Real Close
Caitlin Clark x UConn!Fem!Reader
MASTERLIST | MORE
Summary: It’s winter break. Everyone knows you and Caitlin are best—inseparable since high school, always teasing, always close. But no one really knows. ( I don’t support cheating but I do love the trope…?)
Word Count:~ 1.8k
Genre:Slow burn, smut, best-friends-to-secret-lovers, lazy intimacy, deep craving
Warnings: SMUT. Explicit sexual content, soft dom!Caitlin, possessiveness, strong language, secret relationship
It’s quiet in her apartment except for the faint hum of her fridge and Caitlin’s voice on the phone.
You’re sitting on one of the barstools at her kitchen island, your chin resting on your hand, elbow pressed into the granite. Hoodie sleeves pushed up, legs swinging slightly like you’ve been here too many times to care how you look.
She’s on the other side of the island, barefoot in soft black shorts and a worn gray tee that used to be yours. Her hair’s up in a claw clip, a few golden strands slipping loose around her temples. She smells like coconut lotion and morning—like she woke up late and didn’t care because you were already here.
“Mhm,” she mumbles into the phone, spoon in one hand, cradling a fruit bowl like it’s an afterthought. Strawberries. Blueberries. Mango. Pineapple. You can’t tell who’s on the other end. Maybe her manager. Maybe the boyfriend.
Doesn’t really matter.
You’re not listening. Just watching. The way she always leans on the counter with her hip when she gets distracted. The way her eyes flick to you when she thinks you’re not paying attention.
She’s been feeding you pieces of fruit between sentences, like it’s casual, like it’s something y’all do. And maybe it is. She scoops up a strawberry, nudges your lips with the spoon. You part them without thinking, eyes on hers. She smiles like you’re predictable.
She doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t have to. You chew slow. She watches. Another strawberry. Another glance. A blueberry this time. Then a slice of pineapple.
You hesitate. Her brow quirks.
She knows you don’t like pineapple. You’ve said it a hundred times. The acid. The weird fuzz it leaves on your tongue. She holds it out anyway, like she’s testing you. Still on the phone, still pretending this isn’t a game. The tip of the spoon brushes your lip.
You scrunch your nose. She taps your mouth again, gently. You sigh, lean forward, and take it. It’s still nasty.
But it tastes like her. Or maybe it tastes like the spoon she licked before giving it to you. You’re not sure. Either way, she watches you chew it, then smiles, slow and smug, and finishes the rest of it off the same spoon—your bite, her mouth.
Your stomach tightens a little. You don’t show it.
She leans forward as she walks past, like she’s going to grab something behind you, but instead—without warning—she leans in and presses her lips to yours. Soft. Quick. Barely a kiss, more like a pass-by. But it’s warm. And sweet. And familiar. And worse, she doesn’t even pause after it. Just keeps walking. Back to the fridge. Still on the phone.
You stare at her, half-lidded, unimpressed. She’s smirking now. Not at the person on the line. At you.
You roll your eyes and push off the stool, too lazy to fight her games this early. “You’re annoying,” you mumble, already walking toward her couch.
She doesn’t respond. But her eyes follow you.
You throw yourself down face-first, sprawling on the soft cushions. The hoodie rides up your back, revealing the curve of your waist and a glimpse of your sports bra. You feel her looking again. You feel it like heat on your skin.
You flip your head to the side and peek over at her through your lashes.
She’s leaning on the counter again, one hip cocked, bowl still in hand, phone tucked between her shoulder and cheek. Her voice has dropped. Quieter. More distracted.
Whoever she’s talking to doesn’t know she’s not really listening anymore.
You tug the hem of the hoodie back down lazily and prop your chin on your arms. You let your eyes flutter closed. She thinks you’re dozing. But you’re just listening now. Not to the call. To her silence between words. The little sighs. The sound of her peeling another orange slice.
She walks over a minute later, standing over you with something cupped in her hand. You peek up, brow raised. She holds out another piece of pineapple.
You blink. “You’re sick.”
She smiles. “Try it again.”
“No.”
“Please?” Her voice is quieter now. The call’s over. You didn’t even notice.
You groan and shift onto your back, eyeing the fruit like it insulted your mother. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”
“I know.” She kneels beside the couch, resting her elbow on the cushion near your ribs, the other hand still holding out the pineapple like a peace offering. “One bite. For me.”
You take it from her fingers this time. Not the spoon. Her fingers. You let your tongue brush against them, slow. Not obvious. But not shy either. She doesn’t pull away.
You chew. Swallow. Lick your lips dramatically. “Still nasty.”
She grins. Leans in. This time the kiss lingers.
Just for a second. Just long enough to make you feel it in your stomach. Her hand rests on your hip. She pulls back, eyes heavy.
“It tasted better on you,” she says.
You scoff, turning your face into the pillow to hide your smile. “You’re gonna get us both in trouble.”
Her voice is low. “Then stop letting me kiss you.”
You don’t respond. Because you never do.
Instead, you stay on the couch, half on your stomach now, still warm from her touch, listening to her rinse the bowl, humming some song you both know. And when she walks past again, this time heading to her room, her fingers trail down your back without a word.
You shiver. And smile. Because you were here first.
And she’s still tasting you. Right in front of everybody.
You feel her come back before you hear her.
The weight of Caitlin’s presence has always arrived first—louder than footsteps, heavier than sound. You could be blindfolded and still feel her near. And this time, she doesn’t just sit next to you.
She climbs over you.
Your body shifts slightly with the motion, but she keeps most of her weight balanced as she straddles the backs of your thighs, easing down until her chest rests flush against your hoodie-covered back. One arm slides beneath you. Her cheek brushes your shoulder blade as she exhales softly, like this—right here—is peace.
You pause the scroll on your phone, thumb hovering.
“You’re heavy,” you mutter.
“You’re comfy,” she counters, voice warm and low.
She smells like coconut and the faint salt of leftover pineapple on her breath. You feel her nose nudge lightly into the side of your neck as she settles, like she’s finding her place. You adjust slightly beneath her, but there’s nowhere to go. Not with the length of her body blanketing yours. Not with her arms snug around your middle.
You’re trapped. Sweetly. Silently. Entirely.
“Your screen’s cracked,” she mumbles into your hoodie.
“It’s been cracked.”
“Mhm.” She doesn’t care. Her fingers start tracing over your stomach again, absently at first. “What’s this? Instagram?”
You hum, chin resting on your forearm. “Twitter. Someone posted a video of Paige slipping in practice.”
Caitlin laughs against your back. It vibrates through you. She doesn’t lift her head, just mumbles, “Send it.”
You don’t move. Because she hasn’t let you. Her hand dips lower.
At first, it’s soft. Familiar. Just her pinky brushing the curve of your hip. Her thumb tracing up the line of your rib under your hoodie. You’ve laid like this before—close, limbs tangled, soft breaths shared—but it’s different now. It’s quieter. Hungrier. Still pretending not to be.
She kisses your neck once. Then again. A third time—lower. Slower. Wet. You stiffen slightly.
She shifts her hips to follow, adjusting her body so her center presses right against your ass. Her thighs cage yours. Her breath turns warm.
You exhale. “Cait…”
Her hand slides down your stomach. She takes her time, palm smoothing over your skin like she’s touching a song only she knows the lyrics to. You don’t stop her. You just lift your hips slightly, soft and subtle, enough to let her hand dip deeper between your legs.
She hums. That sound again. Like approval.
“Just wanna hear you whimper a little,” she whispers against your ear. “That’s all.”
Your body tenses, thighs twitching, but there’s nowhere to go. Her weight keeps you still. Her voice makes you stay.
“Caitlin—”
“Just… let me…” Her lips brush your ear. “Please.”
You nod, barely, once. She slides her hand under your shorts. Then everything slows.
She rubs you soft at first. Barely-there pressure, teasing. Her fingers move slow, tracing your slit over your underwear, warming you through the fabric. It’s maddening—the way she takes her time, the way her breathing gets deeper the wetter you get. She’s mouthing at your neck now, open lips, tongue flicking gently where your pulse jumps.
Your phone slips from your hand and hits the couch cushion with a dull thud.
“Good,” she murmurs. “Don’t need distractions.”
You melt into the couch, head turning, trying to catch her eyes—but her hand pushes your hip gently, firmly, back down.
“Don’t move.” It’s a whisper. A warning. A plea.
Then she’s touching your clit, real now. Rubbing slow circles that make your hips roll, even though you’re doing everything you can to stay still. Her other arm tightens under you, palm sliding up your chest, fingers curling just below your bra like she needs to anchor herself.
Like she needs you to feel how deep this is for her. You whimper.
It slips out before you can stop it—half sigh, half moan—and she groans into your neck, like your pleasure is her reward. She presses her hips into yours from behind, grinding once, slow and firm, fingers never stopping.
“I knew it,” she says, voice almost smug. “You always go quiet when I touch you like this.”
You can’t speak. Your mouth is open but nothing’s coming out.
And then—buzz buzz. Her phone. On the table. You turn your head slowly, eyes hazy.
C*nn*r. It lights up again. Buzz buzz.
Caitlin just smiles against your cheek. Her fingers move a little faster. You buck in her lap, moaning, body tense and shaking. Her hand over your stomach keeps you pinned. The other works you through it, stroking you into the edge until your thighs clamp and your toes curl and—
“Fuck,” you cry, soft and desperate.
“That’s it,” she whispers, kissing the shell of your ear as you come, her voice all praise and honey. “That’s what I wanted.”
She kisses you lazily while your breath catches—tongue gentle, lips slick, like she’s drawing the last of it out.
When you’re too tired to move, she sucks her fingers into her mouth like it’s routine. Then—she kisses you again. Real slow.
Lets you taste yourself on her tongue. Your eyes flutter. Your lips twitch. She smirks.
“Wanna order pizza?” she says, grabbing the remote like nothing happened.
You don’t answer. You’re still trying to remember how to breathe.
@letsnowtalk @draculara-vonvamp @kcannon-1436-blog @let-zizi-yap @perksofbeingatrex @soapyonaropey @julieluvspb @non3ofurbusiness @kcannon-1436-blog @kaliblazin @liloandstitchstan @footy-lover264 @yorubagirlsworld @daffodil-darlings @h4untedghOul @followthesvn @hibiscusblu @sevikasleftbicep @swiftie4evr @babyphatbrat @sivensblog @beeop223 @huntedghOul @tpwkrosalinda @lightsgore @em-nems @salemsuccss @villain-ryuk @ihrtsarahstrOng @liyahh037 @sillystarv @somedetailsinthefabric @essence-134340 @mochelisgf @soph1asticated @heheievidbri @unvswrld @breezybellab @planet-ghoulborne @art-ofmusic @toorealrai
