even, the way his fingers tighten just slightly before relaxing again.
And then—
“Ryan Coogler.”
The room erupts. It’s loud. Immediate. Earned. The kind of sound that fills your chest whether you want it to or not.
Ryan exhales through his nose, slow and controlled, like he expected it and didn’t at the same time. He stands, buttoning his jacket with practiced ease, the movement smooth and automatic, something he’s done a hundred times before in rooms that didn’t matter as this one does. Hands reach for him immediately, claps on his back, firm handshakes, voices in his ear. He nods, accepts it, and moves through it without letting it settle too deeply.
But when he turns, his eyes find her. Not the cameras. Not the stage. Her. And for a second, everything else fades like it was never loud to begin with.
Justice doesn’t move right away. She just looks at him, proud, soft, grounded in a way that cuts through all of it, like she’s been waiting for this moment and already knew it would happen. Like, none of this surprises her. Her lips part slightly, breath catching in a way no one else would notice, her chest rising just a little deeper than before.
He sees it. Holds it. Let it settle somewhere under his ribs. Then he turns and walks toward the stage, each step measured, each movement intentional, the weight of the room following him without changing how he carries himself.
The speech is exactly what people expect from him, grounded, intentional, grateful without being performative. He thanks the people who matter, speaks about the work, keeps it honest, keeps it him. His voice doesn’t waver, doesn’t rush, doesn’t stretch for effect. But there’s something underneath it, something quieter, something that doesn’t belong to the room.
Because even while he’s standing there, holding the weight of that moment in his hands, he’s thinking about her, the way she looked at him just now, the way her eyes stayed on him like none of this surprised her, like she already knew who he was before the room decided to recognize it. And it slips further than it should, past the room and the lights, to the memory of her voice breaking on his name, soft and unguarded, the way her lips found his neck and stayed there, warm and certain, the way her body moved with him instead of away from him when they stopped pretending.
He steadies himself, but it’s there now, under the surface, the feel of her beneath him, the way she held on, the way she met him without hesitation, the way she let him take his time with her until time didn’t matter at all. Then he’s thinking about the way she always looks at him when he’s not trying, when he’s just himself, unguarded and unperformed. The way she knows him outside of all this, outside the titles, outside the expectations, outside the version of him the world applauds. The way she sees the man before the moment and after it.
And that matters more than the statue in his hand.
And it shows. Not in what he says, but in how he breathes when he finishes, in the way his shoulders drop just slightly as the applause rises again, like something in him has settled instead of inflated.
When he steps off the stage, it’s louder than before, people reaching for him, hands, voices, congratulations layered on top of each other, names being called, energy pulling at him from every direction. But he moves through it steadily, composed, receiving it without getting lost in it, because he already knows where he’s going.
And when he finally gets close enough again, when the space between them disappears, and the noise fades just enough, he looks at her—really looks at her, not quick, not passing, but deliberate, taking her in like the room isn’t still loud around them. And this time, there’s no distance.
“You see that?” Ryan says, voice low, controlled, but edged with something warmer underneath, something that didn’t exist before he walked on that stage.
Justice smiles, slow and sure, eyes steady on his. “I been saw it,” she says, calm and certain, like she’s not impressed by the moment as much as she is by him in it.
His mouth tightens just slightly, not quite a smile, not quite restraint. “Yeah,” he murmurs, the word sitting heavier than it should.
He doesn’t touch her. Not here. Not with cameras still flashing somewhere in the room, not with people still watching. But the way he looks at her makes it clear he’s thinking about it—already. And the way his eyes linger, just a second longer than appropriate, says something else too.
That restraint is already starting to slip, and the way he’s looking at her makes it clear he’s thinking about having his hands on her again, about how she sounds when she lets go for him, and it’s not going to last all night.
The after party is louder, looser, less polished in a way that feels more honest, even if it’s still curated down to the smallest detail. The lights are dimmed just enough to flatter, casting everything in a warm glow that softens edges and sharpens silhouettes. Music hums low but constant, bass threading through conversations and laughter, glasses clinking in uneven rhythm as people lean closer than they did in the theater, voices dropping, composure slipping by slow, intentional degrees.
Ryan moves through it as he belongs here, because he does. The space bends around him without him asking it to. People step in, reach out, pull his attention in short bursts.
“Congratulations.”
“Proud of you, man.”
“Big moment.”
He nods, receives it, and answers with that same grounded energy that carried him on stage. Professional. Measured. Present. His smile comes when it needs to. His tone stays even. His posture never breaks.
But he’s distracted, not visibly, not enough for anyone else to call it out, not enough to disrupt the version of him the room expects. Still, it’s there. Because the second she walks in, everything else becomes background noise.
The red catches first, deep and rich, not loud but intentional, the kind of red that sits against her skin like it belongs there, like it was chosen with purpose. The dress fits her like it was made to be taken off slowly.
Backless.
The line of her spine is exposed, her brown skin smooth and glowing under the soft lighting, warm and rich in a way that catches and holds the light instead of reflecting it away. The dip of the fabric sits low enough to make it impossible not to follow the curve down with your eyes, the natural tone of her skin deepening where shadows settle along her back. Thin lace traces the edges, delicate but deliberate, soft against her skin in a way that makes you think about what it would feel like under your hands, under your mouth, how it would contrast against the warmth of her. It doesn’t try too hard. It doesn’t need to.
It clings where it should, shaping her waist, hugging her hips just enough to suggest without giving everything away. Then it loosens, falling along her legs in a way that moves when she moves, the fabric shifting with each step like it’s alive on her. It’s the kind of dress that makes you look once, then again, then longer than you meant to.
Ryan stills mid-conversation for just a second, but it’s enough. His eyes lock on her, and this time there’s no real restraint in it, not the kind he’s been holding onto all night. He hears the person in front of him, responds automatically, but his attention is gone.
On her.
The way her hair frames her face, soft and full, catching light at the edges. The way her shoulders sit relaxed, like she’s not trying to be seen but knows she will be anyway. The way the dress opens her back up like an invitation, he shouldn’t be reading in a room like this—but is. The way she moves is like she’s comfortable in her own skin, like she always is.
He moves before he thinks too hard about it, crossing the room with purpose, cutting through conversation and bodies without breaking stride. People reach for him again, try to pull him into something else, but he keeps it brief, keeps it moving, until he’s right in front of her.
Up close, it’s worse.
Better.
More dangerous.
The details hit harder, the warmth of her skin, the faint scent of her, soft and familiar, something that sits low and stays there, the way the lace edges the open back of her dress, close enough to touch.
“You look good, Justice,” Ryan says.
His voice is even, controlled, professional, the same tone he’s used all night. But his eyes don’t match it. They drag, slow and unapologetic, taking their time as they move from her face down the line of her neck, pausing where her pulse sits, then lower to the open curve of her back, tracing it without touching, memorizing it like he plans to come back to it later. Then back up again.
She notices. Of course she does.
“Thank you,” Justice says, calm and measured, her voice steady even as her breath shifts just slightly under his attention.
He steps closer, not enough to draw attention, just enough. Close enough that the space between them feels intentional. His hand settles at the small of her back, bare skin, warm, immediate. His palm fits there like it belongs, fingers spreading just slightly, his thumb pressing once, slow, like he’s confirming what he’s feeling is real and not something he imagined from across the room.
She inhales, sharp and quick, then steadies, shoulders relaxing back into his touch instead of away from it.
They stand angled away from the room, not hidden but not fully seen either, a pocket of space in the middle of everything carved out by proximity and intention, where the noise dulls just enough for something else to take over.
His head dips closer to hers, his mouth near her ear, close enough that she can feel his breath before he speaks.
“You really walked in here like that after I just won?” Ryan murmurs.
Low. Private. Different.
Her lips part slightly.
“Like what?” Justice says.
He doesn’t pull back. His voice drops further, rougher now, the edge of restraint wearing thin.
“You know exactly what I mean,” he says.
His hand shifts slightly lower on her back, not enough to cross a line but enough to make the intention clear, still controlled but not innocent.
“You got this whole room in red,” he continues, voice steady but heavier now, “and I’m supposed to stand here and act like I’m not thinking about putting my mouth on you?”
The bluntness lands, heavy and immediate, cutting through everything else.
Her breath catches before she can stop it, her body reacting faster than her composure can catch up. Her fingers tighten around the glass in her hand, condensation slick against her skin.
“You in public,” she says, quieter now, but not pulling away.
He huffs a low breath near her ear, something close to a laugh but not quite.
“Exactly,” Ryan replies. “That’s why I’m only saying it.”
His thumb drags once along her spine, slow and deliberate, a measured line of heat that starts at the base of her back and moves upward, subtle enough that no one else notices, strong enough that she feels it everywhere.
“And it’s taking everything in me not to do more than that,” he adds.
She shifts closer, barely, but enough, enough that her body lines up with his just a little more, enough that he feels the difference immediately, enough that he knows exactly what that movement means.
The room keeps moving around them, people laughing, music steady, voices overlapping, but right here everything’s already changing. The space between them is thinner, the air is heavier, and this time neither of them is pretending they don’t know exactly where it’s headed.
They don’t separate.
They should.
There are too many people, too many eyes, too much movement around them for this to be anything more than a moment that passes, something quick, something forgettable. But it doesn’t pass. It settles. It deepens.
His hand stays at her back, not shifting away, not loosening. If anything, it grows more certain, fingers spreading just slightly like he’s gotten used to the feel of her there and has no intention of letting it go yet. The warmth of her skin under his palm is steady, grounding, and it makes it harder to remember why he’s supposed to keep his distance in a room like this. His hand dips just slightly lower without permission, the movement small but intentional, hovering at the edge of where it shouldn’t go, like he’s testing himself. His fingers flex once, like he’s fighting the urge to grab her ass, to feel more of her than he should in a room full of people, and the restraint in that moment feels heavier than if he’d just done it.
Justice doesn’t step back.
That’s what changes it. Not the touch. Not the words.
Her choice to stay right where she is.
Her body angled into his instead of away, her breath still not fully steady, her chest rising just a little deeper now, her eyes lifting to meet his like she’s already decided something she hasn’t said out loud, like she’s not waiting for permission.
Ryan exhales slowly through his nose, gaze dropping to her mouth for just a second too long before pulling back up to her eyes. It lingers there, in that space between what he’s thinking and what he’s willing to say out loud.
“You doing that on purpose?” Ryan says.
His voice is quieter now, less public, more him.
Justice tilts her head slightly, studying him like she’s taking her time with the answer.
“Doing what?” she asks.
But there’s a softness in it now, a knowing, something that says she’s not confused at all.
His thumb moves again, slower this time, tracing a small line along her spine before settling lower at the base of her back. The movement is unhurried, intentional, like he’s testing how far he can go without breaking the version of himself he’s been holding onto all night.
“This,” Ryan says. “Standing this close like you not feeling what I’m doing.”
She inhales, slower now, letting it out through parted lips, her body giving her away before her words do.
“I feel it,” Justice says.
Honest. No performance. No hesitation.
That does something to him. You can see it in the way his jaw shifts, the way his shoulders square just slightly, like he’s holding himself in place instead of moving the way he wants to, like restraint is becoming a choice he’s actively losing interest in.
“Yeah,” he murmurs.
The word lands more heavily now.
His hand slides just a fraction lower, still controlled, still careful, but not pretending anymore. The movement is small enough to go unnoticed by anyone else, but it pulls a quiet reaction out of her anyway, her body tightening before easing back into him, her hips pressing closer, her body almost fully against his now like she’s done pretending she needs space.
She feels it instantly, that low, heavy pull settling deep in her, warmth spreading in a way that makes her breathless this time. One of her hands comes up to his chest, fingers pressing into the fabric like she needs something to hold onto, while the other drifts lower, slower, stopping at his waist, hooking lightly at his belt.
Not crossing the line.
But right there.
Close enough to say exactly what she’s thinking without saying it out loud, close enough that he feels it and doesn’t move her hand away.
“You keep looking at me like that,” Ryan says, voice low near her ear again, his breath brushing warm against her skin, “I’m not staying in this room much longer.”
Her fingers curl lightly against his chest, pressing just enough to feel him there, not pushing him away, not quite pulling him closer, just holding him like she’s deciding how far she wants to go with this right now—and already leaning toward yes.
“You got a whole room waiting on you,” she says.
He lets out a quiet breath, something between a laugh and something more impatient.
“They’ll be aight,” Ryan says.
Simple. Certain. Like, none of that matters right now.
His forehead dips closer, not touching hers, but close enough that their space is shared now, breath mixing between them, the air thinner, heavier.
“You the only thing in here that got my attention right now,” he adds.
Justice studies him for a second longer than she should, eyes moving over his face like she’s checking something, confirming something, like she needs to see if he means it the way it sounds.
Then her hand slides up slightly, fingers curling into the fabric of his jacket, gripping just enough to wrinkle it.
Not subtle. Not accidental.
A choice.
Ryan’s hand tightens at her back in response, just once, his control thinning in real time, his body answering hers without hesitation.
“You tryna be good tonight?” he asks.
Her eyes stay on his, steady, certain.
Then she shakes her head just slightly.
“No,” Justice says.
Soft. Clear. No hesitation behind it.
Something shifts in his expression, something darker, more focused, his mouth pulling into a slow, knowing smirk like he’s finally done pretending he’s not about to give her exactly what she’s asking for. It’s there in his eyes, clear and unapologetic, like he’s already picturing where he’s about to take her, how quick he can get her somewhere quiet, somewhere private, somewhere he can bend her over without interruption and finally stop holding back.
Like he’s ready for whatever she’s on, and ready to take it further.
His hand presses more firmly into her back, pulling her just a little closer, enough that there’s no space left between them now, enough that the intention is clear even if no one else is paying attention, enough that she can feel exactly what she’s doing to him without him saying it out loud.
“Yeah,” he murmurs, more to himself than to her.
Then, quieter—
“Come on.”
It’s not a question.
His hand slides from her back to take her hand, firm but not rough, guiding instead of dragging, his grip steady like he already knows she’s going to follow.
And this time, she goes without hesitation.
No pause. No second thought.
The room keeps moving behind them, loud and unaware, people laughing, music steady, conversations overlapping, but they’re already stepping out of it, already leaving behind the version of themselves that belonged to everyone else.
And neither of them looks back.
One second they’re part of the room, part of the noise, part of the movement—and the next, they’re not. It happens so clean it almost looks intentional, like a scene change nobody clocks until it’s already done.
His hand stays wrapped around hers, firm, certain, guiding her through the crowd like he’s done being patient, like he’s done pretending this night belongs to anybody else. People try to catch him on the way out, a hand on his shoulder, a voice calling his name, but he keeps it brief, nodding, half-smiling, not stopping long enough for anything to stick.
He’s already gone.
And she feels it immediately.
In the way his grip tightens just slightly when someone steps too close.
In the way his fingers flex around hers like he needs to feel her there.
In the way he doesn’t look back.
In the way his pace doesn’t slow, not even once.
Justice follows without hesitation, her hand fitting into his like it’s supposed to be there, her heels steady against the floor as she keeps up with him, her eyes locked on him instead of the room they’re leaving behind.
Ryan Coogler the professional fades with every step.
And what’s left is just Ryan.
Focused.
Hungry.
Locked in on her.
The doors push open and the night air hits them, cooler, quieter, the sound of the party dulling the second it’s behind them. The noise fades into something distant, irrelevant. For a moment, it’s just the two of them on the sidewalk, city lights stretching out around them, the hum of traffic in the distance, the world continuing like nothing just shifted.
But something did.
He doesn’t stop walking.
His hand is still in hers as he leads her forward, toward the line of black cars waiting along the curb, his stride steady, purposeful, like he already knows exactly where this is going and how fast he wants to get there.
His other hand comes up to his tie.
Loosening it.
Slow at first.
Then pulling it free just enough to breathe.
Then more.
Justice watches it happen, her pace matching his, a slow smile pulling at her mouth, something amused and knowing in the way her eyes follow every movement. Because she sees it—the unraveling.
The control slipping in pieces.
The discipline loosening thread by thread.
The version of him he shows the world falling away the further they get from the building.
He glances back at her once.
And that look?
It’s not subtle.
It’s not careful.
It’s not professional.
It’s hungry.
“You got me fucked up walking in there like that,” Ryan mutters under his breath, just loud enough for her to hear.
His voice is rougher now.
Lower.
Less filtered.
She lets out a quiet breath that almost sounds like a laugh, her head tilting just slightly.
“Do I?” Justice says.
But she already knows the answer.
He shakes his head slightly, like he’s trying to collect himself and failing.
“Hell Yeah,” he says, low.
His fingers move from his tie to his shirt, tugging at the top button, popping it open, then another, like he needs the space, like the fabric suddenly feels too tight against his skin, like the version of himself he had on inside is suffocating him now.
He exhales.
Sharp.
Controlled.
And then, quieter, more direct—
“Can’t wait to get back inside you.”
The words land heavy.
Sitting between them, thick and undeniable.
Justice’s steps falter for half a second before she catches herself, heat rushing through her fast and deep, her body reacting before she can control it. Her smile doesn’t drop—it deepens.
“Ryan,” she murmurs, a warning that doesn’t sound like one, her tone softer but not stopping him.
He glances back again, slower this time, taking her in like he’s got time now—even though everything about him says he doesn’t. His eyes drag over her, down her body, then back up again, like he’s reminding himself what he’s about to have his hands on.
“You started this,” he says.
There’s a smirk there now.
Low.
Certain.
Confident in a way that says he’s already decided how this ends.
She raises a brow slightly, her gaze dragging over him the same way his did to her earlier, taking in the loosened tie, the open collar, the tension in his shoulders, the way he’s walking like he’s holding himself back by a thread.
“And you about to finish it?” she asks.
Soft.
Teasing.
But not innocent.
He huffs a quiet breath.
“Yeah,” Ryan says. “In every way you thinking.”
His grip on her hand tightens again, not rough, but firm enough to say he’s not letting her drift anywhere else.
The suv is right there now.
Black.
Waiting.
Driver nowhere in sight.
The door almost feels like a line.
Like once they cross it, there’s no going back to restraint.
He opens the back door without breaking stride, the motion smooth, practiced, but the look he gives her right after isn’t.
It’s the same look.
Heavy.
Direct.
Unapologetic.
Like he’s already picturing exactly what he’s about to do to her the second that door closes.
“Get in,” he says.
Not harsh.
Not loud.
But final.
Justice steps forward without hesitation, sliding into the back seat, the fabric of her dress shifting against her skin, the deep red catching the dim light one more time before she disappears inside, her body already angled like she knows exactly what’s about to happen next.
Ryan follows right behind her, closing the distance just as fast as he closed the space between them inside, the door shutting with a solid, quiet finality.
And just like that—
The outside world disappears.
The noise.
The people.
The expectations.
All of it gone.
And whatever restraint he had left? Is left outside on the curb.
The door shuts.
And everything changes.
The inside of the SUV is dim, wrapped in black on black, leather seats facing each other, wide and low like they were built for more than just sitting. The divider is up, sealing them off completely, thick and solid, cutting off any chance of interruption. The tint on the windows is so dark the outside world might as well not exist. No headlights bleeding in. No movement from the street. No reminder that anything else is happening beyond this space.
Just quiet. Just them. The air feels different in here. Closer. Heavier.
Like the moment they stepped inside, everything they were holding back got left outside with the noise of the party.
Ryan doesn’t move right away. He sits there for a second, shoulders rising and falling once, slow and controlled, like he’s collecting himself even now, even after everything that just happened outside. Like he’s giving himself one last chance to hold onto discipline.
It doesn’t last. Then he looks at her. Really looks. Not quick. Not distracted. Slow. Deliberate.
Taking his time in a way that feels more intimate than touch.
His eyes move over her like he’s memorizing her all over again, like he hasn’t seen her like this before—even though he has. The red of her dress against her brown skin looks deeper in this lighting, richer, her skin holding the low glow in a way that makes it look warm to the touch. His gaze lingers at the curve of her shoulders, the rise of her chest, the way her breathing hasn’t settled yet. Her lips are still slightly parted. Still catching up. Still reacting to him. And he sees all of it.
“You know what you got me thinking about?” Ryan says quietly, his eyes dropping to her mouth before dragging back up, voice lower, heavier. “Got me sitting here thinking about the way you’re pussy felt that first time… how it felt like home. How I ain’t been right since. Like I’m off whenever you not with me… and I’m supposed to keep it together? I need it everyday Peach.”
Justice exhales slowly, her chest rising under his gaze, her eyes holding his without hesitation, without softening what’s already there between them.
Their lips meet soft. Measured. The kind of kiss that starts like they’re still pretending they have time, like they’re still choosing patience, like this could stay controlled if they really wanted it to.
It can’t. His hand comes up to her jaw first, fingers warm against her skin, steady, grounding, his thumb brushing lightly along her cheek before sliding down to her neck, resting there just long enough to feel her pulse jump under his touch. It jumps fast. He notices. She breathes into it. Into him. The kiss deepens. Not rushed. But no longer careful.
His mouth presses firmer against hers, lips parting, breath breaking between them as the rhythm changes without either of them saying anything. It’s subtle at first, then undeniable. Her grip tightens. Pulls him closer. And that’s where it shifts. That’s where control starts slipping for real. Ryan’s hand slides from her neck down to her waist, slower now, deliberate, fingers spreading, gripping just enough to feel her there, to anchor her, to pull her closer until there’s no space left between them to pretend with.
He exhales against her mouth. Low. Unsteady. Then he moves. Not asking. Not hesitating.
The motion is fluid, seamless. Ryan’s hands grip her waist, the muscles in his arms tensing as he lifts her. There’s no awkward fumbling, no moment of uncertainty. He moves her like he’s done it a thousand times in his head, pulling her up and over until her knees sink into the leather on either side of his thighs. Her dress, already high on her legs, bunches further as she settles, the soft red fabric pooling around them. The first point of contact is electric. It’s not a question. It’s not an accident.
Her clothed pussy presses directly against the hard ridge of his dick straining against his trousers. The fabric of his pants is thin enough that she feels the heat of him, the solid, unyielding shape of his arousal, through the lace of her panties and the thin material of her dress.
A sharp, audible gasp tears from Justice’s throat, her back arching slightly at the sudden, overwhelming pressure. It’s a jolt, a circuit completing, and her body responds before her mind can catch up. Her hips rock forward, a slow, involuntary grind, seeking more of that friction, more of that perfect, agonizing pressure against her clit.
“Fuck,” Ryan groans against her mouth, the sound deep and guttural, vibrating through her. His head falls back for a second, hitting the soft leather of the seat with a soft thud, his eyes squeezing shut. His grip on her waist tightens, fingers digging into her skin, holding her in place as she moves again. “You feel that, Peach? Feel what you do to me?”
She can’t answer. Words are gone, stolen by the sensation. All she can do is nod, her forehead dropping to his shoulder as she does it again. This time it’s not involuntary. It’s deliberate. A slow, circular roll of her hips that drags her pussy against his dick, sending a wave of wet heat through her. The friction is exquisite, a teasing promise of what’s to come. She can feel how wet she’s getting, can feel the dampness soaking through the lace of her panties, making the glide against the fabric of his pants smoother, slicker.
His hands move from her waist, sliding down to grip her ass, encouraging the movement. He pulls her down harder, grinding his own hips up to meet her, and the shift in angle hits so deep it pulls a sharp, blinding rush through her. The thick head of his dick presses right against her entrance, separated by two layers of fabric, and it’s almost enough to make her cum right there.
“Ryan,” she whimpers, his name a broken sound against his neck. Her hands are gripping the back of his braids, holding on for dear life as she finds a rhythm. It’s not fast, not yet. It’s a slow, torturous grind, a deep, primal dance in the dim light of the SUV. Each roll of her hips builds the tension higher, the friction building a fire low in her belly.
He’s breathing hard, his chest rising and falling rapidly beneath her. One of his hands leaves her ass, sliding up her back, under the fabric of her dress, his palm hot against her bare skin. He pulls her even closer, his mouth finding hers again in a messy, desperate kiss.
Their teeth clash, tongues tangling, breathing mixing in the heated space between them. He swallows her moans as she grinds against him, the movement becoming more frantic, more needy. The leather of the seat creaks softly under them, the only sound besides their ragged breaths and the wet slide of their mouths.
“Yeah, just like that,” he mutters, his voice a low growl against her lips. “Take what you need, baby. Ride my shit right here.”
His words are gasoline on a fire. Her movements become sharper, more focused, chasing the release that’s building inside her. The pressure is relentless, perfect, and she can feel him getting even harder under her, can feel the heat rising in his body too. They’re moving together, lost in it, sealed in their own private world where nothing else matters but the feeling of their bodies, the heat, and the desperate, undeniable need to have every piece of each other.
The frantic energy between them shifts, a gear changing from desperate to deliberate. Ryan’s hands, which had been gripping her ass with a possessive force, slow their roll. He breaks the kiss, his breathing heavy, his forehead resting against hers for a moment.
“Wait,” he murmurs, the word a low command. “Lay back, Peach.”
His hands guide her, strong and sure, helping her maneuver in the confined space. She moves with him, trusting the direction as he shifts, turning her so her back presses against the long leather seat. He follows her over, his body hovering, one hand braced on the seat back beside her head, the other still on her hip. He looks down at her, his eyes dark, the city lights outside catching in them for a second before his gaze drops, tracing the lines of her body.
His mouth trails along her neck, slower than she expects, like he’s taking his time on purpose. He starts at her pulse point, a soft, open-mouthed kiss that makes her shiver. He lingers there, his tongue flicking out to taste her skin before moving down, a path of heat along her collarbone
Her breath breaks as his hands move with more certainty, learning what makes her respond. One hand stays on her hip, a grounding weight, while the other slides up her side, his thumb brushing the underside of her breast through the fabric of her dress. She arches into the touch, a silent plea for more.
He doesn’t rush. He worships. His mouth continues its journey, down the valley between her breasts, his hands gathering the red fabric of her dress, slowly pulling it up. The air hits her exposed skin, cool against the heat blooming there. He pushes the dress past her hips, revealing the delicate black lace of her panties. He pauses, his eyes fixed on the sight, his breathing getting a little rougher.
“You feel how long I’ve been holding back?” he murmurs against her stomach, his lips brushing her skin. He’s not asking her. He’s telling her, reminding her of the control he’s exercising.
Her fingers tighten, pulling him closer instead of slowing him down. One hand slides into his hair again, the other grips his shoulder, her nails digging into the fabric of his jacket.
His attention is singular now. He hooks his fingers into the sides of her panties, the lace flimsy against his calloused skin. He pulls them down, slowly, inch by inch, his eyes following the path of the fabric as it reveals her. He lifts her legs one at a time to pull the panties off completely, discarding them onto the floor of the SUV without a second thought.
And then he settles between her thighs.
He doesn’t dive in. He looks. His gaze is intense, possessive, like he’s studying a masterpiece he owns. He spreads her legs wider, his hands gripping her thighs, his thumbs stroking the soft skin there.
“Look at you,” he whispers, his voice a low rumble. He’s not talking to her. He’s talking to her pussy. “Been thinking about this all night. All week. This pretty little thing right here.”
He leans in, and the first touch of his tongue is a shock. A slow, deliberate swipe from her entrance to her clit. It’s not a tease. It’s a statement. He groans against her, the sound vibrating through her core, a deep, appreciative noise of a man who’s been starving and just found his feast.
“Yeah, that’s it,” he murmurs, his voice muffled by her flesh. “Taste so fucking good. My favorite meal.”
He eats her like he’s making love to her with his mouth. There’s no rush, no frantic energy. It’s a slow, methodical, torturous pleasure. He uses the flat of his tongue to lap at her, broad strokes that cover every inch of her. He explores her folds, tasting her, learning her all over again. He finds her clit and circles it, slowly, softly, just enough to make her hips jerk, to make a whimper catch in her throat.
“Missed this taste,” he says, his lips brushing against her. “Knew I’d be back for it. This pussy always knows how to welcome me home, don’t it?”
He doesn’t use his fingers. He doesn’t need to. His mouth is his instrument, and he’s a master. He alternates between long, slow licks and focused, gentle sucks on her clit. He builds her up, higher and higher, a coil of tension tightening in her belly. Her hands are in his hair, her hips moving against his face, grinding, seeking more of that perfect, devastating pleasure.
“That’s it, baby. Ride my face,” he encourages, his voice a low growl. “Take it. It’s yours. All fucking yours.”
The praise, the dirty talk, the relentless, skilled movements of his tongue—it’s all too much. The coil inside her snaps. A cry tears from her lips as her orgasm crashes through her, sharp and overwhelming. Her thighs clamp around his head, her body arching off the seat as wave after wave of pleasure washes over her. And then it happens. A gush of wetness, a release so intense it steals her breath. She squirts, soaking his face, and he doesn’t pull away.
He groans, a deep, guttural sound of pure satisfaction that’s swallowed by her flesh. He presses his face deeper, his tongue flattening against her to catch every drop. “There it is,” he growls, his voice muffled, thick with her essence. “That’s what I was waiting for. Give it to me, baby. All of it.”
He doesn’t just let it happen; he demands more. His tongue becomes more insistent, a firm, broad pressure against her pulsing clit as she shakes. “Fuck yeah, just like that,” he praises, his words vibrating through her overstimulated core. “Don’t hold back. I want to taste all of you. This is my reward. This is my fucking pussy gifting me what I earned.”
Her body is trembling, the aftershocks making her jerk against his mouth, but he holds her steady, his hands gripping her thighs, keeping her spread open for him. He laps at her, slow and deliberate now, cleaning her with his tongue, savoring the taste.
“Taste so fucking sweet when you cum for me,” he murmurs, his voice a low, possessive rumble. “Like heaven. My own personal fountain. You hear that? That’s the sound of a pussy that’s happy to see me. That’s the sound of my pussy, showing out for her man.”
He places one last, soft kiss right on her clit, a gentle, almost reverent touch that makes her whimper. He pulls back just enough to look at her, his face shining, his lips swollen and glistening. His eyes are dark, feral, filled with a primal pride that makes her stomach clench all over again.
“Look at this mess you made,” he says, a slow, satisfied grin spreading across his face. He uses the back of his hand to wipe his mouth, but his eyes never leave hers. “Marked my territory. Now every time you sit in the backseat of a car, you’re gonna remember how I had you shaking, how I made this pretty little pussy cry for me. That’s my juice, Peach. All mine.”
He doesn’t give her a moment to recover. He’s on his knees, grabbing her hips and flipping her over with effortless strength.
“On your knees,” he commands, his voice rough, thick with need.
She complies, her hands bracing against the leather seat, her ass in the air. He’s behind her in an instant, one knee planted on the seat, the other foot on the floor of the SUV for leverage. The sound of his belt buckle, the rasp of his zipper, is the only warning she gets before the blunt, hot head of his dick is nudging against her entrance.
He pushes in, slow at first, letting her feel every thick inch of him stretching her, filling her completely. They both groan at the sensation, the perfect, familiar fit.
“Fuck, I missed this,” he grunts, his hands gripping her hips. “Missed this tight little pussy.”
He starts to move, and the pace is immediately deep, powerful. He’s not holding back anymore. Each stroke is long, deliberate, hitting that spot deep inside her that makes her vision blur. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the quiet SUV, a lewd, rhythmic beat.
“This my pussy, Justice?” he growls, his voice raw as he drives into her. “Tell me who this pussy belongs to.”
“It’s yours!” she cries out, pushing back to meet his thrusts. “It’s your pussy, Ryan!”
“Damn right,” he snarls, his rhythm picking up, becoming more forceful. “You better not ever think about giving my shit away. I’ll lose my fucking mind, you hear me? This pussy is mine. I’ll kill somebody over this pussy.”
The filthy, possessive words only turn her on more, making her wetter, making her take him deeper. She can feel another orgasm building, this one different, more intense. Just as she’s about to tip over the edge, he pulls out.
She whimpers at the loss, but he’s already flipping her over again, onto her back. He’s between her legs in a second, hooking them over his arms, spreading her wide. He slides back into her in one smooth, deep stroke.
He looks down at her, his face a mask of intense concentration and raw desire. And then he starts to move.
This isn’t the deep, steady rhythm from before. This is a pile drive. He fucks her hard, fast, relentless. The SUV is rocking with the force of his thrusts, the leather creaking in protest. He’s pounding into her, his hips snapping, his dick hitting her cervix with every powerful stroke.
“Say it again,” he demands, his voice a harsh pant. “Tell me it’s mine.”
“It’s yours!” she screams, her hands gripping his arms, her nails digging in. “Oh god, it’s yours! I’ll never give it away!”
“Who’s the king of this pussy?” he grunts, his rhythm never faltering, his body a machine built for her pleasure.
“You!” she moans, her eyes rolling back in her head. “You’re the king! You’re the king of my pussy!”
That’s it. That’s the trigger.
Her calling him his king sends him into a frenzy. A raw, guttural sound tears from his throat, and he fucks her harder than ever, a blur of motion and raw power. He’s chasing his own release now, his control completely shattered. He slams into her one last time, burying himself as deep as he can go, and his whole body tenses.
“Fuck!” he moans, the sound deep and broken as he buries his face in her neck. He cums hard, a hot, thick flood inside her, his whole body shuddering with the force of it.
The feeling of him pulsing inside her, his deep moan in her ear, is what sends her over the edge. Her orgasm rips through her, even more intense than the first. Her body convulses, her pussy clamping down around him, milking him for every last drop as she screams his name.
They collapse together, a tangled, sweaty, breathless mess
The city moves outside like nothing happened. Lights streak past the tinted windows in soft blurs of gold and white, stretching and bending with the motion of the car, distant and muted, like it all belongs to a different world than the one they’re in. The hum of traffic is barely there, softened by the glass, by the distance, by the way everything outside feels irrelevant now.
Inside the SUV, everything is slower, quieter, heavier in a different way. Breath still uneven, but settling into something softer, something shared.
Ryan leans back against the leather, his body finally giving into the weight of the moment, one arm draped behind her, the other resting along her thigh. His hand moves in slow, absent circles, thumb brushing her skin like it’s second nature, like he’s not even thinking about it, like he just needs to feel her there to stay grounded.
Justice is tucked into him, her head resting against his shoulder, her body still warm, still loose, still carrying the aftershocks of everything that just passed between them. Her breathing is slower now, deeper, her chest rising and falling against him in a rhythm that’s starting to match his.
Her fingers trace along his chest lazily, following the open line of his shirt, brushing against his skin, then back again. It’s soft, unhurried, exploratory in a way that isn’t about heat anymore, but about staying close.
Neither of them rushes to speak. They don’t need to. The silence isn’t empty. It’s full—full of everything they just did, full of everything they didn’t have to say out loud, full of the understanding settling between them in a way that feels natural instead of new.
He shifts slightly, just enough to get more comfortable, his chin brushing the top of her head, his breath warm against her hair. His arm tightens around her just a little, a subtle pull that keeps her closer without making it a thing.
“You good?” Ryan asks.
His voice is lower now, not rough, not demanding, just checking, just making sure.
She smiles against him before she answers, the expression small but real, her eyes still half-lidded, her body relaxed in a way it wasn’t earlier, in a way that says she’s not holding anything back anymore.
“Yeah,” Justice says softly.
And she means it.
A pause settles between them, easy, unforced, stretching without pressure, without expectation—the kind that only comes when nothing feels uncertain anymore.
His hand slides a little higher along her thigh, slow and unhurried, his thumb tracing lazy patterns against her skin, like he’s memorizing the feel of her even though he already knows it.
“Worth the wait?” he murmurs.
There’s something quieter in that question. Not doubt. Not insecurity. Just truth looking for confirmation, just him asking her to meet him in it.
She lifts her head slightly, turning just enough to look at him—really look.
At the loosened tie still hanging around his neck. At the open collar of his shirt. At the way his skin still carries a sheen of heat. At the way his eyes are softer now, but still locked on her like she’s the only thing that matters in the space they’re in.
“You already know,” she says.
Her voice is steady, certain, no teasing in it this time, no deflection. Just fact. Just truth.
He holds her gaze for a second longer after she says it, something settling deeper in his expression, something quieter but just as real as everything that came before.
Then he exhales, a slow release of something heavier than breath, his hand sliding from her thigh to her back, pulling her closer into him, tucking her in like he’s not done with her yet.
Like he’s not planning to be.
Like this isn’t just a moment.
Outside, the city keeps moving, lights passing, time going forward, everything continuing like normal.
Inside, they stay right where they are, held in something slower, something heavier, something chosen.
And neither of them is thinking about leaving anytime soon.
Turns out my man (6yrs btw) been playing in my face since getting back together🥲 anyway I was invited to ga by an old fling so ig I can go back living out my fanfic dreams instead of reading them LMFAO
Idk w all these wwe fanfics ive been reading i wanna write one but not centered around a specific actual wrestler?? I guess you could call it an oc but all about them idk bc I never finished writing the first idea I was brewing it really just brews from making oc for Jey uso and ideas on how I would present a wwe wrestler if was one and had creative freedom just following the life and career of black woman finding her path in wwe like I want unapologetically black I want it meaningful I want it funny like ugh the creative juices are flowing but it’s transferring it in a cohesive story that’s fw me😭😭😭
