⟡ summary: she knows you have a secret, but she doesn’t know what is it. she’s been begging for you to say it out, but you just can’t. (you have a crush on your best friend)
pairings [SEPARATE]: sevika x reader ;; ambessa x reader ;; grayson x reader ;; vi x reader ;; caitlyn x reader (all are afab.. all are your best friends)
warnings: best-friends-to-lovers ;; secret crush reveal ;; mutual pining ;; heavy smut ;; alcohol use ;; rough sex ;; explicit language ;; dom/sub undertones ;; begging ;; dirty talk ;; praise & degradation ;; strap play ;; fingering ;; oral ;; squirting ;; spanking ;; choking ;; biting ;; grinding ;; possessiveness ;; jealousy ;; overstimulation ;; edging ;; cockwarming ;; sex toys ;; hand over mouth ;; size kink ;; age gap ;; corruption kink ;; multiple orgasms ;; semi exhibitionism...
a/n: hiii besties this fic is basically a giant thirst project inspired by Need to Know by doja cat, but twisted into a best-friends-to-secret-crush theme with sevika, ambessa, grayson, vi, and caitlyn. each one gets their own section (separate ships, don’t worry! i know u guys cant handle them all, but i can!!).
this is 18+ only, heavy nsfw, and each character’s part comes with its own kinks:
basically, this is me going “what if i fucked all my best friends but they were insanely hot arcane women.” pls don’t judge 😭 enjoy!!
꒰ Sevika — Spank me, slap me, choke me, bite me. Uh, wait, I can take it
sevika’s your best friend, has been for years. the one you drink with, laugh with, the one you call when your world feels like it’s falling apart. she’s steady, constant, someone you can always count on —
except for the fact she has no clue what she does to you.
everyone else knows. everyone else has seen the way your eyes stick to her, the way your voice softens around her, the way you’d take a bullet if she asked. everyone knows your secret except her.
and that’s the problem. because now she’s looking at you with that stormy expression, jaw tight, eyes narrowed, like she’s finally caught on.
“you’ve been hiding something from me,” she mutters, dragging you back against the wall. her prosthetic clamps your wrist above your head, her other hand tilting your chin up. “you think i don’t notice? think you can just keep secrets from me?”
she doesn’t give you the chance to answer. her mouth is on yours, rough and punishing, teeth knocking against yours like she’s angry about it — angry you’ve been keeping her in the dark, angry she doesn’t already know. her tongue forces past your lips, and you gasp into her, the sound swallowed whole.
“don’t play dumb,” she growls, breaking the kiss just to bite down at your throat, sucking bruises deep into your skin. “you’ve got something to say? say it. or i’ll make you say it.”
her thigh slots between yours, pressing hard. when you grind down on her desperately and whimper, she chuckles low and dark.
“that’s what i thought.”
her hands are everywhere. tugging your shirt over your head, dragging her nails down your stomach, squeezing your tits until you whimper. the roughness is deliberate —she wants to punish you for holding back, but fuck it makes you burn.
her palm cracks against your ass, the sting sharp, making you moan.
“you like that? course you do. filthy little thing.”
another slap. then another. she bends you over the arm of the couch, hand wrapping in your hair to tug your head back while her other hand grips your hip. the first roll of her hips makes your breath stutter, she’s already grinding her strap against your soaked panties, slow and taunting.
“look at you. can’t even keep your secret when i’ve got you like this,” she says, nipping at your ear. “gonna fuck it out of you. every. last. word.”
her pace is brutal once she pushes in, thick strap stretching you open inch by inch. every thrust knocks the air from your lungs, every choke of breath sounding like a confession. she slaps your ass again just to hear you cry out.
“say it,” she snarls, one hand tightening around your throat as she pounds into you. “whatever you’re hiding. say it.”
you’re gasping, sobbing, clinging to her arm while she ruins you, her cock driving you into the couch cushions. she bites your shoulder, leaves marks down your back, and every time you start to mumble she fucks you harder until it’s nothing but broken sounds spilling out of you.
the aftercare? soft, almost jarring compared to the feral way she fucked you. she’s wiping sweat off your forehead, kissing your temple, holding you against her chest.
“still not gonna tell me?” she murmurs, almost teasing now.
and it’s in that hazy, warm safety you finally whisper it. the secret. the thing she was beating out of you the whole time.
꒰ Ambessa — I just can't help but be sexual, tell me your schedule
ambessa is your best friend. which, apparently, is hilarious to everyone else you know.
“why would you be friends with a grandma?” they’d laugh, nudging your ribs. “she’s a ceo, she doesn’t have time for you.”
but they don’t get it. they don’t see her the way you do. how magnetic she is, even when she’s quiet. how she walks into a room and makes the air bend toward her. how the weight of her gaze makes your stomach clench.
you met her in a library of all places — you were buried in a stack of books and doing homework, she was searching for some obscure military history text, and somehow you started talking. somehow, you never stopped.
what nobody was supposed to know was how badly you wanted her. how you’d stare too long at her hands when she turned a page, how you’d dream about what those hands could do to you. you told one person — your neighbour-friend — in a moment of weakness. and, of course, that one person told everyone.
which is how ambessa found out.
she calls you to her place one evening. her penthouse is immaculate: floor to ceiling windows, polished marble, the faint smell of wine and expensive perfume. she’s sitting there waiting, a glass of red in her hand, eyes sharp.
“i hear you’ve been telling secrets,” she says, her voice smooth as silk but carrying the weight of command. “care to explain?”
your mouth goes dry. you stammer something, some pathetic excuse, but she only chuckles — low and knowing.
“don’t bother lying. i know what they said.” she sets her glass down, rises to her full height, and steps into your space. towering over you, her presence alone enough to make your knees weak. “you’ve been burning for me. haven’t you?”
you can’t answer. not with words. your silence is all the answer she needs. her hand lifts, fingers curling beneath your chin to tilt your face up.
“say it,” she commands softly. “i want to hear you admit it.”
you choke on your words, whispering that yes, you want her. you’ve always wanted her. her smile is devastating.
when she kisses you, it’s unhurried. devastatingly slow, as if she’s savoring the taste of your desperation. her mouth moves against yours like she has all the time in the world, her tongue sliding in lazy strokes until you’re the one whimpering, trying to chase more.
“impatient little thing,” she hums against your lips. "you are very tempting you know."
her hands are large, steady, spanning your waist as though she owns it. when she strips you, it’s with elegance, peeling each piece of clothing away like unwrapping a gift. you’re trembling by the time she lays you back on her silk sheets, the city skyline glittering behind her like she planned the whole backdrop.
she takes her time exploring you. dragging her mouth down your throat, your chest, your stomach. teeth scraping, tongue soothing. she murmurs about how long she’s imagined this — the way you’d sound, the way you’d taste.
when she finally slides between your thighs, it’s ruinous. her mouth is slow at first, deliberate, licking broad strokes that make you arch off the bed. her hands pin you down easily when you start to buck.
“stay still,” she warns, her voice muffled against your soaked cunt. “let me have you.”
she eats you like she’s starving, like she’s waited too long and now she refuses to stop. every flick of her tongue, every swirl around your clit, has you gasping her name. she doesn’t just make you come once — she drags orgasm after orgasm out of you until you’re sobbing, thighs trembling.
when she finally pulls away, her mouth glistening, she smirks down at you.
“you’ll have to clear your schedule,” she says, wiping her lips with the back of her hand before kissing you again. “because i’m not finished with you. not for a very, very long time.”
and then she flips you over, presses you into the mattress, and takes you again.
afterwards, she holds you against her chest, stroking your hair while the city glows outside.
“no more secrets,” she murmurs. “understood?”
you nod, half asleep already, and she smiles against your hair.
꒰ Grayson — Your eyes told me, "Girl come ride me" Fuck that feeling both us fighting
grayson’s your best friend. the two of you bonded over shooting ranges, afternoons with earmuffs and safety goggles, laughing between the sharp cracks of gunfire. she’s the one who corrects your stance with a steady hand on your hip, the one who leans over your shoulder to guide your aim.
it’s easy. natural. the kind of friendship where silence never feels awkward, where she can read you with just a glance.
but what she doesn’t know — what no one knows — is that every time she touches you to adjust your grip, every time she leans close to murmur advice, your heart races like a live round in your chest.
and tonight, after another late session at the range, the weight of that secret is unbearable.
you’re packing up, sliding bullets back into their case, when you catch her watching you. her jacket’s slung over one shoulder, hair a little messy from pulling off her ear protection, eyes locked on you in a way that makes your breath hitch.
“you’ve been distracted lately,” she says, voice soft but firm. “missing shots you’d never miss.”
you laugh it off, try to dodge, but she doesn’t let up. she steps closer, close enough that you can smell the faint trace of her perfume under the gunpowder.
“i know that look,” she murmurs. “you think i haven’t noticed?”
before you can even ask what she means, her hand cups your jaw and she kisses you. not tentative — but sure, decisive, like she’s been holding herself back for too long.
it’s desperate after that. her mouth on yours, pulling you flush against her, your back hitting the lockers with a dull thud. she tastes like coffee and smoke, familiar but dizzying in a way that makes your knees weak.
her hands are all over you, calloused palms sliding beneath your shirt, thumbs brushing your ribs. when she finally pulls your top over your head, she pauses, eyes dark, chest heaving.
“fuck,” she mutters. “do you even know what you do to me?”
her mouth is back on you before you can answer, kissing down your throat, biting marks into your skin. she’s not rough, she’s hungry but controlled. every touch feels deliberate, every thrust of her tongue against yours calculated to unravel you.
when she gets you out of your jeans and onto the bench, she kneels between your thighs without hesitation. her lips close around your clit and your entire body jerks, a moan spilling before you can stop it.
“that’s it,” she breathes against you, tongue flicking, fingers slipping inside and curling just right. “let me hear it.”
she eats you out like she’s memorising every sound, every twitch, adjusting pressure until you’re clutching at her hair, thighs trembling around her head. when you come, it’s sharp and overwhelming, pulled out of you by her steady insistence.
but she doesn’t stop. not until you’re whining, overstimulated, and she finally relents — only to strip down herself, climb onto the bench, and guide you into her lap.
“ride me,” she whispers, eyes locked with yours. “i want to feel you lose it on me.”
her strap is thick, stretching you open, and the angle has you seeing stars. her hands hold your hips, guiding your movements, but she lets you take control, lets you grind and bounce until you’re panting her name against her shoulder.
the sound of skin slapping echoes in the empty range, your moans muffled against her neck. her mouth finds your ear, murmuring praise between clenched teeth:
“so fucking perfect on my cock. look at you. taking me so well.”
you come again like that, shaking apart in her lap, and she kisses you through it, swallowing every broken sound.
꒰ Vi — Eat it 'til I need to change my thong. We could do it to your favourite song
vi’s your best friend. she’s the one who makes you laugh until your stomach hurts, the one who’d throw punches for you, the one you can trust with anything… except the one thing you’ve never said out loud. the secret you’ve kept tucked under your tongue for years.
and now her head is between your thighs, and you’re not sure how long you can keep it hidden.
she’s grinning up at you, hair messy, eyes sparkling mischief even as her tongue drags a long, lazy stripe up your cunt.
“god, you’re soaked,” she snickers, lips brushing your clit. “what, you been waiting for this? all this time?”
your fingers are in her hair, tugging, trying to pull her closer, but she slaps your thigh lightly.
“nah, let me take my time. gonna ruin these cute little panties of yours.”
she pulls them aside with her teeth, bites the waistband just to make you squirm. then her mouth is on you, sloppy and greedy, tongue flicking, sucking, groaning like she can’t get enough. the sounds are obscene — wet, messy, filling the room with your gasps and her muffled hums.
when she slips two fingers inside, you choke on her name.
“yeah, that’s it,” she drawls, curling them just right. “fuckin’ tight. squeezing me like you’re made for it.”
she works you open, thumb circling your clit, tongue flicking in time, until your legs are shaking.
“don’t hold back,” she teases, pulling back just enough to talk against your skin. “i wanna hear you. wanna hear you lose it for me.”
and you do. you come hard, thighs clamping around her head, her laugh muffled against you.
but vi’s not done. not even close. she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, grinning like a devil, and pulls out her strap from her bag like she’s been waiting for this moment.
“surprise,” she smirks, strapping it on quick and snapping the waistband against her hips. “you thought i didn’t bring backup?”
she flips you onto your stomach, spanks your ass once just to hear you yelp, then pushes in — deep, hard, stretching you with no warning.
“fuck, look at that,” she groans, hands gripping your waist as she pounds into you. “taking me so well, babe. bet you’ve thought about this, huh? all those nights we were ‘just hanging out.’”
her pace is ruthless, hips slamming into yours, strap hitting that perfect spot until you’re screaming into the pillow. she doesn’t let up, fucking you through it, spitting in your mouth when she flips you over and presses down into you.
your thong is bunched around your thigh, and she tugs it higher, smirking.
“cute. might make you wear it every time we fuck. markin’ it up with my spit, my cum. my little secret, yeah?”
꒰ Caitlyn — Clink with the drink, gimme a sip.Tell me what's your kink, gimme the dick
caitlyn is your best friend. always has been. she’s the kind of friend who keeps you grounded, who knows when to pull you out of trouble, who makes even the dullest nights feel like a private secret.
but what she doesn’t know, what you’ve never had the nerve to admit, is that half the time you spend at her side, you’re thinking about kissing her instead of laughing with her.
tonight, you’re in her mansion, the two of you tipsy off expensive wine. the lights are dim, the fire’s low, and everything feels a little softer, a little more dangerous.
she hands you another glass, her fingers brushing yours deliberately slow.
“careful,” she says, voice low and warm. “it’s stronger than it tastes.”
you laugh, take a sip, but her eyes never leave your mouth. she tilts her glass toward you, a gentle clink echoing in the quiet room, and for a moment it feels less like a toast and more like a challenge.
the silence stretches, heavy, charged. she leans in just a little closer, her perfume curling in your nose, her lips parting as if she’s about to say something. instead, she kisses you.
it starts soft, testing, almost hesitant ,but the moment you respond, she deepens it. her hand slides along your jaw, thumb pressing beneath your chin as she tilts your head just so. her tongue strokes yours, slow, unhurried, wine-sweet and intoxicating. she pulls back just enough to study your face, eyes dark with intent.
“you’ve been hiding something from me,” she murmurs. not a question. not an accusation. a statement of fact.
her hand drifts lower, skimming down your neck, your chest, until her fingers are teasing the hem of your shirt.
“shall we play a little game?” she says, and before you can answer, she’s tugging your top over your head, laying you back against the velvet couch like she’s arranging something precious.
she takes her time undressing you, savoring every reaction, every little intake of breath. her lips follow her hands, leaving kisses and nips down your throat, across your chest, along your stomach.
“you’re trembling,” she whispers against your skin. “what is it you’re not telling me?”
her fingers find their way beneath your underwear, stroking you slow, teasing, just enough to make your hips rise.
when she slides two fingers inside, you gasp, clinging to her wrist. she smirks, curling them just right, her thumb brushing over your clit in steady circles.
“there,” she breathes. “feels good, doesn’t it? i want every sound. don’t hold back.”
you moan, head tilting back, and she kisses you again, swallowing your cries as she works you closer, closer, until you’re coming apart under her hand.
but she’s not finished.
she strips herself down, elegant even in her haste, and slips on a strap — sleek leather, polished, clearly something she’s used before. she eases you onto your back, positioning herself between your thighs, her eyes never leaving yours as she pushes in.
the stretch makes you gasp, nails digging into her shoulders.
“that’s it,” she whispers, voice velvet and heat. “take me. show me everything you’ve been holding back.”
her pace is controlled at first, steady, measured thrusts that have you moaning into the crook of her neck. but as you start to beg, to plead, her composure cracks — she fucks you harder, deeper, every movement calculated to wring you out.
her hand slips between your thighs, rubbing tight circles against your clit as the strap drives into you, and you unravel again, crying out her name, nails scratching down her back.
after, she gathers you into her arms, pulling a blanket over your trembling body. she presses a kiss to your temple, her breath warm against your skin.
“you don’t need to tell me,” she says softly. “i already know.”
and somehow, that’s worse — because she does know. she’s always known.
