You’ve been together for six months. And not once has she ever let you win.

She’ll let you think you are — she’ll let you straddle her, shove her, even walk out mid-fight — but she always comes back and handles it.

Always.

You hate her for it. You crave her for it. And tonight you’re sick of her smug attitude, sick of how she watches you like she owns every inch of your body — and you’re ready to finally flip the script. You think.

——————

“You think just ‘cause you wear a belt and talk slow, you’re the boss of me?”

you snap, pacing in front of her while she leans against the bedroom door, arms crossed, shirt half-unbuttoned from dinner, eyes dragging over your body like she’s already stripped you bare.

She raises a brow, slow. “No, baby. I think I’m the boss of you ‘cause every time I tell you to shut up, your legs twitch.”

Your mouth drops open. “Fuck you.”

She shrugs. “You could. But you won’t win.”

Your hands go to her chest, shoving her hard, but she doesn’t even stumble — just grabs your wrists and walks you back, calmly, until your spine hits the closet.

You struggle against her grip, but it only makes her laugh — low, in her throat.

She releases one wrist just to unhook her belt with a slow snap, never breaking eye contact.

“You gonna keep talking tough, or you gonna act on it?” she asks, voice gravel and smoke, belt looped between her fingers.

You try to flip it. You actually try — shove her hard enough to twist her, try to climb onto her when she half-stumbles toward the bed. But she just catches your thigh mid-move, drops you flat on your stomach, and drags the belt across your waistline.

“Oh, baby,” she mutters, kneeling on the bed behind you. “You really thought you had me.”

You snarl, pushing back. “Get off me, asshole.”

But she’s already got your wrists pinned above your head with one hand, other threading the belt through to hold you there. Her mouth drops to your ear.

“You want control? Say it. Say it while I’ve got you like this.”

You stay quiet.

She tightens the belt.

“You don’t wanna be in charge,” she growls, hips low against your ass, voice low and steady, “You wanna pretend you’ve got teeth while I let you.”

You gasp.

And she laughs. Laughs like it’s funny you ever thought you’d be in control. Laughs like she’s been waiting for you to pick this fight.

She drags her hand down the back of your thigh, slow. “Say you’re mine.”