#xfem

Paige Bueckers x Fem!Reader

NAVI | MORE

Summary: Paige Bueckers has been your best friend for years always there, always close, always quietly watching you give yourself to a man who didn’t know what to do with a body like yours.

Genre: Smut, Best-Friends-to-Lovers, Sneaky Dominance

Word Count: ~ 3.6k

Warnings: SMUT. Fingering, oral (f receiving), toy use (vibrator), squirting, power dynamics, possessiveness, light choking/restraint, recorded consented sexual content, aftercare,

It’s 1:38 a.m. when you call her. You don’t even say hi.

“…he couldn’t even find it.”

There’s a beat of silence on the other end. Then Paige sighs. “I told you.”

You let the phone fall back against the pillow as you groan, frustration raw in your throat. “No, you don’t get to ‘I told you’ me right now, Paige. I let him try. I tried. And he still—God, he said, ‘is this it?’ Is this it, Paige.”

You hear a shuffle, like she’s already getting up. “I’m on my way.”

She’s in your bed twenty-five minutes later. Hoodie, sweats, lips pressed together like she’s doing everything in her power not to laugh in your face.

“You know I’m not gonna say I told you so, right?”

“You literally already did.”

“Okay, but I didn’t say it like this,” she teases, flopping down beside you. Her thigh brushes yours under the blanket. “I just… don’t understand how a man could be that proud and that uncoordinated at the same time. Like pick a struggle.”

You groan again, but this time she pulls you in close, arm around your shoulder, chin nudging your temple.

“I mean… we could always make him a video.”

You freeze. “…what?”

“A tutorial,” Paige says casually, like she’s suggesting a YouTube skincare haul. “You lay back, I show him what you like, and then he doesn’t have to embarrass himself again. You win, he learns, everybody’s happy.”

You turn to stare at her. Her face is neutral. Too neutral.

“You’ve never touched me like that.”

She shrugs. “Don’t need to.”

Your mouth goes dry. “What do you mean?”

Her smirk creeps in, slow and dangerous. “You forget who taught you how to kiss? Who talked you through your first orgasm over FaceTime? Baby, I know you better than you know you.”

Your legs clench on instinct. Paige doesn’t miss it. She leans in, voice low.

“He was licking you like an ice cream cone, huh? That slow, nervous shit like he’s scared of it.”

You don’t answer. You don’t need to. She nods knowingly. “You like pressure. Tongue flat. You need rhythm, not flicks. And you hate when people ignore your clit to ‘explore.’ You want eye contact. Hair pulled. You want someone who’s not afraid to hold you open and make a mess.”

You swallow hard. “How the fuck do you know that?”

Paige just grins. “Because I know you.”

Later That Week

You hear from someone else first. Your boyfriend’s in the locker room talking big loud and confident, claiming he had you “screaming.” Word gets back to Paige in minutes.

She doesn’t yell. She doesn’t get loud. She just walks up to him after your game, chewing gum real slow. One hand in her pocket, chin tilted up.

“She told me what happened,” she says, eyes locked on him. “And whatever you think you did? You didn’t.”

He stammers. “You….you weren’t there.”

“I didn’t have to be,” she says, smirking. “She calls me after. Every time. Gives me play-by-plays. Like a coach.” His face goes pale.

“I could show you,” Paige offers, voice like syrup. “It’s easier than you think.”

She pats him on the chest, leans in, and whispers, “But you’ll never do it like me.”

That Night

You let him explain. You give him grace. You pretend like your best friend didn’t verbally gut him in public. But you’re lying in bed with your phone when Paige texts you:

He still doesn’t get it. I could teach him.

Or you could just let me show you.

It’s what you’ve always wanted, anyway.

You stare at the screen for a minute. Then you type.

Come over.

10:07 p.m.

Your apartment smells like vanilla. You’ve been pacing since she sent that text: “be there in 10.”

When you open the door, Paige is already smirking. Not the usual lazy, cocky thing she throws around when she’s being cute. This one’s different. Meaner. Hungrier. She’s in a black tee, hair in a bun, lips glossed. And when she steps in, she doesn’t hug you. Doesn’t say hi.

Just closes the door with her foot, eyes running over your body.

“So.” Her voice is low. Controlled. “You ready for your lesson?”

You scoff, turning to walk toward the couch, trying to play it off—trying.

“Thought it was a lesson for him.”

She follows close behind, and you feel her hands brush your waist as she leans in.

“Nah,” she whispers, her breath warm on your neck. “I lied.”

You freeze. Paige’s fingers slip under your shirt like she’s done it a thousand times. “This one’s for me.”

It doesn’t take long before you’re on your back, legs spread, shirt somewhere behind the couch. You expected teasing. A slow buildup. Maybe even some nerves.

But no. Paige is starving.

She kisses down your chest like she knows what she’s doing because she does. Licks that little spot under your left breast that always makes you gasp. She grins when you do, like she’s ticking boxes on a list she made years ago.

“You’re wet already,” she hums, dragging two fingers down the center of your panties. “You been thinking about this, huh?”

You don’t answer. She laughs, mean and quiet. “Yeah. Thought so.”

Then she’s pulling them off slow enough to watch your face, fast enough to make you squirm.

When she goes down, it’s with purpose. Paige spreads you open with both thumbs like she’s reading a map, tongue already pressed flat and heavy against your clit before you can even brace for it. No warmup. No warming you up. Just hot, slick, pressure. The kind your boyfriend never understood.

“Right here?” she murmurs, tongue circling slow, two fingers keeping you wide. “Yeah… you like that. I know.”

You whimper. She doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even slow down. Just shifts slightly and locks her arms under your thighs like she’s settling in.

Paige eats you like she’s proving a point groaning into it, tongue dragging, lips wet and greedy. When you try to close your legs, she pushes them back open, firm and calm.

“Nuh uh,” she says, voice muffled. “Let me show you how it’s supposed to feel.”

And fuck she’s good.

She alternates between fast and slow, teasing and deep, like she’s learning and testing and knowing all at once. And you can’t even think straight. You’re gripping her hair. Breathing too fast. Already damn near there. Then she lifts her head.

“You wanna know what he was doing wrong?”

You groan. “Paige, I—”

She slides two fingers in like it’s nothing. Like she knew you’d be dripping enough.

“Everything.”

Her fingers curl just right, her palm hitting your clit with every thrust. She’s watching you now, eyes locked on your face, lip caught in her teeth like she’s studying for a final exam.

You cry out, arching up, chasing that pressure. She leans in close, licking her lips.

“You close already? Damn. Thought you were tougher than that.”

You slap her shoulder weakly. “Fuck you….”

“You’re trying baby.” She grins and twists her wrist. “But your pussy says different.”

You’re about to break literally shaking when she stops. You almost scream. Then she tilts her head.

“Can I record?”

You blink. “What?”

She’s dead serious. “Just for me. Won’t show nobody. I just want to watch you fall apart on my fingers again.” You whimper, pulling her back down by the back of her neck.

“Girl, yeah, whatever just don’t stop.” Her smirk grows wide and feral.

She pulls her phone out with her clean hand, props it low beside your thigh, and goes back in like she’s got something to prove to the camera now too. Fingers deeper. Tongue back on your clit.

This time she moans into you low and guttural. You lose it. Your hips stutter, thighs clench around her head, and you’re crying out her name like it’s always been her. Because it has.

You ride it out on her mouth, fingers buried in her hair, body twitching. She doesn’t stop until you pull her away, gasping. Even then she licks her lips, leans back on her knees, and watches you try to breathe again.

“Lesson one…” she says, still panting slightly. “Let somebody who actually gives a fuck touch you.”

You blink up at her, dazed.

“Lesson Two.”

Your breathing’s just starting to even out when Paige stands. Pulls you gently by the wrist.

“C’mon,” she says, like this is part of the curriculum. Like this is normal. “We’re not done.”

You follow, legs unsteady, mind still gooey from the first round. She’s shirtless now, hair wild, and walking you across the room toward your vanity.

The second you realize what she’s doing, your stomach flips.

“Paige—”

“Shh.” She stops you right in front of the mirror, hands skimming your waist from behind. “You look so fucking good like this.”

You do. Flushed skin, kiss-bruised lips, thighs still trembling. You look wrecked. Paige stands behind you, taller, toned, lips glistening with your slick. Her eyes meet yours in the reflection—hungry.

“Bend over.” You hesitate. Only a second.

She grips your hips and bends you herself, slowly. Hands splayed against the edge of the vanity now, your ass pressed back into her.

“You ever even look at yourself when he touched you?”

You shake your head. She smirks. “Didn’t think so.”

Then her arms slide around your neck. Her chest flush to your back. One arm anchors you across your collarbone, the other slips straight between your thighs.

“You’re gonna watch me make you cum,” she says, low and serious, like it’s the only thing that’s ever mattered. “Eyes open, baby.”

Two fingers slide in without resistance. You gasp.

She’s deeper than before. Angled perfectly. Her pace is slow at first, deliberate, and you feel every stroke like she’s dragging your soul out one inch at a time.

“Goddamn,” she murmurs into your ear, watching the way your mouth drops in the mirror. “You see how good you look? Look at how you open for me.”

You do. And it’s filthy.

The squelch of your pussy. The shine on her fingers. Your thighs tensing, face scrunched up as she fucks into you with that smug-ass expression, like she’s been waiting years for this moment and she has.

“You like that?” she whispers. “That pressure right here—” Curl. You cry out, hips jolting.

“Ohhh yeah. There she go.”

Her fingers are soaked now. She brings her thumb up to rub slow, tight circles on your clit while still fucking you deep. When you look away, overwhelmed.

“Uh uh.” She grabs your jaw, forcing your eyes up. “Keep watching. Watch what I do to you.”

She’s close now. Practically pressed against you. Her mouth brushes your ear with every breath.

“You think he could ever get you like this? Bent over, begging? Look at how needy you are, baby.”

You moan, body trembling. Your own reflection is ruining you Paige’s fingers moving like they’re guided by god, your face all fucked-out, her body wrapped around you like possession.

Then her pace shifts fast, steady, ruthless. You whine, trying to lift up from the vanity, but she holds you down with her forearm across your chest, lips grazing your jaw.

“Don’t run,” she growls. “This the part where you take it. And you do.

Legs shaking. Mouth open. Crying out her name. She doesn’t let up, doesn’t flinch, just keeps fucking into you like she already knows how many strokes it takes to break you.

You cum hard, body convulsing, knees buckling. She holds you through it, still pumping gently, still whispering in your ear.

“Good girl… There you go. Just like that. Look at you, baby.”

When your body finally gives out, she lifts you like nothing and sets you on the vanity stool. Crouches in front of you. Smiling.

You’re barely breathing when she lifts you onto the vanity stool. Thighs trembling, mouth slick with your own whimpers. She’s still crouched in front of you, chin glistening, fingers dripping, eyes dangerous.

“Too much?” she asks, smiling. You nod.

She tilts her head. “That’s cute. You think I care.”

Then she kisses you. Slow and deep like she’s trying to taste your orgasm still lingering on her lips. Her hands slide up your thighs, and you think she’s just holding you close.

You’re wrong. Because suddenly those fingers slip right back in. Two, maybe three. No warm-up this time. Just a slick, greedy slide that makes your hips jerk and your lips fall open mid-kiss.

“F-fuck, Paige—”

Her grin widens. She kisses the corner of your mouth, then down your jaw. She’s still on her knees, looking up at you with that cocky, knowing expression.

“I’ve been waiting to do this for years,” she whispers. “Every time you came crying about how he didn’t know what he was doing… I’d go home and cum to the thought of this.”

You can barely hold eye contact, your hands gripping her shoulders like lifelines.

“Look at you,” she coos. “Still trying to act like you’re not mine now.”

Then your phone starts buzzing on the vanity. It’s him. You don’t even move, but Paige does. Calm as ever. Fingers still pumping slow and deep, she leans up and answers.

“Hello?”

Your eyes go wide. “Paige—”

She presses her palm to your clit, quieting you instantly with a firm stroke.

“Yeah,” she says into the phone, tone friendly. “She’s a little busy right now.” A pause. You can hear his voice confused, unsure. Asking what’s going on.

Paige looks you dead in the eye and curls her fingers hard. Your head snaps back, mouth open in a silent scream.

She covers the mic and mouths, “Don’t hold back.”

Then back into the phone, “Oh, that noise? That’s her.”

She flicks your clit again, harder this time, until your hips buck. “Yeah,” she breathes, grinning. “I’m showing her how to cum for real. Something you clearly never learned.”

You can hear him trying to talk over her, voice panicked and rising, but Paige is already back on you her tongue on your neck, her hand fucking up into you harder now, faster, trying to rip the sound out of you.

“You wanna say hi?” she teases, moving the phone toward your mouth. “C’mon. Tell him who’s got you like this.”

You moan—high, wrecked, involuntary. She laughs, actually laughs, and talks right over you.

“She’ll call you back when she’s done dripping all over my fucking hand.”

She ends the call. And doubles down. Literally.

Her pace turns filthy, fast, wet, relentless. Her palm slaps against you with every thrust, and her mouth is back on yours, stealing breath and sanity.

You scream into her kiss, clutching her hoodie, cumming harder than before. Paige just keeps going until your thighs are shaking around her wrist.

When you finally collapse into her chest, panting, she strokes your sides like she just gave you a massage.

“Lesson three,” she whispers. “Delete his fucking number.” You nod, boneless. Breathless. Ruined. She grins, kisses your cheek, and says “Now turn around. I’m not done grading you.”

Your body is limp when she finally pulls her fingers out, glistening and smug like she just conquered something and she did.

You’re draped across her, shaking, gasping into her neck, and still… still needing more.

“Paige…” Your voice is barely there. “Please…”

She doesn’t speak right away just runs her hand down your side, trailing between your legs like she’s memorizing every tremble.

Then, gently, she cups your face and makes you look at her.

“You want more?” You nod quickly, almost frantically. She leans in, lips brushing yours like a secret.

“Then you’re gonna let me show you everything.”

You’re not sure when or how you got to the bed. All you know is her voice and her hands guided you. Now you’re spread out again, thighs aching, breath shaky, as she kneels between your legs like she belongs there.

Paige looks too calm like she’s in her element, dark eyes flicking from your face to the drawer next to the bed.

“You still got that purple one?” she asks. You blink.

“Your vibe,” she clarifies, smirking. “You think I didn’t know? Girl, your man couldn’t make you cum. Of course you got backup.”

Heat flares in your chest, between your legs. You nod, wordless.

She reaches over, opens the drawer without asking, and pulls it out like she’s done it before. Her brows lift slightly. “This the one?”

You cover your face for a second, flustered, but nod again. She grins, climbs back between your thighs, and kisses the inside of your knee before switching the toy on. A soft hum. Then louder.

“Sit up,” she says. “I want you to watch.”

You prop up on your elbows just as she presses the vibrator to your clit. Your head drops back with a gasp.

“Nuh uh,” Paige says, not even looking up. “Eyes on me. Watch what I do to you.”

The first pass is light just enough to tease, to make your thighs twitch. But when she adds pressure.

“Fuck,” you breathe, one leg kicking slightly. You reach down and grab behind your own thigh, holding it open.

That makes her smile.

“Yeah,” she says softly.

Her eyes stay glued to your pussy the whole time—studying it. Worshipping it. She alternates pressure and rhythm like she’s done this before, like she’s studied you before. And every time your hips jerk or your thighs twitch, she notices.

“Oh, you like that speed?” You nod quickly.

“And this angle, huh?” You moan.

She licks her lips. “Let’s try something.”

And then she leans down. Flicks her tongue around the toy, just teasing the slick edges of your clit while the vibe presses steady into the center.

You nearly scream. Your leg shakes so hard you drop it. She grabs it and throws it over her shoulder with ease.

“Keep still,” she says, licking her lips again.

She eats your pussy around the vibrator. Her mouth catching the mess it makes. Her tongue flat. Her moans soft and greedy like she loves this.

You can’t breathe. Your eyes roll back. You claw the sheets.

“Paige—Paige I—”

“I know,” she purrs, pulling back just long enough to look you in the eye. “Let it happen.”

She pushes the toy slightly lower while her tongue flicks your clit. You break.

Your hips lift. Your moan turns high and choked. Your whole body snaps forward like it’s too much too much pressure, too much sensation, too much her.

And then You squirt. A lot. It hits her hand, her arm, the sheets. She doesn’t care. Just watches it happen like she’s proud of you. Mesmerized. Smiling.

“There she go,” she murmurs, rubbing slow circles again while your thighs twitch. “Been waiting to see that.”

You’re shaking. Crying maybe. Still gasping for air. But she’s not done. She leans back in mouth on your soaked clit, tongue lapping slow and deep and loving every drop.

She finally lets go of the toy, tosses it to the side like it served its purpose. Now it’s just her mouth. She groans into you, eyes fluttering closed, mouth full of you messy and loud and nasty.

You don’t even know if you cum in her mouth or just keep riding the edge, but it doesn’t matter. She’s not coming up for air. She’s been waiting for this. She’s going to take her time.

You’re still trembling when she finally pulls away. Mouth wet. Fingers drenched. Eyes glowing like she just won a championship.

She presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh, then another to your hipbone before crawling up your body, light on her feet, her hoodie half-off and damp at the hem from you.

You feel her hand press gently to your cheek.

“You alive?”

You nod, barely. She chuckles, like you just passed some impossible test. “Good girl.”

Then effortlessly, she lifts you. Carries you to the pillows and lays you on your side like you’re made of glass.

She disappears briefly, and you hear the sink running. A few seconds later, a warm towel presses between your legs, slow and careful, like she knows you’re sensitive now. She cleans you without saying a word no teasing, no smirks just small circles, gentle hands, reverent touch.

When she’s done, she grabs your water bottle off the nightstand and taps it against your lips.

“Drink,” she murmurs, arm sliding under your shoulders to lift you. “You gon’ need it.”

You sip slow, and when she’s satisfied, she eases you down again—this time against her. Hoodie still on. Legs tangled with yours. Your head resting on her chest.

The silence settles in warm.

Her fingers trace slow lines on your back, and her breathing’s steady almost like she didn’t just put you through five orgasms and a clean-up that looked like a post-game locker room mop-up.

Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. Her phone lights up on the nightstand. You both glance at it. It’s him. Name lit up bold. Notifications stacked like a man who knows something is wrong but doesn’t know what.

She reaches for the phone, unlocks it with her thumb, and stares for a second, then hits the little microphone icon and starts a voice note.

“Yo,” she says, calm as ever, voice low and a little raspy from moaning your name all night. “My bad. She’s… out.”

She pans the phone over your sleeping form, gets just enough of your bare shoulder and the edge of her hoodie wrapped around you. Then taps send.

Sets the phone back down. Pulls you in tighter.

“Don’t worry,” she whispers against your hair. “He won’t call again.” You hum, half-asleep already.

She smiles. In the dark, with you curled into her chest, wrecked and warm, she kisses your forehead and says “Told you I’d teach you.”

The morning sun shine through the half drawn blinds. The sheets are thrown across the both of you. Shikamaru lies in his side behind you, chest pressed flush against your back, an arm draped over your hip as he pulls you impossibly closer.

His cock nudges against your entrance, the thick head parting your folds before he pushes in slowly, until he’s buried to the hilt. You stretch around him, gripping tight in the snug fit. Every subtle movement sending ripples of pleasure through you.

“mmm that’s it, open up for me,” he mummers aginst your ear, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through your skin.His free hand going to your front, cupping your breast and thumbing your nipple into a hard peak, rolling so gently at first, then with more pressure and you arch into his touch.

You push back against him, matching his lazy rhythm. The slide of his smooth and deep his pelvis right against your bottom. He hooks his leg over yours, spreading you wider, giving him better leverage to thrust.

“Feels so good, clenching like that” He says, breath hot on your neck as he nips at the sensitive spot below your ear. His hand on your breast kneads firmly. pinching and tugging, while the other dips lower, fingers finding your clit ams stroking it slow, prepense circles that makes your breath hitch. The angel lets him hit deeper, his cock dragging along your walls with each thrust.

“tell me how you want it, harder?” he teases, his lips brushing your shoulder before he sucks lightly, leaving a faint mark. you moan, rocking your hips to take him fuller, and he responds with a sharper thrust, the grip he has in your thigh tightening to hold you in place. His hand trails up to your lower stomach, Shikamaru presses down flat to feel the subtle bulge of him moving inside of you.

The tension coils tighter, your body trembling as he picks his pace up-thrust getting firmer, his balls slapping softly against you.

“gonna make you come all over me hmm” he growls lowly, voice rough and filled with need. His mouth latching back onto your neck again.

your breath catches in a shaky moan, the sound spilling out as you nod against your pillow. “yeah,”

His free hand now pulling you close suddenly, your orgasm crashing over you in waves, you moan out his name, walls fluttering and squeezing around him, body shaking in his hold. He groans deeply thrusting through it, his cock pulsing as he chases his own release, spilling hit inside of you with a final deep grind.

Lessons in Love

Naruto never understood what love was. If anything, he was scared of it. From a young age, love was his ‘Jiji” coming into his house with an envelope full of colorful paper, paper that allowed him to get ramen, to get clothes. Love was not being hit at a store, just glared at. Love was a sensei not kicking him out of class, even if he had to stand the entire time. Love was Ichiraku ramen, with the pretty ‘Nee-san’ and her extra treats.

(i love your writting btw queen)

Totally Sorry

Caitlin Clark x Fem!Reader

MORE | NAVI

Summary: After a petty argument, you decide to ice Caitlin out. She’s losing her mind. What starts with a soft apology ends in needy, emotional smut, and even sweeter aftercare.

Genre:Angst → Fluff → Smut → Comfort

Word Count: ~ 2.5k

Warnings: 18+ smut (fingering, oral, praise kink, dom/sub undertones), tension, light possessiveness, emotional vulnerability, soft aftercare, lots of teasing and begging, reader is stubborn, Caitlin is clingy, some cursing

You’ve never fought like this. Not really. Not the real kind. Sure, y’all bicker sometimes over laundry, over where to eat, over her not charging her phone until it hits 2%.

She complains when you steal the covers. You tease her for leaving wet towels on the bed. But it’s always playful. Always short-lived. Y’all don’t do this.

You don’t ignore her. Not ever. Which is why the silence is so fucking loud.

Starts with something small. Like it always does. You said something offhand on the drive home from her game, something about her barking at the ref again, about how she never lets anything go.

You weren’t even mad. Just tired. Her energy had been off all day. And she, already wound tight from a close loss, snapped.

“You know what? Maybe stop acting like you’re above all of it just because you don’t blow up like I do.”

You looked at her so slow, so blank. “Above it?”

“Yeah, you do this thing—this passive, holier-than-thou thing—and it’s not cute.”

Damn. That hurt. But you didn’t show it. Just stared out the window, nodded once, and didn’t say another word the whole ride home.

She slammed the car door when she parked. You walked in first and never looked back.

That was yesterday. Now she’s losing her damn mind. Good.

Because you haven’t texted her since. Haven’t called. Didn’t kiss her forehead this morning when you got out of bed first. Didn’t send her that stupid TikTok you would’ve normally sent before noon. Didn’t pull her into the bathroom with you while you brushed your teeth, didn’t sit on her lap during lunch, didn’t exist around her the way you usually do.

You’re in the same house. Same space. But Caitlin’s never felt more alone. She keeps checking her phone like she didn’t leave it next to her leg two seconds ago.

She walks past your closed bedroom door five times. Pretends she’s not doing it on purpose. Pretends she’s not pausing outside of it every time.

By the time afternoon rolls around, she’s sitting on the kitchen counter looking miserable, chin in her hand like a child punished during recess. She knows it’s petty. She knows she started it. This is cruel.

“You’re seriously not gonna talk to me at all today?” she calls out, like you’re just gonna yell back from the other room with a smile. Silence.

Her mouth drops open a little. “Seriously?” Still nothing.

Now she’s standing. Now she’s following you, finally catching up when you’re in the hallway with your AirPods in, phone in your hand, looking good as hell like it’s not killing you too.

Caitlin reaches out. Grabs your wrist. You don’t stop walking. Just glance over your shoulder.

She hates that look, the unreadable one. That expressionless look you only use when you’re trying not to cry or trying not to kill somebody. She knows it’s the first one. It always is.

“Babe,” she says, softer now. Following. “Okay. Come on. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean what I said.” Still walking. Still no response.

“Hey.” She cuts in front of you this time, stands in the doorway to block your exit. “Can you just—can you please talk to me? This isn’t fair.” You fold your arms. Lean against the wall. Say nothing.

She runs both hands through her hair. “You ignoring me is actually evil. Do you know how weird it feels not hearing your voice all day?”

You raise an eyebrow like you’re finally humoring her. She takes that sliver of attention and clings to it.

“You always talk. You’re always in my space. Always touching me. I like that. I need that. So stop being mean and—”

You push off the wall. Move past her. She spins. Follows. “Oh my God, are you serious?” No answer.

“Baby. I’m dying.”

You chuckle. It slips out, real quiet, and that’s when she knows you’re softening. “That’s not funny,” she mutters.

“It is,” you say without looking back. That’s all she gets.

Until nighttime.

You’re sitting on the couch scrolling on your phone when she finally gives up on pride and walks over slow, barefoot, hoodie hanging off one shoulder, her face flushed like she just gave up fighting it.

Without a word, she climbs into your lap. You don’t fight it. She wraps her arms around your neck, head tucked under your chin like she hasn’t been craving this all day. She’s clingy. But this is new.

You don’t push her away. You just let her sit there. Let her melt into you. When her fingers trace your jaw, gentle, familiar, you finally lean into her touch.

“I hate when we fight,” she whispers. “I don’t like this version of us.” You nod.

Her voice goes smaller. “You really weren’t gonna talk to me today?”

You sigh. “You hurt my feelings.”

“I know. And I’m sorry. I was in a bad mood and I took it out on you. I don’t wanna be that person to you.”

You look at her now. Really look. “Do you mean that?”

“I’d do anything to make it up to you.” Her hand slides down your side.

She shifts in your lap, slow and careful, like she knows how fragile this truce is. Her hands stay light, just resting on your sides, fingertips grazing the edge of your hoodie. She leans in like she wants a kiss.

You turn your head.

“Still mad,” you mutter, not even looking at her. Caitlin whines, actually whines, like you just pushed her off the ledge she’s been barely hanging onto.

“I know,” she breathes, kissing the edge of your jaw instead. “I know. You should be. I was a bitch.”

You raise your eyebrows, finally turning to meet her eyes. “Oh, so now you admit it?”

“I always knew it,” she says quickly, leaning in to kiss just below your ear. “But I was too stubborn to say it.” You don’t kiss her back. Don’t even smile.

She starts trailing kisses lower. “I missed you all day.” Silence.

“I missed your voice. Your laugh. Your mouth.” Still nothing. Her lips touch your throat, her fingers sliding under your hoodie, just barely tracing skin.

“I missed it,” she says into your neck, voice a shaky little confession. “I’ll never talk to you like that again. I swear. Let me make it up to you.” You don’t stop her when she slides off your lap and sinks to her knees.

But you don’t help her either. Just sit back, legs spread slightly, phone still in your hand like she hasn’t earned your full attention yet.

She looks up at you, bottom lip between her teeth, eyes already glassy with need. Her hands are gentle as she tugs at your shorts, pausing when you don’t lift your hips right away.

“Please,” she whispers. “Let me touch you. I’m sorry, baby.” You wait a beat…then lift, just enough.

She pulls them down slow. Kisses your thighs like she’s praying. Like she’s working her way back into your good graces one inch at a time.

“I hate when you’re mad at me,” she says softly, voice muffled by your skin. “I didn’t mean it. I was just scared. I always get scared when I feel like I’m not enough for you.”

Your face softens for a second. Then she licks one long stripe up your inner thigh and you forget everything else.

She doesn’t go for it right away. She’s teasing herself more than you, dragging her mouth over everything but where you want it.

Kissing the crease of your hip. The softest parts of your skin. You feel her breathing deepen, feel her hands gripping your thighs tighter like she needs you close.

A whisper right against your clit, “Please let me make you cum.” You let out a breath. Low. Almost amused.

“You better,” you mutter. “If you want me to speak to you again.” She moans.

Tongue flat, slow pressure, licking you like a favorite flavor she hasn’t tasted in days. It’s sweet torture, gentle but relentless, her fingers gripping your thighs while she sucks softly, flicks her tongue just right.

She doesn’t stop. Doesn’t pull back. Just licks and licks like she could die here happy.

Your hand slides into her hair before you realize it, tugging once, not to guide her, but to remind her who’s in charge. She moans at the pull.

“I’m sorry,” she says again, voice sticky and desperate between licks. “I’m so sorry, baby. I’ll never talk to you like that again. I swear. Please.”You feel it building. Pressure low and tight.

But you don’t give her the satisfaction yet.

“Not enough.”

“What?” she whimpers, pausing just long enough to blink up at you.

“You’re not sorry enough.”

Caitlin lets out a shaky breath. Then lowers her mouth again, this time faster. Sloppier. Mouth open, tongue pressing harder against your clit now. She’s damn near crying into it.

You let her. Let her prove it. Let her beg through the strokes of her tongue and the tremble of her fingers when she slides one inside you, then two.

Let her apologize until your body jerks, hips stuttering up against her mouth, hand yanking her hair harder than you meant to.

“Oh my God,” she breathes. “Please cum. Please, please let me feel it.” You do. You don’t warn her. Just fall apart on her tongue, back arched, hand clamped around her head, thighs shaking.

Still licking. Still whispering, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry,” into your overstimulated cunt like it’s the only way you’ll ever forgive her.

Caitlin’s chin rests on your thigh as you come down, chest still rising, hands twitching. She’s breathless, eyes wet, face a mess. She’s just looking at you like you hung the damn moon.

You don’t say anything for a second. Just brush her hair back from her face, gentle now. Fingertips grazing her temple. Her cheek leans into the touch like she’s starving for it.

“…you forgive me?” she whispers, voice wrecked.

Your nails drag down her jaw, slow. “Get in the bed.” She nods like she expected that answer.

She crawls in after you, sliding under the blanket like a scolded dog and wrapping herself around your waist. But she’s not done. You can feel it. The way she’s shifting. The tension in her stomach. That buzz under her skin.

You pull her face up to yours.

Her lips are soft, hesitant, you kiss her this time. Open-mouthed. Lazy. Deep. Like you missed her even while she was on her knees. Her fingers dig into your hip. Her leg slots between yours, and you don’t stop her when she starts to move. You just press your forehead to hers.

“You tryna get off?” you ask, low.

“No,” she lies, breath hot. “I just wanna feel you.”

“Mmhm.”

Your thigh moves between hers, and she groans. Like her whole body is short-circuiting. You grip her jaw and kiss her again, slower now. Softer. Less performance, more you mine, you home, you safe.

You slide your leg up and over. Straddle her thigh. She gasps. Her hand flies to your waist, gripping hard.

“Holy fuck—”

“Shhh,” you whisper. “You wanna feel me?” She nods, shaky. You grind once. Real slow. Wet on wet. Soaked, sticky heat against her toned thigh. Her hand slides up your back, holding you down.

You don’t let her rush it. You move like molasses, like you’ve got all night. Every pass of your clit against her skin is deliberate. Sensual. She watches your face like it’s a goddamn movie.

Then she moves too. Matches your rhythm, thigh flexing under you, hips rolling up until the pressure is thick and perfect.

She’s breathing hard now. Voice rough. “Fuck, you feel so good like this. So warm. Don’t stop, baby. Please don’t stop.”

You kiss her again. Your hands in her hair. Her thigh right between yours. You’re rocking now, breathing each other in. The pace is slow but wet. You can hear it. Feel it everywhere.

Caitlin’s losing it. You lean into her ear, whispering, “You’re lucky I love you. Lucky I let you touch me again.”

She whimpers. “I know. I know. I love you so much.”

You grind harder. “Say it again.”

“I love you,” she gasps. “I love you. I’m yours. I swear I’m yours.”

Your hips start to stutter, hers too. She’s so close, and so are you, both chasing that same slow wave.

You cum together. Quiet but hard. Lips pressed to each other’s, thighs trembling, hips still moving through it even when it’s too much.

Later, you’re tangled up in each other. Bare. Heartbeats slow. She runs her fingers through your locs, murmuring, “I hate when we fight.”

You press a kiss to her chest. “Then don’t start ‘em.”

She grins, sleepy. “Can’t help it. I get crazy when I think about losing you.”

You look up. “You never will.”

You didn’t even have to ask. After the second round, slow, slippery, bodies locked tight and trembling into each other. Caitlin ran the bath without a word. Bubbles. Eucalyptus oil.

Music playing from her phone in the corner. She washed your back like it was sacred. Held your foot in her hand like it weighed nothing and kissed your ankle just because she could.

Clean sheets. Soft cotton.

TV low in the background and Caitlin’s hair still damp, curls tied into a loose bun.

Her hoodie is yours now, hanging off your shoulder while you sit propped up against the headboard, bowl of cookies-and-cream between your legs.

She’s got her spoon. You’ve got yours. But she keeps feeding you anyway.

“Open,” she says, holding out a scoop.

You roll your eyes. “You know I can feed myself, right?”

“Shhh. You forgave me, but I’m still earning back girlfriend privileges.”

You lean over and take the bite from her spoon. She smiles like you just gave her a gold star.

Then—kiss. Right on your cheek. No warning. You blink. Then another one.

“What are you doing?” you ask, pretending to be annoyed.

“Kissing my girl,” she mumbles against your skin. “Is that a crime?”

You huff. Try to focus on the screen. But then her hand finds your thigh under the blanket. Her fingers start tracing little shapes. Lazy. Thoughtless. And her mouth finds your cheek again. Then your jaw. Then your shoulder.

“Babe.”

“What,” she says, all smug and sleepy and in love.

“You act like you weren’t crying in my pussy an hour ago.” She pauses mid-lick of her spoon.

“Exactly why I’m kissing you now. That was life-changing.” You laugh, really laugh this time. Caitlin leans in, forehead pressed to your temple.

“I mean it though,” she says quietly, voice going soft again. “I don’t ever wanna fight like that again. Not with you.” You look over at her. She’s all flushed skin and puppy eyes and sleepy smiles.

“I mean… if the makeup sex is like that,” you tease.

“Y/n.”

You smirk. “Okay, okay. No more fights.”

She hums. Moves closer. “No more silence.”

“No more slamming doors.”

“No more accusing me of being dramatic.”

“Okay well—”

“Babe.” You laugh again. She kisses your cheek once more. And this time, you lean into it.

Nobody Knows

Kate Martin x Fem!Reader

MORE | NAVI

Summary: Everyone knows Kate Martin’s obsessed with her girl. But behind closed doors? She’s Rough, possessive, nasty. And when the team invites reader on a beach day, her secret isn’t so secret anymore.

Genre: Fluff, Smut, Humor

Word Count: ~ 3.3k

Warnings: SMUT. Public teasing, hickeys, scratching, dom!Kate, sub!reader, rough sex, aftercare, exhibitionism (implied), suggestive jokes, PDA, slight humiliation kink, choking,, marking, teasing

I don’t need her to do any of it. I could hold my own bag. I could open my own doors, order my own food, tie my own shoes. I’m fully capable. Two hands, fully functional brain, edges intact. I got this.

But will I ever stop her from doing it for me? Hell no.

Because the way Kate spoils me? That’s content. That’s bragging rights. That’s soft-launch-me-on-your-story-and-let-everybody-know-I’m-loved type treatment.

I brag when she does stuff for me, and I don’t even try to be humble about it. I post it. I caption it. I narrate it like I’m hosting a luxury lifestyle vlog.

She likes it. Being bragged about. Likes that I’ll turn a coffee run into a red carpet moment. Likes that I kiss her like a thank you and tease her like she’s a personal assistant.

“Princess behavior,” I say all the time, sliding my shades down dramatically while she adjusts the straps on my bag. “You see this? Mhmmm clock it.”

One time she bought me flowers just ‘cause I sighed too hard during a Target run. Said it was a “your aura dimmed for a second” emergency.

Another time I jokingly said I wanted a pink standing fan I saw on TikTok. I said it once. In passing. While scrolling.

A week later that exact fan showed up at my door. Still in the box. With a note that said, “Don’t let the heat dull your shine.” She’s ridiculous. And I kissed her for it. Every time.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

We’ll be walking through the parking lot, her hand full with my purse, her other hand holding mine, and I’ll see people seeing it. Like, “Damn, she really carrying all them bags?”

I just smile real slow. Pull her closer. Kiss her cheek obnoxiously loud and go, “Thank you, baby.” She always grins, every time, like I just gave her an award.

“You’re gonna make me blush,” she mutters, squeezing my hand.

“You like when I brag about you,” I say, smirking. She shrugs, pretending to play it cool. “Maybe.”

And then I’m like, “Yeah? Then hold my drink too.” She takes it. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Listen, she doesn’t just do the little things. She does the most. For fun. Just because she can.

Like we were going to a team dinner once and I wore this silk mini dress. Nothing too wild, just a lil cleavage and a lotta legs.

I step out the car, and boom, she’s already behind me adjusting my straps, pulling my jacket over my shoulders, whispering, “You tryna get me in trouble tonight?”

I just laugh, swinging my purse into her hands. She catches it, naturally. Doesn’t even react. “You want me to hold this?”

“I want you to wear it, actually,” I tease, grinning.

She loops it over her shoulder and deadpans, “Do I look cute?”

I step back, nod slow, and go, “Gorgeous.” The waiter held the door open while we were still in our bit. I’m not even sure he blinked.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

At brunch, I don’t even touch my menu. I just glance over it, close it, and sip my mimosa like I’m above decision-making. Kate already knows the three things I might want. She orders for me.

When the server leaves, I lean into her ear, kiss her jaw slow, and say, “You’re so good to me.”

She melts. Every. Single. Time.

“You keep kissing me like that, I’m gonna start packing snacks in your purse too.”

“Please do. I’m a delicate flower.”

“You’re a gremlin.” She tries to act annoyed, but she’s grinning like a goof, sliding her hand over my thigh under the table like she can’t help it. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

People ask us all the time if we’re, like, “serious.”

As if the softest, sappiest PDA ever doesn’t scream “this is endgame.” I posted a photo once, Kate zipping up my boot while I stood on one leg like a spoiled housewife. The caption was, “Wouldn’t catch me doing this for anybody but her.”

Kate reposted it with “And I’d do it again.” ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The first time she got me jewelry, I cried. Literally Balling.

It was just a simple bracelet, gold, dainty, my initials in tiny cursive. But she saw me eye one just like it in a shop window, and the next week, there it was. On my pillow.

Not in a box. Not wrapped. Just sitting there. Like a love note you leave on the counter.

“I saw how you looked at it,” she’d said, like it was nothing.

I wore it every day for three weeks and kissed her like I was trying to say thank you in every language at once. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Now we’re in the store, and I don’t even pretend to carry anything. I try on jackets and hold them out. She takes them, folds them over her arm like she’s a personal stylist, kisses my temple while I look in the mirror.

“You look good in that one,” she says. “Like…dangerously good.”

I pout. “But do I need it?”

“You never need anything,” she shrugs, pulling her card out. “But I like when you smile like that.” I kiss her. Right there in the aisle. Long and soft, hands cupping her face. She hums into it like I gave her oxygen.

“You did so good, baby,” I whisper. “You deserve a treat.”

She licks her lips. “Is this the treat?”

I grin. “You want more?”

She’s already leaning in. “Yes.”~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

We go back to the car and she opens the door for me, tucks me in like I’m glass. Seatbelt check, air conditioning perfect, playlist loaded. She runs around to the driver’s side and I wait, patient, arms crossed.

She gets in and looks at me, confused. “What?”

“You forgot something.”

She pauses. Then, slowly, she leans over, kisses me sweet, and says, “Better?”

I nod. “Much.”

Oh how I love my life.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

She spoils me for no reason. Not because I ask. Not because I expect it. But because I kiss her when she does. Because I talk about her like she invented love. Because I post her. Brag about her. Praise her. Loud.

And because, deep down, under all her chill, Kate Martin is a hopeless simp with a soft spot for the brat who rewards her with glitter gloss kisses and “thank you, baby” moans in her ear.

Maybe I don’t need the princess treatment. But I love it.

And she loves me. Which means I’ll never carry another bag again in my life.

Kate doesn’t fuck on weekdays. She fucks on weekends. Like her body’s been in a cage all week and I’m the only way she knows how to get out.

She doesn’t say it. She doesn’t have to. I know it by how she’s looking at me the second I walk into the room on Friday, eyes low, arms crossed, tongue pressing against her cheek like I’m already naked and she’s trying not to drag me upstairs by the throat.

I mouth off a little. On purpose. Something smart. Something bratty. I call her soft. She just turns, slow, and locks the bedroom door behind me like she’s closing a vault.

“You’re cute,” she says, cracking her neck, walking toward me. I already know.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The first slap is her hand on my throat. Not hard. Not choking. Just… there. Claimed. My breath catches. My thighs betray me.

“You got somethin’ else to say?” she asks, pressing me against the wall. Her voice is calm, polite. But I feel it in my chest.

I don’t say shit. Not a word. My lungs can’t keep up and her knee’s already between my legs, pressing up, tilting my hips forward.

She smiles. “Great.”~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When Kate fucks, it’s not just physical, it’s execution. She’s trained for this. Stamina. Power. Control. It’s in her form. Her grip. The way she pins my wrists above my head while she bites down my chest like it’s her last meal.

Her voice doesn’t even raise. That’s the worst part.

“You wanted attention,” she murmurs, sliding the harness into place. “Now take it.”

The first stroke is deep. Too deep. I choke on my own breath, arching up, mouth falling open without a sound.

Eyes back. Lungs frozen. That blank, gone face, she lives for it.

“There she is,” she whispers, pace slow and mean. “Go ahead, let it happen.” I can’t moan. Can’t even gasp. Just twitch. My toes curl hard. My legs shake too early.

“Already?” she teases. “I haven’t even started.”

She stretches me out with her strap, slow but deep, gripping my thighs so tight it borders on bruising. But it’s not about pain. Not really. It’s about pressure. About knowing I can take it, and giving me everything because I deserve it.

“You earned this,” she grits, hips rolling, slow and brutal. “All week. You were so good, baby. Look at you. You’re so pretty.” I moan something unintelligible, nails dragging down her back, and that’s when she loses it.

“Oh my God..you feel that?” she pants, hips snapping faster. “Fuck.”

I do because I can’t not. I have to hold onto something. Right now, her back’s the only thing I trust. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

She holds my hips down with one hand and fucks into me.

Full stroke. No mercy. She watches my body roll up with each thrust, watches my fingers claw the sheets, eyes glazed and mouth open like I’m halfway to death.

“Look at you,” she growls, sweat dripping down her chest. “So pretty when you take it.” I cry out, half sob, half moan, but she doesn’t let up. My legs start shaking again and she smiles.

“There’s my good girl.”

She doesn’t break rhythm. Doesn’t check in. Doesn’t slow down. This isn’t “make love.” This is take it.

The way she’s fucking me I don’t even feel like a person anymore. Just heat. Just muscle. Just twitching limbs and breathless gasps and my voice catching in my throat like it’s scared to come out. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

She fucks me like she’s trying to etch her name into every nerve I’ve got. Like her strap is her signature. And My body is the only thing she’s ever wanted to write on.

I arch up, crying out, and she grabs my throat, not hard, just there, like an anchor, and moans.

“You’re mine,” she says it so sweet, like she’s complimenting my outfit. Like she’s not buried inside me, making me sob into her neck. “No one else gets you like this. No one ever will.”

I nod, tears sliding into my hair. “Yours. Yours, I swear—”

“Yeah?” Her voice cracks, but she doesn’t stop. “Say it again, baby. Say it like you mean it.”

“Yours,” I cry, digging my nails deeper, thighs trembling.

“Fuck,” she chokes out. “Thank you.”

Like I did something for her. Like she’s not the one rearranging my entire soul.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Give it to me,” she says, soft. Way too soft for the way her hips are slamming into mine.

“You wanted this, right?”

I nod. Barely. She slaps my face.

“Use your fucking words.”

“Yes,” I breathe, voice shredded. “Yes, please, please—”

“That’s better.”

Because this isn’t just sex with her. It’s a performance. A ceremony. A damn love letter in thrusts and pressure and sweat. She’s focused. Controlled. Polite in the nastiest ways.

“You’re taking me so good, baby,” she coos, voice shaking. “So fucking good. I’m never gonna get over you.”

When I cum, it’s violent. No build up. No warning.

My whole body locks, arms tight, legs kicked up, back arched so high it hurts.

She fucks through it. One hand gripping my throat, the other pressing the base in deeper with every roll of her hips.

I’m whining now. Not talking. Not begging. Just shaking, fingers spasming against the sheets.

“Take it,” she whispers. “You can take it.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

She leans over, grabs my jaw, and spits in my mouth. I swallow on instinct. She hums in approval. (I like the freaky)

“See?” she murmurs, dragging her teeth along my jaw. “Knew you’d behave.”

I try to breathe. Try to say something. But then her hand finds my clit. Two fingers, slow circles. Just enough to make my stomach flip and my vision fade. I jolt, almost sobbing.

“Please—” She kisses my cheek.

“Good girls don’t tell me when to stop.”~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

My second orgasm is messy. Ugly. Legs wide, throat dry, my moans breaking apart in my mouth like static. Her eyes don’t leave mine. Not once. She watches me fall apart like it’s art.

Like I’m a performance she paid to see front row. Like the messier I get, the harder she strokes.

“That’s mine. That’s for me.” She pants, voice tight.

At some point I’m crying. Not sad. Not in pain. Just, overwhelmed. Body broken open. Muscles gone. Hands shaking like I’ve been electrocuted.

She grips my thighs, pulls me back onto her like I owe her something.

“You look better like this,” she murmurs.

When I moan her name, cracked and high and fucked out, she grabs my throat again and says, “That’s right. Say it again.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

We lose track of time. I cum again. And again. Maybe four times. Maybe more. At one point, my legs go numb. I feel her grabbing them, folding me up, splitting me open.

My back’s scratched up. Her abs are streaked with sweat. My lips are bitten raw. And all she says is

“You earned this.” Like it’s praise.

Like this is her gift.

When she finally pulls out, my body drops back to the bed like I’ve been held up by nothing but her. My thighs are soaked. My chest is heaving. My hand’s still twitching. She kisses my forehead. Just once.

“Breathe,” she says, like I forgot how. I whimper. Try to move. I can’t. She just smiles.

“Good,” she whispers, brushing her fingers over my thigh. “Stay like that.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

This is why Kate waits ‘til the weekend. Because this is her way of loving me. Not with roses. Not with poems. But with dominance. With discipline. With fucking devotion.

She doesn’t say “I love you” during sex. She says it with every stroke that knocks my soul out my chest.

She says it when I’m limp and ruined and too far gone to say anything but her name.

And she never comes first. She doesn’t need to. Because watching me like this, used, shaking, silent.

That’s what gets her off.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

She pulls my leg over her hip like I’m not boneless and dead. Then she kisses lower. Chest. Sternum. Ribs. The underside of my tit, soft at first, then bite.

I yelp. She laughs.

“Mm,” she hums, eyes flicking up to mine. “There she go. Got a little sound left after all.”

Her fingers find my thigh next, nails dragging across the curve slow, then her mouth follows.

Right where it’s soft and sensitive. Right where I can’t hide it if I wear shorts tomorrow. She kisses it. Bites down again.

I jerk. “Kate—”

“Shh.” She presses her hand to my mouth, not rough, just there. Like a soft command. “Take it.”

Another hickey. This one deeper. Longer. Then she pulls her hand back and kisses me. Deep. Tongue lazy. Like she’s putting the rest of her love on my tongue.

“You deserve to be worn out and marked up,” she murmurs, dragging her thumb across my bottom lip.

If I had the strength to talk back, I’d still let her win.

I told Kate she was doing too much. Not in that fake-ass, playful “you’re so dramatic” tone either. I mean real, government voice level serious.

When I looked in the mirror this morning and saw the ocean of hickeys across her chest? The scratches on her back? My teeth marks on her fucking hipbone?

Yeah. Somebody should’ve stopped her. Maybe the Lord. But she didn’t look guilty. She looked satisfied.

T-shirt slung over one shoulder. Shorts. Tan lines and pride. Her eyes gleaming like she knew exactly what she did. Meanwhile, I’m the one walking like my bones forgot how to stack.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

We were supposed to be meeting her teammates at the beach. Just a casual day. Sand, sun, vibes. You know, normal couple shit.

Now it’s giving post-war veteran and her surviving victim.

Kate steps out of the car with a smoothie in one hand and the most smug, satisfied walk I’ve ever seen.

Me, the dumbass who said “yes” to round four and then climbed her like a tree, can barely make it across the damn parking lot.

“You good?” she smirks, sliding her shades down.

“You know I’m not,” I hiss, trying to adjust my bikini bottom discreetly. “I got humbled on a cellular level.”

She licks her lips, eyes dark. “You said thank you three times.” I throw my towel at her head.

The second we step onto the sand, I feel the shift. The girls notice. Of course they do. Athletes are observant. Nosey. Petty. We’re not even five feet from the chairs before Sydney lets out a loud-ass, “Daaaamn, Kate!”

I keep walking. Head high. Pussy sore. Unapologetic. Kate, on the other hand, freezes. She turns, sunglasses still low, trying to play it cool, but her neck is done.

A red constellation of kisses, bite marks, faint bruises crawling down her collarbone like I was writing a map to heaven on her skin.

Don’t even get me started on the back. I saw it in the mirror. I did that. Ten full finger-length scratches. One diagonal across her spine.

“Rough night?” Kelsey snorts, sipping a Gatorade like she’s not waiting for details.

Kate clears her throat. “Mind your business.”

“Oh, it is my business,” she cackles. “You came out here lookin’ like a chew toy.”

I’m already at the umbrella, setting our shit down, pretending not to hear. But I feel Kate’s eyes on me.

Burning. Dragging down my legs like she’s got x-ray vision and PTSD from last night.

“You’re walking fast,” she murmurs when she catches up.

“I’m trying to keep the breeze off my situation.”

She leans in, whispering against my ear: “You’re welcome.”

I swat her away before my knees give out on impact.

The towel hits the sand and I lay down real slow, biting back the wince when my thighs shift. Kate tosses the sunscreen next to me and drops to her knees like a damn altar boy.

When her hands hit my back, the whole team notices.

It’s not casual. Not friendly. It’s her rubbing lotion into my shoulders like she owns me. Like she’s calming me down from something feral.

“You okay?” she whispers against my ear.

I hum, stretching out. “I’ll survive. I just might need to ice my soul.”

Sydney passes behind us and laughs out loud. “Yo, you’re not even gonna deny it?”

“Deny what?” Kate calls out, smug still stuck to her face.

“That you got your back clawed up like a horror movie.”

Kate shrugs, smooth as ever. “She gets enthusiastic…You were begging for it.” Silence. Only lasted for a second..

Aja screams. A water bottle flies across the sand. Somebody drops their sandwich. Kate smirks, rubbing sunscreen into the top of my thigh now.

Her voice low. “You liked making that a competition?”

I suck my teeth, biting my smile. “You liked losing?” Her nails press a little deeper.

“So bold’,” she murmurs. “See what happens after this.”

The jokes last all day. My girl can’t catch a break. Every time she leans back or reaches for something, the marks show. I made sure of it.

If I have to walk around sore and starving, the least she can do is look claimed in public.

“They look fresh,” someone mumbles behind their shades.

“She proud as hell,” another says.

She is. Kate doesn’t shrink. She laughs. Kisses me. Pulls me into her lap while we eat fruits like she didn’t have me crying into the sheets twelve hours ago.

It’s not embarrassing. Not to me. That’s my work. She’s just walking proof.

No Decorum

Paige Bueckers x Fem!Reader

NAVI | MORE

Summary: Once a month I lose my damn mind. My ovulation hits like a heatwave, and suddenly I’m less of a person and more of a pussy-chasing freak.

WARNING/Genre: Horny comedy, summer thirst, soft smut

Word Count: ~ 1.5k

Vibe: Unhinged, funny, pussy-obsessed girlfriend summer.

Every time.

I wake up, stretch, get outta bed like a functioning member of society. I even manage to brush my teeth and wash my face first, might even throw on some moisturizer and swipe my tongue over the roof of my mouth like I ain’t about to be face-deep in my girlfriend in ten minutes.

I try to be normal. I do.

But then Paige shifts under the covers. Just a little. Just a sleepy roll to the side, a sigh, a scratch of her stomach under that old UConn tee. Just like that, I’m done. I’m toast. My hormones start breakdancing. Pussy Purring. Brain.. well Gone.

You’d think I could hold it together. I could if I wasn’t ovulating like some feral bitch in heat.

“Baby,” I whisper, crawling back into the bed I just proudly left like two minutes ago. “You up?”

“Nope,” she mumbles, face in the pillow.

I grin. “Cool.”

She don’t move fast enough. That leg shift. That lil sigh. That’s permission in my book. So I duck under the sheets like a damn gremlin, already dragging my nails up her thighs, pressing slow kisses on her inner knee.

“Here we go,” she mutters, not even surprised. Not mad either. Paige Bueckers got good coochie confidence. She know what she’s working with.

I’m obsessed. I’m not proud. I’m just honest.

“You taste different when I’m ovulating,” I say real quiet, like a confession. “Sweeter.”

“You say that every month,” she groans, but her hips are lifting, legs spreading.

“I mean it every month.”

Hour later.

She’s leaving for practice. Which is basically a war crime.

She got on her shorts. That stupid little long sleeve. The one that hugs her arms too tight and reminds me how good she looks when she’s flexin’ over me. She keeps stretching in front of the mirror like that don’t do things to me.

“You’re gonna be fine,” she says, stuffing her sneakers in her gym bag.

“No, you’re gonna be fine. I’m gonna be starving.”

“You just ate…”

“That was breakfast,” I say, standing up and walking toward her slow. “That’s not what I need.”

She laughs, shaking her head. “I have ten minutes.”

“I only need five.”

She raises an eyebrow. “So we lying now.”

“Seven max.”

Three hours later.

I hear the front door. I swear I get wetter just hearing her keys.

I’m in the kitchen pretending to eat chips but truthfully, I’m crouched by the fridge like a goddamn velociraptor ready to strike. She walks in, sweats sticking to her thighs, skin glowing, and I’m on her.

“Damn, babe…”

“You were gone for three hours,” I pant, tugging her hoodie off like it personally offended me. “Do you know how many minutes that is?”

She laughs, trying to hold her water bottle and fight me off. “I’m sweaty-”

“I don’t care. I want electrolytes.”

“That’s not how that-” I bite her hip.

In the shower.

She thinks she’s slick. Like closing the door’s gonna stop me.

I walk in like I pay the bills (I don’t), lean against the counter all fake casual.

“You need anything?” I ask, like I ain’t already stripping.

“Peace.”

I snort. “Lame.”

I slide the door open. She’s rinsing shampoo out, water streaming down her back, ass round as ever. She turns when she hears me step in, mouth already open to scold me and I just drop to my knees.

She gasps, slipping a little. “Are you-“

“Let it happen,” I say, eyes wild, face already between her thighs. “We both know I need this.”

She gives me one of those long-suffering sighs. “One week a month, I swear-”

“You’re lucky it’s not more.”

Bedtime.

She’s tired. Like full body sore, barely-moving tired. And I get it. I do. But the sheets are pulled back, she’s wearing a tank top and those dumb soft shorts that ride up when she breathes. I’m twitching.

I climb in beside her all gentle. Stroke her arm, kiss her shoulder. Real sweet.

“Not tonight,” she murmurs without opening her eyes. I whine. Loudly. Pathetically.

“You came like three times today,” she adds.

“That’s not what this is about.”

“Then what is it?”

I crawl under the covers again, already grinning. “You know how people say they get baby fever? I get Paige fever.”

“Jesus Christ.”

She lets me. Of course she lets me. And when I finish and crawl up next to her, breathless and smiling, she just sighs again and wraps her arm around me.

“Next month, I’m buying a chastity belt.”

“You said that last month,” I mumble into her chest.

“And I meant it.”

But her fingers are already playing in my hair, her other hand stroking my thigh. She’s not slick either

We’re twelve minutes into a Trader Joe’s run, and I’m in hell.

The sun’s out. AC blowing. Music’s on low some calm R&B Paige threw on to keep me sane. And it’s working. Barely.

She’s in the driver’s seat, focused. One hand on the wheel, the other tapping her thigh in rhythm like she not the reason I’m throbbing in public. I can’t even look at her. Can’t do it.

That long stretch of leg. That calm face. The way she keeps licking her lips like her mouth not already sitting on my mental vision board.

So I face the window. Legs crossed. Arms folded. Biting the inside of my cheek like that’s gonna stop me from imagining what she tastes like mid-traffic.

I hear her sigh.

“Once a month,” Paige mutters. “Once a damn month, I lose all rights to my own coochie.”

I glance at her, heat prickling behind my ears. “And I’m not sorry.”

“Of course you’re not.”

We hit a red light, and she stretches her neck, side-eyes me real slow.

I squirm. Not on purpose, just a tiny little adjustment in my seat. But she sees it. She always sees it.

“Yo…” she warns, dragging the word out. “We are in the car.”

“I know.”

“I’m driving.”

“I know.”

“Like, I’m operating a motor vehicle.”

“Uh huh.”

Paige groans and knocks her head against the headrest. “Baby-”

“Pull over.”

“Huh?”

“Pull. Over.”

She looks at me like I’ve lost my damn mind. Maybe I have. I don’t care. The want is crawling up my throat. I’ve been clenching my thighs so hard they’re gonna cramp. My heart’s pounding like I’ve been sprinting, but all I’ve done is smell her.

Watch her. Exist too close to her when I’m ovulating and weak and madly, madly in love with the taste of her.

“Why?” she asks, and it’s not innocent. Her voice dips. She knows why. But she’s still playing dumb. I unbuckle my seatbelt. Lean across the console slow, like a dog stalking prey. Her eyes flick to me, wide.

“Baby…”

I don’t answer. Just slide down, dragging my hand up her thigh, pushing that little Nike short leg to the side like it personally insulted me.

“We are in broad daylight—”

“I don’t care,” I whisper, head ducking. “Don’t care. Need it.”

I don’t even make it to the back seat. My head dips between her legs. One hand braced on the center console, the other on her knee, pulling her open like she’s mine to feast on. (Because she is.)

She gasps. One of those shocked, breathless little sounds that makes my pussy clench.

“Jesus—oh my God—”

I moan against her, tongue dragging up slow, greedy, loving every second. She tastes warm. Familiar. Like home and heat and obsession. Her thigh tenses under my palm. Her fingers fly to the back of my head, pressing down on reflex, then freeze there, trembling.

“Are you—you’re really—” I hum a yes, tongue flicking her clit. She melts.

Body sinking into the seat. Breath hitched. Legs twitching like she can’t decide whether to close them or open wider. I answer that for her, sliding my arm under one thigh and locking her open.

“Oh my God, you’re not well,” she groans, hips twitching.

“You love it.”

“You’re so-fucking—sick—”

“Say it again,” I murmur into her, voice muffled but smug.

She shudders. “Sick.” I suck her clit in response.

Her hand fists my hair. “Fuck—fuck—”

I don’t stop. Can’t. Her taste is dizzying. Her moans got me dripping. And when her thighs start trembling and her hips jerk just right, I know she’s close. Real close.

“You better not make me cum in this parking lot,” she growls.

“I better,” I growl back, before sucking her harder.

She lets out this broken little moan. Tries to close her legs. Fails.

“Baby, baby, wait—”

But I don’t. I want her shaking. I want her crying out my name while old ladies walk their dogs three cars over. I want to ruin her just a little.

So I keep going. Keep eating. When she comes, it’s loud. Unfiltered. Her back arches, her hand slams against the steering wheel, and the horn goes off like a celebration. I pull back slow, grinning, mouth shining.

She’s panting. Hair messy. Eyes glossy.

“…You’re banned from sitting passenger.”

“I’ll drive next time,” I say, licking my lips.”

Diana Taurasi x Fem!Reader

MASTERLIST | MORE

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: You’ve been in a mood all damn day—rolling your eyes, being mouthy, and acting like Diana don’t run that.

ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: ~ 2.7k

ɢᴇɴʀᴇ: Smut, Age Gap, Power Play, Brat Taming, Soft Dom Diana, Emotional Burnout Themes

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: SMUT. Oral (f receiving), strap use, dom/sub dynamics, choking, begging, refusal of touch (at first), light degradation, possessiveness, vacation setting

I woke up agitated. Not irritated. Not upset. Agitated. Like my skin was tight and everything was two seconds from being the final straw. The sun was out. The bed was soft. The AC was perfect. Diana was still asleep, breathing slow, her shoulder bare and glowing with leftover sun from yesterday.

I should’ve been grateful. But I wanted to scream.

The vacation was her idea. You need a break, she said. You’ve been saving the damn world every shift. Your charting looks like a crime scene. You need sand, a tan, and me. In that order.

She wasn’t wrong. But this morning I hated everything.

“Come on,” she said, eyes still sleepy as I stood at the bathroom mirror with my arms folded. “Don’t start today mad. It’s illegal to be fine and fussy on an island.”

I cut her a look. “It’s not fussy. It’s overstimulated and under-fucked.”

“Exactly,” she muttered, already dragging the covers off and tossing a bikini my way. “Put this on. We’re going to the water.”

She didn’t give me room to protest. Practically drug me out the room like a toddler in time-out, grinning like she hadn’t just ignored my very real cry for help. And maybe that’s what pissed me off the most. I was telling her. Plain. Calm. Mouthy. But honest.

I needed her. And she just kept walking.

The morning became the afternoon. The beach got louder. My mood got worse.

She bought me a coconut, held my waist when I rolled my eyes at strangers, whispered shit in my ear just to watch me huff.

“Why you so pretty when you mad?”

“Shut up.”

“I should’ve filmed this.”

She wasn’t helping. She was making it worse. Then came the moment.

We were standing near the rocks, sun hitting the water like a goddamn oil painting, and I was staring at it like it offended me.

She sat behind me on the stone bench, arms draped around my hips lazily.

“You know,” she said, voice low, “I love you, but you got the worst attitude on Earth when you don’t get your way.”

That hit. Not hard. But deep. I swallowed. Kept my eyes on the tide. “…So fuck it out of me.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

She didn’t answer. She didn’t even kiss me.

By the time we got back to the room, I was fuming in silence. She knew it. She was eating it up. That smirk was back on her face, smug and slow as she leaned against the patio door, eyes flicking toward me every time I moved like she was watching a volcano warm up.

“You done sulking?” she asked, peeling off her tank top with no urgency.

“No.”

“You hungry?”

“No.”

“You still mad?”

“…Yes.”

She laughed. Laughed.

Then laid on the bed like she wasn’t the problem. Head on the pillows, long legs stretched out, watching me like I wasn’t mentally screaming.

I stood at the end of the bed, arms crossed again. “Why couldn’t you just fuck it outta me earlier?”

She blinked slow. That smug-ass look turned into something hungrier.

“…Say that again?”

I didn’t. I got in the bed. Got close. Didn’t touch her—just leaned in like heat was enough. My lips barely touched her shoulder.

“You wait until I’m begging,” I muttered. “You wait until I’m crawling. That’s not fair.”

She turned to face me, hand sliding over my waist as I straddled her thigh without thinking. My hips didn’t move—but my mouth did.

“You like when I act like this?” I asked, lips brushing her collarbone. “You like when I’m miserable with an attitude? That turn you on?”

“I like when you act like you don’t need me.”

She kissed my jaw, lips soft but firm.

“And then melt the second I touch you.”

I scoffed. But my hips rocked slow against her leg.

“That’s evil.”

“That’s honest.”

She sat up. Kissed me like she’d been waiting all day—hands under my thighs, mouth opening over mine, tongue slow and deep. I moaned and felt stupid for being mad. For going the whole day aching when I could’ve just thrown myself into her lap.

But no. She liked that I waited. I liked how she made me come apart for it.

Her fingers found me without a word. My whole body shivered.

Just when I gasped—whined, needy, almost crying from how good it felt—she whispered “There’s my girl.”

She didn’t say it soft. She said it like finally.

Like it took all day to break me down just to rebuild me open and wet and obedient under her hand.

But I was still a brat. She slid two fingers along my slit—over my panties—and watched my thighs twitch. I exhaled like I hadn’t breathed in hours.

Then her voice dropped low, calm as ever.

“…Tell me.”

I blinked. “Huh?”

“Tell me about work, baby.”

I almost laughed. Almost. But she didn’t. Her mouth brushed my neck. Her fingers stroked again. Slow. Lazy.

I narrowed my eyes. “You wanna talk about work?”

She hummed like yes. Like I didn’t have a pussy leaking for her right now. Like she wasn’t slipping the pad of her thumb over my clit through soaked fabric.

I swear—swear—I tried to ignore it. I looked up at the ceiling like that would keep my mind straight.

I started slow. “It’s been… long. Stupid.”

“Mhm.” She mouthed at my throat, still warm, still moving her hand with zero rush.

“I’m tired of people acting like I don’t know what I’m doing. Like I didn’t graduate, like I’m not licensed. You know this old man tried to—f-fuck—”

Her mouth was lower now, smirking against my chest. I paused.

“Keep going,” she said.

My stomach clenched. I should’ve told her to stop. But my hands were already in her hair.

“I had to cover three patients on restraints. One bit me. You saw the bruise.”

“I did.” She licked slowly over my nipple. Bit it. Sucked it.

“Keep talkin’.”

“You’re such a bitch,” I whispered. She laughed into my skin.

Then kissed down. Slower than necessary. Mouth dragging over my stomach, my hip, my inner thigh like she was reading a script off me.

She kissed my pussy through the panties—one kiss. Two. I gasped. She didn’t move them yet. Just flattened her tongue over the fabric and moaned, deep and smug like this what you wanted, huh?

She looked up. “Mad again?”

I glared. “Yes.”

“Mhm.” She kissed again. “Keep goin’, nurse.”

I whimpered. “He told me I was rude… for not smiling. While I was cleaning shit. Actual shit.”

That’s when she moved the panties. One hand, no hesitation. Slick and sticky and hot underneath, and she grinned.

“Aw. That why you been actin’ out?” she teased, running her thumb over my clit now, bare and throbbing. “Needed a little attention? Thought I forgot how nasty you get when you’re tired.”

I tried to sit up. She pushed my hips down. She didn’t even look at me.

Her mouth found me again. No warm-up. No soft licks. Just her tongue, slow and firm, licking right up the middle while her hand spread me wider.

I whined. Embarrassingly. Loud and helpless. My thighs shook, but her hands were locked around them—tight grip, holding me still.

I wanted to grind, to press harder, to roll my hips.

She did not let me.

“Diana—”

She paused. Glanced up. “Say it right.”

“…D.”

That got her going. She hummed low and started sucking on my clit. Tongue firm. Circles. I yanked at her hair—moaning, open-mouthed, legs trying to close.

She didn’t let me. She moved lower, tongue dipping into me, deep. Then up again—licking through everything, slow and wide and endless.

“You taste so mad,” she teased. “So fuckin’ mad at me. Can’t even focus.”

Her fingers replaced her tongue, two slipping in like nothing, making me arch.

“Oh my God—” She curled them. Hit it. Smirked. Bit my inner thigh.

“God’s not here right now, nurse.”

I was panting now, voice stuck in my throat, heat crawling up my neck.

“You said you wanted me to fuck it outta you,” she said, dragging her tongue back over my clit. “So stop running.”

I cried out. Actual tears stinging a little. Not from pain. From overwhelm. From the slow, deep suck of her lips around me like she was drinking a mood swing out of my body. Like she was cleansing me.

I grabbed the sheets. She kept going.

No breaks. No mercy. And still—still—so fucking slow. I felt the build. All of it. A full-day ache tightening into one perfect climax.

“D—I’m—fuck, I’m—” She moaned, loud and proud, mouth locked on me, fingers never slowing.

And I Came hard. Legs shaking, pussy twitching, toes curled, moaning her name like a secret I couldn’t keep.

She licked me through it. Then back up. Then kissed my lips like she hadn’t just ruined me. I could barely speak. She grinned against my mouth.

“Still mad?” I blinked. Then nodded.

She was smirking.

But not sweet. Not teasing. Not that I told you so look from earlier. No. This was different. This was dangerous.

This was the look of a grown woman who’d been waiting to make you cry since the first week you whined about your hours.

Since you slammed the car door, threw your bag, and muttered shit under your breath. She let you live. Let you talk slick. Let you sulk through a vacation she paid for.

Now she had the strap on. Now she was gonna make you apologize.

“…D-Dee.”

It barely came out. My throat burned. I was already shaky and tender from her mouth, but this? This wasn’t fair. The way she fucked—it didn’t feel good in the moment. It felt like I was losing my mind. Like I couldn’t breathe right. Like I was vibrating from the inside out and couldn’t find the sound that matched what my body was screaming.

Butterflies. Not the cute kind. These were the wild, erratic, emergency alarm kind.

The kind that told you something was happening in your body that your brain couldn’t catch up with.

Diana didn’t care.

“Come here,” she said, voice flat but full.

Like she meant business. Like she was certified in this shit.

I climbed over her, knees shaking, pussy aching. She didn’t wait. She grabbed my hip, lifted my leg, and pushed in again—slow, mean, deep.

My eyes rolled. My mouth dropped open. Her other hand slid up my back, holding me close while her hips rolled into me like a damn curse. And she kissed my neck. My shoulder. Whispered shit I couldn’t even hear over the sound of my own broken breathing.

“This what you needed?” I nodded. Couldn’t even lie.

“Then take it.”

She fucked me like she was fixing something.

Like my attitude was a medical emergency and her strap was the cure.

She hit every spot, slow enough to feel like it was personal but hard enough to break rhythm. I was grinding, panting, eyes fluttering.

Just when I felt it—right there, right there—she pulled out.

I gasped. Clawed at her forearm. “No, no—Diana please—”

She laid back. Calm. Hands behind her head like she wasn’t just inside me seconds ago.

“You wanna act brand new?” she said.

“Cool. You do all the work. Don’t touch me.”

I stared at her. Stunned. Heart racing. “Now.”

I climbed on like I had no pride.

Slow. Needy. Sinking down on the strap with a shaky moan that made my knees buckle. She didn’t help. Didn’t move. Just watched. Eyes locked on my face like she was enjoying the show, the breakdown, the sweat glistening on my chest.

I tried to fuck her right. Roll my hips. Find a rhythm. But my thighs were weak, my clit pulsing, my brain scrambled.

I tried to kiss her. Tried to lean forward and press my mouth to hers like that would make her touch me.

She turned her head.

“You hard of hearing?”

I froze. Sat up straight again. My hands clenched on her stomach. I was losing it.

“You said not to touch you…” I mumbled. Voice cracking.

She raised a brow. “I meant all of me, smartass.”

My breath caught. I gave up. Whined. Actually whimpered, lips trembling.

“…Please touch me.” Still nothing.

I ground down on her anyway. Hips desperate. Neck arched. Whimpers turning to cries. And finally—finally—when I shook so hard I had to collapse forward, she caught me.

One hand around my throat, thumb on my chin, bringing my mouth to hers.

“You gon’ act right now?” she whispered, dragging her hips up, slow and deep again.

“Y-yes.”

“Good girl.”

She said it like a reward, like a verdict—like I hadn’t been anything close to good all day, but somehow, she’d trained me there. Hips still moving under mine, hands tight on my waist, guiding my body like I was just something she’d decided to break in slowly.

I was gone. Fully. Head back, lips parted, brain blank. All I could do was ride. And let her fuck me up.

Her thumb dragged across my bottom lip, and her voice was low, barely above a hum. “That’s it, baby. Don’t think, just feel it.”

I couldn’t speak.

Couldn’t form a single sentence. My moans weren’t words anymore—just breath and pitch, soft at first, then ragged. The deeper she hit, the wetter I got. I could feel it. The mess. The slap of our bodies. Her name falling out of me without permission.

She loved it.

Her hands slid down to grip my thighs, pulling me down rougher, meaner. Her strap curved just right, hitting that spot that made my stomach twitch.

“D… D—fuck—”

I reached for her again, desperate, fingers curling on her chest. I needed something—anything to ground me—but she grabbed both wrists in one hand and pinned them behind my back like no. Like take it.

That’s when the tears hit. Not sobbing. But the kind that slid out quietly, uninvited, just ‘cause the pleasure was too much. I wasn’t sad. I wasn’t scared. I was overwhelmed.

She noticed. Of course she did. She kissed the edge of my jaw, her voice syrup-slow.

“There she go. Look at you.”

She rocked up deeper. “This how you act when you finally get touched right?”

I nodded. Barely. My whole body tensed, locked down on the strap so hard I felt my orgasm choke halfway out my throat.

“I—fuck—I’m gonna—”

She grabbed a handful of my ass, her other arm wrapped around my waist, and she fucked into me. Intentional. Punishing. Her goal wasn’t to get me off. Her goal was to empty me.

I came. Hard. But it didn’t stop there. She kept going. Stroking through it. Pushing past it. My thighs shaking so bad they gave out, and that’s when it happened.

My whole body snapped forward—and I squirted. Loud. Wet. Shameless.

She groaned into my neck. “There she is.”

I whimpered. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Yes you did. You always do.”

She eased the strap out slow, dragging my body with it, guiding me back onto my side like I’d been spun in a dryer. She kissed my temple. My shoulder. My spine.

I was twitching. Barely conscious. Breathing like I’d run laps around the planet.

“Next time you get mad on vacation,” she whispered, “just ask.”

I didn’t answer. Couldn’t. But the next tear that slid down my cheek had nothing to do with frustration. And everything to do with how full I finally felt.

She kissed my back, whispered a smug little, “There you go…” and tucked me in like I wasn’t still twitching from the inside out.

Didn’t even bother wiping me up all the way—just enough so I didn’t stick to her chest while you curled up against it, knocked clean out. Face buried in her neck, thighs still sore, pussy pulsing like it knew better next time.

I didn’t say another word. Didn’t need to. She had me slumped, soul quiet, body fed. Just what her baby needed.

She laid there wide awake, arm wrapped tight around my waist, smirking in the dark like. Attitude? Where? That’s what I thought.

A Diana Taurasi fic where the reader is tormenting her using the song Dirty Diana by Michael Jackson maybe at practice or online then later Diana could show the reader how dirty she is. Can you make the reader either a rookie or someone with a tad bit of an age gap to Diana.

Love your work btw😌

Dirty Diana

Diana Taurasi x fem!rookie!reader

MASTERLIST | MORE

Summary:. At every practice, every press moment, every Live—you quote Dirty Diana just loud enough for her to hear.

Word Count: ~ 4.2k

Warnings: SMUT, dom!Diana, rookie!reader teasing and submitting, age gap (reader early 20s, Diana late 30s), possessiveness, mild choking, reader is so down bad it’s funny, Diana ruins her (lovingly).

Genre: Smut, Flirtation, Power Play, Age Gap, Tension, Enemies-to-Lust

I swear I didn’t mean to start a bit.

At first, it was just a little joke. A running thing I had going. I repost edits of my teammates all the time—sometimes it’s funny, sometimes it’s out of pocket, but it’s all love. All gas, no brakes. But Diana? Diana was different. Diana Taurasi made it delusional.

She wasn’t even my vet. Ain’t never assigned herself to me. Never offered to “take me under her wing” or none of that cute mentor stuff. But for some godforsaken reason, I attached myself to her like a demon in a conjuring movie. Wherever she went, I was five steps behind. Holding her Gatorade. Squeezing her knee mid-film. Sitting on the edge of her seat like mine wasn’t two inches away.

It’s not even intentional. I’ll be sitting next to her, locked into practice footage, and my hand’ll just… slide. Light touch on her thigh, maybe tracing something dumb like a spiral or a letter. No awareness. No shame. I’m watching the screen, not even clocking the fact that I’m damn near fondling the inner muscle of one of the coldest to ever do it. And the worst part?

She lets me.

She says nothing. Just glances once, then goes back to whatever she was doing. I smile when she holds eye contact too long—like a slut. But hey. That’s just how I am.

And then I started quoting Dirty Diana. Loud. Dramatic. Out of nowhere. I’d pop into the locker room like:

“She looked me deep in the eyes—”

Everyone: “No—NO. Again?”

Me, already spinning: “She touchin’ me so to start!”

The first time it happened, Diana looked up real slow like a cat clocking prey. Didn’t say nothing. Just watched me act a fool across the gym. I saw her smirk, though. Not a smile. A smirk—just the left side of her mouth. Barely there. But I saw it.

That same night, I posted a slo-mo of her stretching pre-game, MJ crooning in the background. Captioned

“Diana walked up to me / She said, ‘I’m all yours tonight’ 😵‍💫”

Another post: A candid of her mid-argument with a ref.

Caption:

“I have the stuff that you want / I am the thing that you need 😭😭”

I play it off like I do this with everybody—and I do. But not like this. Not this level of obsession. Not this frequency. With her, I be in the comments like I’m locked in a parasocial relationship.

“Y’all don’t get it. I seen her irl. 😭”

“I’m mentally employed under her. That’s my supervisor.”

“She told the ref to back up and I almost passed out.”

I tag her. Because why wouldn’t I? I’m already annoying, might as well go all the way. She never likes. Never comments. But she knows. I know she knows.

’Cause in person? She’s confusing as hell.

Diana will ignore me completely one day—walk straight past, no eye contact, like I’m a ghost in the hallway. Then the next, she’s cracking jokes, tossing her towel at me, stealing my charger like it’s hers. She’s serious 90% of the time. Locked in. Vet mode. But that other 10%..That’s what’s ruining me.

Like today. Practice was hell. Nobody could shoot. Everyone dragging. Coach yelling. We’re running suicides and I’m dead tired, panting, bent over, hands on knees. Diana walks by cool as hell, not even winded, and says:

“Get your ass up, MJ.”

I blink. “Huh?”

“You like singing ‘Dirty Diana’ so damn much, go ahead and run it back.”

She walks off. I’m stunned. No comeback. Just standing there smiling like she proposed.

Later, I sit next to her during cool down and I don’t even realize my hand’s rubbing her arm. Like, soft circles. Not trying to be slick. Just soothing myself, apparently. She don’t stop me. Just shifts a little so I’ve got more room. I swear she lowkey leans into it.

My mouth moves before I can stop it.

“She’s saying, ‘That’s okay… hey baby, do what you want…’”

Diana raises a brow without turning her head.

“…I’ll be your night lovin’ thing, I’ll be the freak you can taunt…”

She laughs. Quietly. Barely. But I catch it.

“…You’re sick,” she says.

“Baby, I’m talented.”

I post another story that night. Just a blurry pic of her walking into the locker room. Caption:

“She trapped me in her heart. Dirty Diana, nah 😩🧎🏽‍♀️”

I tag her. Again. Still nothing. Still addicted.

This not even flirting no more. This is torment. This is soul possession. This is a grown woman who could end my entire career entertaining me. Watching. Letting me linger. Touch. Tease. Lose my mind.

I swear I heard her humming Dirty Diana in the locker room today. But maybe that’s just the demons I summoned talking.

Either way I’m not scared. I’m not stopping.

The win was clean. Easy, even. Everybody played well, nobody got hurt, and for once, Coach wasn’t breathing down our necks. We loaded up the bus all smiles, loud music, popcorn being thrown, and just enough chaos to feel like a team that loves each other. Spirits were high.

I was bored. Bored like the kind of bored that makes you flight risk.

Everybody’s room was standard. Basic keycard, bland lighting, twin beds too stiff for rest. But not hers. She’s a vet. The vet. Meaning she had the Presidential Suite. Double doors, blackout curtains, two showers, a fridge full of things she didn’t buy, and silence.

Most importantly: space.

She didn’t invite me. Of course not. Diana never invites me anywhere. She just tolerates the fact that I show up anyway. But I wasn’t in the mood to sneak tonight. I wanted to be let in. Wanted to watch her roll her eyes and open the door anyway.

So I call her. It rings twice.

“…Why are you calling me?”

I smile. “Why not?”

There’s a pause, then the sound of her breath leaving her nose like she already regrets answering. “…It’s late. And I’m tired.”

“I’m bored.”

“You’re in a hotel. Go find something to do.”

“I can’t.”

“You can’t?”

“I need stimulation.”

“I’m hanging up.”

“No—wait. Can I stay with you?”

Silence. Then: “No.” I grin, stretched out across my own boring-ass bed, phone resting on my cheek.

“You didn’t even let me plead my case.”

“There is no case,” she says flatly.

“I’m restless. My room sucks. And I just….wanna talk.” I pause. “You like talking.”

“I like peace.”

“And yet, I’m on your phone.”

Another long silence. I imagine her laying there in her expensive-ass bed, jaw tight, regretting every choice that led her to being on a roster with me.

“….Come Here.” she snaps. The line goes dead.

No sweet invitation. No “okay, fine, come cuddle.” It’s that low, fed-up tone. That ‘get your ass up here before I change my mind’ kind of tone. I throw on my hoodie like I’m suiting up for war and head to the elevator, smug as hell.

When I knock, she opens the door already mid-eye-roll. Arms crossed. Hair loose. Sports bra and joggers. No makeup. No braids. No effort.

Still fine as fuck. I smirk. “Missed me?” She steps back, says nothing.

The suite smells expensive. Clean linen, subtle cologne, faint lemon. Lights low. One huge king bed, made perfectly. A leather chair sits angled in the corner beside a full-length mirror and a table with half a glass of wine. There’s an untouched fruit tray on the dresser. Everything about it screams veteran luxury.

“I see you used your powers,” I say, stretching as I look around. “They got us in shoeboxes and you got a whole spa suite. Must be nice.”

She closes the door behind me with a sigh. “It’s what I deserve.”

I turn to her slowly. “What do I deserve?”

She doesn’t answer. Doesn’t flinch. Just walks past, brushing my shoulder on the way to the fridge like I’m just there. I follow her movement, eyes trailing her back. Long, lean, loose. She opens the fridge and grabs another mini wine bottle.

“You came all the way up here to annoy me?”

“I came up here because I was bored.”

“You are bored,” she mutters, cracking the seal. “Clearly.”

She doesn’t offer me any. Just walks to the leather chair and sits, crossing her legs like I’m not still standing in the middle of her space, trying to soak her up.

“So what now?” she says, leaning her cheek against her fist. “You gonna sing to me?”

I chuckle. “You know the lyrics better than I do at this point.”

“Unfortunately.”

I start wandering. Not sitting yet. Just trailing fingertips over the cool marble table. The edge of the mirror. My reflection flickers in the low light and I glance over my shoulder. She’s still watching.

I turn fully. “Why you got that chair set up like that? Facing the bed and the mirror?”

She raises a brow. “Why you asking questions you don’t want the answers to?”

I pause. Lips part slightly. The tension creeps in slow like fog.

“Maybe I do want the answer,” I say quietly.

“Maybe you don’t know what you’re asking.” I swallow. The way her voice drops. It’s not loud. It’s not even mean. It’s just direct. L I step closer. Still not cocky. Still lighthearted. Still playing that thin line between teasing and testing.

“You’re not scary, you know.”

“I don’t have to be scary. I just have to be real.”

I smile. “I like real.”

She tilts her head slightly. “No. You like games. Drama. Noise. You like saying my name in the locker room like you understand what it means.”

My eyes narrow, grin lingering.

“Dirty Diana,” I murmur, almost like I’m tasting it.

She finishes her wine in one slow sip. Then uncrosses her legs and leans forward.

“You sure you’re bored… or just stupid?” I step closer to the bed, finally sitting on the edge. My knees touch the floor. My hands rest between them.

“Maybe both.” She leans back again, slow and deliberate, watching the way I settle into her space.

The mirror reflects the shape of me. Her. The room. I see her shift in the chair, see her eyes trailing down my legs. No words. No move. Just patience. The kind that don’t come with warnings. The kind that lets you cook in your own decision.

I glance toward the bed. “I’m not tryna sleep, by the way.”

“Oh,” she hums, rising from the chair. “I know.”

No smiles. No flirting. No jokes. Just heat. Weight. Silence. And the door clicks shut behind me.

I’ve been messing with Diana for damn near a year.

Not messing messing. Not like that. Emotionally? I’ve been tormenting her with dramatic Michael Jackson lyrics, stalking her around the practice facility, and using every excuse to touch her like I don’t know what boundaries are. And she’s let me.

Teased me back sometimes. But never crossed that line.

I’m walking around her suite. Fingertips on her dresser, nose in her candle collection, peeking into the closet just to annoy her.

She hasn’t said much, just sits there in that leather chair with one leg crossed over the other, watching me like she’s the principal and I’m the reason she drank today.

“You know you like the attention,” I call over my shoulder, tugging on the edge of her bathrobe hanging off a hook. “Why else you upgrade your room like this? Wanted me to see the view?” No answer. I glance over.

She’s staring. Still. I grin, lean against the glass. “You gone say something or just undress me with your—”

“Sit.”

I blink. “Huh?”

Her voice sharpens. “Sit. Down.”

That tone. Oh, I sit. Not on the bed like I expected. But on the low bench at the foot of it. Still warm from my wandering.

Still a little smug. But I’m listening. I’d always listen to her. Even if my mouth stay smart, even if I act like I’m in control—I like following her lead.

She stands slowly. Stalks over. Quiet. Calm.

I’m still in a hoodie and shorts. Comfortable. Loose. But I feel exposed as hell the moment she gets in front of me. Not touching. Just towering. Her gaze pins me down like weight. My stomach flips.

“You wanna see dirty Diana?” she asks, low and slow, like a threat and a promise all in one.

I shift. “Girl don’t—” But it’s too late.

She leans down and her thumb traces my bottom lip—soft, then firm, dragging over the center. My lips part automatically. Breath caught. Knees tight. The air between us gets hot, heavy, wet with anticipation.

“You think you can handle me?” she murmurs. My thighs clench.

Deadass—I could’ve cum from that alone. Her voice. The nerve of her. The control. I stare at her with parted lips and dazed eyes, so clearly gone, and she smirks like she knows.

She does know. I shift again, about to speak, about to say something sarcastic—but she’s already walking back to her chair. Cool. Collected. She sits.

“Take your pants off.”

My heart skips. “What?”

“Take them off. And touch yourself.” I don’t move.

“If we’re doing this,” she says, voice cool and clear, “you’re gonna do it my way.”

Her eyes stay locked on mine. I look down for a second. My hoodie is bunched at my thighs. My fingers tremble when I hook into the waistband. She raises a brow. I breathe deep and slide them down, slow. It feels too slow, but maybe that’s the point.

Now I’m bare, thighs spread, still seated at the foot of her bed, her eyes drinking me in like she’s waited for this. Like she knew I’d fold eventually.

My fingers trail down softly. Just the outer lips at first. Teasing. Slow.

But she doesn’t let me settle into it. Doesn’t give me a chance to get comfortable. Not when I start to look away, flustered, trying to calm the heat flooding me.

“Don’t look away,” she says sharply. “You wanted this, right?”

My eyes shoot back up. It’s hard to keep them there. My legs are shaking, mouth parted, breath catching on every inhale. My fingers dip lower. Find that soft, sensitive spot and circle it slowly. My hips twitch. But it’s the eye contact that breaks me.

It’s her face.

It’s the way she watches me, lips slightly parted, one hand gripping the arm of the chair, that dark gaze fixed like she’s inside me already.

I moan—soft, high, breathy. My head tips back for a second but I catch myself. Glance up. That’s when she stands.

She walks over. No rush. No sound. She crouches in front of me, between my knees. Lifts my chin with one hand. Firm grip. Steady.

“Eyes on me,” she says. “You keep ‘em open.”

Her thumb brushes the corner of my mouth again, and I gasp. My fingers are still working but it’s not even that anymore. It’s her. It’s the power she has over me. The way she can command my body without touching anything but my face.

And when our eyes lock. I fall apart.

My other hand reaches up, clutching her wrist like a lifeline. My back arches. I try to keep breathing but every moan is a sob now. Not loud—just desperate. Messy. Deep from the gut.

“Fuck,” I whisper, voice barely there.

She leans in, nose brushing mine. “That’s it.”

My eyes flutter again but she holds my face tighter. “Look at me.”

And I do. I look. I fall. And I cum. It’s not violent. It’s not fast. It’s sensual. Warm and wet and slow, like being swallowed whole by a wave I never saw coming. I can’t stop it. I don’t want to.

My fingers slow. My thighs twitch. My hand is shaking against her wrist and she finally lets my chin go. But I don’t move.

I just breathe. Chest rising and falling. Hoodie damp with sweat. Face hot. Body trembling.

She watches me the whole time. Silent. Smirking. Like Dirty Diana finally showed her teeth.

I should’ve paid attention.

Not to the way she said “come up,” not even to the cuffs she somehow already had on hand like this was a setup—but to her silence. The way she didn’t smirk when she snapped the second cuff behind my back. The way she didn’t warn me.

Real killers don’t announce themselves.

She just watched me with this calm, focused look, like she wasn’t undressing me—just deciding which part she wanted first.

I was still recovering from the orgasm she dragged out of me with a single command and her voice, wrists locked behind me now, legs open like I forgot how to close them. I’m dazed. Hot. Breathing heavy. I’m stupid enough to think we’re done.

She hasn’t even started.

She drops back between my legs without ceremony—like she lives there, like it’s hers. Her hands smooth over my thighs again, a little slower this time. Gentle, almost. Like she’s checking to see if I’ve caught on yet.

I haven’t. Then she slaps me.

Not hard. Not the way people expect when they hear the word—but sharp enough to sting, timed perfectly with her palm landing flat between my thighs. I jerk. Suck in air.

“Oh, you like that,” she mutters, almost to herself. “Of course you do.”

She does it again, just to prove a point. The wet sound of her palm meeting me is loud in the room, louder than my choked little moan, louder than my pride slipping out the cracks of my mouth.

“You get off on this, huh?” Her voice is lower now. “Acting like a brat all season. Quoting songs. Touchin’ me without permission. You wanted me to break you.”

I try to deny it—try to say something—but my words die in my throat. Because when she spits on it—again—and drags her fingers slow through it, I nearly fall forward.

She clicks her tongue. “Keep those legs open.”

I nod before I can think. “Y-yeah.”

“Yeah?” she repeats, fingers sliding up to circle my clit with a light, taunting pressure. “Yeah what?”

I freeze. Fuck. “…Yes ma’am.”

Her pause is immediate. Her hand stops moving, but her eyes..They burn. She tilts her head just slightly, lips parted, like she’s never been more entertained in her life.

“What’d you just call me?”

I swallow, embarrassed. “I didn’t mean—”

“Yes, you did,” she interrupts. “You meant it.”

She leans in. Mouth brushing over my inner thigh, slow and warm and close enough to feel but not enough to satisfy. Her breath is so hot it makes me twitch.

“You ever been ruined, baby?” she asks softly. “Not fucked. Ruined.” I can’t even answer.

She doesn’t wait.

Her tongue replaces her fingers like they never existed—slick and slow, dragging the wetness she stirred back up with steady pressure that makes my head spin. And just as I start to fall into it, her fingers slide in—deep, slow, patient.

I cry out. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just a quiet, raw sound that slips out of me before I can catch it.

“Oh, that’s cute,” she says against me, lips brushing my clit. “I haven’t even done anything.”

Her fingers move in this rhythm that feels learned. Not fast. Not brutal. But heavy. Intentional. Like she’s been waiting a whole year to give me exactly what I need—and make me beg for what I can’t take.

She sucks my clit again, a little harder this time, and her fingers curl just right. My back arches. My knees try to close, and she slaps the side of my thigh again—just a tap.

“Don’t you dare,” she warns. I whimper.

“What’s the matter?” she murmurs, fingers dragging out slow just to push back in deeper. “Cat got your tongue? Where’s all that mouth now?”

“I—I can’t—”

She chuckles. “Oh, you will. I want you sayin’ everything. Loud.”

She slows again. Just enough to make me ache. Her mouth barely there. Her fingers still knuckle-deep.

“Say what you called me again,” she says, tongue flicking lightly. “I dare you.”

I hesitate. I’m shaking. Panting. I look down at her and instantly regret it—she looks too good like this. Jaw locked. Cheeks flushed. In full control. Like she owns me.

“…Yes ma’am,” I breathe again. Soft. Fragile. And she grins.

“Good girl.” It’s over. No, it’s on.

She drags her mouth over me again with purpose, not mercy. Fingers fucking up into me with new pace, more depth. Her tongue tight and consistent, sucking and circling until I’m losing track of myself. Of time. Of how I ended up here.

She’s not saying anything now. Doesn’t need to. She just works me. Turns me inside out. I hold onto the only thing I can—her wrist.

Because I’m dripping. Legs trembling. Head back, teeth clenched. Every inch of me feels open and alive and owned.

This was never a game to her. Not really.

It looked like one because I was the one playing loud—joking in the locker room, quoting lyrics like I wrote ’em, touching her arms, her thighs, posting her on my story like she was just another crush.

She was silent. Measured. Plotting.

I fell for it. Cocky, flirty, too dazed off a soft orgasm to realize the cuffs weren’t a reaction—they were premeditated. She came prepared. Not just with the chain around my wrists or the quiet, slow-deep fingers making me forget how to breathe. No.

She had everything. Because Coach tells her things first.

Like hotel plans. Room arrangements. Which floor the rookies are on. And how close our doors are.

She didn’t just bring wine and sweats and a charger—she brought a whole strap. Packed it like a toothbrush. Because she knew.

Knew I’d find my way to her. Knew I’d test her limits. Knew eventually I’d sit right where she wanted, legs open, wrists bound, breath shaky, wet enough to slide into without warning.

So when she stands again, eyes slow-dragging over me like I’m a mess she enjoys cleaning up, I know. This isn’t heat-of-the-moment. This was step six in a playbook I never got to read.

She doesn’t say anything at first. Just walks to her travel bag like she’s grabbing a hoodie. Unzips it casual. Quiet. Then I see it.

Black harness. Clean, sleek, no-nonsense. She doesn’t turn to look at me when she straps it on. Just adjusts it like she’s done it a thousand times and always knew this one would be for me.

I shift. Legs still open. Wrists aching a little behind my back, but I’m not tapping out. Not yet. She comes back slow, voice cool.

“You done?”

I blink, breath still shaky. “What?”

She tilts her head. “All that mouth you got. You done now?”

I nod before I realize I’m nodding.

She climbs onto the bed like a storm. Stalks over me, pushing me flat, flipping me quick so my cuffed wrists are pressed into the sheets and her hand is fisting the back of my hoodie to keep me still.

“You wanna be fucked like a problem?” she says low, lips by my ear. “Then don’t run.”

I moan on instinct. She hasn’t even touched me again yet.

“This what you wanted, huh? Acting up all season. Thinking I wasn’t watching you.” I whimper, thighs spread.

“No warm-up,” she murmurs, pushing her hips forward against me with one slow grind. “You get what I give you, baby.”

The first thrust makes me gasp. Loud. My mouth opens but nothing comes out except breath. I wasn’t ready. She knew that. That’s why she did it.

“Take it,” she says. I do. Because I have no choice.

Her hand’s on my neck now, pinning me to the bed while her hips roll with steady, unrelenting force. She’s not trying to be sweet. Not trying to make it pretty. This is work. This is ownership.

I try to catch my breath, try to say something—anything—but her mouth is already there. She kisses me hard, sloppy, open-mouthed. Tongue in my throat. Swallowing the sounds before they ever make it out.

“You don’t need to say anything,” she breathes, biting my bottom lip. “Ain’t nothing you got to say that matters right now.”

I moan against her mouth. “D-Diana—fuck—”

She thrusts harder. Deeper. One of her hands slides down, finding my clit like it lives there. Rubbing it in rough circles while she fucks into me like it’s personal.

“Don’t look away now,” she hisses when my head starts to turn.

I can’t help it. My eyes roll. My hips push back. I’m whining now—soft, helpless.

“Yeah,” she growls. “Cry. Pass out. Scream if you want. I’ll stop if you tap…but you not gone do that.” She’s right.

My body’s shaking. My legs won’t stay still. She bites my shoulder as she keeps going, never slowing, like this was her job and I’m just her project.

I breathe her name again—more like a prayer than a plea. I feel her grin against my neck.

“Don’t ever play with my name again,” she whispers.

Then slaps my ass, hips hitting harder.

I almost do. Almost tap. But I don’t. I just take it. Exactly like she knew I would.