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The first time it happens, it’s an accident, an indulgence that slips past Sidney’s ironclad control because the moment feels too good, too raw to break. You’re beneath him, your knees hooked over his forearms as he folds you in half, thrusts hitting deep enough to drag whimpers out of your throat. The room smells like sweat and sex and the faint vanilla lotion you slathered on after your shower. Your nails score his shoulder blades, urging him deeper, and something cracks in him—decades of discipline fraying under the way you look up at him, pupils blown, mouth slack, pleading quietly, “Please don’t stop, daddy, please—”

He doesn’t. He chases it blindly, hips snapping with a force that rattles the headboard against the wall. You clamp down around him, tight as a fist, and he feels his resolve go molten. He’s supposed to pull out. He always pulls out. Condoms, pills, barriers, precautions stacked like sandbags against disaster, knows your cycles, keeps track more carefully than you do because he has to—because he’s the adult, the one with everything to lose. He whispers it every time, “Tell me when you’re close, baby… I’ve got to—” and you nod, promise, because you’re sweet and eager and want to be good for him.

But tonight you’re gone, pleasure-drunk, giggling breathlessly as you cup his face in your little hands and breathe, “Feels so good, Sidney, I love you,” and he breaks. He slams home, holds there, buries his face in your neck, and empties himself inside you with a guttural groan that vibrates through your whole body. It’s hot, flooding, spreading through you like molten honey, and you choke on a gasp, thighs trembling. He stays deep, grinding as if he can get further, his muscles locking, spine arched, every vein in his neck standing out. He hasn’t come inside anyone raw since before you were legal. The feeling is dizzying—silken walls milking him, no latex dulling the wet heat. He feels your pulse against him, feels your cunt flutter as you follow him over the edge, clinging and gasping his name.

Now his breath shudders. His pulse roars. He feels the reality of it in the way his cock throbs inside your tight channel, in the warm flood still pulsing out of him. He’s still inside you, softening slowly, and he knows he should pull out, knows he should reach for a towel, for anything, but he’s transfixed.

“Oh my god,” he mutters, voice ragged, forehead dropping to yours. “Baby, what did I just— fuck— what did we just do?”

You stare up at him, pupils blown wide, lips parted in that blissed-out smile he’s obsessed with. You’re flushed, skin glowing, hair wild across the pillow. You blink, hazy, a dreamy giggle bubbling up. “You came,” you say, stating the obvious like it’s the funniest thing in the world, your voice a breathy lilt. “Inside me. It was so warm.”

Your words punch the air from his lungs. He braces his hands on either side of your head, trying to steady himself. “Yeah. I did. I—” The panic shivers through him cold and sharp, cutting through the fading pleasure. You’re young and so damn fertile he’s seen you get flushed and needy just from ovulation. He shouldn’t have let himself slip. He’s the careful one.

He pulls out slowly, groaning as your walls cling to him, and both of you hiss at the wet stretch. The moment the tip leaves you, his cum spills out in a milky rush, pooling between your thighs, and that’s when he loses his composure. He can’t look away. The sight of his release dripping from your pink slit captivates him in a way that’s part terror, part savage hunger.

“Jesus,” he breathes, eyes locked on the slow roll of white sliding down to your ass. “Look at that.”

You lift your head, peering down your body, then flop back onto the pillow with a little squeal, covering your face with your hands. “It feels so weird,” you giggle, voice tinged with fascination. “Like… like it’s still throbbing?”

“That’s me,” he says hoarsely, fingers trembling as he spreads your folds to watch more of his cum seep out in thick, pearly strands. “That’s all me. God, baby.” He runs his thumb gently over your slick entrance, smearing his release across your swollen lips. You gasp, hips twitching, and he feels another pulse of lust kick despite the dread coiling in his gut.

He reaches for a towel, hesitates. He can’t bring himself to wipe it away yet. Instead he cups your pussy with his palm, pressing lightly to feel the warmth, the way you flutter against his hand. “We need to get Plan B,” he says, voice steady even though his mind is racing. “Right now. I don’t care that it’s midnight.”

You peek at him through your fingers, eyes glassy and soft. “Do we have to?”

“Yes.” The word is a command, firm, but tinged with something else—fear, protectiveness, self-reproach. “You know how easily— baby, your hormones are everywhere. I shouldn’t have—” He exhales sharply, dragging a hand down his beard. “I got caught up. You make me crazy.”

You lower your hands, tracing the line of his jaw with gentle fingertips. “I liked it,” you whisper, the honesty in your voice gutting him. “Liked feeling you inside me like that. All warm. Felt like you were everywhere.”

His nostrils flare. The temptation to push back in, to plug you up with his cock and keep his cum inside you, surges hard enough to make him sway. Instead he breathes through it, reminding himself who he has to be for you. “Don’t tempt me,” he mutters, but his thumb is already rubbing slow circles around your clit, spreading his spend over your skin like he can’t help himself.

You moan, soft and floaty, your hips rolling. “Sidney…”

“Yeah, baby?” He can’t stop staring at your drenched slit, at the obscene glisten. He dips a finger inside, shallow, scooping up a mixture of you and him, and you whimper, lashes fluttering. He pulls his finger out and watches another line of cum follow, dripping onto the sheets, and he almost loses his mind. “You feel that?”

Your giggle turns into a sigh. “You’re obsessed.”

“With keeping you safe,” he says automatically, snapping back to his senses, though it comes out rougher than intended. He drags the sticky finger up to your mouth, strokes your lower lip. “Open.”

You obey, still dazed, and he slides his finger between your lips. You suck lazily, tasting the mix of both of you, and his cock twitches, half-hard again already.

He shakes himself, forces focus. “Stay right there. Don’t move. I’m gonna clean you up, then we’re hitting the pharmacy.”

You pout, the motion adorable and infuriating. “Can’t we stay like this for a minute? It feels… kinda nice.”

“Of course it does,” he growls, grabbing his phone from the nightstand to check the time. “That’s how nature tricks you. Your body’s like, ‘oh wow, this feels good, let’s make a baby.’ Yeah, no. Not tonight.”

You collapse into giggles, delirious. “You’re so dramatic.”

“Damn right I am.” He tosses the phone aside, leans down to kiss you, slow and deep, the taste of you and him still on your tongue. “I just creampied the most perfect girl on planet Earth. I’ve earned the right to be dramatic.”

You hum into the kiss. “You called it a creampie.” You sound delighted. “You’re so filthy.”

“I’m being clinical,” he lies, and slides off the bed, reluctantly stepping away from the enticing sight of your thighs slick with his cum. He grabs a clean towel, tosses it over his shoulder, then pauses to admire you one more time—sprawled on the sheets, hair fanned out, belly flushed, the open, trusting smile still lingering at the corners of your mouth.

He sits beside you again, raising your hips gently to slide a pillow under your lower back to stop gravity from doing too much damage while he wipes you. He knows it’s counterproductive, but part of him can’t stand the idea of his cum dripping onto the sheets instead of staying with you.

“Hold this,” he says, pressing the towel between your thighs, firm enough to catch the mess but gentle enough that you sigh instead of flinch.

You obey, pressing the towel tight, biting your lip, still dreamy. He strokes your hair back from your face, eyes soft despite the nerves jittering through him. “We’re gonna get dressed,” he says quietly. “We’ll get Plan B. Then I’ll tuck you back in, Okay?”

You nod, that same sparkling trust lighting your features. “Okay. Whatever you say.”

He kisses your forehead, then stands, gathering discarded clothes. He catches sight of the ruined condom still in the wrapper on the nightstand and swears under his breath. Lesson learned. Never again, he vows. No matter how sweet you moan, no matter how tight you clamp around him, no matter how badly his instincts scream to fill you up and watch it spill out. He’ll protect you, even from himself.

Still, as you sit up, towel slipping, another ribbon of cum sliding down your inner thigh, he has to squeeze his eyes shut for a second, battling the dark, possessive part of him that thrills at the sight. You look down, giggle, and swipe it with your fingers, bringing them to your mouth without thinking. He groans, half horrified, half aroused.

“We’re leaving,” he says, grabbing his keys. “Right now.”

You hop off the bed, still lost in the moment, still giggling, wrapping his oversized sweatshirt around your bare body. “I love you,” you sing, leaning up to kiss his cheek.

“No, I’m not,” you scoff, shaking your head, looking back down at your phone. “So full of yourself.”

“Oh, come on.” He says, “Tell me what’s wrong.”

“There’s nothing wrong,” you sink further into the mattress, not looking at him. You’ve been staring at the pale skin of his hip and lower stomach. His shirt keeps riding up as he’s moving around. “Shut up,” you grumble.

He turns fully to you now. You wouldn’t be acting like this if you didn’t have something to hide, and by the way you’re folding in on yourself, he thinks this secret is one he wants to hear.

“Don’t be mean,” he says, and your pulse spikes. He’s coming over to your side of the bed, a mischievous look on his face. It’s actually quite an innocent one, like the preceding smile before he comes to tickle you. He still hasn’t really caught on to the reason. It’s too big a task for a man to recognize the small pattern anyway. A day or two a week after your period is all it is, and usually, you’re better at hiding it. But he looks so good today, and it’s embarrassing to feel so out of control.

“You’re imagining whatever this is,” you feign composure, flailing your hands about, nervous, sinking further down the mattress. He stands over you.

“Please tell me what’s wrong,” he pouts, which you kind of expected him to keep going about with his teasing, so it’s a surprise. He’s being genuine.

“S’ nothing really.” You rally, shifting your legs so they’re pressed further together. You’ve had this dull ache ever since you woke up, and you want help, but it’s too mortifying. “Go to the gym,” you manage. He told you a couple minutes ago the rest of his plan for the day, and when he mentioned that— like, he goes to the gym everyday now with the offseason, so it really shouldn’t do anything to you—all you can imagine is sweat dripping down his temples, down the plane of his neck, his biceps fuller from a pump, his mouth open, tongue swiping over his dry lips. It’s terrible. It’s unfair how your body gets to decide when it can take over.

“I don’t want to go anymore if you’ll just be home like this. Don’t want you mad at me.”

“I’m not mad! Seriously, I’m not.” 

“So what is it?” 

“I’m not saying.” Your phone is somewhere on the bed. You cross your arms over your chest. It sucks because your nipples are so hard, and you immediately bite your bottom lip so as not to be overt.

He kneels on the bed, right in front of your feet. You’ve bent your knees, and he drops his chin on them to beg you.

“Please?” He tries again, his hair floppy, his eyes shining. You now feel bad because he’s acting so sweet, and what you want to say is I need you to eat me out. 

You groan, ruffling his hair, thighs clenching even further together.

“It’s just…” You hesitate, and he waits in silence. His palm embraces the side of your bare thigh. You feel on fire. “Imovulating.”

“What?” Beckett asks, a small laugh escaping his lips. He crooks his head, comes up to shift further over you. At this point, you’ve fallen, so you’re lying flat on the bed.

“Like…ugh…I don’t know how to explain it to you.”

“I’ll understand.” Bless his heart. He thinks you’re going to tell him something, probably not related to the egg in your uterus waiting to be fertilized. You think he’d have a heart attack trying to understand that.

“It’s my cycle. You know how I got my period last week?”

He nods, his grip on your thigh unyielding. 

“It’s—uhm—like everyone gets it. It’s just this time where I’m susceptible to getting pregnant, so I’m more…sex driven, I guess.”

“You’re horny?” He puts it in layman’s terms. He’s relieved, though, a wide grin spreading on his face when he realizes you weren’t mad at him—just preoccupied. “You don’t have to hide that from me.”

You throw your head in your hands, flustered. He’s all cocky now, pads of his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your outer thigh. The other brackets your stomach, so now he’s ever closer. You don’t want to look at him.

“Come on,” he coaxes you, tries to pry your hands away from your face. “I can help. You know I can help,” he whispers like he doesn’t want anyone else to hear, even though you’re alone in his house.

You’re so wet from all the delusions you’ve had all day. You had to change underwear twice, and you’re starting to feel like you should again. 

He inches your shirt up your stomach, bending back to press soft kisses around your belly button. You finally look down. You see his shiny brown hair, the tips of his ears, his nose pressing into your skin.

“It’s not…because of you or anything.” He looks up, forehead creasing to watch your mouth. “It’s my biology.”

He smiles. “That’s cute.”

Your brain melts.

“No, it’s—“ your voice falters, “I just need you for ten minutes, then you can go.” You’re alluding to the gym. He would say something stupid like ‘figure it out yourself’ after your bratty quip and leave, but then he’d be denying himself of seeing your humiliation, feeling it on his tongue. He wasn’t too keen on missing that.

He helps you shimmy off your shorts. He hears your sharp intake of breath as he brushes over your clothed clit. He can feel the wetness through the thin fabric.

“You been like this all day? Fuck,” he comments.

“You don’t understand. It’s embarrassing.”

“Yeah, it is,” he mocks you, his thumb pressing rather harshly right on that bundle of nerves. You squirm, burning hot at the way he doesn’t deny it, doesn’t baby you, and say that it’s not. 

He’s fascinated by you. Just fucking enamored at your odd decisions and your cute voice and the way your body always reacts to his touch.

“Just—just a little bit. I don’t need much.” You say, your eyes glazing over. You start rocking into the pressure of his thumb, a little desperate. Well, maybe more than a little.

“Sit on my face,” he says, blank expression, his thumb pulling away from your heat.

“What?” You whine, delirious. 

“Sit on my face,” he repeats, moving off your body to lie on his back next to you. “I think you need that.”

“O-okay,” you respond, wobbly, trying to get up on your knees without falling over. He holds a steady hand on your waist as you swing your body over his chest. “I’m not gonna last long.”

He hums, a deep sound from the bottom of his throat. He watches intently as you scoot up. He grips your sides, drawing you closer. He taps the bottom of your shirt gently, telling you he wants it off. You oblige. He watches as your breasts settle, nipples hard and pebbled. 

You always get a bit self-conscious in this position. You avert your gaze, shifty, scared to put any weight on him. He thinks it’s so stupid. He’d have you in anyway that he could. 

He tugs your underwear to the side with one finger. You brace the headboard with your hands, gasping loudly, looking down at the pale gray-blue eyes staring right back at you as he first places his tongue over your pussy. He’s just getting a feel, lapping at the wetness from your hole, kissing your sensitive bud softly, but it’s already making tears well in your eyes. You feel out of your body, not able to control anything. He holds your thighs in his arms, so you’re forced to put your weight on him. 

You can’t wriggle away from the pleasure like you want to. Instead, it has you rocking onto his tongue, which makes it all worse. You don’t want to suffocate him, but he’s left you with no choice. Tearing moans fall from your lips. Ones that are so embarrassingly loud that it seems like the whole neighborhood will hear them.

As soon as his tongue slips inside after just minutes of attention to your labia, you’re cumming, white-hot and blind. Your hands grip the headboard so tight that your knuckles turn a lighter color. Your thighs shake, but he keeps you there in his hold, his prisoner. 

“Fuck, fuck, it’s too much—“ one of your hands falls to his hair, trying to pull at it to let you go, but he won’t. He just shakes his head against your pussy. It feels so wrong, and every part of your body is telling you it’s overwhelming. Your nerve endings are shot, toes curling, hands trembling. 

You know if he would talk — if he would even let himself up for air — he’d be telling you that you can take it. You can take it, baby. I know you can. Because you do it around his cock, but this is different. He’s pressing on all your buttons, an unending stream of stimuli, and you think you’re going to actually go blind soon. He comes out in blurry visions as you look down. He’s flushed red, eyes closed, focused. You’re ruining his hair with your death grip. 

The overstimulation turns into pure pleasure again. You’re soaked. You can feel the slick between your thighs, leaking down to his face, probably all in the sheets now, too. Your stomach is tensing and building its way back up to climax again. One of his hands snakes its way up to your tit, squeezing it in his palm. 

You can’t form sentences. Just his name, over and over and over again. You cum harder than the last, heaving and spasming for so long. He’s moaning against you. 

He lets you go, and there’s no other reason for you to stay on him, so you flop over on your stomach, face hitting the pillow. You groan loudly. You think you need to sleep for about twelve hours before you can properly do anything again. You can hear his hoarse laugh as the bed creaks. He’s getting up.

You peer an eye up from the pillow, and somehow he managed to cum. It’s all over his black top. He discards his cum-covered shirt in the laundry hamper, fixing himself in his shorts as he pulls them up.

He had hastily pulled his cock out while you constricted his airways, and came on his own stomach. You clench around nothing.

He has a wet towel in his hand as he comes over to your side of the bed, a new shirt on. You can barely turn your head up to see his stupid grin.

“Shit, no, no…” You whine, the pressure of something foreign between your thighs was too much.

“Just a second.” He says, pulling your hips up so he can clean you well. You let him. “See? Better,” as he lets you go.

“Fuck you,” you manage, quietly.

“How about, ‘thank you, my loving boyfriend, who made me cum twice on his face?’” 

You groan, muffled into the cushion. “Bare minimum,” you try to laugh at your own joke, but you’re too tired. You get your body to move sideways, though, so it’s easier to look at him. He smiles at your quip. You reach out, you don’t really know for what. Maybe to ask him to stay. He kisses the back of your hand.

“I’ll only be an hour, hour and a half, okay? You go to sleep.”

You really didn’t want him to go, but you’d be selfish to make him stay when you could barely move.

—

“Did I wake you up?” He says through the fogged-up glass.

“No,” you respond. “Couldn’t sleep.”

“I’m sorry,” he says back, completely unaware. He’s not even looking out to see you, or noticing that you closed the bathroom door, or even noticing that you were naked there, toes digging into the bathroom mat. 

You slept maybe twenty minutes. Your thighs kept rubbing together, generating heat. You still had an ocean of thoughts, sexual thoughts that needed to be quelled. Then you heard him come back home. You were still kind of paralyzed, so you waited until he came through your bedroom door, but he never showed. You frowned and put it upon yourself to find him.

He decided to use a different shower from the en-suite one. You guessed so he wouldn’t wake you. So considerate.

“I can make you some tea—“

“No, Beckett. Can I come in?”

He doesn’t say anything for a second, then you hear the sound of the glass door opening, letting all the steam out. He’s completely wet, hair stuck to his forehead, soft dick lying there against his thigh. He looks at you, becomes momentarily speechless, then says: “You want more?”

“Kind of need you to fuck me so I can go to sleep, actually. Don’t need tea, dumbass.”

“I’m sorry for trying to be nice—“This whole argument doesn’t work because he’s all red hot from the shower, sculpted body leaning on the tiles, and you’re there, annoyed, and there really shouldn’t be any more talking. Like, seriously.

You partially hate it when he gets home from the gym. He looks bigger, muscles quicker to catch your eye. He knows it too.

“Oh, shut up,” you say, rummaging through a drawer in the counter to find a condom. When you procure it, it’s like you almost see a glimmer of disappointment in his eyes. You really don’t want to unpack that. 

You step in, and his lips are immediately crashing into yours, hot and wet. He’s hardening against your stomach. He braces you against the tile, shutting the door. You fumble with the package. It’s all wet now. “We don’t need it.”

You look at him, flabbergasted. “This is…probably the one time we need it, stupid. I’m going to get pregnant. That’s what ovulation is for.”

He looks at you, pleading. “I want to fill you up. Fuck, you deserve it.” One of his hands comes behind your thigh, hiking it up on his waist. You glare at him.

“No.” Obviously, your traitorous, caveman mind is saying yes though, and that’s really fucking annoying. “Keep your head screwed on straight,” you scold him.

He laughs as he places kisses down your neck. “Fineee,” he spreads the word out, like a petulant child. If that child was six foot three with a voice that smoked a pack a day. You bring him closer with the heel of your foot. You’ve managed to undo the plastic wrap, and now you’re fumbling with the wet latex, rolling it over his cock.

You never feel like you’re going to fall in the shower with him. He’s always this strong presence, holding you up. 

He curses as he edges himself inside. He starts slow, agonizingly slow. He drags up inside you until he reaches the hilt. You’re struggling for air, sputtering shower water into his chest.

“This okay?” He takes hold of your leg now, so that he’s stretching it against you, holding you steady on the hard wall behind. He quickens his pace, panting already from the heat of the shower air, from the heat inside you.

You nod dumbly, face buried in his body. It feels so good. 

“You’d look so pretty with my cum inside you.”

What the fuck is he saying. Good for him for discovering this kink the exact moment you can’t do it.

You look up, barely, still being pushed and fucked into the wall. His back is shielding you from the spray. He stares down at the spot where you two intertwine. “You’re disgusting,” you say, though you gasp out at the -ing as he thrusts deep, almost successful at saying something without him ruining it.

It’s far from disgusting. It’s actually one of the best things he’s ever said. Or that’s your instincts talking. You don’t know. You want his cum, want his dick to plug it in so it never comes out. It’s spurs you on, makes the way he’s brushing against your spot so much better. 

Then he’s pulling out. Animally, you want to force him back inside, but he’s shifting you and turning you in his grip, so now you’re against the glass, your forearms bracing it. 

He kisses at the top of your spine, your top two vertebrae that crane your head forward because you’re weak, and the steam is making your head all fuzzy.

“You feel so good,” he says into your ear, slipping himself inside you. You moan as a response. He grabs a handful of your ass, the other hand a gentle weight on your back, keeping you pressed on the glass. The sounds of his body meeting yours are amplified in the small space. It feels like if he let you go, you’d crumble to the floor. 

“You wanted this, huh?” as he slaps your ass. You squeeze your eyes shut, and a broken sob comes from your throat. His pace is relentless, constantly brushing up so good inside you. “Need me to fill you up, yeah? Can’t think straight cause you just need my cum.”

It’s true. It’s mortifying. You can’t weakly defend yourself either. You can’t speak. Your forehead is pressed up against the glass, hands trying to keep yourself on two feet. It’s like this cord snaps, and you’re coming undone, clenching so hard around him that he’s groaning at the feel. All he needs to do is say a couple of demeaning things in your ear, and you’ll fall apart. 

He fucks you through your climax, gripping your hips. Then he’s coming, regrettably, into the condom. It feels warm for only a second, then cold. If it were actually inside you, it would stay hot. You hate it when he finally inches out of you. You slump your entire body against the glass, your cheeks stained with the water from the shower and the tears. You don’t even remember crying.

His touch, his soft, warm fingertips from the hot water, ghost down your back. 

“You’re good now?” He asks, voice raspy. You nod in response. You feel, for a brief second, the cold rush of air as he opens the door to throw the condom away, then he’s back again. He takes you in his arms. It’s all too much. His touch, the warmth, the feeling of satisfaction heavy in your bones.

“You came so fast,” he mutters into you, pressing kisses where your clavicle meets the depression of your neck. “Wanna fill you up next time, baby.”

After a long two week stretch, where he injured his arm in the first game, he’s back home, all irritable and so sensitive. He spent a long time without you, dealing with this new injury by himself, and he partly hates it because he has less independence now, and everyone’s all coddling him — his stupid teammates won’t stop making fun of the grimace he’s had on the past ten days — but there’s another part he thinks is the main reason why he can’t focus, why he loses his temper so quickly, why he can’t sleep well. He doesn’t think, he knows. You haven’t picked up on it yet, and he doesn’t know when’s the best time to segue into saying I need you to jerk me off t-minus two hours after getting back home.

Because he doesn’t know, he thinks maybe he learned a bit of manners from his parents, but he’s also freaking the fuck out, and you took off your hoodie like ten minutes ago, which made him pick an argument. Not at you — well, sort of. It was just to put his frustration into something that wasn’t his dick. He can see your nipples through your tank and he’s having a really hard time right now. You’d think he’s never seen breasts before, the way his mind is going a million miles a minute.

“If I had a magic wand, Beck…”

“Yeah, yeah, I know, you’d make it better.” His uninjured arm bends at the elbow on the back of the couch, so his fingers dig into his temple, staring up at you. You’ve gone over this with him multiple times because he keeps complaining, and you have to keep telling him there’s really nothing you can do to help, even though you really want to. 

“Right.” You try to shift your attention to something over on the other side of the room, but you feel his eyes as you leave, so you turn your head. “What is it?” You groan.

“Nothing!” 

You’ve had this inkling that he just wants you to tell him everything’s going to be okay, because most men don’t like to ask for that out loud, but you’ve done that, like, multiple times already. 

He shifts uncomfortably on the couch, his hips lifting up, the palm of his hand resting over his crotch for a second, quick enough to be brushed off by anyone else, and now you feel stupid for not realizing sooner.

“Your other arm doesn’t work?”

“What?” He’s bewildered, eyes wide. You creep back over to him, a big smile on your face.

“Have you seriously not gotten off in two weeks?”

“Well, maybe…yeah, yeah.” He covers his mouth with his hand, cheeks flushing red. He’s relieved you figured it out without him having to verbalize it, though. “Can’t use my other hand, doesn’t work.”

“Can you apologize for being an asshole earlier?” You drop down to your knees between his legs, soft carpet protecting your skin.

“Sorry, sorry, I’m all pent up.” He opens his legs wider to accommodate you. “Need your hand around me.” His eyes immediately glaze over, his lips part, his eyes dark as he watches the way your chest looks underneath him, at the way your hands inch over his thighs, sweatpants tight at the swell of muscle. “I’ll show you how I do it.”

“Yeah?” You ask, quieting your voice, making that inflection really obvious. He nods, tongue darting out to wet his lower lip.  

His eyelids flutter shut when you palm him over the fabric. He got hard in literally point two seconds.

“You really can’t jerk off with your left hand?”

“Can’t hold the phone and—you know, do both at one time.”

“Ah,” you respond, pushing your hand harder into his length. He sucks in a breath. “Have you ever heard of this thing called ‘imagination’ or like, your brain?”

“Fuck off. It’s not the same. Need to watch my videos of you.”

Oh. 

“That’s the right answer,” you smile, very pleased. Your fingers trail over his waistband, and he lifts his hips without a command. You decide it’ll just be easier to take both his pants and boxers off at the same time. He springs free, so pink and aching, and already you see the glimmer of precum at the head. You’d never say it to his face, but his length has always been intimidating. He knows it subconsciously, but you won’t bite the bait and actually tell him because that’d give him way too much teasing material. 

“Go slow, baby.”

Your fingers tentatively wrap around his shaft, and his head falls back into the cushion. He’s more sensitive than normal, the clear liquid dribbling out of his slit, falling down his length. There’s still too much friction when you cautiously move up and down. His eyes squeeze shut, the pleasure still outweighing the uncomfortable feeling. You do what you have to to get rid of that feeling and dangle the spit in your mouth over his tip.

“Yeah, and uhm—I don’t do that, but that’s great too, fuck.” His arm comes out to pet your hair, to tangle his fingers in it so he’s touching you, keeping you grounded.

“You’re welcome,” you say, squeezing his length a couple times on the upstroke. You’ve got that small smirk he always tried to visualize when he was alone, but can’t. It’s so much better in person, to see your soft features all confident, nimble fingers working to make him cum. His hand could never recreate this, not after being with you.

“Always so good for me,” his breath gets caught in his throat. You do this in fucking increments, going up and down along his shaft with so much force, and then slowing down to play with his slit. It drives him crazy. “Good for it, good for my cock, aren’t you?”

You nod, dumbly, head moving on its own accord, like there are two disjointed parts of your brain and one of them is designated to respond to him without thinking. You feel him pulsate around your hand. Your face is so close to it, you could wrap your lips around him, but you want to get him off just like this, to prove that you only needed your hands.

His free hand cups your chin, and you instinctively lean into it. His thumb moves to the soft skin of your chin, your cheek, your bottom lip, until he’s prodding there and asking you to open your mouth for him, pretty please.

Beckett swears colorfully now, his thumb trapped between your lips, absolutely drunk on your insanity. He looks really good, hair sticking to his forehead, face flushed down to his neck, hooded eyes that refuse to leave you. You can see his muscles in his shoulders and along his stomach tensing, even if he’s still wearing his shirt. He’ll grimace a little when he moves his injured arm because you’re so good at this that he’s having small spasms that he can’t control.

He drags his saliva coated thumb all over your face, “So fucking pretty.” 

You quicken your strokes, and it’s all a disgusting mixture of liquids that make smacking noises as you try to get him off. It’s so intimate, holding eye contact, until he’s being a pervert and staring down at your chest, through the whole hand on dick situation that’s happening. “Want to see your tits.” Wow, what a nice man. He’s still fucking hot, though. He’s brash sometimes, but it never quells the heat in your stomach. Regrettably, it makes it all worse, which is like, against feminism or something.

You stop your movements, and he groans, bucking his hips up. Your free hand moves to drag your tank underneath your breasts.

“Touch yourself.”

So you do, snaking your hand inside your underwear, feeling the consequence of the past ten minutes. He says the Lord’s name in vain when he can visibly see how your mouth hangs open as you press two fingers inside of yourself easily. You still haven’t let go of his cock, so he’s just sitting there, helplessly twitching around your palm, about to burst. He’s so okay with it. He wanted to watch you anyway. He spent most of his roadie envisioning this to a tee. 

His pulse quickens again. He can hear his heart so loud in his chest, as you softly moan right there into the pale skin of his thigh. Your brows furrow, teeth biting so hard on your lower lip, he’s afraid you’ll start bleeding. He tells you to keep going, even though he’s throbbing so hard he can barely think straight. Telling you all the things you want to hear in his stupidly annoying hot voice. 

“You gonna come for me, right? Come all over yourself?”

You agree with a hum, and then it’s like you suddenly remember you’re still wrapped around his hard, leaking cock, and you stroke weakly a few more times before he’s cuming all over your neck, dripping down to your chest. He’s heaving, eyes blown wide, still trying to watch you. 

“Keep going for me, yeah?” You feel his thigh twitching where you have your cum-covered palm attached to it to give you stability. You’re trying so hard, your fingers are cramping around your clit. He shifts forward, hand coming to fist in your hair, pushing your face up so you’re forced to make eye contact with him. He kind of looked stupid with the sling in his arm, but his eyes are filled with desire, his adams apple bobbing up and down, his hair all ruffled in just the right way, so that it really didn’t matter. He’s watching you make yourself cum on the floor beneath him, and that realization alone makes you sob and curl into the pleasure that rips straight through your body. 

“Jesus, you’re crazy,” his voice is all raspy.

“You told me to do it,” you counter, face slumped into the couch, trying to level your breathing. It’s disgusting how your panties cling to you now.

How he even concludes that you’re the crazy one is beyond you. You’re just following his orders, following whatever’s going on in his fucked up mind.

“Thank you,” he says, looking down at you with all the adoration in the world.

“Wasn’t that hard. You’re easy.”

flushed cheeks and chest heaving, will's mesmerized by the sight of your tits as you move on top of him. he presses forward, burying his face in your soft chest, pressing his lips to the warm skin. one large hand squeezes your breast, rolling your nipple under his fingers until you whine, shuddering and grinding down harder on his cock.

"take me so good," he grumbles, cheek pressing to your sternum as he turns his eyes downward to watch you. your hips roll in slow, even strokes, little whimpers tumbling like a waterfall from your parted lips. "sound so pretty," he coos, laying back against the couch so he can just stare.

clayton still has keys to your place even though you broke up months ago, because co-parenting with a pro athlete who aches to own you is never simple. your girl is eighteen months old, cheeks chubby, stubborn curls sticking to her forehead, a miniature clayton with her daddy’s blue eyes and his smug little grin. he’s a good dad, annoyingly so—shows up for every pediatrician appointment, stocks your fridge with organic toddler snacks, spends hours on the floor building block towers just to knock them down and watch her laugh. it makes you want to strangle him and ride him in equal measure.

he hates that you’re seeing someone new. keeps reminding you that nobody gets near his kid unless he says so. “you’re not bringing some random dude around my daughter,” he told you last week, standing in your kitchen while reheating leftovers. he said it with that calm, unshakeable tone that makes it clear there’s no negotiation. you argued, because of course you did, but he just shook his head and kissed your forehead, the asshole. “you know better,” he murmured, and your thighs clenched.

a normal saturday: he picks your daughter up, straps her into his car, kisses her nose, calls her princess. you watch from the doorway, arms crossed, telling yourself you’re immune. then he takes her to the park, pushes her on swings until she squeals, buys her a tiny ice cream cone and wipes the drips from her chin with a gentleness that contradicts how ruthlessly he fucks.

he texts you pictures: her asleep on his chest, her wearing one of his beanies, her splashing in his tub. you melt despite yourself. when he brings her back, she runs to you, sticky and giggling. clayton stands there in a hoodie and backward cap, eyes soft as they move between you two. his gaze lingers on you longer than it should, cataloguing everything—the way your hair’s tied up, the way your tank top clings to your tits, the sliver of skin above your jeans.

later that night, you’re in bed scrolling through your phone when you get a message: “you up?”

you roll your eyes but you answer because you’re weak. not even ten minutes pass before you hear his car outside, then the jangle of keys. he strolls in like he still lives there, finds you on the couch, plucks your phone from your hands, and flops down beside you. “missed you today,” he says casually, like you were the one who was away. “missed my girls.”

“you saw us both,” you remind him, but he only smirks, his hand already sliding up your thigh.

“not enough,” he says. and just like that, you’re on your back, his mouth on yours, the kind of kiss that yanks you out of reality. your clothes are gone in seconds and he’s fucking into you on the couch, one hand on your throat, the other squeezing your hip. it fades straight from the first kiss into his cock slamming into you because that’s how it is with him—one second you’re arguing over nap schedules, the next you’re whimpering his name into the cushions while he mutters, “this pussy’s mine no matter what you say.”

he’s possessive even mid-stroke, teeth scraping your jaw. “you think you’re bringing some guy around the house?” he grunts, thrusts hitting deep enough to make your toes curl. “nah. you’re gonna keep this pussy safe for me. for the father of your baby.” you roll your eyes, but your nails dig into his biceps, legs locking around his waist because your body agrees even if your brain protests.

he keeps going, voice low, almost conversational while he fucks you senseless. “thought about this all day,” he says. “was watching our girl nap on my chest and couldn’t stop thinking about being inside you. i’m so fucked up.” he laughs softly, breath hitching. “good dad, shitty ex. guess i can live with that.”

another day, he comes over to drop off your daughter after a weekend at his house. she’s sleepy, clinging to his neck, and you take her, kiss her soft curls, coo soothingly. clayton watches, eyes hooded. once she’s down for her nap, he corners you in the hallway, presses you against the wall, breath hot. “you’re not wearing a bra,” he notes, annoyingly observant. “trying to kill me?”

“why would i care what you feel?” you shoot back, but he just smirks and tugs your top down, sucking a nipple into his mouth with such reverence you sag. “clay—”

“shh,” he says, already kneeling, pushing your shorts aside, tongue finding your clit like it owns it. you ball your fist against your mouth to muffle the moans because the baby monitor is right there. he eats you out like he’s starving, laves every inch, groans when you grind down. afterwards, he stands, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and kisses you, letting you taste yourself. “i’m addicted,” he murmurs. “i’ll never stop. you know that, yeah?” you shove him, but he laughs, steps back, rakes a hand through his hair.

you try to date. you dress up, take pictures, go out with someone clayton would hate. but you get home and check your phone and there’s his name, lighting up the screen with photos of your daughter brushing her teeth, a video of her yelling “mama!” at the top of her lungs. you melt. you text back. he shows up. it’s like clockwork.

when you're alone together, the second the door shuts behind him, you’re in his hands, your body already softening because you know he’s about to wreck you. he rarely bothers undressing fully; just drags your panties down, shoves his sweatpants low, and slips inside you with a groan that sounds like a prayer. “god, this cunt,” he mutters every time. “still perfect. still tight. still mine.” you bite his shoulder, call him an egotistical bastard, but your pussy grips him and he moans loud, hips stuttering. he always fucks you into the mattress, pinning your wrists above your head, kissing you so fiercely your lips bruise.

you don’t submit easily. sometimes you push him off mid-kiss, glare, tell him he doesn’t own you. he just smiles, sits back on his heels, strokes his cock, and watches while you get flustered. “come on,” he says softly. “i’m not forcing you. you want it. just admit it.” he waits, patient, letting you get keyed up until you climb back into his lap on your own. “there she is,” he murmurs against your mouth. “my girl.”

he never stops being a good dad, which infuriates you. he reads bedtime stories in goofy voices, cooks toddler-friendly meals (even though he can’t cook for adults to save his life), keeps spare clothes and baby toys at his place so she always has what she needs. he sends pictures of her to his mom, calls her “my princess” in interviews, and every time you hear him talk about her you melt a little more. you hate that watching him carry her on his shoulders or braid her hair or kiss her sleepy forehead makes you wet. he’ll tuck her in, close her door softly, then turn to you with eyes already dark, and boom—fade straight into him pushing you onto the nearest surface, muttering, “need you now.”

he fucks you missionary just so he can watch your expressions, memorize every gasp. “nobody else knows your body like this,” he says, thumb circling your clit while he thrusts slow and deep. “nobody else gave you a baby. nobody else gets to see you like this." he kisses you hard when you argue, devouring the words, then drives his cock into you until you’re clawing the sheets. you cum under him, chanting his name, and he smiles against your throat, satisfied. “told you,” he whispers. “mine.”

some nights it starts with an argument. you fight about visitation schedules, new partners, vacations. he gets that calm, immovable look and says, “our daughter isn’t meeting someone you’re seeing casually. i don’t care if you think it’s my business. it is.” you rage, pace, try to push him out the door. he stands there, arms folded, watching you with a mix of amusement and heat because he loves you like this—wild, furious, alive.

you eventually run out of steam, slump against the wall, breathing hard. he steps forward, cups your face, kisses you. you resist for half a second, then melt, grabbing his hoodie, yanking him closer. his hands slide behind your thighs, lift you effortlessly, and he carries you to the bedroom. the argument dissolves as he fucks you slow, murmuring, “i just want you safe. want her safe. can’t handle the thought of anyone else in this house.” you’d roll your eyes if you weren’t moaning too loud.

he loves seeing you on your knees, and you love giving in just enough to make him groan. after you put your daughter down for a nap, he leans against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, watching you with that half-smile. “come here,” he says softly. “show me how much you appreciate me dropping by with groceries.” you kneel, take him in your mouth, and he strokes your hair, praises you like you never left him. afterwards, he wipes your lips with his thumb, tips your chin up. “remember who takes care of you,” he murmurs. “even if we’re not together.”

you hate that he’s right. you hate how your body responds, how your heart stutters when he walks into a room holding your daughter in one arm and a bag of diapers in the other. you hate that every time you hook up with him, it’s better than it ever was when you were together, more intense because you’re pretending it’s just sex when it’s obviously more. he knows it too. “we’re fucked,” he says once, lying beside you after he’s just blown your mind, both of you sweaty and breathless. “we’re toxic as hell.”

your calves tremble around his waist as clayton drives into you, slow enough that every inch drags, deep enough that you whimper with each stroke. your back arches off the sheets, fingers clawing at the comforter, and he just laughs softly, the sound smug and affectionate. “too much for you, baby?” he coos, thumbs digging into your hips so he can haul you closer.

your hips tilt up, heels pressing into his lower back, and you swear you can feel him in your throat. you nod frantically, mouth falling open in a breathy, “yes,” but the word melts into a moan when he pulls almost all the way out, the thick head catching on your entrance before he sinks back in.

he’s knelt between your spread thighs, knees digging into the mattress, using the leverage to fuck you in steady, controlled pulses. he watches your face the entire time, blue eyes dark, cheeks flushed. “look at you,” he murmurs, voice a low purr. “all shaky and sweet. poor baby can’t handle her boyfriend, huh?” he’s teasing, mock sympathy dripping from every syllable, but there’s pride there too, reverent and hungry. “so sensitive. is that my fault?” he tugs you higher until your ass practically lifts off the mattress, hips aligned so every thrust grinds against your clit.

you squeal, nails biting into the sheets. your knees squeeze around his waist, trying to steady yourself, but it just gives him better leverage. he grips your hips like handles, guiding you in time with his thrusts, and you go pliant, eyes rolling back. “clay,” you gasp, voice thin, “i can’t—”

“yeah you can,” he interrupts gently, slamming in a little harder, making the headboard knock the wall. you cry out, body nearly folding in half, thighs shaking. he drops one hand to stroke your cheek, thumb rubbing soothing circles even as he fucks you through another wave. “my sweet girl,” he croons. “always acting like you’re gonna break, but you take me so good.” he lifts your chin, forcing your watery gaze to meet his. “say it. tell me you love how i fuck you.”

“i love it,” you babble immediately, hips twitching. “i love it i love it i love you. oh god,” you whine, voice taut. he smiles, leaning down just enough to kiss you, tongue licking into your mouth while his cock grinds deep, nudging your cervix. that familiar overstimulated buzz builds fast—your clit swollen from earlier, nerves frayed—and you cling to him, moaning into the kiss. he breaks away to nuzzle your nose. “there’s my good girl,” he praises softly. “taking it like a pro while you cry about it. so dramatic.”

you choke on a sobbing laugh, because he’s right. you’re so sensitive you’re practically vibrating, a raw bundle of nerves that he exploits relentlessly. he’s already made you cum twice tonight—once with his mouth, once with his fingers—and now he’s determined to wring one more out of you even though your thighs are spasming and your nipples ache from his earlier attention. every time he thrusts, your vision spots. “clay, please,” you pant, not even sure what you’re asking for. maybe mercy. maybe more.

“please what?” he taunts gently, picking up the pace. his cock glistens every time it pulls out, your pussy clenching around it like you’re afraid to let him go. “say it, sweetheart.”

“please don’t stop,” you cry, shocking yourself with your own honesty. you’re overheating, but the thought of him pulling away feels like cruel punishment. he groans, head tipping back for a moment as he thrusts harder, the mattress squeaking under the rhythm.

“never gonna stop,” he promises, voice rough. “not when you grab me like this.” he reaches between your bodies, thumb finding your swollen clit, and barely brushes it. you convulse, a desperate sob tearing from your throat. “there we go,” he murmurs, sympathetic all over again. “my little thing’s so sensitive. can’t take it, can you?” he rubs slow circles while pounding into you, the combination so intense your whole body arches.

tears leak from the corners of your eyes. he notices immediately, cooing, “oh baby, don’t cry.” but his thumb never relents, pressing harder, relentless in the most tender way. “gonna make you cum again. you can do it. you always do.” he drives deep, angling his hips to hit that spot that makes you scream, and you sob his name, nails dragging down your own thighs because you need somewhere to put the sensation.

orgasm crashes over you with no warning. your hips jerk, back bowing, a silent scream ripping from your chest as everything tightens, then releases. your pussy clamps down on him, spasms rippling, and he groans, gripping your hips to hold you still while he fucks you through it. “that’s it,” he grits out. “milk my cock. good girl.” you hiccup, tears streaming, and he finally eases up, pulling out just enough to watch the way you flutter around nothing. he drops onto his hands, covering you, kissing the tears away. “shh,” he soothes, voice a lullaby. “i got you. so sensitive, huh? my sweet little thing.”

the house is alive in that loose, summery way that's settled over the past week. music's humming from a speaker somewhere, the lone drone of a game on tv, and voices are lapping in conversations. nothing is particularly chaotic tonight, if anything, it's calm for a place packed with this many people.

fraser is on the couch with a couple of the guys, leaning back, with one arm thrown over the backrest, looking relaxed but still quietly tuned into everything around him. his shorts ride up from sitting and stirring on the couch for so long, revealing his thighs.

you're across the room when his attention shifts.

it's subtle -- just his eyes lifting, and landing on you mid-conversation. but then he doesn't look away. at least, not right away. there's something in his expression that wasn't there a second ago -- focus, and intent. it lingers just enough to make your stomach tighten.

you hold his gaze for a beat, trying not to make it obvious, before he glances toward the hallway to your room, and then back at you again. and that's all it takes.

the rest of the room fades a little after that. you try to stay engaged in whatever's being said around you, but your attention keeps slipping, pulled back to him every time he shifts or moves. he doesn't rush anything, wanting to be sure you're on the same page as him before anything happens.

a minute later, he pushes himself up from the couch, stretching slightly.

"i'm gonna go grab something," he says casually, already turning away before anyone can question it.

you wait just long enough to make it believable. long enough that it doesn't look like you're following him. but your pulse is already faster when you stand, brushing off your shorts like you've got nothing better to do.

"be right back," you toss out, not really to anyone specific.

and no one stops you either.

his door is almost closed when you slip inside, easing it shut behind you with a soft click. the shift in atmosphere is immediate. the noise from the rest of the house dulls into something distant, muffled through the walls, like you two are in your own world now.

fraser is already there, pacing once across the room before stopping when he sees you. for a second, neither of you speaks. there's just this charged quiet, like everything that's been building all evening finally has somewhere to land.

"hey," you say, softer than you mean to.

"hey," he answers, and his voice is lower now -- lower, and more focused than it was out there.

he steps closer, not rushing it, giving you time to close the distance too. his eyes flick briefly to your face, like he's checking and making sure.

"you took your time," he murmurs, a small hint of teasing slipping in.

a faint smile pulls at your mouth. "had to make it look normal."

"mmm... very convincing."

you huff out a quiet laugh at that, but it fades quickly as he stops just in front of you. up close, the tension is clearer now, and contained from having to hold it in all night.

"it's been hard to get you alone," he says, more honestly this time.

your gaze flicks toward the door, then back to him. "everyone's right there."

"i know." there's no hesitation in it, just a simple acknowledgment. then, after a beat, "does that bother you?"

"a little," you admit.

"me too," he says, just as quietly. then his hand steadily settles at your waist. "not enough to stop, though."

that lands heavier than anything else he's said. you study his face for a second, searching for any sign of doubt, but there isn't any. just the same calm certainty he carried with him. it makes it easier to nod, even with your pulse climbing.

"i'm sure," you tell him.

fraser exhales softly at that, like he needed to hear it said out loud. his forehead brushes yours for a brief second, something almost absentminded but grounding, before his focus sharpens again.

"we have to be quiet," he murmurs, a trace of amusement threading through the warning.

you can't help the small smile that tugs at your lips. "then you'll just have to make sure of that."

he takes you to the shared bed, on top of you, and his lips meet yours. one hand is holding the side of your face, whilst the other hand that was by your waist trails down to the band of your shorts, tugging at it, and pulling them down.

by the time the both of you are undressed, fraser meets your lips again, this time, making his way down your neck and chest, until he meets your core. he gently swipes at your cunt, taking in the slick that's been slowly pooling the whole night, and throughout all the time you spent staring at him on that couch.

your hips buck at the feeling, and he immediately has one hand pressing down on your abdomen, holding you down. he picks up his pace a little, flicking his tongue at you faster, and suctioning his mouth around you whenever he felt like changing things up a bit, and all you do is let out heavy breaths at the feeling

before you could even finish, his mouth leaves your core. but before you can protest, his hand covers your mouth and he leans in close to your ear. "you're gonna have to be quiet for me now."

after nodding in agreement, he lines up his cock with your entrance. "i'll go slow, okay?"

you take him in slowly, inch by inch, trying not to make any noise. every time he moves, you try holding yourself back, trying to control your volume, and only letting out quiet moans into the palm of his hand.

by the time he's fully in, his head dips again to be by your ear, whispering out a soft "fuck."

he slowly pulls back, leaving only the head of his cock in you before pushing back in. the both of you are left with your mouths hanging open, and only letting out breaths in order to hold back from moaning loud enough for everyone outside to hear.

fraser slowly starts to pick up his pace, pushing his full length into you. there's a soft, repetitive creak from the bed from each movement that is made. his free hand makes its way down to your clit, pressing quick circles against it.

with each thrust, comes more immeasurable pleasure. and with that, comes lapses in judgement. at some point, you two forget about needing to keep quiet, and each moan that gets let out becomes slightly louder than the last.

time slips away from you two, and the outside world that faded away earlier, slowly starts to filter in with muffled voices in the hallway, footsteps passing by the door, and laughter that carries through the walls a little too clearly.

you don't realise how loud you two have gotten until fraser reacts. one second, everything is blurred together with his hand slipping from its hold on your mouth, and the next, he freezes up when hearing chatter a little too close to the door for his liking, and having a firm hand over your mouth once again.

"shhh," he whispers, close to your ear, voice low and controlled.

your eyes widen briefly before you nod against his hand, understanding immediately. the faintest hint of a smile touches his voice when he adds, "walls are thin."

"did you hear that?" someone outside says, faint but unmistakable.

his cock is still in your cunt, missing his thrusts, and without you thinking clearly, you clench around him, trying to take him in. fraser's eyes immediately shut, trying not to react verbally. the room feels impossibly quiet despite everything going on.

there's a pause -- long enough to make your heart pound harder -- before the footsteps move again, fading down the hallway.

fraser exhales slowly, his forehead resting briefly against yours as the tension breaks, and his thrusts start back up again with the same fast pace he was going at not too long ago.

you continue to tighten around him every time he pulls back, noticing the way he has his head hanging low by the crook of your neck, letting out soft breaths by your ear.

"i'm not gonna last that much longer," he huffs out. each thrust of his ensues a quiet moan from your throat, muffled by his hand. he can feel you starting to get close when you start closing your thighs around him.

"fuck..." he lets out, drawing last minute quick, tight circles against your clit before he finally releases into you. the feeling brings you to your high as well, and the both of you try to ride it out whilst keeping your voices to a minimum.

the next morning, the house feels different. everything appears to look the same -- the kitchen's already in use with coffee brewing, someone leaning against the counter half-awake, and some else sprawled across the couch scrolling through their phone. it should feel normal, but it doesn't.

you notice it the second you walk in. the way a couple of conversations falter for half a second too long. the way someone glances at you and then quickly looks away, hoping you didn't notice their stares. your stomach sinks at the reaction.

fraser steps in behind you a short moment later, and whatever fragile illusion of normalcy there was disappears completely. a quiet chuckle breaks the silence.

"oh my god," someone mutters, not nearly as subtle as they think they are.

you close your eyes briefly, already feeling the heat creep up your neck. "no," you murmur under your breath.

"oh my god," another voice repeats, louder this time.

fraser doesn't even hesitate. he walks past them like none of this is happening, heading straight to make you two a cup of tea. "don't," he says flatly, reaching for the mugs.

it doesn't work.

"don't what?" one of them shoots back immediately, grinning. "acknowledge the fact that we all heard you two last night?"

you make a small, strangled sound, covering your face with your hands. there's absolutely no recovering from this.

from the couch, someone sits up, clearly way too invested. "i was this close to knocking on the door."

fraser sighs, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck now, the first real crack in his composure. "you're all so annoying."

"annoying?" someone echoes, laughing. "dude, you guys were loud."

"i'm never leaving that room again," you mutter, your voice muffled behind your hands.

that finally gets a reaction out of him -- a quiet huff of laughter he tries, and fails, to hide. he nudges your arm lightly as he passes you a cup.

"we'll be fine," he says under his breath.

you shoot back, glancing at him. "they're never letting this go."

"they're definitely not," he admits, like it's the most obvious thing in the world.

across the room, someone calls out again, "hey, mints! didn't know you had that in you."

fraser closes his eyes briefly, exhaling through his nose, but there's a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth now. he doesn't rise to it, but instead leans closer to you, voice dropping just enough.

"next time," he says, like it's already decided, "we'll pick somewhere quieter."

you stare at him for a second. "next time?"

he shrugs, completely unfazed, taking another sip of his tea. "yeah."

from across the room, someone immediately chimes in. "oh, there's gonna be a next time?"

the teasing starts up all over again, louder this time, but fraser just shakes his head, like none of it really gets to him. and standing there next to him, even with the embarrassment still lingering, it feels a little easier to handle.

extra:

"who wants to bet that they left to go fuck?" someone asks.

as if in planned unison, everyone says "oh they one hundred percent are."

"they were literally eye fucking each other the whole time."

sunlight filters through your kitchen blinds in pale stripes, dust motes dancing in the quiet, and you’re standing at the counter in just an oversized tee shirt that hits mid-thigh, one hand wrapped around a mug of cooling coffee, the other resting on the granite while you stare blankly at the eggs you’d meant to scramble.

the apartment is still, save for the hum of the refrigerator, and you’re halfway through a yawn when you feel the shift of air behind you, the pad of bare feet on hardwood that you know by heart now, and then warmth floods your back as macklin presses himself against you, chest to spine, his arms looping around your waist with the kind of sleepy clumsiness that makes him feel heavier than he is.

he buries his face in the crook of your neck with a muffled, whiny hum, nose cold against your skin, and you feel his lips brush the tendon there, soft and searching, his breath hot and uneven. “mornin’,” he mumbles, voice thick with sleep, gravelly in a way that sends a shiver down your spine, and his hands spread flat against your stomach, fingers splaying wide as if he’s trying to touch as much of you as possible. he’s warm everywhere, radiating heat through his thin sleep pants, and you feel him immediately, the hard line of his cock nudging insistently against the small of your back, desperate and mindless with morning need.

you set your coffee down, leaning back into him, and he rewards you with a pleased little whine, hips rolling forward to grind that aching length against you with slow, heavy drags. “couldn’t find you,” he whispers against your neck, lips catching on your earlobe, sucking gently before pressing open-mouthed kisses down to your shoulder. his hair is a disaster, you can feel it tickling your cheek, messy brown tufts sticking up every direction, and when you turn your head, you catch sight of his face—eyes half-lidded and glazed, cheeks blotched with that familiar rosacea flush that spreads down his neck, lips swollen and pink from sleep.

he looks so soft, so vulnerable, green eyes hazy with want and affection, and he whimpers again when you push back against him, teasing. “you were gonna make food?” he questions, tone petulant and sweet, hands sliding down to grip your hips, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh there as he grinds harder, seeking friction. “wanted to wake up with you.”

you reach back, tangling your fingers in his hair, and he practically purrs, arching into your touch like a cat, cock twitching where it’s trapped against the fabric of his pants and your back. “i’m right here, baby,” you murmur, and he makes that noise again, high and needy in the back of his throat, nipping at your shoulder with teeth that barely indent.

his hips stutter, losing rhythm, and he presses his forehead against your shoulder blade, breathing hard. “need you,” he whines, small and broken, and one of his hands leaves your hip to tug at your shirt, pulling it up until his palm finds bare skin, fingers tracing reverent circles over your navel. “please, can we— can i—” he’s already so hard, leaking probably, the thought making you clench around nothing, and you turn in his arms, facing him, watching his face crumple with relief when you wrap your arms around his neck.

he lifts you easily, hands sliding under your thighs, and you wrap your legs around his waist, feeling the hard length of him settle against your cunt through the thin barrier of your panties. he walks you back against the counter, setting you on the edge with a grunt that’s all soft and whiny, his eyes fluttering shut as he slots himself between your legs, rutting forward with a desperate little moan.

“you feel so good,” he breathes, hands trembling as he pushes your shirt up higher, exposing your breasts, his mouth finding your nipple immediately, sucking with messy, hungry pulls that make your head fall back. you can feel him leaking through his pants, wet spot spreading against your inner thigh, and you reach down, palming him through the fabric, making him gasp and buck into your hand. “oh— oh, please,” he whimpers, hips jerking erratically, and you take pity, shoving his pants down just enough to free him, his cock springing up heavy and flushed, tip glossy with precum.

he’s whining continuously now, soft little “ah— ah—” sounds as he lines himself up, trembling so hard you think he might shake apart, and when he pushes in, it’s slow and deep, his face contorting with pleasure as your warmth swallows him. “nngh,” he groans, forehead dropping to rest against yours, hands gripping the counter edge on either side of your hips, caging you in a cocoon of his warmth. “you’re so warm, so warm,” he chants, voice cracking, and he starts to move with that sleepy, uncoordinated rhythm, hips snapping forward with little grunts that are more whine than groan. the kitchen fills with the sound of skin on skin, wet and filthy, the occasional clatter of a mug being knocked too close to the edge, but he doesn’t stop, can’t stop, his mouth finding yours in a kiss that’s all tongue and breathless sighs.

“feels like a dream,” he mumbles against your lips, thrusting harder now, losing himself in the slide of your cunt around him, his cock throbbing with every inch he buries. you hook your ankles behind his back, pulling him deeper, and he cries out, high and sweet, cheeks burning red as he chases his release with single-minded focus. “gonna— i’m gonna—” he warns, breath hitching, and you clench around him, milking him, whispering “you can let go, sweet boy...” against his ear.

he shatters with a sobbed whine, burying himself to the hilt, cock pulsing as he spills inside you, warmth flooding deep, his whole body shaking with the force of it. he keeps thrusting through it, whining at the overstimulation, until he collapses forward, face buried in your neck, panting wet and hot against your skin.

When he came back home after his game, you were still putting the whole thing on in the bathroom, and he was trying to get through the door as you held your body against it, telling him to go sit on the bed. He was joking at first, asking what you were trying to hide from him, asking if there was another man in his bathtub, but you managed to get him to stop his assault on the doorknob to finish putting the black babydoll set on.

He’s sitting lazily on your neat bed, hands placed behind him, legs spread apart. He immediately lights up when you walk through that door. The whole thing is sheer, except for the parts he wants to see the most. There’s little details where your nipples are, and when you step closer, he can see there’s little flowers in opaque black. Tiny frilly borders along the dip of your chest and on the bottom of the piece, too. It cuts off right at your hip line so he can see the matching underwear. It all sits so perfectly on your body, and his breath is punched out of him for a couple seconds.

“This is what you bought yesterday? What you were so secretive about?” You had came home from the mall with your friends, and wouldn’t let him see anything in the numerous bags you carried.

“Maybe…” you say, eyes flicking to the ground. You gravitate between his legs, standing there, watching the way his eyes rake over your body, visions of what he’s going to do to you filling in them.

“You were in the dressing room, trying this on with your friends…” he trails off, his hands coming to close in on your hips, “laughing about your boyfriends, picking out your favorite colors…”

His eyes gloss over you multiple times, and you can see the strain in his slacks. He’s getting hard thinking about you with other women, half naked - but that’s a whole other thing you don’t want to unpack right now.

“It’s not like that Beckett - shut up,” 

“Do you tell them about what I do to you?” He grips harder, looks at your nipples barely covered by the little flowery black patterns. They’re hard, and all you want is for him to run his thumbs over them.

Your face burns. “No, God. You’re a freak.”

“That’s good,” he ignores the name you called him, “They’d get jealous.”

“You’re ruining the moment with your huge ego, you know.”

“I’m right — you probably want to tell them though, how good I fuck you, but you get flustered too easily and you can’t say it out loud. Only to me.”

“Stop…”Your voice falters, “you’re being gross,” you feel the disgusting glob of wetness form in your lace panties.

“You say: ‘don’t stop, please, you’re so big’” He tries imitating your voice. He fails miserably because he can’t even get his pitch down to a normal man’s, let alone yours. You squirm.

“I do not say that.” You do.

“You have short-term memory? You want me to remind you?”

You groan. He’s so self-assured. He’s got this huge grin, canines showing. He likes to get under your skin. You look so pretty all tensed up, nose scrunched when he says something stupid, body inching closer because you still can’t resist him. Don’t ask him how many times he’s purposefully started a fight just to get you angry. You always cum harder when you’re mad anyway. He’s helping, really —  is what his sick brain thinks.

You straddle his lap now. He’s fully hard. You can feel him.

You hold him by the jaw, squeezing his cheeks together so his lips are squished and he can’t talk. His throat is bobbing up and down because he’s holding in his laugh. You shift his head in your hand, forcing him to tilt and his hair falls prettily to one side. He won’t let his eye contact go. Long eyelashes blinking up at you.

“Just touch me.” You snake your free hand to his wrist planted on the bed and bring it to hover over your lower stomach. You loosen your grip on his jaw, and you immediately regret it.

“That’s a yes?” He snaps the thin lace against your hip. 

“I don’t say those things,” though you can’t look at him, because you know you’re lying. He cups your pussy with his large hand. You grind down on his palm shamelessly.

“Really?” He quirks his face up at you. “You’re gonna stay quiet tonight?”

You nod, though you’re still biting your lip and pushing your hips down onto the fleeting pleasure of the thick skin of his palm.

“Look so pretty like this…” he’s enamored by the swell of your chest, the sheer lace that lets him see the expanse of your stomach. He pushes the fabric covering your heat to the side, prodding his middle finger right where you want him. It’s an awkward angle, but he doesn’t mind when your breasts are pushed up near his face, accentuated by your outfit. “…gonna ruin it.”

the door clicks shut behind him, the sound loud in the quiet of the house. clayton’s bag drops to the floor with a heavy thud, and when he looks up at you, his face is a storm of exhaustion and tension. "c’mere," he murmurs, his voice low, almost pleading, and you don’t hesitate.

you’re in his arms a second later, his broad hands cradling your face as his lips find yours, soft and insistent. the kiss is slow but deep, his tongue tracing yours like he’s trying to lose himself in you. when he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, his breathing ragged.

"baby," he says softly, his thumb brushing over your cheek. "i’ve had the worst fucking week. you have no idea how much i missed you."

"i missed you too," you whisper, wrapping your arms around his neck. "you’re home now, clay. it’s okay."

his hands slide down your back, settling on your waist as he pulls you flush against him. "yeah," he murmurs, his lips brushing over your jaw, then down to your neck. "and i’m not gonna lie, sweetheart, i need you right now. need to feel you, need you to let me take it all out on you."

the way he says it isn’t rough or demanding—it’s raw, full of need and affection. you nod, your fingers tangling in his hair. "okay," you breathe. "i’m yours, clay. whatever you need."

"god, you’re so good to me," he murmurs, kissing you again. "come on, baby. let me take care of you."

he leads you to the bedroom, his hands never leaving your body. when you’re there, he takes his time stripping you, every touch careful and deliberate. "sit on the edge of the bed for me," he says gently, and you do, watching as he undresses himself, his eyes never leaving you.

"lay back," he murmurs, his voice soft but firm. when you do, he climbs over you, pressing his weight into you like he’s trying to ground himself. his hands explore every inch of you, his lips following the path of his touch, his praise falling from his lips like a prayer.

"you’re so beautiful," he whispers against your skin. "can’t believe i get to come home to this. to you."

he guides you onto your side, his body curving around yours. "lift your leg for me, baby," he says, his voice husky but still so tender. "yeah, just like that. you’re so perfect."

when he finally pushes inside you, he lets out a low, shuddering breath, his hand slipping under you to hold you close. "thank you," he murmurs, his lips brushing your ear. "thank you for letting me have this, baby. you don’t know what it means to me."

his movements are slow but deep, each thrust precise, like he’s savoring every second. his free hand slides over your stomach, his thumb stroking your skin as he presses kisses to your shoulder, your neck, your jaw.

"you deserve everything," he whispers, his voice heavy with emotion. "as soon as i can, i’m gonna spoil the hell out of you. promise, baby. dinner at that place you love, the one with the stupid expensive wine. a weekend wherever you wanna go. fuck, i’ll buy you anything you want, just say the word."

you whimper softly, and he chuckles, low and affectionate. "like the sound of that, huh? yeah, i know you do. deserve to be spoiled after puttin’ up with me."

"clay," you gasp, your fingers digging into the sheets as he shifts, his thrusts hitting deeper.