[monroestormfics]

monroestormfics intro

masterlist

this blog is dedicated for my “x reader” wrestling fics

disclaimer: all my fics are the wrestlers in kayfabe

sfw and nsfw fics will be marked, this blog is 18+.

[onlyangel4]

crybaby. wlw wwe texts.

wwe superstars x sensitive!reader

featured: maxxine dupri, chelsea green, tiffany stratton, charlotte flair, alexa bliss, sol ruca, tatum paxley, liv morgan and blake monroe

author's note: for my sweet sweet angel baby @onanisticbunny

[onlyangel4]

good girls go bad. charlotte flair texts.

synopsis: texts with dom!charlotte flair x girlfriend!reader

warnings: 18+. sexting.

[ouchhausen]

🫣 I need comforting Danhausen, maybe reader having a panic attack or anxiety attack and Danhausen is there to hold her face and remind her to breath.

After the trauma from the other two chapters today, I need something sweet and comforting

aww of course!!! as someone who has experienced this before, i would LOVE a danhausen of my own to help 😭💞🙏

ps sorry for the angst chapter in no sell lol here u go

゛BREATHE ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆ danhausen x reader

: ̗̀➛ requested! for @alexandralily0709

“ Your hands are not leaving. Danhausen would notice if they tried to escape. ”

⤿ After a show, you’re hit with a sudden panic attack backstage. Danhausen finds you and gently helps you breathe through it, revealing he understands more than he lets on.

tags | panic/anxiety attack | fluff | hurt/comfort |

It began in a hallway that should not have been frightening.

That was the worst part, really. Nothing had happened, not properly, not in the sort of way you could explain with your hands and your mouth at the same time, not with a neat little cause you could point to and say, there, that is where it started.

The arena corridor was the same as it always was after a show, bright in that overlit backstage way that made every shadow look weak and every face look too awake. Production crates lined the walls in black stacks. Someone had left a half-empty bottle of water on top of a speaker case, condensation dripping down the plastic in slow, tired lines.

Farther off, people were laughing, the kind of loud, relieved laughter that came after a good match and a decent crowd, and somewhere beyond that came the muffled thump of music from the venue speakers as the last fans filed out. It was ordinary. It was familiar. It was safe.

Your body disagreed.

At first it was only a thin thread of unease tugging somewhere beneath your ribs. You thought you could walk it off, because that was what you always told yourself. Walk. Keep your face normal. Smile if someone looks. Find a quieter room. Drink water. Breathe.

Except the more you told yourself to breathe, the less your body seemed interested in doing it properly. Air came in sharp and shallow, as if your lungs had suddenly become too small for the shape of you. Your fingers tingled at your sides. Your jaw ached from clenching.

The hallway tilted in a way that made no sense, not enough to be dramatic, just enough to make you feel wrong inside your own skin.

You stopped beside a stack of road cases and pretended to check your phone.

The screen lit up too bright. The numbers blurred. Your thumb hovered uselessly over nothing, and all at once the noise around you seemed to separate into layers, each one too distinct.

Rubber wheels squeaking across concrete. Someone calling out for a missing wrist tape roll. A door slamming. Laughter again, sharper this time. The buzz of the lights above you. Your own pulse, which had no business being that loud, hammering in your ears like something trying to get out.

You pressed the heel of your hand against your sternum, subtle at first, then harder.

“Not now,” you whispered under your breath, barely moving your lips. “Please, not now.”

Your body, traitorous and dramatic, did not listen.

The edges of the hallway began to feel too far away and too close at the same time. Your chest tightened until every breath became a negotiation you were losing. You turned toward the nearest door, not even checking where it led, just needing somewhere that was not open, not watched, not full of passing people who might ask you what was wrong when you didn’t have the words to answer. Your hand fumbled with the handle once, twice, and then you stumbled through into a smaller room that smelled faintly of dust, old coffee, and electrical equipment.

It was some sort of storage room, or maybe a forgotten office that had given up on being useful. There were folded chairs against one wall, a cracked mirror leaning near a filing cabinet, a table with a dead printer on it, and a single lamp in the corner that someone had left on. The yellow light was softer than the hallway, but not soft enough to stop the panic from blooming fully through your chest.

You shut the door behind you and stood with your back against it, trying to swallow around a throat that felt too tight.

“In,” you told yourself, dragging air in through your nose so quickly it caught. “Out.”

It did not work. It made you more aware of how badly you were breathing. Your hands were shaking now, no longer a slight tremor you could hide by curling your fingers into your palms, but a visible, humiliating flutter. You slid down the door before you could make a decision to do it, knees bending, body sinking, shoulders hitting the wood with a dull thud. The floor was cold through your gear. Your stomach twisted. Your face burned. You put both hands over your mouth because the sound coming out of you was too close to a sob and you hated it, hated that your body could turn you into something so small when nothing was touching you.

You did not know how long you sat there.

Time became strange during panic. It stretched and folded. Seconds felt like they lasted too long and disappeared too quickly. You were aware of your knees pulled toward your chest, of your fingers digging into the fabric over your thighs, of the hot sting behind your eyes, of your heart slamming so hard it made you think, irrationally, that something was happening to you, something real, something medical, something fatal.

Then the door moved against your back.

You jerked forward with a broken sound, startled so badly your shoulder knocked the wall beside you.

“Occupied,” you tried to say, but it came out as a cracked gasp.

The door opened only a few inches before it stopped against your body. On the other side, someone made a small, curious noise, followed by a pause so deliberate it cut through the chaos in your head. Not impatient. Not irritated. Just noticing.

“Ah,” came a familiar voice, softer than usual, still unmistakably strange around the edges. “There is a person guarding the door with their whole body.”

You squeezed your eyes shut. Of course. Of course it was him.

“Danhausen,” you breathed, though it barely made it past your teeth.

The door did not push harder. The gap stayed small. You could see only the toe of one black boot and a sliver of red fabric through it. His voice lowered until it no longer carried the theatrical sharpness he used in hallways, on camera, in front of crowds and enemies and vending machines that owed him money.

“Is this person Y/N?”

You almost laughed, which came out closer to a sob. “No...”

There was another pause.

“Danhausen suspects it is you.”

You pressed your palms into your eyes. Your breath hitched again, too fast, too frantic, and your whole body seemed to fold inward as if it could hide from itself. “I’m fine,” you forced out, each word thin and unconvincing. “Just, um. Just give me a minute.”

He did not move away. You knew he had not moved away because you could hear the faint creak of his gear, the careful shift of his weight, the stillness of someone choosing not to rush a frightened animal.

“Are you hurt?” he asked.

“No.”

“Are you bleeding?”

“No.”

“Is someone needing to be cursed very badly?”

That one nearly broke you. A wet laugh escaped, and it was awful, shaky and breathless, but it was still a laugh. “No.”

“Good,” Danhausen replied, very gently. “Then Danhausen will not do violence yet.”

The absurdity of it should not have helped. It did anyway. Only a little, barely enough to notice, but it gave your mind something to catch on to besides the terror in your chest. You wiped roughly beneath one eye with the heel of your hand, embarrassed even though he still could not properly see you.

“I can’t,” you whispered.

The silence changed. You felt it, somehow. The hallway beyond him continued its distant noise, but between the two of you, something went very quiet.

“You cannot what?” he asked, careful now.

You shook your head, then remembered he couldn’t see the gesture. “Breathe. I can’t breathe properly.”

The door gap widened a fraction, then stopped again. “May Danhausen come in?”

Your instinct was to say no. Not because you did not want him, but because wanting him there made you feel worse, more exposed, more pathetic. Danhausen was funny. He was ridiculous. He was lovely in ways that made your chest ache even on good days. He painted his face like a creature from a cursed carnival, spoke about teeth and evil blimps and sacks of human monies, and somehow made every room warmer by being odd in it. You did not want him to see you like this, curled on the floor of a storage room because your nervous system had decided the ordinary world was unbearable.

But the thought of him leaving made the panic spike so sharply that your fingers scrambled against the floor.

“Don’t go,” you said, too quickly, too honestly.

The gap in the door stilled again.

“Danhausen will not go,” he promised, and there was no performance in it. “But he needs the door to open a little, or he will have to become very flat, like haunted paper. Can you move just a tiny bit away from it?”

You dragged yourself sideways with a clumsy, embarrassed shuffle, one hand braced against the floor and the other pressed to your chest. The door opened slowly, inch by inch, as if he feared startling you more than he feared anything else. Danhausen slipped inside and closed it behind him without letting it click loudly. He took in the room in one quick glance, then you, then the space around you, and his painted expression did not change dramatically. He did not gasp. He did not make you feel like a spectacle. He simply lowered himself to the floor several feet away, cross-legged at first, then awkwardly rearranging one knee because his gear did not allow him the dignity of sitting like a normal person.

“Hello,” he said.

You stared at him through watery eyes. “Hi.”

“This is a bad time, yes?”

You nodded, swallowing hard. “Yeah.”

“Okay,” Danhausen murmured, as if that settled something important. “Then we will make it less bad.”

The words were so simple that your eyes stung worse. You bent forward, elbows pressing into your knees, trying and failing to force air past the tightness in your chest. It came in too fast again, and suddenly the room seemed to shrink. Your hands flew to your throat, not grabbing, just hovering there in panic.

“I can’t,” you gasped. “I can’t get it right. I know I’m supposed to breathe, but I can’t. It feels like I’m choking.”

“You are not choking,” Danhausen said, still soft, but firmer than before. “It is lying to you.”

You looked at him, startled.

“The body,” he clarified, touching two fingers to his own chest. “It is being a very dramatic little goblin. It says, oh no, danger, death, doom, perhaps bees. But there are no bees. There is only breathing that got confused.”

Your mouth trembled. “It feels real.”

“Yes,” he answered immediately. “It feels very real. That is why it is rude.”

Something about the certainty in his tone made you stare at him longer. He was not guessing. He was not offering cheerful nonsense from an article he had half-read while waiting in catering. There was recognition in the way he watched your shoulders, your hands, the frantic rise and fall of your chest. There was care, yes, but there was also memory. His gaze kept flicking to small details, not in the intrusive way people sometimes watched panic, but like someone checking a map he had once needed to survive.

“You’ve done this before,” you whispered, the words slipping out before you could stop them.

Danhausen went still for a moment.

Then he looked down at his hands, pale fingers flexing against the black fabric over his knee. “Danhausen has met the dramatic goblin many times.”

Your chest hitched, and this time it hurt for a different reason.

He looked back up before you could apologize for asking without asking. “But now it is bothering you, and that is unacceptable. So we will trick it.”

“How?”

“First,” he said, raising one finger in a solemn, teacherly manner, “you must stop trying to take giant breaths. The giant breaths are making your body think there is a larger problem. We want small, boring breaths. Very boring. So boring the panic gets offended and leaves.”

You gave him a disbelieving look through tears. “You want me to bore my panic?”

“Yes,” Danhausen said seriously. “Panic is a terrible audience. It needs drama. We give it paperwork.”

A laugh broke out of you, tiny and cracked, but it loosened something. Not enough, not nearly enough, but your next breath came slightly less jagged.

Danhausen noticed. His eyes softened.

“Good,” he praised, but not loudly. “Very good. Now look at Danhausen’s hand, please.”

He lifted one hand between you, palm facing sideways, fingers loose. He did not reach for you. He did not close the distance without permission. He just held his hand where you could see it.

“We breathe in when Danhausen’s hand goes up,” he explained, raising his palm slowly through the air. “Not too much. Just a little sip of air. Then hold for one count if you can. Then out when it goes down, longer than in. Like you are fogging a mirror, but there is no mirror, because the mirror in this room looks cursed and Danhausen does not trust it.”

Despite everything, your gaze flicked to the cracked mirror by the filing cabinet.

“Don’t look at it,” he added quickly. “It has bad opinions.”

You let out another broken laugh, then dragged your attention back to his hand.

“Ready?” he asked.

You shook your head. “No.”

“That is okay. We start anyway, but gently.”

His hand rose slowly.

“In,” he murmured.

You tried. Air caught in your throat, uneven and shallow.

“Good enough,” he said before you could panic about doing it wrong. “Hold one little second. Not a big heroic second. Just a small one.”

His hand hovered.

“Out,” he said, lowering his palm.

You exhaled shakily through your mouth. It came out in pieces.

“There. Again.”

He repeated the motion, steady and calm, and you followed it as best you could. In with his hand rising. A tiny hold. Out with his hand falling. The first few rounds felt useless. Your chest still hurt. Your fingers still tingled. Your brain still screamed that you were in danger. But Danhausen did not look disappointed. He did not tell you to calm down, which would have made you want to climb out of your own skin. He only kept moving his hand like a strange little metronome and speaking in that low voice that seemed to have tucked itself away from the rest of the world.

“That is it,” he murmured after a while. “The air goes in. The air goes out. Very traditional. The lungs remember their ancient job.”

You breathed out, a little longer this time.

“Excellent. Very professional lungs.”

Your shoulders trembled. “They don’t feel professional.”

“They must be interns,” he allowed. “But they are learning.”

You closed your eyes for one breath, then snapped them open again when the darkness behind your lids made the dizziness worse.

Danhausen caught the movement. “Eyes open is fine. Look at the floor if you need. Or look at Danhausen. He is very nice to look at, despite being extremely cursed.”

Your laugh was watery. “You are.”

“Thank you. Danhausen has worked hard on being both.”

The breathing rhythm continued. Your chest still felt tight, but it no longer felt impossible. The room remained too warm, too small, too full of your own heartbeat, but the air had started to come back in manageable pieces. You focused on his hand, on the black polish chipped at the edge of one fingernail, on the careful way he moved, on the fact that his theatrical persona had not disappeared exactly, only softened, like a candle behind paper.

After another minute, he lowered his hand to his knee.

“Now we do the naming things,” he said.

You frowned faintly. “What?”

“The grounding,” he explained. “Five things you can see. Four things you can feel. Three things you can hear. Two things you can smell. One thing you can taste. It reminds the brain that it is here and not in the horrible imaginary future place.”

You stared at him, breath still uneven but slower than before.

He tilted his head. “Unless you hate this one. Some people hate this one. Danhausen sometimes hates this one because he becomes annoyed by having to perceive too many objects.”

That, weirdly, made you feel less alone than any polished reassurance could have. “No,” you whispered. “I can try.”

“Good. Five things you see.”

You looked around the storage room. At first, everything blurred together into shapes and light and panic. Danhausen waited. He did not rush you. He picked at a loose thread on his sleeve as if you had all the time in the world.

“The lamp,” you managed.

“Yes. Ugly lamp.”

“The chairs.”

“Many sad chairs.”

“The printer.”

“Dead. Very dead. Danhausen can tell.”

“The mirror.”

“Unfortunately.”

You swallowed, and your gaze landed on him. His face paint was slightly smudged near the edge of his jaw from the long night, black and white stark beneath the soft yellow light. His eyes were fixed on you, patient and warm.

“You,” you said quietly.

Danhausen’s fingers paused on the loose thread.

Then he nodded once, very solemnly, though his voice had gone softer. “Yes. Danhausen is visible.”

Your mouth twitched.

“Four things you can feel,” he continued.

You pressed your palms to your thighs, trying to notice something other than fear. “The floor. It’s cold.”

“Rude floor.”

“My gear. It’s tight.”

“Also rude.”

“My hair on my neck.”

“Suspicious, but acceptable.”

You hesitated. Your hands were still trembling. You rubbed your thumb against the side of your index finger and focused on the sensation. “My hands. Tingling.”

Danhausen nodded, not alarmed. “That happens when the breathing is too fast. It is scary, but it passes. Your hands are not leaving. Danhausen would notice if they tried to escape.”

You exhaled, almost smiling. “Good.”

“Three things you hear.”

You listened. This was harder. The sounds had been attacking you earlier, but now, with his voice guiding you through them, they became separate again.

“People in the hallway,” you said.

“Yes.”

“The lights buzzing.”

“Very annoying.”

You listened again, and your gaze dropped to his hand, which was resting on his knee, thumb tapping slowly against his leg. One, two, three. One, two, three. A rhythm you had not noticed until then. “Your hand,” you murmured.

He glanced down, as if he had not realized he was doing it. The tapping stopped for half a second, then resumed, slower.

“Yes,” he said. “Danhausen’s hand.”

“Do you do that for you or for me?”

His expression shifted, just slightly. It might have been a smile if he had let it become one. “Both.”

Your heart hurt again, but not sharply now. More like a bruise being touched by kindness.

“Two things you can smell,” he prompted.

You inhaled carefully. Not deep. Just enough. “Dust.”

“Disgusting.”

“And...” You breathed again, and beneath the stale storage room smell, there was something warmer from him, something like clean fabric, faint cologne, and the lingering sweetness of whatever catering dessert he had probably stolen earlier. “You smell like vanilla.”

Danhausen blinked.

You immediately wanted to disappear. “Sorry. That sounded weird.”

“No,” he said, sitting a little taller. “Danhausen accepts this compliment. He ate three cookies and was told this was too many, but now it has become aromatherapy, so everyone else was wrong.”

A real laugh slipped out of you that time. It shook, but it was yours.

He looked deeply satisfied.

“One thing you can taste.”

You grimaced faintly. “Panic.”

Danhausen narrowed his eyes. “Bad taste.”

“Yeah.”

“Do you have water?”

You patted at your side automatically, then remembered you had abandoned everything somewhere between gorilla and the hallway. “No.”

Danhausen reached slowly toward the pocket of his jacket, pausing halfway to make sure the movement did not startle you. When you did not flinch, he pulled out a small bottle of water that was only slightly crushed.

“Danhausen has stolen this from catering,” he admitted, holding it out but not forcing it into your space. “For emergencies. And also thirst.”

You took it with both hands because one did not feel trustworthy enough. Your fingers brushed his briefly, and even through the panic-haze you noticed how careful he was, how he let you be the one to close the distance. The cap crackled loudly when you twisted it open, and you took the smallest sip possible. The water was lukewarm. It tasted like plastic. It was the best thing you had ever had.

“There,” he said. “Now the taste is criminally warm water. Improvement.”

You nodded, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. “Thank you.”

Danhausen’s gaze moved over your face, checking, measuring. “Is the terrible wave still at the top, or is it going down?”

You thought about it. That alone felt like progress, being able to think about the panic instead of only being swallowed by it. “Down,” you said, voice rough. “Still there. But down.”

“Good. It will keep going down. Sometimes it goes down in stupid little steps and sometimes it comes back up for one last scare because it is rude. But it cannot stay forever. The body gets tired of screaming.”

The familiarity in that sentence was too much to ignore.

You looked at him carefully. “Danhausen.”

He hummed in response, eyes flicking briefly to yours.

“How many times have you had to tell yourself that?”

His hand stilled on his knee.

For a moment, you thought he might dodge it. He was good at dodging in strange directions, slipping out of sincerity by turning himself into a joke before anyone could touch the soft parts. You would not have blamed him. You almost hoped he would, because asking had made you feel exposed all over again.

But Danhausen only drew in a slow breath through his nose, held it briefly, and let it out the way he had shown you.

“A lot,” he said at last.

Your throat tightened.

He looked at the floor between you, his shoulders slightly hunched now, not with fear but with the carefulness of sharing something heavy. “Sometimes after the loud places. Sometimes before the loud places. Sometimes for no reason, which is the most annoying reason because there is no villain to curse. Danhausen prefers when problems have faces. Then he can point at them and say, you. You are the problem. But sometimes the problem is just...” He made a vague gesture toward his chest, fingers curling. “In here, making bad weather.”

You stared at him, tears slipping quietly down your cheeks now for reasons that had changed shape.

“I didn’t know,” you whispered.

“Danhausen does not advertise it on a T-shirt,” he replied, then considered it. “Although perhaps he should. Front says Very Evil. Back says Sometimes Needs a Quiet Room.”

You laughed softly, and he smiled then, small and real and not quite hidden beneath the paint.

“I’m sorry,” you murmured.

His brows drew together. “For what?”

“For making you deal with mine.”

“No,” he said at once, so firmly that you blinked. He leaned forward slightly, still leaving space, but his voice had sharpened in that protective way he sometimes got when someone insulted his friends, or his snacks, or his ability to threaten inanimate objects. “No apologies for having a body that panics. The body is trying to protect you. It is doing a very bad job, yes, but it is trying. You would not apologize if you had a hurt ankle.”

“I might,” you admitted.

“Then Danhausen would tell you that is foolish also.”

You looked down, twisting the water bottle in your hands until the plastic crinkled. “It’s embarrassing.”

“Yes,” he agreed, and somehow that helped more than denial would have. “It is embarrassing. Danhausen once had to sit behind a vending machine for twenty minutes because the hallway was too much and he could not remember how to be a person. The vending machine was not kind. It hummed in a judgmental manner.”

Your lips parted. “You hid behind a vending machine?”

“Not hid,” he corrected with dignity. “Strategically recovered.”

“Behind a vending machine.”

“It was large. It had presence.”

A laugh bubbled out of you again, gentler this time, and when it faded, the silence left behind did not feel as frightening. Your breathing was still not perfect, but it was yours again. In. Out. A little shaky. A little bruised. But happening.

Danhausen watched you for a few more seconds, then shifted carefully onto his knees.

“May Danhausen sit closer?”

The question made something warm flicker beneath the exhaustion. Not because he asked, though that mattered, but because he asked as if your answer could be no and he would respect it completely.

You nodded. “Yeah.”

He moved closer, not all the way, just enough that the space between you became companionable instead of distant. He sat beside you with his back against the door, shoulder a few inches from yours. From here, the scent of vanilla was stronger. So was the faint smell of face paint and laundry detergent and backstage dust clinging to both of you.

Neither of you spoke for a while.

The hallway noise continued on the other side of the door, but it felt less like an attack now and more like weather outside a window. You took another sip of water. Danhausen tapped his thumb once, twice, then seemed to catch himself and stopped.

“You don’t have to stop,” you said quietly.

He glanced at you.

“The tapping,” you explained. “It helped.”

His face softened again. “Ah.”

He resumed, gentle and steady against his thigh. One, two, three. One, two, three.

You let your head fall back against the door. “I hate when it happens in public.”

“Yes,” Danhausen said. “Public is very rude for having people in it.”

That earned a tired smile. “Exactly.”

“And lights.”

“The lights are the worst.”

“And sounds.”

“So many sounds.”

“And people asking, are you okay, when the answer is clearly no, but saying no requires too much paperwork.”

You turned your head toward him. “You get it.”

He did not make a joke immediately. He looked back at you, and something deeply tender moved through his expression, something that made him seem less like a man wearing a strange face and more like a strange man letting you see his real one underneath.

“Yes,” he said simply. “Danhausen gets it.”

The softness of that settled over you heavier than any blanket. Your eyes filled again, but this time the tears did not arrive with terror. They came with relief, which was almost worse because relief had a way of making you realize how frightened you had been.

“Oh no,” Danhausen murmured, noticing immediately. “Is the crying worse crying or better crying?”

You laughed and cried at the same time, covering your face with one hand. “Better, I think.”

“Good. Better crying is allowed.”

“Thank you for checking.”

“Danhausen is a professional.”

“At panic attacks?”

“At many things,” he said. “Panic attacks. Curses. Teeth. Tag team betrayal. Soup.”

You lowered your hand and looked at him. “Soup?”

He nodded solemnly. “Emotionally, yes.”

You shook your head, smiling despite the dampness on your face. The smile wobbled, but it existed. Danhausen looked at it as if it were a small, miraculous object he did not want to frighten away.

“You are returning,” he said.

“What?”

He gestured vaguely at you, not touching. “You went somewhere horrible in your head. Now you are coming back.”

The words landed somewhere deep. You had never thought of it like that before, but he was right. Panic did feel like being taken from yourself. Not dramatically, not magically, but in a way that made the ordinary world unreachable. And now, slowly, with his ridiculous voice and his stolen water and his careful breathing, you were returning to the room. Returning to the floor beneath you. Returning to the ugly lamp and the sad chairs and the dead printer. Returning to Danhausen sitting at your side, tapping a rhythm onto his thigh because it helped you.

“I didn’t think anyone would notice,” you admitted.

“Danhausen noticed.”

“You always notice weird things.”

“Yes,” he said, and this time he sounded pleased. “You are one of them.”

Your chest warmed. “I’m a weird thing?”

“A very important weird thing.”

You looked away, suddenly overwhelmed again, but not with panic. “That’s weirdly sweet.”

“Danhausen is weirdly sweet. Like cursed candy.”

You laughed under your breath. “You’re not cursed candy.”

He gave you a sidelong look. “You do not know this.”

Your shoulder brushed his lightly when you shifted, and you both noticed. He did not move away. Neither did you. The contact was tiny, almost nothing, but after the loneliness of the panic, it felt enormous. Warmth through fabric. A point of proof. Someone else was there.

After a minute, Danhausen spoke again. “When the wave comes down more, we should get you somewhere better than this room. This room has the energy of tax fraud.”

You glanced around. “Yeah. It’s not great.”

“No. Also Danhausen does not like the mirror.”

“It has bad opinions.”

“Exactly.”

You took another sip of water, then held the bottle against your chest. “I don’t know if I can go back out there yet.”

“Then we do not go yet.”

“But people might wonder where I am.”

“They can wonder. Wondering builds character.”

You smiled faintly. “What if they come looking?”

“Then Danhausen will open the door very slightly and hiss at them.”

“Please don’t hiss at anyone.”

“Fine. Danhausen will politely inform them you are busy being alive.”

Your smile softened into something shaky and grateful. “That sounds nice, actually.”

“Being alive?”

“Being allowed to be busy doing it.”

Danhausen turned that over in his head. You could see him thinking, not quickly discarding the sentence but keeping it, examining its edges. Then he nodded once.

“Yes,” he said. “Sometimes being alive is the whole task. People forget this because they are obsessed with emails and protein shakes and having opinions.”

You leaned your head back again. “You sound like you’ve thought about this a lot.”

He shrugged, but there was no real carelessness in it. “Danhausen has had to. The world is loud. The inside of the head is louder. Sometimes the only way to survive is to make instructions for yourself. Drink water. Find wall. Feet on floor. Breathe out longer. Name objects. Do not trust the doom thoughts. Do not make decisions while the goblin is screaming.”

You absorbed each sentence like he was placing small stones in your hands, one by one, giving you something to carry for later. “Do not make decisions while the goblin is screaming,” you repeated.

“Very important,” he said. “The goblin is a terrible manager.”

You nodded, looking down at your hands. The tingling had faded to a faint buzz at your fingertips. Your heartbeat still felt tired and too noticeable, but it was no longer galloping out of control. The worst of it had passed, leaving behind the shaky aftermath, the embarrassed exhaustion, the strange hollow feeling that always made you want to apologize for taking up space.

Danhausen seemed to sense that too.

“Do not do it,” he warned.

You blinked. “Do what?”

“Make the sorry face.”

“I don’t have a sorry face.”

“You have a very loud sorry face.”

You pressed your lips together, caught. “I was just going to say thank you.”

“Thank you is allowed. Sorry is not.”

“Thank you,” you said obediently, voice soft.

“You are welcome.”

A beat passed.

“And I’m...” You stopped when he gave you a look. “Grateful.”

“Good save.”

You laughed quietly.

Danhausen’s shoulder touched yours again, a little more deliberately this time. “You can also ask Danhausen for help before it becomes the giant wave. If you notice the little wave. Or the medium wave. Or the suspicious puddle.”

“I don’t want to bother you.”

He looked genuinely offended. “Bother Danhausen? You think helping you breathe is more bothersome than listening to people explain cryptocurrency in catering?”

You grimaced. “Someone did that?”

“For twelve minutes.”

“That’s awful.”

“Exactly. This is nothing. This is useful. This is you.”

There it was again, that directness that knocked the breath out of you in a gentler way. You turned your head, finding him already looking at you.

“You make it sound easy,” you whispered.

“It is not easy,” he replied. “But it is simple. Different things.”

Your eyes moved over his face, the stark paint, the tired edges beneath it, the kindness he kept pretending was part of some elaborate evil scheme. “Thank you,” you said again, because nothing else felt big enough and everything else felt too big.

Danhausen’s expression softened into something almost shy before he covered it with a sniff and a dignified lift of his chin. “Yes, yes. Danhausen is very generous and should be given many monies and possibly another cookie.”

“You had three.”

“Emergency aromatherapy.”

“You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” he said, gesturing toward you with one hand, “breathing.”

You looked at him for a second, then laughed, properly this time. It still came out tired, but it did not break halfway through. Danhausen’s face brightened at the sound, not dramatically, but enough that you saw it. Enough that your heart squeezed.

The room settled. The panic did not vanish all at once. It lingered at the edges like a storm moving away, still rumbling, still capable of making you flinch. But you were no longer alone inside it. Danhausen stayed beside you, shoulder warm against yours, tapping that slow rhythm whenever your breathing hitched, reminding you without making a fuss. In. Out. Here. Safe. Ugly lamp. Sad chairs. Dead printer. Bad mirror. Vanilla cookies. Cursed candy. A very important weird thing.

Eventually, you let your head tilt sideways until it rested against his shoulder.

The movement was small, but Danhausen went very still beneath it. Not tense exactly. More like a creature in the woods who had just been trusted by a bird. You almost lifted your head again, suddenly afraid you had crossed some invisible line, but then he shifted with immense care, easing his shoulder into a more comfortable angle for you. His hand moved, hovered for a second as if asking a question neither of you said aloud, then settled lightly over your forearm.

His palm was warm.

“Is this okay?” he asked.

You nodded against his shoulder. “Yeah.”

“Good,” he whispered. “Danhausen will keep watch.”

“You don’t have to.”

“Yes,” he said simply. “He does.”

So you let him. You closed your eyes for one careful second, and this time the darkness did not pull you under. It only made the sounds softer. His breathing moved beside you, slow and deliberate, maybe for your benefit, maybe for his own, maybe both. You matched it without thinking. In. Hold. Out longer. Again. Again. The goblin quieted. The storm dragged itself farther away.

After a while, Danhausen spoke near the top of your head, his voice low enough that it felt meant only for you and the ugly room keeping your secret.

“You did very good.”

You huffed weakly. “I sat on the floor and cried.”

“Yes,” he said, with complete sincerity. “And you stayed. Very brave.”

The words should have been too much. Maybe they were. Your throat tightened, but you did not fight it this time. You turned your face slightly into his shoulder, hiding the fresh sting in your eyes against the fabric there.

Danhausen did not tease you. He did not point it out. He only squeezed your forearm once, gentle and certain.

Outside, the arena continued without you. People packed cables, shouted names, rolled crates, made plans, laughed too loudly. The world stayed bright and noisy and impossibly much. But inside the little storage room with the bad mirror and the dead printer, Danhausen sat beside you like a strange, steady guardian, smelling faintly of vanilla cookies and safety, teaching you how to breathe as if breathing were not something everyone was simply supposed to know.

And when the panic finally loosened its last cruel fingers from your chest, you did not rush to stand. You stayed there a little longer, tucked against his side, letting him keep watch, letting yourself be held by the quiet truth he had offered you without making it grand.

Sometimes being alive was the whole task.

And for now, with Danhausen’s hand warm on your arm and his shoulder solid beneath your cheek, you were doing it just fine.

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ ouchhausen notes!

aw bless

i love comforthausen

taglist @brays-fireflies6 @alexandralily0709 @ashuhleawrites @yeahboyd0llfac3 @i-want-to-yeet @xtremerulez

[monroestormfics]

monroestorm masterlist

maxxine dupri x reader, headcanons

ludwig kaiser x reader, headcanons

praise, becky lynch x nxt! reader

mariah may x reader, headcanons

[onanisticbunny]

AN: hi cuties!! Thank you so much for the love on my debut fic, I hope you all like this too because I know I doooo!!!

Title: human nature

Pairing: Blake Monroe x fem!stripper!reader

WC: 10,976

Warnings: Explicit sexual content, heavy D/s dynamics, bunny kink, praise/degradation kink, dumbification, thigh riding, oral sex, rough strap-on sex, spanking, hair pulling, manhandling, begging.

——

The bass thrummed low and insistent through the club’s dim interior, a pulse that vibrated up through the soles of your patent heels and into the hollows of your bones. Neon bled across the walls in slow, syrupy washes, rose and electric violet catching on the sequins stitched into the velvet drapes, and the scattered bills already littering the stage like fallen petals. The air tasted of sugar and smoke and something sharper; the metallic edge of adrenaline, the faint salt of skin warmed by stage lights.

You moved like you owned every inch of it.

The set was new, a confection of dusty-rose satin and too many straps, thin ribbons that crossed beneath your breasts, looped around your ribs, disappeared between your thighs in a deliberate tangle meant to make fingers itch. A matching tail bobbed just above the swell of your ass, the little white puff of it brushing the backs of your thighs with every sway. Bunny ears perched atop your head, slightly askew, the satin gleaming under the spots. You looked expensive. You looked like sex dressed up as a gift.

Blake had claimed a half-circle booth nearest the stage without ceremony, long legs stretched out, one ankle hooked over the opposite knee. The black button-down she wore was open at the throat, sleeves rolled to the elbows, the fabric stretched across shoulders broad enough to make the cut of her jaw look even sharper. She leaned back into the leather, one arm draped along the back of the seat, fingers loose around the neck of a short glass. The ice inside had already begun to sweat. She watched the room the way a lioness might watch a watering hole, lazy, certain, utterly unhurried.

You noticed her the moment you stepped through the side curtain.

It wasn’t just the way she sat, spine straight but shoulders relaxed, or the easy tilt of her head that said she’d been here before and still found the whole thing mildly amusing. It was the stillness beneath the confidence. Most women who came in here carried their money like an apology or a weapon. Blake simply existed in the space she occupied, as if the club had been waiting for her to fill it. The low lights carved shadows beneath her cheekbones and along the strong line of her throat. When she lifted the glass to her lips, the motion was economical, almost elegant. A flicker of tongue against the rim, then nothing. She set the glass down again without looking away from the stage.

You felt the pull low in your belly, hot and immediate.

The first few steps onto the platform were theater. You let your hips roll with the beat, slow and deliberate, the bunny tail twitching. A handful of regulars were already leaning in, predictable, harmless, their hands full of singles they fluttered like surrender flags. You gave them the smile they paid for; sharp at the corners, eyes half-lidded, the kind of look that promised everything and guaranteed nothing. One of them reached up, fingertips grazing the strap at your hip.

You let him. Just long enough for the contact to register, for the heat of his palm to linger against the satin, before you arched away with a little laugh that didn’t quite reach your eyes.

Blake hadn’t moved. But her gaze had sharpened.

You circled the pole once, lazy, letting the lights drag over the exposed curve of your spine. When you glanced back, she was still watching, mouth relaxed, but the line of her jaw had tightened by a fraction. You liked that. Liked the way her fingers flexed once against the leather cushion, then stilled again. She lifted a fresh bill from the stack beside her glass, crisp and green, and extended it between two fingers as if she were offering a secret rather than currency.

You didn’t crawl. You never crawled for anyone. Instead you dropped into a smooth crouch, thighs parting just enough to make the straps pull taut, and leaned forward until your face was level with hers. Close enough to smell the faint trace of something floral and expensive on her skin, close enough to see the faint glitter of her makeup and texture of her skin. Her eyes were dark, unreadable, but the corner of her mouth had curved, barely. A challenge more than a smile.

You opened your lips, caught the edge of the bill with your teeth, and tugged. The paper whispered against your tongue. For a second your breaths mingled, hers steady, yours deliberately slow. Then you straightened, spinning once on the balls of your feet so the tail flicked and the ears bobbed, the bill now clamped between your teeth like a trophy. The crowd whooped. You didn’t look at them. You looked at her.

Blake’s posture hadn’t changed, but something in the set of her shoulders had. A subtle shift, the kind that spoke of coiled muscle beneath the calm. She reached for another bill without breaking eye contact, this one folded once, and held it out again. Not toward the stage this time, toward the edge, where you could choose to come to her.

You didn’t. Not yet.

Instead you rose, turned your back, and gave her the view she’d paid for; the long line of your legs, the arch of your spine, the way the satin caught the light every time you rolled your hips. Another patron leaned in, some finance bro with too much cologne and not enough patience, sliding a twenty beneath the strap at your waist.

His fingers lingered. You let them. You even tilted your head, letting the bunny ears brush his wrist, mouth still curved around Blake’s first bill like you were savoring it.

From the corner of your eye you saw Blake’s hand tighten around her glass. Just once. Then she exhaled through her nose, slow, and the tension eased into something else, something hotter, more deliberate. She was enjoying the game.

Enjoying watching you make them all wait while you decided who got to touch what.

You danced like the music lived inside your bones. Every roll of your shoulders, every slow grind against the pole, every teasing slide of your palms down your own thighs was calculated. Not for the room. For the woman in the booth who hadn’t looked away once. The one whose confidence wrapped around her like armor and still somehow left room for hunger.

When the next song bled into something slower, heavier, you finally prowled to the edge of the stage. The bill was still between your teeth. You crouched again, knees apart, tail brushing the floor, and plucked the second bill from Blake’s fingers with the same unhurried precision. This time your lips brushed the side of her hand, barely, just the ghost of contact.

Enough to feel the warmth of her skin. Enough to feel the way her pulse jumped once beneath the thin skin of her wrist.

You pulled back, eyes locked on hers, and let the two bills flutter down to join the growing pile at your feet. Then you straightened, turned on your heel, and walked back toward the center of the stage like you hadn’t just set something alight between you.

Behind you, Blake leaned forward by a single deliberate inch. The ice in her glass clinked. The corner of her mouth lifted again, slower this time, and the look she gave the sway of your hips was no longer merely appreciative.

The lights softened as your final song crested and fell, the beat dissolving into a low, syrupy haze that clung to the skin like humid silk. You kept moving through it, unhurried, every extension of your limbs deliberate, every arch of your spine a small masterpiece of control. The pink satin of your set shimmered under the shifting spots, straps biting just enough into the plush give of your hips and ribs to leave faint, temporary lines that would fade too soon. Your bunny tail flicked with each precise roll of your ass, the ears still perched jauntily, one slightly crooked from the way you’d tossed your head earlier.

You looked untouchable. Expensive. Like something carved from sugar and sin and the particular brand of confidence that came from knowing exactly how many eyes were devouring you.

You were selective. Blake clocked it immediately.

While other dancers worked the entire room like generous fog, you chose. A sharp-eyed woman in a tailored blazer near the front received the slow glide of your palm down your own sternum, fingertips pausing just above the swell of your breasts. You let her tuck a folded hundred into the intricate crisscross of straps at your waist, your smile curving wicked and fleeting. A pair of pretty boys with flushed cheeks and expensive watches earned teasing brushes of your tail across their shoulders, nothing more. The rest you danced around, literally, circling them with languid steps before drifting away, leaving only the ghost of your perfume and the sting of dismissal.

Blake’s mouth twitched in quiet appreciation. She sipped her drink, the ice clinking softly, and settled deeper into the booth. The game tasted better this way; watching you dole out attention like a queen dispensing favors, deciding who was worthy of your warmth and who could only look.

As the track faded, you blew her the first kiss, open-palmed, fingers brushing your lips before flicking outward in a lazy arc. Your eyes locked on hers across the distance, heavy-lidded and gleaming.

Then another, slower, accompanied by a tiny tilt of your head that made the bunny ears bob. The third came with a playful wink, your tongue darting out to wet your lower lip just enough to catch the light. Blake didn’t react outwardly beyond the slow rise of one brow, but her fingers drummed once against the leather seat, a single betraying tap of restrained energy.

You slipped off the stage with the same polished grace you’d arrived with, hips swaying as you traded places with the next girl, a lithe redhead already spinning up the pole. Floor time now. The shift in atmosphere was immediate; the stage’s spotlight glare giving way to the club’s intimate, hazy glow, the music lower, conversations threading through the bass like smoke.

Blake stayed put. She wanted to see how long you could keep the tension stretched taut between you, how prettily you’d perform for the rest of them while knowing her gaze never left you. She was very good at waiting.

You drifted through the floor like you belonged to the air itself. A couple of patrons tried their luck; you dismissed them with a perfectly arched brow and a bored flick of your wrist, your voice carrying just far enough for Blake to catch the cadence, low, sickly, laced with that feisty edge that made it clear you were the one in charge. But when a familiar regular, a silver-haired woman in silk who always tipped like breathing was optional, called your name, your entire demeanor shifted.

Not softer, exactly. Brighter. You let yourself be reeled in, a theatrical roll of your eyes at some teasing comment she made, lips pursing in mock offense. The woman laughed, and you answered with a bright, girlish giggle that revealed the dimple in your left cheek, your shoulders lifting in a delighted little shrug. The contrast was intoxicating; the same woman who’d just commanded an entire stage now blushing faintly under sincere praise, lashes fluttering as the regular murmured how breathtaking you looked tonight, how no one else quite compared.

Blake watched the flush bloom across your collarbones, the way your fingers toyed with one of the satin straps as if suddenly shy. It wasn’t an act. Or at least, not entirely. You preened under the pedestal, soaking up the worship like warm honey.

Then the regular patted her lap, and you went, easy, familiar, indulgent. You settled sideways across her thighs with the fluid grace of someone who knew exactly how her body looked in motion, one arm draping loosely around the woman’s shoulders. The bunny tail curled against the regular’s leg. Your head tipped back in a laugh as a chilled glass was lifted to your lips, something sweet and fizzy, judging by the way you hummed approval around the rim. A manicured hand fed you the drink in slow sips, the other tracing idle patterns along the bare skin of your waist, slipping beneath a strap here and there.

You let it happen. You even arched into the touch with a contented sigh, cheeks still pink, eyes half-closed in pampered bliss.

Money changed hands discreetly, thick folds of it tucked into your set with reverent care. You accepted each one with a coquettish tilt of your head, a playful swat at wandering fingers that lingered too long, then a forgiving giggle that invited them right back. The whole display was a study in contradictions; the cocky little princess who ruled the room, reduced to delighted, blushy putty when properly adored.

Blake’s grip on her glass tightened fractionally, the condensation slick against her palm. Heat coiled low in her stomach, not jealousy, something sharper, more focused. She enjoyed the show. Enjoyed watching you perform this version of yourself for someone else while the invisible thread between the two of you pulled tighter with every passing minute.

You hadn’t looked her way in several songs now, but Blake could feel the awareness radiating off you anyway. The slight tension in your spine when you knew she was still watching. The way your laughter pitched just a touch louder, as if daring her to finally close the distance.

She didn’t. Not yet.

Instead she ordered another drink, leaned back, and let the slow burn of anticipation settle into her bones. You were

magnificent like this, teasing the world, collecting devotion like currency, all while the real game waited in the shadows of a half-circle booth. Blake’s lips curved, slow and knowing. She could be patient. She could watch you glow under someone else’s hands for a little longer.

The song had shifted again, something slower and more sinuous threading through the club like smoke. You lingered a moment longer in the regular’s lap, letting her press one final, generous roll of bills against the curve of your hip, your laughter bright and performative. But your pulse had begun to tick higher, insistent, pulled toward the half-circle booth like gravity wearing a black button-down. You slid off her thighs with a parting wink and a brush of your tail against her arm, then moved.

You told yourself it was boredom. Curiosity. The simple logic of hunting down the best tipper in the room. Not the way Blake’s steady gaze had been burning a low, steady line across your skin for the last half-hour. Not the faint flutter low in your stomach that felt suspiciously like nerves.

You approached with deliberate nonchalance, hips rolling in that practiced strut, bunny ears tilted at a jaunty angle. The pink straps of your set shifted with each step, satin whispering against flushed skin. You stopped just outside her booth, one hand resting lightly on the curved leather edge, and let your eyes drag over her, slow, appreciative, like you were the one doing the assessing.

Blake sat exactly as you’d left her; relaxed, legs spread with easy confidence, the open collar of her shirt revealing the clean line of her collarbones. A fresh drink rested in her hand, condensation tracing slow paths down the glass. She looked up at you through dark lashes, mouth curved in that half-smile that managed to feel both lazy and razor-sharp.

“Well,” she drawled, voice low enough to cut cleanly beneath the music. “Look who finally decided the throne wasn’t entertaining enough.”

You lifted a shoulder, letting the motion make your tail flick. “Maybe I just like making people wait.” Your tone stayed light, cocky, the same polished flirt you used on everyone. But you felt the difference in your own spine, the subtle straightening, the way your fingers tightened just once against the booth’s edge.

Blake’s gaze flicked down to that hand, then back up. She took a slow sip, throat working, and set the glass aside. “Cute ears. They suit the whole spoiled little rabbit thing you’ve got going on.” She leaned forward by a fraction, elbows on her knees, and the shift brought her closer without crowding. The scent of her, something warm and pretty, curled around you. “You gonna come sit, or do I have to keep watching you hover like I bite?”

You arched a brow, playing unbothered even as heat licked up your neck. “Depends. You planning on making it worth my while?”

Her laugh was soft, genuine, a low rumble that settled somewhere behind your ribs. “Baby, I don’t chase. But I do reward good manners.” She lifted a crisp bill between two fingers, holding it just out of easy reach. “Say please.”

The word stuck for half a second. You weren’t used to it, not here, not with the way most people folded the moment you flashed a smile. But something in the steady way she watched you, patient and amused and utterly in control, made your mouth move before your pride could catch up.

“Please,” you said, sweetening it with a tilt of your head and a flutter of lashes that wasn’t entirely calculated. The word came out softer than you’d intended, almost tentative at the edges.

Blake’s eyes darkened with clear satisfaction. She let you lean in and pluck the bill from her fingers with your teeth again, your lips brushing the warm pads of her fingertips. When you straightened, she was still watching your mouth.

“Good girl,” she murmured, so low you felt it more than heard it. Then, louder, teasing “See? Wasn’t so hard. Now come here before I change my mind about sharing my booth with a brat in bunny ears.”

You slid in beside her, closer than you needed to be, the bare skin of your thigh pressing against the crisp fabric of her skirt. The heat of her leg bled through immediately. Up close, you could see the faint tension in her jaw, the way her fingers flexed once against her own thigh like she was restraining the urge to touch. It steadied you somehow, that she wasn’t as unaffected as she looked.

You crossed one leg over the other, letting the tail curl against her calf, and reached over to trail a fingertip along the open edge of her collar. “You’ve been staring all night,” you said, voice dipping into that flirty lilt. “I was starting to think you were shy.”

Blake caught your wrist gently, not hard enough to stop you, just enough to still the motion. Her thumb brushed over your pulse point, feeling it jump. “Not shy. Just enjoying the show.” She released you but didn’t pull away, her hand settling on the leather between you instead. “You’re good at it. Selective. Pretty little princess who knows exactly how much everyone wants her.” Her gaze dropped to the blush still lingering across your chest, then back up. “Makes me wonder what it takes to get more than the performance.”

You felt the challenge coil between you, electric. Chemistry crackled in the narrow space, thick enough to taste, sharp enough to make your breath shallower. You leaned in, letting your shoulder brush hers, the satin of your set catching faintly against her shirt.

“More costs extra,” you replied, but the words came out breathier than you meant, almost playful. Almost sweet.

Blake’s smile widened, slow and devastating. She produced another bill, folding it once before holding it up. “Then ask nicely again. Say please, and maybe I’ll let you earn it properly.”

Heat flooded your face. You hated how much you liked the way she made you work for it, how it pulled something genuine and unguarded out from beneath the cocky exterior. Your fingers toyed with one of the straps at your ribs, a nervous little tell you couldn’t quite hide.

“Please,” you whispered, eyes locked on hers, the word softer this time, almost shy beneath the flirtation.

Blake exhaled through her nose, something like triumph and hunger flickering across her expression. She tucked the bill beneath the tightest strap crossing your ribs, her knuckles grazing the sensitive skin just beneath your breast. The touch lingered a beat longer than necessary, warm and deliberate.

“There she is,” she murmured, voice rough at the edges. “Knew there was something sweeter under all that attitude.”

You didn’t pull away. Instead you shifted closer, letting your knee press against hers, the tension between you tightening like a wire about to sing. The club pulsed on around you both, music, laughter, other bodies, but the booth felt like its own small universe, heavy with promise and the slow, delicious burn of whatever this was becoming.

Blake leaned back again, taking you with her by the sheer force of her presence, and you went willingly, bunny ears brushing her shoulder as you settled into her.

The conversation flowed like warm honey, easy and addictive. You stayed tucked close in the booth, one knee hooked casually over Blake’s thigh, the fluffy bunny tail brushing rhythmically against her skin with every small shift of your hips.

Your fingers found their way into her hair, thick, blonde strands that felt like raw silk between your fingertips, and you toyed with them absently, twisting a lock around your index finger before letting it slip free. The motion was soft, almost absentminded, but the way your nails grazed the nape of her neck told a different story.

“You’re unfairly pretty, you know that?” you murmured, voice pitched low and sweet, lashes half-lowered. “Like… annoyingly put-together. Most people who come in here look like they’re trying too hard. You just… exist like this.”

Blake’s mouth curved, slow and knowing. She let you play with her hair, head tilting slightly into your touch, but her hand rested heavy on your bare thigh, thumb tracing idle, maddening circles just beneath the edge of a satin strap. “Flattery’s cute on you, bunny. Keep going.”

You laughed under your breath, the sound brighter than you intended, and dragged your fingertips along the sharp line of her jaw. “Why haven’t I seen you in here before? I’d remember someone who sits like they own the place.”

“First time in a while,” she answered, voice a low, unhurried drawl that vibrated against your palm. “Work’s been eating me alive. Needed something pretty to look at that wasn’t spreadsheets or screaming people.” Her eyes flicked down to the crisscross of straps barely containing your chest, then back up. “Found more than I bargained for.”

You felt the flush rise again but played it off with a teasing roll of your eyes, leaning in until your lips nearly brushed the shell of her ear. “Rough day, then? Poor thing. Bet I could make it better.” Your free hand trailed lightly down her sternum, stopping just above the open V of her shirt, nails scraping gently over fabric. Just enough to feel the way her breathing hitched.

Blake caught your wrist again, gentler this time, and brought your knuckles to her lips. The kiss was barely there, warm breath and the ghost of teeth. “You’re good at that. Making promises with your hands.” She released you but kept your wrist loosely trapped against her collarbone. “Tell me about your night instead. All those people falling over themselves… you get tired of being everyone’s favorite toy?”

The question was light, but the look in her eyes wasn’t. You shrugged one shoulder, letting the bunny ears tilt with the motion.

“Sometimes. Most of them are easy. Predictable.” Your voice dropped, conspiratorial. “You’re not. It’s… refreshing. Dangerous, maybe.” You bit your lower lip, just enough to draw her gaze there. “What do you do when you’re not playing mysterious stranger in strip clubs?”

Blake chuckled, the sound rich and low. She answered in pieces, vague enough to stay intriguing, sharp enough to make you laugh, while her hand slid higher on your thigh, fingertips slipping just under the strap at your hip. You swapped short stories and teasing barbs, compliments wrapped in sarcasm, questions that felt like foreplay. Every time you complimented her again, her confidence, the way her shoulders filled out that shirt, the look in her eyes that made her look like trouble, she rewarded you with another bill tucked somewhere new; one between your breasts, another grazing the underside of your thigh. Each time she made you say please first, softer, sweeter, until the word started to feel dangerously natural on your tongue.

The minutes slipped by. The tension between you thickened, electric and heady, until you felt a little drunk on it.

You thought you were being smooth when you finally leaned in closer, lips brushing the corner of her jaw as you whispered, “I get off in about fifteen minutes, you know.”

Blake went very still. Then she pulled back just far enough to meet your eyes, one brow arched in that devastatingly amused way. Her fingers tightened on your thigh, possessive but controlled. “Cute,” she murmured. “But you’re going to have to do better than that, princess.”

You blinked, heat flooding your face. “I— what?”

She smiled, slow and merciless, thumb stroking a deliberate line along the strap riding high on your hip. “You want me to wait around for you? Tell me exactly what you want when that clock hits zero. No half-measures. No coy little hints.” Her voice dropped to a rough velvet edge. “Spell it out for me. What are you hoping happens when you get off work, bunny?”

Your pulse hammered against your ribs.

The cocky, flirty armor you wore so well suddenly felt paper-thin under the weight of her stare. You swallowed, fingers still tangled in her hair, and felt the way she waited, patient, unrelenting, enjoying every second of your hesitation.

You shifted in her lap, pressing closer despite the flush burning down your neck, and whispered the words against her mouth, voice trembling just enough to give you away.

“I want you to take me somewhere after. Somewhere private. I want your hands on me for real… not just teasing. I want—” Your breath hitched. “I want you to ruin this pretty little set and make me say please again while you do it.”

Blake’s eyes darkened to something feral and satisfied. She exhaled once, slow, then cupped the back of your neck and pulled you in until your foreheads touched.

“There she is,” she breathed, lips brushing yours but not quite kissing you. “Fifteen minutes. Be a good girl and finish your shift without letting anyone else touch what’s already mine tonight. Then we’ll see how well you beg when it’s just us.”

The promise in her voice sent a shiver racing down your spine. You nodded, barely, bunny ears brushing her cheek, already counting every remaining second until you could escape together.

The final minutes of your shift blurred into a haze of pulsing lights and half-hearted goodbyes. You stayed curled against Blake like you’d grown roots there, thighs straddling one of hers, fingers still idly twisting through her hair while your mouth brushed lazy compliments against her jaw. Every time you shifted, the satin straps of your set caught on her shirt, a quiet reminder of how little separated skin from skin.

“Fifteen minutes are up,” she reminded you eventually, voice low and amused, her hand firm on your hip. “Clock out, bunny. I’m not carrying you out of here.”

You whined, actually whined, pressing your face into the crook of her neck for one stubborn second longer, breathing in the warm, floral scent of her. “Don’t wanna move. You’re comfortable.”

Blake’s laugh rumbled through her chest. She gave your ass a light, possessive squeeze, then nudged you upright with gentle insistence. “Up. Go be a responsible little princess for five minutes.” Her eyes softened at the edges when you pouted.

You didn’t even hesitate. The words slipped out honey-sweet, unguarded. “Please wait for me out front? I’ll be quick. Promise.”

The way her expression flickered, something warmer, almost fond beneath the heat, made your stomach flip. She brushed her thumb across your lower lip, eyes tracing the motion. “Fuck, look at those manners. Yeah. I’ll be there.”

You finally peeled yourself off her lap, legs a little unsteady, and scurried toward the back with your heart hammering high in your throat. The dressing room mirror welcomed you with forgiving light. You touched up the smudge of gloss at the corner of your mouth, fluffed your hair until it fell in perfect, tousled waves, then shrugged an oversized black hoodie over the pink satin confection. The hem skimmed mid-thigh, swallowing most of the straps and leaving only the occasional flash of dusty rose when you moved. The bunny ears came off last; you tucked them carefully into your bag like a secret.

By the time you stepped out the side entrance into the cool LA night, you were stupidly, giddily lit up, cheeks aching from the smile you couldn’t quite kill, a fizzy kind of triumph bubbling in your veins. Someone like her. Wanting you. Taking you home.

Blake leaned against the sleek black car waiting at the curb, arms loosely crossed, looking unfairly good under the streetlights. The night air had tousled her hair just enough to soften the sharp edges she wore inside. When she saw you, her mouth curved.

“There’s my girl.” Her gaze dragged down the hoodie, then back up. “You took the ears off.” The pout was theatrical, devastatingly charming. “I was looking forward to those. Little bunny in my bed sounded like a solid plan.”

You rolled your eyes even as laughter spilled out of you, bright and breathless. You slipped your arm through hers, pressing close enough that your hip bumped hers with every step. “They’re in my bag. Behave and maybe you’ll get them later.” Your voice stayed sassy, teasing, but you couldn’t stop the way your fingers squeezed her bicep, couldn’t hide how you kept glancing up at her like she might disappear.

Blake hailed a ride with effortless confidence, then tugged you into the back seat beside her. The city lights streaked past the windows in neon ribbons, pink, gold, electric blue, while you kept up the flirtatious back-and-forth the entire way to her hotel. You’d rest your chin on her shoulder, batting your lashes. “You gonna tell me your real name now, or do I have to keep calling you pretty?”

She’d smirk, thumb stroking the inside of your wrist. “You can call me whatever you want as long as you keep making that noise when I touch you.”

You’d gasp in mock offense, swatting her arm. “Baby, you are so full of yourself.” But you were grinning the whole time, legs tangled with hers, hoodie riding up just enough to reveal a sliver of satin strap against bare thigh. Every eye-roll, every dramatic sigh, every playful shove only pulled you closer. The chemistry didn’t dim outside the club’s haze; it sharpened, turned warmer, more human. Blake let you see the slight crinkle at the corners of her eyes when she laughed for real, the way she absently rubbed her thumb over your knuckles like she couldn’t quite stop touching you.

By the time the car pulled up to the sleek hotel entrance, you were practically vibrating. Blake paid without looking, then helped you out with a hand at the small of your back, possessive, steady. In the elevator she crowded you gently against the mirrored wall, not kissing you yet, just letting the anticipation crackle between your mouths.

“You’re wearing that ridiculous hoodie,” she murmured, lips brushing your temple. “Cute. But I can’t wait to peel it off you.”

You tilted your head, sassy to the last second even as heat pooled low in your belly. “You’ll have to earn it first, pretty girl.”

Blake’s answering smile was slow, dark, and full of promise as the elevator doors opened onto her floor.

The door had barely clicked shut behind you before you were on her. You surged forward the second the lock engaged, hands fisting in the front of Blake’s shirt as you pushed her back against the wall with a needy little sound. Your mouth found hers instantly, messy, open, starving.

There was no finesse left in you, only heat and weeks of pent-up frustration spilling over. Your tongue slid against hers, desperate and uncoordinated, while your body pressed flush to her front, hips already rolling in tiny, involuntary circles.

The oversized hoodie bunched between you, the satin straps underneath catching on her buttons. A soft, embarrassing whine escaped your throat when she kissed you back, deeper, one hand tangling in your hair.

Blake let you have it for a moment, let you lick into her mouth like you were trying to taste every second of the night, before she peeled you off with firm hands on your shoulders. Not rough, but decisive. You stumbled back half a step, lips swollen and shining, chest heaving under the hoodie.

She studied you for a beat, eyes dark and gleaming. Then she lifted her hand and slid her thumb between your parted lips, resting it heavy on your tongue while the pad pressed gently into the plush of your bottom lip. The gesture pinned you there, mouth half-open around her, breath fogging warm against her skin.

“Dumb little bunny,” she murmured, voice low and rough with satisfaction. “Look at you. Already needy and I’ve barely touched you.”

The words hit like a spark to dry tinder. A broken, needy sound vibrated around her thumb, almost a moan, helpless and raw. Your thighs pressed together instinctively, heat flooding low in your belly. Blake’s gaze sharpened, a slow, predatory smile curving her mouth as she catalogued the reaction like it was something precious.

“Yeah… that’s what I thought.” She kept her thumb right where it was, stroking lightly over your tongue, holding you in that soft, open-mouthed daze while her other hand cupped the side of your neck. “You’re gonna be such a good girl for me tonight, aren’t you?”

You nodded immediately, the motion small and eager around her thumb, bunny ears long forgotten in your bag.

Blake’s voice stayed steady, patient, but edged with command. “You’re going to listen when I tell you what to do. Behave when I want you still. Open up nice and pretty when I want that mouth. Yeah?”

Another frantic nod, your lashes fluttering as you sucked gently on her thumb without thinking, tongue curling around it. The praise in her tone made your brain feel fuzzy at the edges, warm and floaty.

“Good bunny,” she praised, thumb pressing a little deeper for a second before she slowly withdrew it, trailing wetness across your lower lip. “You’re already dripping for it, aren’t you? All that attitude in the club, and now you’re just a needy, empty-headed little thing shaking on my doorstep.”

You whimpered, the sound mortifyingly loud in the quiet hotel room, but you couldn’t stop nodding, chin dipping again and again like you were agreeing to every filthy thing she hadn’t even said yet. Your hands fisted uselessly in the hem of your hoodie, thighs trembling, every inch of you aching to press back against her.

Blake leaned in, lips brushing the shell of your ear, breath hot.

“Then be sweet and let me take this ridiculous hoodie off you. I like to see what’s mine princess.”

Blake guided you backward through the suite, mouths still fused in a hungry, open-mouthed kiss. You stumbled into her, greedy and uncoordinated, hands fisting in her shirt while her tongue slid against yours, deep and claiming. Every few steps she broke away just enough to nip your bottom lip or murmur something filthy against your jaw “So fucking eager already,” before diving back in, swallowing the desperate sounds you kept feeding her.

Her fingers found the hem of your oversized hoodie and tugged it upward in one smooth motion. Cool air kissed your heated skin as the fabric peeled away, revealing the intricate pink satin straps and the way they dug sweetly into your curves. Blake made a low, appreciative noise in the back of her throat.

You barely had time to register the loss before she was reaching into your discarded bag, fishing out the bunny ears with a wicked little grin. She settled them back on your head with deliberate care, adjusting them so one tilted just so, then cupped your flushed face between her palms.

“There we go,” she breathed, thumb stroking your cheek. “My pretty, empty-headed bunny.”

The words sank straight into your skull, softening everything. Your knees weakened.

Blake didn’t give you time to recover. She walked you the last few steps until the backs of your thighs hit the edge of the massive bed, then pushed. Not hard,

just enough to send you toppling like a rag doll onto the soft duvet, ears flopping, limbs splaying. The impact stole a breathless laugh from you that melted into a whimper when she climbed over you immediately, knees bracketing your hips, her weight settling warm and heavy and perfect.

She kissed you like she meant to devour you, rough, messy, all teeth and tongue and hunger. One hand braced beside your head while the other roamed, palming your breast through the thin satin, thumb flicking over your nipple until it peaked. You arched into her with a broken whine, legs parting instinctively to let her settle deeper between them.

Your hands turned frantic. You clawed at the buttons of her shirt, popping them open with shaking fingers, desperate to see her, to feel skin on skin. The fabric parted to reveal the strong lines of her shoulders, the smooth plane of her stomach, the way muscle shifted beneath warm skin as she moved. You shoved at the waistband of her skirt next, nails scraping lightly over her hips, trying to tug everything down at once so you could press yourself against all that bare heat.

Blake broke the kiss with a wet sound, hovering just above you. A strand of her dark hair fell across her forehead. She looked devastating, lips swollen, eyes blown wide with lust.

“Slow down, dumb bunny,” she murmured, catching both your wrists in one hand and pinning them gently above your head. Her voice had that soft, coaxing edge now, the one that made your thoughts scatter like glitter. “Look at you. Can’t even use your words anymore, can you? Just pawing at me like a needy little animal.”

You whimpered, hips rolling up against her thigh, chasing friction. The praise-laced degradation curled warm and syrupy through your chest.

She could tell. Of course she could. Blake leaned down, kissing along your jaw, then your throat, before pulling back again to watch your face.

“You want something,” she said, low and patient. “I can feel it. So use your words like a clever girl. Tell me what you need.”

When you only whined and tried to chase her mouth again, she clicked her tongue softly, thumb pressing over your lips. “Come on, princess. Big girl words. You want my shirt off? My skirt? You want to feel all of me on top of you, skin to skin? Say it.”

Your face burned. The ears felt heavier somehow, ridiculous and perfect. You squirmed beneath her, thighs trembling around her hips, but the way she watched you, so steady, so in control,

made it impossible to hide.

“Please…” The word cracked. “Want you naked. Want to see you. Feel you—all of you. Please, baby.”

Her smile was slow, indulgent, and entirely predatory.

“Good girl,” she praised, voice dropping into something darker, sweeter. “See? Wasn’t so hard. Now keep talking pretty for me while I give my dumb little bunny exactly what she wants.”

She released your wrists only to shrug her shirt off completely, letting it fall somewhere behind her. The skirt followed, sliding down her thighs with deliberate slowness. Then she was back over you, bare skin sliding against satin and heated flesh, heavy and warm and overwhelming in the best possible way. Her mouth found yours again, rough and claiming, while her hand slipped between your bodies, teasing along the edge of those pretty pink straps.

You caught your breath in shallow, trembling gasps, chest rising and falling rapidly beneath the intricate web of pink satin. The weight of Blake above you, lace adorned skin hot and smooth, muscle shifting with every small movement, left your head spinning. The bunny ears sat slightly crooked on your head, one flopping forward to brush your flushed cheek. For a moment you simply stared up at her, lips parted, thighs still clenched around her hips like you could pull her inside you by sheer desperation.

Then the words tumbled out, polite and breathless and edged with raw demand all at once.

“Blake… please fuck me,” you whispered, voice sweet and shaky. “I need you to fuck me. Right now. I’ve been good—haven’t I?”

Blake’s eyes darkened with pure, undisguised delight. She hovered there, drinking in the way your lashes fluttered, the way your hips twitched helplessly beneath her, the needy little crack in your otherwise polished tone. A slow, satisfied smile spread across her face as she brushed a strand of hair from your forehead with surprising tenderness.

“Oh, bunny,” she murmured, thumb tracing your swollen lower lip. “Listen to you. So fucking polite while you’re begging to be ruined. It’s adorable.” She leaned down, kissing you once, slow, deep, claiming, before pulling back with a soft click of her tongue. “But I think I deserve to cum first, don’t you? I paid you so well tonight. Tipped you like a proper little princess. Only fair you earn the rest.”

You whimpered in protest, but the sound melted into another needy roll of your hips. Blake simply chuckled, low and warm, and shifted upward with effortless strength.

She settled back against the plush headboard, legs spread in a casual, powerful sprawl, the lamplight painting gold across the toned lines of her thighs and the slick sheen already visible between them. One hand reached down, fingers threading gently through your hair, right behind the base of the bunny ears, and guided you.

“Come here, sweet girl. Slow. That’s it.”

She eased you down between her legs like you weighed nothing, arranging you on your knees and elbows with careful, possessive hands. The fluffy tail on your set brushed the backs of your thighs as you settled, face inches from her cunt. The scent of her, warm, musky, intoxicating, made your mouth water. Your hands settled tentatively on her hips, nails digging into firm muscle.

Blake’s fingers tightened in your hair, not painful, just enough to hold you right where she wanted you. Her voice dropped into that soft, coaxing register again, the one that turned your thoughts syrupy and slow.

“You’re going to be a very good girl and give me your mouth now,” she said, stroking your cheek with her free hand. “Nice and deep. Show me how grateful you are. Then—maybe—I’ll fuck you stupid like you’re aching for. Sound fair?”

You nodded frantically, ears bobbing, already leaning in. A soft whine escaped you.

Blake’s smile sharpened with affection and hunger. “That’s my dumb little bunny. No more demands, okay? Bunnies don’t get to make demands. They sit pretty, look adorable, and use their pretty mouths until they’re told otherwise.” She guided your face forward until your lips brushed her, breath ghosting over wet heat. “Go on, princess. Make me cum and I’ll take such good care of you after.”

Your tongue flicked out instinctively, tasting her with a desperate, reverent moan. Blake’s head tipped back against the headboard with a low groan, fingers flexing in your hair as she held you there, gentle but unyielding, while you worked to earn every filthy promise she’d made. The night stretched thick and hazy around you, filled with the wet sounds of your mouth, her quiet praises, and the growing certainty that you would do anything she asked if it meant she’d finally ruin you the way you needed.

You dove in like you’d been starving for her for years.

The first broad stroke of your tongue drew a sharp, surprised moan from Blake’s throat, her hips twitching up into your mouth. She tasted perfect, warm, slick, faintly sweet with that sharp edge of arousal that made your head spin. You moaned right back against her, the sound vibrating through her core as you licked deeper, slower, savoring every inch. Your hands gripped her thighs, nails digging crescents into firm muscle, holding her open while you worked.

Blake’s fingers tightened in your hair, keeping your face pressed flush to her pussy with steady, unrelenting pressure. No room to pull back. No room to speak. Just her heat, her taste, and the wet, obscene sounds of your mouth devouring her.

“Fuck— that’s it, bunny,” she gasped, voice honey-thick and breaking at the edges. “Just like that… good girl. You’re so fucking good with that pretty mouth.”

You whimpered loudly, the praise sinking straight into your hazy brain and making your own neglected pussy throb. Your hips rolled uselessly against the sheets, chasing nothing, while your tongue circled her clit with devoted precision before dipping lower to push inside her. Pupils blown wide, eyes glassy with pure bliss, you looked up at her through your lashes, ears crooked, cheeks flushed, mouth shiny and working frantically.

Blake’s head tipped back against the headboard, throat exposed, lips parted on a long, throaty moan. “God, listen to you. Moaning like you’re the one getting fucked. Such a needy little thing… eating me out like it’s all you were made for.”

You answered with another desperate, muffled sound, sucking her clit between your lips and flicking your tongue in tight, perfect rhythms. The more she praised you, the sloppier and more eager you became, lapping at her like you could never get enough, chin slick, nose buried against her mound. Every roll of her hips, every twitch of her thighs around your ears, every broken curse or sweet murmur only spurred you on.

“Yes— right there, princess. Don’t stop. You’re making me feel so good… my perfect, dumb little bitch.”

Her voice cracked on the last word as her orgasm slammed into her. Blake came hard, thighs clamping around your head, back arching clean off the bed while a raw, guttural moan tore from her chest.

You felt it pulse against your tongue, hot, rhythmic, overwhelming, and you didn’t stop. You kept licking her through it, gentler but relentless, drawing out every aftershock until her hips jerked and her breath stuttered.

“Fuck— fuck, bunny— too much—”

Her fingers clawed at your scalp, tugging hard at the base of the bunny ears as she tried to push you back. You resisted for one stubborn second, giving her one last long, reverent lick that made her whole body shudder violently, before she finally managed to wrench your head away.

You gasped for air, lips swollen and glistening, chin dripping, eyes still dazed and adoring as you stared up at her.

Blake’s chest heaved, sweat glistening along her collarbones, thighs trembling on either side of your face. She looked wrecked in the most beautiful way, hair messy, lips bitten red, eyes heavy-lidded with lingering pleasure and something dangerously fond.

“Jesus Christ,” she rasped, thumb brushing roughly over your slick bottom lip. “You really are trying to kill me, huh?”

You only whimpered softly, pressing a wet, open-mouthed kiss to the inside of her thigh, already aching for more, for her to finally give you what you’d so politely demanded earlier.

Blake’s chest still rose and fell in heavy, uneven breaths, the aftershocks of her orgasm flickering through her thighs where they framed your face. One hand stayed loosely tangled in your hair, stroking absently through the strands and the base of the crooked bunny ears while she stared at the ceiling, lips parted, collecting herself. You couldn’t stop touching her. Soft, open-mouthed kisses pressed to the inside of her thigh, then higher, across the sharp cut of her hipbone, down the warm plane of her stomach. Your tongue darted out to taste the salt on her skin, and a low, needy whine vibrated in your throat each time.

“Baby… please,” you huffed against her abdomen, voice cracked and small. Another kiss, wetter this time, almost drooling. “Please, I need it…”

Blake’s gaze finally dropped to you. The corner of her mouth curved, slow and predatory, as she watched you nuzzle and beg so prettily between her legs, chin still slick with her, eyes glassy, hips twitching uselessly against nothing.

“Look at you,” she murmured, voice husky and fond. “All that fire from the club, and now you’re just a desperate little mess humping the air for me.” She sat up a little straighter against the headboard and hooked two fingers under your chin, lifting your face. “Come here, dumb bunny. I’ve decided how I want you.”

She guided you up her body with firm hands until you were straddling one of her thighs, knees sinking into the mattress on either side. The pink satin of your panties, already soaked through, pressed directly against the firm muscle of her leg. Blake kept one hand on your hip, the other sliding up to adjust your bunny ears again, tilting them just so.

“You’re going to ride my thigh like a good girl,” she told you, voice low and coaxing. “Nice and slow at first. Make it pretty for me. If you put on a good enough show… maybe I’ll fuck you properly with my strap after. But these stay on.” Her fingers snapped the waistband of your panties against your skin. “I want to feel how pathetic and wet you get through the fabric.”

You whimpered at the command, already rolling your hips forward experimentally. The friction dragged a broken moan from your chest, loud, shameless. Blake leaned back to watch, one arm draped lazily along the headboard, the picture of relaxed control while you began to grind against her thigh in earnest.

“That’s it,” she praised softly, thumb stroking your hip. “Look at you. Earlier tonight you were this sassy little princess—rolling your eyes, making everyone work for it, blowing kisses like you owned the whole damn club.” Her smile sharpened as your movements grew more frantic, the soaked satin slipping slickly over her skin with every roll. “Now you’re just a dumb little slut humping my leg and drooling on yourself. Can’t even form a full sentence, can you?”

You shook your head quickly, ears flopping, another desperate “please—baby please” spilling out between moans. Your hands braced on her shoulders, nails digging in as you rocked harder, chasing the pressure right where you needed it. The bunny tail bounced with every movement, a ridiculous, perfect little detail that made Blake’s eyes gleam.

“I don’t fuck clever girls,” she continued, voice dropping into that sweet, degrading lilt that melted your brain even further. One hand came up to cup your breast through the satin straps, pinching your nipple until you cried out. “No… I like them pathetic. Needy. Empty-headed little things who don’t think—just moan and listen and do exactly what they’re told.” She flexed her thigh beneath you, pressing up to meet your next grind, and you nearly sobbed at the spark of pleasure. “So be pathetic for me, bunny. Ride it like you’re too stupid to do anything else. Let me see how wet you can make my thigh before I decide you’ve earned more.”

Your head tipped forward, forehead resting against her shoulder as the rhythm took over, messy, frantic, completely unrestrained. Whimpers and broken little pleas tumbled from your lips against her neck while Blake’s hands guided your hips, occasionally stilling you just to make you whine louder before letting you chase again.

She was in no hurry. She simply watched, drank in every tremble and desperate sound, and smiled like she’d won something precious.

“Good bunny,” she whispered against your ear, nipping the lobe. “Keep going. Show me exactly how badly you need to be fucked stupid.”

You kept going like your life depended on it.

Hips rolling in messy, frantic circles, you ground down hard against Blake’s thigh, the soaked satin of your panties dragging slick and obscene with every desperate thrust. The friction was good, devastatingly good, but never quite enough, and every time you shifted to chase that perfect angle you lost it for half a second and let out a tiny, frustrated huff against the damp skin of her neck. Your bunny tail bounced wildly. The ears flopped with each jerk of your head. You were feral, reduced to pure animal need, clawing at her shoulders while you fucked yourself on her like you’d die if you stopped.

“Baby—please—fuck, I need it,” you whimpered into the curve of her throat, voice muffled and broken. Another roll, another wet slide, another helpless whine when the pressure slipped again. “Please, I’m so close—”

Blake’s hand slid up your spine, then tangled firmly in your hair. She tugged your head back with gentle insistence until you had no choice but to meet her eyes. Her face filled your vision, dark gaze heavy-lidded, lips parted, expression soft with condescending affection.

“There she is,” she cooed, thumb brushing your flushed cheek. “Let me see that pretty face while you fall apart, dumb bunny. Look at you. So fucking pathetic grinding on my thigh like a bitch in heat. Can’t even keep a rhythm, can you? Just humping whatever you can get.”

The words sank deep, melting what was left of your thoughts into warm syrup. You moaned louder, eyes glassy, mouth slack as you tried to keep the pace. Your hips stuttered, frantic and uneven, chasing that bright edge that kept dancing just out of reach.

Blake’s smile widened, slow and devastating. “Aw, listen to those little frustrated sounds. Does my needy girl keep losing her spot? Poor thing. So stupid for it you can’t even stay focused.” She flexed her thigh beneath you, pressing up hard on the next downward grind, and your whole body jolted. “That’s it. Good bunny. Keep fucking yourself pretty for me. You look so sweet when you’re this desperate—drooling, whimpering, ears all crooked. My perfect little empty-headed slut.”

You couldn’t stop the soft, broken litany falling from your lips. “Oh fuck… oh fuck—” It started quiet, almost reverent, each syllable punched out with every roll of your hips. The pressure built fast now, coiling tight and vicious low in your belly. Your nails dug harder into Blake’s shoulders, thighs trembling violently around hers. “Oh fuck—baby—”

“Shh, I know,” she murmured, voice syrupy and sweet, thumb stroking your bottom lip while she watched every flicker across your face. “I can feel you getting close. Look at me, princess. Don’t you dare look away. Let me watch those pretty eyes go all dumb when you cum.”

The edge rushed up faster than you expected. Your rhythm turned sloppy, frantic, hips jerking in short, helpless snaps. The soft “oh fuck” fractured into something far more pathetic. whiny, cracked little sobs of sound that barely formed words anymore. “Oh—fuck—oh god—please—fuck—”

Blake’s hand tightened in your hair, holding you right there, eyes locked on yours. “That’s my girl. Let it happen. Cum for me like the needy little mess you are.”

It hit you like a freight train.

Your whole body seized, back arching sharply as the orgasm crashed through you in brutal, pulsing waves. A raw, broken cry tore from your throat, high and shattered, while your hips kept grinding through it, sloppy and uncoordinated, soaking her thigh even more. Your eyes fluttered, trying desperately to stay on hers the way she wanted, but the pleasure was too overwhelming. Tears pricked at the corners. Your mouth fell open on another pathetic, wordless keen as aftershocks ripped through you, thighs clamping tight around her leg like you’d never let go.

Blake watched the entire thing with dark, hungry satisfaction, murmuring soft praises against your temple. “There we go… such a good bunny. Look at you cumming so hard just from my thigh. So fucking pretty when you fall apart.”

You collapsed forward against her chest, panting, trembling, still twitching with residual sparks. The bunny ears were completely askew now, one dangling over your eye. Blake’s arms wrapped around you, one hand stroking soothing circles down your sweat-damp back while the other kept your face tucked into her neck.

She pressed a kiss to your temple, voice low and promising.

Blake didn’t even try to hide it.

The hunger in her eyes was raw now, unfiltered, as she eased you off her thigh and onto the mattress like you were something precious she couldn’t wait to break. Her hands were almost shaking with restraint as she reached into the nightstand and pulled out the strap, sleek, pretty pink silicone, thick enough to make your mouth go dry, curved just right. She buckled it on with quick, efficient movements, the harness sitting low on her hips, the toy jutting obscenely between her strong thighs.

“On your hands and knees, bunny,” she ordered, voice rough with want. “I’ve been thinking about this since the second you took that first bill with your teeth.”

You scrambled into position before she’d even finished speaking, knees sinking into the duvet, back arched, bunny tail twitching above the soaked satin of your panties. Blake settled behind you, one hand smoothing reverently down your spine, the other guiding the blunt head of the pink cock against your clothed entrance. She rubbed it there in slow, teasing circles, pressing the fabric between your folds, letting you feel every inch of what was coming.

“Easy at first,” she murmured, almost gentle as she pulled the panties down, strapped dragging as they slid off. “Let me open you up nice and slow, princess.”

But you were past patience. The second you felt the tip nudge harder, you pushed back, greedy, impatient, taking her in one smooth, relentless motion until your ass met her hips and the strap was buried to the hilt inside you.

A broken gasp tore from your throat. “Oh—baby… I’m so full.”

Blake let out a low, delighted laugh, the sound vibrating through her chest and into your back. Her hands flexed hard on your hips, nails biting in. “Whose fault is that, bunny? Couldn’t even wait two seconds like a good girl.” She rolled her hips once, shallow and testing, watching the way your back bowed. “Look at you. So fucking greedy. But that’s okay… dumb bunnies aren’t supposed to think. They’re supposed to be pretty, cock-drunk little holes who take what they’re given.”

The words melted straight into your skull, turning everything soft and hazy. You whimpered loudly, pushing back again, trying to fuck yourself on her even as she held you still.

Blake’s grip tightened. “That’s it. Just like that.” She pulled back slowly, almost all the way out, then slammed forward, hard. The wet slap of her hips meeting your ass cracked through the room like a gunshot. You cried out, fingers twisting in the sheets, ears flopping wildly.

Then she really started.

No more teasing. No more mercy. Blake fucked you with deep, punishing strokes, pulling you back onto her cock with every thrust so the impact jolted through your whole body. The room filled with the obscene rhythm of skin on skin, sharp, filthy slaps echoing off the walls, mixed with your broken, shameless noises.

“Fuck—fuck—oh my god—” The words fractured into whines and groans, each thrust punching another pathetic sound out of you. “Too much—baby—please—”

“You can take it,” she growled, voice low and sweet at the same time, one hand fisting the back of your harness straps like reins. She yanked you back harder, driving the pink cock even deeper. “Dumb bunnies always can. Look at you—already drooling on the sheets, eyes crossing, just a pretty little fucktoy now. No more attitude. No more clever princess. Just my empty-headed slut who lives for getting railed.”

You sobbed into the mattress, pushing back to meet every brutal thrust, thighs shaking violently. The stretch was perfect, overwhelming, every drag of the curved tip against that spot inside you making sparks explode behind your eyes. Curses and pleas spilled from your mouth in a constant, mindless stream.

“Fuck—yes—harder—please—oh god I’m so full—”

Blake leaned over you, chest pressed to your back, teeth grazing your shoulder as she kept pounding into you. The slap of her hips against your ass grew louder, wetter, more frantic. One of her hands slipped beneath you, pressing against your stomach so she could feel exactly how deep she was.

“That’s my good bunny,” she panted against your ear, voice dripping with filthy affection. “Taking every inch like you were made for it. Gonna fuck you stupid until the only thing left in that pretty head is my cock. Say it for me.”

You could barely form words anymore, but you tried—voice wrecked, high and broken between moans.

“I’m—your—dumb—bunny—fuck—please—”

Blake’s answering groan was pure satisfaction as she drove into you even harder, the pink strap glistening with your arousal, the relentless slap-slap-slap filling the room like a filthy symphony. She wasn’t stopping anytime soon.

And neither, it seemed, were you.

Her control finally snapped shamefully quickly. She pulled all the way out in one smooth, cruel motion, leaving you clenching around nothing, a devastated whine ripping from your throat. Before you could even beg, she slammed back in, hard, deep, brutal, burying the thick pink cock to the hilt in a single punishing thrust. The wet slap of her hips against your ass cracked through the room like thunder.

“Fuck—!” The word shattered into a sob as she set a merciless pace, yanking you back onto her cock with every snap of her hips. No more teasing. No more coaxing. Just raw, animal need.

One strong hand snaked around your throat from behind, fingers wrapping firm but careful, tilting your head back so she could feel every broken gasp and whimper vibrate against her palm. Her other hand slid down to press flat over your lower belly, feeling the way her strap bulged there with every devastating thrust.

“Feel that?” she growled, voice low and mean, lips brushing your ear. “Feel how deep I am in this greedy little cunt? Who owns this pussy, bunny?”

You tried to answer. All that came out was a garbled moan as she pulled out again,’almost completely, then drove back in so hard your arms gave out. Your chest hit the mattress, ass still up, face buried in the sheets while she railed you.

“Louder,” Blake demanded, spanking your ass sharp and stinging, the crack of her palm echoing. “Who owns this messy, pretty pussy?”

“You— you do— baby— fuck—!” The words dissolved into pathetic, high-pitched cries as she kept pounding you, hips snapping relentlessly. The pink strap glistened with your arousal, the wet, filthy sounds of her fucking you filling the entire suite.

She laughed, low, cruel, delighted, and shoved her thumb between your parted lips, pressing down on your tongue.

“That’s right. Dumb bunny doesn’t get to think anymore. Just sucks on my thumb and takes cock like the brainless little slut she is.” She flexed her hips harder, grinding deep on every thrust, her belly hand pressing firmer so you could feel exactly how full she made you. “Awww, look at you. Such a messy, stupid bitch, aren’t you? Drooling all over my hand, ears flopping, tail bouncing while I ruin you. Pathetic.”

Your eyes rolled back. Tears slipped down your cheeks. Every brutal thrust punched the air from your lungs, turning your brain into static and pink haze. No thoughts. No attitude. Just the relentless drag of her cock against that perfect spot and the overwhelming feeling of being owned.

Blake leaned over you fully now, chest to your back, teeth sinking into your shoulder as she fucked you even harder. The spanking came sharper, faster, little stings that bloomed hot across your ass with every punishing snap of her hips.

“Who’s my good girl?” she snarled against your skin, thumb still heavy on your tongue. “Who’s my empty-headed, cock-drunk bunny?”

You couldn’t answer anymore. Just broken, animalistic sounds, muffled sobs and whines and desperate little “mmph—mmph—” noises into the soaked sheets while she railed you senseless. Your whole body trembled violently, thighs shaking, cunt clenching helplessly around the thick strap.

Blake felt it. She growled, low and feral, and reached down to rub tight, mean circles over your clit through the ruined satin.

“Cum for me, you stupid little bitch. Right fucking now.”

It hit you like a freight train exploding through your spine.

Your orgasm tore through you so hard your vision whited out. A raw, guttural cry muffled into the mattress as your body seized, cunt pulsing and gushing around her cock. You made helpless, broken sounds, high, pathetic, wordless, while she kept fucking you through it, spanking your ass red and raw, hips never slowing. She fucked you like an animal, chasing her own pleasure now, growling filthy praises against your neck as wave after wave crashed over you until you were shaking, sobbing, completely fucking gone.

Blake finally slowed, still buried deep, grinding lazy circles while you twitched and whimpered beneath her. She pressed a surprisingly soft kiss between your shoulder blades, thumb stroking your tongue one last time before slipping free.

“Good bunny,” she whispered, voice rough with satisfaction. “So fucking perfect when you’re brainless for me.”

You could barely move. Just lay there, wrecked and dripping and utterly hers, bunny ears askew, body still fluttering with aftershocks as Blake stayed buried inside you, hands stroking soothingly over your trembling skin like she was already planning exactly how she’d break you again.

[monroestormfics]

maxxine dupri x reader, headcanons.

pairing: maxxine dupri x wrestler! reader. content warnings: none rating: sfw disclaimer: all my wrestler fics are them in kayfabe

When it comes to you, Maxxine is head over heels for you. The first time she saw you backstage at a show, well she just had to be your friend!

Constantly wishing you good luck, rushing to talk to you post-match and offering to take photos of you in your gear because if you didn’t it would be a crime.

You and Maxxine become inseperable, training and travelling together. Off days are usually for self care and exploring the cities your staying in.

When you start appearing more and more on her instagram dumps, fans start to speculate on if there was something more between the two of you. Your on-screen chemistry kept the audience intruiged.

Maxxine was pretty blunt when it came to “officially” asking you to be her partner. You two had been dating for a couple months.

And when that day comes? Oh the energy from you both was ELECTRIC. You two win and how do you celebrate? Maxxine kisses you, in the ring, for the world to see

Safe to say the internet exploded. A new IT couple has arrived in the wrestling world.

Maxxine is super affectionate and loves to shower you with gifts, sentimental ones especially.

[jeffpunksgrl]

- aj lee x fem!wrestler moodboard

[natwritesfics-deactivated202605]

Claymore Shadow

Pairing: Drew McIntyre x Plus Size!Reader

Summary: Drew McIntyre lurks in the shadows for months watching you obsessively. After a mixed tag team match he finally makes his move.

Word count: 2.1k

Warnings: MDNI 18+, size kink (I’m not the best at writing this kink but tried my best), unprotected sex, p in v

A/N: Here is my first full fic in a while, and also my first WWE fic. Please send in more requests they would be greatly appreciated.

WWE Masterlist

Drew McIntyre always seemed to be lurking in the shadows. Watching you intently. Every match you had he would watch closely on the monitors in gorilla. Every interaction you had with Superstars or crew backstage, he would be lurking and watching every chance he got.

It took you a couple of months to notice. But after the first time, you always knew he was there watching. Lurking. Assessing. Admiring. You felt his presence before you even saw him. You could feel him staring into your soul.

Some people would find this kind of obsession, unnerving. But not you.

You were stretching in your locker room. Getting ready for your match against Tiffany Stratton. Bending over to touch your toes. The door was wide open, so anyone walking past would have a perfect view of your ass. Not that you intended it that way of course. Or maybe you did. Especially knowing Drew would probably stop and watch you.

You were so focused on stretching. But then you felt his presence. You paused.

“Are you going to stare at my ass all day or are you actually going to say something for once?” You asked.

“Just contemplating whether I should keep staring, or help you out.” He said in his thick Scottish accent.

You stood up slowly, and turned around to see Drew leaning against the door frame. A huge grin on his face.

Your cheeks were flushed. But you couldn’t tell whether it was from the stretching, or the comment he had just made.

“You must stare at all the women’s asses” you teased.

“Only the pretty ones.” He said slowly licking his lips.

“That’s all of them then.” You said.

Drew chuckled before pushing off the door frame, and slowly stalking towards you.

“Not in my eyes. There’s only one pretty enough for me to stare at.” He said as he stopped in front of you.

Your breath hitched. You turned a deeper shade of red. As you looked up at him. He was a good foot taller than you at least.

“Have we gone shy now lass?” Drew teased.

“A minute ago you were bending over making sure I could see your ass. Now you’re blushing and not saying a word. Do I make you nervous lass?” He asked.

All you could do was nod your head.

Drew chuckled again. This time placing a hand on your hip and pulling you closer to him. Despite your bigger frame, his large hands enveloped your hip easily. You gulped as he leaned closer. His lips inches from your own.

“5 minutes until your match Y/N.” A crew member said from the doorway before quickly hurrying away when he saw how close you and Drew were.

“Good luck out there lass. I’ll be watching.” He said winking at you before leaving your locker room.

A few weeks later you were paired up with Drew in a mixed tag teams match against Zelina Vega and Aleister Black.

You and Drew were stood in the ring watching as your opponents made their entrance.

“After we win let’s celebrate.” Drew whispered to you.

“What did you have in mind?” You asked curiously.

“You, me and my hotel room.” He said as Zelina and Aleister entered the ring.

Drew and Aleister started off the match, with Drew quickly getting the upper hand.

A few minutes into the match Aleister crawled towards his wife to make a tag, meaning Drew had to tag you in.

He held the ropes open for you to enter the ring, and placed one of his large hands on your lower back. You quickly attacked Zelina not waiting to let her get the upper hand. You tried your hardest to focus on the match but your mind kept drifting to the feeling of Drew’s hands on your skin. Your lower back now scorching with heat where his hand lingered just a minute before.

You seemed to get too distracted with thoughts of Drew that Zelina managed to sucker punch you and knock you down. She quickly went for the cover but you managed to kick out at two.

You got the upper hand once again and decided to deliver the Claymore. Drew’s finisher. Aleister tried to intervene but Drew was quick to stop him delivering the Claymore to Aleister. You went for the pin, and heard the bell ring, as you and Drew were announced as the winners of the match.

Zelina and Aleister quickly rolled out of the ring and scarpered looking down in shame as they walked backstage. Drew wrapped his arms around your waist, and you felt your feet lift off the ground, as he spun you around in victory.

You were shocked. Of course he was a strong man. The well defined muscles he had were nothing short of exemplary. But the fact that he was able to lift you off the ground, despite your size shocked you.

When your feet were planted firmly on the ground, Drew tucked a piece of hair behind your ear. His thumb slowly stroking your cheek. Your heart was now racing as the two of you just stared at each other.

Then you heard the chants from the crowd.

“Kiss,kiss, kiss!”

The crowd had clearly noticed the chemistry between you and Drew, and they were all for it.

Drew chuckled before slowly leaning down, his lips now inches from yours again like the other week. Slowly he leaned in. Pressing a soft kiss to your lips. It was only brief but it was enough to send the crowd wild.

That evening when you got back to your hotel room, you hopped straight into the shower. Making sure you were fresh and clean for seeing Drew. You had a feeling you might get sweaty again with Drew but you could at least make yourself smell clean and fresh. You also made sure to shave every single unwanted hair on your body.

Fresh out of the shower you dried your hair then proceeded to slather yourself in vanilla body lotion. Pairing it with a vanilla perfume. Sweet, but sophisticated.

You were unsure of what to wear, but finally opted for a light blue summer dress. It was summer after all, but you still wanted to look your best. You applied makeup and styled your hair.

Once you were ready. You checked yourself over in the mirror, before grabbing your room key and phone.

You slowly made your way down to Drew’s room. Nerves kicking in now. Luckily he was on the same floor as you. Once you reached his room you knocked lightly, and waited patiently.

What seemed like a long time later, but was only a few seconds the door opened.

You looked up at Drew and saw he once again had his signature smirk on his face. He was only wearing a t shirt and jeans but he still looked impeccable. He always did. And the smell. He smelt absolutely divine. You wanted to jump him right there and then.

“Now who’s the one staring?” He teased.

“Sorry.” You said blushing.

“Are you coming in or not lass?” Drew asked as he moved out of the way for you to enter his room.

You gulped and then stepped into the room. Drew’s hand found its way to your lower back once again as he guided you into the room.

“So how did you want to celebrate?” You asked as you turned around.

Drew didn’t respond. He just grabbed you roughly by the hips and pulled you closer, before smashing his lips against yours.

He kissed you like he was starving. Desperate for you.

Drew picked you up with ease. Showing how strong he really was. Your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist. Drew slowly walked until your back hit the closest wall, never once breaking the kiss. His hand rested on the wall above your head, the other squeezing the soft flesh of your hip. You were stuck between the wall, and the hard, toned body of Drew McIntyre.

After a minute he pulled away, the both of you desperate for air. His forehead rested against yours. He stared deeply into your eyes, smiling as the two of you tried to catch your breaths from that passionate kiss.

“You have been driving me crazy for the longest time lass. And I should have said before when you used my finisher, well that was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.” He said pecking your lips once more.

“I thought you’d never like someone like me.” You admitted, looking away shyly.

“Don’t look away from me.” He said causing you to look back into his eyes.

“You are the most beautiful woman I have ever met. I have been dying to get my hands on you for the longest time. I wanted to do things properly. Ask you out on a romantic date. Make you my woman. Then fuck your brains out. But I can’t control myself around you any longer lass. I hope you don’t mind me skipping a few steps. I promise to take you on a real date. But you are already my woman.” He said before kissing you again.

Drew used both hands to grab hold of your hips again, to hold you in place as he carried you towards the bed.

He gently placed you down on the bed. He got on his knees at the foot of the bed, and pulled you closer to the edge. He took your sandals off, and then pushed your summer dress up, and spread your legs so he could get a better view of you.

You wore a pair of white lace panties, which were already soaking wet just from Drew kissing you.

Drew chuckled before slowly taking off your panties, to reveal your freshly shaved, perfect glistening pussy. Drew licked his lips as he ran a finger through your slick folds.

“Already so wet for me baby.” He teased.

“Please Drew.” You begged biting your bottom lip.

“That’s it baby. Beg for me. We will order room service when we are done. But first let’s skip straight to dessert.” He said, that wicked smirk on his face again, as he dived head first into your cunt.

His beard prickled your cunt and your thighs as he gently lapped at your folds. Slowly he inserted a finger into your pussy. You bucked your hips begging for more friction.

“Fuck baby. You’re so tight. You sure my cock is going to fit in there.” Drew teased as he pumped his finger in and out. Your pussy squelched with every thrust of his finger.

“I need you Drew.” You begged.

“You want my cock do you lass?” He asked.

“Please.” You begged again.

Drew quickly stripped himself bare, before helping you out of your summer dress and your bra. You tried to hide yourself from him suddenly feeling extremely insecure about being completely exposed.

“Don’t hide from me baby.” Drew said moving your hands to your sides so he could see you fully.

He grabbed one of your nipples between his fingers and started tweaking, causing you to moan and arch your back.

“You are so beautiful baby. So perfect for me.” He said hovering over you and kissing you once again.

“Get on your knees for me.” He said as he flipped you over onto your front.

Once you were in position on your knees Drew asked. “Are you ready for me baby?”

All you could do was nod your head. You were nervous after seeing how big he was.

Drew lined up with your cunt, before slowly pushing his way inside. You gasped at how much it hurt.

“Fuck your clenching me already.” Drew said as he let you adjust.

“We will take our time. Tell me when you’re ready for me to fuck you baby.” He said.

When you were ready you have Drew the signal to finally fuck your brains out. He thrusted hard and fast. Grabbing a hold of your hair and pulling you upright so he could bite down on your shoulder. Marking you as his.

When he finally spilled inside of you, the both of you collapsed on the bed. Limbs tangled together.

Drew held you close. Your head resting on his chest.

“You’re mine baby.” He said placing a kiss on top of your head.

“I’m all yours.” You said snuggling into him more.

Drew ran his fingers up and down your back.

“I’m sorry I cummed inside of you baby. I just couldn’t pull out in time. You were clenching me too much.” He said.

“It’s ok. I’m on the pill.” You said.

“Perfect.” He chuckled.

“Let’s order room service, then we can take a shower together. You can spend the night with me. Maybe make you cum a lot. How does that sound?” He asked.

“That sounds perfect.” You said, as Drew gently kissed your lips once more.

[punksrhea]

LIV MORGAN WWE RAW, February 2nd, 2026

[onlyangel4]

just tattoo of us. ilja dragonov. smau.

ilja dragnov x tattoo artist influencer!reader

synopsis: after rating rhea ripley's tattoos on your popular tiktok series the wwe universe begins to beg for you to do more of the same videos and that is when you first hear ilja dragonov's name. never one to back down for a challenge ilja decides that you must see him in person to rate his tattoos and break the internet.

faceclaim: ryan ashley malarkey

taglist: @fafomama @fairiebabey @kait16xo @teamchasezwrites @mamis-girly2 @jordana1008 @jessk23 @akimorbid @myxthix @jihyowrrld @kai-ropractor @flemmardepro @bloxholden35 @eringobragh420 @crystal-clear-writing @brie-mode-activated @abschaffer2 @fandomwritingforyou @nyx---0 @terrortwinunicorn @ilovehotdads @muffinsbasket @lovelyjay45 @rise-against-the-machine @wingedsymbolruin @madimcg14 @beyondthebelle @mj202323 @amandairene88 @crazy-phan-girl13 @cryptidbunnyx @f4irylid @lov3rla03 @jaydracarys99 @dpriestxripleysgirl @sgt-peppers-coffee-club @lordxime @mill7531 @jackson-nickthedate @prettyluvvluminah @the-whatever-22 @cinnvmonrolls @loki69zowens @colinfingerington @phoebe0391 @gabriella-15 @princessesareforsuckers @jeysslut @sweettbepbo @jizzuo308 @milliedaemopup @cinna-bunbunny @miss-leto @spiicii

y/ntiktok

caption: rating rhea ripley's tattoos!! let me know who you want to see me do next

user1: omg you have to do ilja dragonov

user2: no she would roast the shit out of that neck tattoo

user3: ilja dragonov omg

user4: zelina !!!!

the tiktok had been filmed late at night, ring light low, green screen pulled up behind you.

rhea ripley’s photo filled the background, arms crossed, tattoos on full display, sharp and unapologetic. you’d positioned yourself slightly off-centre so nothing important was blocked, your face calm, evaluative, already in work mode.

you’d tapped the screen once, like you always did.

"alright" you’d said, voice steady, confident. "tonight we are rating rhea ripley’s tattoos."

your eyes tracked across the image behind you, studying the blackout work first. you talked about saturation, how the black was dense and intentional, no weak spots, no lazy packing.

"this isn’t trendy blackout" you explained, gesturing toward the screen. "this is commitment. you don’t do work like this unless you understand how it’s going to age."

you’d switched to another photo, zoomed in closer on her arm.

you’d pointed out the lack of traditional linework, how negative space was doing most of the heavy lifting. how the shapes flowed with her musculature instead of fighting it.

"whoever tattooed her understood movement" you’d said. "these pieces were designed to look powerful when she’s in motion, not just standing still."

your expression had softened, thoughtful.

"that’s not easy."

you’d leaned slightly closer to the camera, eyes sharp again.

"these tattoos feel like armour. they don’t decorate her, they reinforce who she already is."

"strong concept. strong execution. a nine out of ten but not because she’s rhea ripley. because the work deserves it."

the video ended the way all your most dangerous ones did, with you glancing at the camera and saying, almost casually:

"alright. who do you want next?"

you hadn’t realized that single line was about to unleash the wwe universe.

within minutes, the comments had started to change. less about rhea. more about one name, repeated again and again like a dare.

ilja dragunov.

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y/ninsta

liked by unbesiegbar_dragunov, rhearipley_wwe, zelinavegawwe and 693,445 others

y/ninsta: the last few weeks have been busy in the best kind of way !!

view all 24,333 comments

rhearipley_wwe: i can't wait to finally get some of your work

y/ninsta: i'm counting down the days!!

user5: i need to see you rate ilja's tattoos!

user6: forever wishing i could get one of your pieces

user7: your work is so perfect

user8: please please please rate other wrestler's tattoos

y/ninsta posted a story

written: this might be the most exciting thing i have ever done

unbesiegbar_dragunov posted a story tagging y/ninsta

written: ready to get slated

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the hotel room had been rearranged to look like a studio, but it still very much felt like a hotel room.

one chair. neutral wall. ring light glowing. your camera set up on the tripod, already recording in test mode while you adjusted the framing. your reflection stared back at you from the screen, tattoos crawling up your arms, across your chest, disappearing under your black tank top. you looked calm.

you were not calm.

behind you, ilja dragunov stood barefoot on the carpet, arms folded, watching you with open curiosity and absolutely zero chill about it.

"you always this serious before filming?" he’d asked, accent thick, voice warm with amusement.

you hadn’t looked back at him. "you always hover like a cryptid in the background or is this special treatment?"

he’d laughed, short, surprised, genuine. "i was told i must see this process in person."

"you were told to sit" you’d corrected, pointing at the chair.

he obeyed, but dramatically, like he was being sentenced rather than seated.

when you finally hit record for real, your demeanor shifted instantly. professional. focused. that familiar on-camera composure sliding into place like muscle memory.

"alright" you’d said to the camera, settling onto the stool beside him. "this is a highly requested one. today we are rating ilja Dragunov’s tattoos, in person, because apparently flying people across countries is how we do things now."

ilja turned his head slightly toward you. "i was told the rating must be accurate."

you shot him a look. "i didn’t say it required airfare."

his mouth twitched. he liked that you didn’t seem impressed by him.

you turned back to the camera. "okay. first impressions."

your eyes moved over him, slow and assessing in a way that was professional, mostly.

"coverage is intentional. not overcrowded. everything breathes. which already tells me you either have restraint or a very strict artist."

"i have pain tolerance" he said.

you smirked. "that too."

you shifted slightly closer. close enough now that your knees almost brushed. close enough that the camera could see detail when you reached up.

"alright. let’s talk about the neck piece."

his posture changed just a fraction. chin lifting. shoulders back. instinctive. like he was presenting himself for inspection.

you noticed. of course you did.

your fingers hovered near his throat first without touching. professional courtesy. silent permission.

"may i?"

his eyes flicked to yours, darker now. "you are the expert."

you touched him.

lightly at first, fingertips tracing just beside the ink, following the lines of the design that wrapped up the side of his neck. the contact was clinical. evaluative.

it still made his breathing change.

"this is solid linework" you said, voice steady even as you were very aware of the warmth of his skin under your hand. "no wobble. no hesitation. whoever did this knew exactly how deep to go, neck skin is unforgiving.”

ilja swallowed. the movement shifted your fingers slightly.

you pretended not to notice. you absolutely noticed.

"you also sat incredibly well" you added, glancing at him. "most people twitch like crazy here."

"i do not twitch" he said.

you smiled faintly. "yeah. i can tell."

Your thumb brushed just under his jaw as you tilted his head slightly toward the camera. the movement was efficient. necessary.

intimate anyway.

"this placement was smart" you continued. "it follows the natural line of your sternocleidomastoid" you gestured lightly "so when you move, it moves with you instead of warping."

"you are talking about my neck like it is engineering."

"it is" you replied. "good tattoos are architecture."

he huffed a quiet laugh, but his eyes never left your face.

you leaned back just enough to address the camera again, though your hand was still lightly resting against his shoulder to keep him positioned.

"design-wise, it matches him" you said. "strong, dramatic, a little unhinged."

ilja looked offended. "unhinged?"

you tilted your head. "respectfully."

he considered that. "acceptable."

you were too aware of how close his face was now. how his gaze kept dropping to your mouth when you talked. how your hand hadn’t moved.

"overall execution?" you said, forcing yourself back into reviewer mode. "high level. this isn’t flash picked off a wall. this was designed for him. you can tell."

ilja’s voice dropped slightly. "you approve, then?"

you met his eyes fully for the first time since touching him.

"yeah" you said softly. "i do."

there was a beat. too long for just a tattoo review. too quiet.

you cleared your throat and finally pulled your hand away, turning back to the camera with a composed smile that fooled absolutely no one watching.

"final rating?" you said. "very high. not just for the tattoo but for sitting like a rock and not complaining once."

ilja leaned toward the camera slightly. "i was told there would be pain."

you raised a brow. "bet you liked that"

his smile turned slow and knowing.

the video cut there.

and the internet absolutely lost its mind.

y/ninsta

liked by unbesiegbar_dragunov, rhearipley_wwe, user9 and 701,882 others

tagged: unbesiegbar_dragunov

y/ninsta: in a first for my channel i got to rate tattoos in person. video with ilja dragunov, link in bio

view all 23,494 comments

user9: YOU FLEW TO HIM??? THE BUDGET??? THE DEDICATION???

user10: he does NOT look at interviewers like that. just saying.

user11: “The sternocleidomastoid” girl just say neck I’m trying to BREATHE

user12: HE SAT SO STILL BC HE WAS TRYING NOT TO FOLD

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y/ninsta posted a story

written: smackdown ready

smackdown backstage felt louder than it looked on tv.

cases rolling down concrete floors. crew members with headsets weaving through hallways. wrestlers half in gear, half in hoodies, all pretending not to stare at you while very obviously staring at you.

you were used to attention. you were not used to wrestling locker room attention.

a production assistant clipped a temporary pass to your jacket. "talent guest" she’d said with a smile that told you she absolutely knew why you were here.

your phone buzzed in your hand.

unknown number: you made it.

you didn’t need it saved to know who it was.

you: i go where the tattoos are.

three dots appeared immediately.

before another message came through, a familiar voice spoke behind you.

"you walk fast."

you turned and there he was.

ilja was already in partial gear, black pants on, wrist tape half wrapped, hair still slightly damp like he’d just showered. up close, under the bright backstage lights, his neck tattoo looked even sharper. angrier. like it belonged exactly where it was.

"you text like a dad" you said. "you could’ve just said hi."

"i did say hi" he replied calmly. "digitally."

you stared at him. "i’m regretting this already."

he stepped closer, not quite in your space, but close enough that you could feel his presence like a shift in air pressure.

"you are not" he said.

annoyingly confident. also correct.

your eyes flicked to his neck automatically. he noticed. of course he did.

"it looks better in person" you admitted.

a slow smirk tugged at his mouth. "you are biased. you touched it."

you crossed your arms. "that was professional."

"mhm."

you narrowed your eyes. "don’t start."

he raised his hands in surrender, tape dangling from one wrist. "i say nothing."

a few crew members walked past, glancing between you two with very obvious curiosity. you leaned in slightly, lowering your voice.

"so is everyone here this subtle or"

"no" he said. "they are worse."

right on cue, a voice yelled from down the hall, "ILJA YOU GONNA INTRODUCE US OR WHAT?"

ilja didn’t even look back. "no."

you snorted. "wow. protective."

"i am efficient."

"sure."

there was a beat, the kind that lingered just a little too long. the noise of backstage continued around you, but your little pocket of space felt oddly separate.

his eyes dipped to the tattoos across your collarbone, then back to your face. not in a sleazy way. in a studying artwork way.

"you have more since the video" he said.

"i always have more" you replied. "occupational hazard."

he nodded, like that made perfect sense.

then, more casually than the eye contact suggested, he asked, "what are you doing tomorrow night?"

you blinked. "recovering from being stared at by fifty men built like refrigerators, probably."

"i know a place" he continued, ignoring that. "quiet. good food."

you tilted your head. "is this you asking me to dinner, or is this another ‘professional service’ situation?"

he considered that.

"dinner" he decided.

you pretended to think about it, even though your answer had already settled somewhere behind your ribs the second he walked up.

"alright" you said. "i'd like that"

his music hit faintly in the arena beyond the curtain. the bass echoed through the hallway.

he didn’t look away from you.

"that’s me," he said.

"i figured."

a ghost of a grin. "you’ll watch?"

you held up your phone. "content is content."

he stepped backward toward gorilla, then paused.

"you will text me" he said. not a question.

you raised a brow. "confident."

he held your gaze, intensity dialed all the way up like always.

"yes."

and then he was gone through the curtain, music swelling, crowd roaring.

your phone buzzed again in your hand.

ilja: tomorrow. 7. wear something you cannot spill on.

you smiled down at the screen.

you: bold of you to assume i don’t eat like a raccoon.

the reply came just before his entrance pose hit on the monitor beside you.

i will take my chances.

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wrestlersinthewild posted a story

written: ilja spotted on what looks like a date

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3 MONTHS LATER

wrestingfan posted a story

written: looks like ilja has gotten a new tattoo

unbesiegbar_dragunov

liked by y/ninsta, guntherwwe, rhearipley_wwe and 499,449 others

tagged: y/ninsta

unbesiegar_dragunov: who knew one live tattoo rating session would lead to this. your talent amazes me

view all 11,383 comments

y/ninsta: i love you so much

rhearipley_wwe: i am taking full credit for this

user13: fully tatted ilja coming soon

user14: oh i love them

user15: i have no one to talk to about this

user16: what a hot couple, damnnnn

[the-fandom-abyss]

Charlotte Flair SMAU

charlottewwe posted a story

story seen by 301,966 accounts

message from beckylynchwwe: you forgot to edit the video again 🤦‍♀️

reply from charlottewwe: oh shit…

liked by user3, user4, user5 and 299,562 others

charlotteflairupdates: have you seen @ charlottewwe story? It seems that the Queen has found another to share the throne. Any guesses who it might be?

view all 231,442 comments

user4: i had to watch the video so many times to see it

user6: what did I miss…

user9: Is Charlotte dating again??

liked by charlottewwe, user2 and 256,771 others

y/ninsta: only the best of the best for me, thank you for an amazing weekend 💫

view all 156,981 comments

user1: doesn’t this room look familiar? 👀

user2: maybe they were staying in the same hotel? it doesn’t mean anything

user3: oooor they were staying in the same hotel room?

user4: holy shit did we just figure out who hotel girl was!!!

user5: anyone see the two glasses for breakfast? she was definitely not alone

user6: @ y/ninsta @ charlottewwe explain yourselves

liked by y/ninsta, alexa_bliss_wwe and 257,669 others

charlottewwe: wishing I was back here

view all 211,893 comments

user1: they’re playing with us y’all

user2: this cannot be a coincidence

user3: they know what they’re doing

user4: is it strange i kinda like it?

liked by beckylynchwwe, y/ninsta and 248,905 others

charlottewwe: my queen 👑❤️‍🔥

user1: hotel girl reveal

user2: a woman of few words

beckylynchwwe: tell the lass she owes me $$

charlottewwe: what stupid bet did you drag her into?

beckylynchwwe: who would post something sappy first

user3: my money would have been on @ y/ninsta

[punksrhea]

JADE CARGILL WWE SmackDown, January 16th, 2026

[thecutpriceguignol]

men's wrestling promos are so fucking horny it's hysterical. They will be shirtless, dickprint out, glistening, yelling "I'm going to TOP this man in the RING. I'm going to TAKE his ASS and leave his body QUIVERING. I'm going to FIST this man to a PROSTATE ORGASM" and then the commentators are just like "fighting words from the champ there"

[moxleyrollins]

#romantic things to tell your girlfriend tag team partner FRIDAY NIGHT SMACKDOWN | 01.16.26

[monroestormfics]

trying to format on mobile is hell

[monroestormfics]

ludwig kaiser x reader, headcanons.

content warnings: suggestive, praise kink, switch! ludwig rating: nsfw, 18+. disclaimer: all my wrestler fics are them in kayfabe

sfw

• Ludwig was very upfront when asking you out, literally strode up to you backstage before a show and said “I would like to invite you to dinner… with me”

• He’s so dismissive of virtually everyone that you didn’t think he even knew you existed. Clearly you made an impression on him at some point.

• Ludwig goes ALL OUT when it comes to dates. He brings flowers every single time. Ludwig can see that you are deserving of being treated to something nice and reassures you of that

• This man BRAGS about you non-stop. Sure he plays up showing you off, but its easy to tell it’s because he thinks you deserve all the spotlight.

• The first time you ask him to be at your ringside, he is ESTATIC. He wears his finest attire, and makes sure to hype you up to the crowd. Ludwig only interferes if you ask, because he knows you will win regardless.

• Ludwig doesn’t get jealous often, after all… why would you want anyone else when your with THE Ludwig Kaiser? If someone’s flirting with you he’ll just wrap an arm around your waist and urge the poor person to continue whatever they were going to say with a shit-eating grin.

• Travelling with Ludwig can be stressful, he packs more than he should. He insists on booking everything.

• Ludwig always insists on your outfits matching in some way, however he’ll never pressure you on dressing a certain way. Ask for him suggestions on what to wear? Well… you’ll be there for a while

• This man can’t hide how much your praise means to him, a giddy smile on his face even at the smallest comment.

smut

• So when i said he likes your praise? oh that is the easiest way to get him going. let him know how good he looks after a match and he’ll have his mouth in your neck in no time

• He is without a doubt, a switch. His drive is also HIGH

• “Are you going to keep me waiting?” he sneers as you slowly get on your knees

• He likes being rough, tugging at your so you look him in eye.

• “I suppose we make this quick yes?” as he’s pressed up against you in a supply closet in the arena an hour before showtime

• Ludwig definitely is a tease in public situations, a hand on your thigh under the table, whispering how he can’t wait until your both alone.