#peach!reader

“m-matt–” you stutter out, eyes rolling back as he bottoms out inside you again. “the p-pie… it’s gonna–”

a rough, dirty hand clasps over your mouth, leaving streaks of jet black on your cheeks. mattheo leans in, his hot, uneven breath ghosting over your ear to the point of condensation rising up on the sensitive skin.

“don’t give a fuck, baby.” his raspy voice breaks at another sharp thrust that brings him closer to the edge. “need you too much. food can wait, a’ight?”

the pie never burned; both of you definitely overestimated the amount of stamina and restraint he had after working a whole twelve-hour day.

The second Peach walked into the house, she knew she fucked up. The air was thick. Tense. That kind of silence that made the back of her thighs sweat. She kicked off her white wedges, still chewing her bubblegum with a snap, and called out like nothing was wrong.

“Baaaaaby? Sammyyy? I’m home! And I got milkshakes banana for me, cookies ‘n cream for y’all.”

Nothing.

Then Barry’s voice boomed from the back room like a storm before slamming the door behind him.

“You dumb fuckin’ bitch.”

Peach froze, her heart stalling in her chest. “Okay rude,” she muttered under her breath, grabbing her purse. “That’s not a hello.”

“You better calm the fuck down, Barry,” she chirped without turning around. “You slam another door like that and Samson’s gonna charge you for repairs.”

Barry’s voice came from behind her, low and seething. “Don’t think Samson’s gonna save your ass this time, Peach.”

“Oh, I know she will,” Peach turned, blinking innocently as she twirled a piece of her hair. “She likes me better than she likes you. I’m the cute one.”

“You gave the pills to the wrong people.”

Peach paused, blinked again. “No I didn’t.”

Barry looked like his vein was about to pop. “You handed our whole stash off to the fuckin’ PTO moms at Lola’s Salon.”

Peach turned around, top slipping down a little as she twirled . “Okay, first of all Trisha said her back hurts and I didn’t think y’all would mind.

“TRISHA ISN’T THE FUCKING SHERIFF, PEACH.”

She flinched at the volume, then crossed her arms under her tits and glared. “Well maybe the sheriff shouldn’t take pills from a girl in a bow top, ‘cause I had to get a fill and that man made me wait 45 minutes in a parking lot with no AC.”

Barry ran a hand down his face. “You gave dirty pain pills meant for the cop keepin’ us outta prison to a bunch of PTA wine moms who get Botox in a strip mall.”

“PTO, not PTA,” Peach corrected with a little smirk. “And they were all really grateful. Trisha even tipped me.”

“You think this is funny?” he hissed, backing her into the counter.

She shrugged. “A lil’ bit.”

“You know what happens if that sheriff don’t get what he wants, Peach?”

“Iunno,” she said sweetly, batting her lashes. “Maybe he finally arrests your dumbass.”

A voice interrupted them gravelly and low from the hallway. “What’d she do now?”

Peach turned her head, lips curling up. “Sammy, tell your boyfriend to chill out. He’s havin’ a little man tantrum.”

Samson stepped out, arms folded, chain glinting under her tank top, low voice smooth like smoke. “That tantrum’s ‘cause you’re dumb as hell.”

Peach’s jaw dropped. “Bitch.”

Peach immediately changed tactics. She walked over, tucked herself under Samson’s chin, pressing those pretty little fingers to the taller girl’s stomach.

“Sammy,” she whined, looking up at her cousin with big eyes. “Tell him to chill. I’m tryin’, I swear. This life’s new for me. I was this close to strippin’ at that rundown club off Highway 17, remember? Y’all saved me. Be nice.”

“Nope,” Samson said, voice quiet but stern. “You fucked up.”

Peach pouted hard, big eyes shimmering with fake tears. “Don’t let him punish me. Please.”

Samson cocked her head. “You earned it.”

Peach turned around and held onto Samson’s arm. “Sammy, I didn’t mean to, I just ugh I got distracted, and they were talkin’ about a barbecue and then I started talkin’ about my outfit and then—”

Barry started toward her, fists clenched, but Peach jumped up and darted behind Samson, clutching her hoodie like a kid hiding behind their big sister.

“Samson!” she squealed, “He’s gonna hurt me!”

Samson didn’t even look at her. Just mumbled low, eyes locked on Barry, “Let him.”

Peach’s mouth dropped. “Bitch?! Excuse me?!”

Samson finally looked at her. Cool. Blank. Voice low as gravel.

“You coulda got us caught up, Peach. That wasn’t a baby mistake. That was a feds knocking on our door mistake.”

“I said I was sorry!” Peach stomped her foot, bratty and whiny, pouting like she always did when she didn’t get her way.

“Y’all never take my side. I’m always the one in trouble even though I’m the reason y’all even look normal.”

Barry stalked closer, pulling her from behind Samson by the wrist like she weighed nothing. Her body thudded against his chest, her big lashes fluttering as she looked up at him.

“You wanna act like a brat?” Barry’s voice was dark and deep and goddamn dangerous. “Then I’ll treat you like one.”

Peach bit her lip, her pout faltering. “Barry—”

“On the couch. Face down. Now.”

“Wait, what?!” She squealed. “In front of Samson?! Are you insane?!”

“She ain’t lookin’,” Barry growled, already shoving her down. “And even if she was you need to learn this shit ain’t a joke. You fuck up my work, you get punished.”

Peach tried to scramble, twisting under him, smacking his chest. “I said I was sorr—”

Barry’s hand clapped down hard on her ass, once, twice, again crack, crack, crack until she gasped, face burning, body jolting.

“Say it again,” he dared her.

“I—I’m sorry!”

“Louder.”

“I’m sorry, Daddy!”

“Mmm, fuck,” he growled in her ear. “You’re wet.”

She smiled. “Maybe I like when you’re mad.”

Barry leaned down, dragging his lips to her ear, his voice velvet and venom.

“Yeah? Well next time you fuck up, I’ll make you walk the product down to the port naked with ‘fuckup’ written across your tits. You hear me, Peach?”

She nodded fast, moaning when he gripped her hips tighter.

Samson finally spoke again, quiet as always, not even looking up from the blunt she was rolling.

“Don’t go easy on her, B. She gets off on it.”

Peach let out a strangled moan, half shame, half thrill.

“I do not,” she gasped.

Barry grinned darkly and leaned down to nip at her neck. “Then why’s your pussy soaking my jeans, baby?”

Peach buried her face in the couch cushion with a whimper, pink bows in her hair quivering.

Barry kept her folded over the couch, fucking her with his fingers slow and deep while spanking her between every thrust.

Samson finally stepped up , quiet and slow. She grabbed the back of Peach’s neck and tilted her head back, mouth ghosting her ear.

“Better make this shit count,” she mumbled, voice like smoke. “Next time, I ain’t stoppin’ Barry.”

Peach shivered all over, heat pooling between her thighs.

Peach is soft. She’s “yes ma’am,” “bless your heart,” and “can I fix you a plate?”but it’s always layered in suggestion. A southern belle reimagined as a honey trap.

She was one shift away from dancing at Velvet Rodeo until Samson her hardass, cousin, pulled her off that stage. Peach had one foot in stilettos and the other in danger, about to dance for rent money under a name like Honey Bonet when Samson showed up at the club and said, “Put your tits away you’re coming with me, sugar. I got a job for you.”

Barry didn’t want her at first. He thought she was too fragile until she sold three ounces of product to a whole salon full of PTA moms by pretending it was an essential oil starter kit.

She’s their cover, their alibi, their golden goose. Nobody would suspect a thing from Peach. Not with those big eyes and bare legs swinging on the porch swing.

It’s all going perfect for them.

Barry needed someone who looked too dumb, too sweet, too soft to ever be a threat.

Samson needed a reason to stop doing dirty work alone.

And Peach? Peach just wanted to be loved. And maybe get her nails done while she held a burner phone in her other hand.

Peach is all glossy lips, fuzzy slippers, and razor burns on her thighs. She wears lingerie like it’s daywear and has a pink lighter clipped to her panties.

Her room’s got rosaries hanging next to crop tops, stacks of money shoved inside teddy bears, and a pink sparkly pistol she calls Baby.

She answers the door in satin robes and no panties, and people always assume she’s just somebody’s dumb little house toy. That’s the point.

Because nobody ever suspects Peach is the one running the drop.

Peach lives in the afterglow of a fever dream her world smells like vanilla body spray, strawberry lip gloss, and the distant hint of Marlboros from someone else’s kiss.

Her bedroom looks like a 60s beauty queen ran away and never grew up pink satin sheets, tulle canopy, old TVs playing VHS tapes of romance movies on loop, Saint candles flickering under posters of Elvis and faded pinup girls.

She bathes in rose scented bubbles, reads smutty paperbacks with bent covers, and clips coupons while barefoot in thigh highs and a vintage silk robe.

Her handwriting is loopy and childish, but her body language? Pure seduction without trying. She doesn’t know how not to drip sweetness even when she’s saying something rotten.

Everything Peach touches feels like sticky gloss, motel heat, and the slow glide of silk over skin. She’s got a ‘50s housewife fantasy layered over a nympho-in-training core.

Her closet is full of vintage slips, bow-trimmed camouflage panties, and fluffy robes she wears even while cooking in nothing but heels. She never wears real pajamas just the kind that make men lose their train of thought.

She’s the distraction, the face, the puppet. But behind her sugary voice and slutty outfits, she’s got the whole operation on lock.

Barry and Samson taught her how to hide pills in lip balm tubes, how to spot a cop by the shoes they wear, and how to flirt her way through a traffic stop.

She delivers packages in Victoria’s Secret bags and cupcake boxes. DEA couldn’t catch her if they tried too busy staring at her tits.

She’s sensual in that soft whimpering, lip-sucking, always touching something way. Even her voice sounds like a moan wrapped in a whisper.

But she’s sweet, too. She’ll make Barry coffee in the morning, fold Samson’s boxers, and call herself their “little wife.”

Peach doesn’t like yelling. She cries if her feelings get hurt. But the second you call her a good girl, she perks up like a flower in the sun.

She loves being touched hair brushed, thighs squeezed, her back scratched while she lays across someone’s lap in lace.

Samson is the only one who can shut Peach up. One look, one growled command, and Peach is down on her knees asking, “Did I do bad? Want me to fix it?”

She plays hands under Peach’s chin, whispering in her ear, lil’ slut, huh?” But there’s a tenderness under it. Samson takes care of Peach.

If someone even looks at Peach the wrong way during a drop, Samson’s got them pinned against a wall before Peach can blink.

Samson keeps her polished, trained, and well fed. Gets off on the idea of making this girl too soft for the world but just filthy enough for them.

Samson is her protector, the only one who knows her full backstory about the preacher stepdad, the broken promises, and the time she almost married a man ten years older for rent money.

Barry calls her “Peaches” in a way that sounds almost mocking until he catches her crying one night in nothing but a pink teddy and his shirt, and it softens into a whisper.

He pretends she annoys him, but he always lights her cigarettes and knows exactly how she likes her milkshake.

He pretends to be cold with her, but he watches every move she makes how her nipples peek through thin tank tops, how she moans when she stretches. He’s got a short fuse when it comes to Peach, and she loves pushing buttons.

She rides him in crop tops and bubblegum pink nails, always with her hair up in a scrunchie and pouty lips begging for praise.

She gets under his skin with her sweetness like she could kill him with kindness. And maybe one day she will.

He’s rough. She’s sugar. But together? They’re a lethal cocktail.

Peach sleeps between them most nights wearing next to nothing, legs tangled, mouth still sticky from late night snacks and kisses.

Peach likes being watched. Likes having her head pushed down while someone films her getting wrecked from behind.

She calls them both “Daddy”, depending on who’s making her cry harder. She knows exactly what to say to make them both jealous.

Her safe word is “peaches.” It’s almost never used.

Peach keeps a vibrator shaped like a lipstick in her purse. Just in case.

Her favorite place to be kissed is behind her knee, second favorite is anywhere in public where she could get caught.

She doesn’t even lock the door when she’s in the shower anymore. She wants them to walk in.

She keeps a pink journal that’s full of love spells, grocery lists, and half baked fantasies about disappearing to a beach with Barry and Samson where they sell fake perfume instead of drugs.

She hums old soul songs in the car, always wears mismatched lingerie under her clothes, and chews bubblegum like it’s a nervous tick.

Her nails are always perfect. Her morals are not.

She still prays sometimes but it’s mostly for protection while she hides things in her makeup bag.

The sun hung low behind the trees, casting a warm haze over the back of the shop. The windows were cracked just enough to let in the Southern air, thick with humidity and the scent of oil, dust, and Samson’s cigarette.

Peach was supposed to be sorting inventory keeping track of the pills they were moving that week, counting the ziplocks twice to make sure everything matched what Barry promised the sheriff but her mind was somewhere else.

Specifically, pressed up against the grimy brick wall behind the counter, one of Samson’s rough hands under her shirt.

“You said we had ten minutes,” Peach whispered, voice breathy, eyes half lidded. She was in a pair of tiny shorts as always, soft cotton hugging her curves and glowing against the dirt and grease of the shop.

Her lip gloss was sticky sweet and smeared, her thighs twitching as Samson’s fingers pressed firmer against her hips.

Samson barely spoke, always more hands than words, but the look she gave Peach right now said don’t act innocent you started this.

“I said five,” Samson grunted low, voice rough as gravel, Southern lilt thick. “You just ain’t listen.”

Peach’s head lolled back, mouth parted, eyes fluttering. “You’re not even working. We’re supposed to be—”

Her sentence died when Samson grabbed her chin and kissed her again slower this time.

It was messy and deep, their mouths moving like they were starving, Peach letting out a soft whimper when Samson sucked on her bottom lip.

That’s when the back door creaked open.

Barry.

He leaned against the frame, gold tooth catching the golden hour light, arms crossed, a cigarette already halfway gone between his fingers.

The look on his face wasn’t shocked it was amused. Hungry, even.

“Well,” he drawled, voice like honey and smoke, “Ain’t this cute.”

Peach flinched, trying to ease her way out of this, cheeks hot. “Barry—”

Samson didn’t move. She stayed pressed to Peach, one hand still cupping her jaw like she didn’t give a single fuck they’d been caught.

She barely turned her head. “Door wasn’t locked.”

Barry took a drag from his cigarette and tilted his head. “It’s not the door I’m worried about. It’s the fact y’all are out here makin’ out like horny teenagers when there’s work to do.”

Peach crossed her arms, trying to summon up some sass, but the way Barry was looking at her made her thighs squeeze together. “We were just takin’ a break,” she mumbled.

“Sure.” Barry flicked ash to the side, walking toward them, slow and deliberate. “I can smell the break from here.

He stopped just a breath away, one hand sliding under Peach’s jaw, lifting her face up to his. “She get you all flustered, Peach?”

Peach nodded, lips parted.

Barry chuckled low in his throat. “She always does. But you know better than to get distracted when you’re supposed to be countin’ shit. You tryin’ to get us in trouble, baby?”

“No,” Peach whispered, caught between them now, her back to the wall and Barry in front, Samson still behind her like a shadow.

Barry leaned down, his lips brushing her ear. “Then finish the job. And if you’re good,” he said, voice dipping, “maybe we’ll let you keep actin’ up later. Together.”

He stepped back, eyes dark and full of heat.

“Don’t make me come back in here and catch y’all again,” he warned, flicking his cigarette away.

Samson finally moved, pulling Peach back into her arms with a smug little smirk. “You heard the man,” she murmured against Peach’s cheek, voice low and warm. “Better finish up.”

But her hand didn’t leave Peach’s waist.