angel

18+

[onlyangel4]

onlyangel4 masterlist.

hi there! i'm angel and it is lovely to meet you. below you will be able to find my masterlist. a few notes before hand. this blog is 18+ minors DNI. each fic will have a list of content warning at the beginning of it. my requests are open for most of the drivers on the grid and wrestlers past and present.

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F1 MASTERLIST

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WWE MASTERLIST

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[onlyangel4]

Off Limits. Dean Di Laurentis. Part one.

Dean Di Laurentis x Wrestler!reader

Synopsis: Dean Di Laurentis wasn't looking for anything serious. Then he met Y/N. One wrestling match. One night. One mistake. Sometimes the people who feel most like home are the ones you were never supposed to touch. And sometimes walking away hurts a lot more than falling.

Warnings: 18+. Smut. Oral (F receiving). P in V. Reader has major parental issues. Angst.

Author’s note: I needed to get Dean Di Laurentis out of my system. This is gonna be a two parter, please ignore the random line breaks tumblr hates me

It was a piercing feminine scream that woke dean up that morning. He had decided to get a somewhat early night turning in at midnight instead of his usual 3am bedtime but the alarm clock glowing 2:38am told him that his early night had been a waste. He listened out for the sign of another scream or a woman in danger and he heard nothing but he was already awake and there was no way that he was going to be able to fall back asleep without checking where the unsettling sound had come from.

He padded barefoot down the hallway of the off campus house heading to the only room that he knew had a girl in, Garrett’s. And of course, when he reached the door another high pitched squeal left the room. What the fuck. Dean carefully reached out and knocked on the door, “Wellsy you alright in there?”, he called out. “oh shit sorry dean I’m fine” Hannah’s voice sent a wave of relief through him. “You two decent?” “yeah come in”

Dean cracked the door open and his was met with the sight of Hannah bouncy on her feet like a child on Christmas morning and Garrett laid in bed an amused smile on his lips. “so… why were we screaming like a murder victim?”, dean enquired the playful glint present in his baby blue’s. “My best friend just text, she is going to be in Massachusetts next week”, Hannah looked like she might explode from joy. “I thought Allie was your best friend” “She is but y/n is different”, Hannah paused for a second trying to think of the best way to describe a friendship that the English dictionary did not have a good enough word for, “she is my Beau, like Garrett, Logan and Tucker are your best friends but Beau is different. y/n is my Beau” Dean actually completely understood what Hannah meant but that. Beau was different to the other guys, yes Dean was close with all the guys on the team but his friendship with Beau was stronger, they have been through so much together that Dean was sure they could take on the world. “Then why have I never seen her before, how come she doesn’t visit? She living some cushty life in Indianna?”, Dean was feeling a little betrayed if Hannah knew a girl that was good enough to compare to Beau than how dare she never introduce him to her. “Complete opposite actually”, Garrett finally decided to join the conversation. “Wait so he gets to know about the mysterious y/n but I don’t” “I am her boyfriend idiot”, Garrett shot back but his words had no bite, they never did. “y/n tours the world”, Hannah continued choosing to ignore the bickering between the men, “well mostly America” “She some pop star or something?” Dean interrupted not expecting the laugh that bubbled from Hannah’s lips. “She would hate that you assumed that, y/n is a professional wrestler, she works with an indie company and goes from city to city performing” “you are friends with a girl John Cena” This time it was Garrett’s time to laugh, “you are so stupid bro” “y/n was a gymnast in high school but she hated school, she didn’t really get education so when she got scouted for pro wrestling she practically flipped onto the plane” “so this girl is coming here?”, dean quizzed “yup and we are going to her show, it is a non negotiable”, dean knew better than to argue with hannah especially when garrett was right there, “the entire house is going including you, so cancel whatever girl you have coming to house. “yes boss” “now leave so we can actually sleep”, Garrett spoke “Your girlfriend is the one that woke me up”, Dean rolled his eyes walking back to the door. “Oh and dean?”, Hannah called out behind the man. “Wellsy” “y/n is off limits don’t you dare” Dean just nodded before shutting the door behind him. Walking back towards his own bedroom. Once in bed he tried to get to sleep but his mind kept on wandering back to thoughts of you and why Hannah felt the need to warn him off. There was no way in hell that a professional wrestler would be his type.

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The wrestling gym warmed your soul, a heavy contract to the Boston weather that had been in your bones ever since your plane landed four hours ago. You were helping to set up, making sure the ropes were tight and the mat was in the right place for some of the more adventurous spots that people on the card had planned that night. “So I heard you have quite a few people coming to see you tonight”, Maya, your opponent and closest friend in the business spoke a sparkle in her eyes. The people you worked with were not used to you requesting family and friends tickets unless you were in Indiana and Hannah’s parents wanted to see you. Otherwise you never had anyone that actually knew you in your corner, that was part of the reason why you had mastered your charm, you needed to get the audience on side from first impressions along without the help of anyone else sat in the crowd. “Well I was just expecting my best friend, Hannah to come out but turns out her boyfriend is the captain of Briar’s hockey team and he brought tickets for everyone” Maya actually cackled at this news, “you, y/n y/ln have a whole hockey team in your corner tonight” “I don’t know they might meet me realise that I’m nothing like them and hate, then you’ll have a whole hockey team rooting for you tonight”, you jested a smiling bright but it didn’t quite meet your eyes. Meeting new people had always been a bit of a challenge for you, you never really knew what to do like yes you could hold small talk and you could definitely make someone laugh with your sass but the idea of anyone wanting to get to know you on a deeper level than that made your fight or flight kick in and usually you ran for the hills. “girl we have run through these spots so many times before, we’ve got this”, Maya reminded you running a hand through her blonde hair. That was one thing Maya had in common with Hannah both women could ground you exactly how you needed to be grounded, they could stop your mind from running off to what if conclusions and that was the most important thing to you. After your own upbringing you needed people to stay and both Hannah and Maya would never leave you. You checked the tension on the rope one more time before turning to Maya, “I am going to go get in my ring gear because I just know Hannah is gonna be early” “good thinking girl, if your best friend is bringing a whole hockey team we better look good”, maya whistled making you roll your eyes. You were not interested in dating anyone right now, let alone someone that played hockey.

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“WELLSY WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU WEAR TO A WRESTLING MATCH” “clothes are good”, Logan patted Dean on his back “well done smartass” Dean rolled his eyes as Hannah walked down into the living room. “It is usually a pretty casual thing what you are wearing is fine”, dean looked down at his khaki sweater and wide leg jean combo for some reason it didn’t feel right. But Hannah was the expert at this, and he would do whatever she said, within reason. “What kind of thing do people wear to wrestle”, Tucker questioned. The world of professional wrestling was a complete mystery to most of the guys in the off campus house, they knew of the greats that had made it through to mainstream media but that was pretty much it. “She’ll be in what they call gear, knowing y/n there will be studs, buckles andmaybe a little bit of pink” “Pink?”, Dean was under the impression that wrestling was a more masculine sport, he was expecting y/n to have wider shoulders than him and be able to tackle him on the ice, so the idea of some feminity took him by surprise. “oh yeah it is y/n’s favourite colour, we dyed her hair bright pink the last year of high school, my mom was pissed”, Hannah laughed at the memory. “your mom?” Tucker questioned obviously confused. “y/n is technically a Wells, she uses her dad’s last name for work reason but my parents are her legal guardians have been since we were teenagers, not my story to tell but she is basically my sister” “Your Beau”, Dean repeated under his breath so no one could hear. He was beginning to get an idea of the kind of girl you were and he was liking every single thing he was hearing- “remember boys, y/n is off limits I swear to God if any of you break that promise”, Hannah spoke waggling her finger, she was about as menacing as a chihuahua but Dean respected Hannah so he was going to listen to her. Yes he was a bit promiscuous but he could have any girl he wanted he didn’t need to go for Hannah’s best friend, there were at least 5 girls in his phone that he could spend that night with. “y/n just text”, Hannah squealed obviously excited, “she is ready whenever we are so please please please can we go”, she psoke puppy eyes aimed at Garrett. “You heard the lady”, Garrett gave in ushering everyone to the door. Dean didn’t know what to expect from his first pro wrestling show but something told him it was going to be special.

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There it was again that high pitched feminine squeal that had woke Dean a week prior. He was hearing it all over again as Hannah beelined into the building as soon as Garrett parked the car. “wow wellsy really thinks a lot of this girl” “I think she would trade me for an extra week with y/n”, Garrett jested as the boys slowly walked into the building. As soon as Dean got inside his eyes found you. You were currently being bear hugged by Hannah as she jumped up and down with tears in her eyes but you had the brightest smile on your lips acting although her spider monkey grip did not hurt at all. It was only when Hannah pulled away that Dean got a full look at you in your outfit and it was safe to say that you took his breath away.

It was only when Hannah pulled away that Dean got a full look at you in your outfit, and it was safe to say that you took his breath away. Jesus Christ. The first thing he noticed was the pink. Not the soft, sweet kind. Not the bubblegum princess shade most girls went for. This was hot pink, sharp and unapologetic, flashing beneath silver hardware and black leather every time you moved. A studded black crop top hugged your torso, the neckline edged with metal rivets that caught the overhead lights. Crisscrossing straps wrapped around your waist and shoulders, secured by chunky silver buckles that looked more rockstar than wrestler. A glimpse of glittering pink fabric peeked through the cutouts, just enough colour to stop the outfit from becoming completely dangerous. Low-rise leather shorts sat high on your thighs, covered in silver studs and decorative belts that hung loosely from your hips. More buckles circled one leg, paired with fishnet panels that disappeared beneath knee-high black boots. The boots themselves looked like they weighed a ton, loaded with enough straps and metal detailing to make anyone think twice before getting in your way. The whole thing looked like something straight out of a late-night music video—equal parts fighter and rockstar. And somehow, you pulled it off effortlessly.

Dean's brain completely short-circuited. Because it wasn't really the outfit. It was you in the outfit. The confidence. The swagger. The way you carried yourself like you knew exactly how many heads turned when you walked into a room and simply didn't care. His eyes traced the silver chains hanging from your hips before flicking back up, catching the smirk playing at your lips.

Well. There went any chance of him acting normal. That's a problem, he thought. Which was funny, because for maybe the first time in his life, Dean wasn't entirely sure he wanted to solve it. “Holy shit” he muttered before he could stop himself. It was Logan that caught the tail end of his whisper and patted Dean on the back, “you’ve gotta remember what hannah said, y/n is off limits man” and dean heard those words, he knew that Logan was right and that he was not going to be able to have you. but damn that didn’t stop him from wanting you.

“Earth to y/n.” Dean blinked as Hannah's voice cut through his thoughts. You were still smiling at your best friend, entirely oblivious to the minor crisis currently taking place inside Dean's head. “What?” you asked. “You haven't actually said hello to anyone else yet.” Your eyes widened dramatically. “Oh my God. Oops now all your friends are going to hate me” Before Dean could react, you were suddenly standing directly in front of him. Up close, you somehow looked even better. Which was deeply unfair. “You must be Dean."” He opened his mouth. Nothing came out. What the fuck was wrong with him? Usually talking to girls was the easy part.

You tilted your head. “Wow. Hannah didn't mention you were the quiet one.” The boys immediately burst out laughing. "Quiet?" Tucker repeated. “Dean?” Logan added. “That's a new one.” A faint blush crept onto Dean's cheeks and he immediately hated himself for it. You looked delighted. “Oh, good. He does speak.” “I speak plenty.” “There he is.” God, you were trouble. The worst part was that you didn't seem to realise it. “Nice to finally meet you” you continued, offering your hand. Dean looked down at it for half a second before shaking it. Your grip was surprisingly firm. Athlete. Of course. “Likewise.” You squinted at him. “Hannah talks about you a lot.” His stomach immediately dropped. “She does?” “Oh yeah.” You nodded seriously. “Mostly complaints.” The boys erupted again. “Okay, now I like her” Garrett announced. “You should hear the stories.” “Please don't.” Dean knew where this was going “One time” Garrett was enjoying this “Nope.” “he accidentally locked himself out of the house wearing nothing but a towel.” Dean groaned. “Oh my God.” Hannah looked far too pleased with herself. “I told you that in confidence.” “You told me that because you thought it was funny.” "It was funny.” “It was January!” You laughed. Actually laughed. Not one of those polite little laughs people gave because they felt obligated. A real one. And Dean hated how much he liked the sound.

“So this is the famous hockey team” you said, looking around the group. “Famous is a strong word.” “Hannah talks about you guys almost as much as she talks about Garrett.” Garrett looked horrified. “Almost?” “Sorry dude.” The grin you shot him was bright enough to light up the entire building. For a second Dean found himself staring. Again. And judging by the look Logan was sending him, he wasn't exactly subtle about it. Thankfully, Hannah interrupted before anyone could call him out. “Okay, enough socialising. y/n has a match to win.” You immediately groaned. “Ugh. Responsibilities.” “Aren't you supposed to be some big scary wrestler?” “I am.” You pointed towards the ring. “For approximately twelve minutes.” Then you pointed at Hannah. “the second I see her I'm emotionally compromised.” “That's true” Hannah agreed. “See? How am I supposed to work in these conditions Dean shook his head. Everything he'd imagined about you over the last week was wrong. You weren't intimidating. You weren't mysterious. You weren't some larger-than-life athlete who took herself too seriously. You were funny. Warm. Effortlessly charming. And somehow that was infinitely worse. Because now he understood exactly why Hannah loved you. And exactly why she had warned him away. The problem was that Dean had never been particularly good at listening.

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Dean was halfway through talking to logan about something stupid while hannah explained the main rules of wrestling to tucker and garrett when the lights went down and the bass started "Oh shit.” Hannah had the brightest smile on her lips “That's our girl” The crowd immediately erupted when the song became more recognisible. Dean frowned. ”she haven't even come out yet” “you'd be surprised” Hannah said beside him. A beat later, music blasted through the speakers. Heavy bass, cocky, confident. The kind of song that practically demanded attention. And judging by the reaction from the crowd, everyone in the building knew exactly who it belonged to.

The curtain parted. Dean forgot how to breathe because there you were. One arm raised above your head as pink and white lights flashed around the venue. The smile from backstage was gone, in its place was pure confidence pure attitude. You looked like you owned the building. Hell, you looked like you owned the city. The silver hardware on your gear sparkled beneath the lights while the hot pink accents practically glowed. Every step down the ramp looked deliberate, like you knew every single pair of eyes in the room was locked on you. And they were. Including Dean's. Especially Dean's. “what the fuck” he muttered. You pointed towards a group of fans screaming your name and they immediately lost their minds. Then you climbed onto the apron in one fluid movement. Athlete. That was the first coherent thought Dean managed. Not just athletic you were ridiculously athletic. The ropes barely moved as you stepped between them before climbing onto the middle turnbuckle. Your arms stretched out and the crowd cheered louder. And God help him, you absolutely loved it, he could see it in the way your smile widened the way you soaked up every ounce of attention. Not because you were arrogant but because this was your thing. This ring, this crowd, these people, this was where you belonged. “You see it now, don't you?” Hannah asked quietly. Dean swallowed. “See what?” "The wrestling thing." His eyes never left you. The referee was speaking to you but you were too busy hyping up a section of fans near the barricade. They screamed even louder. Dean found himself smiling. “You know what's annoying?” Garrett said. “What?”

“She's actually that charismatic all the time.” Dean laughed under his breath, yeah, he believed that The music finally faded. You settled into your corner. Across the ring, Maya made her entrance to another huge reaction from the crowd but Dean barely noticed. Because you were stretching against the ropes now, bouncing lightly on your feet. Focused. Ready. And for the first time since he'd met you, you looked completely serious. Something in his chest tightened. The girl who had spent ten minutes making fun of Hannah's driving. The girl who had laughed at his expense five separate times. The girl Hannah called her Beau. She wasn't just some wrestler. She was good at this. Dean could feel it. The crowd could feel it. Hell, even before the bell rang he could tell you were the star of the show and that was a very dangerous realization for a man who was supposed to stay the hell away from you.

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The bell finally rang and Dean settled back in his seat, expecting to spend the next ten minutes pretending he understood what was happening. The second you stepped forward, however, he realised that wasn't going to be possible. Everything about you changed the moment the match officially started. The playful woman who had been teasing Hannah backstage only fifteen minutes ago was still there somewhere, Dean could see flashes of her every time that familiar grin crossed your lips, but now there was something else underneath it. A focus. A confidence. A certainty that made it impossible to look away. Across the ring, Maya matched your energy perfectly. The two of you circled each other cautiously at first, neither woman rushing into anything stupid. The crowd had settled into an excited hum around them, everyone seemingly aware that they were about to witness something special. Dean certainly wasn't. Not until you locked up. He had expected professional wrestling to look choreographed. Maybe even awkward, instead it looked difficult, painfully difficult. Muscle strained against muscle as Maya managed to twist your arm behind your back, forcing you down onto one knee. Dean barely had time to register that she had the advantage before you were moving again, rolling forward and using the momentum to slip free before immediately reversing the hold. The crowd cheered. Dean blinked. “What the hell?” Beside him, Hannah laughed. “Good, right?” “She just folded herself in half.” “That's nothing.” Nothing?

Dean looked back towards the ring just in time to watch you spring backwards, narrowly avoiding Maya's next attempt to grab hold of you. Your feet barely seemed to touch the canvas before you were moving again, slipping underneath her arm and popping up behind her with a grin so smug that half the audience immediately started cheering. Dean found himself laughing despite himself. “She's showing off.” “Of course she is” Garrett replied. “Look at her.” Dean didn't need to be told twice. His eyes had barely left you since your music hit. Maya finally managed to catch you with a shoulder tackle that sent you crashing onto the mat and for some reason Dean's stomach dropped. Not because it looked particularly painful. Not because he thought you were hurt. Just because seeing you on the receiving end felt wrong somehow. You, however, looked entirely unbothered. In fact, when Maya flashed a triumphant smile in your direction, you simply rolled your eyes so dramatically that the entire front row burst out laughing. “Oh, she's annoying” Dean realised. Hannah looked delighted. “You have no idea.”

A second later you were back on your feet. Maya charged and you sidestepped at the last possible moment. The blonde crashed chest-first into the turnbuckle and the collective wince that rippled through the building was immediate. Dean barely had time to process what happened before you were moving again. One second you were sprinting. The next you had planted a foot on the middle rope, twisting your body through the air in a movement so fluid it looked almost effortless. For a brief moment you seemed weightless but then you crashed into Maya. The audience exploded. Dean was standing before he even realised he'd moved. “Holy shit.” You immediately popped back to your feet, soaking up the reaction with a grin that could probably be seen from space. The worst part? Dean was beginning to understand why. You weren't just good. You were genuinely incredible. And judging by the way the rest of the crowd was reacting, he was the last person in the building to figure that out.

The energy inside the building only seemed to grow with every passing minute. Dean had never been to a wrestling show before, but even he could tell that the crowd was hanging on your every move now. Every cheer, every laugh, every near miss had them completely invested. And somehow, despite the dozens of people surrounding the ring, it felt impossible to focus on anyone except you. Maya recovered quickly after the aerial attack, catching you by surprise when you rushed forward again. One second you were charging at her with that familiar confidence and the next she had your wrist trapped, using your own momentum against you to launch you across the ring.

Your back hit the mat hard. The sound echoed throughout the building. Dean immediately grimaced. You rolled onto your stomach with a groan that looked entirely genuine and Maya wasted no time capitalising, grabbing hold of your arm and wrenching it backwards. The audience booed. Maya smirked. Dean found himself leaning forward in his seat. "You guys said wrestling was scripted." Garrett laughed beside him. “It is.” “Then why am I stressed?” That earned him a chorus of laughter from the boys. Even Hannah looked smug. “Told you.” Dean rolled his eyes but didn't argue. Because she was right. Somewhere along the line he had become invested. Maybe it was the way you connected with the crowd. Maybe it was the fact that every time things started looking rough you somehow found a way to smile anyway. Or maybe it was because he couldn't remember the last time he'd watched someone doing something they genuinely loved. Whatever the reason, he couldn't stop watching.

Inside the ring Maya had taken control completely now. Every time you tried to build momentum she seemed to have an answer waiting. A kick to the ribs. A forearm across the shoulders. A perfectly timed counter that sent you crashing back down to the mat. The audience groaned collectively. Dean's jaw tightened. "You okay there?" Logan asked. “I'm fine.” “You look mad.” “I'm not mad.” “You are absolutely mad.” Dean ignored him because maybe he was. Not at Maya. At the situation, at the fact that every time you got knocked down he felt something unpleasant twist in his stomach. You pushed yourself up using the ropes, visibly exhausted now. A strand of hair had escaped from where you'd pinned it back and was sticking to the side of your face. Your chest rose and fell rapidly and for the first time all match you looked vulnerable. The crowd noticed too, their cheers became louder more desperate as though they were willing you back into the fight. Dean realised he was doing exactly the same thing. Come on, the thought slipped through his mind before he could stop it. Come on, sweetheart. Get up. As if hearing him, you lifted your head. Maya charged. The crowd gasped but at the last possible second you ducked. Maya's momentum carried her straight into the corner turnbuckle. The entire building exploded. Dean was already on his feet. So was everyone else. The noise became deafening. You stumbled backwards at first, clearly running on instinct and adrenaline, before suddenly finding a second wind. The change was immediate. One clothesline, the crowd roared. A second, even louder. Maya staggered. You hit the ropes and launched yourself forward, taking her off her feet completely. The building nearly came apart. Dean couldn't remember the last time he'd been this invested in something that wasn't hockey. You dropped to one knee in the centre of the ring, chest heaving as thousands of cheers crashed over you from every direction. And then you smiled, not the confident grin from your entrance, not the teasing smile you'd aimed at him backstage. This one was different, raw, happy, like you were having the time of your life. Something in Dean's chest tightened. Because suddenly he understood. This wasn't a hobby. This wasn't some weird little side job. This was your dream. And watching you live it was somehow more attractive than anything else he'd seen all night. The entire building was on its feet now. Every person in the crowd was screaming your name. Every single one of them willing you forward, including him. Across the ring, Maya was beginning to look frustrated. You kept finding ways back into the fight. Every time she thought she'd put you down, you somehow got back up again. A forearm connected with your jaw. You fired one straight back. The crowd roared, another, then another., neither woman willing to back down. Dean winced every time one of you connected. “Holy shit” he muttered. “They're laying it in tonight” Garrett agreed. Neither of them took their eyes off the ring. Maya finally gained the advantage, catching you with a kick that folded you over before lifting you onto her shoulders. The audience collectively gasped. Dean's stomach dropped. You looked exhausted. Your movements slower than they had been at the start of the match, Maya knew it too. The confident smile on her face made that painfully obvious. She adjusted her grip., preparing to finish things.

Around Dean, the crowd began protesting immediately. “No, no, no” Hannah whispered. Dean didn't even realise he was shaking his head until Logan elbowed him. "Relax." "I am relaxed." "You look like you're about to jump the barricade." Dean ignored him because Maya was moving and for one horrible second he genuinely thought it was over. Then somehow you slipped free, the crowd erupted. Dean shouted something completely incoherent. Your feet hit the canvas. Maya spun around. You caught her with a superkick and the sound echoed throughout the building. Maya dropped, the reaction was deafening. “OH MY GOD!” Hannah screamed beside him. You looked just as surprised as everyone else. Clearly running on instinct now. Pure adrenaline. Pure determination. The audience sensed it too. Every person in the building was behind you, Dean had never witnessed anything like it. A few minutes ago these people had been strangers, now they were chanting your name, believing in you, loving you and somehow Dean understood exactly why.

You pushed yourself back to your feet, the exhaustion was obvious. Your chest rising and falling rapidly, sweat glistening beneath the bright lights. Yet the second Maya began getting up, that familiar spark returned to your eyes. The one Dean had noticed backstage. The one that usually appeared right before you said something sarcastic. Only this time there was no joke coming. This time there was purpose and the crowd recognised it immediately. The noise doubled. No it tripled. Until Dean could barely hear himself think. You sprinted while Maya staggered forwards. And suddenly you were airborne, For one brief second you seemed suspended in midair, weightless. Then you crashed into Maya and the impact shook the ring. The referee dropped instantly. One. The crowd counted with him. Two. Dean stopped breathing. Three. The bell rang and for a moment the entire building exploded. People screaming. Cheering. Jumping to their feet.

Dean had attended national championships that hadn't felt this loud. And in the middle of it all was you flat on your back absolutely exhausted but victorious. A grin slowly spread across your face as the referee lifted your hand. The reaction somehow grew even louder. Dean found himself smiling before he could stop it. Not because he'd won. Not because he'd been entertained. Because you looked happy, the kind of happy that couldn't be faked. The kind of happy that came from achieving something you'd worked your entire life for. You climbed onto the second turnbuckle and raised your arms. Dean watched as your eyes scanned the audience. Watching all the people cheering for you.

Then suddenly you spotted Hannah and a bright laugh escaped you. the serious competitor disappeared instantly, you pointed towards your best friend. Hannah screamed even louder. And just like that, the larger than life wrestler became the same woman who had spent ten minutes roasting Dean backstage. It should have broken the spell, it should have made you seem more normal but instead it somehow made everything worse because now Dean knew the truth you weren't pretending to be two different people. The performer. The athlete. The woman laughing with her family. They were all you. And unfortunately for him, he was attracted to every single version.

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The crowd was still chanting your name when you disappeared behind the curtain. Dean could hear it echoing through the building as the boys followed Hannah towards the backstage area. Normally after a game Dean loved the rush of adrenaline that came with a win, the celebration, the excitement, the feeling that for a few hours the entire world was exactly how it should be. Apparently wrestlers experienced the same thing. Because the second he spotted you again, he knew you were still riding that high. You were perched on top of a black production crate outside the locker rooms, a water bottle dangling loosely from your fingers as you swung your legs back and forth. Your match was over. The crowd was gone. The lights and music had stopped, yet somehow you looked happier than you had in the ring. A grin stretched across your face as you stared blankly at the wall opposite you. Not talking. Not moving. Just smiling. Dean couldn't help but laugh. “What is she doing?” Hannah glanced over. Immediately she started laughing too. “Oh no.” “What?” “She's still in wrestling brain.” Almost as if you'd heard your cue, your head snapped towards the group. The smile somehow widened. “I won.” Garrett barked out a laugh. “Yeah, superstar. We know.” “No but I won.” Dean bit the inside of his cheek. You sounded genuinely amazed by the concept. “you literally knew you were winning.” “I know.” You pointed at Garrett dramatically. “And it still worked.” The entire group dissolved into laughter.

Maya chose that moment to emerge from the locker room, her damp hair hanging around her shoulders as she shook her head fondly. “She's been like this for ten minutes.” “I had a really good match.” “You've said that seventeen times.” “Because I had a really good match.” Maya rolled her eyes. Dean found himself smiling. It was ridiculous how easy it was around you, the excitement practically radiated from your body. There wasn't an ounce of self-consciousness about it either. You were happy and everyone in the vicinity was simply going to have to deal with it. Then your eyes landed on him, the smile softened slightly. Not disappearing. Just changing. “Dean.” Something unpleasantly warm settled in his chest. God. The way you said his name it was like you were genuinely pleased to see him. “y/n” You immediately straightened. “You saw the moonsault.” It wasn't a question. Dean laughed. “I did.” “And?” The anticipation on your face was almost painful. You looked like a kid waiting to open Christmas presents. Dean shook his head, “I nearly had a heart attack.” Your laugh echoed through the hallway. “That's the correct reaction.” “You launched yourself through the air.” “I know.” “You could have died.” “I absolutely could not have died.” “You don't know that.” You pointed at him. “See, this is why wrestling fans are superior.” “Because you're all insane?” “Exactly.” The smile that spread across your face nearly knocked the breath out of him. Because for a second there was nobody else, no Garrett, no Hannah, no hockey team, no bustling locker room. Just you looking at him like he'd said something worth hearing.

“she likes you.” Dean nearly jumped out of his skin. Logan's voice had appeared directly beside him. “What?” Logan nodded towards you. “She likes you.” “You've known her for twenty minutes.” “And?” Dean looked back towards you. Unfortunately, Logan wasn't helping because now he couldn't stop noticing every time your attention drifted back to him. Every time your eyes searched him out amongst the group, every time that smile appeared. “Shut up.” Logan just grinned. Coward. Before Dean could formulate a response, Hannah clapped her hands together. “Okay.” Everybody looked towards her. “You smell.” You gasped. “I do not.” “You absolutely do.” “You smell.” “I shower regularly.” “You literally wrestled another woman.” “She smells too.” Maya raised a hand. “Can confirm.” Garrett laughed hard enough that Hannah had to lean against him. “Go shower.” You groaned dramatically. “Fine.” Sliding off the crate, you began backing towards the locker room. Then you paused. Your gaze finding Dean again and God help him, that smile returned, the one that seemed to do strange things to his pulse. “You better still be here when I get back.” Dean blinked. “What?” “I need somebody else to tell me how awesome I am.” The hallway erupted, Logan doubled over laughing, tucker immediately started making kissy noises. Even Garrett looked amused. You, meanwhile, looked completely serious. Waiting for an answer. Dean felt heat crawl up the back of his neck. “I think I can manage that.” Your grin widened triumphantly “Perfect.” Then, with one final wink, you disappeared into the locker room. The door swung shut behind you. Dean stared at it, still staring several seconds later. “Buddy.” Garrett sounded concerned. “Huh?” “You've got it bad.” The worst part? Dean wasn't even sure Garrett was wrong.

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The boys had barely been back at the house for twenty minutes before the front door opened. Dean wasn't paying attention at first. He was midway through explaining why your moonsault had violated several laws of physics when Hannah suddenly sat upright. "She's here." Immediately Dean looked towards the door and immediately Dean's brain stopped working. Because the woman who stepped into the house looked absolutely nothing like the wrestler he'd watched earlier. The leather was gone. The studs. The chains. The attitude. In their place was an oversized pink sweatshirt that disappeared over the waistband of a tiny white tennis skirt, leaving only the bare length of your legs visible beneath it. Your hair was still slightly damp from your shower, falling freely around your shoulders. A pair of white trainers covered your feet. There was no dramatic entrance music no spotlight no crowd screaming your name, just you. And somehow that was worse far worse. “Hiya” You immediately dropped your overnight bag beside the door. Hannah launched herself off the couch, the collision nearly took both women to the floor. Dean barely noticed because all he could think was that a few hours ago you'd looked like a rockstar. Now you looked like the kind of girl somebody married, dangerous, very dangerous. “Why are you staring at me?” Dean blinked, everyone was looking at him, including you. Shit. “I wasn't.” “You absolutely were.” Your grin widened. Dean considered throwing himself through the nearest window. “Leave him alone” Garrett laughed. “No.” “y/n.” “No.” The mischievous sparkle in your eyes made his situation approximately one thousand times worse. Because apparently the universe had decided that being gorgeous wasn't enough. You had to be funny too. Dean was so unbelievably screwed.

Dean was sitting at the table ten minutes later when you wandered into the kitchen. Not because he was thirsty. Not because he was hungry. Mostly because he was trying to avoid sitting directly beside you, which was proving surprisingly difficult. The second you'd arrived at the house, you'd somehow become the centre of gravity. Everyone gravitated towards you, including him. Especially him. The sound of cupboard doors opening pulled his attention from his phone. You were standing on your tiptoes trying to reach something on the top shelf. Dean watched for approximately three seconds before sighing. “You're a wrestler.” You glanced over your shoulder. “So I've been told.” “You can do backflips.” “Correct.” “You can throw grown adults around.” “Also correct.” “Yet you can't reach a cereal box.” Your eyes narrowed. “The shelf is tall.” “The shelf is normal sized.” “The shelf is an asshole.”

Dean laughed despite himself, the sound seemed to surprise you, your smile immediately widened. Dangerous. Very dangerous. Before you could attempt another jump, Dean pushed himself off the counter and reached above your head. The cereal box was suddenly within reach. Unfortunately, so were you. The scent of your shampoo immediately hit him. Something fruity, sweet. His brain stopped working, briefly. You looked up. Way up, a fact you seemed to find amusing. “Wow.” “What?” “You're useful.” Dean handed over the cereal. “I get that a lot.” “I bet you do.” The smile you sent him should've come with a warning label. You wandered over to the kitchen island and hopped onto one of the stools. Not sat, you hopped. Like some kind of overgrown golden retriever. And Dean hated how adorable he found it. “You know” you began, swinging your legs slightly, “you weren't what I expected.” That caught his attention. “Oh?”

“Hannah talks about you a lot.” Dean groaned. “Please don't.” “No, it's good stuff.” “I don't believe that.” You laughed softly. “It is.” The sound made something uncomfortable shift inside his chest. Not uncomfortable, dangerous. That was the word, dangerous. Because this wasn't how attraction usually worked for him. Normally he saw a pretty girl, they flirted, they hooked up, the end. Simple. Easy. This? This felt suspiciously like getting to know somebody. Which was significantly more terrifying. “What exactly does Hannah say?” he asked. Your grin turned mischievous. “That you're annoying.” “Fantastic.” “Full of yourself.” “Wonderful.” “Terrible influence.” “Okay.” “And weirdly loyal.” Dean blinked. That last one surprised him, apparently it surprised you too because your expression softened slightly. “Hannah really loves you guys.” The statement landed differently than he'd expected. For a second he caught a glimpse of something beneath your usual confidence. Something quieter. Something sincere. “We love her too.” The smile that spread across your face was impossibly warm. “Yeah.”

For a moment neither of you spoke. The house noise faded into the background, just slightly. Enough for Dean to notice how close he was standing. Enough to notice you looking at him, actually looking at him. Not because Hannah was nearby. Not because the group was talking, just because. And suddenly remembering that you were off limits became significantly harder.

“You know” you said eventually. “Hm?” “I thought hockey players would be bigger.” Dean barked out a laugh. “What?” “I don't know.”, you shrugged, “I expected more neck.” “More neck?” “Yeah.” “That's your criticism?” “It was either that or the emotional repression.” Dean nearly choked. Your laughter immediately filled the kitchen. God.

You were impossible, absolutely impossible. And the worst part? You weren't even trying. You had no idea what Hannah had said. No idea that Dean was supposed to stay away. No idea that every smile, every laugh, every second spent talking to him was making the situation infinitely worse. Because while you were happily eating cereal at midnight and making fun of hockey players. Dean was rapidly approaching the point where ignoring Hannah's warning was starting to feel less like an option and more like an inevitability.

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At some point during the evening the house began to empty, not completely. Just enough that the noise softened. Garrett and Hannah had disappeared upstairs nearly half an hour ago. Tucker had fallen asleep stretched across an armchair and Logan was getting progressively worse at Mario Kart. For the first time all night there wasn't a crowd surrounding you. Dean found himself noticing immediately. You were standing near the front door, grabbing your purse. The sight alone caught his attention. “Going somewhere?” You glanced up a small smile immediately appearing. “Just outside.” Dean frowned. “It is freezing outside.” You shrugged. “I know.” Then you reached into your pocket and produced a cigarette. “Oh.” Understanding immediately dawned. You wiggled it between your fingers. “Victory cigarette.” Dean laughed. “A what?” “Victory cigarette.” You said it like it was the most normal thing in the world. “I only let myself smoke if I win.” “That seems backwards.” “I never claimed to be smart.” Dean snorted. “You know what?” “What?” “I believe that.”

You gasped dramatically. The performance would have been more convincing if you weren't laughing. “Rude.” A few moments later the two of you stepped out onto the front porch. The Massachusetts air hit Dean immediately. Cold enough that he regretted not grabbing a jacket. You, meanwhile, seemed entirely unbothered, you sat down on the top step, tucking one leg beneath yourself as you lit the cigarette, the orange glow briefly illuminated your face. Then you exhaled towards the night sky. For a while neither of you spoke. The silence felt surprisingly comfortable, not awkward, just quiet. The kind of quiet that only happened when somebody's company felt easy. Dean found himself looking out across the street. The neighbourhood was peaceful this late. Most of the houses dark. The occasional glow from a bedroom window. A dog barking somewhere in the distance.

Beside him, you sighed contentedly. “Good night.” “Yeah.” A smile tugged at your lips. “I really missed her.” Dean didn't need clarification. “Hannah?” You nodded. The softness in your voice caught his attention immediately. “Yeah.” A moment passed, then another. The cigarette rested between your fingers. Your eyes fixed somewhere beyond the street, lost in thought. “Hannah saved my life, you know.” Dean's head turned, you said it so casually. Like it wasn't a statement capable of completely changing the mood. For the first time all evening you looked away, not uncomfortable. Just thoughtful. “My mom died when I was thirteen.” The words settled heavily between you. Dean stayed quiet. Instinctively understanding that this wasn't something he should interrupt. “It was just me and my dad after that.” You gave a small shrug. “He wasn't really interested in being anybody's parent before she died. Afterwards he became even less interested.” The smile on your face had disappeared now. Not sad. Just honest. “I spent a lot of time figuring things out myself.”

Dean's chest tightened. Beside him, you stared out into the darkness. “As it turns out, fourteen-year-olds are terrible at raising themselves.” The joke landed softly. Not quite enough to hide the truth underneath. Dean understood why you'd made it anyway. “I met Hannah that year.”, a genuine smile finally returned, smaller than usual. But infinitely more real. “She just decided we were friends.” Dean laughed quietly. That sounded exactly like Hannah.

“I didn't really have a say in it.” “Nobody ever does” “She started bringing me home after school.” You looked down at the cigarette in your hand. “Then her mom started sending leftovers home with me.” Dean already knew where this story was going. And somehow it made it worse. “Then she started making enough leftovers for two people on purpose.” Your voice softened. “Then one day she bought me a birthday cake.” Something squeezed painfully around Dean's heart. Because he could hear it. The significance of that memory. Not the cake itself. What it represented, someone remembering, someone caring, someone choosing you. “Hannah's parents were the first adults who ever made me feel like I mattered.” The confession was so quiet Dean almost missed it. The porch suddenly felt much smaller. The distance between the two of you somehow disappearing. You laughed softly, a little embarrassed by your own honesty. “anyway.” Dean shook his head immediately. “No.” You glanced over. “No?” “No anyway.” The corner of your mouth twitched. “What does that mean?” “It means that's a big story and you don't get to dismiss it with anyway.”# For a second you just stared at him, then something in your expression shifted, something warm, something vulnerable. “They adopted me when I was sixteen.” Dean swallowed. You said it so simply. Like it wasn't one of the most important things anybody had ever done for you. “Hannah used to joke that she finally got the sister she always wanted.” A laugh escaped you. “She still says it.” “She's right.” The words left Dean before he could stop them. Your eyes met his. The world seemed to go strangely quiet. “You think?”

“Yeah.” His answer came easily, without hesitation because after one evening he could already see it. The way Hannah looked at you and the way you looked at Hannah, family wasn't always blood. Sometimes it was choosing each other and it was painfully obvious the two of you had done exactly that. For a moment neither of you looked away, the cigarette had long since been forgotten. The cold no longer mattered, Dean could only focus on you. The woman beside him. The woman who had somehow gone from stranger to the most interesting person he'd ever met in the space of a single night. And as he watched the small smile spread across your face, Dean realised he was in far more trouble than he'd originally thought. Because this wasn't a crush anymore and it definitely wasn't just attraction. This was the beginning of something much worse. Something that looked suspiciously like falling.

For a while neither of you spoke, the conversation had settled into something softer now. The easy teasing and jokes still lingered beneath the surface, but there was something else there too. Something quieter.

Dean found himself looking at you again, really looking at you, not the wrestler, not the girl Hannah had spent hours talking about. Just you. Your hair was still slightly damp from your shower, the ends curling where they rested against the collar of your jacket. The porch light cast a warm glow across your features, softening them somehow. You looked tired. Not exhausted. Just worn around the edges in a way that made you seem more real. More human. The silence stretched comfortably between you. Eventually you glanced over and caught him staring again. “You're doing it.” Dean sighed. “What?” “Looking at me like that.” His mouth twitched. “Like what?” You narrowed your eyes. “Like you're trying to figure something out.” That was alarmingly accurate. Dean leaned back against the railing. “Maybe I am.” “Oh?” Your smile returned smaller this time. “What have you got so far?”

He pretended to think about it. “You're annoying.” You gasped. “I'm serious.” “You are not.” “You haven't stopped talking since I met you.” “That's because I'm delightful.” Dean laughed. The sound made you smile wider. God. You liked making him laugh. That realization landed somewhere deep in his chest. “You know” you continued, “I had a completely different picture of you in my head.” “Yeah?” "Yeah.” You tucked your chin onto your knee. “Hannah made you sound like a disaster.” Dean barked out a laugh. “That's because she's known me for a while.” “Fair.” “Is this where you tell me you're disappointed?” Your eyes met his and the teasing faded slightly. “No.” The answer came far too quickly. Something warm flickered across Dean's skin. “No?”

You shook your head. “No.” Neither of you looked away. For a second the night seemed strangely still. The distant sounds from inside the house faded into the background. The world narrowing down to the space between the two of you. Then you smiled suddenly as though you'd realised the moment had become too serious. “You're definitely less dumb than I expected.” Dean groaned. “There she is.” “What?” “The insult.” You laughed, a genuine one. Head tipping back slightly. Dean's eyes followed the movement before he could stop himself. Unfortunately you noticed, of course you noticed. Your grin became almost unbearable. “Oh.” Dean immediately knew he was in trouble. “Oh?” “I get it now.” “You get what?”

A mischievous sparkle appeared in your eyes. “The staring.” Dean pinched the bridge of his nose. “You are impossible.” “You think I'm pretty.” Heat immediately crawled up his neck. The fact that you sounded so pleased about it somehow made things worse. “I think you're very aware of yourself.”

“That's not a no.” You looked entirely too smug. Dean shook his head. The movement only made you laugh harder and for some reason he couldn't bring himself to be embarrassed because seeing you happy felt weirdly rewarding. The kind of rewarding that probably should have concerned him. A cold breeze swept across the porch and you shivered immediately, the movement was small, barely noticeable. Dean noticed anyway. Without thinking, he shrugged off his hoodie. You frowned, “What are you doing?” “You're cold.” “I'm fine.” “You literally just shivered.” “I'm from Indiana.” “What does that have to do with anything?” “We're built different.” Dean rolled his eyes before holding the hoodie out. You looked at it. Then at him, then back at the hoodie. A smile slowly spread across your face. “Thank you.” The sincerity in your voice caught him off guard. You slipped it on a moment later, the sleeves swallowed your hands, the fabric hanging loosely from your frame. And something about seeing you wearing his hoodie nearly finished him off completely. Because suddenly it looked normal, comfortable. Like something you'd done a hundred times before. You buried your nose briefly in the collar. A content sigh escaping. Dean was absolutely finished. “You know” you said softly. “Hm?” “It smells like you.” Every coherent thought immediately abandoned him. Your eyes widened a second later, realising what you'd said. “Oh my God.” The laugh that escaped you was pure embarrassment., “I didn't mean that weirdly.” Dean couldn't stop smiling. “You sure?” “Dean.” “I'm just asking.” You groaned dramatically, hiding your face inside the sleeves. The action was so ridiculously cute it physically hurt. And as Dean watched you peek out at him through a grin you were clearly trying to hide, one thing became painfully obvious. He wasn't staying away from you. Not tomorrow. Not next week. Not ever. Because somewhere between the wrestling match, the kitchen conversation, and this stupid porch, he'd stopped trying to convince himself not to want you.

And started wondering what would happen if you wanted him too.

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Eventually the cold forced the two of you back inside. Not that either of you were particularly eager to end the conversation. The moment Dean opened the front door, warmth flooded over both of you. The house had quietened considerably. The television was still on, some terrible reality show playing in the background. Tucker remained unconscious in the armchair. Logan had disappeared entirely. And Beau was asleep on one end of the couch with his head tilted at an angle that looked genuinely painful. You immediately lowered your voice. “Aw.” Dean glanced over. “What?” “They fell asleep waiting for me.” “You sound surprised.” Your expression softened. “People don't usually wait around for me.” The statement was so casual that Dean wasn't entirely sure you realised how sad it sounded. Before he could respond, you wandered over to the couch. A blanket had been abandoned over one arm. Without hesitation you carefully draped it over Beau. Then adjusted it, then adjusted it again. Dean smiled. “What?”, Your head snapped around. “he looked cold.” “You wrestle people for fun.” “And?” “And now you're tucking grown men into bed.” “He looked uncomfortable.” Dean laughed, God. You were ridiculous, completely ridiculous. The smile you shot him in return felt almost unfair. A moment later you dropped down onto the opposite end of the couch. Your legs immediately curling beneath you, comfortable, at home, like you'd been part of the house for years. Maybe in a way you had, not here specifically but with Hannah with Garrett with all the people she'd brought into her life.

Dean sat beside you. Closer than necessary but not close enough. The realization hit him immediately. Dangerous. Very dangerous. The television continued playing quietly in the background. Neither of you paid any attention. You were busy stealing pieces of popcorn from a bowl balanced on Dean's lap. “Stop that.” “I'm helping.” “You're eating all of it.” “That's what helping is.” Dean rolled his eyes. You grinned. A few minutes later your head bumped lightly against his shoulder. Whether intentionally or not he wasn't entirely sure. Neither were you judging by the way your eyes widened slightly afterwards. Neither of you moved away. The contact remained, small, barely noticeable, yet somehow it felt impossible to ignore. Dean became acutely aware of everything. The weight of your shoulder, the scent of his hoodie still wrapped around you, the warmth radiating from your body. His pulse picked a fantastic moment to become an idiot, the room felt smaller, quieter, the air thicker somehow, slowly your gaze lifted, meeting his and suddenly the teasing disappeared. No jokes, no sarcasm, just you looking at him. Dean swallowed. You noticed, of course you noticed, the corner of your mouth lifted slightly. “You keep doing that.” His voice came out lower than intended. “Doing what?” “Looking at me.” Dean laughed softly. “You're one to talk.” A faint blush appeared across your cheeks. The sight nearly destroyed him. Because for all your confidence, all your charisma, all the attention you'd commanded in that ring earlier this seemed to affect you too. The realization gave him just enough courage. His eyes dropped briefly to your lips. Then returned to your eyes. The room suddenly felt very quiet. “You know” you murmured. “Hm?” “I don't think you're as smooth as you think you are.” Dean's smile widened. “No?” “No.” You looked entirely too pleased with yourself. “So what happens now?” The question lingered between you. Neither of you pretending anymore, neither of you looking away. Dean's hand lifted almost without thinking. Brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear, the movement stilled both of you. Your breath caught. Enough for him to notice. Enough for him to know. And suddenly he wasn't the only one leaning forward. The kiss happened softly, almost cautiously. The kind that started as a question rather than a demand. A gentle brush of lips, warm, tentative., perfect. For a second neither of you moved. Then your hand slid into his hair and every coherent thought Dean possessed abandoned ship. When you finally pulled apart, both of you were smiling. Neither seeming entirely capable of stopping. Your forehead rested lightly against his, a smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. Dean couldn't stop looking at you, not that he was trying anymore. The entire evening had been one long exercise in self-control and he was beginning to suspect it had all been completely pointless because somehow, impossibly, you were looking at him the exact same way, like he'd become the most interesting person in the room. Your laugh came out soft, breathless. “Hi.” Dean barked out a surprised laugh. “Hi?” “Just checking you're real.” Oh, that's your concern?” You nodded seriously. “Well obviously.” His thumb brushed lightly across your cheek. The movement happened before he could think better of it. Your eyes softened immediately and God that look was going to kill him. “you know” you murmured. “Hm?” “I was trying very hard not to like you.” Dean's eyebrows shot up. “You were?” “Mm.” You nodded. “Hockey players have a reputation.” “We do.” “You especially.” Dean groaned. “There it is.” “What?” “The judgement.” You laughed, the sound warm and affectionate, not teasing, not entirely. “I was wrong.”

Something in Dean's chest tightened because the way you said it sounded important. Like you weren't talking about hockey anymore. Like you were talking about him. Before he could respond, your eyes drifted down to his mouth again, a dangerous development. One Dean wholeheartedly supported. The second kiss was less cautious. Less uncertain. Neither of you needing to ask permission this time. Your fingers curled into the front of his shirt and Dean's hand settled naturally at your waist and suddenly the entire world narrowed down to you. Your laugh, your warmth, the way you melted closer, the way every instinct in his body screamed not to let you go. When you finally pulled away, your cheeks were pink. Your smile entirely impossible to ignore. “Okay.” Dean laughed. “Okay?” “Now I'm definitely keeping you.” The statement was so confident. So matter-of-fact. As though you'd already decided. Dean should probably have found that alarming. Instead it made him grin. “Oh yeah?” “Yeah.” You looked entirely too pleased with yourself. “I like you.” The honesty of it hit him harder than it should have. No games, no pretending. Just the truth, simple as that.

Dean stared at you for a moment hen shook his head. “You're unbelievable.” “That's not what Hannah says.” The mention of her name should have reminded him it should have brought back every warning she'd given him every reason he was supposed to stay away. Instead all he could think about was the girl sitting in front of him wearing his hoodie and smiling at him like she'd already made up her mind. And honestly? Dean was tired of pretending he wanted anything else. A moment later he slid an arm beneath your knees. Your startled squeal immediately filled the room. “Dean!” “What?” “Put me down.” “No.” You were already laughing, already wrapping your arms around his neck. “You are so annoying.” As Dean carried you towards the staircase, he found himself thinking that this had spiralled out of control remarkably fast. Not that he particularly cared because for the first time all night, you were looking at him the way he'd been looking at you and that felt dangerously close to perfect.

The trip upstairs was significantly harder than it should have been, mostly because you wouldn't stop laughing. “Dean.” “Hm?” “Put me down.” “No.” “Dean.” “You seem comfortable.” “I am not comfortable.” You immediately tightened your arms around his neck. The liar. Dean grinned, “you know, for a wrestler, you're surprisingly easy to carry." Your gasp echoed through the hallway. “That is so rude.” “It was a compliment.” “No, it wasn't.” “It absolutely was.”

By the time he reached his bedroom, both of you were smiling so hard your faces hurt. The door clicked shut behind you and suddenly everything became a little quieter, a little more real. For the first time all evening there wasn't a crowd, no hockey team, no Hannah, no noise from downstairs. Just the two of you, the shift was immediate. You looked at him and he looked at you and neither of you seemed entirely sure what to say next.

A soft smile tugged at your lips. “Hi.” Dean laughed quietly. “You already did that one.” “I know.” “Got any new material?” You stepped a little closer, “Maybe.” The teasing in your voice was still there but softer now. Your hands found the front of his shirt, absent minded, comfortable, like they belonged there. Dean's chest tightened because this wasn't what he'd expected. The attraction had been there from the second he'd seen you, that wasn't surprising. What surprised him was how much he liked everything else, the conversations, the laughter, the way your eyes lit up when you talked about wrestling, the way you spoke about Hannah, the way you somehow managed to make every room feel brighter.

“You thinking again?” you asked. “Maybe.” “Dangerous.” Dean smiled. “You've said that.” “Because it's true.” Your gaze softened and for a moment neither of you moved. Then your hand lifted, brushing lightly against his cheek, such a small gesture, yet somehow it felt more intimate than anything else that had happened that night. Dean covered your hand with his own and just like that, the last of the distance disappeared. The kiss was slow, unhurried, neither of you rushing, neither of you needing to. The entire evening had been building towards this, every conversation, every smile, every look across a crowded room. It all seemed to settle here, into something warm.

When you finally pulled back, your forehead rested against his. A sleepy smile spreading across your face. “Today was a really good day.” Dean looked at you for a moment. “Yeah.” It had been one of the best he'd had in a long time. you laughed softly before leaning into him again. “You know I’m not usually the kind of girl to sleep with someone the day I meet them” “I am” “I know” The silence stretched between you after that as if you were weighing up every possibly outcome in your head. “I want to” “You want to what sweetheart”

Your face flushed, you could hardly bring yourself to find the words, “I want you” Dean could’ve died right there and been a happy man.  “You sure?” “Don’t make me ask twice Di Laurentis” “Yes ma’am” he was treating you like the most valuable thing in the world, because to him you were. Dean could only keep his cool for so long, you were kissing him like the world was going to end and if it was he was going to make sure the last thing he tasted was you.

He was quick to shed you of your outfit pulling the material off your body like it offended him by even daring to cover up your beauty. “Fuck angel, knew you were pretty” He spoke before letting his fingers unhook your bra, “Didn't realise you were this pretty” he whispered as his mouth made contact with your nipple, sucking on the bud, a sensation that you had never felt before. “Fuck, dean” “Yes that's it moan for me baby” Dean's lips then trailed down from your breasts, down your stomach until he got just above your panties, his eyes looked up to meet your hooded ones, “You sure about this darlin'”

“Yes”, you nodded furiously, “I'm ready for you” Dean almost had a heart attack. He pressed a kiss just above your panty line before hooking his fingers in the elastic and pulling it down. “Fuck” Dean mused practically talking to himself, he licked a stripe down your pussy making your hips buck and eyes roll.

You moaned out a half response and that was all that Dean needed before he properly went down on you. his tongue managed to hit all the places that you needed him most. He made you feel more pleasure than you had imagined was possible.  His tongue worked every curve of your core like he was committing it to memory and you could feel the precipice of your pleasure on the horizon.

“Dean”, you moaned out a warning. “That's it angel, come for me” That was all the instructions you needed as that coil in your abdomen finally snapped and you came apart with a moan. but Dean didn't stop he continued tasting you, letting you ride your orgasm. only pulling away from your pussy when he was sure you were done. “Such a good girl for me”, The praise rolled off his lips as he moved up so he was back face to face with you. “Still feeling good angel?” “Never been better”,  You decided that Dean was wearing too many clothes, your fingers tugged at his shirt and he smirked against your lips, “I'm on it sweetheart. Patience”, he teased as he helped you take his shirt off.

Dean took this moment pulled back from you to admire you, the hunger behind your eyes, the way your chest was heaving with need, it was enough to turn him feral. “I’m gonna fuck you now okay angel, gonna make you feel good.” You nodded in response, watching with need as jimmy unbuckled his belt and pulled his pants and boxers off. revealing that he was rock hard and so ready for you.

He brushed his head against your folds a couple times, gathering your slick before he slowly pushed into you. The moan that left your lips was unlike any sound that you have ever felt before as Dean buried himself inside of you whispering praise, “Such a good girl for me” He stayed still inside of you, letting you adjust to the intrusion. he only began to move when he felt your hips buck against him, practically begging for now. “You only just got a taste and you want more. my greedy girl” He teased but he did exactly what you wanted and began thrusting slow, deep and steady inside of you. “Don’t push it” you moaned and he just smirked down at you, enjoying the view. It wasn't long until you felt the same feeling from earlier, the warning that you were about to tip over the edge. all it took was one mewl from you and jimmy knew that you were close. “Gonna come aren’t you baby” You nodded. His hand moved to where your bodies met and began to rub your clit and that was it, your orgasm ripped through you. And that mental image was all that it took to tip Dean over the edge as he spilled into the condom groaning your name.

Dean was quick to get up and clean you up whispering sweet little phrases as he did so, hardly letting you lift a finger as he bundled you close to his toned chest. The room was dark apart from the faint glow of the bedside lamp. At some point the conversation had drifted away entirely. The adrenaline from the evening had finally started to wear off, leaving behind something softer. Something warmer. Dean lay on his back against the pillows, one arm tucked behind his head. Beside him, you were fighting a losing battle against sleep, it was honestly kind of adorable. Every few minutes your eyes would close, then open again, then close, then open. As though you were determined to stay awake despite the fact that your body had clearly made other plans.

“You know” Dean murmured. “Hm?” Your eyes were already half shut. “I think you're falling asleep.” A small frown appeared. “No I'm not.” “You absolutely are.” “Nope.” The word came out slurred. Dean laughed and you immediately smiled, the sound seemed to make you happy. “You had a long day.” “I had a great day.” The correction came automatically, without hesitation.

Dean felt something warm settle in his chest because he knew exactly what you meant. The match, seeing Hannah, the celebration afterwards, everything. Your smile lingered even as your eyes drifted shut again.” I won.” Dean laughed softly, there it was, your favourite topic. “You did.” A content hum escaped you, for a moment silence settled over the room. Comfortable. Easy. Dean expected you to speak again, to tell another story, to make another joke. Instead he glanced over and realised you'd fallen asleep, just like that, mid conversation.

The realization made him smile. Your cheek was pressed into the pillow, hair spilling across the mattress, one hand curled loosely beneath your chin, still wearing his hoodie, the sleeves far too long for you. You looked younger asleep, softer, all the confidence and bravado from earlier stripped away. Just a girl who'd had an incredible day and finally felt safe enough to rest. Dean couldn't look away. Which was becoming a recurring problem. Earlier that evening he'd watched you command an entire arena, watched hundreds of people scream your name. Watched you become the centre of attention without even trying. Now, somehow, this felt infinitely more dangerous because this wasn't the wrestler. This wasn't the performer, this was you. The girl who got emotional talking about Hannah's family, the girl who tucked blankets around sleeping people, the girl who saved victory cigarettes for special occasions, the girl who smiled every time she looked at him. Dean released a quiet breath, this had gotten out of hand remarkably fast. Twenty-four hours ago you hadn't existed in his world, now he couldn't imagine not knowing you. A sleepy sound escaped you, your body shifting instinctively towards his, without waking up, without thinking, just naturally seeking him out. Dean's heart did something profoundly embarrassing.

You settled against his side, content, comfortable, trusting. And that was what finally got him not the match not the flirting not even the kisses, the trust. The way you'd let your guard down completely. The way you'd simply assumed he'd be there when you woke up. Dean looked down at you for a long moment, then carefully brushed a strand of hair away from your face.

His fingertips lingering for half a second longer than necessary. “You are so much trouble” he whispered. The smile that tugged at his mouth felt helpless because for the first time in a very long time, Dean wasn't thinking about tomorrow or hockey or anything else. he was thinking about the girl asleep beside him and the terrifying possibility that he was already starting to fall for her.

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

The first thing Dean became aware of was warmth, the second was weight. Something heavy rested across his chest, something soft, something that smelled faintly of vanilla shampoo. His eyes opened slowly for a moment he simply stared at the ceiling, disoriented by the unfamiliar sense of peace, then he looked down. And immediately remembered everything.

You were practically sprawled across him. One arm stretched over his stomach, one leg tangled with his, your face buried against his shoulder. Still asleep. Dean couldn't help smiling because somehow, during the night, you'd migrated from your side of the bed to directly on top of him. Not beside him, not near him, on him. Like a human weighted blanket. A small puff of air escaped your lips. Dean bit back a laugh Jesus Christ you were adorable. The realization was becoming increasingly inconvenient. Carefully, he brushed a few strands of hair away from your face. The movement earned him a sleepy noise of protest, your nose scrunched. Then, without opening your eyes, you burrowed even closer. Dean's heart immediately forgot how to function.

“Good morning to you too.” The words were barely above a whisper. You responded by tightening your grip around him. The traitor. A minute later your eyelashes fluttered. Then again. Then finally your eyes cracked open. Dean watched the exact moment consciousness returned. The confusion, the recognition, the memory. Your entire face softened. “Oh.” His chest tightened. “Morning.”

A smile slowly spread across your lips, sleepy, genuine, completely unguarded. “Morning.” For a few seconds neither of you moved. Neither of you seemed particularly interested in moving. The sunlight filtering through the curtains painted everything gold, the room quiet around you. And for the first time since meeting you, Dean realized you weren't talking. An achievement he hadn't previously thought possible. “You okay?” he asked. Your smile widened. “I think so.” “You think so?” You nodded against his shoulder. “I had to remember where I was.” “And?” Another pause. Then your arms squeezed him lightly. “I like where I am.” Dean groaned. “Oh, that's dangerous.” A laugh escaped you, still rough from sleep, still entirely capable of ruining his day. “What?” “You can't just say stuff like that.” Your eyebrows lifted. “Why not?” “Because now I have to pretend that didn't do something to me.” The grin that followed was pure trouble. “Oh.” “Oh?” “You like me.” Dean stared. You stared back.

Then immediately dissolved into laughter. The sound filled the room, bright, happy, impossible not to join. “You're unbearable.” “You kissed me first.” “That's your defence?” “It seems pretty solid.” Dean shook his head. You only looked more pleased with yourself. For a moment he simply watched you, the sunlight catching in your hair, the way your eyes crinkled when you smiled, the fact that despite everything, you hadn't moved away, not even an inch, if anything you'd somehow gotten closer. His hand settled lightly against your waist, instinctive, comfortable, natural.

The realization hit him unexpectedly, this felt easy. Like you'd been doing this for years instead of less than twelve hours. Your gaze dropped briefly to where his hand rested. Then back to his face. The teasing disappeared it was replaced by something softer. Something that made Dean's pulse stumble. “Hey.” His voice came out quieter than intended. “Hey.” Your smile returned, smaller this time, more intimate. And suddenly Dean found himself thinking that this was a mistake not because he regretted it not because he wanted it to stop. Quite the opposite, because he was enjoying it far too much, because one night wasn't supposed to feel like this, because waking up beside you should not have felt so natural. Yet somehow it did. And as you settled your head back against his chest with a content little sigh, Dean had the distinct feeling that he was already in much deeper than he was prepared to admit. Even to himself.

The morning stretched on lazily. Neither of you seemed particularly interested in leaving the bed. At some point you'd migrated from lying against his chest to stealing half of his pillow. Then all of his pillow, then somehow most of the blanket too. Dean was beginning to suspect you were a menace. “You're smiling again.” Your voice pulled him from his thoughts. “Hm?” “That weird little smile.”, You pointed accusingly. “The one you do when you're thinking.” Dean grabbed your hand before you could poke him, he movement made you laugh. You were going to ruin him. “You know” he said. “What?”

“Hannah was right.” Immediately your face lit up. “About what?” “Everything.” You looked ridiculously pleased by that answer. “As she should be.” Dean rolled his eyes. “You two are impossible.” "We're adorable.", The correction came instantly. Without hesitation. Dean laughed. “Sure.” “We are.” “Sure.” You gasped dramatically, the smile never left your face. For a moment he simply watched you, the oversized hoodie you'd slept in, the way your hair was completely out of control, you looked comfortable, happy, safe and for some reason that made him feel comfortable too dangerously comfortable. “So”, You shifted closer. “Tell me.” “Tell you what?” “What exactly did Hannah say?” Dean frowned. “About you?” You nodded. “Yeah.” The answer felt harmless, easy. A continuation of a conversation you'd already been having all night. “Mostly that you're stubborn.” You looked proud. “Correct.” “Annoying.” “Also correct.” “Far too competitive.” You pointed at him. “That's rich coming from an athlete.” Dean laughed. “Fair.”

The smile remained on your face, waiting, expecting more. So Dean gave it to you. “She also told me you were off limits.” The words left his mouth casually, without thought, without warning, the reaction was immediate. Your smile vanished, not faded it vanished. As though somebody had flipped a switch. Dean frowned, “y/n” For a second you simply stared at him. The colour draining from your face. “What?” The word came out barely above a whisper. Dean sat up slightly, confused. “Hannah.” Your eyes widened. “No.” The sound didn't even seem directed at him. More like something you'd said to yourself. “No.” Suddenly you were moving, throwing the blankets aside. Climbing out of bed so quickly Dean barely processed what was happening. “Hey.” Your breathing had changed, shallow, rapid, panic, pure panic. “y/n” “What do you mean she said I was off limits?” Dean's stomach dropped because suddenly he realised you hadn't known.

“Oh.” The room felt very quiet. “Oh, shit.” You physically flinched. The movement hit him harder than it should have. “She said that?” The hurt in your voice was almost worse than the panic because it wasn't anger it was heartbreak. “Why would she say that?” “y/n” “Why would she say that?” Your eyes were glassy now. Dean had never seen you look like this. Not once, not all evening, not after sharing the story about Hannah's family, not after talking about being adopted, nothing. This was worse so much worse. Because suddenly he understood to you, Hannah wasn't just a friend she was family and somewhere in your mind this had already become a betrayal. “No.” You shook your head almost violently. “No no no.”

Dean was out of bed immediately. “Listen to me.” But you were already backing away. “I didn't know.” The words cracked halfway through and somehow that was the moment his heart truly sank because you sounded devastated. Not guilty, devastated. “I swear I didn't know.” “I know.” “I wouldn't have” “I know.” But you weren't looking at him anymore. You were looking towards the door, already leaving, already running. The way people did when they were hurt. “y/n” You grabbed your bag, your jacket, your keys, anything within reach. Dean followed panic building inside his chest.

“Can you just stop for a second?” “No.” The answer came immediately tears were gathering in your eyes now, you looked furious with yourself. Humiliated and heartbroken all at once. “I need to go.” “You don't need to go.” “I do.” The front door opened and old air flooded inside. “y/n” For the first time since he'd met you, you couldn't look at him and somehow that hurt more than anything else. Because twelve hours ago you had looked at him like he was somebody worth knowing and now you looked shattered.

“I love her. She is family” The confession slipped out before you could stop it. Raw, honest and painful. “I would never do that to her.” Dean's chest tightened because he believed you, every word. “I know.” Your laugh came out broken, miserable. “Apparently I just did.” Then you were gone the front door slammed shut behind you Dean stood frozen, listening. A few seconds later he heard your car start. Then pull away and disappear. Silence. Complete silence. And for the first time since meeting you, Dean felt sick because the space you'd left behind already felt enormous. And he had a horrible feeling he'd just watched the best thing that had happened to him drive away.

[onlyangel4]

a sneak peak at my current wip

so off campus has currently taken over my brain so to get it out of my system I am writing dean di laurentis x wrestler!reader, this will probably be a two parter but I have made a lil mood board for it. Please let me get this out of my system and then we will be back to our regularly scheduled wwe programming I promise !

[onlyangel4]

any of my lovely moots on here seen off campus because i need to get dean di laurentis out of my system with one fic but i have two ideas to pick from so help please

[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

[onanisticbunny]

@onlyangel4 just pointed out to me how similar we are to chels and maxx and I’m about to be so insufferable about this I canttttt. Like you all don’t understand how accurate this is I’m giggling and kicking my feet. Bruh wdym you think I’m like such an endearing cutie pie?! And chels is so everything this is the best thing to ever happen to me.

I feel like such a nerd rn.

[onlyangel4]

they are us and we are them.

[onanisticbunny]

Happy @onlyangel4 day!! Everyone go send her all the love in the world or you get no fic drops this week 🐰🤍🤍🤍

[onlyangel4]

omg i love you so much thank you so much 💕 !!

[onanisticbunny]

Mami learned how to be a bottom…

I wish i looked like this 24/7

[onanisticbunny]

AN: This is honestly a very personal fic to me, so I hope that people can enjoy my vulnerability, as I think I wrote something kind of pretty with it.

Title: Wait a minute!

Pairing: Chelsea Green x fem!reader

WC: 14,463

Warnings: explicit sexual content, fingering, oral sex, past sexual assault/borderline rape experienced by the reader character, with references to physical bruising, emotional trauma, and recovery struggles, themes of trauma recovery, intimacy anxiety, significant hurt/comfort, and emotional vulnerability.

——

The rain had eased by the time you reached her door, but the air still carried that cool, mineral weight of a storm just passed. Water beaded on the leaves of the potted ferns flanking Chelsea’s porch steps, and the wooden boards creaked under your sneakers like they remembered every visit you’d ever made. You didn’t knock. You never had to. Instead you turned the knob and let yourself in, the way you had since the first time she’d pressed a spare key into your palm and said, “Just come when you need to. No text, no warning. I mean it.”

The house smelled like garlic and thyme and something faintly sweet, maybe the red wine she always let breathe too long. From the kitchen came the immediate clatter of a wooden spoon against the side of a pot, followed by the bright, unmistakable cadence of her voice slicing through the low hum of whatever pop playlist she had going. “Babe! Finally! I was starting to think the roses had kidnapped you or something.”

Chelsea appeared in the doorway like she’d been waiting for the exact right second to make her entrance, which, knowing her, she probably had. Her brunette hair was twisted up in a messy knot that somehow still looked intentional, a few loose strands clinging to the damp skin at her temples from the heat of the stove. She wore an oversized hoodie that had seen better days, yours, actually, the one she’d stolen after that one rain-soaked night last month, and a pair of shorts that rode high on her thighs, the fabric soft from too many washes. Her bare feet padded across the tile as she closed the distance, arms already half-open in that way that always felt like an invitation and a promise at once.

You let her pull you in. Her hug was all warmth and familiar pressure, the kind that pressed the day’s residual ache out of your shoulders without asking permission. She smelled like garlic and rosemary and the faint citrus of the body wash she swore by, the one that always lingered on your own skin for days afterward. When she pulled back, her hands stayed on your upper arms, thumbs brushing slow, absent circles against the sleeves of your sweater. Her eyes, bright, restless, the kind of blue that never quite sat still, searched your face with a care that was almost too precise for her usual whirlwind energy.

“Rough day at the shop?” she asked, voice pitched lower than her normal register, like she was testing the waters. “Or did Mrs. Kowalski finally guilt you into rearranging the entire perennial section again?”

You offered a small smile, the one that always came easier around her. “Both. She’s convinced the delphiniums need more ‘breathing room.’ I spent forty minutes moving the same six pots six inches to the left.” Your tone carried that light sarcasm you knew she liked, the gentle edge that never quite cut. It felt safe to be a little sharp with her; she never flinched.

Chelsea’s laugh bubbled up, bright and unrestrained, the sound bouncing off the exposed brick walls like it belonged there. But it softened at the edges almost immediately, the way it had been doing lately whenever the conversation threatened to drift toward heavier things. She didn’t let go of your arms. “God, I love that woman. She’s like if my nana decided to unionize the flower mafia.” Her fingers gave one last squeeze before she stepped back, gesturing grandly toward the kitchen with the spoon still in her hand. “Anyway. No work talk tonight. I’m cooking—yes, actually cooking, not ordering in like a heathen—and we’re doing the whole girls-night thing. Wine, carbs, zero responsibilities. I even bought those fancy olives you pretend not to like but always eat half the jar of.”

She was already turning back toward the stove, hips swaying to the music in that unconscious way she had, but you caught the way her shoulders held a fraction more tension than usual. The carefulness. It had been there for weeks now, woven into every interaction like a thread she was terrified of pulling too hard. You followed her into the kitchen, the tile cool beneath your socks, and perched on the edge of the counter beside the cutting board. The air was thick with the savory depth of simmering tomatoes and the bright pop of fresh basil she was currently mutilating with more enthusiasm than precision.

You watched her chop for a moment, the quick, decisive movements of the knife, the way her lower lip caught between her teeth when she concentrated. There was something disarmingly domestic about it, about Chelsea Green, WWE chaos incarnate, reduced to barefoot domesticity in your stolen hoodie. It made your chest tighten in a way that wasn’t entirely unpleasant.

She glanced sideways at you, catching you staring. Her mouth curved into that trademark grin, the one that usually preceded some outrageous story or a perfectly timed sound bite for the cameras. “What? I know, I know—I look like a Pinterest board exploded. But the sauce is gonna slap, trust me. I even watched a TikTok. Twice.”

You huffed a quiet laugh, the sound slipping out before you could stop it. The kitchen felt smaller in the best way, all warm light and the low sizzle of oil in the pan. You reached over and stole a slice of the bread she’d set out to cool, tearing off a piece and popping it into your mouth. The crust gave a satisfying crackle against your teeth.

Chelsea’s expression shifted again as she stirred the sauce, something softer flickering across her features. She didn’t look at you directly this time, just kept her eyes on the pot like it held the secrets of the universe. “So… how’ve you been, really?” The question landed gently, almost too casually, like she’d practiced it in the mirror. “I mean, I know we’ve texted and everything, but… you know.”

The words hung there between you, not quite heavy enough to sink the evening but solid enough that you felt their weight settle against your ribs. You knew what she was asking without her having to spell it out. The night two weeks ago, the girl at the bar who’d seemed nice, who’d bought you a drink and laughed at your jokes and then followed you outside when you’d stepped away for air. The way her hands had turned insistent, too hard, too fast. The bruises that had bloomed across your chest like ugly fingerprints for days afterward. The way you’d shown up at Chelsea’s door at 2 a.m. with your shirt still torn at the collar and your voice shaking so badly you couldn’t get the words out at first.

She’d been there. Hadn’t asked questions until you were ready. Had made you tea and let you cry into her shoulder until the sun came up, all while somehow managing to keep that high-octane Chelsea energy dialed down to something that felt like safety.

You swallowed the bread, the crust suddenly drier than it had been a moment ago. Your fingers traced the edge of the counter, grounding yourself in the cool granite. “Better,” you said after a beat, keeping your voice light. The sarcasm slipped in before you could help it, a shield as familiar as breathing. “My chest doesn’t look like it’s been mauled by a bear anymore. Progress, right? I can almost wear a normal bra without wincing.”

Chelsea’s stirring slowed. She set the spoon down carefully, like it might break if she moved too fast, and turned to face you fully. Her eyes met yours, steady, searching, but not pushing. The high-energy spark was still there, banked low like a pilot light, but the way her mouth softened at the corners told you everything her words didn’t. She leaned back against the counter, arms crossing loosely over her chest in a way that looked casual but kept her hands visible, open. No sudden movements. No crowding.

“Progress,” she echoed, the word warm with something that wasn’t quite laughter. Her head tilted, that messy knot of hair slipping a little further to the side. “I like the sound of that. Bear-mauling-free chest is basically a five-star review in my book.” She paused, the silence stretching just long enough to feel intentional. Then, quieter, the high-energy edge sanded down to something closer to something warm and worn-in, like the favorite hoodie still draped over her shoulders. “But seriously. If it’s still… sitting weird, or if you’re not ready to talk about it, that’s fine. I just— I’m here, okay? Same as always. No pressure. No expectations. Just me and my slightly questionable marinara and you.”

Her fingers drummed once against her own arm, a small tell of the restless energy she was clearly reining in for your sake. You could see it in the subtle shift of her weight, the way her gaze flicked briefly to the window before returning to you, like she was checking that the world outside hadn’t intruded. It was so Chelsea, loud and bright and impossible to ignore, but capable of folding all of that into something gentle when it mattered. When you mattered.

You felt the familiar sting behind your eyes, the one that had become too common lately. But this time it didn’t feel like drowning. It felt like being seen. You slid off the counter and stepped closer, close enough that your shoulder brushed hers. The contact was deliberate, chosen. You let your head rest against her for a second, breathing in the mingled scents of dinner and her skin and the faint trace of whatever overpriced hair product she used.

“I know you are,” you murmured against the fabric of her hoodie, your hoodie. “And I’m… trying. The whole intimacy thing after— it’s like my brain keeps hitting a wall. But with you it doesn’t feel quite so much like a wall. More like… a really annoying door I can’t quite figure out the handle on yet.”

Chelsea’s laugh was soft this time, barely more than an exhale, but it still carried that unmistakable lilt that made stadiums light up. She turned her head just enough to press a kiss to the top of your hair, quick and light and full of the kind of affection she usually expressed in grander gestures, confetti cannons and dramatic entrances. “Well, good thing I’m excellent at opening doors,” she said, voice pitched in that playful tone she couldn’t quite suppress even now. “Even the annoying ones. Especially those.” Her arm came around your shoulders, loose and easy, giving you every chance to pull away if you wanted. You didn’t.

Chelsea’s fingers traced idle patterns along your arm, not demanding, just present. “We’ve got all night,” she added after a while, the words brushing against your temple. “Sauce can wait. You don’t have to figure out any doors tonight if you don’t want to. We can just… be. Eat too much pasta. Watch something ridiculous. Whatever you need.”

You nodded against her, the motion small but certain. The weight in your chest eased another fraction, not gone, never gone, but lighter for the sharing of it. Around her, the world always felt a little less sharp at the edges.

You both moved to the living room eventually, plates piled high with pasta that still steamed faintly in the low lamplight. Chelsea had insisted on the good plates, the mismatched ones she’d scavenged from a flea market last summer, their edges chipped in a way that somehow made the whole thing feel more intentional. She carried hers like it was a championship belt, balanced on one palm while the other waved dramatically at the couch.

“Sit, sit, sit,” she said, the words tumbling out in that rapid-fire cadence she couldn’t turn off even when she tried. “Before it gets cold and I have to pretend I didn’t just create a masterpiece.”

You settled beside her, the cushions dipping under your combined weight, and the first bite hit your tongue like a quiet revelation; bright acidity from the tomatoes, the deep earthiness of garlic that had been coaxed into something almost sweet, ribbons of basil still faintly crisp at the edges. It was good. Better than good. But you weren’t about to hand her the victory that easily.

Chelsea watched you chew, her own fork hovering mid-air, blue eyes wide and expectant like she was waiting for a referee’s count. When you swallowed, she leaned in, elbow digging into the back of the couch so she could prop her chin on her hand. “Okay, be honest. On a scale of ‘edible’ to ‘I’m quitting the florist gig and becoming your personal chef,’ where are we?”

The pride radiated off her in waves, the kind that made her sit a little straighter, shoulders squared like she was in the middle of a promo. Her cheeks had gone faintly pink from the heat of the kitchen and the wine she’d already poured for both of you, and that messy knot of hair had slipped further, a few strands now brushing the curve of her neck. She looked so absurdly pleased with herself that something warm and fond unspooled low in your stomach.

You took another deliberate bite, letting the silence stretch just long enough to watch her bounce her knee in anticipation. Then you tilted your head, letting the sarcasm curl around the edges of your voice like it always did when you wanted to poke at her without drawing blood. “I don’t know, Chels. You really shouldn’t ever become a housewife. The world’s not ready for that level of domestic terrorism.”

Her gasp was theatrical, hand flying to her chest like you’d just body-slammed her in the ring. “Excuse you! This is the best thing I’ve ever made. TikTok didn’t lie—I followed the recipe to the letter. Twice. I even did the fancy knife thing with the basil.” She gestured wildly with her fork, nearly stabbing a cherry tomato that had escaped her plate. “You’re just jealous because your sad little grocery-store basil never tastes like this.”

You laughed then, a real one that started somewhere behind your ribs and spilled out before you could shape it into anything polite. It felt good, that unguarded sound, the way it loosened the lingering tension in your shoulders. You reached over and speared another forkful from her plate this time, because boundaries had stopped existing between you months ago. “TikTok absolutely lied to you,” you said around the bite, chewing with exaggerated slowness just to watch her eyes narrow in mock offense. “But I’ll allow it. This once. Mostly because I’m starving and you somehow didn’t burn the garlic.”

Chelsea’s grin broke wide and unrestrained, the kind that showed the slight gap between her front teeth and made the corners of her eyes crinkle. She bumped her shoulder against yours, hard enough to jostle you but not enough to spill your wine. “Rude. I should make you wash the dishes for that. Or maybe I’ll just keep cooking until you admit I’m a culinary genius and you’re my biggest fan.” Her voice dropped into that playful lilt she used on camera sometimes, the one that could sell ice to a polar bear. “Admit it. You’re obsessed with me right now.”

The teasing settled between you like something soft and familiar, the kind of back-and-forth that had carried you through worse nights than this. You helped yourself to seconds while she was still mid-rant about her “secret ingredient” (which was probably just extra red pepper flakes and sheer stubbornness), and the easy rhythm of it made the apartment feel smaller, warmer, like the city outside had receded to a distant hum.

Eventually, when your plates were mostly empty and the conversation had lulled into the comfortable clink of forks against ceramic, you felt bold enough to shift the subject. Your fingers traced the stem of your wineglass, the cool glass grounding you as you asked, voice light but genuine, “So… how’s work been? You’ve been quiet about it lately. Or at least quieter than usual.”

That was all it took.

Chelsea’s entire face lit up with a fire that had nothing to do with the pasta. She set her plate down on the coffee table with a decisive clatter, legs tucking underneath her as she turned fully toward you, energy crackling like she’d just been handed a microphone. “Oh my God, don’t even get me started—wait, no, do get me started because I have been simmering on this for weeks.” Her hands flew up, gesturing so sharply you could almost hear the imaginary crowd roar. “Giulia and Kiana. I swear, I want to suplex them both into next Tuesday. They stole my title. My title. Like it was nothing. One minute I’m holding it, feeling like the goddamn queen of the division, and the next gulia is stealing it off me with some cheap—”

She cut herself off with a growl that was half frustration, half pure theatrical flair, but her eyes sparkled with it, the way they always did when she got going on a real grievance. Her body leaned forward, elbows on her knees now, the oversized hoodie slipping off one shoulder to reveal the sharp line of her collarbone. The words poured out in that signature Chelsea cadence, fast, punctuated by little laughs that weren’t quite laughs and dramatic pauses where she’d look at you like she expected you to boo along with her.

“And don’t even get me started on the post-match nonsense. I’m out there giving everything, every single night, and they just—poof—decide the division needs their version of whatever that was. I had plans! I had outfits! I was gonna do the whole glitter-cannon entrance for the next defense and now? Now I’m sad and titleless.”

You listened, really listened, the way her voice rose and fell like a rollercoaster she couldn’t get off. The way her free hand kept brushing those stray strands of hair behind her ear only for them to fall forward again. And somewhere in the middle of it, right as she mimed a particularly vicious clothesline that nearly knocked over the wine bottle, you felt it bubble up from your chest without warning; a giggle. Not the polite, breathy thing you sometimes offered when you were trying to be agreeable, but a real one, bright and unrestrained, the kind that made your eyes water just a little at the corners.

Chelsea caught it immediately. Her tangent stuttered for half a second, and then her grin sharpened into something triumphant, delighted. She pointed at you with both index fingers, leaning in so close you could smell the faint tomato sauce still on her breath. “There it is! That’s the sound I’ve been missing. Keep laughing, babe—I’m serious, I’ll keep ranting all night if it gets me that noise. Giulia and Kiana can choke on their stolen gold for all I care. This? This is better.”

You wiped at the corner of your eye with the back of your hand, still giggling softly as the warmth of it lingered in your ribs. The apartment felt even smaller now, wrapped in the low glow of the lamps and the remnants of dinner cooling on the table. Her knee pressed against yours, casual and constant, and for the first time in weeks the heaviness that had been sitting on your sternum felt distant, almost weightless. Chelsea kept talking, softer now but no less animated, her voice weaving around you like a tether, pulling you gently back into the present where the only things that mattered were half-empty plates, stolen hoodies, and the way she looked at you like you were the only audience she’d ever needed.

The dishes came next, the two of you falling into the familiar rhythm of cleanup without needing to negotiate roles. Chelsea stacked plates with the same theatrical flair she brought to everything, clattering them into the sink like she was announcing a tag-team entrance. You grabbed a dish towel, the cotton still warm from the dryer, and began drying whatever she handed over, your shoulder brushing hers every few seconds in the narrow galley kitchen. Soap suds clung to her forearms, iridescent under the overhead light, and she hummed along to the playlist still drifting from her phone on the counter, some upbeat track with a bass line that made her hips sway unconsciously.

You watched the way her fingers worked the sponge in quick, decisive circles, the faint crease between her brows as she attacked a stubborn bit of sauce. The air smelled of lemon dish soap and the lingering richness of marinara, undercut by the faint citrus that always seemed to trail her. It was ordinary, this shared domesticity, but ordinary had started to feel like a gift lately.

Then, without overthinking it, because if you let yourself think, the hesitation might win, you stepped in behind her.

Your hands found her waist, palms settling over the soft give of the oversized hoodie, fingers splaying just enough to guide her gently to the side so you could reach the cabinet behind her. It was the first time you’d touched her like this in two weeks. Not a hug, not a shoulder bump, but something deliberate, possessive in the quietest way. Your thumbs brushed the dip of her hip bones through the fabric, and for a heartbeat the world narrowed to the warmth of her skin radiating beneath the cotton, the subtle shift of muscle as she registered the contact.

Chelsea stilled. Not froze, just paused, the sponge hovering mid-scrub. You felt the small exhale she released, the way her spine softened fractionally under your touch, as if she’d been holding a breath she hadn’t realized was there. Her head tilted back just enough that the crown of her hair brushed your collarbone, and when she spoke, her voice carried that trademark Chelsea lilt, bright but threaded with something careful and wondering.

“Well, hello to you too,” she said, the words low and playful, though her shoulders stayed deliberately loose, giving you every out. “Stealing my spot at the sink? Bold move, sweetheart. I might have to charge rent.”

You didn’t pull away. Instead you let your hands linger a second longer than necessary, feeling the steady rise and fall of her breathing, the way her body leaned back into you like muscle memory kicking in after a long absence. The gesture felt monumental and mundane all at once, your fingers against the familiar curve of her waist, the faint scent of her hair product mixing with the kitchen smells. No panic surged up your throat. Just warmth. Just the quiet thrill of choosing this.

“Rent’s due in pasta form,” you murmured against her shoulder, the sarcasm soft, almost fond. You squeezed once, gentle, before stepping back to let her resume her scrubbing. But the contact had already done its work; a small bridge rebuilt, one she noticed without comment, the corners of her mouth lifting in a private smile she tried to hide by attacking the next plate with renewed vigor.

Later, when the kitchen was wiped down and the leftover sauce tucked into the fridge, you migrated to her bedroom. Chelsea carried the wine bottle and two fresh glasses like trophies; you followed with a small bowl of the salted-caramel gelato she’d pulled from the freezer earlier “emergency sweet treat,” she’d declared, as if the pasta hadn’t already been indulgence enough. The bed was already turned down, the comforter a rumpled invitation, and the low glow of the string lights she’d strung across the headboard painted everything in soft amber.

She queued up the movie on her laptop without ceremony; some gloriously stupid horror flick she’d been hyping for days, the kind with rubber masks and plot holes you could drive a tour bus through. “Alba thinks I can’t handle horror,” she announced, flopping onto the mattress and patting the spot beside her with insistent energy. “I’m proving a point. Tonight we watch this masterpiece and I text her screenshots of me not even flinching. Maybe add a little scream for effect. Method acting.”

You climbed in beside her, the mattress dipping under your weight, and she immediately arranged herself against you, legs tangled, her head finding the curve of your shoulder like it had been carved for exactly that purpose. The wine glasses clinked as you each took a sip, the red dark and earthy on your tongue. The gelato bowl balanced precariously between you, spoons dipping in turns, the cold sweetness cutting through the lingering warmth of dinner.

The movie played on, all creaking doors and fake blood, but neither of you paid it much mind. Chelsea’s phone ended up in her hand first, then passed to yours, the two of you scrolling through feeds in lazy alternation. A video of a cat failing spectacularly at a jump sent her into a fit of laughter that shook the bed; you countered with a meme so absurd it pulled a genuine giggle from you, the sound muffled against the hood of her sweatshirt. Her free arm stayed looped around your waist, thumb tracing idle arcs along your side, not pressing, just present.

“God, look at this one,” she said, tilting the screen toward you, her voice pitched in that rapid, delighted cadence that never quite dimmed. “It’s like someone took my entrance music and made it into interpretive dance. piper would lose her mind.” She snorted, the sound inelegant and perfect, and you felt the vibration of it where her chest pressed to yours.

You laughed again, soft, easy, the kind that built in your belly and spilled out without effort, and stole another spoonful of gelato, letting the caramel melt on your tongue. The horror movie flickered forgotten in the background, screams reduced to white noise beneath the steady rhythm of her breathing and the occasional ping of a notification. Her fingers found yours between scrolls, lacing loosely, and you let them stay. The city hummed distantly beyond the window, but here the world narrowed to the warmth of her body curled into yours, the faint stickiness of gelato on your lips, and the slow, unhurried cadence of conversation that drifted from wrestling gossip to nothing at all.

Chelsea’s head tipped back against the pillow, eyes half-lidded but still sparkling with that irrepressible energy, and she squeezed your hand once, a silent check-in wrapped in the smallest gesture. You squeezed back. The night stretched ahead, unhurried, the kind of quiet intimacy that didn’t need grand declarations, just this; tangled limbs, shared laughter, and the steady certainty that whatever came next, you were choosing it together, one careful touch at a time.

The horror movie had long since devolved into background static, a parade of fake screams and creaking floorboards that neither of you bothered to follow anymore. Chelsea’s laptop sat forgotten on the nightstand, its screen casting faint, flickering blue across the rumpled comforter. You were both sunk deep into the pillows now, her body curled against yours like it had always belonged there, her leg slung over your thigh, one arm draped loose across your middle, fingers idly tracing the hem of your shirt where it had ridden up. The gelato bowl was empty, abandoned on the floor beside the bed, and the wine had warmed to room temperature in your glasses, but no one reached for them.

Conversation had meandered the way it always did with her; from the cat video to a ridiculous wrestling rumor she’d heard in the locker room, then to the way the string lights made the ceiling look like it was breathing. Laughter came easy between you, low and shared, the kind that loosened knots you hadn’t realized were still tied tight in your chest. But the longer you lay there, the more the warmth of her skin against yours started to pull at something deeper. A low, insistent ache that had been building for weeks, frustration and want and the sharp, jagged memory of hands that hadn’t been hers.

You shifted slightly, trying to ignore the way your pulse had picked up, the way your fingers flexed against her back like they wanted more but didn’t know how to ask. The earlier touch in the kitchen still hummed under your skin, a reminder of what your body remembered even when your mind kept tripping over the same barbed wire. You wanted her. God, you wanted her, wanted the familiar press of her mouth, the way she could make you forget everything else with nothing but intent and that endless Chelsea energy. But the bridge between wanting and doing felt impossibly narrow, slick with weeks of hesitation.

Chelsea must have felt the shift in you. Her thumb stilled on your hip, and she tilted her head against your shoulder, those bright eyes catching yours in the low light. The playful spark was still there, but softer now, watchful.

“You’re doing that thing again,” she said, voice pitched low but carrying that familiar bounce, like even quiet moments couldn’t quite tame her. “The one where your eyebrows do the little worried dance. Spill, babe. What’s going on in that pretty head?”

You swallowed, the words catching somewhere behind your sternum. Your hand found hers on your waist, lacing your fingers together not out of nerves but because touching her felt like the only steady thing left. The sheets smelled like her detergent and the faint trace of her skin, warm and real and safe. Still, heat crept up your neck, and you kept your gaze on the way your thumb brushed over her knuckles, slow, deliberate, buying time.

“I just…” You exhaled, the sound shaky but honest. “I miss this. Us. The way we used to… be together. Like that.” Your voice dropped, almost sheepish, the sarcasm nowhere to be found now. “I want you. I really, really want you. But after everything—after her—I don’t know how to start again without it feeling… wrong. Or like I’m pushing too fast. Or like I might freeze up and ruin it.”

The admission hung there between you, raw and unpolished, but the weight of it didn’t crush the way you’d feared. You risked a glance at her face. Chelsea’s expression had gone still, not in a bad way, just attentive, the high-energy whirl of her usual self banked low like a flame turned down for careful work. Her mouth parted slightly, then curved into something that started playful and edged toward something deeper.

She let out a soft huff of laughter first, slipping out before she could catch it, pure Chelsea, unfiltered and unapologetic. “Fuck, babe, you have no idea how bad I want to fuck you right now.” The words came out rough and delighted, her grin flashing wide for a split second, eyebrows waggling in that ridiculous way she had when she was trying to lighten the air without dismissing it. Her fingers squeezed yours once, quick and reassuring. “Like, genuinely. I’ve been thinking about it since you walked in the door looking all soft and untouchable and still mine. But—”

The playful tone didn’t drop away entirely; it just layered under something steadier, something you hadn’t seen her slip into quite like this before. She shifted up onto one elbow so she could look at you properly, the messy knot of her hair falling forward to brush your cheek. Her free hand came up to cup the side of your face, thumb stroking slow along your jaw, not guiding, just there. The touch was feather-light, deliberate, every movement telegraphing care. Her eyes held yours, blue and unwavering, the usual sparkle tempered by a seriousness that felt earned.

“But I’m not going anywhere,” she continued, voice dropping into that lower register she used when she was dead serious beneath the sparkle. “Not unless you tell me to. We can take this as slow as you need—hell, we can just keep scrolling dumb videos and I’ll keep my hands exactly where they are if that’s what feels right tonight. Or…” She trailed off, letting the option breathe between you, her thumb still moving in those gentle arcs. “If you want to try, we try. On your terms. You say stop, we stop. You say slower, I slow down until it feels like we’re moving through molasses. I’m not here to rush you back into anything. I’m here because it’s you, and I’ve got all the time in the world to figure out how to make it good again.”

She leaned in then, pressing a kiss to your forehead that lingered, warm and unhurried, her breath fanning across your skin. When she pulled back, that grin crept back in, smaller this time, but no less bright, the high-energy Chelsea you knew threading through the care like gold in marble. “Plus, I’m an excellent multitasker. I can be your personal cheerleader and your very considerate girlfriend.. well friend, all at once. Go team us, right?”

The words landed soft and sure, wrapping around the frustration in your chest until it eased, just a fraction. You felt the sheepish smile tug at your own mouth, the heat in your face shifting from embarrassment to something warmer, more anticipatory. Your hand tightened in hers, and you nodded once, small but certain, the decision forming not in grand declaration but in the quiet press of your body leaning into hers.

“Yeah,” you murmured, voice barely above a whisper but steady now. “I think… I want to try. With you. If you’re okay with going really, really slow.”

Chelsea’s eyes lit up, still careful, still watching, but the grin that broke across her face was all her, bright and unstoppable and utterly unafraid of whatever came next. She didn’t move to close the distance right away. Instead she stayed right there, propped on her elbow, thumb still stroking your jaw like a promise she had every intention of keeping.

“Slow it is,” she said, the words soft but laced with that familiar bounce. “You lead, babe. I’m just here to follow.”

The string lights overhead cast a honeyed haze across the bed, softening every edge until the room felt like it existed just beyond the reach of the outside world. Chelsea’s words still lingered in the narrow space between you “Slow it is. You lead, babe. I’m just here to follow” and the permission in them unlocked something tentative in your chest. You shifted first, rolling toward her until your bodies aligned more fully, and she met you halfway, her mouth finding yours with the same unhurried care she’d shown all evening.

The kiss started soft, almost exploratory, the faint taste of red wine and salted caramel still clinging to her lips. She let you set the pace, her hand resting lightly at the small of your back, thumb tracing idle, reassuring circles against the fabric of your shirt. When you deepened it, she hummed low in her throat, a pleased, playful sound that vibrated against your tongue, and parted her lips to let you in. There was no rush in the way she kissed you back, just a steady, generous warmth that made the ache in your body feel less like frustration and more like something you could lean into.

You moved then, slow enough that the shift felt deliberate, chosen. One knee slid over her hip, then the other, until you were straddling her thighs. The comforter bunched beneath you, and Chelsea’s breath caught for half a second before she exhaled a quiet laugh against your mouth, the sound bright and disbelieving and so utterly her that it eased the nervous flutter in your stomach.

“Well, shit,” she murmured when you broke apart just enough to breathe, her eyes half-lidded but sparkling with that familiar mischief. Her hands settled on your thighs, palms warm and open, fingers flexing once like she was testing the new weight of you above her. “This is a first. You on top? Never thought I’d see the day. Looks good on you, though. Real good.”

The tease landed light, playful, the swagger in her tone undercut by the way her gaze stayed locked on yours, steady, checking, making sure the words hadn’t tipped anything fragile. It was the strangest comfort: her ability to be unserious in the middle of something so serious, like she knew exactly how to keep the air from growing too heavy without ever diminishing what this meant. You felt the flush creep up your neck, equal parts embarrassment and something hotter, sharper. Being in control like this was new with her, new and a little dizzying, but she made it feel possible.

You leaned down again, capturing her mouth before the nerves could crest, and this time the kiss stretched long and languid. Minutes blurred. Her lips moved against yours with patient hunger, tongue brushing yours in slow, deliberate strokes that coaxed rather than demanded. She tasted like home and want all at once, and when one of her hands slid up to cradle the back of your neck, she didn’t pull you closer, just held you there, steady, like an anchor.

Eventually she pulled back a fraction, just far enough to speak against your lips, voice husky but threaded with that high-energy lilt she couldn’t quite mute. “Tell me what you want, babe. Anything. My hands, my mouth, whatever feels right. I’m yours to direct tonight.” Her fingers flexed against your thigh again, a small, encouraging squeeze. “You’re doing so good already. Just like that.”

The praise settled warm in your ribs, loosening another knot. You reached down, guiding one of her hands beneath the hem of your shirt, pressing her palm flat against the bare skin of your stomach. The contact sent a shiver through you, her touch was careful, almost reverent, calluses from years in the ring brushing soft against your ribs. She let you move her exactly where you wanted, never anticipating, never presuming. When her other hand followed at your silent direction, sliding up to rest just beneath the curve of your breasts, she exhaled a soft, wondering sound.

“God, you’re warm,” she whispered, the words half-tease, half-worship. “Keep going. Show me.”

Your fingers found the bottom of your shirt next. You tugged it upward, and she helped without being asked, sitting up just enough to peel the fabric over your head in one slow, seamless motion. Cool air kissed your skin, but her eyes were warmer, tracing the faint shadows that still lingered across your chest, the last remnants of bruises that had finally faded to nothing more than memory. For a heartbeat she just looked, the playful spark in her expression softening into something deeper, more focused.

You took her hands again, guiding them to your waist, then higher, until her palms cupped the undersides of your breasts. “Kiss me there,” you said, voice barely more than a breath, sheepish but sure. “Please.”

Chelsea nodded once, the messy knot of her hair slipping further loose as she leaned in. Her mouth found the first mark, right where the worst bruise had bloomed weeks ago, and the kiss was so gentle it stole the air from your lungs. She lingered there, lips brushing feather-light, then pressed a little firmer, like she could erase the memory with touch alone. Another kiss, then another, mapping every place that had hurt, every inch that had felt violated. Her breath ghosted warm across your skin between each one, and when she reached the peak of one breast she paused, glancing up at you through her lashes.

“Still good?” she asked, the words soft but steady, that high-energy edge sanded down to pure consideration. “You’re so fucking brave, you know that? Letting me do this. Letting us have this back.”

You nodded, fingers threading into her hair, guiding her mouth lower again. She went willingly, kissing with the same deliberate reverence, slow, open-mouthed presses that felt less like seduction and more like absolution. Her tongue traced a careful circle where another mark had been, and she hummed low, the vibration traveling straight through you. One hand stayed at your waist, thumb stroking soothing arcs; the other cupped the breast she wasn’t kissing, holding you like something precious she had no intention of rushing.

Between kisses she murmured encouragements, voice muffled against your skin but clear enough to wrap around your heart. “That’s it… just breathe, babe. You feel incredible. So soft, so so soft. I’ve got you.” The words weren’t heavy with expectation, they were light, playful in the way only Chelsea could manage, like she was cheering you on through the most intimate match of your life. Yet beneath the lightness was bedrock sincerity, the kind that made your eyes sting with something that wasn’t quite tears.

You stayed like that for what felt like hours but couldn’t have been more than minutes; you above her, guiding her hands and her mouth, her letting you lead while still finding ways to take tiny, careful initiatives, a gentle nip here, a soothing lick there, always checking your face for any flicker of hesitation. The ache in your body had shifted from frustrated want to something fuller, deeper, built on trust rather than memory. Her high-energy spirit was still there in the occasional soft laugh when your breath hitched, in the way she’d wink up at you before pressing another kiss to a spot that made you shiver. But mostly she was just present, serious in her care, genuine in her desire, playful enough to keep the moment from ever feeling clinical or heavy.

The kisses stretched on, unhurried and endless, as if time itself had softened its edges to make room for this. You stayed astride her, knees bracketing her hips, the comforter a gentle cradle beneath you both. Chelsea’s mouth moved against your skin with a devotion that bordered on sacred, slow, open presses that lingered like benedictions, each one a quiet reclamation of the places that had once carried hurt. Her breath fanned warm and steady across the curve of your breast, then lower, tracing the faint lattice of memory where bruises had faded to nothing but echo. She kissed there as though the act itself could rewrite the story, lips parting to let her tongue follow in a feather-light glide that sent sparks of quiet electricity along your nerves.

You guided her without words at first, your hands covering hers where they rested at your waist. You slid them upward, pressing her palms flat against the undersides of your ribs, showing her the exact pressure you craved, firm enough to feel claimed, gentle enough to feel cherished. She followed instantly, no resistance, no assumption; her fingers splayed wide, thumbs sweeping in reverent arcs that mapped the rise and fall of your breathing. When you arched your back a fraction, offering more of yourself, she tilted her head to meet you, eyes fluttering half-closed in something that looked like awe.

“Like this?” she whispered against your sternum, the words barely more than a breath, her usual bright cadence hushed into something low and hallowed. “Show me, babe. I want to get it exactly right for you.”

You nodded, the motion small, and shifted your weight forward, letting your torso curve over her like a living canopy. Her hands moved where you placed them, cupping, cradling, never gripping, until the warmth of her touch felt like an offering laid at an altar. She kissed the hollow between your breasts, then the slope of one, then the other, each press deliberate and slow, as though she were memorizing the taste of forgiveness itself. The string lights above caught in the loose strands of her hair, turning them to threads of captured gold, and the room seemed to hold its breath with you: the distant hum of the city outside reduced to a faint lullaby, the air thick with the mingled scents of wine, caramel, and the clean, sunlit warmth that always clung to her skin.

Every so often she glanced up at you through her lashes, blue eyes luminous and searching, not for permission, exactly, but for the subtle language of your body. When your breath hitched, she hummed softly, the sound vibrating through you like a shared pulse. “There you are,” she murmured, voice threaded with that playful wonder she couldn’t quite bank entirely. “So beautiful when you let yourself feel it. You’re doing everything right. Just… keep breathing with me.”

You moved her hands again, guiding one lower to rest at the small of your back, the other to trace the line of your spine. She obeyed with the same angelic patience, fingertips skimming as lightly as moth wings, learning the new map of your posture. You leaned down to kiss her properly once more, mouths meeting in a slow, liquid slide that tasted of salt and sweetness and the quiet miracle of trust restored. Her tongue moved against yours with unhurried reverence, coaxing rather than claiming, and when you sighed into her she swallowed the sound like it was something holy.

Time dissolved. Minutes or hours, there was no difference here. You rocked against her in tiny, instinctive shifts, and she met each one with the steady warmth of her body beneath yours, never hurrying you forward. Her palms glided where you directed them: over the flare of your hips, along the sensitive plane of your stomach, always returning to your chest to press fresh kisses over the healed skin. Each touch felt like absolution, each murmured encouragement a quiet incantation “You’re safe here… you feel like coming home… that’s it, just like that” delivered in the softest version of her voice, the high-energy spark tempered into something luminous and protective.

You felt the reverence in the way her heartbeat thrummed steady and strong against your thigh, in the faint tremor of her fingers when they brushed a particularly sensitive spot and she paused, waiting for your guiding hand to show her it was welcome. There was nothing frantic in it, nothing performative. Only this; the two of you suspended in a pocket of light and warmth, bodies speaking in the ancient, wordless dialect of care. The ache that had lived in you for weeks transformed, slowly, into something fuller, less a wound and more a garden being coaxed back to bloom under patient hands.

Chelsea’s mouth found the peak of your breast again, kissing with such tender focus that your eyes stung with the sheer gentleness of it. She lingered there, lips parted, breath warm and reverent, until the sensation blurred into something almost transcendent. When she finally pulled back just enough to rest her forehead against your sternum, her voice came soft and wondering, laced with that unmistakable Chelsea brightness even now.

“God, I could stay right here forever,” she said, the words brushing warm against your skin. “You telling me what you need… me getting to give it to you like this. Feels like something sacred, doesn’t it?” Her hands stayed exactly where you’d placed them, thumbs still tracing those slow, worshipful circles. “Whenever you want more, I’m here. But we can keep it just like this as long as you need. You’re leading the whole damn choir tonight, baby.”

You stayed suspended in that glow, hearts beating in the same unhurried rhythm, the atmosphere around you shimmering with a quiet, almost magical sanctity, like the room itself had been consecrated by the simple, profound act of choosing each other again, one guided touch, one reverent kiss at a time.

The question slipped from your lips like a secret offered to candlelight, soft, almost shy, barely louder than the hush of your shared breathing. “Do you… want to touch me?” you asked, the words brushing against the crown of her head where it still rested warm against your sternum. “Properly, I mean. Like before.”

Chelsea’s eyes lifted to meet yours, that steady blue catching the low amber glow of the string lights and holding it like something precious. No flash of surprise, no eager lunge, just a slow bloom of a smile that curved her mouth with the kind of reverence usually reserved for quiet cathedrals. Her hands, still resting exactly where you had placed them along the slope of your ribs, flexed once in gentle acknowledgment. “Yeah,” she said, voice low and threaded with that familiar bright warmth, though it had softened to something almost sacred. “I do. Only if you show me how, babe. All the way.”

You nodded, the motion small, and reached down to guide her again. Your fingers wrapped around her wrist, guiding her hand lower, past the dip of your navel, until her palm settled warm and open against the front of your underwear. The fabric was already faintly damp from the long, languid kisses, but you didn’t rush. Neither did she. She let you lead completely, her arm pliant under your direction, her breathing steady and patient as you pressed her hand more firmly against you, showing her the slow, circling pressure you wanted.

Her first touch was feather-light, fingertips tracing the seam of the fabric with such deliberate care it felt like a vow. Then, at your silent urging, she slipped beneath the waistband, skin meeting skin in a slow glide that stole the air from your lungs. She found your clit with unerring gentleness, the pad of her middle finger settling there like it belonged, and began to move, tiny, patient circles that built nothing but warmth at first. No haste. No demand. Just the steady, rhythmic press of her touch coaxing your body back into remembering what safety felt like.

“That’s it,” she murmured, the words barely audible, her breath warm against the curve of your breast where her mouth had been only moments ago. “Nice and slow, just like this. You’re already so warm for me… feels like you’re letting me in already.” Her voice carried no theatrical flair now, only that perfect balance of her usual spark and a deeper, almost devotional steadiness, like she knew exactly which words would anchor you without ever tipping into too much. “Breathe with me, yeah? In… and out. You’re doing so beautifully.”

You rocked against her hand in tiny increments, setting the pace yourself, and she matched it flawlessly, never pushing ahead. The wetness gathered gradually under her fingertips, slick and inviting, and still she stayed right there, circling, stroking, letting the pleasure build in soft, shimmering layers. Her free hand stayed at your waist, thumb sweeping slow arcs along your hip bone, grounding you. When your thighs trembled faintly around her hips, she pressed a single, lingering kiss to the center of your chest, right over your heart.

“God, listen to you,” she whispered, the praise so quiet and genuine it wrapped around you like warm light. “All those little sounds… they’re perfect. You’re opening up so sweetly for me. I could stay right here for hours, just feeling how wet you’re getting, knowing it’s because you trust me.” Her finger never faltered, never sped up beyond the rhythm you had set; it simply continued its patient worship, drawing more slickness with each careful pass until the glide felt effortless, inevitable.

You shifted your posture again, leaning forward to brace one hand beside her head on the pillow, and she followed the new angle without hesitation, her wrist turning slightly under your guiding touch so her fingers could cover you more fully, palm pressing gentle heat against your entrance while her fingertips kept that slow, circling focus on your clit. The sensation built like dawn breaking across still water; gradual, luminous, spreading through your belly and thighs in quiet waves of heat.

Chelsea’s eyes never left your face, drinking in every flicker of expression, every parted breath. “There you go,” she said softly, the words laced with quiet awe. “Just like that. You’re so strong, letting yourself feel it all. I’ve got you—right here, exactly where you need me.” Another kiss, this one pressed to the underside of your jaw as you arched closer. “You’re making me feel like the luckiest person alive, you know that? Getting to touch you again… getting to make you feel good like this.”

The atmosphere in the room had thickened into something almost holy, air heavy with the scent of your shared skin, the faint sweetness of the forgotten gelato still clinging to the sheets, the low hum of the city reduced to a distant psalm. Her touch remained a slow, reverent liturgy; circling, stroking, coaxing your body to bloom open at its own pace. No fingers inside you yet; she waited, patient as starlight, letting the wetness and the comfort gather until the ache between your legs felt less like hunger and more like a gentle, inevitable unfolding.

You guided her hand once more, pressing her fingertips a fraction lower, and she hummed in soft understanding, the sound vibrating through her chest and into yours. “Whenever you’re ready,” she whispered against your throat, lips brushing the pulse there like a blessing. “No rush. We’ve got all night, and I’m not going anywhere. You feel like magic right now… vulnerable and soft and mine.” 

Her praise never felt like performance, only truth, each word chosen with the kind of effortless intuition that made the slow burn between you feel sacred, inevitable, wrapped in the quiet magic of two people who had chosen healing over haste, one reverent touch at a time.

The pleasure had been building in quiet, luminous layers, each slow circle of her fingertip drawing you further from the sharp edges of memory until the anxiety inside your chest no longer felt like a threat. It receded to something distant and manageable, a low hum rather than a roar, leaving only the warm, unfolding certainty that this touch, hers, would never tear you apart. Your breath had deepened, your hips rocking in tiny, instinctive pulses against her hand, and the small, dainty sounds slipping from your throat were soft and involuntary; a hushed exhale that curved into a whimper, a delicate sigh that broke on a higher note when her rhythm found the exact pressure that made stars bloom behind your eyes.

Chelsea noticed the shift immediately. Her gaze lifted to your face, blue eyes wide and rapt, lips parted as though she were witnessing something holy unfolding in real time. You could see the way her throat worked on a swallow, the faint sheen of moisture at the corner of her mouth that she didn’t bother to hide. She looked like she was barely restraining herself from leaning in and tasting every sound you made, her usual boundless energy distilled into pure, reverent focus.

“That’s it,” she breathed, voice low and awed, the words wrapping around you like incense smoke. “Listen to those pretty little sounds you’re making for me… fuck, babe, they’re killing me in the best way. So sweet and dainty, like you’re letting me hear exactly how good you feel.” Her finger kept its patient circling, coaxing more slickness until the glide felt effortless, inevitable. Then, with a slow, deliberate glide that gave you every chance to stop her, she shifted lower and eased one finger inside you, barely breaching at first, just the tip, testing the warmth and the give of your body with the kind of care that felt almost devotional.

The stretch was gentle, barely there, yet it pulled another soft, breathy sound from you, high and trembling. Chelsea’s eyelids fluttered half-closed for a moment, like the sensation of you clenching around her was something sacred she wanted to commit to memory. “There we go,” she murmured, the praise rolling out smooth and steady, guiding you through every second. “Feel that? Just one finger, nice and slow… you’re so ready for me already. Taking me so beautifully. Let yourself sink into it—let it fill you up just like this.”

She didn’t push deeper right away. Instead she held still inside you, letting your body adjust, her thumb returning to your clit in those same unhurried circles while her finger remained a steady, anchoring presence. When you rocked down experimentally, she followed the motion with perfect attentiveness, sliding a fraction further only when your hips asked for it. Her free hand stayed splayed across your lower back, supporting your weight, thumb stroking along your spine in time with each careful thrust.

“God, you feel incredible,” she continued, the words hushed and worshipful, each one chosen to anchor you deeper into the pleasure. “So wet and perfect around my finger… I can feel you fluttering, like your body’s saying yes all on its own. That’s right, babe—move however you need. I’m right here with you, learning you all over again. You’re doing so well, letting me make you feel this good.”

Another dainty whimper escaped you as she curled her finger just so, brushing that sensitive spot inside with feather-light precision. Chelsea’s breath hitched audibly, her pupils blown wide, and she looked half-drunk on the sound, lips glistening, cheeks faintly flushed, like every delicate noise you offered was better than any roar of a crowd she’d ever heard. She leaned up enough to press an open-mouthed kiss to the valley between your breasts, murmuring against your skin without breaking rhythm.

“Keep making those sounds for me… they’re everything. So soft and sweet, like music only I get to hear. You’re getting even wetter now, aren’t you? That’s it, just let it build. I want to make you feel so fucking amazing—slow and deep and perfect, exactly how you deserve.” Her voice stayed low and steady, a gentle narration that wove through the haze of sensation, never overwhelming, never demanding. Only guiding, only praising, every syllable laced with the quiet magic of someone who wanted nothing more than your pleasure unfolding like dawn across still water.

You guided her wrist with the lightest pressure, showing her the angle you craved, and she followed without hesitation, her finger sliding deeper in one smooth, reverent stroke before easing back and repeating the motion in the exact cadence your body asked for. The room felt consecrated around you both, the string lights casting a golden halo over her messy hair, the air thick with the intimate scent of your shared arousal and the faint trace of her citrus soap. Everything narrowed to this; the slow, sacred give and take, her voice a soft liturgy in your ear, and the growing certainty that you were safe, wanted, worshipped, one gentle thrust, one dainty sound, one luminous moment at a time.

The plea slipped from you on a soft, breathy whine, fragile and unfiltered, the kind of sound that had been building in your throat for long, shimmering minutes. “Chels… please—another one?” Your voice trembled around the edges, not from fear but from the overwhelming swell of sensation, your hips canting down in a tiny, seeking roll against her hand.

Chelsea’s eyes lit with something radiant and immediate, blue depths flaring wide with pure, unguarded delight. Her lips parted on a quiet exhale that sounded almost reverent, like the request itself was a gift she hadn’t dared hope for. “Oh, babe,” she murmured, the words warm and honey-thick, carrying that unmistakable Chelsea spark even now, bright, playful, utterly sincere. “You asked so politely. So fucking sweet about it. God, I love you like this.”

She didn’t hesitate. Her free hand stayed anchored at the small of your back, steadying you, while the one between your thighs shifted with deliberate care. The first finger stayed buried deep and still for a heartbeat, letting you feel the fullness of it, before she eased a second alongside, slow, so achingly slow, the stretch blooming into something full and perfect and safe. The glide was effortless now, your body slick and welcoming, and she let out a low, appreciative hum as she sank in to the knuckle, curling both fingers just enough to brush that devastating spot inside you again.

“There we go,” she breathed, voice dropping into that gentle narration that wrapped around you like warm light. “Two fingers now, nice and deep… feel how perfectly you’re taking them? You’re so warm and wet and ready for me. That’s it—breathe through it, let them settle. You’re doing everything right, just like that.”

Her thumb never stopped its patient circling over your clit, the rhythm seamless, coaxing the pleasure higher in soft, inexorable waves. She watched your face the entire time, eyes half-lidded and shining with something that looked like worship, cheeks flushed a faint rose, lips parted and glistening, the messy knot of her hair slipping further loose to frame her expression in golden disarray. Every dainty whimper, every hitch in your breath seemed to unravel her a little more; she looked half-drunk on you, utterly captivated, like the sight of you above her, flushed and trembling and open, was the most beautiful thing she’d ever witnessed.

“You’re so pretty right now,” she whispered, the praise sliding out effortless and true, each word timed to the slow thrust of her fingers. “All flushed and glowing, making those little sounds that go straight through me. I could watch you forever like this… so safe, so loved. You feel that? How I’m right here with you, filling you up exactly how you need?” Her fingers curled again, pressing deeper on the next stroke, and she smiled, small, awed, the corners of her eyes crinkling with pure affection. “Yeah… there. Right there. You’re clenching so sweetly around me, like your body knows it’s mine tonight.”

She kept the pace measured, almost ceremonial, hips rocking up in tiny counter-movements to meet your own so the connection felt endless and shared. Her free hand traced slow, soothing lines up your spine, then down again, grounding you while the pleasure coiled tighter and tighter in your core, liquid heat spreading through your belly, your thighs, the base of your spine. Every thrust drew another soft, breathy sound from you, and Chelsea drank them in like they were sacred, her own breathing growing a touch ragged but never hurried.

“You’re getting so close, aren’t you?” she murmured, voice low and steady, guiding you through the rising edge with effortless grace. “I can feel it—how you’re fluttering around my fingers, pulling me deeper. Let it build, babe. Don’t fight it. You’re allowed to feel this good… so allowed. You look like art right now, all soft and desperate and mine. I’ve got you—right here, just like this. Come whenever you’re ready. I want to feel every second of it.”

The edge crested so gently it felt less like a breaking wave and more like a slow unfurling of dawn across still water, warm, luminous, inevitable. Your body gave in without resistance, the pleasure blooming outward in soft, radiant pulses that started low in your belly and spread through your limbs like liquid gold. No sharpness, no wrongness, no echo of hands that had once taken without asking. Just this; a lovely, shimmering release that made you feel almost beautiful, held in the steady blue of Chelsea’s gaze as though she were witnessing something sacred taking shape right above her.

She felt it the moment you tipped over, your walls fluttering around her fingers in delicate, rhythmic waves, and her expression softened into pure, open wonder. Her free hand slid up your back, anchoring you, while the other kept its slow, devoted rhythm inside you, drawing every last tremor out with the kind of care that bordered on worship.

“That’s it, baby,” she whispered, voice low and awed, each word a gentle tether. “Let it happen… just like that. God, look at you—coming so sweetly for me, all soft and glowing. You’re so beautiful right now, I can’t even breathe right.” Her thumb continued its tender circling over your clit, coaxing the aftershocks to linger without overwhelming, every stroke measured to the cadence of your fluttering breath. “I’ve got you. Feel how perfectly you’re letting go for me? You did so good… so, so good.”

The orgasm rolled through you in long, luminous waves rather than a single sharp crest, leaving your thighs trembling faintly around her hips and your chest rising and falling in shallow, contented sighs. Chelsea never stopped moving, her fingers stayed buried deep and still now, simply holding the fullness inside you while her thumb gentled to feather-light strokes that eased you down from the peak. She watched your face the entire time, lips parted, eyes sparkling with something that looked like reverence and delight braided together.

When the last soft pulse faded, she eased her fingers free with infinite slowness, then guided you down against her chest in one fluid motion. Your body melted into hers without thought, limbs heavy and pliant, cheek pressing to the warm, steady thrum of her heart beneath the stolen hoodie. She wrapped both arms around you, one hand splaying wide across your bare back, the other threading gently into your hair, stroking slow, soothing lines from crown to nape like you were something small and skittish she was coaxing into stillness.

“Shh, I’ve got you,” she murmured into the strands near your temple, the words warm and hushed against your skin, her usual bright cadence softened to something almost lullaby-like. “Just breathe with me, okay? In and out… there. You’re safe right here. My sweet girl, coming apart so prettily for me. I could watch that forever and never get tired of it.” Her fingers kept moving, light, repetitive strokes along your spine, then up to trace the shell of your ear, then back into your hair, each touch a quiet affirmation. She pressed a lingering kiss to your forehead, then another to the bridge of your nose, the corner of your mouth, like she was mapping every inch of you with gratitude.

You sank deeper into her, muscles loosening until you felt boneless and weightless, the faint sheen of sweat on your skin cooling in the low glow of the string lights. Her heartbeat thrummed steady and strong beneath your cheek, and the faint citrus warmth of her skin wrapped around you like a benediction. Chelsea kept talking, soft and steady, the words brushing into your hair like secrets meant only for the space between heartbeats.

“You’re so lovely when you let go,” she whispered, lips moving against your temple. “All those tiny sounds, the way you just… opened up for me. Makes me feel like the luckiest girl alive. I love you like this—melted and trusting and mine.” A small, playful huff of laughter escaped her, the sound bright but gentle, never breaking the hush. “We can stay right here as long as you want. No rush. No next thing. Just you and me and all this quiet magic you just gave me.”

Your eyes fluttered shut, the last remnants of tension dissolving into the steady rise and fall of her chest. You felt beautiful, not in spite of the weeks behind you, but because of this moment, because of the way she held you like something precious and breakable and utterly whole. The room held its breath around you both, the city’s distant hum reduced to a faint, approving murmur, and in the warm circle of her arms you simply melted, soft, safe, and finally, quietly, at peace.

You stayed like that for long, languid minutes, the world narrowed to the steady drum of her heartbeat beneath your cheek and the unhurried glide of her fingers through your hair. The string lights overhead painted faint constellations across the ceiling, and the apartment’s quiet wrapped around you both like a shared secret. Chelsea’s arms remained a loose, living cage, protective without confinement, her palm tracing idle, soothing paths along the bare curve of your spine while her lips brushed occasional, wordless kisses to your temple. Every so often she exhaled a small, contented sound, half sigh and half wonder, as though the simple fact of you melting against her was miracle enough.

Eventually she shifted, just enough to cup your face in both hands. Her thumbs swept slow arcs along the high points of your cheekbones, tilting your chin so your eyes met hers. The look she gave you then was devastating in its focus; blue irises wide and unwavering, as if the rest of the universe had quietly stepped aside to leave only this, only you, occupying the whole of her attention. There was no performance in it, no trace of the camera-ready sparkle she wore for crowds. Just raw, unfiltered devotion, the kind that made your breath catch somewhere behind your ribs. Her mouth curved into the gentlest of smiles, the corners of her eyes crinkling with quiet joy, and she studied you like a painter memorizing light on water.

“You’re really here,” she murmured, voice low and threaded with something almost reverent. “With me. Looking at me like that. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to how lucky that makes me feel.”

You held her gaze for a long moment, the words you wanted rising slow and shy from somewhere deep in your chest. The afterglow still hummed through your limbs, warm and liquid, but beneath it stirred a new, tentative hunger, gentle, not frantic. You turned your face into her palm, pressing a kiss to the center of it, then let your eyes flick downward for half a heartbeat before returning to hers. “I want… more of you,” you whispered, the implication soft but unmistakable, your voice still husky from earlier release. “Your mouth on me. If you want that too.”

Chelsea’s expression didn’t flash with hunger or triumph; it bloomed instead into something quieter, more luminous. She nodded once, slow and certain, her thumbs still stroking your cheeks as though she could smooth any lingering hesitation away with touch alone. “Yeah,” she said simply, the word warm and bright at the edges. “I want that. I want to taste how good you feel. But we’re doing this my way now—slow, like you’re made of starlight or something. Because you kind of are, to me.”

She moved with infinite care, easing you onto your back against the pillows without ever breaking the gentle hold she had on your face. The comforter pooled around your hips as she guided your legs apart, settling herself between them like she had nowhere else in the world to be. Her body was a warm, living weight against the mattress, the oversized hoodie still draped over her shoulders brushing softly against your inner thighs as she lowered herself. She didn’t dive in. Instead she rested her cheek against the smooth plane of your thigh, one arm looping loosely around your other leg to anchor you both. Her free hand traced idle patterns along the sensitive skin just above your knee, fingertips feather-light, as though she were tracing constellations there.

From this angle she looked up at you with that same all-consuming gaze, her messy hair spilling across your skin in loose strands, the faint flush still lingering high on her cheekbones. The position was unhurried, almost worshipful, her breath warm against the inside of your thigh, her mouth close enough that you could feel the ghost of it but far enough that nothing felt rushed. She turned her head just enough to press a single, lingering kiss to the crease where thigh met hip, then another a little higher, mapping her way with deliberate reverence.

“God, you’re gorgeous like this,” she whispered against your skin, the words vibrating softly through you. “Laid out for me, trusting me again. We’ve got all the time in the world, okay? I’m not going anywhere until you feel like the only thing that matters.” Her eyes stayed locked on yours even as she nuzzled closer, lips brushing feather-light along the sensitive inner seam of your thigh. “Tell me if anything changes. Tell me what feels good. I just want to make you feel like this is the safest, sweetest place you’ve ever been.”

She settled deeper between your legs then, head pillowed comfortably on your thigh, one hand resting possessively yet gently over your lower belly. The air between you felt thick with quiet magic, the low amber glow of the lights, the faint scent of your shared skin and the distant sweetness of caramel still clinging to the sheets, the steady rhythm of her breathing syncing with your own. Chelsea looked utterly content there, as though she could spend the rest of the night exactly like this: cheek against your thigh, eyes half-lidded in quiet adoration, mouth hovering with patient promise. No haste. No expectation. Only the slow, sacred unfolding of whatever came next, held safe in the circle of her unwavering care.

She lingered there between your thighs for what felt like an eternity of quiet devotion, her cheek still pillowed against the warm inner plane of one leg as if the simple act of resting there was indulgence enough. Her mouth began its slow pilgrimage then, kisses pressed with feather-light reverence along the sensitive skin of your calf, then higher, mapping the curve of your knee, the soft expanse of your inner thigh. Each one landed deliberate and unhurried, lips parting just enough for the faint warmth of her breath to ghost across your skin before the next followed. She took her time, as though every inch of you deserved its own quiet ceremony, the faint scrape of her teeth occasionally grazing in the gentlest tease before she soothed it with another open-mouthed press.

You let the sensations build until the ache between your legs felt less like want and more like an invitation you could finally answer. Your hand found its way into her hair, fingers threading through the loose strands with careful guidance, and you tugged once, soft, wordless, directing her higher. Chelsea hummed in immediate understanding, the sound vibrating against your thigh like a shared secret. She let you lead her exactly where you needed, shifting forward until her mouth hovered just above your center, her eyes lifting to meet yours in one last steady check-in. The look she gave you was luminous, almost worshipful, as if the sight of you laid open and trusting beneath her had rewritten the very air in the room.

Then she closed the distance.

Her first kiss there was chaste and reverent, lips brushing against your folds with the same devotional care she’d shown your thighs. A second followed, slower, parting you gently so her tongue could trace a long, languid stripe from entrance to clit. The sensation bloomed warm and electric, pulling a soft, breathy sound from your throat that made her pause and glance up again, eyes half-lidded with awe.

“God, you taste like everything good in the world,” she whispered against you, the words barely audible but threaded with that hushed, bright sincerity only she could manage. “So sweet and warm… just let me take care of you like this.” She licked again, deeper this time, tongue flattening to savor before circling your clit in slow, deliberate strokes, sucking gently on the upstroke, then soothing with broad, flat passes that made your hips twitch involuntarily.

Her free hand reached up without breaking rhythm, palm open and waiting until your fingers slipped between hers. She laced them together instantly, squeezing once in quiet reassurance, then began tracing tiny, idle patterns into your palm, lazy circles, slow figure-eights, the pad of her thumb mapping the sensitive lines as though she could draw comfort directly into your bloodstream. The dual sensation anchored you; her mouth working you open with holy patience below, her hand a steady tether above.

Between every lick and suck she kept talking, voice muffled and soft against your slick skin, each phrase timed like a prayer offered between devotions. “That’s it… right there, feel how I’m loving you?” A slow suck around your clit that made your back arch, followed by a gentle flick of her tongue. “You’re fluttering so prettily against me… so open, so perfect. I could stay here forever, just tasting how wet you get for me.” Another broad stroke, then a light suction that pulled another dainty whimper from you. “Listen to those little sounds you keep making—fuck, they’re beautiful. You’re so safe like this, baby. Just let it build slow. I’ve got you… I’ve got every part of you.”

She ate you like you were something holy, reverent and unhurried, as if the act itself were a sacrament. No rush to push you toward the edge, only a steady, worshipful exploration that coaxed pleasure from you in shimmering, unhurried waves. Her tongue traced every fold with meticulous care, dipping inside you only to retreat and circle your clit again, sucking softly when your hand tightened in hers. The patterns she drew into your palm never faltered: slow spirals that matched the rhythm of her mouth, grounding you even as the heat in your core coiled tighter and tighter.

The room felt consecrated around you both, the low amber glow of the string lights catching in the faint sheen of sweat along her temple, the air thick with the intimate scent of your arousal and the faint citrus warmth that always clung to her. Chelsea’s shoulders stayed relaxed between your thighs, her body settled in like she truly had all the time in the world, content to worship at the altar of your pleasure until you decided the moment was complete. Her eyes flicked up to yours whenever a particularly sweet sound escaped you, shining with that same all-consuming love, as though watching you come undone beneath her mouth was the only miracle she would ever need.

You began to rock against her mouth in slow, instinctive rolls, hips canting forward with a gentle insistence, chasing the warm, wet heat of her tongue. The movement pulled a deeper, needier sound from your throat, and for a moment the pleasure sharpened into something brighter, more urgent.

Chelsea’s hand tightened gently around yours, thumb pausing its lazy patterns in your palm. She eased back just enough for her breath to fan warm and steady across your slick skin, her cheek still nestled against your thigh like it belonged there. Her voice came soft and sweet, laced with that hushed wonder she’d been carrying all night, no sharp tease, no playful edge, only patient guidance wrapped in quiet affection.

“Easy, baby… you’re going a little too fast for me right now,” she murmured, lips brushing feather-light against your folds as she spoke. “I want to take my time with you. Want to take you apart so slowly you feel every single second of it. Can you let me do that?”

The gentle denial drew a small, plaintive whine from your lips, high and involuntary, your hips twitching once in protest before you stilled them with conscious effort. The sound hung fragile in the low-lit air between you.

Chelsea hummed in immediate understanding, the vibration traveling straight through you where her mouth hovered so close. She pressed a slow, open-mouthed kiss right over your clit, soothing and reverent, before pulling back again just enough to speak.

“I know, sweetheart, I know,” she whispered, the words warm against your skin, her fingers resuming their gentle tracing in your palm, slow spirals that matched the new, deliberate pace she set with her tongue. “Oh, I know you want to feel good. I want that too. So badly. But trust me… letting it build like this is going to feel even better.” Another long, languid lick, flat and worshipful, followed by a soft suck that made your breath hitch. “Yeah… there we go. So patient for me. Look at you, being so good and letting me love you exactly how I want to.”

She indulged then, but never hurried, her mouth working you open with the same holy patience, tongue tracing slow, deliberate patterns that coaxed rather than chased. Every so often she glanced up at you through her lashes, eyes luminous and full of quiet awe, checking the flicker of expression across your face.

“Does that feel good?” she asked softly between slow sucks, voice muffled and tender. “Right there… tell me if it’s perfect for you, baby. I want to hear it.” Her free hand stayed laced with yours, thumb drawing those tiny, grounding circles into your palm while her other arm looped loosely around your thigh, holding you open and steady without restraint.

You melted under the gentle redirection, the whine dissolving into a shaky exhale as the pleasure reshaped itself into something deeper, slower-burning, each lick and suck pulling you apart thread by thread, exactly as she’d promised. Chelsea kept murmuring those soft affirmations against you, her breath warm and steady, her mouth never rushing, only worshipping.

“I’ve got you,” she whispered again, lips brushing your clit in a feather-light kiss before she took it between them once more, slow and reverent. “Just like this. Nice and easy. You’re doing so beautifully for me… my sweet, patient girl.” 

The room held its breath around the two of you, the string lights casting their golden halo over her messy hair and the faint sheen on her lips. Everything felt suspended in that same sacred hush, her hand in yours, her mouth devoted and unhurried, and the quiet certainty that she would keep you right here, taking you apart with infinite care, for as long as either of you needed.

You tried again, hips rolling forward in a deeper, more insistent grind against her mouth, chasing the heat and pressure with a quiet desperation that had been building beneath the slow reverence. The movement pulled a needy sound from you, low and trembling, your fingers tightening in her hair as if you could urge her closer by sheer will.

Chelsea’s grip on your hand shifted, just enough to anchor you, her thumb pressing firmer into your palm without pulling away. She eased back a fraction, lips still brushing against your slick folds, her breath warm and steady as it fanned across your overheated skin. Her eyes lifted to meet yours, blue and luminous in the low string-light glow, and there was no scold in them, only a gentle steadiness laced with profound awareness, as though she could see every fragile thread of vulnerability you were offering and refused to let it fray.

“Easy, baby,” she whispered, voice soft but threaded with a quiet firmness that brooked no argument while somehow still sounding like a caress. “I know. I know it feels so good you want to chase it. But we’re not rushing this. I want to savor you… want to take you apart so slowly you remember every single second.” She pressed a lingering, open-mouthed kiss right over your clit, soothing and deliberate, before continuing in that same hushed, reverent tone. “You’re being so vulnerable for me right now, letting me have you like this. I’m not going to ruin that by letting you rush. Trust me? Let me give it to you the way you deserve.”

You let out another small, plaintive whine at the redirection, but the sound dissolved almost immediately under the warmth of her reassurance. Chelsea hummed in soft understanding, the vibration traveling through you like a shared pulse, and she didn’t tease or pull away. Instead she laced her fingers more securely with yours, resuming the tiny, grounding patterns in your palm, slow spirals that matched the new, even more measured rhythm she set with her mouth.

“Yeah… there we go,” she murmured against you, tongue tracing a long, languid stripe from entrance to clit before she took you between her lips again in a gentle suck. “I know you want to feel good, sweetheart. I want that too. So much. Just breathe with me… nice and slow. You’re doing everything right by letting me lead.”

She indulged then with the same holy patience, but now edged with that quiet firmness, her free arm looped around your thigh to hold you open and steady, her mouth working you open in unhurried, worshipful strokes. Tongue circling, flattening, sucking softly only to retreat and start again, each movement precise and devoted. Between every lick she kept whispering those gentle affirmations, voice muffled and full of awe, never once letting the pace quicken beyond what she had decided was right for you.

“Feel how I’m loving you like this?” she breathed, lips brushing your clit in a feather-light kiss. “So sweet for me… you’re opening up so beautifully. I’ve got you, baby. Just like this.” Another slow, reverent suck that made your back arch, followed by a broad, soothing pass of her tongue. “You’re so patient for me. My good girl. Does that feel good? Right there… tell me with those pretty little sounds.”

The denial only sharpened the pleasure into something deeper, more luminous, until the coil in your core tightened with aching slowness, each wave building on the last until it crested without warning, rolling through you in long, shimmering pulses that felt less like release and more like a quiet consecration. Your thighs trembled around her shoulders, a soft, breathy cry escaping you as the orgasm unfolded in gentle, radiant waves.

Chelsea stayed right there with you, mouth never faltering as she worked you through it, tongue moving in slow, steady strokes that drew every last tremor from your body without overwhelming. Her hand never left yours, fingers laced tight, thumb still tracing those grounding patterns even as your grip went slack with pleasure.

“That’s it, baby… let it all go for me,” she whispered against your slick skin, voice thick with awe and love. “God, you’re coming so sweetly again… so beautifully. I can feel every little flutter. You’re safe, you’re loved, you’re mine. Just ride it out—nice and easy, I’ve got you the whole way.”

She kept murmuring soft encouragements into you as the aftershocks rippled through, her free hand sliding up to rest warm and steady over your lower belly, anchoring you while her mouth gentled to feather-light kisses and soothing licks. When the last wave finally ebbed, she pressed one final, reverent kiss to your center before easing back just enough to rest her cheek against your thigh again, eyes shining up at you with that same all-consuming devotion.

Her fingers stayed laced with yours, the string lights casting a golden halo over her flushed face and the faint sheen on her lips. You melted deeper into the mattress, body heavy and glowing, the room still wrapped in that sacred hush where nothing existed but the two of you and the quiet magic of her unwavering care.

[eringobragh420]

the night does not belong to god.

★ pairing — Serial Killer!Mask!Seth Rollins ♥︎ f!Reader ★ summary — Your boyfriend interrupts your serial killer podcast. ★ words — 5.6k ★ warnings — nsfw. Seth Rollins is not a good man. discussion of serial killers/victims, fear/terror, manipulation, mentioned methods of killing, oral (f receiving), protected p in v, non-con if you squint 18+ ★ taglist — if you'd like to be added, please click here! ★ requested by — @ashuhleawrites

★ masterlist.

“Happy Sunday, my lovelies,” you cooed smoothly into the pop filter-protected microphone, the camera on your laptop capturing and streaming your crystal clear image to your thousands of viewers. “Welcome to another special Sunday edition of Seriality where we discuss anything and everything serial killers. Why special, some of you new kids might ask? Well, over the past few weeks, we’ve been talking about … wait for it …” You tapped a key and the chilling sound of a lone church bell filled your headphones. “The Sunday Sinner.” 

The chat window in the corner of the screen began to scroll as your viewers greeted you and instantly began debating the Sunday Sinner case as if they were FBI agents in their own right. A smile crept on your face—each of those usernames represented little dollar signs, and you had the absolute pleasure of earning them while indulging in your darkest obsession.

Rain pelted the window beside you as you went on.

“The serial killer whose gimmick is to kill the victim on a Sunday and, some way or another, make sure they’re discovered on a Sunday. Could be the same Sunday. Could be six months later. But it will always. Be. A Sunday. So, it was only appropriate that we move the show to when? Sunday! And if you’re new here, let me catch you up.” You inhaled deeply through your nostrils, resting your arms on the table in front of you. “The Sunday Sinner has been working, we think, over the past two years. The areas he uses to hunt are always the same: college towns. The victims are all female, in their early 20s, actively enrolled in school, and, well, they all … kind of look like me—same hair and eye color, same general build. Why am I still alive? Who knows? Maybe I’m next? Or more likely, I probably just give him the ick.” Your laugh was dry, kind of hollow. “His sole method of killing is strangulation. And not only that, the medical examiners were able to determine, by the marks on the necks, that he almost assuredly strangled them from the front. Which means he’s looking into her eyes while she’s dying.”

Your own eyes drifted to the floor while taking a sip from your Stanley cup of ice water, your mind briefly flashing to a dramatization of such a murder—the terror, the confusion, the pain from the hands tightening around her windpipe—which then evolved into a memory from this morning, when your boyfriend had shown up at your place from his third shift job, viciously hard and aggressive, and you’d been all too happy to let him use you in every way he desired. He’d held you down, fucked you senseless, and at one point, his huge hands had made their way to the delicate column of your neck. The pressure had been gentle at first, increasing with the pace of his hips as they slammed into you. He’d commanded you to look him in the eyes as he exploded into the condom while buried to the hilt inside you. And then he’d kissed you so softly afterward, leaving you wondering how he could so easily switch gears from rabid dog to clingy cat, but god, you loved it. You’d loved even more having a slight painful hitch to your step as you walked to class afterward.

“Anyway,” you said, shaking your head. “There are eleven victims that we know of. And absolutely no fucking clues. Again, that we know of. The cops could be withholding information, we all know how they love to do that. It’s just …” You shook your head, glancing off camera. “It’s so hard to kill someone and leave absolutely nothing behind these days. With all the technology and advances in forensics. Does he wear a freaking HAZMAT suit? No, because of mobility and other issues and because that’s fucking ridiculous. But he has to wear something, right? Or is he just free-balling it?” Your head tipped back with a cackle. “Does he shave every hair on his body and then just take all his clothes off before he attacks his victims?” You shook your head, eyes attempting to focus on the chat. “Sorry, guys. You know how I am.” You giggled.

User1: aren’t you scared? because you really do look like all the dead girls.

“Am I scared? No, I’m not scared. If I don’t give him the ick, then I’ve recently acquired a bodyguard. I think he could take him.”

User2: some of those other girls probably had boyfriends too

“That’s true, but mine—”

A click rippling through the atmosphere had you pausing. The live stream caught you turning your head to look down the darkened hall that led to the living room and front door. You didn’t call out like they did in the movies—you knew you were the only one here—but you did listen for a few moments in case it happened again. Only silence followed.

You shrugged, turning back to the laptop. Houses make noises, you reasoned, especially old ones like this one that had been home to countless other college students. “Thought I heard something. Anyway. No more boyfriend talk, no more I fit the profile of the victims talk. I want theories, guys. How’s he getting away with it?”

User3: maybe there’s more than one guy

User4: the cops are in on it

“Yeah, that makes a lot of sense,” you remarked, shaking your head. “What would the cops—”

A creak in the floorboard, and you jumped, your heart starting, an icy worm of terror slithering slowly throughout your chest. But when you looked at the hall this time, it wasn’t empty. A yelp squeaked from your mouth before your hand clamped over it. Standing at the threshold of the kitchen where you were streaming was very clearly a man judging by the height, the broad shoulders, the thick thighs straining against dark jeans. Everything he wore was black, including the hood covering his head and the top half of his face. The bottom half sent your stomach sloshing—a mask, thick, black, solid, concealed the rest of his identity. Eyes welling with tears, your gaze fell to the gloves on his hands, the black tactical boots on his feet.

Your throat burned as you forced bile back down your esophagus. You turned slowly in your chair, hand falling from your mouth to grip the back of it. Maybe, just maybe …

“Hilarious, Seth,” your voice trembled. Maybe it was your boyfriend. It had to be your boyfriend, and this had to be a sick fucking joke, and you would be breaking up with him. 

Except Seth didn’t have a key. No one other than you and your roommate who was hardly ever home had a key to this house.

You started to stand without a second thought, without a plan of action, having no idea what the hell you would do once you made it to your feet. Run? Tackle him? Escape to a room with a lock?

The man held up a gloved finger, your body instantly freezing. For a moment you thought you might puke or even pee or maybe both. The finger tapped downward, deliberate, an order, not a suggestion. Swallowing what felt like hard packed sand and water, your throat clicking, you slowly sank back into your chair, returning to the camera's frame, though you’d forgotten about the podcast altogether. The gloved finger turned in a steady circle, and your muscles automatically responded, turning so your legs were under the kitchen table and your body was facing the laptop, your eyes, though, never leaving him. Your heart hammered so hard against your ribs you thought they might crack.

“Seth,” you tried again, voice trembling. It was all you had to hold onto, the only light at the end of the macabre tunnel you were headed into. Your boyfriend was an asshole who was playing an all-too-real prank on you. “Seriously. I’m live right now. And shouldn’t you be at work?”

He darkened the doorway for a moment longer before eventually moving, each footstep silent, undetectable, despite the man’s size. It took him three strides to make it to the table where you sat, your lungs involuntarily sucking in a burst of oxygen at his sudden nearness. He was soaked, the hood dripping and casting a shadow over his face beneath the harsh overhead light, and he smelled earthy, a mixture of dirt and rainwater. There was a hint of something else, too, something spicy, something … He slid suavely into the lone chair across from you, gloved hands resting palms down on the table hidden by the laptop’s screen.

The stream showed you suddenly rigid, eyes wet, rounded and focused on something behind the camera, lips parted, chest heaving.

“Seth,” you whispered. “This isn’t funny.”

The man was a void, the utter absence of all colors, and his hands lifted without warning, shocking you into the back of your chair. He didn’t reach for the laptop or the microphone or even for you—he gripped the edge of the hood and pulled it back, settling it uniformly on his shoulders. The tears welling in your eyes streaked down your cheeks. You knew those heavy, espresso-colored eyes gazing back at you and the chestnut hair that bled into blonde at the tips that was just as soaked as the rest of him—How long had he been standing out in the rain to get so drenched?—and you suspected you knew the nose, lips, and beard likely hidden under the mask as well. 

The mask itself was unnerving. A big, black, hulking thing held flush against his cheeks by a thick strap around the back of his head.

Unable to look at him any longer, your eyes dropped to the chat in the corner of the laptop screen.

User5: is this a true crime podcast or a lesson in bad acting?

User6: why ruin a good show like this?

User7: isn’t this kinda disrespectful to the victims?

If this turned out to be real, clearly nobody was going to believe it. None of your viewers were about to call the cops to report a possible crime happening live on a true crime podcast. Who would believe that? Your eyes shifted again, attention immediately drawn back to Seth as if he were a life-size magnet. Seth—or was it the Sunday Sinner? Or—Jesus Christ—were they one in the same?

“Please just tell me what’s going on,” you whispered.

The man’s head cocked only slightly, eyes you’d seen warmth and passion and humor in this morning were now devoid of all emotion and locked on you. “I think you know,” he replied, voice muffled behind the mask, but clear enough to be understood.

You gulped, eyes snapping to the laptop to be sure the live feed was still streaming. Even if no one believed you now, if something were to happen to you, there would at least be a record. Was that part of his plan? Returning your attention to the man across the table, you inhaled, breath tremulous, and felt your heart slow by a mere few beats per minute. Escape, of course, was on your mind. There was a door in the kitchen near you that led to the backyard, but he’d almost certainly catch you before you could turn the knob and open it, just like he’d snatch you if you made a break for any other direction. You were trapped. And you refused to let your mind unravel the truth of just how long you’d been trapped without even knowing it.

So if you were gonna die, what did you have to lose?

Heart still thundering, hands trembling, you tried to settle into the chair, tried to appear nonchalant, tried to slip back into your podcast space. Clearing your throat and swiftly wiping the tears from your cheeks, you rasped, “You told me your name is Seth Rollins.” A tilt of his head in the opposite direction. “But it’s not, is it?”

He shook his head this time, eyes nearly black now never leaving you. “No,” he rumbled.

You swallowed. “Then what is your name?” 

The corners of his eyes crinkled with what had to be at least a smirk under the mask. “You know who I am.” For a moment, you forgot where you were, who you were and what the hell you were doing, but by god, you knew who he was. He turned his head a bit, eyeing you sideways, brows rising just a bit. “Say it.” He used that voice—the tone he knew melted you, the domination he knew overwhelmed you and forced you to unconsciously submit to him. “Introduce me.”

You blinked back a brand new set of tears despite your previous courage. Licking your dry lips, sucking the bottom one into your mouth and biting down to suppress the returning need to vomit, you leaned closer to the pop filter. “Ladies and gentleman, we have a—” You gulped down more bile, hand covering your mouth, remembering the things he’d done to you, the things you’d done to him. “... We have a special guest joining us tonight.” Your eyes rose from the chat—the chat that was one hundred percent convinced this was a skit and, as such, you’d gained thousands more viewers who were actively ridiculing you. Would they all be witnesses to your murder? “We all know him as …” Swallow, stomach somersaulting. “The Sunday Sinner.”

After a moment of staring at the screen and seeing nothing, your glassy eyes rose. “What do you want?” you sobbed.

Seth appeared to relax just a bit, his movements more fluid as he settled into his own chair. “You have a podcast about serial killers.” His voice was so muffled by the mask that you knew, even if police got a hold of the stream, they’d have almost nothing to go on as far as his voice was concerned. Fuck, how long has he been planning this? “And now you have one sitting in front of you.”

Your eyes locked over the laptop, your teeth grinding out of a sudden sprouting anger. He wanted to play with his food before he ate it. But … maybe if you played along … just maybe …

You started talking without a single thought in your brain. “How many women have you killed?”

“Twelve.”

“Only eleven bodies have been found, but you’ve killed twelve?”

“Yes.”

“Who’s the twelfth?” 

Silence. 

You fidgeted in your chair, worried you were already losing him. “Have you ever killed any men?”

“Yes.”

The oxygen seeped from your lungs, your throat seizing for a moment. “For pleasure, or …?”

“Necessity.”

You glanced down at the chat.

User8: wow this is so shit lmao

User9: do they give razzies to podcasters?

User10: peace. here for true crime not americas got no talent

“Do you plan on killing more?” you asked, eyes lifting.

He blinked. “Only one.”

Tears flowed freely down your face, streaking your makeup, raining onto your t-shirt. You couldn’t ask what you really wanted to know, and even if you could, what could you possibly do with the information other than vomit?

“Why did you kill them?” you asked instead.

His brows rose, seemingly surprised, and his eyes dropped to the tabletop for the first time since he’d sat down, though they quickly returned to you. “I enjoy it.”

“You’re fucking crazy,” you gasped.

He shook his head, pensive. “No.”

“Why young women? They had their whole lives ahead of them! Their parents—”

A gloved finger rose above the laptop screen, and your jaw closed so hard your teeth clacked.

Following a moment of silence, he explained, “Because I can’t stand how much I love beautiful things.” He leaned slowly forward, his height bringing him to your laptop, and you pushed back into your chair as far as you could without actually moving it. “I love too hard,” he said, finishing with a prayer of your name. “Do you know how close you were today?”

You shook your head, arms wrapping around your middle as a pathetic comfort and an ineffective shield. “Please,” you whimpered.

“I’ve never held back like I did with you. You’re special.” 

Hope flickered in your chest, and you were torn as to whether that was a good or a bad thing. “Then please let me go,” you begged.

Those hardened, empty eyes of his flickered. Just a flash, but you caught it. A brief sanding of the sharp edges. Your hands gripped the seat of your chair as Seth—the Sunday Sinner, you reminded yourself. He wasn’t your boyfriend anymore, despite those bewitching eyes you’d thought this morning you’d been falling in love with—grabbed his own chair, pulling it around the table so he was now seated to the right of you. Still out of view of the camera.

“I already let you go once,” he replied, and even his tone was tempered. “This morning.” You swallowed, nearly choking—or were you gagging?—on your own spit, throat bobbing as you began running through the details of the illicit acts he spoke vaguely of. “I can’t let you go again, my sweet girl. You’re too beautiful. Too perfect.” He reached out with a gloved hand, your entire body flinching, though he continued on as if he’d expected the response until the leather grazed your cheek. “I love you too much.”

You were openly weeping now, your muscles petrified pieces of useless tissue. “You don’t kill people you love,” you whimpered.

His thumb and first finger slid gracefully under your chin, applying forgiving pressure. The stream still had you as the focus, an arm covered in the thick black sleeve of a hoodie and the equally dark glove a striking contrast to your skin that had long since been drained of any color. You tried to breathe, but your lungs were just as unyielding as your muscles, and the way he cradled your chin, you knew exactly what he wanted. 

Should you give in? Could that somehow make whatever he had in store for you a little less painful and/or drawn out? His previous victims had shown no evidence of sexual assault, or assault of any kind for that matter. Other than the strangulation, obviously. It was almost as if they’d … let him do it? 

Stop, you berated yourself. Focus!

If you didn’t go along with him, if you tried to run, would it be worse than it would have been had you not tried to escape? You wouldn’t make it far—not with his long legs and incredible reach. So your only choice was to play along.

“I do,” he suddenly replied to your earlier statement, head tilting, fingers tightening on your chin just enough for you to notice. “I know what I am.” Grip constricting further. “And now you know what I am.” You shook your head as much as he would allow. “So do you still want me?” The question gave you pause, that frozen worm of terror slithering and wrapping around your heart, and your eyes widened, head no longer shaking. “Will you marry me? Have my children? Can you just forget about the women I enjoyed killing?” You gulped, the reflex nearly impossible due to the thumb pressing into your esophagus. “Of course you can’t.” He pulled you closer. “Neither could they.”

“I can,” you lied, pathetic and unconvincing.

Seth’s—the Sinner’s—brows arched, pitying, his mahogany eyes searching your face. “You can’t. We both know that. And if I can’t have you, my little firefly … nobody can.” God, not the nickname. Did he call them his fireflies, too? “Say goodnight to the podcast.”

“Please,” you cried.

“Say it.”

Your eyes slid sideways to the laptop, the chat still mostly on the side of disbelief, though there were a few who showed mild concern. Clearly not enough concern, as you heard no sirens in the distance. “Goodnight, my lovelies,” you mewled. “I hope you enjoyed the final episode of Seriality.” As Seth tugged on your jaw, you resisted long enough to spit into the microphone, “And fuck you all for not believing me.”

Your murderer pulled you to your feet, your knees hardly able to support your weight. He walked you backward down the hall to your bedroom, his eyes never leaving yours, already familiar with the layout of your tiny home. Your roommate was visiting family—you remembered mentioning it to Seth. Jesus, maybe you did deserve to die—you were the dumbass actress in the horror movie that ignored all the red flags and ran upstairs instead of going out the front door to escape a killer. Once inside your room, he kicked the door shut and shoved you away, your feet stumbling over each other, but you caught yourself before falling.

The two of you watched one another for a few moments, the crackling between you but utterly silent. Until Seth began to burst out into laughter. You recognized that laugh—the full belly, nasally, tooth-gap laugh you only heard when he occasionally watched your favorite comedy movie—as he doubled over, clutching his stomach and leaning on the dresser. You weren’t sure how long you stopped breathing, but your brain was literally throbbing before you gasped desperately for oxygen.

“What … What’s so funny?” you sniveled. 

“Gotcha!” Seth cackled.

Disbelief. Shock. Confusion. Suspicion. Unadulterated rage. You gaped, eyes glazed, your boyfriend still howling. The both of you were crying by now, though for completely different reasons.

“Seth, are you serious?” your voice trembled still with fear, but now infiltrated with fury. He only continued laughing, wiping at the tears above the mask. “Are you fucking serious right now?”

“What?” he giggled. “We prank each other all the time.”

“Not while I’m streaming, you fucking idiot!” You stomped across the room and swung without thinking, slapping him on one of his rocklike pecs. He didn’t even flinch. “I’m gonna lose so many subscribers. What the hell were you thinking?”

“Come on, it’s not a big deal,” Seth said.

“Yes, it is! Did you see the chat? Someone said it was disrespectful!”

“Fuck ‘em if they can’t take a joke,” your boyfriend snapped. “It’s just one episode.”

“Seth,” you sighed, “will you please take the mask off so I can cuss you out properly?”

Seth rolled his eyes as he reached behind his head to release the strap. The edges of the mask and the tightness of the strap had left a red line of indentation across the middle of his handsome face. Your knees weakened upon the revealing of his true beauty, and usually you liked the way your body responded to him, but now certainly wasn’t the time.

“This episode,” you spat, “is gonna go viral for all the wrong reasons. Everybody is gonna hate me.”

Seth’s eyes connected with yours and the voids from before had been replaced by a familiar warmth and a dash of sympathy. “Nobody’s gonna hate you,” he said.

“Seth—”

“Listen.” His still-gloved hands gripped your upper arms maybe just a little tighter than he normally would have—or you were imagining it? What the hell was real anymore? He’d had you so convinced, but there’d been a tiny voice in the back of your mind that reasoned it really was your boyfriend playing a prank. “I’m sorry,” he rumbled, head tilting in the same chilling way it had at the kitchen table. “Okay? I didn’t … think about that. I thought people would think it was funny.” He laid his beautiful puppy dog eyes on you, extra puppy, and the frozen worm of fear in your chest began to thaw. “I really am sorry.” The gloves slid down your arms to grip your hands. “I’ll even go on live and tell everybody it was all my idea and you didn’t know anything about it.”

Hardly anyone would believe it, you knew that, but the fact that he was groveling and willing to do it cooled your fury like throwing baking soda onto a grease fire. He had that effect on you, and sometimes you liked it, but mostly it made you uncomfortable because you knew that he knew you would cave. When you should have had him wrapped around your finger, it was the exact opposite.

“You really scared me,” you pouted as your way of accepting his apology while at the same time dismissing it.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, the toes of his big black boots pecking your sock-covered feet. “Let me make it up to you.” His eyes descended deliberately down your body, taking a moment to enjoy your curves in the tank top and leggings you wore—this wasn’t exactly a job you had to dress your best for. His hands slithered under arms to grip your ribs, sliding nearly unnoticed to gently cup your braless breasts. You loved when he touched you, even if his hands were still tucked inside the leather gloves. And maybe you even liked the way the cool, thick material felt against your soft, warming skin. “I’ll take care of you. I’ll worship my sweet girl.” One hand rose to cup the side of your face, and you found yourself nuzzling him without even thinking about it. “And once I’m finished …” He eliminated the remaining space between you, his hard body pressing against you, the rigid outline in his pants unmistakable. “I’ll tuck you in—” Your neck bloomed with heat that climbed quickly up to your cheeks, eyes downcast. “—and then I’ll go in there and make a video explaining everything.”

You’d shown him how to bring the podcast to life—how to record, how to adjust the microphone levels, the basics of how to edit a prerecorded episode—so you knew he could handle it on his own. But damn it, he still owed you big time.

“Well, you have a lot of making up to do,” you drawled, eyes hooded, because even when you were pissed off at Seth Rollins, your hormones either didn’t care or didn’t notice. 

Seth’s smirk was like nothing you’d ever seen before—it literally sucked the oxygen from the room, leaving you gasping like a fish on land. For a moment, you swore you were looking at the devil himself, in the flesh, staring back at you with your boyfriend’s bewitching chocolate-colored eyes. You half-expected horns to sprout from his still-soaking hair—Would it still be this wet from the rain? Did he have some sort of conditioner in it? Why would he do that?—but then the smirk relaxed back into the familiar Seth smirk, again, like you hadn’t even seen it in the first place. He took your hands into his protected ones, the mask hanging from the pinky of one, unnoticed, as he turned you both until his back was to the bed, and he started pulling you toward him.

“Come sit on my face for a while,” Seth growled. “That always makes you feel better.”

Well, he wasn’t wrong.

He slowly removed your leggings, fingers lithe even while balancing the strap of the mask on his pinky, licking his lips as he found you bare underneath, no panties and recently waxed, just the way he liked you. He muttered something about a good girl and sweet little angel as he then raised your tank top above your breasts. He impishly flicked your already-peaked nipples, and you responded automatically with a smack to his shoulder, gaining only a satisfied grin. Your fingers fisted into the shoulders of his hoodie, Seth sucking as much of your tit into his mouth as he possibly could, your head dipping back. He cupped your other breast, massaging this time, groping, memorizing, the leather catching on your skin every so often.

“Aren’t you gonna take the gloves off?” you whispered. “Maybe put the mask down?”

“You don’t like the way they feel?” Seth purred, ignoring your second question,  pulling you with him as he scooted further back on the bed. You straddled his hips—you half-naked, he fully clothed, and you would need to study further why this turned you on so fucking much. You did like the way the leather felt against your hot skin, you loved the scrape of his jeans against your inner thighs, and you’d be a dirty, rotten, filthy liar if you said the mask didn’t turn the fucking faucet on deep within your already weeping cunt. “Don’t lie,” Seth advised, pointing a finger, seemingly reading your mind. “You know I can tell when you’re lying.”

A smirk twitched at your lips as Seth’s hands, made even bigger with the gloves on, moved you effortlessly up his body. “Maybe I like it a little,” you sighed, those capable hands settling you just where he wanted you over his face before bringing your swollen pussy down to his mouth. “Fuck, Seth,” you whimpered, hands reaching out for the headboard, gripping until your knuckles turned white.

His tongue worked in slow circles at first, always a bigger fan of the slow burn than you were. The gloves dug into your hips, his sable eyes zeroed in on you, watching each and every crease of your brows and soft breath puffed from between your parted lips. Without thinking, you grabbed his hands and lifted them to your breasts, both sets squeezing, and you cried out, hips rolling now, using Seth’s face and beard as friction. You felt the hot breath of a laugh through his nostrils on the mound of your pussy and it sent a chill straight up your spine, your cunt reflexively pulsing. He wrapped his lips around your clit then and sucked, his teeth grazing the sensitive flesh, the pads of his leather-clad fingers foxtrotting along your satiny skin, and you thought for a moment you might cry again. He was pressing all of your buttons, using all of his tricks, putting every bit of himself into getting you off. 

“Baby, I’m gonna come,” you mewled, hand falling to the top of his head, finding his hair wasn’t just wet, it was slick, doused in conditioner. You were about to wonder why when you felt it—a gloved hand climbing your chest, the thumb playing at the hollow of your throat, no pressure applied. “Christ, Seth, I’m—”

The orgasm rippled through you like rogue waves out in the middle of the ocean—one trembling burst after another, your fingers digging into Seth’s soggy hair. He drank every bit of you, save for the trail of your cum sliding down the side of his face and curling in the wiry hairs of his beard. You couldn’t wait to see what his chin looked like, but before you could even imagine, he had you on your back, your thighs spread wide, and he was climbing between them like he belonged there. He does, you thought, this is exactly where he belongs.

You drank in the sight of his beard, glistening with the remnants of you, as he reached into the nightstand and pulled out a condom. You’d always appreciated his respect for safety, biting your bottom lip while watching him roll the latex onto his long, slightly curved cock.

“What do you think?” he rasped, holding the mask up with one hand, holding it over his face and then pulling it away. The very mask that had terrified you and almost made you piss your pants, but somehow now had shifted into something else entirely. “On or off?” he taunted, that wicked leer from before making an unexpected return.

You knew you should say no. You knew how fucked up it was. You knew it was disrespectful. But fuck …

“Put it on,” you pressed, your legs tightening around his trim hips, pulling him closer. “Put it on and fuck me. Please.”

“That’s my girl,” Seth praised, smoothly reapplying the mask, tightening it at the back of his head, leaving only his eyes, forehead, and hair visible. “I knew this was what you wanted this morning.”

He slid inside your slick hole like he had dozens of times before, but this felt different. He somehow was bigger, getting deeper, and in the bulky, dark clothes, appeared even larger than he was under them. More imposing. More frightening. His eyes rolled back as his hands settled on your waist, but only for a moment. His pumps became harder, quicker, and the gloves continued to climb. The pleasure was immeasurable, your own eyes falling closed for a brief moment.

Just a second.

Less than a second.

That was all it took.

When your eyes opened again, the man on top of you was not the same man as before you closed them. He was not the same man you’d met at the coffee shop. You knew then you weren’t going to class tomorrow, you weren’t seeing your family on the next holiday. You were never leaving this house again. Just another victim. Just another statistic. Forgotten by the next news cycle. How many times had you seen it happen? You tried to tell yourself it wasn’t your fault as the Sinner’s hands deliberately wrapped around your throat, his hips still slamming into yours, your pussy still responding like not a damn thing was wrong.

“It’s all making sense now,” Seth spoke from behind the mask, his eyes burning into yours, and you couldn’t have looked away if you tried. He leaned down, his weight threatening to completely block off your windpipe. “God, you feel so good,” he moaned. “I love you so fucking much.”

“Seth,” you croaked, gripping his forearms.

“It’s okay, my sweet girl,” he cooed, the edges of your vision dimming, your hearing failing. “I’ll take care of you, I promise. You’re gonna be so beautiful when they find you.”

taggies: @onlyangel4, @goldnhabitx, @xnightmarexpunkx, @spiicii, @southerngirl41

@monroestormfics, @fafomama, @dddominiks, @gabriella-15, @fistsandfangs

@neurodivergentempress, @caralinda0914, @kianaleani, @speakingincodes, @beyondthebelle

@nyxarara, @princessesareforsuckers, @cryptidbunnyx, @lordxime, @femdisa

@aureliacorvina, @kissyslut, @wingedsymbolruin, @van-is-silly, @ladygagaswifey

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@purestxblood, @ashuhleawrites

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[onanisticbunny]

Sooo I tried mami Stephanie’s makeup… I promise I won’t bite 💋

[onlyangel4]

that's pookie !!!

[onlyangel4]

if any of you are good at or know an account good at photo editing please get in touch me and @onanisticbunny are looking to make our profiles so they match with me as becky and bunny as charlotte please help us we are useless

[onanisticbunny]

AN: so… I think I enjoyed writing this one a little too much… @onlyangel4 you’re so welcome for this one!!

Title: if looks could kill

Pairing: Paige x fem!reader

WC: 15,000

Warnings: Explicit sexual content, intense dom/sub dynamics, brat taming, heavy overstimulation, multiple forced orgasms, edging, bondage, pussy slapping, hair pulling, use of sex toys, fuck machine, degradation, condescending/patronising dirty talk, orgasm denial, rough rough sex.

——

The morning light filtered through the half-drawn blinds in thin, slanted blades, catching on the rumpled sheets and the scatter of yesterday’s clothes across the floor. You lay tangled in them, one leg hooked over the duvet, the other buried beneath it, as if the bed itself might conspire to keep you there. The air smelled faintly of last night’s takeout and the sharp citrus of Paige’s shampoo, still lingering from her shower. Everything felt wrong. Your skin prickled with discontent, your reflection in the far mirror a betrayal you refused to acknowledge fully.

Paige moved through the room with that loose, predatory grace she never quite lost, even off-camera, shoulders rolling under a faded black tank, dark hair still damp and tousled from a quick towel-dry. She paused at the edge of the bed, arms crossing as she surveyed you. A single brow arched, the corner of her mouth twitching in that familiar half-smirk that usually preceded a barb.

“Oi. We’ve got places to be, princess. Post office. That bloody thing at the bank you’ve been putting off.” Her voice carried its natural cadence, low and edged with amusement rather than urgency, the faint trace of her accent curling around the vowels like smoke.

You didn’t move. Instead, you pulled the sheet higher, burying your face halfway into the pillow. “I look like shit,” you muttered, the words muffled but petulant, sharp enough to cut. “Nothing fits right. My hair’s doing that stupid flat thing. I’m not going.”

She exhaled through her nose, a short, amused huff. “You looked fine twenty minutes ago when you were stealing half my side of the bed. C’mon. Up.”

But you stayed put, rolling onto your back to fix her with a stare that bordered on a glare, lips pushed out just enough, eyes narrowed beneath lashes still heavy with sleep. The kind of look that had always worked a little too well on her. Paige’s jaw tightened, a flicker of impatience flashing across her features before she schooled it. She leaned down, bracing one hand beside your head, close enough that you caught the clean scent of her skin and the faint metallic tang of the chain she never took off.

“Love,” she said, softer now but threaded with warning, “we’re not doing this today. I’m not carrying you out in your thong.”

You sat up slowly, sheets pooling at your waist, and fixed her with that expression, chin tilted, shoulders set in deliberate defiance. The one that said you’d already decided how this morning would unfold. “Fine. I’ll wear your shirt. The black one. The one you had cut up for gear a couple weeks back.”

Paige straightened, arms dropping to her sides. Her laugh was short, disbelieving. “That scrap? It’s barely a top. You’ll freeze your ass off.”

“It’s fine.” You swung your legs over the edge of the bed, bare feet meeting the cool hardwood with a soft slap. The motion was graceful despite your mood, all long lines and deliberate poise, the kind that turned heads in the studio, and made Paige’s gaze linger even now. You crossed to the dresser, hips swaying just enough to underscore your point, and plucked the offending garment from the drawer where you’d clearly already stashed it. The fabric was soft-worn cotton, sliced short and razor-edged at the hem, meant for ring entrances under hot lights, not errands in early spring chill. “See? Perfect.”

She watched you tug it on, the material clinging to the curve of your ribs and stopping well above the waistband of your low-rise flares, those too, slung dangerously low on your hips, the denim faded and frayed at the seams. The sliver of skin exposed between shirt and jeans drew her eye immediately, and she dragged her gaze back up with visible effort. Her fingers flexed at her sides, then curled into loose fists.

“You’re gonna catch a cold, and then I’ll have to hear about it for weeks,” she said, voice dry as cracked pavement. “Put something proper on. A hoodie. Anything.”

You turned, adjusting the hem with a small, satisfied tug that did nothing to lengthen it. The pout returned, lips full and glistening from the gloss you’d already swiped on. “It’s not that cold. And nothing else feels right. If I wear something else I’ll just be miserable the whole time.” Your voice dipped into that sweet, wheedling register, eyes wide and imploring even as your posture screamed stubbornness, weight shifted to one hip, fingers tracing idle patterns along the exposed skin at your midriff.

Paige rubbed a hand over her face, muttering something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like “fucking hell.” When she dropped her hand, her expression had settled into reluctant capitulation, jaw slackened, shoulders dropping a fraction. The cocky edge remained in the tilt of her head, but her eyes had softened at the corners, betraying the way your particular brand of petulance always wormed past her defenses. She stepped closer, crowding your space without touching, close enough that the heat of her body brushed against the chill on your bare stomach.

“Fine,” she conceded, the word dragged out like it cost her. “But if you start shivering, I’m not giving you my jacket. You can freeze in your victory.” Her fingers brushed a stray strand of hair from your cheek, the touch brief, almost absentminded, yet it lingered in the way her thumb grazed your jaw before she pulled away.

You smiled then, small, triumphant, the kind that made your eyes crinkle and chased the last shadows of your mood into something brighter. “See? Was that so hard?”

Paige snorted, turning toward the door with a shake of her head. “You’re a bitch. My bitch.” She grabbed her keys from the hook, the metal jangling sharply in the quiet apartment, but she waited for you, holding the door open with an exaggerated bow that didn’t quite hide the fond exasperation in her posture.

You paused at the small table by the door to snatch your purse, the movement sharp and theatrical. The strap slipped once through your fingers; you caught it with a huff, lips pursing as you dug inside for the lip gloss. “This one’s too sticky,” you muttered, twisting the tube open and frowning at the mirror-like surface of the compact. “And the shade looks off in this light. Everything feels wrong today.” Your shoulders lifted in a delicate shrug that wasn’t really a shrug at all, more a performance of discontent, spine arched just so, weight shifting on to one heel while the other foot tapped an impatient rhythm against the floorboards.

Paige leaned against the door, arms loosely crossed, watching the ritual with that half-lidded patience she reserved for your more feline moments. The corner of her mouth twitched, but she didn’t interrupt. Instead, she pushed off the wood with a fluid roll of her shoulders and stepped in close, plucking the gloss from your hand without asking. Two quick, efficient swipes across your lower lip, her touch firm but careful, thumb brushing the excess from the bow of your upper lip with a gentleness that undercut her smirk.

“There. beautiful as ever,” she said, voice low and dry, the faintest trace of that familiar lilt threading through. She capped the gloss and dropped it back into your purse, then hooked her arm through yours with deliberate ease, pulling you flush against her side. You fit there like you were made for it; the curve of your body molding to the lean strength of hers, your head tilting instinctively toward her shoulder. She let you cling, even encouraged it, her free hand settling over yours where it rested in the crook of her elbow, thumb tracing idle circles against your knuckles. A pretty accessory, yes, but one she wore with open pride.

“Pretty flowers and that ridiculous caramel thing you like from the place on Maple,” she offered before you could open your mouth again. “Extra shot. Whipped cream mountain. The kind that makes dentists weep. Sound good?”

Your pout softened at the edges, though the dramatic tilt of your chin remained. You pressed closer, letting the warmth of her arm chase the morning chill from your skin, the faint scent of her leather jacket and clean soap wrapping around you like a claim. “Maybe,” you allowed, the word drawn out in that petulant melody she knew too well. Still, your fingers tightened on her bicep, nails pressing lightly through the fabric in silent approval.

Paige chuckled under her breath, a short, rough sound that vibrated against your side, and guided you out into the stairwell before another protest could form.

Outside, the air nipped at your exposed skin as you stepped onto the sidewalk, but you lifted your chin against it, slipping your hand into hers. Paige’s grip tightened, warm and sure, her thumb sweeping once across your knuckles in silent acknowledgment. The city hummed around you, distant traffic, the rustle of early leaves, the faint scent of coffee from the corner shop, but all of it faded beneath the easy rhythm of your breath in sync with hers. She glanced sideways at you, that smirk returning full force now that she’d lost the battle.

“Princess gets what she wants again,” she murmured, voice low enough for only you to hear. “Lucky I like spoiling you rotten.”

You squeezed her hand in answer, the earlier discontent already dissolving like mist under the pale spring sun, leaving only the sharp, addictive spark of her attention.

The door clicked shut behind you with a finality that felt almost too easy. Paige had her keys in one hand and your fingers laced through the other, steering you down the street before the next wave of complaints could crest. But she could see it simmering in you still, the mood hadn’t burned off. It clung like perfume, heavy and sweet and impossible to ignore.

Her steps were unhurried but purposeful, matching yours even as you took smaller, more languid ones, hips swaying with each click of your heels on the concrete. The city opened up around you in layers of sound and scent; distant horns, the earthy damp of last night’s rain on the pavement, the sharp green bite of early spring cutting through the exhaust. Every few paces she glanced down at you, noting the way your free hand fiddled with the hem of her old ring shirt, the subtle jut of your lower lip, the way your gaze flicked restlessly across the street instead of settling.

She didn’t call you out on it. Instead, she angled her body to shield you from the sharper gusts of wind, letting you burrow deeper into her side like it was the most natural thing in the world. When you reached the corner, she paused, turning just enough to brush a kiss against your temple, quick, almost absent, but her lips lingered a fraction longer than necessary.

“You’re impossible when you’re like this,” she murmured against your hair, the words warm with amusement rather than irritation. “But you’re my impossible. C’mon, princess. Let’s get you sugared up before you decide the sky’s the wrong shade of blue.”

You exhaled a soft, theatrical sigh, but the tension in your shoulders eased another notch. Your arm stayed locked with hers, body language screaming possession and need in equal measure, and Paige, cocky, sarcastic Paige, simply adjusted her stride to accommodate it. The promise of flowers and cloyingly sweet coffee hung between you like bait she’d willingly dangled, knowing exactly how well it worked.

The sidewalk stretched ahead in uneven slabs of concrete, reflective puddles mirroring the gray spring sky. Paige kept her pace steady, your arm looped through hers like a silken tether, but she angled you left at the next corner instead of straight toward the coffee shop’s glowing sign two blocks down. The post office loomed first, squat brick building with its faded blue awning and the faint scent of paper and ink drifting out whenever someone pushed through the doors.

You slowed immediately, heels scraping in protest. “Paige, baby…” The words came out in that drawn-out, a honeyed whine you knew she both adored and dreaded, your fingers tightening around her bicep. “Paigeee, babe, you promised coffee first. The line’s always endless in there.”

She didn’t break stride, only tugged you gently forward with that effortless strength, her smirk flickering like a half-lit match. “It’s literally thirty meters closer, love. In, out, then sugar coma. Scout’s honour.” Her voice stayed light, almost teasing, but you caught the subtle shift in her jaw, the way it flexed once, sharp beneath the skin, before smoothing again.

Inside, the fluorescent lights buzzed overhead like trapped insects, casting a flat, unforgiving pallor over everything. The queue snaked back from the counter in a sluggish line of five, then seven, then nine bodies shifting their weight and checking phones. You let out a theatrical sigh that turned heads, your body going deliberately languid against her side. Your free hand plucked at the hem of the tiny cropped shirt, tugging it down an inch only for it to snap back up, exposing another sliver of midriff. Feet dragging, you leaned heavier into Paige’s arm, forcing her to adjust her balance or risk toppling you both.

“This is ridiculous,” you grumbled under your breath, loud enough for her to hear. “They should just let you skip the line. Fame privilege or whatever. Or me—pretty privilege. Look at me. I’m clearly suffering.” Your lower lip pushed out in full pout, eyes wide and plaintive as you tilted your face up to hers. The dramatic slump of your shoulders, the slow, shuffling steps that made your flares ride even lower on your hips, it was all calculated, a performance honed from years of getting your way.

Paige’s fingers flexed where they rested over yours on her arm. She exhaled through her nose, slow and controlled, the only outward sign that her patience was fraying at the edges. Her expression remained composed, that cocky tilt still present in the lift of her chin, but her eyes had narrowed just a fraction, dark and sharp as obsidian.

She leaned down, lips brushing the shell of your ear, voice low and velvet-rough despite the rule against the word. “Behave,” she murmured, the single syllable sweet on the surface but edged underneath, like caramel hiding a bite of salt. “You’re acting like a spoiled little brat, and it’s not as cute as you think right now.” Her hand gave yours a firm squeeze, not quite painful but unmistakable in its warning, thumb pressing into the delicate bones of your wrist. “One more dramatic sigh and I’ll make you wait out here while I handle everything. Then no caramel monstrosity. Understood?”

You blinked up at her, momentarily stunned by the flicker of real exasperation beneath the sweetness. Your cheeks warmed, a mix of indignation and something hotter, more electric, but the pout didn’t fully fade. Instead, it softened into something sulkier, your body still draped against hers even as your feet stopped their childish dragging. The line inched forward. Paige straightened again, rolling her shoulders once to resettle the tension, her free hand coming up to tuck a loose strand of your hair behind your ear with a touch that dragged, half apology, half reminder of who held the leash in moments like these.

“Post office first,” she repeated, quieter now, almost coaxing. “Then I’ll spoil you rotten. Try not to melt down before we get the stamps, yeah?”

You huffed, pressing your temple against her shoulder in reluctant surrender, the scent of her jacket and warm skin grounding you despite the lingering petulance humming in your veins. The queue moved another grudging step. Paige’s arm stayed locked with yours, steady as ever, even as her jaw worked silently, composure intact, but you could feel the storm brewing just beneath it, all sharp sarcasm and coiled patience waiting for the next spark.

The line crept forward another grudging inch, the fluorescent hum overhead blending with the low murmur of impatient strangers and the occasional rustle of paperwork. You lasted perhaps five heartbeats in silence, your cheek still pressed to Paige’s shoulder, fingers tracing idle patterns along her sleeve, before the restlessness clawed its way back up your throat.

“God, look at them,” you whispered, sharp enough to carry. Your gaze fixed on the middle-aged couple two spots ahead: the man shuffling his feet in scuffed trainers, the woman rifling through an overstuffed tote with exaggerated sighs. “Who wears that shade of mustard with anything? And do they have to breathe so loudly? It’s like they’re auditioning for a role in a chain-saw massacre.”

Paige’s chest vibrated with a suppressed laugh, the sound low and rough against your ear. Her mouth twitched at the corner, that cocky amusement flickering across her features like sunlight on water, eyes crinkling, head tilting just enough to hide the grin threatening to break free. She found you viciously entertaining, even now. But the amusement thinned as you kept going.

“And that one—” You jerked your chin toward a harried woman clutching a stack of envelopes, her coat frayed at the cuffs. “She’s standing like she owns the floor. Move up, for fuck’s sake. Some of us have actual lives.”

“Alright,” Paige cut in, voice pitched low but carrying a serrated edge. Her hand slid from your arm to the small of your back, fingers pressing firm through the thin crop top, a silent command wrapped in warmth. She leaned closer, lips brushing the curve of your ear, breath warm against your skin. “That’s enough. You’re being a proper little bitch, and not the cute kind. Dial it back before someone hears you and decides we’re the villains in this queue.”

You opened your mouth to retort, chin lifting, eyes narrowing in that familiar spark of defiance, but she tightened her grip, thumb digging into the dip of your spine just hard enough to steal the words. “I mean it. One more catty remark and the flowers are off the table. I’ll buy you plain black coffee and watch you drink it like the tragic heroine you’re pretending to be.”

The threat landed clean. Your lips parted, then pressed together again, the pout returning full force but quieter now. You shifted your weight, flares riding low on your hips, but the dramatic drag of your feet eased. Paige watched the transformation, the subtle straightening of your posture, the way your lashes swept down in reluctant obedience, the small, almost imperceptible nod you gave against her shoulder. Her expression softened at the edges, though the cocky tilt of her brow remained, a silent acknowledgment that she’d won this round.

For the rest of the wait, barely five minutes, though it had felt glacial in your mood, you played the part of good girl with theatrical precision. You stayed tucked against her side, quiet except for the occasional soft huff of breath. When the line advanced, you moved with her without complaint, heels clicking neatly instead of scuffing in protest. Your fingers stayed laced through hers, grip gentler now, almost sweet. Paige’s hand never left your back, rubbing slow, soothing circles that said thank you without words.

At the counter, she handled the parcels and stamps with brisk efficiency, her free arm still looped around you like a claim. You kept your eyes down, lips curved in a demure little smile that didn’t quite hide the lingering spark of petulance, but you didn’t utter another barbed observation. Not even when the clerk took an extra thirty seconds counting change.

Outside again, the spring air felt sharper, carrying the distant promise of rain and the faint sweetness of blooming lilacs from the planter boxes along the street. Paige pulled you to a stop just past the doors, turning you to face her. Her palms cupped your jaw, thumbs stroking along your cheekbones with a gentleness that undercut the earlier warning.

“There she is,” she murmured, voice warm with approval and that familiar dry sarcasm. “My pretty, well-behaved princess. Think you can keep it up long enough for coffee and those flowers, or do I need to bribe you with something stronger?”

You leaned into her touch, lashes fluttering, the earlier storm banked but not entirely gone. A small, satisfied hum escaped you as you rose onto your toes to brush a kiss against the corner of her mouth, soft, apologetic, and just a little possessive.

The walk to the coffee shop unfolded in a fragile quiet, your arm still threaded through Paige’s like a silken vine. Spring wind tugged at the hem of your cropped shirt, raising faint gooseflesh along the exposed strip of skin above your low flares, but you stayed pressed close, letting her body heat bleed into yours. You listened more than you spoke, heels clicking in measured rhythm beside her longer strides, the faint metallic jangle of her keys in her pocket punctuating her words.

Paige’s voice rolled out low and sardonic as she vented about the gym, shoulders rolling beneath her jacket, one hand gesturing loosely while the other kept yours anchored against her bicep. “…and this new lot they’ve got in there? Absolute animals with the weights. Dropped a plate so loud I thought the mirror was gonna crack. Then there’s this one woman, blonde, fake tan, keeps finding excuses to spot me on every bloody lift.” A dry huff of laughter escaped her. “Clear as day she’s not there for the equipment. Annoying more than anything. I’ve got a girlfriend, yeah? Not interested in whatever circuit she’s running.”

The words landed like a spark on dry tinder. You stiffened against her side, fingers tightening their grip until your nails pressed crescent marks through her sleeve. Jealousy uncoiled hot and immediate in your chest, sharpening your gaze as you tilted your face up to hers. The pout returned, deeper now, lips parting on a slow inhale that carried the faint trace of your gloss and the city’s damp concrete scent.

“Some gym girl’s spotting you now?” The question dripped with accusation, your voice pitched sweet but edged. You pulled back just enough to fix her with narrowed eyes, though your body stayed molded to her arm like you couldn’t bear to let go. “That’s cute. Real cute, Paige. Does she lean in close? Bat her lashes while she’s ‘helping’ with your form?”

The complaint dragged all the way to the café door, your steps growing more deliberate, hips swaying with pointed emphasis. Paige’s jaw flexed, but she kept her expression composed, that cocky half-smirk playing at the edges even as her free hand came up to rub between your shoulder blades in a half-soothing, half-warning stroke.

Inside, the shop wrapped you in warm currents of roasted beans and steamed milk, the hiss of the espresso machine cutting through soft chatter. Paige didn’t even glance at the menu board. She guided you to the counter with a firm hand at the small of your back, ordering for you without hesitation, your usual iced caramel macchiato, extra caramel, while you stood there simmering, chin lifted in silent protest at being handled so efficiently. She knew better than to invite your input right now; one more word from you and the barista might’ve witnessed a full scene.

Drinks in hand, you claimed a small table by the window. Paige took a slow sip of her own black coffee, then made a low, appreciative sound that twisted something ugly in your gut. “Fuck, I miss proper coffee from home sometimes. This stuff’s decent, but it’s never quite right. Too sweet or too weak. The places back in Norwich just get it.”

You set your cup down harder than necessary, the porcelain clinking sharply. The jealousy flared brighter, painting your cheeks with heat. “Right,” you said, voice syrupy with venom, “so you wanna go home with that gym girl and leave me all alone here. Get your perfect coffee and your perfect spotter while I freeze in this stupid tiny shirt you let me wear.”

Paige stared at you for a beat, then barked out a genuine laugh, short, rough, and disbelieving, her head tipping back so the line of her throat caught the light. The sound drew a few glances from nearby tables, but she didn’t care. When she looked at you again, her eyes glittered with dark amusement, though the set of her mouth had tightened.

“Jesus Christ,” she muttered, shaking her head. She reached across the table and caught your wrist, thumb pressing into your pulse point with deliberate pressure. “You were supposed to be easy for me today, princess. Helpful. Sweet. Instead you’re throwing a full tantrum because some random woman looked at me wrong in the gym. I should’ve left your dramatic ass in bed and done all this myself.” Her voice dropped, laced with that familiar sarcastic bite but threaded with something warmer underneath, exasperation, affection, the reluctant pull that always kept her tethered to your storms. “You gonna keep this up, or can we enjoy the overpriced sugar before I drag you home and remind you who you belong to?”

You held her gaze for a long moment, the jealousy still crackling beneath your skin like static, but her words, and the firm, possessive grip on your wrist, eased the sharpest edges. Slowly, you turned your hand in hers until your fingers laced together, a small, reluctant truce. The caramel sweetness of your drink waited untouched, but the real indulgence was the way Paige watched you; patient, cocky, and entirely yours, even when you made it difficult.

The tension in your shoulders finally uncoiled after another slow, deliberate sip of your drink. The caramel sweetness coated your tongue, thick and indulgent, chasing away the last bitter edges of jealousy. You exhaled, long and theatrical, then leaned forward to rest your chin on your hand, watching Paige across the small table. She took her time with her coffee, black and strong, the steam curling up in lazy spirals that caught the window light. For once, you let the quiet settle between you like a truce, soft chatter from the other tables, the distant hiss of milk being frothed, the faint metallic tang of rain on the pavement drifting in whenever the door opened.

Paige’s eyes flicked up to yours, dark and knowing, the corner of her mouth curving. “Alright, truce accepted. Tell me about work, then. You had that shoot yesterday, yeah? How’d it go?”

Your whole face brightened at the question, the petulance melting away as if it had never existed. You sat up straighter, legs crossing beneath the table so your knee brushed hers, flares riding even lower on your hips. “It was incredible,” you said, voice lifting into that bright, melodic register she rarely heard when you were in a mood. “The brand’s new—super luxe, lots of lace and these delicate straps that feel like they were made for me. They kept adjusting the lighting just right, and the photographer said I was a dream to work with. So easy, so polite.” A soft laugh escaped you, giddy and unfiltered. “They might let me keep a couple of the sets. There was this black one with sheer panels? And a pretty baby pink one. I looked unreal in them.”

Paige raised a single brow, slow and deliberate, the expression cutting through her usual cocky composure with pure skepticism. She leaned back in her chair, one arm draped along the backrest, fingers tapping a lazy rhythm against the wood. The look she gave you was equal parts amused and disbelieving, mouth slightly parted, head tilted as if she were trying to reconcile two entirely different versions of you. “You? Easy and polite?” She let out a short, rough chuckle, shaking her head. “That’s rich. Half the time you’re a terror who’d argue with a brick wall over the colour of the sky. But get you in front of cameras, pampered like some delicate little doll with lights and silk and people telling you how stunning you are…” Her gaze dropped briefly to the exposed curve of your waist, then back up, eyes glittering. “Yeah. Then you’re an absolute angel. Funny how that works.”

You swatted at her arm across the table, but there was no real heat in it, only the bright flush of pleasure warming your cheeks. The compliment, however backhanded, landed perfectly.

Paige took another sip, then set her cup down with a soft clink. Her voice dropped into something more conspiratorial, shoulders rolling forward as she leaned in. “Speaking of belts and looking unreal… Creative’s been dropping hints. They’re setting me up for the Divas title again. Proper run this time, not some transitional bollocks.”

Your eyes went wide, lips parting in a delighted gasp that turned heads at the next table. The excitement hit you like champagne bubbles, sudden, fizzy, impossible to contain. You bounced a little in your seat, one hand flying up to cover your mouth as a bright, unrestrained smile broke across your face. “Wait, really? You’re getting it back?” Your voice pitched higher, almost squeaking with glee. “Paige, that’s huge. God, I can already see it—the way it’ll sit on your waist, all that silver against your skin…”

You leaned even closer, practically vibrating, fingers drumming excitedly on the tabletop. The earlier mood was gone, replaced by pure, childlike delight that made your lashes flutter and your posture straighten into something radiant. “Do you think they’ll let me take pictures with you in it? Just a few? Private ones. You in the ring gear, belt on, looking like you own the whole fucking world. I’d die. Actually die. Please tell me I can.”

Paige watched the transformation with open fondness now, her smirk softening into something warmer, more genuine. She reached across the table and caught your hand, thumb stroking over your knuckles in slow, grounding circles. The contrast was stark, your giddy, sparkling energy against her steady, sarcastic poise, but it fit, the way it always did.

“Easy, baby,” she murmured, though her eyes danced with amusement. “Yeah, I reckon we can make that happen. You can play dress-up with the belt all you want. Just don’t go getting any ideas about wearing it yourself. That one’s mine.”

You squeezed her fingers tight, still smiling so wide it made your cheeks ache, the spring light catching in your eyes and turning the whole dreary morning golden.

The coffee had worked its sugary magic, leaving you loose-limbed and sparkling as Paige guided you out of the café and toward the bank. Your arm stayed tucked through hers, the low-rise flares swishing with each step, and for once you didn’t drag your heels. The good mood clung to you like perfume, bright smiles at the teller, soft hums while you waited in the much shorter line, even a polite little thank-you when the forms were slid across the counter. You were easy. Or as easy as you could manage when every fibre of you still wanted to be back in bed with Paige’s shirt riding up your ribs and no responsibilities pressing in.

Paige noticed. Of course she did. She kept stealing glances at you, that cocky smirk playing at the corner of her mouth every time you didn’t whine about the fluorescent lights or the too-slow computer. She used the opening like a professional.

“Since you’re being such a good girl right now,” she murmured against your temple as you stepped back onto the sidewalk, “let’s knock out one more thing. I need to swing by the supply shop for new knee sleeves and some heavier plates. Ten minutes, in and out.”

Your stomach dropped. You knew what that meant. Ten minutes in Paige-world was never ten minutes. It was her disappearing into aisles of metal and rubber, testing grips, weighing options, talking shop with whoever happened to be behind the counter. Your nightmare.

The switch flipped the second you realised she wasn’t steering you home.

By the time you reached the wide glass doors of the fitness outlet, your posture had changed completely. Shoulders slumped, steps slow and sullen, the pretty sway of your hips replaced by a deliberate, childish drag. The cropped shirt suddenly felt too small, the chill sharper against your skin, and every breath carried a fresh complaint.

“Paige, I’m tired,” you said the moment you stepped inside, voice pitched just loud enough for her to hear. The store smelled of fresh rubber mats and cold steel, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead like an accusation. “We’ve been out forever. Can’t you order this stuff online like a normal person?”

She didn’t answer right away, only guided you toward the weight section with a hand at the small of your back, firmer than before. You followed, but made sure every movement screamed reluctance; sighing heavily as she paused at a rack of resistance bands, shifting your weight from foot to foot, arms crossed tight beneath your chest so the hem of her old ring shirt rode up another defiant inch.

Paige crouched to inspect a set of adjustable dumbbells, turning one over in her hands, testing the grip. You hovered behind her, lips pushed out in full pout.

“This is boring,” you muttered. “I’m cold. My feet hurt in these shoes. We should’ve gone home after coffee. I was being so good and you’re ruining it.”

She set the weight down with a controlled clink, the muscles in her jaw ticking visibly. When she straightened, her shoulders were tighter, the easy confidence in her stride now edged with strain. She ran a hand through her dark hair, exhaling through her nose.

“Love, I need this gear. You know I do. Five more minutes and we’re done.”

But five minutes became eight, then twelve. You trailed after her like a storm cloud, fingers plucking restlessly at the frayed hem of your top, voice a constant low stream of discontent.

“Everything smells like sweat in here. That guy over there keeps staring at my stomach like I’m on display. And these flares are sliding down—see? I told you I should’ve worn something else. This was a stupid idea. I want to go home, Paige. Now.”

Your tone had sharpened, the petulance no longer playful but raw and demanding. You leaned against a display rack with exaggerated weariness, head tipped back, eyes half-lidded in theatrical suffering. Every sigh was louder. Every shift of your body language screamed I’m done.

Paige’s patience frayed visibly. The cocky half-smirk had vanished, replaced by a flat line of her mouth and a hardness around her eyes. She gripped a pack of knee sleeves hard enough that her knuckles paled, rolling them once in her fist before tossing them into the basket with more force than necessary.

“You’re really pushing it,” she said under her breath, voice low and clipped, the accent cutting sharper through the words. “I let you wear that scrap of a shirt. I bought you the ridiculous coffee. I’ve been patient all morning while you threw your little tantrums. And now you’re acting like I’m dragging you through hell because I need ten bloody minutes for my job?” She turned to face you fully, stepping close enough that you had to tilt your chin up to meet her gaze. Her hand came up to grip your chin, not rough, but firm, thumb pressing just beneath your lower lip. “Keep this up and we’ll be here even longer. I’m not rushing because you’ve decided to be a brat again. Behave. Or I swear I’ll make you wait in the cold.”

The warning hung between you, heavy and unmistakable. Paige’s eyes bored into yours, irritation crackling off her like static, though beneath it lingered that stubborn affection she could never quite kill. She released your chin and turned back to the shelves, shoulders rigid, clearly fighting the urge to snap harder.

You stayed quiet for the next few moments, pout intact, body language still screaming mutiny, but the complaints dulled to soft huffs and pointed sighs. The fight wasn’t gone. It simply waited, coiled and sulky, for the next opening while Paige finished her selections with grim determination. The morning, once golden at the coffee shop, had tilted back into storm territory, and this time her tolerance was wearing dangerously thin.

The store’s harsh lighting pressed down like a weight, turning every metallic surface into a cold glare. You refused to behave. The petulance had rooted deep, blooming into something sharper and more reckless with every minute Paige lingered over the racks. You trailed her like a shadow with teeth, heels scuffing deliberately against the linoleum, arms crossed so tightly beneath your chest that the cropped shirt rode up another defiant inch.

“This is taking forever,” you whined, loud enough for the nearest employee to glance over. “I’m freezing. My back hurts from standing here like some bored trophy wife. Why do you even need more weights? You already have a whole gym’s worth at home.” Your voice climbed, sweet and poisonous, each complaint punctuated by a dramatic shift of weight that made your low-rise flares slip lower on your hips. You poked at a display of resistance bands with one manicured finger, then let it snap back with a sharp twang. “Boring. Stupid. I want to go home.”

Paige’s shoulders tightened, the line of her jaw hardening as she turned a kettlebell over in her hands, testing its balance. She tried to tune you out, really tried, her focus narrowing to the equipment with forced deliberation. But you made it impossible. You pressed closer, rising onto your toes so your lips hovered at the shell of her ear, breath warm and deliberate against her skin.

“You’re being so mean, making me wait like this,” you murmured, voice dropping into that filthy, petulant register she knew too well. “If you keep ignoring me, maybe I’ll just have to entertain myself when we get home. Or maybe I won’t let you touch me at all. See how you like waiting then.”

Paige went very still. The kettlebell met the shelf with a heavy clack. She turned her head slowly, eyes dark and unreadable, and her voice came out low, controlled, almost gentle in its warning.

“If you open that mouth one more time…”

You did, of course. The thrill of pushing her flared hot in your chest. “Or what?” you shot back, lips curving into a defiant little smirk as you rocked back on your heels. “You’ll spank me in the aisle? Right here where everyone can see how impossible I’m being for you?”

Something shifted in her then. The irritation didn’t vanish, it simply settled, crystallising into a calm, almost serene resolve. Her shoulders dropped a fraction. The cocky edge returned to the tilt of her chin, but it was colder now, sharper. She exhaled once through her nose, the sound almost amused, and turned back to the shelves without another word.

She took her sweet time after that.

Paige lingered over every item with meticulous care, comparing knee sleeves for thickness and breathability, testing the grip on new straps, consulting the bored employee about stock in the back. Twenty minutes stretched into thirty. You fidgeted, pouted, sighed theatrically, but the storm in her had gone quiet. She moved with deliberate, unhurried grace, her silence more ominous than any snapped retort. Every so often her gaze flicked to you, dark, measuring, promising, and it sent a shiver racing down your spine that had nothing to do with the chill on your bare midriff.

By the time she finally paid, the basket full and her expression carved from granite, you knew you were fucked. Beautifully, thoroughly fucked.

Outside, the spring air had turned sharper, carrying the metallic promise of rain. You couldn’t help yourself. One last bratty spark escaped as you fell into step beside her, arm no longer tucked sweetly through hers.

“Great. No flowers either, I guess. You promised and now you’re too busy being all stern and ignoring me. Typical.”

Paige stopped walking.

She turned to face you fully on the quiet stretch of sidewalk, the shopping bag swinging once at her side before going still. Her eyes locked onto yours, steady, dark, and so intensely calm it stole the breath from your lungs. No smirk. No sarcastic quip. Just that look; flat, authoritative, heavy with the weight of everything you’d earned. It pinned you in place more effectively than any hand on your throat ever could. The city noise faded, the distant traffic, the rustle of leaves, the faint scent of wet pavement, all of it narrowing down to the hard line of her mouth and the unyielding set of her shoulders.

You swallowed. The words died on your tongue.

Satisfied, Paige gave a single, minute nod and resumed walking. She didn’t touch you. Didn’t speak. Just strode ahead with that loose, predatory confidence, knowing you’d follow. And you did, quiet now, heels clicking obediently, the earlier tantrum reduced to nervous energy humming under your skin. The cropped shirt suddenly felt too exposing, the flares too low, every brush of cool air cruel, a reminder of what waited for you the second that apartment door closed.

The walk home stretched in heavy silence. Paige’s jaw stayed set, her gaze fixed forward, but the quiet radiated promise. You had pushed. You had pushed hard. And when you got home, she would finally stop being patient.

The apartment door had barely clicked shut behind you before the air thickened, heavy with the scent of rain on your skin and the faint rubber-and-steel residue clinging to Paige’s shopping bag. You kicked off your heels with a careless flick, letting them thud against the wall, and turned toward her with that same defiant little smirk still playing on your lips. The dread in your stomach was there, cold and fluttering, but you shoved it down, choosing instead to poke the bear one last time.

“Finally. Took you long enough in that stupid store. Maybe next time you’ll listen when I—”

Paige’s patience snapped like a dry branch.

She moved faster than you expected, one hand fisting the front of her own cropped shirt you were still wearing, yanking you forward hard enough that your breath hitched. Her other arm hooked around your waist, and suddenly you were being dragged, heels skidding across the hardwood, a startled laugh bubbling out of you because you still didn’t quite believe she’d follow through. Not really. Not like this.

“Paige—babe, wait—”

“Shut it.” Her voice was low, dangerous, the accent sharpening every syllable. She hauled you down the short hallway without ceremony, her grip unyielding, fingers digging into your hip hard enough to leave faint marks. The bedroom door banged open under her shoulder. She released you only to shove you toward the bed, eyes blazing with that cold, collected fury she wore so well.

You opened your mouth again, something teasing and filthy already forming, but she cut you off with a single, clipped command.

“Strip. Now. Then sit pretty on the bed and keep your fucking mouth closed unless I tell you otherwise.”

The shift in her tone, flat, irritated, final, sent a real shiver racing down your spine. You hesitated half a second too long. Paige’s brow lifted, and that was all the warning you needed. Fingers trembling with a mix of nerves and lingering bratty adrenaline, you peeled off the tiny cropped shirt, then shimmied out of the low-rise flares until eventually you stood bare in front of her. The cool air kissed your skin, raising gooseflesh across your stomach and breasts. You climbed onto the bed and knelt there, thighs pressed together, trying to look composed even as your pulse hammered.

Paige didn’t watch you. She turned toward the closet, rummaging with deliberate, unhurried movements. Drawers opened and closed. Hangers clinked. When she returned, she held her favourite Hitachi wand in one hand and two of her worn leather belts in the other, thick, supple, the kind she usually saved for ring gear or very specific nights like this.

You eyed the belts, a spark of heat curling low in your belly. “Gonna spank me with those? Finally admitting you can’t handle—”

She climbed onto the bed before you could finish, knees sinking into the mattress on either side of you. One belt looped around your wrists with efficient, almost clinical precision, threading through the slats of the headboard and cinching tight. The leather was cool and smooth against your skin, the buckle pressing into the delicate bones of your wrists. The second belt she wrapped around your right ankle, securing it to the footboard, forcing your leg open and leaving you stretched and exposed.

“Not spanking you,” she murmured against the shell of your ear, voice dripping with irritation as she leaned over you. Her lips brushed your jaw, soft, maddeningly gentle kisses that contradicted every sharp word. “You like that too much, don’t you? Greedy little thing. No… I’m going to make you wait. Make you ache until you remember how to behave.”

Another kiss, this one just beneath your ear, then down the column of your throat. Her teeth grazed your pulse point, not quite biting. “All morning you’ve been a spoiled, mouthy little princess. Whining. Pouting. Talking back like I won’t do anything about it.” She clicked the Hitachi on low, the sudden, heavy buzz filling the room. She didn’t press it against you yet, just let it hover close enough for you to feel the vibrations ghosting over your inner thigh. “Pushing and pushing until I had no choice but to drag your bratty arse in here.”

Paige settled between your spread legs, one hand braced beside your head, the other trailing the buzzing head of the wand in slow, teasing circles inches away from where you needed it. Her mouth never stopped moving, soft, open-mouthed kisses across your collarbones, the swell of your breast, the sensitive skin just above your navel. Each press of her lips was tender, almost reverent, while her voice stayed mean and low and deliciously irritated.

“Look at you now. All tied up and quiet for once. Pathetic, really.” A kiss right above your hipbone, tongue flicking out. “You had your fun throwing tantrums. Now it’s my turn.” She dragged the Hitachi closer, letting the vibrations kiss your folds for a single torturous second before pulling it away again. “And I’m not in a rush, love. I’ve got all afternoon to remind you exactly who you belong to.”

Her dark eyes met yours, cocky and stern and burning with promise as she hovered over you, lips brushing yours without quite kissing. “So be good for me now. Or I’ll make sure you don’t cum until you’re crying for it.”

The Hitachi hummed back to life on its lowest setting, a deep, relentless thrum that Paige pressed lightly against your inner thigh first, just close enough for the vibrations to tease without mercy. Your hips twitched instinctively, the belt around your ankle creaking as you tested the restraint.

You couldn’t help yourself. Even now, spread open and tied down, the brat in you refused to die quietly.

“Making me cum isn’t exactly a harsh lesson, you know,” you said, voice dripping with sarcasm, lips curved in that defiant little smirk. “If this is your big punishment, babe, you might want to rethink your strategy.”

Paige’s eyes flashed. She pulled the wand away instantly, the sudden absence of sensation almost worse than the tease.

“I told you,” she snapped, voice low and razor-sharp, “not to open that fucking mouth unless I gave you permission. Did that somehow escape your comprehension, or are you really this determined to make things worse for yourself?”

She hovered there for a beat, staring down at you with pure irritation etched across her features, the tight set of her jaw, the slight flare of her nostrils, the way her fingers flexed around the toy like she was debating throwing it across the room. Then something shifted. A slow, dangerous smile tugged at the corner of her mouth, cold and knowing.

“You’re right, though,” she murmured, almost conversationally. “Making you cum isn’t a good idea at all. Not today.”

She clicked the Hitachi back on, pressing it firmly against your clit this time. The low, steady buzz jolted through you like electricity, forcing a sharp inhale from your lungs. Paige didn’t rush. She kept the speed torturously gentle, circling it with precise, maddening patience while her free hand trailed up your ribs, fingertips dragging lightly over sensitive skin.

You tried to chase the feeling, hips rolling as much as the belts allowed, which wasn’t much. The leather bit into your wrists and ankle with every futile shift, keeping you frustratingly pinned. Paige watched your face the entire time, cataloguing every flutter of your lashes, every bitten-back sound.

When your breathing turned ragged and your thighs began to tremble, she pulled the wand away again.

A frustrated noise slipped out of you before you could stop it, petulant, not quite a whine yet, but close. Your brows drew together, lips parting on a silent protest as the ache between your legs throbbed harder in the sudden emptiness.

“Aw, look at that face,” Paige cooed, voice laced with mock sympathy. She leaned down and dragged her mouth along the underside of your breast, teeth grazing just enough to sting. “Still so fucking stubborn. Still think this is funny?”

She brought the vibrator back before you could answer, pressing it harder this time. The vibrations sank deeper, coiling tight and hot in your core. Again she built you up, slow, relentless, expert, until your back arched off the bed and your wrists strained against the headboard. Right as the edge loomed, sharp and glittering, she switched it off.

The third time, your expression fractured beautifully; brows furrowed deep, lips parted in a silent snarl of frustration, cheeks flushed dark. Your eyes had gone glassy, but the spark of petulance still burned behind them, stubborn and furious.

Paige set the toy aside on the nightstand with a deliberate click. Then she climbed over you fully, knees bracketing your hips, careful not to put too much weight on your bound leg. The mattress dipped beneath her as she settled, caging you in completely. You couldn’t move, couldn’t arch up, couldn’t pull her closer, couldn’t do anything except lie there and take whatever she decided to give.

She started kissing you everywhere. Slow, open-mouthed presses of her lips across your collarbones, down the centre of your chest, over the soft slope of your stomach. Each kiss was tender, almost sweet, while her voice stayed mean and low against your skin.

“So pretty when you’re frustrated,” she whispered, dragging her mouth along the crease of your hip. “All tied up and aching because you couldn’t behave for one single morning.” Her tongue traced a lazy circle around your navel, then lower, stopping just short of where you needed her most. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it? Pushing me until I had no choice but to remind you exactly how easily I can break that attitude.”

She shifted higher, capturing your mouth in a deep, possessive kiss that stole what little breath you had left. When she pulled back, her lips hovered just above yours, dark hair falling around her face like a curtain.

“Keep looking at me like that,” she murmured, thumb brushing your swollen bottom lip. “See how long it takes before that pretty pout turns into actual begging.”

Her hand drifted down between your legs again, fingers ghosting over slick, sensitive skin without offering any real relief.

The Hitachi returned with merciless patience, its low, heavy buzz pressing firm against your clit once more. Paige drew it out longer this time, agonising, languid circles that built the ache in slow, cresting waves. Your bound limbs trembled, leather creaking as you strained uselessly against the belts. Sweat prickled along your sternum, the cool air of the room doing nothing to soothe the heat crawling across your skin. She watched every flicker across your face with dark, unblinking focus, her mouth brushing feather-light kisses along your ribs while she edged you right to the precipice and then abandoned you there again.

Twice more she repeated the torture. Each round stretched longer than the last, the denial carving deeper into your nerves until your breathing fractured into sharp, frustrated gasps. By the end of the second, your body was a live wire, thighs shaking, core clenching around nothing, every inch of you flushed and glistening.

You cracked.

“Can I cum?” The words spat out bitchy and demanding, laced with petulant entitlement rather than any shred of submission. Your eyes narrowed up at her, hips twitching despite the restraints. “Just let me fucking cum already, Paige.”

A slow, wicked smile spread across her face. Something cruel and deeply satisfied flashed behind her eyes, the kind of thought that promised retribution wrapped in pleasure.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she murmured, voice syrupy with false sweetness. “You want to cum? Of course you do.”

She reached down and unbuckled the studded belt at her own waist, the leather whispering as it slid free. With efficient, almost clinical movements, she wrapped it around your upper thigh, securing the Hitachi tightly against your soaked cunt. The thick head nestled perfectly against your clit, the studs pressing cool, hard imprints into your skin. She adjusted the angle once, twice, making sure there was no escape, then switched it on to that same devastating low setting.

“There we go,” she cooed, leaning down to brush her lips against your temple. “Now you’re going to cum. Over and over, actually. Just like you demanded.” Her tone dripped mockery, irritation still threaded through the sweetness. “Doesn’t that sound nice? My spoiled little princess finally getting what she wants.”

She clicked the wand higher, just enough to make your back arch off the bed with a broken moan, then stood up.

The sudden loss of her body heat made the room feel colder. Paige sauntered toward the closet with a far too pleased expression, hips rolling in that cocky, predatory stride, dark hair swaying across her shoulders. She didn’t look back.

Your stomach dropped. Panic flared hot and immediate beneath the relentless buzz between your legs.

“Paige?” Your voice cracked into a needy moan as the Hitachi forced another wave of unwanted pleasure through you. “Paige—what the fuck are you doing? Hey. Come back—”

The closet door creaked. Metal clinked. Something heavy was dragged across the floor.

She reappeared moments later, dragging the sleek, expensive fuck machine into view. The thing looked almost clinical under the bedroom light, black metal frame, powerful motor, and that thick, veined silicone attachment already glistening with fresh lube. You’d only used it once before, months ago, and the memory of how thoroughly it had ruined you still lingered.

Paige’s eyes met yours, dark and gleaming with wicked satisfaction. She tilted her head, watching the way the Hitachi made your thighs quiver and your bound ankle yank against its restraint.

“Since you’re so desperate to cum,” she said conversationally, dragging the machine closer until the dildo hovered inches from your dripping entrance, “I thought I’d be generous. No more teasing. You can have all the orgasms you want, princess.”

She crouched beside the bed, one hand idly stroking the length of the attachment while her other reached out to brush a sweat-damp strand of hair from your forehead.

“Try not to scream too loud,” she added softly, the smirk returning full force. “We still have neighbours.”

The Hitachi continued its merciless buzz against your clit as Paige began positioning the machine with deliberate care, her expression one of pure, satisfied control. You were trapped, vibrating, aching, and about to be filled whether you could handle it or not.

The Hitachi buzzed relentlessly against your clit, its steady thrum forcing sharp, unwilling sparks of pleasure through your over-sensitised body. The moment Paige say the machine into place, your stomach twisted with genuine panic. Your bound wrists yanked hard against the leather, the headboard creaking under the strain.

“No—no, baby, please,” you rushed out, voice high and nervy, the words tumbling over each other. “We don’t have to use that. That’s not what I meant. I don’t—I don’t wanna come like this. The edging is fine, please, Paige—”

She didn’t even pause. That condescending little smile curved her lips as she crouched beside the bed again, one hand resting possessively on your trembling thigh, thumb stroking the soft skin just above where the studded belt held the wand in place.

“Aw, listen to you,” she murmured, voice dripping with patronising sweetness. “Suddenly so polite. Suddenly the edging is fine.” She tilted her head, dark eyes gleaming with mock sympathy. “This is exactly what you wanted, princess. You demanded to come. Threw a whole fucking tantrum until I gave in. Now you’re changing your mind? Too late.”

You opened your mouth to protest again, another desperate string of pleas forming, but Paige cut you off with a sharp, stinging slap directly against your soaked pussy. The impact cracked loud in the quiet room. You yelped, high and startled, before the pain melted into a filthy moan that you couldn’t swallow. She did it again, harder, the flat of her fingers landing with wet precision right over your swollen clit and the buzzing head of the Hitachi.

“None of that,” she said calmly, delivering a third slap that made your hips jerk violently against the restraints. “You’ve done enough talking today.”

The fourth slap pushed you over. The combination of the merciless vibrations and the sharp, repeated impacts shattered what little control you had left. Your orgasm crashed through you without warning, brutal and sudden, ripping a broken cry from your throat as your back arched clean off the mattress. Your bound leg trembled, muscles locking tight, slick coating the thick head of the wand and dripping down your thighs. Paige watched the whole thing with dark satisfaction, her hand finally stilling but staying pressed warm and firm against your pulsing cunt.

“Good girl,” she cooed, condescending as ever. “See? That wasn’t so hard. One nice, easy orgasm to get you nice and open for me.”

You were still panting, aftershocks rippling through you, when she finally unbuckled the studded belt and pulled the Hitachi away. The sudden absence left you clenching around nothing, oversensitive and aching. Paige took her time repositioning the machine, pulling it closer with deliberate care until the thick, glistening silicone hovered right at your entrance. She adjusted the angle slowly, one hand spreading you open with her fingers while the other guided the tip, letting it nudge against your slick folds.

“Easy now,” she murmured, almost soothing, though the edge of irritation still lingered in her tone. “You’re going to take every inch. And you’re going to thank me for it when you’re crying and cumming all over it.”

She leaned over you, brushing a deceptively gentle kiss against your forehead as the machine’s tip pressed forward, stretching you open inch by slow, inevitable inch. Her voice dropped to a low, mean whisper against your ear.

“Try to behave this time, yeah? Or I’ll leave it on for a lot longer than you can handle.”

The machine hummed to life with a low, mechanical purr that vibrated through the frame and straight into your bones. The thick silicone head pressed against your entrance, still slick from your forced orgasm and the fresh lube Paige had applied, and began its first slow, inexorable push.

Your eyes flew wide.

“Oh—oh fuck,” you gasped, voice pitching high and shaky as the girth started stretching you open. It wasn’t even halfway in and already the burn was intense, overwhelming. Your bound wrists jerked hard against the leather, the headboard creaking in protest. “Shit, Paige—it’s too much. Too big, I can’t—fuck, slow down—”

Paige settled comfortably on the edge of the bed, elbows on her knees, chin resting on her laced fingers like she was watching a particularly entertaining film. Her expression was calm, almost serene, but her eyes burned with dark satisfaction. No softness. No mercy. Just that cool, cocky tilt to her head and the faint curve of her mouth that said she’d been waiting for this exact moment all damn day.

“You can,” she said simply, voice low and patronising. “And you will.”

The machine continued its shallow rhythm, half-length strokes that dragged heavily along your walls with every retreat and push. You writhed as much as the restraints allowed, ankle yanking against its belt, hips twitching uselessly. Breathless, broken little sounds spilled from your lips: sharp gasps, shaky “oh god”s, and desperate whimpers that bordered on sobs.

“Paige—baby, please, it’s stretching me too much. I can’t take it—”

“You’ve been taking the piss all morning,” she cut in, tone flat and unimpressed. “Throwing tantrums, running your mouth, acting like a spoiled little brat who thinks the world owes her everything. So no, I don’t feel particularly sorry for you right now.” She reached out and trailed two fingers down your sweat-damp stomach, pressing lightly just above where the thick shaft disappeared inside you. “This is what you earned. Breathe through it.”

She let the machine continue its half-depth thrusts for another long minute, watching your face twist and flush, cataloguing every flutter of your lashes and every hitch in your breathing. Only when your moans started to deepen, when your body began to surrender and soften around the relentless intrusion, did she lean forward and adjust the settings.

The dildo pushed deeper on the next stroke.

All the way in.

A guttural, broken sound tore from your throat as it bottomed out, the thick head pressing right against that devastating spot inside you. Paige let out a low, pleased hum, eyes half-lidded with genuine enjoyment as she watched your back arch clean off the bed.

“There we go,” she murmured, voice rough with satisfaction. “Look at you. Taking every fucking inch like you were made for it.”

The machine settled into a slow, steady piston, long, deliberate strokes that dragged almost all the way out before sliding back in to the hilt with heavy, wet sounds. Each thrust forced a fresh gasp or moan from your lips; breathy, overwhelmed little cries that you couldn’t hold back no matter how hard you tried. Your thighs trembled violently, the studded imprints from the belt still visible on your skin.

Paige’s gaze never left your face. She drank in every expression, the way your brows furrowed, the way your mouth fell open on a silent cry, the sheen of overwhelmed tears gathering at the corners of your eyes.

“Fuck, you’re pretty like this,” she said conversationally, even as another deep thrust punched a sharp, needy moan out of you. “All tied down and full. No more attitude. No more demands. Just pretty sounds and that desperate little face you make when you’re getting exactly what you asked for.”

She shifted closer, one hand resting possessively on your hip, thumb stroking the crease where your thigh met your body. The machine kept its merciless, unhurried pace, deep, dragging strokes that made your toes curl and your breath catch on every inward thrust.

“Keep making those sounds for me, princess,” she whispered, leaning down to brush her lips against your ear while the machine continued to fuck you slow and thorough. “I’ve got nowhere else to be.”

The machine kept its deep, measured rhythm, each thrust dragging thick and heavy through you, bottoming out with a wet, obscene sound that filled the quiet bedroom. Your breathing had turned ragged, sharp inhales through your nose, shaky exhales that trembled on the way out, but you weren’t breaking. Not yet. The overwhelming stretch and pressure sat right on the edge of too much, yet your body held, clenching and fluttering around the relentless silicone in stubborn, overwhelmed pulses.

Paige noticed. Of course she did.

She stayed perched on the edge of the bed, one knee drawn up, chin resting on her fist like she had all the time in the world. That satisfied, slightly cruel little smile played across her mouth as she studied you, eyes dark and gleaming, tracing every twitch of your bound limbs, every flutter of your lashes, every bead of sweat that slid down the valley between your breasts.

“Not very loud today, are we?” she drawled, voice low and laced with mocking sweetness. “Usually you’re moaning like a fucking porn star the second something’s inside you. All dramatic gasps and ‘oh god, Paige’ like you’re getting paid for it.” She tilted her head, smirk deepening. “But now? Just these cute little breathy sounds. Pathetic, really. Makes me think you’re still trying to keep some dignity.”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t, really. Another deep thrust punched a soft, broken gasp from your throat instead, your head tipping back against the pillow as your wrists flexed uselessly in their leather cuffs. The words you might’ve thrown back at her earlier had dissolved somewhere between the slow drag of the dildo and the burning ache in your core.

Paige chuckled under her breath, a rough, satisfied sound. She reached over and tapped the control panel on the machine once, twice. The pace picked up, just enough to turn the thrusts sharper, faster, the wet slap of silicone meeting slick skin growing louder and more frequent. The new rhythm forced a string of shaky, breathy moans from you, each one cut off by the next relentless push.

“There she is,” she murmured, clearly pleased. “Still not the full performance, but we’re getting there.” Her fingers trailed lazily up your stomach, nails scraping lightly over sweat-slick skin before she gave one of your nipples a mean little pinch. “Look at you. All tied up and taking it so well. No more smart mouth. No more demands. Just lying there letting me fuck all that attitude out of you.”

She leaned closer, elbows on her knees, watching your face with open fascination as the machine drove into you again and again. The satisfied gleam in her eyes only sharpened with every overwhelmed little sound you made, the soft hitches in your breathing, the way your lips parted on silent cries, the faint tremble in your bound thigh.

“Poor princess,” she cooed, voice dripping condescension. “Spent all morning throwing tantrums because you didn’t get your way. And now you can’t even form a proper sentence.” Another quick adjustment to the speed, nothing punishing, just enough to make the thrusts punch deeper, more insistent. “That’s alright. You don’t need to talk. You just need to lie there and take what I give you.”

Her gaze stayed locked on you, dark and hungry and utterly in control, drinking in every twitch and gasp like it was her favourite view in the world. The machine continued its steady, merciless work, and Paige simply watched, patient, mean, and entirely too pleased with herself.

She wasn’t in any rush to let you break. Not yet.

The machine drove into you with relentless, wet precision, each thrust dragging thick and heavy along your walls. The pace had you teetering now, right on that razor edge, your breath coming in short, frantic bursts, thighs trembling violently against the leather restraints. Every slide out left you clenching desperately around nothing, every slide back in punched a fresh, broken sound from your throat.

Paige noticed immediately. Her eyes sharpened, that cruelly satisfied smirk deepening as she leaned in closer, elbows braced on her knees.

“Fuck, listen to that,” she murmured, voice low and dripping with mock fascination. “You hear how loud your pussy is right now? All sloppy and greedy.” Her gaze dropped between your spread legs, watching the thick silicone piston in and out, glistening obscenely. “Look at the mess you’re making on it. Dripping down the shaft, coating every inch. Surely that’s not all lube, princess. No… that’s all you. Soaking the toy like a desperate little whore.”

She tilted her head, eyes flicking back up to your flushed, overwhelmed face. “It’s actually embarrassing, isn’t it? How wet you get when you’re being punished. All that attitude this morning, and now you’re creaming all over a machine because I finally decided to shut you up properly.”

The words hit like a spark on gasoline.

Your orgasm slammed into you without mercy, sharp, devastating, ripping through your body in violent waves. A choked, broken moan tore from your throat as your back arched hard off the mattress, wrists yanking uselessly against the belts. Your bound leg shook uncontrollably, muscles locking tight around the relentless intrusion while your cunt pulsed and fluttered wildly around the thick shaft.

Paige didn’t slow the machine. Not even a fraction.

She simply watched, dark eyes gleaming with pure, wicked delight as you came apart beneath her. The mechanical rhythm continued, deep, punishing strokes that dragged every last shudder and aftershock out of you. Your head thrashed against the pillow, shaking side to side in helpless denial even as your body betrayed you completely.

“No—no, fuck—Paige—”

She reached over and tapped the controls without looking away from your face. The machine sped up, just enough to turn the thrusts sharper, more demanding, forcing you to ride out the orgasm on an even higher setting.

“That’s it,” she cooed, patronising and sweet. “Keep shaking your head like you’re not coming your brains out. So cute. So fucking pathetic.” Her fingers trailed lightly over your trembling stomach, pressing down just above where the dildo disappeared inside you, feeling the way your muscles jumped and clenched. “Look at you. Still trying to act like you’re in control when your pussy is literally gushing around it.”

She stayed right there, watching every twitch, every gasp, every overwhelmed expression flicker across your face while the machine continued its merciless work.

“You’re not done yet, love,” she whispered, brushing a strand of sweat-damp hair from your forehead with deceptive gentleness. “Not even close.”

The machine continued its merciless, faster rhythm, slamming deep into you with wet, heavy strokes. Paige hovered above you on her knees, one hand pressing the Hitachi firmly against your swollen clit while the other braced beside your head. The dual assault was devastating, thick silicone stretching you open on every thrust while the moderately strong vibrations buzzed mercilessly against your overstimulated nerves.

You didn’t protest. Instead, a small, dazed little smile tugged at the corner of your lips, breathless and fucked-out.

Paige’s eyes narrowed with dark delight.

“Oh, you’re smiling now?” she laughed, low and mean, pressing the wand harder against you. “After all that crying and ‘it’s too big, I can’t take it,’ you’re actually smiling? Greedy little slut. You really do love being ruined, don’t you?”

The vibrations surged through your clit, sharp and relentless, especially cruel so soon after your last orgasm. Your body reacted instantly, back arching, thighs trying to close around the intrusion only to be stopped by the belt. You started getting louder, more desperate.

“Fuck—Paige, fuck—” The words came out in panting, broken curses, each one punched out by the machine’s deep thrusts. You squirmed hard, hips twisting, trying to escape even an inch of the overwhelming sensation.

Paige clicked her tongue, voice dripping with patronising sweetness as she adjusted the angle of the Hitachi, keeping it locked exactly where she wanted it.

“No, no, no, baby. None of that squirming.” She leaned down closer, lips brushing your ear while her hand stayed steady on the wand. “You don’t get to run away from this. Not after you spent the whole morning acting like a spoiled fucking brat.” Another deep thrust from the machine forced a loud, shaky moan from your throat. Paige grinned against your skin. “Look at you. Still trying to fight it when your cunt is literally creaming all over the toy. Pathetic.”

You whimpered, head tossing side to side, wrists yanking uselessly against the leather. “Shit—it's too much—fuck, Paige—”

“Too much?” she mocked, circling the Hitachi slowly, mercilessly. “Poor princess. Too sensitive? Too full? That’s too fucking bad. You wanted to come so badly earlier. Now you’re going to keep coming until I decide you’ve had enough.”

She sat back slightly, watching with open satisfaction as your body trembled and jerked beneath her, the machine driving into you without pause while the wand buzzed strong and steady against your clit. Your moans grew louder, breathier, more frantic, curses spilling helplessly between gasps as another orgasm started building fast and vicious under her cruel, patient hands.

The machine hammered into you with steady, punishing strokes while the Hitachi buzzed strong and merciless against your swollen clit. Pleasure coiled viciously tight in your core, building faster than you could handle, every deep thrust dragging you closer to the edge.

Paige’s voice cut through the haze, low and mocking. “You sorry yet, princess?”

You shook your head frantically, teeth sinking into your lower lip as another broken moan tore free. “N-no—fuck—not sorry—”

The denial tipped you over.

Your orgasm shattered through you like glass under pressure, brutal, blinding, ripping a raw, guttural cry from your throat. Your entire body seized, back bowing sharply off the mattress, wrists yanking hard against the leather as your cunt clenched and fluttered violently around the thick silicone. The machine didn’t slow. The wand didn’t waver. They kept driving you through it, forcing every last pulse and tremor out of you until your vision whited out and fresh tears slipped from the corners of your eyes.

Paige watched the whole thing with dark, hungry satisfaction, lips parted, breathing a little heavier now.

“It’s okay,” she murmured, voice soft and patronising as she kept the Hitachi pressed firm against your oversensitive clit. “You’ll say sorry soon enough. I can wait.”

Another orgasm was already building, frighteningly fast, cruelly inevitable. Your thighs shook uncontrollably, breath coming in short, desperate pants. Paige leaned in slowly, hovering just above you, close enough that you could feel the warmth of her breath on your lips. Her dark hair fell like a curtain around your face. She looked like she was about to kiss you, really kiss you, the way you always craved when you were falling apart like this, needing her mouth on yours while you were being fucked senseless.

You whimpered, chasing her mouth with a needy tilt of your head.

She pulled back at the last second, lips parting into a slow, wicked smile as you let out a frustrated, desperate sound, half whine, half growl.

“Aww, what’s wrong?” she cooed, tilting her head with fake sympathy. “You want a kiss? Poor baby. You love feeling me when you’re getting ruined, don’t you?” She dragged the Hitachi in tight little circles, drawing another sharp cry from you. “Too bad. Brats who spend all day throwing tantrums don’t get to be kissed while they come. You can just lie there and take it.”

She stayed hovering maddeningly close, lips barely an inch from yours, letting you feel the ghost of her breath while the machine fucked you deep and the wand buzzed you straight toward another shattering peak. Her eyes sparkled with cruel amusement as she watched you squirm and strain for the kiss she wouldn’t give you.

“Keep looking at me like that,” she whispered, voice dripping with mean delight. “It only makes me want to deny you more.”

The pleasure crested higher, thick and syrupy, turning your thoughts into warm static. The machine drove into you with steady force while the Hitachi buzzed relentlessly against your clit, and you slipped deeper into that hazy, cum-drunk bliss. Your moans grew louder, filthier, raw curses spilling out between panting breaths.

“Fuck—Paige, fuck—oh god, it’s so deep,” you gasped, voice cracking on every other word. Your head lolled against the pillow, eyes half-lidded and glassy, body loose and trembling in the restraints. You weren’t fighting it anymore. Just taking it, letting every brutal thrust and vibration wash over you in heavy, golden waves. Your sounds started to fracture though, pretty moans turning broken and ragged at the edges, each one catching in your throat like it hurt to let them out.

Paige watched you for a long, deliberate moment, head tilted, pretending to consider something important. Her tongue pressed against the inside of her cheek, eyes narrowed in mock thought while her fingers kept the wand pinned exactly where it would ruin you fastest.

Then, without warning, she pulled the Hitachi away.

The sudden loss ripped a devastated, pathetic sound from your chest, high and needy and utterly broken. A desperate whine that curled into a whimper, hips chasing uselessly after the missing vibrations even as the machine kept fucking you deep.

“Aww, listen to that,” Paige cooed, voice dripping with fake sympathy as she set the wand aside. “Did I take your favourite toy away? Poor baby. You were sounding so sweet, too.” She shifted back on her heels, moving closer to the fuck machine so she could rest one hand on your quivering thigh. Her thumb stroked lazy circles over the sweat-slick skin, deceptively gentle. “All those pretty little curses turning into these sad, desperate noises. It’s almost heartbreaking.”

You whimpered again, louder this time, hips twitching helplessly against the thick silicone still railing into you. “Please—Paige, please—”

She clicked her tongue, shaking her head slowly as she reached for the machine’s controls. “Shh. None of that. You don’t get to make demands when you’re still being a stubborn little brat about saying sorry.”

With a deliberate tap, she cranked the speed higher.

The machine responded instantly, thrusts turning faster, harder, the wet slap of silicone meeting your soaked cunt growing louder and more obscene. It was railing you now, deep and punishing, each stroke slamming home with enough force to make your breasts bounce and your breath punch out in sharp, overwhelmed gasps.

Paige settled back on her heels, arms loosely crossed over her knees, watching with open, satisfied hunger as the machine destroyed you. Her dark eyes drank in every detail; the way your mouth fell open on broken moans, the fresh tears clinging to your lashes, the helpless flutter of your bound leg against its restraint.

“There we go,” she murmured, voice low and patronising. “Now you can really feel it. No more easy vibrations to help you along. Just this fat cock wrecking that greedy pussy until you decide to behave.” She leaned in slightly, close enough for you to see the wicked gleam in her eyes. “Keep making those pathetic sounds for me, princess. You know how much I love them.”

The machine was merciless now, pounding into you at its highest setting with fast, brutal strokes that made your whole body jolt on the bed. Another orgasm ripped through you without mercy, crashing over your already-fried nerves like a tidal wave.

“Too much—fuck, Paige, it’s too much!” you whined, voice cracking high and broken as your cunt spasmed violently around the thick silicone. Your head thrashed against the pillow, fresh tears spilling from the corners of your eyes while your bound limbs jerked uselessly in their restraints.

Paige crawled up over you slowly, knees bracketing your ribs, her body heat pressing down without quite touching you. She hovered close, dark eyes drinking in every shattered expression on your face.

“Say sorry,” she murmured, voice low and sweet.

You shook your head, stubborn even as your body betrayed you completely. “N-no—”

She smiled, slow and mean. “Clearly you can keep taking it, then.”

And god, you did.

The machine railed you harder, the wet, filthy sounds of it slamming into your soaked pussy filling the room. You moaned and cursed and babbled, the words slurring together into a desperate, cum-drunk mess.

“Fuck—Paige—shit, I can’t—oh my god, it’s so deep—fuckfuckfuck—”

Paige leaned in and started kissing you everywhere except where you needed her most. Soft, open-mouthed kisses along your jaw. Slow drags of her tongue down the side of your neck. Gentle bites across your collarbones. She sucked a mark just above your breast, then soothed it with her lips, all while carefully avoiding your mouth.

You whined louder, needier, the sound turning embarrassingly pathetic as you tried to chase her. “Kiss me—Paige, please just kiss me—”

Another orgasm slammed into you mid-whine.

Your entire body seized, back bowing sharply off the mattress as you came hard again, a raw, shattered cry tearing from your throat. Your walls fluttered and clenched violently around the relentless toy, fresh slick dripping down your thighs and onto the sheets.

Paige pulled back just enough to watch, lips parted in open satisfaction. “Aww, there it is,” she cooed, voice dripping with faux sympathy. “I could almost feel that one, princess. The way you squeezed so fucking tight around it… so pretty when you fall apart like this.”

She dipped down again, pressing slow, teasing kisses across your sternum, the underside of your breasts, the sensitive skin just above your navel, everywhere but your mouth. Each time you whimpered and strained for her lips, she smiled against your skin and pulled away, leaving you aching worse than the machine ever could.

“Still not sorry?” she whispered, dragging her tongue lightly over your nipple before blowing cool air across it. “That’s okay. We can keep going until that stubborn little head of yours finally gives in.”

The machine never slowed. Paige’s mouth kept its cruel, tender path across your overheated skin, and you kept falling apart beneath her, moaning, cursing, whining, and still refusing to break completely.

The machine kept its brutal pace, pounding deep and merciless into your exhausted cunt, each thrust now bordering on painful in its intensity. The pleasure had twisted into something overwhelming, a sharp, aching climb that felt almost impossible to reach. Your body trembled violently in the restraints, sweat slicking every inch of your skin, but the next orgasm hovered just out of reach, close enough to torture, far enough to make you sob.

“Paige—please—fuck, I— I don’t know—” The words spilled out in a broken, desperate babble. You didn’t even know what you were begging for anymore. For it to stop. For it to never stop. For her mouth. For mercy. For everything. “Please, baby, I can’t—oh god, it’s too much, I need—fuck—”

Paige hovered over you, lips brushing your cheek, your temple, the corner of your eye, everywhere but where you craved her most. Her voice was low, coaxing, laced with that cruel sweetness.

“Come on, princess. Say it. Tell me you’re sorry and maybe I’ll be nice.”

You held out for a few more shattering thrusts, whimpering and shaking your head. Then the dam broke.

“I’m sorry—” The apology tore out of you, raw and frantic. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry—Paige, please, I’m sorry for being a brat, for whining, for everything—sorry, sorry, I’m sorry—”

A satisfied hum vibrated against your skin. Paige finally leaned in, capturing your mouth in a deep, possessive kiss. Her tongue slid against yours, claiming, devouring, swallowing every broken moan as the machine continued to rail you without mercy. The relief of her mouth on yours was almost too much; you moaned loudly into the kiss, desperate and grateful, body arching as much as the belts allowed.

She pulled back just enough to speak against your lips, voice husky and mean.

“One more, love. Just one more.”

You whined pitifully into her mouth, the sound vibrating between your joined lips as you squirmed helplessly. Your wrists yanked and twisted against the leather, fingers curling and uncurling in the air. Your bound leg strained hard against its restraint, toes curling tight as the machine slammed into you again and again.

“I can’t—Paige, I can’t cum again, please, it’s too much, I can’t—”

But she only kissed you harder, swallowing your protests, one hand sliding down to grip your hip and hold you in place while the relentless rhythm drove you straight toward that final, devastating edge. Her lips stayed sealed to yours, tongue teasing, as if daring your body to prove you wrong.

The kiss deepened, slow and possessive, Paige’s mouth claiming yours like she had all the time in the world. She caught your bottom lip between her teeth, tugging sharply before soothing it with her tongue, a wicked little smile curving against you as she did it again. Harder this time. You moaned helplessly into her mouth, the sound raw and constant now, no words left, just broken, needy noises that spilled out with every breath.

“You can do it,” she whispered against your lips, voice low and teasing, nipping at you once more. “You’re going to come for me again. Gonna show me exactly how sorry you are, whether you like it or not. Be a good girl and give it to me.”

You couldn’t answer. Could barely think. The machine kept slamming into you, deep, brutal, unrelenting, while her mouth stayed on yours, stealing every fractured moan. Your sounds grew louder, more desperate, pitching higher and higher until they cracked apart into nothing but pure, animalistic whimpering. Your body trembled violently in the restraints, every muscle locked tight.

Then you broke.

The orgasm tore through you like lightning splitting a tree, devastating, overwhelming, ripping a raw, guttural cry from your throat that Paige swallowed down with another fierce kiss. You gushed around the thick silicone, slick flooding out with every savage thrust as your cunt spasmed and clenched in violent, rhythmic waves. Your hips jerked and rolled as much as the belts allowed, riding the toy like your life depended on it, thighs shaking uncontrollably, back arched so sharply it hurt. The pleasure bordered on pain, white-hot and endless, until your vision blurred and fresh tears slipped down your temples.

Paige hummed in satisfaction against your mouth, finally reaching over to kill the machine. The sudden silence was deafening, broken only by your ragged breathing and the wet, obscene sounds of your pussy still fluttering around the now-still dildo. She unbuckled the belt around your ankle with quick, efficient fingers, letting your leg drop limply to the bed.

Then she climbed fully over you.

Her hand fisted tight in your hair, yanking your head back sharply so you had no choice but to look up at her. The sting made you whimper, eyes glassy and unfocused. Paige held you there for a beat, drinking in the wrecked, ruined expression on your face, before she crashed her mouth against yours in a bruising, claiming kiss, deep and filthy and possessive.

When she finally pulled back, lips hovering just above yours, her voice was low, rough with satisfaction.

“There we go,” she murmured, still gripping your hair. “That’s my good girl. Finally learned your lesson, didn’t you? All that attitude this morning… all those tantrums and demands… and look at you now. Fucked stupid and dripping all over my sheets, apologising so pretty.”

She loosened her grip just enough to stroke her thumb along your jaw, almost tender, though the cocky smirk never left her face.

“Think you’ll remember this next time you decide to be a spoiled little princess?” She kissed you again, softer this time, but still full of ownership. “Because I’ve got plenty more ways to remind you if you forget.”

You could only nod weakly against her hand, body limp and trembling, utterly spent. Paige’s eyes softened at the edges, just a fraction, but the dark, satisfied gleam remained as she held you there, warm and in control, letting the lesson sink deep into your exhausted bones.

[onlyangel4]

holy shit this is actually insane !

[onlyangel4]

i came here bc @onanisticbunny said you had amazing stories, and yeah, i can confirm that 😭 i’ve literally read everything!!!

just wanted to say please keep writing more and more, your work is incredible and im obsessed 🫶

that is my main bitch right there. love you bunny with all my heart. shameless plug if you like any of my wlw fics and want theeven spicier bunny has you fucking sorted !

[onanisticbunny]

liv’s fic was so good! but blake’s almost killed me, like what was that???

😭just here to share my suffering, since i can almost never find anything good with charlotte.

noticing your obsession with blondes… how about a smut with jealous charly? 👀 just kidding, i loved everything and i’m excited for more 🩷🐰

Not me getting read to absolute filth with my thing for blondes…

But thank you so much cutieee i appreciate the love so so much this made my day lowkey actually high key!!! I will get on the jealous char grind anddd I have a few things in the works ive just been very very busy with classes and exams at the moment… BUT I HAVE A CHAR PLUG FOR YOU!!

My gorgeous gorgeous amazing talented beautiful sexy friend miss @onlyangel4 has the most toe curling scrumptious char fics in the world 🐰🤍

[onlyangel4]

guys i think she likes me

[onlyangel4]

you are so pretty

- 🩷

omg thank you!! thank you everyone for all the love on my face reveal ive had a tough few days you guys always help me feel better !!

[onlyangel4]

this might as well be a face reveal but also guys i was bored as hell earlier and decided to try the maxxine dupri bun