GAME DAY BABY! 🖤🩶🤍

taking it back 🇫🇷

“aye, we need to talk.” stephon sat at the edge of his bed, his words making your heart accelerate before you sat up against his headboard. “is everything alright?” you couldn’t help but stare at his back, his head hanging low in frustration as he looked down at his hands. “nah, not really,” he cleared his throat, “where you been at?” you looked around, confused. “what are you talking about?” stephon finally turned and met your eyes. “you haven’t gone to any of my practices, you steady missing my games when you know how important they are. you say you’re working but every time i check your ‘lo, you’re at some fuckin’ mansion or a club,” he scoffed, “i mean i don’t know what to think.”

you stood up, unlocking your phone before shoving it into his lap. “i know you’re not sitting here accusing me of being dishonest to you,” you crossed your arms defensively, “check all my shit, go through everything since you wanna insinuate some bullshit.” stephon shook his head, a bitter smile taking over his lips before he towered over you. “the mansion you saw me at was for a video shoot, i told you that before i even went there. as for the clubs, i get paid to be there, stephon, i’m a public figure, obviously i have to make public appearances, hello???” you had that degrading tone in your voice that never failed to get stephon going. “hello???—” he mocked you, “watch your fuckin’ mouth, bruh. i already told you how i felt about that club promoting shit, and yet you’re still out there.”

part 2: i hate losing

After winning game one vic is tired and battered but he has just enough energy for you. based on game one of the conference finals.

warning: smut, pure filth; first fic plz be nice, unedited! 18+

The sound of the crowd was still ringing in your ears, that buzzing mix of adrenaline and leftover noise that clings to you long after the arena empties. This wasn’t your first basketball game, but the intensity of these games was something else entirely. Every round felt heavier, louder, more personal. And now that you were finally on break from school, you could actually travel with your NBA boyfriend — who just so happened to be in the conference finals of the playoffs. Victor Wembanyama.

Watching him tonight had been its own kind of emotional torture. Every time he hit the floor, your stomach dropped. Every time OKC tried to body him, shove him, scratch him, you felt your whole chest tighten. His lip was busted, his arms were covered in fresh red marks, and you knew his legs were bruised from all the awkward landings. But even through all of that, his skill was unreal. He played like someone who refused to lose. And even though it took two overtimes — two full, exhausting, heart‑stopping overtimes — they won. He won.

You waited while he did press, while he decompressed with his teammates, while the whole team celebrated the way only a Game 1 win after a war like that deserved. By the time you finally got to hold him, he was showered, hoodie on, sweats hanging low on his hips, hair still damp. He wrapped his arms around you and pulled you in like he’d been waiting all night for that moment.

“It’s just game one,” he muttered into your shoulder, voice low and tired, “but fuck, I’m happy.”

“Im so fucking proud of you,” you whispered back, your hands smoothing over his back automatically. “You were amazing out there. My fucking MVP.”

He let out a breath that sounded like relief. “That’s all I want.”

He kissed you — not rushed, not hungry, just full and warm, like he needed you to feel what he couldn’t put into words, like he meant it.

In the private car to the back entrance of the hotel, he leaned into you without hesitation. His head rested against your shoulder, and you ran your fingers through his hair, slow and gentle. You could feel how drained he was, how heavy his body felt after carrying so much of the game. He’d given everything he had out there. And you knew he had practice early tomorrow, film sessions, treatment, all of it. But right now, he was letting himself rest against you, letting himself be held.

All you wanted was to take care of him — to tend to every sore spot, every bruise, every place OKC had gotten too physical. And with the way he melted into your touch, you knew he wanted that too. You just wanted as much time with him as you could get before the world demanded more from him again as much as he gave on the court you wanted to give to him.

The elevator ride up to the hotel room felt quieter than usual, the kind of quiet that settles in after a long night — not awkward, just full. Victor stood beside you, shoulders relaxed for the first time since tip‑off, his hand loosely holding yours like he didn’t want to let go. He positioned you from him, caressing your sides through your outfit you wore for him. Every few seconds he’d glance down at you, that soft, tired suggestive smile tugging at his mouth, the one he only ever gave you.

When the doors opened, he let you step out first, but his fingers stayed laced with yours as you walked down the hallway. You could feel the weight of the night on him — the minutes he played, the hits he took, the pressure he carried, these were the nights you missed the most when you were stuck on campus, watching him through a screen instead of being right here, close enough to feel the warmth of his arm brushing yours.

He unlocked the room and pushed the door open with his shoulder, letting you walk in ahead of him. The lights were low in his penthouse suite, the room quiet except for the soft hum of the AC. He closed the door behind you, and for a second he just stood there, hoodie slightly rumpled, hair still damp, eyes on you like he was memorizing the sight of you in his space.

“Finally,” he breathed out, voice low from exhaustion, but there was something else in it too — something warm, something that made your chest tighten.

You set your bag down and turned toward him, and he stepped closer, slow, like he didn’t want to rush a single second. His hands found your waist, gentle, careful, like he was afraid of how sore he was and how much he still wanted to hold you anyway.

“Are you hungry?” you asked, glancing at the kitchen.

“Yea mon amour, for you to bounce on it for me” you chuckled with him but you instantly got hot as he leaned down to your ear, you regret telling him your slight infatuation with nosferatu. “ Its all I can think about and I'm too tired to destroy you like I really want to,” you gulped “ Will you do that for me?”

You nodded, “I wanted to massage you and tend to that busted lip…” muttering as he lifted you up easily, walking to the bedroom sitting with you already in position as he began to peel your clothes off, kissing every piece of skin as it was exposed.

“i don’t always have you celebrate with like this and i always want you like this”

The large penthouse window dimly lit the bedroom , the city sprawling below you both like a glittering battlefield won. Victor’s long, sculpted body stretched across the crisp white sheets, his skin still flushed from the game, every muscle defined like a statue carved by gods. The busted lip was a dark, swollen mark of his victory, and the scratches on his arms told the story of the war he'd fought on the court. But now, in this room, he was yours—and you were his.

You hovered over him, your thighs straddling his hips, your slick heat already pressing against the base of his cock. He was thick, heavy, and painfully hard, the tip already glistening with a bead of precum. His chest rose and fell in uneven breaths, his dark eyes half-lidded but burning with a desperate, undiluted hunger.

“Look at you,” he murmured, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that sent a shiver straight to your core. His hands slid up your thighs, fingers digging into the soft flesh, possessive and urgent. “So fucking wet for me already, and I haven’t even touched you right.”

You leaned down, your hair brushing against his chest, and kissed the corner of his busted lip, tasting the faint metallic tang of blood mixed with the salt of his sweat. He hissed, but his hand shot up to grip the back of your neck, holding you there, forcing you to stay.

“Don’t stop,” he breathed against your mouth, his voice trembling with need. “Fuck, I need you. I need to feel you around me. Now.”

You shifted, your hips rocking against his length, the head of his cock teasing your entrance. A guttural groan tore from his throat, his hips bucking up instinctively, but you pressed down on his chest, pinning him to the bed.

“Easy,” you whispered, a smirk playing on your lips. “You said I do all the work tonight, remember?”

His jaw clenched, his nostrils flaring. “I lied.”

Before you could react, his hands locked around your waist, and in one fluid motion, he flipped you onto your back. The air left your lungs as you hit the mattress, and he was on top of you, his massive frame caging you in, his knees spreading your thighs wide. His cock slid between your slick folds, not entering, just teasing, the tip nudging your clit with agonizing precision.

“I can’t,” he growled, his face buried in the crook of your neck, his breath hot and ragged. “I can’t control myself when it comes to you. Not tonight. Not after what I did out there. Winning that game, hearing your voice in my head—it makes me want to fucking ruin you.”

He pulled back, his eyes wild, his pupils blown wide. His hand slid down your stomach, slipping between your bodies, and he guided his cock to your entrance. He pushed in just an inch, the head stretching you, and you both moaned in unison.

“You feel that?” he asked, his voice a broken whisper. “That’s what you do to me. That’s all I fucking think about. Your pussy. Your mouth. Your fucking hands on me.”

He thrust forward, burying himself to the hilt in one brutal, desperate motion. A cry escaped your lips as he filled you completely, the stretch almost too much, your walls clenching around him in a tight, hungry grip. He didn’t wait—he couldn’t. He started moving immediately, his hips slamming into yours with a raw, primal urgency that shook the bed frame.

“Fuck—yeah—take it,” he grunted, his rhythm erratic, pounding into you with a desperation that bordered on feral. His hands gripped your hips so hard you knew there would be bruises tomorrow, and you didn’t care. You wanted them. You wanted every mark he left.

He leaned down, capturing your mouth in a bruising kiss, his tongue tangling with yours, tasting you like he was drowning and you were air. His thrusts grew deeper, harder, each one hitting that sweet spot inside you that made your vision blur. You clawed at his back, your nails raking down his sweat-slicked skin, and he growled against your mouth, a sound so primal it made your toes curl.

“I’m not gonna last,” he admitted, his voice cracking. “I’ve been thinking about this since the fourth quarter. Every time I looked at you in the stands, I couldn’t focus. All I could picture was you like this.”

He pulled out suddenly, leaving you empty and aching, and flipped you onto your stomach. Before you could protest, he grabbed your hips, pulling you up onto all fours, and entered you from behind in one fluid motion. The new angle made you gasp, your face pressed into the pillows as he drove into you, his balls slapping against your clit with every furious thrust.

“Look at you,” he hissed, his hand tangling in your hair, pulling your head back. “Taking my cock like a good girl. My fucking MVP.” He slapped your ass hard, the sound echoing in the room, and you moaned, pushing back into him. “Yeah, you like that, don’t you? You like being claimed?”

He reached around, his fingers finding your clit, rubbing tight, fast circles that had your legs trembling. His rhythm faltered, his breathing turning into ragged gasps. “I’m gonna come,” he groaned, his voice thick with desperate need. “I’m gonna fill you up, and you’re gonna take every fucking drop. You’re gonna feel me inside you tomorrow when I’m on the court. You’re gonna remember who you belong to.”

His hips slammed into you one last time, his body shuddering as he spilled into you with a guttural cry, his cock twitching and pulsing as he filled you completely. You followed right behind, your orgasm ripping through you, your walls clamping down on him as you cried out his name, your body collapsing onto the bed beneath him.

He stayed buried inside you, his forehead pressed to the back of your neck, his breath hot and uneven. Slowly, he softened, but he didn’t pull out. He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you flush against his chest, and kissed your shoulder.

“You’re perfect,” he murmured, his voice a sleepy, sated whisper. “I don’t deserve you.”

They made me sweat, I swear 👽🗣️