MINE, YOURS
pairing: quarterback!brendon park x dallas cowboys cheerleader!reader
synopsis: To say that both of you aren’t over each other is a severe understatement. You’ve broken up after he graduated, but never stopped being in each other’s lives—always pushed together through football games, NFL obligations, parties, secret meetings, and every other unavoidable moment in between. Yet what’s always left is the constant games of jealousy, pride, and the unspoken words you both refuse to admit.
CONTENT WARNING: MDNI 18+!!! TOXIC relationship, exes to lovers, med student!brendon, nurse!reader, jealousy, very major jealousy, yall are super toxic but it’s okay yall are hot, possessive!Brendon, SMUT, p in v, creampie, possessive sex, DADDY KINK, public fingering, voyeurism???, football inaccuracies, grammatical errors, no physical descriptions of reader, etc (lmk if I’m missing any!)
A/N: ohemgeee, this fic has been on my mind for daaays!! I’ve been working on it nonstop so sorry for the lateness! Also, this is my first smut so uh enjoy! Likes, asks, reblogs, comments are all greatly appreciated!!
It’s Super Bowl Sunday and the Dallas Cowboys somehow actually made it. They’re playing against the 49ers this year.
The week is already a blur of rehearsals, interviews, appearances, and obligations. But as a proud member of America’s Sweethearts, this is what you’ve been waiting for.
Every performance as one of the Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders is met with scrutiny. Every kick, every smile, every misplaced step is picked apart by someone. Meanwhile, players are constantly practicing, conditioning, and sizing each other up.
It’s exhausting.
But it beats being in the ER, you supposed. At least here no one is actively dying.
Four years ago, all of this would’ve terrified you. The cameras. The attention. The pressure of knowing that a mistake could potentially kick you off the team.
Now, it’s just part of the job.
You’re one of the squad’s popular veterans. The one that rookies often seek out when they’re nervous before a performance or just overwhelmed of being a cheerleader for such an elite group.
You know the routines down to a T. You know the harsh expectations. You know how to smile through the pressure. You’ve learned to handle it all.
You’ve grown accustomed to the attention. Fans adore your personality. Sponsors love your professionalism. Players, unfortunately, still mistake your friendliness for interest.
Some try to impress you. Some flirt. Others come up with ridiculous excuses just to strike up a conversation with you.
Most of the time, it’s harmless.
Most of the time, you can handle it.
Most of the time, it isn’t wanted.
Mostly because they aren’t Brendon Park.
He’s staring at you. You know he is because you can feel it. You don’t have to look to confirm it. You never do. You hadn’t needed to for years.
It’s almost embarrassing how good you’ve become to sensing Brendon. No matter where you were, you always know when he’s there—even when you don’t want to.
It also doesn’t help that you instinctively scan every room that you walk into, looking for him.
Every event. Every stadium. Every room.
Some part of you refuses to settle until you’ve found him.
Every year for the past four years, without fail, he finds you. It starts the same way.
He’ll flash that stupid, cocky smirk. He’ll flirt. A look that lingers a second too long. He’ll say something that should make you roll your eyes but instead makes your heart flutter. He’ll look at you like you’re the only person in the room.
And despite it all, despite knowing better, and despite knowing how the story ends every single time — you’ll let yourself believe it. You’ll indulge in it.
Then the season ends and people forget that the Super Bowl ever even happened—like those two weeks of intensity, chaos, and whatever the hell happened between the both of you was just a blur that never really existed.
Then he’ll go back to San Francisco. Back to med school. You’ll go back home in Houston. Back to working your grueling twelve-hour shifts at a level 1 trauma center.
And just like that, you’ll both go back to pretending nothing ever happened.
At least until the football season picks up again. Like clock work.
Your lives just felt like they were running parallel without ever meeting in the middle. Dating felt impossible despite how often your worlds collided. Because no matter how hard you both tried, there was always something standing between you.
A game. Flights. Training camp. Auditions. NFL obligations. DCCs obligations. Clinicals. Commitments neither of you could just walk away from.
Just life really.
The cruel part was that you were exes, but nothing about you both ever really behaved like it.
You still talked. Still called each other when something good happened.
It wasn’t a relationship anymore—not officially. But it wasn’t nothing either. Because you knew where he was and what he was doing half of the time. And he still knew the same things about you.
If you went on to a coffee shop with a male friend, he’d know.
If he was seen with a model, you’d know.
Neither of you ever had to directly ask. The news always somehow made its way to the both of you.
A photo. A comment. A fan interaction. TMZ lately. Or a teammate mentioning it in passing like it was nothing.
But it would mean something.
And the reaction was never loud or dramatic on either side. Just a text that came in too quickly, or a long phone call in the middle of the night. Controlled, casual tones like it didn’t bother either of you. But the questions usually have it away.
Careful ones. Too specific.
Who it was. How long was it going on for. Whether it was serious. Whether you were happy. Whether he liked her more than he ever liked you. Whether your dates was smarter. Funnier. Better than him.
Neither of you called it jealousy. But that’s exactly what it was. And you both knew it.
“It’s America’s Sweethearts— The Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders!”
The announcer’s voice boomed loudly throughout the stadium. The crowds erupted into loud, screaming cheers and applause.
And just like that, the memories and the thoughts disappeared. Training takes over. Instinct takes over. are running to the field with the right precision and correct spots.
You and the rest of the squad skip onto the field, each of you moving with practiced precision as you find your places. You smile is already in place. It’s polished, sunny, and effortless. The same smile you’ve perfected over the years as a Dallas Cowboys Cheerleader. The one fans adore. The one that cameras love. Your girls fall into formation around you, pompoms in hand and sporting similar smiles.
For the next few minutes, nothing mattered. Not the cameras. Not the pressure. And certainly not Brendon Park. Whatever existed between the two of you could wait.
Right now, you had a job to do.
The first note of “Thunderstruck” blasts through the stadium speakers. Your smile widens. The crowd roars.
And the show begins.
It’s exhilarating.
Everything that you’ve worked towards. Every rehearsal. Every late night practices. Every sore muscle and blister feels all worth it beneath the stadium lights.
The stars on your uniform glitter as you and the rest of the squad hit the final jump split in perfect unison. The crowd erupts loudly.
You’re smiling more genuinely though your chest rises and falls a little faster now. Years of performing have taught you how to look effortless even when you’re painfully exhausted. Your makeup is flawless. There isn’t a strand of hair out of place either.
As soon as the final note of Thunderstruck ends, the squad is already moving.
You spring back to your feet, blue and white Pom-poms in hand, jogging off the field alongside the other cheerleaders.
The roar of the stadium follows you. Fans wave from the stands. Some are screaming your name. Others hold up signs and take pictures of you, hoping to catch your attention.
You make sure they do. A bright smile. A lot of waving. The occasional kisses being blown to the stand. And squeezing the hand of a little girl wearing a miniature, matching uniform.
“Good job, ladies!” One of your coaches said.
A few of the rookies immediately launched into excited chatter, hugging and clinging onto each other. Still riding the high of performing in front of a packed stadium.
An artist begins singing in the meantime. Brendon is positioned on the other side of the field, stretching and occasionally looking back at you.
“Well, if it isn’t America’s favorite sweetheart.”
You make a face to your teammates and let out a groan before you turned around. A few of them immediately start snickering.
“Don’t.” You hissed.
“I’m not saying anything!” One of them defended, far too innocent to be believed.
You turn back with an eye roll before forcing a polite, smile on your face.
Chris Jones, a newer Dallas Cowboys running back and a pain in your ass, is standing there with an annoyingly confident grin. He’s incredibly bold. Despite the cameras, audience, coaches, and the very strict rules against fraternization with cheerleaders, here he was. Openly flirting with you.
“Hi, Chris.”
“Hi, sweetheart.” Chris smirked. “Just wanted to say you did a great job out there. All of you.”
“Thanks,” You said, then paused. “But— please stop calling me that.”
“Why?” He asked innocently. “It fits.”
“It really doesn’t.”
“Well,” He leaned in slightly, grin widening. “it does if you’re my favorite sweetheart.”
Behind you, a few of your cheerleaders start giggling. One of the rookies let out a small “awww,” while a veteran rolled her eyes so hard you could practically hear it.
You kept your smile in place, but it felt strained now It sounded so rehearsed.
“Did you practice that in the mirror this morning?” You laughed.
Chris grinned, completely unaware of the fact that you weren’t interested. Mistaking your politeness for interest.
“Maybe,” He winked. “Is it working?”
You didn’t like him that and in no way were you fawning over him. You were being polite, professional. But Chris liked you. Not really in a looking-for-something-serious way. Just in a he’s trying his luck with a well known cheerleader kind of way.
“Definitely not.”
He’s watching you like maybe you’ll give him more than your usual politeness. But you don’t. He just grins, rubbing the back of his neck.
“Well, it was definitely worth the try.” He laughed.
“Right…” You coughed. “Uhm, well— Thanks? Anyways, i’m just gonna—”
You gestured vaguely towards your teammates.
“Can’t be seen fraternizing with you, you know? We’ll both get in trouble.”
Chris chuckled like you said a funny joke. He ran a hand through his blonde hair.
“If it’s with you,” He smirked. “It’s definitely worth the trouble.”
A couple of your teammates react behind you—gasping, giggling, rolling their eyes, and whispering like they’re watching something unfold in real time. Your smile thins, your patience running out.
“Okay,” You take a step back, huffing. “Goodbye, Chris.”
He just grinned at you and nodded at the rest of the girls before jogging back to the field.
Across the field, Brendon doesn’t know what the conversation entailed. But he saw the entire interaction.
The newer running back of the team he’s playing against, one whose name he hasn’t bothered learning. Mediocre stats. Mediocre player. Easily replaceable.
He just knew he was arrogant with the way he was bold enough to talk to you in the middle of a stadium. To openly flirt with you.
He didn’t need to hear the conversation to know the running back was flirting with you. Your posture stayed relaxed, your expression composed beneath that sweet smile you wore whenever you were being nice. Around you, your teammates watched with barely concealed amusement, treating the whole thing as entertainment.
He hated how long the conversation lasted. Longer than it needed to. Longer than he would’ve liked. He hated that you even entertained it at all.
More than that, he hated the smile on your face. The one reserved for sponsors, fans, interviews, and apparently cocky rookie running backs now.
He hated that you were even bothering to smile at him. Peering up at him with those pretty eyes that he’s memorized for years—the same ones he loved.
It genuinely pissed him off that some no-name running back had the audacity to flirt with you in the middle of a football field—in front of thousands of fans, dozens of cameras, and Brendon himself.
It bothered him that the younger man hadn’t cared about that there were clear rules that should be preventing this interaction in the first place. Didn’t even care how inappropriate it was to corner you on the sidelines before kickoff.
Worst of all, he was looking at you for too long. His eyes lingered over the tiny DCC uniform, openly appreciating what every other man in the stadium was already looking at.
Brendon’s jaw clenched, the vein on his neck and forehead visibly popped. He shifted slightly where he stood on the other side of the field, helmet tucked under his arm. His teammate patted him on the back, motioning towards the huddle. He breathed in harshly before he adjusts his hold on the helmet.
He gives one look to the clueless running back and resets. Normal, focused, and locked in. Whatever was going through his head, disappeared. It didn’t matter right now.
He’ll do something about it eventually.
The game started shortly after that.
Truthfully, you aren’t paying attention to it. You’re watching the clock more than the scoreboard. You’re keeping track of when the squad needs to go back on the field and what quarter you’re in.
Then you started noticing something.
Chris was having an awful game. That was lightly putting it, really. He’s getting absolutely bullied—shitted on. Every single time he touched the ball, someone is there. A linebacker is on him.
The wide receiver closes in before he can find space. The second he’s about to pass the ball, two defenders seem to come out of nowhere and dog pile him.
It’s relentless. Almost targeted. You almost feel bad for him. It’s terrible just watching the bloodbath being committed against him.
It happens over and over again to the point where you’re eyeing Brendon wearily.
You watched as Chris gets tackled again when his quarterback sends the ball in his direction.
Then again. Then one more time.
It’s almost pitiful seeing how his confidence was dwindling down. The Cowboys aren’t sure what to do with him. The coaches are tense and some are shouting at the team from across the field.
The 49ers are playing brutally. Resembling sharks going for the kill at the slightest scent of blood. And somehow, every time he gets absolutely shredded, Brendon seemed to always be near the crime.
He’d be calling adjustments. Pointing things out. Changing formations immediately.
The announcers praise his leadership skills. But you know him well enough to not be suspicious.
Then it happens. Chris was able to break free for the first time in the entire game. You watched in anticipation as Chris is heading towards the goal with the football. The stadium erupts as he sprints down the field with nothing but green ahead of him. You can hear fans, coaches, and your teammates standing on their tippy-toes as they hold in their breaths. They’re cheering for him. They’re hopeful for a score.
Twenty yards. Fifteen. Ten. He’s actually going to score, finally.
Then out of nowhere—
Brendon appeared. You don’t even know how he even got there. One second ago, he was across the field. The next he’s launching himself at Chris. The collision is violent that it has you wincing and the entire stadium gasping. Chris goes down hard. The ball then slips out of his hand and onto the grass.
The crowd goes absolutely insane, losing their minds. Because quarterbacks rarely ever go for a tackle and Brendon— Well, he did just that. It’s deafening.
For a moment, all you can do is stare. Brendon is already on his feet like nothing. Like he didn’t just violently slam that poor man down onto the floor. Players are swarming him, smacking his helmet and cheering loudly. They’re celebrating and hugging each other.
And before they could fully surround him, he takes off his helmet. He shifted his gaze to the barely conscious running back straight to you.
Your stomach drops.
Because of the look on his face— he’s smiling. Not a big one. Not even a particularly nice one. It’s smug, pleased even. That small, infuriating smug smile you’ve known and recognized for seven years. The one that knows something you don’t. The one that’s insufferable because he did something he shouldn’t have.
You narrowed your eyes immediately.
His smile widens, just very slightly. Like he’s pleased with himself. Then he shoved his helmet back on and turns away. Leaving a barely conscious Chris flat on the ground while medics and teammates helped him up.
Beside you, one of your veteran teammates whistled lowly.
“Oh girl.”
You don’t take your eyes off Brendon.
“What?” You asked.
Julie snorts.
“I’d really hate to be Chris right now.”
༻𐫱༺
The Dallas Cowboys lost.
Truthfully, It didn’t really surprise you after the absolute blood bath the 49ers delivered in the field. By the fourth quarter, the outcome almost felt inevitable. You felt extremely bad for Chris who was barely conscious as he was carried away. You’re sure the next few days, the world wasn’t going to be kind towards him.
Still, the loss stung. Not just because you spent months working your ass off towards this moment.
But because within the last four years, this is the closest the team has ever been to a Super Bowl victory. You’re not sure if you or even the girls will ever get to perform here again.
And now it was over.
The locker rooms empty. The confetti was the wrong color. The celebrations belonged to a different team.
Namely, the San Francisco 49ers.
A fact that became significantly more irritating when you found yourself getting ready for their after-party a few hours later.
Officially, you weren’t supposed to be there. Unofficially, half of your closest friends are going to be there.
Years in the NFL meant that invitations to exclusive parties weren’t uncommon. Everyone essentially knew each other. Most of you got along. Some had gone to college together. Others had spent seasons and years crossing paths that friendships became inevitable.
So when one of your closest friends—a retired Cowboys Cheerleader—called to ask if you were attending the biggest NFL celebration of the year, you agreed without much hesitation.
The fact that it was a celebration in honor of the 49ers winning was just an unfortunate detail.
And another very unfortunate detail was that Brendon would be there.
But you tell yourself that you don’t care. You’re having fun. Because here you are, in a cute deep blue dress that’s riding up your thighs, dangerously close to showing your ass and accentuating your body prettily. You’re cheering with your friends in a corner, a shot of tequila in your hands before—
“Ladies,”
Your friend, Kimberly, pushed herself in the middle of your circle and raised her glass. All of you immediately quieted, watching her with amusement.
She grinned.
“To finally making it to the Super Bowl.”
You all collectively cheered.
“To making it to the Super Bowl!” You grinned.
Glasses clinked. Then everyone threw their shots back, squealing and laughing together.
You down yours immediately, throwing your head back as the tequila hits the back of your throat — burning your tastebuds. Your nose wrinkles as you force yourself to swallow, reaching for a lime wedge while your friends all just howl with laughter around you.
“Ugh, I hate tequila.” You whined.
“You should take another shot then.” Destiny, your other friend, encourages with a grin.
“Absolutely not!” You rolled your eyes. “This is my second one already.”
“Ugh, don’t be lame, bitch!” She gently pushed your shoulder.
“I’m not lame!” You insisted.
“You’re being no fun.” She huffed. “We’re supposed to get trashed tonight!”
“I am not trying to give the entire Dallas Cowboys organization a reason to write me up for doing something stupid.” You pointed out. “I’m still under contract!”
“Thank god I don’t have to deal with that crap anymore.” Destiny rolled her eyes.
“Lucky you.” You said dryly. “I still have to put up with it.”
“You’re almost done, girl.” Kimberly said encouragingly.
You hoped so.
As much you loved being a cheerleader for the Dallas Cowboys, the organization was notoriously strict about their image and professionalism—even during the off-season. You loved doing it but it was also exhausting. It was mentally and physically draining. You’re not enjoying it as much as you did your first two years. But your contract wasn’t over until late April which meant the obligations and expectations still stood.
Unfortunately, getting trashed at a party full of NFL players, sponsors, celebrities and reporters fell into the category of what you weren’t supposed to do.
“Speaking of bad decisions,” Destiny said suddenly, smirking at you.
You narrowed your eyes.
“What?”
“Heard there’s a really cute running back trying to get into your pants.”
You nearly choked on your drink. You didn’t expect her to bring Chris up. You didn’t even know she even knew!
“Yeah—“ You laughed awkwardly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Mm,” Julie hummed. “Chris was totally trying to get into your pants. I was there.”
“Chris was just being friendly.” You huffed.
“He ran across the field just to talk to you.” Kimberly laughed.
“And he literally said you were his favorite Sweetheart.” Julie pointed out.
“Which was super gross and unoriginal.” You muttered, rolling your eyes.
“Okay, but he’s hot.” Destiny added unhelpfully.
You shot her a look. Chris was attractive, sure—but you were not into him. At all.
“He’s okay,” You respond. “Besides he’s like 20—practically a baby.”
“He’s twenty-four.” Julie corrected.
“Still.”
“He’s cute, you’re hot, and I think you guys should fuck.” Destiny grinned.
“Ew—no, Destiny!” You groaned. “It’s against our contracts too, by the way.”
“Awh but you guys would make such a cute couple.” Kimberly coos.
You roll your eyes.
“You guys are so annoying.” You muttered. “Chris is not that cute and—.”
Suddenly, everyone around you froze. Julie looked past your shoulder. Then Kimberly did too. Then somehow Destiny’s grin somehow got bigger.
You paused and raised an eyebrow at them.
“What—“ You said suspiciously. “Why are you guys looking at me like that?”
Nobody answered. They just continued to stare past you. Slowly a sense of dread began creeping down your spine. A throat clears behind you.
Fuck.
You slowly turned around. And immediately regretted it. Brendon stood directly behind you with a glass of whiskey in his hand. Far too close to you. Far too handsome. Far too amused.
“Well sweetheart,” he drawled.
You took a long, slow breath with narrowed eyes. The nickname never meant anything good from him. His gaze flickered briefly to your friends before settling back on to you.
“Don’t stop on my account.”
“There’s nothing to talk about.” You looked briefly at your friends with a pleading look. “Right guys?”
Silence. Your friends all hurriedly nodded with awkward smiles, bringing their drinks to their lips.
“Mm.” Brendon hummed.
You know that tone. He’s completely unconvinced and annoyed. Trying very hard not to look annoyed. Which means he’s annoyed. Probably on the brink of anger.
Destiny awkwardly interjects. “I’m gonna go… Get a drink!”
“Me too!” Both Kimberly and Julie shouted, eyeing each other briefly.
“Traitors.” You muttered unhappily.
Within seconds, they abandon you. Not before giving you a quick hug and nervously smiling toward the serious quarterback standing in front of you.
Cowards.
Silence settles between the two of you.
Brendon doesn’t say a word. He just quietly observes you over the rim of his whiskey with that infuriating, steely nonchalance of his.
You have no idea what he heard. Or if he even heard the conversation at all. But judging by his clenched jaw and the colder, icier gaze of his blue eyes—you’re almost certain he’d heard some of it.
You clearly your throat.
“So…” You begin awkwardly.
Nothing. He says nothing at all. He just stares at you with that same stone-faced expression he always wears when he doesn’t like someone—or he heard something particularly distasteful.
“Congrats on the big win….” You say cautiously. “I’m sure you’re hap—“
“He’s not that cute?”
The words cut cleanly through yours. His voice was steady. Curious in a detached, almost clinical way. But you know him. You know he’s angry, bothered by what you said and what was being said by your friends. It’s the cool, unreadable look in his eyes and the complete lack of emotion in his voice that gives him away. To anyone else, he’d seem perfectly calm and collected.
But to you? He’s absolutely furious. Filled with a quiet, unadulterated rage born entirely from jealousy.
And it completely irritated you.
“Oh my god, Bren.” You groaned. “I am not doing this with you right now.”
“Oh, but you were discussing that just fine with your friends,” Brendon pointed out flatly. “Okay.”
“Yeah, because they brought it up!” You snapped.
“Mm” He nodded once. “Instead of saying he wasn’t attractive—literally anything else—you said he wasn’t that cute.”
You stared at him incredulously. You couldn’t believe him at all. Was he seriously getting upset over what you said?
“Which tells me that you think he’s somewhat attractive.”
“Oh, my god.” You groaned. “No I don’t!”
“Then you should have said something else.”
He muttered, rolling his eyes.
“I was trying to get them to drop it.” You shot back. “They only started teasing me because he flirted with me. I wasn’t sitting there talking about Chris for fun.”
Brendon let out a quiet scoff. “Really?”
“Yes, really.” You rolled your eyes at him. “You’re being a such a child, right now.”
His gaze didn’t move from yours.
“That’s interesting,” He said coolly. “Because from where I was standing, it looked an awful lot like you were flirting back.”
You froze. The words took a second to register in your head.
From where I was standing.
Your heart stuttered. He saw it on the field. He watched Chris openly flirt with you. The entire interaction. Of you smiling awkwardly and forcing yourself to laugh. Every second of you trying to be polite and kind despite wanting to leave the conversation entirely.
Your stomach dropped.
It shouldn’t matter, you tell yourself. You’re single and it doesn’t matter if another man flirts with you.
But Brendon saw it.
And at first, it made you anxious. Like you’ve been caught doing something you shouldn’t have despite being entirely innocent.
Then the anxiety shifts into irritation. Because he shouldn’t be upset about it. He’s done the same thing—stood there while a woman openly flirted with him in front of you, acted like nothing happened, like it didn’t matter.
So why does it feel like it matters now?
“Flirting?” You huff out an amused laugh. “When—“
“On the field.” He said, voice tightening. “You know when. Don’t play dumb.”
You glared at him.
“First of all, no one is playing dumb. Second of all, he came up to me. He flirted with me. Not the other way around.”
“But you didn’t shut it down.” Brendon snapped.
“What the hell was I supposed to say?” You hissed. “Oh, sorry, my ex-boyfriend is the quarterback on the other team and he’d lose his shit if he found out you’re here flirting with me?”
He paused.
“Yes, actually.”
“Brendon,” You sighed tiredly. “You’re being ridiculous right now.”
“Oh?” He let out a humorless, quiet laugh. “But if abother girl came up to me right now and started flirting with me, you wouldn’t care? You wouldn’t give me shit for not shutting it down?”
“That’s—“ you hesitated. “That’s different.”
“Exactly,” He laughed sardonically. “So don’t pretend you don’t like it when I do this shit.”
“I don’t, actually.” You sniffed, looking to the side as strangers passed you two. “You might’ve destroyed Chris’ career after this.”
“He shouldn’t have had the ball then.” Brendon shrugged. “And don’t pretend like you give a shit about him and his career. It’s not cute.”
“He’s a nice guy.” You insisted. “There was no reason for you to act that way towards him.”
Immediately, something in Brendon shifted. His blue eyes darkened—stormier now. His jaw was clenched even tighter, the tension of his neck made the lines of his neck visible.
“Don’t fucking defend him.” He hissed.
You flinched slightly at the sharp, harshness in his voice.
Brendon dragged slow, deep breath forcing himself to rein his irritation back in. He rubbed a hand over his jaw before letting out a short, disbelieving laugh under his breath before setting down his glass of whiskey on the nearest surface.
He shook his head like he couldn’t believe this conversation was even happening.
“He was flirting with you.” Brendon said sharply, emphasis becoming more deliberate. “I don’t play nice with dipshits that think they have a chance with you, you know that.”
He exhaled lowly through his nose, patience clearly running thin.
“You think I care if his career is ruined after this? He made bad plays. He was in my way.”
“You’re insane.” You hissed.
“I’m being honest.” He shot back.
You let out a laugh because of that. Brendon was rarely honest unless it benefited him. He wasn’t honest about what he felt. Not about whether he wanted you in his life long-term—unless someone else stepped out of line in yours.
“Honest?”
“Yes,” He repeated, more calmly now. “Or did you want me to just sit there and be okay with some fuck flirting with you?”
You want to be spiteful because whatever this is—it’s pissing you off.
“Yes actually.” You respond instantly.
It’s petty.
It’s silent for a second. Brendon observes you with his icy gaze in a quiet disbelief.
Then he scoffed.
“Oh, okay.” He nodded slowly. “Then what about the model texting me a month ago at two of the morning when you stayed in my hotel, huh?”
Your expression dropped.
“Oh my god.”
“The same one,” He continued, voicing dropping lower, sharper now, “you called while I was in the middle of fucking you.”
Silence. His eyes locked onto yours.
“You should’ve ignored her.” He added, almost mocking now. “Should’ve sat there and let her continue texting me.”
You swallowed, shifting your eyes away almost guiltily. You’re aware of what you did. The wrongness of doing that. But the anger and possessiveness you felt when you heard the dings of that model texting him outweighed your moral compass.
“You don’t get to bring that up.” You said, voice lower now.
Brendon stepped closer to you.
“I don’t get to?” He repeated.
He reached for your wrist—firmly but not painful. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to keep you there.
“So you’re allowed to sabotage my own dates,” Brendon said, eyes narrowing. “Do the most outrageous shit imaginable— but I’m not allowed to tackle some loser that’s playing in my game?”
“You sicced your whole team on him.” You rolled your eyes. “Be serious.”
“And you made her listen to us having sex.” Brendon hissed.
Instinctively, you turn your head away. Because the ugly part of you—the part you don’t want to admit that’s there—doesn’t feel regret.
It feels justified. Petty. Possessive. Like that woman needed to know who you were. Like she needed to hear exactly what she was competing with. To know how well Brendon was fucking you. To know that you’ll be the only one to make him make those sounds.
“Look at me,” Brendon commanded.
Before you could snap at him, his other hand is already there. Not rough, not painful.
But firm. Two fingers under your chin, tilting your face towards him. His gaze is darker now—less controlled than before.
“You’re being hypocritical.” He snapped again, but it came out rougher this time. Less controlled. “You don’t get to act like what I did was wrong when you do the same thing—marking your territory like I’m some fucking prize.”
Your chest rose sharply. You inhale quickly, mustering up a glare at him.
“I wasn’t marking my territory.” You denied.
Brendon scoffed.
“Then what would you call what you were doing then?”
You stay quiet. Because you don’t know how to answer that. Because you lied—you had been marking your territory just like he had been. Too possessive for your own liking.
The truth and lack of denial sits right there in front of you.
He exhales hard through his nose, running a hand over his mouth.
“This is what I’m talking about,” He muttered. “You don’t get to pretend like I’m the only one doing this.”
“I was making a point.” You admitted low enough for him to hear. “Because you’re mine.”
That made him pause fully. His eyes snap back to yours. And then the atmosphere between you shifted again, it feels heavier. Dangerous.
“Yours?” He repeated.
Within seconds, you grabbed a fistful of his suit jacket and yanked him down to your level.
His eyes widened for a fraction of a second. Then his hand slid to the back of your neck as you press your lips against his.
The kiss wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t sweet at all.
It’s ferocious, heated, and messy. It felt like weeks, maybe even years of resentment, jealousy, longing and frustration came crashing down together.
But you both feel the heat blooming in the pits of your stomachs.
You gasped into his mouth when you feel Brendon’s teeth nipping your bottom lip, his other large hand trailing down your back to grip your ass. He’s kissing you like he owns you.
Warmth blooms in the pit of your stomach, tasting the whiskey on his tongue. You lean into the kiss more, moaning softly as you suck on his tongue for a few seconds before nipping his bottom lip and pulling away.
Both of your chests rose and fell with uneven breaths as you struggled to steady yourselves.
“Yes, you’re mine.” You repeated with a small smirk, panting softly.
Brendon was still impossibly close. His hand was still on your ass. His gaze lingered on you—darkened, unfocused, and almost dazed. A faint flush settled across his cheeks, his lips slightly parted. His thumb lingered against the side of your face before trailing to your swollen lips, gently prying your bottom lip briefly. He inhaled sharply then he smirked before patting your cheek softly.
“Is that so?” He murmured lowly.
You didn’t speak, just watched him with your own dazed eyes. He watched you for another second before looking around.
“We’re continuing this upstairs.”
Then he grabbed your wrist, tugging you as he walked out of the venue towards the elevators of the hotel. You both dodge a bunch of reporters, mutual friends that try to strike up a conversation, and old players stopping to congratulate Brendon on the win. It was, without a question, the least discreet either of you had ever been.
He acknowledged them with little more than a distracted nod, never loosening his grip on your wrist. You, on the other hand, forced polite smiles— slipping into your cheery professionalism you had perfected as a Dallas Cowboys Cheerleader—even as the star quarterback of the 49ers dragged you across the banquet room.
You were almost certain that someone had taken a picture. By tomorrow, it will be all over the news and more speculations will come to light. But you couldn’t bring yourself to care. Not when your heart was racing from the argument. And you certainly didn’t care especially because of the familiar warmth pooling in the pit of your belly and between your thighs.
He dragged you all the way to elevators pressing the floor button immediately as you situated yourself against the wall. It’s just the two of you. The tension was still so thick with the way Brendon turned to look at you with that heated gaze.
“You dragged me out there like some gorilla.” You muttered unhappily.
“Shut up.” He muttered back, almost petulantly.
“Seriously, Brendon,” You huffed, crossing your arms across your chest. “You should’ve fucked off and left me alone, honestly. I was having fun with my girls!”
He glared at you now. His nostrils flared as a spike of irritation flashed inside of him .
“You were having fun discussing another man.” He hissed.
You make face instantly. This conversation was going nowhere. Not when he’s so adamant that you were entertaining Chris. And for the record you were not!
“oh my god—“ You groaned. “How many times do I have to tell you that I wasn’t?”
“Right.” Brendon said. His tone was entirely sarcastic. Like he didn’t believe you for one second.
Instead he got closer to you, his body practically caging you against the wall of the elevator. His left hand is on your hip, keeping you in place. His right is cupping your cheek, thumb sliding over your bottom lip and so gently tugging it down.
“I think,” He murmured with his voice so calm, steady. “You need a reminder of who exactly owns you.”
You stopped breathing momentarily. You just look at him. There’s a clear sense of possessiveness in the way he holds you, practically engulfing your entire body. His words sound more like a promise than a reminder.
He paused then he patted your cheek a little rougher this time. “Because from the way you’ve been acting, you clearly forgot who you belong to.”
You breathed in slowly. Almost like you’re worried of saying the wrong thing. It was almost laughable how worried you seem despite having crossed so many lines today.
Then his left hand trails down to your thighs. he grips your thighs, playing with the edge of your dress. He’s aware he shouldn’t be doing this with you in an elevator. But he doesn’t care. Not when you’re looking at him with that hazy, desperate gaze and still swollen lips.
He pressed you more into the corner of the elevator, hiking one leg over his hip as he shoves his hand between your thighs. Immediately, he feels the heat of your bare cunt.
“No panties?” He laughed in disbelief. “Were you planning on getting fucked tonight like some slut? Any other man would think you’re a fucking whore— is that what you want? To be treated like a dirty whore?”
“N-No of course not—“
He cut you off by rubbing your clit once more, making you dig your manicured nails on his thick forearms. You can barely think. How could you when his fingers press against your clit teasingly and so good? You mewled and grind against his hand, trying to feel more pressure on your clit.
“Fucking wet already– I knew it.” He laughed. “You do want to get fucked like some slut.”
He’s being mean. It should be degrading. You should feel disgusted. But you don’t. You like when he’s being mean. When he treats you like a dirty whore.
“Answer me—“ Brendon demanded. “Do you want me to treat you like a dirty slut?
You shook your head hurriedly. “N-No! Please D-Daddy! It’s just—“
Brendon’s fingers are running up and down your pussy, smearing your slick all over. Making you messier.
“It’s just what?” He mocked. “You wanted to be easy access for some fucking loser? Spread your legs for ‘im without trouble?”
You squeal loudly when he shoved two thick fingers into your slicked up hole, pistoning in and out of your cunt.
“No!” You denied. “I-I’m sorry, Daddy— I don’t want anyone but you!”
He’s fingerfucking you in the middle of an elevator, completely trying to ruin you. Your cunt clenched and practically squeezed his fingers so tightly that you’re sure he’d probably lose circulation. Your insides are throbbing and you feel like you’re on fire. The pressure is settled deep in your stomach.
“You’re fucking soaked.” Brendon hissed against your ear. “God, you’re such a fucking slut.”
He’s sure that if he keeps rubbing his thick thumb over your clit and maintains the pace of his fingers for the next thirty seconds—you’d cum. You’d cum all over his fingers like a disgusting whore.
“Please, Bren—“ You cry out, reaching to grip his forearm that’s between your thighs. “I’m gonna cum, please! K-Keep going I’m gonna—“
Ding!
The elevator stops finally onto the floor of his hotel room and you let out a frustrated cry as he swiftly removes his fingers out of you. He gives your cunt a quick, harsh smack—making you moan softly before tugging your dress down. He pulled away from you, shifting slightly as his hardening cock strained against the tight confines of his pants. The door of the elevator finally opened and Brendon steps out of it immediately. Trailing after him clumsily as your legs feel like jelly, you let in a small inhale and you carefully patted your hair down just in case
It doesn’t take long for both of you to finally make it to his room. And it doesn’t take you both long to end up kissing once more after he kicked his door shut with his foot.
He’s kissing you so well, so good that you feel your toes practically curling. You’re not even sure when he removed your dress but you feel the cool air, hitting your body. His hands roam over your back and down to your ass as he kissed you ferociously. It’s euphoric the way you were feeling. The way your head feels dazed and your cunt ached for him just from a kiss. From his aggressiveness that undeniably turned you on.
“Get on your knees.” Brendon barked.
He pulled away, equally as breathless as you and there’s a clink of his belt, the sound of his pants rustling as he takes out his cock. You hurriedly get on the mattress and onto your knees, your ass and cunt facing him. You spread your knees wider as you whine when he nears. You can feel the bulbous, thick tip of Brendon’s cock pressed against the entrance of your cunt.
“Look at you,” Brendon growled, “Fucking spreading your legs like a dumb bitch in heat.”
His muscular body is practically engulfing your body as he bends you over, sustaining you with one hand gripping the fat of your hips tightly.
“Don’t worry,” Brendon purred low against your ear. “I’ll treat you like the dumb, desperate whore you really are.”
“Please Daddy,” You begged, trying to push against his hips. You just want him to get it over with. To fuck you, to completely ruin you, to treat you like the dirty whore you were, and to remind you that you’re only his.
You’re almost certain you’ll bruise but you don’t care.You just want to feel him inside of you, ruining you like he always does. Staking his claim over you.
He pushes into you before you could even speak, protest—snap at him for not hurrying up. For not fucking you the way you want.
Your pussy pulsates around his thick cock. Your jaw hangs open as you let out soft moans, pushing your ass back to meet his hips. But the solid grip of his hand on your hip stops you from getting what you want.
“Fuck,” Brendon grunted lowly, “You’re so fucking wet.”
He forces his cock to keep sliding in with a painfully slow, deep push that has your thighs trembling and making your insides feel like goo. A flood of slick gushes all over his cock and drips down his balls. But it’s not enough. Your tight cunt constricts around him, demanding more—so fucking desperate for him to just fuck you like you deserve.
“H-Hurry up and fuck me—“ You whine loudly, arching your back to force more of his dick into your cunt. Then you squeal as a loud crack echoes in the room as his large hand smacks your ass, making your meat jiggle on impact.
His left hand goes to aggressively wrap the strands of your hair, yanking and tilting your head back.
“Shut the fuck up,” he snapped, finally moving his hips to go in and out of your pussy with aggressive and deep thrusts.
He lets out deep, quiet grunts as he fucks you. The room is filled with squelching sounds of your wet pussy, your loud moans, and the sound of the bed frame slamming against the walls. It’s erotic how every time he pulls his cock out of you, there’s a white, milk rim around it.
“You think anyone else can fuck you like this?” He growled against your ears, snapping his hips harshly back and forth.
“Only you, Daddy. Only you,” You whimper. “Daddy can only fuck me like this—“
You shook your head as you let out loud mewls as your ass cheeks slap against his hips. It’s too good—the way he is fucking you. The way he’s able to render you speechless just from being split apart by his cock. Your brain can’t even form a proper thought without short circuiting once Brendon brushes against the sweet, little spot. Instantly making you cry out and squeal, begging him to give you mercy from how fucked out you already are.
“You’re mine,” He hissed. His breath is stuttering as your pussy constricts around his dick. You’re gripping him, trying to milk him dry. “Fuck, fuck—“
“M’yours, daddy,” You mumble as you try to keep yourself up. Your knees are buckling and your arms feel too heavy to even keep yourself body up. There’s drool dripping the side of your mouth and you just look disgusting, you know you do. You look sloppy. Your makeup is smearing everywhere and making your appearance look messy. A stark difference than your usual.
You look like a fucking slut. It’s hot and it’s a look that Brendon never knew he needed. You keep babbling that you only belong to him, that you’re all his, that you don’t need anyone else but him. Him and his cock to keep you happy. He should be pleased. He is but it isn’t enough.
Because he cannot let what happened earlier just slide. Mid-thrust he grabbed your phone and went through your contacts. You’re too fucked out to even notice what he’s doing. Too cockdrunk to even realize that he was dialing the number of the running back that pissed him off. He pressed the phone against his ears as the phone dials, still fucking you and thrusting into your needy little cunt.
“Heeey—“ Chris starts but Brendon heard enough.
He smirked and throws your phone next to you.
You don’t notice it. You’re desperately clawing the mattress, gripping the sheets as he pistoned his cock in and out of your walls, hitting the sweet spot over and over again. Your pussy gushes around him, soaking his dick completely. His wet balls keep slapping against your clit, harshly. It’s too intense, the pressure in your belly feels heavier. You’re letting out incoherent mumblings and whimpers , pressing your face deeper into the bed.
“You love my cock, huh?” Brendon murmured lowly against your ear.
“Yes! I love Daddy’s cock! I-I love– it!”
Brendon reached under your stomach up to your breasts, squeezing them and pinching your nipples harshly. All you can do is let out sob and arch your back more as your ass meets his thrusts.
“Tell me who owns you, slut.” He hissed. His jaw clenched as he could feel himself being so close. He’s fucking you a little more desperately, faster and even more aggressively. “Tell me who owns this pussy.”
“Daddy, owns me! Daddy owns this pussy!”
That itch— You’re so close, you know you are. You’re so desperate, you’re clawing at the mattress beneath you and let out a cry of frustration as his iron grip on your hips keeps you in place. Preventing you to fuck yourself dumb on his cock.
“Please, Bren—“ You sob. “Please, daddy– I need to cum so bad. I’m so close!”
Your pussy just clenches desperately to his dick, gripping and tightening your slicked up walls around him.
“Fuck,” Brendon curses. “You’ve been a good little bitch for me, hm? Fuckin cum for me then.”
You could cry tears of joy. You let out loud whines and mewls as you fuck yourself on his dick, meeting his own thrusts. You’re so, so close— you could feel your tummy tighten. Feel the way your pussy just throbs—
“Say my name,” he growled. “Say it—“
“Brendon,” you moan out softly as you lay there on your stomach with your ass up. “Brendon— Please, I need you so bad!”
Immediately, he turns to look at your phone and he nearly grins when he sees the phone call end. You’re still clueless. It’s okay. As long he knew, what was going then that’s all he cared about.
As a reward, he then brings his hand between your thighs as he fucks you harder, pressing against your clit. You immediately let out a loud scream—
The orgasm hits you so hard that your arms give up underneath you, just your knees and Brendon’s iron grip on your hips keeping your lower body up. Your pussy pulsates and gushes around his dick, soaking the sheets beneath you completely. You’re babbling incessantly as he uses your slicked up pussy—You’re thanking him. You’re whispering how good you feel after cumming on his dick. You’re completely done.
He fucks into you a couple more times—once, twice, three more times—before his cock finally fills your sweet cunt with his thick, creamy cum. He lets out a soft, shuddering breath as he leans against your back. He pressed a soft kiss on your spine and then up to your neck.
He patted your hip and gently pulls out, gazing at the white cum spilling out your cunt. You let out a soft, happy sigh as you relaxed on the mattress.
It doesn’t take long for Brendon to help you clean up, to make you comfortable and so loved. He has you pressed against his naked chest, running his hand up and down your back. Occasionally, he’d press a gentle kiss against the crown of your head. He was always an affectionate man after sex.
You’re sleepy and you just try to blink away the tiredness as you sit in comfortable silence.
“Come to Philly with me.” Brendon said suddenly.
You pause and then you slowly pull away to sit up and really look at him. He’s serious, you realized. His face isn’t showing any hint of amusement, any other emotion— Brendon is completely serious.
“What?”
He sighed softly like your confusion inconvenienced him.
“I start my residency in Philly next year.” He explained. “I want you to come with me.”
You’re utterly confused.
“..Why?”
He exhaled softly. He knows he doesn’t express his feelings often. And he knows that this is his best chance of doing exactly that.
“Why not?” He countered. “You’re done with Cowboys after this season. My contract is up after the Super Bowl. Med school’s over.”
You don’t say anything. He sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. A nervous tick. Your silence is bothering him. But you don’t know what to say. You’re speechless— You genuinely thought that after med school, he’d just drop you. That he’d forget about you.
“Look,” He said softly. “I don’t want to keep doing this.”
“What do you mean by ‘this’?” You frowned.
“The distance, the flying .” He gestured vaguely between the two of you. “Acting like we’re not—“
Brendon paused and took another deep breath. He clenched his jaw and then looked at you.
“I’m over it.”
Your stomach dropped and you nearly stop breathing. You still don’t know what to say. You understand what he means but you want him to say it— To say the words you’ve been waiting to hear for a long time. He cupped your cheek and gently caressed your skin with a hesitant smile.
“I really,” Brendon swallowed. “…just want to come home to you every day.”
A smile bloomed across your face—it’s soft, disbelieving and painfully happy. For the first time, everything felt complete.
taglist!! @generation-zero @iakala @loveisallyouneed1125 @angelbunny222 @ts1mp0ne @bsttwice @rr-after-dark @sweetestcowboy @mysteriousally @yapeez @yoonki-bored @05gwyn
(there was more I just couldn’t tag you guys for some reason!!)
