Roomates - Bepsy x Reader Fic
warnings: so fluffy, roomates, oral, slight praise kink perhaps
IM SORRY FOR THE LATE POST(not super reviewed sorry if it's bad)
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You’ve been in FaZe for a while now— still the only girl on the roster.
From day one you noticed that all the boys had their own unique charm, but one stood out a little too much for your own good: Bepsy.
He was everything you dreamed of, nerdy, but not in a way that was overbearing. Talented, attractive, kind, and soft-spoken in a way that only made him more intriguing. He was perfect.
The problem was… you were far too shy to tell him how you felt… and besides, he already had a girlfriend.
Lately, though, things hadn’t been good between them. You’d noticed him growing quieter, more withdrawn, and you could tell something was wrong. You hated seeing him like that. Hated that you could only watch from a distance, wishing you were the one by his side instead.
Today everyone else in the house was streaming while you were taking the day off. You were sitting downstairs when you overheard Bepsy’s argument over the phone—loud, emotional, and final. By the time it ended, their relationship was officially over. He hadn’t come out of his room since.
Not wanting him to be alone, you decided to check on him. You made your way upstairs, down the hallway, and knocked softly before stepping inside. He was sitting on his bed, looking exhausted and heartbroken. But when he looked up and saw you, his expression warmed just a little.
You two didn’t actually live in the FaZe house full-time. As the only girl, you weren’t eager to live there alone with the guys. Bepsy wasn’t officially part of FaZe clan either, and you’d both needed a place while looking for your own arrangements. At the time, moving in together simply made sense, especially after his breakup, when he’d needed somewhere new to go.
That was a year ago. Since then, you’d grown close—closer than either of you meant to. He had healed from the breakup, and something new had begun between you.
Some habits formed naturally over the year.
You made your nightly rounds to his room, wrapped in your fluffy white bathrobe. This was routine now, talking to each other at the end of the day, recapping our night. You stepped into the doorway of his room, bringing your knuckle to the open door, rapping the door softly. “Hey Bep, whatcha doing?”
He peered at you, sleepy eyes boring into your own. It was silent for a moment before he looked you up and down smirking, “Nice outfit.”
He laughed, and you rolled your eyes, tugging the robe tighter around yourself.
“Oh please,” you muttered, stepping fully inside, “like you don’t walk around here in fluffy pj pants all the time”
He smirked quietly, the corners of his mouth lifting in that small way he always did when he was teasing. Then he patted the edge of the bed beside him.
“You have no idea,” you groaned. “The Wi-Fi went out for ten minutes and everyone in the FaZe house acted like civilization had collapsed.”
He chuckled under his breath. “I swear, those guys have no survival instincts.”
“None,” you agreed, nudging him gently with your elbow.
A moment passed — comfortable, familiar. The kind of silence you only shared with someone you trusted completely.
Eventually, he nudged your shoulder lightly with his. “Hard to believe this is where we ended up, huh?”
You raised a brow. “Living together and yelling about internet outages?”
He laughed, but there was a quiet sincerity beneath it.
“No… I mean… us. A year ago we were just coworkers. Now I can’t imagine coming home to anyone else.”
Your breath caught, not because it was romantic(i mean it was), but because it was true.
You leaned back on your hands. “Yeah. It’s weird… in the best way. If someone told me back then that we’d end up sharing groceries and arguing over who left the milk out—”
He gave you a look, a look that screamed ‘own up to it,’ but then he softened.
“But seriously… I like this. Our little routine. Ending the day here. Talking.”
You met his eyes, and for a split second neither of you looked away.
“Me too,” you said quietly. “Feels like the part of the day that actually matters.”
His gaze flicked down to your robe— the belt loose, then back up, warm and unreadable.
“Careful,” he murmured. “Say things like that and I might think you like me.”
You scoffed, shoving his shoulder lightly. “Don’t get cocky.”
“Can’t help it,” he teased, leaning just a little closer. “It’s part of my charm.”
And suddenly the room felt smaller. Closer.
You swallowed, suddenly very aware of how close you were sitting. His knee brushed yours, barely touching, but enough to make your skin feel hot.
“So,” he said, voice softer now, “what was the highlight of your day?”
You snorted. “Definitely watching Lacy try to plug in an HDMI cable upside down for eight minutes straight.”
Bepsy groaned dramatically. “Please tell me you recorded it.”
“I got the last 3 minutes. I figured I’d let him suffer in peace for the first five.”
He shook his head, smiling to himself. “You’re cruel.”
“I prefer ‘observational.’”
Another quiet laugh. Another moment where his eyes lingered too long.
Then he tilted his head slightly.
He pretended to think deeply, like he was deciding between a hundred interesting options, but when he answered, it came out simple and honest:
The air froze, the way it sometimes did when one of you said something that accidentally told the truth. Nonetheless, you brushed it off as another one of his jokes— playful banter is all.
You stared at him, heat creeping up your neck. “You’re such a smooth talker tonight.”
“Maybe I’m always like this,” he said, leaning back on his palms the way you were. “Maybe you’re just finally noticing.”
You bumped his knee. “I’ve noticed plenty.”
His eyebrows lifted, amused. “Oh yeah?”
“Yeah,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady. “Like how you only make tea when you’re stressed. Or how you pretend you don’t hear your alarm every morning because you know I’ll knock on your door anyway.”
He blinked at you, and something flickered across his face — surprise, maybe even a little affection he didn’t bother hiding.
“And you,” he countered, “always put the remote in the same spot no matter whose room you’re in. Won’t leave until you do. Drives me crazy.”
You laughed. “It’s called order.”
“It’s called you’re cute,” he corrected calmly.
You froze again — you always did when he said things like that. He said them like he didn’t even realize the effect they had.
He looked down for a moment, picking at a loose thread on his comforter, shifting slightly. The movement brought him just half an inch nearer, close enough that the soft clean scent of your shampoo drifted between you.
“You always come in right after,” he said quietly, almost to himself. “Hair still damp, robe tied just enough not to get me in trouble…”
His eyes flicked down your form, not lingering, but in a way that made you feel seen, appreciated.
“…it’s kind of your trademark.”
You rolled your eyes, trying to smother the lump that jumped in your throat.
“You say that like you’ve made a study of me.”
He leaned back just slightly, head tipping against the headboard, his gaze never leaving yours.
“You always smell like that sweet vanilla stuff,” he went on, voice softer. “The one you pretend you don’t spend stupid money on.”
You scoffed. “It’s not stupid money, it’s necessary.”
He smiled. “It’s pretty,” he said. “It suits you.”
Warmth crawled up to your cheeks.
“And you notice all this because…?”
“Because you walk in here every night,” he said, eyes locked on yours, “and I can’t not notice.”
You swallowed, voice weaker than you meant.
He exhaled through his nose, a short, quiet breath, as if he’d been holding it in for weeks.
“You always end the day here,” he said. “No matter what happened. Good, bad, loud, boring… you still show up.”
You tried to laugh. Tried to dodge the weight of it.
“This is where the comfy bed is.”
He shook his head once— barely— but it shut you up instantly.
“No,” he murmured. “It’s more than that and we both know it.”
The words hung there, thick, charged.
"Well of course I care.."
His knee brushed yours again, barely a touch and suddenly every nerve in your body was awake.
“Say things like that,” he said, voice low and honest, “and I start thinking you really do like being here with me.”
You looked at him. The tired eyes, the warm expression, the vulnerability he never showed anyone else, and your voice came out before you could second-guess it.
His eyes didn’t move. Didn’t flick away. Didn’t laugh it off. They stayed locked on yours, and the air shifted, heavier and hotter between you.
“Then,” he said quietly, “I’d stop pretending I don’t think about you.”
He leaned in the slightest bit, close enough that you felt his breath against your cheek. You could smell him too—clean laundry, faint cologne, something familiar and comforting that made your head swim.
“I notice everything,” he said. “Every time you come in here. The way your hair’s still wet and wavy from the shower. The lotion on your skin. That robe hanging a little loose because you always tie it in a rush.”
He lifted his hand but didn’t touch you yet. Just hovered his fingertips at your jaw, giving you time to pull away.
His thumb brushed your chin gently. Slow. Testing. And the simple touch burned straight through you.
“You think I don’t look?” he murmured.
You let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding. “You never show it.”
A small, almost disbelieving laugh escaped him.
“Trust me,” he said. “I’m showing all of it right now.”
You shifted slightly as you leaned closer, cleavage popping out a little, his knee pressing against your thigh that came out through the opening of your robe. Your skin tingled under the fabric, your body reacting before you could think.
“Bep…” His name came out softer than you meant.
He tilted his forehead to yours, just barely touching, as if he needed that point of contact to stay steady.
“You walk in every night like you belong here,” he said. “And you do. I got used to that. Maybe too used to it.”
You could feel his breath on your lips, warm and uneven.
“Maybe that’s why,” he continued, voice lower now, “it’s so damn hard not to touch you.”
Your chest tightened. Every inch of you felt aware of him. His hand slid to your jaw, his thumb brushing once more, slow and deliberate.
His voice dropped even further. “If you really like being here with me…” His lips were inches from yours. “Say it.”
You didn’t. Instead, you closed the distance just enough that your mouth brushed his—barely, but was already too late to take back.
“Okay,” he whispered, like he’d just lost the fight. “Don’t start something you don’t want finished.”
You looked him in the eyes, unwavering.
His hand slid to the back of your neck, gentle but sure, and this time when he leaned in, there was no hesitation.
The kiss was slow at first, hungry underneath, like both of you had been holding back for months and the dam finally cracked. Your fingers curled into his shirt, pulling him closer, and he responded instantly, his lips deepening the kiss, his hand steady against your spine.
A soft sound escaped you when he pulled you into him, your robe shifting again, exposing a little more skin to the warm air of his room. He felt it. You knew he felt it.
He kissed you like this had been waiting in the walls, in the nightly check-ins, in the shared mornings and stupid arguments over milk and alarms.
Like he had been starving for it.
When he finally broke the kiss, it wasn’t long, just enough to look at you.
“You have no idea,” he said, voice rough, “how long I’ve wanted that.”
Your breath shook. “Then don’t stop.”
His lips curved, a slow smile that looked anything but calm.
“Oh,” he said, leaning in again smiling against your lips, “I’m not planning on it.”
The kiss didn’t stay gentle for long.
The moment he felt you pull him closer, something in him snapped, like he’d been holding himself back for a year and suddenly didn’t see the point anymore. His hand slid down your waist, gripping you with a certainty that made your breath hitch, and you didn’t even realize your legs had parted slightly to pull him in until he reacted to it.
The kiss turned deeper, hotter, your mouth opening under his, matching the urgency you’d both been swallowing for months. His hand tightened at your hip and before you even processed the shift in weight—
He was stronger than he looked. A soft gasp escaped you as he picked you up effortlessly, lips never fully leaving yours. The world tilted, and then your back hit the bed. You barely had time to catch your breath before he followed you down, caging you in with his body, his knees on either side of your thighs.
Your robe fanned out across the covers, falling open just enough to make heat pool low in your stomach. You grabbed at his shirt, grounding yourself, trying to calm your pulse, but it was useless, he looked down at you like he’d never seen anything more dangerous.
His palm slid up the mattress beside your head, keeping his balance as he hovered over you, chest rising and falling hard. His eyes traveled over you, your flushed cheeks, your parted lips, the robe barely staying closed— and his expression went dark with want.
“Wait,” he breathed, voice rough, like he was holding onto his last scrap of control. “I need to ask you something.”
You blinked up at him, heart hammering. “Yeah?”
He swallowed, gaze fixed on yours, not your body(even though you could see the effort it took).
“Do you really want this?” he murmured, low, honest, unfiltered. “Because if I keep going… I’m not stopping halfway.”
His hand came to your knee, bare where the robe had fallen open, his thumb brushing a slow line up your skin— not pushing, just asking. His face was close enough that his breath kissed your mouth with every word.
“I need to hear you say it,” he added softly. “Not because I don’t want you—God, I do—but because I’ve waited too long to screw this up now.”
His forehead dipped toward yours, barely touching, and every muscle in his arms was tense like he was holding himself back with sheer force.
“Tell me,” he whispered. “Should I keep going?”
Your answer wasn’t verbal at first, just a sharp inhale and a nod, your hands fisting in the fabric of his shirt like you needed him close or you’d float away. But then you found your voice.
Something in his expression changed at that.
His hand slid down to the tie of your robe, the motion slow and unhurried, like he was giving you every chance to stop him. He hooked one finger beneath the thick cord and tugged—once, gently— the knot already loose, robe parting a little more.
Still watching your face, he placed his palm lightly on your stomach, warm and steady, his thumb brushing the sensitive skin just above your navel. Then he eased the robe aside, snaking his palm up your body, just enough to expose your skin to the cool air and his heated gaze.
“You’re beautiful,” he murmured into your soft skin, and before you could react, his mouth was on you again.
Not at your lips this time.
He kissed your collarbone, soft first, then slower, more lingering. His lips trailed down the line of your chest, over the slope of your ribs, lower and lower as he followed the lean of your body. Every kiss burned, every inch he covered leaving your breath shorter and your thoughts scattered.
By the time he reached just above your stomach, you were already trembling.
He paused at your navel, his nose brushing the skin there, and lifted his eyes to yours.
The look he gave you could have unraveled every nerve in your body.
It said he wanted you. Completely.
And he wanted you to feel it.
His hands settled at your hips, fingers strong and possessive, and then he slid them under your thighs, guiding them apart just enough to pull you toward him. The movement was effortless, like he’d imagined doing it before and now finally got the chance to.
The robe shifted with your body, falling open completely, framing you against the sheets. Your heart thudded in your ears as he held you there, body lowered.
“You sure?” he asked again, his voice quieter now, like he needed your permission not just once, but constantly, until there was no room left for doubt.
But the answer was already written in how your hand slid into his messy brown hair, how your thighs tensed around his arms, how you looked back at him without flinching.
“Yes,” you breathed, barely above a whisper. “I want this, Bep.”
Between your legs, gaze never leaving yours, his lips curved— slow and hungry.
“Good.” He brought back his attention to the present he had on display in front of him. “I’m not holding back anymore.”
He spread your thighs wider, using the arms he had hooked under your thighs to keep you steady, gently kissing your clit.
His tongue traveled around your wet core, licking circles around your sensitive parts, making you shiver.
It’s like he knew exactly what you liked.
He pulled you closer towards his face as if he couldn’t get enough, picking up his pace, slipping two fingers into your wet entrance, pumping them in and out roughly.
“You taste so fucking good Y/N,” he groaned out, “such a pretty pussy.”
You moaned at his praise, legs tensing at his quickening speed. Your core clenching around his fingers, keeping your eyes shut as your hand pulled on his messy brown waves.
“I’m almost there, Bep..” you said in between breaths.
Keeping his brutal speed he said in between licks, “it’s okay, let go, I got you.”
A wave of pleasure washed over you, the release making your body stutter. He fucked you with his fingers through it, usually his thumb to continue stimulating your clit.
“I got you baby, just relax…” he whispered sweetly as you continued to ride out your blissful orgasm, “you were such a good girl, so wet– and so fucking delicious.”
Coming down from your high, you sat up on his bed looking at the wet mess below you, not to mention the glistening chin and mouth Bepsy was sporting.
He stood up, pulling his two fingers into his mouth to lick them clean, staring directly at you with pure lust in his eyes.
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ENDING WAS KINDA RUSHED HOPE U LIKED
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