Content: Smut but not really detailed, Spicy comedy, Affair, Braeden being fucking blind, Dylan turned into a spider, The price of Cole's silence
A/N: the first pic of Dylan gave me the best orgasm of my life NGL like imagine having that POV In other circumstances...🫦
The cheap motel room smells like sweat, sex, and the faint stale cigarette smoke that’s probably baked into the walls since the ‘80s. The AC unit rattles like it’s dying, but neither of you cares. You’re both sprawled across the rumpled sheets, chests heaving, skin still slick and shining under the ugly orange glow of the bedside lamp.
Dylan’s on top of you again already—because of course he is—his mouth hot and hungry against yours, kissing you like he’s trying to devour every moan you have left. His hand slides up your thigh, fingers digging into the soft flesh he just bruised with his grip twenty minutes ago. You’re both still half-dressed: his jeans shoved down just enough, your leggings ripped at the crotch because he couldn’t wait to get them off properly. Your sports bra is pushed up over your tits, and he’s lazily sucking on one nipple like he’s got all the time in the world.
“Fuck, you taste so good,” he mutters against your skin, voice rough from all the dirty shit he was growling in your ear while he railed you into the mattress. His hair’s a mess—damp curls sticking to his forehead—and he smells like pure sin: musk, sex, and that stupid expensive cologne he wears that drives you insane.
You arch into his touch, fingers tangled in his hair, tugging just hard enough to make him groan. “You’re gonna kill me, Minnette,” you pant, but you’re already spreading your legs wider so he can settle between them again. His cock is half-hard against your thigh, still wet from you, and the thought alone makes you throb.
He grins—that filthy, knowing grin that says he’s fully aware he’s ruining you for anyone else—and slides two fingers back inside you without warning. You gasp, clenching around him instantly, still so sensitive from the two orgasms he already ripped out of you.
“Still so fucking tight,” he whispers, pumping slowly, curling just right. “Braeden really isn’t doing shit for you, huh?”
You moan, half-laughing, half-dying. “Don’t—don’t say his name right now.”
“Why not?” He leans in, lips brushing your ear, voice dropping to that dangelrous low tone. “He’s probably at home jerking off to the thought of you doing downward dog, while I’ve got my fingers buried in the pussy he thinks is loyal.”
You’re about to tell him to shut up and fuck you again when your phone starts buzzing on the nightstand like it’s possessed.
You both freeze.
The screen lights up: Brae ❤️
Dylan pulls his fingers out slow—deliberately—bringing them to his mouth and sucking them clean while staring right at you. “Answer it,” he mouths, smirking like the devil he is.
You grab the phone with shaky hands, swiping to accept before you can think better of it.
“Hey, babe,” Braeden’s voice comes through, sweet and clueless as ever. “You done with yoga yet? You sound kinda out of breath.”
Dylan’s eyes are locked on yours as he silently spreads your legs wider, settling lower on the bed. You bite your lip hard enough to hurt.
“Y-yeah,” you manage, voice higher than usual. “Just… finished. Super intense class today.”
Dylan’s tongue flicks over your clit without warning and you jolt, slapping a hand over your mouth to stifle the whimper.
“You okay?” Braeden asks. “You sound weird.”
“Mm-hmm!” you squeak, thighs trembling as Dylan starts licking you slow and filthy, like he’s got something to prove. “Hot yoga. Really… hot.”
Dylan looks up at you from between your legs, grinning against your pussy, mouthing: “Tell him hi for me.”
You’re so fucked.
Dylan doesn’t stop. Of course he doesn’t. If anything, the fact that Braeden is on the line makes him worse.
His tongue flattens against your clit in one long, slow lick that has your hips bucking off the bed. You slam your free hand over your mouth again, eyes wide, staring down at him in a mix of panic and pure filth. He’s grinning up at you like a demon, cheeks glistening with you, eyes dark and locked on yours while he sucks gently—teasing, torturous—right where you’re still swollen and sensitive from earlier.
“Yeah? Hot yoga, huh?” Braeden says on the other end, oblivious, his voice all soft and caring. “You want me to pick up Thai on the way home? That place you like on Melrose?”
Dylan chooses that exact moment to slide two fingers back inside you, curling them slow and deep, hitting that spot that makes your vision blur. Your thighs clamp around his head instinctively, and he hums against you—actually fucking hums—like he’s enjoying his favorite meal.
“Y-Yeah,” you choke out, voice cracking. “Thai sounds—fuck—sounds good.”
Braeden pauses. “You sure you’re okay? You keep saying fuck. Did you pull something in class?”
Dylan pulls back just enough to mouth: “Tell him you pulled me.”
You shoot him a death glare, but it’s ruined by the way your back arches when he crooks his fingers again.
“I’m fine!” you blurt, a little too loud. “Just… really stretched out. Instructor was—ah—really hands-on today.”
Dylan snorts quietly against your thigh, biting the soft skin there hard enough to leave a mark. Then he dives back in, tongue circling faster now, relentless, like he’s trying to make you scream Braeden’s name by accident.
Braeden laughs softly. “Hands-on yoga instructor? Should I be worried?”
You let out a strangled laugh that sounds way too close to a moan. “No, babe, it’s—oh god—it’s all women. Super… super professional. Loaded with fem energy”
Dylan’s shoulders shake with silent laughter. He pulls his fingers out, spreads you open with both hands, and blows cool air right over your clit just to watch you squirm. Then he dives back in, sucking hard, flicking his tongue like he’s got a personal vendetta against your sanity.
Your toes curl into the sheets. You’re so close again—embarrassingly close—and you can feel it building fast and dirty.
“I miss you,” Braeden says, sweet as ever. “Can’t wait to get home and cuddle. Maybe give you a massage if you’re sore.”
Dylan looks up at that, eyes narrowing. He pulls off your clit with a wet pop, loud enough that you freeze in terror. Then he grins, wicked and slow, and whispers against your skin—so low only you can hear:
“Tell him you’re already getting the best massage of your life.”
You’re going to hell. Straight to hell.
“Miss you too,” you manage, voice shaking as Dylan goes back to work, faster now, like he’s racing the clock. “Gotta—gotta go shower. See you soon.”
You hang up fast, tossing the phone across the bed like it’s on fire.
The second the call ends, Dylan doesn’t hold back. He groans against you, loud and filthy, fingers pumping hard, tongue relentless until you’re coming again—hard—thighs shaking around his head, moaning his name like a prayer.
He doesn’t stop until you’re pushing weakly at his head, oversensitive and breathless.
Then he crawls up your body, kissing you deep and messy, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.
“Namaste, baby,” he whispers against your lips, smirking. “How’s that for a cool-down?”
You’re still catching your breath, legs tangled with Dylan’s, his head resting on your stomach while he traces lazy circles on your thigh with his thumb. The room’s spinning a little—three orgasms in under an hour will do that—and you’re both glistening with sweat, the sheets a disaster zone.
Dylan lifts his head, that shit-eating grin still plastered on his face, hair wild and lips swollen. “So,” he drawls, voice all gravel and satisfaction, “Braeden really doesn’t suspect anything about your… yoga routine?”
You snort, reaching down to flick his forehead. “I don’t know, man. But you know damn well I’m flexible, and yoga does make you flexible. So there’s evidence.”
He laughs—deep, filthy, the kind that vibrates against your skin. “Oh, I know you’re flexible. Been knowing that since day one.” His hand slides higher, squeezing your ass possessively. “That’s what I love about you. You’re flexible… and you’re a filthy little slut.”
You gasp dramatically, swatting his hand away. “I am not a slut.”
Dylan props himself up on one elbow, eyebrow arched, looking down at you like you just said the sky’s green. “Nope. You’re right. Totally not. You just regularly sneak off to get railed by your boyfriend’s best friend in sketchy motels. Totally normal behavior.”
You roll your eyes, trying to look annoyed, but you’re fighting a smile. “Shut up.”
He leans in closer, lips brushing your collarbone as he murmurs, “Hey, if it helps you sleep at night, we can just add doggy, cowgirl, 69, reverse cowgirl, lotus, the pretzel dip—fuck, the entire fucking Kamasutra—to your list of valid yoga poses.”
You shove his face away, laughing despite yourself. “Fuck off, Dylan.”
He flops back onto the pillow beside you, hands behind his head, still grinning like he won the lottery. “Already did. Twice. Planning on round four in like… ten minutes if you keep sassing me.”
You groan, throwing an arm over your eyes. “You’re impossible.”
“And you,” he says, rolling over to pin your wrists above your head with one hand, voice dropping low again, “are addicted.”
You don’t even bother denying it.
Because he’s right.
You’re hopping around the motel room on one foot, trying to yank your destroyed leggings up your legs without flashing the peeling wallpaper. The crotch is legitimately ripped open like a bad porn prop—Dylan’s handiwork—and you’re pretty sure if you bend over even slightly, you’ll be giving the roaches a free show.
Meanwhile, Dylan is sprawled buck-ass naked on the bed, legs spread like he’s posing for a Renaissance painting titled “Post-Nut King.” He’s got one hand lazily stroking himself not even hard, just… maintaining, like a tamagotchi, and the other scrolling through his phone with his thumb.
He looks up, catches you struggling, and immediately starts commentating like a perverted sports announcer.
“And there she goes, folks—attempting the legendary Post-Cheating Legging Wrestle! Will she get the ripped crotch over that perfect ass before Braeden starts wondering why her ‘yoga class’ lasts three hours and involves cardio that sounds suspiciously like moaning?”
You flip him off while finally snapping the waistband into place. “You’re a sick individual.”
“Thank you.” He grins, then sits up, dick swinging like a helicopter blade. “Real talk though—how do you hide our chat? Like, is it in a folder called ‘Downward Dog Pics’? Or do you just archive it under ‘Tax Documents’ like a psychopath?”
You grab your hoodie off the chair and pull it over your head. “It’s buried, Dylan. Vault app. Face ID. He doesn’t go through my phone.”
He gasps dramatically, clutching imaginary pearls. “He doesn’t snoop? What kind of insecure boyfriend is he? I’d be deep-diving your shit daily if I were him.”
“You literally are the reason he’d need to.”
“Fair.” He stands up—still naked, zero chill—and saunters over, grabbing your waist from behind. “Follow-up question: do you ever recycle nudes? Like, send me a mirror titty pic on Tuesday, then crop out my reflection and forward the same one to Braeden on Thursday? Sustainability, baby. Save the planet.”
You elbow him in the ribs. “I do not recycle nudes, you absolute gremlin.”
He dodges, laughing. “Just checking! You could be out here running a nude economy and I’d respect the hustle.”
You’re lacing up your sneakers now when he drops the bomb.
“Also, completely unrelated—who’s bigger? Me or Braeden? Because I distinctly remember high-school swim team measurements and we were neck-and-neck, but I’ve definitely had some… personal growth since then.”
You slowly turn to stare at him, shoe half-on. “How the fuck do you even know Braeden’s dick size?”
Dylan blinks innocently. “Locker room, sophomore year. Cole yanked Braeden’s towel off in front of the whole team as a prank. Dude screamed like he was being murdered, dick flopping everywhere like a scared turtle. It was cinematic. I’ve got the stats burned into my brain.”
You freeze, shoe dangling from your foot. “You just… gave me simultaneous trauma and the most fucked-up threesome fantasy I’ve ever had in my life.”
“threesome? I'm fucking in please give me the details”
“No.”
“Come onnnn. Me, you, Braeden—blindfolded, he never knows it’s me, I just rail you while he thinks it’s some random yoga instructor with a strap-on—”
You throw your other shoe at him. It bounces off his bare chest. “Shut the fuck up.”
He catches it, sniffs it why is he like this, then tosses it back. “Fine. New plan: I drop you at the yoga studio, we tell Braeden I ‘bumped into you’ while grabbing coffee. Totally innocent. I’ll even do the big-eyed ‘who, me?’ face.”
You finally get both shoes on and stand up, hands on hips. “You couldn’t pull off innocent if someone paid you.”
He steps closer, naked as the day he was born, and cups your face dramatically. “Baby. I was in Greya Anatomy. I have range.”
You shove him toward his clothes. “Put pants on before I leave you here to pay for this room with your dick out.”
He salutes. “Yes, ma’am. But just know—if Braeden ever asks why you walk funny after yoga… I’m blaming the warrior pose.”
You’re both cackling as he finally—finally—starts getting dressed.
This is fine. Everything’s fine.
You’re in Dylan’s passenger seat, buckled in, staring out the window like you’re in a dramatic music video about bad life choices. The AC is blasting because you both still smell like a motel crime scene, and he’s driving with one hand on the wheel, the other resting way too high on your thigh—like he’s got a permanent lease on your skin.
He’s humming along to some Arctic Monkeys song, drumming on the steering wheel, completely unbothered. You, on the other hand, are having a full-blown internal crisis.
Why him?
Like, seriously.
Los Angeles is crawling with dicks. Hot actors, models, musicians, random trust-fund Chads at Erewhon—literally millions of options.
And who do you pick to cheat with?
The one attached to the most impulsive, mouthy, degenerate gremlin on planet Earth.
The guy who literally thinks with his cock 90% of the time and uses the other 10% to come up with new ways to be perverted.
Dylan glances over, catches your death stare at the dashboard, and grins like he’s reading your mind.
“What’s with the face, babe? You look like you’re mentally writing a Yelp review titled ‘Great dick, terrible personality.’”
You groan, slumping lower in the seat. “I’m rethinking every single decision that led me to this car. Not the affair—that’s fine. That’s hot. That’s fun. But why you? Why the human equivalent of a walking red flag with a hard-on?”
He laughs—loud, obnoxious, delighted. “Ouch. Harsh. But accurate.” He squeezes your thigh. “Come on, you love it. You love that I’m a complete idiot who can’t keep his hands off you.”
You side-eye him. “That’s the problem. You’re literally incapable of behaving. We’re supposed to be selling the ‘innocent run-in’ story and you’re gonna blow it by looking at me like you want to pull over and fuck me on the hood.”
He gasps dramatically, hand over heart. “Excuse me? I am a professional actor. I can play wholesome.” Then, without missing a beat, he slides his hand even higher, fingers brushing the ripped seam of your leggings. “But also… that hood idea’s not bad. Quick ten-minute detour?”
You slap his hand away. “Dylan. No.”
He pouts—actual full-on puppy lip. “You’re so mean to me after I just gave you three earth-shattering orgasms.”
“Two.”
“Three. You came on my tongue during the phone call, that counts.”
You pinch the bridge of your nose. “I hate you.”
“No you don’t,” he says cheerfully, merging into traffic. “You hate that you love how stupid I am for you. Big difference.”
You don’t answer. Because he’s right. Again.
He glances over, smirking. “Besides… you picked me because I’m the only one who fucks you like Braeden wishes he could. And because deep down, you’re just as big a degenerate as I am.”
You stare out the window, fighting a smile.
Goddamn it.
You really are so, so screwed.
You’re still slumped in the passenger seat, mentally drafting your resignation letter from this entire affair, when Dylan’s phone starts buzzing on the center console.
The screen lights up: Brae 🐐
Dylan glances at it, then at you, and his grin turns absolutely demonic. He picks it up, hits speaker, and answers all casual-like.
“Yo, man, what’s up?”
Braeden’s voice fills the car, chill and happy. “Hey, dude! Just checking if you wanna grab beers later with Cole. We’re thinking that spot in Silver Lake.”
Dylan’s hand is back on your thigh, thumb rubbing slow circles while he talks. “Uh, I’m a bit busy right now, man.”
He looks over at you, winks, and then leans toward the phone and whispers—loud enough for the mic to catch: “With your girl, by the way.”
Your eyes go wide. You lunge forward like you’re about to grab the phone and yeet it out the window.
Braeden pauses. “What’d you say?”
Dylan doesn’t even flinch. Smooth as butter, he recovers: “That tonight I’ll go out with a girl. Might be late.”
You exhale so hard you almost fog up the windshield.
Braeden bursts out laughing—full, clueless, brotherly cackle. “Oh shit, another one? Damn, bro, you’re out here collecting Pokémon like it’s your job. Tell that poor girl to get a full STD panel after she’s done with you. Wrap it twice, my guy—you’re basically a walking health hazard.”
Dylan laughs along, all fake-modest. “Harsh, dude. Harsh. But yeah, I’ll pass along the advice.”
While Braeden’s still chuckling, Dylan turns to you, covers the phone mic with his palm, and silently mouths—slow and exaggerated:
“Did you hear him? You should go get tested.”
He even adds a little eyebrow wiggle and a fake-concerned pout.
You reach over and punch him in the arm—hard.
“Ow! Fuck—” he yelps into the phone.
Braeden: “You good?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Dylan says, rubbing his arm but still grinning like an idiot. “Just stubbed my toe on… something hard.”
You mouth back: “I’m going to kill you.”
He mouths: “Worth it.”
Braeden keeps talking about beer plans, completely unaware he just unknowingly told his own girlfriend to get checked after sleeping with his best friend.
Dylan ends the call with a “See you later, man,” hangs up, and immediately bursts out laughing so hard he has to pull over for a second.
You just sit there, arms crossed, staring at him.
“You,” you say, “are the reason I drink.”
He wipes a tear from his eye, still wheezing. “Come on. That was art. Pure comedy gold. Also it could be worse imagine my fucking ring tone was scotty doesn't know”
You can’t help it—you start laughing too.
Because yeah. It kind of was.
You’re both going straight to hell. First-class tickets.
Dylan’s still wheezing from the phone call, eyes watery from laughing, as he pulls back onto the road. You’re trying to fix your hair in the visor mirror, attempting to look like someone who just did hot yoga and not someone who just got eaten out while lying to her boyfriend.
He wipes his eyes with the back of his hand, then shoots you that sideways devil grin.
“You know…” he starts, voice all sing-songy and dangerous, “what if we just told Braeden? Like, full honesty. ‘Hey man, your girl’s been riding my face for months, wanna make it a team sport?’”
You whip your head around so fast your neck cracks. “Shut the fuck up, Dylan. For the love of God.”
He ignores you completely, getting more animated. “Think about it! We sit him down, super mature. ‘Bro, we’ve been banging behind your back, but the sex is fire and we feel bad, so… threesome?’ He’d probably say yes just to not look like a pussy.”
You stare at him, mouth open. “You’ve lost your mind. Officially. Like, I want it on record that you have gone insane.”
Dylan keeps going, hands gesturing wildly while barely keeping the car straight. “Come on! You can’t tell me you’ve never thought about it. Both of us at the same time? You in the middle? Me and Brae high-fiving over your back like ‘good game, man’?”
You slap your palm to your forehead. “I am begging you to stop talking.”
He drops his voice to a fake-serious whisper. “I’d even let him go first. I’m generous like that. Or we could DP you—wait, have you ever—?”
“Dylan!” you yell, half-laughing, half-horrified. “I will open this door and tuck-and-roll into traffic if you finish that sentence.”
He cackles, reaching over to squeeze your knee. “You’re blushing so hard right now. You totally pictured it.”
“I pictured murdering you,” you mutter, crossing your arms. “Slowly.”
He sighs dreamily. “Fine, fine. No threesome. Yet. But when you’re lying in bed tonight next to Braeden, thinking about my tongue… just remember the offer stands.”
You look at him, deadpan. “The only thing standing right now is my urge to strangle you.”
He winks. “Kinky.”
You groan loudly and sink down in the seat, pulling your hoodie over your face.
Five more minutes to the yoga studio.
You’re not sure you’ll survive them.
You’re two minutes away from the yoga studio—two blessed minutes from freedom—when Dylan’s phone starts ringing again. This time it’s FaceTime. The screen lights up on the dash mount: “Cole 🦖” with his stupid contact photo doing a peace sign.
Dylan glances at it, then at you, and his face does this hilarious slow-motion shift from relaxed to “oh shit.”
“Don’t answer it,” you hiss immediately, sinking lower in the seat like that’ll make you invisible. “Ignore it. Pretend you’re driving.”
He scoffs, already reaching for the phone. “If I don’t pick up, he's gonna think I’m hiding something.”
You stare at him, deadpan. “You are hiding something, you absolute moron. You’re hiding me.”
The phone keeps ringing. Cole’s name bounces on the screen like it’s mocking you.
Dylan hovers his thumb. “Exactly. If I ghost, Cole’s gonna be like ‘bro where’s Dylan he always answers’ and then suspicion and then—”
“Just fucking decline it!”
“Too late, it’ll look shady!” He swipes accept before you can lunge for the phone.
Cole’s face pops up on the screen, big and bright and way too close to the camera. “Yo, what’s up, bitch? You coming tonight or what?”
Dylan angles the phone so it only shows his face, propping it on the dash. “Hey, man! Nope, maybe. Kinda in the middle of something.”
You mouth at him: “HANG UP.”
He ignores you completely.
Cole squints. “You driving? Who’s in the car with you? I heard a girl voice.”
Your soul leaves your body.
Dylan laughs—too loud, too fake. “What? No, that’s… Siri. Siri’s being a bitch again.”
Cole frowns. “Siri sounds suspiciously like your secret side chick.”
You slap a hand over your mouth to keep from screaming. Dylan’s eyes dart to you in panic for half a second before he recovers with the smoothest lie known to man:
“Nah, dude. Just heading to pick up… groceries. Talking to myself. You know, mental health.”
Cole bursts out laughing. “Groceries? Since when do you buy your own food, rich boy?”
You’re silently shaking your head, mouthing: “What the fuck did I do to deserve this?”
Dylan catches your eye and, without missing a beat, mouths back: “Want me to tell you?”
You flip him off with both hands.
Cole’s still talking. “Anyway, Braeden said you were ‘busy with a girl’ earlier. Spill. Who is it this time? That actress? Or the model with the—”
“Nobody!” Dylan says way too quickly. “Just… driving. Alone. Very alone.”
You lean your head back against the seat and stare at the car ceiling.
Why me?
Why this idiot?
Why is the universe punishing me with the only man alive who can’t lie for shit?
Dylan glances at you again, smirking despite the chaos, and mouths one last time: “Relax. I got this.”
You mouth back: “You got nothing.”
The yoga studio sign appears ahead.
You have never wanted to disappear more in your entire life.
Cole’s laughing on the screen. “Bro, you sound sketch as hell. Flip the camera, let me see what you’re—”
And that’s when it happens.
You feel it building. That tickle in your nose from the motel’s dusty AC, from Dylan’s cologne, from the sheer stress of this clown show.
You try to fight it.
You pinch your nose.
You hold your breath.
But nope.
AH-CHOO!
A massive, unmistakable sneeze rips out of you—loud, wet, and 100% feminine.
Dead. Silence.
Cole’s eyes go wide on the screen. Dylan freezes like a deer in headlights. You slowly sink even lower until your head is practically in Dylan’s lap.
Cole leans closer to the camera, squinting. “Wait… that sounded like—”
Dylan tries to save it, voice cracking: “That was… uh… the radio! Some ad for allergy meds or—”
But Cole’s already piecing it together. His face cycles through confusion, realization, and pure shock in 0.5 seconds flat.
“Oh my fucking god.” Cole’s voice drops to a whisper-yell. “You’re fucking with Braeden’s girl? You’re fucking with Y/N?!”
Dylan’s mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. No words.
You pop your head up just enough to be visible in the corner of the frame, hoodie still half over your face like that helps.
Cole’s eyes dart to you, then back to Dylan, then to you again.
“Y/N?! WHAT THE FUCK?!”
You give a tiny, mortified wave. “Hi, Cole…”
Dylan finally finds his voice. “Uh… surprise?”
Cole looks like he’s about to have an aneurysm. “You two are—how long—does Braeden—OH MY GOD I’M ON FACETIME WITH MY BEST FRIEND’S GIRLFRIEND HIDING IN THE CAR AFTER YOU PROBABLY JUST—”
He cuts himself off, dragging a hand down his face.
Dylan winces. “In my defense… she sneezed.”
Cole stares at the screen. “You’re both dead. You’re actually dead. Braeden’s gonna murder you. I’m gonna help him hide the bodies.”
You groan, finally sitting up fully. “Can you at least hang up before you start planning our funerals?”
Cole shakes his head, still in disbelief. “I cannot believe this. I literally cannot. I’m hanging up now because I need to process the fact that I just accidentally caught you two post-fuck.”
“Technically mid-cover-up—”
“BYE!” Cole yells, and the screen goes black.
You and Dylan sit in stunned silence for three full seconds.
Then you turn to him slowly.
“I’m going to kill you.”
He starts the car again, hands shaking a little. “Yeah. Fair. But like… in my defense… your sneeze was really aggressive.”
You drop your face into your hands.
Everything is on fire.
You’re both parked outside the yoga studio now, engine off, staring at Dylan’s phone like it’s a bomb. You’re supposed to get out and walk in looking all zen and glowy, but your legs aren’t moving. Dylan’s gripping the steering wheel like he’s trying to choke it.
The phone rings again. FaceTime. Cole.
Dylan groans. “Fuck my life.”
You slap his arm. “Don’t answer! Let it go to voicemail!”
He looks at you, dead serious. “If I don’t pick up, he’s gonna screenshot the last call and send it to Braeden with popcorn emojis.”
You hate that he’s right.
He swipes accept.
Cole’s face fills the screen again, but this time he’s got that evil little smirk—the one he gets when he knows he’s holding all the cards. He’s in his kitchen, sipping a smoothie like a Bond villain.
“Okay,” Cole starts, calm and collected. “I’ve had five minutes to process. I’ve analyzed the situation. I’ve weighed the chaos potential. And I’ve decided: this is the greatest leverage I’ve ever had in my entire life.”
Dylan pinches the bridge of his nose. “Cole—”
“No, no, hear me out,” Cole interrupts, holding up a finger. “The price of my eternal silence is simple. You two are now my personal slaves until further notice.”
You lean into frame, horrified. “What?!”
Cole grins wider. “Starting now. Dylan: you’re buying me courtside Lakers tickets for the next home game. Front row. No cheap seats, I want to smell Kobe’s ghost.”
“Those are like five grand each!”
“Exactly.” Cole sips his smoothie loudly. “And Y/N: you’re making me those brownies. The special ones. Every week. Delivered personally. With a little note that says ‘Thank you for not ruining my life, love Cole’.”
“Are you serious?”
“Deadly.” He leans closer to the camera. “Also, both of you are on call 24/7. I text ‘jump,’ you ask ‘how high and should I bring coffee?’ I want In-N-Out animal-style fries at 2 a.m.? Guess who’s driving.”
Dylan laughs nervously. “Dude, come on. We’re friends.”
“Exactly. Friends don’t let friends raw-dog their other friend’s girlfriend without proper compensation.” He pauses. “Also, I want a cameo in Dylan’s next project. Speaking role. At least three lines.”
You bury your face in your hands. “This is blackmail.”
Cole shrugs. “It’s economics. Supply and demand. I supply silence, you demand I don’t blow up your entire lives.”
Dylan looks at you, then back at Cole. “Fine. Lakers tickets. Brownies. Fries. Cameo. Anything else, Your Highness?”
Cole thinks for a second, tapping his chin. “Yeah. One more thing. If Braeden ever finds out and tries to kill you both… I get to film it for TikTok.”
He hangs up before either of you can respond.
You and Dylan sit in silence.
Then you turn to him slowly.
“I’m never sneezing again.”
Dylan starts the car. “I’m never answering the phone again.”
You both know you’re lying.
Cole just became the most powerful man in Los Angeles.
You finally make it back to the apartment you share with Braeden—hair in a messy bun, face flushed like you just did an hour of hot yoga, carrying your mat like a prop in a bad play.
Braeden’s waiting in the living room, Thai takeout spread out on the coffee table, looking all sweet and domestic in his hoodie. He lights up when you walk in.
“There’s my flexible girl,” he says, standing to pull you into a hug and kiss your forehead. “How was class? You look… glowing.”
You force a smile, heart still racing from the Cole disaster. “Yeah, super intense. Lots of… deep stretches.”
He pulls back, tilting your head gently to kiss your neck—and freezes.
“Uh… babe?” His thumb brushes just below your jaw. “What’s this?”
You know exactly what it is. Dylan’s masterpiece from round two: a dark, obvious hickey right where your pulse is still pounding.
Your brain short-circuits.
“Spider bite,” you blurt out.
Braeden blinks. “A spider?”
“Yeah! Big one. In the yoga studio bathroom. Bit me right there. Super random.”
He buys it instantly—because of course he does. Braeden’s the type who thinks the world is mostly good and people mostly honest.
“Jesus, are you okay? Was it like… poisonous? Should we go to urgent care?” He’s already googling “spider bites Los Angeles” on his phone.
You pat his arm, laughing it off. “No, no, I’m fine. Instructor said it’s probably just a harmless one. Itched a little, but the antihistamine cream is working.”
He nods, concerned but relieved. “Okay, well, sit down. Eat. I got extra pad thai because I know you’re starving after all that… bending.”
You sit, trying to look normal, and that’s when your phone buzzes in your pocket.
You know who it is before you even check.
You angle the phone away from Braeden, who’s busy opening containers, and glance at the screen.
New message from: Dyl 🥴
It’s a dick pic. Full, shameless, perfectly lit mirror shot—him hard, hand wrapped around the base, caption:
> “Thinking about where this was an hour ago.”
You almost choke on air.
You slam the phone face-down on your thigh so fast it makes a loud smack.
Braeden looks up. “You good?”
“Yeah! Just—hot sauce packet exploded a little.” You shove the phone deeper between your thighs, like that’ll erase the image burned into your retinas.
Braeden hands you a plate, totally oblivious. “Here, eat before it gets cold. My poor spider-bitten warrior.”
You smile weakly, fork in one hand, phone clamped between your legs with the other.
Dylan’s already typing again. You can see the “…” bubbles.
You are never surviving this night.
You’re curled up on the couch with Braeden after dinner, his arm around you, some random Netflix show playing in the background that neither of you is really watching. He’s tracing lazy circles on your shoulder, all cozy and cute, while you’re still mentally recovering from the spider-bite lie, the dick pic, and Cole’s new career as your personal extortionist.
Then Braeden drops the bomb.
“Hey, babe,” he says casually, kissing the top of your head. “Tomorrow I’m heading to the studio kinda early—gotta lay down some guitar tracks with the guys. Wanna come with? Dylan and Cole will be there too. Could be fun. You can chill in the lounge, maybe give notes on the mixes like last time.”
Your entire body goes rigid.
Fun.
He said fun.
Your brain immediately launches into a full-blown disaster movie montage:
- Scenario 1: You walk in, Dylan looks at you for 0.2 seconds too long, Braeden notices.
- Scenario 2: Cole makes one of his new blackmail smirks and “accidentally” calls you “sneeze affair girl” in front of everyone.
- Scenario 3: Dylan “drops” his phone and the lock screen is that dick pic he sent you.
- Scenario 4: You sneeze again and Cole yells “CODE RED” across the studio.
- Scenario 5: Braeden asks why you and Dylan keep avoiding eye contact and you blurt out “BECAUSE HE ATE ME OUT IN A MOTEL YESTERDAY” like a psychopath.
You stare at the TV screen without blinking.
Braeden nudges you gently. “Earth to Y/N? You in?”
You force your face into what you hope is a normal, excited smile. “Uh… yeah! Sounds cool. I mean, I’ve got nothing going on. Totally.”
Inside, you’re screaming.
He grins, oblivious, and pulls you closer. “Sweet. Dylan’s been weirdly hyped about tomorrow—kept texting me all night. It’ll be chill.”
You bet he’s hyped.
Your phone buzzes in your pocket.
You already know.
You wait till Braeden gets up to grab water, then sneak a peek.
> Dyl 🥴:
“heard you’re coming to the studio tomorrow 😏
wear something easy to take off in the bathroom
xoxo your favorite spider jerk”
You lock the phone so fast you nearly crack the screen.
Tomorrow is going to be an absolute nightmare.
And you’re 100% going to show up anyway.
Because apparently you hate yourself.
It’s the next day, and you’re in the studio lounge, pretending to scroll through your phone while your heart tries to escape your chest. The place smells like coffee, guitar polish, and impending doom. Braeden’s in the control room laying down tracks, Cole’s tuning his drums, and Dylan’s “casually” leaning against the wall next to you, pretending to check emails.
You wait until no one’s looking, then hiss under your breath: “How the hell did you know about the spider thing already?”
Dylan doesn’t even look up from his phone, just smirks. “Because Braeden texted me last night. Direct quote: ‘Yo man, can you help me clean the studio later? Some spider bit Y/N in her yoga class and she’s freaked about bugs now.’ He literally asked me to vacuum.”
You stare at him, horrified. “He told you?”
“He tells me everything, baby. That’s the problem.” He finally glances at you, eyes sparkling with pure evil. “I almost replied with a spider emoji and ‘tell her I know exactly where the spider's mouth also was.’ Almost.”
You’re about to threaten his life when Cole strolls in, drumsticks in hand, sipping an iced coffee like he owns the place.
He stops right in front of you, tilts his head, and zeroed in on your neck.
“Damn, Y/N… what happened there? Looks painful.”
Before you can open your mouth, Braeden’s voice booms from the control room across the studio:
“BABE GOT BIT BY A SPIDER IN YOGA! BIG ONE!”
Cole’s eyebrows shoot up. He turns slowly toward the control room, then back to you, then yells louder: “For real? That’s what we’re calling it now?”
You want to die.
Braeden pops his head out the door, confused. “What’d you say, dude?”
Dylan, moving faster than you’ve ever seen him, casually steps in front of Cole, pulls a folded $100 bill from his pocket, and slips it into Cole’s hand like they’re completing a drug deal.
Cole looks down at the money, then instantly pivots with the smoothest fake smile known to man.
“I said… good thing Dylan cleaned the studio already! No more spiders!”
Braeden nods, satisfied. “Hell yeah, thanks man. My girl’s traumatized.”
He disappears back into the control room.
Cole pockets the hundred, turns to you both, and mouths: “That’s two brownies this week now.”
Dylan salutes him with two fingers.
You drop your head into your hands and whisper to no one in particular: “I should’ve just let the ‘spider’ finish me off yesterday.”
Dylan leans down, lips brushing your ear: “He did. Three times.”
Cole chokes on his coffee.
You’re never coming to the studio again.
(You absolutely will next week.)
You’ve decided—nobly, heroically—to be a good girlfriend today. No funny looks at Dylan. No secret texts. No risking everything in the studio where your actual boyfriend is literally twenty feet away tracking guitars.
You’re sitting on the worn leather couch in the lounge, legs crossed, sipping an iced coffee, scrolling through playlists to “help” with track ideas for Braeden. Focused. Loyal. Zen.
Dylan, of course, has other plans.
He wanders in from the control room, guitar strap still around his neck, looking all sweaty and cute from playing. He spots you alone and immediately turns into a full-on golden retriever who just saw an open gate.
He flops down next to you—way too close—thigh pressed against yours, arm draped casually over the back of the couch behind you.
“Hey,” he whispers, voice low and needy, big brown eyes doing that puppy thing he knows works on you. “You look so fucking hot just sitting there being all supportive and shit.”
You don’t look at him. Keep scrolling. “Dylan. Behave.”
He scoots closer, nose brushing your shoulder, inhaling like a creep. “Come onnnn. Just a quick one. Bathroom’s empty. Five minutes. I’m already hard.”
You glance down—yep, he’s not lying. The outline in his jeans is obscene.
“No,” you hiss, trying to stay firm. “Braeden’s right there. Cole’s watching us like a hawk for more bribe material. I’m being good today.”
Dylan actually whines—quiet, desperate, golden retriever to the core.
“Please, baby? I’ll be so fast. I’ll do all the work. You can just stand there and look pretty while I fuck you against the sink.” He nuzzles your neck, lips grazing the exact spot he marked yesterday. “I’ve been thinking about you all morning. I’m dying here.”
You feel yourself weakening because he’s being so pathetic it’s somehow hot.
“Dylan…”
He pulls back just enough to give you the full pleading eyes, bottom lip out, hands clasped like he’s praying. “I’ll make it worth it. I’ll eat you out for an hour next time. Two hours. Whatever you want. Just… please. I’m begging.”
You finally look at him. He’s flushed, hair messy, looking like he genuinely might combust if you say no.
You sigh, already hating yourself.
“Three minutes. Bathroom. No noises. And if anyone knocks, you’re handling it.”
His face lights up like you just told him Christmas came early. He jumps up, grabs your hand, and practically drags you down the hall, whispering “I love you I love you I love you” the whole way like an overexcited puppy.
You’re a terrible person.
But damn, he makes it hard to be good.
You barely get the bathroom door locked before Dylan’s on you—hands everywhere, mouth hot against yours, backing you up until your ass hits the cold sink counter. He’s already tugging your leggings down, groaning into your neck like he’s been starving for this all day.
“Fuck, you’re soaked,” he whispers, fingers sliding between your legs without preamble, pumping once, twice. “Good girlfriend, my ass. You’ve been wet since I begged.”
You bite his shoulder to keep from moaning out loud. “Shut up and fuck me already.”
He doesn’t need to be told twice. Jeans shoved down just enough, he spins you around, bends you over the sink, and pushes in with one deep thrust that makes your knees buckle. The mirror fogs instantly from your breath.
“Yes—fuck—” you gasp, gripping the counter as he starts moving, fast and filthy, exactly like he promised. No teasing, no slow build—just raw, desperate strokes because you’ve got minutes, not hours.
He’s got one hand fisted in your hair, the other clamped over your mouth because you’re already too loud. His hips snap against your ass, the sound wet and obscene in the tiny room.
“You feel so fucking good,” he growls against your ear, voice shaking. “Gonna come so hard inside you while your boyfriend’s twenty feet away looking for you.”
You clench around him just at the words, and he hisses, pace stuttering.
That’s when the knock comes.
Three sharp, “discreet” taps on the door.
Cole’s voice, low but urgent: “Yo, lovebirds—hurry the fuck up. Braeden’s asking where his girlfriend disappeared to. He’s literally walking around calling ‘Babe? You okay?’ like a lost puppy.”
You freeze. Dylan doesn’t. If anything, he thrusts harder, smirking at your reflection in the mirror like this is the hottest thing that’s ever happened to him.
You reach back and dig your nails into his thigh—hard—trying to get him to stop.
He leans over you, still moving slow and deep now, and whispers right against your ear: “Come for me quick, baby. Right now. While Cole stands guard like our little blackmail butler.”
Another knock—more insistent.
“Seriously,” Cole hisses through the door. “I’m not getting murdered for you two. Wrap it up or I’m telling him you’re ‘helping Dylan find his pick’ or some shit.”
Dylan’s hand slides down to rub your clit fast and perfect, and you’re done for—coming hard around him, thighs shaking, biting down on your own arm to stay quiet.
He follows seconds later, buried deep, groaning low into your neck as he fills you.
You both stay there for a split second, panting, before reality crashes back in.
Dylan pulls out fast, tucking himself away, while you yank your leggings up with trembling hands.
Cole knocks one last time. “I’m giving you ten seconds before I fake a drum emergency. Move!”
Dylan unlocks the door, cracks it open just enough to slip Cole another folded bill without looking.
Cole snatches it. “That’s three brownies now. And a latte tomorrow.”
You slip out first, hair fixed (barely), face flushed like you just “washed your hands a long time.”
Braeden’s voice echoes from down the hall: “Babe? You good?”
You call back, voice only slightly shaky: “Yeah! Coming!”
Heyy can you write a teen brae fic? Not really any preferences other than fluff lol, thank you!
𝑴𝒆𝒂𝒏𝒕 𝑻𝒐 𝑩𝒆 𝒀𝒐𝒖𝒓𝒔 ♡︎ (Braeeden Lemasters X FemReader)
Content: Fluff, Drama Club, Crush, Dylan and Cole Cameo, Long Live Teen Brae Saga, Highschool Couple Goals
The bell had barely rung when the door to your history classroom swung open with that familiar dramatic flair only you seemed to pull off without trying. You stepped inside, clipboard in hand, wearing your usual theater club president energy like it was designer. Your hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail, a few strands falling loose around your face, and you had that bright, unstoppable smile that made half the room sit up straighter.
“Hi everyone! Sorry to interrupt, Mr. Harlan,” you said sweetly, flashing the tired teacher your best polite grin. He just waved you on with a sigh—he’d learned long ago there was no stopping you once you were on a mission.
You cleared your throat, bouncing a little on your toes. “So! As most of you know, I’m president of the drama club, and we’re doing Heathers: The Musical for the big end-of-year show. Auditions are this Friday after school in the auditorium. All roles are open—Veronica, JD, the Heathers, even the supporting cast. No experience needed, just responsibility and commitment. Sign-up sheet is on the door if you’re interested!”
You kept talking, explaining the rehearsal schedule and how fun it was going to be, but Braeden wasn’t hearing a single word about callbacks or tech week.
He was too busy staring.
From his seat in the back row, elbow propped on the desk, chin resting on his hand, Braeden’s eyes were glued to you like you were the only person in the entire universe. His heart was doing that stupid fluttery thing again—the one that started the moment you walked in and refused to stop. God, you were so cute when you got excited about theater stuff. The way your hands moved while you talked, the little bounce in your step, how your eyes lit up when you mentioned the big finale number.
“She’s perfect,” he thought for the hundredth time that week.
Under the desk, his notebook was open to a fresh page. Instead of taking notes on the Industrial Revolution like he was supposed to, Braeden was absentmindedly doodling little hearts around your name in bubbly handwriting. Y/N ❤️ inside one heart. Braeden + Y/N inside another. A tiny stick figure of him holding hands with a stick figure of you. He didn’t even realize he was smiling like an idiot.
Cole, sitting right next to him, noticed immediately. He leaned over and whispered, “Dude. You’re doing it again.”
Braeden blinked, snapping out of his trance for half a second. “Doing what?”
Dylan, on Braeden’s other side, smirked without looking up from his own notebook. “Drawing hearts and staring at Y/N like she hung the moon. Subtle, man. Real subtle.”
Braeden’s cheeks went bright red. He quickly tried to cover the doodles with his arm, but it was too late. Cole had already seen the Mrs. Lemasters? scribbled in the corner.
“You’ve had the biggest crush on her since freshman year,” Dylan teased quietly. “Just talk to her, bro.”
“I can’t! She’s… her. And I’m me,” Braeden whispered back, eyes drifting to you again as you laughed at something one of the students asked. His pencil unconsciously drew another heart. “What if she thinks I’m weird?”
Cole rolled his eyes. “You’re already weird. Might as well be weird with her in the musical.”
You finished your announcement with a cheerful, “Hope to see some of you there! Have a good rest of class!” and gave the room one last bright wave before heading out.
Braeden watched you leave, chin back in his hand, completely gone.
Cole nudged him hard. “Okay. New plan. We’re signing you up for auditions.”
Braeden’s head snapped toward them. “Wait—what?” he hissed, voice cracking in that embarrassing way it still did sometimes when he got nervous. “What the hell do you mean you’re signing me up for the audition?!”
Cole leaned back in his chair with a smug little grin, arms crossed. “Exactly what I said. We’re putting your name down for JD. Today. Before you chicken out.”
Dylan nodded, tapping his pencil against his notebook like he was already writing the master plan. “C’mon, man. Even if you only get cast as Tree Number Three, it’s worth it. But let’s be real you’re gonna go for JD. She’s obviously gonna be Veronica. It’s perfect.”
Braeden felt his face heat up again. He glanced at the door you’d just walked out of, heart still doing laps in his chest. “You guys are insane. I can’t just… audition. In front of her. What if I mess up?”
Cole snorted. “Bro. You’re literally the vocalist of our band. You can sing. Like, actually sing. Dead Girl Walking? You’d kill that.”
Braeden buried his face in his hands for a second, groaning. “That’s the problem! Being JD means I’d have to do all those intense scenes with her. Including… you know… the whole Dead Girl Walking thing. In front of the entire cast. And probably the whole school eventually.”
Dylan raised an eyebrow, smirking. “And the downside, bro?”
“Yeah,” Cole added, barely holding in a laugh. “You get to kiss her. On stage. Multiple times probably. As part of the show. Officially. With teachers watching and everything, so it’s not even weird.”
Braeden peeked through his fingers, eyes wide. “You’re both the worst friends I’ve ever had.”
“Best friends,” Dylan corrected, already tearing a piece of paper from his notebook and writing “Braeden Lemasters - JD” on it. “We’re signing you up right now. No take-backs.”
Braeden tried to snatch the paper but Cole blocked him with his arm. “Think about it, dude. This is your chance. You’ve been doodling hearts with her name for months. Now you can actually talk to her every day at rehearsal. Maybe even walk her to class after. Super romantic. Very rom-com.”
Braeden groaned again, but this time there was a tiny, hopeless smile sneaking onto his face. The idea of being close to you for weeks… getting to act opposite you… maybe even making you laugh during rehearsals…
“…Fine,” he mumbled, slumping in his seat in defeat. “But if I embarrass myself and she thinks I’m a total loser, I’m blaming both of you.”
Dylan folded the sign-up slip and stuffed it in his backpack with a triumphant grin. “Deal. Now stop drawing hearts and start practicing your JD voice, loverboy.”
Braeden just stared at the empty doorway where you’d stood minutes ago, stomach full of butterflies and terror and way too much hope.
After school, Braeden found himself being physically dragged down the hallway by Dylan and Cole like a criminal being taken to sentencing. His backpack bounced against his back as he tried to plant his feet.
“Guys, wait— I changed my mind! This is a terrible idea!” he whisper-yelled, cheeks already pink.
“Too late, loverboy,” Dylan grinned, not loosening his grip on Braeden’s arm. “We already turned in your form this morning.”
They rounded the corner and there it was: the drama club sign-up table right outside the auditorium. And of course… you were sitting behind it, looking ridiculously cute with your clipboard, colorful pens, and a giant Heathers poster taped to the front of the table.
You looked up when you heard them approaching, and your face lit up with that bright smile that always made Braeden’s brain short-circuit.
“Hey! You guys here to audition?” you asked cheerfully.
Cole shoved Braeden forward so hard he almost tripped into the table. “Yeah, this one right here wants JD.”
Braeden shot his friends a death glare before turning to you, trying to play it cool and failing miserably. “Uh… yeah. If that’s cool.”
You beamed at him, flipping through the papers. “Of course it’s cool! We need a good JD. Okay, so for your audition song, you’d have to prepare ‘Meant to Be Yours.’ It’s the big one.”
Braeden nodded, trying to focus on your words and not on how pretty your eyes looked when you were talking about the musical.
“And if you make it to callbacks that's basically auditions second base,” you continued, completely innocent, “you’ll have to do a scene with me. Specifically ‘Our Love is God.’ Since I’m reading for Veronica.”
The second the words “second base” weren’t even said but heavily implied by the scene choice, Dylan and Cole lost it. They both started giggling like middle schoolers behind Braeden.
“Second base,” Cole whispered, barely containing his laugh.
Dylan covered his mouth, shoulders shaking. “Our Love is God… yeah, bro. That’s definitely second base material.”
Braeden’s face went bright red. He wanted the floor to open up and swallow him whole.
You tilted your head, confused but amused. “What’s so funny?”
“Nothing!” Braeden said way too fast, shooting his idiot friends another death glare. “They’re just… being dumb. Ignore them.”
You laughed softly, the sound making Braeden’s stomach flip. You scribbled something down on the sign-up sheet and looked back up at him with a sweet smile.“Well, I’m really glad you’re auditioning, Braeden. I’ve heard you sing with your band before. You’re actually really good.”
Braeden blinked, his heart doing a full cartwheel. “You… you’ve heard me sing?”
“Duh,” you said, grinning. “You guys practice near the football field sometimes. Your voice carries.”
Cole and Dylan were now full-on smirking behind him, giving him thumbs up like proud dads.
Braeden swallowed, suddenly feeling both terrified and insanely happy. “Cool… yeah. I’ll practice ‘Meant to Be Yours’ then.”
“Perfect,” you said, sliding the clipboard toward him so he could sign. When he leaned in to write his name, your fingers accidentally brushed his as you held the pen steady.
He almost dropped the pen.
You didn’t seem to notice the way his whole face went nuclear, just smiled at him again. “Good luck, Braeden. I hope you get it.”
As the three of them walked away, Dylan threw an arm around Braeden’s shoulders.“See? She already likes you. And now you get to sing love songs with her. Our Love is God, baby.”
“Shut up,” Braeden groaned, but he couldn’t hide the massive, lovesick smile spreading across his face.
Later that night, Braeden’s phone buzzed like crazy. He was halfway through practicing “Meant to Be Yours” in his room when the group chat exploded.
Dylan: Operation Clear the Field is a go.
Cole: Meet us at the school back gate in 10. Bring gloves.
Braeden: WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU TWO TALKING ABOUT???
But of course they didn’t answer. Twenty minutes later, Braeden found himself crouched behind a bush outside the school with his two idiot best friends, all three of them wearing black hoodies like they were in a low-budget heist movie.
“This is a crime,” Braeden whispered frantically. “This is literally breaking and entering. We’re gonna get expelled. Or arrested. Or both!”
Dylan was already picking the lock on the side door with a paperclip and a ridiculous amount of confidence. “Relax, dude. The drama room window was open last time I checked. In and out.”
Cole grinned, shining his phone flashlight like a proper criminal. “We’re just… borrowing the other JD audition forms. If there are no other JDs, you automatically get the role. Simple.”
Braeden ran a hand through his hair, panicking. “This is a felony! We’re stealing people’s dreams! What if someone else really wanted to be JD?!”
Dylan finally got the door open and turned to him with the most dramatic expression. “Braeden. In war and love… all is fair.”
Cole nodded solemnly. “Exactly. This is love, bro. You’ve been pining over Y/N since forever. We’re just removing the competition so you can have your big romantic musical moment.”
Braeden groaned, but let them pull him inside anyway. The three of them tiptoed through the dark hallways until they reached the drama club room. The audition clipboard was sitting right on the teacher’s desk, with a stack of sign-up sheets underneath.
Cole quickly flipped through them. “There are three other guys signed up for JD… Perfect. We’re taking these.”
He stuffed the papers into his backpack while Dylan kept watch at the door.
Braeden stood there looking equal parts horrified and touched. “You guys are actually insane. Like clinically.”
“Yeah, but you love us,” Dylan said, ruffling Braeden’s hair. “And one day when you and Y/N are the cutest theater couple in school history, you’ll thank us.”
They slipped back out the same way they came, hearts racing the whole time. Once they were safely outside the gates, Braeden stopped under a streetlight and stared at his friends.
“I can’t believe you actually did that for me.”
Cole shrugged with a big goofy smile. “What are bros for? Now you just have to crush those practices. No pressure.”
Braeden looked down at his shoes, a shy little smile breaking through. “If I get to do ‘Our Love is God’ with her… and maybe actually get to know her… it might be worth the possible jail time.”
Dylan threw an arm around his shoulders. “That’s the spirit, loverboy.”
The auditorium was packed with drama kids, theater nerds, and a few curious freshmen when you stepped onto the stage with your clipboard and that radiant smile. The whole room went quiet as you tapped the mic.
“Alright everyone! Thank you so much for auditioning. We had some seriously amazing performances…” You paused for dramatic effect, eyes scanning the crowd until they landed on Braeden sitting between Dylan and Cole in the middle rows. “But here’s the official cast for Heathers: The Musical!”
You started reading the list. When you got to the leads, your voice got extra excited.
“Playing Veronica Sawyer… me, obviously,” you said with a little laugh. “And playing Jason Dean… Braeden Lemasters!”
The auditorium erupted in applause and whistles. Braeden froze in his seat like he’d been hit by lightning.
Dylan and Cole immediately started shoving him. “Go! Go! Get up there, loverboy!”
Braeden stumbled up the aisle, legs feeling like jelly, until he was standing on stage next to you. His heart was hammering so loud he was sure the whole school could hear it.
You didn’t hesitate. The second he was close enough, you threw your arms around him in a big, warm hug right there in front of everyone. Braeden’s brain short-circuited. You smelled like vanilla and strawberry lip gloss and pure chaos.
“Oh my god, I’m so happy it’s you!” you said, still hugging him tight. “We’re gonna be such a good JD and Veronica. We have to practice our chemistry all the time, okay? Like, constantly.”
Braeden pulled back just enough to look at your face, eyes wide. “All the time…?”
You nodded enthusiastically, still holding his arms. “Yeah! For the assemblies and pep rallies we have to sit together and act all couple-y so it feels natural on stage. And we’ll need to rehearse the kisses a lot too. You know… for authenticity.”
Braeden’s face went nuclear red.
Before he could even process what you just said, you leaned in and pressed a quick, soft kiss right on his lips. Just a peck, but it was enough to make his knees weak.
You pulled back with a playful grin. “See? Practice! We gotta get comfortable with that. Dead Girl Walking is gonna be intense.”
From the audience, Dylan and Cole were losing their minds — whistling, clapping, and making kissy noises like the chaotic best friends they were.
Braeden stood there stunned, lips tingling, completely lovestruck. He had no idea the “practice” was going to start immediately. Or that he’d have to sit next to you at every assembly pretending to be your boyfriend.
You grabbed his hand and raised it with yours toward the audience. “Let’s give it up for our JD everyone!”
Braeden could barely smile through the panic and pure bliss. All he could think was “Holy shit… this is actually happening.”
Braeden practically floated down the stage steps, legs moving on autopilot while his brain replayed the last thirty seconds on loop.She hugged me. She kissed me. She actually kissed me. On the lips. In front of everyone.
His face was burning bright red, a massive dopey smile plastered across it that he couldn’t wipe off even if he tried. He walked back to his seat in a total daze, cheeks flushed, eyes sparkling like he’d just been hit by Cupid’s truck.
Dylan and Cole were waiting for him with matching shit-eating grins.
“Bro…” Dylan started, shaking his head in disbelief. “That went way better than we thought. She kissed you. On stage. Voluntarily.”
Cole laughed, punching Braeden’s arm lightly. “Yeah, dude. Wow. This is gonna be so much better than we planned. You’re actually living the rom-com dream right now.”
Braeden dropped into his seat like his knees had given up, still grinning like an idiot. He covered his face with both hands for a second, peeking through his fingers.
“Shut up… shut up both of you,” he mumbled, voice muffled but clearly giddy. “I’m busy right now. I’m deciding what flowers I want for the wedding. Probably white roses… or maybe sunflowers? She seems like a sunflower girl…”
Dylan barked out a laugh. “You’re so down bad it’s actually impressive.”
From the stage, you cupped your hands around your mouth and shouted loud enough for the whole auditorium to hear:“See you at rehearsals, Brae!”
Then, with zero hesitation, you blew him a dramatic kiss right there in front of the entire drama club.
The room erupted in “Oooohs” and teasing cheers.
Braeden’s heart did a full backflip. He waved back shyly, blush deepening to a new shade of red that probably wasn’t even on the color spectrum. He sank lower in his seat, but the smile on his face only got bigger.
Cole leaned over and whispered, “You’re so getting married for real by the end of this musical.”
“Shut up,” Braeden whispered back, but his voice was soft and dreamy. “I’m still picking the flowers…”
The auditorium lights were dimmed for the first official rehearsal, and the energy was already chaotic in the best way. The three Heathers were up on stage practicing “Candy Store,” running through choreography with way too much attitude and laughter. You were sitting on the edge of the stage for a moment, watching them, before your eyes found Braeden sitting alone in the front row, nervously flipping through his script.
You hopped off the stage and plopped down right next to him, close enough that your knee brushed his.
“Hey, JD,” you said with a bright smile, bumping his shoulder playfully.
Braeden nearly dropped his script. “H-hey, Veronica,” he answered, trying to sound casual but failing completely. His voice came out a little squeaky.
The director called for the crew to start setting up “Fight for Me” — your first big scene together. While the stage was being adjusted, you stayed seated next to him, legs swinging lightly.
“So…” you started, turning to face him fully, “I’ve been meaning to ask. Why did you finally decide to join theater? You never auditioned before, and this is our last big show of the year. Kinda sucks it’s only for the senior musical.”
Braeden froze.
His brain went completely blank. He couldn’t exactly say “Because I’ve had a massive crush on you for three years and my idiot friends forced me into this so I could be close to you.” That would be immediate death by embarrassment.
“Uh…” He scratched the back of his neck, cheeks turning pink. “I guess I just… wanted to try something new? Before we all graduate and stuff. You know… stepping out of my comfort zone.”
You tilted your head, studying him with a curious little smile. “Really? That’s it? No secret theater dreams hidden away?”
Braeden laughed nervously, avoiding your eyes. “Nope. No secret dreams. Just… thought it could be fun.” And because I’m stupidly in love with you, he thought.
You leaned in a little closer, your shoulder now fully pressed against his. “Well, I’m really glad you did. You’re gonna be an amazing JD. I can already tell we’re gonna have crazy good chemistry.”
The director called your names to come up for “Fight for Me.” You stood up and offered Braeden your hand to pull him up.
“C’mon, partner. Time for our first official interaction.”
Braeden had barely walked out of the auditorium when Dylan and Cole ambushed him in the hallway like two overly excited secret agents.
“So?! How was it?!” Dylan asked, grabbing Braeden’s shoulders and shaking him lightly. “Did you guys practice the kiss again? Tell us everything.”
Braeden let out a long, dramatic groan, running both hands through his hair as they walked toward the parking lot.
“It went… good. Really good, actually,” he admitted, cheeks still a little pink from the whole afternoon. “We ran some scenes, she was super nice and touchy and… yeah. But I’m fucking terrified about ‘Dead Girl Walking.’”
Cole blinked. “Bro, that’s literally the last song you’re gonna rehearse at for. It’s weeks away—”
“No it’s not!” Braeden cut him off, voice cracking with panic. “We’re doing the big numbers first. The director wants to get the hardest ones out of the way. We’re mounting ‘Dead Girl Walking’ tomorrow afternoon.”
Dylan’s eyes widened. “Tomorrow?!”
“Yeah. Tomorrow,” Braeden said, looking genuinely stressed. “I have to do that whole intense, grinding, super sexual scene with her… in front of the whole cast… tomorrow. What the hell am I gonna do?”
There was a beat of silence.
Then Cole’s brain supplied the most teenage-boy solution possible.
“Well…” Cole started, trying (and failing) to keep a straight face, “you’re just gonna have to jerk off before and after rehearsal so you don’t get hard on stage, bro.”
The second the words left his mouth, Cole burst out laughing so hard he had to lean against the wall. Dylan immediately joined him, both of them cracking up like it was the funniest thing they’d ever heard.
“Cole, what the fuck—” Braeden groaned, face turning bright red as he shoved his friend. “That’s not funny!”
“It’s a little funny,” Dylan wheezed, wiping a tear from his eye. “Imagine you in the middle of ‘Dead Girl Walking’ and suddenly… situation.”
Cole was still dying of laughter. “You better take care of business twice, man. Once in the morning, once right before. Safety first.”
Braeden covered his face with both hands, mortified but also fighting a smile because his friends were ridiculous.“You two are the worst. I’m never telling you anything again.”
Dylan threw an arm around him, still chuckling. “Nah, you love us. But for real… you got this, loverboy. Just don’t think about how hot Y/N’s gonna look in that schoolgirl outfit while you’re singing.”
Braeden let out another long suffering groan as his friends continued laughing all the way to the car.
The auditorium felt ten times smaller the next afternoon.
Braeden stood center stage in his half-costume (just a black trench coat over his normal clothes for now), heart hammering so hard he was sure it was visible through his shirt. The director had decided to jump straight into the big numbers, and here you were — full Veronica energy, skirt slightly hiked up for the choreography, looking way too hot for a school rehearsal.
You started singing, voice strong and confident:
“Sorry, but I really had to wake you See, I've decided I must ride you 'till I break you 'Cause Heather says I got to go You're my last meal on death row Shut your mouth And lose them tighty whiteys Come on!”
Braeden was trying his hardest to stay in character, but he was failing miserably. He was completely gone. His eyes were glued to you as you moved around him with that fierce, playful energy. Every step, every look, every little smirk you gave him made his brain melt.
You pushed him gently backward until he sat on the prop bed. Then, without hesitation, you climbed onto his lap, straddling him like the song demanded. Your hands landed on his shoulders, faces inches apart as you continued singing with full passion:
“Tonight I'm yours! I'm your dead girl walking Get on all fours Kiss this dead girl walking Let's go, you know the drill I'm hot and pissed and on the pill Bow down to the will of a dead girl walking!”
Braeden’s hands hovered awkwardly at your waist, not sure where to put them. His face was burning. He could feel the heat of your body through both your clothes, your weight perfectly settled on his lap. You kept singing, eyes locked on his:
“And you know, you know, you know It's 'cause you're beautiful You say you're numb inside But I can't agree So the world's unfair? Keep it locked out there In here it's beautiful Let's make this beautiful!”
The chemistry was insane.
Even the director stopped to watch, impressed. You two had natural fire — the way you moved together, the way you looked at each other, the tension in the air. It didn’t feel like acting. It felt electric.
Braeden was a mess underneath you. He was trying so hard not to stare at your lips, not to focus on how good you smelled, how soft your thighs felt on either side of him. He was practically drooling, completely lovestruck, eyes wide and heart eyes activated.
When the song ended, you stayed on his lap for a second longer than necessary, breathing a little heavy from the performance. You smiled down at him, soft and genuine.
“You’re really good at this,” you whispered, still close. “That felt… really natural.”
Braeden could only nod dumbly, too dazed to speak properly. “Y-yeah… really natural.”
From the side of the stage, Dylan and Cole (who had snuck in to watch) were silently dying of laughter, giving him double thumbs up.
You finally climbed off his lap, but not before giving his hand a little squeeze.
The director clapped. “That was excellent! Chemistry is perfect. We’re keeping that blocking.”
Braeden sat there stunned, still feeling the ghost of your weight on him, completely and utterly in love.
Braeden was still sitting on the prop bed, looking like he’d just seen God, while you hopped off his lap and laughed at something the director said. You gave Braeden one last playful shoulder bump before moving to the next blocking note.
Cole leaned toward Dylan, whispering, “Okay… am I crazy or is she actually into him?”
Dylan crossed his arms, smirking. “Bro, this is different. She’s never like this.”
“Exactly,” Cole said, eyes narrowed like a detective. “Last year with Phantom of the Opera, she was all business. She barely even hugged her Raoul during rehearsals. And freshman year with Little Shop of Horrors? She treated her co-star like a brother. No extra touches, no staying on laps longer than needed, no blowing kisses from the stage…”
Dylan nodded slowly. “And now look at her with Brae. She’s finding excuses to touch him. She kissed him during the cast announcement. She sat on his lap like it was the most natural thing in the world. And she called him ‘Brae’ in front of everyone.”
Cole grinned. “There’s zero ‘let’s rehearse chemistry after school’ vibes with other people… but with him? She’s making it part of the process. She’s into him, dude. For real.”
On stage, you turned back toward Braeden with a bright smile and said something that made him blush again. You even fixed the collar of his trench coat for him, fingers lingering a second longer than necessary.
Dylan let out a low whistle. “This isn’t just good acting. She’s enjoying this way too much. Our boy might actually have a shot.”
Cole pulled out his phone and started typing rapidly in the group chat.
Cole: loverboy you better lock this down
Dylan: she’s down bad fr
Cole: dead girl walking = she wants to be your walking dead girl or something like that (if you know what I mean)
Braeden, who had just walked off stage and seen the messages, looked up at them in horror and flipped them off from across the auditorium.
But even he couldn’t hide the massive, lovesick smile on his face.
You waved at him from the stage. “See you tomorrow, Brae! We’re gonna kill the rest of the show!”
Braeden waved back weakly, heart doing somersaults.
From the back, Dylan and Cole exchanged a look.
“Yeah,” Dylan said confidently. “She’s definitely falling for him.”
Rehearsal finally wrapped up late in the evening. The cast was packing up, the stage lights dimming one by one. Braeden was still floating on a cloud, replaying every moment of “Dead Girl Walking” in his head when Dylan and Cole cornered him near the auditorium exit.
“Okay, loverboy,” Dylan said, crossing his arms with a knowing smirk. “We have a conspiracy theory.”
Cole jumped in immediately. “She’s 100% into you. For real. Not just ‘good scene partner’ vibes. She’s never been this handsy or flirty with any other co-star in past shows. Not even close.”
Braeden shook his head quickly, face flushing. “Nope. Nope nope nope. You guys are reading way too much into it. She’s just being nice. She’s the theater president, she’s friendly with everyone. It’s all for the show. Chemistry practice and stuff. Don’t get my hopes up like that.”
Dylan laughed. “Bro, she sat on your lap and sang about riding you till she breaks you while staring straight into your soul. That’s not ‘just being nice.’”
“I’m telling you, it’s nothing—” Braeden started, but he stopped mid-sentence.
Because you were walking straight toward them.
Your hair was a little messy from rehearsal, cheeks still slightly pink from all the singing and dancing. You gave Dylan and Cole a quick polite smile before turning your full attention to Braeden.
“Hey, Brae,” you said softly, a little nervous but determined. You played with the strap of your bag. “Can I… talk to you for a second?”
Dylan and Cole immediately took three big steps back, pretending to be very interested in a poster on the wall.
You took a small breath. “So… I was thinking. You’ve been really great in rehearsals and… I don’t know, I feel like we have really good energy together. Not just on stage.” You smiled shyly. “Would you want to go out with me sometime? Like… on a real date? Maybe this weekend? We could get ice cream or something. Or go to the record store. Whatever you want.”
Braeden’s brain completely shut down.
He stood there frozen, eyes wide, mouth slightly open like a fish out of water. His face went from pink to bright crimson in record time.“You… you’re asking me… on a date?” he stuttered, voice barely working.
You nodded, biting your lip with a hopeful little smile. “Yeah. I am.”
Behind you, Dylan and Cole were silently freaking out — fist-bumping and making exaggerated shocked faces.
Braeden finally managed to speak, his voice soft and completely lovestruck:“…Yes. Yeah. Definitely. I’d really like that.”
You beamed, the smile lighting up your whole face. “Great! Text me later and we’ll figure out the details, okay?”
You gave him one last cute wave and walked away toward the exit.
The second you were gone, Dylan and Cole tackled Braeden in a group hug, laughing like maniacs.
“JUST BEING NICE, HUH?!” Cole yelled.
Braeden buried his burning face in his hands, smiling so hard it hurt.
Content: Smut, The title says it all, Oral Male Receiving, facial, praise n Degradation
The plates were nearly empty, the low lighting in Braeden’s apartment casting a warm, golden glow over the wooden table. You’d both taken your time with dinner pasta, a little wine, easy conversation that had slowly grown more charged as the night went on. Braeden leaned back in his chair, his long fingers lazily tracing the rim of his wine glass. His eyes, dark and playful, stayed locked on you with that signature half-smirk that always made your stomach flip.
He let the comfortable silence stretch for a moment before tilting his head, voice low and smooth.
“So… I’ve been thinking,” he started, his tone casual but carrying that unmistakable edge. “Have you ever played strip poker?”
You blinked, a small surprised laugh escaping your lips as you set your fork down. The question hung in the air between you, electric.
“Strip poker?” you repeated, eyebrows raised. “I’ve heard of it, obviously. But no… I’ve never actually played.”
Braeden’s smirk deepened, slow and dangerous. He leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table, gaze dragging over you like he was already imagining how the night was going to unfold.
“Never?” he asked, voice dropping an octave, husky with interest. “Not even once? Not even some drunk college version?”
You shook your head, feeling heat creep up your neck under the intensity of his stare. “Nope. Never.”
He hummed softly, biting his lower lip for a second as his eyes flickered with clear hunger. The air between you felt thicker now, heavier with promise.“Well then…” murmured, his fingers drumming once against the table. “Maybe tonight we fix that.”
Braeden chuckled softly at your answer, the sound low and warm in his chest. He pushed his chair back and stood up, walking over to the drawer in the living room cabinet. You watched the way his black t-shirt stretched across his shoulders as he reached inside and pulled out a brand new deck of cards, still sealed.
He came back to the table, ripping the plastic off with his teeth before shuffling the deck with practiced, elegant hands. The cards flew smoothly between his fingers as he sat down again, closer this time, his knee brushing against yours under the table.
“Alright,” he said, voice calm and deep, eyes never leaving yours. “I’ll explain it properly so there’s no confusion.”
He dealt a few cards face up on the table to demonstrate, his tone steady but laced with heat.“Five-card draw. We each get five cards. After the deal, you can choose to discard up to three and I’ll give you new ones. Best hand wins the round. Nothing wild — just standard poker rankings: high card, pair, two pair, three of a kind, straight, flush, full house, four of a kind, straight flush. We’ll play multiple rounds.”
Braeden’s gaze dropped slowly to your lips, then back up.“Every time you lose a round, you take off one piece of clothing. Shoes and socks count. We keep going until someone’s naked… or until we decide we’re done with the cards.”
He leaned in a little closer, elbows on the table, the corner of his mouth lifting.“And here’s my rule. The person who loses the most rounds by the end has to do whatever the winner wants for the rest of the night. No limits. No backing out.”
His eyes darkened, voice dropping even lower, almost a murmur.“So… you still want to play?”
You felt your pulse quicken under his intense stare, the new rule hanging heavy in the air between you. A slow, wicked smile curved your lips as you held his gaze.“Yeah,” you said, voice soft but certain. “I want to play.”
The second the words left your mouth, Braeden’s eyes flashed with raw hunger. Without a word, he stood up, pushed his chair back, and rounded the table in one smooth motion. His hands slid under your thighs and he lifted you effortlessly, your legs wrapping around his waist as he carried you toward the open living room floor.
You let out a surprised laugh, your arms looping around his neck. The way he held you — strong, confident, like he’d been waiting for this exact moment — made heat flood straight between your legs.
He lowered you gently onto the soft rug in the middle of the living room, kneeling with you so your back met the floor while he hovered above, his body caging yours. The cards and the rest of the wine were forgotten on the dining table behind you.
“Wow…” you breathed, half-laughing, half-aroused as you looked up at him. “We’re really going all in, huh?”
Braeden smirked down at you, his dark hair falling slightly over his eyes. He leaned in close, lips brushing the shell of your ear, voice low and filthy.“Oh, baby… you have no idea how all in we’re about to get.”
His hand slid slowly up your thigh, squeezing possessively as he pulled back just enough to look at you, pupils blown wide with want.“Still sure you want to play?”
You didn’t even let him finish the question.
You pulled him down by the back of his neck and kissed him hard, hungry, tongues sliding together instantly. Braeden groaned into your mouth, the sound deep and rough as he kissed you back like he wanted to devour you right there on the rug. His body pressed heavier between your legs, one hand gripping your hip tight enough to leave marks.
After a few heated seconds he forced himself to pull back, breathing ragged, lips wet and slightly swollen.
“Fuck… baby, wait,” he murmured, voice husky and strained. “Let me start the game or we’re never actually gonna play.”
You let out a soft, breathless laugh, still dazed from the kiss. Braeden sat up on his knees, adjusting the obvious bulge in his pants without shame before grabbing the deck from the table. He dealt five cards to each of you right there on the floor, the cards sliding smoothly across the rug.
His eyes kept flicking back to you — dark, filthy, full of promise — as he picked up his own hand.“Five cards. Discard what you don’t want,” he said, voice low. “Then we show.”
He watched you like a predator while you looked at your cards, that dangerous little smirk playing on his lips again.“Your move, princess.”
You stared at your cards, eyebrows furrowed in genuine confusion. None of it made much sense — you knew the basic idea of poker, but the actual combinations felt like a blur. You shifted on the rug, biting your lip as you tried to figure out what the hell you were supposed to do.
Braeden watched you with dark, amused eyes, his smirk growing wider the longer you struggled.
“Having a little trouble there, baby?” he asked, voice low and teasing. He glanced at his own hand, then back at you. “Don’t worry. Since it’s your first round and you’ve never played… I’ll go easy on you this time.”
Without breaking eye contact, Braeden reached behind his neck, grabbed the collar of his black t-shirt, and pulled it off in one smooth motion. His toned chest and stomach were exposed, the soft lighting catching on the light sheen of sweat already starting to form on his skin. He tossed the shirt aside carelessly.
Your mouth went a little dry at the sight.
“But…” he continued, leaning forward on his hands, voice dropping into that filthy register again, “for the next round, we’re doubling it. Loser takes off two pieces instead of one. You good with that?”
He raised an eyebrow, waiting, his bare shoulders flexing slightly as he shifted closer to you on the rug. The heat in his gaze made it very clear he was already imagining you losing the next hand.
The next few rounds went by fast, and the cards were not on your side.
Braeden’s smirk only grew darker with every hand he won. You lost the second round, then the third, then the fourth. Each loss made your cheeks burn hotter as you peeled off piece after piece under his hungry stare.
First your socks.
Then your shirt, revealing your bra.
Then your jeans, sliding slowly down your legs while Braeden’s eyes followed every inch like he wanted to bite them.
Then your bra, your tits spilling free into the cool air of the apartment, nipples already hard from the tension and his gaze.
By the fifth round you were down to just your panties — a thin, black lace pair that was already damp. You sat there on the rug, knees pressed together, almost completely naked while Braeden still had his pants on, looking far too composed and dangerously turned on.
He leaned back on one hand, slowly licking his bottom lip as his eyes dragged over your bare body like he was memorizing it.
“Fuck, look at you…” he murmured, voice thick with lust. “Losing this bad already, baby? You’re making it way too easy for me.”
He dealt the next hand, but his attention was barely on the cards anymore. His free hand reached out, fingertips lightly tracing up your bare thigh, stopping just before he reached the edge of your panties.
“You’ve only got one piece left,” he said lowly, eyes locked on yours. “If you lose this round… those pretty little panties come off. And then you’re all mine.”
His voice dropped even lower, filthy and promising.
“And I’ve been waiting to see how wet that pussy is for me.”
You swallowed hard, heart hammering in your chest as you sat there practically naked on the rug, the cool air brushing over your exposed skin. Braeden’s fingers were still teasing the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, dangerously close to where you were already soaked.
“Not now,” you said breathlessly, catching his wrist before he could push further. Your voice came out softer than you meant, but you held his gaze. “You said… whoever loses the most rounds has to do whatever the winner wants for the rest of the night. Remember?”
Braeden paused, tilting his head as a slow, filthy grin spread across his face. He let out a low, dark chuckle, eyes gleaming with pure lust as he looked you up and down — your tits out, nipples tight, thighs pressed together, only that tiny black lace covering your pussy.
“Oh, I remember,” he murmured, voice rough and dripping with hunger. He leaned in closer, his bare chest almost brushing against your breasts. “So you’re really trying to lose on purpose now, huh?”
He licked his lips slowly, gaze dropping to your mouth before coming back up.“Wow… you really love sucking my cock that much, baby?”
His words were low, dirty, and unfiltered, sending a fresh wave of heat straight to your core. He cupped your jaw with one hand, thumb brushing over your bottom lip as he smirked.“Because if you keep losing like this… that’s exactly what you’re gonna be doing. On your knees, choking on me while I tell you how pretty you look with my dick down your throat.”
He leaned in and bit your lower lip gently, voice barely above a whisper.“Still wanna keep playing… or are you ready to admit you want to lose?”
You looked up at him, cheeks burning, pussy throbbing from his filthy words. There was no point pretending anymore.“Yeah… I admit it,” you whispered, voice shaky with arousal. “I lost on purpose.”
Braeden’s eyes darkened instantly, a low, hungry groan rumbling in his chest. That confession seemed to flip a switch in him.
“Fuck, baby…” he muttered, voice thick with lust.
Before he could say anything else, you moved forward on your knees, hands greedy and eager. You grabbed the waistband of his pants and tugged them down hard, taking his boxer briefs with them in one pull. His hard cock sprang free, thick, heavy, and already leaking at the tip. It bobbed right in front of your face, veins pulsing, the head flushed and glossy.
You wrapped your fingers around the base, feeling how hot and heavy he was. Braeden hissed through his teeth, hips twitching forward instinctively.
“Look at you…” he breathed, one hand sliding into your hair, gripping it firmly but not pulling yet. “So fucking desperate to choke on my cock that you threw the whole game.”
He watched with dark, blown-out eyes as you stroked him slowly, your other hand resting on his toned thigh. His pants and boxers were bunched around his ankles, but he didn’t bother kicking them off.
“You wanted this so bad, didn’t you?” he groaned, thumb brushing your cheek. “Admit it again while you’re on your knees like a good little slut for me.”
You didn’t hesitate.
Still on your knees, you leaned forward and dragged your tongue slowly across the swollen tip of his cock in soft, teasing kitten licks. You swirled around the head, tasting the salty precum that was leaking steadily for you, eyes looking up at him the whole time.
Braeden groaned deeply, his grip tightening in your hair as he watched you.“Fuuuck… that’s it, baby,” he praised, voice rough and low. “Look at you, being such a good little cockslut already. Those pretty kitten licks… so fucking cute and filthy at the same time.”
He let out a shaky breath when you licked a slow stripe right under the head, right where he was most sensitive.
“Yeah? You love tasting me, don’t you?” he murmured, mixing praise with that dark edge. “My sweet girl on her knees licking my dick like a desperate little whore. So pretty with your tongue out like that… but we both know you can do better than just teasing, can’t you?”
Braeden’s hand guided your head a little closer, not forcing you, but clearly impatient.“Keep going, princess. Lick every fucking drop like the needy cumslut you are. You threw the game just so you could worship this cock… now show me how much you fucking love it.”
His words sent heat flooding through your body as you continued those soft, wet kitten licks, swirling your tongue around his throbbing tip while he watched you with dark, hooded eyes.
You didn’t wait any longer.
With your eyes locked on his, you parted your lips and took Braeden’s thick cock into your mouth, sliding down slowly until the head hit the back of your throat. He let out a deep, guttural groan, his fingers tightening in your hair as wet heat enveloped him.
“Shit… just like that, baby,” he growled, voice hoarse with pleasure. “Fuck, your mouth feels so good. Warm, wet little slut taking me so deep already.”
You started bobbing your head, sucking him with sloppy, eager strokes — hollowing your cheeks on the way up, swirling your tongue around the underside on the way down. Obscene wet sounds filled the living room as you worked him faster, spit already dripping down his shaft and onto your chin.
Braeden’s hips bucked slightly, pushing a little deeper into your throat every few thrusts.
“That’s my good girl,” he praised breathlessly, looking down at you with dark, lust-drunk eyes. “Sucking my cock like you were fucking born for it. Look at you — on your knees, tits out, choking on every inch like a desperate cumslut.”
He groaned louder when you relaxed your throat and took him even deeper, nose brushing against his pelvis.“Fuuuck, yes… just like that. You threw the game just so you could swallow my dick, didn’t you? Such a nasty, cock-hungry little whore for me.”
His hand guided your rhythm, not too rough but firm, fucking your mouth with controlled thrusts while you moaned around him, the vibrations making his thighs tense.“You’re doing so fucking good, baby… keep sucking just like that and I might reward that pretty throat.”
Braeden’s breathing grew ragged, his grip in your hair tightening as you sucked him harder, faster, taking him deep into your throat with wet, filthy sounds. Spit ran down your chin and dripped onto your bare tits while you moaned around his thick cock, eyes watering but never breaking eye contact.
“Fuck— baby, I’m close,” he groaned, voice wrecked and deep. “You’re gonna make me cum so fucking hard…”
He pulled you off his cock with a wet pop, stroking himself fast with one hand while the other kept your head in place. His eyes were dark, pupils blown as he looked down at your messy, eager face.
“Open your mouth. Tongue out,” he ordered, breathing heavy.
You obeyed instantly, sticking your tongue out like a good little slut, eyes locked on his as he pumped his slick cock right in front of you.
“That’s it… my pretty cumslut,” he growled, voice shaking with pleasure. “Gonna paint that beautiful face. Fuck—”
With a deep, broken moan, Braeden came hard.
Thick ropes of hot cum shot across your face — landing on your tongue, your cheeks, your lips, and dripping down your chin. He kept stroking himself through it, milking every last drop onto your skin while groaning your name under his breath. Some of it landed on your tits, sliding down slowly over your hard nipples.
You stayed there on your knees, breathing hard, face covered in his cum, looking up at him with hazy, satisfied eyes.
Braeden stared down at you for a long moment, chest heaving, then let out a low, possessive chuckle. He ran his thumb across your bottom lip, smearing his cum a little more.
“Fuck… look at you,” he murmured, voice soft but still filthy. “All messy and pretty with my load all over your face. Such a good girl for me.”
He leaned down and kissed you deep, tasting himself on your tongue, before pulling back with a dark smirk.
“Now… let’s get you cleaned up, baby. We’re not done yet.”
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