fizzie | twenties. march aries. moon child, star girl. lovebird. drew starkey and rafe cameron mdni
⋆.˚☁️⋆ masterlist notif blog ⋆☁️˚.⋆
⟡ i am a corporate girlie working a 9-5 so fics will come out whenever i’m able to!
⟡ please respect that this is a strictly 18+ page due to the sheer amount of explicit content. I understand that while I am not able to control who consumes my content, I am not responsible either.
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summary: after speaking to your third grade class and seeing you interact with them, garrett finds himself yearning for a future like that with you
content warning: n/a, just fluff
w/c: 1.6K
a/n: @missladypumpernickel sent this concept which is so swoon-worthy. i hope i brought your vision to life properly!
It was the same Friday afternoon it’d always had been in room 204, the late-afternoon sun filtering through the tall, wire-meshed windows in long, dusty beams that cast across the floor. The air carried the heavy, familiar scent of whiteboard markers, the faint, sweet trace of the vanilla hand lotion that you kept on your desk, and children’s chatter that could never come to a stop, no matter how much they tried. Cardboard cutouts of the solar system dangled from the ceiling tiles, swaying slightly in the breeze of the humming classroom fan.
It was a stark contrast to the sterile, predatory environment of the skating rink, one that Garrett had become accustomed to, and even more so, one that he’d learned to love. As he leaned against the doorway, watching you speak in a soft voice and make animated hand movements, he revelled in seeing you do what you did best: connect with your students. He’d probably continue to watch you with starry eyes if you hadn’t snapped him out of the trance he was in.
“I know everyone’s super excited to go home for the weekend, but I want you to sit tight for just one last thing before we head out for the day.” You held a hand towards Garrett’s direction, gesturing for him to come in. He didn’t just walk into the room; he practically filled the entire entryway, wearing a sharp grey Henley that showed the ridges and curves of his shoulders, and a backward hockey cap.
The moment the twenty-four third graders realized exactly who was standing there, a collective, high-pitched gasp echoed off the posters that lined the walls. You softly laughed at the way Garrett’s cheeks turned red from the attention he was receiving from the students as they marvelled at him.
"No way," Leo whispered, his tiny jaw dropping as he stared up from a desk cluttered with papers strewn across the surface. "That's... that's… you!"
You stood by your desk, trying (and failing) to hide the massive grin on your face. "Class, settle down. We have to remember our manners, m’kay? As a special treat for finishing your reading units, we have a guest speaker today."
Garrett smirked, tossing a casual wave to the room, though his stomach did a strange, unfamiliar flip. He was used to a sold-out arena, fans screaming his name in a packed stadium, not feeling the pressure of everyone’s expectation when he’s on the ice. But the intense, wide-eyed scrutiny of twenty-four eight-year-olds felt entirely different—it was terrifying. "Hey, guys."
Instantly, two dozen hands shot into the air like rockets, their little fingers with slight stains from washable markers waving up high. You pointed to Maya in the front row, who was practically vibrating out of her chair.
“Miss!” Maya squealed, looking between you and Garrett with widened, eager eyes, “How did you get him here?” You leaned back against your desk, crossing your arms, and shot Garrett a playful, teasing look. “Oh, you know, I called in a favour from a friend.”
Garrett let out a low chuckle as a collective, teasing ooh went through the room, his grey eyes locked onto yours, glimmering with amusement. The tight, protective knot that usually sat in his chest during a high-stakes playoff run instantly dissolved.
"I’m glad she did," Garrett agreed, walking over to stand right next to you. He casually leaned his hip against the edge of your desk, close enough that his arm brushed yours, grounding him. "She's very persuasive, guys. I didn't stand a chance."
For the next forty-five minutes, Garrett was completely at the mercy of the class, and to your amazement, the same man who was lethal and ruthless on the ice was the one who’d naturally gotten along with your class, despite his frets last night. He answered questions about his training routine, what it felt like to lift the cup, and patiently explained for the hundredth time that, no, he couldn't body-check anyone in the classroom.
But what made your throat tighten with unexpected emotion was the sheer gentleness he showed them. When a shy little girl in the back mumbled her question, Garrett didn't rush her. He got up from your desk, walked over, and awkwardly dropped his massive, six-foot-two frame onto a tiny plastic chair across from her. He rested his elbows on his knees, listening with total, undivided attention. When Leo proudly showed off a drawing of a hockey stick doing a trick, Garrett took the crinkled paper, examined it with absolute seriousness, and told him his technique was perfect.
Watching him, a sudden, violent tug pulled at Garrett’s heart. He looked at you, standing by the whiteboard, laughing at a joke a student made, the golden afternoon light catching the strands of your hair. He saw the amount of unconditional love and pride you held in your eyes as you looked at your students, and something fundamental shifted inside him.
He had always known he wanted a family eventually. The way he could rewrite the concept of family, a chaotic house of chasing his kids to get them to eat breakfast, or seeing tiny jerseys with GRAHAM slapped across the back as they stumbled into an arena to watch him play. But it had always been a distant concept—another thing to check off the bucket list.
Seeing you in your element, surrounded by a love you had cultivated out of pure patience and warmth, made the future hit him like a physical wave. He didn't just want a family someday; he wanted it with you one day. He yearned to see your warmth directed at a little person who had his eyes and your laugh. It went from a distant dream to a desperate, burning necessity in his chest that felt warmer than standing in the sunlight on a humid day.
When the bell finally rang, the kids practically groaned, dragging their feet as they packed their backpacks and shouted their goodbyes into the echoing hallway. "Thanks, Mr. Graham!" Leo yelled on his way out. "Can you come every day?"
Graham exhaled a laugh, patting him on the back, “I wish I could, buddy, I got a championship to win.”
"Have a good weekend, Leo," you softly called back, head tilted as he turned around the corner out towards the exit. Once the door clicked shut and the room fell into a quiet stillness, leaving only the sound of a distant lawnmower outside and the ticking of the wall clock, you let out a long breath.
"Well, Mr. Graham," you said, turning to him. "You have officially survived third grade."
Garrett didn't answer right away. He was standing by the window, watching the kids spill out onto the pavement below, but his mind was entirely fixed on the quiet hum of the room. When he finally turned around, his usual sarcastic smirk was completely missing. His expression was raw, intense, and fiercely focused entirely on you.
"Garrett?" You walked closer, your brows furrowing as your sneakers squeaked softly on the linoleum. "Hey, you okay? They didn't tire you out too much, did they?"
"They were great," he said, his voice dropping an octave, losing its usual playful edge. He stepped away from the window, closing the distance between you until he was standing right in front of you. He reached out, his large, calloused hands settling firmly on your waist, pulling you flush against his chest. He needed to feel the physical reality of you to anchor the recurring thoughts racing through his head. "But you... baby, you're incredible."
"I didn't do anything," you murmured, your heart rate kicking up at the sheer heat in his gaze. "You did all the work."
"Watching you with them," Garrett continued, ignoring your protest. He leaned down, resting his forehead against yours, his breath warm on your skin. "Hearing them feel so comfortable talking to you, even the patience you had with them. Seeing the way you look when you're in this room... is it so bad that I want to see that every day?"
"Yeah?" you whispered, your hands finding their familiar place on his chest, feeling the steady, heavy thud of his heart.
"Yeah." He swallowed hard, his grip tightening just a fraction around your waist. "I’ve always thought about the future, you know? But after today? I can’t help but want it to happen faster. With you. I want a house full of loud, chaotic kids who have your laugh and your eyes."
Your breath hitched, a sudden rush of warmth flooding your entire body. For a man who so often hid his deepest feelings behind sarcasm and charm, Garrett was laying his soul completely bare in the middle of a third-grade classroom.
"Our kids?" you asked, a soft, breathless smile breaking across your face.
"Our kids," Garrett confirmed, a soft, vulnerable smile finally touching his lips. "Miniature versions of you driving me crazy. Though, I'm telling you right now, I'm the one teaching them how to skate. I know you're going to try to put them in figure skates or somethin’, but it's not happening on my watch."
A delighted laugh bubbled out of you, the sudden emotional weight lifting into something sweet and real. "Excuse you, figure skaters have superior edge work, Graham."
"Don't care. Hockey rules in our house," he teased, but the humour quickly softened back into that unwavering adoration. He leaned down, his lips brushing yours once, twice, before lingering in a deep, promise-filled kiss that tasted like he was pouring every promise of the future into it, one that felt like a preview of all the kisses he’d envisioned for the future. As he pulled back, his eyes were shining in the fading afternoon light. "So... I didn’t scare you off, did I?"
You smiled up at him, wrapping your arms securely around his neck, the quiet classroom fading into the background. "Not a chance, Graham. I’ve seen you on the ice, yet here I am."
"Good," Garrett murmured, kissing your forehead. "Because I’m not going anywhere now."
Hi babe! Not sure if you’re taking requests, but I figured I’d shoot my shot. I’d be interesting to see actor Drew meet the reader who’s a regular corporate gal with a big girl job (not in the acting or content creating space), but they met through friends of friends and hit it off. It’d be cool to read a fic where Drew is Drew and not a slight variation of Rafe, if that makes sense; quirky/goofy, soft spoken, intentional, etc. vs too outspoken, impulsive, and short-fused. Specifically, a slow burn meet-cute and the evolution of how they realize they are doomed to fall in love and how they make space and hold space for each other in their busy lives. Strangers to friends to best friends to lovers?
Feel free to disregard if this is not a fic you envision yourself writing BTW!! Love all your works regardless
somewhere between here and there
friends to lovers!drew starkey x reader
content warnings: slow burn, you're an accountant :)
w/c: 4.6K
a/n: this might feel self indulgent bc i work in accounting BUT this was lovely to receive bc it reminded me of my series "the morning after cafe", anywho i truly hope you like it, nonnie! and that officially wraps up my one-year celebration! :D
in part of my one year celebration!
The music at the party was loud enough to vibrate through the soles of your shoes, a steady, thumping bass that felt more like a physical force that vibrated deep in your chest. The air in the apartment, crowded by almost anyone and everyone your socialite of a friend knew, was thick with the competing scents of cheap cologne, spilled beer, and the inevitable humidity of too many bodies packed into one place, masking everyone’s underlying dread that they could only live now before they got back to their routines that were more depressing than not.
It was the exact type of environment that usually would have had you checking your watch and calculating how early you could pull your signature Irish goodbye without being rude or offending your friend, Lana, who was hosting the party. But then, you bumped into him by the kitchen island, sticky with spilled mixed drinks and illuminated by the harsh glow of an overhead fluorescent bulb.
“Oh, sorry!" A soft-spoken, slightly raspy voice murmured. You turned around to find yourself facing a guy with a slightly crooked baseball cap and a warm, immediate grin, glancing down at the red cup in his hand. "Was tryin' really hard not to spill whatever this is."
You looked at the murky liquid. “Yeah, I can’t blame you. It looks radioactive.”
A laugh escaped him before he could stop it. "Yeah, I wasn't gonna say it, but... I don't think anyone knows what's actually in here."
You smiled despite yourself, chuckling before adding, “Yeah, I guess that’s Lana for you.”
"I'm Drew, by the way." He offered, before you smiled and introduced yourself as well.
"Nice to meet you." Drew shifted his weight awkwardly, adjusting the slightly crooked baseball cap on his head. There was a beat where it looked like he might walk away, making you think of all the ways you could find a way out and forget the interaction all together, even though he’d piqued your interest, before he glanced back at the cup, "I think somebody mixed, like, six different drinks together."
"And you're still drinking it?"
"Yeah, well, now I'm committed."
“No way,” you stepped closer to him, not feeling as uncomfortable as you entered his space, “I have to try this.”
Drew handed you his cup, your fingers brushing each other as you wrapped yours around the cup. Raising the cup, you could feel the weight of his gaze as he watched you drink the same substance, smirking as your face contorted to confusion.
“That’s like, four completely different drinks fighting each other,” you said, lowering the cup.
Drew laughed, taking it back. “Right?”
“There’s definitely orange juice in there.”
“Yeah.”
“And something coconut.”
“Okay, see, I didn't get coconut.”
“There is. I swear.”
He took another sip, considering it seriously for a moment before shrugging. “Maybe. Honestly, I think we're giving this way more thought than whoever made it.”
You laughed, trying to ignore the warming feeling you had blossoming inside, “Who even made it?”
Drew looked around the crowded living room. “Good question.” For a second, both of you scanned the room as if the answer might magically appear, before he concluded, “No idea.”
“Thank you, Drew,” you nodded sarcastically, as Drew couldn’t help but feel a little spark of excitement as you said his name, “That's reassuring.”
“Yeah, we're basically test subjects for how to get blackout drunk quickly.”
The conversation should've ended there. At least, that's what usually happened at parties. A quick exchange, a polite laugh, then both people drifted off in opposite directions. Instead, neither of you moved. A group of people squeezed past, forcing you both a little closer to the wall. Drew shifted beside you, one shoulder brushing yours briefly, leaving your skin burning. As you talked, the chaotic noise of the party seemed to lose its edge. Drew shifted his weight from foot to foot, waving his hands with a quirky, uncoordinated enthusiasm whenever he got excited. There was a total absence of Hollywood pretension in his demeanour.
“So,” he said, adjusting the brim of his cap as he laughed wholeheartedly. “You’re telling me some crackhead, who looked like Santa on Ozempic, chased you on his wheelchair at Union Station?”
“Yes! Listen,” you exclaimed, eyes widening to match his expression as he watched you, “anything can happen in New York, there’s no way I could make this up out of thin air.”
"Okay, okay," he teased, his voice intentional and soft. "I believe you, Ethan Hunt."
Inside, you felt the exhausting social anxiety you'd been nursing all evening melt away. For Drew, looking down at you, a quiet fascination taking root. He was captivated by your quick wit and the grounded, unpretentious way you carried yourself as you continued your conversation, surprised that he’d managed to find something fun when he’d solely shown up out of formality of being invited.
But when you accidentally checked the time on your phone, you gasped. "Shit, it’s so late. I’m so sorry, I have to go!" You called out over the music. "It was really great meeting you, Drew!"
“It was nice meeting you, too,” he called back, offering a soft smile. It wasn’t until you were sitting in the quiet chill of the Uber, staring at your blank lock screen, that a cold weight dropped into your stomach.
You forgot to get his number.
For the next week, that heavy feeling morphed into a frustrating ache that swung between self-recrimination and the thought that you’d never get to see Drew again. You didn't even know his last name, just the memory of his laugh echoing in your mind while you stared mindlessly at spreadsheets at your desk at work. It wasn’t until that one Sunday afternoon when you’d decided to treat yourself to your favourite self-care ritual.
You were seeking refuge in your absolute favourite vintage bookstore downtown, the one that you’d found on a whim when you first moved to the area. The environment here was a quiet, dusty sanctuary that smelled heavily of vanilla, old paper, and aged leather bindings. The only sound was the faint creak of floorboards and the muted patter of a light rain against the front window.
"No way, it’s you." The murmur came from right beside you in the fiction section. You turned, your heart doing a sudden, violent flip. There he was, dressed in an oversized, faded green sweater covered by a vintage leather jacket, holding a tattered copy of a classic novel. The grin that spread across his face was instant.
"Drew," you breathed, a massive wave of relief washing over you as you watched him take a few strides towards you. "I thought I completely ruined my chances of ever seeing you again. I felt like such an idiot walking out like that."
“You? An idiot? Please,” he admitted, a faint, endearing flush creeping up his neck as he rubbed the back of his head with a self-deprecating laugh. “Honestly, I was way worse. I got back to my apartment and was like, 'Man, you're such a dumbass.'” He shook his head. “For real, I was annoyed at myself for, like, a week." He felt an exhilarating surge of adrenaline, a silent confirmation that the intense pull he’d felt at the party wasn't just in his head.
“God, no.” Glancing down, you take note of the novel in his hands again, “Never took you up for a guy who knows this place, it’s so niche.”
“Aw man, I love Seekers.” He looked around, the admiration for the dainty shop clear in his eyes. “It was one of the first places I’d come by when I first moved out here.”
“Got any recs?” You motioned towards the copy in his hands, clearly different to the romantasy books you usually picked up. He chuckled, taking in the little frays in the bind of the book he held, before he looked up at you with a soft look in his eyes, “How much time do you have?”
Drew’s apartment was exactly how you’d anticipated it be, a physical extension of his mind—warm, comforting, and slightly cluttered with towering stacks of books and scattered scripts, the air smelled of the remnants of a cedar-bergamot candle that still clung in the atmosphere and coffee grounds. You ended up finding your self sitting cross-legged across from Drew on his plush living room floor, the once bright-grey sky now deepening to a dark ashy twilight outside the window.
“So, Mister Big-Shot Actor,” you said, swirling the last of your drip coffee that he’d made for you, “Is Hollywood as glamorous as everyone thinks?”
Drew let out a soft snort, shaking his head. "Not even close. Most of the time it’s just sitting in a damp trailer for twelve hours eating stale pretzels, tryin’ to remember how to cry on command.”
He paused, deep in thought but oddly still at comfort with explaining the the reality of it all. “It’s weird, and it’s sweaty, but... I don't know. When a scene clicks and you know you did it exactly how you read it in the script, it’s the best feeling." His voice dropped an octave, filled with a quiet, humble passion that made your chest ache with admiration.
“For someone who’s on camera, you’re oddly everything but what I imagined,” You confessed. “Like, incredibly humble for someone who’s probably got people lining up for him.”
“Nah don’t even—that still boggles my mind.” Drew retorted, the two of you chucking when suddenly, you glanced at the vintage clock ticking on his wall and gasped. "Oh my god, it’s past nine. I have to go. I have an early start at the office tomorrow."
"Let me drive you," Drew said immediately, his keys already jingling in his hand.
You sighed, rubbing your temples. "You don't have to do that, I’d hate to impose anyway. My car broke down last week and it’s stuck in the shop for another week, so I’m at the mercy of the city transit system.” As you collected your bag, you continued, mentally thinking of how you could make up for all the sleep you’d lose by the time you got home, “Just the way to lose half your paycheque after all the 401K and tax deductions, huh? I’ll just catch the bus.”
Drew blinked, a soft, incredibly amused smile tugging at his lips before his expression turned firm and intentional. "Woah, woah, absolutely not. You are not taking some cold bus this late.”
"Drew, you don't have to—"
"I want to," he interrupted softly, his eyes locking onto yours with total sincerity. If you hadn’t scolded yourself over the giddy warmth you felt over that, you certainly were now.
As soon as he pulled up to the front of your building, the dread of your time together coming close to an end, Drew spoke up, "Tomorrow. 7:30 AM. Be ready."
“Huh,” Confused, you looked at him to try and see if he was joking, except Drew still seemed dead-serious. “Why?”
“I’m picking you up and driving you to work. No arguments."
“But—”
“Aye, no buts. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
It was supposed to be a one-time favour, but soon evolved into your favourite morning ritual, a shared universe that was built in the enclosed space of his car. As he promised, he’d shown up to your building every single day, at 7:30 AM sharp. Inside, the air conditioning would be humming, while a small container of chia seed pudding had in a cup holder.
“Something about fibre? I don’t know but seems like you’d need it.” He explained teasingly the first time, as you gave him a raised eyebrow, giggling at how locked in he was.
“Well, thank you. Didn’t know acting came with a medical degree.” You joked back, the grin on your face permanently cast for every ride, where Drew would lean over the steering wheel, pitching his voice into a ridiculous executive monotone. "Well, if we don't align our cross-functional paradigms, how will we ever optimize our bottom line, human resource?"
The ridiculous display had you laughing so hard your chest hurt, completely forgetting the looming stress of the day. Soon, the boundaries of your morning rides blurred entirely and the limits of your friendship became more close and intimate. While he’d be away on set, the coldness of your corporate cubicle would be broken by the sharp buzz of your phone. You'd open it to find random, candid photos of him a costume for the day or visual FX makeup that looked more real than not, making an absurd face into the camera.
Drew: Do you think Pearl would be into me?
You: seeing there’s a fence post stuck on you, yes.
In return, he started bringing his scripts over to your apartment. You would sit side-by-side on your fabric couch, reading the opposite lines in a deadpan, flat voice just to make him break character.
"No, no, you have to say it with more malice," Drew would instruct, pointing a script page at you. "You're playing a ruthless cartel leader, not your depressed self at work.”
“I am, I’m putting all my hatred for that one coworker into this, Drew,” you’d then retort solemnly, making him burst into the same bright laugh that echoed in your quiet living room, making the room feel more homely than any of the decor hung on the walls could’ve ever added. Before you knew it, you soon found yourself pining for him, the feeling creeping in like slow-burning fire catching light on a rope. The deep, agonizing yearning began to take root in your core, every moment that was spent with him becoming both your favorite part of the day and the hardest to leave behind. It lived in the quiet spaces between conversations, in the way you caught yourself searching for him the second you walked into a room, in the instinctive glance toward your phone whenever something happened that you wanted to tell him about.
The worst part was that there was nowhere for those feelings to go, he was your friend, now one of your closest friends.
So you buried the longing beneath laughter and inside jokes, tucked it away every time his shoulder brushed yours or his smile lingered a second too long. You swallowed every what if before it could leave your lips, afraid that speaking it aloud would shatter something you couldn't bear to lose. The fear of rejection, of losing the precious space you held in his life, was a suffocating weight that kept your lips sealed when you’d look at how he was a rising actor while you were holed up in the corporate world.
Instead, you let yourself dream, imagining a future that would never belong to you, piecing it together from stolen moments and wishful thinking. The way he'd greet you at the end of a long day, or the lazy Sunday mornings spent sharing coffee and conversation. The comfortable silence that already existed between you, stretched across years instead of hours. You pictured building a life around the things you already loved most about him—his easy laughter, his kindness, the way he somehow made every place feel a little more like home.
It was a cruel kind of comfort, knowing you couldn't have any of it while still allowing yourself to imagine it. Yet every time he looked at you and smiled, every time he remembered some insignificant detail you'd mentioned weeks ago, every time he chose the seat beside you when there was one across from you, the tiny spark of hope buried deep inside your chest refused to die.
Balance sheet reconciliations were probably the corporate world’s version of medieval torture, brutal and all the more frustrating as you sat in the office, your eyes burning from the glare of the screen telling you that you were still off my a couple hundred thousand. It was nearly seven o’clock, making you groan out loud. Only your manager would make you take on extra reconciliations since you “knew it best”, or whatever he’d meant.
Your phone then buzzed against the wood of your desk.
Drew: Still at the office?
You: Yeah.
You: I have these recs due tomorrow. I think i need to be admitted into a neurosurgeon’s class after this bc my brain genuinely has turned to mush
You waited for Drew to have some witty reply, except, it’d never came, making you turn the phone screen downwards and get back to work. It wasn’t until half an hour later when you heard a heavy knock on the glass doors of your office boom through your office, your name being called which left you suspicious. As you walked up to the door, startled, Drew walked through the maze of dark cubicles. He looked entirely out of place, wearing a baggy hoodie and sweatpants, carrying two large brown paper bags that radiated the heavenly scent of spicy Thai takeout.
"Drew? What the fuck are you doing here?" you asked, a breathless, tired laugh escaping your throat. "How did you even get up here past security?"
"I told the guard downstairs that I was delivering a doordash order," he said, a goofy wink lifting his eyes as he pulled up a squeaking rolling office chair right next to yours. "And more importantly, I knew you wouldn't eat if someone didn't force you to."
He unpacked the containers right over your desk, forks and napkins scattering the top next to your notebooks and keyboard. For the next two hours, he sat patiently, eating pad thai and letting you rant about how much you hated having to work through these when it was your manager’s responsibility to do them.
"And that," you concluded, pointing aggressively at the number that finally said displayed a green-toned zero, indicating you’d successfully reconciled your work, "is how we reconcile our bank account general ledger for the quarter."
Drew clapped slowly, his eyes filled with a soft, unwavering admiration that made your heart ache. "I understood about three words of that, but you do make a convincing point. Where do I tell HR to fire that son of a bitch?"
By the time you packed up your bag, it was an ungodly hour, the air outside was freezing and an apparent look of fatigue on both of your faces. Guilt overtook you as you thought of how tired Drew must have been after work and still managed to come over to stay with you as you worked away.
"You're too tired to drive back to your place," you murmured as you walked to his car. "Just sleep over at my place tonight."
"Yeah?" Drew asked, his voice suddenly quiet, checking your face in the dim streetlights. "You don't mind?"
"I'd mind more if you crashed your car because you were sleep-driving," you muttered, your cheeks warming.
When you woke up the next morning, the apartment was bathed in a soft, pale morning light. You walked into the living room, already dressed in your blazer and dresspants, to find him still asleep. He was tangled in your knit throw blankets, his head rested peacefully against the pillow, which made him look more vulnerable.
You froze, watching the steady, rhythmic rise and fall of his chest. Suddenly, an overwhelming wave of profound emotion hit you so hard it felt like a physical blow. You loved everything about him.
You were in love with him. And it was too late to go back to try and bury the admiration that continued to grow.
The urge to reach out, to pull the blanket just a tad bit higher on him, to brush your fingers over the small strands of hair that just covered his scalp and whisper the truth was almost impossible to pull back from, but the same sharp spike of fear struck again. The fear that if you confessed what you had felt, it’d change everything, leaving you dealing with the pieces of you heart that you laid bare and the regret of losing a friend because you’d confessed how your heart seemed to find its way back to him every single time you saw him.
So you left it, swallowing the dry lump in your throat and silently grabbed your things, leaving a quiet note on the counter before heading out. The pining became an exquisite, agonizing torture over the next few weeks. It was in the way his hand would linger on your shoulder just a second too long when he dropped you off at work. It was in the quiet, heavy silences that fell between you while reading scripts, where his eyes would drop to your lips, his breath hitching slightly before he abruptly looked away.
Then came that day. Drew landed a major role for a new movie adaptation, meaning he had to fly out to Europe for a four-month shoot—the longest you had ever been apart. The night before his flight, he came over to say goodbye, though it felt like it’d be the last time things would be the way they were, given the atmosphere in your living room was suffocatingly quiet.
"Four months is a long time," you said, your voice tight and thin as you stared down at your hands.
"Yeah," Drew murmured. His voice was incredibly soft, thick with an emotion he was trying desperately to suppress. He reached out, his large, warm hand gently catching yours, his fingers squeezing tight. "But it doesn't change anything. I'll call you every time I have a break, even with the time difference. I’ll even send a few reels to you even though they’re kinda dumb. I promise."
"You're going to be so busy, Drew. I’d rather you have fun in Europe instead of trying to make me feel better over here." You swallowed hard, the irrational fear clawing at your throat. He’s going to find someone better.
"Hey," he said softly, lifting your chin with his index finger so you had to look at him. "I'm never too busy for you. You know that, right?"
“Yeah, yeah.” You managed a weak, trembling smile as you nodded, seemingly in understanding even though your heart beat with ache. When he finally stood up to leave, the hug he gave you was desperate, pulling you against his chest, burying his face in the crook of your neck.
"Bye," he whispered against your skin, before turning and walking out the door. The moment the lock clicked shut, the apartment felt entirely hollow. For ten minutes, you sat motionless on the edge of your couch, the fear mutating into a sharp, blinding clarity. If he left across the ocean without knowing how you felt, the regret would consume you for the rest of your life if he came back with someone else on his mind, someone who’d hear the same laugh you’d love hearing, someone who’d kiss his worries away, or someone to laugh with over how bad they were at reenacting their lines in his script.
It hadn’t even clocked to you what you were doing when you realized you were halfway down the stairs of your building to your car, your coat slung over one arm and keys dangling out of the pocket just enough that you could lose them. By the time you pulled onto the road toward the airport, your stomach was twisted into knots, your mind ricocheting between panic and hope as a thousand reasons why this was a terrible idea fought against the one reason you couldn't stay home: the thought of letting him leave without trying. The possibility of embarrassment, rejection, or heartbreak sat heavily in your chest, but not nearly as heavily as the regret you knew you'd carry if you turned the car around.
The airport terminal was a chaotic, overwhelming blur of rushing travelers, rolling suitcases, and loud announcements. Your lungs burned as you sprinted through the departure level, your eyes scanning the dense crowds desperately.
And then, you saw him. He was standing near the international security line, his duffel bag slung over his shoulder, looking entirely isolated and miserable.
"Drew!" you screamed, your voice cracking over the crowds murmurs that’d piled on immensely as every second passed by.
Drew whipped his head around, his eyes widening in absolute shock. He dropped his duffel bag instantly, taking three long strides to meet you halfway.
"W-what are you doing here? Is everything okay?" he asked, his hands flying to your shoulders, his fingers gripping you tightly as if to anchor you. His eyes searched your for any sign of distress, his voice low as he softly said your name. "Did something happen?"
You were panting, your chest heaving violently, hot tears finally spilling over your eyelashes.
"No- I mean yes, I mean- I don’t know!" You sobbed out, a breathless, hysterical laugh escaping you. "I tried to be reasonable. I tried to be the one who just stays in her lane and does the smart thing and let the friendship be, but I can't let you get on that plane without telling you. I'm terrified, Drew.”
Drew simply looked at you, concern and confusion all over his face as you took a deep breath.
“I'm terrified that you’re going to go to Europe and realize your life is bigger than this, or whatever it is between us, and that you'll find someone better. Because I am completely, irrevocably in love with you. I’ve been in love with you since you slept on my couch, probably even since we met at Lana’s party. I just needed you to know before you left."
Drew stared at you, completely frozen, his breath catching in his throat. For a terrifying, suspended second, the entire chaotic airport seemed to fade into absolute silence. Then, a small smile broke across his face, almost as if he was relieved, his eyes crinkling with an overwhelming warmth. A soft, breathless laugh bubbled out of his chest, and his hands moved to cup your face, his warm thumbs gently wiping away your tears.
"You know, for someone who’s so smart, you’re such an idiot," he whispered, his voice thick with a raw, emotional relief, entirely soft and intentional. "You think I could ever find someone better than you? I’ve been completely miserable for months because I thought you just saw me as the guy who drives you to work."
"You... what?" you blinked, stunned through your tears. “Huh?” Drew chuckles as he says your name, shaking his head in disbelief.
“I’m crazy about you," he insisted, his face tilting closer to yours, his expression fiercely certain. "I’ve been in love with you since… I don’t even know when! You don’t know how many times I almost told you on those morning drives. There is no one else, there never could be."
"You're not just saying that because you feel bad?" you whispered, your heart hammering against your ribs.
"I'm saying it because I mean it," he murmured.
He didn't wait for you to answer. He pulled you up to him, his lips meeting yours in a deep, desperate kiss right in the middle of the crowded terminal. It was everything you had ever pined for, warm, consuming, and all the more certain, erasing months of agony in a single heartbeat. When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested gently against yours. His hands were still cradling your face.
"Four months is going to fly by so fast," he murmured, a goofy, ecstatically happy grin returning to his lips. “Cause you're coming to visit me the second you can get a week off. And until then, you're getting a phone call every single day. Deal?"
You laughed, your heart bursting with a profound, radiant happiness. "Deal.”
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hii queen, i’m the anon who asked if you write wlw. i saw you’re a euphoria fan too, and you know that scene in s1e8 where jules does rue’s makeup? i’m thinking a scene like that with sarah where she’s telling mc (her best friend back at figure eight) about her hanging out with the pogues for the first time while doing her makeup (like jules telling rue about when she was away). and maybe she tells mc about john b which makes her jealous, but sarah isnt interested like that in john b, but mc thinks she is after hearing about it. mc has never felt like she fits in figure eight, and sarah is trying to convince her to tag along the next time she hangs out with the pogues. they have feelings for each other but they dont know since they’re both still in the closet. and like there’s a lot of (sexual) tension, but it’s also sweet. you can pick how it ends, if they actually get together or if it’s just that tension hanging between them, i’m sure whatever you choose will be great.
and totally okay if you don’t wanna do it btw. love you work 💕
glitter haze
bsf!sarah cameron x reader
content warnings: some sexual tension 18+ MDNI
a/n: i truly hope this is good (enough at least lol), and fits your vision nonnie! thank you for sending this over <3
in part of my one year celebration!
The sheer curtains in Sarah’s bedroom offered only the illusion of privacy, diffusing the harsh Figure Eight afternoon sun into a warm, heavy haze. You sat cross-legged but perfectly still on the cushioned stool, tilting your head back to give Sarah a better angle as she leaned in. The familiar scent of her Chanel perfume, her latest fixation, enveloped you in a way that imprinted itself into your mind.
The space between you was too small, it always was, which made you feel more and more self-conscious if you’d subconsciously given away your feelings for her. Ever since you both crossed into your twenties, the comfortable, sisterly closeness you’d shared since childhood had taken a sharp, agonizing turn into uncharted territory. What was once comfort now felt like a quiet, suffocating ache born from being completely, utterly in love with your best friend while trapped in a world that demanded you both marry country-club boys and breed people who’d end up just like them anyway.
"Keep your eyes closed," Sarah murmured, her fingers gently anchoring your jaw. The soft bristles of a blending brush swept across your eyelid. "If you blink, I’m going to get eye shimmer everywhere."
"I'm trying," you whispered, though your heart was doing a frantic double-take against your ribs. The way she’d given you her entire attention, but it was never in the same way you’d give to her, because while she was zeroed in on making sure your eyeshadow looked good, you were more focused on her breathing pattern and the gentleness of her hands as she held onto you, wishing it’d been for different reasons.
The way she always made sure you were her top priority made you wonder if you were the problem for considering if it teetered between platonic or romantic love, or how she’d managed to find a way to slither into your dreams at night, making you wake up flustered and sweating after imagining her head between your thighs as you’d arch off the bed.
"Okay, look up at the ceiling," Sarah murmured, her fingers cool against your jaw. Her free hand, steady and precise, brought the fine-tipped liquid eyeliner pen toward your face.
You obeyed, staring intently at a dust mote dancing in a sunbeam, but your focus was entirely on her. You could feel the heat radiating off her body. When she leaned in to start the intricate flick of the wing, the soft linen of her tank top brushed against your bare arm. It was a faint, feather-light sensation that felt like a match struck in a dry forest.
"So," Sarah started, her voice dropping into that conspiratorial tone she only used with you. She reached for a pot of gel eyeliner, letting out a small, quiet laugh that vibrated in the air between your faces. Her gaze was focused on your right eyelid, but you could see the playful curve of her mouth. "I have to tell you about yesterday. And you cannot tell Ward, or Topper, or Rafe, or literally anyone."
"My lips are sealed. What did you do?"
"I hung out on the Cut," she said softly, dipping a fine-tipped brush into the black gel. "With the Pogues."
Your eyes snapped open. "Sarah—"
"Ah ah ah! Eyes up, look at the ceiling," she scolded gently, using her thumb to gently pull the skin of your cheek taut. You complied, but your mind was racing. The Cut? The Pogues? Figure Eight girls didn't just drift over to the marsh. "Look, I know. But Topper was being suffocating, and I just... needed to breathe. I ended up on the HMS Pogue. That's what they call their boat. It's basically a floating piece of driftwood, but honestly? It was probably the most amazing thing I’ve been on so far."
A strange, tight knot formed in your stomach. "Amazing how?"
"Just... the energy," Sarah sighed, a genuine smile tugging at the corners of her mouth as she carefully drew a sharp wing on your outer eyelid. "They don't care about who your family is or how much money is in your bank account. And John B... he’s the one who runs the place, basically. He took me out on the marsh. He’s just so entirely unfiltered. He looked me dead in the eye and told me I was sheltered, but then he showed me this secret surf spot, and we talked for hours. He’s incredibly charming in this completely reckless, messy way."
The knot in your stomach hardened into a cold, heavy lump of jealousy. You knew of him, of course. The boy with the messy hair and the unbuttoned shirts who lived on the edge of the water. Hearing Sarah talk about him with that breathless, captivated look in her eyes felt like a physical blow as your mind raced in circles about whether she liked him or not. If you’d completely lost the one person you’d yearned for to someone who’d wooed her effortlessly. The thought of Sarah being pulled away from you, not just by a boy, but by a completely different world, made you feel entirely hollow.
"Sounds like you had a great date," you said, unable to stop the sudden, sharp edge from bleeding into your voice.
Sarah paused, the eyeliner brush hovering centimetres from your face. She blinked, looking down at you, her expression shifting from excitement to confusion. "A date? No, babes, it wasn't a date."
"You just said he was charming and reckless, and you spent hours alone together," you muttered, looking down at your lap, suddenly feeling very small in your designer sundress.
"Yeah, because he's a character," Sarah said softly. She set the brush down on the vanity, the click of the plastic loud in the quiet room. She stepped closer, sliding into the narrow space between your knees. The fabric of her linen shorts brushed against your bare thighs, sending a jolt of pure static electricity straight up your spine.
She reached out, her fingers gently cupping your chin to force you to look up at her. Her hazel eyes were wide, searching yours.
"I'm not interested in John B like that, silly," Sarah murmured, her voice dropping an octave. Her thumb brushed lightly against your jawline, a slow, deliberate caress that made your breath hitch. "He's great, but... he's not my type."
Your gaze dropped to her mouth, entirely involuntary. The air between you grew thick, heavy with a sudden, suffocating heat. Sarah’s eyes flicked down to your lips, too, her thumb pausing its movement on your skin. The silence stretched, pulsing with a raw, agonizing tension. For a second, just one second, it felt like she was leaning in. Like she was going to bridge the agonizingly small gap between you.
Then, Sarah swallowed hard, blinking rapidly as she pulled her hand back, clearing her throat to break the spell.
"Anyway," she said, her voice slightly breathless as she picked up a highlighter palette. "The reason I'm telling you all this is because I want you to come with me next time."
“What? To the Cut?” You blinked, trying to ground yourself. "Sarah, I don't think—"
"Think about it," she interrupted, leaning back in, her face inches from yours as she dusted a shimmering champagne powder onto your cheekbones. "You hate it here. You’ve told me a thousand times you feel like an alien at the country club. You don't fit into the Figure Eight mold anymore than I do."
She was right. You loathed the stiff dinners, the fake smiles, the unspoken rules of the wealthy elite. You always felt like you were wearing a costume.
"They'd hate me," you whispered. "I'm just... Topper's girlfriend's best friend. I'm a kook. They’d shun me for literally everything I am."
"They won't hate you," Sarah insisted, her gaze locking onto yours with an intensity that made your chest ache. She set the palette down and leaned her hands on your shoulders, her thumbs kneading the soft skin near your collarbones. "They’re fun, and it’s so freeing over there. Like you truly get to be whoever you want to be.”
Contemplation took over you as you pondered on the thought of whether you’d be doing yourself more harm than good, seeing Sarah having fun with someone while you sat in the back, knowing you’d never get the chance to be that person. Sarah continued, trying to break the silence, “I'll be right there with you. I want you there. It doesn't feel right experiencing something that real without you. I need you there."
Something that real.
Your heart hammered against your ribs. You looked at Sarah, at the fierce, protective warmth in her eyes, at the way she held onto you like you were the only anchor she had left in this town. You wanted to tell her. You wanted to tell her that you didn't care about the Pogues or the Kooks, that the only place you ever felt like you fit in was right here, trapped in her orbit.
"Okay," you breathed out, the word a tiny surrender against the space between you. "I'll go."
A brilliant, radiant smile broke across Sarah's face. "Good," she whispered.
She didn't move away immediately. Her hands lingered on your shoulders, her thumbs tracing small circles against your skin, both of you caught in the sweet, terrifying pull of everything you weren't saying. Finally, she patted your shoulder and stepped back, grabbing a hand mirror and pressing it into your palm.
"Now look," Sarah said, a playful flush on her cheeks. "Tell me I'm the best makeup artist on the island."
You looked into the mirror, your reflection glowing, the sharp wing accentuating your eyes perfectly. But when you looked up, you caught Sarah staring at you in the reflection, her expression soft, longing, and entirely uncovered.
"You're the best," you said softly, looking right at her through the glass. "By far."
The Briar arena was dead silent at midnight, the only sound the sharp, echoing schhhk of Garrett’s skates slicing through the fresh ice. You stood shivering by the team bench, clutching your borrowed skates and wondering why you’d let him talk you into this.
Just as you began to think of all the reasons you could give to back out of it, Garrett glided to a stop right in front of you, spraying a tiny flurry of ice over the toes of your sneakers. He grinned, entirely in his element like he always was on the rink, his cheeks flushed from the cold. Even through the circles of doubt you were running in your head, you couldn’t help but melt at how happy he was, or how the flush in his cheeks matched the times he looked at you.
"Come on, babe," he said, holding out both hands. “Your turn.”
“Yeah, Gar, I don’t know. I think I’m better off here,” you motioned to the space you’d somewhat gotten comfortable in, even if your fingers were freezing from the tips onwards. “Or actually, being home would be better.”
Garrett scoffed, his hands making an ushering motion. "The ice isn't going to bite. Promise."
The second your blades hit the surface, your ankles wobbled violently, and a tiny gasp escaped your throat. Before you could panic, Garrett’s large hands caught you firmly by the waist, anchoring you against his chest. He was solid as a rock, completely unbothered by your clumsy weight.
"Whoa, easy, babe. I've got you," he chuckled, his warm breath pluming in the chilly air. "Relax. You're tenser than you usually are before a midterm."
"Easy for you to say. You were practically born on these things," you muttered, gripping his forearms so tightly your knuckles turned white.
"True," he smirked, slowly skating backward and pulling you along with him. "But you’ve got the best coach in the NCAA. Just look at me, ‘kay? Not your feet."
You forced your eyes up to his, though every part of your brain kept telling you to look down at your knocking knees. Garrett was looking down at you with an unfamiliar, gentle patience, his usual cocky demeanour melting into ferocity and protectiveness. Step by step, he guided you across the empty rink, helping you gain your confidence as you glided across the ice. It wasn’t long until you finally managed a few smooth strides on your own, Garrett’s grin widening, genuine and proud, while you let out a celebratory shriek of laughter.
"See? My girl’s an absolute natural," he teased, his hands slipping from your waist to wrap around your lower back, pulling you flush against his hockey jersey. His signature scent of cedarwood and musk was embedded in the fabric, which had you pondering how you could steal it to sleep in at night.
"Though, if you want to keep holding onto me like this all night... I won't complain."
Hi! Not sure if you’re still taking requests, but numbers 2, 24, 43, and 88 from the nsfw list would be great for a wealthy businessman Rafe and stripper reader. Seeing how, even though she’s not a new stripper, she gets tripped up by Rafe’s confidence, possessiveness, and prescience…. Spicy!!
no pole
businessman!rafe cameron x stripper!reader
prompts: "are you just going to watch?", "i can see you staring at my tits, thigh/ass", "why are you being so shy? it's not like i haven't already seen all of you," "dressing room, now"
content warnings: explicit sexual content 18+ MDNI
a/n: hope this suffices, nonnie! i really enjoyed how challenging this was :)
in part of my one year celebration!
The Onyx club was dimly lit, the air thick with expensive perfume and the sweet smell of liquor. You had been dancing here for three years, long enough that the regular faces blurred together and the new ones rarely caught your attention anymore. You knew how to play the game, how to command a room, and exactly how to milk wealthy men for every single cent they were worth.
Until Rafe walked in.
He sat in the VIP section, separated from the main floor by velvet ropes and two burly security guards. Rafe Cameron. Even in a city like this, his name carried weight that was felt heavier than the pole you wrapped your hands around. Whispers followed him wherever he went, the billionaire investor who was nothing short of a ruthless businessman, and, according to the gossip columns, a man who always got what he wanted.
You had seen him before from afar, but tonight, his piercing blue eyes were locked on you as you moved to the rhythm of the music. But Rafe didn’t just look at you, he anchored you to the spot with a dark, heavy stare that made you feel completely exposed before you’d even taken off a single layer. Your body swayed with practiced ease, hips grinding against the pole as you descended into a split. The routine was muscle memory, your hands trailing down your own body, teasing the audience with glimpses of skin they paid to see, except the mere remembrance of whose eyes were on you made the light cast upon you feel hotter than it actually was.
Though Rafe wasn't like the others—he didn't throw money or shout crude comments that you’d become accustomed to, even if it did sting at times. He just watched, his intense gaze making your skin tingle in a way that had nothing to do with the stage lights. You found yourself stumbling slightly, a move you'd performed thousands of times, suddenly feeling foreign under his scrutiny.
When your set ended, you collected your tips with forced smiles, your eyes occasionally darting back to where he sat. He hadn't moved, still watching you with that unnerving intensity, with one tailored trouser leg over the other. He didn't smile; he just tracked the nervous twitch of your fingers, his eyes darkening.
"Rafe wants a private dance," your manager whispered, nudging you with his elbow.
“Huh?” You looked at him, wide-eyed, with your anxiety peaking as you took in what he said.
"Go,” he urged, pushing you towards the room. “He's paying triple."
Your heart raced as you nodded, making your way toward the VIP section. The security guards parted for you without a word, and you then found yourself standing a few feet away from his leather chair, the synth-heavy bass of the club vibrating through the soles of your platform heels.
Usually, you’d already be in his lap, spinning a web of practiced charm. Instead, you found your fingers nervously plucking at the sheer fabric of your robe. His sheer presence, dripping with absolute confidence and an unspoken, terrifying possessiveness, completely tripped you up.
"H-hi," you managed, your voice steadier than you expected but still not the same confidence you usually managed to exude.
He turned to face you fully, and up close, his presence was even more overwhelming. He was dressed in a tailored suit that probably cost more than your monthly rent, his hair perfectly styled, his blue eyes seemingly able to see right through you.
"Your performance was... adequate," he said, his voice low and smooth. "But I think you're holding back."
"I don't know what you mean," you replied, though you did. You had felt off since you first noticed him watching.
Rafe leaned closer, his cologne—a mix of sandalwood and something that screamed rich—flooding your senses. "Hmmm, I know you’re a smart girl. I know you do.”
"Are you just going to watch?" you asked, your voice betraying a slight tremor that made you internally curse. You tried to recover your usual swagger, shifting your hips and bracing a hand against the velvet wall. "I can see you staring at my tits."
Heat flooded your cheeks as you began to move, your body swaying to the distant music from the main floor. You tried to focus, to slip into the professional persona you usually wore so easily, but his eyes kept distracting you. A slow, wicked smirk finally broke across Rafe’s handsome face. It wasn't a gentle expression; it was the look of a predator who knew he’d already won, and he absolutely didn't deny it. Instead, he unbuttoned his suit jacket, letting it fall open as he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. The sudden proximity made your breath hitch.
As you turned, your back facing him, hear a dark chuckle. "I am staring," he murmured, his deep voice cutting through the thumping bass of the club music. "I mean, can you blame me? They’re magnificent."
Your breath hitched as his eyes slid down to your thigh, the sight making you feel phantom-squeezing of the soft flesh there. "And your thighs... been imagining them wrapped around my waist since you first stepped on stage."
You turned back to face him, trying to regain control of the situation. "Mr. Cameron, there are rules about—"
"Rules?" he chuckled, a dark, delicious sound that made your core clench. "Y’think I care about rules? Come here.”
His confidence was overwhelming, the kind of absolute certainty that came from a lifetime of never being denied anything. You found yourself faltering again, your usual stripper bravado deserting you completely.
It wasn't a request. Your thighs felt heavy, almost liquid, as you took the two steps toward him. You straddled his lap, the expensive fabric of his trousers a stark contrast against your bare skin. You meant to grind against him, to take control of the interaction like you always did, but the moment your hands rested on his broad shoulders, he gripped your hips. His fingers dug in, bruisingly tight, staking a claim that sent a shockwave of heat straight to your core.
"Why are you being so shy?" he asked, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. "It's not like I haven't already seen all of you." You froze, your heart hammering against your ribs. You looked down, suddenly unable to hold his intense gaze. Rafe chuckled, a low, gravelly sound that vibrated against your chest. He tilted your chin up with his thumb and forefinger, forcing you to look at him. Before you could form a coherent response, he was standing, pulling you up with him. His grip was firm but not painful, leaving no room for argument.
"You're... distracting," you breathed out, honesty slipping past your defenses before you could stop it.
"Good," Rafe growled. He slid his hands down to the meat of your ass, lifting you slightly just to come down harder against the thick, rigid length hidden beneath his trousers. You let out a soft whimpering gasp, your head dropping onto his shoulder. He owned you in this moment, and the terrifying part was how badly you wanted him to.
He leaned into your ear, his hot breath sending shivers down your spine as his teeth grazed your earlobe. He didn't care that there were other people in the club, or that you were supposed to be working. His possessiveness was a suffocating, intoxicating wave.
"Dressing room, now," he commanded, his voice dropping to a tone that brokered no refusal. You didn't even think about arguing. Your knees were weak, your core was aching, and as he led you toward the back hallway, you knew you were completely at his mercy.
The walk to the dressing room felt endless, his hand possessively on the small of your back as he guided you through the crowded club. Employees and patrons alike stared, but no one dared question the man who owned half the city.
Once inside the privacy of the dressing room, he locked the door behind you. The space was small, cluttered with makeup and costumes, but suddenly it felt charged with an electricity that made your skin hum.
"Turn around," he ordered, and you found yourself obeying without question.
He stepped behind you, his body pressing against yours as his hands roamed freely. "You're even more beautiful up close," he murmured, his lips tracing the line of your shoulder. "Knew you would be."
Your reflection in the mirror showed a version of yourself you barely recognized, flushed and breathless, eyes dark with desire. This wasn't supposed to happen. You were the one in control, the one teasing and denying. But with Rafe, all your carefully constructed defences were crumbling.
"I want to see all of you," he said, his fingers deftly untying the strings of your outfit, the non-existent constraint finally being lifted. "Every inch."
As the fabric fell away, leaving you exposed before him, you expected to feel vulnerable, ashamed. Instead, a thrill ran through you as his eyes raked over your naked form, appreciative and hungry.
"God, you’re perfect," he breathed, turning you to face him. "Absolutely perfect."
His mouth claimed yours in a kiss that was nothing like you expected—possessive, demanding, yet somehow tender. His hands explored every curve and hollow of your body, learning your shape as if memorizing it.
You were lost in sensation, your body responding to his touch with an eagerness that surprised you. Years of performing, of pretending desire for strangers, had never prepared you for this—the real thing, overwhelming and all-consuming.
When he finally lifted you onto the vanity, spreading your legs to stand between them, you were already aching with need. "I've wanted this since I first saw you dance," he admitted, his voice rough with desire. "Watching y’ move, knowing I had to have you."
As he entered you, slow and deliberate, you gasped at the stretch and fullness of his member. It was different from anything you'd experienced before, something that wasn’t transactional, nor a performance, but something truly real.
"Look at me," he commanded, and your eyes met in the mirror as he began to move, setting a rhythm that quickly had you trembling. "I wanna watch you fall apart for me."
And you did, spectacularly, your body arching against his as waves of pleasure washed over you. His name was a prayer on your lips as you shattered, the intensity of your release leaving you breathless and boneless.
He followed soon after, his grip tightening on your hips as he found his own release, his face buried in the crook of your neck. For a long moment, you stayed like that, tangled together in the aftermath of passion. The club seemed miles away, the world reduced to just the two of you in this small room. When he finally pulled away, he helped you dress with surprising gentleness, his fingers lingering on your skin as if memorizing the feel of you.
"I'll be back tomorrow," he said, his tone leaving no room for doubt. "And the night after that."
You nodded, unable to form words as he straightened his suit, once again the composed billionaire you'd first seen. But as he unlocked the door and glanced back at you, those blue eyes held a promise that made your heart race.
You were in trouble, deep, yet thrilling, trouble. As you watched him walk away, you knew with absolute certainty that you wouldn't—couldn't—resist when he returned, already thinking about how you could impress him next time.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
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Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
a show that was once beautiful and a journey to redemption from addiction, as well the chain effect stemming from teens (and adults alike) who suffer from addiction, being reduced to now a porn-with-plot gimmick is genuinely devastating and honestly disappointing to see. this felt more like sydney sweeney propaganda than what the show started off with.
it’s worse that whatever tf the director (i refuse to use his name) and writers believed in their minds that the direction they took for each of the characters was good enough is astounding. like how fucking ridiculous and delusional do you have to be to hype each other up and genuinely lose the plot
AND RUE DYING?!?!?! WITH LITTLE TO NO SORROW OR REMORSE FROM ANYONE IN THE SHOW?!?!? NOT EVEN HER MOTHER OR SISTER SHOWN?!?!? nah that was just cruel, genuinely why were the amish girl and ali the only sympathetic ones who mourned for her? a bird got a funeral but she didn’t, in-fucking-sane
perhaps i find rue’s ending devastating and upsetting as a whole because of how i lost a friend to substance abuse (not with drugs, so not entirely relatable) so it’s somewhat realistic, but there are so many stories of addicts who are able to carry on, and rue deserved to have her happy ever after
n e ways what an absolutely saddening and heartbreaking way to end such a beautiful show. s*m l******** i hope you never touch another fucking script again
omg i just wanted to say that the sarah fic is perfect, you captured the tension between them and what would be like being closeted in a place like that perfectly. it’s honestly one of the best wlw fics i’ve read on tumblr in a long time. thank you so much for taking my request 💖💖💖
🥹🥹🥹 this truly made my day, i was so scared that it wouldn’t be good enough or encapsulate that feeling yk? thank you so much for trusting me with your vision nonnie
ugh I know I’m a day late I’m sorry I js saw the year celebration post!! I love your work and if there’s any chance you’d let mine slip through just in time I’d appreciate it!!! I’d really like #6 from the nsfw list with nerd rafe. 😋😋❤️❤️❤️
all this late night banter
mean!nerd!rafe cameron x academic rival!reader
prompt: you’re fucking soaked
content warnings: explicit sexual content, hate sex (again lol) 18+ MDNI
a/n: okay i knowwww nerd!rafe is usually innocent and subby, but i genuinely couldn't get the idea of nerd!rafe out of my head without having some sort of rivalry
in part of my one year celebration!
The library had emptied hours ago, but you were still there, back pressed against the study room door, Rafe's hand shoved down your jeans.
"You've been staring at my mouth throughout the lecture," he breathed against your jaw, his glasses askew where you'd knocked them. "All those clever fucking comments in class, all that attitude-"
"Shut the fuck up," you gasped, but your hips betrayed you, grinding against his palm.
He laughed, low and mean, the sound of someone who'd spent three semesters watching you outperform him on every assignment, every exam, every curve. His fingers dragged through your folds, deliberate and teasing, and your head thunked back against the wood.
"Christ," he muttered, pressing closer, his erection hard against your hip. "You're fucking soaked."
“Oh my god,” your fingers tangled in his collar, yanking him down. "Then do something about it."
He did. His mouth crashed into yours, all teeth and desperation, and his fingers pushed inside, two of them, rough and insistent. You moaned into the kiss, and he swallowed it, fucking you with his hand while his thumb ground against your clit.
"Been thinking about this," he panted against your lips, "since you destroyed me on the Milton presentation. Watched you walk back to your seat and got so hard I had to sit through the whole Q&A-"
You reached between you, palming him through his khakis, and he groaned, ragged and broken. "Less talking," you whispered, "more, mphf-"
He spun you around, bending you over the table. Papers scattered, your annotated readings, his colour-coded notes, all of it sliding to the floor as he shoved your jeans down and freed himself. You heard the tear of foil, then his hands were gripping your hips, positioning himself.
"Tell me you want it," he demanded, the head of his cock sliding through your wetness, teasing.
"And why the fuck would I do that?" you snarled, pushing back against him.
He slammed into you, deep and thick, and you both groaned. "Hmm," he gritted out, starting to move, hard and punishing. "You can keep hating me. Just like how you can keep taking my cock like this."
The table creaked beneath you, your cheek pressed against cold wood, your nails scoring the surface. He fucked you like he was trying to win something, like every stroke was a point on a scoreboard, his breath hot and ragged in your ear.
When you came, it was sudden yet exactly what you’d needed, your body clamping down on him, your cry muffled against your own arm. He followed seconds later, burying himself to the hilt, groaning your name like a curse against your shoulder.
After, you lay there panting, sweat cooling on your skin, his notes crumpled beneath your elbows. He pulled out slowly, dealt with the condom, and you both stared at the mess—the scattered papers, the dislodged glasses, the chaos.
You sat up, reaching for your sweater. "I'm still getting that fellowship," you said.
Rafe adjusted his glasses, smirking, already hardening again. "We'll see about that."
hii queen, i’m the anon who asked if you write wlw. i saw you’re a euphoria fan too, and you know that scene in s1e8 where jules does rue’s makeup? i’m thinking a scene like that with sarah where she’s telling mc (her best friend back at figure eight) about her hanging out with the pogues for the first time while doing her makeup (like jules telling rue about when she was away). and maybe she tells mc about john b which makes her jealous, but sarah isnt interested like that in john b, but mc thinks she is after hearing about it. mc has never felt like she fits in figure eight, and sarah is trying to convince her to tag along the next time she hangs out with the pogues. they have feelings for each other but they dont know since they’re both still in the closet. and like there’s a lot of (sexual) tension, but it’s also sweet. you can pick how it ends, if they actually get together or if it’s just that tension hanging between them, i’m sure whatever you choose will be great.
and totally okay if you don’t wanna do it btw. love you work 💕
glitter haze
bsf!sarah cameron x reader
content warnings: some sexual tension 18+ MDNI
a/n: i truly hope this is good (enough at least lol), and fits your vision nonnie! thank you for sending this over <3
in part of my one year celebration!
The sheer curtains in Sarah’s bedroom offered only the illusion of privacy, diffusing the harsh Figure Eight afternoon sun into a warm, heavy haze. You sat cross-legged but perfectly still on the cushioned stool, tilting your head back to give Sarah a better angle as she leaned in. The familiar scent of her Chanel perfume, her latest fixation, enveloped you in a way that imprinted itself into your mind.
The space between you was too small, it always was, which made you feel more and more self-conscious if you’d subconsciously given away your feelings for her. Ever since you both crossed into your twenties, the comfortable, sisterly closeness you’d shared since childhood had taken a sharp, agonizing turn into uncharted territory. What was once comfort now felt like a quiet, suffocating ache born from being completely, utterly in love with your best friend while trapped in a world that demanded you both marry country-club boys and breed people who’d end up just like them anyway.
"Keep your eyes closed," Sarah murmured, her fingers gently anchoring your jaw. The soft bristles of a blending brush swept across your eyelid. "If you blink, I’m going to get eye shimmer everywhere."
"I'm trying," you whispered, though your heart was doing a frantic double-take against your ribs. The way she’d given you her entire attention, but it was never in the same way you’d give to her, because while she was zeroed in on making sure your eyeshadow looked good, you were more focused on her breathing pattern and the gentleness of her hands as she held onto you, wishing it’d been for different reasons.
The way she always made sure you were her top priority made you wonder if you were the problem for considering if it teetered between platonic or romantic love, or how she’d managed to find a way to slither into your dreams at night, making you wake up flustered and sweating after imagining her head between your thighs as you’d arch off the bed.
"Okay, look up at the ceiling," Sarah murmured, her fingers cool against your jaw. Her free hand, steady and precise, brought the fine-tipped liquid eyeliner pen toward your face.
You obeyed, staring intently at a dust mote dancing in a sunbeam, but your focus was entirely on her. You could feel the heat radiating off her body. When she leaned in to start the intricate flick of the wing, the soft linen of her tank top brushed against your bare arm. It was a faint, feather-light sensation that felt like a match struck in a dry forest.
"So," Sarah started, her voice dropping into that conspiratorial tone she only used with you. She reached for a pot of gel eyeliner, letting out a small, quiet laugh that vibrated in the air between your faces. Her gaze was focused on your right eyelid, but you could see the playful curve of her mouth. "I have to tell you about yesterday. And you cannot tell Ward, or Topper, or Rafe, or literally anyone."
"My lips are sealed. What did you do?"
"I hung out on the Cut," she said softly, dipping a fine-tipped brush into the black gel. "With the Pogues."
Your eyes snapped open. "Sarah—"
"Ah ah ah! Eyes up, look at the ceiling," she scolded gently, using her thumb to gently pull the skin of your cheek taut. You complied, but your mind was racing. The Cut? The Pogues? Figure Eight girls didn't just drift over to the marsh. "Look, I know. But Topper was being suffocating, and I just... needed to breathe. I ended up on the HMS Pogue. That's what they call their boat. It's basically a floating piece of driftwood, but honestly? It was probably the most amazing thing I’ve been on so far."
A strange, tight knot formed in your stomach. "Amazing how?"
"Just... the energy," Sarah sighed, a genuine smile tugging at the corners of her mouth as she carefully drew a sharp wing on your outer eyelid. "They don't care about who your family is or how much money is in your bank account. And John B... he’s the one who runs the place, basically. He took me out on the marsh. He’s just so entirely unfiltered. He looked me dead in the eye and told me I was sheltered, but then he showed me this secret surf spot, and we talked for hours. He’s incredibly charming in this completely reckless, messy way."
The knot in your stomach hardened into a cold, heavy lump of jealousy. You knew of him, of course. The boy with the messy hair and the unbuttoned shirts who lived on the edge of the water. Hearing Sarah talk about him with that breathless, captivated look in her eyes felt like a physical blow as your mind raced in circles about whether she liked him or not. If you’d completely lost the one person you’d yearned for to someone who’d wooed her effortlessly. The thought of Sarah being pulled away from you, not just by a boy, but by a completely different world, made you feel entirely hollow.
"Sounds like you had a great date," you said, unable to stop the sudden, sharp edge from bleeding into your voice.
Sarah paused, the eyeliner brush hovering centimetres from your face. She blinked, looking down at you, her expression shifting from excitement to confusion. "A date? No, babes, it wasn't a date."
"You just said he was charming and reckless, and you spent hours alone together," you muttered, looking down at your lap, suddenly feeling very small in your designer sundress.
"Yeah, because he's a character," Sarah said softly. She set the brush down on the vanity, the click of the plastic loud in the quiet room. She stepped closer, sliding into the narrow space between your knees. The fabric of her linen shorts brushed against your bare thighs, sending a jolt of pure static electricity straight up your spine.
She reached out, her fingers gently cupping your chin to force you to look up at her. Her hazel eyes were wide, searching yours.
"I'm not interested in John B like that, silly," Sarah murmured, her voice dropping an octave. Her thumb brushed lightly against your jawline, a slow, deliberate caress that made your breath hitch. "He's great, but... he's not my type."
Your gaze dropped to her mouth, entirely involuntary. The air between you grew thick, heavy with a sudden, suffocating heat. Sarah’s eyes flicked down to your lips, too, her thumb pausing its movement on your skin. The silence stretched, pulsing with a raw, agonizing tension. For a second, just one second, it felt like she was leaning in. Like she was going to bridge the agonizingly small gap between you.
Then, Sarah swallowed hard, blinking rapidly as she pulled her hand back, clearing her throat to break the spell.
"Anyway," she said, her voice slightly breathless as she picked up a highlighter palette. "The reason I'm telling you all this is because I want you to come with me next time."
“What? To the Cut?” You blinked, trying to ground yourself. "Sarah, I don't think—"
"Think about it," she interrupted, leaning back in, her face inches from yours as she dusted a shimmering champagne powder onto your cheekbones. "You hate it here. You’ve told me a thousand times you feel like an alien at the country club. You don't fit into the Figure Eight mold anymore than I do."
She was right. You loathed the stiff dinners, the fake smiles, the unspoken rules of the wealthy elite. You always felt like you were wearing a costume.
"They'd hate me," you whispered. "I'm just... Topper's girlfriend's best friend. I'm a kook. They’d shun me for literally everything I am."
"They won't hate you," Sarah insisted, her gaze locking onto yours with an intensity that made your chest ache. She set the palette down and leaned her hands on your shoulders, her thumbs kneading the soft skin near your collarbones. "They’re fun, and it’s so freeing over there. Like you truly get to be whoever you want to be.”
Contemplation took over you as you pondered on the thought of whether you’d be doing yourself more harm than good, seeing Sarah having fun with someone while you sat in the back, knowing you’d never get the chance to be that person. Sarah continued, trying to break the silence, “I'll be right there with you. I want you there. It doesn't feel right experiencing something that real without you. I need you there."
Something that real.
Your heart hammered against your ribs. You looked at Sarah, at the fierce, protective warmth in her eyes, at the way she held onto you like you were the only anchor she had left in this town. You wanted to tell her. You wanted to tell her that you didn't care about the Pogues or the Kooks, that the only place you ever felt like you fit in was right here, trapped in her orbit.
"Okay," you breathed out, the word a tiny surrender against the space between you. "I'll go."
A brilliant, radiant smile broke across Sarah's face. "Good," she whispered.
She didn't move away immediately. Her hands lingered on your shoulders, her thumbs tracing small circles against your skin, both of you caught in the sweet, terrifying pull of everything you weren't saying. Finally, she patted your shoulder and stepped back, grabbing a hand mirror and pressing it into your palm.
"Now look," Sarah said, a playful flush on her cheeks. "Tell me I'm the best makeup artist on the island."
You looked into the mirror, your reflection glowing, the sharp wing accentuating your eyes perfectly. But when you looked up, you caught Sarah staring at you in the reflection, her expression soft, longing, and entirely uncovered.
"You're the best," you said softly, looking right at her through the glass. "By far."
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pairing: garrett graham x fem!reader (x moc)
synopsis: naked. frustrated. still under the shower spray. garrett graham’s team has just lost the last game when the football captain’s girl shows up to rub salt in the wound. should he just ignore her or show her who the real loser is?
words: 3k+
disclaimer: english is not my first language!
warnings: teasing, CHEATING (reader cheats on boyfriend). no use of y/n or physical description, but garrett picks her/you up. the picture is only for aesthetic purposes. S M U T!! dom!garrett, cocky!garrett, p in v (unprotected), oral (mostly f receiving), he spits, she swallows (multiple times baby!!). third person! dirty talk. caught in the act. shower sex. “hate” fucking. not proofread! be nice!!
chye's corner: this is only one of 5 drafts that i still have on my off campus boys. let me know if you want me to post all of these, i’m having a blasttttt. pls consider a reblog, a like, or a comment! thank you for choosing to read my words (((:
chye's grimoire (masterlist)
requests are open!
The locker room was thick with steam and silence, the kind that pressed down after a brutal loss. Garrett Graham stood under the spray of the far showerhead, hot water pounding against his shoulders and back like it could wash away the scoreboard that still burned in his mind. 3-5. His team had fought hard, but not hard enough. Logan had scored twice, and Tucker had gone to the penalty box for fighting another player, but none of their efforts seemed to pay off.
His muscles were knotted with frustration, jaw clenched so tight it ached. Water sluiced down his broad chest, over the ridges of his abs, tracing the V that disappeared beneath the towel he’d discarded on the bench before stepping in. He braced one forearm against the tiled wall, head bowed, letting the heat beat into him as steam curled around his naked body.
“Well, that sucked,” a feminine voice made him jump. He had heard someone walk in, but he just assumed it was one of his teammates. He turned his face to look at the woman who entered his private sulking session and his expression turned annoyed. “Rough night out there, Graham?”
There she was, his little vixen. The football captain’s girlfriend, standing just inside the shower area in nothing but an oversized football jersey that barely reached mid-thigh. The rival team’s colors. Her hair was loose, and the way the damp air made the thin fabric cling to her curves left very little to the imagination. She leaned against the wall, arms crossed under her breasts, a teasing smirk playing on her lips. She didn’t seem bothered at all that Garrett was naked just a few feet from her and her gaze never strayed downward.
“You shouldn’t be in here,” he answered, voice low and rough from the game and the lingering adrenaline. But he didn’t move. Couldn’t. He was still facing the wall, his body already reacting to the sight of her, blood slowly heading south despite the frustration still coiled tight in his chest.
She shrugged, stepping inside the showers, water now dotting her bare legs. “The entire school is celebrating our football team winning tonight. Figured someone should come check on the sore loser.” Her eyes finally dragged down his body, taking in the tension in his shoulders, the way his abs flexed with each controlled breath, the little dimple on his chiseled stomach, and she peeked just enough to have a glance of the growing hardness he made no real attempt to hide. “Tough break out there tonight, Graham. All that sweat and still couldn’t seal the deal.”
Garrett’s hand flexed against the tile. “You really came all the way down here just to run your mouth?”
“Maybe,” she said sweetly, tilting her head. “That game was painful to watch. You guys had the lead twice and still choked. What happened? Couldn’t handle the pressure?”
He let out a sharp breath, water pounding against his chest. “We played hard. Shit happens. Doesn’t mean you need to be in here gloating while I’m trying to wash it off.”
“Gloating? I’m just being honest,” she teased, crossing her arms. “You looked so pissed on the ice. Does losing always get you this worked up?”
Garrett’s eyes narrowed, tension still radiating through his shoulders as the water continued to beat down on his bare skin. “You’re wearing his jersey and walking into my locker room. You sure you want to keep poking me right now?”
She smiled, unbothered. “Why not? It’s fun watching you try to act like you’re not bothered. Tell me, Graham… what did you say to him two days ago? That you were going to enjoy seeing him lose? How does it feel now, mh?”
Garrett let out a low chuckle, tilting his head back under the spray so water ran down his face and neck. “I gotta admit, doesn’t feel like a million bucks, but you know what feels better?” He wiped water from his eyes and looked straight at her. “The fact that you’re standing here in my locker room, staring at me naked in the shower, instead of being with your boyfriend right now.”
She raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “Bold. Maybe I just wanted to see the loser up close.”
“Bullshit,” Garrett shot back, his voice rough as more water cascaded over his broad chest, now fully turning towards her. He was towering over her frame and she couldn’t help but look down at his v-line. “If you wanted to be with him, you’d be at whatever victory party he’s throwing. But you’re not. You’re here. With me.” She shifted her weight. “Why aren’t you there trying to make him feel like a big man after his win? Youu snuck down here to fuck with me. Makes me wonder who you really want to be around tonight.”
Her smile grew bitter. “Careful, Graham. You sound a little jealous for someone who just got his ass handed to him on the ice.”
Garrett’s eyes darkened as he stood there, completely bare under the relentless hot spray. “Not jealous. Just observant. You’re choosing to be here with the loser instead of the winner. Says a lot more about you than it does about me.” He ran a hand through his wet hair, pushing it back as water continued to pour over every inch of his muscular frame. “So keep talking your shit if you want… but we both know why you really came down here.”
She tilted her head, a challenging smile playing on her lips. “You’re just mad I’m not stroking your ego after that pathetic loss. You have your puck bunnies for that.”
Garrett’s eyes flashed with a mix of irritation and heat. He wiped water from his face, the motion making his biceps flex under the spray. “Mad? You have no clue of how I really am when I get mad.”
She crossed her arms, the oversized jersey riding up her thighs, showing off her little shorts. “Maybe I just like watching you squirm. It’s entertaining.”
“Entertaining,” Garrett repeated, his voice dropping lower, rougher. He took a half-step forward. “Or maybe your captain doesn’t quite do it for you anymore. What? He doesn’t know how to fuck you good?”
The words hung heavy in the steamy air. A charged silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken desire. Her smirk faltered for a split second. “That’s none of your business,” she shot back, but her tone had shifted, breathier now.
“Bullshit,” Garrett said, jaw tight. “He doesn’t do it for you anymore, right? Or you wouldn’t be staring like that while I’m standing here naked. You’re not here to gloat about his win. You’re here because he leaves you wanting.”
She swallowed, her gaze flicking over his bare form before returning to his face. “You don’t know anything about us,” she said quietly.
“I know you’re not with him right now,” Garrett countered, his shoulders still rigid under the spray. “Isn’t that enough?” He finally stepped out from directly under the main spray, water dripping heavily from his broad shoulders, chest, and abs as he slowly closed the distance between them. Steam clung to his skin while his eyes stayed locked on hers, tension rolling off him in waves.
She watched him approach but didn’t back away. He lifted a hand, brushing a wet finger along her jaw. “If I kissed you here…” He leaned in and pressed his lips to the side of her neck, slow and deliberate, his mouth warm against her skin. She inhaled sharply. “… you wouldn’t like that?”
Her breath hitched. “Graham…”
“Or here?” He kissed her bare shoulder next, lingering longer this time, teeth grazing lightly before he pulled back just enough to meet her eyes. Water continued dripping down his naked torso between them. “You wouldn’t like that either?”
She swallowed, her pulse visible in her throat. “You’re really pushing it tonight.”
“Am I?” He stayed close, towering over her, his wet chest nearly brushing the front of her jersey. “Or am I just saying what we’re both thinking? Your boyfriend’s probably out there basking in his victory, and you’re letting me kiss your neck in a locker room shower. Tell me I’m wrong.”
“You’re an asshole,” she whispered, but there was no real heat behind it.
Garrett smirked, dark and tense. “Maybe. But I’m the asshole you came to see.” He dipped his head again, this time kissing the hollow just below her ear. “If I touched you right now… if I slipped my hand under that jersey… you’d still tell me to stop?”
Her fingers curled at her sides. “You lost tonight. You’re supposed to be pissed off and sulking, not… this.”
“I am pissed off,” he admitted, voice rough as he hovered close, naked and dripping. “But I’d rather take that frustration out on someone who actually wants it. Someone who walked in here knowing exactly what she was doing.”
He brushed his lips against her neck once more. “So go ahead. Tell me to stop. Tell me you’d rather be with him right now.”
She exhaled sharply but refused to melt. Instead, she gripped his shoulder and dug her nails in. “You’re really stroking your own ego tonight, Graham. Do you suddenly think you can compete with him?”
“I don’t have to compete,” he said, voice low and rough as he hovered close, breath warm on her damp skin. “You’re already choosing to be here.”
She gave his chest a firm shove, though he barely moved. “Choosing to watch you sulk in the shower is not the same as wanting you. It’s satisfying to see you all worked up and defeated.”
Garrett’s lips curved into a dark smirk. He caught her wrist, holding it against his chest. “Defeated? Funny. You’re breathing harder every time I touch you.” He kissed her neck again, slower this time, letting his teeth scrape lightly. “Tell me this doesn’t feel better than whatever safe, boring shit he gives you.”
Her free hand came up, threading into his wet hair and tugging his head back just enough to meet his gaze. “You’re so desperate to feel superior. It’s almost sad.” Her voice dropped, sharp and taunting. “Keep kissing me all you want. It won’t change that I go home to him, not you.”
Garrett’s eyes burned with frustration and heat. He stayed close, water from his body soaking into the front of her jersey. “Then why the hell are you still standing here letting me? Why aren’t you walking out that door right now?”
The hot water continued running in the background, steam curling through the locker room as Garrett slowly sank to his knees in front of her. His hands guided her hips backward until her back pressed against the cool tiled wall, putting her just under the shower’s stream. Water dripped steadily from his naked body onto the floor and her legs as he looked up at her, jaw still tight with leftover tension.
She glanced down at him, trying to keep her expression steady. “What the fuck are you doing?”
Garrett’s hands rested on her thighs, thumbs brushing lightly under the hem of the jersey. “You keep acting like you’re here by accident,” he murmured, voice low. “But we both know better.”
She threaded her fingers through his wet hair, giving it a small tug. “Are you trying to prove something?”
He leaned in and kissed the inside of her thigh, slow and deliberate, then glanced back up. “I told you, I’m just curious why you’re still here instead of with him.” His breath was warm against her skin. “If everything was perfect over there, you wouldn’t have walked into this locker room.”
Her back arched slightly against the wall as she fought a shiver. “You think too much of yourself, Graham.”
Garrett’s grip on her hips tightened gently, holding her in place. “And yet you’re letting me do this,” he said softly, pressing another kiss higher up her thigh. “You could’ve left ages ago, baby.”
She exhaled slowly, her fingers still tangled in his hair. “Don’t flatter yourself. This doesn’t change anything.”
He looked up at her through damp lashes, eyes dark. “Then tell me to stop,” he whispered against her skin. “Tell me you’d rather be anywhere else.”
She didn’t answer right away, the silence stretching between them, thick with everything unsaid. Her grip in his hair tightened just a fraction. “You’re making this complicated,” she finally said, voice quieter than before.
Garrett stayed on his knees, water still dripping from his shoulders. “You’re the one who came here.”
She pushed his head away from between her tights and Garrett let out a sigh that almost sounded like a defeated whine. His second loss of the night. Somehow this one stung more. Except that, without a word, she reached under the long jersey, hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her shorts, and slowly slid them down her legs. They pooled at her ankles, and she stepped out of them, leaving herself with just a pair of black lace panties beneath the oversized football jersey.
Garrett’s gaze followed the movement, his breath catching for a moment. He looked up at her as he let a small smile peak through. He inhaled her scent. “You’re making it harder to believe you don’t want this,” he murmured against her skin.
She leaned back against the tiled wall, her grip in his hair tightening slightly but not pulling him away. “You talk too much for someone who’s supposed to be licking his wounds.”
He smiled faintly against her inner thigh, then kissed her again, lingering longer, his mouth moving with deliberate patience. “Maybe I’m more interested in yours right now.” Another slow kiss, higher still. “You took those off pretty easily.”
Her cheeks flushed, but she didn’t stop him. “Don’t read too much into it,” she said, voice quieter, almost unsteady.
Garrett’s hands slid up the backs of her thighs, gently guiding her legs a little farther apart as he continued kissing her, his mouth teasing closer to where she was now exposed. She closed her eyes for a second, exhaling shakily as his mouth moved against her. “You’re impossible tonight, Graham.”
He looked up at her with dark eyes as he finally leaned in, pressing his mouth against the thin fabric. “Fuck… you’re already soaked through these,” Garrett murmured, voice low and rough. He dragged his tongue slowly over the lace, tasting her through the material. “And you want me to believe you came down here just to tease me?”
She gasped softly. Her fingers tightened in his wet hair, but she didn’t pull him away.
Garrett groaned against her, the sound vibrating through the lace as he licked her again, firmer this time, circling her clit over the fabric. “Look at you… Your boyfriend knows you get this wet for me?”
“Garrett…” she breathed, trying to keep her voice steady.
His back shivered at the sound of his name. He hooked one of her legs over his shoulder, opening her up more as he pressed his mouth harder against her panties. His tongue worked the soaked lace with slow, deliberate strokes, sucking gently on her through the fabric. “Does he know how to eat this pretty pussy or does leave you aching for someone who actually knows what he’s doing?” He dragged his tongue up and down her covered slit, savoring the way the fabric clung to her.
He hooked his fingers into the waistband of her soaked black lace panties and slowly dragged them down her thighs, giving her plenty of time to stop him.
She didn’t.
He pulled the ruined lace all the way off, tossing it aside onto the wet tile floor. His eyes darkened as he took in the sight of her completely bare now, glistening and exposed right in front of his face.
Without another word, he leaned forward and dragged his tongue slowly up her bare pussy, enjoying the taste of her with nothing in between. A low groan rumbled in his chest as he licked her again, deeper this time, parting her folds with long strokes. She gasped sharply, her hips twitched forward forcing him to hold her upright.
Garrett looked up at her, lips shiny. “There it is,” he murmured, voice low and thick. He flicked his tongue over her swollen clit before sucking it gently into his mouth. “So fucking wet for the guy who lost tonight.”
He buried his face deeper between her thighs, eating her out with deliberate hunger. His tongue circled her clit, then dipped down to tease her entrance, lapping at her with wet, obscene sounds that echoed softly off the tiles.
“You taste even better like this,” he groaned against her, the vibration making her moan. “I think you’re the desperate one here.” He sucked her clit again, harder, before pulling back just enough to speak. “Is this what you’ve been missing?”
She whimpered, one leg trembling slightly over his shoulder as he dove back in, licking and sucking with focused intensity. Garrett’s hands gripped her hips, holding her firmly against the wall while his mouth worked her relentlessly, refusing to give her any space to think.
“Garrett…” she breathed, voice breaking.
He hummed against her pussy, clearly enjoying the way she was falling apart. “That’s right. Say my name while I’m down here tasting what’s not his.” He gripped her hips tighter and dove back in, licking slow strokes up her bare pussy before focusing on her clit with hungry circles. Her moans grew louder.
Garrett groaned against her, the sound deliciously filthy. “So fucking sweet,” he muttered, then slid two thick fingers slowly into her tight heat. He curled them instantly, stroking that sensitive spot inside her while his tongue kept working her clit with relentless pressure.
“Oh my god…” she gasped, her thighs starting to tremble around his shoulders.
He pumped his fingers deeper, matching the pace of his tongue as he sucked her clit into his mouth. The obscene sounds of his mouth and fingers filled the steamy locker room. Water dripped from his hair and shoulders as he devoured her, completely focused on pulling more desperate noises from her throat.
“That’s it,” he growled against her pussy, voice muffled. “Fuck my fingers while I eat you. Your boyfriend ever make you this fucking sloppy?”
She couldn’t answer, only a broken moan escaped as her hips started rolling against his face. Garrett added a third finger, stretching her as he sucked harder on her swollen clit, his tongue flicking fast. Her breathing grew ragged, thighs clamping tighter around his head. “Garrett… fuck, I’m…” her mouth opened into a silent scream.
He didn’t stop. If anything, he grew more aggressive, fingers thrusting deeper while his mouth worked her clit with perfect, relentless suction. He groaned loudly against her, clearly loving the way she was falling apart.
Her orgasm hit hard. She cried out, back arching off the wall as her pussy clenched tightly around his fingers. Her hips bucked against his face, thighs shaking uncontrollably as she came undone. Garrett kept his mouth on her through every wave, licking and sucking greedily, letting her ride it out on his tongue and fingers while she soaked his chin and lips.
He stayed there until her trembling slowed, placing one last slow, possessive lick along her sensitive folds before finally pulling back slightly. His face was shiny with her release, eyes dark with satisfaction as he looked up at her.
“Fucking hell, you’re… that was beautiful,” he murmured, voice rough, still on his knees between her legs.
The hot water continued to pour down as Garrett rose slowly, water streaming down his naked, muscular body. His cock was hard and heavy, curving up against his abs. Without a word, he gripped her thighs, lifted her effortlessly, and pinned her back against the slick tiled wall.
Her legs wrapped around his waist instinctively. He held her there, the head of his cock brushing against her soaked entrance as steam curled around them. Garrett looked directly into her eyes, breathing hard. “I’m not going to kiss you,” he said, voice low and rough, “but can I fuck you?”
She exhaled shakily, nodding. “Please.”
That was all he needed.
He gripped her ass with both hands and thrust up into her in one smooth stroke, burying himself to the hilt. She moaned loudly at the sudden stretch, her nails digging into his shoulders as her pussy clenched tightly around his thick cock.
“Fuck,” Garrett groaned, holding her pinned to the wall as he started moving. He fucked her with slow strokes, pulling out almost all the way before driving back in deep.
He picked up the pace, thrusting harder, the wet sound of skin slapping skin echoing through the locker room. Water from the shower rained down over their joined bodies, making her jersey cling transparently to her breasts, her hard nipples clearly visible through the fabric.
“You’re a vision,” he growled, eyes dark as he watched the football jersey ride up around her waist while he fucked her. “Getting railed by the losing hockey player while you’ve still got your boyfriend’s name across your chest.” He slammed into her deeper, grinding his hips against hers on every thrust. “Does that turn you on? Getting fucked in his colors?”
She moaned and nodded unconsciously, her head falling back against the tile as he drove into her again and again, his cock hitting deep with every stroke.
Garrett leaned in closer, lips brushing her ear. “You came so hard on my tongue and now you’re letting me stretch this pussy while you’re dressed like his property.” He thrust harder, almost punishing. “Bet he doesn’t fuck you like this. Bet he doesn’t make you shake the way you’re shaking right now.”
He adjusted his grip on her ass, spreading her wider as he pounded into her, the force of his thrusts making her breasts bounce under the soaked jersey.
“Say it,” he demanded between heavy breaths, still refusing to kiss her mouth. “Tell me whose cock feels better.” His hips snapped forward relentlessly, fucking her rough against the wall as water continued to cascade over their heated bodies. The wet slap of skin on skin mixed with the sound of the running shower as he held her pinned against the wall, her legs locked around his waist.
He suddenly slowed his thrusts, grinding deep inside her instead, eyes locked on her parted lips. Without warning, he gripped her jaw firmly with one hand, tilting her face up toward his.
“Open your mouth,” he ordered, voice dark and rough. She obeyed, lips parting. Garrett leaned in and spat directly into her open mouth, a thick string of saliva landing on her tongue. “Swallow,” he growled, watching her closely as he started fucking her hard again.
She moaned, swallowing his spit as he drove his cock even deeper. Garrett’s eyes flashed with satisfaction.
“That’s it,” he rasped, slamming into her again. “Such a dirty little slut for me tonight.” He picked up speed, fucking her relentlessly against the tiles, the force of his thrusts making her whole body jolt. Her hard nipples were rubbing against the wet fabric with every movement.
Her moans grew louder and more desperate, echoing off the tiled walls as she lost control. “Fuck, Garrett!” she cried out, voice breaking into shameless moans. “Oh my god, right there baby. Right there.”
“Yeah? You like that?” he growled, her eyes rolling back as he pounded into her.
Just then, the locker room door creaked open unexpectedly for the second time that evening. “Garrett? You in here, man? I know you’re pissed about the game, just wanted to check…” Logan stopped dead in his tracks.
From his angle, he could only see Garrett’s bare ass flexing as he thrust powerfully between a pair of legs wrapped tightly around his waist. The girl’s moans were unmistakable, loud and filthy, her ankles locked behind Garrett’s back as he fucked her against the shower wall.
Garrett turned his head slightly, still buried deep inside her, and let out a low, breathless laugh. “Shit… bad timing, bro,” he said, not stopping the deep rolls of his hips. She tried to muffle her moan against his shoulder but failed miserably.
Logan stood frozen for a second before averting his eyes. “Uh… yeah. I’ll… catch you later.”
Garrett grinned, still holding her up as he gave one particularly hard thrust that made her cry out again. “I’ll tell you about it back at the house,” he called out, voice casual despite how hard he was fucking her. “Just give me a bit.”
Logan muttered something and quickly backed out, the door shutting behind him.
Garrett chuckled darkly, turning his full attention back to her as resumed his relentless pace.
She glared at him, breathless and flushed. “You are not telling him about this,” she snapped, voice sharp even as she moaned again when he drove into her. “Don’t you dare, umphf”
Garrett cut her off instantly. He grabbed her jaw roughly with one hand, forcing her mouth open as he leaned in and spat directly onto her tongue again, thick and deliberate. “Swallow,” he ordered, voice low and commanding. “And shut that pretty mouth up before you ruin the mood.”
She moaned indignantly but swallowed his spit, her pussy clenching hard around his cock. Garrett smirked and immediately dropped his hand between them, finding her swollen clit with his thumb. He started rubbing firm circles over it while continuing to fuck her with long, powerful strokes.
“That’s better,” he growled, watching her face contort with pleasure. “Getting mad at me while you’re creaming all over my dick. So. Fucking. Cute.” A word for each thrust.
Her moans turned frantic as he worked her clit faster, never slowing the deep thrusts of his cock. The combination was too much: his thick length stretching her, his thumb rubbing her relentlessly, and the filthy taste of him still on her tongue.“Garrett, holy fucking shit”
“Come,” he demanded, spitting into her open mouth one last time as he pounded into her. “Come on my cock while you’re still wearing his jersey.”
Her orgasm crashed over her violently. She cried out loudly, body shaking as her pussy spasmed hard around him. Her legs tightened around his waist, nails digging into his shoulders as she came, soaking his cock and thighs. Garrett kept rubbing her clit through every wave, drawing it out until she was whimpering and trembling against him.
Garrett groaned deeply as her pussy pulsed around his cock, her walls squeezing him rhythmically. He kept thrusting through it, slower but still deep, savoring the way she fluttered and soaked him. His own breathing was ragged now, muscles tight with building pressure.
“Fuck… I’m close,” he rasped against her ear, voice strained. “So fucking close.”
He gave her a few more powerful thrusts before suddenly pulling out of her with a wet sound. He set her down on shaky legs, his cock glistening with her release and throbbing hard against his abs.
Before he could say anything, she dropped to her knees in front of him on the wet tile floor, water from the shower cascading over her shoulders and the soaked football jersey. She looked up at him with flushed cheeks and hazy eyes, then wrapped her hand around his slick cock and guided it straight to her mouth.
Garrett let out a rough moan as her lips parted and she took him in eagerly, sucking him deep without hesitation.
“Shit,” He threaded his fingers through her wet hair, hips jerking forward. “That’s it… good girl. You didn’t even need me to ask.”
She moaned around his cock, the vibration traveling straight through him as she bobbed her head, taking him as deep as she could. Her tongue swirled around the head on every upstroke, tasting herself on him. Garrett’s abs flexed, his grip tightening in her hair as he fought to hold back.
“Fuck, that’s it,” he growled, voice rough and strained. He pushed deep into her mouth one last time and held her there as he came hard. Thick ropes of cum spilled across her tongue, filling her mouth with pulse after heavy pulse. He groaned loudly, hips twitching as he emptied himself completely, watching her take every drop.
When he finally pulled out, a thin string of saliva and cum connected her lips to the head of his cock. She swallowed visibly, breathing hard.
Garrett looked down at her with a satisfied, almost cocky smirk. He reached down and gently patted her cheek twice, then cupped her face with one hand, thumb brushing over her swollen lips. “Good fucking girl,” he murmured. “Now go back to your cuckold boyfriend.”
He leaned down slightly, still holding her jaw as water poured over them. “This is our dirty little secret. You can wear his jersey and pretend to be his good girlfriend… but we both know whose cum you’re tasting right now.”