#ncaa

You and Paige were cuddling in bed, maybe making out but who cares? Still cuddling.

“Paige?” You whisper against her lips, your eyes fluttering open.

“Hm?” She mumbles, her kisses trailing down from your lips to your jaw, as she shifts in your lap.

“I think I’m ready.” You say softly, watching carefully for her reaction.

“Ready for what?” She responds, pulling away from your neck to look down at you, her hands cupping the back of your head.

“To, y’know, sleep together.” You admit quietly, your cheeks flushing red.

She’s silent for a minute, gently stroking her thumbs behind your ears as she takes in your expression.

“Are you sure? That’s a big thing, baby, s’not something you can take back.” She murmurs, raising her eyebrows at you.

“I know, but we’ve been together for a few months, and I really love you. I want it to be you, Paige.”

She hesitates, before nodding slowly.

“Okay, but the second you start to feel uncomfortable, you tell me to stop, okay? No ‘only the safe word counts’ bullshit, if it starts to hurt or you don’t like something, you tell me.” She says firmly, and you nod in response, leaning up to gently kiss her.

“Can you say yes? I wanna hear it.” She says quietly, taking your chin in her hand to stop you from kissing her.

“Yes, I’ll tell you if I want you to stop.” You oblige, and then she lets go of your chin, kissing you softly.

Just as it starts to get heated again, Paige pulls away, sighing and turning her head towards your dresser.

“Hey, Alexa! Play romantic sexy jazz music!”

“What the fuck is that?” You burst out laughing, resting your forehead against her shoulder.

“I dunno, s’not like I can ask her to play songs for sex.” She sighs, rubbing your back as some random jazz music comes on over your quiet speaker. “Hey, the musics not bad. Now, you wanna get this party started?”

“Ahhhhh,” you cringe, hiding your face in her shoulder.

She chuckles, kissing down your neck.

“C’mon, on your back.” She mumbles, carefully flipping you over and pushing your shoulders down against your mattress.

You look up at her, gently pulling her down by her shoulders.

You both stare at each other in silence for a second, before you lean up and connect your lips.

It once again, grows heated quickly, your hand working on pushing off her shirt as hers work to pull down your pants.

“Hips up for me, babe.” She husks, slipping her hand under your back to push you up into an arch.

Your breathing’s ragged as you use the opportunity to catch your breath, your eyes fluttering closed.

“Gonna make you feel so good,” Paige whispers, carefully letting your back drop back down against the bed.

“Okay, and I just… what do I do?” You breathe out, your eyes opening to look up at her.

She smiles, her elbow next to your head to keep her upright, and her hand tracing your lower stomach.

“You’ll know what to do when I start, I promise.” She reassures, before slowly sinking down on top of you her hand planting itself firmly against your thigh, splayed out on your skin as she spreads your legs.

“Fuck, baby you’re so wet already.” She groans, lightly tracing a finger over your folds.

You gasp, tilting your head back and squeezing your eyes shut.

“Shit- Paige, please, want you to touch me…” you beg, craning your neck to look up at her.

She presses light kisses to your jaw, cautiously playing with your clit, rubbing it carefully.

You moan softly, your arms wrapping around her torso to pull her down, even though she’s already flush against you.

She smiles, pressing a kiss to the side of your head as she gently slips a finger up your cunt.

You gasp, squeezing your eyes shut and resting your forehead against her shoulder.

“Feel good, ma?” She murmurs into your ear, her voice lower than usual.

You nod, your hands finding their way under her shirt, and pressing down against her skin.

She carefully pushes a second finger in, pumping in and out of you at a slow pace.

Another moan slips past your lips, and you whine as you buck your hips slightly, desperate for more stimulation.

She smiles, rubbing your hip to keep you calm.

Soft praises fall from her lips as she fucks you with her fingers;

“Taking it so well, aren’t you?”

“That’s it, it’s okay, you’re doing good.”

“Shh, I’m here, I know, it still feels good? no stinging or burning?”

You nod your head in reply to her last question, still groaning and whimpering.

“No stinging or burning.” You confirm, moaning at the feeling in your stomach.

“Think m’gonna cum,” you gasp.

You aren’t exactly sure what cumming feels like, but if you had to guess, it would be what you were feeling right now.

“Just let go, just let yourself let it happen.” Paige murmurs into your ear, her fingers making scissoring motions as she tries to coax you into your first orgasm.

You do as she says, and end up gripping her biceps as you cum, a loud, raw moan escaping your lips.

“Holy shit…” you whisper, as she pulls her fingers out and lays down on top of you.

“Was it okay?” Paige asks, rolling over onto her back, wrapping her arms around your torso so you land on top of her.

You sigh and rest your head in the broom of her neck, still catching your breath.

“Yeah, it was okay…” you whisper, to which Paige scoffs.

“Gee thanks, just ‘okay’?”

You laugh breathlessly, wrapping your arms around her neck to pull yourself flush against her.

“It was amazing.”

“Mm, better.” Paige sighs dramatically, looking up at your ceiling as her hand rubs up and down your back. “I was thinking more like, perfect, best thing I’ve ever felt, flawless, that kind of thing.”

“Paige?”

“Hm?”

“Don’t make me ask for my virginity back.”

── .✦

Splayed out on Bella's bed, she rests her chin on your shoulder, practically lying on top of you while she props the camera up with one hand, holding it so both of you are in view. Lives with Bella are insane, as most anything to do with her (in a good way), but today, you decided to keep it more casual, even with the chat going crazy.

"Yeah, we're dating," She mumbles, answering one of their questions. Comments are rolling by faster than you can even read, but she manages to pick out a few. "No, we don't live together."

You give her a look, scrunching your eyebrows together. "We basically do, though."

She smiles, looking up at you. "You basically live with me,"

"Exactly, so together,"

user983: bella that's still together bro

user102: u transfering???

user031: hey! can you say hi to chloe for me??

Moving your hand, you rub her back, gently stroking while she continues to lie on you.

"Yes, she smells most of the time,"

Pulling your hand back, you softly slap her head, a glare thrown in her direction.

"Hey!-"

"That wasn't even a question!"

She rubs the top of her head before scrolling back through the comments. "No, it was, I swear,"

Rolling your eyes, you just shake your head, smiling. "Sure,"

"Yes, I'm a munch,"

You're absolutely dumbfounded at her remark, and you look towards her with an open mouth. "Bella. This is TMI. You're sharing all our secrets, bro."

that’s when you know you’re not getting her tonight.

the walk to the parking lot is silent. the kind that presses against your ears until you want to scream just to break it. cicadas buzz. someone laughs across the lot. the world keeps functioning like nothing is wrong.

you unlock the car and toss your bag in harder than necessary.

grace slides into the driver’s seat, shuts the door, stares straight ahead. hands on the wheel. breathing measured. controlled.

you wait a beat.

“are you gonna talk to me,” you say, finally.

she exhales through her nose. “can we not do this right now?” your chest tightens. “we’re already doing it.” she starts the engine. “i had a long practice.”

“so did i,” you snap. then softer, because you hate how sharp you sound. “i was there. the whole time.”

that’s when she looks at you. really looks. eyes dark. tired. guarded.

“that’s the problem,” she says. “you’re always there.”

you blink. “what does that even mean?”

“it means i don’t have space,” she says, voice rising despite herself. “i don’t get to mess up without it becoming a thing. i don’t get to be quiet without you asking what’s wrong.”

“because something is always wrong,” you say. “you shut me out like i’m—”

“like you’re what?” she cuts in. you laugh once, sharp and broken. “like i’m optional.”

that does it.

she slams her hand against the steering wheel. “that’s not fair.”

“then tell me why it feels like this,” you say, tears already burning. “tell me why i feel like i’m begging for scraps of you between film sessions and lifts and interviews.”

she shakes her head. “you know what i’m carrying right now.”

“and where am i supposed to fit in?” your voice cracks. “am i just something you come back to when basketball lets you breathe?”

silence. thick. deadly. that’s when you lose it.

you push the door open and get out, the night air hitting you like a wall. you slam the door, spin around, tears spilling freely now.

“say something,” you yell, hands shaking. “say you don’t want me to walk away.” grace gets out too, slower. controlled. like she’s still on the court.

“don’t make this dramatic,” she says.

that hurts worse than anything.

“dramatic?” you laugh through tears. “i’m crying in a parking lot because the person i love won’t fight for me.”

“i am fighting,” she says, voice tight. “just not like this.”

“then how?” you demand. “because from where i’m standing, you’re choosing silence. again.” she doesn’t answer.

you stare at her, waiting. hoping. your heart practically begging her to close the distance, grab your wrist, say don’t go. she doesn’t. her jaw tightens. “i can’t chase you every time things get hard.”

something in you breaks clean.

“i didn’t ask you to chase me,” you whisper. “i asked you to choose me.” she gets back in the car. the door closes softly. final. the engine turns over.

you stand there, frozen, watching her pull away. watching the taillights disappear. watching her not look back.

your legs give out a little once she’s gone.

you start walking. fast at first. like maybe distance will make it hurt less. tears stream freely now, unchecked, your chest aching with every breath.

“i hate this,” you whisper to yourself. “i hate that i love you like this.”

your phone buzzes. one of her teammates. then another. people who know you. who like you. who saw everything.

hey. you okay?

we’re still here.

don’t go home alone.

you stop under a streetlight, shoulders shaking, hands covering your face.

you wish it was grace texting. you wish it was her footsteps behind you. you wish she’d followed you anyway—even just to say goodbye better. but the sidewalk stays empty.

and you keep walking, carrying all the things she didn’t say with you. it doesn’t explode the next day. that’s the strangest part.

nothing dramatic happens. no confrontation. no announcement. just a subtle, unsettling shift—like the air pressure dropped and everyone feels it but no one knows why. you’re still around. that’s what they notice first.

you show up to practice like always, sitting on the same bench near the baseline, coffee gone cold in your hands. you still talk to the girls. still laugh at the right moments. still listen when flau’jae complains about a media obligation running long, or when mikaylah groans about conditioning like it personally wronged her.

but you don’t look at grace. and grace—who always looks for you without meaning to—doesn’t find you where you usually are.

she clocks it during warmups. not consciously. just a flicker of unease when she glances toward the bench and your eyes aren’t already on her. you’re looking at your phone. or the floor. or literally anywhere else.

“you good?” jada asks when grace misses an easy read in a drill. “yeah,” grace says automatically. she isn’t. it’s small things at first.

you don’t bring her water anymore. you don’t linger after practice. you don’t wait by the tunnel like you used to, leaning against the wall while she untapes her wrists.

kate notices when grace comes out of the locker room and pauses, scanning the hallway like she forgot something.

“you lose something?” kate jokes, light, trying to cut the tension. grace shakes her head. “nah.” but her voice sounds wrong.

at lunch, you sit with the team like always—but not next to grace. never next to grace. there’s a space where you used to be, and no one takes it. it’s like an unspoken rule. like everyone knows better.

mikaylah starts telling a story, animated, hands flying. flau’jae laughs loud, leans back in her chair. you smile when you’re supposed to. nod at the right beats.

but grace watches your face instead of listening. the smile doesn’t reach your eyes. she plays harder. everyone notices that.

grace is sharper in drills. louder. more aggressive on defense. she bodies up an extra second longer than necessary, takes contact she doesn’t need to, jaw tight like she’s chewing through something bitter.

“she’s on one today,” flau’jae mutters under her breath, wiping sweat from her forehead.

jada glances toward you without meaning to. then quickly away. “yeah.”

after practice, when most of the team heads toward the locker room, grace stays behind, putting up extra shots. the ball echoes through the gym—steady, angry, relentless.

you don’t wait. that’s new.

the real shift hits at the first home game after. you’re courtside. same seat. same posture. same everything. except grace doesn’t look for you during intros.

mikaylah notices immediately. her eyes flick from grace to you, then back again. “oh,” she murmurs, barely audible. the ball goes up.

grace plays like she’s possessed—locked in, ruthless, unflinching. she hits shots that shouldn’t fall. dives for loose balls like she’s trying to prove something to the floor itself.

but when the buzzer sounds and the crowd roars, she doesn’t smile.

she goes straight to the bench. straight past you. flau’jae’s head turns slowly. grace’s jaw tightens just a little. that’s when it clicks for them.

after the game, the locker room is quieter than usual. not sad—just tense. the music is lower. laughter thinner. someone finally says it, careful, like stepping on glass.

“are y’all…?” mikaylah starts, then stops. no one finishes the sentence.

you don’t either. you just shrug, small. controlled. “we’re good.”across the room, grace freezes.

for half a second—just half—it looks like she might turn around. say something. correct it. pull the truth out of the air and make it less heavy.

she doesn’t.

someone clears their throat. flau’jae turns the music up too loud. conversation stumbles forward without ever finding its footing again.

later, outside, kate walks beside you toward the parking lot, hands tucked into her hoodie sleeves.

“you know,” she says carefully, “you don’t have to protect her from us.” you stop. the night feels thick. your chest feels worse.

you look at her, eyes glassy but steady. “i’m not,” you say softly. “i’m just done asking someone to notice when they’re losing me.”

inside the facility, grace sits alone on a bench long after everyone’s gone.

she stares at her phone. no messages from you. no missed calls. no footsteps walking away that she can follow this time. and for the first time, she wonders if silence doesn’t just hurt—maybe it costs.

she doesn’t apologize right away.

that’s the thing about grace—she needs the right moment, the right alignment of courage and fear and certainty. and when it comes, it hits her all at once. it’s late. too late for practice, too late for excuses.

you’re curled up on your bed, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands, phone face-down beside you like you’re daring it to light up. it hasn’t. not since the fight. not since the silence settled in your bones.

the knock is quiet. you almost don’t answer it. another knock—softer this time. hesitant. you open the door halfway.

grace stands there like she hasn’t slept. hair loose. eyes rimmed red. hoodie folded over one arm—the one. the gray lsu hoodie you always steal, always claim smells like her even after it doesn’t.

she’s holding flowers. your favorites. the ones you once mentioned offhand months ago, like it didn’t matter.

and chocolate. the good kind. the kind she pretends she doesn’t like but always steals bites of when you’re not looking. for a second, neither of you speak. then she exhales, shaky. “hey.”

your heart stutters. you don’t move. “hey.” she swallows. “can i… can i come in?” you step aside.

she walks in slowly, like she’s afraid any sudden movement will send you disappearing again. she sets everything down carefully on your desk, like an offering.

then she turns to you. really turns. shoulders squared. eyes honest in a way they haven’t been in weeks.

“i messed up,” she says quietly. “i know that’s not enough, but it’s true.” you cross your arms, more for protection than attitude. “you let me walk away.” her face tightens. “i know.”

“you didn’t follow me.”

“i know,” she repeats, voice cracking this time. “and i’ve replayed it every day since.”

she takes a step closer. stops herself. respects the space.

“i thought if i stayed still, it wouldn’t get worse,” she continues. “i thought silence would keep me in control. but all it did was show you i didn’t choose you when it mattered.”

your eyes burn. “that’s what hurt.”

she nods, tears spilling now, unguarded. “i love you. i just got scared of needing you as much as i do.”the room is quiet except for both of you breathing.

grace reaches out slowly and holds up the hoodie. “i brought this because…it still smells like me. and because i know you sleep better when you steal it.”

you laugh despite yourself. a wet, broken sound. she smiles, hopeful. fragile. then she steps in close—close enough that you can feel her warmth, her hesitation.

“can i kiss you?” she asks. not entitled. not assumed. careful.

you nod. the kiss is gentle. slow. her lips lingering like she’s memorizing you all over again. 

one kiss turns into another, then another—soft apologies pressed into your mouth, your cheeks, your forehead.

she pulls back just enough to whisper, “i’m not letting you walk away again.”

you rest your forehead against hers. “don’t say it if you can’t mean it.” she kisses you once more. firmer this time. certain.“i mean it,” she says. “every day. every version of me.”

she slips the hoodie over your shoulders herself, tugging it down like she always does, like muscle memory.

everything else fades—the chatter, the movement, the countdown happening somewhere beyond the walls. he stops in front of you, hands settling at your waist like it’s instinct. like muscle memory. grounding. familiar.

his thumbs press slow, steady circles into your hips, anchoring you.

“angel of the year,” he murmurs, eyes dropping briefly before lifting back to yours. “kinda crazy, huh?”

you nod, blinking hard. “i feel like i might float away.”

his mouth curves. “not a chance,” he says softly. “i’ve got you.”

someone passes by the open door and he leans in closer, lowering his voice. his lips hover just beside your ear—warm, deliberate, close enough that you can feel the shape of the words before you hear them.

“i’m gonna sit out there,” he whispers, “and watch the whole world fall in love with you.”

your breath stutters. heat rolls through you, sudden and dizzying.

then—softer, darker, meant only for you—

“and when you’re done,” he adds, voice dropping just enough to make your knees feel weak, “i’m taking you somewhere quiet… and reminding you exactly who you come home to.”

your body reacts instantly. a sharp curl of heat low in your stomach, a hum under your skin that has nothing to do with nerves. you swallow, pulse loud in your ears.

he pulls back just far enough to see your face, clearly pleased. he knows exactly what he’s done.

“break a leg,” he says, suddenly innocent, pressing a kiss to your cheek. lingering. warm. “or don’t. you don’t need luck.”

and then he’s gone—slipping out the same way he came in, leaving the room charged in his absence.

everything feels louder now. brighter. like the air itself is buzzing.

a production assistant appears at the door. “two minutes.”

your cue is next.

—————————————————————

the lights drop.

for half a second, the world holds its breath.

then the guitar hits.

bed chem rolls through the venue like silk and heat—low, teasing, confident. the crowd stirs. cameras lift.

you crowd around the TV watching a rooting for the other angels as you start to finish touch ups and putt on your wings. 

“clear the area,” a production manager yells, 

oh it just makes sense, are you free next week, id bet wed have really good bed chem

and i bet we both arrive at the same time, 

this is you.

you step onto the runway and the reaction is instant.

flashbulbs explode like stars going nova. the wings—massive, sculpted, impossibly heavy—frame you in gold and white, stretching wide enough to command the entire space. the million-dollar bra catches the light, diamonds throwing it back sharper, brighter.

and i bet the theromstat’s set at six-nine,

and i bet its even better than in my head, 

you don’t rush.

you let them look.

your chin lifts just slightly, shoulders back, body moving like the wings are an extension of you instead of a weight. like you were born knowing how to carry this kind of attention.

and somewhere in the crowd—

arch is on his feet.

he doesn’t even realize it at first.

one second he’s seated, jaw tight, hands clasped like he’s trying to keep himself contained. the next, he’s standing, clapping, pride written all over his face like he can’t help it.

the cameras catch him immediately.

the supportive boyfriend. the golden boy. the way his eyes never leave you.

you blow him a kiss.

not small. not shy.

a full, deliberate kiss—fingers to your lips, then out into the air, straight to him.

the crowd loses it.

how you pick me up, pull em down, turn me around 

oh it just makes sense 

halfway down the runway, your friend sabrina, steps out beside you, glittering and confident, moving like she owns the place too. she bumps your shoulder lightly, playful, and you laugh, falling right into step with her.

two friends.

two girls living the moment.

you dance together for a beat—hips swaying, wings shifting, the energy effortless and fun. it feels surreal, like a shared secret in front of millions.

you hit the end pose perfectly. turn. pivot. slow walk back.

how you talk so sweet when you’re doing bad things

that’s bed chem 

at the finale, the rest of the angels join you—feathers brushing feathers, laughter spilling over, confidence radiating off every one of you. 

you lift your arms, wings flaring wide, and the applause swells until it’s almost deafening.

as you disappear behind the curtain, heart racing, chest buzzing, you catch one last glimpse of arch. you shoot him wink.

still standing. still watching.

like nothing else exists.

———————————————

the after-party is too much.

too loud. too bright. too full of hands and voices and champagne that never seems to stop pouring. the music pulses through the floor, through your ribs, through the lingering adrenaline still buzzing in your veins. feathers are gone, wings left backstage, but the energy hasn’t softened—it’s sharpened, honed by success and heat and the way the night refuses to slow down.

you’re still floating.

from the walk. from the lights. from the moment your body realized the world was watching—and you owned it.

people keep finding you.

stylists hug you tight, lipstick smearing your cheek. angels shriek and pull you into photos, arms linked, laughter spilling everywhere. executives congratulate you like they personally handed you your dream. someone presses a fresh glass into your hand before the last one is empty.

you smile. you laugh. you glow.

and arch—

arch can’t get to you.

every time he thinks he has a clear path, something shifts. a photographer slides in. a designer grabs your wrist, animated, breathless. an angel pulls you onto the dance floor, spinning you until you’re dizzy and laughing, hair sticking to your neck.

his drink sits untouched in his hand, condensation sliding slowly down the glass. his jaw tightens every time someone’s hand settles too comfortably on your back, every time you throw your head back laughing at something he didn’t get to hear.

he doesn’t interrupt.

doesn’t rush you. doesn’t pull you away.

but his eyes never leave you.

you feel them even when you’re not looking—steady, warm, insistent. like a hand resting between your shoulder blades without actually touching. every time your gaze flicks across the room, you catch him already watching.

waiting.

you finally manage to drift close, threading through bodies, heart lifting when you’re just a step away. your fingers brush his sleeve as you lean in.

“hi,” you say, breathless, like you haven’t been circling each other all night.

his mouth curves instantly. “hey,” he says softly. “you okay?”

“barely.”

his hand finds your waist—finally—and the contact hits harder than it should. your body responds immediately, relaxing into him like it’s been craving that exact pressure. his thumb presses in, grounding, familiar, unmistakably his.

“you were unreal out there,” he murmurs. “i don’t even know how that was real.”

you open your mouth to answer—

“sorry—sorry,” someone cuts in, already reaching for you. “we just need her for one quick thing.”

arch’s hand lingers as it slips away, fingers dragging just enough to make your breath catch.

a promise.

the night stretches.

songs blur together. the room grows warmer, louder, sweatier. you dance again, this time slower, hips swaying, dress clinging to you like it knows exactly what it’s doing. your skin feels too sensitive, every brush of air amplified.

every few minutes, you look for him.

sometimes he was talking to someone you don’t recognize, polite but distracted. sometimes leaning against a wall, jacket gone now, sleeves rolled up, forearms flexed as he crosses them over his chest. once, you catch him loosening his collar, exhaling slowly like he’s trying to keep his patience intact.

it sends heat curling low in your stomach.

eventually, you escape to the bar, desperate for water, for space, for something that isn’t noise. you press your palms to the cool marble, head dipping forward just for a second.

he’s there.

close. quiet. 

“you keep disappearing,” he says softly, leaning in so only you can hear him.

you turn, smiling tiredly. “i keep getting stolen.”

his hand is back at your waist, firmer now, less careful. his thumb presses in slow, deliberate, like he’s reminding you he’s real. here.

“yeah,” he says. “i noticed.”

his mouth dips closer to your ear, breath warm against your skin. the music fades into background noise, the rest of the room blurring at the edges.

“five minutes,” he murmurs. “that’s all i need.”

your heart kicks hard in your chest.

“where?” you whisper.

his lips curve, barely restrained. “somewhere i can finally touch you without an audience.”

you nod instantly.

no hesitation. no second thought.

and the look he gives you—relief, heat, hunger barely leashed—tells you everything you need to know:

this night is done teasing them both.

the second the door shuts, the air changes.

you barely have time to turn before arch is in front of you, crowding your space without touching you yet, like he’s daring himself to wait. his eyes rake over you slowly, dark and unfiltered now that there’s no one watching. no cameras. no hands to shake. no reason to behave.

he looks deeply hungry. 

like the image of you out there—worshipped—has been clawing at him all night.

you feel it. the way his presence presses into you before his body does. the way your pulse jumps, heat pooling low, because this is the part no one else gets to see.

“do you know,” he says quietly, voice rough with restraint, “how hard it was to sit there and watch you? and not want to show the whole world who makes you cum..” he said through gritted teeth. 

your breath catches.

your thoughts scatter.

he wanted this— no he NEEDED this. 

just as much as you did. 

your mind blanks at the memory—your walk, the lights, his eyes on you the entire time.

“and the whole time,” he adds, leaning in, mouth just off your skin, “i was thinking about this.”

about you like this.

pinned. breathless. buzzing.

his forehead dips to yours, both of you breathing the same air now, tension stretched so tight it almost hurts.

then—

he kisses you.

hungry, deliberate, like he’s been replaying this moment in his head for hours. your lips part easily for him, like muscle memory. your hands slide up his chest, fingers fisting in his shirt to pull him closer.

he groans softly into your mouth, the sound vibrating straight through you.

one hand stays firm at your hip, holding you there. the other comes up to your jaw, thumb brushing your lower lip before he kisses you deeper, slower, like he’s savoring you.

his grip tightens.

“fuck,” he breathes against your mouth. “you had the whole world staring at you… and all i could think about was getting you alone and like this.”

his mouth trails to your jaw, then your neck, kissing slow and deliberate, like he’s been starving for this. his hand slides up your side, fingers flexing, stopping exactly where your breath starts to hitch.

you tilt your head without thinking, giving him more.

he pauses only long enough to look at you.

your lips are swollen. eyes dark. chest rising fast.

his thumb brushes your skin again, lighter this time—almost reverent.

“star of the show” he murmurs. “and you still come apart for me.”

your fingers slip under his collar, pulling him back down. 

he catches your wrists mid-pull, pins them above your head against the wall in one smooth motion.

the shift is immediate.

his body presses into yours, solid and unrelenting. his other hand slides down your side, slow and possessive, like he's remapping territory that's always been his.

"uh-uh," he murmurs, voice low and edged with something darker. "you don't get to rush this, babygirl."

your breath stutters.

his mouth finds your neck again, teeth grazing just enough to make you gasp. he kisses lower, deliberate, taking his time even though you can feel how tense he is—how tightly wound.

his grip on your wrists tightens. his other hand slides between your thighs, and you gasp, hips jerking forward instinctively.

he groans low in his throat. "fuck—you're already so wet for me."

his fingers move slow, teasing, and you whimper, trying to press closer.

"daddy—please—"

his mouth crashes back to yours, kissing you hard and hungry. his hand moves with more purpose now, fingers sliding exactly where you need them, and you moan into his mouth.

"that's my girl," he murmurs against your lips. "so fucking perfect for me."

he releases your wrists only to hike your dress up, hands gripping your thighs as he lifts you. your back hits the wall, legs wrapping around his waist on instinct.

the angle makes you dizzy.

he holds you there easily, one arm braced against the wall, the other working between you. you hear the clink of his belt, the rustle of fabric, and then—

he pushes into you in one slow, deliberate thrust.

you cry out, head falling back against the wall.

"eyes on me," he commands, voice rough.

you force your eyes open, meeting his gaze.

his jaw is tight. pupils blown. he looks wrecked already.

"there she is," he breathes. "my angel."

then he moves.

the first thrust punches the air from your lungs. the second makes you whimper. by the third, you're clinging to his shoulders, nails digging into expensive fabric.

"fuck—" he groans, forehead dropping to yours. "you feel so fucking good."

the rhythm is urgent, desperate, like he's been holding back all night and finally can't anymore. each thrust drives you higher up the wall, his grip on your thighs bruising and perfect.

he makes a sound that's almost pained, hips snapping harder.

"say it.”

"i'm yours—" your voice breaks on a moan. "only yours—"

"that's fucking right."

his mouth finds your neck, sucking hard enough to mark, and you keen, tightening around him.

"oh fuck—babygirl—" his rhythm falters. "you're gonna make me—"

"please," you whimper. "please daddy, i need—"

his hand slides between you, fingers finding exactly where you need pressure, and you shatter.

the orgasm hits like a shockwave, your whole body tensing, clenching around him. you bury your face in his neck to muffle the sound, but he hears it anyway—feels it.

"fuck—yes—" he thrusts twice more, hard and deep, then stills with a choked groan, forehead pressed to the wall beside your head.

for a moment there's only breathing.

heavy. ragged. synchronized.

his arms are still locked around you, holding you up. your legs are shaking.

slowly, carefully, he lowers you back down. your legs barely hold you.

he keeps you pressed to the wall, one hand splayed across your lower back, the other cupping your face.

"you okay?" his voice is softer now, but still rough around the edges.

you nod, still catching your breath.

he kisses you—slow this time, almost tender. when he pulls back, his eyes are still dark, still hungry.

“good cause we're not done," he murmurs.

before you can respond, he's turning you around.

your palms hit the wall. his hand slides up your spine, pressing between your shoulder blades until you're bent forward, arched exactly how he wants you.

"look at you," he breathes, and you can hear the awe mixed with possession in his voice. "still so fucking perfect."

his hands skim down your sides, over your hips, gripping tight.

"you know what i kept thinking about?" his voice is low, intimate. he leans over you, lips brushing your ear.

"i kept thinking about how you'd look just like this. bent over for me. mine."

you whimper, pressing back against him.

he makes an approving sound, one hand sliding up to wrap gently around your throat—not squeezing, just holding.

"such a good girl for daddy."

then he's pushing back inside you, and the angle is completely different—deeper, more intense. you gasp, fingers scrabbling against the wall.

"fuck—" he groans. "you take me so well, babygirl."

this time he doesn't hold back.

the rhythm is harder, more primal. his hips snap against yours with a sound that echoes in the small space. one hand stays at your throat, the other grips your hip hard enough to bruise.

"this what you needed?" he grits out. "needed daddy to remind you?"

"yes—" you gasp. "yes—please—"

"please what?"

"please don't stop—"

he laughs, low and dark. "wasn't planning on it."

his hand slides from your throat down your spine, then back up, fingers tangling in your hair. he tugs gently, pulling your head back.

"want everyone to know," he murmurs. "want them to see these marks tomorrow and know exactly who you belong to."

his mouth finds your shoulder, teeth sinking in just enough to make you cry out.

"gonna mark you everywhere," he continues, voice ragged now. "everywhere they can't see. everywhere only i know about."

you're already close again, the pressure building impossibly fast.

"daddy—i'm—"

"i know, baby. i can feel you." his rhythm gets more erratic. "come for me. come on daddy's cock like a good girl."

his hand slides around to find your clit, and that's all it takes.

you come with a broken sob, clenching around him so hard he curses.

"fuck—babygirl—" three more thrusts and he's following you over, groaning your name against your shoulder.

this time when the world comes back, you're both on the floor.

you don't remember sliding down, but you're in his lap now, his back against the wall, your head on his chest. his arms are wrapped around you, one hand stroking your hair.

both of you are still dressed—mostly. his shirt is untucked and wrinkled. your dress is twisted and riding up. 

you can feel his heart hammering against your cheek.

"jesus christ," he finally says, and you feel the rumble of his laugh. "we didn't even make it out of the building."

you huff a breathless laugh against his chest.

his hand tilts your chin up so he can see your face. his thumb brushes your swollen lower lip.

"you're so fucking beautiful," he murmurs. "you know that?"

you lean into his touch.

"we should probably…" you gesture vaguely toward the door.

"yeah." but he doesn't move. neither do you.

after another moment, he sighs and carefully helps you stand. your legs are still shaky. he steadies you with hands on your waist, then starts trying to make you both presentable.

he smooths your dress down. fixes your hair as best he can. finds his tie.

you try to button his shirt properly, but your hands are trembling.

he catches them, brings them to his lips.

"we're going straight to the hotel," he says, voice still rough. "and i'm not done with you yet."

heat floods through you again.

he smirks, seeing your reaction. "yeah. that's what i thought."

he cracks the door open, checks the hallway, then takes your hand.

"come on, angel. let's get you home."

the possessiveness in that last word makes your stomach flip.