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warnings: established relationship, smut, dom!paige, begging, edging, overstimulation, toys (vaginal + anal), crying, tears, move-in day sex, i'm not seeing the pearly gates
a/n: i'm back for the gays
requests: open
Move-in day had been a blur of boxes, sweat, and Paige pretending she was some kind of pro mover. She carried everything like it weighed nothing, throwing you cocky grins every time you tried to help.
“See? You basically got a U-Haul mover with built-in muscle,” she teased, flexing her arms as she grabbed another box.
You’d kept one particular box close, shoved under blankets in the back of your car. The kind of box you really didn’t want misplaced. It made it into the apartment first thing, tucked in the corner where you figured Paige wouldn’t notice.
Of course, she noticed.
“Damn, this one’s heavy—what do you got in here, bricks?” she laughed, hefting it up. Before you could lunge for it, the cardboard bottom gave, and suddenly the floor was littered with silicone and leather.
Paige froze. Then her eyes widened, and then that cocky grin came back, slow and wicked. “Oh… oh.”
Your face went hot. You scrambled to scoop them back up, but she crouched first, picking up a bright orange vibrator and holding it up like evidence.
“You’ve been holding out on me,” she said, voice low, teasing. “Didn’t know you were this freaky.”
“Paige”
“No, no, don’t ‘Paige’ me.” She sat back on her heels, still smirking. “Show me.”
“What?”
“Show me how you use them.” She tossed the toy onto the bare mattress with no box spring yet, just a sheet and the frame squeaking every time you sat on it.
“C’mon,” Paige drawled, crossing her arms, muscles flexing and looking smug. Her eyes had gone darker, sharp with something that wasn’t just amusement. “You can’t keep all this to yourself.”
You froze, heat crawling up your neck. “Paige—”
Her teeth caught her bottom lip as she eyed the toy on the mattress. “Strip. Right here. Mattress’ll do.”
Your throat went dry, but your body moved anyway, slipping out of your shorts. She watched every inch of skin revealed, gaze dropping between your thighs. The air in the unfinished bedroom felt hotter, heavier, the mattress springs squeaking as you climbed on.
Paige didn’t hand it over right away. She let you reach, then pulled it back just out of range. “Spread your legs. Show me how wet you are first.”
Your face burned, but you leaned back on your elbows, parting your thighs until she could see the glisten at your core. A soft gasp left her, followed by a grin that made your stomach flip. “Fuck, babe. Already dripping.”
Finally, she pressed the vibrator into your hand. The first buzz against your clit had you arching, a shaky moan spilling out as you found a slow rhythm. Paige tilted her head, studying you like you were a puzzle she’d already solved.
“That’s it. Good girl,” she murmured. “Keep going.”
Your hips rocked as wetness spread down your thighs, the hum against your clit dragging louder sounds from you. Paige shifted, crouching low, her face inches from where the toy worked between your legs. Her hand darted out and snatched it away just as you started to crest. You whined, chest heaving.
Her smile was cruel. “Not yet. Beg.”
“Paige, pleaseee”
“Louder.”
“Please, let me( please, I need you, I’ll do anything—”
Her eyes gleamed, satisfaction dripping from every word: “That’s more like it.”
She pressed the toy back to your clit, but this time her other hand slipped lower, two fingers sliding between your aching folds, circling your most sensitive spot. The teasing touch had you gasping, thighs trembling as vibration and pressure blurred into one sharp edge of need. Paige shoved two fingers deep inside your dripping core, curling them just right until your back arched off the mattress with a desperate cry.
Every nerve felt lit, overstimulated, your moans spilling uncontrollably. The bare mattress creaked beneath your writhing, your thighs spread wide, hips jerking, body begging harder than your voice could.
Paige’s voice cut through, low and commanding. “Look at you. Can’t even keep still. Dripping all over the sheets like a slut. Keep your eyes on me baby—don’t you dare look away.”
You tried, lashes fluttering, but when Paige increased the speed on the vibrator, the buzz against your clit had your eyes rolling back. She gripped your jaw, forcing your head toward her, lips curving in satisfaction.
“That’s better. I wanna see every second of you falling apart.”
She didn’t stop until your body was trembling violently, tears spilling, your release dragged from you with a sob that shook your chest. Even then, she didn’t let up, switching toys, slick silicone pushing into your soaked core with ease. You whimpered at the stretch, only for her other hand to press lower, her fingers traced over your rim, circling slowly.
“Relaxx,” she cooed, pushing lightly at the tight ring of muscle. “Just a finger. You can take it. Breathe for me, baby.”
The first press had you gasping, clenching around her knuckle. She pumped the slick toy in your pussy at the same time, filling you everywhere at once, overwhelming sparks tearing through your body.
“Fuck, listen to you,” Paige groaned, biting her lip as she worked you open. “Two holes stuffed and you’re still begging for more. You love it, don’t you? Being used like this.”
“Yes—Paige, please—”
“That’s my good girl,” she praised, though her smile stayed sharp, cruel. “So fucking wet for me, dripping down my hand. Don’t stop. Take it all.”
The rhythm built until you were choking on your own moans, hips rolling helplessly into every thrust, tears blurring your vision as wet noises filled the room. She didn’t give you a second to breathe, every movement designed to push you higher, tighter, closer.
When you finally broke again, release tearing from you with a scream, Paige only slowed enough to keep you twitching, wrung out, spent beyond words.
By the time she finally relented, you were limp against the mattress, body quaking, throat raw from begging. Your eyes were wet, lashes sticking, the mess of your arousal smeared over your thighs and her fingers.
She climbed over you, straddling your hips, pressing a kiss to your damp temple as if she hadn’t just destroyed you. Her smirk was sharp, satisfied.
“Move-in day.” She murmured, lips brushing your ear.
“Congratulations, you just made this mattress the best in the apartment.”
pairing: britney griner x press!reader
warnings: ~2k. drinking liquor, size kink, BG is 6”9, strap sex, strap/wall sex, wlw, (this request is from august omg), mdni, no specific descriptions of reader, mature language
“are you down to be a distraction, baby?”
The press row at the Atlanta Dream game is buzzing with reporters and flashing screens creating a sense of excitement. You adjust your press badge and smooth your blouse, already feeling the adrenaline from tip-off coursing through you.
Midway through the third quarter, you finally get your chance. Weaving through the sideline crowd, mic hot in your hand, you quickly catch Britney's attention. She arches an eyebrow, and that trademark smirk is playing at her lips as she heads your way. The arena noise swells around you, and she has to bend down, way down, so her ear is just inches from your lips. You try to keep your voice steady as you ask about her defensive strategy, but your core heats up at the proximity. Her gaze lingers a beat too long, and you swear you see her tongue dart across her bottom lip.
Nearby fans cheer, oblivious to the current running between you, to the flutter in your chest you desperately try to ignore. When she straightens up and walks away, she glances back over her shoulder, and her smirk deepens. She knows exactly what she's doing to you.
Atlanta pulls ahead in the fourth, sealing the win with a roar from the crowd. You're gathering up all your gear when your phone buzzes.
"Drinks at your hotel tonight?"
You've been flirting with each other for months: stolen glances across crowded press conferences and lingering conversations that stretch well past professional courtesy. The tension between you is impossible to ignore, the kind that makes your skin hum whenever she's near. There have been close calls before, a hand on your lower back that lingered too long, her eyes dropping to your lips mid-sentence, but neither of you has crossed that line. Tonight feels different.
You meet in the lobby, and the moment you spot her leaning against a marble column in joggers and a fitted tank, your pulse kicks up. She straightens when she sees you, that slow smile spreading across her face.
"There she is," Britney says, pushing off the column with a grin. "My favorite reporter."
"Your favorite?" You arch a brow. "Pretty sure you left me hanging last week when I asked about your pre-game ritual and you said, ‘positive energy and manifestation.’"
She laughs, low and genuine. "Yeah, and watching you scramble for a new question? Adorable." Her gaze drifts over you, slow and deliberate. "Plus, you bite your lip when you're thinking. It's distracting."
"Distracting?" You fall into step beside her toward the elevators, warmth creeping up your neck.
"I'm a serious journalist, Griner."
"Uh-huh." She presses the elevator button, glancing down at you with a smirk. "And I'm just here for the intellectual conversation."
The elevator doors slide open. Inside, the space feels smaller than it should, the air charged. She leans against the brass railing, arms crossed, studying you with an intensity that makes your stomach flip.
"You know," she says as the floors tick upward, "I've been thinking about you all game."
"Yeah?" Your voice comes out breathier than you intended.
"Yeah." She steps closer, close enough that you can smell her cologne—something clean and expensive. "Couldn't focus on the post-game interviews. Kept wondering if you'd actually say yes."
To drinks?" You meet her eyes, emboldened. "Or to something else?"
The elevator chimes. Doors slide open, but neither of you moves right away. Then her hand finds the small of your back, firm but easy, steering you out into the hallway. You can’t help noticing how effortlessly she takes the lead.
"Let's start with drinks," she murmurs near your ear, voice low enough to spark heat along your skin, "and see where the night takes us."
At the minibar, your hands buzz as you pour two shots, the smell of tequila cutting through the air. She clinks her glass against yours with a lazy grin, and you two throw back shots.
Britney settles onto the barstool, elbows resting casually on the minibar counter like she’s perfectly at home. You’re still standing, somewhere between nervous and bold, and before you realize it, you’ve stepped between her knees. Her thigh brushes yours— her firm muscle under the soft give of joggers and your breath catches.
"So," you blurt out, powered by tequila and proximity, "what are we doing here, Griner?"
She grins, all mischief and heat. "What do you want us to be doing?"
You pour another round, the tequila burning down your throat. "I don't know yet," you admit. "But I have some ideas."
"Yeah?" She pulls you closer, her hand finding your hip. "Tell me."
Instead of answering, you kiss her. She tastes like salt and lime. When she deepens the kiss, pulling you flush against her, your knees nearly buckle. Her hands slide down to cup your ass and you gasp into her mouth. She pulls you closer until you can feel every breath she takes. The counter digs lightly into your hip, but you don’t care—you’re too caught up in the way her tongue moves against yours.
Your hands find her shoulders, then her jaw, fingers tracing the sharp line of it before curling into her hair. The kiss grows slower, heavier, your mouths parting only to find each other again. Her lips are slick and swollen, and every time they meet yours, you feel that heady mix of liquor and want curling low in your stomach.
When she finally pulls back just enough to breathe, your lips tingle, your chest rising and falling fast. You’re dizzy, drunk on tequila and her, every nerve alive and buzzing.
"Bed," you manage between kisses. "Now."
She walks you backward until your legs hit the mattress, and you fall together onto the plush duvet. She hovers over you, all six-foot-nine of her, and the size difference makes your pulse race. Her mouth finds yours again, hungry and demanding, while her hands pull your shirt over your head. She's exploring the newly revealed skin, calloused fingers trailing up your ribcage.
"You're so fucking beautiful," she murmurs against your lips, her hand cupping you through your bra. You arch into her touch, and she grins.
"Britney—" you gasp as her hands tighten on your chest. She silences you with another kiss, her thumb brushing over your nipple until it peaks beneath the fabric. You whimper, and she unhooks your bra with practiced ease pushing the fabric aside. When her mouth closes around your nipple, you cry out.
"That's it," she encourages, her tongue circling and flicking while her hand works your other breast. The dual sensation has you squirming beneath her, heat pooling between your thighs.
Her hand slides down your stomach, popping the button of your jeans. "Can I?"
"Yes, God, yes-"
She works your jeans down your hips, her fingers trailing teasingly over your inner thighs. When she finally cups you through your underwear, she groans. "Fuck, you're soaked."
"Your fault," you gasp, hips bucking into her hand.
She laughs, low and satisfied, rubbing slow circles that have you seeing stars. "All for me?" She pushes your underwear aside, her fingers gliding through your wetness.
You're trembling. "Wait..." You nod toward her bag. "What's in your bag?"
She pauses, eyebrow raised, then that wicked grin spreads across her face. "You want to know?"
"Show me."
She climbs off the bed, crossing to her duffel bag near the door. When she unzips it and pulls out the harness and a strap on, your breath catches. "I had a feeling," she says, watching your reaction. "That okay?"
"More than okay."
She strips off her clothes unselfconsciously, all lean muscle and confidence, then steps into the harness and adjusts it. The sight of her like this makes your core clench with anticipation.
She starts heading back toward you, but you hold up a hand.
"Wait, I want another shot first."
She laughs, surprised, but gestures toward the minibar. "Go ahead."
You pour tequila with shaking hands, bringing the glass to your lips. Just as you are about to drink, you feel her behind you—her presence massive and overwhelming. Her large hand wraps around your throat, not choking, just holding, possessive and sure. Your head falls back against her chest, the shot glass trembling in your hand.
"Mmhmm," you manage, the sound caught between a moan and a sigh.
"Take your shot, baby," she murmurs against your ear, her other hand sliding around your waist. "Then I'm taking you against that wall."
You down the tequila in one burning gulp, grab the lime, and bite down. Before you can even set the glass down, she's spinning you around, lifting you, pressing you against the wall with a force that steals your breath.
"You ready?" The head of the strap presses between your legs, and her eyes are on you.
"Please."
She slowly pushes in, watching your reaction. The stretch makes your head thunk back against the wall, and she fills you completely. Her hands grip your thighs, holding you up.
"Fuck, Britneyy"
"Yeah, that's it." The angle is perfect. Every thrust hits that spot and you're clinging to her shoulders, nails definitely leaving marks.
Britney is so strong it's stupid, holding you up like it's nothing, her hips snapping into you with a perfect rhythm.She's watching your face the whole time, reading every reaction, adjusting based on the sounds you're making.
"Look at me," she says, voice rough. "Taking it so good. You gonna come for me?"
"Yes—fuck, yes—"
Her thumb finds your clit and you completely unravel. You come hard, crying out her name. Your core clenching around the strap while you try to catch your breath. But she keeps moving, keeps talking you through it until you're shaking and can barely hold on.
"Good girl," she says, kissing your temple. "I got you."
Your legs are jelly. Actually useless. "I can't... I don't think I can stand."
She laughs, still holding you up easily. "Good thing I'm not done with you yet."
Britney carries you to the bed, sitting down on the edge with you still impaled on the strap. The new angle makes you gasp, and she grins up at you.
"Come on, baby," she says, hands on your hips. "Ride me."
"Britney, I just... I can barely..."
"I know." Her hands guide you, helping you move. "I've got you."
You start to move, grinding down, and oh fuck. This angle is different. Deeper somehow. Your hands brace on her shoulders because your thighs are still shaking.
"That's it," she encourages. "Use me. Take what you need."
You find a rhythm, rolling your hips, grinding down. The friction is doing something to her too because her breathing gets heavier, her grip on your hips tighter.
"Fuck," she mutters. "Keep doing that. The harness... you're..."
Oh. Oh. The base is rubbing against her clit every time you grind down. You do it again, harder, and she actually groans.
"You like that?" you manage, even though you're the one falling apart.
"Don't get cocky," she says, but her hips are moving now too, meeting your movements, and suddenly you're both chasing this.
You're laughing a little, breathless and overwhelmed, because this is fun. It's hot as hell but it's also fun, the two of you grinning at each other between moans, her hands everywhere, your bodies moving together.
"Come on," she says, voice strained now. One hand slides between you, fingers finding your clit again. "Come with me. Can you do that?"
"Yeah... fuck, yeah..."
She works you with her fingers while you grind down harder, faster, the strap hitting deep and her breathing ragged in your ear. When you come this time it's different, slower but somehow more intense, and you feel her tense beneath you, her hand gripping your hip hard enough to bruise as she comes too.
You collapse against her, both of you breathing hard, sweaty and spent. She wraps her arms around you properly this time, holding you close.
"Holy shit," you mumble against her shoulder.
She laughs, the sound rumbling through her chest. "Yeah. Holy shit."
Afterward, she carries you to the bed, both of you collapsing in a tangle of limbs and laughter. She holds you close, wrapped in her arms. You drift off against her forearm, your heartbeat syncing with hers.
Sunlight eventually peeks through the hotel curtains. Your phone buzzes on the nightstand:
"Early morning press. Didn't want to wake you. Let's not wait so long next time."
warning/summary: established fwb, dark academia, semi public sex
a/n: finally got around to this! this is for @jupitermoonbaby who requested nika with smut prompt 3 and 14 ˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆
The library was completely empty at this hour. Just the faint hum of the heating system and the muted click of your pen as you finished another catalog entry. The desk lamp threw a golden halo over the open ledger, your cardigan slipping from one shoulder as you leaned forward, glasses sliding down your nose.
You loved the quiet here. The world shrank to the soft scratch of ink on paper, the faint scent of old bindings and dust. It was safe and familiar to you. The kind of silence that made time feel suspended. The library had been closed for nearly an hour, the doors locked, the front lot empty except for your car. Which meant when Nika spotted it on her way back from practice, she knew exactly where you’d be. And she knew how to get in, too — slipping through the back entrance near the old bronze statue, the one she’d shown you once during a late-night walk across campus.
You hadn’t heard her come in until the soft click of the back door swinging open echoed faintly in the vast space. The sudden shift in the still air was like a ripple across a still pond. Then her voice, low and teasing, cut through the quiet like a spark in the dark.
“Hey, bookworm.”
She appeared just beyond the stacks, framed by the glow of the dim hallway light, her damp hair pulled back messily, warm-ups clinging to her like a second skin. She walked toward you slowly and deliberately. She was confident. It was like she was claiming the sanctuary for herself and for you.
“Shouldn’t you be heading back to your dorm?” you asked, trying to act casual as you pushed your glasses up.
She walked over, setting her elbows on your desk and leaning in until her smirk was just inches from your face.
“Could be. But then I wouldn’t get to see you like this.” Her gaze dragged deliberately over your chest, your cardigan, the mess of papers around you.
You cleared your throat, glancing back at your ledger. “I have to finish cataloging.”
“Mhm.” The way she hummed it told you she didn’t care. “Or…” She tilted her head, that mischievous spark lighting in her eyes. “You keep working… and I’ll handle the rest.”
The implication hit instantly, and you froze, pen hovering above the paper. “Nika—”
But she was already moving, circling behind your chair, her warm-up pants swishing softly in the hush of the library. Her fingers trailed over your shoulder, slipping the cardigan the rest of the way down your arm. You shivered, and she caught it, smiling softly against the shell of your ear, her breath warm and scented faintly with the sharp tang of sweat and mint from practice.
“Keep working,” she murmured, her voice a low promise that sent heat curling through your veins.
You tried. For maybe ten seconds. But then her hands slid lower, unbuttoning your blouse with unhurried precision, fingertips grazing over your skin like whispered secrets. The cool air of the library pressed against your exposed flesh, a sharp contrast to the fire blossoming wherever her fingers touched. By the time she tugged your skirt down, your breath had grown shallow, the taste of her lips still lingering on yours.
She stayed fully clothed, the soft rustle of her hoodie brushing lightly against your bare skin as she knelt between your legs. The position felt deliciously daring — her warm, confident hands parting your thighs while the cool air of the library brushed over your heated skin, anchoring you in the electric tension humming between you.
“You look so pretty like this,” she said, voice low, almost reverent. “All naked for me while I’m still dressed.”
The first touch of her mouth made you gasp, the sound too loud in the silence. You glanced toward the darkened rows of shelves, half-expecting someone to appear, but no one did. The danger only made your pulse race harder.
She was unhurried, wickedly so, building you up until you were gripping the edge of the desk, knuckles white. Your pen rolled off the ledger, hitting the floor with a small clatter you barely registered.
“You’re not working anymore,” she teased. The sudden loss of warmth made a hollow ache settle deep in your chest.
“Shut up,” you breathed, fingers tangling gently in the damp strands at the nape of her neck, pulling her closer like a lifeline.
She smiled against your skin, sharp and satisfied, before diving back in. The wet heat of her mouth trailed fire along your jaw, down your throat, making your vision swim in a haze of sensation and need. Her hands ghosted over your ribs, fingertips tracing delicate patterns that sent shivers racing across your skin, while the soft scrape of her nails tugged lightly at your hips.
You were close—so close—when she eased up just enough to force your eyes open, your lashes fluttering like fragile wings against the lamplight.
“Look at me,” she whispered, and you obeyed. Her gaze held you captive, dark, smoldering, and fiercely alive, hoodie casting shadows that softened the sharp edges of her face.
The feeling broke over you like a wave: sudden, overwhelming, raw. Your knees buckled, and you slumped back in the chair, breath catching in a ragged gasp.
Your cardigan pooled forgotten on the floor, a soft reminder of how undone you’d become.
Nika rose, still fully dressed, and bent down to press a slow, steady kiss to your temple, as if nothing about the messy papers, your flushed skin, or the racing of your heart was out of place.
“Library’s a mess now,” she said, eyes flicking to the scattered papers and your disheveled state.
“You’re a menace,” you muttered, voice thick with breathlessness.
Her smirk deepened, wicked and unapologetic. “And you love it.”
She was already halfway to the door, but glanced back with a final tease. “Finish cataloging, bookworm.”
pairings: craig cody x reader, pope/andrew cody x reader
warnings and summary: you’ve been working at a jewelry store when you find out the guy you’ve been seeing only dated you to help rob the place. instead of going to the cops, you track him down—to find out “dean” is actually craig from the cody crime family, and you’re in way deeper than you ever planned to be.
no specific descriptions of reader. mdni. eventual smut.
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✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
warnings and summary: fluff/angst. you’ve been living your best party girlboss life — crashing with the cody’s, partying and drugging it up with craig, drinking vodka crans with smurf, not even remembering what day it is. it gets so bad pope has to physically snap you out of the spiral and manhandle tf outta you before you burn yourself down. no specific reader descriptions. mdni. eventual smut. mentions of drug + alcohol abuse, forced detox, smurf text uh oh
a/n: this mannnn FUCK. inspired by that clip. his arrrmss??? just finished the entire animal kingdom series. i am literally unwell somebody please message me about this! would love to talk to someone about what the fuck i just saw???
Three weeks.
That's how long it's been since the ambush. Three weeks of parties. Beach bonfires with Craig. Bars in Pacific Beach where nobody asks questions. Coming home sunburnt and barefoot with sand in your hair, ready to do it all again. Three weeks of outfits that make Pope's jaw tighten. Sleazy crop tops and short shorts, bikinis that barely qualify as clothing, dresses cut so low that even Smurf raises an eyebrow.
Three weeks of ignoring the way Pope watches you. The way his eyes follow you across a room. The way he stands too close in the kitchen and doesn't say a word. Three weeks of pills. Just to take the edge off. Just to make the ache in your shoulder bearable. Just to quiet the noise in your head that won't shut up about blood on bathroom floors and the way Pope's hands felt on your skin.
You're fine. Everything's fine. It's Tuesday morning and you're standing in the kitchen in one of Craig's oversized tank tops and sleep shorts, pouring cereal into a bowl. Your hands are steadier than yesterday. That's progress.
The house is quiet. Smurf's out. Deran's at the beach. Craig's still asleep, probably will be for another three hours. J's outside doing homework by the pool like the nerd he is. Pope's leaning against the counter across from you, drinking coffee, not saying anything. He's been doing that alot llately. Just existing in your space, watching you, silent as a ghost.
You ignore him. Pour milk. Too much milk. It sloshes over the side of the bowl.
"Shit."
You grab a towel and try to wipe it up. Your movements are slow and deliberate. Everything takes more effort than it should. Pope's still watching.
"What?" Your voice comes out wrong. Thick. Sluggish.
He doesn't answer. Just sets down his coffee cup very carefully. Then he's moving. Crossing the kitchen in three strides, and suddenly he's right there, his stature towering over you.The bowl slips from your hands. Ceramic shatters. Cheerios scatter across the tile.The milk pools at your feet.
Then Pope's hands are on your face, tilting your head up, and he's looking at you like he's searching for something. His thumbs press against your cheekbones. He turns your face left, right. His eyes are dark and frantic and angry.
"What the fuck—" you start, but your words come out slow, syrupy.
Pope's not listening. His hands move to your arms, your shoulders, pulling at your clothes. He yanks the neck of the tank top aside, looking for something. Track marks, maybe. Evidence.
"Stop—"
But he doesn't stop. His hands are everywhere, checking your arms, your wrists, rough and urgent and terrifying.
"Can you even hear yourself?" Pope's voice is angry. "You can't even talk!"
"I'm fine—"
"What did you take?" He's in your face now, so close you can see the hurt in his eyes. "What did you take?"
"Nothing, I didn't—"
"Bullshit." His chest is heaving, rising and falling like he's the one who's been running from something. His hand finds your chin, grips it in the triangle of his huge hand, forces you to look at him. "Tell me. Now."
You're scared. Actually scared. But somehow you also know that he wouldn't actually hurt you. Not really.
"Fine," you hear yourself say. "Oxy. Every once in a while. Just for the pain."
Pope's eyes narrow. He doesn't believe you. "Every once in a while?"
"Yeah."
"Look at your pupils." His thumb pulls down your lower eyelid. You try to jerk away but his grip is iron. "Pinpoint. You're fucked up right now. How many did you take this morning?"
"I don't—"
"How many?"
"Two. Maybe three. I don't remember."
Something in Pope's face breaks. Just for a second. Then it hardens into something cold and determined. Then he's moving again, his hand clamped around your waist, dragging you out of the kitchen. You try to resist but your legs don't cooperate, and he's so much stronger than you, and suddenly you're being hauled through the house like a rag doll.
"Get the fuck off me—"
"No."
J looks up from his textbook as Pope drags you past. His mouth opens slightly, probably to ask what the fuck is happening, but he takes one look at Pope's face and closes it again. Smart kid. Knows when to stay out of it.
Pope throws you into the bathroom. Not violently, but not gently either. You stumble, catch yourself on the counter.
"Pope, what the fuck—"
The door slams shut. You hear the lock click.
"Pope!" You lunge for the handle, pull at it. Locked from the outside. "Let me out!"
Silence.
Then you hear it, drawers opening. Cabinets slamming. The medicine cabinet. Craig's stash.
"Pope, don't—those are Craig's—"
The toilet flushes. Once. Twice. Three times.
"No! Fuck! You can't—"
But he can. He is. You hear more drawers, more flushing. He's dumping everything. All of Craig's pills, all the backups, everything. Everything that has been bringing you comfort over the last month, gone.
You bang on the door with both fists. "Let me out! Pope! Please!"
Nothing.
"Please," you sob. "Please, just let me out. I'm sorry. I'll stop, okay? I'll stop. Just let me out."
Silence on the other side of the door. You slide down to the floor, back against the door, and the crying really starts then. Ugly, desperate crying that makes your chest ache and your face burn. You can't stop. You can't breathe. Everything is too much and not enough and you just want it to stop. You cry until you're empty. Until there's nothing left. Until your eyes burn and your head pounds and your throat is raw. Eventually, you stop. Eventually, your exhaustion wins.
You curl up on the bathroom floor, the same floor where Pope fucked you three weeks ago. On the other side of the door, Pope sits with his back against the wood, listening to you break apart. A tear slides down his face. He doesn't wipe it away. He hears you beg. Hears you cry. Hears you eventually go quiet.
He stays there until he hears your breathing even out. Until he hears the soft sounds of sleep. Only then does he stand and unlock the door. He pushes it open slowly.
You're curled on the tile, face tear-stained and puffy, sleeping fitfully. There's dried milk on your legs from the cereal you dropped. Your hair is tangled. You look so young like this. So breakable. Reminds him of Julia. Pope crouches down, touches your shoulder gently. You don't wake up. Out cold.
He considers carrying you to his bed. To your room. Somewhere comfortable. Instead, he closes the door softly and leaves you there. You need to wake up uncomfortable. Need to wake up and face what you've been doing.
Waking up on the bathroom floor was never where you imagined yourself. But here you are. Your face burns, hot and tight from crying so hard. There's dried milk crusted on your legs. Your mouth tastes like death. Every muscle aches from sleeping on tile.
The doors are open now. Sunlight seeps in through the hallway, warm and accusing. You pull yourself up, legs shaky, and catch sight of yourself in the mirror. Jesus. Red-rimmed eyes. Splotchy face. Hair like you fought with a hurricane and lost.
You splash water on your face. It doesn't help much. Then you make your way to where you hear noise. Pope's at the stove, flipping pancakes with practiced ease. J's at the table, eating a Pop-Tart, pretending very hard to be absorbed in his phone.
"Hey," you say to J. Your voice is hoarse.
"Hey," he says, not looking up.
You ignore Pope, and slide into the chair next to J.
Pope plates up breakfast. Eggs, bacon, and pancakes. He sets it in front of you with orange juice. Like this is normal. Like he didn't just imprison you for twelve hours.
You look at the food. Look at him. "Why the fuck would you do that? You imprisoned me."
Pope gives J a look and jerks his head toward the pool. J's up and out the door in seconds. Then it's just you and Pope. He sits down across from you. Doesn't touch his own food. Just looks at you with those dark, unreadable eyes.
"I've been watching you," he says quietly.
"Stalker much?"
"How does a girl go from knowing everything—" his voice hardens slightly, "—to not remembering what day it is?"
The question lands like a punch. Because he's right. You don't remember what day it is. You barely remember yesterday. You look down. All you can feel in the moment is embarrassed. Ashamed.
Pope's voice softens when he sees you put your head down. "Hey."
You don't look up.
"Hey," he says again, gentler. "I'm protecting you."
"By locking me in a bathroom?"
"By keeping you alive." He leans forward. "You need to stop. And you need to stop being around Craig."
That makes you look up. "Craig's not the problem—"
"Craig's exactly the problem. You think I don't notice? You come home wasted every night. You can barely stand up half the time. You're killing yourself."
"I'm fine—"
"You're not fine!" His hand slams on the table, making you jump. Then he takes a breath. Controls himself. "You're not fine. And I'm not gonna watch you fade away into nothing."
Silence stretches between you.
"Now eat," Pope says, his voice firm but not unkind.
You look at the breakfast. At him. At the orange juice sweating condensation onto the table. You pick up a fork. Pope watches you take a bite. Then another. Satisfied, he finally starts on his own food. You eat in silence. The pancakes taste like rust to you but you force them down anyway.
Later, after breakfast, Pope tells you to get ready. Won't say why. Just gives you that look that means you don't argue. You shower for a while. Find energy to put on real clothes. Find your shoes. Pope drives you to the pier in his truck. Doesn't explain. Doesn't talk. Just parks and jerks his head toward the boardwalk. You walk together in silence until you reach the ice cream stand. Pope orders two ice creams without asking what you want—mint chocolate chip for you, chocolate for him. He knows your order.
You two walk down to the beach, find a spot in the sand. The ocean is gray today, choppy with wind. Seagulls shriek overhead. You eat your ice cream in silence. It does NOT taste like toothpaste. But it's also cold and sweet and the first thing that's felt real in weeks.
"I'm sorry," you say finally.
Pope doesn't look at you. "I know."
"I didn't mean to—" You stop. "I don't know what I meant to do."
"You meant to not feel," Pope says. "I get it. But that's not living. That's just... existing until you don't anymore."
"Deep."
"I'm serious."
"I know." You take a breath. "I'll stop. I mean it this time."
Pope looks at you then. Really looks at you. "You promise?"
"Yeah. I promise."
He nods. Seems satisfied. Turns back to his ice cream. You're about to say something else. Maybe thank you, maybe I'm scared, maybe I don't know how to do this without help—when both your phones buzz simultaneously.
You pull yours out. Text from Smurf.
Smurf: meeting now
You and Pope lock eyes. The moment breaks. Whatever peace you just found evaporates instantly.
"Shit," you breathe.
"Yeah," Pope agrees.
You both stand, dump your half-eaten ice cream in the trash, and head back to the truck. Whatever Smurf wants, it's not good. It's never good.
pairing: jax teller x reader
warnings: smut/fluff. running from the law, mentions of sex trafficking, mature themes, canon violence, ex-stripper reader, heavy adult themes, triggers for trauma survivors, lana coded
summary: your pink cadillac breaks down in the desert. you're running from vegas when you meet jax teller and his motorcycle club. you're just supposed to get your car fixed and leave. jax has other plans. an x reader fic about what happens when the girl in the pink sundress turns out to be the most dangerous person in the room.
one: you can be the boss
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i was watching to old youtube videos with my wife and “troublemaker“ by olly murs came on and all i could imagine was buck x masc leaning bi reader. and she’s basically a female buck. but i would have absolutely no time to this but i will bend the space time continuum
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Fresh out of high school DeanJax not admitting they like each other. They're just bros that's all. Bros that are a little touchy with each other but that's because they're friends. Bro's that have jumped into the shower together because they're at Bobbys house and Bobby only has one shower and they're covered in mud.
DeanJax that have shared the same bed a hundred times and they always wake up snuggled together. Sometimes with their morning wood pressing up against each other. But it's not gay to rub against each other. It's not like their bare dicks are touching. They're just friends helping each other out.
DeanJax who sleep with the same woman but they're looking at each other more then they're looking at her. So much that Jax swore he heard Dean moan his name, not hers.
DeanJax working in Bobby's garage together. It's a hot summer day, they're both shirtless, and the heat wasn't just from the sun. Dean teasingly twisted Jax's nipple and Jax moaned at the contact. This just urged Dean on. He had Jax against the work bench just pinching and twisting the man's nipples. Listening to all the noises he could get out of the blonde man. It was just teasing. Even when Jax ended up coming in his basketball shorts. That's all it was, teasing.
One night as Dean sat on the couch, Bobby out helped some other hunter, porn blasting on his laptop. Jax sat down beside him to watch the screen. Suddenly they're both hard with their cocks in their hands. Their foreheads pressed against each other, the laptop was on the floor, and Jax was on Deans lap. His hand wrapped around both of their cocks. Jax was just being helpful. Deans hand hurt from working on cars.
Ugh the little “you alright darlin’” with that slight lift of his chin. I’m already dripping. Yourself & Jax are only acquaintances at the moment, so there’s no big chit chat, nothing you could actually write home about. But the way he greets you? That swift lil movement, is more than enough to get that kewchie poppin!!!!
୨ৎ 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚕𝚎𝚗 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚜.
Very rarely are you actually sat at the same table when in the clubhouse, but the moments you do happen to look out for him, his eyes are already on you. If I was being polite I’d say he was “undressing you with his eyes” but nah, this guy is full blown fucking you with them. Picturing you bent over the clubhouse table, legs spread, panties to one side. Imagining the warmth of sliding inside and curing that insatiable ache you have going on down there.
୨ৎ 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘𝚞𝚌𝚑.
You’ve already worked it out, most of the time he doesn’t even need to pass you, he chooses to. Placing that rough and calloused hand anywhere he can on your body. Not in a creepy way but in a I need to touch you so imma find a way kinda way. That ring covered hand of his will find its home on your lower back, on a shoulder or just by your waist and you can’t be sure if you imagined it (of course you fucking have a thousand fucking times) but you’re almost certain he’s even left a fingerprint or two on your ass.
୨ৎ 𝙷𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚝𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚐𝚢.
Just because he doesn’t use his words doesn’t mean he isn’t looking out for you. He knows he doesn’t know you well enough to tell you what to do and who to talk to…but when you do stray and talk to one of the random club hang arounds, oh his eyes are stuck on you like glue. He’ll be posted up, drink in one hand, blue eyes squinting trying to asses both you and the unsuspecting male from a distance, trying his best to read and get to know your body language. Thankfully, for their fucking sake none of them have ever tried anything stupid with you… cause if he did think something was up? Oh it’d be stuck. He hasn’t figured out why yet, (because he fucking likes you duh) but if anyone EVER tried something dumb like that but he’d burn this fucking clubhouse down and the asshole with it just to make sure you were ok.
୨ৎ 𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚙𝚒𝚍 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚕𝚒𝚙 𝚋𝚒𝚝𝚎.
Oh, that fucking lip bite. That fucking lip bite. Whether it’s in your direction or not, that tiny little mannerism of his makes your head fucking spin. And he knows he’s sexy with it, the way his eyes crinkle at the edges, how they shine with pure fucking mischief. ugh fuck me rn. & your favourite bit? Seeing just a flash of his tongue as it flicks out to wet his bottom lip, wishing it was your lips instead. Yes I completely mean ya pussy lips.
His laugh is something you’d ride if you fucking could. The sound of it slides over your entire body like honey left out on a hot day, leaving little flutters and swoops as it rolls through the room. It’s dirty and dangerous and the sound alone fills the atmosphere like a storm incoming. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t imagine how his laugh would sound right in your ear, saying all the filthy shit you could ever fucking imagine. Who’s my good girl? You want this dick huh? close enough to feel the rumble of that said storm as it finally hits and he whispers how bad he wants to drag you to his dorm and fuck you silly.
Ahhhhh!!!! Just a lil something to ease my way back into the world of secretlysamcro. FUCK how I’ve missed you all. I’ve got a thousand fics to catch up on so bare with me 👉🏽👈🏽 I might start doing these little pieces whilst I work on something big 🥹😮💨 loves you all hehe | also I don’t know where the pinks come from? Trying something new hehe
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.
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Heyy i love your writing and i was wondering if you take requests? Can you do DT x rival latin player where everytime they play each other they end up cussing each other out in Spanish, but laugh and play it off as flirting during interviews? If not then that’s ok! Still love your work xo
you’re so sweet!!🩷 🥲 yes requests are open rn and this sounds amazingly delicious. the only thing is that it’ll take me a little longer bc im so busy. but i will put in my queue to draft
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